by C. W. Ashley
Nobody really seemed to notice Iggy enter, apart from a few curious glances from a table of surly-looking blights that seemed to be estimating the value of his clothes. Iggy suddenly became conscious of his ‘standard wastelander’s outfit. His cargo jeans, hiker boots, and greaser t-shirt made him stand out among the gang uniforms, sanitation jumpsuits and mercenary jackets of everyone else there. Trying not to look intimidated, he walked over to the bar with a measured pace and up-nodded the bartender; a muscular, goblin face mutant that stood around 7 feet tall. He wiped off a sharp kitchen knife with his dirty apron and turned to face Iggy with a grunt before returning the nod.
“Most of this shit I got here will kill a Soft-neck, most of em here just stick to the root-water, want a pint?”
Iggy tried not to grimace at the slur and spoke under his breath, “Alright, a pint of that and some of that Hare-Jerky, the spicy kind.”
The burly bartender snorted at the order briefly and nodded. After taking 18 standards from Iggy he served up the beverage and food in seconds, before sliding it across the bar to Iggy with perfect accuracy. As he began eating and drinking, he realized how hungry he was since leaving for the cargo run. Iggy’s noisy munching and slurping caught the attention of a few humans at the bar that turned to look at him.
The first was a dark-haired man, wearing a studded leather long coat with a large scar across his cheek with attractive grey eyes, he was the closest to Iggy. Behind him was another dark-haired person whose gender wasn’t immediately apparent, attempting to light a very large cigar with a tool that looked like a blowtorch. Finally, there was a young-looking male with reddish-brown hair wearing a Wastelander hoodie, along with a plethora of piercings covering his face. Iggy doubled glanced at the trio before pausing his eating, raising an eyebrow slowly.
“Hey don’t stop eating on account of us, we ain't creeps or nothin’,” The grey-eyed scarred man said fairly calmly. He had a somewhat mature tone to his voice for a man who didn’t look much older than 30. The heavily pierced man in the cloak peered from around his companion and looked at Iggy curiously.
“You didn’t think you’d get recognized in here? Even Shellers pay attention to the updates, Citi-boy,” The pierced man’s voice was a full octave higher than the first which could be due to some recent powder use.
Updates? My Bounty…ah shit. No...
Iggy’s head snapped around the bar looking for any other exits, but his heart sank when saw how crowded the path to anywhere inside the Iron Knuckle was. He was trapped. Iggy cursed at his own risky decision but also resolved that there was little else he could’ve done. His heart jumped when he felt a large clammy hand clasp around his forearm. He glanced to his left to see it was the huge mutant bartender who was looking down at him with eyes of mild amusement.
“That’s right we know who you are and trying to figure out what the fuck you are doing here,” the bartender boomed.
“J-just getting a drink and tryin’ to f-find some wor-”
Iggy was cut off by the scarred man.
“When Blanch told Jake here that motherfuckin’ Ignition was in Folsom, Nails here almost shit the bed,” he chuckled, thumbing to the pierced man behind him, who’s metal-covered face was now a soft smile.
That’s right Iggy you idiot, they show the derbies outside the citadel too….
Iggy exhaled audibly, and his heart and stomach gave him a thousand promises of payback after making them jump so many times in one day. Iggy immediately grinned at all of his new acquaintances and took a confident sip of his drink. The mutant bartender lifted Iggy’s gripped arm to shake it with his other, his hand was scarily strong.
“Blanch is always fucking around with me telling me tall tales about soft-necks that walk in and out of here. I had no idea she was being straight with me when she dropped me a message 5 minutes ago, she recognized your Blockgain Chaser right away, it’s in good hands with her.”
Iggy gulped his root water and returned the shake firmly.
“I didn’t think it’d be that noticeable covered in all the blood, sand and bullet-holes!” Iggy quipped brightly. “You guys watch a lot of derbies in the Shell?” Iggy asked, trying to sound casual.
The pierced man who was called Nails leaned forward to answer.
“Kills the time in-between hunts, plus it’s actually pretty damn educational. Back when I had a car, I used to use that dirty PIT maneuver on every bandit I could find!”
Nails chortled with a grin.
“You gotta use a speed boost for results, Nails.” The bartender known as Jake declared, ignoring orders to participate in the conversation. “This means if you get a new whip, you’ll have to hunt a LOT of Plentipedes before you can afford a gas charger,”
A cool feeling washed over Iggy’s body as he began to relax. Talking about cars over a drink with new fans made him feel more at home than ever. After another 3 root-waters (all complimentary on Jake’s insistence) Iggy engaged the 4 of them with his knowledge of car components, recounts of deadly rivals in the derby and slightly exaggerated groupie tales. Along with Jake the bartender and Nails the piercings man, Iggy came to find out the scarred man’s name was Malkin and the quiet nondescript person was called Penoli.
They were all hunters who made their living hunting large bug creatures in the wasteland, almost always Plentipedes because of their popularity as a foodstuff. Jake was an ex-enforcer for the Dust-Dragons, a large mutant gang based in the northern zones that occasionally took part in regional races and derbies. Iggy had actually faced and defeated a Dust-Dragon capo in an away match 3 years ago. Going on to become more famous among mutants because of it. It was only an hour of eating, drinking and talking before the four of them and Iggy were laughing together as if they were the best of friends.
“Ah-hah...I tell you what Iggy, if you total a few bandits near Folsom, drag the wreckage back to Blanch’s,” Jake bellowed while slinging drinks to his numerous bar patrons.
“What? I only need one car, Jake!” Iggy chortled while nudging Malkin and swigging his 4th Root-water.
Jake grinned and lowered his voice a little.
“Me and Blanch got stakes in a chop shop, we make money off wrecked vehicles and we will pay you a nice cut for everyone you bring, Softneck.”
“Sounds tasty…but why you keep calling me Soft-Neck? You know it’s offensive right?”
Malkin sipped his drink before interjecting.
“Never mind all that Ignition. This ain’t a politically correct bar! We all call Jake an Orc; he calls every human who walks in here a Softneck, and all the Blights including Blanch ‘Peelers’. Malkin took a second, longer drink with a small smirk. “It’s affectionate.”
Iggy grumbled under his breath a little but nodded in reassurance to the group to show he was cool with it. Then he yawned a little after finishing his current drink.
“I’m gonna look for some work in the morning, might do a bug-hunt or something,”
Iggy yawned while rubbing his tired eyes.
“Alright, but you’re new here, Cook’s men like to fuck with some of the freelancers out there if they ain't too known, Iggy,” Nails warned with a fairly serious tone.
Iggy’s easy smile waned a little as he saw the faces of all of his new drinking buddies go fairly sour in unison with Nails’ voice. His mind flashed to the sound of the gunshot that gave him the nasty leg injury, along with the crazed wails of the bandits from Cook’s gang. The drinks in his system made his tongue loose, speaking with the vitriol he still felt from the bandit encounter leading to all the events so far.
“I already smashed a Scar Buggy trying to rob me this morning; I ain’t scared of those powderhead gangs!” Iggy took a slow bite of his jerky and thought of the mangled flesh of the bandits as he chewed with hot resentment.
“You killed them, where?”
Malkin’s voice was lower than ever, without a shred of humor in his tone.
“Ehh, fuck, I think it must have been about 30 miles outsi
de of the Citadel, they were trying to rob and kill me, man, they shot me in the leg!”
Iggy’s neck became hot, he didn’t like where this was going.
“Your leg looks fine to me, Iggy. Were they trying to steal your car or something?”
Thanks, Clear-wet…do I mention the cargo?
“Yeah they probably were; it’s a Class A after all.”
The four of them all grumbled a little before getting back to their drinks and the mood began to lift again. It seems as if they found his answer satisfactory, at least for now. The very silent Penoli finally spoke up after taking a long sip of root water.
“Cook’s gang-run 30% of Folsom.” Penoli paused to look around to see who might be listening. “Some of the affiliates are in this bar. Be lucky you killed them out of zone.”
The voice of Penoli was certainly more female sounding than male but he still couldn’t be sure. Penoli’s face was emotionless and cold. All the words xe spoke were like an automated messaging system. Iggy nodded to her and looked at the rest of the still mostly serious group.
“Listen, Iggy, you did what you had to do to survive, but anyone you grease is gonna have friends, especially in Folsom,” Jake stated firmly while cleaning a large pint glass.
The stark reality of the Shell politics hit home to a very sober part of Iggy’s mind.
“To Survival!”
Malkin raised his glass to concur with Jake and the rest of them nodded with their glasses high in unison.
Out of zone huh? I wonder if any of Cook’s gang here knows the two bandits I killed.
Iggy thought of the crash, he thought of his lost cargo, and as much as he was trying not to, he thought of Sil.
Chapter 8: Arrears
She banged on the plastic and metal door with mild but growing annoyance. Her fist was wrapped in a studded black glove and her steel-toe-cap boots were tapping the hollow wooden floor with impatience.
“You needed to get off the premises five hours ago, Jack. Open this door now or I will,” she said with a smoky, stern voice.
There was no answer. She banged the door again, now with a more forceful and violent intent. Her single eye had a golden-yellow iris; it was pillowed in a handsome but very mature face that would age her to around 40 by conventional human standards. Her face was partially covered by a blood-red eye patch covering the socket where her right eye used to be. Her bright pink hair was styled into Mohawk that hung loosely as if she grew tired of spiking it every morning and let the hair fall where it may. She stood at a solid 6’2 and was covered in the shredded muscles of someone who knew how to do damage. Although solid with brawn, her body was retained a clearly feminine appearance due to her curvy behind and her large round breasts that were being held firmly in place by a biker-chic corset-top.
“I swear to god, Jack…”
Her voice took a deeper masculine tone with the second threat. She stopped to turn to the burly 6’8 red-skinned mutant beside her; who had a face like a blowfish wielding holding a nasty looking sledgehammer. He was wearing a black sweater with the word ‘TOWER SECURITY’ in thick white font across the chest. He shrugged at the woman with a blank expression.
“Maybe he’s high, L.”
The woman pinched the bridge of her nose and held herself back from banging a third time and began to reach in her pocket.
“Of course he’s fucking high. He and his peeler bitch were blasted on powder when they rented the place! This is what I get for taking cash payments from junkies after hours.”
The mutant blinked twice without moving, his very human-sounding voice was now higher with curiosity.
“He was smashing a Peeler? That’s nasty, how torn up was she?”
She sighed.
“It’s not like I watch these people fuck, Grady. They could have just been scoring together. And she was a typical peeler, greenish glow, eyes like mothballs. Some folks are into all that.”
Grady said nothing and blinked once more.
She finished rummaging and pulled out a set of keys on a large ring and began flipping through them when Grady began to tighten his grip on his nasty looking sledgehammer weapon and stood in-position to swing. “I have keys for a reason, Grady. Relax.”
“Yes Landlady, but I’m ready to bash his head in if he tries anything stupid,” Grady reassured, with his knees slightly bent in a stance ready for action.
The Landlady found the key she was searching for and pushed it in a steel keyhole indent located in the middle of the door, “Ready or not, Jack…”
With a click of the lock opening, she kicked the door open with a shattering force, with Grady bursting through to take point. The both of them began searching the inside of what was a very cheap looking apartment. A vidscreen on the wall was hissing from a channel of pure static, and the smell of bodily waste and red powder hung high in the air. The walls were a rusted brown metal or pale grey concrete. There were shell-roaches the size of a fist darting around the sticky half-carpeted floor in search of leftovers and safety.
Grady halted to acknowledge a dead body on the floor. A female blight stripped down to her underwear was motionless and non-glowing in a fetal position. Her stiff fingers were clutching an empty vial.
“Landlady, the Peeler is here, I don’t see any injuries,” Grady said grimly while scanning the room.
The Landlady sighed again.
“She overdosed on powder, couldn’t you tell by the damn stink?”
“I don’t have a nose, Landlady.”
The Landlady rolled her eye and stepped closer to the body and shook her head in jaded disgust, before moving to the slightly ajar bedroom door.
“Hey L, there is actually a condom next to-”
Grady’s discovery was cut short by the small explosion of a gunshot.
A round fired through the bedroom door and missed both of them by a half-inch whizzing past their sides. The Landlady immediately leaped back with inhuman speed behind a portable fridge in the open kitchen and Grady ducked behind a nearby couch. Another gunshot cracked loudly, this time missing wildly and slamming into the fridge door.
“There’s Jack,” Grady stated calmly.
The Landlady drew her own weapon, a large gold-and-silver-plated automatic pistol, it was a restored classic. Grady grinned as she cocked it and began to fire back at the door while yelling at her assailant.
“You fucked up Jack,” she yelled over the sound of her gunshots before ducking back into cover. “This has gone way beyond a late fine now!”
“No, fuck you, Clarissa, you killed her you fucking bitch!”
The screams from Jack behind the bedroom door were that of a clearly tilted and unhinged man, she could even hear him coughing tears as he spoke.
“I didn’t kill her you fucking idiot. She overdosed, that’s what you junkie dipshits tend to do, and don’t fucking call me that!” The Landlady snarled before busting off two more shots at the door.
“Don’t call you what: Bitch or Clarissa?” Grady snarked while getting more comfortable in his cover position. The Landlady stopped firing to give him the middle finger. Right before a bullet punched through the couch, tearing through to just escape past Grady’s large shoulder.
“It was a fucking HOT DOSE! Your boys sold it to her!!” Jack cried spitefully, “We were always careful…fuck…”
The sobbing was getting louder and the voice was getting more enraged, Jack’s footsteps could be heard as he was getting closer to the bedroom door.
“We were gettin’ fuckin’ married tomorrow you heartless fucking cunt!! You took her from me!! I’ll kill you!”
The Landlady shook her head in confusion before ducking at the sound of two more loud gunshots and turned to Grady who looked even more puzzled at what he heard. He peered over the couch to inquire with the distraught man.
“You were really going to marry a peeler, Jack? How much powder were you doing?”
The Landlady sighed and shook her head slowly, knowing what was coming next
.
“HER NAME WAS GLORIA!”
The bedroom door splintered open with violent force and the tormented tenant came rushing out. His completely naked body was covered in sweat and his mouth was foaming. Messy strands of greasy black hair partially covered his wild dilated eyes, and his track mark-covered arm swung in wild motions wielding a large kitchen knife. The Landlady darted to face him head-on while Grady flashed a wicked smirk.
“You stupid fuck,” she stated coldly before weaving her upper body to dodge two wild slashes of Jack’s knife.
Jack’s snarling face was that of someone under the influence, his eyes showed someone truly hurt. The Landlady was able to acknowledge the emotional agony before making the pain very physical. She countered his knife attack by smashing the butt of her pistol into his nose, which caved in instantly with a crunch. Grady winced at the sounds of crumbling bone and gargling blood that was retching from Jack’s now disfigured mouth.
She grit her teeth and struck him two, three, four more times before his face was indistinguishable from fried bug meat on the Folsom market. His shrieks of pain slowly turned to doomed whimpers before dropping the knife and attempting to grab Clarissa, despite being now completely blind by her assault. She halted her pistol-whipping to place the barrel of her gun at his stomach before firing two lethal shots, blowing a pair of holes straight through him.
Jack’s naked, blood-soaked body looked like a crude anatomy lesson, his face an unrecognizable cavity and his insides dangling from his gut wound. He was somehow still alive; in a state that was far outside any normal concept of suffering. Gripping his torso, Clarissa spun into a shoulder throw position and swung him round her body before launching him out of the fairly large kitchen window. Screaming with rage, she hurled the man to his death; from 14 stories high.