Clara bent a branch out of her way and gazed through her binoculars at the hilltop. The scene reminded her of paintings she had seen of medieval villages, only that the illusion was broken by the occasional parked motorbike or electrical pylon. At the rear of the village, a sheer cliff dove into a valley. Perched atop the cliff’s crest dominated a black castle. It rose like a claw against the skyline, fingernails as gothic spires. A ray of sunlight peeked out from behind the overcast clouds, casting a thousand intricate shadows across the castle’s ornate stone like a swarm of ants frenzying over a carcass. As the shadow stretched over the village, the tallest spire fell upon the road before them, pointing at their hiding position on the bluff like an accusation, or a warning.

Clara shivered and lowered her binoculars, checking her immediate surroundings. The smell of woodsmoke from the village merged with the wet dirt, coaxing her out of her hiding place towards the warmth. The ground was cold beneath her stomach, but she remained still. After a moment, the sun disappeared, the shadows faded away, and the gloom was whole again, pierced only by flickers of firelight. Clara took a breath to calm her nerves, glancing over at Andy. He yawned and returned her gaze.

“Where do we start?” he asked.

“Give me a minute to scope it out.”

Clara peered through her binoculars, tracing the main road through the village, making a mental map of their surroundings. She took her time, absorbing the details, forming an image of the residents in her mind. If she were to pull off a convincing impression, she would need to know a little about them. Around the outskirts of the main village were groups of shacks–the sort Clara was used to seeing in the wasteland, constructed of recycled timber and sheet metal with thatched or tarpaulin roofs. Chickens and pigs roamed in pens around the outskirts. Two horses were tied to a post near a dirt path. A dog barked, chasing children through a barren garden, long since bent low by the frosts of winter.

Further up the hill, timber extensions merged with pre-cataclysm brick masonry. Precarious towers protruded from slate roofs, like sapling imitations of the goliath oak nearby. Clara spotted people at work under the cloudy midday sky. They were dressed in all black. Dark face paint and tattoos illustrated their pale flesh. They looked gaunt, though Clara supposed this was a factor of malnutrition rather than style. She and Andy had spotted farmland on the road towards the village, and evidence of pastures, but perhaps not enough to feed a population of this size. If every building in the village was occupied, Clara estimated something in the region of three-thousand residents. That was a lot, almost as many as who lived inside the walls of Quadra.

The tracker blinked frantically in her hand. Linton had shown her how to mute the device before they had separated where their jeep was parked, a ways down the road hidden in a thicket.

“Why don’t we get a drink?” Andy said.

Clara was about to tell him off, but then she considered it properly. If they wanted to soak up the culture and pick up on local rumours, a pub wasn’t a bad shout

“Okay,” she said. “Let’s go.” Shuffling backwards through the undergrowth, they found the road and walked right into the village.

Clara adjusted the straps of the tiny backpack. Her whole outfit was unfamiliar; it made her skin crawl. The only thing familiar was her silver watch, her brimmed cap and black combat boots. “Are you nervous?”

“What?”

Clara nudged her sidearm to check it was there, concealed in a rib-side holster beneath her black leather jacket. “Rendezvous here if things go tits up.”

Andy unscrewed his hip flask and took a swig. She’d made him leave the bottles he’d scavenged with the jeep, but nothing could separate him from his flask. “Gotcha.”

A man approached them, leading a donkey-drawn cart. Clara’s heart rate shot up and she held her breath, but the stranger passed them by without as much of a glance. So their disguises were working.

Clara scratched her scalp. The hair dye was still a little wet, so she’d hidden it beneath her hat with a black ponytail poking out the rear fasten strap. Her thighs protested with every rigid step she took. She’d taken the largest sized jeans she could find amongst the dead, but they were still far too tight of a fit. They made her feel exposed, unlike her usual baggy combat trousers, which at least left something to the imagination. She’d caught Linton catching a glance while she was organising her supplies for the mission. No matter how traumatised, how perilous their situation, some men seemed to have a special reserve of energy for being perverted.

Clara checked the contents of her pouches for what must be the ninth or tenth time. Normally, she went into battle with a full combat vest and compact backpack, kitted with a dozen compartments, full of gadgets, grenades and ammunition. However, her usual outfit didn’t suit gothic fashion. Instead, she had attached three small leather pouches to her belt and wore a tiny backpack with little bat wings sewed onto it. She had to admit, the backpack was kind of cute, but completely unsuitable. It weighed like a brick with what she’d stuffed in it, including her wrist terminal.

On the road ahead, a sign read ‘Welcome to Hallow Hill’ in cartoonishly gothic writing. The paint was cracked and faded, and she could see where the lettering had been gone over in marker pen. The road into the village rose steadily beside a stream. Ahead was a three-story timber building with two crude towers jutting out of its sides. Clara could tell from their disrepair that the towers were hollow–just there for show.

A signpost outside the building read ‘The Crypt Inn’. Moats redirected the stream around the inn, causing it to narrow and plunge over a water wheel. Parked outside the inn were two black vans similar to the one which they’d shot up earlier. A dozen or so motorbikes were stacked on a rocky verge beside the stream, and a stable sheltered horses nearby.

Clara kept an eye on a group of men standing in the shadows of the stable. Something didn’t seem right about them. As the path took them closer towards the inn, one of the men stepped out of the shadows. A bell jangled on a chain, latched around his neck. The man wore a sack over his head and ragged clothing. He was so skinny, Clara thought it was a miracle that he had the energy to stand. Naturally, Clara found herself drifting towards the man, drawn by his suffering. Who could treat someone like these? Even a slave? To chain them up, reduce them to a starving animal. What purpose could this serve?

“Hey, sis.” Andy remained on the path behind her. “You sure that’s a good idea?”

A clatter of bells rang out as more of the chained slaves drew themselves from the shadows. Clara stopped in her tracks, beyond the reach of their chains. One of the men was missing an arm, another had its stomach cut open, the wound bled dry. All of them wore sacks on their heads, drawn to her by scent or sound, or some other sense only the undead could comprehend. Clara backed away, returning to Andy’s side.

Andy kept his eyes on the chained zombies. “Weird, huh?”

“What are they keeping them for?”

He shrugged.

“Guard dogs, maybe. That would explain the bells on the chains.”

Three men trudged down the path towards them, coming from the village. The sun was beginning to set on another early winter night. Not wanting to seem hesitant, Clara approached the inn ahead of the villagers. Swallowing her doubts, she opened the heavy set wooden door and stepped inside.

The warmth washed over with a dozen familiar smells: booze-soaked wood and well-worn leather; burning wax and tobacco smoke, both undertones to the fireplaces’ hefty soot. She was standing in a cloakroom. Ahead, up a couple steps, was the bar, adjoining which were several low-ceilinged rooms. The pegs on either side of her were filled with identical black cloaks and leather jackets. Clara kept her cloak about her so that it concealed her submachine gun slung over her shoulder, its stock folded up to be compact..

Before Clara could take the lead, Andy marched ahead of her to the candlelit bar. “Beer.”

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

The barkeep looked at him sceptically, then poured a drink from a cask behind the bar. “Three thangs.”

“Thangs? Of course, thangs. I left mine at home.” Andy spoke in an odd accent for some reason, dulling his vowels while adding odd flicks to certain words. Clara had never heard him do it before. “Wanna trade for it instead?”

“I could trade,” the barkeep said.

“How’s about some nine millimetre ammo? I do not use the stuff.” Andy procured a bag of rounds they’d scavenged from the cultists earlier that day and put it on the bar. The barkeep poked through the rounds, picking one out to inspect it.

“These’ll do,” he said, pocketing the bag. “What’s your lady friend having?”

“Get me whatever,” Clara said, trying to sound casual, but trying not to sound like she was trying. “Is there something in your throat, brother?” She glowered at him, but he didn’t seem to get the hint. Or he pretended not to.

“Thank you, mister,,” Andy said as the second drink arrived, still putting on an accent. “What’s new?”

“Nothing,” the barkeep said. He was clean shaven with thick sideburns. His eyes shone in pits of black makeup. A large padded leather jacket mantled his broad shoulders. Silver rings ornate with skulls and occult symbols looked diminutive on his thick hands. “You’re new, aren’t you?”

“We’re the recruits,” Andy said.

The barkeep narrowed his eyes. “Who recruited you?”

“The old codger himself,” Andy said. “Spoke to me directly. Said I was a good fit.”

“Codger?”

“Yeah, the demon bloke. Bat wings, sharp teeth. Horrible temper.”

The barkeep’s face grew stern. “You should not speak of the master like that.”

“Nah, it’s cool, we’re close. He’s a fan of my work, I’m a fan of his.”

The barkeep’s eyes flitted across Andy’s face, trying to read his expression, then they darted at Clara. She nodded and hid her face behind her beer. Her heart raced, thinking of what she could say to diffuse the situation. Andy was being far too cocky. She should have known better to trust he could be subtle after he blew his cover with the mutants last week.

“Mind your manners in my establishment,” the barkeep said. “We don’t tolerate belligerence.”

“Hey, if you don’t believe me, that’s your business.” Andy held his arms up in surrender. “But you’ll be seeing a lot more of me soon, and I reckon it’s best you be in my good-books, barkeep.”

The big man snorted. “Sure.”

A cultist stumbled to the bar and asked for another round of drinks. It gave Clara a moment to think. She surveyed the inn. Several rooms adjoined the bar area–most were alcovers with just a few chairs and a table, but one large common room was laden with couches and tapestries. Candles burned atop the furniture and skirting, coating everything in a weeping white callous. The only other source of light was from a fireplace in the common room, which was surrounded by lounging goths. The furniture inside was a mix of that scavenged from the wasteland, but all of it was dark leather–reds, purples, blacks.

Clara smelled a stew cooking and fresh bread from a kitchen behind the bar. “Will that cover food as well?” she asked about the pouch of bullets.

“Just about,” the barkeep said. He sipped from a chalice and went into the kitchen. Andy finished his beer by the time the barkeep returned and raised his glass for another.

“It’ll cost you more,” the barkeep said.

Andy threw another bag of rounds on the counter. “Keep them coming.” He led the way into the common room. As much as Clara did not appreciate the improvised accent and cocky attitude, a bar was Andy’s territory–his bread and butter–she’d be better off following his lead, no matter how nervous it made her.

The two of them sat beside a small brass table in the corner of the room, waiting for their food. Clara's stomach grumbled reluctantly, but she was determined to eat a bit of stew just to fit in. She had to remind herself that her disguise was working. The goths on the table nearest to them were young, probably just a bit younger than those who they’d killed in the van earlier that day. Maybe they were related? Younger brothers? She nodded at one of them when he glanced their way, shutting herself off from the memory of those bodies in the back of the van. They had shot first. They had attacked the scientists–Blue Eyes assets. This had to be done.

Clara stared into her mug. But did it have to be done like this? They had infiltrated a society of people whose lives they knew nothing about. She was a deceiver. If something went wrong, and they were discovered to be frauds, they’d have to fight their way out of town. Before the day was up, she might have to kill a lot of these cultists… goths, whatever they were. People. It could be a bloodbath, and all it would take was one wrong word, one tiny mistake.

The food arrived, but Clara felt sick. She dipped her bread in the soup while Andy removed his gloves and wolfed his down. How bad were these cultists really? Maybe they worshipped a demon, or maybe they were forced into doing its bidding.

“The great lord master would sooner guffaw than cherish your meagre offering,” one of the goths nearby said. He looked the oldest amongst the three teenage boys. His voluminous black hair curtained a web of cheap brass necklaces draped over his exposed, hairless chest.

“At least when he laughs, we shall awake,” another goth with a pointed collar said.

“The two of you make fun,” the youngest of the three replied. “But I do not see any offerings in your hands. If you do not make an effort, the lord gracious master will think of you as idle dullards.”

The eldest boy reclined in his blood-red leather throne, sipping a chalice of wine. “More the dullard to assert that a gift so meagre as yours might rouse his supremacy from slumber.”

“You shall retract such a statement once tonight's ritual is through,” the youngest said.

“I very much doubt you will make it to the castle’s pinnacle,” the eldest said. “For the journey is wrought with horrors, the like that occupy a boy’s nightmares.”

“I am no boy,” the youngest said, puffing out his pigeon chest. “I am a man. Have I not received martial training under Yvron?”

“Training cannot prepare a fledgling for real combat.”

“Oh, indulge us Carrion ,” said the boy with the spiked collar. “Recount to us your tale of assault upon unarmed men and women alike.”

“You are a wrangler,” the youngest said. “A mere slave wrangler, no warrior priest of his supreme.”

“Yes I am,” the eldest named Carrion said, sitting forward, sloshing his wine. “Twice, I fired my rifle.”

“And twice you missed.”

“Whether or not, it sent them scattering into the jaws of the undead.”

“God, I can’t wait for tonight’s ritual,” Andy interrupted loudly. The three goths broke their conversation to consider him. Clara’s mind raced for something to say.

“Yes,” Carrion said. “It shall be quite… exquisite.”

Andy made a high-pitched, pleasurable whine. “Exquisite indeed.”

“It’s going to be our first,” Clara said. “Since we joined.”

“Your first?” the kid with the pointed collar asked.

“Yes.”

“But… you’ve been initiated?”

“Of course,” she said, forcing her breathing to remain regular. “But this will be our first proper one.”

“I see,” Carrion said. “Do you possess an offering more worthy than my friend Raven’s statuette?”

“This, I carved with my bare hands,” Raven said, producing a small wooden figure. Clara had to squint in the firelight to decipher what it was: a bat with its wings spread out and two stumpy legs, carved from a single block of wood. It had sharp eyes, round ears and a fat stomach.

“That’s nice,” she said.

“Rubbish,” Andy said. “The grand, supreme, awesome master won’t bat an eye at that piece of shit, if you’d pardon the pun.”

After a moment of figuring it out, Carrion laughed haughtily. “Very good, sir.”

“What have you but spiteful words, stranger?” Raven glared at Andy, nostrils flared.

Andy stared back blankly and tapped his nose. “Something special.”

“Care to tell?”

“A Mighty Boosh DVD box set. I reckon it’s up his alley.”

There was another awkward silence. “What’s that?” Raven asked.

“Never mind,” Andy said. Clara had no idea what he was referencing either. Sometimes, Andy existed inside his own little world, with his own jokes, all for himself. Currently, he was getting by on confidence alone.

The third of the goths set his chalice down, straightened his pointed collar and narrowed his eyes at Andy. “Your fingers remain unpainted. Pale tips like the blunt teeth of a herbivore. What is the meaning of this?”

Clara froze. She had meant to paint his nails black earlier that day, but must have gotten distracted and neglected to remember. It was a major flaw in his disguise.

“Well, speak.” The kid raised his voice and stood up out of his seat. “Or has the crow bitten off your lips?”

Clara’s mind short-circuited. She had no answer. This was the mistake Clara had dreaded. She shifted in her chair, giving herself room to draw the SMG. Mentally, she ran through the procedure of flicking the gun up, shifting it to rapid fire, pointing it at Raven and the other teenagers and pulling the trigger. The thought of violence was dizzying, churning her gut. She almost vomited, but held it back, clinging to control which the cultists’ accusation festered in the air.

Carrion must have spotted the trepidation in her expression, because he stared at her. She could see the suspicion grow behind his narrowing eyes. Any second now, she’d be forced to shoot the scowl off his face. Tensing her gut, Clara held her breath, and resolved to do what was necessary.