“We’re in the shadows of a dying world,” Clara sang softly as she drove through the old mountainous roads. The album had spun five times since they had departed the mutant infested satellite compound earlier that evening–it was stuck inside the jeep’s antiquated CD player. She didn’t know the name of the musicians, but liked to imagine it was the spirit of the jeep singing to her–yeah, it was a goofy fantasy, but stranger things had happened in the wasteland.
Outside, the dark of night drew a curtain across the rocky pass. Mist sparkled in the jeep’s headlights. Clara’s wrist terminal indicated that they would reach Quadra by sunrise. Until then, with Andy fast asleep in the passenger seat, she enjoyed the rare moment of quiet, mentally preparing for her meeting with their employer Old Blue Eyes. The price was already negotiated: guns, ammo, supplies, fuel and access to an Augmentation Master Console so that Andy could recalibrate his abilities; but there was something else she intended to ask for–a chance to prove themselves.
Andy stirred in his sleep, muttering to himself. Clara wondered if the AI voice in his head was communicating with him in his dreams, or whether he was just regular muttering. She didn’t have a clue how all that stuff worked, Andy never explained it to her, not even the basics. She only knew that he should be recalibrating at an Augmentation Master Console a lot more. Neglecting to do so had stunted his growth, and now she’d learned that there were even potential health risks as the serum altered his DNA unchecked.
If Clara had a power like his, she would treat it a lot differently. She would train and comb over the data provided by the AMC, searching for new ways to advance her powers, new limitations to breach. But Andy seemed content with just about getting by. Therefore, Clara’s plan was to raise the bar–push them into more dangerous territories on harder missions, stress his limitations and force him to adapt. Otherwise, they’d be stuck doing low-paying mercenary jobs for the rest of their lives, until one of them caught a bullet or a bite. Call it wishful thinking, but Clara hoped that there was more to life than that.
As the sun rose, the valley widened and pastures replaced forests. Sheep and cows grazed behind ramshackle fences, guarded by shepherds and dogs. Ahead, a car approached them from around the bend. It leaned sideways, stopping on the road, half-blocking their path. Clara slowed their jeep and drew her pistol, holding it in her lap, safety off. Beside her, Andy slept. This probably wasn’t worth waking him over.
A man leaned out of the car window, sitting on the frame. He waved her down. Clara scanned him for weapons, but kept her eyes on the driver’s side. If this was an ambush, the man waving was just a distraction.
“Need a top up, lovely,” the man yelled.
Clara pulled up beside their compact economic car, looking down from the window of her jeep into the car’s back seats. The cushions had been stripped to make room for a dozen large barrels. “Sorry, this baby doesn’t run on dilute.”
“Dilute?” he whined. “Who said anything about dilute?”
“Me.” Clara winked and revved their engine loudly, bouncing over the verge, around the jockey’s vehicle and off down the road. Fuel jockeys were always trying tricks; if it wasn’t diluting their haul or sticking a tube into your gas tank, it was trying to intimidate customers. She had a personal experience of the trade.
The sky grew vibrant as they neared their destination. Clara slowed the jeep as they passed a convoy of traders travelling down the muddy road out of Quadra. Muscular horses drew three wagons made from the stripped hulls of rusty old cars. The trader's clothes were a patchwork of scavenged garments: sports, military, civilian clothes, all unified by a coat of grime. The skin of their hands was like worn leather. They kept one eye on the jeep as she passed, crude firearms slung over their shoulders. Clara caught the eye of a woman who wore a veil over her mouth, the tail end of a scar disfiguring her brow. There was something sinister in her one remaining eye, bitterness, perhaps something else.
Clara watched the traders depart in her wing mirror. Two children peeked through the curtain draped over the boot of the rear wagon. Their faces were partially obscured by her jeep’s fumes, like the memory of a friend whom she couldn’t recall. Clara stifled a pang of guilt for having not helped them in some way. But what could she do? What could she spare? Rations maybe? Water? It was already too late; their wagons rattled down the pitted road, heading into the mountain range, beyond the protection of Quadra’s influence and into the wasteland propper. Clara wondered what sort of a life waited for them out there?
The valley abruptly narrowed, and at its recesses was a looming mountain, whose flanks bowed and stretched over the valley, embracing Quadra in its enormous lap. The settlement climbed up the cliff’s semi-circular face like a coliseum. A latticework of wooden walkways and shacks peaked over the city’s perimeter like unruly bird nests. Below them, the city hid behind its scrapyard defences: a trench spanned the perimeter, diverting water from a nearby lake to form a moat, dug before a wall of derelict cars stacked like bricks, four-high and laced with barbed wire, too rusted and jagged to climb. Smoke stacks rose from the bowls of the settlement, carrying on the wind the rich promise of warmth and cooked food, which coaxed Clara’s foot on the gas pedal a notch more.
Above it all, at the mountain’s peak, Quadra tower raised its four-flagged standard accompanied by satellite dishes dotting its stem like silver grapes, catching the glow of the morning sun. Each flag on the tower represented one of the four clans who ruled the settlement at its base: The Harmonies, a smartly dressed, well organised gang with whom she and Andy were employed; the Grizzlies, a tribe of warriors and hunters who relied on primitive technology and weapons; the Fadeaways, a council of degenerates and drug lords who controlled Quadra’s Underbelly, providing a cheap workforce to the others; and the Visionaries, an elusive cult of cartographers who studied the cataclysm and the world, searching for answers where others only accepted reality. Quadra was the largest modern settlement that Clara had ever seen, built entirely after the cataclysm–a hotbed for merceneering.
Ahead, two wood-built watchtowers stood on either side of the gate: a hand-cranked slab of welded sheet metal. Clara rolled to a stop and killed the engine, and sat back, waiting for the guards to approach. An older man with a thick moustache signalled for them to get out. Clara rolled her eyes and obeyed, making sure to keep her hands visible at her sides, and away from the sidearm at her waist.
“State your business,” the guard said, all too casually rested a hand on the pistol at his hip. Clara glanced back at Andy, relieved to see he was still dozing. He wasn’t the most tactful teammate when it came to dealing with authority.
“I’m Clara, a mercenary. We were out on a mission for Old Blue Eyes. Just coming back.”
“Two of you?” The guard asked. He was wearing a white button shirt and smart trousers and polished black shoes–the uniform of the Harmonies, of whom Old Blue Eyes was their boss. His lack of suit, vest or bowtie indicated that he was lowly ranked amongst the clan.
“Yeah,” Clara said. There was a silence between them. The guard seemed to expect Clara to elaborate; it was a tactic she was all too familiar with, intended to make her feel uncomfortable. She didn’t budge.
“Is he going to say hello?” the guard asked.
“He’s sleeping.”
“Is he shy?”
Clara laughed. “Oh yeah, terrified.”
He scowled. “Mind if I check your vehicle, young lady?”
“Go ahead,” Clara said, sickly sweet, turning her back on him. She sat in the driver’s seat while he strode around the vehicle.
“There trouble?” Andy murmured, half asleep, shrouded by his jet-black fringe.
“No,” Clara said. “Just some new guy showing off.”
“Want me to kill him for you?” Andy said deadpan, stretching like a cat beneath his blanket.
Clara laughed nervously, checking that the guard hadn’t heard him. “I think we’re alright.”
“Relax,” Andy yawned. “I’m joking.”
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
Once the watchman had satisfied his curiosity, he signalled to the gatekeepers. The barricade screeched as it was cranked upwards, revealing Quadra’s mountainous basin. Built around the mouth of an industrial-sized railway tunnel, timber lodges, storehouses and barracks clustered under their clans’ banner. The buildings were divided by white chalk roads, at the edges of which dark leafless shrubs sprouted, adding a splash of subdued colour to Quadra’s monochrome neighbourhood. Chalky residue covered everything, the timber, people’s clothes and vehicle wheels. A marketplace sprawled before them–merchants sold their scavenged and upcycled wares out of the backs of trucks and wagons. A black van bore a sign erected on its roof: FUEL. There were a lot of fuel jockeys in the area–Quadra was a popular spot for people wealthy enough to run an engine.
Clara veered towards the garage–a row of parking spaces sheltering beneath a leaky corrugated roof–and disembarked, waving a mechanic over.
“Need any work, miss?” the mechanic asked.
“Fill her up,” she said, “on Blue Eyes’ tab. There are canisters in the back for diesel and oil. I’ll know if you’ve watered them down.” Clara fetched her rifle and rucksack from the back seat while Andy stumbled out of the jeep into the morning sun. His long black hair fell in knots over his back, sunglasses crooked on his face as he meandered away, pulling his leather jacket tight over his skinny shoulders. Clara could smell the hangover on him.
“You don’t fancy collecting with me then?” Clara asked.
Andy waved the question away, dragging his feet in the general direction of Lackey’s–a bar frequented by the local militia and mercenaries.
“Don’t disappear,” Clara said, leaving him to roam. He could handle himself, and she was better off negotiating by herself. Once their jeep was filled, Clara parked in an alcove, stowed their most valuable supplies in a lockbox in the boot then locked the doors. She set off towards their lodgings on the far wall of the mountainside, passing by the Grizzlies’ headquarters along her way. Built like a viking longhouse, a fire pit smouldered the length of the lavishly decorated hall. Banners and trophy heads hung from the walls–beasts from the mountains and surrounding apocalypse zones. Clara identified the skulls of mutants, stags, minotaurs and other beasts she had never seen before with their bodies still attached.
Clara’s mouth watered as the smell of cooking meat wafted from the courtyard ahead. It had been two weeks since she’d had a proper warm meal–nothing but rations and stream water since then. Following her nose, she spotted a cauldron steaming in the centre of the wide courtyard. A chef dished out ladles of stew and flatbread to hundreds of hungry citizens, watched over by the prying eyes of the Fadeaways’ militia. Armed with clubs and whips, the Fadeaways wore black cowls over their faces, masking them like ethereal shades. Families formed small clusters with basic tree-stump benches. The atmosphere was calm, if a little depressing. Once their brief breakfast was up, they would have to say goodbye to the pale morning sunlight until tomorrow, as the Fadeaways forced them back into the Underbelly to work.
The symphony of Quadra echoed off of its amphitheatre walls, raining down upon Clara. Dogs yapped over the rustling of pots and pans and the morning murmur. Behind her, the clang of tools from the garage competed for dominance over the distant ring of pickaxes coming from Quadra’s massive tunnel system: the Underbelly. Once used as a railway to carry large machinery from factories inland, the tunnel had caved in many years ago during the cataclysm. Now, the majority of Quadra’s residents lived and worked in those dingey caves. Some mined new alcoves for businesses to set up shop, whereas others occupied the interior market, wherein anyone could satisfy their appetites for substance or service. The Underbelly offered refuge to anyone, at a price. Those who couldn’t pay often fell into slavery, working in the coal mines south of the settlement, or on the farms to the west. It was all part of a complex economy wherein toil and perseverance were the main currency, while violence and power reigned at the peak.
Somebody sang from high above the settlement, where timber shacks climbed the cliff face. Women hung clothes out to dry in the mountain breeze while children played amongst the precarious web of woodwork. Nearby, masons were laying the foundations for a sixth-story expansion. The clang of their hammers echoed across the rocky basin, bouncing back on itself discordantly. Clara’s hand searched for her small silver watch, but it was absent from her wrist. The cacophony of voices and movements and smells swept her up in a current as though she was back on the southern coast of England, just twelve years old again, standing on the beach with Andy, beholding the magnitude of the sea with the tide tugging at her ankles, daring her to drown.
Clara ducked into the shade of a shack and shut her eyes to breathe. The sensation of anxiety had taken her by surprise. She wasn’t normally like this, but the crowd had unearthed something deep within her mind–the panic of a stampede and the first few days of the cataclysm. Clara took a deep breath. She was underslept, that’s all. Fatigued.
Opening her eyes, she spotted an old man sitting alone at the edge of the courtyard. He wore a ragged straw hat, torn cotton shirt and frayed denim shorts. His skin was wrinkled and tanned. He did not seem to have a family. Nobody bothered him, sitting with his stew and flatbread. A small bird landed beside him, and the old man turned his head, tearing off a crumb and placing it gently on his bench. It reminded Clara of her grandad. The bird tentatively hopped towards him, then scuttled for the crumb and flew away. A smile approached the old man’s lips, then faded away. He didn’t notice Clara as she strode by, he just stared off after the bird into the morning sky.
Taking a deep breath to stretch her lungs, Clara headed towards their lodge. A rickety ramp led upwards through the latticework of shacks, shaded by the cliff. Clara surveyed Quadra from above as she travelled, pinpointing her employer’s headquarters, a large timber mansion built upon stone foundations. The flag above always reminded Clara of a flower bearing seven blue outer petals and six black inner petals. Beneath it, Clara was eager to meet with Old Blue Eyes, but first, she needed to make herself presentable.
Finding their shack three rows high, Clara unlocked the padlocked latch and swung open the rickety door. It was a simple room, undecorated, smelling of wet wood–a glorified lockbox for them and their gear. But at least they didn’t have to worry about getting robbed; the insignia on the door signified that it was protected by the Harmonies.
Clara scrubbed herself with soap and a rag, then dressed in clean clothes from the locker–the same outfit as always–camo trousers, black vest and her favourite combat jacket, with all its pockets and compartments for gadgets and gizmos.
Venturing down through the hive of walkways into Quadra’s basin, Clara reached the Harmonies’ district and greeted the guards outside their headquarters. “Morning chaps.”
Each of the men were dressed in waistcoats and bowler hats to boot. Their firearms were concealed, partly to maintain the aesthetic, but it had a psychological effect on Clara as well, as though they were saying: ‘We don’t need to flaunt our strength.’ It exuded an air of professionalism which made Clara pleased to be working for them. It was a world away from some of the barbarous warlords she and Andy had done jobs for in the past.
One guard doffed his hat and opened the door. Inside was a reception area. Sunlight shone through a glass window. A woman wearing a smart suit sat at a low piano, the top of which was covered in maps and stacks of papers. Beside her, a young boy in a button-up shirt twinkled on the keys. Electrical cables ran along the tops of the walls, feeding power to a single desk lamp and electric kettle–a flagrant display of opulence.
“Hello there, young lady,” the woman behind the piano said. She was maybe twice Clara’s age, with long black hair, dyed jet black to the roots. “I’ve got to say, I love your outfit.”
“Oh, thank you.” Clara looked down at her dirty camo trousers, black vest and military jacket. “It’s just my work clothes.”
“Well you look fabulous. Very authentic. Can I get you a drink?”
“Yes please.” Clara blushed despite herself. She knew she was being buttered up by the receptionist, but after two weeks on the road, washing in rivers and sleeping in the backseat of their jeep listening to Andy snore, she’d take all the buttering she could get. “I’m here to see Blue Eyes,” Clara said, approaching the desk
“Oh.” The woman looked her up and down. Something was communicated in her glance that Clara didn’t quite understand, but left her feeling uncomfortable. “Like that?”
“I’m here to collect on a mission,” Clara said quickly, then took a breath to comprehend the woman’s reaction. “Like what?”
“Oh, I didn’t mean anything by it,” the receptionist fretted, averting her eyes. “I just… I didn’t know what the nature of this visit was.”
“Professional,” Clara said.
“Well, regardless, if you would like to use my makeup kit, I would happily lend you it.”
“That’s alright, thanks.” Clara took a seat in a row against the wall.
“Can you believe we used to pay so much money for these,” the receptionist continued, holding up a handbag of paints and brushes. “I suppose maybe you don’t, you look very young. I mean that as a compliment.”
“Thank you,” Clara said.
The woman paused, as though expecting Clara to say something else. “Now I have boxes and boxes of them. Can’t get rid of them.” She hooted. “A lifetime’s supply. Please, take one.” She placed the handbag on the counter. “Us women have to look out for one another,” she winked.
“Oh, thanks.” Clara took the makeup kit and rifled through it. She swallowed under the woman’s scrutinous gaze, trying to think of something else to say about the gift. It reminded her of being a kid and receiving bath bombs from her mother one Christmas. At first, Clara had been excited, but upon dropping them into the bath that night, the water hadn’t detonated–a tidal wave hadn’t consumed the bathroom–they’d just fizzled out. That disappointment still stuck with her.
“There’s eyeshadow and concealer and lipstick and blush,” the woman sang, rhythmically pointing to her own face with a delicate finger. “A girl with natural beauty like yours shouldn’t hide it under that cap.”
Clara scoffed, but before she could respond, a door opened and a young boy wearing a tiny waistcoat entered. “Clara and Andy?” he asked. “Are you the merc, Ma’am?”
“That’s right.”
“What about Andy?”
“He’s absent today.”
“Okay.” The boy opened the door wide. “Old Blue Eyes is almost ready. Follow me, please.”