since the nuke rendered the hill to rubble, along the way causing the swift arrival of a nuclear winter, i have to learn to adapt to the new environment.
i equip myself with protective gear; a scrappy hazmat suit, gas mask, so forth. i train for years to fight under such an armor, and to handle heavy weaponry. this is vital, as the sharp spike in radiation not only killed the weak organisms, but caused a rapid onset of mutations in the remainder of the population - from three-eyed crows to goliath bears.
there comes a day when i look at myself in the reflection of my rusty spoon while eating fourteen years old canned beans, and decide, that this is it. today is the day.
i brave the irradiated wilderness. dangers are many. death brushes its fingertips over the nape of my neck. at one point my suit tears - invisible poison seeps in, weakening me as i journey on, single-minded.
eventually, i see it. the still-smoking crater. the ground zero of this horrid cancer upon the earth - the Hill All Men Must Die On.
it is no longer much of a hill, as i mentioned above. the putrid vapors bring tears to my eyes despite the filter. i peruse the ruins, all the while on high alert for my most certain opposition - The Poster Above.
and i do find them. curled about themself at the very peak of this pile of rubble, is the frail, mummified form of the last fool to so desperately stake their claim on the Hill. they had perished in the aftermath of the same disaster they'd brought about.
they are frozen and preserved, and it takes some effort to rip them from their last resting spot. i drag their contorted form to the nearest slope, and let them tumble down. maybe the mutant beavers will find some use for their flesh.
i stand astride the numbed peak. i rip the gas mask off my visage - just for this moment - and breathe in deep.
with all the cold air in my lungs, i scream to the wasteland:
"MY HILL."
