As of this writing, in the summer of 2077, a mere dozen years since the “We Endure” address, the best estimate, from admittedly unreliable word of mouth communication, is that the U.S. population now stands at about 20,000, give or take a few thousand. This means that, of a population of about 325 million, more than 99.99 percent perished. If the effect was global—and there is no reason to believe it was not—this means that at least six and a half billion people (6,500,000,000) succumbed, and in less than five years. The numbers are staggering, to say the least, and difficult to fully countenance; there are no precedents in human history for such all-encompassing, sudden mortality. In fact, it is thought that dwelling too long on the statistics themselves is enough to engender madness.
At present, there is order only in the better-armed and organized enclaves, stray gangs and violent psychotics roam at will, and the landscape, urban and rural, teems with both man-made and natural hazards. Anyone still alive faces a most uncertain future, and while a hopeful few harbor dreams of a better tomorrow, many believe that the human race, like a guttering candle, is on the brink of extinction.
Chapter One
Teresa first thought about leaving the Bloodclaws, the only family she’d ever known, when she was nearly gang-raped by three of her closest childhood friends. Up until then, things had been alright, but if good old Clanky hadn’t stepped in to help her fight when the three others tried to force themselves on her, they might have been very different. As it was, it had started her thinking.
At the moment, she sat atop a ruined, partially burned school bus in the midst of the Bloodclaw compound and stared out at the sunset. Around her, some forty individuals ranging in years from five to fifty, her clan mates, went about their lives. Some worked on vehicles, a handful were cooking a dog over a fire, a couple of groups simply sat and talked with friends. Some drank their stupidwater and started fights, and, over to one side, a few gun-toters were engaged in some noisy target practice. Later on, there’d probably be a pit fight. All in all, a pretty average, boring evening. Even the prospect of a new episode from Big Mike, their clan storyteller, didn’t hold much interest; his stories were always about Jesus and his crew and they were starting to all seem kind of the same.
Lazily, she scanned the compound and spotted their leader, Sharp, off to one side, having a can of drink. Her eyes narrowed and her mouth compressed into a down-turned line. Sharp.
The main problem, Teresa knew, was that she was beautiful. This wasn’t a conceited opinion of herself, it was simple fact; the way the boys looked at her only confirmed it. Whatever it was, whatever combination of facial and bodily features in whatever combination it was that attracted men, she had it. In a big way. At first, when her boobs had sprouted and her hips had begun to fill out, she’d taken great pains to conceal herself, but her face was not so easy to camouflage and her looks had soon become an issue. That had been a rough time.
But later, when she’d learned how to protect herself (mainly the hard way, through hard trial and painful error), she’d come to understand that her appearance was not only not a liability, it could be used to get things from men that most women only dreamed about. Food, burners, ammo, blankets, smoke, you name it. And if she usually enjoyed the sex, that was just a bonus.
Not always, though, and sometimes it bothered her that she did things like trading sex for material goods, but then she would reflect that she was actually lucky to have the opportunity; most women in the Bloodclaws didn’t have her physique. She should be glad she had something with which to trade.
“Hey, T!” came a voice from the ground and she looked down to see Hairy Steve looking up. She nodded to him.
“What up?” she asked disinterestedly.
“Y’all gleep Gene lately?” asked Steve, scratching himself.
“Which?” said Teresa. “Big Gene or Obscene Gene?”
“Big.”
“Over there,” waved Teresa, “yappin’ with Sharp.”
“Oh, hey, yeah,” said Steve, waving. “Thanks, T. Later.”
“Later.”
She watched as Hairy Steve ambled away. Eyeing Sharp across the compound, his big mohawk unmistakable, she frowned and shook her head as she realized that, again, it was her body that was in question. Sharp didn’t want her for her, so to speak, not even for her not inconsiderable fighting and banging skills. No, he wanted her body, her tits and ass and face. If he had been interested in her in some way more personal than as a status symbol, she might even have gone for the guy. But when all he wanted was sex and to have her, as in own her, well, that was where she rebelled, and as vociferously as she’d resisted her would-be rapists.
It was most definitely not something she took lightly. These people were the only family she’d ever known. She had some very few, very vague recollections of her mother, fading snapshots in her mind of a thin, distraught woman with black hair and a thin, worried face, but other than that, nothing remained of her biological family; even her last name had been lost in the Fall. But now, to stay with her clan would mean one of three things: she could submit to Sharp, become his woman and do what he said for the rest of her life, she could fight him and, if she wasn’t killed, take over the clan, or she could just plain leave, slink off in the night and try to find a new life somewhere else. To tell the truth, the second option, a fight to the death, seemed more attractive than the other two, but even that wasn’t all that appealing, since she had absolutely no desire to be in charge. Which, since she wasn’t about to submit, left her back at the idea of leaving. After all, she had her own place out in the wasteland that no one knew about. She could go there for starters and then see how it went. Yeah, maybe.
It was strange, too, that even the exciting aspects of being a Bloodclaw—what they called banging—were starting to become less than thrilling. Oh, she still loved the exhilaration of the chase, the speed and the danger of running some poor sucker into the ditch or a wall, but the end result, the suffering of those who they caught, usually just sorry chumps who happened to be on the road, well, that wasn’t so fun. Lately, the pain in their faces and the way they begged for their lives was starting to get to her. She didn’t know why, exactly, but somehow the whole idea of preying on anybody who happened along, the very basis of Bloodclaw philosophy, was starting to look sort of childish and unproductive and mean. Another reason to leave.
She was still turning it over in her mind when someone started to ring the big metal triangle that served as their alarm bell. Something was up! The triangle was only used when the presence of the whole fighting arm of the clan, those old and young enough to fight, was required. And that meant her. Putting her thoughts on hold for now, she climbed down from the bus and, the old excitement bubbling up in her system, hoping for a good road chase or gunfight, went to see what was happening.
Chapter Two
Tonight on the Dick van Fusco Show, Dick’s guests will be: Actor Milton Ferretly, fresh from his latest wacky brain surgery, singer/songwriter Suzie Granola plugs her new disc, plus comedian Dinkie Drainpipe, combat ball star Deadline Jonson, and the ultra-punk sounds of hot new band Pox Populi! You’ll hate yourself if you miss this one! Forever!