What Comes Around

Just the beginning of an idea.

A young man woke up with a thick haze clouding his sight. His body felt pulverized, his head walloped. He tried blinking the blurriness away, then realized it wasn't his eyes, but his surroundings that were hazy.
He shifted his limbs with a groan, noticing he was lying down awkwardly on a pile of what seemed to be rocks.
/Where the heck.../ he thought.
The young man tried moving again. He grimaced in pain. Moving each limb carefully, he worked himself into a sitting position. Blearily, he waved at the fog with no success in clearing it. He breathed heavily through his nose. Something dry was crusted over one of his nostrils and almost all of the other.
Utterly confused, he examined his clothing for clues. He wore thick, khaki pants with more than a generous amount of pockets, a dusty, gray long-sleeved shirt, and a heavy, worn out brown jacket that staved off the chill effectively. On his feet were once-white socks and tan rubber-toed boots.
He checked his pockets. There were no names written on the tags, no pieces of papers, nothing but a pack of matches in one of his thigh pockets.
Perplexed, he stood up, frowning with the effort. The pain was there, but subsiding. He glanced around. Sliding his hands into his pockets, his left hand met a familiar smooth surface.
Instinctively, he slipped his hand around it, fingers easing comfortably into the grooves. He pulled out a sleek, dark revolver. It was nondescript, except it was a matte, thundercloud gray. The gun didn't seem to be made of a metal or any substance he could recognize. He turned it over in his hands and checked the cylinder. Of the nine, small chambers, only one-third of the shiny bullets were left.
Swallowing hard, he slipped the gun back into his pocket.
/Might need it later. Hope not,/ he reasoned. /Wonder where those other bullets went.../
Bracing himself, he walked forward, prepared to catch himself if he tripped. He was conscious of how heavy his coat felt, weighing down his shoulders, and wondered what the down was made of.
He stepped past more boulders and rubble. He noticed some edges were perfectly smooth, like they had been sculpted. Also, the ground he walked on was gray pavement.
/I must be in some demolition site.../
He walked for ten more minutes with no change of scenery.
/Have they demolished a /whole city?// he thought nervously. /Where... What am I... I... I.../
He stopped as the next question sat on his tongue. He tasted the odd, sour flavor. He pushed it away.
"Hello?" he called out. It came out as merely air going out his mouth. He cleared his throat and tried again.
"Hello?" His voice cracked, but it was much stronger. He took a step.
A sharp trill burst from the gray monochrome landscape. It echoed around. He froze, head turning to detect more noise.