"Heat seems to be a little hotter than yesterday, without a cloud in sight"
The radio? It seemed to be the only thing sane out here. Where did the signal come from? No, where did it come from? No car was working yet the signal was heard. A trivial question to most, but at times it wasn't.
He was right the unseen man, it was hotter than normal. It caused him to drag himself lazily. Even more so with all the game he had caught. The sound of it made hurt his teeth terribly.
The skyline of York City, taunted any who saw it. The green patches of life stuck out. To any passing it must've felt like hope. Perhaps a reminder most likely. The question? What did he forget? Or be reminded of? For Fallen it made sure he remembered what a world he inhabited.
"Beep"
Sound of an oxygen tank nearing its end. Needing to return or breathing wouldn't be optional. Grabbing the antler of the freshly caught Stag. The weight had to be over a hundred or so. For him, it was like carrying a bag of flour or grass on a hot day. The smell setting in, Jackels were sure to have caught the scent. Deformed, hairless as veins bulged against the hide. Hanging above a blaze, for half an hour would change that.
Lumbering toward York City, crossing paths with chunks of metal stripped bare. Fallen had shorten his breaths in his need to save air. The road broken, asphalt cracked and unusable. A storm was moving in from the east, and never merciful. Shelter absolutely essential due to the toxicity it brought. Pollution plagued and corrupted mother nature. Nothing good grew, anything you picked was poisonous or sickly.
Continuing down a road that lead to Main street, a often used trail. No sunlight ever reach the roads of York. Only shadows. In those shadows its dangers, as Kelpie roamed the alleys. Able to hear their sloshing hooves trot. Fortunaly they became less active during rainy weather.
York City overwhelmed with Gaeas greenery. Fallen, and many others found shelter here. Unwilling to risk safety for any other forms of refuge. Thus a rise of York City, some say the old ones dwelled here. Now all that remained? Relics of a bygone age. Enter the empty trails and paths most would hear, but footsteps. Echoing down each street and alley. Amount of empty towers, you would think would watch you traveling. For any citizen to find York City, one would have to go under. Under the rubble, under the collapse towers, to an unseen path.
Fallen never changed his route. Always taking west or north, no ever takes these due to the lack of green. Never east, nothing goes through and survives, tales of inbred mutates who lost their mind to the Fog. Taking a flight of stairs, step by step, flickering lights buzzing. Dried blood marked the walls, trash littered the floor, along with shell casings. A traincar, positioned, dormant from a familiar touch. Rust coating its sides, a top missing. Seats intact, but with a spring loose or leather torn out.
Setting the stag to the side, Fallen jammed a worn button. A buzz emitted echoing down tunnels. Falling onto an empty discomforting seat. Springs tearing into his back, also wrecking havock on his jacket. A sudden tug rattled its passenger, chugging away from the station. Chain slowly pulling him towards a light less tunnel.
"Shit" he cursed, shutting eyes tight. Body trembled, fear built up, nothing was more terrifying than the Bullet.
After gaining speed, the young mutate gripped the side of his seat. Anxiety a constant every time, nails and screws popped out by strength alone. Wind snapping, snatching death grip on his bounty before it could fly away. Every moment or two a barely working light lit. Gazing ahead with peaked eyes, catching sight of the end. Readying as he came to immediate halt.
The simple ding, and a wave of conversation, and arguments flooded his ears. As the great underground city of York greeted all. A city built around a small lake, that filled about a decade or two ago. Shelters made from scraps and hollowed out machinery.
"Fallen!"
Snapping his head back to see a familiar face. A young man, wheelchair bound, cavities eroded his skin, peaking out small glances of muscle. A filthy wool blanket wrapped around his legs. His smile never dampened.
"Leech, you were supposed to be home" strolling through the market. Merchants, and craftsmen kept the bizarre busy. A glimpse of exotic animals would be seen on occasion. Fallen spotting a few red clad men, marked with white crosses. Clutching the dead stag tighter. Pushing his brother a bit faster. "What would happen if the Red Cross got you?"
"Was hopin you'd get here before they showed up-"
A strong hand stopped Fallen, his Challenger was Trapper. A well feared enforcer for the Red Cross. Horn like bones poked out his cheeks and forehead. Noticeable by the dreaded mohawk he sported.
"Forsaken? On my end of York?" Rough in tone, eyeing his enemy. Particularly interested in the eldest. Grinning revealed unsightly yellow teeth. Fallen glared him down through his goggle lenses. "Whatever enters on my end is mine alone! you should know that!"
"I'm familiar with the rules Trapper"
"I expect you to be, how do we maintain this semblance of peace if not so?"
Fallen tightened his hold on the stag breaking it's leg. Anxious as Leech began to shrink in his chair. Trapper chuckling at his own amusement. Getting closer to Fallen, an attempt at intimidation. Unwavering, despite being outnumbered by enemy crossers.
"Okay, okay Fallen, I'll let you slide, but next time I'm skinin you!" Chuckling, treating his own threat as a horrible joke. Moving him and his men, to clear a path for them to leave. Both speeding pass as glares dug deeply. Without a glance back, trying to make it home. No Cross would ever enter Foresaken territory. The two hated each more than any tribe. Both keeping a portion of York for their own. A simple, but unstable system of power.
Home for the brothers was a small church. Built from old shipping crates, and other scraps. Inhabitants of such place were the Foresaken. A clan in York City, decent to those that wander into town. Protecting them, if one paid their dues. Entering the clan members pacing back and forth. Fire pits, smoke stacks high as the clouds. Cooking whatever the hunters had brought back.
"Smells like Yokai for supper" Leech announced sniffing the air. Roasted meat, was pleasant to the nose.
"Stay, I'mma goin to take this to Cook, maybe I'll get a decent wage" an order his brother grimaced at. Despite being three years Fallens junior. The eldest marched off leaving Leech by the Jackal pins. Where he reach his fingers through the cages to pet one.
"Cook! Got something!!"
Slamming the stag upon a massive table. Cook a heavy set man, that dealt with three fingers, and a tusks, yanked it toward himself. Checking it over, examining for any lumps or signs of tumors. No nook or cranny was unseen. Running his hands over the hide. Nodding, impressed by the catch of the day.
"Not bad" voice of a heavier smoker. Tugging out a few coins from his pocket. "Thirty coin"
"Thanks Cook"
Leech awaited annoyed being treated like a child, impatience rising inside.
"Well if it isn't the youngling" Father Stone, leader of the Foresaken approached the youngest brother. Unable to see, he often wrapped bandages around his head. As he would say, 'faith is blind'. Body skinny than any lamppost. Reaching with needle fingers, to rest onto his shoulder. "Leech, you seem disturbed"
"Yeah, despite almost being caught by Red Cross"
"Red Cross, if we had enough hunters I would wipe them from York" being a gentle man, he didn't shy away from a fight. Anger hanging on each word. "That Trapper has been wanting to sink his teeth into your brother"
"I know"
Fallen had defeated Trapper in a duel, humiliating him for years to come. Making the Foresaken a prized kill for all. Returning to his kin, a grin hidden from the world, they knew when he was happy. A sack of meat, soaked in blood most likely caught fresh. Father Stone greeted with a smile. "Fallen back from hunting?"
"Yes Father, I had go bit farther outside York"
Stone grew worried, going outside York was dangerous. Even hunting within the city was a challenge. Especially with the other raider bands closing in. "Not much meat coming through"
"Yes, we'll most likely have to go to Bos-ton"
"No. Too risky, a lot of dangers roam more there than here"
Scarce game was becoming a rising issue. Many of the clans in York were fighting for every piece. The Foresaken were part of such conflicts. Father Stone and his Saints had been trying to keep the clan safe. Yet numbers dulled efficiency.
"Father, sun down comes and we must leave"
"Of course Fallen, just keep safe"
"Thank you Father, Leech?" With no hesitation, the younger returned to his brothers side. Walking side by side as the day they born.
Both brothers returned to their home. An old bomber plane, embedded through the roof of York. Leech and Fallen boarded a small platform. As elder, Fallen yanked upon a rope, it would lead to the roof, giving them access to their sanctuary. Each pull lifting them up ever so higher. Reaching the top, tying the platform to keep from falling. Bursting through their home doors, a collection of shelves, jars and tools.
"Shit" Leech rolled to a nearby plant. Seemingly dying from lack of sunlight. A pour of water could help it rejuvenate. "This was going to be a salve for Merry in the morning"
Leech despite his disability was skilled in medicine. Fallen admired his brothers ambition the most. His wheelchair became constant Fallen would nab books for him to skim over. Becoming an expert in medical knowledge to the Foresaken. Fallen wandered to a freezer storing their bag of meat. Slugging over to a bunk near a window. Crashing on his back, creaking the bed horribly. Watching the ceiling above. Disrupting his view, was a small mask with a pipe welded to it.
"What's this?" Grasping the contraption. Rotating in hand the foreign object. "Leech?"
"It's an respirator, well my version anyhow"
"Where'd you find a way to make this?"
"An old med journal from the old era, this can help you breath without that tank you been lugging around" a prideful smile grew cheek to cheek. Able to revive an old wold idea from the grave. Leech was becoming cleverer and cleverer, as time passed.
"Speaking of health, lift your blanket"
A roll of the eyes as Leech did so. Uncovering his legs to a terrifying sight. Eggs that held an orange tint, embedded deep into his leg muscles. Parasites had taken root over a few years ago. Leech had came in contact with them by three. They didn't kill or harm him in anyway. Infact the creatures helped keep sickness away. Every Sommer, a new batch of eggs take root. The larger ones usually move to his upper body. Eating dying tissue as well as waste for nutrition.
"A few died, but that could be weather playin"
"Well be careful" touching his limbs carefully.
"Yeah yeah" rolling to a hammock across the room. Jumping ass first, swinging his legs next. Fallen lay back down setting up another oxygen tank. He hated being this way, not being able to breath morning air. Inhale or risking a seizure. "Night brother"
"Night"
Lights turned out, as the two drifted to sleep. Distant sounds echoed through York. Even without their presence. The last city, remnants of a past unknown.
In the sky above them a star fell. A speck of flame heading toward a forgotten rock. A scream, a wail from heaven. A last message from god?