ultrawhite infragrey

The moon lit the apocalyptic wasteland. Dead vehicles littered the foreground, pillaged factories distorted the horizon, and the toasters scavenged and danced through the debris like primeval animals. But these weren't creatures of history, they were humanity's future, this was evolution.

You could be forgiven for thinking of the toasters as punks, goths, no-hopers, rebels and anarchists, and they were amongst them, but many were once well respected business men, powerful executives, successful industrialists, and once loving family members; and when their worlds collapsed around them, they lost their belief, their direction, and their reasons to be; psychotherapists would've had a field day, except they were top of their own queue. And this is the world now, or a part of it, the fighting survivors of an insane landscape, lost souls scratching amongst the rubbish for what animal life was left in these conditions, mostly underground vermin, insects, some fish if you were lucky, a few night fliers, owls or bats, the latter fitting in appropriately, very little plant life, even cacti were struggling in shaded areas, just some roots, some mutated fungi and algae, sea and pondweed.
Even the most resourceful struggled. A bus with blackened windows had hotel status, an old wheel-less transit van was a penthouse, but most outsiders, or 'toasters' as they had been branded, made shelters from waste shaped into a box and secured, or dug into the ground and covered themselves from the sun and weather till night came. The earth had become an out-world of vampire like scavengers, ghouls and zombies who survived post collapsed society, shopping malls replaced by refuge, litter for bedding, rodents for food, insanity for logic, and survival for purpose; though some had their doubts.
The governments had provided them with food, water and some clothing, in weekly deliveries for a while, but as global supplies diminished it was reluctantly decided the sane should be prioritised, and so the night people led their separate lives against the odds. Occasionally some altruistic person or group would gather some small pickings together and leave it on the outskirts of town as a charitable gesture or possibly in hope of some lost loved one still being alive, few were.

"Kill," screamed a toaster who disturbed a rat when he overturned a box, they jerked at it violently with sticks and knives but it got away.
They fashioned weapons with what they had, made nets and traps from the spoils of their forages, there was even some ammunition left, but so little it was saved for desperate days. These four runners eked out a kind of survival beside a lake several kilometres from the city. It wasn't too bad in early days but edibles were running thin all around. After a few weeks their real names seemed to fade with their pasts as they metamorphed into subhumans and they adopted pseudonyms, the leader of the group was called Crash as in his past life he had worked on the Stock Market; one thoroughly miserable guy was called 3:40 to resemble the hands of a clock as he never smiled, but after a few days of this they conversely started calling him Smiler; well, with the number of fat country singers called Slim it didn't seem that odd; and one that was always talking about food got labelled Steak, with the fourth called Brackets, he never said much, was with them in presence, that's about all, no one could remember why that name was picked, it just seemed to suit him.
"We should raid the city's greenhouses," demanded Smiler, eyes violent.
"You know they're too strong and well protected. They would shoot us down like dogs," was the emphatic reply from Crash.
"We will perish soon, there's not enough food to go round. Maybe we should move on."
"How far could we travel in one night and still have time to build shelter? This is it. This is us. We make do with what's here or we perish."
"But more and more you know that will happen, every night yields less. If we raid the city we will either succeed or be terminated, even the latter would be better than this."
"I am not ready to die. If you are, go on, one less yapping mouth to feed." Crash turned to another, "What do we have?"
"Five fish and three mice," was the pathetic reply from Steak.
"OK, prepare them," he ordered.
The food was sliced and skewered, embedded on rods pushed into the ground; it hung hopelessly in the air like a warning. No predawn glow, just an instinct, and the toasters smeared their bodies with mud from the lakeside, caked it thick, effectively sunscreen factor k. One wrapped rags around his eyes, one even had scavenged welding goggles, and the other two chose not to look, smeared their backs thick. And they waited like devils for the sacrifice of the sun god, it never disappointed. Its fiery white ball cut the horizon into the black sky, the heat was instant, even by half disc. Those who chose to keep their backs to it watched their infinite shadows, raised their arms like Jesus crucified, or if you chose face on you screamed in defiance as the mud dried you into a statue. The fish sizzled and twisted, the rodent fur charred, and then the steam rose as the lake surface bubbled.
All around solar panels went blinding white, soldiers of deliverance, raging batteries of power for the surviving cities. Megawatts of intensity that burnt for several minutes before the panels automatically reclined flat or subsided into the ground. Then the turbines kicked in, howling jets as the winds increased, giant silver tubes that jerked from left and right to catch the direction. There were still a few of the early tower turbines left but most had perished, the jet jenny had proved more robust and efficient in this new climate.
Dark grey clouds gathered like fast forward video and the sun was lost for another cycle. When the toasters heard the turbines moan they knew they had beaten god yet again and cracked off the baked mud in celebration, shrieked like pagans, grabbed their cooked food and ran for cover. The sky darkened like an evil foreboding, soon the lightning would be raping the needles oblivious that the needles were really raping it. Every available method of weather harnessing was now used to generate power; the thermal converters sat quietly, almost redundantly it seemed, anything but, in these temperatures they provided the most.
Inside their makeshift penthouse the toasters devoured the food, cleaned every bone of meat twice and still their bodies ached for more.
"If we threatened to sabotage the generators they would start the food and water deliveries again," insisted Smiler.
"Or they would send the force to wipe us out or move us on, whichever would be more efficient."
"I can't go on living like this. I'm going to return to the city."
"And will they accept you? Will they welcome you back with open arms, like a prodigal idiot, after you shunned them, rejected their non commercial ways? As if they're bursting with food and shelter to take on more, they too are running on empty. Your memories are fading of how it was. We are as damned as they are."
"I could integrate. I could hold up my hand and admit my mistakes. I have family back there."
"Family you lost faith in. Family you walked away from when they needed you most. We all did. Families or social structures that we couldn't believe in, the changes were too much for so many of us. The out-world looked attractive initially; we could take our precious money and live on the outskirts of society when it was still relatively lush, the best of both worlds. Now we can make our beds with all that money, stuff our mattresses with our accumulated wealth and lie comfortable on it, but can we buy a sandwich, a cup of tea?" Crash smiled at his own irony. "We have two choices. Stay here and die. Go home and die."
"The Blue Project could work, I remember them talking about it, there was excitement, hope. They might save the planet," added Steak to the argument.
"I'm sitting it out," yelped Brackets between manic whimpers. "When the weather gets fixed I can return with my wealth, no one knows where it's buried but me." He looked around at them for assurance of this secret. "While they pick up what's left of the business quarter I will be rich again. I'll make a killing easily, quadruple my assets it in a month."
"In your dreams, this is no reality TV show that you get out of in a few months. We," Crash hesitated, "yes, me as much as you, I know I am as guilty," 'as sin' he was thinking but didn't say it, "know how to do two things, make money, which is as much use as a diamond pie, and, running away from our mistakes," he looked at them despicably. "They see us as crazy people, they won't take us back. They see us as entrepreneurs, the destroyers of civilisation. Global and personal wealth were inversely proportionate to Mother Nature, and anyone who doubts that truth should step outside for proof." He paused looking around at their grim faces. "No takers?" No takers. No one spoke, Brackets fidgeted awkwardly and Steak stared at the ground, unseeing. "Now in the small interest of what little is left of my sanity, could you all give my head peace and stop your whingeing, get some sleep. Tomorrow is another night; we need three times as much food. I may have a plan."
Sleep as always was restless, fighting against hunger and the incessant drone of generators and wind, metal working loose and tumbling around, wood banging like a judges hammer, not to mention the pains and physical complaints of hunger. Abstract dreams of insurrection, forgiveness and happier days gone came to no solution; the silence woke them like a mistake.

Even those as mad as toasters could appreciate the calm, still, beauty and peace of the night sky. Evening, or morning, depending on your point of order, consisted of overturning stones or empty containers looking for insects and worms to eat, digging for a root or finding some pond weed to chew; an executive lifestyle on the Costa del Suicide. With the small energy boost received from these meagre pickings they went about the serious business of catching that one big dream fish that would fill their stomachs properly, maybe this was that day.
Smiler with his mad crazy staring eyes was restless, mutiny was mounting. Of course he was free to go in any direction anytime he wished, back to the city, or, hardly 'pastures' new, but location new, but the latter wasn't exactly beckoning as the further from the city, or what was perceived as the civilised world, the less there seemed to be in amenities, food and survival, and sometimes what little you had seemed a lot compared to what little you might have, or might not. If anything, the return to the city seemed the lesser of two failures. But once you've turned your back on the governing powers when they froze all assets, business and financial enterprises, to concentrate the whole modern world infrastructure on producing freely the fundamental basics of food, clean water, power and most importantly the restoration of the ozone layer and reversal of the severe weather black out, or as some called it, wipe out; if you rejected that directive and ran into hiding with, quite literally, a sack full of money, then you aren't exactly going to be flavour of the month or Mr. Popularity on returning, with your tail between your legs and your bills and plastic, which are as good as Monopoly money these days. In fact it's been rumoured some have even burnt theirs in sacrifice or insanity, or maybe even a ritual apology.
Two small fish after several hours didn't ease the tense situation.
"You promised us food. You said you had a plan," Smiler complained bitterly.
"Is there anything we could use as a boat? We need to go deeper with the net," was Crash's reply, but he knew it was more excuse than solution, for he was getting desperate too. They looked around at the flotsam and jetsam; nothing seemed safe enough to venture out on water but with desperation and hunger safety was less of a concern.

And then like an old fashioned movie a solitary figure walked towards them. They had been attacked before but never like this. Most watched him slowly get closer but Crash looked around for others thinking he was a distraction, a decoy, to catch them off guard; no others where about, or if they were, too far away to be an immediate danger. The figure was old but walked proud and strong, unwavering in his direction straight to them; almost instinctively he walked up to the head of the group.
Crash stared straight into his eyes assessing him, perhaps they both were, and almost simultaneously they outstretched their hands. "We haven't seen many around these parts these last few weeks," he greeted.
The stranger smiled. "I'm just taking my dog for a walk, getting some air," was his cordial reply. He lent down a little and stroked the air at knee height, "He's a little shi tzu."
Steak and Brackets looked at each other confused but it didn't bother Crash, he was either eccentric or mad, out here there wasn't much difference. "Yes, aren't we all at the best of times? Where are you from?"
"I live about 2 kilometres west of here, not far."
"You survive there ok?"
"Oh definitely, me and my family and friends; things weren't going too good in the city and we set up our own little village, so to speak, sort of an annex, built a small dome from blue polymer to shelter us from the weather and morning sun, our own little ozone layer I like to think of it as, works a god damned treat. You must all come along for dinner some time, I have a restaurant, the folks in the city love to come out, it's very successful, we're going to expand and build another three."
Steak was desperate enough to believe the stranger, could this possibly be what the Blue Project was all about? Was there some civilised hope kindling?
"You have your own restaurant? How positively glorious, what an excellent enterprise," humoured Crash.
"Yes, yes, in the days past I had a whole chain of restaurants in the city, throughout the country actually, 'Burger U'," and he drew a 'U' in the air just in case they hadn't caught the abbreviation, "It's computers, everything gets abbreviated these days."
"Yes, doesn't it just," Crash smiled at the pun. "We're having our own little banquet tonight, you must join us."
"Are you both mad?" screamed Smiler, "We have two miserable fish between five and an invisible dog, some bloody banquet. At least if it was a real dog we'd have something to eat. You said you had a plan, we're still waiting. You've let us down again you moron."
Crash sighed. Is this what they had become, a pack of bickering wild wolves? He looked into the quiet charming madness of the stranger's vivid eyes, then the manic demonic eyes of his hated associate and reached into his pocket. There was a small, sharp crack and Smiler smiled no more, fell to the ground dead, the 3:40 clock had stopped. "Please forgive my friend, it's been a long night and his manners are a little lacking. Now I really must insist that you… and your dog stay for some dinner. It's the least we can offer."
"How positively civil of you sir, we'd love to," replied the stranger completely unperturbed by what had just happened.
He turned to the others. "Prepare him," he ordered.
They looked at each other unsure of what to do, confused, shocked, frightened.
Crash glared at them when there was no response but didn't have to ask twice, the gun was still in his hand. They stripped the body and faced him to where the sun would rise, it would soon be time.
"Oh turn him over, rump is tastier," he snapped, and turning to his new friend with a more polite tone, "Now my friend, it is maximum factor time, please, help yourself to our mud, dawn is almost upon us." And turning to the imaginary dog he said, "You too you little shi tzu, and I do assure you, none of our cosmetics have been tested on animals."
So wide eyed Smiler fried in the first cosmic rays of the sun god and the others screamed again part defiance, part pain. From early Neanderthal beginnings, savage ape like creatures took the first steps towards civilisation, through thousands of years of evolution, to this - madness, murder, cannibalism, apocalyptic Armageddon and failure on a simply global scale. Humanity had come full circle.