The world was not what it seemed, and a new fight was about to begin.
Chapter One
New York City, 2225
Damon “Mad Dog” Wright stared at his bruised knuckles as he walked down the dark city street. It was past midnight, and the night had been a bad one for him. He worked at the only place where sex was available in Area One, and it was owned by Don Michaels. It was the one place a guy could guarantee he wouldn’t be killed during a fuck. The bar where he worked offered a small space for men to go and have a good time. Don didn’t want to only offer sex but a good time. People who went there were treated to the women on offer, dancing. The dancing gave the men a chance to eye up the goods. Some places were all about sex. Don offered a little something more. Several women were lurking on the street corner trying to catch any passing man’s attention. No matter where he went at this time of night, trouble could be found in every street corner. Men and women took their business to the streets. He hated the streets, but that was where he lived, and every day that passed he felt the acceptance of his situation washing over him like a plague.
Since the M3 nightmare over a hundred years ago, the world had gone to shit. He’d heard the tales where people were civilised and the nation ran smoothly. The teachings of money, the government, and order were a blessing that he hoped maybe they could one day have again. People had no choice but to fend for themselves, and he was one of the poor saps who had no choice but to do what he could to eat every night. With the wars that raged after the effects of the M3 the entire city was nothing but a mass of crumbling rubble. There were still some buildings around, but electricity no longer worked within the city. After the last hundred years many of the survivors were slowly learning to adapt. Damon had been told that hundreds of years ago the human race did survive without electricity and with food rationing. He’d seen evidence of it in certain books that had somehow survived the wars.
Tucking his bruised knuckles into his jacket pocket, he felt the small plastic bottle-like containers in his pocket. Don was an expert in moonshine, and he’d given the small bottles to Damon to exchange. Don wanted him to sell the whole lot and get back some kind of book he wanted for tomorrow. Before Damon went home, he knew the people he needed to sell to. The moonshine was potent shit. Don sold the stuff at the bar to many of the customers. Don also sold tobacco to anyone who had anything of value to exchange for it.
At thirty-five, Damon had no other choice but to do as he was told by Don. For a short period of time moonshine could help a person forget about their current situation. There was no medicine around, and Damon knew all too well about the lack of medical care. The M3 had affected everything even down to hospitals and doctors. In 2215 many people had died from the flu virus. No matter what people did, they fell ill and died soon after. He’d never seen such carnage before in his life. His family hadn’t survived the flu. When he’d gotten back home over ten years ago he’d found nothing but dead bodies. He’d been away at the time doing business for Don, but he’d been the one to take care of his family’s bodies.
Damon thought about what the world had once been like. There was a time when every child got an education. He had been taught to fight and defend himself at a young age. His mother hadn’t been able to read or write. There were people who were able to read. He’d glanced in books at the pictures he’d seen and wished he could read. It looked like some of the books held a lot of information.
He’d have liked to see what money felt like and to have tasted pizza. There had been a recipe book hidden under a load of rubble showing a picture of a pizza. The picture alone was mouth-watering. He did not have a lot going for him other than his muscle and willingness to help the cause of rebuilding their area.
There had once been laws and legislation, with police officers who enforced the laws and judges who punished crime. Glancing around him, Damon couldn’t even picture it in his surrounding area. There was no law apart from the law made up for the four areas. Don Michaels owned Area One of New York while three other men owned the other parts.
Damon bent his head watching the cracked pavement as he walked. Most of the people knew who he was and stayed clear of him. Working for Don Michaels and having a reputation for being a “Mad Dog”, he constantly got laid, and being near women had its bonuses. He preferred the women who worked for Don to the women he passed on the street. With Don’s women he didn’t have to fear getting stabbed in the back for the clothes he wore. A street-walker would take what they could get. They were unpredictable, and worse, they didn’t give a shit. When he was fucking he didn’t want to have to watch his back.