Clara didn’t have much time, but with Andy gone, she could organise their gear without any distractions. She dismantled and cleaned their weapons, sorted their ammunition and restocked their essentials. Once complete, Clara lay on her bed flicking through her wrist terminal. It was Bulwark Project tech–same as the AMC itself–and displayed a report of Andy’s recent recalibration. The process had been rough on him, with Andy clenching his fists, squirming and gurning his jaw for over an hour. But whatever pain it caused him was a necessary evil if Andy was to become stronger and avoid an untimely death from DNA corruption.

A new entry caught her eye. Delineation: Affinity. As Clara read the description, a smile crossed her lips. It was the first significant development in years. Clara read the entry over and over again, imagining what sort of powers Andy might develop, assuming she could continue to land them bigger, better, more dangerous missions. The delineation seemed to be linked with his revolver, but was distinct from his usual Enhanced Precision abilities. Something more unique, perhaps something more powerful?

Clara sighed wistfully and rolled out of bed. She cleaned her outfit with a rag, laying each piece on the bed, inspecting them for tears. Her black leather army boots were sturdy, with one-inch platforms and recently replenished laces. Her white vest was woven with micro-alloy fibre, which was supposed to provide extra protection, but Clara had been stabbed and punched while wearing it, and had yet to notice any difference. Honestly, she liked the silvery sheen the alloy gave the white fabric, and had three more vests like it stored in the trunk. Her camouflage trousers had been a size too large for her when she’d gotten them, but she’d grown into them in recent months. Their pockets were deep, the material nice and breathable, but the seams were starting to tear. Sewing them, she made a mental note to look for a new pair on the road.

Her black brimmed military cap had been with her the longest. She had found it as a kid, but it still fit her head on the tightest setting. The cap had been with her all over the world, keeping her hair in check and the sun out of her eyes. Checking herself in a mirror, Clara brushed her hair, intending for it to be a quick five minute job, but what proceeded was an hour long struggle with lugs and knots. By the end of her battle, the hairbrush looked like it had come off the back of a blonde sheep. It was a marvel she had any hair left on her head.

Finally, there was her combat jacket. Padded, but not too thick, the dark green was splotched with so many stains that it appeared camouflaged like her trousers. But in three years, Clara hadn’t found a jacket of equal quality to replace it with. Every pocket was perfectly placed, deep enough to store ammo, or shallow enough to quickly draw tools. Clara pulled the jacket on and spun around in the mirror, imitating drawing knives, firestarters, grenades and flares. She felt ready for anything.

Something caught her eye from the open lockbox–the glint of polished steel–her first ever knife. She must have opened more than a thousand cans with it back in England, while she and Andy scampered from one place to the next, surviving in the wreckage of an ever crumbling society. There were other mementos in the lockbox, most of them books: stories about war and great leaders, soldiers and traitors, spaceships and chariots, some of it history, some of it fiction–Clara sometimes struggled to tell the difference, which often added to the fun of reading them.

Clara emptied the contents of her rucksack onto the bed. Inside was the bare minimum they needed to survive on the road: a thin waterproof tarpaulin and string to build a shelter; a small medical kit, separate to their main one in the trunk of the jeep, stocked with potassium iodine and chlorine tablets; a waterproof container with five different tools to light a fire, each necessary for a specific situation; a distress beacon, flashlight with a red filter, fold-up knife. Finally, a pouch contained one bullet of every calibre she had come across. It was a mercenary superstition: you never wanted to be just one bullet short to do a job.

More than just the essentials, Clara’s backpack contained an array of gizmos which might become useful in the field. There was a compact motorised grappling hook with thirty metres of wire, a silent key-hole drill for peaking through walls, a few spark plugs for smashing windows, a bump-key for opening locks, attachable climbing spikes, and of course, duct tape. Furthermore, the rucksack had spaces for water bottles and rations, and a dozen other pouches for bits and bobs. Clara straightened the contents out on her bed, smoothing out the linen-stuffed mattress so that her items would hold their places. It reminded her of preparing her expansive pencil kit for school as a child.

Once she was satisfied that everything was in its right place, she packed the items back into her rucksack and tucked it beneath her bed. The dizzying wave of relaxation that swept over her. Lying down, she set the alarm of her wrist terminal to seven o’clock and almost immediately fell asleep.

When the alarm buzzed, Clara rose groggily. The last three weeks on the road were catching up to her. She needed a good night’s rest.

“Later,” she mumbled, getting out of bed, fixing her hair and setting off. Quadra’s chalk streets shone in the waxing moonlight like a wild landscape–trickling streams flowed between dark boulders, gathering at the dam-like perimeter and spilling out into the road beyond as a river of white. Beacons of firelight were scattered like orange stars, swimming in the mountain’s basin and rising high up the sides of the rocky wall, reaching for their silver brethren in the sky. The hum of fuel generators reverberated beneath a chilly sporadic wind, which shook the timber foundations beneath Clara’s feet, coaxing the scaffolding skyrise into singing a creaky melody, which made Clara grip the handrail a little tighter as she descended.

Ahead, soft golden light permeated the Harmonies’ headquarters–electrical bulbs, a real flaunt of wealth. The doors opened on the reception, where a boy dressed in a waistcoat led her to a large dining room. Although they had been working with the Harmonies for a few months now, Clara had never been to this section of the mansion before. The exterior wall was made of stone–grey boulders from the mountainside, cemented between tree-trunk posts. A fireplace was ablaze in the opposite wall, wearing its chimney like a granite top hat. On the mantelpiece, a small black box blinked with LED lights; Clara recognised from her grandparent’s house long ago–a converter which took the waste heat and smoke from inside a chimney and converted it into energy. A dynamic, sultry song was playing from electrical speakers, sung by a man with a smooth charming voice.

“Welcome, Clara.” Theodor the tailor stood by the doorway, fingers entwined over the head of a cane. He wore a dark maroon suit and a black tophat, with a single flower poking out of his breast pocket. “Blue Eyes sends his regards that, regretfully, he cannot be here.” Theodor carefully withdrew the flower and handed it to Clara. “But he wanted you to have this.”

The flower was a dainty thing with three white drooping bell-shaped heads. “Thank you. Am I to assume this is our advance on the job?”

Theodore smiled, motioning towards a large oak dining table in the centre of the room; its polished wood caught the firelight like crystal amber. “Let me introduce you to the others.”

Seated at the table was a Harmony woman, impeccably dressed with her black hair coiled above her head in complete submission. Clara could only just about tie hers into a ponytail or bun. It would be nice if, next time she met with Old Blue Eyes to complete their mission, she could dress up fancy like the women he employed.

Clara shook herself. She had been daydreaming and missed Harmonies’ name. Seated at the table beside her was a tall man with unruly sandy hair and a thick golden watch on his wrist. He wore jeans and a black t-shirt with a faded graffiti design. A padded denim jacket was slung over the back of his chair, a simple semi-automatic pistol visible at his hip. He acknowledged Clara, then returned to his meal of roasted meat, bread and yoghurt. Clara abruptly shut her mouth as her stomach gurgled, clearing her throat to mask the sound.

“This is Alister. A mercenary like yourself. I trust there is no bad blood between the two of you.”

“Not that I know of,” Clara said.

“We wouldn’t want a repeat of earlier,” Theodor said.

“That was…” Not our fault? Unlike Andy? A freak occurrence?

“Eight against one,” Alister chimed in without looking up from his meal. There was a foreign flavour to his accent that seasoned his voice with grandioso. “It sounds to me that it was not his fault.”

So that was the narrative going around Quadra: Unassuming Mercenary Fends Off Eight Scoundrels Alone. That story would serve her nicely.

“Andy defended himself,” Clara said, fiddling with her small silver watch. “But, we aren’t looking for trouble.”

A young serving boy brought Clara a portion of food. Theodor informed her that they were waiting on the third team of mercenaries to arrive before they started the mission briefing. Clara glanced around the room while she ate, then spotted someone sitting in the shadows. Poised against a velvet chair was a hooded figure draped in a black sheet, cut like a poncho. In their lap, they caressed a necklace of wooden beads. Clara squinted, trying to spot their face beneath the hood–she had never met a Visionary before.

Behind Clara, somebody stomped down the hallway and flung open the door. Ducking beneath the frame, an obscenely muscular person entered the dining room hefting a spear taller than Clara. The warrior was dressed in the tribal garb of the Grizzlies, with tattoos of runes and geometry decorating the tanned flesh of their hands and arms. They had the thighs and chest of a female athlete, yet the broad shoulders and strong chin of a man.

Behind them, a small man with wiry ginger hair and a sharp nose sniffed the air as he entered the room. “Apologies for the lateness, but we’re here now, aren’t we.”

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Theodor rose from his post near the doorway to greet the two newcomers. “I’m glad you made it Sax, Abigail. Meet Alister of the mercenary group Alister’s Boys, and Clara. Sax and Abigail are each members of the Grizzlies tribe, specifically their pack is the…”

“Hogs,” Abigail finished for him, flexing her bicep to show off a tattoo on her shoulder–two tusks crossed to make an X.

“You’re the one with the feisty brother?” Sax, the fox-like man rustled past Clara and took a seat opposite her.

“That’s right,” Clara said.

“Where is he then?”

Clara’s eyes darted around the room “Elsewhere.”

“Clearly. Licking his wounds?”

Clara grinned and raised her eyebrow, staring Sax dead in the eye, remaining silent.

“Quite a disturbance he caused,” Sax scowled. “I was lucky enough to have front-row seats.” His expression soured. “You won’t get away throwing your weight around with us like that.”

“Now-now Sax,” Theodor said. “Leave the unpleasantries for the job. Sit down, eat, I will explain your task.”

Sax began to devour his meal as his companion–the large warrior named Abigail–took her plate over to a settee instead. She walked with an awkward twist of the hips, leaning on her spear slightly for support. An injury, perhaps?

Theodore strode to the head of the table. “Mercenaries, Hogs, your attention please.” His classic British accent was at home in the opulent setting. “You may have all been told different things at different times, so I shall start at the beginning. East of our location is a city called Marsay. It was overrun by a strain of zombies during the cataclysm. Generally, the area is avoided, traders and travellers take the long way around, but our cartographers have a few substantiated reports. The Visionaries will share their data with you later.” Theodor nodded towards the hooded figure.

“We were recently drawn to the city by one of its buildings,” Theador continued. “A research facility near the coast in an industrial area. Eight months ago, we sent an expedition of specialists, accompanied by a troupe of Harmonies and set up a laboratory there. The operation was running smoothly for a few months, until, it seemed, the zombies caught on to our little project. They started attacking. First as individuals, then in waves. Normally, we have the manpower to defend our assets, however, a recent Fishfolk incursion has stretched our reinforcements thin.”

“Fishfolk?” Alister said.

“A species with advanced technology,” Theodor explained. “They have expanded on the coastline, attacking our farms, power stations and nearby settlements.”

“How?” Clara said. “How do they breathe on land?”

“There is much about their species which is a mystery,” Theodor said. “However, it is not the focus of today’s briefing. Your mission lies with the laboratory in Marsay. With Harmony reinforcements scarce, the Grizzlies graciously offered to send a troupe of their own warriors to relieve the scientists trapped behind the city. However, soon after the team reported arriving, communications were cut. We do not know if it is an issue with the power, or a communications array, or perhaps everybody there is dead.”

Theodor took a sip from a glass of water, letting the statement settle over the room. Nobody spoke. He removed his top hat and set it on the table, combing his thinning black hair back with his hand, then continued.

“Your mission parameters are… let’s say flexible. The best case scenario is that the communications array is simply in disrepair, in which case, you will create a perimeter, see to any wounded and repair the array, then make contact with us here and follow any orders of any Harmony personnel or associates at the site. If the power is down, it may be an issue with the coastal generator under our control, but our technicians have informed me that that is unlikely to be the case. If the team there is absent, or presumed dead, then your mission is a little more complicated.

“The research which those specialists were performing was of the utmost importance to us. We have reason to believe that they were close to a breakthrough before communications went dead. Therefore, your priority will be to establish control over the facility, open communications with the Visionaries, recover any lost or damaged technology and rescue any personnel. I recognise that these are broad parameters, so let me be clear. The technology and personnel are priority one, namely the lead scientist, Linton.”

Theodor handed Clara a printed photograph of the scientist. He was a thin, balding man with pale skin which unflatteringly reflected the camera’s flash. He wore small glasses on a small nose with a thick, concerned brow.

“What’s the technology then?” Sax said, dipping a wadd of bread into the juices of his meal.

“That’s classified,” Theodor said without turning around, handing out the photographs to the others.

“Go on,” Sax said. “Give us a clue. If you want us to be able to sniff it out, we’ve got to know what it looks like.”

“The research facility is located on the top floor,” Theodor avoided the question. “I will have coordinates sent to your devices.”

“But you’re worried about theft,” Sax said, flapping his photograph of the scientist. “This Linton completed the research and bolted with the tech to sell to a higher bidder.”

Theodor wore a sour expression. “That is one possibility.”

“I’m right on the money aren’t I?”

“Like I said. That’s one possibility. You are required to be flexible. You will be paid handsomely for securing the facility, and rewarded beautifully if Linton and the culmination of his research is returned to us, undamaged.”

Alister raised a computer terminal in the air–similar but smaller than Clara’s–waving it at the hooded figure sitting in the corner. The figure approached him and accepted the terminal, tinkering with it. Alister leaned back in his chair to face Theodor, arms spread over the back and table, taking up as much room as humanly possible. “Why the girl and the circus? We could do this on our own.”

Sax scoffed. “Circus? Is that what you call that freakshow lorry you drive around in? Garish.”

“Who’s a circus?” Abigail said, leaning forward, thighs spread, taking up the entire settee. “Me?” she laughed. “That’s right I’m a circus.”

“Save your purse,” Alister said, ignoring the others, sticking his thumb in his own face. “We will manage this job alone.”

“Sure, that’d save them a lot,” Clara said. “They don’t have to pay dead mercs.”

“Is that a threat, young lady?” Alister said.

“Just a prediction.”

“I believe the terms of your payment have already been arranged,” Theodore said. “They won’t change depending on how many of you return. There is no monetary incentive to double-cross, and any actions taken which might jeopardise Harmony property or personnel, such as shooting at one another, shall incur deductions from your pay. Stephanie shall be travelling with you as representative, to make sure things go according to plan.”

Clara had largely ignored the Harmony woman sitting at the table. Stephanie straightened her spine and raised her voice. “I presume, one of you has room for one more?”

“We have room,” Alister said.

“And we will all play nice,” Abigail said, rising and taking up her spear. “I will make sure of that.”

“Depart in the morning,” Theodore said. “At least leave together, so that Old Blue Eyes thinks you’re all friends.”

While the others discussed the details of their departure, the hooded Visionary took Cara’s wrist terminal and attached a direct cable, updating her zoning data. Eyeing the connection suspiciously, Clara resisted the urge to snatch hers terminal back–it contained information which would be valuable to the right person. But the Visionaries were a well established faction in Quadra, operating the large tower and outpost at its peak, purveying the land. They had more data on the apocalypse zones in their systems than Clara was likely to collect in her lifetime.

“You spelled this incorrectly,” Alister said, leaning over the table, tapping his terminal. “The city is not Marsay.”

“That’s how travellers spell it nowadays,” Theodor said. “Think of it as a nickname.”

Alister wrinkled his nose, then rose and departed without another word. Beside Clara, the Visionary unplugged her terminal and handed it back.

“Thank you,” Clara said, making her leave. Rushing outside, she picked up on Alister’s trail in the street, spotting him sauntering ahead down the winding chalk roads. Clara followed him across the open courtyard, sticking to the shadows–seaking without appearing suspiciously sneaky. He stopped outside Lackey’s bar, talking with a group drinking at tables outside. Clara kept her pace steady, inspecting the group of mercenaries as she drew closer. She was curious, what made them so confident that they could do this mission on their own? Were they exceptionally powerful, were there Augmented soldiers amongst their ranks, or were they just fools?

One man, short and muscular, dragged a cigarette and eyed Clara as she walked by. He said something to Alister, who turned to face her.

“Evening,” Clara said, doffing her military cap, continuing around the block so as not to arouse suspicion, before heading back to her shack.

Clara lay on her bed, inspecting the mapping data which the Visionaries had uploaded to her terminal. She now had detailed information on everything between Quadra and the city Marsay; beyond that was a mystery. On the eastern outskirts of the mountain range which Quadra occupied, a desolation of famine spread inland north, claiming wide swathes of once thriving farmlands. There were images available and descriptions of the conditions.

Their journey would take them through a narrow stretch of the famine zone and along the coast, which until recently was mapped as a territory once invaded by crab people during the cataclysm. Documents claimed that crustaceous humanoids had risen out of the ocean and swarmed coastal settlements, invading beaches and boarding boats. A relatively weak–classification one–apocalypse, the crab people were overcome by Quadra’s forces when the alliance formed seven years ago.

However, those frontier territories were now under attack by a unified faction of sea creatures–not to be mistaken with the crab people–called Fishfolk. The apocalypse’s strength was classified as two–a lot more dangerous than the former squishy crab people.

Clara and Andy’s journey towards the city Marsay would take them down the coast, through several fishing settlements where the fighting against Fishfolk had become fierce. They would circumvent the most dense urban ruins, following trade routes east. But the protected roads stopped before Marsay. Taking a boat wasn’t an option, with the Fishfolk presence. They would have to figure out a way through the city to the industrial district on the coast. The roads were likely congested with derelict cars and collapsed buildings, then there were the zombies.

There were different strains of zombies all across the wasteland, differing widely from each other. Her reports indicated the undead in Marsay were a classification two apocalypse–slow, but perceptive and plentiful.

Clara shook herself out of a doze. She needed sleep, but couldn’t rest her mind until their route was fully mapped. It would take them about two days to reach Marsay, assuming the roads were accessible. If she could afford to, she wanted to avoid venturing too far north. Reports indicated that a jungle was growing there, spreading its territory, gradually consuming the surrounding apocalypse zones. Information on the jungle was undetailed–that was never a good sign. Its severity classification was unknown. Without knowing what dangers grew inside the jungle, she couldn’t prepare, and Clara hated nothing more than being unprepared.

Sticking her sidearm under her pillow, Clara locked the shack door and blew out the candles. Judging by the mission briefing, this would be the final good rest she’d get in a long time to come.