At 8 a.m. in Detroit, Michigan the sun was rising, shedding its weak sunlight over the cold and lifeless landscape. The wind blew through broken windows and through the empty streets, a howling entity which few would venture out into. Snow swirled in tiny eddies and currents of the wind, the small and delicate flakes drifting silently through the air, the promise of a long and cold winter accompanying them. A gust of wind whistled through a window on the third floor of an apartment, stirring the drapes which kept the weak sunlight out of Greg's room.
The influx of cold air into the room awakened Greg. He opened his eyes, but didn't move another muscle. The thin blanket that he slept under was torn and dirty. As the cold air touched his muscular back, entering through a tiny hole in the fabric he shivered. Already fully awake, he threw the blanket to the side and sat up. He ran his scarred, tough hands through his thick hair which was sprinkled with grey, then brought them down to scratch at his salt and pepper beard, which was trimmed close to his face. The wiry hairs had started to lose their colour when he turned thirty-five, by now he had just about as much grey hair as he did brown.
It was nineteen years after the initial infection, where most of North America's population was decimated by the killer fungal infection that originated in the forests of Brazil. Scientists had figured out what it was that was causing the illness, but by that time it was too late. They had said that the infection came from a mutated strain of the Ophiocordyceps unilateralis fungus, a type of fungus native to the hot and steamy forests of Brazil. The natural fungus invaded the brain of carpenter ants, altering their behavior and causing them to climb onto leaves where they would latch on with unnatural strength as the fungus infected the rest of the body. The ant would then die, and the fungus would burst forth, growing out of the bodies of the ants. Scientists hypothesized that some ants with the mutated strain of fungus in their bodies had attached themselves to coffee plants and other produce growing in Brazil, hence the spread to North America in items such as Brazilian coffee. In humans however, the symptoms were much more terrifying. Humans could be infected in several ways, but it always involved the introduction of the fungal spores into the body. When in the body, the spores would travel to the brain area, where they would begin to grow. It would invade regions of the brain, stripping people of their humanity, and making their only desire to spread the spores. Initial spore growth took anywhere from an hour to a couple of days, before a person was considered one of the infected. They became hyper aggressive and stronger than a normal human being, perfect killing machines.
The infection had several deadly stages, which could be seen by the amount of fungal growth emerging out of the person unfortunate enough to be infected. Eventually the fungus would kill its host body. Even in death it was still deadly, the dead body would become a breeding ground for the fungus, spreading millions of spores. Some people had discovered underneath a heavy fungal growth a human skeleton, warped and cracked in many places by the fungus.
North America had fallen inside of a week. Not knowing what they were dealing with had cost them dearly, and a cure still hadn't been discovered. It was rumoured that scientists had long since stopped trying. None of that had mattered to Greg. He swung himself out of bed and immediately dropped down to the floor, starting his morning workout. The little room was freezing, the power was shut down during the day to conserve fuel and energy. As Greg did push ups he watched the fog of his breath. Soon enough there was a slight sheen of sweat covering him, and the room was starting to heat up due to the heat generated by his body.
Breathe in, breathe out, Greg thought as he pushed his body up and down. Moving from push ups to crunches, he grunted in pain. He put his hand to his side, where a white bandaged was wrapped around his broken ribs. The date was December 28th, or at least that's what everyone said it was. Three days ago on Christmas day he was cornered in an alleyway on his way home from grabbing his daily rations. The thugs had thought to take away the food from Greg and enjoy a larger meal on their Christmas, but they had underestimated his strength. He shot two of them, and had broken the third's arm at least. He was rewarded with his dinner and some broken ribs. The thing about broken ribs is there isn't much one can do to aid the healing process. But Greg had suffered worse. He stood up and stretched, he muscles taut. Over the nineteen years of surviving, he had accumulated a good collection of scars. He had a long, jagged scar underneath his left shoulder blade, where he had been cut with the buck knife he now wore on his belt by some boy who thought that it would be easier to strike first and talk later. Greg had bashed his skull in with the butt of his Smith & Wesson Model 29, ammo was always in short supply. Greg had lost his snub nose years ago in a deal gone south with the black market with ran rampant in the city, so he had picked up a new gun using some persuasion and one thick plank of wood. He also had a scarred over hole on the opposite side of his lower back where he had been shot. The gunman had gotten away, and Greg was lucky to have lived.
He lived, but he didn't care. He hadn't cared about anything since that day when Katherine had died. It was a downward spiral. A person couldn't survive in this new world without being hard, ad hardness was all that Greg had. It was not life, but survival that drove him forward. He learned how to shoot better, he learned how to kill. There was not much that he hadn't done. Early on in the years after the initial infection he had earned himself a nickname that suited him just fine, 'Basher' Brasher. The people that knew him feared him, and his hard countenance had turned several others from his company. He had carved out a spot for himself in the shattered society and remained reclusive, keeping no friends and few acquaintances.
Walking across the small room he turned on the little propane stove located on the floor and placed a blackened kettle full of melted snow from yesterday, now partially refrozen, on top. His propane stove was a rare sight, it was very difficult to get fuel these days. But he had connections, people who owed him. He went to dress himself as his water heated, turning his back on the small stove. Grabbing a towel that was lying on the ground by the small bed Greg wiped the small amount of sweat off his body, any extra moisture would only mean a chill later in the day. Tossing the towel back on the floor he grabbed a t-shirt from the small set of rickety wooden dressers that he kept. Over the shirt he pulled on a grey long sleeved and then a lined jacket made out of rough canvas. All his clothes were monotonously coloured, all the bright articles of clothing seemed to disappear in the initial years of the infection. That, or they became dirty and dingy beyond repair. Now it seems like everyone wore shades of grays or dark greens. He grabbed a pair of worn jeans out of another drawer and pulled those on as well. Hitching the pants around his waist, he threaded his heavy leather belt through the belt loops, tightening it on the last hole. The belt was meant for a smaller man, and it only just fit Greg.
He sat down on the bed to pull on a pair of grey woolen socks, dirty and frayed, the left one had a hole in the sole. In the past before the infection he would have thrown the sock away, or made a joke to Katherine that he could only wear that sock to church, because it was 'hole-ey". He shook his head at the thought, it had strayed too close to the emotional cage where he put all his feelings and memories of Katherine. In this world, no one ever threw anything out, everything had its use. After the socks he pulled on his boots, heavy and thick; he got them in a deal the other week to replace his old and ratty pair. He wiggled his toes comfortably inside them, The nice thing about buying gently used boots, he thought, is that they are already broken in. He stood up and grabbed the two items on top of the dresser, his two most valued possessions. His revolver and his buck knife, each in their individual holsters. Clipping them to his belt, the revolver on the right and the knife on the left, he walked back over to the small propane stove. As he crouched by the stove waiting for his water to boil, a knock came at the door to his room.
Greg drew the buck knife with his right hand and held it ready, turning quickly. He stole quietly to the door, crouching on the right side of the door jam. The knocking came again, this time louder. "Damn it Greg, it's me. Let me in already." Tim's voice came from the other side of the door. Greg stood and sheathed his dagger, turning back to his stove.
"Go away Tim, I don't have any food for you. Try to bum it off of someone else." Greg called out, not even turning to answer the door. Tim was a young boy about eighteen years of age, and when Greg had first found him he was scrawny and starving. Tim was still scrawny and starving most of the time now, he suffered from an extreme gambling addiction, and the problem was that he barely won. He would offer up his daily ration cards and then lose them, depriving him of his meals. Greg had taken the young man under his wing for a couple of years before tiring of his company. Now every once in a while Tim still came around begging for scraps. Greg felt a twinge of conscience, in his past life he would have never been so cruel to someone who was obviously in need. But in this new world only the strong survived.
"I don't want food Greg," Tim's voice continued from outside the room. "I came to deliver a message."
"Well, whoever wants me dead is going to have to send a tougher man than you Tim," Greg called back. "Now you can go back to whoever gave you a couple ration cards to try to get you to do me in and tell them to try again. Or better idea, go into hiding. They would probably shoot you if you tried to pull a fast one on them like that."
"No Greg, the message is from General Walters, he wants to see you." Tim fell silent. Greg groaned silently. Damn you Walters, what the hell are you doing.
"Alright, give me a moment." He stood up and crossed over to the door, unlocking it an opening it. He was confronted by the grinning visage of Tim Daniels, a sandy haired youth of twenty some years, he had been a toddler when the infection struck. Tim rubbed his hands together and strode into the room, glancing around.
"Still haven't improved from this dump heap eh?" The young man leaned against the bed, looking around hungrily. Greg sighed.
"There's half a loaf left over from last night in the third drawer, you can only have half. The rest is for me." Tim quickly found the bread and tore it in half. Two very ragged and uneven halves, of which he took the larger one. Greg sighed again, resigning himself to smaller breakfast than he had hoped for. His water on the stove had started to boil, he grabbed the handle, cursing as the hot kettle brushed his hand. Carefully, he poured the boiling water into two small tin cups. The hot water gave off a lot of steam in the cool air of the apartment.
"In the third drawer at the back I have some tea bags, toss them over." Greg ordered Tim. The tea bags had been hard to come by, those kind of goods were rare these days. Every couple weeks a ration of coffee was given out, but it was weak and never sat well in the stomach. Greg had abstained from the drinking of coffee since Katherine had died, and tea was better than nothing. He had paid dearly for the tea bags, and he wasn't disappointed. He was constantly amazed by what the black market could drag up. Putting the tea bags in the water, he left the cups to steep. Walking over to the bed he grabbed the small chunk of bread and tore into it with his teeth. It was tough and tasted like sawdust, but it was sustenance.
Tim watched him as he ate. This was somewhat disconcerting, but he was used to it. Tim watched as every morsel vanished into Greg's mouth, as if waiting for a crumb to fall so he could snatch it up. Like a dog looking for scraps, he thought as he chewed. He finished the bread and went to grab the cups of tea. Taking a sip, he swore quietly as the hot liquid burnt his tongue. They sat drinking the tea in silence, Tim slurping his tea greedily; this was probably the best meal he had eaten in several days. Greg drank the tea slowly, savouring its taste and warmth. Staring around the room, Greg nodded in satisfaction. Compared to some people, this is pretty good. And it was. Though Greg didn't have a lot of possessions, he was very well off. Most of his money was spent on ammunition and fuel, two very rare commodities. And he had enough left over to buy tea and other goods from the black market, which was more than most people could boast of.
When they had finished their tea Greg took their cups and put them back in his drawers. Shutting the propane off on the stove, he opened the door to his apartment. "Well," he said, looking back at Tim. "Let's go and see what Walters has for us today." They exited his small room, which he locked with a small key behind them. Together they walked to the stairwell, past the elevator shafts which gaped open, what their dark pits held was up to the imagination. The elevators hadn't worked in over ten years. The sound of their footsteps echoed loudly in the dark stairwell as they made their way down to the main floor. On the main floor a few other people lounged about, there was a small fire in the middle of the room which spread its warmth along with a cheery light. Greg nodded to several of the men that he knew as he and Tim walked by. Someone had an old cd player from which a familiar tune came out. Greg recognized "Carry On Wayward Son" immediately, and memories of a day long ago came unbidden to his mind. The jog, the man on the bench, Katherine… Quickening his pace as if to run away from these memories, he only had a moment to brace himself before the blast of cold air from outside hit him square in the face, the cold air causing him to gasp for a moment. They walked into the cold morning air.