SOME DEATH IS WORTH DYING FOR.

Finally after days of walking through the corpses, intense heat and shit, I find myself standing in front of a bastion of the last age, an icon of a by gone era, a time when tyres turned and roads connected different societies. Today, there are no more connectors; there is just one mass with one word on its collective lips... food. This transporter was nicknamed the H.E., the Holocaust Engine. Me and JJ are taking it to its final sarcastic conclusion: that is if my old friend can breathe some life into this old wheel spinning device.

JJ always had a way with machines. We are up and rolling in no time, we will be in London soon enough. I hate H.E.s but this was the only way to do it. As we bumble along the rotten and destroyed old motorways, I remember the scandal of the HE. This erupted when the new vehicle that would save food transportation turned out not to run on vegetable fat but a higher protein based oil: made from recently disappeared friends and family. Many of the rich argued poor people were more plentiful than oil and why not continue the initative? There was a lot of rioting, H.E.s were discontinued and most were left where they stood, that was back when you could still drive. Then there was no more oil, no more trucks and finally no more food. Mountains of supplies rot, as each second someone dies from starvation. Now there are no streets just live people, dead people and rubbish.

We drive. I try not to look at the expressions of the corpses that lie littered across the landscape and concentrate on the liquids I am mixing in my lap. That is the solution.

We have some police attention, the one on the bicycle is shouting to the checkpoint man to stop us. We stop, shit, we should have kept on going, I go to get out, and JJ is out before I have a chance. Bon route he shouts as he steps down out of the cab. Acting like there is nothing wrong, he is moving all of the pigs out of my path towards the side of the H.E. I know what i have to do. I floor it. In my mirror, I see him take three or four of them out before he hits the floor, he will not be getting up again. I don't see anymore because I have to take a corner, that was Epping so not far to go now.

I have but one terminal mission left, to reach the central water supplies. My life has led me to this. I am just the embodiment of a natural reaction. There is only one solution: I must sterilize the nation, then nature will decide. The exceptions to the rule, the survivors they will build the next generation and if there are none... then I guess that's all our race deserves.

There is no more glass in the side windows and I don't think I will ever have the use of my right arm again. There is more police than I have ever seen in my life, on and around the truck, they want me to stop, I am still moving. I break sharply and a lot them wont ever walk again. I turn and accelerate as some of the ones from the blockade in front run to stop me; the wheels turn on heaps of limbs.

The truck can take it; it was built to protect the rich in times of crisis. I drive onward using the wipers to clean some of the blood off the windscreen, past Leyton. I am close..

Everywhere people block my path, I lost count a good half hour ago of how many civilians I have run over, most of them did not seem to care, too close to give a shit? Too many of them for it to matter? Say something before you go! You bastards, why don't you scream when you die?

A cannon fires, I take a direct hit. I can feel the heat from the burning flames around the engine; it is blistering my face. I drive under the Thames water sign, I will do it, all the drinking water in Britain passes through this reservoir. The cops still want me to stop. I don't.

The water reservoirs are directly in front of me, 200m and closing. Three of my six tyres explode; I yank the wheel back on course and accelerate. Another of my tyres goes and there is nothing I can do to stop the truck rolling. The cab is strong and I am strapped in, I do not squash like a bug, the officers who were still clinging on don't have as much luck. I turn two or 3 times before I realise I am still going in the right direction, I hit the reservoir with a bang as the fire reaches the fuel tanks. My body and the mechanisms of the truck are as one.

In the dark and the black, I have time to feel the freshness of the water, I end, I succeed, I die, my equation is simple, my death is worth dying for.

By Anon

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