Vicious World - The Fist and the Eagle

Chapter 1

       A loose fog hangs over the shambled Brooklyn Bridge, making the sad, broken structure look only worse. The massive anomaly careens slightly in the wind, making a loud creaking sound. A flock of birds circle the highest point, made only visible by the morning sunlight gleaming off their dark feathers.

       That same sunlight dances on the river below, mixing with the hue of radioactivity. A group of scavengers paddle down the side in a dainty little makeshift boat, picking up any useful looking garbage.

        In the road directly before the bridge sits a patrol of Russian insurgents atop a tall gate, their advanced steel armor and weapons also gleaming in the sunlight. They look as though they provide the passage with what seems like a sort of security. A trader comes through on horseback, looking to gain entrance into the city, only to be turned around by the soldiers.

        A huge green sign hangs just over the gate. The letters M-A-N-H are scribbled out, and the name “York City” is written over them in thick black paint. The city is in the distance, glistening warmly, beckoning any and all who lay eyes upon it. A thick steel gate, ten times as tall as the chainlink one in front of the bridge, guards entrance into the supposed haven.

        Then there’s Brooklyn, home to the majority of wasteland inhabitants, including any straggling, sane peddies. It provides minimal shelter, as well as a vigilante justice system, called simply the Fists, to protect the desperate people. There’s a makeshift wall composed of plywood, sheet metal,  and large signs surrounding the heart of Brooklyn, called the Core, where most of Brooklyn’s business is transacted. A small, simple metal gate is the only way in without scaling the walls. 

        The sunlight cresting the city shines on a sniper nest to the right of the gate and down onto the Core. In the nest sits the two best damn Fists members ever (self-titled), Danger and I, Mike Saders, keeping a sharp eye out for any movement of any kind.

        My brown crop of hair rustles in the wind as I grit my clean teeth in anticipation for the usual morning raid attempt by a small settlement to the north. I shift a little, my brown, tattered, lightly armored leather jacket and pants squeaking with tension.

        Danger chuckles, “Why do you always get like this?”

        “Well, it’s better to get ready than get dead,” I say, lowering my binoculars and shooting him a quick glance, seeing that he meant for the question to be a bit more serious than his chuckle made it seem, judging by the slightly strained look on his rotted, greenish face. Then I readjust my sights on the small concrete opening they usually come through, splattered with the blood of their fallen.

        “I guess, but you should be pretty used to it by-”

        "And don’t you think I am? I’m just a little on edge today,” I say, glancing over the destroyed buildings and wastes at what I only see as hope and happiness, plastered onto the orange horizon like a picture in a reputable a magazine, “One of those days.”

        “Not again. Mikey, you seriously need to put the delusions of getting to York City out of your head. You and I are honorable Fists,” he holds up his clenched, fetid hand as a symbol of his pride, “We have people to look after.”

        I make a face that can only say, “I just wish is all,” and Danger nods, letting me know he understands.

        “I guess that’s how everyone is nowadays,” says Danger, turning back to where I have my rifle aimed, “Always wishing for more, wanting more.”

       Danger was born in 1920, when the United States was said to have gone from a prosperous time to a great depression in 1929. So it was only natural he thought the way people thought nowadays was so abnormal. The only reason he’s still alive today is because when the bombs fell in 2020, only a few months away from his 100th birthday, the radiation mutated him into a zombie-looking creature that most refer to as peddies because of the fact that the feral ones roam the city streets like a pedestrian would, just all the time. I personally would never refer to them in such a way, because Danger is just as human as I am. But yeah, Danger, being mutated, has an extended life. Nobody knows how long, just that they live much, much longer than any unmutated human. That’s why he’s still alive today, in the year 2044. Oh, and did I mention the mutation made him basically a living, breathing, thinking tank? Most of the mutated humans only got faster or flat out lost their minds, but Danger was mutated in a way that made him taller, stronger, faster, and smarter. Maybe it was his age, but who knows?

        I shrug, “Guess there’s no arguing,” I say, throwing on a smirk, “I am one needy guy, tending to my smooth face and-” Whoops. I bite my tongue, but it’s too late.

        Danger punches at me, but I quickly back away a little, heavy boots slamming on the rusty metal floor, and he only clips my chin, “I told you, you can’t be an ass to me just because you’re the only one on the face of this planet that treats me as an equal, even if you’re just picking. It hurts, man.”

        The setting sun shines on his pained face, revealing every wrinkle and exposed bit of muscle and I feel terrible, “Sorry... I keep forgetting,” I say, holding my jaw, glad he didn’t manage to hit me me in the nose. It’s happened before. Let’s just leave it at you don’t want Danger to hit you in the nose.

        “It’s fine. Just try a little harder to remember.”

        A blood-curdling yell fills the Core. Danger and I are quick to get our sights on the entrance. This is supposed to be their final stand. They only have so many psychos left.

        “Over there!” cries Danger, pointing to a small underpass that they’ve never used before. Water pours down from the bridge above from a broken sewer line, soaking the half-naked psychopaths, almost cleaning off their first layer of dirt and grime. Danger takes cover and aims his rifle, taking down the first one to come through the unsuspected entrance, screaming and firing his handgun into the air.

        The Tribals. Ugliest, dirtiest people in the wasteland. Not to mention the most ruthless. They’ll scavenge a whole town, raping the women, killing the children, just for the hell of it.

        When their first runner drops, a huge swarm of them runs in. Intel said there were maybe ten or twelve left at the settlement. They were wrong. They were so, so wrong. There has to be twenty, maybe thirty. All pouring in, automatic rifles going off like crazy, echoing throughout the Core.

        “What the hell!” I scream. “They said there were like, twelve!” A bullet hits a few inches from my head, going straight through the rusted metal wall, and I duck behind the reinforced front wall of the nest.

        Danger ignores me, takes out a submachine gun, and begins dropping the front line, resulting in even more screams from the Tribals. “Get to the goddamn chain gun, Mikey!”

        I poke my head up to see them advancing every second. A sheet of metal forms a bridge from the nest to a wooden platform above the gate with a chain gun. I look up again, see a break in their fire, and sprint across the bridge, bending as my boots slam down onto it. I make it to the chaingun, sweating profusely with anxiety, and begin feeding the ammo through. “Mikey, hurry the hell up, they’re almost at the gate!” I lock the ammo box in place and begin spraying down onto the oncoming raiders, shooting nasty holes into their bodies and blowing off smaller appendages with each bullet, sending blood and strewn body parts ripping through the stagnant, steadily increasing darkness.

        The barrel of the chain gun explodes in a shower of red, sending shrapnel flying everywhere, including a little left of my right shoulder. I fall to the ground, dazed, losing blood fast. The last thing I see before passing out is Danger lobbing a grenade into the battlefield, followed by an explosion that ends the Tribals’ feral screams. The last thing I see before passing out is him rushing over, yelling, “Mikey! Mikey! MIKEY-”