Iron Wasteland

Chapter 2

 Irons felt himself sinking deeper into the sand, scratching up his skin. It poked at his eyes, and despite him keeping them squeezed shut it still felt like it had gotten under his eyelids. He refused to open his eyes or mouth, hoping he'd somehow make it out of this situation alive. That seemed unlikely.

However, it seemed the wasteland had other plans for him. A few seconds later he felt the absence of sand against his legs. His legs hit open air, and he fell, landing face-first in another pile of sand. Irons pulled himself forward, dangers be damned, until he felt his whole body had escaped the sandflow. He spat, shaking his whole body like a dog as sand flew away. When his face was clear, he focused on getting the sand out of his clothes. He took off his boots, shaking the sand out. Took off his hat, waving it until sand stopped falling from it. He took off his scarf, cracking it like a whip and flinging sand in all directions. As he began to take off the rest of his clothes, he flicked his hand and created a small fire at his feet, illuminating the area. He took in his new surroundings as best he could.

Behind him, sand continued to pour from above, slowly piling like an hourglass. The area was large, rocky walls vanishing up into the darkness. The ground was rock as well, but much more polished, more so than could normally happen in nature. Irons finished shaking out the particles, and scooped the fire up in his hands. He focused on it a bit more, and the flame grew, revealing more details. He appeared to be in some sort of hallway, continuing forward in either direction. Irons paused, focusing on the flame. It crackled and sputtered, flicking to the left. He looked right, smiling.

Breeze coming from that way. He thought, shrinking the flame down in his hands. Better get moving!

The sheriff set off, using the flame as a torch. He took in the cave, trying to figure out just how old it was. He was kicking up a lot of dust, and he couldn't see any other tracks or footprints, so he guessed it had been abandoned for a very long time. After walking for a few hours, he was starting to get bored, and maybe a little paranoid. The shadows were dancing a bit too much, and Irons was sure he kept hearing footsteps behind him. To distract himself, he pulled out his journal, flipping to a new page.

"March 5th, 57 A.L.E. Time: Around 3-ish?

Well, the town was a bust. Seems they got those wanted posters pretty far out, even these fringe towns got 'em. To make it worse, I got attacked by a Vairant. Couldn't identify the type, but it was at least made from a torso, missing its head, legs, and hands. Took it out with a stick of dynamite. Killed it, but wound up underground. Currently wandering through some tunnels. I can feel a breeze, so there's gotta be some sort of exit. Here's hoping I find it before I completely run out of supplies."

He flipped it closed, slipping it back into his shoulder cover. There, his nerves were a little calmed. The footsteps persisted, but he could ignore those. The tunnels seemed to wind on forever, but eventually opened up in another room. Ancient, rusted metal poles were set up in a grid-like pattern in front of what looked like a rocky desk. Scraps of fabric littered the floor. Along with that, Irons found dozens of discarded plastic bottles scattered about.

Hm. Old world garbage. Irons thought as he picked up one of the bottles. It was empty, of course, but finding it at least confirmed that this place was man-made to some extent. The area had the remnants of posters, dried and incomprehensible to make out due to their age. He tried to touch one, but it crumbled away. As Irons walked around the room, he examined behind the desk. A few boxes, filled with paper scraps. Nothing of any actual use. The only other thing he found was another hallway, which he continued down.

Luckily, this one wasn't as long, and a few minutes later he came into another large room. This one was rectangular, lined on either side with large pedestals. On these pedestals, bits of statues sat, crumbled away. Each one had a plate on it, rusted beyond recognition and unreadable. Irons continued, passing by dozens of these broken figures. Some were still somewhat intact, having as much as the feet and torsos still recognizable. Those seemed to be dressed in a variety of clothes, from flowing robes to literal rags. Was this some sort of art museum? Seemed like a weird place to build it, in some random underground tunnel system. Irons continued, until he reached the end. A hallway continued on, but Irons' attention was drawn by the most intact statue he had seen so far.