"Are you ready men?" roared Kiev Battalion First Marshal Alkov, extending a finger towards the green, spore infested fog enveloping the city's westerly districts. His enthusiasm was met by the cheers of hundreds, all crashing their weapons together, and singing the adrenaline filled melody of war. "I asked you, are you ready?" Alkov repeated, raising himself up onto an overturned and rust covered hulk of a former car. "Are you ready to die for people and country, for the greater good of all what we hold dear?" His more grimly termed words did little to diminish the Battalion's high spirits. Again they cheered, jumping up and down on the spot, cracking knuckles and limbering up, as if they were about to compete in some sporting event. "Then let's get to it!" Alkov yelled, raising a brass trumpet to his lips and playing a soured, high pitched tune. The Battalion, one mass of four hundred bodies, donned their respiratory protection, and rushed headlong into the fog - just as the broken forms of carriers charged from it, having heard the commotion. Today marks the last day of a campaign to rid the ruins of Charleston from the fungal carriers. It has been a bloody battle, spanning six months, and costing New Kiev over four hundred dead - a blow to its man power it can ill afford. Still, with the last of the infected driven from the city, the people of New Kiev can finally look to building for themselves a brighter future. The battle is expected to be short, but bloody. Early estimates place the death toll so far at a hundred, and this is expected to rise. However, it is a price the President is apparently willing to make. Many feel this is because of the chronic food shortage that is hitting the fledgling nation hard, and without a fishing fleet, the sea has been unable to provide the resources the people need. Therefore, it is thought the President is looking to drive inland, and to capture South Carolina's famed farmland. Even if he is successful however, it is feared that the time it takes to get crops sown, and the loss of life in clearing the area, may well be fatal blows to New Kiev. Only time will tell. "We might not find friends, Mr. President, but enemies. Broadcasting this message could draw on us a tide that we could not resist," Security Minister Jenkins, an American national, stated rather flatly. "It'd be best if we sent scouts inland first, to assess who is out there first hand." The President, wearing an old world suit, stroked at his neatly trimmed goatee as he looked out over the ruins of Charleston. This he did for some minutes, occasionally sighing, or muttering a few unheard words. Finally he turned, and shook his head. "We need food, and we need it now. Someone must be out there who can help us. Make it happen, Minister, and make it happen today. Jenkins blew out air, showing his frustration. But it was not for him to go against the President. "As you wish, I'll get it done." Message to All Players, via Radio Broadcast "This is President Vitali Kedzierski, of New Kiev, South Carolina, Charleston. If there is anyone out there, in either need of assistance, or shelter, then I urge you to make contact. We are not hostile, I repeat, we are not hostile. More over, if anyone out there has a surplus of food, then we would be willing to trade. We are operating on the following frequencies (gives frequencies), and I would urge anyone and everyone, to get in touch. I say again, South Carolina is inhabited, and we are driving the infected out, but we need food. Please, contact us on these frequencies (gives frequencies)."

"How many of them are there, Sergeant?" asked Jebediah Banks, commander of the Hegemony's 3rd Rapid Response Team. Looking out across the basin before the damn, one could sight a mass moving in the distance, drawn towards the rumbling of the generators. "No idea, sir. Too many for an accurate count but I'd estimate about three thousand, three thousand five hundred," answered the scout. Jeb grimaced. Three thousand versus his three hundred. Request for aid had been sent to Home Base but he had yet to receive a reply. Three thousand of those things. One of the largest hordes to pass by in recent years. Arrayed along the top of the damn were said defenders, holding an assortment of melee weapons and CQC firearms for dealing with the Carriers when they arrived. Someone had even managed to scrounge up one of the Hegemony's few mortars. They would need it. "Don respiration!" Jeb bellowed. Taking his own mask off and placing it on his face, he looked at those with him. Without help, they wouldn't survive. As the Carriers closed in increasingly quick, the mortar began to fire off. The battle had begun. The 3rd Rapid Response Force, composed of approximately 250 men, are responding to the horde bearing down upon the Grand Coulee Damn. Of a size not seen before in recent years, the defenders prepare to die to protect the station, one of the only sources of electricity operating at the moment. Should the defenders fall, the damn would fall into disrepair unless it was reclaimed, an arduous and/or lengthy task depending on how the horde moved. Home Base, despite not responding, are assembling a task force of four hundred men to move to the damn quickly, hopefully arriving in time to save any defenders. Without support, however, all those at the damn will fall. The destruction of such a large horde, however, would mean greatly increased safety in that area of the Hegemony and possible expansion outwards. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- "What the hell do you mean there's a radio message from some unknown source?" asked Chancellor Andrea Habicht, leader of the Hegemony. Crowding with most of the other staff at the government center around the long-range radio, she appeared doubtful of the validity. Reaching over to the dashboard, the operator pressed a button, causing the message to be repeated. Extremely garbled and almost impossible to decipher, they eventually gleaned the meaning that someone was in need of aid and looking for it. "Did they say South Carolina, operator?" asked the Chancellor. "Yes ma'am." "Send no response. There is nothing we can do for them from here. We have our own problems anyway." With that final statement, the group disbanded, returning to their work. Having received the message of New Kiev, the Hegemony does not respond, seeing no use in establishing contact with such a distant entity at the moment. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Why are we out here, Scott? It's been two months and we haven't found anyone. Not to mention we don't have too many people ourselves. Or food for that matter." "I'm the team leader, Clarice, so shut your damned mouth. We're the fuck are we anyways?" One of the other members pulled out a map, tracing the path drawn with a pencil to indicate where they had gone. "It seems we're almost in Dakota, sir." "Great. Middle of nowhere. Shit. I for one am not abandoning the task given to us and anyone who decides to leave will leave without equipment. Is that clear?" "Crystal, sir," answered the thirteen others. Nodding, the small group ventured forth, passing the North Dakota border a scant hour later. Long Range Team 3 is part of an initiative by the Hegemony government. The last of the bands to be sent out, the Long Range Teams' purpose is to establish contact with other groups or find something that would be worth a costly expedition to acquire. Teams 1 and 2 advance south and southwest, finding nothing for the moment, while Team 3 begins to enter Bismarck territory unknowingly. (Yes, dam is misspelled. Yes, it is on purpose. My society is damn-powered after all)

Badlands, North Dakota The rugged horns of the Earth below thrust itself up in a broken landscape of gray rock and thick scraggly bushes. A landscape dominated my miles of twisting and labyrinthine gullies and valleys scarred the landscape for miles. The sharp crowns of the jagged hillsides spanning into the clear blue sky, and marching off into the distance where the details of the lost maze faded into the blue. Patches of green dotted the hills, hardy pines and other rugged plants that scored the hillsides and narrow plateaus and adding more of nature's definition to geology's uprooting. In the distance a eagle cackled, its call echoing across the landscape, flowing through the broken hills, forging a river with the wind. This was the land of poets. And far on from the past it was not hard to see the blurring between the now and the then. The windswept and rain washed rocks and gravel creek beds still sung of an era dominated by bandits and outlaws, seeking refuge from the law. Of hunters and natives. And not now in this time the remnants of a proud race, seeking survival in the midst of a landscape burned by alien plague. In the days people romance about, they talked of knights of wore at their hips six shooters of burning chrome. Who did battle with sheriff, savages, and outlaw alike. This was their kingdom this land. Where the crack of gunfire was indistinguishable from the blare of gunfire. People said in the days in the young days of the end gunfire once exploded in the badlands, the cracks of machine guns and rifles cutting down the hoards of the undead monsters of each other in a standoffish attempt to preserve the failing dignity of one another. And true, in the rocks as one traveled the casings and shrapnel left behind from those times could still be found glistening among the rocks. These days are past, but hardly romanticized. The terror of survival too greatly clouding the memory to make them anything more than ghost stories told to children, or the reminiscing of the men who had lived through it by which to measure the size of each other's penises. In some ways, it was these rocky wastelands that gave unto the world the first blood of the first Lazarites, the men who rose from the grave of the aftermath to conduct and foster the revival of mankind from the brink of Hell. As Jesus once had with Lazarus, so will mankind. On a rocky precipice a young man sat. Behind him his horse stood tethered to scraggly and twisted Chokecherry tree. The bark bearing gashes of the skirmishes that were so widespread here before he was alive. The smooth bark blasted opened and healed over in its hard scar tissue. Snorting impatiently the mid-size almond mare piked through the bushes that grew about its base, pulling apart the branches. Less from hunger, and more out of boredom. With a distasteful knicker the horse kicked against the ground and rocked its head against the reigns, rattling the tree above her in her disinterest. “Well hold on Missy, it shan't take 'em long!” the young man sneered, turning back to the tethered mare, “I know as well as you that they're taking long. But we gotta keep a eye out. You hear?” The horse gave him a long blank glare, before shaking its hair. Her long black mane whipping about her neck. “Ya keep thinkin' that and we're just going to get more bored.” the man laughed, dipping down into the can of cold beans he held with a bent and twisted spoon. His chapped and thin lips smacked around the maroon brown slop as he slurped and chewed the preserved foodstuff. He turned back from his mount and looked out across the badlands. At his side lay the carbine rifle of his trade, and a long hatchet rested slung across his back. He remembered building the hatchet himself, carving the wood from a branch of oak under the oversight of his companions. Long as he was tall, the tool was made for use on horseback. The head had been forged and reforged nearly seven times, each time becoming more and more a head-taker's blade than it had before. It was broad, hardly narrow; its blade flattening and angling inwards down the handle, and not curving gently. The youth himself was not as reworked as the axe itself. With only seventeen winters under his belt he had yet to grow a bear of a full man. His chin and face were narrow, from whence hung a long crooked nose. The wind blew through long chestnut brown hair, and his muddy brown eyes looked outwards into the expansive wasteland. He knew not where his companions had gone, just that they asked him to stay behind. “Missy, how long you say it been since we came across anyone else?” the young man said, turning to his horse. The mare looked up at him, her ears turning atop her head. “God, had to have been seven months now.” he said, “Shit, had to be 'bout twenty miles south o' Dickinson. Or whatever those ruins are. Can't stop thinkin' about the one chick in that band there. “Now I don't know how much a horse can appreciate such fine details. But lord, did she have some nice tits. I wouldn't have mind rolling with her in the grass if we weren't on the move.” Missy gave a disinterested snort, and went back to stuffing her snout into the bushes, further pulling them apart. “I get hard thinking about it. I'm hoping we get somewhere and stay for a bit so I can work off some o' this here frustration.” Missy didn't reply. “I'm sure you feel the same way when your season comes and a fat hot stallion. I bet you ache. And I'm aching that way. But I doubt I'm going to be any sort of trouble more troublesome than you and your urges.” The man snorted laughter and he looked back out into the twisting badlands. Lifting another spoonful of dripping, sloppy beans up to his mouth. With a dive the cool slop of the canned food fell on his tongue and he went back to chewing. The wind gusted through his wild hair and he looked back up to the jagged stones of the wilderness. As the afternoon waned he spotted figures in the distance, riding on horseback through the narrow gullies. Their distant form shrouded in heavy black coats as they galloped through the wasteland. Five individuals in all. “Looks like they're back.” the man grunted, pushing himself up onto his feet. On the wind he heard the soft thudding of hooves across the rocks, the regular galloping of the horses. As they wound closer the details of the riders became clear. The wide-brim hats shielding their faces. The long poles strapped to their backs, loaded up with heads. The glint of the sun off of their gas masks. Ladened across the back of their mounts large bags lay behind their saddles. They made a regular pace, winding through the serpentine ravines till they came to the base of the rock the young man stood on. Finding purchase on gravel inclines they came up. A group of five, worn, weathered men. “Welcome back.” the young man hailed the riders, “Now do you mind explaining why I couldn't come along?” he demanded. “Ravines too narrow. Don't need anyone awkward following us through.” hissed a giant of a man on a jet black mare of his own. His long hide duster fell from his shoulders like a cape of some ancient royal. His gas mask made him alien as much as the heads of the infected speared on the post behind him made him a demon. “I don't need your shit Hoss, you can come straight.” the young man demanded, provoking laughter from the rest. “It doesn't matter anymore, Alabama. It's done.” crooned another, reaching up and pulling off his mask, “Shit's there where I thought it was. Even did some house cleaning.” “Well that's all good. But why can't I go?” Alabama demanded, looking at the demasked rider, “Or is this some sort of secret?” “We can't tell you. Ravines are too narrow. And your mouth is too fat.” the black rider, Hoss teased, biting Alabama deep as he circled around the side, “Besides, I'm sure you would have pissed your pants the moment they jumped up from above. Ain't that right, Elliot?” The demasked rider nodded. He wasn't nearly as large as Hoss was, even with his coat. But he was a man large in his wisdom. His graying salted beard and weary grandfatherly blue eyes gave him an air much like a sage from some fairly land, “Afraid he's right. You've dealt with the Come Back Kids when you could see them a mile off. But ain't no ground you'll falter and break us when we're in the Badlands. “You're still young to us, Alabama. Always will be for a long time. And you're still a homeless bastard child. You may think you're old enough, but for fucks sake you need a concept of safety. Which you still haven't got. You're going to have to give up and just recognize we don't want you stupid and to know when you're no longer not. “And you'll get to see the hidey-hole when you're full fledged.” “So if we're done complaining can we head back to Bismarck before these heads really start to rot?” Hoss protested impatiently, fighting to peel off his mask, “Fuckers are clean by now, but that doesn't mean they'll still not decay.” “You're right.” Elliot nodded, “Alabama, get your horse. We're going into town.” "And you better have not eaten all our beans." sneered Hoss, pulling the mask off of the great globe that was his head. He looked down on Alabama, his scarred skin sagging off of heavy cheekbones. "Don't worry." Alabama spat, walking to Missy, "We still got plenty."

-removed