Days gone (Open)

Another day, another reason to fight. Fighting had become the normal. It had become the only thing; day in and day out. One could get tired of fighting. One could grow weary of conflict. Though strength was not measured in how much blood you shed, but rather how much restraint you yield.

Sunlight spilled through the cracks in the wall. Random beams of light piercing the almost utter darkness with golden criss crossing streams of motivation. Ishir leaned up and rubbed at his eyes. He didn't mean to sleep this late, and he could already tell by the light that it was mid day. He had slept really late actually. 

Ishir groaned and rolled out of the dusty bed.  His boots hit the floor and thudded against the ancient rotting wood.  He was in a farm house.  Just some stop along the way in the middle of nowhere.  He was making his way west.   Walking over to the fireplace he had two birds he had sniped from the sky with a deadly accurate throw of his knife.  

Before, when the world was still the world Ishir was aa Teppanyaki chef at a habchi grill.  Head chef at that.  He was very skilled with knives, but he also didn't like to show off.  Ishir had plucked the birds last night but he was too tired to cook them until now.  Breakfast would be good before he got back on the road.  He grabbed his pack and opened the clasp.  Inside he had various spices.

A chef was used to using spices to make bad tasting food taste good.  That was way more common after the end of the world.  Yes, the most important thing he carried was spice.  And it was a world of difference.  Ishir cooked his birds into a stew and enjoyed it quietly in the musty old house.  He could hear the occasional groan of the dead outside, but they mostly passed this house as if it were invisible.  It's because he was careful to be quiet and discrete.   He had been traveling for a while now.

Always headed west.  He didn't really have a destination in mind, he just figured he should be moving.  A rolling stone grows no moss and all that.  He didn't feel like he was exactly in danger, though keeping himself mobile did make him feel safe.  Finishing off his breakfast he put out the fire and slung his pack over his shoulders.  He picked up his radio and pressed down the button.  "This is Ishir Muhinder Bakshi, from Stillwater Oklahoma.  Heading west by route 94.  Today would be a good day to meet you.  If you're out there."  He let go of the button.  

He had never gotten a response from the radio.  Not one single chirp back or static, but he kept hoping that some day someone would radio back and he would hear a friendly voice.  Ishir had not seen another living person for six months.  He was beginning to think that no one else survived besides him.  He would have thought that if he hadn't heard the occasional scream or gunshot off in the distance,  but he hadn't even heard those in the last two months.