tabloids.
Guess I’ll just have to try harder next time.
Nothing new in my inbox, save for something Vincent-scented (Vinscented?) warning me to keep a low profile. I clicked my tongue in irritation. I knew how to take care of myself. My many scars twinged in disagreement at the notion.
I’m still alive, so shut up .
For the first time in three days, my stomach reminded me of the necessity to eat properly. I didn’t feel like washing dishes and pans, so I made do: tuna omelette, cooked in a glass beaker over a Bunsen burner. That’s not something they teach you in home ed, that’s for damn certain.
Nourished, rested, ready for action. Back to work?
Back to work.
***
Man does not live by bread alone, nor by alcohol and designer drugs. As such, the rest of the morning was spent bushwhacking through the dank corners of an abandoned strip mall. Ex-junkies had taken over the basement, turning the parking space into a wasteland of dusty Persian rugs and heaps of moth-eaten clothes. The collapse had crippled the production of the old narcotics; those dependent on the stuff had rapidly degenerated into insanity and withdrawal. The survivors did what they could in the grimiest reaches of the gutterages, abusing stores of codeine and stolen designer drugs to keep the itching at bay. They weren’t dangerous, usually, unless angel-rage was involved. I’d come to an agreement with the group here. They left me alone, and I didn’t put any heads on a spit. Again.
I dragged the back of the knife against the wall as I descended into the parking lot. The grating was faint, but the scrabbling sounds told me my message had been heard. The reek of faeces met me and my eyes watered as they grew accustomed to the darkness.
I felt eyes watching me from all angles. I traversed the few hundred metres to the service stairs, taking care to watch where I stepped. Every few seconds there was the telltale sound as a rug shifted. My shadowy acquaintances were moving around me.
“Remember the arrangement,” I said, indifferently. The shifting stopped.
Sunlight flooded the stairs through the broken skylight. I stopped at the door, turned around and spoke. This time, with more authority.
“If it smells like this next time, I’ll torch the lot of you.”
Silence. I backed into the light and took the steps two at a time. Most of these places had been devastated during the panic, but the rioters and looters never managed to get everything. There were always a few cans of assorted imperishables—beans, sardines, tomatoes and meat. Better yet, other parts of the strip had been left untouched: detergents, toiletries and hardware could be found in abundance. I restocked on freeze spray and gas cartridges from a camping shop, as well as drill bits and screws. I also bagged a new claw hammer. My last one had broken off at the handle after a particularly nasty assignment.
I caught the glint of gold as I was prying a pack of batteries from a set of skeletal fingers, almost missing it beneath the grime and muck. The ring made for a nice trophy. Finally, I took to the escalators, two steps at a time, and started the climb to the top of the dome.
***
Heavy winds shepherded my hair into my eyes when I got to the top. This was the highest point in the gutterage, and one of the highest in the city. Rain clouds boiled over the countryside to the west, but the landscape was dry for now. It had been an arid summer, and it showed in the ruined buildings.
This was one of my favourite spots. I could relax, I could watch and I could think. I scanned the area with binoculars as I slowly ate something resembling lunch.
To the west, past the gutterage, farmlands rolled onwards to the base of the mountains in the distance. An armoured truck—likely part of some surveillance patrol—drove out onto the winding roads. I couldn’t catch the license plate, but I noted the make.
The Helix Institute lay in full view, solar panels soaking up
Guess I’ll just have to try harder next time.
Nothing new in my inbox, save for something Vincent-scented (Vinscented?) warning me to keep a low profile. I clicked my tongue in irritation. I knew how to take care of myself. My many scars twinged in disagreement at the notion.
I’m still alive, so shut up .
For the first time in three days, my stomach reminded me of the necessity to eat properly. I didn’t feel like washing dishes and pans, so I made do: tuna omelette, cooked in a glass beaker over a Bunsen burner. That’s not something they teach you in home ed, that’s for damn certain.
Nourished, rested, ready for action. Back to work?
Back to work.
***
Man does not live by bread alone, nor by alcohol and designer drugs. As such, the rest of the morning was spent bushwhacking through the dank corners of an abandoned strip mall. Ex-junkies had taken over the basement, turning the parking space into a wasteland of dusty Persian rugs and heaps of moth-eaten clothes. The collapse had crippled the production of the old narcotics; those dependent on the stuff had rapidly degenerated into insanity and withdrawal. The survivors did what they could in the grimiest reaches of the gutterages, abusing stores of codeine and stolen designer drugs to keep the itching at bay. They weren’t dangerous, usually, unless angel-rage was involved. I’d come to an agreement with the group here. They left me alone, and I didn’t put any heads on a spit. Again.
I dragged the back of the knife against the wall as I descended into the parking lot. The grating was faint, but the scrabbling sounds told me my message had been heard. The reek of faeces met me and my eyes watered as they grew accustomed to the darkness.
I felt eyes watching me from all angles. I traversed the few hundred metres to the service stairs, taking care to watch where I stepped. Every few seconds there was the telltale sound as a rug shifted. My shadowy acquaintances were moving around me.
“Remember the arrangement,” I said, indifferently. The shifting stopped.
Sunlight flooded the stairs through the broken skylight. I stopped at the door, turned around and spoke. This time, with more authority.
“If it smells like this next time, I’ll torch the lot of you.”
Silence. I backed into the light and took the steps two at a time. Most of these places had been devastated during the panic, but the rioters and looters never managed to get everything. There were always a few cans of assorted imperishables—beans, sardines, tomatoes and meat. Better yet, other parts of the strip had been left untouched: detergents, toiletries and hardware could be found in abundance. I restocked on freeze spray and gas cartridges from a camping shop, as well as drill bits and screws. I also bagged a new claw hammer. My last one had broken off at the handle after a particularly nasty assignment.
I caught the glint of gold as I was prying a pack of batteries from a set of skeletal fingers, almost missing it beneath the grime and muck. The ring made for a nice trophy. Finally, I took to the escalators, two steps at a time, and started the climb to the top of the dome.
***
Heavy winds shepherded my hair into my eyes when I got to the top. This was the highest point in the gutterage, and one of the highest in the city. Rain clouds boiled over the countryside to the west, but the landscape was dry for now. It had been an arid summer, and it showed in the ruined buildings.
This was one of my favourite spots. I could relax, I could watch and I could think. I scanned the area with binoculars as I slowly ate something resembling lunch.
To the west, past the gutterage, farmlands rolled onwards to the base of the mountains in the distance. An armoured truck—likely part of some surveillance patrol—drove out onto the winding roads. I couldn’t catch the license plate, but I noted the make.
The Helix Institute lay in full view, solar panels soaking up
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