Steven H. Tomathan:
"History is a stubborn thing. It never quite stays buried, no matter how deep you dig the graves."
In 2060, the world paid the final price for its pride. After decades of conflict, mistrust, and posturing, China, Russia, and the United States turned diplomacy into dust. The skies lit up with fire. Cities vanished in seconds. And when America dropped TANK-TANK—a weapon of such unspeakable devastation it was never meant to be used—it wasn't just the enemy that burned. The world burned with them.
What followed wasn't peace. It wasn't victory. It was silence. Silence and ash.
But even in the worst of it, some remembered what it meant to stand for something. The GRIFFITH was born from the ruins—The Global Reconstruction Initiative For Frontier, Independence, Truth, Tradition, and Honor. Soldiers, scavengers, scholars... ordinary people who chose to protect rather than plunder.
They fight off raiders. They hunt the beasts twisted by poison and radiation. They build what little order is left in this broken land. To some, they're a lifeline. To others, just another kind of control.
But whatever you call them, one thing is certain: without the GRIFFITH, the wasteland would eat itself alive.
This is the world we have now. Not the one we wanted. But the only one we've got.
The sound of a rusted latch grinding loose. The door creaks open. Dust spills in from the outside world.
A young man steps out into the light—if you can call it that. The sky's a permanent smoggy gray, the sun a smudged coin behind nuclear clouds.
Hawk wears a weathered, dark green hooded jacket, riddled with pockets and makeshift stitches. A thick cross-strap holds a pouch and knife at his chest. His pants are combat-grade, worn and patched with duct tape and old canvas. Gloves fingerless and frayed. A black gas mask with silver breathing valves hides his face—scratched but solid.
He takes a slow breath.
(voice muffled through the mask)
"So… this is New York, huh? What a waste."
(he chuckles)
"Read about it. Skyscrapers, pizza, and 9/11. Now it's just mossy cars and busted dreams."
He whistles low, stepping over a cracked curb. Grass sprouts between the sidewalk. Rusted cars are half-swallowed by vines. A billboard reads "FREEDOM FOREVER" but it's burned at the edges.
Suddenly, a low growl echoes.
Hawk stops.
Inside a nearby car, something moves. Strapped into the passenger seat, a creature twitches. Skin like cracked leather, tight and shiny. Limbs thin, but wrong—like they bent the rules of anatomy. Its head snaps toward Hawk. Eyes—bright, beady red.
"Ugh. What the hell are you?"
It snarls and jerks forward, stuck fast in the seatbelt.
(smirking under his mask)
"Seatbelts save lives, huh? Who knew."
The creature writhes, teeth gnashing. It snaps the mirror off with one flail.
"Alright, I'll call you… Crowl. Yeah. Kinda fits. And if there's more of you—I'll call 'em Crowls too. That work for you?"
The creature hisses violently.
"Right, I knew you'd agree. Democratic process and all."
His eyes catch something gleaming in the back seat: a gun, leaning against a cracked toolbox. He opens the car door slowly, keeps one eye on the Crowl.
The gun was Thick frame, blocky and industrial. Its metal's been painted matte black but scraped down to the steel. It's got a rotating cylinder, but the barrel looks heavy enough to punch a hole through a wall. There's a side lever, oil-stained, and tubes running along the top like it's half-machine, half-smokestack. The grip's wrapped in cracked leather, darkened from blood or sweat—or both.
He grabs it, gives it a once-over. Smirks.
"Look at you. Bet you kick harder than a mule on meth."
He points it at the Crowl. Pulls the trigger.
Click. Nothing.
"Damn. Your lucky day, ugly."
He pats the roof of the car twice, casual, like saying goodbye to a pet.
"Keep the seatbelt. I'm takin' the hardware."
He throws the gun over his shoulder and strolls off, humming something broken and out of tune.
Broken storefronts. Burned signs. Nature and decay tangled like lovers in the ruins. Hawk keeps walking, boots crunching over shattered glass and wet leaves.
The streets whisper with the wind—but there's something under it. A soft, wet clicking. The sound of teeth. Nails. Breathing.
He freezes.
Four of them.
Crowls.
They crawl out from the alley shadows like rats drawn to heat. Long limbs. Pale, veiny skin pulled tight over bones. Heads twitching in jerky spasms, eyes glowing that same pissed-off red. Mouths open—black, lidless maws leaking strings of acidic drool.
He exhales sharply.
"Ah, great. More Crowls. Just what I needed."
He lifts the gun from his shoulder—then lowers it with a deadpan sigh.
"No ammo. Of course."
The creatures begin to stalk toward him in staggered formation, twitchy and fast, like broken dogs learning how to run again.
He drops the useless gun with a clunk, eyes darting. His gaze lands on a chunk of concrete—jagged, heavy.
He grabs it. It's cold. Wet. Perfect.
He raises it over his head, face hard behind the mask.
"Alright! Come at me, you ugly sons of bitches!"
The first Crowl lunges, limbs spidering forward with a feral screech. Hawk swings wide and slams the rock into its skull with a sickening CRACK.
Bone splits. Blood sprays. A thick, foul-smelling splash explodes across Hawk's forehead.
It burns.
"AHHHHHH—FUCK!"
He stumbles back, clutching his head. The mask saved some of his face, but his forehead sizzles where the Crowl's blood landed—like battery acid and regret.
He trips over a cracked curb and hits the ground hard.
Still writhing, he groans in pain.
"What the fuck was that?! Acid blood? Really?! That's just—fucking lazy evolution!"
The other Crowls close in—snarling, heads twitching like strobe lights.
"Alright, alright! I get it! No need to fucking rush me!"
He scrambles to his feet, half-blind, still wincing. The rock's still in his hand. He hauls back and hurls it at the second Crowl. It smacks into its shoulder, splitting skin and cracking bone—but not enough.
It screams. The others join in.
"For fuck's sake!"
He backs up fast—stumbling, breathing hard, blood on his face.
"Alright. Plan B."
The Crowls close in, teeth gnashing, eyes glowing like murder in a meat locker.
"Nope. Nope-nope-nope."
Hawk turns and books it.
He dives past the lead Crowl, snatches up his dropped gun mid-slide, and bolts down the cracked avenue.
"Hell no! I ain't fightin' y'all! I just got outside today!"
Behind him—skittering claws.
But ahead—something worse.
The pavement erupts in a burst of concrete and screaming dirt as a massive mutated mole rat crashes through the ground like a wrecking ball made of meat and rage. Its skin is wrinkled and hairless, like a burn victim dipped in sewage. Massive front teeth click wetly as it spots him.
Hawk nearly trips over his own feet.
"WHAT THE FUCK?!"
The thing charges.
Hawk runs faster—wheezing, panicked, one hand gripping his gut.
"This is bullshit! I didn't sign up for Ratzilla!"
He leaps onto the front of a rusted-out city bus, climbing up the smashed windshield as the mole rat slams into the metal, shaking the whole vehicle.
The monster squeals and starts clawing at the side, trying to climb up.
Hawk scrambles, grabs a hanging vine from the side of an old office building nearby. He doesn't hesitate—he just jumps.
The vine snaps, but not all the way—enough to swing him to a ledge. He pulls himself up, panting, blood still sizzling on his face from earlier.
He climbs over broken concrete, hauls himself onto an abandoned elevated train track.
Panting. Sweating. His knees wobble. He's alive.
He laughs once. Bitter. Exhausted.
"Made it. Fuckin' made it."
But then—shouting.
Metal clinks. Footsteps echo.
He turns around, and there they are.
Raiders.
Five of them—scarred, armored in scrap metal and bones, guns drawn, eyes wild. One's got a face painted like a clown. Another's dragging a spiked bat across the gravel.
One of them grins.
"Well, well… look what the wind coughed up."
Hawk straightens slowly, still gripping the empty gun.
He sighs. Deeply.
"Man… I hate this goddamn city."