He did not have a name. He was the Postman, and that was good enough.

Irradiated hands falling apart at the wrists, he shuffled through the satchel hanging at his waist. He wasn't bothered by the decay - he'd been through far worse.

Looking up at the leaning skyscraper in front of him, he took a moment to appreciate its artistry. Out-of-control ivy crawled eighty feet up its sides until it peeled away from the walls, pulled down by its own weight. An array of shattered windows lined up like dominoes, broken glass reflecting the cold gray sky far above. Floor-level windows boarded up with plywood, a motley smattering of graffiti coating its surface. The top of the skyscraper was jagged, like something large had taken a bite off it.

There was a door in front of him. It was made out of metal, which seemed pointless to the Postman. If something wanted to get in, it could use the windows or pull the plywood off. Granted, the zombies weren't smart enough for that and the scratchers weren't strong enough. They could probably manage it if they worked together, he mused, but they were on bad terms to say the least. Something about meat distribution - his Scratch wasn't up to scratch. He chuckled at his own joke.

A slot near the top of the door slid open, and a pair of worried brown eyes looked out at him. "Do you need something?"

Ah, English. The language of America and Britain. The Postman took a moment to file through the dust in his mind and settled on an Indiana accent. A little flat, nothing too exceptional, and quite clear. "I have a package for Maria Dawson." He pulled a brown paper package out of his satchel, holding it up.

The eyes narrowed. "Who are you?"

The Postman tipped his hat. "I'm the Postman."

The eyes widened, and then vanished. The slot slid shut.

He waited there for a long time. A Plymouth dropped in and curiously asked what he was doing, to which the Postman simply replied, "Delivering a package." The Plymouth nodded understandingly, spread its wings wide, and crawled away up the side of a building.

With a sigh, the Postman flicked a cracked silver pocketwatch out of his uniform's breast pocket and checked it. The hour hand pointed to Having A, and the minute hand to Bad Time? The Postman shook his head, and the hands moved. Want To, Play? The Postman shook his head. No time to play with the watch. Perhaps later, when time could afford to be spent.

The slot slid open. A different pair of eyes, desperate and a beautiful hazel green. "You have a package for me?"

French, Italy accent. Most humans didn't live with people they couldn't communicate with. So little time, none of it could be wasted. The Postman held the delicately wrapped package up. "Maria Dawson?"

She nodded, and the door slid open. The Postman heard a chorus of complaints and shouted warnings from behind it. Well-intended and well-timed, in fairness. Even if it was gone, Plymouths were known for their appetite. Whatever the case, a woman in her mid-twenties held her hand out for the package. She didn't even have any extra limbs.

The Postman placed the package in her hands. "Any mail?"

She looked up at his face and looked away just as fast. Humans were sensitive about exposed bone, he'd found. "No. Tell him I'll find him soon."

Now there was a dilemma. The person in question was exceptionally dead, the Postman knew. The package he'd just handed over was given to him by a ragged-looking man who had gone into a Pripyatic mobile reactor. Nasty business, those. Could be a little tough to make it out of provided they didn't want you to leave. Not too much of an issue for the Postman.

Therein lay the dilemma. Which was the better decision, to tell the truth and watch her face crumple like so many he'd seen before, or to lie and watch false hope light that same face?

The Postman smiled, although with most of his own face missing it could be contrived as more of a grimace. "I'll deliver the message to him, ma'am."

She smiled and it was like a sun through rain clouds. A tired glimpse of some semblance of happiness in a world where human happiness was more fragile than glass. "Thank you very much."

Turning, she began opening the package as the door swung shut. Disappointment. The Postman had been hoping to see what was in it, but mail was to be delivered and not witnessed.

Now he had to go find the same reactor and get to the likely incinerated corpse. It would be an annoying journey, but the woman's smile would make it worth it. If nothing else, he was determined to deliver the woman's message to the corpse. Then it would not be a lie; he would have given the message to someone, even though they were dead, and the woman would be happy for a little longer.

He was a bit put out she hadn't given him a tip, though.