Prologue: A Day In The Life

The street was deathly quiet, the lanes choked with wrecked and abandoned vehicles. All five lanes were a jumble of rust and broken plastic and glass, the dust that had settled on the cars and trucks having rendered everything to the same sepia tone as the sky above. The scene had the quality of an old faded photograph, still life captured forever in its present state of deterioration. Along both sides of the street, the hulks of ranchers and split-levels stood precariously on their ruined foundations, some burnt out while others merely suffered broken doors and windows. Evidence of looting lay about their yards, detritus of modern-day living strewn about, all covered with that brownish dust. All of their trees and bushes had been stripped of every scrap of greenery, every bit of bark sliced and consumed, even the cores gnawed at until all that remained were thin reeds of dried somethings bereft of any nutritional value. Even the grass of all their yards had been pulled by the scrawny handful, until they also turned to the same dusty shade.

From over the next rise to the south, a distant rumbling could be heard. It increased in volume slowly, ever so slowly, the only sense that broke the stillness of the dead street. Eventually, a dark and menacing figure came into view. It was wide, wide as the five lanes of the street, curb-to-curb. It had arms stretched wide, encompassing the wreckage along the street as it moved at a snail's pace. Then, the sounds could be heard over the initial rumbling. They were awful noises, assaulting the ears and grating to the nerves. As the monstrous figure moved along, lengths of chain from the insides of each arm slashed at the bodies of the vehicles. Then there was the great maw that invited the torn pieces of metal, plastic and glass in to the thing. Spinning blades top and bottom further ripped the materials into more bite-sized morsels to be consumed. Underneath, a flat panel scooped under the materials and slid them into the gaping opening in what was now seen as a huge machine.

A greater variety of disturbing noises could now be heard. Pops and hisses, the crunching of metal, explosions of compressed gases, creaks of resistant body parts as they were eaten by the huge machine. The whole assembly was moving along on giant tracks that grooved the pavement as it passed, its mechanical footprints forever imprinted in the asphalt. The machine was dark in color, mostly covered in that same dust, although on the side one could just make out the spray-painted words scrawled on its panels “Judge Her Not”. Two figures walked slowly alongside the Judge Her Not, dressed in hazmat suits, each holding in their hands what appeared to be metal pipes about two feet in length. One of them had a large number 23 across the chest of his suit, the other had a number 9 in black against the safety yellow of his suit. They often turned back and forth as they walked, as if on the lookout, though no one was to be seen. They stayed abreast of the front of the Judge Her Not, in order to keep watch on each other. The Judge Her Not was followed in turn by a long, low container that accepted the shreds of all that the beast had eaten and digested, everything cut down to small chunks. The container was under its own power, unmanned but apparently able to keep perfect pace with the metallic beast.

The hazmat-suited figures appeared to be in conversation with each other, as their hands and heads moved about while they strolled along. An occasional click of a communication could just be heard over the cacophony. Number 23 was especially animated in his gestures, excitedly regaling his co-worker with the latest gossip.

“Mannnn, you shoulda seen dat riot over awn Drake yessiday,” Number 23 drawled. “They was a buncha dead-uns tryin ta glom on da rations transport. Them guards cut em all up! Twern't hard, they was all but skin n bones anyhoo.”

Number 9 cut in. “Cmon, man! They used to be people, too, ya know! Have a little compassion! They were all starving, and the Corp ain't doing jack for 'em!”

Number 23 pointed his metal pipe at his co-worker. “Yew better watch how yew tawk, budrow! The Sats might be jacked in and listenin'! Ah for one ain't cool with getting' fried for tawkin' outta school!”

Number 9 just waved his arm at 23 in dismissal, and they went silent for awhile. The Judge Her Not had moved on for a few city blocks when a slight movement could be seen up the street, among the wrecks. Number 9 was the first to notice, and waved at 23 to draw his attention. They moved slowly forward as the fleeting sight of a figure cut back and forth between the cars, bobbing and weaving haphazardly as it drew closer to the men. Eventually, the two could see that it was the figure of what used to be a man, gaunt and dust-covered, tattered remains of his clothing hanging off his emaciated body. He had been oblivious to the two hazmat suits, more intent on the terrible sounds, as a moth inexorably drawn to the candle's flame. The workers moved outward to flank the figure, their arms raising the pipes before them. The man suddenly stopped, his head turning slowly to face Number 9. 9 was devastated to see an expression devoid of all dignity and grace the man might have had, replaced by a grimace he could only think of as fury and desperation. The man opened his dry and chapped mouth, blood-encrusted stubs of teeth bared, and he gave an unearthly sound, a howl of anger that gave Number 9 chills. He sprang forward with surprising speed at Number 9, who jumped back in horror. The man was about reach for his throat when a booming sound was heard. The man stopped in mid-step, a gaping hole having appeared in his chest, broken ribs sticking out in jagged points, what little blood he had left spurting weakly from his body. He didn't fall right away, but looked down slowly to see what damage he had suffered. His face unexpectedly softened its expression, as he slowly dropped to the ground between a truck and a minivan just six feet from Number 9.

Number 23 was whooping and dancing about, as he took his pipe apart to expel a shotgun shell. He pointed excitedly at the dead body lying in the street.

“Didya see that? Plugged him right through! Ah even made sure he was turned jes' right so's ah wouldn't get yew too! Man, ah'm good or what?”

Number 9 was too shaken to notice his co-worker's victory dance. He had turned pale at the sight of the man's body lying there, noticing the irony of his peaceful expression. Number 9 looked around and found a large scrap of cloth and draped it over the dead body. Number 23 slowed his gyrations to watch the process, a bit agitated with his co-worker's lack of enthusiasm. Number 9 stood up and suddenly wobbled on his feet, stumbling over to the nearest car to steady himself. Number 23 approached him, saying, “Hey man, yew awlright? Not used to seeing them dead'uns close up, hey?” He looked down at 9's suit. “Oh wow, yew got some guts on ya! Hee hee!”

Number 9 just turned away, resisting the urge to fire his own slam gun at Number 23 for his awful display. Moments later, as the two resumed their duties, the Judge Her Not caught up to the scene and noisily and remorselessly consumed the dead body, just it had all of the other former pieces of civilization left in the street. The two walked on, oblivious to the fact that they had been monitored, not just by the Sats but also by a rifle scope situated two hundred yards away, at the crest of the hill to the east of their position.