Scorpion String | Chapter 1

Serial Fiction | Novel Draft

—Matthew—

As you are aware—for those of you capable of reading this—the Third World War was merely a prelude. The nuclear devastation, famine, and plague were merely harbingers of what we are experiencing now. Yet, I have reasons to believe the worst is still to come.

How could it possibly get worse?

Well, to answer this question, I need to take a step back. I don’t intend to delve too far into the past, nor do I wish to overwhelm you with irrelevant details; however, I believe it’s essential to mark the beginning.

The end of the world—for lack of a better term—didn’t begin with a bang but with rapid decadence. It started before I was born in 2018, perhaps during my father’s youth.

Or perhaps even earlier.

No, I remember now. I apologize, as my understanding isn’t what it should be, and my memory isn’t as straightforward as it ought to be. I didn’t give enough importance to my dad’s words. I dismissed his wisdom, considering him outdated and foolish. I regret that now. I miss him—my dad. Yet, I recall he mentioned everything began just after World War II.

I feel compelled to share this story, believing it could be a beacon of hope for someone out there, even if they’re not aware of it yet. As a novice writer, where to start seems complicated for me. I am confident that the narrative I will unfold is fraught with controversy and peril. It poses a risk to me and anyone who dares to delve into its depths. Hence, finding the beginning feels like a formidable challenge.

We’re all mindful of the fervent religious movement—or, more accurately, the religious war: the purging. With its rise to prominence, acts of violence are not merely sanctioned but applauded. In light of this, I start with a memory from my childhood, a tale my dad once shared with Jackson and me when we were just five years old.

“Jack,” my dad directly addressed him, “do you know what air is?”

“Yes. It is what we breathe.”

My dad nodded and knelt down in front of us.

Back then, I had a bit of understanding, but I was only five and wholeheartedly believed in Santa Claus. Jack did, too, but had initiated this conversation by indicating that God is not real.

“That’s right. Can you show me air?”

I remember Jack held his hands before him like an obedient little boy at five. He blinked, unsure how to answer the question. Then he simply said, “No.”

My dad smiled. “You can’t see it, yet you know it is there. You breathe it.”

“That’s right,” Jack stated matter of factly.

My dad nodded with a soft grunt of agreement. “The same is true with God. You cannot see Him, yet He is everywhere. And just as real as the air we breathe.”

Those words resonated with me and Jack. They made sense, and we believed what he had said, at least for a few years. Afterward, there was no place for God in our lives. Especially Jesus.

I am Matthew Rogers, and what follows is my tale of horror. A narrative delivered by one who has endured the inconceivable. My life began before the great purge, in a time when the world was rich with opportunity. Yet, akin to everyone else anchored in the tangible world, my sights were set primarily on my own advancement.

Now, I scavenge for even a single morsel of food, yearning for actual water. This resource has become nearly impossible to find. I witness the people I once knew enduring unspeakable suffering, afflicted with grievous sores, burns, and blisters, tormented by creatures of nightmare. I am among the few who have managed to survive. Yet, I cannot evade the mental and psychological scars borne of the world in which we now exist.

Standing amidst the ruins of Virginia Beach, Virginia, I tremble at the sight before me. I realize that most people cannot comprehend the magnitude of what lies ahead. But I do—and what we’re all about to face is a hell unlike anything we’ve ever encountered.

And if I’m right, death won’t even save us.