AU NOTES
Well, hello there!
Would you look at the time? Know what time it is? Time for you to read another chapter of Hell Gates, baby!
Nothing much say now, only that you can remain along for the ride!
Hope to see you soon!
PS: I know that my updates have been sparse and the timing between them has been greatly over what most are used to, so I apologize for the tardiness. I'm getting back on my groove.
Hell Gates
[Chapter 04: New-old Companion]
Contrary to what you would expect from the way the people talked, the wasteland was anything but truly barren; well, maybe if Noah was to wander the Mohave or the deserts of California then he might see red-colored sand and baren lands.
It would be suicide to do so on foot, but maybe there was somewhere out there that was less of a shithole like this.
The surrounding area around Tallahassee was one of the less shitty places to be. Noah had left the safe zone around three hours ago, his search and instincts leading him to a wrecked area that might have been a shopping mall center.
The speed with which the world crumbled was quite surprising, but when there were mutant zombies and spooky spirits around, your priorities would lay in running away, not maintaining structures like that.
"Not that I give a shit," Noah muttered to himself, carefully checking his surroundings. The mutant zombies weren't smart, but their numbers were always something to watch out for. The Latino youngster moved as quietly as he could, his rifle slung on his back as he moved. Firing a shot and attracting a horde on his ass wasn't in his plans, so out went his gun and back came his blades. He would reserve his ammunition for more worthwhile prey. It had been a while since he saw anything that hadn't come from a tin can after all.
Maybe he would luck out and find out some worthwhile prey.
Still, Noah wondered why this place had yet to be ransacked until it was stripped to the bare concrete. It wasn't that far from the safe zone.
The answer to his doubts soon came within sight of his good eye.
The majority of the mall structure was covered in dried blood. Not that strange – considering all the circumstances – but the stains were arranged in certain patterns that caused an irritating itch on the back of his mind, along with the beginnings of a headache.
Noah frowned, his brow tightening as he focused hard on pushing past the dulling blanket that tried to settle on his mind. His damaged eye itched, but soon he could see what was hidden.
The spiritual pollution caused by ghosts was causing a shifting veil ward that hid the mall's structure from the common sight. Normal people would feel dread and despair encroaching on their mind merely by being nearby, so it was no wonder that this hidden cache had yet to be plundered. Still, one question remained in Noah's mind. Was this solely the work of ghosts, or was anyone guiding them to hide this place?
Believe it or not, some people could do such thing. The world may have gone down the drain, but that would never stop the human spirit from trying to get ahead and take advantage of whatever they could; be it scrap, or mania-induced powers.
Mamá (grandma) always said that things like these were real. If only he had listened more to her wise words when he was younger. Well, to be fair, nobody from the family really paid attention when she spoke about spirituality.
Noah sighed, pushing those memories to the back of his mind. He had to focus on survival.
The troubling feeling of despair was pushed aside with willpower, the young Latino tightening his grip on his bladed weapons and killing his presence as much as possible. One of the troublesome things about exploring uncharted and unknown territory was the feeling of unending tension that constantly floated around you, like a suffocating smog. You'd never know what was around the next corner: a whole lot of nothing, a congregation of zombies, a group of raiders, a hidden cache; that type of tension would fray the nerves even the most patient of monks.
No one that went out to explore the wastes was fully sane. Or so the people from the safe zones would say.
Noah couldn't care less.
He approached one of the less messy venues on the building, the usual electronic signs long dead, covered in thick layers of dust. The front entry was blocked, though one corner of the aluminum roll-down door was forced in, granting entry so that he could scavenge the goodies inside.
Though not everything was sweet.
There was a stronger stench inside the store, Noah grimacing as the odor hit his nostrils. Most likely zombies inside. The store was large, though with the darkness he couldn't have a proper idea of its proportions.
Fishing a flashlight from the side pocket of his backpack, Noah clipped it to his chest and turned it on. The small clicking sound echoed loudly (for him anyway) inside the door.
Mierda (shit)! He cursed inside his mind, trying his best to remain still and listen for any incoming noise. For a few moments it felt as if time stood still.
The ray of light cut through the darkness and granted him proper sight. Dried blood pools marked the linoleum floor, their stretched shapes all pointing towards the counter and staff area of the store.
Unwilling to risk an ambush, Noah glanced at the nearest rack to him, filled with useless trinkets that just three years ago would have netted a pretty penny to whoever sold them. One of the useless plastic pay-cards (the only distinguishable feature a faded red N) soon flew in a precise arc towards the counter wall.
Noah hid from the staff room's immediate sight by clinging to the wall opposite the room's entrance. He could hear motion from the room, a few shambling creatures emerging from inside.
Noah immediately turned his flashlight off, a bit bothered by the lack of sight. Still, he opted to err on the side of caution and avoid being detected early on.
These zombies should be mostly blind (their delicate flesh either decayed or feasted upon by insects) due to the long period they remained hidden in this place, but Noah wanted to leave nothing to chance.
He waited until the steps had moved far enough from the door that he would have space to jump over the counter and act. The movement was silent enough, none of the infected detecting his presence until it was too late.
His kukri sliced through neck of the closest infected like it was butter, the creature dropping to the floor unceremoniously. The second turned around to investigate and got booted on the chest for its trouble, tumbling to the floor on a mess of uncoordinated limbs. The third also tried to turn around, but the young adult brought his hatched in an overhead swing that caved its skull in with a sickening "crack".
Noah left his hatched buried on the creature's head and moved to finish the last one. It was struggling on the floor, trying to stand up. A swift kick from his right boot dropped it back to the floor, the following stomp resulting in a dull sound as the creature's neck broke under the strain and snuffed it out.
Kukri machete on hand and scanning the area behind the counter for any stragglers, Noah waited for a few moments in absolute silence. It hadn't been the loudest fight of his life, but then again it also hadn't been its quietest.
/Alone,
Clean-up finished/
Something at the back of his mind seemed to respond to his unspoken question. It wasn't exactly a recent development, happening at odd times, but he had been aided by it enough to learn to trust its advice.
Picking up his hatched with a dull grunt, Noah cleaned the weapons of the gunky blood that clung to them with the dispatched creature's own clothing scraps. That done, he headed inside the staff area.
It wasn't that much different from the inside of the store. It was crammed to the brim with unsold merchandise that had little use today, though the search wasn't a waste of time.
There was a myriad of knick-knacks that – while not terribly precious – would still get him pretty good trade bargains. Batteries being the most prominent here. There were a few different types, all of which were in high demand for just about everyone. USB cables, some solar powered power banks, and chargers could also earn him some bank.
Phones still had many useful functions that still worked regardless of internet or area coverage. Laptops in working condition also could be a pretty nifty gift for the Marshal or the higher ups that lived in Tallahassee's safe zone. It was sort of impressive how history would repeat itself, and people would divide themselves into groups that best suited them.
Noah prioritized items that he could carry without being encumbered. He filled just about half of his backpack with them before he left the store. Hopefully he could find some sort of preserved food, but considering the mall's condition it was likely a pipe dream.
Stepping away from the electronics store, he then headed further inside the shopping center.
Most of the stores had items with little to no value these days. Fragile brand clothing that would be worth hundreds of dollars in the past were barely valuable as scrap cloth; brand shoes that would wear out in just a few days from usage. Unpractical handbags with all the useless belts and whistles one could afford back then. La decadencia del lujo, como decia mama (The decadence of luxury, as Mamá called it).
Noah walked past a few store fronts, observing with care. He ignored many of the products that wouldn't be of use to the survivors of the safe zone, preferring to use his precious time to search for actual valuables.
The more time Noah spent searching for precious loot, the more his instincts began to prickle. The air tasted foul, his (already limited) sight began to darken and time seemed to stand still. If it wasn't for the prospect of a good haul, the Latino would not stay here more than what was extremely necessary.
He crossed the empty and dusty halls of the first area, feeling the pressure in his skull adding up.
Nausea began to sprout from deep within his gut, and it took Noah all the willpower he could muster to keep the contents of his stomach inside.
/Mental corruption increasing,
Suggestion: leave for now/
Noah had to – much to his annoyance – agree with the mysterious voice inside his head.
One of the dangers of exploring cursed areas like this was also one of the most poorly understood. Mental pollution was an ever-present danger to anyone that was brave (or foolish) enough to venture out in spiritual hotspots, and its effects were wildly unpredictable and variable.
Madness, manic behavior, suicidal tendencies, ego-death; these were just a few that Noah himself had seen with his own eyes. And he wasn't willing to fall victim to those here.
Turning on his heel, Noah began to retrace his steps back to the electronic store. It was the closest place to his first entry way, so it made for a good point of reference. Tension increased in his mind due to the impossibility of a speedy retreat. So far, he had remained undetected by whatever lurked inside the mall, and he hoped to keep it that way.
That lead to him essentially power-walking his way to the electronic store, the previous headache building up to becoming an annoying migraine that felt like a pin was being stabbed into his brain.
/You must hurry,
I can't help for much longer/
I fucking know! He harshly replied in his mind, his mouth shut and teeth gritted, silencing the hiss that threatened to leave it.
The voice didn't reply to him. For a moment Noah figured that the silence was enough of an answer, but his payback was shortly delivered. First it was goosebumps running along his arms, almost as if someone was caressing them. The phantom feeling was bothersome, but it was manageable; then, it wasn't anymore as the sensation lowered to his torso. It felt as if nails scrapped alongside the length of his ribs, the sensation unpleasantly real.
"Ay, puta madre! No lo hagas! (Ah, fucking bitch! Don't do it!)" The shout emerged from his mouth with pain, the loudness not something that he was expecting. FUCK! Too loud! He whisper-shouted in his mind, forgetting subtlety and putting force behind his steps.
The previously quiet steps now thundered on the empty halls, and Noah could already hear more infected stirring up from their hiding holes. Dread tried to worm its way in his heart, but the adrenaline that was now pumping in his veins allowed the Latino youngster to ignore the gnawing feeling.
He was just about to rush past the electronics store when he noticed something that his keen eyesight missed earlier. A dust-covered medium box. The labels and letters were faded and too dirty to be made out, but the sole image he spotted made the survivor bum-rush it.
Walkie-talkies, or to be more technical, short-range communication radios.
With phone towers out and internet signal being a tale from the past, RAM radios were the most reliable option available that could be easily repaired without much trouble. It could make for a nifty prize back in Tallahassee, and Noah wasn't willing to lose this chance.
Once he was close enough, Noah slid towards the box, the item on a lower shelf, almost as if taunting him.
Gotcha! He grabbed it, the momentum making so that he somewhat slammed against the aluminum shelf. He winced, but ignored the pain, rapidly standing up to have access to his backpack. It was almost full with the items from his exploration, but a few shoves warped the cardboard enough to stuff it in without trouble.
"AHHH!"
"HAAAaaaahhhhh!"
"HUuuuhhhh…"
Moaning groans reached his ears once more, and this time Noah was quite sure that infected zombies weren't the only ones nearby. Unwilling to discover, he rushed from the store and finally exited the mall.
…
…
…
30 MINUTES LATER
Noah kept putting distance between himself and the abandoned and cursed structure, feeling the migraine he developed slowly disperse. It still felt as if nails were being stabbed into his brain, but the feeling was going away.
He also checked the time on his rugged wrist-watch, surprised that only an hour had gone by from the time he entered the building. It certainly had felt longer, though he blamed that on his nerves. Scouting these places was never a breeze, no matter how many times he did so.
/Fool,
Reckless danger for such a small pittance/
The nagging of the voice in his head also wasn't helpful, but he took it in stride. It wasn't the most dangerous situation he had found himself into, and knowing his luck as he did, it wouldn't be the most (or the last).
He stopped when he felt he was far enough, taking the time for a few deep breaths. The weight of his backpack was a reassuring thing, helping ground him in reality.
Strange voices in his head; infected mutants roaming abandoned malls; ghostly apparitions haunting said malls. The list of things that could drive a person mad wasn't small by any measure, so every tiny bit of reality that could help was highly welcomed.
/Rude,
Apologize now, ungrateful bastard/
He opted to ignore the words.
His small break done; the teen started heading towards the safe zone once more. The most dangerous part of his trek was done, now it came down to his skills and luck. You couldn't predict the behavior of maddened ghouls or wailing souls, but humans – as weird as it sounded – were ten times more predictable than what could be expected.
People tended to think of themselves as special and different from the large masses, but such a thing was foolish. The most common survivor was basically trained by the environment he was forced to experience to think on the short-term period. Thus, their patterns and thoughts were rather easy to read and predict. Basic pattern recognition as its finest.
Noah was patient, carefully observing the roads before walking parallel to them at a reasonable distance. He wouldn't use the main road unless he was within eyesight of the walls of the safe zone, and even then he wouldn't drop his guard until he was in his own room.
Stressful as it was, this method had never failed him.
It took about another hour to reach the zone's surroundings, the usual line of drifters and traveling merchants as big the previous day. He ignored the long line, opting to head to the same side door.
He just about reached it when the metal door was closed, the guards protecting it sending dirty scowls and frowns his way. Nothing that he wasn't used to, but walking under the scalding hot sun had also shortened his mood fuse to basically nothing.
"The fuck do you want?" Noah harshly spat the question, shifting his feet to better accommodate the weight of his backpack.
The guard – a darker male with a shaved head, but a dirty beard – scowled harder at the Latino. He pulled out his truncheon, the blunt weapon being smacked on his own palm a few times. "Do you not see the line there? Or do you think that you are somehow special, you burnt-toast lookin' motherfucker?" The guard had a thick Afrikaans accent, though he pronounced the English rather perfectly.
It was a pity that Noah couldn't care less about it.
"I passed by here yesterday. Paid the toll and everything. I was told I had a month's time to transit freely." The young adult gritted his teeth, trying his best to pacify his own mood and avoid getting in trouble. He'd always had trouble with authority, and though he could play the song-and-dance when it was needed, he was terribly not in the mood to do so now.
"Is that so?" The guard hummed a tone that spoke of disbelief. "Then, where is your ID?"
That got Noah briefly silenced. ID? Desde cuando eso era uma cosa aquí? (ID? Since when that was a thing here?). They had noted down a bunch of details about him during his entry yesterday, so he was hoping to pass without hassle for the supposed one-month's worth of bribes.
"I wasn't given any ID." He was straight laced with his answer. Lying about these details was more trouble than it was worth. Maybe this particular Prieto (black) was trying to get something out of him.
The guard scoffed at Noah. "Hah, typical drifter. All mouth, all talk. Better get back into line and wait for your turn. We already have enough vagabonds here."
That last dig got Noah clenching his jaw shut to avoid a mighty swear. Mamaguebo, cerdo bastardo…(motherfucking pig bastard…)
The tension escalated, neither of the two sides willing to let the other win.
A voice echoed from the other side, muffled, but somewhat recognizable. "Arruba, what the fuck's the hold up at the door?"
It was the same guard from yesterday. Maybe Noah's luck hadn't fully run out today.
The black guard didn't fully close the door, but he remained holding defensively. He turned to the man behind him "Ey boss, nothing that important. Just a Mulato-drifter at the gate, thinking he is hot stuff."
The two discussed something, the door muffling the conversation so that Noah couldn't fully understand them properly. A few moments went by, the teen bothered by his exposure outside the side door. A few of the common drifters and other immigrant-hopefuls were sending glances his way, and the attention wasn't flattering.
Thankfully for Noah, the small door opened once more, the fat guard whom he had talked with the previous day appearing from it. The man did a once-over, obviously trying to remember Noah's face. Once his face lightened in recognition, his frown dispersed into a neutral visage.
"Drifter, you are still alive, huh? What's got you into trouble now?"
Noah shifted his feet again, the weight of his equipment getting bothersome. "I was told I needed some ID for entry. Didn't get one yesterday."
"TSK! Fuck, I knew I was forgetting something." The fat guard clicked his tongue, running a hand through his greasy mustache. "We had run out of IDs the day you signed in, and later the motherfucker in charge of the IDs forgot to call me again. Come with me, we will get you squared up." He opened the door and allowed Noah to enter.
The other black guard was standing on a corner of the room, overlooking Noah with appraising eyes.
The Latino didn't let the gaze bother him. The man was likely doing his job, though it didn't mean that Noah had to like him.
Entering the cramped space of the so-called office was a quick affair. Noah followed the fat guard towards an even smaller room, sitting on a rickety chair in front of an old desk absolutely buried in papers. Noah couldn't even begin to guess what would create such a cumulative mess of paperwork, but then again, it wasn't his problem.
The guard waddled to his own seat, landing heavily on the pipe chair. He released a groan. "Arhg, alright. Let's see…where did I put that damn file…"
The Latino unshouldered his backpack, thankful for the small break. It was heavy and considering the work-ethic here, it would take a while for his new documentation to get ready.
Another ten minutes went by before the guard managed to find the file. Noah managed to peep his name on it, so maybe the place wasn't fully in shambles just yet. More time went by as the guard transcribed the information from the file to a smaller (and more rigid) piece, all the while sending a few glances to the backpack resting on the floor.
Now Noah had already given the fat guard a good bribe for entry, and getting the cerdo (pig) used to sucking resources from him was a no-go, but a part of him wondered if he should give some more, just in an effort to show his usefulness as a member (even if temporary) of the Tallahassee community/safe zone. They got useful stuff without risking their greasy hides, and Noah got a relatively safer place to rest during his stay. Having friends in both high and low places was bound to paid off, either soon or later on.
Noah coughed purposefully, attracting the guard's attention.
"What?"
The tanned youngster was slow and methodical with his hands, slowly undoing the top knot on his backpack, followed by undoing the zipper that secured his loot. The first thing in view was the warped cardboard box of the walkie-talkies, so he figured that he might as well start big with his "generous contribution".
"I managed to secure a pretty nifty piece of tech nearby." He spoke, ripping open the top of the box and pulling two walkies from it. "I remembered what you told me and figured that a house-warming gift was a must." He placed the items atop the table in full view of the guard, almost capable of sensing the man's greed radiate from his chunky body.
"He he he he, it's good to see a drifter that actually is worth something more than dirty rags and a half-assed pair of boots." The man's fatty fingers were surprisingly quick to grab the precious walkies, checking over their condition. "And would you look at that? Not broken pieces of shit either! If I didn't know any better I'd swear you got these brand new from the shelf."
(Bueno, me sorprende que no seas completamente retrasado mental.) Well, color me surprised. You aren't fully retarded. Noah pondered in his mind, sensing not only his own mirth, but also that of his supposed mind tenant.
/Captain lard here is a good bootlicker, if nothing else.
Never reveal your location, unless you want to wake up with a shank in your ribs/
The length of the mental message was a surprise too. Normally a conversation this would have left Noah with a splitting migraine and a dubious grasp of his own sanity, yet nothing of the sort had happened ever since he left the cursed mall.
He replied with a dismissive tone. "Just a bit of luck." Then, he tried to inject some humor into his dry voice. "Considering my situation, I'd say I have used it just about all I had for this month."
It seemed to work, as the guard chuckled.
"Hehe, we all are neck-deep into the shit." After getting his chuckles, the fat guard tossed Noah the plastic card he had been writing on. "Between us, I'd avoid losing that. It can be a bitch-and-a-half to get a new one, and the other guards aren't as kind as I am." He leaned back on his chair and patted his rotund belly a few times before he tried to smooth out his mustache.
"You better get going then." The man waved away Noah, who was very contend with the chance to leave and get to his own place.
"Thanks for the help." He muttered, eager to leave the musty improvised office room.
Once inside the walls proper, and into the streets of Tallahassee, he took a deep breath. The stale air of the safe zone wasn't exactly what you would call pleasant, but then again, it was a thousand times better than that of the cursed mall.
Noah tightened the straps of his backpack, brushing his hands past the handles of his weapons. It was a habit born out of mild paranoia, but one that he much preferred over the many others out there. A simple touch upon the handles of his blades, a small elbow bump over his back to check for his rifle. Little things like that kept your mind occupied and focused on the present, instead of allowing it to wander aimlessly.
He kept walking through the zone, eager to return to his inn. Once again, many gazes settled over his frame, but none that worried him too much. He was a novelty due to this new arrival, and soon enough these gazes would find another target to fixate upon.
One thing he noticed though, as he headed towards the Black Cat, was a child sitting on the cracked curb of the main street. By itself that wasn't an uncommon sight, considering the many orphans and street urchins one could spot out on a casual walk.
What got Noah's attention was the crummy piece of cardboard the child was holding, crude and roughly-drawn words written on it being: [Selling cheap medicine]. By his side, a few grasses and weeds were pilled atop a dirty tarp, the improvised vending method something that the Latino had seldom seen this exposed.
Proper medicine was an extremely valuable resource, and in all honesty, people beat and killed others for much less valuable and logical reasons. Even proper home-made remedies were of value, though actually useful ones were also difficult to acquire or make, considering the lack of resources.
Noah approached the child just enough so that he could take a peek at the items, somewhat curious. It was…a mixed surprise. Most of what he could see were common weeds and grasses that could be picked just about anywhere out in the wastes, but he did spot the occasional blade of lemongrass and the rare edible berry and mushroom. Even poisonous mushrooms, though they were separated from the common wares, placed on another dirty rag that served as a makeshift bag. Even poisonous plant-life had its uses, so Noah was somewhat impressed that the kid hadn't kicked the bucket by eating one of the red caps (Amanita Muscaria, or so it should be, it was a while since he had opened an outdoors book).
He stuck one hand inside his jacket, fetching the packaged nutrient block that he had been consuming. Breaking a palm-sized piece, Noah approached the dirty kid, making sure to also pay attention to his surroundings. Pickpockets could try to take advantage of any momentary distractions to brush against him in hopes of nicking any useful or valuable trinket from him.
Noah hadn't survived this long out in the wastes only to be robbed inside the safe-zone by some brats.
"Niño (kid), show me what's edible in here," Noah called the child's attention, maintaining his voice as neutral as possible. "If I see good stuff, you get more of this." Once the child's attention was on him, Noah displayed the contents in his palm.
At first the boy barely spared a glance at Noah's offering, guessing it to be some sort of playdough or clay, yet as the smell hit his nostrils, the child's eyes bulged and he scrambled to stand up.
"O-o-of course, sir! I know most of the native flora, I got all the good stuff." The boy couldn't be older than twelve, and he was a skinny thing, but he looked healthy enough. It wouldn't do to buy wares from someone sick, as whatever they had could be contaminating their product. Not a risk that the Latino young-adult was willing to bet on.
The boy did his best to show and sell Noah the grasses and berries he had, going so far as to eat some to prove the trustworthiness of his items. Some grasses – after a bit of processing – could be used as salves against small cuts, while most of the berries were simple edible snacks. There wasn't much to be considered a meal, but a sweet treat did wonders for your mood.
Besides, if the kid knew where to find more, Noah could be willing to part with more of his recently acquired nutrient blocks.
In the end, Noah discreetly broke off about half of the consumed block in exchange for most of the kid's stock, only leaving behind the most common (and useless) of the grasses in stock.
"I believe this should be a fair trade." He grunted, packing the items inside his backpack.
The child was too busy stuffing his face with the baked item to respond.
Noah scoffed humorously. He waited until the boy finished eating.
"I forage nearby with my father once a week. If you want more, I can have more next week." The boy was quick to offer, wiping the crumbs away from his mouth.
"Good to know." The Latino hummed an agreement. "I'll be around for a while. If I have a need for more of this, I'll search for you. Como te llamas? (what's your name?)"
The child looked at him in confusion. "What?"
Noah sighed. "Nombre, mocoso (Name, brat)."
The child clearly detected the frustration in the taller man's voice, but he shook his head helplessly. "I'm sorry, but I don't understand Spanish." He pleaded.
"Name, kid. What is your name?" Noah cut the child a break. He shouldn't have expect an American child to know his mother-tongue, but he was so used to mixing it in lingo-speak that sometimes it escaped his mind.
Once the necessary explanation was provided, the child nodded his head. Though he didn't answer the question right away, mouthing Noah's phrase a few times on his own. He looked at Noah and opened his mouth, but gave up halfway on whatever he wanted to say, shaking his head. "My name is James."
"Good, I'll see you around then, James." That was Noah's farewell. He turned his back to the kid and made haste for his inn, eager to rest his mind after the day's ordeals. He also had his mind companion to deal with.
/Don't rush,
I'm always here/
The voice tickled his brain, and he could swear he heard a chuckling accompanying it, but he brushed it aside. Worrying about it now wouldn't solve it, only make him seem crazy to anyone that observed him.
He was grateful for his usual brooding habits, as been seen talking to himself wasn't exactly a way to assure lack of mental corruption to his neighbors.
Reaching the inn, he was quick to send a fleeting glance to the tanned woman manning the counter, the adult raising a brow at his rapid return.
"You know, most drifters spend most of their day out in the wastes, at least pretending to scavenge for a living." She commented in a mocking tone, a jeering sneer affixed on her face.
Noah didn't bother with a response, rolling his eyes and moving to the stairs. The bouncer didn't stop him, so the journey to return to his room was hassle-free.
Unlocking, entering and closing the door behind him seemed to finally let the weight of the day's events hit him, and Noah felt an immediate wave of exhaustion hit him. He locked the door and fetched the desk's chair, propping it against the door handle.
That done, he headed to the desk and began unpacking his gear. No matter how tired he was, he'd always do the proper maintenance, as his gear was his life-line out there. The process was monotonous, but necessary.
Unload his rifle and check the magazine, counting his ammo. Cleaning his gun of any gunk, dirt or sand that might cause a misfire.
Cleaning his blades, checking for damage and nicks on the blade, and then sharpening them with a whetstone.
Unpacking his backpack and taking stock of all the items he had. Making a list and noting it down on a journal. Keeping track of his trades and analyzing their worth.
Being a survivor tended to either instill discipline into you, or it led to a terrible and tragic death. Noah had never seen an in-between, only one of the two extremes, and he preferred to keep himself on the living side.
Only after all of this was done, did he take a seat on his bed. He glanced at his wristwatch, aware that the had barely reached the afternoon hours.
He stood from the bed; his body was in good condition, but his mind felt oddly tired.
"Come on now, show yourself." He spoke aloud, thankful for the solitude of his room.
His sanity wasn't fully gone, but this would certainly be a test of that. Either he had gone full schizo-mode, or there truly was something possessing him. Time to really find out.
…
…
…
James reached his parents shack carrying a bag over his shoulders, hurriedly entering it with his key and locking it behind him.
There wasn't much inside it, the wooden structure barely having any divisions between its supposed rooms. He reached the "bedroom", finding a male figure laid atop it. His father.
The man was asleep, his face thin and gaunt, dark bags circling the man's eyes. His entire body was thin, his clothes much better described as rags. The man woke upon the child's arrival, raising his upper body from the bed with great effort.
"Dad, I managed to get a pretty good deal today." The child animatedly spoke, reaching the bedside and sitting on a nearby stool. "This tall guy was just coming from the soldier's outpost, and he had a big-ass backpack with him. He was a bit scary, but he bought my stuff and didn't try to rip me off! It was really nice!"
The man forced a smile on his lips. "Is that so, my boy." His voice was dry and scratchy. "And what did this wonderful trade resulted in?"
James pulled the tin-foil covered block from his bag, though it had lost its shape due to the mashing and breaking, becoming a single rounded piece. "You remember that blocky thing you used to get from the Richards before they left? Yeah, I got a bunch of it. Though he got all the useful plants I had, we can just collect more!" The child explained, opening the foil cover and offering it to his father.
The man weakly smiled and received the food from his child, weakly bringing the contents to his mouth and chewing it ever so slowly. Even swallowing it seemed to bring the man pain, though he bore through it silently.
"Will you open up shop today?" James asked his father.
The man took the opportunity that he was eating to delay the answer for as long as he could. It was merely moments, but all the time he could have with his child was worth the pain. "Yes, I must open the clinic. Can't afford to keep it closed for too long after all, ha ha ha." His laughter was a hollow thing, merely done for the sake of dissuading worries. If those worries were his, or his son's, that would be anyone's guess.
"Nice! I want to observe the patients." James spoke with vigor.
His father's chuckling devolved into subdued coughs. "It is time I stood up. I have been asleep for the whole morning." He took a moment to compose his breathing, slowly moving to exit his bed.
Father and son got ready to open the "Clinic". It was nothing more than a room adjacent to his own, equipped with a spare cot and some dwindling medical supplies and books. Most of the truly important knowledge was stored safely inside the Marshall's place in the city hall, with the richer families keeping the rest to themselves.
There wasn't much Jefferson Mayfield could do about it. Even less so now, with his sickness wrecking his body and rotting him inside out. Cursed be the day that his wife decided to "work as a waiter" in the slums.
He suppressed a terrible bout of coughing that threated to spill forth from deep within his bowels, the pain in his lungs and kidneys piercing sharp.
He had to endure. He had to survive. His son needed him. He needed his "Doctor-father".
[XXX]
[TO BE CONTINUED]
AU END NOTES
The time has come, and so have I!
I hope you all haven't waited for too long, but then again, I know that that is pure cope. I have been extremely busy with IRL Issues, and haven't had the time to properly write for my works. Alas, I have been reborn!
And come with a heavy dose of new inspiration!
Keep yourselves attuned and tuned in, for the new year of the Snake!