Despite a disappointing 006, Picture Prompt 007 is here

WHY SO SERIOUS?

Because I'm actually hoping for a response.

The windows were fogging up again. The man in the rocking chair slowed his pendulum motion for a moment, as if to get up and clean them. He raised his eyebrows above the steel rimmed glasses he always kept on the perch of his nose, the unruly white hair making tiny mountain peaks reaching up into the heavens of his receded hairline.

Gunshots rang off in an asymmetrical pattern, occasionally highlighted by the tiny ping of a ricochet. The man liked to organize the shots, arranging them in little bookshelves in his mind, sorted by distance, caliber and frequency.

Soldier 436. Must be a busy day.

He removed the glasses, and using his breath as cleaner wiped them on his shirt. This made them more grimy than before, but old habits die hard he thought. There was nowhere else to wipe them.

Standing, he turned into the interior of his apartment; the mattress on the floor; sheets stained from fear and fever; a kerosene lamp, the wick replaced with shreds of old t-shirts; a grandfather clock beset by old age and Alzheimer's, chiming every few months. He shuffled into the kitchen and reached into the ration vent, a long metal pneumatic tube that brought monthly portions of food and water. Nothing. Probably tomorrow.

Loosening his belt, he dropped his pants and took off his button down shirt and undershirt. Cynthia would be coming over soon and he needed to clean up. He grabbed the bar of lye soap in the sink and slowly worked his skin until his whole body burned and begged him to stop. In the medicine cabinet he kept his supply of Old Spice, which he used to cover as best as possible the stench of waiting and sleeping. It was an exercise in futility, he knew this. He knew Cynthia wouldn't notice his smell, for her own was just as pungent, though both had either grown accustomed or lost the ability to smell altogether. He couldn't be sure. There was so little to smell anymore.

His eyes darted from washrag to skin to soap and back, using a small water basin to rinse. They desperately avoided the mirror. There'd be nothing new to see, no new wrinkles to map. Easier to forget decay, he thought, if I don't see it.

The first time he'd looked in that mirror, it had shown him the face of salvation. Relief. Victory.

Now all he saw was a tired old man who would just as soon die were it not for her.

She came into the building some time after him. He wasn't sure how long he'd been the only tenant of Tower 265, but he knew that 7 years had passed since she arrived, burned and battered but not beyond the point of beauty. She was breathing. She was beautiful.

He put his clothes back on and walked over to the fogged up window. Funny that he always called it fog. Fog required moisture, and surely there was none of that. Just black, dry smoke wafting ever upwards. He guessed it still smelled of death. In the early days, he was happy for the airtight insulation that kept his home free of it. Now he just wanted to know. Did he smell of death too?

Not today Mitchell.

Taking one last look out into the eternal twilight of smoke and ash, he listened close, reorganized his collection of gunshots, and closed the curtains.

G'night 436. May death treat you better than life.

the world is colorless
the world has ceased to function
in color.
Amid the crumbling remains
of buildings and
between each stupid pointless
blockade,
there are only varying shades
of grey.
Our blood runs black...
and even the sun has taken on
a smoke-colored hue.....

Outside I can hear the gravel crunch as soldiers run by, screaming orders about a breach at blockade five. The helicopters flee like giant birds from the dying city, carrying their young to safety, before returning to the fight. Only the children were evacuated this time.

I look around at the deserted room in this deserted building, and notice the smoke rushing in, like a crowd of people trying to elbow their way into an already full elevator. My breaths come in harsh gasps and leave me choking from the ash that's been falling like rain since day one.

When they came to clear us out, I remember the women screaming. They stormed the building in their dark suits and gas masks, pointing their guns frantically as the women threw stones at them in pitiful attempts to protect their children. Finally, one soldier took his mask off and yelled something about evacuation helicopters and we foolishly tried to pack what little belongings we had and follow them out. Matilda, my nurse, was lifting me into my chair when one of the men stopped her. He pulled at her arm and pointed at his wrist. Apparently, there was no time. She fought as long as you could expect a hired nurse to fight for a cripple before she looked over her shoulder at me, and with tears in her eyes, shrugged. She ran toward the door along with everyone else while I sat in my bed, looking after her. There was nothing she could do, and I wouldn't blame her.

Just below the window I could hear the angry protests as the soldiers lifted the children into the helicopters and told the rest of the crowd they'd do best to run for the hills. A shot rang out as a man tried to push his way onto the big bird, and the sound of running soon followed. I guess the other residents of the building decided running for the hills was a better alternative to death.

The soldiers swept the building once more to make sure it was vacant, and when I heard the nob turn and the door open, for one foolish second I thought it was Matilda coming back for me. Instead, two soldiers walked in, guns hanging at their sides. Their surprise at seeing me sitting on the bed made me chuckle. I moved the blanket aside to show them my lack of limbs, but they avoided eye contact. They looked at each other.

"We can't just leave him here, Sarge." The younger of the two pointed in my direction. I nodded in agreement, and seeing this, they turned their back on me.

"He hasn't got any legs, Lopez. And I don't know if you noticed, but he's got one prosthetic arm too. Even if we put him in his chair, he wouldn't be able to push himself. And before you even suggest it, don't. All the birds are gone. He'll just have to stay here.

During this conversation I had tried to pull myself onto my chair. It was my last desperate attempt to show them that I might not be able to push myself, but I would try like hell if only they would help me down the stairs and into the street. I would have simply told them this if I'd have had a voice. Instead of making it onto the chair, I slipped and tumbled to the floor. They turned quickly, pointing their guns at the sudden noise, but I was too ashamed to look up.

"Come on Lopez. We'll come back for him when it's over."

The two walked back to the door, and for the second time that day, I saw someone look over their shoulder at me. Nothing he could do.

"Poor bastard." He said, and they were out the door.

It's been four days, but no one has come back for me. In fact, the soldiers I just heard outside the window screaming about blockade five have been the only human sounds I've heard since the day of the evacuation. Ah, the sirens are starting now, which means B5 must have failed. It's only a matter of time before those mutated monsters find me, and so, I'm leaving you with this.

That is if anyone ever finds this.

My name is Milton. I am going to die today, that is, the 15th of March in the year 2037 because I hadn't the legs to run nor the voice to cry out. I loved once and long ago. I was a good man.

And I forgive all those that left me behind....

There was nothing you could do.

The world has ceased
to function in color.
Amid the crumbling
remains of buildings and
between each pointless
blockade
there are only varying shades
of gray.
Our blood runs black
and even the sun
has taken on
a smoke-colored hue...
And we tried our best but....
there was never anything
we could do.