Petrichor
"Sixty-two days, Liona, we're almost there."
Zeke knew he should be saving his breath, the treacherous climb up the side of a bomb crater was already taxing enough. But he couldn't help giving words of encouragement to his wife, knowing she too would be struggling on the crumbling slope. He was exhausted, they both were. It had been sixty-two days since the world descended into chaos, and they'd been travelling ever since. Granted, all progress they’d made was somewhat slow, given they were both pushing sixty. But then, perseverance and stubbornness were the two most fundamental words in Zeke's vocabulary. The couple had trudged onward together, their sojourn's scenery a mixture of barren, wasted landscape, smouldering ruins, piles of decaying corpses, and ever-burning fires; each of these bleak tableaus rendered hazy by a toxic fog. When the last broadcasting radio host had urged people to seek higher ground, away from the fog, Zeke and Liona had done just that. They’d only taken the time to fill a pair of backpacks with supplies from a vandalized corner store before they began walking.
