The year is 2087.
Stuck in an atomic winter and a ravaged, broken world, few survivors linger in the wasteland that now belongs to Anarchists. Few towns still stand, and none have the ability to fight back against the gangs that roam and massacre anyone who denies their goals.
14 years ago, the most notorious and bloodthirsty of the Anarchist gangs invaded the tiny town of Winsor, leaving few survivors to flee to a Fort City.
Now, they've returned, and they've come to kidnap and kill as many
Returning from a scouting party, Mishel Cresten was both a survivor and a witness to the bloodshed of his hometown. He watched the savage murder of those he’d grown up with, those he’d known and loved for years; worst of all, his wife.
As he burst into his home, he’d observed the slicing of his wife’s throat; her blood painted on the wall, forming the all too well known World Kings logo; his children screaming in utter terror as the Anarchist headed toward them.
He grabbed his wife’s murderer by the neck and snapped it, angry and fuming like a raging bull.
Forcing his children out of the house, he quickly gathered the survivors of Winsor and ran.
Covered in ash from the burning buildings behind them, the small group of survivors ran like a herd of rabbits fleeing from the snapping jaws of hungry coyotes.
Their hasty retreat did not go unnoticed. Leaving the town in ruins, the coyotes pursued the fleeting survivors down the mountains relentlessly.
Nearly half the survivors were hunted down on the way down the mountainside. The few left followed Mishel and his children to the east, toward the well-armoured town of Fort Mills, sitting about a mile out in the flatlands at the base of the Winsor mountain range that Mishel now traversed.
It was a long-shot; Fort Mills was notorious for turning away outsiders. They were one of those cities only accepting of those born within their walls, or with an identifiable clean background.
Mishel hoped they’d make an exception this time, or the entire population of Winsor would be exterminated.
He ushered his followers out of the mountain and across the flatlands.
This would be the most dangerous part. He knew many of the Anarchists had guns. He hoped they also had bad aim.
As the group made their way toward Fort Mills, the wave of Anarchists erupted from the forest like a small flash flood.
To his dismay, not only did the Anarchists have guns, but motorcycle-like devices that sped across the flatlands toward them, whipping up dust like a tornado.
Gunshots rung out. Mishel and the others flinched as the ground around them exploded from the bullets hitting the dirt.
A few fell to the shower of lead.
Some were taken down by the cycle-riders.
Blood littered the flatlands as the survivors were cut down one by one.
Suddenly, Mishel heard his young son cry out.
His sister had fallen. He wasn’t sure if she had been shot or not.
The stampede of survivors did not allow for stopping and turning back. His eyes welled with tears for his beloved daughter as he forced himself to move on.
To his surprise, a young boy behind them scooped his daughter up in his arms and ran with her.
She was still alive, her arms wrapped around the boys neck tightly.
Relieved, Mishel found the energy to grab his sons hand and run faster than he knew he could.
They had almost reached Fort Mills. The guards were firing back at the Anarchists, but it didn’t deter them. Left and right, Mishel’s friends were cut down to the ground. The men on motorbikes used sharp-edged weapons to slice at them, while the chasers on foot fired shotguns and rifles.
Mishel felt buckshot break the skin on his arm. The person running near to him fell to the ground, back gaping and filled with pulverized muscle tissue.
Just a little bit further.
He looked back to see the boy holding his daughter beat down. Two bikers had surrounded them, taunting them with their guns. The boy was horrified, but held on to the girl tightly, protecting her the best he could.
They soon pried her from his arms and placed him on the back of a bike.
Mishel had no idea why they would want to kidnap people, but it didn’t matter. They were about to take his daughter, and he wouldn’t let that happen. There weren’t enough survivors left to hold him back.
He instructed his son to head for the gate before turning around and heading for his daughters assailant.
He jumped the biker like a rabid wolf, clawing at his gun. He could see his daughter run away, following her brother toward the gate. Fort Mills guards were quickly outnumbering the Anarchists, who began to slow their advance.
He saw his children be swept inside the walls of the fort, just before a horrible, sharp pain pierced his back.
He couldn’t breathe. Blood began to flood his lungs, choking him. He could taste the metallic fluid in his mouth, felt it ooze from the corners of his mouth as he fell to the ground.
The Anarchist looming above him pulled the knife from his back and ran north. The biker kicked him before driving away in the same direction.
He could no longer take a breath. Blood bubbled in the corners of his mouth as he thought of his daughter and the angelic boy that had saved her from death. He wished that boy had been saved somehow as well. He needed someone to look after his children, now that he couldn’t.
A tear fell from his eye as the spirit that so loved his children left to be reunited with his wife once again.