A World Apart 1949 (USSR RP, IC)

[Insurgia]

Iniapolis, The Highway Lands of Insurgia, Abathon
Camp Wagner
October 1st, 1949
4:22 PM

A calm snow fell upon the quiet ghost city of Iniapolis. The skyscrapers that once boomed with life now sat as lifeless reminders of what had once been. If civilization didn't return to business as usual within a few years, they would see the very same structures they suffered to build be destroyed by the erasing functions of nature. Even so, the camp commander had devoted several of his recon units to the vantage points these towers provided. A three-sixty vantage is as good as any. The past month saw the complete and utter breakdown of societal hierarchies within the capital city. A majority of the law enforcement body failed to materialize; probably because more than half of them had already succumbed.

What remained were twelve militia groups that posted themselves in and around the city, constantly patrolling. The formation of gangs has become increasingly prevalent as more and more people begin to lose hope in the old ways. People were desperate for whatever they could find. Water. Food. Medicine. Camp Wagner stuck out like a sore thumb. A humble refuge for survivors that hosted a reported large swathe of supplies and beds. It had become a shanty-town of sorts, complete with its own bar. The militia were beginning to use scraps for armor to fortify their defensive positions.

William Thomas had buried all but his father who he had been forced to leave because of the very same alleged gangs that began looting homes. He was half-decent at hiding the guilt. Pen in hand, he wrote away into his journal, sitting inside the guard tower that hosted a creaky rocking chair. Every so often, he'd gaze up, examining the ruined streets below him. A distant gunshot would bring his eyes up from his journal, ending his routine. He waited, listening to the minutemen below rant about it before they finally dismissed it. There was no telling who all was out there. Nobody wanted to be caught in it though.

"REFUGEES!" a soldier called out.

Thomas jumped up from his rocking chair just as they kicked on the spotlights, taking aim down the dimming city scape. Several figures emerged from the endless convoys of vehicles. He overheard the conversation below.

"Ah...shit...another family of five..."

"We're gonna run out of food for ourselves if the commander takes anymore in..."

"They can head to Camp Samson, can't they?"

"Sure...if you don't want to risk getting raped, robbed and murdered first...fuck it."

One grabbed the megaphone, quickly dispatching the group of five. A handful of armed civilians made their way down to the gates, inspecting the refugees. The revving engine of pickup came hauling down the road with several loaded in the bed. The scavenging party. Thomas whistled down below. They immediately made way for the incoming truck which was callus in its parking job.

"Anything good, boys?"

"AIN'T GOT SHIT! BESIDE' A SPLIT-TA-"

"Shut-it, BARNIE!"

"What was that all about?"

Thomas listened well. The party had been out for quite a while and nothing of value to bring back. Another bullshit story probably. Checking his watch, the afternoon shift began to wrap up. Skeleton crew would follow at night. Pulling his sleeve over his watch, he looked down below.

"Johnston!" he called out.

A small olive-skinned man darted his gaze skyward almost mechanically.

"LIEUTENANT!?" he sounded almost comical in his voice.

"Get the night crew up! Everyone else is on R and R!" he demanded.

"AYE AYE!"

The Johnston boy sprinted off.

The newest group of refugees were being processed, some of which already made their way to lodging or to the bar.

The scavenging party had already descended into lucrative vacation space that was the bar.

---

Barrow eyed every one of them down from across the surprisingly busy bar. The amount of refugees with things to trade for hard liquor was astonishing. Bullets. Clothing. Medicine. Those who were lucky enough to make it here that is. The crew that came back with nothing. They had taken something else. He had crossed into Iniapolis with a girl from Guadalajara. The same girl who he would become separated from after an encounter with Mike Howley's gang and the same girl he would be forced to leave behind after seven militiamen gang-raped her and shot her dead after. This made his blood boil over just thinking of it. And there they were, enjoying the whiskey and water.

These men were worse. They claimed to be good. When they were just as bad as the gangs to start out with. He still had his Webley. They had his side-by-side. She had it last. He could see it, slung over the shoulder of one of the uglier ones. With the six-shots he had in his fully loaded Webley, that left him just shy of ending all seven of them. Perhaps he could use his hands on the last one. He leaned further into the bar, grasping the attention of the graying man that tended it.

"Whiskey and water, please." Barrow concluded.

The barman did as asked. Barrow downed it, perhaps to find some courage in this insurmountable deed. He slowly cocked his head to his left, looking at the group of men who laughed to themselves with their own whiskey. He began his journey, pivoting left and toward them. His Webley hung strapped under his coat, eager to be pulled into action. He was inching closer now, perhaps coming into arms length of the closest one to him. Over the shoulder of the closest one, he catches the eyes of another across from him. He knows. Barrow pivoted another hard left, this time toward the door. He admits to himself that he could hear some of them calling him out as he exited into the cold snow that fell upon him and out into the open yard that was Camp Wagner.

He examined the fine details of the camp, noting the very seldom crew that accompanied it. Everyone else must be asleep at this point. Almost everyone. The bar door slammed open and the same seven exited out one at a time, lining up as if prepared for firing squad. Alex turned his head first, slowly allowing his body to turn too. He likely came off as shy and incompetent as he still had his baby face. Alex waited. The shortest one volunteered his tobacco saliva into the snow.

"We met, fucka?" his accent was awful enough to where it didn't sound native.

"You was there at uh...Rottingdam and 54th?" another pitched in.

"Yeah yeah...this the kid! With that GANG...that did that lady..." the Barnie dumbass spoke his word.

Alex's eyes suddenly changed with that statement and they all saw it. He suddenly wasn't so incompetent. Something had changed. The shortest of them all began laughing with joy.

"Hoohoo...this kid...he's got somethin' else wit' him today, fellas." a shiny steel blade revealed itself with the statement.

"You going to do this in front of the whole camp?" Alex asked them all.

"There's nobody on shift that gives a flying—"

Four explosions rang out from the end of the Webley nobody even processed that he had drawn. Four bodies fell like dominoes, except each had some air-time. At least two seconds before finally collapsing to the snow below. The three survivors had dived for into the snow or began to dart for cover. Alex didn't hesitate for the lad who dived into the ground. He blew him away with a shot to the side of the gut. A loud screech of pain followed. The sixth and seventh ran together for cover. A sixth explosion from the Webley could cut into a right knee, exiting through the cap itself.

"FUCK!" the other unlucky one yelled in agony, gripping his knee.

Alex holstered the Webley quickly, darting over to the four corpses that laid side-by-side. He reached down, yanking his former side-by-side shotgun off the shoulder of a now lifeless corpse. Cracking the barrel, he saw to that it was loaded and ready to go. The two barely clinging souls cursed the boy.

"YOU'RE SO DEAD! WE'RE GONNA HAVE YOU ON THE END OF THE ROPE BY TONIGHT!"

Alex identified the talker as the one crawling away. The one who definitely wouldn't walk again if he managed to live through tonight. The one before him with the gut-shot simply stared Alex down, trying to keep pressure on the wound. Barrow dropped the barrel low and watched as it lined up with the bastards chest cavity. The blast would send a ringing through his ears that reminded him of his first kill. The whole ear-ringing thing would be something to get used to. Let alone the amounts of bodies he's already stacked at this point.

"YOU FUCKIN—you fuckin'...killed him...what the fuck man..."

Alex stepped over the grounded corpse, making his way to his sixth kill. The seventh still in no sight.

"Fuck you man...FUCK YOU! WE DIDN'T DO SHIT TO YOU MAN!" the man shook with awe in his voice, still attempting to crawl away with his busted knee.

Alex got real close, extending the barrel out to where it was met by the mans hands in attempt to throw the barrel off but to no avail.

"We didn't do anythin' do ya, man...come on...don't.." his voice cracked with pleas.

Alex didn't care none for it. He pulled the trigger.

An armada of men had begun to exit their lodgings, rifles loaded. Those on duty had taken aim at Alex and seen first hand the horrors. They were tired of it.

"I'M PUTTING HIM DOWN!"

The sound of bolt-actions and semi-auto's racked forward. Alex looked around, his lips parting in shock. The shotgun slipping out of his hand and into the snow. He was surrounded. All he gave was a "what next?" gesture, throwing his hands up and letting them fall against his thighs.

"BELAY THAT ORDER!"

Wearing a winter camouflaged smock, he wasn't like the roving band of civilians that acted as minutemen. He was military. A professional. He also bore a silver bar on his collar, visible even with the smock. Alexander Barrow and William Thomas stared each other down. Alex was done though. He had no qualms with this man. Taking a knee, he rested his hands on the back of his head. Observing Thomas, he saw the man had never removed his hand from his own hip holster which hosted a revolver of some kind as well. A swift and staunch thud to the back of the head sends Barrow face-first into the snow.

Thomas closed in, kneeling down next to the boy whose vision slowly began to slip off into unconsciousness.

[Arkham Nation]

Limewick, Parliamentary Republic of Arkham, Vaudus
Rickety Bar, Historical District Slezov Territory
October 3rd, 1949
8:35 PM

Arkham had plunged into anarchy since the outbreak of the virus. The Taoiseach had declared a national emergency and told people to find any shelter they can away from anyone infected. The Arkham Mob took the chance to seize control and carve out territories in Limewick as well as many other cities. The Quake Family carved out their territories along their docks, the Solomon Family controls the industrial district, the Monsini Family controlling the metropolitan district, the Virchow Family seized control of the poorer districts, and the Slezov Family took the Historical district. Small sanctuary areas for people are spread around the cities with the police and what’s left of the government running them. Blackouts occur frequently due to the low amount of people running power plants, which are in Sanctuary areas. There are frequent clashes between the Arkham Mob and the police for control of these power plants as well as other resources. Areas that are not controlled by anyone are infected zones. The infected zones are littered with corpses of people who have died from the virus. Only a few scavengers from the sanctuary areas go out in search of resources. It is rumored that underground in the sewers and catacombs of Limewick the Maestro plans to take control of the whole city with his followers. Hospitals are filled up with people begging for a cure or something to relieve them of the virus. Researchers work day and night in search of a cure to no avail.

But that all didn’t matter to the old man sitting in the corner of the bar. He drunk a shot of whiskey then filled his glass again. Everyone he cared about had died long before there was a virus or a Great War. The old man slicked back his graying black hair, then gave out a sigh. He reminisced on the good old days then drank from his glass again. He sat at the same table in the same chair at the same bar ever since he could remember and no one else took it. It was well known that where the old man sat was his table, rumor had it that he killed a man who sat in the seat across from him. Stories told around the area say he was a whistleblower who sold out his country. Other stories say he’s a disgraced businessman who lost all his money gambling. However, no one dared to relate these stories to the old man in the corner of the room. The old man scratched the top of his head then checked his small watch. 8:36pm the watch read. He mumbled something under his breath then took another drink.

Suddenly there was a commotion outside, then the body of a teenager was hurled through the front door. Everyone looked startled by the scene that just had taken place except for the old man who remained fixed on a photo of his younger self and the several other people posing behind him. Four men who looked to be Nelson’s guys came in through the broken door where they had thrown the teen boy through.

“You’re late again Monroe!” The biggest mobster of the four bellowed.

“Business is tough nowadays, please no one wants to cobble their shoes when there’s a deadly virus everywhere.” The boy, the old man could only assume as Monroe, wailed. “Just give me until tomorrow and I’ll get you your money, I’ll even double what I owe you please.”

“You hear that boys, Monroe hear says he’ll pay double what he owes the honorable judge.” The large man laughed, then the three others joined in. “You see Monroe,” he snickered picking up Monroe and holding him up by his collar, “you said that the last three times, now I want you owe the boss or we’ll take a visit to your house and see if there’s any money.”

“You best do what he says kid,” the skinny mobster said coming up next to the biggest one of them.

“Ok ok I’ve got most of it, I’m only missing 200 Arktons, just give me more time please.” Monroe pleaded. The strong man holding up Monroe looked to the scrawny criminal to his two other accomplices. They nodded back at him and the strong man carried Monroe to a table next to where the old man sat. The strong man threw Monroe into a chair and started to dig in Monroe’s pockets. “What are you doing?!” Monroe nervously asked.

“Making sure you’re not holding out on us.” The large man emptied Monroe’s pockets and set everything on the table. The three other men started to count the money and after they were finished they handed the Arktons over to the bulky mobster. “Well, well, well Monroe, you seem to be holding out on us. You have all the money here plus more, come on Monroe you know I hate liars.” The man placed his large hand on the back of Monroe’s neck.

“Wait wait please, it’s for my father he’s sick and needs medicine.” Monroe explained.

“Don’t give me that shit Monroe! We both know that the old cobbler died from the virus!” The big man said between his teeth. “That’s twice now you’ve lied to me today, are you trying to get on my bad side Monroe? How do you think the boss would feel if he knew you’ve been lying to him? Hmm?”

“Please, Mr. Smith, I didn’t mean it.” The teen said shaking vigorously. Mr. Smith picked up the teen by the collar again and held him close to his face.

“If I ever catch you lying to me again, I’ll make sure you will never make it to Boss Nelson’s Court.” Mr. Smith threw Monroe to the ground and Monroe scurried off, the four men burst into laughter then looked around the room. “What are you all looking at? You’ve never seen a shakedown before?” Mr. Smith chuckled. The whole room looked away and went back to talking amongst themselves except or the old man. Mr. Smith looked around then directly at the old man in the corner of the room. Mr. Smith, wanting to have a bit more fun, motioned with his head towards where the old-timer sat. Mr. Smith strolled to where the old man sat and took a seat across from the old man. “Hello Grandpa, tell me a story.” He ordered the old man as he stole the old man’s bottle of whiskey. Mr. Smith chugged the whole bottle down then let out a belch that shook the table. Smith examined the old man who was before him and didn’t think he looked old at all. From what Smith gathered the man was tall and lean. The old man’s clothing looked older, some spots on the old man’s coat had holes and some poorly done stitches. The stranger’s greasy hair on his head and on his thin mustache had some graying streaks but there was plenty of jet black. Smith could see some wrinkles on the man’s tanned hands and face. The dark circles under the old man’s eyes made Smith think the old man never slept. Suddenly, Smith smelled smoke what he could only assume came from the old man, Mr. Smith coughed and tried not to smell the air around the old man again. The old man sat there silently still looking down at the picture of his former friends. “His ears must not be working, I SAID TELL ME A STORY OLD FART!” Mr. Smith said raising his voice.

“I ain’t your grandpa and I will not tell you a story.” The old man finally said putting away his watch but still didn’t look up. Mr. Smith’s men surrounded the table, while Mr. Smith sat awestruck by the response the stranger gave.

“Do you know who I am old crow? I’m—“

“Don’t care. Go away.” The old man interrupted. Mr. Smith’s face began to go red with anger and he stood up, placing his hands on his hips so that his gun was easy to see.

“And if I don’t?” Mr. Smith asked angrily.

“Things will get ugly.” The old man said putting on his hat. Mr. Smith and the three men laughed and put their hands on their guns or knives.

“Who do you think you are?” The skinny mobster snorted.

“Just a man who’s trying to escape his past.” The old man laconically sighed.

“What’s that even supposed to mean?” Mr. Smith inquired.“You know what I think you owe me something for hurting my feelings. That watch will do nicely.” The old man reached under the table then suddenly felt something poke his sides. He glanced over to see the scrawny man holding a gun pointed at the side of the old man.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” The lanky man tsked. “Let’s not do anything rash.” The man put his other hand inside the old man’s pocket and took out the watch. The scrawny man examined the watch and then opened it. The skinny man let out a dry laugh then gave the watch to Mr. Smith. “Is that supposed to be you? Who're the people around you? Your family or somethin’? Can’t wait to meet them.”

“You can’t.” The old man sighed.

“Why not?”

“They’re dead.”

“Oh geez I’m sorry.” The scrawny criminal sarcastically said.

“HOLY SHIT BALLS!” Mr. Smith said breaking the conversation between the skinny mobster and the old man. “This can’t be, you can’t be.”

“What?” The skinny one asked. Smith repeatedly looked at the photo then to the old man several times before widening his light brown eyes.

“Now I may have dropped out of school in the 6th grade, but I remember a lesson in my history class that told of an infamous man who was quick with a gun. He ran around with a gang, calling themselves the Wild Hunt. They all died when they were ambushed by ANIA after they robbed a train from Arkham City. Even if you were the guy, that would be impossible because all those gunslinger legends died long ago.” Mr. Smith said sounding interested in who the old man really was.

“What are you talking about Smith?” One of the other men inquired.

“I’m talking about.....” Mr. Smith paused trying think of the name, “Lee ‘Butch’ Bolton. That’s you.” The old man didn’t answer instead glancing up to meet the eyes of the bulky gangster. “You know boys,” Mr, Smith said without taking his eyes off the old man, “you wanna know the rest of the story.” The three men nodded their heads while they stared at the old man. “Legend says that Lee ‘Butch’ Bolton didn’t die in that ambush and the agents who were sent to kill him and his gang died mysteriously several days after. It was later confirmed that Lee Bolton's body was never recovered from the scene. I bet you ANIA will pay a big sum of money for this old bat,” Smith paused licking his lips and rotten teeth. “But first I want to hear you say your name. So what is your name Mr......”

“Nobody.” The old man responded. The skinny man nudged his gun into the side of the old man again.

“Wrong answer.” Mr. Smith took out his pistol and slammed his fist on the table. “Last chance, what is your name?” The old man grabbed his glass and gulped down the whiskey. By this point, everyone was quiet and were on the edge of their seats to see what the old man would say. The old man finally lifted his head to where they could see his face clearly and everyone all braced.

“What do you think?” He answered, his icy blue eyes staring back at Mr. Smith.

“I knew it! I told you guys!” Mr. Smith cheered then turned around to face the bar. “I knew it!”

“You sure did Smith!” The skinny mobster snorted facing away from the old man, which made the gun he was holding point slightly away from the old man’s side. Realizing the four of them were now distracted, the old man took his glass and smashed it against the scrawny looking man. The lanky henchman stumbled back howling that there was glass in his eye. Before the two other men could reach for their guns, the old man was already up and had drawn his gun fanning it at the two men. They dropped dead on the floor, the old man turned and both he and Mr. Smith had their weapons pointed at each other.

“You sure are fast for an old-timer. But here’s how—“ Mr. Smith was interrupted by a gunshot. The old man had shot Smith through his other hand making a large hole in the center of it. Mr. Smith dropped his gun and grasped his opposite hand, holding it close to him. He collapsed on the floor yelling and swearing that he would kill the old man, just like what the scrawny mobster was doing. The old man holstered his gun and walking over to Mr. Smith, he stepped on the hand that had the hole in it. Mr. Smith yelled in pain as the old man knelt down and took the Arktons, Smith had gotten from Monroe, from the inside of Mr. Smith’s coat. The old man stood back up and began to twist his heel on Mr. Smith’s hand. “You’re dead, do you hear me? I’ll find you and then I’ll—“ The old man kicked Mr. Smith in the face knocking him out cold.

“You talk too much.” The old man said kneeling back down to pick up his watch. He stood up and walked to the broken door, before leaving he flipped a couple of Arktons towards the bartender. The people in the bar watched him with amazement and wonder on their faces. He placed the watch in his pocket as the gunslinger walked out the door into the dimly lit sidewalk. He knew it was an only matter of time before he was discovered, he needed to get out of this nightmare of a city.