by C. W. Ashley
Whatever the reason she calls it home, it makes sense for me. In the Blockgain, I feel safe all the time, even after today. Maybe it is my home...maybe it’s our home….
“Yeah I guess I am Sil, I never really left.”
The dry corners of his mouth cracked a little as a small smile crept across his face. It was his first smile since accepting that cursed cargo run. On some level, he felt understood by Sil, which added to his already complex feelings towards her.
“Nishin...did like the push?”
Well, I’m glad she brought it up, holy shit.
“Yeah it was...nice,” Iggy said in much understatement. “Look not that I’m complaining, but why? I mean why me. Why here and now?”
Although he was talking to a wild creature of the wastes, he still didn’t want to sound needy and whiny. Sil still remained motionless but let out a small sigh before speaking.
“Nishin wanted push...from when Nishin first saw Sil, could smell. Sil wanted home so Sil and Nishin push in home…”
Could smell? Wait, was this a trade? Did she fuck me because I let her in the car?
Sil’s voice was now devoid of her guttural beastly tone. Iggy’s throat was bitter at the idea of their sex being simply a transaction, as he tried to rationalize an alternative theory.
“Um, did you enjoy uh-pushing with me?”
Sil stayed silent for the longest time, and Iggy took it to be an implication that she didn’t enjoy it until she spoke up, now with a voice that sounded almost like a choke and splutter under the breath.
“Sil… can't push again…because Sil must leave home now...before she...”
Iggy couldn’t make any sense of that and went from feeling bitter and guilty to confuse. Her face was still turned out of view, but now it was intentional as if she was now hiding.
Before she-what? What is she doing?
“Nishin, open home Sil is leaving.”
“Sil you sound strange, let’s have a look at you after we get to some sort of settlement, we shouldn’t stop out here in the waste while it’s dark-”
“OPEN NOW.”
Iggy’s head spun in the directions of the ear-popping demand to find an unfamiliar face now staring at him. Her eyes were glowing blue-white, her mouth was a beastly snarl with all her fangs on display but they looked even larger. Her whole face looked different, her nose and jaw seemed further forward, hard heavy wrinkles gathered on her forehead, and sprouts of bushier hair from her temples and cheeks seemed to have appeared. Covering more of her face than before to form some sort of a mane-like appearance. She looked like she was in the process of rapid mutation, from an exotic humanoid to a monstrous beast.
Iggy clenched his teeth in fear and confusion before slamming on the brakes and sending his car into a fishtailing swerve before the Blockgain Chaser veered into an ungraceful halt. Sil’s inhuman growls and were now accompanied by gnashes of her terrifying maw and flares of her larger muscle's limbs lashing around the interior in what looked like a painful rage.
Iggy hit the door unlock switch after narrowly dodging one of her claw swipes and hurriedly opened the driver’s door with clammy sweat-slicked hands. He was too wary of her to try letting her move past him so he crawled out of the car first, clumsily making contact with the ground elbow first on to what felt like road tarmac. She shot out of her seat like a catapult nearly trampling him on her way out of the car before standing still for the briefest of moments to glance at the car she called home, and then at the eyes of the man she called Nishin. Not saying a word, she exploded into a deft sprint into the darkness of the waste. In that brief moment, Sil had gone.
The climb back into his car felt like a mountain expedition. His worn-out body and his heavy mood made his movements sluggish and limp and he had a look of numb indifference on his dusty face. His insides ached and churned as if they were suspended in anti-gravity and all he could do was try to make sense of the nonsensical.
Why did she go? What was happening to her body? Did I do something? Did I not do something?
There was no one to give him these answers; the only sounds were the hair-raising movements of whatever creatures prowled the big waste in the dark. He contemplated Sil’s safety by herself, though quickly reminded himself that there was probably very little she hadn’t already seen in the waste or killed. With Iggy back behind the wheel, the Blockgain Chaser peeled off in the same general direction he was driving in before her departure.
Once again, he was alone, and with no curious companion to distract his mind from his physical pain he had endured the entire day along with emotional stress of not knowing why she left, Iggy began to cry. His tears-distorted vision created a watercolor effect of the path in front of him that was bittersweet. Shades of black and dark green mixed under the pale blue shine of his headlights creating a dream-like effect that felt like a brief escape from the moment. His mind began to power down, with the murmur of his engine acting as a lullaby to carry his thoughts elsewhere.
Chapter 7: Garage Talk
Despite growing up poor, living in a citadel on any socio-economic level was an extremely privileged position compared to anywhere else in the Big Waste. Local security, clean running water, and basic education were luxuries only Citizens enjoy regularly. Iggy’s home of Athens is the 2nd largest Citadel in the known world. Most of its inhabitants go their entire lives without ever stepping outside the Citadel gates, mostly due to never finding a good reason to. But Randall ‘Ignition’ Gainsborough was not like most inhabitants and Athens was not big enough for him to grow old in.
Below the socio-economic status of the Citadels were the ‘Shells’. Mainly towns, cities, and villages that existed before the skirmishes reduced to a shell of what they used to be. Derelict burned out buildings, cracked streets, dubious leadership, and dangerous individuals are the reputations of the societies. Shells are large and well-fortified from the waste but never truly safe to live in, even for those with money. Scavengers who earn decent standards from selling materials can usually afford to live in a Shell household, although menacing landlords and deadly debt collectors can make a stay very short for the unfortunate. So, when a very tired Iggy saw the yellow signal lights of a Shell on the horizon after Sil ran out on him, all he could do was gulp and feel the cold sensation of fear fold over his gut.
I can’t drive all night; I have to stop somewhere. Shells always have garages and I need to service the Blockgain and refuel. But this damn bounty…can I risk showing my face in there?
Iggy’s mind hastily sorted through different scenarios before finally deciding to stop at the Shell. Iggy’s bounty was with the Citadel, meaning the money for capturing him could only be redeemed at Citadels. The Shells had their own network of bounties and hunters, and the vast majority of halfway decent Shell bounty hunters had Citadel bounties of their own, meaning they couldn’t claim a bounty lest they be captured themselves on arrival. Convoy homesteaders, Nomads and Scavengers like the late Novak and Trass don’t have criminal records or bounties with the Citadel. This is usually due to a lack of combat experience and a low chance of being successful in collecting bounties from dangerous high-level criminals or rogues.
The vast majority of all citadel bounties are collected by high-level Citadel ‘poachers’; Experienced freelance mercenaries that are part of an official hunter’s guild. Luckily for Iggy the eponymous poachers only get out of bed for ‘the big kills’ and with Iggy’s bounty still only five figures, he would be extremely low on even a rookie poacher’s priority list...for now.
The large outer wall of the Shell came into view. It was a network of reinforced steel welded with patches of scrap metal to form a formidable-looking barrier. The outer gate was tall enough to where only the very highest buildings were visible from inside the compound. A few guard towers were scattered outside of the perimeter that Iggy was approaching from, and the odd car screeched by the Blockgain as it was leaving the Shell; the gates snapping quickly behind them with a metallic squeal and clang. Iggy w
iped the sweat off his brow before pulling close to the main gate and spotted a large rectangular box that appeared to be an intercom. Pulling up gently beside it, he pushed the button and heard a crackle. As he cleared his throat to respond. A gravelly voice with an outpost accent came through.
“Welcome to Folsom, purpose of visit?”
Iggy was somewhat relieved they didn’t ask his name or car’s I.D. but he had no frame of reference to know if that was a good thing.
“Need to check into a garage, probably an Inn too,” Iggy said, trying to put a little grit in his voice.
The thought of even a semi-comfortable place to sleep made him yawn quietly.
“Entry is 200, stay here longer than a week and you get taxed 1000 every week from then on. There is no Folsom police force but the gangs will kill you if you start too much shit, your car’s ID was logged when you pulled up so if we have problems with you the bounty hunters will find you, got it?”
Iggy sighed at the idea of his car being logged but resolved it was probably unavoidable. He handed over a couple of steel cards from his glove box that totaled 200 standards and put them in the slot for money below the intercom speaker.
“Yeah, got it.”
The intercom went quiet for a few moments
“Alright, money received. Head in west for Blanch’s shop, that’s the cheapest garage in Folsom. If you need work then check the Wastelander’s notice board at the Iron Knuckle pub just a few blocks further down. Opening the gate, watch your speed.”
Huge automated gears on the gate began whirring loudly with steam hissing out of the top of the structure. The scraping sound of the metal retracting made Iggy’s skin crawl and he gripped his steering wheel tighter before softly pressing the gas to enter.
His senses were assaulted with an array of neon lights, pollution odors and the chatter and nightlife of thousands. The front entrance was filled with shanty-markets with makeshift lanes for drive-thrus Most of them were takeaway food stalls with the putrid stench of burnt wasteland creatures on display to catch the wind. Iggy ignored the shouts and demands of the store owners for him to try a sample and kept his steady strolling speed until getting to the main crossroad junction. Every structure around him was steel gray, pitch black or rusted orange.
The inhabitants made Iggy feel like a pampered tourist; piercings, tattoos, cheap modifications, and deadly looking mutant pets were as common as a pair of goggles or a wristwatch back in Athens. Trying to remember the directions without stopping, Iggy picked up his speed once he got on a regular street and turned on to a strip which seemed to be mainly bars and clubs. The pulsing neon signs were obnoxious advertisements for places of sex, drugs and violent entertainment. Iggy’s breathing calmed as the stench of burnt animal carcasses turned to the odor of bodily fluids and booze, which gave him the nostalgia of his early derby events.
This Shell is a metal version of the waste, just everything is closer.
Iggy rubbed his eyes as they tried to re-tune to the lights, but he managed to catch a glimpse of something important; a large flashing sign that said Blanch’s Box. Iggy thought it an odd name for a garage but as he drove closer, he saw how accurate the description really was. A pre-skirmish gas station with a makeshift garage door covered in graffiti attached to the side of the main counter. Noticing that the place was free of cars, he pulled in carefully, right outside the garage door.
“Help you, pretty boy?” asked a croaky female voice that he couldn’t quite place the location of.
“Uh, I’m looking for Blanch? My car needs a few repairs.”
“You're talking to her handsome, aside from a few pubs; your gal is just as pretty as you are. She a custom?”
“Uh, yes. She’s a class A built from the ground up, just needs a maintenance check, refill and a window replaced.”
“Yes, she does, feel like I seen this whip before. You a death runner?”
Still looking around for the source of the voice he tried to answer as calmly as possible. He didn’t want to give away too much but didn’t want to be too overly secretive either. Iggy didn’t know any death runners who lived through more than 3 years of their careers, so he saw no problem in disconfirming.
“No, never tried one, that purse doesn’t mean much to someone who ain’t alive to spend it,” Iggy paused, thinking of some of the grisly fatalities he had seen on Deathrun vids. “So how much will the work cost?”
There was a pause and then the garage door creaked open before a figure stepped out of the darkness. She was a Blight, as heavily mutated and scarred as any other of the few he saw. Her skin was a pale green and it was peeling. Her face was that of a month-old corpse but with yellow eyes, that seemed to have a soft glow. She had a few strands of pale blonde hair but her scalp was mainly bald and blemished, she was wearing a dark blue mechanic’s jumpsuit with a name-tag that said: BLANCH.
“Sugar, ain’t no purse gonna be worth the risk for anything out here, you gotta do it 'cause it’s fun,” Blanch said with a perky rasp.
Leaning out of his car to face the ghoulish lady, he gave her a nod and a smile. He did his best not to look surprised or repulsed by her appearance. Her facial expressions were hard to read because of her disfigurement but it seemed like she was sneering a little.
“Ha, you got a pretty smile considering it’s a fake one!” Blanch quipped as her sneer became more apparent. “Listen, I know my kind ain’t often seen out of them outposts, but not all of us were front-line before them wars. I was a mechanic in the military and it only made sense that I carried on my work.”
Iggy appreciated the candid explanation and relaxed. Blights were the unfortunate casualties of the skirmishes, advanced toxic mutations that give them extremely lengthy life spans, but horrifying appearances that outcast them from most societies. Iggy empathized with the blights like Blanch who chose to live as a minority amongst others.
“I haven’t been in the waste long, only a couple of days. I’m just looking for some work I guess, trying not to stay in one place for too long either,” Iggy said.
Blanch snorted and her ambiguous expression cracked into an amused smirk. “You and most of Folsom honey, who th’ fuck would want to stay here longer than a week other than the gangs? Listen, get your ass down to the Iron Knuckle and do some piss-easy hunting jobs. Most folks can make a living just hunting Plentipedes.”
Iggy nodded as he removed his duster jacket and switched off his car’s engine. He didn’t want to look too much like a cargo runner so he went with just his white t-shirt, which was still heavily stained with dirt and blood. He tucked his empty revolver into his belt but left his barbed bat in the car, not wanting to be wielding it on a busy Shell street.
“Might want to check into a room tonight and get into a shower. The facilities are crap, but at least the Folsom service workers keep the water mostly purified,” Blanch suggested.
“Thanks, I will. So how much will I owe you for the service and keep it here overnight?”
Iggy began to check his money looking at the pile of steel cards he had left in his car. He had 600 of his own money left plus just over 190 of what he looted from the Nomads.
Blanch’s ghostly eyes scanned him as he counted.
“I take it you haven’t had the easiest time getting here, so I’ll do the job on your whip for 500, that should leave you enough for a couple of drinks and a room at the Knuckle. You’re lucky you’re a cute one, I’m getting mighty sick of giving discounts in this hell-shell.”
Sweet lady, there are still some good people around, I guess.
Iggy handed over the money and his keys immediately and gave her a genuine smile before closing his Blockgain’s door. “Thanks so much, I won’t forget this. Is the Iron Knuckle bar on this strip?”
Blanch nodded before waving two garage robots over to push his car into the shop. She grabbed a box of cigarettes from her inside pocket and began patting herself down looking for a light. “Remember hun, tonight’s a full moon, Sugar. Every b
ar and club is always a little more trouble on these nights for some reason.”
Full moon? I didn’t even notice…
Blanch waved Iggy goodbye and began to stroll towards the Iron Knuckle trying to keep his wits about him but also to stay calm. Also avoiding looking anyone in the eye for more than a split second.
Let’s just find this Iron Knuckle, I need a drink and a bed. I can see some work in the morning. Hunting Big Waste bugs should be easy if I just run em over, I guess. But I’m gonna need a plan soon for sure, figure out what to do about this bounty.
Iggy sidestepped a group of men who had matching tattoos throwing dice against the wall, shouting in triumph or disappointment based on their rolls. He also had to walk around a Tin Man that had been modified to blast loud dance music while handing out flyers to a seedy venue called the ‘Infection’. While simultaneously holding out a jar for collecting tips.
“Not in a millennium,” Iggy said with a strong dismissal.
The thick aroma of stale ale and dried blood wafted towards Iggy and led his nose in the direction of the bar he was looking for. When he crossed the street, the collection of rough-looking locals dotted around the sidewalk began to watch him, silently wondering what kind of profession would lead him into that bar. Iggy kept his eyes forward as he took a deep breath and stepped inside. Hearing the creak of the saloon type doors sway behind him.
The Iron Knuckle was busy tonight. Industrial jazz music pumped out of low-fi speakers in all corners of the dingy establishment. The vision of cheap neon lights on slot machines and snack dispensers were obscured by the heavy blanket of mist produced by the near-uniform level of cigar smoke from the locals. It smelled like Waste-Weed mixed with Gold Powder but it was hard to be sure. Small tables were completely surrounded and filled by nasty looking bruisers, wearing studded leather and strapped with various nasty looking weapons.
Iggy realized that Folsom must be a fairly tolerant place due to the high mix of Humans, Mutants, and Blights who seemed to be interacting normally amongst each other. Back in the Citadel, Mutants only worked the lowest jobs where they were barely seen or heard by the public, and a Blight would probably be killed on sight with impunity. Iggy was curious about the pressures of the different populations in the waste, but his only real concern was the state of his Blockgain.