They say we Mad Men are humans with no little to no reasoning, as if that's some profound thought on the level of Plato, Socrates and Nietzsche of old.
But to us, reasoning is a mental cage, and we don't do well behind bars.
They say we are mad. I say we are free.
— Founder of the Free Men guild, Alexo De La Fuente.
These are dangerous times to be alive. It's a dead man's world now.
Let me explain.
It's been several decades since the world was overrun by the undead and no one knows for sure what really happened.
The scientists say it's some sort of virus—they can't seem to agree on which.
The people of faith say it's an act of God, or Gods—Depending on which faith you listen to. They say we have strayed too far from God's path, and this is how he punishes us. That he'll wipe us out of existence and begin anew, like in the age of the shipbuilder, Noah.
Only this time, instead of a great flood, he uses the undead.
Conspiracy theorists theorize that, before the fall, when humanity was at it's peak of science and technology, they discovered an alien civilisation in the distant stars. And that alien civilisation, afflicted upon us a great plague to protect themselves from our inevitable probing.
Who do I think is right? I think it doesn't matter. We're here now, in a war against the dead.
We're losing.
The one good thing that's come of this undead apocalypse is the awakening of powers.
The first-gen kids born post undead apocalypse—and then their kids—were born with superpowers.
It's how we haven't been completely wiped out yet. How we can fight back. How we can dare to have hope.
These powers, they vary in type and strength and use. The people with the strongest or combat-oriented powers typically enlist in combat related roles. They're watchers and protectors or defenders or guardians.
The watchers: they serve as scouts at the citadel gates and strategic outposts beyond. They watch for troublesome hordes of the dead, and report back to citadel's defence corps.
The guardians, they take action. They meet and dispatch the horde before they get within problematic distance of the citadel.
But not all the guardians do this. Some serve as law enforcement too, preventing any newly dead within the citadel from running amok.
There are a few other groups here and there, but the only other noteworthy one is the ones I belong to. Kinda.
You see, when the dead rose, and humanity fell. People clustered themselves into groups of varying numbers to survive.
It was the most terrible of times to be alive.
The long dead killed the living, and the newly dead became undead, and then killed more of the living till the world was overrun.
But even in these darkest of times, folks still couldn't keep it in their pants.
Somehow, amidst fighting for their lives, they still found a way to have sex and birth kids.
Turns out these kids had some new powers: slight enhanced speed, strength—nothing crazy.
It wasn't much, but it gave us a chance to run. Before that, seeing one meant you were already dead.
Then, these kids lived long enough to grow into adults. They too couldn't keep it in their pants, and so they had more kids.
These kids grew to be incrementally stronger than their parents. And then, they too couldn't...
I'm repeating myself here but you get the idea.
At some point, some of our living ancestors got strong enough to hold their own against a horde and it gave us a chance to erect some sort of defensive structure.
Over time, we fortified it well enough into a citadel safe for humans to live again. To thrive.
But everywhere else became the dead's domain.
We knew that other citadels existed because we were able to relearn the archaic arts of training birds as message carriers to find and communicate with others.
But trading? That's almost impossible.
Birds can't carry significant load, and we've lost the technology of airplanes. We don't have people that can fly either—at least not that I know of.
But you'll notice I said 'almost impossible'.
That's because, among the living, there are some, mad enough to leave the safety of the citadels and go into the domain of the dead.
We're called the Mad Men.
And I don't disagree with that name.
Every time I leave my citadel, I suspect there's some madness in me.
And when I face against a horde, and feel the perverse thrill of killing dead things—I know for certain, I'm a mad man indeed.
The Mad Men is the general term used for people crazy enough to willingly go into the domain of the dead for whatever reason.
Mad men typically belong to guilds ranging from really small to decently large.
They are contracted by pretty much anyone—the government, rich folks and other organisations—to help transfer goods and services from one citadel to another.
The bigger the guild you're in, the better your pay is and contract frequency is.
I don't get contracts often because I don't belong to any guild, and that has more hassle than perks. But the perks for me is worth it—I get to do whatever I want, however I want, whenever I want.
I won't lie though, sometimes I'm tempted to join a guild: Great credits, housing, health benefits, social standing, you name it. The longer you've been on runs, the better your options.
The guilds have the monopoly on contracts, some more than others.
Alot of the time, the bigger guilds snatch up talent from the smaller ones. And they can't do much about it either, you know, higher influence and more attractive contract offers. That kind of thing.
All of them have been hounding me to join for years now.
No thanks.
So, I take jobs from people too broke to hire guilds: Helping exchange letters or small goods through citadels, scavenging, dregs stuff really.
Barely earn any credits but the gratitude I get... It's worth it.
Which brings us here.
I'm on a job, if you can even call it that.
My contractor asked me to bring her some wild leaves. My wage? Her secret recipe for making her insanely delicious beef stew. I fucking love beef stew...
So here I am, risking my life.
It's night. I'm crouched behind a tree at the edge of a small clearing, blending in near perfectly with the dark. The air stinks of smoke, scorched flesh, and death. The ground is scarred with burn marks and slick with fresh blood.
It's a risk, moving in the dark, especially in unfamiliar terrain. Hard to tell where they all are. The silence is thick. Even the insects know better than to sing.
But I told you, I get a perverse thrill from fighting them, even more so when the stakes are higher.
Plus, I'm a little cocky.
I can spot five of the dead a few steps away from my hiding spot. They're hunched over and devouring something. There's too little left of it to tell what it was.
I scan the surrounding area, I can't find any more of them, but that doesn't mean they aren't there.
I need to move fast, take them out, with minimal noise to prevent attracting more of them.
It's the smart thing to do. The safe and boring thing. That's why I won't do it.
I do a body scan one more time.
I'm fully cover from neck to toe in jet-black, skin-tight KevWeave suit—only my face is exposed.
It provides decent enough protection from anything but the dead's teeth and nails.
Everything's locked, zipped, and tight.
I come out from my hiding spot and walk to towards them. They're far too engrossed in their mean that they don't hear me close in on them.
I could kill them right now before they even know what's happening. I could walk away and they won't even know I was here.
I'm almost offended.
"Oi you little shits." I call out, arms wide. "When are we gonna to address the elephant in the room, eh?"
Not an elephant, but they get the idea.
Slowly they turn till their gaze falls on me. I scan their faces, looking for that man. He's not here.
I see the hungry spark in their empty eyes, and then something else: Intelligence?
Well, that's new.
I draw my right leg backward, buckle my knees slightly so that I'm almost crouching.
I unsheathe my twin daggers and hold them firmly in both hands.
All the fun is drained from me now.
Blades ready. Knees bent. I wait.
Instead of their rabid attack they spread around me till I'm surrounded. Their positioning the shape of a star.
Since when do they do that? No, seriously-what the actual fuck is going?
I close my eyes—take in three deep breaths—and open it. The world slows.
The first one lunges at me. It covers more ground than I expect. My heel skids on loose dirt and I stumble.
Barely dodging, I sidestep and slam the hilt of my dagger into the back of its skull.
No time to finish it. Another one lunges. I have a feeling it will reach me, so I try to jump backwards to create distance. At least I try to.
The one on the ground grabs my leg before I can lift off, thwarting my effort and slamming me hard on my back. No time to stay dazed.
I angle my dagger up—aiming for the incoming one's heart. My other leg kicks wildly, trying to shake the one clinging to it.
The lunging one comes. Instead of getting its heart pierced, it uses both it's arms as a shield to protect its heart.
Can you actually believe this shit?
From above I can see the rest of the dead converging on me at incredible speed.
Shit! Shit! Shit!
Too many things happening at once paralyses me and I stop kicking.
Big mistake.
I feel fang-sharp teeth sink into my leg and I let out a painful howl.
The pain radiates through my body and I lose my grip on the daggers upholding the other one above me.
It falls on me and before I can protect myself, its teeth sink into my neck.
I can't even scream as It rips out my throat.
My vision turns white and I become pain itself.
All of these would happen in a few more seconds.
Didn't I mention it? No?
Well, I can see a little bit into the future. That's my power.
The first one lunges at me.