Chapter 7 Chapter 7: Saint Paddy´s Day
I don’t know when dawn finally crept across the sky. There was no window in my metal coffin, no soft light to herald the day. Only the jarring, metallic clang of a bell, a sound like a hammer striking a hollow pipe, pulled me from a fitful, memory-haunted doze. I wiped the dried salt of forgotten tears from my cheeks, dressed quickly in my patched clothes, and pushed the heavy door open, stepping out into a world bathed in harsh, unforgiving sunlight. It was as if the consuming darkness of the night had never happened, its terrors rendered invisible by the sheer brute force of day.
The noise hit me first, a wall of sound even more intense than the night before. Then the stench, now fermented by the heat: stale beer, unwashed bodies, and the tang of ozone from overworked generators. People were everywhere, a chaotic river of humanity. Just across the muddy street, two thugs were methodically beating a crippled man curled on the ground. I looked away. Not my fight. Not today.
I did a quick, nervous check of my weapons and pack, ensuring everything was secure and within reach. My body still screamed in protest from yesterday’s beating, a symphony of aches and pains. But a more primal need overrode the pain: a desperate, gnawing hunger and a thirst that made my throat feel like cracked leather.
The thugs left around the same time I was ready to move. To my astonishment, the cripple hauled himself up onto a single leg and two battered wooden crutches. He fixed a wide, gap-toothed grin on me and held up a piece of crumpled cardboard: “Plz give Chids or food.”
I managed a weak smirk. “Sorry, friend. I’m not doing so great myself.”
He shuffled across the street with a peculiar, loping gait, like an eager dog. “You her, ent you? I’m Max.” He reached out, grabbing my T-shirt for support.
“Get off me, don’t touch!” I recoiled, shoving him away. Maybe a little too hard. He tumbled back to the ground with a grunt. Still grinning, he looked up from the dirt. “Been waitin’ for you to wake up. You’re Tilly, and I’m Max.”
“So?” I said, my voice flat.
“So, I live in the bunk next to yours, 326.” He flashed a dog tag hanging around his neck, though I couldn’t read it from where I stood.
“Yeah, I heard you moaning last night. Didn’t wanna disturb, thought you had company, know what I mean?” He waggled his eyebrows.
“Who in The Mother are you? And don’t say Max, or I’ll punch you,” I growled, my patience already frayed.
“I am Max! Not Max-Max. Fuck it. I’m Max. I’m s’posed to show you around. Like a guide. Know what I mean? Guy’s orders.”
“Oh, Mother preserve me… Fine,” I sighed, the fight draining out of me. “Let’s go then.”
“First things first, you eaten? We gotta eat before second bell.”
“No. And what’s ‘second bell’?” He grabbed my arm again, turning me toward him. “Got any Chids? Anything to barter with, know what I mean?” I pushed his hand off, but he just grinned, big and crooked.
“What’s Chids? And what’s second bell?”
He snorted a laugh. “You know nothin’, do ya? Chids is like money here, little plastic chips. Second bell’s work time—when everyone who ain’t got a real job has to report for scut work.”
“Yeah, I get it. So how do we eat around here, Max?”
He looked at me like I was a simple child. “No Chids, no food. You got anything else? Swap, barter-”
“YES, I know swap and barter,” I snapped. “I got some stuff.” I patted my pack.
“Why’n’t you say so? Come on, we can eat.” He launched himself down the street, crutches finding a rapid rhythm, talking nonstop, pointing out shops, bars, people—explaining who they were, what they did, as if he were the mayor of this squalid corner.
“’Cause this is Irish-Section 1. Wait, you ain’t wearin’ green. Here.” He shoved an oil-stained green rag at me. “Put that on. Cost me five Chids, but you can just buy me breakfast. It’s Thursday, and every Thursday’s Saint Paddy’s Day here in Irish-Section 1. You get a kickin’ if you ain’t wearin’ green. Know what I mean?”
We weaved through a labyrinth of narrow passages; this place was a maze of rusted metal and crumbling concrete. “Down there’s Hangman’s Alley. Shortcut to the market.” He dragged a finger across his throat and laughed, a dry, hacking sound. “Shortcut-get it? You take a short cut.” Then, more serious: “Not me, though. I’m big in Irish. Everybody knows Max. I get things. I know things.”
He half-dragged me down another alley, spilling out into a muddy square. Buildings jutted at odd angles, some merging with the colossal outer wall, one even had a gun tower sprouting from its roof like a malignant growth. Every ground floor was either an open-front shop, a bar, or a garage. Rusted car parts, eviscerated motorbikes, and skeletal old machinery lay piled everywhere. Outside what looked like a particularly busy bar, five pristine working bikes stood in a row, saddlebags bulging and built-in weapons gleaming. All bore the same badge; the one displayed on every shopfront: a rusted cog with two hammers crossed on top.
“We’re here. This is Hammer Cogs turf. They’re all right, if you know what I mean.”
Max, still gripping my arm, pulled me into an open-front shop that smelled of oil, metal, and stale alcohol. “Georgy-Porgy’s. He’s good for most things,” Max chimed in. “Yo-”
“Yes, I know, Max. Stop saying that” I cut him off, my eyes adjusting to the dim light.
The place was a chaotic fusion of workshop and bar. Guns and rifles lined the back wall. In the corner, a mohawked biker in a leather jacket slumped over a table, head on his arms, mirrored sunglasses still on despite his stupor. Bottles of spirits and a half-drunk glass sat beside him.
Dominating the space was a large workbench cluttered with tools and greasy spare parts. Behind it sat the fattest man I’d ever seen, a mountain of flesh with a round, white-bearded face. A monocular magnifier was strapped to his head, protruding from one eye like a mechanical cyclops.