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Bordering the wastelands, the survivors huddled in wrecked buildings, trying to save the detritus of their once towering civilization. The solitary stragglers of the West found each other by taking mutual refuge in the hollowed and burnt shells of skyscrapers, department stores, and libraries. Fortifying what was left, they scrounged what remained of their past to take solace in tales read ’round the warmth of oil drum fires.
Over time, even these sanctuaries fell to the hordes that surrounded them. Soon, only one solitary stronghold remained to shelter the last of the survivors. Those inside struggled to save their own flagging humanity.
Outside, the infected raged.
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52|250 A Year of Flash 
Seriously omnious. It’s probably exactly how we’d react; turn to our books and the past glories they contain.
Nice apocalyptic view that shows that borders will always remain.
a foreboding tone that conjures up the throws of humanity – packs a punch
I was glad for the oil drum fires and the stories, that slight forestalling of the doom to which they seem destined!
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Dark, foreboding, and really intense! I think you used the theme in a very inventive way.
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