The Distressed.

The pages of history paint a sobering picture of humanity's destructive nature. We're like a plague upon the earth, fueled by greed and a thirst for glory that blinds us to the toll on nature. While we may put on a facade of caring, our leaders often run the world into the ground. Hell itself was unleashed through our insatiable use of chemicals and germs, birthing what's been dubbed the worst disaster in the annals of time. This calamity reshaped everything we knew: the very air we breathe, the land beneath our feet, and life itself. It morphed us all into life forms. The earth, once teeming with life, transformed into a barren, desolate realm, bearing scars etched by our arrogance and selfishness. Humanity unleashed chemical weaponry that left no visible marks on the land but managed to infect the very source of life. The ecosystem lay in ruins, and each breath became a gamble between survival and death. The toxic plague that spread across the globe knew no boundaries, sparing none in its path. The earth itself became a wasteland, where toxic soil and lethal plants took root. Once-vibrant greenery fell victim to the aftermath of war's chemicals, rendering the soil inhospitable to all but a handful of crops: rice, potatoes, barley. However, they proved woefully insufficient to nourish the starving masses. Some plants adapted in a sinister twist, shifting from prey to predator. They cunningly lured, ensnared, and consumed whatever dared approach: from the venomous stinging nettles to the strangling vines and ravenous watermelons. A nightmare for the unsuspecting, a boon for the resourceful. These plants hid secrets within, healing and nourishing properties if one mastered the art of their harvest. Although the flora continued to churn out oxygen, it was a laborious endeavor. The air grew thin, stagnant, a struggle to inhale. In the realm of fauna, the scene resembled a grotesque carnival of mutations and infections. The fires of war twisted their very genes, turning once-docile creatures into monstrous, ferocious beings. Pollution gnawed at their flesh, leaving behind festering sores and rotting limbs. A fortunate few met a quick end, while others endured a life of torment. These twisted beings metamorphosed into instruments of slaughter, driven solely by agony and wrath. Their rationality stripped away, replaced only by an instinct to attack and consume. Among ourselves, they were christened "the Broken." Against all odds, humanity endured, but just barely. A global populace that once numbered a staggering 7.9 billion souls in 2023 had dwindled to a mere fraction, scattered across the world's expanse. Those who weathered the storm of war were the clever ones, adept at vanishing at the first sign of unrest. The shelters of bunkers and basements transformed into the saviors of the remnants across the globe. This is how the human race navigated its own apocalypse. After the dust had settled, metaphorically speaking. When those bunker doors swung open, humanity stepped out to face the raw truth of their new reality. It was a gritty fight for survival, with folks dropping like flies from hunger or even turning to cannibalism. Food was scarce, trust was even scarcer. Humans started preying on their own, raiding and attacking other bands of survivors. The fear wasn't just of the weirdo animals and plants that had mutated, but also of their fellow humans. The remains of what once was our civilization lay scattered all over the place. These towering buildings that had once held their heads high, were now crumbling and sinking into the sand, a reminder of the old days of grandeur and, let's be honest, folly. Amid the wreckage, you'd find these skeletons of metal beasts, wheels all round and insides all hollow. They used to be vehicles for humans, a way to get around and transport stuff. But now? Useless and dangerous, nothing more than traps for the unsuspecting. Get stuck in there, and you might end up as a meal for those The Broken. So, we humans huddled up in these small camps spread around the world. It was all about trying to survive, and maybe, just maybe, rebuild a little bit. The wild violence and utter chaos that had followed the whole humanity-collapse thing, well, that sort of settled down a bit. People began to see that working together and having some order was a good thing. These encampments were like secret hideouts, fortified with walls made from whatever stuff was lying around - spikes, bits of metal, whatever could keep trouble out, be it natural or human. Gathering in large crowds? Nah, that was a thing of the past. A big group attracted more trouble than a sugary drink lures ants. Every camp had its own rhythm, its own set of rules, but there were some universal truths everyone lived by. Don't kill, don't steal, and don't go on a rampage. Break those, and the elders—the camp's resident old-timers and wise folks—would come down on you like a ton of bricks. Shane found himself in a camp on the outskirts of what used to be Boston, a city of yore. How did he know he was near Boston? Well, Jamie, the camp's sage and Shane's mentor, taught him how to read the faded metal letters on a decaying wall that spelled B-O-S-T-O-N. They all called him Shane, but he often wondered if that was his birth name. His mom had died when he was just a toddler, so asking her was out of the question. "Shane... Shane... SHANE! Quit spacing out and help me out, man!" Marcus's voice jolted him back to reality. Shane glanced up from his notebook where he was engrossed in documenting the camp's history. There stood Marcus, hands on hips, looking like he wanted to wrestle a bear. "C'mon Marcus, you see I'm in the middle of something, right? What's so dang important?" Marcus could only respond with a dismissive snort and laughter as if Shane's work was child's play. In a world where the ability to read was as rare as a four-leaf clover, Jamie's teachings were an entire clover field. She was one of the few elders who knew how to read and write, and she chose Shane as her pupil. She always said he had a "head full of questions and a memory like an elephant." Jamie taught him all kinds of things—how to decipher books, how to navigate using old-world maps, how to read signs that once guided people through bustling streets. And writing? Jamie was all over that, pushing Shane to jot down everything—their stories, their struggles, the details of their daily lives—all to ensure their culture and history didn't vanish like morning fog. Shane was a scrawny thing when they found him, barely three years old, hiding in an old, rusted car next to a lifeless body he assumed was his mom. The hunters were out in the skeletal remains of Boston, scavenging for food and anything that could be repurposed. That's when they ran into what they called a Broken—some wild, stripe-backed creature standing guard over the car, clawing at the outside. It was as if the creature knew that car was a treasure trove because inside was Shane, terrified and starving. The hunters dispatched the Broken, dragged Shane out from under the seats, and decided to bring him back to camp. Kids were scarce, a precious commodity, and they weren't about to leave him behind. The little creature the hunters called a "Broken" was more like a scruffy, pint-sized nightmare with its pitch-black fur and tiger-like stripes. Its ears were c****d up, fringed with tufts of fur that made it look more comical than menacing, but the razor-sharp fangs told another story. "Look here," Jamie would later say, flipping open a frayed book to a page with a picture of a bobcat. "It's looks like it was what folks used to call a bobcat, you know?" The hunters were no-nonsense types; they took the creature down with the efficiency of a butcher slicing through meat—spears and knives doing the work. Shane's feeble cries from inside an old, rusted car had caught their attention. Pulling him from his hiding spot under the seat, they found him swaddled in rags, eyes wide with terror. The Broken had been thrashing around, paws raking the car's metal as if it were guarding some hidden treasure, which, in this case, was Shane. "So, this is what all the fuss was about," one of the hunters, Bill, had chuckled, holding Shane up like a prized catch. "Look at this little rascal!" "Ah, save the jokes, will ya? We got mouths to feed," another hunter, Rick, grumbled. But even he couldn't deny the value of a youngling like Shane. Kids were hard to come by, a true diamond in the rough of their broken world. They hoisted him onto their backs and shared their meager rations of hard bread and dried meat, trekking three days until they reached their camp. There, Jamie, one of the revered elders, took immediate charge of him. Her own children had been casualties of the war, their names now whispered only in her most private moments. Jamie was the strict but nurturing kind. Her version of discipline usually involved a whip that she said "had your name written on it, buddy." But she saw something in Shane—a spark, a zest for learning. She became more than his guardian; she was his mentor. "Listen up, kid," she said one day, unveiling her trove of old books and maps. "These here are windows to another world, to a time when humans weren't scrapping for every last crumb. You're gonna learn, and you're gonna pass it down." Jamie's lessons went beyond the ABCs and 123s; she painted vivid tapestries of the world that was—a world of towering buildings, speeding cars, soaring planes, and a cacophony of animals and plants. Each lesson was like peeling an onion, layer after layer revealing more about human history, culture, and the catastrophic war that had buried it all. Jamie knew the value of keeping these stories alive for the future. "This ain't just about reading and writing, you hear me? You're gonna be the keeper of our tales, the historian of our ragtag crew." She even taught him the art of making paper from plants and ink from charcoal and tree sap. Her hands were a gnarled mess, each scar a brutal roadmap of their dire circumstances. Shane once had the audacity to ask about those twisted hands, and he received a lash from a thorned stick in return. "Some stories you earn, some you don't," Jamie had said, her eyes a stormy sea of unspoken history. "Focus on being the keeper of tales, so our world lives on in words if not in flesh." And so Shane became just that—the young chronicler of their makeshift community, a kid with a knack for writing and a future weighted with the past. "SHANE!!!" Marcus's shout had a way of slicing through daydreams like a hot knife through butter. Shane looked up from his papers to see Marcus looming over him, a big, burly guy who looked like he was perpetually ready for a bar fight. Marcus's beefy arms were crossed, and his bushy eyebrows were furrowed in a way that signaled you were in for it. "Man, can't you see I'm in the middle of something super important here?" Shane responded, his pen still poised over the paper. His tone was dripping with enough sarcasm to fill a bucket. Marcus rolled his eyes, unimpressed. "Super important, huh? You and Jamie might care about scribbles and doodles, but remember, it's hunting and fighting that keep us alive, not fairy tales." Marcus grabbed Shane's arm, not gently, pulling him up from his nest of old blankets. The air was thick with the approaching winter, each exhaled breath turning into a tiny cloud of fog as Marcus dragged him into the village's communal space.