John woke up in a dark, dingy room. The steel plates bolted to the walls had long, ruddy streaks of rust running down them, suggesting the years of rain that had poured down on the city for years on end. John stood up, wiping the dirt and grime from his shirt, a futile exercise given that he would be dirty again as soon as he as much as brushed up against any solid object. The filth was palpable. In this city, you were either indoors and disgustingly dirty or you were outdoors and soaking wet. John wondered how many hours had passed since he ducked into the abandoned building. It was impossible to tell, since the sun was never visible. He had gone in when it was dark, and it was currently not dark, so it had probably been somewhere between four and twelve. Or maybe twenty eight and thirty six. It wouldn't surprise him if he had crashed for an entire day again. How long had it been since he'd eaten? No, don't think about that. Don't think about food. Too late. His stomach curled inwards on itself, painfully begging for anything to become it's contents. Unfortunately, literally the only things in his current vicinity that he would be able to actually chew and swallow were dirt and his hat. He briefly wondered what the nutritional value of his hat was. Thread is made from organic material, so it must have some, right? He decided against it, deciding that his hat better served him by keeping the rain from beating his head senseless.
The rain. Oh, how it pounded mercilessly on every living thing on the city. And every not-living thing in the city. And every unliving thing in the city. The things that weren't living probably didn't mind so much, but regardless, it was merciless. John briefly pondered how that much water could possibly get into the sky. If you were to fly above the clouds, would you see a swimming pool as far as the eye could see? How was the city not flooded by now? Well, completely flooded? He tried to remember if there were any waterways leading out of the city for all that water to flow. Even if there were, how could they hold the flow? Was it a seaside city? Why couldn't he remember whether it was or wasn't?
No, no, wait. Getting distracted. Focus. He could think about things all he wanted once he had something to eat. No, wait, don't think about food! But then he realized he was facing a paradox, as he had to think about food in order to find it. No choice, then.
John tightened up his jacket and adjusted his hat, then walked out to the doorway in front of the street. He had to go out into the rain again. How depressing. He would mourn the loss of his current dryness. Relative dryness. Another day of being soaked to the bone awaited him.
He looked up the street one way, then down the other, examining the rusty, nondescript buildings and towers running each way down the road. Which way did he come in? Did it matter? Where should he look for something to eat? He briefly considered whether food would be more likely to be found at the high ground or the low ground. Then he realized that was a stupid thought and the relative height of an area could not possibly affect the odds of edible materials being present. But then he reconsidered, thinking that since most people would run to high ground in a disaster, there would therefore be more supplies at the low ground. Low ground it was. At least he wouldn't have to walk uphill.
He took a deep breath, then stepped out into the rain. Taking a deep breath was decidedly pointless as rain did not impair breathing. It did impair hearing, sight, touch, and smell. He thought it was ironic that all of the four senses except the one he prepared were the ones being assaulted by the eternal downpour. Then he remembered that breathing is not a sense, and tried to remember what the fifth one was. Oh right, taste. And here he was, going out to get food, so it was ironic after all.
John plodded along the sidewalk, with at least an inch or two of water rushing along his heels at any given moment. He desperately wished for the city to be not so metal-plated, as the rain made a terrible racket beating against the ubiquitous steel barriers everywhere in sight. He wondered if they really did any good in stopping the radiation before the rain started. Probably not. Somebody made a fortune off of the specially-treated metal, regardless. Not that it mattered much to them now. Or maybe it did, maybe they were lucky enough to build themselves some sort of secret underground bunker full of warm beds and hot food and not rain. They probably could've afforded it. Oh, but since it was underground, it probably would've been flooded by now. There is justice in the world, John thought.
He continued marching down the street, and could not shake the feeling that there was some reason he should not be going downstream. He had a bad feeling about it, and briefly wondered whether he was just experiencing the same instinct as everyone else to head towards higher ground. Higher ground wasn't where the food was (maybe). He had to ignore his instincts (probably), so he resumed wading through the torrents to the intersection below.
---
930 words before getting sick of this shit. How do you people do it?
