Andy remembered headaches like the one he had from when he first started properly drinking. It felt like one of his eyeballs was so swollen it had cracked his skull. His brain was mush. His stomach felt withered by treacherous acid, bubbling up his sawdust-dry throat. “Never let me drink absinthe again.”
“Just absinthe?”
“Just absinthe.” He confirmed. They were packing up their gear on the top floor of a building overlooking a valley. For a second, when he woke, he thought they were still on the roof of the shopping complex. Andy barely remembered the past thirty-six hours. They had flown by in bleary glimpses of a road rushing beneath him, one faded white line at a time, like a dotted trail annotated on a map.
The harrying of fever dreams had left his body fatigued and his soul-dreary. Andy’s perception of self had retreated into his mind, overtaken by chaotic noise. During the journey, he had been five different people, all having conversations with themselves, arguing, trying to decide on a definition of reality. One of the voices was his artificial intelligence, another was a drawing of a monster he’d scribbled in class when he was little. He drifted from one perspective to another, each time wearing a new pair of eyes, moving a new set of lips. The conversation had gone around in circles. It repeated and got stuck on certain points for hours at a time.
“Andy, you were sick,” Clara said, tightening the straps on her rucksack. “It wasn’t just the drink.”
“Any clue what?”
“Probably…” Clara chewed her lip and averted her eyes. “Probably the vampire, right?” Her tone was subdued and stiff.
“Eww.” Andy rubbed the bite mark on his neck. “Dirty bugger, probably didn’t brush his teeth.”
Clara chuckled dryly. “I cleaned the wound,” she said. “But, yeah, maybe not well enough. Probably an infection.”
“Well, I’m over it now.” Andy shook himself, dispelling his hangxiety like a dog ridding itself of water.
“How is the neck?” Clara asked as she shouldered the gear and stepped into the stairwell.
“Fine.” Through his gloves, Andy felt two tiny scabs on his neck where the vampire had bit him. “How does it look?”
“Bruised. It’s a hell of a love bite.”
“Ha-ha.”
“Did you get his radio frequency?” Clara grinned. “Maybe he’d hook up again.”
Andy sighed. “Please stop.” Andy felt unsure on his feet as he followed her downstairs. His knees buckled, but with a little exercise he’d be chipper in no time. At the bottom of the stairwell was a high ceilinged lobby. A tube lamp hung down lengthways on its wires. A motorbike was propped up beside the exit. Andy scoured the luggage tied to its rear. There was his assault rifle, but no metal briefcase.
“Where’s the payload?”
“It’s gone. We failed.”
Andy groaned. “Someone steal it?”
“In a way,” Clara said, tying their survival bag to the motorbike. “The payload was Augmentation Serum. I used it on myself.” Clara slapped her thigh. “Sorry Andy, you’re not the only special one now.”
Andy’s eyes went wide. “No way. You too now?”
Clara grinned and nodded.
“That means we’re both…”
“An elite unit,” Clara said.
“Killer wizards.”
“Wizards?” Clara said. “Is that how you see yourself?”
“Yeah, gun wizards.”
“That’s dumb, Andy. There’s science behind it.”
“You can’t convince me.” Andy untied his assault rifle tied to the back and gave the magazine a quick tap, using the enhanced perceptiveness of his Combat Conceptualisation module to divine its contents. “Still got seventeen rounds left.”
“Nineteen, actually,” Clara said. “I counted yesterday.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“Damn this hangover’s bad. I’m never off.” He slung the rifle over his shoulder and looked his sister up and down. She didn’t seem to have changed physically, but then, neither had he since he injected the Augmentation Serum six years ago. “Go on then. Tell me what yours does.”
“I’m not sure yet,” Clara said, wheeling the motorbike outside. “Something to do with electricity.”
“Think it’ll turn you into a big hulk like that merc from a few days ago?”
“God I hope not. I like my figure.”
“It might do,” Andy said. “Electro-hulk. That sounds like an archetype. You can’t stop it now. Welcome to the club.”
Clara ignored him, pausing in the doorway. She looked back towards the stairwell. “I had a vision last night.” She took a deep breath, eyes fixed on the basement. “I saw something in there.”
“Wanna kill it?”
Clara shook her head. “Why waste the ammo. I just… thought I’d tell you, in case it comes up again.”
“Gotcha. Keeping my eyes peeled for something weird.”
“Very funny.”
“Want me to drive?” he asked.
“You can barely stand, Bambie.” Clara sat behind the handlebars and Andy mounted behind her. Something hard jutted out of the rucksack and dug into his tailbone. He tried to adjust it as Clara set off down the road, but their bike bumped over the cracks and rubble on the road. Andy felt sick to his stomach. He grabbed Clara to steady himself, taking the brunt of the discomfort in his arse. “Shit, this is uncomfortable.”
“Sucks to ride bitch, dunnit?”
The wind rushed in his face as they drove down the hillside and into an overgrown village. They drove by recent tire tracks which cut over a grassy verge at the bottom of the hill around a large apple tree, following them deeper into the village. Gradually, the stout brick buildings sunk into dereliction, like a shoreline breached by a sea of weeds. Thin trees poked above dense bushes, engulfing the ruins of civilisation. Tall grass drooped over the road like a breaking wave caught in stasis, green at its depth, brown and frost-bitten at its foaming head. White seed-pods splashed above the hedgerow. Winter was fading. Another spring was on its way, nature’s way of reclaiming the land one season at a time.
They drove slowly for over an hour; any faster and they’d risk tipping the vehicle on the uneven road. On their left, Andy could hear the rush of rapids over the motorbike’s engine as a river held hands with the road for a few minutes before veering away.
Andy spotted movement on the road ahead. Two men were pushing an old grey car down the road while a third sat in the driver’s seat trying to rev the engine back to life. Clara slowed their bike to a cautious crawl, shifting her submachine gun onto her lap as she overtook them, giving them a wide berth. Rounding a bend, they spotted the hollow hulls of marooned buildings jutting out of the overgrown countryside. Andy scanned the roadside for an ambush, ready to leap off the bike and return fire at a moment’s notice.
Ruins rose from the vegetation, dilapidating into the road. Clara followed a clear path through the rubble, as though someone had recently bulldozed it aside. Ahead, a canvas was drawn tight over a derelict roof. An old, fat woman sat beside a table of wares, alone in the road. There were trinkets and tatt on the table, and animal pelts hung up on a rack behind it. Andy watched the old woman as they passed. Her head was hooded, her eyes black like a crow’s. A blanket was draped over her lap. Her old leathery hand brushed against a bulge at her hip–a sidearm. Andy grinned, he liked her spirit.
The road turned at a constant angle, obscuring what was ahead, directing them beneath an overpass. A tarpaulin sheet spray painted and stretched over the railings read: ‘Welcome to Milltown.’ Passing beneath it, a snow capped mountain top appeared in the distance at the head of the valley, towering above all. The cliff faces on either side of them were covered in scraggly forests, broken by white chalk rocks. A row of empty apartment buildings crumbled in a copse of trees. Ahead, a row of derelict cars had been dragged out of the road to create a single shaded avenue into town.
As they delved deeper into the village, the ruins began to group together, the creep of nature subsided. Tarpaulin sheets dotted the ruins around them in an array of greys, blues and greens, scavenged from the wasteland. They were pieced together by animal pelts, a patchwork of the old world and the new. A man missing a leg leaned against a crumbling wall, enjoying a morning cigarette. A donkey laden with travel bags startled at the motorbike’s loud engine. The man grabbed the reins, dropping his cigarette, wrestling with the animal to keep it from bucking. He gave them a mucky look as they drove by.
The smell of food sweetened the air. A canopy of tarpaulins sheltered the road ahead. Clara slowed their bike to a crawl. Villagers surrounded them, people of all ages, sitting in the shadows or walking about the streets. Many were unarmed, but some bore old hunting rifles, stabbing and bludgeoning weapons. The chatter rose about him. Andy listened over their engine–the villager’s their accents were thick, or else they were speaking in a foreign language.
The compact buildings widened as the road opened up into a large flat area ahead. Market stalls lined the opening, carts cluttered atop the concrete. The wealthier traders had their car doors and boots open, items spilling out onto tables and hung up on lines. The less wealthy traders had horses tied up to posts, their wares displayed out the back of carriages. To their left, the final building in the row had been gutted to make room for a workshop. Inside, engineers spun wrenches and hammered away. Clara stopped their bike and they dismounted, taking in the sights.
One man selling sacks of wheat and pickled vegetables wore a sword at his waist to deter thieves. In the shadows behind him, a second man sat unassumingly against a stool in the alleyway, a shotgun across his lap. Andy couldn’t miss the trader’s guard, but a hungrier person might. A girl was folding piles of clothes while a woman beside her repaired them with coarse thread and a bucket of scrap garments. Smoke rose through gaps in the tarpaulin roof of the building behind them.
Together, Andy and Clara wheeled their bike through the marketplace. Andy scanned the streets looking for someone selling ammunition. There was a lot of winter foods–cured meats, jarred and dried fruits and vegetables, grains and hard, shrivelled vegetables. The smell of stew wafted towards him, traded by the ladleful on an old man’s doorstep. There were displays of clothes, blankets, rucksacks. Tables full of crude weapons: bludgeons, staffs, knives, and old rusty rifles.
Nearby, two young men were arguing with a customer, insisting that their fuel wasn’t diluted by more than ten percent. They had stacks of red canisters on display in the boot of their jeep. Andy had been a fuel jockey once–he reckoned only a handful of those canisters would have something in them, the rest would just be for show. The illusion of opulence. The fuel would be cut roughly four-parts pure fuel syphoned from gas tanks in the wasteland with one-part vegetable oil or ethanol spirits. A couple of heavily diluted canisters would likely be marked and set aside for ripping off weak and gullible looking customers. It was all part of the con, all part of the trade.
A stray dog ran up to Andy and sniffed his leg. He shooed it away on wobbly knees, gripping the handlebars for stability. Better to not make any sudden movements. The morning sunlight glared at him through a mirror resting atop a glass and pottery stall. It pierced his brain, forcing him to shield his eyes. “I need a drink.”
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
Clara handed him a bottle, half full of water.
“No, something to take the edge off.”
“Last night you were unconscious with a fever. Give it a rest.”
“My liver can’t cope being this sober. It’s too much of a shock to the system.”
Clara stopped in the street, still holding the water bottle out. She raised an eyebrow and looked at him sternly.
“Fine,” Andy said, taking the bottle. “What’s the plan?”
“Let’s get a room somewhere.” She approached a store of tatt and trinkets, placing a small silver charm on the table. “Where can a merc find a room in this town?”
“Along the river’s edge,” the merchant said. He was a tall skinny man, a little older than Andy, wearing a shirt which didn’t quite reach his wrists. “Welcome to Milltown.”
“Thanks.” The two of them wheeled their motorbike through the marketplace. The buildings around them were in varying states of disrepair. Lumber and tarpaulin had been used to patch the gaps in brickwork, some had been repurposed as pigsties and chicken coops. A group of women washed clothes in a bucket together, stringing them out between the ruined walls. Two children ran past them barefoot, splashing in the muddy puddles, brandishing sticks at one another like swords.
The sound of the river drowned out the marketplace bustle as they neared the bank. A tree sprouted from the cracks beneath a narrow cobblestone bridge, its branches clawed over the embankment. Nailed to one branch was a sign pointing across the bridge: ‘Haven Inn’. The bank itself was a sheer stone wall which dropped at least fifteen feet before it met the water’s edge. The bank on the opposite side was much shorter. A mill squatted there, its heavy waterwheel turning in the river’s strong current. The weeds around it had been whacked trodden down to keep it looking tidy. There was a garden behind it, and a barren allotment in the field beyond. Smoke rose from a brick chimney in the building’s old quarters, while a modern timber extension latched onto its side.
As they crossed the bridge, Andy glanced down the riverbank. A dozen or so mills churned in the current. Many looked modern to Andy, made from timber and scavenged stone. The village’s occupants must have been busy since the cataclysm. On the opposite bank, a man lay against the bridge with an empty bottle in his hand. His beard was thick, hands coarse, clothes caked in mud. Andy could smell him from a distance, and envied his unconsciousness. Andy kicked the bottle as he passed, it clanged down the brick arch, empty. Never mind.
A dog barked at them as they approached the inn, tied to a stave. The hound was huge, well fed and proud, just as fearsome as many beasts which Andy had encountered in the wasteland. They lent their motorbike against a fence and Clara headed for the door, just out of range of the hound’s leash. “Wait here,” she said. “I’ll check that they’ve got a room.”
A minute later, she returned with a boy at her heels. Clara followed the boy around the back to a large shed. The kid unlocked several heavy padlocks and opened the doors. They stowed their bike inside beside two other vehicles like it, then the boy opened a large metal container. “For your weapons, miss.”
“How can you guarantee our safety inside?” Clara said.
“There’s no guns in the Haven Inn. It’s a haven like that, you see.” Andy couldn’t place the boy’s accent. During the cataclysm, there was so much migration, regional sounds had combined. Many people spoke with a unique tone, and the boy wasn’t an exception.
“Some people don’t need guns to be dangerous,” Clara said, hand on her sidearm.
“Less people with them, less trouble.”
“I think, maybe we’ll take our patronage elsewhere.”
“Same policy everywhere in Milly. But, it’s your choice, miss.”
Andy and Clara shared a glance, then Clara submitted her machine gun and unzipped both bags tied to the back of the motorcycle for the boy to inspect. “I’m taking these inside, they have our supplies.”
The boy checked her bags while Andy untied his assault rifle, then unstrapped his 9mm sidearm, grenade bandolier and combat knife.
The kid’s eyes lingered on Andy’s hip. “Your pistol, sir.”
“It’s a revolver.”
“Andy,” Clara said. “We’ve got to if we want to go inside.”
“Seriously, Julie too?” he said.
She snapped her fingers. “Yeah, Julie.”
“Julie’s a friend.”
“Julie’s a revolver. I’ve seen Julie kill people. Come on, I’m hungry. Let’s go.”
“What kind of man would I be if I abandoned my friends like that?”
“Fine, fuck it. Stay outside with the dog. See if I care.” Clara stormed out of the storage shed. The boy waited for Andy to make a move.
“You sell booze inside, don’t you?”
“Of course, sir.”
Andy sighed and unfastened his holster, relinquishing her to the dark, dingy storage crate. “Sorry girl, a man’s got needs.” As soon as he let go of her, Andy felt weightless, as though Julie’s slender mechanism was the only thing keeping him attached to the ground. He grabbed a beam for stability as his knees shook. The kid tossed his weapon in with the lot and locked the container, trapping Julie in the dark. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, but Julie did not respond.
Composing himself, Andy exited the storehouse and entered the inn. He found Clara sitting at the bar, her rucksack on her back, duffle-bag at her feet. The building was like any old country inn–small rooms and a homely smell–except each room was lit by the luxury of a single orange electrical bulb. The walls were built from a mix of rough stones, likely scavenged from the countryside nearby, held together by a grey, crumbling mortar. The bar was varnished old wood, poked by a thousand glass rings and tobacco stains. Large wooden pillars braced the roof’s beams. One closest to the bar had names and lines scratched into its polished surface, with a date next to each. Some were old and faded, illegible. Andy squinted at the nearest one: ‘Jacko Adelphi - 1984’.
Clara was talking to a large man behind the bar, showing him the silver jewellery which Andy had scavenged back at the shopping complex. The barkeep shook his head, so Clara dug into her pockets and revealed a small plastic bag. The man poked through the contents, scowling. “No, no. What is this?” He held up a small, bronze round.
“.45 snub.”
“This looks like a .44 Russian to me.”
“Like I said, it’s a mismatched bag. Lucky dip. There’s some .22, some 7mm, some shells.”
“It isn’t cheap repurposing rounds.” The barkeep emphasised his Cs like they were Ks, jumping up and down in pitch like a pendulum. “Most people in Milltown want shotgun shells and hunting rounds. Rifle rounds. Not this… um, military rounds, like surplus.”
“Yeah well, you’re a trader. Trade it.”
“Alright then, I am just explaining my reasoning. I can give you three nights for this lot. A meal every night, baths are open twice a week, and you’re in luck, the warm water is heating up right now.”
“Seven nights,” Clara said. “We’ll pay you more at the end of the week.”
The barkeep raised his chin. “What you do? Fuel jockeys?”
“Mercs.”
“Got an employer?”
“Looking for a new one. Old one couldn't afford us anymore.”
The barkeep snorted. “You’re joking.”
“No. He couldn’t afford us. Had to pay in other ways. That’s why we’re broke.” Clara held the barkeep’s gaze. Andy reinforced her gaze, fixing the barkeep with a cold stare.
“We don’t want trouble,” he said.
“We arne’t looking for trouble. We need a bed, food, and work.”
“I know who you are looking for,” he pointed at her. “The New Patricians. They are… guests of this town. Some are visiting here very often. They should be back later tonight. Maybe I will introduce you.”
“Much appreciated,” Clara said. If I could tip you right now, I would.”
“That’s alright, I won’t forget.” The barkeep handed her a room key, then poured two short glasses of booze from a barrel. “On the house, beautiful.”
Clara snatched both shots up before Andy could react. She grimaced at the barkeep’s comment, but downed each shot anyway. “Cheers.” Leaving the bar, Andy followed her around the back where a modern extension expanded the old inn. The floorboards, walls and ceiling were all timber. A wide common room held a variety of simple, scavenged furniture. Several rugs covered the floor, their sizes not lining up right, leaving patches of bare floorboards between the seams. Men lounged in the flickering candlelight around the walls. At the centre of the room, a single lampshaded bulb spotlight a large, green velvet table. Cue sticks lay dormant in a wall-rack behind the table, accompanied by a dirty chalk-board. The names of several individuals were scored on the board, all crossed out with tallies next to their names but one: Alister.
“Wow,” Andy said, admiring the quality of the table’s velvet. It was well looked after. “She’s pretty.”
“Come on.” Clara led them to a staircase which wound around to the first floor. A single hallway divided two rows of rooms. Following the key tag, she found their room, unlocked it and dipped inside. Shutters at the back of the room let in the afternoon light. Clara slung her bags onto one bed and opened the shutters, sitting in a chair beside the window. Andy lounged on the bed beside her. Clara was silent, staring out of the window.
“You alright?” Andy asked. He waited for a response, but when it didn’t come, he untied his laces and put his feet up, wiggling his toes. “Good job that window’s open. My feet stink.”
Clara snorted, then sighed. “I’m fine. Tired. Tired of starting again.”
“You’re not used to it by now?”
“I hate it.” Clara kicked her shoes off and flopped onto her bed, staring at the ceiling. “We’re better than this. How long have we been mercing for? About four years. We still don’t have a steady client, or a base of operations. Our jeep’s a wreck.” Clara sighed. “I loved that jeep, you know.”
“At least we survived.”
“I don’t want to just survive anymore. I’m over it.”
“Nah, we should celebrate our persistence. I’ll go grab a bottle.”
“Andy, it’s…” Clara checked her wrist terminal, but the screen was dark. “It’s not even afternoon yet.”
“Settle down. I’ll grab some mixer too.”
“Look, as nice as that sounds, the barkeep wasn’t interested in trading in silver, and we don’t have much else to trade before we have to start giving up weapons. Then I’ll be really depressed. I already lost my marksman’s rifle and had to leave behind your-”
“Machine gun!” Andy shot out of bed. “Where is it?”
“I had to leave it behind.”
“What, why?”
“Because I was carrying your limp arse and all the gear on one motorbike.”
“Damn,” Andy sat back down. “Should have left me behind.”
“I will do next time.” Clara smiled.
“What’s the plan then?”
“I’m off to see this cartographer. I reckon the information we’ve got on surrounding zones is worth something to him. Our data goes all the way back to Quadra. Then I’ll get a lay of the land, maybe talk politics. We’ll find an employer before the end of the week. And if not, well, we’ll leave this place. Find somewhere else.” Clara took one last look out the window, then headed for the door. “Do what you want today, rest. I need a little time alone. Nothing personal.”
“That’s fine.”
“I just haven’t been sleeping well.”
“It’s fine. I’ll chill here.”
“Please don’t get into any trouble while I’m gone. For one, you don’t have a gun on you.”
“No worries. I’m hungover anyway.”
“Okay. Leave your radio on.”
Clara left, and the room got quiet. Birds chirped outside the window. A distant engine rumbled, as a gust of wind carried the smell of wet vegetation from the valleyside forest. It was quiet moments like these that his Augmentation’s artificial intelligence usually stole his peace, but no voice came. For once, it was just Andy’s own thoughts in his head.
Andy dozed, trying to focus on anything but his headache. Something Clara had said stuck in his mind. How long have we been mercing for? Memories fluttered through his mind. Clara and him sat atop a lorry’s wagon, sharing a drink, watching the sun set. Her, sleeping beside a campfire. She looked peaceful. How could someone seem so peaceful in a world like this? With a sudden burning pride, Andy knew that it was because she felt safe, protected by him.
His mind wandered back to when they got their first job as mercenaries about four years ago. Back then, Clara was new to negotiating and Andy was heavy on the booze. Heavier, anyway. Andy had hated the employer from the start, a big blonde man with a chin the size of an apple. He’d been too big for his boots–thought that, just because he had a bit of enterprise in the decaying world, he was a big man. He thought his ego could stop a bullet. It hadn’t.
The further back his mind wandered, the less he remembered, and the thirstier he felt. There were glimpses of his past, before the catalyst. He’d hated the old world, never fit in. Good riddance that it was gone.
A blank spot expanded in his mind, filling his vision, blotting out his dreams. Andy was half convinced that when he opened his eyes again, the blackness would consume him. But it didn’t, and the feeling of dread subsided, replaced by a subdued headache and ravenous hunger. Andy got up and made his way downstairs into the common room. It was bustling with activity now. Groups of men leaned over tables of drinks. The smell of cooking stew sifted through the low smoky rafters.
Andy drifted over to the jewel of the room: the pool table, and armed himself with a cue from the rack, weighing it in his hands, then rolling it over the empty table to check for warp. It rolled once, then swung back and forth lopsided. The tip worn to the nub. He checked three more cues until he was satisfied.. Andy applied the chalk gently like a lady applying blush, making sure to cover the surface evenly.
Picking up the cue ball, he rolled it down the length of the table, bouncing it off the back cushion, judging the table’s lean, the quality of the felt, the weight of the ball, getting a feel for it all. Bending over, he aimed down his cue and tapped the ball in its centre. It rolled across the table, bounced off the cushion at the opposite end and crept back towards him, finishing perfectly flush with the break line.
Andy struck the ball solidly. It shot into the back left pocket with a snap and clatter. He looked around the room. Punters were watching him. “Who’s in a betting mood?”
A couple men stood and approached him, drinks in their hands. “Go on then lad. What’s the stakes?”
Andy removed the silver ring he’d scavenged from the vampire’s corpse the first time they’d fought in the parking lot, and placed it on the table. “It’s haunted, that ring. Extra value.”
Andy let them appraise the ring as he headed over to the bar. He needed a few drinks to get him in the zone. Playing pool was much like shooting on a range, it flexed the same mental muscles–required the same instincts. Andy performed better when he was just a little bit drunk: three drinks exactly. It had to be an odd number, or it wouldn’t work. He didn’t know why that was the case, it just was.
However, these were exceptional circumstances. Andy had been days without a drink, he needed hair-of-the-dog to get him through. So four drinks it was. But then, this was a new town, it was only customary and polite to sample the menu, like a civilised mercenary. So five drinks. Additionally, he needed something extra to top up his hip flask, something strong. He may as well have a glass while he was at it. That made six, an even number. It wouldn’t work. It had to be seven. Seven drinks, and then he could play pool.
“Barkeep!”