A light rain began to fall. I got up and began moving cautiously towards the more visible ruins on higher ground. I passed under a ruined bridge and climbed up another only to have to backtrack. At some point I reached a huge trench, at least forty feet deep and thirty wide. The surface of the bottom, which was not covered in mud, glistened as rain bounced off it. It was hardened, dark blue glass. Something very hot had crystalized the earth it touched. The walls were charcoal dark but had the same reflective effect as the bottom. The trench went right and left for as far as I could see, as if God had decided to carve his initials on the city’s surface with a very hot knife. A combat vessel would have been able to clear the gap with a running jump, but I had to spend an hour searching for a fallen tree with which to create a bridge for myself.
The drizzle was getting heavier, and my canvas boots were not meant for this sort of hiking. I was wet and cold, and despite having consumed a nourishment pill I felt a growing pang of hunger for real food. I decided not to spend time trying to hunt as I was weaponless and any source of sustenance would most likely be contaminated.
Night was cold and wet. Rain was falling constantly and I hugged myself into a light doze, taking shelter inside a crumbling ruin. From the height of the ceiling I guessed it used to be a building of giant proportions. Now only a corner and a far wall remained. Before I let myself rest, I spotted a flicker of a bonfire in the distance but decided against treading in the slippery darkness for the chance I might meet a friendly face. I suspected anyone sitting around a bonfire in these ruins might not be the most accommodating of individuals.
It was the right decision.
The next day I managed to track down the bonfire. There were the chewed remains of four small mammals, most likely squirrels. By the look of the foot imprints and the amount and trajectory of the urine I concluded there were at least three people, probably all males.
Half a day later I spotted one of them climbing a pile of crumbling stones. He was a young man with long and unkempt brown hair, carrying several items hanging from a large belt which suggested he was some kind of a trophy hunter. The most interesting item I could tell he was carrying was a short sword strapped to his belt.
He had his back turned to me, so I had a moment to decide whether to keep tracking him from a distance, hail him in the hope of a peaceful conversation, or incapacitate him and take his gear. I gave the encounter a 60 percent chance of being resolved peacefully. This time I was wrong. My decision-making process was cut short when I heard the rustling of leaves and a stern voice saying, “Don’t you rusting move, bitch.”
I turned my head to see a man standing on elevated ground, dressed in a worn army camouflage uniform. I couldn’t tell which army, as the insignia had faded. What I could easily detect was the hunting bow that he had aimed at my chest. A real wooden bow, with crude but effective-looking arrow tips that would rip a large enough hole in my vessel to cause an inconvenience.
The young guy in front turned. “Bukra’s balls,” he said, the intonation suggesting this was a swear of sorts, “where the fuck did you come from?”
“From behind you, dumbass,” the man holding the bow answered, without taking his eyes from me. “She’s been tailing us for a while, but your head is too full of moonshine to notice.”
“I’m just lost.” I heard my own voice as I spoke out loud for the first time in this existence. It came out weak and high-pitched. I hated it.
“Balls you are, there’s no one living here for miles.” Another man walked out from behind a large tree trunk, halfway between the youngest man and myself. I figured my chances for a peaceful resolution went down another significant notch. From the three of them, he looked the most dangerous. Almost double my height and definitely triple my weight, his oversized bald head was full of scars, but I didn’t pay attention to the rest of him since I was concentrating on the sawed-off shotgun that was levelled at me. It was an antique, the sort that had to be manually pumped and shot metal bullets. I was not about to find out if it actually worked.
“Where’s your crew, bitch?”
“I … I have no crew, I’m just …”
He raised the shotgun as he walked slowly towards me. From the way he moved, it was obvious he was an experienced warrior.
“This is no-man’s-land. The only creatures here are two-headed lions and Salvationist crews tired of Lizard hunting in the valley. You are no lion, old bag, so I’ll ask this again before I’ll start inflicting pain: tell me where’s your rusting crew, right now.”
“Half a mile behind me,” I answered quickly. There was no point in trying to persuade him otherwise. “We found an old emergency bunker and I was sent to scout.”
He paused. I could see the bowman relaxing a bit. I was not an expert on medieval weaponry but I figured there was only so long you could maintain an aiming position with such a bow before the strain on your arms became a problem.
“You lie, we know this place well. This area has no bunkers.”
“It was well hidden under a large rock.”
The youngest male climbed back down and was heading our way. “I know,” he declared enthusiastically, “let’s fuck her.”
From my peripheral vision I saw the bowman twisting his face in disgust. “Ooh, Malk, look at her …”
“Hey,” the younger man called Malk protested, “when was the last time you had better?”
The bowman seemed to consider this and finally shrugged. “You might have a point.”
“What do you say, Dun?” the enthusiastic rapist asked the shotgun-aiming man, who smiled.
“Yeah, we’ll fuck the bitch some new holes, but first we need to interrogate her.” He moved forward with intent and I backed away, raising my hands.
“No, please—”
“I take dibs,” Malk declared.
“You go last,” the bald man grunted as he stepped towards me.
“Oh man, Dun … I always go last …”
Dun lunged at me and caught my arm, his oversized palm completely enveloping my forearm. He held the shotgun with his other hand, but once he caught me he felt secure enough to raise the muzzle to the sky, probably planning to hand the gun to the younger man.
My vessel was a noncombat type, but every vessel has an ESM—emergency survival mode—when you pump your vessel with enough adrenaline to kill an average elephant. Once it passes, it leaves the vessel in a weakened state, but for just a little while you become a killing machine. I was proficient in three dozen martial arts to a fifth dan or equivalent degree, and the fact that my bones had hardened to metal strength and I moved at nearly double my normal speed made the whole affair almost easy. With my free hand I punched the bald man in the chest and felt, as well as heard, his ribs crack. He was not feeling the damage yet, but his mouth gaped open from the shock of the impact. With all my senses heightened, I heard the stretching sound of the bowstring as the man to my right began to react. Moving the brute once my second punch dislodged his jaw was as easy as throwing a rag doll. My timing was not perfect but I still managed to place him in the path of the incoming arrow. It buried itself in his back with a satisfying thud, causing him to arch backwards with a guttural howl of pain. I plucked the shotgun from his loosened grip and rolled sideways before his collapsing girth buried me.
Kudos to the archer—he had a second arrow already cocked when I rose to my feet, but I pulled the trigger and shot his leg out from under him before he could release it.
He screamed and toppled forward, losing the bow and flailing his arms, then hitting the rock below face-first.
The younger man was already charging at me, sword in hand, as I turned, pumped the gun, and pulled the trigger again. The weapon jammed. Antique or not, poorly maintained weapons are a menace. I only