Chapter 15 Part Three: Factions and Faith Chapter 15: The Towers
Breakfast at Maggie’s Diner was a greasy, glorious feast fit for a king. The air was thick with the smell of frying synth-bacon and strong coffee. Maggie herself, a formidable woman with a heart of gold and arms like a stevedore, kept piling more food onto our plates every time she passed, refusing to hear a word of protest. Just when I thought I’d burst, the second bell rang out over the sector, a harsh, clanging sound that herded us worker ants back to our daily grind.
But when we arrived at the work yard and I slid my identity tag into the computer port, the screen didn’t flash my usual assignment. Instead, it glowed with new text: NEW ASSIGNMENT-THE SPIL.
The guard on duty glanced up from his ledger, a sneer twisting his features. “Well, well. Somebody’s moving up fast around here. Who’ve you been fucking, whore?” He didn’t wait for a reply, just shoved us forward with the butt of his rifle.
Max grinned, his eyes wide with disbelief. “What the fu-”
“Yeah,” I cut him off, my voice low. “Like I said. Seamus seems to like me.”
“A bit more than like, eh?” he leered, wiggling his eyebrows.
“Don’t you start. It was me who stopped him getting his brains painted on the back wall. That’s all. Professional courtesy.”
“The English ain’t gonna like you for that,” Max said, his tone turning serious for a moment.
“We’re living on Irish turf now, Max. Seems only right to stay on their good side. Fuck the English.” I cracked my knuckles, the sound loud in the morning air. “Now, what’s the plan for today? You’re gonna show me this whole damn town, starting with how I get out of here. Where’s the gate?” My mind was on the three buried cases full of supplies, enough to set me up for real in this place if I could just get to them.
I was finally getting a feel for the town, the perpetually muddy streets, the constant, overwhelming noise, the press of bodies, the sour stench of sewage that was the city’s true perfume. I’d even started drawing a mental map of where things were, though navigating the narrow, twisting alleyways was still a daunting task.
On the way to the main entrance, we passed the mouth of Hangman’s Alley, as dark and menacing as ever. I knew that turning right at the next junction would lead us into Hammer Cogs’ domain, but instead we turned left, following a long chain-link fence that separated Section 1 from Tec. Through the diamond-shaped links I saw stacks of old electric-car bases, ten or so in each pile, at least five metres high, a silent monument to a dead world.
“What are those?” I asked Max, pointing.
He smirked. “You really don’t know anything, do you? Electricity. For everything, including the solar shields that keep the worst of the Rads out.”
“Electricity?” The word felt foreign, a concept from a storybook.
“Yeah. The windmills on the walls and the solar panels on the roofs generate it, and these old electric cars, and their batteries, store it. Simple.”
Across the street from the fence was the real market, a sprawling, chaotic mess of about twenty stalls selling everything from fresh produce to salvaged tech. The crowd here was even thicker, and to my surprise, mutants and ferals moved among them with a strange, accepted normalcy. I elbowed Max and nodded in their direction.
“They mutes?” I whispered, using the local slang.
“Shh, not so loud. Yeah, they’re mutes. And ferals, too. Tamed ones, help with the workforce. Most are in agriculture, but a few work the market. No idea where they bunk, though.”
This place just kept getting stranger.
To our right, the Tec sector sprawled into more fenced-off sections, each packed with different tech-market stalls selling wires, components, and flickering holograms. Eventually the stalls gave way to a heavily fortified double entrance-a building tangled with wires and jagged antennas jutting out at odd angles, topped by a large white dish perched on the roof like a mechanical mushroom.
“Brian the Brain,” Max said, pointing. “Him and his techno-nuts run the whole show from in there.”
“Yeah, I’ve met him.” The memory was sharp, the burns on my thighs still raw. I remembered him licking his lips as Charles tormented me.
Another hundred metres, and the two gate towers loomed into view, stark against the hazy sky. Both had massive machine-gun posts, but that’s where the similarities ended.
The first tower bore a faded star emblem with the words TEXAS RANGERS stamped across it. Two men in wide-brimmed cowboy hats, mirrored sunglasses, and thick moustaches stood guard, clad in the bulkiest armour I’d ever seen, a patchwork of beaten metal scraps welded together. They were armed to the teeth: huge rifles slung over their shoulders, long sidearms on their hips, and bandoliers of ammunition, making them look like walking armouries. Below, their office and base bustled with equally armed Rangers, signs advertising wasteland tours with armed protection.
“If you wanna leave the gate, and actually be allowed back in, you need a pass from Security first,” Max explained. “Then you hire either the Rangers or the Wastelanders. They handle perimeter security too—biggest guns and all.”
“Did you say Wastelanders?” My thoughts flashed to Nate’s face. Was he out there? Was he alive?
“Yeah. The other tower’s theirs, you’ll see their base when we get closer.”
“And they can come and go as they please?”
“Yeah. They help people survive out there—for a price. I wouldn’t trust the Rangers much; they’re just mercs. But the Wastelanders? They’re alright. Mostly.”
As we moved closer, I finally made out the Wastelanders’ compound. They were all heavily armed, but the group was a ragtag mix—scavengers, mercenaries, settlers, and even what looked like a hulking Mutant among them.
Then, from a back door, he appeared.
A bandage was wrapped around his stomach, another over his left shoulder, but he still looked good. Even from here, I could see that cheesy, infuriating grin of his. My chest tightened, a confusing knot of anger and something else I refused to name.
I crossed the street without thinking, Max close behind, and approached their open office. He spotted me immediately, his grin widening before he shoved past the others to meet me.
“Tilly! Good to see you, gel-”
My fist, connected with his jaw, a satisfying crack that sent him crashing to the ground. “You, thieving, lying bastard.”
The massive Mutant, red-faced, horned, let out a ground-shaking snarl. Before I could react, his hand, the size of a dinner plate, closed around my throat, lifting me clean off the floor. I couldn’t breathe, spots dancing before my eyes.
Then Nate’s voice, sharp and urgent from the ground: “It’s okay, sh-”
The Mutant’s other fist, like a wrecking ball, connected with my face.
Everything went black.