Monster Brethren - Interlude - Dragon's Mound

I slammed the door shut behind me as I stumbled into the reception room of the old hotel I repurposed as another of the many unaffiliated safehouses speckled across the city. A quick check of the staff and office rooms informed me that they were empty. During the first few months after the sky tore open these safe houses were gathering points for the many people left behind and forgotten during the rush to evacuate the city. Seeing them so empty and lifeless now I can almost see the ghosts people left behind during their short visit to the place of refuge, a stain here, blood there, a dirty cloth left behind, a mug that was never washed. I can still remember the oppressive feeling of dread that hung in the air like a bad stench during the first few days. The rabble and refuse left behind by the world to rot under the torn skies of Sydney. I slumped against the reception desk and shrugged off my backpack and propped my rifle up against the counter. I winced as my movement pulled against the ragged tear in my side from when one of the bullets glanced me. I gripped the bloodied bandage and grimaced as blood trickled from the fabric and dirtied my already putrid smelling and sweat stained tank top. Clean bandages are a luxury no one can afford, my own bandage being a torn up shirt I’d mostly managed to keep clean since the last time I’d managed to sort of clean my tiny wardrobe of two sets of shirts, pants and underwear to match. Clothes and cleaning power just didn’t seem important enough to risk my life for on my last scavenge run.

I chuckled darkly to myself as I pressed down through the pain and thought of something to take my mind of it all. The first thing that came to mind was why I’d been avoiding reporting into the military camp just a few streets away. I could report in and have a shower and a clean bunk by the end of the day, but I don’t. I don’t because I wouldn't be coming back the next time the send me off planet. A sixty-six point two-one percent casualty rating, a three in five chance that I wouldn’t survive and the fact I survived my first tour through the galaxy was about as surreal as if God itself reached down from the heavens and slapped me. When my tour was over and I touch back on earth soil along with the rest of my squad we shed tears in disbelief. We’d each lost friends and more out there. Our comrades remains floating somewhere amongst the stars because we couldn’t waste the cargo space to retrieve the bodies. So I ask myself everyday as I go through the motions of navigating this shitty city and cleaning out the trash that piles up…

“Would I rather die fighting or die because of a faulty airlock?”

Dying fighting has a sort of romance to it and you feel empowered, like you have some sort of control over your life: that if you just fight hard enough then some day you’ll die satisfied that you did all that you could do. If nothing else I’d feel satisfied knowing that I didn’t die because one of the many underpaid laborers slacked off on their job and neglect to check that a bolt was screwed, or a rivet was riveted, or that a weld would hold or whatever else of the billions of things that could go wrong on a starship. In the end I can’t choose between duty or my pride. Or I could just be a coward, haaah…

With the illusion of safety firmly implanting itself in my mind I allowed my eyes to drift shut to rest my eyes for a bit before attempting to clean my wound and rebandage it. When I opened my eyes again the sun was high in the sky and I realized I’d fallen asleep like an idiot. Emptying half a bottle of clean enough water into a tin cup I did my best to clean my wound with more cloth scraps and then did my best to rebandage the wound with the remnants of my ruined clean shirt.

A creak of the old and uncared for wooden floor boards shocked my eyes wide as I grabbed my gun and brought it to bare in an instant. My eyes narrowed as I stared at an elderly man with a greying beard and long oily hair. The man stood stock still with an unmarked bottle of moonshine in one bloodied but bandaged hand and a pistol in the other.

“Jus’ lookin’ fer a place to swig my shine gerly.” The elderly man said swishing his bottle slightly.

I felt pressure build in my lungs as worked every muscle in my body to make myself seem less injured than I was. It doesn’t matter how harmless a person may seem, only the refuse of the world remained after the straight laced citizens evacuated. Finding the rare person like Haris who wasn’t a complete piece of shit did happen from time to time. However it didn’t happen often enough for me to believe this elderly man was the good kind of company to keep. There was another issue entirely though. This elder man wore the blue armband and paint that marked him as a member of the North Band, a gang known for it’s rapists and male dominance.

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“Fuck off! Leave the swill and take a hike motha’fucker or I’ll give you another gaping maw to drink through.” I growled and was mildly surprised to hear a beastly growl escape my lips.

It was becoming difficult to continue standing and the pressure in my lungs from tensing my abdominal muscles was making it hard to calm my breathing. The elderly man startled at the gravely hiss which I called a growl and took a step back, his face now pale.

“Shit! You’re one of them aren’t you!?” He exclaimed in terror.

“Who is them? Clarify!” I demanded with a snap.

“No, please just- you can have whatever you want, just let me live; please!” He pleaded as he got on his knees and placed his battle down.

“I said clarify! Who do you mean by them?” I demanded and another growl escaped my lips.

The man was shaking now and unfortunately for him I was expecting what happened next. THe elderly man raised his pistol and I fired, shooting my in the leg. He screamed and as I opened my mouth to demand he answer me he shot. The bullet struck my rifle and deflected into my forward hand grip causing me to drop the gun. The pressure in my lungs shot to a peak in my frustration and panic for my life as I watched the elderly man tense his hand to fire again.

“Fuuuuuuuck!” I cursed as a final fuck you to the world before I died.

To my shock green flames shot from my mouth and bathed not only the man but also the hallway out of the building in flames. The man screeched like a banshee as he rolled about in the flames and scratched ineffectively at his face to remove the fire from his eyes. I shook and broke out in a cold sweat as I suddenly felt as if what little strength I’d had was drained out of me. I wanted nothing more than to lay down and sleep but the flames were spreading and if God was giving me another chance then I refused to waste it by burning to death. I wrapped what little remained of my mostly clean cloth around my bloodied hand, hefted my bag over my shoulder and although it broke my heart I left behind the broken remains of my rifle. The elder man quieted down and stopped moving as I took a moment to mourn the loss of my rifle. It was stupid but I loved that gun and I didn’t have time to be sentimental.

The flames spread quickly over the beaten and aged wood so I made for a window and smashed the glass with my hand wrapped in cloth. The pain made me wince as it shot up my arm and I noted that I’d need to examine the damage latter once I’d found a safe place to lay down for the night. Now free of the burning building I knew the flames would attract the local gangs, so I fled into the setting sun to make some distance and lower my chances of being spotted. I refused to die tonight!

I made my way south, deeper into the territories of what would remained of the South Coast Vigilance gang. They were pretty mild compared to the other gangs and would leave unaffiliated alone so long as they didn’t cause trouble.

I had another safe house down there that I shaded with Mickey, an old associate from before I joined the army. We got along and he knew not to fuck with my stuff so it seemed like the best place to heal and recover. Most importantly I had medical supplies hidden in a cache near there that I was sure no one would have found and looted. It was an old basement hatch that I hid under a carpet and a fridge that I’d loaded with rations. Anyone who found the place would assume that the stacks of military grade emergency rations was the stash and make off with that instead.

It was about midday by the time I reached Mickey’s hideout and I collapsed as I walked in through the door to a panicking Mickey.who had been sitting on the couch eating frogurt and watching TV. I swear… some these asshats could live anywhere and be perfectly content with their life.

When I opened my eyes again I thanked God for Mickey not being a jackass and letting me die on his carpet. I tried to sit up but my body gave out before my mind did and I grunted in pain and annoyance. A leathery hand pat my on the shoulder and my head swiveled to look at whoever touched me, which sent my head spinning.

“Whoa, whooa. Slow down there Ash, it’s just me.” Said the leathery skinned man, Mickey who stared back at me.

Mickey was a torres strait islander, a classic Samoan man in every respect. His entire upper body was covered in tattoos that I could only assume told some sort of story.

“Sorry for stealing your couch for a bit.” I grumbled through dry lips.

“Hah hah, don’t worry about it Ash. Just try not to bleed too much on it.” He joked with a chuckle.

I smiled and said, “Mickey, you know that medical stash I said I had?”

“Oh, don’t start with this again Ash. I have medicine, just give me a few antibiotics when you’re better and we’re even.” He said with a huff and a shrug that indicated the finality of the discussion.

I sighed and winced at the tenderness of my ribs.

“Thanks again.” I thanked one last time and let myself fall asleep.