The mid-February weather was getting warmer, reaching in to the fifties, or so it felt like. Things were different than they had been three years ago when the cities bustled with life and nature was being pushed farther and farther back. Three years ago was also a time of hell on earth. Everyone turned on each other; mothers and fathers deserted their families, children were left to fend for themselves. It was mass panic and not just in the United States--everywhere in the world was in panic. A few months in the CDC announced that it was unable to contain the mutated bacteria and shortly after no one was sure if the CDC had done anything to prevent the disease from getting out. Eventually the news and other television stations went out, leaving the world in the dark. Radios worked periodically with broken messages marred by static, those to die down into history.

This new world crafted of fear was one that could have existed several hundred years ago; for the modern world to be like this it seemed almost unthinkable. A cult soon appeared and gathered many members who had lost faith in their God. As things quieted down with the disease, dubbed the Plague by newspapers and other media, the cults and other organizations bent on ruling people with fear sprung up. In New York City the buildings were crumbled and broken, former shells of the mighty skyscrapers that they once had been. 

The city was quiet now, only animals and the occasional scuffle with scouts and scavengers echoed off the broken walls being reclaimed by Mother Nature. The survivors had formed small tribes, tiny gatherings of mostly unrelated people from many different ethnic backgrounds. They lived in crudely made huts as not every carpenter or construction worker survived. Their clothes, which had been worn threadbare, were replaced by modest wrappings of scraps or the poorly tanned hides of animals that had been hunted. Dogs and cats were no longer just pets. They were a food source which left many with the urge to vomit. Who could eat an innocent Chihuahua? Raccoons were a common meal as well, and many bore the black and gray hides of the masked animals.

The landscape was different too. Some of the city lay partially submerged under marine muds brought up by natural disasters, which had aided in the destruction of the city. The sea was brought closer inland. One particular small tribe had found safety on what used to be the Jamaica Bay Wildlife Refuge. It had been a cluster of small islands that had been reduced, but there was still a small enough chunk of land to live on. The area of the Floyd Bennet Field was where they called home-- a small, flat island with a small forest on the northern end that had provided wood for fires and their awkwardly constructed homes. The airstrip provided a place to build upon that did not require much work.
Over the past three years it had been difficult to learn how to fish and hunt for food. It had been New York City for crying out loud; surely no survivalist would be there!

The inhabitants who called the island home were a small but diverse group from around the city and globe. Many had been New York natives others had been transplants from other cities or countries. Here there was no hate for religion or the color of one's skin. They needed to work together to survive in this alien environment. The leader of the small tribe was a middle aged man, a former Elementary schoolteacher. He had ensured that everyone was being looked after, giving extra food rations to the surviving children or elderly. They were rare, those two groups. Only a few had been born after the disease wiped almost everything out. 

Their tribe had no official name, they rarely came into contact with other tribes and often they raided what used to be Brooklyn. They relied on fish as their primary source of food, once in a while canned goods would be brought back. They were a treat favored among everyone. 

As the small fifty member tribe stirred to life for the morning the buzz of activity filled the air. It had been by chance that they had all found each other, starving and frightened two years ago. They all wandered broken streets with dead eyes and hallowed cheeks. 

In two years’ time they had come together as a patchwork family. 

It was heaven. For those that once had everything and now had nothing they'd take this odd mix of humans as a precious gift. 

Clark James, a stocky blond haired man was to lead the scouts today. The former mechanic had tried many times to bring vehicles for them to use but each time he had failed at the craft that once put bread on his table. In the center of the small village made up of a few small crude huts that housed anywhere from two to five people, the morning meeting was started. Clark stood with his head high, his eyes scanning the crowd for those that would be called to venture with him further into the ruins of the city. Beside the man stood the leader, Augustus. His salt and pepper black hair was pulled into a low ponytail and his stained clothes, scraps stitched and knitted together with the unskilled hands of the others, put him apart from the rest by the use of colors red and green. 

"Today will mark the day that we will finally go further inland!" The man bellowed, raising his hands. "Perhaps there is more food and supplies hidden where we have not gone before."

Everyone nodded, agreeing. The man was charismatic and kind hearted, making them feel at ease with the choices he made. "Clark will be joined by Matt, Wyatt, Katie, Vanessa, Harriet and Jack." Augustus smiled, they all worked the best together and had, as a group, brought good results in the forms of canned foods and other things. 

Clark scanned the small crowd for the six that would join him. He shared a hut with Vanessa, Harriet and her husband Mark, as well as a few others. As Vanessa joined his side she gave a small smile, "Good morning, CJ." 
Clark returned the greetings before turning to face Augustus.

"Be safe," He placed his hands on Clark's shoulders, "Do not try to bring back everything. Sacrifices must be made." 

Vanessa combed her fingers through her wavy chestnut colored hair as they were told good luck by the others before they would set out. It was a common thing to do, as the weekly raids had cost them a few members. In the beginning they had been a strong number of sixty people; a few died of natural causes, some of drowning but by far the biggest killer they knew of was going on their scavenging missions. Loose rubble could fall and kill them, dogs could attack or even other tribes if there were any in the area. 
Harriet, Matt and Jack joined them as well. 

Both Clark and Vanessa knew a lot about Harriet, Matt was on the quiet side and didn’t tell them much about his life before the outbreak. Jack was the same but he always danced around the questions. Harriet had been homeless; the forty year old woman rarely had a stable home after her husband lost his job ten years earlier. 

“Ready hon?” Harriet asked Clark.

The blond man nodded with a faint smile, he always enjoyed these small adventures. They waited for the other two just outside of the small village, about a hundred yards away where they could discuss what they were going to do as everyone else got to work with either fishing or foraging for food such as tiny clams.
Jack and Matt were quietly talking amongst themselves as Vanessa stood by awkwardly with her arms crossed over her chest, knife in hand. Objects such as guns were rare as so many had been taken already or the bullets had been used as the city fell into panic.
 
The disease wasn’t the only killer. People rioted in the streets and plundered stores; they robbed and killed each other for anything they could get their hands on. Knives were much more common and useful, as many over looked them during the raids of stores. Who was going to listen to a guy with a knife? A gun spoke much more powerfully than a knife in a time of panic.

Clark held his club at his side. It had been made from one of the fallen trees and it was wider and weightier than a bat. 

Harriet’s weapon that she had been given was a bat as well, Jack had a knife and Matt had an old piece of rusting pipe that he’d have to get rid of soon. It was a dramatic decline from the weapons of three years ago.

“Ready?” Clark asked once the plan was made and everyone arrived.