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.