Ghoul Territory – Eastern Border

LAKE DARLING RESERVOIR, NEW SYDNEY, AUSTRALIA-[2071]: 22 YEARS POST BOMBING

AUGUST 17 (Present Day) - Late Winter

...

Mist rolls between the maze of skyscrapers, crawling through broken windows and twisting around the threadbare linen that hangs over Orient Road. The black night is stained by the impervious glow of the moon, spying through every rib and vertebrae of the old cityscape. These buildings are the bones of giants, where starving families have sought refuge from the criminals who own the streets. 

We watch from the shade of Carson Alley with boots planted on tar. Orient Road is stocked to the brim with dilapidated shacks. As the night crawls across the sky, irregular and cruel spotlights of moonshine shoot down through the wreck above. 

The skyscraper fell in the bombs, and now it lies between the rest of the rotting buildings.

It's called A.N.Z. Wreck because the building belonged to a bank before the war, before the plagues. When I was a kid, I liked the idea that it was just a colossal cigarette butt that the gods flicked at us... like I said, I was a kid. I should've known that Gods don't exist.

Not in a city like ours.

Scorpius leans against the wall beside me, observing the night. He flicks his cigarette butt.

The spent filter flitters across the clearing, shooting embers into the otherwise stagnant air before it falls short by a long shot. A puddle of piss and mud swallows it and the water ripples, disturbing the reflection of the peaceful wreck. It shudders, threatening to fall.

His cigarette butt swirls across the surface in a spiral.

"Wolf is in, says he's fucking with their tech but to give it a minute before we move," Scorpius remarks, trawling his phone. "Can you see if they're leaving yet?"

"Yeah, two guys out of six," I watch as the gangers unpack the goods, two of them splitting off. Score notices as I scour the Duncan's Security database one last time like I'll somehow find a random patrol scheduled to this road. 

"I helped Dex recode Duncan's patrol map myself. This road is blacked out." He reassures, squinting slightly, "I got Sphynx to help too." Sphynx is the kind of Manic that makes him a genius, despite his other shortcomings. "If you got cold feet, then we can tap out. No questions."

I shake my head, craning my neck to watch as they leave. "Nah, nah," I murmur, "They're moving for real." 

We collect our gear, approaching Orient Road. 

The cluster of men migrate as the leader, a man named Crippy, works to get his shitty phone to function. Down the road, the other gang-men pause around a fire barrel, like vultures dancing around a carcass. Dangerous men. 

"Nah, it's fucked man," we overhear. They drift further away, trying for better reception closer to Denisons Tower. They don't know that Wolf is screwing with their electronics. Giving us a window.

We hide on Carson Alley, which is Ghoul side of Orient Road, but across Orient Road is the Yakuza territory line. The guards face the Yakuza border, leaving guard dogs to ward us off.

They're only expecting an attack from the Yakuza because my father kept this deal secret.

"Oi, yous. Wait here." One man instructs. 

"He don' seem happy," Scorpius's eyes spark, "Him a Ghoul?"

I squint, trying to discern if he's one of my father's men. "That one is," I watch the two men they left behind to guard the Tent, their backs to us, "Who's Drop is it?" All I know is my father's men are buying a shit tonne of merchandise... but from who? It's easy to recognise the Lake Darling fashion that adorns the Ghoul, but the other man is dressed in city gear— well tailored, high-tech fabric that'd double as a decent defence against a knife, but still edged with the rough fashion that characterises a RED-ZONE. Black fur lines his collar, and I can see the tattoos coating the back of his neck.

"What in the hell is a Holders Bay gang doing here?" I murmur.

"Don' know. But, check, they left them three unpacked," Scorpius gestures his chin at three huge duffels, grinning. 

"What you think is in 'em?" My eSight is trying mighty hard to pull a read, but it fails to narrow in on the signal coming from the bags. There might be tech in there.

His lip quirks, "You ready to find out?" He curls his fingers around the gasoline canisters, giving the handles a testing shrug. 

"Oi!" A man shouts and we halt.

"Oh fuck, that was Crip," I murmur, goose-necking to get a look. 

Just like that a dispute breaks out, and the Ghoul looks between the Yakuza territory and his men down the road, "Yo, watch this shit yeah?" He bolts, preparing to join what could be a growing fight. The Holders Bay man looks around urgently, realising his guys are outnumbered, but with his back to us he doesn't notice. 

Scorpius's grin widens, curling his fist and wrinkling his nose as he prays that the stupid asshole will pull a dumb move. But, to his disappointment, the last guard decides to stay put, the commotion down the road dissipating.

The eSight contact in my eye blinks a read on an electric trip wire strung through the back entrance of the Tent.

"Damn, guess we's gon' have to pop the poor fuck." Scorpius hisses. 

I pull my gang mask up, adjusting it over my nose, "Yeah, well if this goes bad I dibs Crip. I wan' see him burn for screwing me over this morning." I scoff, and on queue, he snickers. I was casing the Stall one last time, and he screwed me over on a trade. Dickhead. 

"Your last night in Lake Darling and you care more about getting even than sayin' goodbye to your friends?" He shakes his head like I'm some enigma as he slouches out of the Alley, looking at my mask—the Ghoul eye glares back at him as he walks.

"Can't risk goin'," to the party tomorrow, "in case we pick up heat from tonight." I shrug in explanation, glossing over the clench in my chest. I can't stop picturing Elias's face when he discovers I'm gone again. Or his kid, Binnie.

Scorpius's bloody, sooty t-shirt catches the moonlight as he scrutinises the shack with a frown smeared across his handsome face.

"We won't pick up heat. I'm Manic. No one knows who I am," Scorpius grins, but his attention is short-lived when he begins approaching Crippy's Tent. He's hiding it behind smirks and an untouched attitude but pulling a job in my city has been plaguing him with nerves for a while now. Lake Darling has never been kind to Manics. "You good to get all three?" He asks.

I glance at the malnourished dogs ahead. Each lies on the tar like a sack of bones, their scar welted hides puckered by years of abuse. My stomach turns, apprehension balling its fist in my gut, but I dismiss it and twist the mask inside out, concealing my Ghoul emblem. 

Despite each dog's eyes finding Scorpius and I, neither of the three mutts muster the energy to stand. So, finally, I withdraw my handgun, adjusting the silencer muzzle. 

Click. A bullet fills the chamber, and I remove the safety. "Tell me when." 

"Ol' mate seems like he's setting up camp. Now's good as any-."

"What the fuck you done that for!" The fight resumes, although, this time a Ghoul man throws a punch.

"Oi!" A man bellows.

Scorpius's face brightens when, instantly, Mr Guardsman sprints, his shoes making a tack tack tack noise on the tar. "No fuckin' way."

Not needing to discuss it, we cross the intersection swiftly, and one dog raises its head. Pelt. It's neck gives out. Pelt, pelt. I adjust aim between each poor, impoverished mutt. They die where they slept.

Down the road, their owners argue, aggressive and feral. My heart races, but I play to the silent objective. Stealth.

Scorpius's shaggy blonde hair is matted into tousled curls that permeate grease, and streaks of ash smear his sharp cheekbones. 

He avoids the trip-wire easily, making it to the rain cover where the threadbare linen is dry and flammable. Shhh. Whip. The tent drags its tongue on the ground.

Hundreds of Glim-Screens appear, but each holographic sign fails to correctly report the nature of the devices they're detecting. The magnitude of electronic profiles must be over-stimulating the A.I. retrievers in my eSight. 

He collects a bag from beside me, hoisting it over the trip wire before he places it at the opposite entrance.

"The fuck is in them?" I ask, neither of us able to get a read.

Either way, we're about to rob my father of shit tonnes worth of tech. My stomach twists. I look at the men way down the road and my heart flips. Is this gon' be worth it?

My knees buck at me, and my fingers tremble. Still, I collect two bags, hoisting them toward the entrance so we can snag them on the way through to the Yakuza border... but then Score raises his hand. I freeze, my fingers still curled around the handles.

He extends his rust-chewed blade, collecting a rope and displaying it in the air for me to see. My heart hammers. Mould clouds bloom in the dank air, and the tent-cover flaps in the night breeze, a repetitive sort of lapping. Shh, whip, shh, whip. The rope leads under a table covered by a giant tarp-.

A Rottweiler bellows out, charging at Scorpius who swings his knife down, thwacking it into the muscle of the dog's neck which earns a gut-wrenching yelp. 

I shoot but the silent bullet misses and the mutt bolts at me, catapulting into the tripwire which earns a searing zap. It let's out a terrified yelp, skittering away before; Pelt. But the damage is done. Every dog on the Street breaks into feral bellows and howls, alerting the men.

I fling myself through Crippy's store, collecting the first duffel. It's heavier than I expected, but the weight in my hand makes me taste the money we're gon' get.

"Oi!" a man shouts. 

I lob the first bag to the front of the tent, ripping a tarp back to reveal three other black camo duffels. "Here!" I send the others to the front, but then I notice the bumps under the fabric covering the table.

Food.

I rip the tarp aside, raiding the salted meats, fruits and grain. My stomach, a vat of boiling acid, clenches at the sight of food. In my frenzy, I accidentally latch onto a fur coat.

"Wolf said six bags, where are the others!" Score asks.

"Not here." I start stripping covers off tables as I rampantly stuff food into my backpack.

A terrible ruckus of squeals and barks arises when mutts start scrapping. Score flings petrol all over the tent until each wall and post looks like it's sweating.

With the empty canister hanging limp in his hands, Score careens around to look at the men bolting down the Street. Their image kicks me in the ass so hard that I nearly return to the first option. But then, I grasp a black plastic cover, ripping the tarp back to reveal an arsenal of weapons. What?

Guns, 2-ft grenades, 10-fts, fücking Gas-Shells and sniper rifles—but most of all M.G.s. So many M.G.s...

Why would they unpack it? Before the deal is even through.

"Score you need to stall-."

"What?"

"Stall!" I realise how close they are, collecting a gun bag before I start stashing it full of anything I can get my hands on, "Stall! Score, fucking shoot if you have to!" We're gon' be weighed down. I'll manage two bags plus my backpack and weapons. At best, he could do four.

"We don' got time!" Score flings the empty canister and crouches to set the puddle of fuel on fire.

"Do it!"

"Fuckin—argh," he argues with me as he flicks his lighter incessantly before he guards the flame with his large hand.

"You good?" I ask, forcing some grit into my voice. 

"Keep going!" He gestures at me to shove my attitude where the sun doesn't shine. "Oh for fucks sake!" Score snaps, using his free hand to start tugging at the gun in his jeans just as the flame finally ripples across the surface. The orange fire runs up the tent and licks at the support beams, chewing on the stupid bit of fabric that was dragging on the ground. 

"That's enough, Vi." Scorpius snaps, his nerve splintering.

"Catch!" I lob two bags at him as the flames race across the tarp above my head, grabbing the last black duffel on the floor so I can start packing it too. Wait. Wait. Wait. I stuff as much as I can in, refusing to admit that I've bitten off more than I can chew. Denisons Tower is far, but they're running fast. "Shit, shi—" A bullet digs into the ground beside Scorpius.

He looks at the welt in the scuffed tar, and in the strange light, his features darken with a cold, mad rage.

Scorpius flicks his safety off and swiftly takes aim. Bang. The gun kicks back into his muscular shoulders, but he keeps the weapon raised even when his target collapses.

"Get water! Now! They set it on fire!" The gangsters that I grew up behind barrel at us.

The fire crackles, dropping singed pieces of tarp around me.

I wrench the last zip just when a bullet whizzes past my head, hitting the tarp behind me as the gunman takes aim for a second shot. I can't carry any more let alone run.

I kick the table out of the way, "Oi! I'll fückin' gut you! You fückin' watch!" Crippy screams, but even in my frenzy his helpless shout sparks a grin of satisfaction.

"Watch out!" Score barks when a brutish man lunges at us. Score dodges nimbly, shoving him into the table before the fat bastard barrels into a support beam that snaps on impact. Flames consume him... but my face drops. 

Dinga? I recognise him; he's a Heratix soldier. We're initiating for the Heratix. Why would they drop guns on my father—why would they order a hit on their own drop?

The roof grazes my back, "Run!" I shout when I burst back onto the crumbling road.

Marsden Street is as black as hell's jaws... but it's not the Street we're running for. It's the Yakuza territory line. Crippy and the rest of the Ghouls would never dare to cross it because it would mean war between the gangs.

"Fire! Fire! Stop the fire!"

I run so hard I don't even breathe, unable to hear anything other than the thud of our feet, the clink of weaponry. Their feral yelling and the roar of flames.

"Save the rest!" Crippy bellows, but I just laugh. "Save the rest!"

But then, in the distance, an explosion sounds, and a guttural scream follows.

...

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