Chapter 5: The City
I sit in the rear of the limo, marveling at how well the inside has kept up over the years. The leather seats are cracked, torn, and faded, but they are surprisingly comfy. The overhead lights flicker slightly, and the floor is covered with debris—a few bits of paper, empty drink cans, and what appears to be the remains of a map.
The ride is tough. The automobile jolts and rattles along the uneven streets, each bump wrenching my back. It's evident that this limousine was never designed to manage the terrain it's currently encountering.
I look out the window, watching the wreckage of the city pass by in a whirl of grays and browns. The collapsing towers lean precariously, their facades worn away by the now-dead fires, exposing the steel skeletons beneath.
We pass many hovercars, once the pinnacle of modern technology but now crashed into the ground. They've piled up in some places, creating impromptu barriers surrounding small towns. I observe individuals roaming around inside these makeshift fortifications, wielding old-school rifles and shotguns—relics from a time when kinetic weapons were still popular.
“Why the hell are there so many old guns out here?” I ask, my voice slightly dampened by the hum of the motors. “I thought plasma and energy weapons replaced these ages ago.”
Milo, sitting across from me, smiles as if he's been waiting for this line of questioning. “The government gave them out during the First Solar War. They were concerned that the colonies might invade, so they armed the inhabitants with whatever they had on hand. These old guns were built to last, and they kill just as well as any fancy plasma blaster. After the war, folks simply stored them in their attics in case things went south again. Then they forgot about them. With all of the high-tech equipment either broken or out of reach, everyone is dusting down granddad's old gun.”
“Huh, they really glossed over that part in school. Portrayed the War as a one-sided affair, ” I mutter, leaning back and watching a group of scavengers haggling over a piece of tech near one of the makeshift walls. One of them’s holding a double-barreled shotgun, probably older than I am.
The scenery outside changes as we go, with decaying ruins giving way to a series of shanty villages and encampments. We pass a bunch of cultists moving in a line, their robes torn yet sparkling with weird insignia, chanting some sort of prayer. They're led by a man with a megaphone, shouting proclamations of salvation by sacrifice, while his following stares ahead with glassy eyes.
Further on, we see gangs—tough-looking thugs patrolling their turf, weapons draped over their shoulders, eyes darting about for any hint of danger. Some of them have carved out little kingdoms in the ruins, reigning over small sections of the city like medieval rulers. They stare at us as we pass, but do not approach.
We drive past a group of survivors huddled around a fire, their faces gaunt and their garments barely hanging together. A few children dart among the grownups, playing a game of tag. They don't even look up as we pass, too absorbed in their own little world.
“This route’s taking us through every bad neighborhood in the city,” I say, glancing over at Reza. “Why are we taking such a roundabout way? Wouldn’t it be faster to cut straight through?”
Reza doesn’t bother to look at me. She’s staring out the window, her expression unreadable. “We’re avoiding the big groups. The ones we just passed aren’t a problem—they won’t mess with us unless they’re desperate. But there are some factions out here that would love to get their hands on a working car. This route’s a bit longer, but it’s safer. Fewer patrols, fewer ambushes.”
“Lucky for us,” Milo adds with a smirk. “Most of the small-time groups don’t bother anyone who isn’t directly in their way. We’re passing right through their turf, but they won’t care as long as we don’t stop.”
As if on cue, we round a corner and are met by a scene of complete anarchy. Two factions are engaged in a fierce conflict, firing gunfire across a damaged street lined with hover cars on both sides. One side is flying flags with religious emblems, and as we pass, I hear the crackling of a loudspeaker blasting some distorted interpretation of a message.
“The Lord has decreed the end of humanity!” the voice exclaims, reverberating off the buildings. “We are His chosen instruments, working toward the noble end! Repent, sinners; your time has arrived!”
Stolen novel; please report.
The opposing side is hunkered down behind a makeshift wall, returning fire. They're outnumbered and outgunned, but they're fighting as if their lives depend on it—which, judging by the bodies already on the street, they do.
“Keep driving,” Reza says, her voice tight as Rina steers us past the carnage. I watch the scene recede into the distance, the sounds of battle fading into the background.
Finally, after what feels like hours of navigating through this nightmare, we can finally see Sector 72 in the distance. The sight that greets us is both awe-inspiring and heartbreaking, as the sun sets behind it.
Massive agricultural towers loom over the surrounding sectors, their once-thriving greenhouses now shattered and decaying. The crops within are worthless now that they have been ravaged by the radiation that has permeated everything. These towers were supposed to be the city's pride, supplying food to millions. Now, they're just another reminder of how far everything has fallen.
I swallow hard, the reality of what we've lost sinking in all over again. This was meant to be our future, a means of feeding the multitudes without relying on the old world's weak supply systems. Now it's just another ruined dream, another fragment of the world that is now just a memory.
As we approach closer to Sector 72, we spot more individuals. Not the scavengers or gangs we've seen previously, but survivors—refugees who have managed to live in the shadow of the ruins. They've set up little camps in whatever available place, including under the skeletal remains of bridges, the shelter of half-collapsed buildings, and even the gutted shells of old cars. Each camp is a tiny island of light in a sea of darkness, with flames serving as the only sign of life in an otherwise dead world.
All these people who traveled all the way here with hope for food and shelter only to find the echos of promises. Yet, every day, more and more people pour in from further and further, as the news of this place had not reached them.
The worst thing is that the damages are repairable but those with the knowledge are now gone, evacuated with the rich people to help them set up factories on Venus. The only major colony that has always been loyal to Earth.
We pass by one of these camps, a collection of tents crammed together beneath the remains of a once-grand hotel. The tents are made of whatever materials the survivors could find, including tarps, blankets, and old billboards.
A few youngsters are playing in the dirt, their laughter a ghostly reminder of a period when such innocence was commonplace. Their parents, haggard and hollow-eyed, maintain watch, their faces etched with concern and exhaustion.
As we drive further, I see a few men and women carrying signs pointing to the nearest refugee camp. The signs are hand painted, with unsteady yet distinct writing. It's touching in an unexpected way to realize that, despite everything, there are still people attempting to help others, to offer a glimpse of hope in the middle of such sadness.
“Camp Hope, 2 kilometers.” Are what most of the signs read.
We slow down as we approach another camp, larger than the others. It is built up in the remnants of a parking garage, with the higher floors collapsing and leaving the ground floor exposed to the elements. The survivors have managed to create a more structured system, with tents lined in tidy rows and a communal fire in the center. There is a makeshift kitchen with pots of soup cooking over open flames, as well as a few individuals tending to what appears to be a small garden with plants fighting to flourish in contaminated soil.
A giant sign reads, “Camp Hope, main office building. 200 meters.” Must be the welcoming area, then for Camp Hope.
One individual sticks out from the others. He's tall and slender, with a beard that has grayed with age and worry. He's dressed in torn clothes that could have formerly been a uniform. He moves with purpose, assisting wherever he can—offering a reassuring word to a mourning mother, distributing what little food they have to the children first, and directing new arrivals onwards. He exudes quiet strength, a drive that is almost heroic in its simplicity. Even as the world falls around him, he continues to attempt to make things better, to be someone others can rely on.
The limo drives past the camp, and I crane my neck to keep him in view for as long as possible. I'm not sure why, but something about him stays with me. Maybe it's the way he appears to resist the flow of darkness, refusing to be carried away, or perhaps it's simply the fact that he's still fighting at all when so many others have given up. Whatever it is, I can't get the image of him out of my head as we continue our journey.
The sun sinks ever lower in the sky, slowly dipping below the horizon as we amble towards Sector 74 and I watch the city pass by in a blur of broken glass and twisted metal.
Then, without warning, BANG.
The limo jolts violently to the side as something slams into it. My head snaps around just in time to see the shattered remains of a window, the glass spider-webbed with cracks. A bullet tears through the air, missing my head by inches.