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As i walk these broken roads
As i walk these broken roads









as i walk these broken roads

Shading his eyes against the glare he saw a Victorian-style building down the road, stone walls with a red roof. Village of Blackstock, Population 800 the Datapad had been right after all.

as i walk these broken roads

He put it away, and leaned into the hill’s slope.Īs he crested the rise an old highway sign came into view. The GPS claimed he had only five hundred meters to go, but it was only picking up two satellites, so its predictions were questionable. He pulled out his Datapad and tilted the olive drab casing left and right until he could make out the screen. The road led through a valley, and as he neared its low point the sun disappeared behind the slope. It chilled his arms and neck, but left his back sweating. It whistled through the trees, stirred up dust devils, and crept into the folds of his jacket. Occasionally he’d pass the remains of a barbwire fence, rusted and fallen from decades of neglect.Ī cold breeze began to blow, harbinger of the coming gloom. The land was hilly, with brush and scrub lining the road. Somewhere out here he’d find people, but where they were or how far he’d have to go were questions he didn’t know the answers to. Both Nestleton Station and Yelverton had lain in ruin, and from the looks of things Blackstock would too. Twenty-three kilometres ago he’d decided to go no further than Blackstock before packing it in for the night. The heat of it rose up through the soles of his boots, burning with each step.īut his trek was nearing its end. For most of the journey the soft embankments had been too steep to walk on and he’d been stuck with the blacktop.

as i walk these broken roads

The highway he walked was cracked, bleached, and hard on the feet. The sight of it ought to ward off any predators. In his hand was an assault rifle, gripped by the magazine housing. There was no breeze and the road was silent, except for the ragged sound of his breathing and the endless creak of leather-on-wool from the duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Sweat dripped down over his goggles, beading down the lens and vanishing. It was sinking ever closer to the horizon and its glare was blinding.











As i walk these broken roads