There’s something to be said for war. Nothing good, mind you. But something.
Landscapes lay littered with carcasses—human, wooden, metal, what have you. The war doesn’t discriminate. But once abandoned, a war-torn carcass can transform into shelter, even nourishment, if you’re desperate enough.
By the time I saw what used to be the Malika, I was desperate. When I made it inside, I thought I was saved. And I was, from the torture of a relentless sun and the stinging of wind-blown grains of sand, even from the pursuit of army hard-asses. I slept for at least a day.
But my soul?
I try not to think about it.
I can still hear the war, at night, sometimes, but I’m too far for them to find me now. Escaped from the horror of man, now victim to the vicissitudes of the desert.
Metal bones and human ones offer me supplies for survival as I balance my options. Stay inside and run through my scavenged resources, or venture out with the ones I can carry in a former soldier’s bag?
It’s not right, stealing from the fallen ones, destroying them.
But I was desperate.