His hands were cold. Numb from not only the wind, but from the life ebbing from his body. The crumbling wall, peppered with holes, supported his leaning back, barely. The mortar had long dried out, and the brick was a dusty grey with none of the original paint left. Head lolling to one side, he looked up.
The sun overhead was obscured by smoke, despite the blustering air, it continued to pour over the city streets. Its source, a blaze a few blocks down, choked the light and breath from the buildings. Though there was no one to complain, the people had run or died long ago. Broken pottery, half eaten meals, and broken memories were scattered across rooms. Doors swung on what remained of their hinges.
The night was coming. Sand and sediment from the wall coated the man's legs. A bag lay across his lap along with a blackened and twisted rifle. His fingers still gripped the stock and trigger though he couldn't feel them. A bark and hiss of static was all that greeted him the last he tried his radio, and the darkening sky silently beckoned. The bliss of emptiness's promise his last comfort.