The Ink Machine - A Spooky Month x BATIM AU

CHAPTER 1: The Shelter.

"To John McCain Smith at house number 361 on Autumn Boulveard St,

We begin this letter with the news that by now, we are sure you have heard. But in the case you have not, despite working with the law, we shall tell you. The Anti-Radiators we have used to deflect the radiation coming from the towns very edit has managed to disintegrate the radiation. And as of now in the town, the radiation has been gone for three days.

But despite this, those that were in the shelter that was built around the town to protect the residents within it have not come out. Individuals in the government have not yet come down there for the possibility of being affected by the now desolate area, for there still could be traces of radiation within. But, there are still people in the shelter that was built. And they need to be brought out.

We will continue to use the Anti-Radiators just incase. But, we have contacted you for a reason. We would like you, as the top investigator within our government, to enter the shelter and inform the residents trapped within of the current situation. As the government, we will provide you with clothing that will protect you incase there may be radiation still there. You will be provided with a pistol if necessary. We would also like to inform you that there isn't really a choice on this matter. People are still in that shelter. And if there still are, they need to leave as it was planned.

You, as the investigator, need to enter the shelter no matter what and inform them, no matter what costs it brings. And we hope that you will not being any sort of resistance.

Sincerely,

Stanley Jack Gifford, GOVERNOR OF [REDACTED]"

————

Breathe. Breathe.

That was what John repeated over and over within his mind as his feet glided across the rubble, his skin feeling like it was practically melting within the confines of the clothing he had been provided. The mask over his face made his face shine with sweat, and his stern eyes remained set on the floor. The sky was a light gray, and despite how hot and damp it felt, there was no sun in the sky, completely blocked out by the clouds.

Fields and fields of trash remained collapsed onto eachother. Random dolls, wrenches, pipes, paper all collected onto eachother. And in some of the piles, there were stuff of a larger sized category. Vehicles sprouted out from piles, trash-cans, doors, couches. John took another step, glancing in the direction of the pile, and then back to the front.

He glanced to another side—there was a faint smell in the air, a smell that he himself couldn't quite make out. But the more steps he took, the more prominent it became. John could feel his own breath that was heaving from his mouth over and over brushing against his nostrils, and his mustache, for the confines of the mask he wore made it hard to breathe. The only taste he was able to process was the taste of metal—no, blood. For already once he entered this place, he bit his tongue, hard enough to draw blood.

Closer. Closer.

Faster. Faster.

These words kept repeating themself over and over in John's mind. Over. And over. And over. His vision felt slightly blurry, yet his head remained upwards. His brown, fluffy hair slightly fell onto the forehead of his face as he continued to walk. And his stern eyes remained set on what was in front of him. His stern, dark eyes that swirled with an emotion he couldn't describe. A repetitive, thumping feeling rised within his chest.