The chilly air slapped me. The light drizzle that had started to fall blended with the ash that swirled about my boots. The blood smeared around my side was hardly cleaned with it. Every step I took outside the bunker felt like a fight against my own body. My body trailed behind, lethargic, screaming in pain, but my mind was acute, sharpened by the urgency of my goal.
I glanced at the map Harris had given me. The mailing headquarters was straight down Ashford Street, a direct path if I avoided the worst of the rubble. Fires still burned in the distance, flickering like dying stars. The air reeked of smoke, scorched flesh, and something metallic—gunpowder, maybe. My boots crunched against shattered glass and broken stone as I pressed forward.
My vision blurred, darkening at the edges. The blood loss was taking its toll, a steady drain I couldn't afford. I clenched my teeth and forced myself onward.
A rustling noise from ahead made me pause.
Through the haze of smoke, I spotted movement—figures picking through the ruins of a collapsed home. Scavengers. They moved with practiced efficiency, overturning debris, rifling through whatever they could find. One of them looked up.
His eyes locked onto me.
I knew trouble when I saw it. As soon as he elbowed his friends, their gazes shifted towards me like wolves noticing an injured deer. There were three of them—emaciated, forlorn men dressed in ragged jackets. Their hands moved erratically towards improvised weapons—a crowbar, a rusty knife, a pistol with the slide pulled back. No bullets, then. That didn't reduce their threat level at all.
"Hey there," one of them called, stepping forward. His voice was too friendly. "Rough day?"
I didn't respond. My grip tightened on the map, shoving it into my coat. The leader noticed.
"What's that you got?" His steps quickened, closing the distance. "Supplies? Medicine?"
I shook my head. "Nothing for you."
"Now, that's not very neighborly." He gestured to my coat, then my side. "You're bleeding out, friend. That's a fine coat you got there, and I bet you won't need it for long."
I took a step back. My body screamed in protest, but I ignored it. "I need to get through."
"And we need whatever you're carrying." His expression hardened. "So why don't you—"
I moved on reflex, turning away as his hand lunged for my coat. Agony shot through me, yet I clenched my jaw, forcing my shoulder into his side. He staggered backward, but his companions advanced.
The person with the crowbar swung it low. I narrowly avoided it, the weapon brushing against my ribs rather than shattering them. I responded with a quick kick to his knee, knocking him down. The third man reached for my hurt arm. A mistake.
I turned quickly, leveraging his momentum to draw him closer. He tripped, and I thrust my elbow against his neck. He inhaled sharply, struggling to breathe, but before I could take advantage, the leader knocked me down.
We hit the ground hard.
My wounded stump sent fire through my nerves. The world flashed white. He pressed down, hands gripping my collar, but I clawed at his face, shoving him off. I rolled, gasping for breath, and forced myself to my feet.
They hesitated. I stood my ground, bleeding, shaking, but still standing.
The leader spat to the side. "Not worth it. He'll be dead soon anyway."
They backed off, disappearing into the smoke.
I didn't wait to see if they changed their minds.
The world tilted as I stumbled down Ashford Street. The fight had cost me more than time. My vision swam, my limbs heavy. I could feel the sluggish pulse of my own body fighting to stay upright.
This experience was much worse than the one at the boxing ring. At least over there I didn't lose an arm. I also felt a bit nervous getting out. I remember that being punched in the nose made me think my nose was bleeding or as Alexis called it 'Phantom Perception', so what will happen with my arm when I get out?
The mailing headquarters.
Partially collapsed, but still standing. The sign above the door hung at an angle, half-burnt, letters barely legible. I forced myself inside.
Desks lay overturned, papers scattered across the floor, dust and soot thick in the air. The scent of old ink mixed with the charred remains of what had once been shelves of letters.
I scanned the room, my breath ragged. Then I saw it.
The telegraph machine.
It sat on a desk near the back, covered in grime but intact. Hope surged in my chest—before the weight of reality crushed it.
I tore through the office, looking for anything. There—behind the counter—a backup generator.
I staggered toward it, nearly collapsing against the rusted frame. The fuel gauge was nearly empty, but there was a little left. Enough for one last attempt.
I primed the machine, gripping the handle tight, and pulled.
It coughed, sputtered.
A spark. A weak, flickering light. The telegraph machine hummed softly.
I pulled myself to the desk, hands shaking, and found an old book nearby. The pages were fragile, but the Morse code chart was still legible. I pressed my fingers to the key, hesitated, then tapped.
I took a shuddering breath and began again.
Bombings. Civilian casualties. No military response. Textile mills, school, train station—all destroyed. Need assistance.
The machine crackled, static hissing between transmissions. I didn't know if anyone was listening. If anyone could hear me.
Hundreds dead. More injured. No defenses. Please respond.
I repeated it, again and again, my fingers slick with blood, barely able to hold steady. The signal was weak. Maybe too weak.
Then, just as I prepared to send it one last time—
Footsteps. Heavy. Measured.
Figures emerged from the shadows. Not looters. Not civilians.
Their uniforms were marked with the same insignia I'd seen on the bombers.
One of them stepped forward, rifle raised. His voice was calm.
"Step away from the machine."