Chapter 2: The Last Purification Workers

My name is Thomas Carver, Purification Worker No. 10086 at the Continental Purification Authority.

I’m just a guy with a badge and a job nobody in their right mind wants. Out here, you don’t get fancy titles—just a number, some battered gear, and a world full of responsibility.

My job is to cleanse this ruined world and build land where people can survive.

Every morning, I suit up, boots caked in yesterday’s mud, cracked gloves pulled tight, and head out to push back the apocalypse one acre at a time. It’s gritty work, but somebody’s got to do it.

Global nuclear war destroyed the old world and gave birth to a new one.

History class called it the end of days, but living through it is a whole different story—it’s not about remembering, it’s about surviving the fallout.

In this new world, pollution is everywhere. Plants, animals, and humans exposed to it mutate violently.

The air stings your lungs, the water tastes like battery acid, and the land itself seems to want you dead. Mutation isn’t a rare horror—it’s what you expect when you wake up.

Once gentle ivy now grows countless tendrils, strangling and devouring flesh and blood.

You remember ivy creeping up your grandma’s porch? Now it wraps around your leg and pulls you down before you even get a scream out.

Domesticated livestock have become powerful, cruel, and bloodthirsty beasts.

The old cow from the barn? She’s got horns like rebar and a snarl that’ll send you running. Nothing’s safe.

As for humans… anything can happen…

Meet someone on the road, and you don’t ask where they’re from—you ask what kind of monster they survived. Mutation twists more than your body; it messes with your soul.

Mutants with kind hearts in this era are called saints and guardians.

Around here, if you’re still decent after mutating, folks call you a saint. Guardians, too. They’re the ones who stand between us and the end.

The Continental Sanctuary is a human refuge established by these saints and guardians.

If you’re lucky enough to find the Sanctuary, you’ll see walls of welded steel, barbed wire, and makeshift defenses—each one built with blood, sweat, and the sacrifice of our best. It’s the closest thing to home most of us will ever know.

When wild beasts attack, the defensive lines formed by saints and guardians become humanity’s last stronghold.

No cavalry’s coming, no government rescue. When monsters break through, it’s the saints and guardians who stand tall, rifles patched with duct tape, ammo belts slung like rosaries.

Weapons and technology from the old era are perfectly combined with the mutations of the new.

You’ll see old-world rifles held together with mutant bone, cybernetic limbs powered by scavenged nuclear cores—if it works, we use it. Junkyard ingenuity is our lifeblood.

Once, all beings were saved by the merciful Saint Mary; now, the land is guarded by Saint Gatling, Patron of Firepower.

We don’t pray for mercy anymore. We pray for ammo. Saint Gatling is our protector now, Patron Saint of heavy firepower and second chances—his graffiti’s everywhere, and folks whisper prayers for a full clip.

Saint Gatling tells those sheltering in the Continental Sanctuary: all fear comes from insufficient firepower.

If you’re scared, load another clip. That’s the gospel according to Gatling. Faith here is measured in rounds per minute.

Thus, the first line in the new scripture reads:

“Saint Gatling, senses purified, depleted uranium rounds, 3600 revolutions per breath, great compassion ferries the world!”

They carved that into the Sanctuary’s main gate. Pilgrims touch it for luck before heading out, hoping the legend’s on their side. It’s not poetry, but it’s prophecy in a world like this.

Saint Gatling is my immediate superior and also the general manager of the western district of the Continental Purification Authority.

He’s the boss, the big man with the biggest gun. When he walks the line, even the mutants hold their breath, and every worker straightens up like the principal just walked in.

The entire western defensive line is under Saint Gatling’s protection.

If you make it west, it’s because Gatling’s kept the monsters at bay. Folks say he’s bulletproof, but I’ve seen him bleed—and keep fighting.

But as time passes, humanity’s situation grows increasingly dire.

Every year, the walls get a little thinner, the lights flicker more, and the monsters grow bolder. Hope’s a rationed commodity.

The sanctuary’s power sources are aging; clean water and energy have become humanity’s greatest survival challenges.

Water’s worth more than gold, and every generator sounds like it’s about to cough up its last breath. If something doesn’t change, the Sanctuary’s just another ruin.

The Continental Sanctuary launched dozens of exploration satellites, hoping to locate buried power sources.

You can spot the satellites blinking overhead, each one a prayer shot into the void. Most come back silent, but sometimes—just sometimes—they find something.

Finally, a signal was detected 67,000 miles to the west.

It was like a miracle—a blip on the radar, a whisper from the edge of the world. Everyone in the mess hall held their breath, as if waiting for a winning lottery number.

It was a dark region, never before explored; no one knew what dangers lay within.

The old maps just call it ‘Here Be Dragons.’ Nobody’s gone that far and come back with a story. It’s the last blank spot on the American map.

After an emergency meeting, the Purification Authority named this mission—Journey to the West!

The name stuck. It sounded like something out of a campfire tale, but for us, it was a one-way ticket into the unknown. The kind of story that ends with a headline—if anyone survives to write it.