Once the watchman had satisfied his curiosity, he signaled to the gatekeepers. The barricade screeched as it was cranked upwards, revealing Quadra's mountainous basin. Built around the mouth of an industrial-sized railway tunnel, timber lodges, storehouses, and barracks clustered under their clans' banner. The buildings were divided by white chalk roads, at the edges of which dark leafless shrubs sprouted, adding a splash of subdued color to Quadra's monochrome neighborhood. Chalky residue covered everything, the timber, people's clothes, and vehicle wheels. A marketplace sprawled before them—merchants sold their scavenged and upcycled wares out of the backs of trucks and wagons. A black van bore a sign erected on its roof: FUEL. There were a lot of fuel jockeys in the area—Quadra was a popular spot for people wealthy enough to run an engine.
Clara veered towards the garage—a row of parking spaces sheltering beneath a leaky corrugated roof—and disembarked, waving a mechanic over.
"Need any work, miss?" the mechanic asked.
"Fill her up," she said, "on Blue Eyes' tab. There are canisters in the back for diesel and oil. I'll know if you've watered them down." Clara fetched her rifle and rucksack from the back seat while Andy stumbled out of the jeep into the morning sun. His long black hair fell in knots over his back, sunglasses crooked on his face as he meandered away, pulling his leather jacket tight over his skinny shoulders. Clara could smell the hangover on him.
"You don't fancy collecting with me then?" Clara asked.
Andy waved the question away, dragging his feet in the general direction of Lackey's—a bar frequented by the local militia and mercenaries.
"Don't disappear," Clara said, leaving him to roam. He could handle himself, and she was better off negotiating by herself. Once their jeep was filled, Clara parked in an alcove, stowed their most valuable supplies in a lockbox in the boot, then locked the doors. She set off towards their lodgings on the far wall of the mountainside, passing by the Grizzlies' headquarters along her way. Built like a Viking longhouse, a fire pit smoldered the length of the lavishly decorated hall. Banners and trophy heads hung from the walls—beasts from the mountains and surrounding apocalypse zones. Clara identified the skulls of mutants, stags, minotaurs, and other beasts she had never seen before with their bodies still attached.
Clara's mouth watered as the smell of cooking meat wafted from the courtyard ahead. It had been two weeks since she'd had a proper warm meal—nothing but rations and stream water since then. Following her nose, she spotted a cauldron steaming in the center of the wide courtyard. A chef dished out ladles of stew and flatbread to hundreds of hungry citizens, watched over by the prying eyes of the Fadeaways' militia. Armed with clubs and whips, the Fadeaways wore black cowls over their faces, masking them like ethereal shades. Families formed small clusters with basic tree-stump benches. The atmosphere was calm, if a little depressing. Once their brief breakfast was up, they would have to say goodbye to the pale morning sunlight until tomorrow, as the Fadeaways forced them back into the Underbelly to work.
The symphony of Quadra echoed off of its amphitheater walls, raining down upon Clara. Dogs yapped over the rustling of pots and pans and the morning murmur. Behind her, the clang of tools from the garage competed for dominance over the distant ring of pickaxes coming from Quadra's massive tunnel system: the Underbelly. Once used as a railway to carry large machinery from factories inland, the tunnel had caved in many years ago during the cataclysm.
Now, the majority of Quadra's residents lived and worked in those dingy caves. Some mined new alcoves for businesses to set up shop, whereas others occupied the interior market, wherein anyone could satisfy their appetites for substance or service. The Underbelly offered refuge to anyone, at a price. Those who couldn't pay often fell into slavery, working in the coal mines south of the settlement, or on the farms to the west. It was all part of a complex economy wherein toil and perseverance were the main currency, while violence and power reigned at the peak.
Somebody sang from high above the settlement, where timber shacks climbed the cliff face. Women hung clothes out to dry in the mountain breeze while children played amongst the precarious web of woodwork. Nearby, masons were laying the foundations for a sixth-story expansion. The clang of their hammers echoed across the rocky basin, bouncing back on itself discordantly. Clara's hand searched for her small silver watch, but it was absent from her wrist. The cacophony of voices and movements and smells swept her up in a current as though she was back on the southern coast of England, just twelve years old again, standing on the beach with Andy, beholding the magnitude of the sea with the tide tugging at her ankles, daring her to drown.
Clara ducked into the shade of a shack and shut her eyes to breathe. The sensation of anxiety had taken her by surprise. She wasn't normally like this, but the crowd had unearthed something deep within her mind—the panic of a stampede and the first few days of the cataclysm. Clara took a deep breath. She was underslept, that's all. Fatigued.
Opening her eyes, she spotted an old man sitting alone at the edge of the courtyard. He wore a ragged straw hat, torn cotton shirt, and frayed denim shorts. His skin was wrinkled and tanned. He did not seem to have a family. Nobody bothered him, sitting with his stew and flatbread. A small bird landed beside him, and the old man turned his head, tearing off a crumb and placing it gently on his bench. It reminded Clara of her grandad. The bird tentatively hopped towards him, then scuttled for the crumb and flew away. A smile approached the old man's lips, then faded away. He didn't notice Clara as she strode by; he just stared off after the bird into the morning sky.
Taking a deep breath to stretch her lungs, Clara headed towards their lodge. A rickety ramp led upwards through the latticework of shacks, shaded by the cliff. Clara surveyed Quadra from above as she travelled, pinpointing her employer's headquarters, a large timber mansion built upon stone foundations. The flag above always reminded Clara of a flower bearing seven blue outer petals and six black inner petals. Beneath it, Clara was eager to meet with Old Blue Eyes, but first, she needed to make herself presentable.
Finding their shack three rows high, Clara unlocked the padlocked latch and swung open the rickety door. It was a simple room, undecorated, smelling of wet wood—a glorified lockbox for them and their gear. But at least they didn't have to worry about getting robbed; the insignia on the door signified that it was protected by the Harmonies.
Clara scrubbed herself with soap and a rag, then dressed in clean clothes from the locker—the same outfit as always—camo trousers, black vest, and her favourite combat jacket, with all its pockets and compartments for gadgets and gizmos.
Venturing down through the hive of walkways into Quadra's basin, Clara reached the Harmonies' district and greeted the guards outside their headquarters. "Morning chaps."
Each of the men were dressed in waistcoats and bowler hats to boot. Their firearms were concealed, partly to maintain the aesthetic, but it had a psychological effect on Clara as well, as though they were saying: 'We don't need to flaunt our strength.' It exuded an air of professionalism which made Clara pleased to be working for them. It was a world away from some of the barbarous warlords she and Andy had done jobs for in the past.
One guard doffed his hat and opened the door. Inside was a reception area. Sunlight shone through a glass window. A woman wearing a smart suit sat at a low piano, the top of which was covered in maps and stacks of papers. Beside her, a young boy in a button-up shirt twinkled on the keys. Electrical cables ran along the tops of the walls, feeding power to a single desk lamp and electric kettle—a flagrant display of opulence.
"Hello there, young lady," the woman behind the piano said. She was maybe twice Clara's age, with long black hair, dyed jet black to the roots. "I've got to say, I love your outfit."
"Oh, thank you." Clara looked down at her dirty camo trousers, black vest, and military jacket. "It's just my work clothes."
"Well you look fabulous. Very authentic. Can I get you a drink?"
"Yes please." Clara blushed despite herself. She knew she was being buttered up by the receptionist, but after two weeks on the road, washing in rivers and sleeping in the backseat of their jeep listening to Andy snore, she'd take all the buttering she could get. "I'm here to see Blue Eyes," Clara said, approaching the desk.
"Oh." The woman looked her up and down. Something was communicated in her glance that Clara didn't quite understand, but left her feeling uncomfortable. "Like that?"
"I'm here to collect on a mission," Clara said quickly, then took a breath to comprehend the woman's reaction. "Like what?"
"Oh, I didn't mean anything by it," the receptionist fretted, averting her eyes. "I just… I didn't know what the nature of this visit was."
"Professional," Clara said.
"Well, regardless, if you would like to use my makeup kit, I would happily lend you it."
"That's alright, thanks." Clara took a seat in a row against the wall.
"Can you believe we used to pay so much money for these," the receptionist continued, holding up a handbag of paints and brushes. "I suppose maybe you don't, you look very young. I mean that as a compliment."
"Thank you," Clara said.
The woman paused, as though expecting Clara to say something else. "Now I have boxes and boxes of them. Can't get rid of them." She hooted. "A lifetime's supply. Please, take one." She placed the handbag on the counter. "Us women have to look out for one another," she winked.
"Oh, thanks." Clara took the makeup kit and rifled through it. She swallowed under the woman's scrutinous gaze, trying to think of something else to say about the gift. It reminded her of being a kid and receiving bath bombs from her mother one Christmas. At first, Clara had been excited, but upon dropping them into the bath that night, the water hadn't detonated—a tidal wave hadn't consumed the bathroom—they'd just fizzled out. That disappointment still stuck with her.
"There's eyeshadow and concealer and lipstick and blush," the woman sang, rhythmically pointing to her own face with a delicate finger. "A girl with natural beauty like yours shouldn't hide it under that cap."
Clara scoffed, but before she could respond, a door opened and a young boy wearing a tiny waistcoat entered. "Clara and Andy?" he asked. "Are you the merc, Ma'am?"
"That's right."
"What about Andy?"
"He's absent today."
"Okay." The boy opened the door wide. "Old Blue Eyes is almost ready. Follow me, please."