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(From Spy)
From the classified document of the American Citizen Analysis:
 
Character Dossier #015787
 
Full Name: Christopher James Mason.
Hair: Dark Brown.
Eyes: Dark Brown.
Age: 37.
Location: Northern California.
Last Reported: In the hospital where he was born 37 years ago.
Social Status: Hermit.
Military Status: Non-Civilian (Other).
Alliances: Unknown.
Notes: Do not approach until further data can be retrieved. Seems to have no political affiliations. Has been charged with stealing classified documents.
 
(If you are reading this, Chris, we will see to it that you will be silenced without delay.)
 
Chris chuckled, closed his laptop, and killed his generator. The government had no sense of humor! When would the state officials ever learn that he was unapproachable? He left his room and stared into the adjacent hallway which seemed to stretch like the barrel of a rifle in front of him as he surveyed each door along the corridor with practiced scrutiny. Not that Chris M. esteemed the government agents very highly, even before the world went nuts, but in his business a little caution went a long way. He strolled to the end of the hallway which emptied into a living room. He reached under the cushion of a rustic and worn sofa and casually retrieved a loaded magazine. Chris didn't like visitors. He strode to the corner of the room where there stood a ladder. He moved the ladder out of the way and opened a secret panel in his wall and retrieved his Sig Sauer. He heard footsteps approach his upper room. Most of the building in which he lived was one large basement, but there was a very small cabin aboveground, and someone was knocking on its door. Since he had no windows underground, he walked to the middle of his living room and stared at the hatch in the ceiling. There was a bulletproof window in the hatch, and from it, Chris could see his front door. From a chain around his neck, Chris produced a key and unlocked the hatch after setting yet another lock to a given combination. With ease, Chris climbed into his cabin and peered through a peep hole. There was a man on his porch who wore a trench coat. This could be an assignment or a search warrant.

"What do you want?"

A voice transformer emitted the question through a speaker box in the wall of the porch. The man replied gravely, "I am willing to pay you a good deal of money if you can take out my next target. I will leave his information under your welcome mat. There, you will find all that you need to know about the man I need dead.”

"I told you, I am not in the position to help anyone. Things have changed since we went to war. Find another hit man…"

"This assignment is different."

With that, the man walked away. Chris didn't realize until after the man had gone that his hands were sweating as they clamped his gun in a death grip. Business was booming these days. Everyone was at war, and there was always someone with an ex-wife or a political rival willing to pay a bounty hunter through the nose. Christopher used to be such a bounty hunter, but things had changed since the wars. For the first time in his life, he was more interested in allies. He kept in touch with paramilitary units all over the world, and he gave them advice on how to survive. The thought of being a military consultant would have seemed laughable just a few long years before. He opened his door after taking the time to undo the extravagant security contraptions. File in hand, he refastened the door and returned to his study. A message from a Major Oliver Fate Ramstein (funny how the world clung to old ranks and designations) was waiting on his top-of-the-line laptop. How interesting! That message could wait a few minutes. It felt wonderful to have so many eyes over the world and yet never have to leave the confines of his own little lair. Chris observed his muscular hands as they came to life and opened the file which the man in the trench coat gave to him. He winced when he read the name of his hired target. Another day, another politician who would see no more. Something tugged at Chris' brain. That face looked strangely familiar. Chris’s mind went back to before the bombs, and he remembered seeing this smug mug all over the television. Clyde Maverick, D, Cal. one year on the floor and already busy at work on the 2nd amendment. Apparently doomsday hadn’t dampened his enthusiasm for disarming the general populace; or perhaps it had increased his drive. Chris was no peacekeeper activist, but Mammon called and Senator Maverick would soon be out of Mr. Trenchcoat’s way.

(From Polarius)
“I still don’t understand why we need to be wasting our time defending outposts on the other side of the world! We have enough problems here!”

The President of the Southern Alliance rubbed his eyes, and then studied the sad excuse for a man who had once again accosted him in his office. As usual, his over-slicked hair was threatening to solidify into a solid mass, and his pockmarks gave the impression of a man on the moon who’d had a poor nutritional diet. He’d have to remember to chew out security again for letting him through. Sean West was always complaining about something, and if there was nothing to complain about he complained about complacency. Why did I think that the end of the world would mean the end of bureaucrats?

Just a few months after the destruction of New York and Chicago, strong rebel elements in the south saw and seized their opportunity to win the Civil War. Texas was the first to re-establish itself as a sovereign nation, with Virginia and South Carolina quick on its heels. By the time the country recovered from the attacks, they realized that about half the military (and most of its commanders) as well as a good portion of the states were no longer a part of the country. There were scattered hostilities at first, but both sides realized that with such an even divide of power, the best course of action was an uneasy peace.

Soon after the peace was reached, tens of thousands of people had migrated in both directions. Why hadn’t Sean gone with them? For a few weeks everything was ideal. The Vice President (now President) had been a New Englander and remained with the United States. The Southern States quickly formed the “Southern Alliance” based on the US constitutions with a few minor revisions and rights. Things were running smoothly; the chaos had cleared a lot of the clutter out of politics. But cockroaches were hard to kill, and paper-pushing bean-counting ambitious unelected government officials were the worst kinds of cockroaches.

“If only we’d return all of our foreign forces, we’d be able to quell the food riots and make more headway on our public works projects! We could shore up our northern stockades and discourage those Yank marauders from venturing into our domain. We could…”

“And how do you propose we get them home, exactly?” President Lee Adams interjected. “You haven’t seen the reports. The nuclear fallout we experienced here was bad, but nothing like the cloud that’s floating over most of Europe and all of the Middle-East.” He conveniently left out the reports of clear skies over Israel. “Even if we had the resources to affect such a mass exodus, we’d never be able to find enough pilots who’d sooner defect or be executed than fly through that mass.”

“What about sea travel?” The craggy man countered. “Load them up on boats and ship them over!”

This guy just doesn’t get it. “Listen,” he said, more exasperated by the minute, “you don’t even have to be in the know to see the reports about what’s happening at sea. Without satellites or coast guards, piracy has made a big comeback. Like the marauders but in boats. And I’m sure you’ve heard the unconfirmed rumors of mutated sharks and whales. You think the ‘superbears’ are rough, wait until you find that you’re on the menu of a 10 ton Great White, and he doesn’t mind taking the vessel with you.” Adams shook his head, knowing that they weren’t just rumors. He continued, “And again, even if we had the resources and even if there are no leviathans, I doubt we’d find the men willing to brave the open seas right now.”

“But…”

“Look, Mr. West,” he was at the end of his rope now, “I can’t fire you because you were appointed by some committee or another to be a thorn in my side. But next time, the thorn is going to have to ask for a meeting, and when he does, he’d better be prepared to offer some viable alternatives instead of just whining about whatever his puppet master has on his mind. Are we clear?”

A look of displeasure (well, even more than usual) filled Sean’s face. “Crystal,” he skulked, “but remember that you’re the president of the Alliance, not the dictator of the South. You know I represent the views of a good part of the country, and I won’t be put off that easily!”

(From Monk)

Yuri Molotov, right paw of the Hound, lay wide awake in bed.  Civil war could destroy Jarius Berfino, but after tonight, he wasn’t sure creating one would be so easy. The way the men reacted to tonight’s victory was odd. Usually they liked a challenge—a good hard fight—but as of late, the Hound had stirred them to wild revelry over the most effortless triumphs.   

Yet Yuri smiled to himself. The Hound is a fool, he thought, he’s strong, he underestimates everyone.  The Latter Days movement is a constant threat, but Jarius doesn’t seem to care about them, or even Ramstein for that matter. Yuri Molotov isn't so stupid.

The Latter Days movement was nothing like the Hound; it focused only on survival. The Hounds are hell-bent on destroying all who stand between them and plunder, especially the new "Saints."  This is what scares Yuri. The Hound of the Steppes destroys and plunders while the Saints store up strength and firepower. They could be the end of us all, he thought.  A shiver ran down his spine.

Ramstein was another story. He was more than just a protector; he was a trained soldier who knew how to lead his men. But Yuri wasn’t as worried about him. Fool that the Hound of the Steppes was, his cleverness was almost enough to make up for it. Still, am I overlooking Ramstein and Jarius just as Jarius is overlooking me? The thought made him shudder.

Yuri stiffened as iron-shod feet approached. He stealthily made his way across the room to a hiding place he had devised. A shadowy figure entered the room, its features silhouetted by the night. Yuri held his breath, carefully stalking his prey. The dark form was now only inches away. He pounced. The man, not ready for the impending onslaught, had his back pressed against the cold floor almost as hard as the knife pressed against his neck.  “It’s me!” The figure managed in a raspy whisper. Yuri peered at the figure through the darkness.  It was Petro Gatam, an Italian who was in charge of espionage. Yuri let the man up. This was one of a few men who he had chosen to be a part of his rebellion. Petro recovered his nerve and gave his report: "Project Maw is ready for implementation, but we've had less than desirable results with some of the subjects."

Yuri stifled a chuckle as the Italian departed. So here we are. It began as one war, and now three.  A war of nations, of individuals, and of a new world. I plan to lead that world.

(From Josh)

Jarius paced his room furiously. He couldn't sleep due to this feeling of unrest. Jarius knew he wasn't the smartest man in the world but he always had a keen survival instinct. Thats how he had gained the nickname of "Hound" back in the army before he came here. That and his uncanny luck had saved his life many times or at least what he would call luck. Many times he had been shot in the limbs or had his cheeks and arms sliced. None of it had ever been lethal though. So he relied on it just the same. Jarius' brain was furiously running through all the things that could go wrong. He checked the .45 caliber magnum on his hip. It was loaded, cocked, and with the barrel clean it was ready to be fired at a seconds notice. It obviously was not the most silent weapon ever made but it has never let him down. Jarius sat on his bed, his laptop open. He was waiting for some tactical advice from this mysterious man who was rumored to be a great tactician. Jarius knew he had the funds to buy the man's services for a long time but he worried that this man was a fool or even worse a double dealer. The safty of never meeting face to face would easily allow that and if any one thing could be said about Jarius' morals it was that he HATED traitors. Jarius sighed and put his head in his hands. So much to do in such a ammount of little time. If his pack knew how low on food they were chances were they would fight amongst themselves for power and destroy everyone. Jarius jumped up from the bed in a fury. "They won't take what I have spent so much time creating!" he screamed and threw a kick right into the solid cement wall. The blow was so hard dust fell from the ceiling and slowly dirfted to the floor. Suddenly right as Jarius was about to kick the wall again there was a beep. The screen of his laptop flashed one new message. Jarius plopped down on his bed and opened it. It was from the nameless assassin; It read...

Bump. JSB is going to write this slot.

Bump.  It's been another couple years, and I suspect this project will never be completed.  However I do think of it occasionally with interest.  So just in case...