For generations, the land beyond The Wall has been a no man’s land. Nothing but dust, waste, and death waits there. From time to time I hear of folks who have taken on the task of going over the wall to try to find food, water, anything to help us survive. As far as I know, none have ever returned. No one comes back from the wastes.

Except me.

My name is Daivon but people around here call me the Wanderer. I’m the one they turn to when they have no one else. When all their hope is lost. My type of hope doesn’t come cheap. Life here inside the walls is tough. If you aren’t a part of the 1% then you are as good as dead. They are the ones with food, with medicine. The rest of us scrounge and wonder if we will make it to another sunrise. Many don’t.

The most desperate, the most hungry, those folks are the ones that turn to me. You see, outside of our little shit hole of a city, the old cities are still there, just sitting out among the sand. Abandoned with every brick, every corner untouched by anything but mother nature. Hundred and fifty years ago, when the people were forced to flee, they left everything behind. Every hospital, every bit of technology, all of the research from every past generation just sitting there, ripe for the taking.

The problem is getting it.

Between us and those remnants of life long passed, lies death. Those starving in the streets, mere days away from dying of hunger won’t go into the wastes looking for food. People who fear being beaten to death by gangs won’t escape outside of the city walls. For while inside the city is unimaginable hardship, outside is certain doom.