People liked to say the government fucked us. That all they had to do was create peace, to find a way to diplomatically and fairly divide the resources of our dying planet.

But the truth, as far as I’m concerned, is that humans fucked themselves. Fucked themselves as well as an adolescent boy discovering the joys of masturbation. Sure, maybe we didn’t need to start lobbing intercontinental ballistic missiles. But we just accelerated the process.

Earth had had enough of our shit.

The streets were deserted.

I walked them, padding across concrete sidewalks that were gradually being reclaimed by an Earth that could finally breathe. Grass sprouted between the bricks, vines crawled along the off-white walls of buildings and small animals rustled in the parks that had exploded free beyond their tiny, ornate fences.

Buenos Aires, one tipped-over dumpster read. Ciudad Verde. I didn’t even need to try anymore to translate the Spanish. Green City.

I snorted softly, like I did every time. “I guess it’s green now,” I muttered aloud, my voice low and — if I do say so myself — ruggedly masculine. I did that now. Talked to myself. Almost constantly. The last time I’d had a conversation was almost a year ago. Almost exactly a year since I’d seen another human face.

360 days, I thought, and then scowled. I wasn’t going to think about that. I couldn’t think about that. Not with the guilt that ripped through my gut every time I gave in to the temptation. I couldn’t afford to be distracted.

Green city or no, this place was deadly.

I gripped the metal shaft of my spear tighter in my hand as I reminded myself of the fact. It wasn’t much, just a six-foot length of steel piping. But the K-bar knives riveted to each end were heavy-duty and heavy-deadly.

I walked with a slow, careful gate, keeping my eyes and ears wide open. I was hunting. Grinding, I reminded myself, yet again. Gotta stay in the mindset.

Parked cars lined the roads — shattered windows, chipped paint and tires deflated after years of disuse. Most had been stripped: hoods torn open, engines removed, any usable electronics scavenged, back before things had gotten really bad.

Now, there wasn’t anyone to scavenge them but me.

Me, and the enemy. And the enemy didn’t care about having a radio to blast the latest hip-hop tunes deep into the night to distract from the gentle rumble of chaos all around. They were the chaos. In fact, I had a sneaking suspicion that they went after the hip-hop blasters first.

I couldn’t say I was happy about it. But god was I glad to get a bit of sleep without having to listen to the damned crooning of this year’s chart-topping boyband.

Scratch that.

I bet they went after the boybands first.

Mass media entertainment had been one of the first things to go. Turns out that in the middle of the apocalypse things like that aren’t as important as everyone used to believe. Art, though, was still here. If you knew where to look. You can’t kill off art as easily as you can a tousle-haired British teenager.

I paused, as usual, in front of my mural. I couldn’t say it was my favorite. But it was definitely the most important. It had been his favorite, at least.

The mural was nothing particularly special. Just an advertisement really: a spray-painted piece of street art depicting a heavily-muscled videogame character in fantasy-style plate armor. He knelt behind a massive shield that was peppered with black-shafted arrows, one hand clutching a huge longsword out to one side. Behind him, hands raised to the sky, a woman with delicate features, wind-whipped black hair and long, pointed ears summoned fire and lightning around her fingers.

It jumped out at you, even faded with time. And across the top, in sweeping block letters, the words I’d read a thousand times.

AvatR: La Nueva Frontera.

I breathed out slowly. AvatR: The New Frontier. Then, I shook my head and focused, rolling my shoulders and pushing the game from my mind.

Maybe soon, I thought. But I’m not that desperate… Yet.

I found them in the plaza before the Casa Rosada — the “Pink House” where the Argentine president had once gone about his daily business. Trying to save his people, if we were being generous with our speculations. Or, more likely, trying to save himself. I gave the building a dirty look as I bent my knees and my fingers flexed on the spear. I didn’t trust politicians. Or anyone, for that matter. Cynicism like that tends to develop when chaos hits. First, you learn that everyone is out for themselves, just trying to find their next meal. Then, after the change, you learn that you are the next meal.

I wasn’t a native of the country, so I had no reason in particular to be upset with the ex-president, but what did that matter? All the natives were gone. Or had gone feral.

After my symbolic gesture of disgust, I kept my dark eyes fixated on the figures in the center of the space. Stealth Activated, I thought. I kept low, shuffling quietly through the overgrown bushes that would have climbed to the height of my chest if I stood, making sure my spear never got tangled in the branches.

I crouched, halfway behind a gnarled tree. The bark was rough against my shoulder through the flimsy fabric of my old, well-worn tee. Sometimes, I wondered why I even bothered wearing a shirt in the summer. It wasn’t like I had any modesty to hide, or anyone to hide it from.

But I always came back to the same conclusion. Clothes marked me, for better or worse, as human.

Take these bastards, for instance.

The once-scenic plaza before the presidential palace was nearly deserted. Stone benches were scattered around the perimeter and several heavy stone plinths were topped with statues of important historic figures and a bare flagpole that had once supported the country’s flag.

Nearly, but not quite deserted.

There were four of them, kneeling and squatting around the carcass of what looked to be a large, mangy dog. One of them still had the remnants of clothing, but the others were naked, mottled skin the color of vomit and just as disgusting. Their spines were bumpy with protruding spikes, their hands abnormally long with bone-tipped claws and their jaws wide and toothy as they ripped at the animal with finger and fang.

Once, I probably would have had pity on the poor mutt. Now, I was grateful for the distraction. Instinctively, I summed them up in my head. 50 xp times 4. 200.

More of them than I usually tackled at once. And maybe I should have stayed away. Usually I was like a lone wolf, preying on those animals that got separated from the herd. Only, unlike a wolf, I was preying on other predators.

But today was different. Special, you might say. I was so close.

I can do this, I told myself, ignoring the part of me that wanted to point out I’d never gone up against more than two at one time. I have to do this. I’m so close. I’ve been working for so long. I ignored the other part of me that asked if I had a death wish. Mostly because I didn’t know the answer.

As far as I was concerned, it was all part of the game. The game I played to prepare. The game I played to stay alive. The game I played because of my past. The game I played to give me a future.

One of the creatures raised its head, dark blood dripping down its sinewy throat and onto its chest. It half-turned, lifting its skeletal face skyward. I’d hunted these things long enough to know what that meant. It was scenting something.

I froze instinctively, knowing as I did that holding still would do absolutely nothing to hinder my natural body odor. But I was downwind, the air currents carrying the delightful scent of unbathed flesh and freshly-slaughtered meat to my nose, and the creature lowered its head once again.

I was running out of time. And I didn’t want to be out here longer than necessary. Come on, Colin, I ordered. Just farm your daily experience and get back home. You have shit to do.

I didn’t think about the other part. That if all went according to plan, this would be the last hunt. And then, I would have to make the choice I’d been putting off for almost a year. I couldn’t think that far ahead.

I glanced around one final time, flicking my head rapidly to check if anything was creeping up behind me. Most mutants were stupid, but they could be tricky. I felt a soft breeze touch my face, brushing back the long strands of hair that had escaped my bun.

There was nothing behind me.

I realized what the breeze meant a second too late. Crap.

I heard a low, angry growl. I was no longer downwind.

When I looked back, four mutants were racing toward me, screeching and slobbering with dog-meat dangling from their teeth. I had time for one, split-second, tactical thought.

Tricked, I realized. By myself.

But then I stood, spear clenched in white-knuckled hands, and screamed as I charged.

* * *

The mutants were bunched together in a pack, launching themselves forward with an overabundance of ferocity and an underabundance of strategy.

I honestly wasn’t much better.

My hands slipped down the pole as I swung it baseball-style, extending my reach in a five-foot arc of gleaming blade before clamping down my grip. Carbon steel K-bar met leathery skin and desiccated throat. The lead mutant went down face first, gurgling and clawing wildly as black blood spewed from its ruined neck.

I roared, channeling my fear into electric adrenaline that coursed through my veins like Red Bull on steroids. I finished the swing as the other three creatures split apart and tried to surround me, jabbing forward and once again allowing the pipe to slide through my hands.

My target tried to dodge, jinking to one side, but it wasn’t fast enough, the knife punching through its shoulder and out the back in a spray of blood and bone bits. I clamped down on my instinctive urge to retch — still working on that, even after all this time — and charged forward, lifting the pole off the ground. The bleeding mutant flailed and snarled, spewing spittle and blood.

The key was distance. I had to stay out of range of those goddam claws if I wanted to keep wearing shirts and calling myself human.

Despite their size, mutants are light, and I vaulted off a stone bench as the other two creatures came in on both sides, their friend swaying on the end of my spear like the scariest piñata you’ve ever seen: 6-year-old Mexican birthday party meets Halloween horror flick in a post-apocalyptic crossover episode.

I landed and spun, whipping the pole around with a grunt and flinging my bizarre party favor back in the faces of its comrades. With typical mutant durability, it flipped several times across the smooth cobblestones, slammed into the bench and then scrambled for its feet with one arm hanging limp.

It snarled and shook its head, then turned my way with vindictive eyes.

My feet were under me, my foes were before me, and all I heard was Kyle’s voice: Style points, dude!

Like I said, my weapon of choice was just six feet of metal piping attached to two razor-sharp knives. But boy howdy could that thing kill.

I was like Darth fucking Maul, spinning the double-ended spear easily in my hands with the ease of long practice. The first creature probably didn’t know what hit it as I battered forward, lashing out with my weapon like it was a bladed quarterstaff and opening a jagged wound across its face. I shattered its jaw, teeth clattering across the stone, and it fell back with a screaming, groaning, what-the-fuck-was-that? kind of sound.

The other tried to bull rush me, blood-speckled arms extended wide for the world’s most disgusting bear hug, but evidently forgot that my lightsaber — I mean, spear — was a business on top, business on the bottom kind of deal. With a twist of my wrists and a grunt, I flipped up the bottom blade and let the mutant impale itself through the chest.

Good news: the military-grade knife bunched through the thing’s chest, through some vital bits, and stuck in its spine, leaving it thoroughly dead.

Bad news: I now had a thoroughly dead mutant stuck to one end of my main weapon.

I shook the pole as the remaining two creatures snarled and regrouped a dozen feet away, one crawling on three limbs and the other spitting blood and swiping at its sliced-open face with hands built for dismemberment. The corpse didn’t budge, just flopped limply, the K-bar evidently well-wedged in its vertebrae.

Black, sludgy ichor now mingled with the crimson mutt-blood that covered the creatures’ faces, lipless mouths and skeletal chests. Dark, slitted, pupil-less eyes watched me from beneath the folds of skin that made up their brow ridges. Watched me with an intelligence that was somewhere between mine and that of the street dog they’d been chowing down on before I was obliging enough to show up as course number two.

Okay, maybe my intelligence wasn’t that far above theirs after all. If it was, I would have a plan by now. But Course No. 2 had less than seconds to act, and he couldn’t spend it questioning his decisions. I could berate myself in the future, if I was lucky enough to get one.

I swallowed, gritted my teeth, and dropped the steel pole with a clang.

In the survival business we have a name for this kind of situation: Not Good.

The impaled mutant toppled as my hand fell to my side and I ripped free the heavy-bladed machete from its sheath. I hadn’t even thought about the weapon when I belted it on this morning. Lucky me, I was a creature of habit. Unlucky me, I hadn’t practiced with the short, chopping weapon in months.

My jaw tensed as I floated on the balls of my feet and my nostrils flared with heavy, adrenaline-fueled breaths. I waited a second longer and then, between one moment and the next, sensed it was time.

“Aaaah!” I screamed, and flung myself forward.

The things that used to be human froze for a split second, stunned by my ferocity — or my stupidity — or my extremely loud war cry. Then, their hind legs flexed and they were bounding toward me with terrifying speed.

My arm pumped wildly, the blade a blur as I chopped and slashed and hacked the air, hoping against hope that I would connect with something important.

Define important.

The first creature bounded into reach, blood trailing from its broken jaw. Maybe the blood flying across its face obscured its vision enough to miss the short blade in my fist. More likely it didn’t particularly care. Either way, my machete lopped off several reaching fingers with one swipe and then its lean arm at the elbow on the next swing. Blood sprayed over me as the thing howled and slammed into me chest first, my free hand shooting out to grasp its remaining wrist and my other fist punching up under its chin to keep it from biting my face off.

We fell in a tangle of foul blood, rage and flailing limbs, and I smashed down hard on my back, feeling the wind blow out of my lungs like I’d gotten stomped by a rhino. But some part of my training kicked in and my feet kicked out, up, shoving the thing through the air and using its momentum to propel it beyond my prone body.

My eyes were wide, my vision strangely clear, the second mutant following up the first so fast that my only chance was to roll sideways as swiping claws scythed past my face. I kicked blindly, connected with something, felt it crunch under my boot and heard a scream of pain.

Or maybe that was me screaming.

Thud.

I’d rolled into a huge stone plinth, face first, my vision flashing and my head snapping back. I realized I hadn’t been the one screaming before, because now I did. But I had no time for pain, no time for anything but shoving myself up with one hand and realizing I somehow still had a grip on my machete.

I whipped around, my blade leading the way, and connected with the wounded creature as it came at me, dragging one arm and one leg behind. If I hadn’t been lucky enough to blow out its knee, it would have been on me and over.

As it was, it was moving at the perfect speed to meet my short, choppy sword.

It was leading with its face, teeth bared to rip out my throat, so the face was what I caught with my wild slice, deflecting the creature off its trajectory as the machete caved in its skull. I felt a tug in my gut like a punch and I stumbled sideways, the machete’s grip tearing free of my hand as the creature plowed into the plinth hard enough to crack its neck with a gruesome snap.

But it was already dead.

I did vomit, then, uncontrollably, pain coursing through me and my hands clutching desperately at my heaving stomach. The fact that there was one more of them was mildly troublesome, but I realized that I didn’t stand a chance now.

When I wasn’t dead in a matter of seconds, I glanced around. The final mutant was flopping on the pavement, hissing and spitting, a black pool of blood spreading out beneath its face and another beneath the stub of an arm it kept stupidly trying to use to push itself up.

I moved numbly, hardly thinking, stumbling to my spear. It was sticking up in the air at an odd angle, still swaying. Planting my heel in the dead mutant’s chest, I ripped the pole free, spraying gore across my boot and up to my knee. Then, I swallowed back another heave of my stomach and padded across the cobblestone plaza.

The creature saw me coming and knew that I was its end. Had to give it credit, it tried to run. It managed to shamble to its feet and backpedal away, slashing its remaining claws menacingly.

Until it tripped.

Over the dead dog.

I sprang forward and impaled it up through the rib cage as its arms — arm and a half? — flew wide, holding the spear hard as the mutant jerked, hissed, bled and died.

I guess Fido got his, in the end.

I wrestled my spear free and looked around.

I couldn’t stay here. This fight had been loud and bloody, and there was no way other mutants hadn’t caught wind. Or other things, lurking in the mid-morning city.

Did I forget to mention that there were worse things than the subhuman creatures that had devolved from the human populous? Things that shouldn’t exist. Things that were big and fast and mean and ugly and terrifying. Things that had come out of the devastated, fallout jungles with an attitude.

Yeah. Nuclear warfare for the win.

I heard that some scientists tried to trap and experiment on a couple of the creatures. On some of the mutants, too. Cause that always ended well in the movies. I suppose some people genuinely wondered where they came from.

Maybe it was true, though. I wouldn’t know. I just wondered how to kill them.

And speaking of killing…

200 xp, I thought wearily, flexing my hand on the spear. Just enough.

I imagined a little bell ringing and a notification popping up on a screen in front of my eyeballs.

Colin Callum. Level 10 Survivor.

That’s me.