Journal StalinsNotDead's Journal: The second dream from yesterday (a bit longer) 13

Second dream from yesterday:

History (I don't know how I knew this information, but in the dream it was as if the events had already transpired. Maybe it was a really long dream and I only remember this sequence while awake. And it's a dream so certain illogical events occur.): A space-based tectonic manipulation device, ostensibly to predict and prevent earthquakes, misfires and hits Atlanta, GA. Based on the effects, the immediate conclusion drawn is that it was actually a tectonic weapon of some kind. The end result is that the crust beneath Atlanta is thinned to the point that magma is perilously close to the surface. Evacuations are ordered, but are mismanaged and many are trapped to slowly roast to death. The CDC, which as it happens is actually a front for genetic research and development for biological weapons, was working on genetic manipulation through prions (like BSE) and research into extremophiles (among other things, like cholera, tuberculosis and all those other Oregon Trail diseases). This series of events releases an agent into the air that alters the few remaining survivors so that they can survive in the landscape of broken pyroclastic ground, choking sulfurous fumes, occasional volcanic events, and the ruined urban landscape that once was Atlanta. No longer capable of providing food for the survivors, they turn to cannibalism and degrade into savages.

The dream sequence:
I don't know why we're there, but a Gulf League Militia unit (of which I was a part) was sent into the Atlanta Hot Zone. Laden with water, breathing equipment, weapons and other gear we trek along some of the unbroken parts of the interstate. High enough that, though uncomfortable, the temperature isn't lethal, even though the fumes might be. It's difficult to describe the ruined skyscrapers leaning on there now since defunct foundations, most of the building materials having degraded and fallen away, leaving twisted and spooky looking skeletal claws reaching for the sky. It's night, but the sky is lit as if it was dim twilight, only instead of the light emanating from the sky, it's a harsh red-orange and it's coming from the ground below. We all know we shouldn't tarry in any one place too long, as the scorchers (that's evidently what the "survivors" are called) are a vigilant and hungry bunch, and don't often get to taste uncooked flesh.

We reach an especially narrow part of interstate and have to send a point man in order to deploy the climbing rig to cross the gulf in the road. An especially dangerous job, not only because of the precarious footing, but because the scorchers are getting wise to certain tactics and frequently lay traps or ambushes at these sites. They've even learned that simple spears and hit and run tactics will fell a man because, if his suit's breached and he's not quick with the patch he's as good as dead in mere minutes. And if he ain't dead, he's unconscious in under two minutes. Either way, a meal. We can't afford the sentimentality of no man left behind, besides there usually aren't any wounded. Fuck up and you're dead. There are no Purple Hearts in this game.

Anyway it's the new guy's, Gonzalez, turn to cross first. We hook the crodding rig to him. Four of us take firing positions to fire towards the ground in case there's any scorchers down there. (Which by the way are very hard to spot due to there coal black skin laced with veins of glowing reds and oranges, near perfect camouflage. Thermal and low-light aren't especially useful either) Gonzalez is half-way across when there's a sudden thermal updraft. We can all hear over the comms the screams of a burning man and the orders from the sarge for him to hit his emergency cooling unit. Then the spear hits. Square through the midsection. The heat of the spear apparently ignites something on his person. Cover fire immediately opens up. "Cut the line! Damnit! or we lose the rig! You Mother Fuckers were supposed to keep your eyes open damnit!" cries the Sergeant. "Drop a tank, McKinley!" McKinley, in one swift motion, pulls what looks like a miniature propane tank from the mechanical mule (except this tank contains some fancy pressurized cooling gas). Flips a switch a tosses it over the edge just as Gonzalez almost hit bottom. The covering firers pull back from the edge. There's a muffled explosion, some shrieks from below (scorchers don't like the cold). Sarge points at me and says "You're point now."

Then I wake up.