Flattened Memory

Date: 9.25.2224

Location: En route to Westlake, Louisiana
Status: Cautious, Observant

Sulphur lies behind me like a wound stitched poorly. The town isn’t just scarred by sulfur—it’s flattened by years of storms, neglect, and indifference. Streets cracked into riverbeds, roofs peeled like bark, facades bowed under their own history. Even the factories seem to slump in exhaustion, leaning on nothing but memory. Nature and time have had their way, and the human footprint is faint here, save for the occasional shadow of scavengers or the echo of forgotten footsteps.

The road east rolls under my boots, sun low, wind carrying that faint tang of burned ozone and chemical haze. Green patches appear—parks, old neighborhoods, trees still stubbornly living. I spot one in Maplewood, a small oasis among the wreckage. I thought to pause, maybe catch my breath, maybe even squat in shade.

That’s when I see them. Raiders. Three, maybe four, sprawled around a fire pit where once families picnicked, their eyes flicking to me like wolves sensing prey. Not traders. Not curious survivors. Predators looking for a bed, a bite, or a spark to steal.

I don’t make a sound. I don’t move fast. Just assess, measure, and encode: distance, cover, escape vectors. My rifle is close, fingers brushing the grip, but not drawing yet. They step closer, the dead grass crunching beneath boots too eager to feed their ego.

“New blood?” one calls, voice rough, trying for menace.

I nod slowly, polite. Too polite. Calculated. “Just passing through.”

They laugh. Not the good kind of laugh. The kind that wants you uneasy in your own skin. One reaches for a piece of scavenged wood, another flexes a knife.

I shift. Not with haste, not with panic, but with intention. The park benches, the low shrubs, the hollowed trunks—each is a potential extension of my presence, a tool, a shadow. The world teaches you the language of leverage quickly. I keep my stance open, calm. I don’t run—they expect that. I don’t threaten—I have no time for theatrics.

A gust lifts the scent of sulfur from behind, and they flinch, distracted. I use it. Step to the flank, slow, steady, deliberate. Not retreating, not rushing—just moving the axis of engagement away from them. By the time they react fully, I’m already past the green, already toward safer cover, the rifle still idle. No shots fired. No chaos. Just the quiet leverage of presence.

Lesson: Not every encounter is won with fire. Some are survived with patience and geometry.

I press on toward Westlake, boots heavy, sun dipping behind ragged clouds. The park fades behind me, raiders nothing more than shapes in memory, a reminder that even in the fleeting green, danger lingers in expectation.

Supplies, water, a place to rest—still priorities. But now, awareness is the weight I carry heavier than any pack or ration.

—Big Chief