Striking Striking Striking

A clock rested on the wretched Earth at an angle, with the edges of a steel number twelve pointing, still in as pristine a condition as it had been, towards the ill sky. The case surrounding the face of the lone clock was partially intact, with some of its pieces still clinging on as though they would fall to their demise, while less fortunate pieces lay about the awkward clock, burying their miserable selves into the dirt. The clock's case and exposed facial parts were covered with a layer of grime that served to shroud a great minority of the numbers, but left the majority revealed, or at a least a majority partially so. This mechanical wonder had fallen from its zenith atop a once magnificent skyscraper, some one-hundred years ago, to the bottom-feeding low life of the Earth, much like many other surrounding buildings. The clock read 12:00, but only momentarily. You see, its severed hour hand continued to inch forward along a circular path followed in this hollowed city once known as Johannesburg. 
An elderly man sauntered, sometime afterwards, out of his shack, composed of scraps of metal hammered out with a makeshift hammer, hides from various creatures that had stalked these wastes, and the stone rubble that had descended from greater buildings. He carried only a bar of metal, bent near the top. Upon his minor steps, he managed to strip over minuscule dune, causing him to tumble downward along with his bar. The desolate thump echoing throughout the city. He grabbed his bar, placed all his weight along its vertical threshold, pulled himself up to what was his former glory, and continued his venture. As he continued, the act of him falling brought to the forefront of his feeble mind thoughts of the longevity of life, and whether death was as much a procrastination. The lengthening shadow of the hour hand struck the withered three. 
He eventually reached his desired spot, some miles away from his abode, in the alleyway of two buildings sloped into one another at the top, forming a sharp, v-shaped arch pointing upwards, and he peered between the arch to see the wind-swept hills of Witwatersrand. His sight was failing him, and he could but only imagine the apex of the hills with the barely perceptible details beholden by him. He perceived a glowing white tip with minor sparks of green dotted about its surface. He then viewed a sight much greater clarity where from the white tip descended darker tones. At first, it was yellow, emanating with a brush of poison, but it ultimately descended down to the very crevice where he stood, a sickening brownish yellow that exclaimed the very source of the yellow poison. In the face of such illness, he held onto his belief in the hilltop and retraced his steps, all the while that lone clock's hour hand, now further lengthened by light, struck six. 
It was but a few hours until the elder heard chatter coming from a few yards away from his huddled shack. Peering out of a partially obstructed opening that served as his window, he saw a faint light flickering with the mutter of voices stalking it closely. Having a mind not as reflexive as it had been in the best, he chose to remain peering out of the opening at the approaching light rather than observe the phenomenon from a secluded distance. His face became marred with horror as he saw three figures appear from beyond the fluttering light, each holding objects of length in their hands. He was only able to see such figures as their scarred, grinning faces were already revealed by the light that still fluttered and even more rapidly now as though it was the last breaths of a dying pride before it gave its last wail. He saw them just as they saw him. In a fret of sheer panic, the man stumbled around the shack, looking for his metal bar that was curved on the end. This would be his key for the purpose of prying open a door resting on the floor of his shack. Upon finding his method of salvation, he heard scampering heightening in pacing and sound. He dashed to a corner of his shack and began to rip at the door placed there with immense grunting noises, still hearing the heavy pacing descending upon his shack. With a final wretch, the door snapped open, the man threw himself down its entrance, and the man stretched his body across the door to secure the handle of the door. The clock struck nine, with its lengthening hand. 

A bullet passed through his head. The clock continued on with an outstretched hand heading towards a zero.

A young man wandered out from behind a statue he had been sleeping behind; a statue that had withstood for hundreds of years. After a weary walk, he spotted a secluded little shack beneath humbled buildings built for kings. Upon reaching the shack, he came to find it was deserted, but in disarray. Miscellaneous objects, such as playing cards, cups, lights, wires, toy cars, and scorched articles of literature, were thrown with no pattern amongst the dirt floor. The young man investigated the shack more so to find a pile of flammable objects that had been burned over, makeshift shelves that contained rocks, sharpened pieces of metal, and sheets of metal, and a metal bar tucked away in the corner by a hole. Upon peering in the hole, he saw nothing but some blood surrounding its rims, and chose to close the door he assumed served as cover for the hole. He saw all the aspects and features of the house and began to analyze how he might adjust it to better the defenses it offered from where they had deteriorated prior, maybe even greater than their original degree. He looked out of the opening to observe an hour hand that seemed to be at a normal length as it struck the steeled twelve, still in as pristine a condition as it had been.