Dystopia story for Saturday’s Write Tribe.
Five years since the outbreak, the government collapse, and five years since almost everyone I knew disappeared. Hell, I may even have killed them myself.
Rick stepped cautiously, trying to see. The wind whipped in his face, its claws piercing the surface. Rick’s feet trounced the earth beneath them, and he took in all the pollution. Lays chip bags lay crumbled, the sky was darker then coal, and before him an enormous figure prostrated on the ground.
Vines clung to her body; her hair tangled scraggly weeds.
She was Mother Nature and she was having the last laugh at civilization.
The Scribe Weekly 