The sun a fiery orb of blood red sank, its last rays glinting on the reaching waves crashing onto the beach strewn with still forms. Rivulets of blue swirls merged with conflicting red streams of blood as the waters washed incessant over the ravaged bodies.
“In a World…”, a voiceover resounded over the post-apocalyptic scape, “torn asunder by man’s greed, Gaia rose in wrath to undo all man had wrought…” Angry streaks burnt into the sky lit the beach as on its shores a body stirred. His lungs gulped air, coughing he choked, the stench of flesh hung like a curtain within him. He staggered to his feet, his gaze vacant staring at the violence before him. “Humanity’s last stand for survival…” a voice boomed through the clouds jolting him to the reality of it. He looked around for the source, the devious deranged villain wreaking such havoc. Desolation, devastation faced him.
“…will be fought by one man…”, it continued, deep rumbling, like Morgan Freeman. “Who is it??”, he said, now sure the voice existed. “One man must in the face of loss…”, unperturbed it went on, as though formed by the air itself.
He ran now, his legs screaming with pain, his feet squelching on the soft blood-soaked sand as he scrambled stepping over bodies bruised, battered; desperate to escape this voice-over, this elocution of his life, his world. ‘Find the path to redemption and salv…”. “Stop saying shit; who the fuck is it?” he shrieked frantic now. “Salvage all of humankind.” the voice unfettered finished.
He looked around crazed, numb, a lone figure lifeless in a perpetual sea of graves.
The screen fades to black, deep trombones snort as words split the black canvas “Nature Vs Man: The Battle for Earth; This December Gaia will fall.”
A black peace lit the damp noiseless room. Glowing stencils above the wedged door read Recording Room C. In the center of the room lay an upturned cargo tray filled with sand, a 4 by 4 beach, if you will. On it clad only in flip flops and briefs, a pair of headphones clasped to his ears he stood. His feet squelching as he stepped forward on his silted bed pulling the headphones framing his face, tugging them off his ears. His ears ached for them instantly, little hands clawing out of his ears clutching, grasping at them; desperate to cling on to that realm, any realm other than his. Glum, he walked past cowbells tinkling of a farmer’s return, wind chimes proclaiming spring breeze, hard heeled boots tapping mysteries on waiting cobbled sidewalk stones, dried betel leaves stitched at the seams that fly as pigeons do when flapped vigorously, cushioned beds sounding out blow after blow on screen; this was his world, these were his people. Not the blood filled bodies outside, your breathing moving monstrous masses crowding streets, halls, homes, trains. They were dead, blind to the visage, deaf to the symphony, numb to all around them.
They were dead. He stepped out of the studio, from his world to theirs, desolation solitude enveloping.