Year 62, Month 1 Day 22 Post-Infection
How long ago the world ended, I have no idea. What I do know is this. I am a traveler, seeing many people and many stories. These are some of them.
The Shotgun Guy, I couldn't get a name, provides a symbol of protection, two shotguns crossed in front of a glaring eye signifies his violent justice. Settlements have flown his flag to stave of bandits. These raiders run and hide, praying to their idols, that this near demonic force doesn't enact his brutal vengeance.
On the border of the ruined U.S.A., the last vestiges of legitimate law and order hang on tightly to the last job they were given. Border security agents are desperately clinging to the last working firearms, and run all day in the desert sun to keep refugees fleeing disease in South America.
Many factions have grown up in the forests east of the parries. Hiding in the deep south, saber-wielding rhubarb addicts fight an ultra-small scale guerrilla campaign to stave off desperate thieves and tyrants coming for their 'Blitz Shafts.'
More terrifying still, are the Re-Claimers. Martian Colonists who are taking back Old Earth from savagery and ruin, with weapons the likes of which haven't been witnessed in decades. Their closest facsimile being the old, battered husks of guns still kicking.
Stories are the new mass media. I trade them and have begun to write them down, read them if you like, and at least you know who you're dealing with.