Chapter 1: The Dark, Ruined World

Even for summer, the wind had an unpleasant chill that flowed through the cracks of the building. And as Walt Warland sat in his torn sofa, reading a novel by F. Scott Fitzgerald, he glanced occasionally at a large crate of potatoes, corn, and blueberries by a rotting, wooden door before the cold breeze refocused his attention back to his book.

Walt appeared to be in his early to mid-twenties, having a softer face that was being whittled away by the elements around him. His skin, minus the dirt that clung to it, was a healthy pale. His eyes were a green so dark that in the shadows, they looked black. His hair, shoddily washed and messy, was a very dark-brown that had no luster from the grime upon it. His body was slightly muscular, but very skinny; literally not an ounce of fat within him.

His clothes merely consisted of a long-sleeved black turtleneck, a pair of thick, tight, black pants and black socks. Slung over the backrest of the sofa was a worn, brown, leather jacket with shoulders of a darker brown. Along with it, a brown belt and a pair of brown, fingerless, fighting gloves accompanied the jacket, along with a pair of black, knee-high boots on the side of the sofa.

Walt continued reading, sighing each time he flipped a page, completely immersed by the nostalgia of the grandeur of the Roaring 20’s. His attention was completely paid to his book, ignoring the numerous noises of dripping water and creaking wood that filled the air of his ruined home. The sound of someone or something knocking from outside was shut out by him.

“Walt!” shouted the voice of a young woman. “You stupid asshole! Let me in!”

Upon hearing the woman’s voice, Walt shot up from his chair and set the book down on the seat. Walking up to a door at the far end of the building where the knocking persisted, Walt pulled a hunting knife from a sheath attached to the belt loop of his pants and slunk up slowly, expecting the worst.

“Seriously, Walt!” called the voice again. “I can’t be seen out here forever.”

Walt slowly and gently laid his hand upon the handle of the door, his other hand gripping the knife at the opportune time to strike. In one swift motion, Walt shifted his hand down on the handle and punched the door open, nearly knocking it off its  hinges. Swinging his body sideways, he pointed the blade of his weapon at the person at his door, who also seemed to moving at a very sluggish pace, putting her hands up in a state of innocence.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” shouted the woman, her voice low-pitched as it rose to its normal tone. “Walt, it’s me, Tracy!”

Walt stepped outside and inspected the alley around the woman who called herself Tracy, the movements of her body speeding to a normal pace. Walt, seeing that the coast was clear and it was only her out, put his knife back in his pocket.

Tracy was around Walt’s age, but her skin was of a tanner hue, as well as her long, ponytailed hair being a full-black. Her eyes were dark blue and seemed to reflect little light. Her clothes consisted of a yellow-shirt that appeared to look like a cheongsam, a black jeans-jacket, a dark pair of blue jeans held by a grey utility belt, and a pair of beaten black running shoes. A red scarf was loosely wrapped around her neck.

Her hands were wrapped in white bandages up to the middle of her fingers. On both of Tracy’s hips were two pickle-jar-sized mechanical spools of wire with a pistol attached to their sides. The wires were fed into the bottom of the handle of each gun, where a grappling hook was affixed inside the barrel of the gun. Both spools of thread were attached to a black harness that wrapped around Tracy’s waist and thighs. In her right hand, she held two swords by the ice-blue metal sheathes they were kept in, both of them having thin slots at the bottom of the handles.

“Sorry about that, Tracy,” spoke Walt, stepping aside to let her inside his home. “Can never be too sure.”

“Uh-huh,” sarcastically retorted Tracy, walking past him and into the building. “You’re going to get me killed one of these days, Walt.”

“Again, I’m sorry. Dada’s men rule this city, and he’s recruiting more every day.”

“What about me?” she asked as they both reached the room where Walt was reading. “You know I would never join that creep, and I’d gladly die than be associated with him. So what, can you not even trust me?”

“Tracy, you’re the only one I can trust. Which is why you’d be great bait.”

“Pfft, bait? Are people looking out for you?”

“There have been rumors. Every time I walk the city and scavenge, I eavesdrop on conversations between Dada’s men. Rumors about a guy who runs an underground garden with enough food and future seeds to last for years. Who knows? If they caught you, would you tell all about me?”

“Walt,” Tracy cooed, placing her hand on his shoulder, “You know I’d never do that to you. I mean, who else would supply me food and some good old-fashioned chit-chat?”

Walt smiled. Truly, he felt more at ease in the presence of this woman, and her loyalty, her ingenuity, and sharp wit was something that couldn’t be replicated by anyone.

“Speaking of,” he replied, “your food is right by the door there.”

Turning her head around and down towards the door that Walt mentioned, she found the crate of fruits and vegetables, causing her eyes to grow wide. She walked over to the crate, knelt down, and began fondling each of the potatoes and ears of corn, checking for their quality

“Walt,” she spoke, “I don’t know how you do it, but you have one hell of a green thumb.”

“I thank my mother,” he said, his face slightly warping into a small frown. Shaking his head, he refocused his payment. “And I assume you have some things for me as well?”

“Well since you asked so nicely…” she said, standing back up and tossing her two swords to Walt.

He caught them by the handles with each hand, each one fitting in his palms like a glove. Walt himself could see that the swords in their entirety both measured out to a little less than a yard in length and was very pleased to feel how lightweight they were.

“Swords, huh?” asked Walt. “Was my katana too stylish for you?”

“Please,” Tracy scoffed, “compared to these babies, your katana will look like a souvenir from Medieval Times. Now, try them out before you talk anymore smack.”

“Upstairs?”

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Walking up a spiral staircase, Walt led Tracy to a spacious attic that had various human sized mannequins set up on stands all around the room. The mannequins had various cuts and gashes on them from previous uses and abuses. Dropping one of his new weapons, Walt unsheathed the sword from its holster and examined the blade.

He was impressed by how clean the blade was and how it shone in the faint sunlight that beamed through the window in the side of the room. Upon brushing the blade with his thumb, he was also enamoring the sharpness of both edges of the blade.

“Well?” goaded Tracy. “Try it out!”

Walt, taking her words to heart, set his sights upon a mannequin in the center of the room. Widening his stance, he stared intently at his target: the mannequin’s neck. Walt could just imagine it as an enemy survivor; one of Dada’s goons. He could imagine it taunting him, preparing itself to attack. Walt would not give it the chance.

Walt took two fast, long steps at the dummy before leaping into the air and winding his right arm back with his sword in hand. As soon as he got close enough, he swung the blade hard and true. With the sound of slicing plastic as well as the shing of the metal, Walt was happy to have made his target. However, upon seeing how well he did, he was most surprised.

The blade was three quarters in from fully decapitating the neck. Walt even found difficulty dislodging the weapon from out of the mannequin’s neck.

“Jesus Christ,” spoke Walt. “I didn’t even need my powers for that.”

“I’m glad you like it,” explained Tracy. “That’s a new alloy that I created. It’s extremely light, but very durable and practically invulnerable to weathering. Not to mention the other part.”

“What other part?”

“Slide the swtich just below the blade and find out.”

Lifting the swords up, he could see a small switch at the base of the blade on the narrower side of the handle that was similar to that of a boxcutter. Walt slid the switch downwards, and he could see that another blade begun to slide down the bottom of the handle, causing his excitement to increase.

Walt then heard the handle click, leading him to figure out what happened. Using the mannequin that he just ruined, he walked back to it and drove the new blade into the mannequin’s chest. The blade slid into it just as easily as he slashed into its neck.

“Wow,” he gasped. “Now this is something.”

“Thanks,” she said. “I was inspired by the taiahas of the Maori tribe. I thought they might come in handy in a pinch.”

“Certainly they will,” he replied, sliding the bottom blade out of the dummy and sliding it back into the handle before placing the sword back in its sheath. “Thank you.”

“But wait!” she shouted, mimicking an infomercial. “There’s more!”

She unhooked the harness of her grappling hook guns and wire spools and slid them off of her legs like a pair of underwear. Once she bent down and stepped out of them, she picked up the harness and machine from the ground and handed it to Walt.

“And what was that you were wearing?” he asked. “And I assume you’re giving this to me too?”

“No,” she retorted. “I’m taking it off and handing it to you to let you know that its still mine, now put it on. ”

“Hahaha,” Walt laughed sarcastically, taking the harness from her hands and applying it to himself.

“Do you need help with it?” she asked in a serious tone of voice.

“Please. I did rock climbing with my dad every weekend before the Contagion. I know how to apply a harness.”

“Suit yourself,” she said, putting her hands up defensively before crossing her arms as she watched him quickly and efficiently strap the belts on his legs and waist. “And to answer your question, it’s a grappling gun set. Just like the movies you loved so much.”

Within a minute, Walt was fully equipped with the grappling hook pistols and the harness, impressing Tracy further.

“Alright, hot shit,” she spoke, “I see you can put on a belt, but I’m going to feel a lot safer telling you how to use this thing before you go off with it. Now,” she said pointing at the pistols at Walt’s side, “these pistols are attached to these wire spools because of a magnet. Go ahead.”

Walt pulled a pistol off the spool, which he did with minimal resistance.

“It should be strong enough to hold the pistols while running and jumping, but easy to pull off when you need them. If all else fails, though, the wires will still hold them just fine. And then,” she said, pointing at a slider and switch on the backside of the pistol’s handle, “the switch will let you either retract or detract the wires, up being retracting, down being detract.

“The slider will adjust the speed of the wires when you retract or detract. With the highest speed, you can ascend a five story building in a matter of seconds. And the trigger,” she said, pointing, “will fire the hooks towards your target and turn on and turn off the retraction or detraction of the wires.”

“Sounding great,” said Walt, sounding too serious to be excited, making sure he heard every last word Tracy said.

“Also,” she explained, “the hammer of the gun will cause the hooks in the grappling gun to slide into the main grappling-hook body, otherwise, your hooks would get stuck on the roof of whichever building you would be descending. I worked too hard on these babies for you to just get them stuck right away.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” answered Walt.

“And pulling the trigger will set the hammer forwards again and bring the hooks out. Also, if you can only use one gun for whatever reason, the harness has a small hook in the center that will allow you to fasten the wire in and counterbalance your weight. And yet, there’s more.”

“More? This is already a spy-movie fan’s dream come true. What else could there possibly be?”

“Your sheath,” she responded. “Slide the latch into the bottom of the spool.”

Walt did as instructed, lining the sheath with the slot on the spool and sliding it in. Upon hearing the click, he eagerly pulled the sword out, amazed by how well the sheath stayed attached.

“Tracy,” said Walt with sincere gratitude, “you’ve really outdone yourself. I only wish I had prepared an extra crate of food for this; after what you’ve done, you deserve it.”

“Oh, pishaw,” she said, pawing at the air in front of Walt, “it was merely my pleasure, and if you’re going against Dada and his army, you better be better equipped.”

Walt smiled, happy for his friend’s generosity.

_________________________________________________________________________________________

Walt, wearing his new equipment, walked Tracy with produce in hands to a truck parked outside of Walt’s building that had two red Ds overlapping each other.

“So,” said Walt. “This is how you get around now?”

“Of course,” she said, loading the crate of food into the back. “The only cars that won’t get pirated around here anymore are Dada’s cars. And besides, walking around the city with fresh veggies and fruits is just a death wish waiting to happen.”

Tracy hopped into the back and covered the crate with a blanket, covering the food from any prying eyes.

“Either way,” spoke Walt, “be careful. I can’t imagine what would happen to me or my sanity if I were to lose you.”

“You don’t need to worry about me,” she said. “It’s you I’m worried about. I mean, you’re the one with a near-endless supply of food in their basement. God knows what Dada would do to someone like you.”

“Join or die, I suppose. From what I hear, those are the only options with him.”

“And you’d rather die.”

Walt nodded stoically.

“Rather die trying to kill him than live trying to please him.”

“Great answer,” replied Tracy, walking to the door of the truck, opening it, and entering inside. From the open window she called, “You just give me a call when you need something, okay?”

“I might need some maintenance on the panels. Hate to lose power and my only known source of food, right?”

“Again, just gotta’ call. Well, see ya’!”

As Tracy started the truck, Walt waved her goodbye, watching her drive off from the alley into the street. Looking at his new weapons and equipment, he smiled, knowing he was much, much safer with them on.

_________________________________________________________________________________________

Walt walked through the abandoned streets of Manhattan, now dressed in his zipped-up jacket, his boots, his gloves, and his grappling equipment plus swords. He looked at all of the cars that remained parked on the streets, having collected rust and would continue collecting rust until the end of time. The streets, with no one to keep them clean, were littered with trash, dirt, and debris. The sky was mottled with thick puffy clouds that periodically blotted the sun.

Despite having walked many blocks away from his home, he hadn’t come across a single survivor. This spelled both good and bad news, giving Walt some hope that there would be none to come in contact with that day, but also leaving him with the feeling that he’d come across one sooner than later.

Turning left, he found himself in the desolate Times Square. Walt looked upon the numerous advertisements for musicals that he would never see again, drinks he would never imbibe again, products he could never purchase again, and restaurants he would never eat at again.

In fact, the golden arches of McDonalds and the red sign of Coca-Cola served as only a grim reminder of how life used to be before the Contagion. How badly he wished to see a day where he could eat a Big Mac once again with fries and a Coke. However, those days were now as faded as the art on many of the signs that were weathered with the lack of maintenance.

Walt’s bitter nostalgia was broken by the sound of giggling and talking amongst a group of people. Walt gasped, knowing he had made himself a sitting duck. At this point, he was left with two expectations: fight or die.

Turning around, Walt saw three men walking out from one of the intersections. One was looked to be in his late twenties/early thirties, and he was pale with teal eyes and black messy hair, wearing a black tank top and camo pants with brown boots. His exposed arms were covered in various craggy sores.

The second was around Walt’s age. His skin was a dark brown and he was very muscular, almost to the point where the black shirt and pants he wore would tear due to the tightness and tension. The last one looked to be a Caucasian in his mid-thirties with a forest-green military jacket, beret and baggy camo pants. His eyes were shielded by a pair of sunglasses. A gun was holstered at his right side. All three men had backpacks on their backs.

Upon sighting Walt, the three men stopped in their tracks and looked upon him, surprised and delighted that they had found a new, unfamiliar face.

“Hey, buddy,” called the military-garbed man with a friendly disposition. “You lost?”

“No,” answered Walt. “After living in this city my entire life, almost half of it being in this ruined state, I know this place like the back of my hand.”

“You know,” said the tank-topped man, his voice having a heavy Brooklyn accent, “that’s a fancy little machine on your waist. Where can I get one?”

Hearing him take interest in the grappling harness, Walt widened his stance, ready to fight.

“Fuck off!” Walt shouted. “It’s not for sale.”

“Alright,” called the military-garbed man, “I think we may have gone off on the wrong foot here. You know who we work for, right?”

“I’m going to go ahead and guess Dada.”

“Then you know what we want with you, I assume?”

“Yes, I do, and like my belongings, I'm not for sale.”

The military man looked back at his two comrades, all sharing looks of admiration for Walt’s immediate resistance to him.

“Listen,” said the tank-topped man, pointing his stony fingers at Walt, “if you know who Dada is, then you should know how badly you fear him.”

“Well,” asked Walt, “are any one of you Dada?”

“No,” answered the military man. “He’s busy.”

“Then what is there for me to fear?”

Any friendliness that the three men were feeling towards Walt was eradicated immediately. Stepping backwards, the military garbed man addressed his other two comrades.

“Chris,” he said to the tank-topped one, “Marcus,” he said to the black one. “Have some fun. Just leave him alive. He won’t be any good to Dada dead.”

“Got it, Steve,” responded Chris.

Stepping forwards, Chris put his arms out to the side, the forearms elongating and his fingers fusing with each other. By the time he was done, Chris’s arms were now two large stone swords that he was equipped with. Realizing the type of fight, Walt drew both of his new swords from their sheathes and stood, awaiting the response of his enemy.

Within seconds, Chris sprinted at Walt. Walt was surprised by Chris’s speed, even for a power like his that would weigh him down so. Walt squinted his eyes and concentrated. Immediately, Chris’s pace appeared slower to him, and his battle cry sounded lower in pitch than normal. As Chris raised his arms to strike, Walt squeezed the handles hard, ready to attack.

With a downward thrust, Chris’s arms were aimed straight for Walt’s chest, but with unnatural speed and strength, Walt blocked the attack with both swords held close and pushed Chris off of him. Chris, disoriented by Walt’s seemingly effortless block, stood still for a spell to consider the strength and speed of his opponent.

Not long after, Chris began to come towards Walt again, swinging his arms and trying to disorient him. However, Walt could read every movement of Chris’s with ease. Steve and Marcus watched incredulously as Walt blocked each one of Chris’ strikes with the speed and diligence of an anime character.

Now seeing that fighting him in a contest of blades was futile, Chris morphed his left arm back into his hand, although rockier in appearance. As Walt went to swing his right blade again, Chris caught the blade in his stony hand.

Walt couldn’t bear to let Tracy’s gift go, and he continued to try and writhe and wrench the sword out, but Chris’s grip was too strong. Walt even tried slashing Chris’s arm with his free sword, only to find it as hard and impenetrable as before. Steve and Marcus laughed at Walt’s new position of helplessness.

Chris pulled his arm back for a thrust, but before he could do so, Walt slid the bottom blade out from the handle of his left sword. Reducing the appearance of Chris’ speed again, Walt could see as his arm was slowly coming towards his chest.

“NO, DAMMIT!” shouted Steve. “I said alive!”

It mattered little. Walt quickly crossed his left arm over his chest, and just before Chris’s blade could pierce his chest, Walt swung his arm out, blocking the thrust and whipping Chris’s arm to the side. With his window now opened, Walt swung his left arm to the right again, but homing his bottom blade on Chris’s throat.

Walt made his target, slicing open Chris’ neck and spraying Walt’s clothes with a coat of blood. With Chris now letting go of Walt’s sword, Walt pushed Chris off of him, forcing him to the ground as he bled out in front of the now horrified Steve and Marcus.

Walt, glared at Steve and Marcus, expecting them to come at him for more. Angered by the death of his comrade, Steven pulled his gun from his holster and prepared to fire. With equal speed, Walt slipped his swords back into his sides before grabbing his grappling guns, aiming at a street light and a parked bus about a hundred feet away.

Pulling the triggers, both hooks quickly and efficiently launched out of the guns, the wires being pulled from the spools at Walt’s side and through the bottom of the handle. The hooks made their targets, latching to the light and the bus. Walt flicked the guns’ switches.

Steve fired his gun, but missed Walt by about a foot. Walt then clicked the triggers on both guns again, sliding Walt along the street at high speed, evading Steve’s other shots. Walt then pulled the hammers back, unlatching the hooks from the light and bus as they continued to recede back into his gun. Walt, using his newfound momentum, ran towards the Toys R’Us.

“Don’t just stand there!” shouted Steven to Marcus. “After him!”

Both men followed him to the children’s store. Walt ran into the building and ran up the escalator to the third floor. The interior looked looted, with toys either barren from the shelves or strewn across the floor and broken. Walt waited to catch his breath, seeing Steve and Marcus run in. Marcus lead, charging towards the doors and confusing Walt.

Marcus burst through the entrance, leaving a large hole and a pile of shattered glass and metal in its wake. Steve ran in too to see Walt stunned over Marcus’s action. However as soon as Steve drew his gun, Walt ran towards the empty Candy Land section. Marcus ran up the escalator as Walt rounded the wall separating Candy Land from the edge of the floor and leapt behind the cashier’s counter.

Marcus, having made it there as well, slowly searched the area for signs of life. Upon seeing the counter, lunged at it, knowing it was the only place the Walt could hide. Hearing the loud footsteps, Walt bounded over the counter just as Marcus plowed through, leaving a cloud of dust and broken porcelain. Walt turned and aimed his gun at the hole Marcus had left. Upon seeing a shadow loom out of the hole, Walt fired.

The sound of the hooks hitting into flesh heartened Walt, but upon Marcus walking further out and revealing himself, Walt was horrified to see Marcus grabbing the hook with one hand, one of the hooks embedded deep into the webbing of his thumb and index finger.

Walt ran from Marcus, but with a hard yank, Walt was sent straight to the floor winding him. Marcus stood and laughed at Walt’s predicament, but Walt used his distraction to prepare. Hooking the wire below the pistol’s handle into the hook on his belt, Walt clicked the detract switch into retract before unsheathing one of his swords with his free left hand.

Walt pulled the trigger, pulling him towards Marcus, who was unprepared for the pull from the hook in his hand. However, Marcus recovered and yanked again, forcing Walt into the air and at Marcus. The muscular behemoth prepared to strike Walt with a devastating punch, but Walt deflected the inside of Marcus’s arm with his blade.

Using his forward momentum, Walt ran the blade along Marcus’s arm, shearing a large, long slice of skin and muscle off of it like deli meat. Then with a hard flick of his wrist, Walt cut into Marcus’ arm through the shoulder, amputating him. This didn’t stop Walt from colliding with Marcus, causing both men to tumble to the floor.

Walt quickly shot to his feet while Marcus writhed in pain as blood torrented from the stub in his arm. Walt wearily and tiredly walked to Marcus, standing above his head. As Marcus looked up to Walt’s eyes, Walt quickly sliced his sword through Marcus’s throat, ending his pain once and for all.

“Marcus?” called Steve from the bottom of the escalator.

“He’s dead,” answered Walt, slicing off Marcus’s thumb from his hand and freeing his grappling hook, “and you will be too, I promise you.”

“And what makes you think that?”

“I mean,” Walt explained, placing his gun on his hip and his sword back in its sheath, “I took out who I assume to be your best men, and all I’ve seen you do at this point is use a gun, and that’s not nearly as impressive as turning your hands into swords or super-strength, but I assume you have something too, right?”

“You bet I do, sonny, and you have about five seconds before I kill you with my power.”

“Sounds perfect.”

Walt ran from to the back end of Candy Land, hopped on the banister, and leapt towards Steve with his sword unsheathed again. Once again, the world slowed down for Walt as he fell towards his enemy. Steve, however, was prepared and drew his gun from his holster. With superhuman speed, his finger tapped the trigger with precision, firing round after round of ammo from his pistol as if it were an automatic machine gun.

Walt heard the first gunshot and felt time begin to slow even further. He suddenly felt a sharp pain in his stomach, but ignored it, seeing the bullets from Steve’s gun line up with his chest. Placing the broad edge of the sword in the path of each bullet, the projectiles bounced off of it as they ricocheted in different directions. As Steve ran out of rounds in his first gun, he quickly equipped a second pistol to himself from a second holster and fired with the same rapid speed.

Walt deflected the new line of bullets with the same ease, despite the crunching pain in his stomach. By the time Steve had run out of bullets, his face slowly turned to one of fear and defeat, knowing he would be killed. Sure enough, Walt wound his arm out upon being within feet of Steven’s position and swung, decapitating the head with such swift force that his head stayed upon his body only until Walt landed upon him.

Once the head tumbled off, the blood poured from the open wound, and Walt somersaulted to the floor to deflect the recoil of his landing. However, his stomach was now killing him, forcing Walt to convulse and heave on his back. He tried holding in his vomit, but found that he couldn’t. Walt turned his head to the side and spewed the contents of his stomach onto the floor, still in complete pain and misery.

Walt pounded his fist to the floor with tears streaming down his face, upset that his life had become this, fighting to save his own life and having to use his abilities to do so, only to feel ungodly sick after each battle. As much as he wanted to thank Tracy and her inventions for helping him defeat the trio of thugs, his pain was overriding any gratitude he would have otherwise felt.

As of now, all there was was the dark, ruined world that he lived in, and the pain he would have to feel until the day he died.