Short Stories | After Atlanta: Ch. 1

About/Introduction: After Atlanta is a novel collection of post-apocalyptic short stories that will be improved over time. Chapters may or may not be connected to each other. Inspiration comes from cinematic stories like The Road and The Grey. Art is drawn first by me and then a story or scenario is created after to fit the imagery. In this story telling universe my on-going episodic short film, Coyote Four, is also connected. You can follow my film and video efforts on youtube at Sunkrum by Elijah.

Chapter 1. After Atlanta

After Atlanta happened, we, or well I, got used to finding crash sites like this all along the countryside of North Georgia.

Hartsfield-Jackson was the largest and most trafficked airport in the USA at the time of the attacks, after all. The Atlanta airport was the first to be hit, and so dozens if not hundreds of planes had to scramble to find a new touch down spot. Not all of them did. To make matters worse, most had their navigation systems scrambled during the attacks and wasted precious minutes of fuel trying to locate local airstrips to set down at.

Again, not all of them found what they were looking for. Sometimes they did, but these airstrips were in such disrepair, as was most of the infrastructure in Georgia, that not every landing was "up to code". Come to think of it, that's one of the few things that hasn't changed. Georgia roads (airstrips are a type of road right?) are still shit, and they always have been, and always will be.

Sometimes large commercial airliners would try to land on abandoned open roads, and often they would make it to the ground without snapping off a wing or two on the local trees, but they would rarely end up still on said road by the time they stopped. These machines, and people, often had the smoother of landings. What met them outside though wasn't so soft.

Anyways, this crash in particular was up near Ellijay. The pilots seemed to have a bit of brainpower and tried to set her down in this *mostly* tree-free meadow. Even more impressive, when they did hit the ground she didn't break up into a thousand pieces immediately. That's probably a small consolation though. The crew doesn't look like they made it out to inspect their success. As for the passengers, I can't say for certain. The wreck site has already been stripped clean of most valuables: on-board kitchen wares, sodas, those little cookies that crumble into a sugary sandstorm when you try to take a single bite. All that was probably gone after the first month. It's been two years though. That's assuming my math is right, which it usually is.

What's notable though, is that this isn't the crash I was looking for, or, specifically, listening for.

Yes, for the first time in almost two years, we heard a plane. Well, if you can call it a plane. It was sputtering and smoking, and low enough to the ground that GA State Troopers, if they were still around, would probably try to pull 'em over and write 'em a ticket. For what, I don't know. Not for speeding, that's for damn sure. This "plane" was slow enough to probably be respecting all local ordinances. I bet they'd still find a reason to ticket them though. That's just how they were back then.

Anyways, anyways. The speed of said plane was the primary concern though, and the likely reason it was so low. In case, dear reader, you don't know. An airplane needs air to move over it's wing to create lift. Generally, speed is the way most pilots like to create said lift. This plane wasn't creating much of anything though, let alone lift. That's why, I was a little surprised to find the wreck we just passed, while following the sound of what surely would become a new crash, any moment.

That crash, however, that clash of metal and glass grinding into the earth after struggling to defy gravity as long as it did. It hasn't come yet. The sound of the engine stopped, much to the relief of the engine probably. But there was no crash.

This had me very curious. No one dare flew anymore. And even less, who tried, knew how to, to begin with. So, I think I'm safe to assume that our mysterious, pitiful plane was always piloted by an actual pilot who managed to set her down, without incident.

There's only one problem with this assumption. If I heard the plane. Then I'm sure they did as well. Now that's neither here nor there. A real flying aeroplane in 2028 would certainly be an interest to them. However, they'll send a scouting crew once a crash site was identified, with something less than what could be described as urgency. They'd get around to it, and strip it bare. Eventually.

But there was no crash. And I know they heard that silence just like I did. And what that low flying with accompanied silence meant, was that they might want to get there a heck of lot sooner than normal. So I only have a limited, and unknown amount of time, to make it to our new pilot friend before they do.

Of course, I call him our friend, my friend, prematurely. I have no clue if he'll be friendly. But I'm certain he (or she)can't be more unfriendly than the boys who are on their way.

Let's make no mistake, we know it's the Dobbs that are coming. Around here they control what's left of civil society, but that's their term for what they control, not mine. The Dobbs crew were always ruthless, but after Atlanta, the world stopped caring what that word meant.

I like to think of myself as a charitable man, so, I intend to offer our new pilot friend the briefest of greetings and evacuation recommendations, before their welcoming party meets them at the proverbial gate.

Yours,

Isaac Sunkrum

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