When stock markets crash and money loses its value, what do you do?

Will you try to reestablish your life in the new reality you find yourself in?

Or will you just lie down and die, afraid of this foreign land?

How about when the dead begin coming back?

Cars seemed to be more like husks now. They’d been gutted here and there, their tires taken for rubber, their gas taken for larger, more menacing vehicles. Seats were taken for their cloth to keep warm during the cold nights. Their batteries and engines were stripped and stolen as well. It seemed all along the streets, that’s the way it was. A sad sight, lonely, in a way. People used to wander the streets in droves, heading here and there, to jobs, friends, family, or just passing time. Sometimes it was the tourists that clogged the streets, hailed cabs, crowded busses and the cherry-red carriages one could rent out for the evening if they had the money. The carriages were dull in their neglected paint-jobs. The bridles that were fitted on the horses that pulled each carriage was empty.

Each and every building stood high like tombstones in the skies, lining streets with dark windows watching like black gazes, like veils hiding monsters. Indeed, monsters hid within the buildings. Human monsters. Their hands gripped around shotgun barrels and their itchy fingers curled around triggers or holding onto the handle of pocket and kitchen knives as though they were lifelines. They sat on their hoards of food and water, stolen from stores all over the city, worried about moving lest they be stolen. Dumpsters in the alleys between especially large buildings had been repurposed to be storage units containing the dead. Mostly, people filled the dumpsters. They’d been beaten and shot to death as they ran from those that had considered themselves hunters. In their minds, fewer people meant fewer threats.

Milo had to do well to avoid the so-called bounty hunters that had taken over the city as they built up a large---but not too large---posse equipped with guns and the stolen food and water from their victims. Milo considered himself lucky to have avoided them for the fourth time within the past several days, yet now he had to sleep with one eye open. The burly leader of the group disliked when his bounties got away, and seemed to consider it a personal goal to track them down. Since Martial law was declared early on in fall of society, the military had managed to scatter themselves. Unfortunately they hadn’t made much in the way of a fight. They’d left behind quite a few weapons, including several of which Milo carried.

An assault rifle was carried in his right hand. Slung over his right shoulder was a sniper rifle, and over his left shoulder, a large green duffle bag swung, clattering sometimes from the various reloads, boxes of bullets, and MREs his father had always kept stocked in case of some terrible disaster. Unfortunately, a terrible disaster had, in fact, happened. His father and mother had been out at that time, he on a visit, when they were caught in the middle of a massive riot as the stock markets crashed and money suddenly lost all value. Milo had never followed them, but people began to lose their minds. His parents, along with many others, had been killed in the fray. He’d stared in disbelief at the news on that afternoon, but as the neighborhood began an uproar, he grabbed what he could carry and took off.

Now he passed an old Barnes and Noble and stared into the shattered picture window. Books were gone. Most of them, anyway. They’d been taken to fuel fires. But the bookshelves were still there, perfect, if a little broken and busted from rampages and fights from within. He stepped into the display, heavy boots crunching with glass underfoot, he fished a flashlight out of his bag and shined it around. The immediate vicinity showed no movement, but paranoia spurred him to explore the entire place. The storage rooms, electric and boiler room, and bathrooms were empty save the things others couldn’t get to before they took off into the unknown. Milo stared at the main room, standing among the bookshelves, and considered his options. It was dark here. The back rooms were cosy. He had an idea.

It took a while, but he finally dislodged the sink from the wall. Rather than being a large countertop, it was a thin basin that was easily cracked and pulled. However, it was also metal, and it was heavy. He hooked the strap of his bag around it and pulled it along with him, eventually making his way into the back room. He plugged the sink’s draining hole with a bit of fireproof jacket he’d found to be useless to him, and retrieved some of the books from the topmost shelves of the storage racks, setting them ablaze with one of the matches from his matchbook.

Milo Michaels had adapted rather well to the situation he was in. Quickly learning how to use a gun, knife, and how to deal with the death he saw every day now, he had metaphorically shed one skin and stepped into a completely new one. The sink would allow the fire to burn without spreading, and the vents in the top of the especially tall room would keep the place from filling with smoke, to where it would be at least bearable to sleep in.

Dried blood plastered the floor of what once use to be the clinic down the street. It was a smell unlike any other, one that most should pass on if given the opportunity. Walking on the twisted 'man made' floor was another struggle all together. The shoes that Tyler chose to wear were still that of someone in the world were money had a value. Where people where a lot less paranoid then now, and where the dead stayed dead. Converse shoes had no support, and being style based made them less practical then say a boot. Though it was more of an inner significance to Tyler, a remnant of the way things use to be. If it was not for the pain they caused with the walking that had to be done in a time like this, he would keep them. Though sadly like everything else in this world, change was imminent. They would be exchanged for boots, as his life before was exchanged for the one that he currently shambled through.

In a time were people appreciated the monetary value of things, he lived a peaceful life. Very content and more then necessarily private. He seldom left his house, and he worked nights. Such strenuous activity in the day was foreign at first, though your body adapts fast when it must. Still, now he was in a clinic searching for things of use. It was almost selfish to be here, more about his past with medicines then that of his present and survival. When the doors were torn off the hinges he should have left, but he went on. Then when the bodies and floor plastered in blood became the norm, he should have left. Yet there he was, in a building with minimal light, looking for his past. It almost came out of a book, the scene so typical in the post apocalyptic world.

Though now it was real, very different from watching things like this from the security of your home or a theater... in a comfy seat. Tyler shook his head gently, thoughts like that would just make survival harder. More unbearable. As it was, daily routine was a struggle. Murder, now commonplace, had become something necessary and whats worse? Some people truly seemed to enjoy it. Those 'bounty hunters' as they claim themselves, were nothing but self righteous killers. Tyler had no doubt they could settle down and start a place for people to gather and work together. They did not. Not because it was difficult, because going around and killing each other was a thrill to those monsters. They were disgusting.

Still that was a matter for someone else, someone who had lots of friends. Tyler was alone in the clinic and pulling his feet off the stick, gory surface with each step. It was like a bomb of blood went off in this place, it was horrid. Sliding his hands on the counter and eventually behind it, he searched desperately for a key. When one was not found it was obvious as to why. Upon a look at the surrounding area everything was smashed open. Most things had already been taken as per usual, though some things remained behind. Most likely the fell in the hurry to leave before someone else caught you, and now they were gripped to the floor with dried blood.

Pulling various medications and boxes of vitamins off of the ground he placed them carefully in a garbage bag he had found earlier. He had not had much luck in securing things that other survivors had. No flash light, or backpack. Most things had already been gone in the smaller venues and going into a large store, seemed like asking for an ambush. Now this garbage bag, about a quarter full of various medications and pills was all he had. It was everything he had to his name. It was one of the stranger things to this world really. That what once you could never hold, being everything to your name, now fit easily into a bag for what use to hold your waste. Oh, how the mighty human race had fallen.

Tying off the end of the bag, Tyler made a mad dash for the exit. He had come in and found what he sought and now it was time to get the hell out. People died when they got too comfortable, when they tried to set up a camp without the numbers to defend from the once fallen, and the bounty hunters. Tyler kept on the move. He had actually begun to convince himself that it was the reason he had always carried so little. Speed, it was everything in a world like this.

Still, running on a floor made that consisted of the life that once flowed in another veins was sick. He had to exert more then usual to run on a floor such as this but it was a desperate attempt at some fresh air. Sure he could smash some windows but what was the point? Being a little more comfortable for a little while and making noise? That never would be the right thing to do. Not for years to come. Comfort was now a word used sparingly, less sincerely. Though now what people had before was more appreciated. That is, if you had the time to think about your past and things like that.

Day by day, nothing seemed to improve. Though little victory's here and there were immensely helpful in keeping one optimistic. Mind you, not that optimistic. Still, just the feeling of fresh air as Tyler left the horrendous clinic was wonderful. For a second it seemed as if he was back in the past where life was easy. Though it quickly faded. The smell of things being burnt, or previously burnt clung to the air. The smell of the dead, that too was an aroma that was seemingly inescapable. The world was tainted with smells of displeasure.

That brief moment of bliss, that second of the past then became a curse. It was the thought of things and how they once were that more deadly then anything else. For upon looking around you knew that those things that were not too long ago. Were almost an eternity away. Untying the garbage carefully, Tyler spilled its contents on the floor. Quickly he grabbed the things that had use, which was only a handful of things, and crammed them into any pocket he had on his clothes. Furthermore he crammed the garbage bag into his jean pockets and was on his way. He left the other things of very little, to no use, on the floor. It may slow down others around him. For now he made off for some buildings in the distance. Sure he could have read a sign, learned of his location. But really, what was the point.

It took some time to bust down some of the old bookshelves. Luckily the store didn’t generally appreciate its newer concepts, and that included its old oak bookshelves. They hadn’t been stained, and the only things holding them together was a combination of glue and metal screws. Milo cracked the boards over some very sturdy piping to break them down well enough to fit into the sink basin, and as he started to dig for a matchbook, a thought came to him.

He took a combination of books and bookshelves out onto the street. The sun was starting to go down, and people didn’t generally move at night unless they’d been lucky enough to find a mobile weapons deposit that included night-vision goggles. He had, and they were buried beneath the items he’d been terribly lucky to find. Unfortunately, Milo didn’t have all luck. He’d been stabbed a couple times a few days after things had started going to Hell, and was lucky enough to get into a medical tent set up by a small military group. Both wounds weren’t quite healed, and they gave him a great amount of pain. As he worked, he put a hand to the right side of his abdomen.

Later on, about a week after he left his little town, he’d been cracked on the head and had nearly everything stolen from him, save his bag and the MREs in the several hidden compartments. Even now it hurt to lift terribly heavy things, sending a shock of pain through the back of his head. Here and there he’d narrowly avoided being shot, which left stinging grazes along his bare arms. But as time passed, Milo had fit into his new skin perfectly. He found what he needed, kept what he found, and protected his assets. As he dragged an armful of books and wood into the street, onto the other sidewalk just inside the alley, he sighed and pulled his straw-yellow hair back. Arranging everything in a previously-overturned metal trashcan, Milo struck a match from his pocket and tossed it in.

As the flame began working its way upward, he found a few crates and a box sturdy enough to be sat on. Inside the crates a few empty glass and plastic bottles rattled, and he set them in various areas close to the new fire. It’d flare up quickly, but it had to appear as though it was still being used. He filled a few discarded plastic bags with various items of different weights and sizes and put a couple close to the makeshift seats. It would appear a couple foolish travelers had wandered off. Easy prey for the bounty hunters that seemed to keep appearing wherever Milo was. He knew their faces well. An older man, bearded, something Milo could never seem to accomplish. Dark hair and dark eyes, if a little baggy. A teenager, full of himself, with a smug little grin on his face when he knew he had someone running. A woman that didn’t look terribly healthy, perhaps even a little dirty, wearing all black with rarely a smile on her face, and a nest of frizzy black hair. Twins, two men, brown hair matching in style and green eyes full of deception. They were the guns of the group. The girl was very skilled with a knife so Milo came to discover. The oldest of the group seemed best suited for leading and keeping his people in line, and the teenager appeared to be the tracker and planner.

As the fire started crackling audibly, Milo turned and hurried back to his shelter in the bookstore. No one was near quite yet, and one was never able to find a working car that traveled for more than a few miles without its siphoned tank running dry on fuel. He sat in front of his own, new fire, and searched in his bag once again. On the top of the packages of MREs, he found one he hadn’t tried yet. Though some put him off, he’d take anything if it didn’t spoil over time. The types that made him wonder were the smoked salmon ones. It was a mystery to him how they never went bad, and how all one needed to do was heat it, perhaps, over a fire, and it’d be very good. Or, so said his father. But for once the old man had been right.

After his quick dinner, Milo stowed the pouch away in a corner where it probably wouldn’t be discovered for someone to track him down, and knelt in front of the fire. Beside his bag, his sniper rifle sat, gleaming black in the orange glow. It was a professional, for that he had to give his thanks to the military’s mobile armories. He checked the safety, made sure it was off, and checked once more to make sure he had a full magazine of rounds. It was just as he’d hoped. No missed shots for him this time.

He took a black tie from around his right wrist and tied his hair up and generally out of his eyes. He couldn’t do much about his bangs, they were shorter than the rest of his hair, but it didn’t take away from his ability. Taking the gun and a small package from his bag, he left the room, making sure to close the door behind him.

It was dark. The sun hadn’t wasted a moment in heading down. Perhaps it didn’t want to see what humanity had done to such a once-beautiful planet. He gingerly moved forward and around the obstacles in his way, getting to the corner of the room. As he did so, he tore open the smaller package with his teeth. It fluttered open and gleamed silver on one side, black on the other. A thermal blanket. He found them very useful on particularly cold nights. Now that he was wide awake, Milo would find it not only warm, but a good disguise. He climbed onto the display, which was more than enough to fit him when he lied down facing out, and covered himself and most of the gun, save the muzzle, which was propped on a series of hard-back books that didn’t seem to be of much use to those that had gone by before him.

That teenage tracker would be leading his group right into an ambush, for once, not their own. Perhaps Milo would save the lives of others when he did away with these hunters.

Tyler almost dragged his feet as he walked along in the world that was now becoming dark. It was like the sun was running away, so eager to slip into a sleep of its own. Sadly the world would still be a mess when it rose again, and let upon this side of the planet its beams of light that would highlight the evil that resided in everything. Now the dragging feet began to become obvious, and after just a few steps Tyler made a conscious effort to avoid dragging them. Really pushing himself to keep moving - it had been some time since he had really rested. Even then, resting well was a foreign concept.

Still, in the now dark area around him Tyler spotted a flicker of light in the distance. Though, seeing as it was flickering, it was most definitely fire. It also seemed to be man made - just judging from its position. Though he knew better, there was not much else to do but to approach or run. Other survivors could be a dead end, but running off into the dark could be running into the dead. It was sad, but Tyler had no clue as to which was worse.

Digging a coin out of his pocket, it was the only thing money related to his name. Even then, it was just a quarter. One that Tyler would use now and then when he felt like both situations would have a similar outcome. Flipping this dirty quarter into the air it was unspoken, but the choices were called. Head would always represent moving forwards, and tails would always be going back. It seemed too much of a good reasoning to abandon it now. Plus, with no information to sway either option - they both held similar merit.

As the head flipped in the air, Tyler's tired eyes watched with very little emotion. He knew both choices were equally dangerous and wished that he could just find a place to rest sooner then later. Though the decision would be made now. Swiping the coin out of the air in his hand, and placing it on the back of the other - it was revealed as heads. With a small sigh he stumbled onwards towards the fire, though soon enough his survival instincts came into play.

Running, walking... just moving tot he fire was asking for trouble. And so Tyler made himself harder to see then any other moving target. Pushing himself up against the wall of some store of which the sign was obscured he kept his body flat and out of the view of anyone not actively seeking a human target. Approaching the fire but a few feet more, he was cautious not to be in the range of any of the stores openings. If people were in them, they would have to come looking for him if they wanted a kill. Though spooking them or having them at least give them selves away seemed a good idea.

Grabbing a can of tin, or some sort of flimsy metal, Tyler tossed it into the open. It bounced a few times before Tyler realized he clearly was not thinking straight. If the dead don't come up and eat him, and no one shoots him, he will live to look back on that moment and doubt his intentions to even live anymore. Still, it had be done. So now he had no other choice but to lay flat on the ground in some rubble, and wait. It was the most painful thing to do, waiting. But now his hand had been forced, and it was himself he had to blame.

Milo had become restless about the time something moved. He turned his gun and glared through the scope. A can rattled. Nothing more. Possibly a reanimated corpse. Sometimes they were rather clumsy, but otherwise, easily outrun. Rotting flesh in late spring tended to be eaten away easily, and limbs didn’t quite stay where they were supposed to. But there was nothing else. Until he heard something else. Footsteps. That was strange. More than one pair of feet. Perhaps it was the group. But it was odd of them to move around without their bikes. They were custom, chrome and black metals one couldn’t really find anymore. That was the only way some people knew who they were, save their black clothing. Unless one was unfortunate enough to be confronted with them more than a few times and get away generally alive.

He took his eye off the scope and looked down the right way. Indeed, they were there. The young guns, the blade-wielding woman, the old man, the small tracker. They seemed to be arguing. Milo couldn’t quite understand what they were saying from his hidden place in the bookstore, but put his eye back on the scope’s lense and watched them approach. He could easily just let them be taken over by the dead, if they happened to wake at the right moment. But he couldn’t take any chances on those unreliable things. Besides, Milo’s knife wound was stinging at the sight of the woman. She’d not be the first to go, but she’d be the third. Best to take out the siblings, the weapon masters, the only ones that could shoot in a straight line, obviously. They were, anyway, the only ones to hold a gun for the most part.

As they approached the fire and searched around the decoy bags, Milo trained his crosshairs on the back of one of the gunned men. He’d shoot the gun and the man both. Hopefully his high-powered bullet would make it through both. He put his finger on the trigger, and pulled.

The shot was massive. It hit with a metallic clang and a pained howl echoed, but Milo turned right to the second one and shot. The bullet hit him square in the head, sending him back. The tracker, leader, and blade seemed rather paralyzed. The gunshots were loud, nearby, but echoed in the empty streets. They couldn’t place the location, so they couldn’t hide unless they knew where, at least, to focus their attention. Milo took out the blade next. Finally, that hand was useless, and her switchblade fell to the ground. Milo shot the smallest, the tracker, in the knee as he tried to run to find a place to hide, sending him down and rolling a few feet, and finally put a bullet in his back.

He leapt out from his hiding place and took up a metal pipe nearby. Stalking out from the shadows of the bookstore display window, he moved swiftly to the oldest man, the leader, with a determined glare in his eye. The older man’s expression was that of slight shock. “You!”

“YOU!” Milo raised the pipe and bashed the leader of the group in the head, hearing a pleasing, resounding crack as his skull caved in. However, Milo took out his anger a few more times, beating the fallen leader like a pinata. “Ha!” Milo tossed the pipe down and pointed. “Now who’s dead, eh!?” He yelled. “You! You’re dead! Bastards!” He backed away and sat in the middle of the road with a sigh, covering his face with his hands. At least a few were gone, anyway.