text: The bloody sun was nearing its highest point when the man reached the outskirts of the ruined city. It was a breezy day, and the shifting grass seemed to shy away from him as he made his slow voyage across the plain. He was a tall man, well tanned from being in the sun for long hours, and his face had crinkled into an expression of age and rugged wisdom. His body was strapped in torn leather, and his facial hair suggested a few days of no shaving. In his right hand he bore a walking stick, sharpened at the end to a point, like a spear. A holster hung about his waste, and in it, a 10 millimeter Bren Ten, with a single clip left to use. Hoping to find some much needed supplies, the man continued his trek, glancing between the skyline of ruined towers, and the great mountains beyond them. A sign, eroded by age, read in large white letters “Welcome to Denver.” He heard of the place before. They used to call it the “mile high city,” but that was long ago. Back when he had friends. He had been the first male born to his tribe, he recalled, and he was called "blessing" by many. They told him the stories of how the great tribes fell, and the towers became empty. They told him of sky people, who had come down to the earth and snatched its inhabitants. But in defiance, they fought back and were swiftly annihilated. Seeing their potential slaves mostly dead, the sky people fled, and left them to their ruined home. His tribe were his friends. But his friends had sent him out here, out West. He was to find civilization, and return to save his people. But more and more he feared that there was no civilization to be found. So now there were no friends. It had been a long time since he had heard the sound of another voice. His own often provided that helpful second opinion. He liked his voice, but he often remembered his friends’. Thinking of these things made the trip seem shorter, and he soon found himself amongst the great tombs of skyscrapers, monuments to a greater time. The man saw nothing but rubble and trash, nothing worth collecting. He kept on, his spear held tightly in his hand. Who knew what monster may inhabit these crypts? The place was deathly quiet; the only sound was the slight rustle of the wind upon the grass. But his ears perked up as a piece of rubble fell out of place. Stopping, the man looked around, until he saw a figure reveal itself in the shadow. A friend...finally? No. A bullet whizzed past his head. He dropped the spear, and quickly whipped out his pistol. Taking aim as the figure approached, he discharged a bullet. But in the mere sliver of time before he pulled the trigger, he saw the figure’s face. It was a woman, a beautiful woman, not scarred by the brutal reality of this hostile wasteland. He could not cut down such beauty; his heart would not allow him, even for survival. His hand moved the slightest inch out of line as he fired, and the bullet sailed off, striking nothing. She fired back, this time not missing. He felt the hot lead hit his chest, and the pain seared him. Dropping his gun, the man slowly bent down on one knee, and then another. He grasped at his chest, and began to breathe raggedly. He could feel his heart hurting. As he fell backwards to the ground, tears began to form in his eyes. As the darkness began to surround him, he felt not fear, but joy. He wished the woman a farewell in his mind, and hoped she lived to escape this harsh place. With his last breath of life, the man looked up at the great towering tombstones, and to the clouds beyond. “It is fitting,” thought he, “to die in a graveyard.