Clank.

Clank.

Clank.

Milo had long since faded into a trance, seeing and hearing little but the dirt beneath his feet and the rattle of the chain binding him to a hundred other unlucky souls. Even the creeping dread that the impending journey through the Ruins had once stirred in him had faded to a dull anxiety in the face of hunger, dehydration, and exhaustion. The manacles around Milo's wrists were uncomfortably tight, as the slavers had no bigger size to accommodate them, and the back of his neck was perpetually itchy. No doubt only because it was one of the many spots he couldn't reach with his constricted hands. The discomfort of the journey had long since plateaued, and Milo no longer really noticed the buzzing flies, the stench of unwashed bodies, or the horrendously itchy facial hair. All that was on his mind was how painfully dry his tongue was and the hole where his stomach used to be. Milo worked his jaw idly, unsticking his tongue from the roof of his mouth. It was an unpleasant sensation. He was aware of a sort of pasty, ill-tasting residue coating his palate that was no doubt a bad sign, and the hunger pangs had become almost cripplingly severe. One of the slavers in particular, a small and seedy man by the name of Johno, took extreme pleasure in tormenting the bigger captives. He would deny them food and drink for the pettiest of perceived slights, or if he was feeling particularly cruel, for no reason at all. His beatings came out of the blue and were displays of barbaric, unrestrained fury. Johno would carry on for thirty minutes at a time, spittle flecking his lips and his eyes frenzied like those of an animal. Milo had often been on receiving end of Johno's mad fits back when he had the strength to deal with them. He used to help out the smaller, weaker folks. Give them a little food, a hand up, things like that. Unfortunately, solidarity among slaves was the first step to rebellion, and Johno took particular pleasure in breaking Milo of any altruistic habits.

Milo found himself pulled from his fugue when he felt an abrupt yank on his chains and found himself sprawled on rubble-strewn dirt. They had only just entered the 'city limits' of the Ruins and already things seemed to be going wrong. Johno, that ever-eager bane of his existence, practically squealed with glee as he descended upon Milo.

"Get up! Up, you lazy shit-for-brains piece of filth! I said UP!"

Naturally the wretched man screamed all this in a single breath before enthusiastically working Milo over with the whip, which made it all the harder for the young man to actually rise. When he did successfully heave himself up, Milo found that his task had been so difficult in part because the man in front of him was completely limp and a dead weight on the slack of the chain.

"Oh for fucks sake, did he faint or some shit?"

Johno gave the man a sound crack with the whip, to no effect. A few nudges with the toe of his boot, as well as a delicate kick to the groin, did just as little to rouse the man. Johno seemed reluctant to touch the man, and seemed to figure he had done enough.

"Dead. Fucking wonderful! Gaven! GAVEN! Unlock the chain and stir those lard-arse guards. We gotta get this body off the line and I don't want any god damn runners. Not in this godforsaken hellhole"

He punctuated his statement by spitting loudly on the corpse, fixing one of the female slaves with a leering grin. As far as Milo knew, Johno never forced himself on them, but that didn't stop him from being a right creep when he felt like it. The caravan was halted and the chain undone. Fifteen heavily armed guards positioned themselves along the line, eying the prisoners. No one had the energy to attempt an escape, but the slavers were practiced and vigilant, never letting their cargo go unwatched.

In the meantime, Milo took in his surroundings with a sort of idle I'm-probably-dead-or-worse-anyway sort of lethargy. The almost mythical Ruins. As far as Milo knew, no one had been here in centuries, though that didn't stop horror stories about ghasts and monsters and Scavengers from circulating all across the Wasteland. Trade caravans in particular usually had an interesting and always "honst-to-god true" story to tell about this place. Nasty stuff. Milo didn't really believe the legends, but there was no denying that the place was eerie. For miles around there were fragments of buildings and statues, half-buried and overgrown. Even worse, here within the actual borders of the city there were many nearly whole buildings left. They stood crookedly over shattered roads, many with their steel skeletons on perverse display. It was more than unnerving, especially since even the slightest breeze would echo and groan in the absolutely most startling way. Milo could see where the ghost stories and all had come from. Anyone spending half a second in this fucking place would run for the hills thinking god knows what was after them.

There wasn't much time for him to contemplate this tragic monument to the past because several things happened in quick succession. Several more slaves collapsed, bringing Milo to his knees under the sudden weight of their bodies, and a slaver crumpled forward, his gun discharging with an ear-splitting crack and peppering a cadaver with bullets. Chaos broke out, with slaves tripping over each other trying to fruitlessly flee and slave drivers firing blindly into the ruins, looking to kill whoever was picking off them and their cargo. In a matter of seconds, almost all the slaves were dead. There was but one slaver left, and he appeared catatonic, his gun clicking softly as he repeatedly pulled the trigger without reloading.

Milo himself was more than a little shaken. He was still kneeling, struggling to comprehend what had just happened. Several minutes passed in silence but for that quietly echoing clicking before Milo roused himself to action. Unexpected things happened all the time out on the high seas. Knowing what best to do was not always possible, but doing nothing was for sure never the answer. First, Milo attempted to stand. It took some effort, but he managed it by first shoving the dead bodies in front and back of him away a bit to give himself some slack. The noise did not appear to have any effect on the slaver, who continued his rhythmic trigger-pulling unabated. The more Milo moved around, the better he felt. It was odd, really. He ascribed it to adrenaline, but Milo had apparently found new strength in the face of malnutrition and sleep deprivation.

Milo looked around, noticing that a few of the slaves were still moving around. Still alive. They all seemed to be chained further back than him, so for the moment he turned his back to them and focused on the dead slavers. One of them had been instructed to unlock the chain. One of them clutched in his still-warm fingers the keys to freedom. Slowly, and with great effort, Milo began pulling the chain and the many dozens of still-attached corpses towards the slavers. Impossible, impossible. And yet here he was. The adrenaline theory still held. Didn't people do all sorts of crazy things when nature called upon them to save their own skins? And yet Milo felt...different. Maybe it was the shock, but...No. Not the time to speculate. Looking back, Milo parted his lips. All that came out at first was a dry cough, but he tried again, keeping one eye on the surviving slaver the entire time.

"Help me pull this chain towards forward. One of the slavers has keys"

He had only just gotten the words out when a new sound rang out from deeper in the Ruins. A brief, metallic skittering noise, like a massive metal spider running across a table. Milo froze up, eyes wide. So this was what pure, primal panic felt like. Again, that sounds. It was awful. Whatever it was, it seemed to move in short bursts, and was apparently alone. There was the dusty clatter of rubble, and then....the thing. The animal? It was definitely not a human. At least, not anymore.

The Scavenger was humanoid in shape, but it's arms and fingers seemed unusually long. It's entire back was a patchwork of metal and wires, and the tips of all it's fingers gleamed in the pale sunlight. Milo couldn't tell if they were sharp or not, nor was he particularly eager to find out. A row of thin rods arced along it's spine, occasionally sparking with electricity. As Milo watched, it crept towards one of the slave corpses. Sniffing, prodding, and then (with a suddenness that made Milo taste bile) tearing into the arm of the recently dead woman. Milo gagged, and the thing very suddenly looked up at him. When it made eye contact, it was even worse than watching it feed on someone who had been alive all of ten minutes ago. It's eyes were clearly human, but they had no depth. There was nothing there. Not hunger, not anger or fear or hate or want. It was eating mechanically, to live. It would just as emotionlessly kill Milo, or cut off it's own arm, if that was what it needed to do to survive. Those calculating, hollow eyes remained locked on to Milo's for a beat longer, and then it went back to eating. Milo noted with a sort of detached horror that some of its teeth appeared to be metal as well, and oddly shaped. The Scavenger wrenched the arm off with an almost casual lack of effort and retreated a ways to continue its meal. The surviving slaver did not appear to notice.

"We seriously need to get the fuck out of here right goddamn now"

His whisper was as hoarse as before, but now a tad more urgent. Milo resumed pulling on the chain, his momentary glimpse into the creatures place-where-a-heart-should-be making him confident that it wouldn't go after him while it was eating. It wasn't an animal after all. It had no curiosity, no aggression. It fed, it scavenged, it survived. Nothing more. Milo had barely made any progress when another noise shivered out from the bowels of the Ruins, thin and grating. He could practically see it quivering in the air. A horrible, piercing screech. The thing, the Scavenger, raised its pale head and called right back. Again and again, this back-and-forth exchange continued for something like two minutes. When it was done, the Scavenger went back to ripping apart the mangled arm. A terrible certainty filled Milo as he looked back at the other survivors.

"We have to hurry"

His voice almost broke, the sheer terror making it hard to speak calmly. All he could do was imagine those lopsided, glinting teeth sinking into his flesh.

"They're coming"

Gozer lifted his head awkwardly, the chain that connected the shackles around his chafed wrists and ankles kept him bowed. The harsh glare of the sun stabbed into his eyes. He squinted ahead, and wished he could wipe the sweat that trickled down his forehead. His bare feet were covered in blisters and red abrasions, he was sure infection had started to set in.

The misshapen line of slaves in front of him lurched in a few places as people fell from exhaustion, others in despair. Even the slave drivers themselves looked out from behind hollow eyes. Their walk had gone from one of mocking arrogance to a slow shuffle that mimicked the movement of the poor souls they drove forward.

Johno, the meanest of the slavers, stepped into the line to deliver cuts with his whip and kick at the still forms, to no effect. Gozer had discovered Johno was a coward very early. The little man had thought to take pleasure out of torturing Gozer as he had many of the others, but the giant made barely a sound and stared steadily at Johno until the man's strokes slowed and then stopped. He never quit torturing the bandit, but he drank heavily each time until he passed out in a stupor. On these nights Gozer hung from his wrists in the back of a wagon until sunrise.

For the past number of days he had not been beaten or lashed. He did not think it had been more than a few days, at least. Nights and days had started to bleed together. He still ate better than most, though the prisoners to either side of him ate barely at all. They had fought against him at first, but as the despair and hopelessness overwhelmed them it became easier for Gozer to take their food and water. As Gozer looked at their gaunt and starved forms he felt no pity for them. Only the strong survive.

Thoughts of his predicament fled in a matter of moments, the rush of chaotic events sloughed away his reverie. Gozer pulled with all of his might, the empty gun clicked repeatedly behind him, and dragged the limp bodies of his neighbors with him. The tendons in his neck stood out and his face turned red with exertion. The man he helped was one of the few Gozer had met in his life time that stood taller than himself.

"What the fuck was that?!" Gozer let out in a single exhalation. A section of the line that was between Gozer and the taller man was closest to the corpse of the slaver with the key.

"Grab the key, you worthless sods!" His head snapped to the east as the screeching wails drew nearer. "Fuck!"

Her back was straight as she was walked into the Ruins of Chathair Tús Nua. It was the first time since her feet had been on unfamiliar ground that she’d done so. In the days before the slavers found her wandering lost in the Wasteland, a straight spine had egged on the ache in her stomach, made it impossible to forget what she’d last eaten. Flowers and a bite of soft tart goat cheese. The yellow trumpet shaped flowers had been peppery on her tongue, the spice of their round leaves awakening her appetite. She’d gobbled up the sticky cheese curds, licked up the sour white cream from her fingertips, and been disappointed when she couldn’t find any apples in the dugout cold pantry. They’d had a good year, and she’d been able to indulge in a meal between breakfast and supper without feeling she’d stole it from her winter stomach. Had she known how far away from that beautiful pantry she would end up, she’d have devoured the two boars hanging there, bones and all.

Ten days after that, she’d been close unto death. She’d wandered over prairie grass with nothing she could recognizably call food between one hill and the next, and little frame of reference of where she was or where she was going. Standing on the crest of one such hill, there had been mountains rising up in the distance, curving around her horizon. At home, the forest had made it impossible to see the mountains, which she only knew were close because Cameron didn’t take more than three days when he took the nanny goat into them to breed with the wild billies. She couldn’t remember collapsing or being found by the slave caravan, but she presumed it had happened. There was no other explanation for her current life.

The meals since then were much like what she remembered of bad years: thin gruel with more gristle than grain, and topped with a quickly congealing layer of spoiled grease, meant to save some muscle on the slaves so they could walk under their own power. It had turned quite a few of their number into cows, chewing numbly the scant offerings of food to have the food come back up on them moments later, only to be swallowed down again. Retching was bad manners toward their generous hosts. Very bad manners and very punishable. Memories of dirt biscuits that Junie had made to ease her stomach aches during bad years were cruel reminders that there was no such comfort now, and nothing but her own will to safeguard her, as there wasn’t a shred of camaraderie among slaves. Imogen had been right on that score: no one in the outside world was going to be her friend, and no one possessed enough kindness in their soul to shelter the life of another. Food was stolen by those stronger or more desperate, and she watched passively when her own was occasionally taken. It wasn’t worth fighting for when it took more energy to protest than was available in the bowl. Not that her protesting stomach listened to reason.

It wasn’t so bad as to be unbearable. There were a few things she knew, and she was clever enough to learn and adapt. Except for the issue of water, she didn’t feel especially deprived of resources. Even the inedible portions of the gruel were useable. Cammara did not touch the rancid fat to her tongue, instead using it on her lips and feet, striving to keep her skin from splitting. Dirt got into the grease, making it cake and crack, but saving the flesh underneath.

Once, she had tried smearing the grease on her hands. The act was not repeated. From what she could understand from the row she’d caused, greasing wrists was the action of a rebellious slave trying to escape. If she had any further confusion about what a slave should and shouldn’t do, the lacing of welts hidden under her leggings would bleed until the lesson was permanently written in her skin. It was no secret at least one of the slavers made up rules and imagined transgressions, all too eager to hear pain bleated out amongst wordless cries for mercy. There was no ward against men like Johno. When she had begged, lost all semblance of pride and debased herself before the slaver, Cammara had believed he’d stop breaking her body, satisfied by her broken spirit. She’d been wrong. Stupidly wrong. Even after learning that, she couldn’t stop herself from screaming and choking on her tears. The pain hadn’t changed, hadn’t lessened. Why should her reception of it be altered? She’d seen other slaves take the hits and not respond, faces still as stone, though their blood ran freely, more red outside than in. It wasn’t in her to be silent. Maybe if it had been, certain devils wouldn’t have delighted so much in tormenting her.

It was the people and the sky that had put her on edge for so long. The people who used discipline as cover for their violent insanity, the sky so wide it threatened to spill over and take the ground from under her feet. Thinking on either made her dizzy. The slavers were infected with the madness that ate away their humanity, the one that consumed their soul with greed and filled their mind with power. The slaves were scarcely better, but she watched them, remembering Imogen telling her animals would sense danger first. It seemed true. She could gauge the moods of the slavers from the posture of the slaves, reading there more than the body language written in the slavers themselves. All of this day, the slaves had been jumping from two shadows, unable to bolt to safety from either. One, she knew, was an old shadow, the slavers. The other was new, and yet it called to their ancient primordial nature, invoking fear afresh.

Or not so fresh. Cammara wrinkled her nose, certain someone ahead of her in the line had dark urine running down their legs. One of the slaves, for sure. The slavers had the luxury of stopping and seeking privacy if they desired, but not the slaves. Plus, there was a very unhealthful edge to the scent that came with dehydration. It piled on top of the odor of sweat and unwashed bodies, of blood and pus, and of the myriad of bowel problems brought on those who ate the gristle and fat. She daydreamed about Junie’s lye soap and buckets full of water to rinse away the filth. A little bit of soap could wash away the perfume of slavery, if only she could get her hands on it.

Within the Ruins, the skeletal remnants of skyscrapers loomed, breaking up the expanse of sky into manageable chunks. They were so much taller than the trees of her home, so much thicker. “Humans used to build mountains,” she thought, gazing up at one. The ravine had forced her attention to tunnel forward into a rather dispiriting view of the slave train, but this, this was magnificent. The tug on her wrists reminded her she didn’t have the luxury of stopping to gawk, and she clipped the heels of the slave in front of her, catching up before the brief lag was noticed. The Ruins had the familiar feel of a well picked site, complete with dusty piles of immovable rubble and haphazard paths created by foraging survivors. The carefully planned geometry of a city wasn’t evident from ground level, but then again, this was no longer a living city, so why should it retain that touch of civilization?

Someone ahead of her had fallen. Cammara took little note –she wouldn’t have been able to see anything from her vantage point on the line anyway- momentarily glad the slaver’s attention was elsewhere and that the slave hadn’t been so close to her that she risked Johno’s favoritism. He was so loud. His vulgar mouth echoed in her ears, painful in the dry air. She was spared the usual migraine, and blessed that distance once again. She should adopt Imogen’s oft said adage “keep trouble far from us”. It could be put to good use in circumstances like this.

There was a disturbance in the usual pattern of clinking chains as a few of the slaves shifted from foot to foot, waiting to get moving again. If their whispers were to be believed, they walked into the home of Scavengers. Cammara heard plenty about them at home, in the relative safety of knowing nothing would attract one to her corner of the woods. Yet another reason she should be there, instead of here. She looked back at the skyscrapers, seeing them with new eyes. Were they more threatening now that they housed monsters? Positively. This was a deathtrap, and make no mistake: lined up and chained together was as defensible as a prone corpse. Moving or standing still, it wouldn’t make any difference; they were fresh meat placed before the beasts. Anywhere those towers cast a shadow was no man’s land. It was suicide to be here. People must have gotten very stupid in the last seven hundred years. Or it was a symptom of the slavers’ madness. There was a strong correlation between distance from Scavengers, and sanity, and this, this was Crazy Territory. There was some skepticism among the whisperers, but she paid it no heed. Over twenty generations did not go into hiding from imaginary monsters. There was real reason to fear. She was as convicted in that as anything. But if the other slaves doubted, her vindication wouldn’t serve them better.

For those who maintained belief in Scavengers, it was too cruel, to endure degradation and abuse maintaining the hope that your life at least would be spared even if your spirit was not, and to discover instead you’d walked into your grave. Sheep driven there by madmen. Renewal of despair. It seemed there were infinite deaths awaiting a single spirit. She could have lived quite happily without learning that. But knowing she’d die here, likely very soon, made her heart easier. She wouldn’t walk very far before a Scavenger ensured she didn’t reach the destination the slavers’ had in mind. The greedy bastards wouldn’t profit from the lives of this lot, and if the god was just, the slavers would be dessert, eaten slowly over the course of days.

Another slave crumpled to the ground. Or had fallen unnoticed before and had been recently discovered (she had a low opinion of Johno that couldn’t get much lower, but more to the point, she could personally testify that he couldn’t comprehend beating and screaming at people who were unconscious didn’t accomplished anything). Regardless, that one wasn’t going to get back up. Exhaustion and dehydration were the most likely culprits, especially with no sign of their impending doom, the fabled Scavengers. To come here and die so unspectacularly was anticlimactic, but far more merciful than any death at the hands of this skeletal city’s inhabitants.

But too soon, another fell, and another. Too many too quickly. Slaves and slavers both. She stood stock still, eyes picking up more dying in her peripheral vision, but she was stubbornly focusing on some memory. Both were dying, and the thought kept echoing, trying to tell her something. Imogen and Junie had told her so many reasons not to venture into the world; she had trouble remembering the name of this specific one. It was a plague. It had been the mages’ fault. Before civilization was destroyed, human scientists had experimented with technologies to give power to normal humans, trying to safeguard humanity from magical oppression. Scientists had almost leveled the playing field, but they had made a crucial mistake: they had invited the mages to help create it as a gesture of goodwill, and the jealous, spiteful mages had poisoned the noble work. The god had been just, and when humans died, so did the mages. Both had died. People were dying all around her, and she was doing nothing –she swatted at guilt, reminding it there was nothing she could do- nothing except remembering old lessons. Did it really matter what it was called or how it was created? There was no cure. Had their death been lurking in the water? Was the water poisoned? The water she couldn’t remember having? Cammara licked her lips and closed her eyes. If stupid thoughts were a symptom, she was going to drop dead any second now.

Moments later, the dead littered the ground. She wasn’t on the ground. Wasn’t dead. Cammara checked herself over, wanting to be sure. She’d been spared. Halleluiah. Johno was dead. Hurray for small mercies. In her exuberance over not dying from the Mechanophage virus (how had she not been able to come up with that earlier?), her earlier primary suspect of her demise had arrived. One of the Scavengers was eating someone. Once again, she saw nothing. She heard quite a bit, and not even the repetitive dry firing of the mind-broken slaver could stop those sounds from reaching her. The big man, the one she suspected had been crudely carved from a boulder and meanness breathed life into, was positioned perfectly to block her sight. Good. If it worked its way down the line, it would go for him before it reached her. Give her time to accommodate the notion her bits were going to be ripped off and her bones pulverized for tasty marrow and easy calcium.

When it left, she resumed breathing. Not the faintest notion of when she’d stopped.

Survivors were going for the key, muscling their way to it. The bodies before her were dragged along, strong armed by a very determined boulder of a man: Gozer by name, and scary as hell by reputation. They all were at the mercy of whoever reached the key first, and unless that person majorly deviated from the conduct she’d witnessed for the past week, there would be no mercy, only self-interest. But it would be worse if Gozer got it first. She couldn’t imagine how, but it would be much, much worse.

She really didn’t want to die. Scant moments ago, there had been no doubt death was imminent and she’d accepted that wasn’t something she had control over. Even been a little content, knowing she wouldn’t have to walk any further. But she wasn’t dead. She didn’t want to die. The slavers were not going to stop her now. Those three facts seemed mighty important.

When she’d woken bound in chains, she should have been concerned about her apparent status change from Lost to Slave. Instead, Cammara had only a mind for her numb hands and feet. Dangling in the arms of a stranger had allowed the blood to pool in her extremities, and made it impossible to move them during those first minutes, until a slaver beat the circulation back into her. Nothing like pain and blind panic to get the heart racing and blood pumping. Dehydration and salt deficiency kept her hands swollen thereafter, to the point where she couldn’t recognize the touch of her own fingertips when she wiped the sweat off her brow. She jammed cloth between the manacles and her skin, and it did manage to save her from the chafing and bleeding the others suffered, but the tight fit brought on the telltale tingling and she had to pump her hands into fists to keep her nails pink and her nerves responding. The cloth rags dampened with sweat and she packed more in, adding holes to her makeshift shawl in the process. Each morning she suffered thousands of glass needles pricking her flesh, and would stare in horror at the discoloration. Her hands were her life.

Now, they were going to save her life.

Cammara grabbed the rags with her teeth and pulled them away along with some dead skin. Underneath her wrist was pale and shrunken, the exposed skin decorated by every fold and scrunch the rags had held. She braced the iron cuff between her knees, forced her thumb and small finger together and slid her hand free. The lead chain dropped down to her feet. No grease needed. By some miracle, the swelling and bloating had dissipated. The slavers had worried about all the wrong things.

She walked past the dead. The rattle of her ankle chains was indistinguishable from the clinking of the dragged chains as the survivors struggled for the key. She picked her way through, stepping on a few bodies and moving faster when she nearly tripped, despite the awkward foreshortened gait imposed by the ankle chains. Shepherding Nan the Goat had given her an interesting perspective on walking, but it was helpful now. Gozer she gave wide berth. He spoke like the slavers, had always been too much like them. She spotted the fallen slaver. Her eyes strayed to the supplies, the only place her PET could be hidden if they hadn’t left it where they found her. She wouldn’t leave it behind.

She went for the key. She needed to be able to run full stride more than she needed a disfunct hunk of metal weighing her down. When the key was in her hand, she looked to Gozer, keeping an eye on the distance while she jammed it in first one keyhole and then another. There was dirt in the last, her other manacle. The key was no use to her anymore.

“Here,” she said, addressing a slave for the first time. With the exception of crying, screaming, and begging, she hadn’t found much reason to vocalize as of late. He was not Gozer, he was the man who’d stared a Scavenger in the face, and that’s all she knew. “Take it.” Cammara pressed it in his hand as she darted past.

The supplies. She needed something to hold water or she’d be back where she was when the slavers found her. If she found PET too… she wouldn’t leave it behind. If she’d truly been willing to lose it, she wouldn’t be here, and not even all these horrid experiences could change that. But she had to be quick. The Scavengers wouldn’t wait, and they certainly weren’t going to give her a headstart.

Illyn walked. This was nothing new to her. She was dirty, sore and bore the wounds of the long trek like the rest but her mind was not thinking about it. That was the advantage she and Neman had over “newer” slaves. They knew when to tune out thinking about the walk and the pain. The trick was to keep the mind active on other things. Illyn was busy counting the number of stiches it took to fix the leg of Neman's pants.

"14, 15, 16..."

Her nose itched, a piece of blonde hair was tickling it. It interrupted her counting. Leaning over towards her hands, Illyn did her best to scratch and not rattle the chain too much or break her pace. One of the slavers seemed a bit more sadistic than she was used to and Illyn did not want him coming at her for a simple annoying itch.

Her eyes watched ahead, keeping an eye to ensure Johno, as she had heard him called did not look over to her. She did not need to worry. Ahead of her, another slave had fallen and she could hear Johno voice yelling for him to get up. The crack of the whip broke the air and the chain slowed as the guards were called for.

Illyn scratched the annoying itch for all it was worth, relieved at the break to do so. Her eyes raised to their surroundings. There was something eerie and unsettling about the ruins. It wasn’t simply the stories she had heard about it. Intact but empty buildings as they entered made it feel as if ghosts were watching them as they walked, bidding them enter if they dared.

The caravan kept going moving further in and as they did more and more slave became nervous. Illyn went back to counting.

"1. 2. 3..."

Now, remnants of structures stuck out of the ground. Large pieces missing giving them the appearance of giant creatures about to devour anything that came near them. Illyn tilted her head mesmerized for a moment by one particular one. The whole building was slightly toppled but there was also a chunk missing out of the one side. This hole gaped open, a great mouth of darkness. Two openings, windows in a bygone time were perfectly positioned, giving the building-creature black absorbing eyes.

Illyn was staring into it and to her the building was looking back. She could almost hear it calling her forward, calling her to her death. She frowned, blond eyebrows furrowing on tanned skin. Something was wrong. The chain was suddenly heavier.

Illyn pulled her gaze from the building and looked to those in front of her again. Her mind worked to play catch up to her eyes. Slaves, on the ground. No, not just slaves, slavers too. She worked to comprehend just what she was seeing. It made no sense. As more dropped, Illyn was forced to the ground. She tried to look behind her. Neman had been chained there. Maybe he had an idea of what was going on, saw something as she was staring into the building.

Her brother lay on the ground. Illyn blinked. He must have collapsed under the weight as she had. Neman wasn't on his knees though. His body was contorted, crumpled and misshapen from how he had landed as if he simply dropped or collapsed. Trying to turn Illyn grabbed hold of the chain in front of her. She attempted to drag the body and chain in order to aid her movement. There was too much weight and she too weak. She huffed slightly in annoyance.

“Neman...wake...wake up....” Her voice was low and hushed, a habit from conversing with him when others might be listening. “Neman...”

Illyn kept trying to pull on the chain. She needed to see her brother. They had never been apart, he had always protected her. He couldn't just be dead, not after the years they had endured. Not without a logical reason for his death. Illyn could hear but did not understand the sounds of gunfire. She didn’t understand anything at that moment. Nothing seemed to make sense.

Illyn grabbed the chain again. Her hands wrapped themselves around the links and pulled. This time it moved and allowed her to turn towards her brother. The shackles rubbed but she didn’t care. “No...”

Someone was yelling from the front of the line but she wasn’t able to hear it clearly. Her mind was too preoccupied and new noises made distinguishing words harder. New screams rang out. Illyn looked up from Neman’s corpse, angered slightly that people were making so much noise that it was making it hard for her to think. She was struck immediately at how few slaves were still alive. Looking towards the front of the line there was a commotion going on.

Head’s were looking into the ruins, the chain was being pulled on and Illyn simply watched it all. Those that she could see, at least three other slaves were watching some the ruins and frantically trying to escape. Blue eyes were wide as she watched the scavenger emerge from the ruins. “From the pit of demons....they are coming for us.” She felt oddly calm as she watched certain death come for the survivors. Illyn nodded as if understanding now what the fear was about.

Illyn watched a very big man scream for someone to grab the keys. Somewhere inside of her there was a voice telling her that she should be doing the same but kneeling in the dirt next to Neman’s body all she could do was watch with an almost fascination. Flight. Crouched in the dirt, Illyn observed first hand a person's desire to flee to save their life.

A scavenger was eating one of the dead slaves. The remaining slaves were screaming and trying to flee still. Illyn licked her lips. The slave was dead when the scavenger began eating, like Neman. She looking around at her brother she realized just how many were dead and the slavers too. Again a frown appeared on the woman’s face.

There had to be something that had caused the initial wave of death. On her right had been the ruins and judging by the sun, it was the east. The scavengers had come from that way. Nothing else that she could see gave her any clue. Illyn looked to the north, again nothing but dirt and ruins. Turning her head to the west, Illyn’s left, was something entirely unexpected. Her expression never changed she stared back at the wolf. It was watching the chaos as if, like her, it was fascinated with watching the people flee.

Illyn stood slowly, the chain still in her hands. Those bodies closest to her moved slightly with her, including her brother’s. She paid them no mind. Her eyes never left those of the wolf’s. Licking her lips again, Illyn stepped towards it. Something about the way it stared, that it was staring gave the wolf an almost human quality. Illyn was both terrifed and unafraid of it.

She knew she should run. Neman would have wanted her to run, to try and flee but Illyn couldn’t bring herself to do it. Chaos was behind her and calm in front of her, yet everywhere was death. Whatever killed Neman had not killed her and now it seemed she had a choice. Scavengers or the wolf. Moving as best as the chains allowed Illyn moved towards the wolf. She was pulling lifeless bodies behind her, like the train of a dress.

“A choice in death, than I chose you”

Illyn kept her eyes locked to the wolf’s.

Utter chaos. Milo fought to keep his head. The big fellow behind him, a real brute of a man, was helping heave the rope towards the fallen slaver who held the keys. Screams? Milo had difficulty hearing anything over the incredibly loud pounding of blood in his ears. Everything seemed so unreal. There had been a few times when something had gone wrong on the boat; a torn sail, a violent storm, an unseen reef. He knew what panic and desperation and fear felt like. Unmistakeable. Their stench soaked into your clothes, made them cling to your skin. This was like...enlightenment. Or drugs. Sound distorted, fading in and out like a poorly tuned radio. Everything was in slow motion, and Milo found himself picking out individual flecks of rust on his manacles for examination. He briefly wondered if he was dead, or unconscious, or hallucinating. Maybe this was the trick of the Ruins. Some biological weapon from the past or seeping chemicals from some plant or something made people turn into raving lunatics and they ended up killing each other or themselves. Maybe that....thing...over there eating the corpse of a woman with such gusto was just a regular person gone mad and Milo was just imagining him or her as a monster.

Before he could go much further along this train of thought, which made a lot more sense to Milo than what was actually going on, a slip of a girl shoved a key in his hand. She said something, but Milo didn't really comprehend the words. It took him a second to realize that he held in his hand the very key he had been trying to grab. The key. The key! Frantically, Milo scrabbled a his manacles, his shaking fingers trying and failing to line up the crooked bit of metal with the keyhole. Finally, after what seemed like forever and a day, Milo succeeded in getting his hands free. The leg shackles proved easier. Flexing his sore hands and rubbing raw wrists, Milo glanced back at the Scavenger. Still busy with its meal. Not that that meant much, seeing as it's friends were on their way. Good god. The girl was long gone, but Milo swore to himself that if they both got out of this mess alive he would debase himself in thanks and grovel at her fucking feet if need be.

Milo considered the key in his hand and looked back at the line of slaves. The big fellow, Gozer, was closest, but Milo was reluctant to let him off the line. He was a bully, and unkind to the other slaves. Like they needed to be made more miserable. A girl, also. Face to face with...a wolf? A wolf. Just...hanging out. Observing the madness. Milo briefly considered his hallucination theory but decided he didn't quite have enough faith in it to test. The girl was probably in the most immediate danger, but Milo was reluctant to go near the wolf and present his juicy, chaseable ass for din-dins. So the big fella it was. Milo worked his knees for a few seconds, getting used to having a full range of motion after months of restricted shuffling, and picked his way over to Gozer.

"Hang on a minute, mate...God damn it!"

Milo muttered swears as he worked the key into the rust-clogged keyhole, starting with the leg shackles. Doing the wrists first would have made more sense, but Milo didn't want Gozer potentially taking the key and fleeing without freeing the other survivors. The lock clicked and the shackles fell free, and Milo turned his attention to the other set or restraints. These took even longer than the others, partly because they were so tight on Gozer's massive wrists that the locking mechanism was under high tension, forcing Milo to walk a fine line between turning the key hard enough and breaking the damn thing. That was the last thing anyone needed.

As Milo worked, there was a distant clatter of metal on metal. It drew closer and closer, accompanied by rustling and chittering. Milo glanced back and immediately regretted it, because he spotted the first of the Scavenger horde cresting the crumbling road leading deeper into the Ruins. Their variety was innumerable. Tails, spikes, claws, teeth, wires...Every Scavenger seemed to have swapped body parts at random for cybernetic replacements. If not for the pants-shitting terror he was experiencing, Milo might have been amazed at their complexity. One of the Scavengers had a row of sharp metal horns protruding from her skull and down the base of her neck. Formidable enough on its own, but then the damn thing lowered its head and impaled the nearest corpse in the leg. With a casual flick, the entire limb was torn clean off. The Scavenger retreated to the side, much like the herald who had arrived first on the scene, and began to systematically devour her prize. It was sickening to watch, particularly because the Scavenger had the body of girl no older than 15. It was grotesque and unnerving.

There were only three or four now, and they seemed busy with the corpses up front, but those would not last for long. It sounded like dozens were on their way, and Milo was confident that they would work their way down the line with no preference for dead or living flesh, and would just as readily dismember one of the survivors.

Swearing more loudly now, Milo gently urged the key to turn. He was so afraid it was going to snap off in the lock that it made him sick. He couldn't bear to leave even a brute like Gozer to those flesh-eating creeps, though, and so he stood there like an idiot begging and coercing the lock between breaths.
Finally, finally, the wretched thing clicked open. Without wasting any time, Milo sprinted to the girl facing off with the wolf. Unlike Gozer, her manacles were plenty loose enough for her to unlock them on her own.

"Hey! Here!"

Tossing her the key without paying attention to whether she caught it or not, Milo spun on his heel and followed the girl who had freed him. He didn't know what she was looking for, but his fishing trident was in that caravan. More than food or water, Milo wanted a weapon.

Leaping onto the back of the caravan, Milo started digging frantically through the piles of stuff. Garbage, useless trinkets, complete trash! Where were the weapons? Milo panted as he worked, letting out a short, soft keening sound with every exhalation. The approaching pack of monsters was louder than ever, and they were all running out of time.

Gozer held still, his heart pounding in his chest. The staccato drum in his ears drowning out the noise and fear. Some part of him knew to wait for the taller slave to unlock his shackles. His arms flexed involuntarily as his wrists strained against his bindings. The bandit concentrated on a single point, trying in vain to calm himself.

It was the girl that finally gave him focus, as she dug through the rubble and packs Gozer saw something of his sisters' in her. She did not look like them all that much, and she definitely did not act like them.

Sara and Beth and Cylto. They were washing his clothes, his only pair. He had ruined them going into a gully he had been forbidden from entering.

Cylto, the eldest at the time, looked up at him with inquiring eyes, "Why are you still here?"

Reality fell on him like a weight as the cuffs slipped from his wrists. Gozer sprung into action, leaping free of the chains and slave corpses that littered the ground. Behind him a woman, mad with fever, spoke to a distant figure. The largest wolf Gozer had ever seen, even the mutated wolves he had seen before were not even close to it's size.

The tall, thin man that had freed Gozer tossed trash and detritus from the back of a wagon. A long piece of worn and splintered wood landed near Gozer. Slowly, so slowly, he lifted the shaft from the ground and hefted it in his hands. The pads of Gozer's feet stung with blisters, but he hardly seemed to notice as he sprinted across the hot sands.

Gozer felt a pull to the corpse ravaging horrors, a tug on his very being. He wanted to drive his makeshift weapon into throats and sternums, he wanted to claw at the soft parts of their flesh. But Gozer was a survivor, he knew better than to fight a battle that he could not win. He knew that al the way up to the moment that his weapon shattered across the metallic spine of a particularly large horror and rained splinters into his skin.

There was a moment of genuine shock on the creature's face as it turned it's attention on him. With a swipe of an arm that resembled a car door Gozer was flying through the air. With a sickening crunch he hit the rocky ground, hs arm at a frightening angle underneath him.

He grit his teeth for the pain that never came. Then with the blood pounding in his ears again, he stood and wrenched his arm back into it's proper place. Gozer smiled.

Cammara saw something else familiar, something she'd not even noticed the slavers had taken. It was a mostly empty sheepskin bag, containing a pittance of pure white salt. At home it hung in the pantry, at hand whenever it was needed to whoever needed it. But it had needed refilling, as it did most every month, and Junie had sent her to the saltspring. The pair of boars hanging in the larder were destined for a grand future as salted pork, and that wasn't going to happen with only a handful of salt, now was it? The idea had been to tinker around with PET while waiting for saltwater to boil down. Neither had happened.

Of course she hadn't noticed it was missing. Who looked for salt when her tongue was so dry she could scrape a hide clean with it? She slung it on its braided cord across her chest. It wasn't a canteen, but she'd rather have something than nothing. She'd tanned the leather herself and had made sure it was watertight to keep the salt dry. It would suffice.

The new wave of Scavengers descended. Automatically she looked up at the sound. No Gozer blocked her view. She was stricken at the sight. White-eyed-sheep fear, except she was no sheep: she could think, and that made this all the more terrifying. Her hand raised of its own accord to cover her mouth as her stomach clenched and threatened to spew. Nothing in her stomach now though. They had machine bits. Somehow that offended her more than their inhuman appetites. It was one thing for humans to be corrupted and poisoned by magic, but for that magic to in turn dirty the manmade tools humans relied upon, turning what she'd always known to be beautiful and sacred and logical into chaotic monstrosity... it was sickening. Revolting. She wished her mind would turn off, that only the fear of what these Scavengers would do to her own flesh occupied her thoughts, but no, her mind was busy feeding bile to her heart. She needed to stop looking. Stop looking, start thinking, and running far as she could. She needed to find PET. Get PET out of here before they made PET part of this atrocity. Wait, which was she doing, looking for PET or running? Was it both? Then she really needed to stop watching precisely how that one with lenses in place of eyes bent a grown man over its knees and clawed flesh out of the man's buttocks, dropping strips of meat into its mouth, one of its lenses trained to the movement of the other Scavengers. The other lens whirred, intent upon the supply wagon. It was looking at her? Lands above and below, she had not moved! She didn't even breathe. Look away! Look away! The beast did not look away. Rather, its other lens tracked movement toward her. Peachy. She'd watched it eat and now it was going to watch her get eaten. Stop looking at me!

Something jumped into the caravan supply wagon behind her, and she whirled around, expecting it to be another Scavenger. Reflexively she'd put an arm out to ward off the oncoming attack. Now, she withdrew it, along with the dangling chain that had swung out, lashing the air with an empty manacle. She didn't give the man her back until her eyes had worked him over, reaffirming he was solely flesh and not one of them. As an afterthought, she realized she knew the face, had seen it scant moments ago. Then the creepy feeling the monster had tricked her sunk in, and she had to whip around again to be sure Lens-Eyes wasn't right behind her. No. It had not moved from its meal. Both its eyes were back on the other Scavengers, mouth a little bloodier than before, something dangling on its chin that she didn't want to give much thought to.

The man was making a raucous racket, rooting through like a pig that scents truffles and blindly flings aside everything that lacks the proper scent. He had muscle, and height, the combination unnerving, but as his attention was not on her, she could restrain herself from skittering away. An empty pot and flash of something blue tumbled behind her, and she jumped before realizing it had been the backs of her knees that had initiated the mini avalanche. Okay, so maybe he was unnerving her more than she was willing to admit to herself. With Scavengers, plague, Gozer and slavers, she'd really had enough to fear today without adding him to the list. But this caravan made her feel boxed in with him and though he gave no indication he cared a lick she was there, he had trapped her nonetheless. It was possible he was mad. Out here in the Wastelands, she did not doubt everyone was mad. Herself excluded. She'd not been raised to it.

As he failed to find whatever he sought, he uncovered PET. She made a dive and scooped it up before he buried it again, or worse, chucked it out of the wagon. There were surface scratches on the hull, probably the same from when it had lost power and dumped her unceremoniously onto the packed earth. Her calloused fingers traced marks surrounding the cover plate. Someone evidently had tried to force it open. Otherwise it appeared the same. She'd look inside later, assess the damage.

A woven bag came flying and landed on the growing pile at her knees. Some metal ornaments too, but they bounced and scattered, disappearing once again. She picked up the sack and experimentally shook it. Sounded like grain. If it was the origin of their gruel, the Scavengers could have it, with her blessing. There was a nasty knot tying it up and she didn't have time to pick it out and no knife to cut it off. Expecting the worst, she sniffed the bag. Smelled... honestly, she had no clue like what, only it wasn't anything like the gruel. That significantly increased the chance it was edible. It was shoved into her tunic, where it dropped down and formed a comical lump. She wished she were so well fed as to have a bulge there.

The man's search shifted him to one side. There was space to get past him, though she'd be in easy reach if he tried to prevent her from leaving.

Cammara clambered toward the end of the caravan she'd come in through, tossing a glance (and her massive tangle of hair) over her shoulder toward Lens-Eyes. If it so much as looked in her direction again, she was going to run until she reached the mountains. She wasn't going to freeze again. She should have run as soon as she saw it tracking movement toward her. Never mind that the threat had dissipated into the relatively harmless human. "Run first, get to safety first. Better to be treed by a rabbit than gored by a boar," she heard Cameron's voice in her head, speaking around the pounding blood in her ears. Run now. Let the tall mad man hunt for something more precious than his life.

Or maybe she'd interrupt him for a moment and get him to deal with the furry roadblock. He seemed the proactive sort. And if he scared her when his attention was elsewhere, that was just the man to throw at the giant mutant raccoon-coyote.

"If you care to leave anytime soon, that pitchfork might come in handy," she said, pointing up to the canopied ceiling where a lantern hung and one of the slavers had strapped in a few cumbersome items no one wanted to trip over. She made no move to grab the weapon for herself. What could she do with it? Pick the creature's teeth clean after it ate the girl in front of it? "Clear the way and I'll share my supplies. I'll feed you until we part ways. Agreed?"

She clutched PET to her chest. Her fingers remembered the white-knuckled journey, were even now holding on like these days as a slave had never happened. She was still lost and far from home. In a sense, nothing had changed.

Except now when she looked around, it was not canyon walls. It was Scavengers. She wanted to close her eyes. Instead, her eyes roved around, tracking movement like Lens-Eyes, not wanting to be taken by surprise again.

It is a good deal. Take it. You need out of here as much as I do. "Agreed?"

Where was it? Where was it?

Milo had seen the slavers toss his trident in with the other supplies they had ransacked, he knew it was here. Sacks of grain, baubles, tanned leather, a decorative chest, a sack containing something promisingly oblong that turned out to be a heavily carved oar. Milo was ready to scream. It was incredible how much Milo hated the things he was looking through. He had never felt such loathing, such contempt, for objects before. Why did all this stuff even exist? Pointless, cumbersome, useless garbage that was doing nothing but getting in the way. Milo tore a paper package clean in half, shredding the clothes inside as well. Lace fluttered to the ground in ribbons. Milo had never owned anything that did not have a purpose. Utility was his life. Now, to be thwarted in his goal by fancy undergarments and toys, it was foaming-at-the-mouth frustrating.

As he searched, Milo glanced up every now and again, striving to keep an eye on the chaos unfolding around him. Scavengers everywhere, most with bloody hunks of meat in their mouths. A pair of Scavengers were arguing over one of the guns, shrieking and swiping at each other like alley cats. There was no quibbling over food - plenty of corpses to go around. The metal, though...Usable, rust-free tech? Clearly in high demand. Even something so comparatively crude as a gun warranted attention, evidently. Some of the Scavengers were eyeing the caravan with great interest. There was no malevolence in the way they assessed the occupants of the rickety cart, but Milo did not doubt for a second that they were deciding whether or not killing them would be something they would have to do to get at the goods. Milo could not get past that instinctive revulsion he felt every time he made eye contact with one of the damned things. There was just...nothing there. They weren't even animals. Animals felt fear and lust, if nothing else. These things? Creatures of pure necessity. It was like being hunted by a pocket calculator. Maybe frivolous, pointless nonsense wasn't so bad after all.

The massive wolf was still watching the proceedings, evidently unperturbed. Some of the Scavengers seemed to shy away from it, but most either ignored it or examined it with the same weighing look a butcher gave a hunk of meat before he decided how to cut it. There was no point worrying about it now, but what about when he ran? Weren't wolves supposed to chase runners instinctively? It would be a shame to get away from the slavers and the Scavengers only to be brought down by an overgrown, fleabitten mutt. Still, better than those fucking monsters. At least the wolf would actually be capable of enjoying the meal.

The girl Milo had followed seemed to either be thinking or catatonic, like the sole surviving slaver had been. If she was the latter, well...she was small, and Milo figured he could sprint whilst carrying her for at least a quarter of a mile. The adrenalin seemed to really be working its magic, because his limbs practically vibrated with vitality. Milo was ready to run for days if need be. He doubted he could bear her weight for too long, but he couldn't in good faith leave her to these things. Luckily, it appeared that she HAD been simply thinking (or in temporary shock, perhaps?) because she very suddenly addressed Milo mid-search.

"Pitchfork? Where?"

Looking up, Milo wanted to punch himself in the face for his own blind ignorance. There, right in front of his stupid, stupid face, was his trident. He yanked it down, tears in his eyes, and hefted the thing. Built for Milo, the thing was absolutely huge. Taller than him by almost a foot and ending in three barbed and wickedly sharp prongs, it would have been easy for anyone not familiar with such a weapon to mistake it for a pitchfork. The minute Milo wrapped his hand around the haft, he felt at peace. Secure, ready to take on anything. The mere presence of the weapon slowed his racing heart, eased his panicked mind. The ability to defend oneself was a blessing and a huge relief. It was the difference between being naked and clothed before a storm. In truth, it might not make much difference, but it made a world of difference in mentality and attitude.

"I..."

Milo paused, confused. It was like the girl had an echo. She clearly hadn't spoken, but the words rang in his mind clear as day. Was he imagining things? Surely not. Perhaps the stress of the situation was getting to him. Not impossible. And yet Milo was convinced of what he had heard. Taking a slow breath, Milo tried to focus on the situation at hand.

"I'll protect you out as best I can, but there are other survivors. If there's anything I can do to help, I will. You can run, or not, as you like. I won't leave anyone to those fucking things unless I absolutely must. Other than that, we have a deal. S-stay behind me, and uh, I guess shout if you see something I don't. I'll get you clear of this cart at least, and then you can do as you please."

Milo gave the cart one last glance, hoping to snag something useful. No food or water, much to his dismay, but he did spot a coil of rope and sling it like a bandolier across his chest. As a fisherman, Milo firmly believed that there was no problem rope could not solve. Jumping down from the wagon, Milo leveled his trident and edged around back. There was no point going back the way they came, not without food and water. It was empty desert for days - he would be trading a fast, bloody death for a painfully slow one. The landscape in every other direction was peppered with the carcasses of skyscrapers. Between the Scavengers pouring out and around them, the wolf, and the desert, there was no truly safe route. Milo spotted Gozer, in a heap, staggering to his feet. A Scavenger must have thrown him. It was easy to pick out the culprit. While its fellows busily gorged on still-warm flesh, one of them had slunk low to the ground, hackles raised and glittering mechanical tail quivering in the air. It was almost like a scorpion in appearance, barring its weirdly flattened arm. It was hard to tell from here, but it looked like a car door. Gozer was a capable fellow, though. He could probably handle himself, and there was still that lady having her little staring contest with the wolf. Milo was even more reluctant to interfere with that. He had a measure of chivalry instilled in him as a youth, but not enough to plow headfirst into trouble. Before Milo could really make any sort of decision, he found himself facing his own problem.

One of the Scavengers had gotten extra curious and decided to come poking around. It was relatively small, and its hands and feet ended in silver spikes. The arachnid vibe was very strong. As it approached, it slowed down, and the spikes flowered into many-fingered hands with delicately articulated mechanical phalanges. Too many for a normal hand, and with no thumbs. It was kind of incredible how the smallest details could make something appear unearthly and wrong. Milo kept his trident pointed at it as it circled lazily, blinking with almost deliberate slowness. It had some sort of pod on its chest, and it sinuously leaned back to expose it. Milo did not waste any time wondering what the pod did. He struck, but the Scavenger was far nimbler than it appeared to be, leaping back with an antagonized hiss. The pod clicked open and two thin tendrils uncoiled, their entire lengths covered in glistening barbs. It did not take a genius to figure out what they were for. No doubt a chosen victim was reeled in and then impaled with the spiked limbs, or perhaps bitten. Or maybe the barbs were poisonous, who knew? Point being, Milo was less than eager to give the thing a hug. It skittered forward, tendrils questing along the ground for an unwary ankle to wrap around. Milo jabbed at one, then the other, frantically trying to keep the things at bay. It was focusing on him for now, but what if it decided the girl would be an easier target? Or what if it understood the concept of hostages? Milo succeeded in pinning one of the feelers to the ground, eliciting an almost pleading mewl from the Scavenger. The sound was so ill-fitting that it gave Milo pause, which was enough for the horrid beast to get its other tentacle around his shins. With a yank, Milo was on his back and the thing was on top of him, thrashing and flailing. Milo flung it aside with a scream that was part terror, part rage. It spasmed, trying to flip over, and as it did so Milo swung his trident around and stabbed it in the stomach. There was a crunch, like he had punctured the carapace of a giant insect. Milo twisted, and then the oddest thing happened. With the Scavenger bucking and clawing underneath him, Milo felt his anger and fear come to a point, hard and bright. It was like the moment before a sneeze. Nothing, nothing...poised on the edge. And then release, and the energy he felt burning in his chest seemed to arc along his arms, along the trident, and into the beast. It jerked like a marionette, temporarily paralyzed, and Milo was free to drive the trident the final few inches in. All struggles ceased, and after a second Milo freed his weapon, rocking it back and forth until it came loose.

No more than a minute or two could have passed, and yet it felt like an eternity. Bleeding, shaking, and out of breath, Milo looked to the girl. He had gotten lucky, Milo knew that, and his little skirmish could have easily resulted in both their deaths. The knowledge that this could have been it galvanized him, and Milo stood upright once more. There seemed to be no more Scavengers nearby, but that could quickly change.

"We should circle around to the west and try to climb to the top of a building or something. There's nowhere else we can go, and maybe we can wait these things out and get food and water later. I'm Milo, by the way. In case we don't get a chance to bond later, my favorite color is green and I like my coffee with cream."

Milo peered around the edge of the wagon and examined the surrounding structures. None looked too sturdy, but there was a fluted number about 400 feet away that seemed mostly intact. It had no windows on the first three floors, which Milo liked a lot, and a pair of heavily adorned double doors that opened out. Ideal for barring from the inside. It was the best shot they had at getting out of this alive.

"Here, look at that one. It looks good to me. There's no way we can outrun these things on open ground, but it's just a short sprint to those doors. I'll hold off any that follow us and you get the doors open, and then we can hole up on the top floor until these fuckers go home or back to their nests or whatever. Then, with any luck, we'll find enough food and water to get us to the river we passed a few days back. Sound like a plan?"

Cammara made herself small. It hadn’t worked when Johno had accused her of trying to escape. As she’d learned, there were too many vulnerable places to protect them all, and it was easy for anyone to pry her open like a clam. She’d hated freshwater clams. Silly thing to think about now. She dragged her forehead across her forearm and buried her face into the crook of her elbow. PET nestled uncomfortably in the tangle of her limbs; it was large enough to shield her if she wasn’t trying so hard to wrap herself around it and hide it from the Scavenger. She heard the final blow, but didn’t know for whom. Acrid ozone burned her nostrils, along with cloying minerals that hung in her dry throat, making her closed eyes water and her lungs spasm to find fresh air. It overpowered the scent of blood and offal, meaning it was closer. Her ears pricked on the sound of his weapon pulling free and she looked up, meeting his eyes.

Cammara unraveled her limbs out of the defensive crouch, letting her feet hang off the wagon before dropping the short distance to the ground. Her focus went to the dead Scavenger. The size… she could only assume it had been a child. She regarded the man’s face and saw the surety there she lacked. He’d killed it. It looked dead, but so did a sleeping snake. Just in case the thing was faking the stillness of death, she kept him between them. Scavenger mortality wasn’t something she wanted to get close enough to confirm.

He began talking. Introduced himself as Milo. Names were details she didn’t think were important at the moment, and the inane details of his preferences bordered on surreal. But if they survived this, she’d get him his coffee. As green and creamy as he wished.

“Cam,” she returned, feeling acutely uncomfortable with the name exchange. Imogen had told her horror stories of mages able to curse or control a person if given a name. She found herself hoping he wasn’t a mage. If she’d saved a mage and in turn been saved, they were even, and she had only to wait for him to turn on her, which was only what she expected from anyone in the Wastes. But it would gnaw at her that she’d given the key to a mage. It would be akin to setting Gozer free. Only she could trust Gozer wouldn’t save her life. That was it, was it? She didn’t want to owe her life to a mage.

She listened to his plan. She was about to tell him outright he was crazy, but she held her tongue in check. He’d told her to stay behind and he’d protect her. They’d each done exactly that, and had come out of it alive. It was something to consider. Then again, she would have done it anyway. And he’d have done it anyway, because the Scavenger had attacked him. Mustn’t give him too much credit.

Only it was terribly hard to not be impressed. He’d killed it with a fork. In less than a minute. She was staring, wasn’t she? Cammara made a conscious effort to look away.

But his plan was still terrible.

Who retreats closer toward the city of gnashing hungry cannibals? Seriously, might as well crawl into a Scavenger’s mouth now. They have better technology, are on their territory, and already know we’re here. We have no advantage. We’re going to die.

Cammara’s fingers were back in the wagon. Where her fingers were, her eyes were, and at least this way she could keep track of them. It made sense that items used often would be within easy reach. It wasn’t proving true in practice. Surely there was something more. Better than possibly spoiled grain and a bag of salt, she amended. An idea struck her, and she stuck her hand under the carriage of the wagon, blinding searching out with her fingertips until she closed over something smooth and cool. Ripping it out from its hideyhole, she dangled a flask by its short chain. “For you. Use later,” she said before tossing it to Milo. It was alcohol, something better than the rotgut the other slavers had access to, and not at all like the smooth spirits Cameron made to keep them warm in winter. She knew whose it was. He wouldn’t miss it. She was confident it would dissuade Milo’s abused flesh from becoming septic.

“How long did it take you to decide that structure was defensible?” she said. Cammara couldn’t bite her tongue forever, and she rationalized there was no nice way to communicate how horrible his plan was. She spoke quickly, hoping he wouldn’t have time to be offended, and in no small part because there was a panic lying in wait to swallow her should they stay here a moment longer: “If it is good, that building hasn’t been vacant in seven centuries. Not my first choice for holding out a siege. It is a fine tomb. Very tall. I think though the locals would know best where the nearest watering hole is. They probably eat there regularly.”

Speaking of which, the furry beast had impeccable timing, like it had heard a dinner bell. Or maybe it had followed them in. It couldn’t have attacked in the ravine. Too many had been alive then. Predators didn’t attack herds (and there was no doubt in her mind that this was a predator); they attacked individuals that strayed from the group, or those too weak to adequately defend themselves. It was large, very large, so it didn’t need a pack to take down a human. There had been mountain lions and bears back home that hunted solo, but this creature wasn’t acting at all like either species. Its paws, massive as they were, were not structured for the terrain of the Ruins, which suggested strongly that the Ruins were not its native environment. Like a nut around a nail, it didn’t belong. “Milo, what kind of animal watches a chained lamb but does not eat it?” The question wasn’t as rhetorical as her tone implied, and despite the slew of analytical ground she’d covered, came quickly on the tail of her last words. The beast might not be hungry. Or it might be suspicious, familiar with the concept of traps. Or, as she suspected, it did not eat humans. Even if it wasn’t harmless, it wasn’t a flesh-rending Scavenger or the ancestral family home of a flesh-rending Scavenger.

“I think we should go back through the ravine. I don’t want to be trapped in a dark tower with no clear escape route and who knows how many Scavengers.”

Illyn’s eyes remained on the wolf. Around her there were screams, yells of survivors trying to escape and utter chaos. All she could focus on was the eyes of the beast in front of her. Her body felt warm, her heart was pounding but her breathing was slow and deep. The blue of her eyes were like a blue sky, calm and serene.

Illyn was about to step towards the beast again when something hit her calf. Confusion flickered in her features. Eyes darted watching a man run towards the caravan. He was free, no chains. Illyn looked closer. There were others moving about, free of their bonds and looking to flee.

The large man, the one who had yelled for keys was free and carrying something very large. Illyn realized it was a piece of the caravan wagon. He was running with it. Illyn’ brain was struggling to come to terms with the image. Yes he was big but he shouldn’t be able to do that...

Blue eyes blinked and the man was now airborne, landing with a sickening thud. She was certain he was going to be dead soon. He would be too damaged from the attack to fight off anything that came at him. Eyebrows lifted in wonder as the man stood, wrenching his arm back into place. He smiled and Illyn shivered.

She licked parched lips and turned her eyes back to the wolf. It hadn’t moved. Blinking once it occured to her that something had hit her earlier. Looking down she saw the key laying in the dirt. “Key.”

Illyn knew that it could be used for something but her mind was failing to make the connection. She looked up again at the wolf and then at the caravan, there was movement there. Others, moving, searching...

Everything suddenly clicked her mind. The key was for her shackles, to unlock them, to get away like everyone else.

Illyn crouched, grasped the key in her fingers and watched the wolf as she inserted the key in the locks. Her breathing was slow and deep as she struggled to fit metal into metal. The beast hadn’t moved, hadn’t come at her but was still watching. There was scraping click as the first shackle released and dropped at her feet.

The key was moved to the other shackle and again with a click it fell at her feet. Illyn stood slowly. She looked around.

“Now what?” Her mind mocked her. She had been ready to walk into the wolf’s teeth than be ripped apart by a scavenger. She was free and yet defenseless. Wolf on one side, scavengers on the other. Illyn still felt there was more to the wolf than appeared. It was too calm and too curious. If was here to feed it would have joined in already.

Looking at the wolf again, Illyn began to back away slowly. She locked eyes with it again and began to edge towards the caravan. There were others there, maybe food she could take or water.

Glances stolen over her shoulder allowed her to keep track of the large, now even more intimidating man as well as any other creature that would come between her and the caravan.

Illyn reached behind her and felt the wood structure. She could hear voices. The wolf still hadn’t moved. A slow huff out and Illyn turned to find the source of the voices. Two figures stood and seemed to be discussing where to run. Fear gripped Illyn. “Don’t leave...”

She opened her mouth and at first nothing came out. Illyn looked behind her at the bodies that lay there. Neman’s was there and he would want her to live. The man had a weapon, the woman sounded like she knew what she was talking about. The body of a scavenger lay at the man's feet. They seemed ready to fight and do what it took to survive. Illyn looked them over again.

He was tall, very tall and lean. Stubbled faced and long haired but held the pronged spear as if he was more than capable with it. She was a tangle of hair and torn clothes.

Illyn found her voice, interrupting their discussion. “Take me with you. Please.”

Wires that cut into flesh like blades and hollow tubes of metal were discarded as Gozer ripped pieces from the three decayed automatons from legend that tried to hold him down. Red streamed down his face, muddying his vision. Gozer kicked out desperately. Metal cracked with dull reverberations, followed by the grinding screech of Scavenger death throes.The triumph that flared in his eyes became a cinder as a long, heavy shaft of metal sunk through his stomach, missing his spine but severing multiple ribs.

As he was lifted into the air, like a lizard on a skewer, his mind seemed to drift away. To become third party. When the abomination opened it's maw of rusted fangs and oily saliva Gozer croaked out a final phrase, "Not bloody likely..."

His arm gave a great spasm as it shot out with inhuman celerity and snatched the lower half of the Scavenger's jaw from it's face. The creature screamed and slammed him back to the earth. Gozer's mind rushed into his body like a river past a broken dam and he grasped the metal shaft embedded in his torso. With a savage and pained grunt he twisted his arms and his body so that shaft snapped halfway up the monster's arm. Oil and dirt poured over Gozer as the creature stumbled back in pain.

Gozer stood then and slowly pulled what resembled a great machete, the word falchion was unknown to him, from his stomach. Entrails spilt wetly on the dry ground and the giant man gave a high pitched wheeze of pain. Catching himself on a fallen Scavenger, Gozer struggled for air. After a moment he lifted the makeshift falchion and looked towards the remaining monster.It watched him warily, it's flat eyes unable to convey uncertainty. Finally it lifted the large car doors on the end of it's limbs and rushed the wounded Gozer.


The pain was unbearable. The word unbearable was simply a placeholder for what having your innards ripped out felt like. As he tied the dead slaver's shirt over his shoulder, blood soaked and keeping his entrails from tumbling out like so many sausages, Gozer used terms he was familiar with. "Bloody ash-filled cunt! Red swollen, infected fuck stick!"

He was running now, each step sent a powerful jolt of nausea straight through him. He quickly discounted the surprise he felt at his ability to move so fast while fatally injured. "I'm just the baddest thing this side of Leroy Brown."

The lyrics to one of the only songs he had ever heard and remembered from around a camp fire came to his parched lips. "Bad, bad Leroy-*hack, cough, hack*- Brown. Baddest man in the whole damn..."

He looked behind then, as he crested a dune, and could see a handful of fools waiting on the flesh and metal tide. He couldn't yell if he wanted to. His breathing was getting easier and the bleeding had stopped, but his tan hide had never been this pale.

Falling against a rock, Gozer's make-shift blade caught the glare of the sun and it flashed brightly once as he lost consciousness.