Sunday, 21 June 2015


by John Xero

Old fence post, rusted, swung with thick gloves, connecting hard with hooded head. Stranger folding fast, going down, heavy.

“Take his clothes. Any food.”

Desperate scavengers descending. Tearing torn cloak, seeking some element to aid their own survival. Hitting hard metal.

“Some sort of armour.”

Hesitation. Hostile glances ricochet. This they may be unwilling to share, its value unbounded.

The stranger shifts, red glint in artificial eye. Robot rising.

Scavengers die, unpleasantly, wailing, weeping, wet.

The old cold prince looks up, sees no satellites, wraps up, again.

Broken tones, electric noise, settling. “Huh. Humans. Didn’t think there were any left.”

Author bio: John Xero writes. A lot. He’s trying to write long, but the short still calls to him, the shortest most of all. He should blog (, he should tweet (@xeroverse), but he rarely does.

Survive is part of 101 Fiction issue 8.

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