Look at that horizon. Makes you think about what came before, huh, kid? No? I knew that you looked green, but you can’t be that green. Born just before the bombs, huh? Well, kid. You might be green, but you’re sure as hell lucky. I was twenty-five when the bombs landed. Got no idea how you’ve managed to stay alive this long.

Desert winds blow. Churning whirlwinds of congealed souls scream on the horizon. Decrepit cities dot the landscape, their irradiated bulk a cancer on the freeways. Most of the countryside is just desert, these days. Dead trees, twisted by fear and madness into something else. Few things still grow, after the bombs of 2013. The Apocalypse – or so it seemed, at the time. It’s been over a decade, now, since the bombs dropped. Since the world changed. Before, America was a nice place. The sort of place that you could raise your kids in. Now? The whole country seems to be nothing but mutated savages, bandit gangs, scavengers, and imperialist cyborgs, with a couple of decent folk scattered between. And don’t forget the monsters. They probably won’t forget you. That’s why you should steer clear of the cities, kid. Few things grow, anymore. But everything still dies.

But hey, what’s the point of being maudlin? You’ve got that .45 strapped to your hip. Just keep ahead of me, and we’ll do fine.

Hell on Earth: After Doomsday