Ropes were savagely tied around Peter's wrists, binding his hands painfully together. The leader of the scavenger band grabbed him by the arm and half carried, half dragged, him along.

The remaining scavengers collected their own prisoners and tore whatever items they wanted from the vehicles and the supplies carried inside them. Anything of interest they could lay their hands on and easily transport was instantly appropriated. With their plunder and prisoners, the scavengers began their march across the broken world and back to their stronghold.

Peter was exhausted long before they arrived at their destination, but any time he slowed or stumbled, the leader would either punch him in the face or drag him along, sometimes both.

The stronghold and current home of the Snake Eye scavengers was located atop a sizable hill. Wrecked cars, trucks, and old pieces of machinery had been piled on three sides to create a barricade. Tangled lines of razor wire covered the metal piles to intensify the obstruction. Pain had no effect on zombies, but the defenses were intended to keep out the living as well as the undead.

Driven into the soil around the perimeter of the encampment were tall metal beams. A cross piece mounted along the top of each beam turned them into steel T shapes. Tied to the beams with ropes, cables, and barbed wire were the bodies of slain scavengers. The gruesome display showed the strength of the Snake Eye clan over the others, revealing what would be done to any who challenged them.

As Peter was dragged past the hanging bodies, he noticed they lacked any significant levels of decay. The remains were recent, and one of them rolled his head to the side, indicating he'd been strung up while still alive and had yet to die. Peter instantly averted his eyes and tried to keep from throwing up.

The dwelling places used by the scavengers were mostly tents, the kind used my military forces in field deployments. Durable fabric of dark olive green hung over an interior support network of metal poles. Three of the tents had been doubled, combined with a secondary tent to create a larger interior space.

Peter was pulled into the largest tent and dumped onto the floor. The scavenger who'd dragged him in ripped the flap on the tent down from where it had been held, closing off the interior from the outside world.

"I'm sorry if I hurt you along the way," the big scavenger apologized. "It was necessary to keep the others from thinking me weak."

Peter was astounded that the scared man who had hit him and dragged him here could speak with such civility. It baffled him to such a degree, Peter found himself unable to speak.

"I know this is an enormous amount of information to take in," the scavenger said softly so as to not be overheard by anyone outside, "but you need to understand how this society works if you're going to survive here."

The man dragged over a heavy crate and sat down on it for a chair. He sighed deeply as if uncertain how he should explain the obvious contradictions between his barbaric actions and stated message of helpful assistance.

"I'm known, by those of the clan who still speak, as Three Scar," he told Peter, motioning to the trio of old lacerations crossing his chest. "I was something of a scientist, studying the behavior and society patterns of tribes in far away places of the world. I came back to the States and got stuck when the zombie outbreak happened. When I was captured by the Snake Eye clan, I learned what I could in order to survive among them. You will have to do the same, but you'll have an advantage because I'll help you to understand and cope."

Three Scar motioned for Peter to stretch out his bound wrists to him. Peter did as he was told, and Three Scar used his knife to cut away the rope binding Peter's wrists together.

"Your first lesson is essential," Three Scar explained. "In scavenger society, what belongs to you is only yours for as long as you can hold onto it. The moment someone can take it from you, it becomes theirs until you or someone else takes it from them. This applies to everything from weapons, food, clothing, and to even prisoners. Because of this, the appearance of strength is vital to survival. Any sign of weakness, and they will try and take what you have, and to make sure you don't try to reclaim it, they'll kill you."

"But, I don't have anything," Peter protested in a hoarse whisper.

"You have the clothes on your back," Three Scar pointed out. "They kill for many reasons. If you are growing in strength and may one day challenge them, they will try and deal with you early. If you have something they want, or in your case, you injured one of them, they'll come after you."

"They attacked me!" Peter pointed out hotly.

"Keep your voice down!" Three Scar hissed. "They are eager to fight and kill. Signs of aggression, even in the tone of voice, can signal the start of a fight."

Three Scar nodded his head in acknowledgement of Peter's earlier point.

"Remember what I told you about personal property," Three Scar reminded. "Anything they can take becomes theirs, so a convoy passing through their territory is fair game if they can succeed in capturing it. In their minds, they've done nothing but claim what was rightly theirs. Might is right here."

"If that's true, why is the one I injured angry with me?" Peter asked. "I had the strength and weapons to fight back, so that should end it, right?"

"You would think so," Three Scar replied. "Each society had its own set of rules, and they don't have to make sense to anyone else."

Three Scar raked a hand through his long and tangled black hair. "When your convoy came through our territory, the Snake Eye clan went to claim everything they could hang onto, as is their custom. By defending yourself, you challenged their strength. Such a challenge can only be resolved by one winner and all others dead. The man whose eye you took, I don't know his name, if he ever had one, but I always called him Wild Eyes because even among us, he's always been a little crazier and more savage than the rest; you can see the madness in his eyes. When I claimed you, I ended the fight and prevented him from proving his superiority."

Three Scar paused a moment to stare at Peter, silently appraising him.

"You killed before," Three Scar said. "Can you kill again?"

"They were the first, and I wasn't really thinking about it at the time," Peter answered truthfully. "I just wanted to live."

"This is how you live," Three Scar declared forcefully, pointing to the ground as if his statement applied to the whole world. "You cut a scavenger and proved him weaker than you. In order to prevent himself from looking like a vulnerable target, he will murder you the first chance he gets."

"What am I supposed to do?" Peter asked in a terrified whisper.

"Kill him first," Three Scar answered firmly. "The only way to survive here is to be the toughest and most ruthless killer that ever walked the world."

"I don't know if I can," Peter admitted.

"These were a gift from another clan," Three Scar explained, touching the marks on his chest. "The Metal Claw tribe is in the habit of strapping knives and jagged pieces of metal to their hands. We live in a world of nightmarish horrors and near constant violence and bloodshed. The only way to live is to make your enemies so afraid of what you'll do to them if they fail in their attempts to bring you down. The undead, and some of the crazier scavengers don't feel fear, so you have to kill them."

"This is insane," Peter said, desperately wanting things to go back to the way they'd been before he'd ever heard of zombies.

"This is survival!" Three Scar roared, standing up and looming powerfully over Peter. "It's the reason the scavengers survived when governments and armies fell. It's the reason why we endure and remain strong in a world being consumed by the undead. We are survivors! Are you?"

The part of Peter clinging to his old life had been wounded when his family was murdered in front of him. Whatever fragments remained slipped away as he realized the reality of his situation. There was no going back, no making things better. Three Scar was correct, and Peter knew he'd have to get tough fast, or he'd certainly die.

"What do I need to do?" Peter asked.

Their conversation was interrupted by a woman screaming outside. Peter reacted without thinking, heading toward the sound, but Three Scar grabbed him by the arm and held him fast.

"Where are you going?" the scavenger asked.

"Don't you hear those screams?" Peter demanded in response, pulling ineffectually to get loose from the iron grip in which he was held.

"It's one of the women from your convoy," Three Scar explained, knowing what was happening without having to look. "Other than recruiting new members from those we capture, there are other ways to increase our numbers."

"You mean she's..." Peter said as the sickening truth of the scavengers repopulation methods made his stomach turn.

"You can't help her," Three Scar declared as Peter tried again to break free. "She was captured by a scavenger. By our traditions, she belongs to him. The only way to free her would be to kill him yourself and take her. Are you prepared to kill him? He's one of the strongest; I'd even have a hard time taking him in a fight."

"We have to do something," Peter protested.

"You may as well learn this now about us," Three Scar instructed. "To survive among the scavengers frequently requires you to do terrible things. I can't tell you how much blood I have on my hands. At other times, it means allowing terrible things to happen because you just aren't strong enough to stop them."

Peter put his hands over his ears to try and block the sound, but Three Scar pulled them away, holding his wrists tightly and preventing any obstruction of Peter's hearing.

"You must show no weakness," Three Scar instructed.

Peter stood in the center of the tent, jaw and fists clenched as he listened to the woman screaming for help she would never receive.

***

Present Day.

Seven years had passed since Peter had been captured by Three Scar and forced to become a member of the Snake Eye clan of scavengers.

The vertical slit inside a circle, standard of the clan, had been branded on each arm near the shoulder, but Peter had endured much worse than a simple burn, so he'd barely flinched when the hot metal had seared the emblem into his skin.
Because of his chosen weapon when he'd fought the clan before, Peter had been given the name Razor. It was a fitting name as well as something to intimidate those who knew about a razor's cutting ability. Perception of strength and deadliness, Three Scar had told him, were often as important as the real thing when it came to surviving in the clans.

Crouched on a low hill, he watched the smoke rising in the distance. It came from the approximate location of the fortified town of Walton. He'd led several attacks on the city in the past, and the scars marking the back of his left shoulder from the three arrows he'd taken were a reminder of the failed assaults.

Although he wondered what had happened to the impossibly well defended town, Peter/Razor had troubles of his own and couldn't divide his focus. A particularly viscous battle had erupted between the Snake Eye clan and the Bloody Hand tribe to the north. Although the battle was over, one of the casualties had been Three Scar.

Razor hadn't seen any more of the Bloody Hand tribe from his vantage point on the hill, so he was left with only the enemies of his own clan, specifically his arch rival. The scavenger he knew as Wild Eyes, renamed Wild Eye since he only had one thanks to their first encounter, was waiting at the base of the hill with the other warriors of the clan.

They'd been fighting among themselves over the spoils and prisoners they'd taken from the enemy tribe. Pushing, shoving, growling, and snarling at each other was the extent of their disagreements as they knew the power of those in their tribe and were unwilling to challenge those they believed were stronger.

Wild Eye glared murderously at Razor with his one good eye. Three Scar had been holding the maniac scavenger at bay, but with his death, it became clear the long awaited rematch between Wild Eye and Razor would be unavoidable. Dropping a hand to his belt, Razor pulled out one of the many knives he carried.