Take one look around here and tell me if you see a single semblance of life. There’s no life here, not even when there is. Every tree has been devoid of nutrients and water, every human has been devolved to the primal instinct of wild beasts. Indeed there is no life here. No life to be had, no life to be made. There’s nothing here; nothing but me and my own meandering experience.

Despite my obvious optimism, I have degenerated into the ultimate coward. Xenopram sounded like a great idea 960 years ago. Now I wish I had more of a choice. How can you live when you’re hated by both the mortal and immortal? You can’t. But how can you die when you have been plagued with immortality and the lack of courage for suicide? You can’t.

I wish I could tell that at least I have my memories, but that couldn’t be farther from the truth. I don’t remember who my parents were, they never took Xenopram and were killed in the war over half my lifetime ago, and my lifetime has been a lengthy one compared to that of a mortal. I don’t remember who my first wife was, but I have enough nuts and bolts left in there to know that I had one. I don’t remember my children, I don’t know if they died or had made a life for themselves or even existed. I don’t even know my own name, and I especially don’t know how someone could forget something like that.

I’ve spent every day of the last 200 years wandering this large chunk of Earth left to rot by its immortal de-facto leaders. I have yet to find a single speck of life. I’ve found people, sure, but none who were truly alive. But how would I know what alive is when I’ve never felt it myself?

My story starts here, on this seemingly average morning. If you could even call it that, average.

I had just finished setting my camp away as I laid my map out across the dirt and reviewed my route. I was to head north towards an old relic of a city that my map says used to be called “Iqaluit”. Running the roads through my head four times over, I put the map back in my blue overalls and headed out towards the infinite wasteland.

I don’t remember what this place looked like before the war, I wasn’t born here. I was born in a place that used to called ‘Germany’, but had been consumed into becoming just another part of Beauland. I’ve seen pictures of Old America, though. It looked like quite the beautiful place. A sort of artificial continent; a theme park that spread east to west, from coast to coast, and from city to city.

One of the better parts of North America’s wasted ecosystem is the lack of vegetation. Granted, this can come as a downside in search for food, most survivors resorting to cultivating and growing seeds themselves, but the lack of trees and bushes make it significantly harder to be snuck up on, and in North America you will be snuck up on.

As my feet got sore I retrieved a retractable walking stick that I had strapped outside my bag. I pulled the length out accordingly and began to use it. This little stick has saved my ass more times than I would like to admit.

I approached a small foot hill, and with that I was given one of two choices; walk up the hill or around it. Feeling like I haven’t gotten enough exercise, despite my disposition, I chose the former.

You’d think with my centuries of experience I’d know when to expect to be snuck up on by a group of four foul smelling raiders, but you’d be wrong. As I walked over the crest of the hill I heard the distinct sound of a hammer cocking behind my head. Walking stick in the hands I raise, I turn around to see the four culprits, dank with the smell of smoke, tar, and body odor.

“Y’all fucked up now, big guy. Give us the bag.” Said the man holding the gun, who I must assume is their leader as guns are so scarce in this wasteland that no one would let anyone handle a firearm over them unless they had authority.

Seeing no other option in the matter, I slip the bag down my arm.

“Go ahead. It’s yours.”

As the man with the gun reached for my bag I swung my stick around, breaking it over his face. He groaned in pain, his neck flying backwards before he slumped into the dirt. Surprisingly, his three goons charged me immediately. I’m used to them running.

One of them attempted to grab me by the shoulders. I gave him a head butt, and despite the pain it caused to me, knocking him out was a success. The second went for a hit to my groin, so I gave him a knee in the jaw. The third pulled a knife; I dodged two swings before giving him a quick right hook, dropping him to the ground, the momentum sending him rolling down the hill.

The first of the four, the man who received the blunt end of my walking stick, began to rise up from the ground, gun still in hand. I pressed his armed hand into the dirt with my boot, his gun went off. I pry the gun from his sweaty fingers and examined it. Honestly, it’s a beautiful weapon. I wish I could have kept it for myself, but as I took my boot off his hand I threw his gun back to the ground.

“You’re lucky enough you have one of those, no need to be robbing decent folk, you got it?” I said to him.

“Yeah! Yeah! I got it!” shouted the man formerly holding the gun, who was shaking in either fear or fury. He grabbed onto his gun, rubbing it like a baby as his friends gathered around him. The fourth goon began walking back up the hill. They’re looking at their leader for the plans of attack.

“Come on, guys.” He says to his friends, not taking his eyes off me, and not taking his hands off his gun. “Let’s go.”

Listen - usually at this point the guy who I’ve given the gun back to will then try to shoot me dead with it. And yes, I have done this before. It’s gotten me shot, but leaving a man without his gun is suicide. Either way, I have my own gun in my overalls that does the job just fine.

But here’s the thing; these men actually walked away. It was as simple as that. I’ve almost never had it happen before, but I guess miracles do happen on occasion. As I continued on my path I thought all about those four boys and how my encounter may have brought their lives down a better path.

That’s the good part of my existence – making a difference. I don’t feel like I do it very often, but sometimes there’s a good feeling in my heart that the world might be a better place through charity and good will towards others. It’s all I got going for me, so it’s all that matters.

But sometimes one’s judgment can fool them. In my case I found those same raiders no more than an hour later, harassing a young girl of questionable age.

They had her surrounded in the car lot. She was on the ground, crawling away from them. One of them, the one with the gun, was muttering something at her; I couldn’t quite make it out. Regardless, I wasn’t going to take the time to eavesdrop, so I approached them.

It was one of his goons, the last one I hit, I believe, who pointed me out to the others. Surprisingly, my last encounter with them hadn’t instilled the slightest bit of fear of my presence. They figured since they were the ones with the gun that they also had the upper hand. But this time they took no vocal approach and instead began shooting me on site.

I began to sprint straight towards them, which consequentially threw me right into the line of fire. Luckily this man wasn’t the best shot and only one bullet hit, flying through my bicep. My left bicep, thank god.

The second I got my hands on that little shit I wrapped my hands around his neck and squeezed with all my might. Although my left arm was weakened, I had been practicing this move for over 400 years and my grip has become quite strong. I snapped his neck in seconds. Prying the cold revolver from his even colder, dead hands, I disassembled the gun piece by piece, keeping the cylinder in my back pocket. I pull out my own gun, a rusty old Beretta, and faced the three others. They were frozen, scared, just how I wanted them. The goon who alerted the others was the first to talk.

“Don’t kill us!” He said. Now that’s funny. One of the others even chimed in a “Please!”

“Or what, is your leader going to kill me?” I said, pointing my gun at the man with the snapped neck and gun parts all around him. I pointed my gun back.

“You’re going to get as far away from here as possible. If I ever see you again, I’ll kill you all.”

They all began nodding frantically. Then, there were a few moments of ugly silence. The young girl they had been harassing lunged forward, taking me by surprise. She ripped the Beretta from my hands and began firing off at the three goons. Four bullets went off before I got a hold of her. One of these bullets went through a goon’s skull. He fell to the ground like a ragdoll. The other two were out of sight.

It took me a while to wrestle the gun out of this poor girl’s hands. I was half scared to death that the gun was going to go off on me; or worse, her. Usually I would have just given her a quick shot to the head and got the gun back, but she was crying hysterically.

I don’t remember how, but I’d felt it before. The burning rage of vengeance, it was eating her up inside. I’d felt it before, but I couldn’t let her go through with it. Not with my gun at least.

“Listen, you need to calm down.” I said, finally yanking my weapon back. She looked at me with anger and tears flooding her eyes.

“Calm down? Do you know what they did to me, Mister? No one can be let go for something like that!” She screams. At this point I examine her closely. Her clothes are ripped apart, half held on by her hands clutching the fabric together.

I also realized I was still wearing my old war gas mask. I thought about taking it off, but decided ultimately not to. I just put my head down.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Marley Burrows.” She said.

“Where do you live, Marley?”

She leaned back, holding her breath.

“Why?” She said quickly.

I look down at my bicep, blood soaking the overalls.

“I’m shot.”

She looked at my arm and her mouth fell open as if she hadn’t taken a look at my bloody arm. I wouldn’t doubt she hadn’t.

“My father’s a doctor. Well, not really a doctor. But I can take you to him. He could help you.” She said frantically.

“Are you alright?” I asked. The rage began fuming in her eyes again.

“Okay, okay! I got something for you.” I took off my backpack and reached into it, pulling out a bottle of dirty water. I tossed it towards her. “Drink this.”

She eyed me suspiciously before downing the water like a drain. The whole bottle was gone in seconds.

“How long were they holding you?” I asked.

“What? Oh, err… Two days. They took me out here to kill me, finally finishing me off. One of them said they had their fun and I was no use to them anymore.” She said

The last of her words were drowned out by her crying. I helped her up.

“Take me to your father, the doctor.” I said.

“He’s not really a doctor” She repeated.

She sniffled and began to head south, so I followed. She looked at my face.

“Why do you wear that strange mask?” She asked.

“So nobody can see my face.” I said.

“Why? Are you ugly or something?”

“Nobody has said I am.”

“I thought you said nobody’s seen your face?”

“No – Listen, some people have seen my face, but I don’t like everybody to see it, understand?” I said, clearly agitated. I didn’t mean to be, especially to the poor kid, but it had been a rough day. Plus, my arm was killing me.

“Oh.” She said.

There were a few moments of us walking silently before I heard her inhale sharply, signaling an incoming question.

“What’s your name?” She asked.

“I don’t have one.” I said.

“You don’t have one?”

“No. Well, I don’t remember it.” I said. For some reason, Marley Burrows smiled at me.

“You should call yourself The Mechanic, my father, the doctor, well he’s not a real doctor, and he’s not my real father, did I mention that? Anyway, he’s a very old man and he has very old pictures. He showed me these guys who dressed like you, they were called Mechanics. They weren’t wearing that mask, though.” She said, giggling. I smiled back at her.

“The Mechanic, I like that name, Marley. Maybe it’ll stick.”