The World, Unwritten

The cataclysm came without warning. In its wake, the world lay scarred and broken—soil barren, crops failed, water tainted, shelter precarious. Civilization had crumbled to dust, and what remained was a brutal struggle for survival. Three hundred kilometers west of the Sixth District, in the lawless Unplanned Zone—a no-man’s-land with no government, no rules—a young man of twenty-three hurried down a nameless street, coat pulled tight, head bowed against the biting wind. The street was a ruin: crumbling pavement, open sewers long collapsed, the stench of makeshift outhouses mingling with the night air. Ramshackle shops lined the road, their windows boarded or shattered. Light was scarce; the few flickering bulbs cast long shadows. Groups of people huddled here and there—mostly women, few men. The young man walked quickly, eyes fixed ahead. His name was Julian Ashcroft. Six-foot-two, broad-shouldered, built like someone who had fought for every meal. Today he was out of work, but he had a plan: buy a legitimate resident ID for the Sixth District. Step one toward something better. Julian had once been handsome—clean-cut features, bright eyes, the kind of face that turned heads. Now he looked like everyone else: unshaven, hair matted, clothes stained with grease and grime. Invisible in a crowd. Exactly how he wanted it. He glanced up at a crossroads, ready to turn left toward home. “Hey, mister… mister!” A woman’s voice, light but insistent. She wore a faded dress under a thin jacket and gently tugged his sleeve. Julian stopped, turned. “What?” “Thirty bucks.” She held up three slender fingers, nodding toward a dilapidated shop behind her. “We can go in there.” He gave a short laugh. “Can’t afford it.” “Wait—” She caught his arm again. “Twenty-five. Twenty-five okay?” He looked her over, paused, then shook his head. “I’ve got no money.” “Not your type? There’s others inside.” “I said I’ve got nothing.” He pulled away. “Let go. I’m heading home.” She bit her lip, grip tightening. After a long silence she whispered, “Two bowls of oats. But measured with my bowl.” Julian frowned. “I told you, I don’t have anything. Get off me.” She didn’t let go. Her eyes flicked to a cluster of children—seven or eight years old—huddled beside the shop. “I’ve got three kids. If I don’t make something tonight, they don’t eat. Please, mister. One bowl. I’ll get on my knees.” Julian looked at her, voice flat. “The world’s been like this for years. If you can’t feed them, why have them?” She froze. He yanked his arm free and walked on. The woman stood there a moment, then bolted back to the shop, breathless. “He’s got food. I felt it when I grabbed him—something heavy under his coat.” Half an hour later. Julian climbed the dusty, crumbling stairs of a six-story derelict building. The place was nearly abandoned—just him and his friend Leonard Wolfe. Walls had partially collapsed; in the old world it would have been condemned. Now “home” was wherever you could keep the rain off your head. Julian chose it because it had no electricity, no running water—and no bills. Inside, the room was bare: a mattress, two battered cabinets, nothing else. The only reading material was a dog-eared military magazine from 2019, its pages worn soft. Julian shrugged off his filthy jacket, pulled a worn canvas sack from inside his shirt, and carried it carefully to the bed. He took a chipped bowl and began scooping out dry oats—precious, pale grains that caught what little light there was. “Leonard,” he called. “Food ready?” “Not yet. Just got back,” came the reply from the inner room. A young man about Julian’s age stepped out—dark-skinned, hard-featured, eyes sharp. Leonard Wolfe. Thud-thud-thud. Heavy footsteps echoed from below, shaking the building. Julian stiffened, quickly stashed the sack and bowl in a cabinet, and moved to the door—a single rotting plywood panel. Seconds later, seven or eight children appeared on the outdoor stairwell, followed by dozens of adults—men and women, gaunt and desperate. The concrete stairs were cracked, the iron railing rusted through. So many feet pounding at once made the whole structure groan. Julian raised a hand. “Hey—easy! You’re gonna bring the damn stairs down!” “Uncle, I’m hungry.” “Uncle, can we eat?” The children clutched small bowls, staring up at him with filthy faces. Julian forced a grin. “I’m hungry too. You guys eating yet? Maybe we can share.” The kids’ eyes were innocent. The adults behind them wore no masks. A burly, bald man stepped forward. “Hand over the food. Do it and you walk away.” “I don’t have any,” Julian said, palms open. “We’re all starving out here. If I had something, I’d share—you know that.” “Then we’ll take half and go.” “Bullshit. We saw you carrying it.” “I’m telling you, there’s nothing.” “Inside,” the bald man barked. “Uncle, please—food.” “Give us something!” The crowd surged. The stairs shuddered dangerously. Julian’s eyes flashed red. He drew a knife from his pant leg in one smooth motion and leveled it at them. “You think I’m alone? You think I’m scared to die? I’ve got food, sure. Come break this blade and it’s yours.” They hesitated. The bald man sneered. “Kids are in front. Start with them.” Julian’s jaw clenched. “You son of a—” “Inside. Take it.” The mob pressed forward. Children swarmed Julian, tugging at his legs, pleading. “Get back!” he shouted. “I swear I’ll use this—I will!” Leonard appeared beside him. “Everybody calm down. Let’s talk.” The children clung tighter. Adults slipped through gaps, closing in. Julian planted himself in the doorway, muscles taut. “I live for me. Don’t push it.” No one listened. A boy of ten yanked hard on Julian’s arm. Julian jerked free—too hard. The kid stumbled, crashed into the press of bodies, lost balance, and toppled backward through the open railing. A terrified scream. Then a sickening thud five stories below. Silence. Leonard’s voice cracked. “The kid—he fell.” The crowd glanced down, faces blank. Two seconds later they turned back. The boy’s mother wailed and bolted downstairs. Julian stood frozen. “Food.” “He’s not leaving without giving us something.” “Take it.” The shouts rose again. No one went to check on the child. Leonard licked dry lips. “Fine. You win. I’ll get some.” Julian grabbed his arm, low and fierce. “We give nothing. Not one grain.” Leonard stared at the mob. “They already know we have it. Give them a little, they leave.” “Give once, they’ll come back for more. We fight or we lose everything.” “That’s insane. You’ve got the pistol, sure—but there’s dozens of them. You really think you can hold them?” “Trust me. I’ll get the gun.” “You saw what just happened. They didn’t even blink when the kid fell. They’re past reason.” Leonard pulled away. “We’ve got enough to last us. We’ve traded what we could. One bowl won’t kill us. I’m not dying for pride. It’s my food too—I get a say.” Julian had no answer. Leonard faced the bald man. “Unplanned Zone rules: take the oats, then get the hell out. No more trouble.” “We’ll leave fast,” the man nodded. Leonard went inside, returned with a heaping bowl, and slammed it on the floor. “Go.” Greedy eyes fixed on it, but no one moved. The bald man scooped the oats into a cloth sack tied at his waist. “Move!” Leonard snapped. Still they lingered. Someone muttered, “He gave one bowl—means he’s got a whole sack.” “More. There’s too many of us.” “Give it.” “Or we take it.” Knives glinted in the dim light. The bald man spread his hands. “I can’t hold them back. Bring out the sack. We’ll take half.” Leonard drew his own knife. “You bastard—” “Scared? We’re starving. We’ll fight.” They advanced. Leonard froze—knife up, but no plan. Click-clack. Julian stepped forward, a massive .357 revolver in his right hand—twenty centimeters of steel, three barrels, revolver cylinder spinning as he chambered a round. The crowd stopped dead. Julian dragged the full sack from the cabinet and dropped it with a thud. “Here it is. Come and get it.” Silence. “You think a gun scares us? We’ll die without food anyway.” The bald man roared, “There’s dozens of us—one gun!” He lunged for the sack. Bang. The shot roared like thunder. The bald man flew backward, chest blooming red, dead before he hit the floor. Julian’s voice was ice. “Starving might kill you in a week. Reach for that sack now, and I kill you tonight.” No one spoke. “Two rounds left. Who wants them?” They backed up. Julian retrieved the smaller sack from the corpse, slung it over his shoulder. “Leonard, grab our things. We’re leaving.” Leonard hurried inside. “Line up—two rows. Clear the stairs.” No one moved. Julian aimed at the nearest man. “Move.” The man stepped aside. The rest followed. Five minutes later, Julian reached the ground floor. The mother knelt over her injured child, sobbing. Julian paused, then tossed her the smaller sack of oats. “They’ll be down soon. Hide this.” She clutched it, tears streaming. “Thank you… thank you. This means we live…” Julian and Leonard melted into the night. 3 a.m.—endless desert stretching toward the horizon. Julian divided the remaining oats, handed Leonard his share. “Take yours. We split here.” Leonard stared. “Seriously? Just because we disagreed back there?” Julian cut him off. “People going different directions shouldn’t walk together. It gets you killed. I’m heading to the Sixth District. Take care of yourself.” He turned and walked away without looking back—toward a new beginning. Far off, in a military encampment on the edge of the Unplanned Zone. A Black soldier grinned, showing white teeth. “Heard a gunshot earlier. Should we check it out?” An older veteran lying on a creaking cot puffed cheap tobacco. “Check what? People get shot over food every night. We’re not the law here.”