They walked on.
Raxx’s stride was fractious but Wentworth was too focussed on following the trail to notice. The thick, torn- up shrubs had given way to light scrub, and it was fading. The dust in the wind stung their skin red, as shimmering waves rose over a cracked and broken earth.
They walked on, their shadows tall across the barren land.
The grasses gave way until there was nothing left but tiny lichens; coral-shapes, crunching under their feet. Their branches were a pale grey-green, only a few centimetres high, with red tips.
They walked on. The evening’s long dark was hinted at in streaks along the earth. All signs of their path had vanished.
Then a pile of cow manure came into sight, off to the left. The tension bled out of them. As they marched on the plain recovered, turning back into grasslands. The violence of the raiders’ passage was evident once more.
The sun was closing with the earth, lighting up a murky haze of dust, and haloing the hills ahead with a red glare. Beyond these, flowing east on currents of air came the whiff of combustion fumes.
Wentworth tightened his grip on the rifle.
The contours had been concentrating rainwater in the valleys, leading to an explosion of plant growth. But the gaunt formations confirmed the Datapad’s vibrations. Half the trees were dead, their trunks black, while the living ones twisted strangely, sprouting mottled leafs. Wentworth imagined some other scent coming on the wind, a yellow-umber of dead particles, hidden behind the earthy dust and the heady exhaust. He tucked his rifle into his shoulder, and led them single file.
Following the gullies, their ears played tricks on them; seeking out patterns in the crackling of the dry forest. But soon it was unmistakeable.
Voices.
They ascended the last hill warily, cresting on their bellies. Finally, their target: a forlorn rectangle chiselled out of the pink sky.
The main building was two storeys of concrete with a tar roof. Its walls were intact but filthy streaks from acid rain marred the sides. The back, on their right, was a single storey; the administrative offices. The front was much larger, with only the occasional window; lines of rust dripped from the vents along the roof. Some sort of warehouse. In the middle, where the two halves of the building met, was an open garage door gaping into a shadowed interior.
An asphalt courtyard surrounded the building, bordered by a chain-link fence, coiled with barbwire. The only opening was on the south side, their left, where a large rolling gate had fallen off its tracks and lay on the ground. The quads were parked in a row, blocking the gap. A single road stretched off to the South. This building was the end of the line.
Inside the compound were piles of machine parts, a forklift, and dozens of yellow plastic barrels, coated in dust. There were several smaller fenced-in storage areas at the back of the compound — cages now, full of the townspeople. Their movements were broken and listless; like the cattle that huddled nearby they were exhausted and silent.
A large bonfire had been lit outside of the garage door. There was an empty spit overtop of it, and a various makeshift benches had been set up around it. The raiders were celebrating their success with the liquor they’d stolen from Landfall’s. They shouted and cheered, shoulder to shoulder in shifting groups. None of them were on the lookout for danger.
For a while nothing happened. Wentworth was calmly observing, as Raxx’s gut palpated in a knot of tension. They remained silent.
One of the bigger Hellhounds broke from the pattern. He stood up, barking an announcement, and strode over to the cages in the back. Somebody tossed him a set of keys, and the boys he’d been sitting with began chortling. He opened the gate and grabbed a blonde girl by the upper arm. She didn’t resist, and none of the other citizens moved to stop him as he pulled her out of the cage. Holding her like a dufflebag, he locked the gate, and dragged her back towards the fire.
Raxx’s breathing deepened.
“Don’t.” Wentworth didn’t move, or even glance over, “Remember what Vince said — about getting those people killed, and us along with ’em? If we don’t do this right then that’s exactly what will happen. Doesn’t matter that you can see it. Tactically, we’re still a thousand klicks away.”
A high pitched buzzing had started in Raxx’s ears, and his extremities felt numb. He tried to listen to what Wentworth said next, but the words were lost as a commotion started up in the compound. A Hellhound wearing a dark vest walked up to the one holding Connie and pushed him. She fell to the ground, and her abductor swung back at the other, striking him in the jaw. He staggered back but didn’t go down. The rest began to take notice.
They formed a circle and started cheering. The shorter one returned with a swing that missed, and the two of them locked together in a struggle. More punches were thrown, but they were too close, and the blows were glancing. Before any real damage was done a squat figure broke through the circle and threw the two combatants apart — his age and bearing marked him as the Boss.
Some sort of argument ensued, but Raxx’s eyes were on Connie. It would have been easier if she’d been crying. Her face was pale and dry-eyed as she dragged herself away, clutching at the fence. Raxx’s heart ached, and his joints felt weak.
The shouting was resolved with several ejaculations from Mad Dog, and the vest-wearing raider stalked out of the encampment. The rest seemed nervous, quiet now, making only the occasional shout or laugh. Eventually one of them grabbed Connie and shoved her back into the cage.
When Wentworth spoke his voice seemed oblivious to the violence they’d just witnessed. “I count twenty- two, plus the guy that just left. Have you got a count yet?”
Raxx’s throat was too dry for speech. He swallowed, and choked out a reply. “Give me a sec.”
“No rush.” His thumb was stroking up and down his rifle’s fire selector, “I need to see what they’re going to do after dark. We’re going to be here a while.”
As Raxx counted, the Hellhounds rediscovered their celebration. As his nervousness faded, a black anger squeezed his innards. He watched them with a clenched jaw, but no one else approached the cages. They seemed content to stay by the fire, bullshitting.
As night descended the blaze seemed to grow bigger. It left traces in Wentworth’s vision; the Hellhounds would be completely night-blind. Confident in his obscurity, he pulled out his Datapad. The rad count had tripled since earlier, but there was nothing to do about that. He set it down and looked around the encampment.
Movement, something by the front gate — at first he thought it was just a flickering reflection of the fire, but after a few moments observing he saw that it was a metal sign, stirring in the breeze. Three of the plastic clips affixing it had broken over the years, and now it hung upside down and facing inwards, reflecting the bonfire’s light. He used the scope on his rifle.
He put them down, and began typing on his Datapad. Then he returned to his rifle scope, and examined some of the yellow barrels. Underneath the caked earth he could just barely make out the trefoil of a radiation warning label.
Raxx’s face was frozen, almost skeletal in the flickering light. Wentworth broke his concentration with a hushed tone. “Bad news. I figured out the source of the rad count. Those yellow barrels that are all over the place? They contain the waste from one of the old reactors. Nuclear waste. They’re leaking.”
Raxx’s response was an empty glare.
Wentworth closed his eyes and shook his head. “I told you these Hellhounds were champs. What a place to set up kip…” he rolled onto his side so that he could put his Datapad away. “Right now we’re just dealing with secondary radiation. But if any of the barrels are punctured, those pills won’t do anything to help us,” he met Raxx’s gaze, “we need to get those people out of there. Let’s hope the bastards decide to rack out soon.”
“Whenever you’re ready.”
