Chapter 16 (Anna’s POV)

  I limped the final stretch, exhausted to my core, lungs burning like I’d sprinted for miles instead of inches. My leg hammered with each step, throbbing in cruel sync with my heartbeat. But at long last, the Scavenger outpost came into view—a cluster of gutted storefronts cobbled together under a sagging metal overhang, barely recognizable as a strip mall. Old neon signs had been stripped or patched, replaced with sheet metal barriers and graffiti proclaiming the site’s neutrality. What once might have displayed chain-store logos was now a battered fa?ade bearing the spidery scrawls of the group that called it home.

  The air here smelled less like death and more like stale sweat, cooking fires, and the acrid tang of spent gunpowder. A relative improvement from the rank stench of the city’s heart, but still distinctly unclean. A battered sign—“Martial Arts Supplies” or something of the sort—peeked from a half-collapsed overhang about a block away, presumably the old Iron Elbow gym. Rumor said that the Scavengers used it as a landmark, but they preferred setting up shop in the slightly more intact strip mall. My mind flitted with curiosity about whether the gym’s mats still existed—some shred of normalcy—but I’d come here for survival, not daydreams.

  I forced my legs forward, ignoring the swirl of fear in my gut. A handful of ragtag guards loitered near what used to be glass doors, now replaced with corrugated metal slabs. They looked up as I approached, eyes narrowing, weapons at the ready. Each wore a mismatch of scavenged armor—some half wearing old sports pads, others bulletproof vests with duct-taped tears. The largest among them—a broad-shouldered man with a shaved head—raised a hand to halt me.

  “Stop there,” he barked, voice rumbling. “State your business.”

  My throat felt parched. I gripped my chunk of steel, trying to appear non-threatening but ready if things went south. “I’m here to trade,” I managed, voice cracking from thirst and exhaustion. “Just… need supplies and a place to rest.”

  He eyed my battered leg, the dried blood caking my pants. “And what do you got to offer?” Suspicion glinted in his dark eyes.

  With a grimace, I fumbled at my pack, wary not to spook them by moving too fast. “Pearls,” I said bluntly, though I barely had any left. The rest I’d parted with in other scrounges or fights. “Got a few. Looking for meds and maybe a bed… if you have any to spare.”

  A smaller guard, sporting a wiry beard and rifle slung across his back, leaned in to see. “We’ll see if that’s enough.” His tone was sharper, borderline hostile. “Don’t cause trouble, or we’ll feed you to the roamers.”

  I bit my tongue, letting the threat hang in the air. The big guard jerked a thumb behind him. “Inside. Don’t do anything stupid.” Then he stepped aside, letting me limp past.

  The interior was a patchwork of debris, tarps strung from crumbling rafters, flickering bulbs rigged up with salvaged wiring. A half-dozen battered stalls had been erected from metal sheets and plywood, forming a narrow corridor lined with tables displaying various goods: battered cans of food, secondhand clothing, scraps of electronics. The stench of cooking fires mingled with sweat and stale cigarettes. Overhead, the old fluorescent lights blinked in and out like they might die at any second.

  I inched along, trying not to bump into anyone. A hush fell over the nearest onlookers—Scavengers sizing me up, some with open hostility, others with guarded indifference. I felt their eyes roving across me, a few men’s stares lingering on my legs or chest like they saw a piece of meat instead of a battered woman. A churn of disgust rippled in my stomach. But I kept my gaze forward—showing weakness here might earn me a bullet or worse.

  Some vendor stalls bore meager offerings: lighters, half-broken knives, packs of questionable cigarettes. Another had random scraps of armor—probably gleaned from dead roamers or foolish travelers. And behind all that lurked a sense of desperation. Everyone wanted something. Everyone was just one misstep away from the grave.

  My throbbing leg demanded I find a bed or at least somewhere to collapse. But first, I needed antibiotics—the wound had an angry red halo, dangerously close to infection. A more pressing concern than a bed, at least until I secured both. The first table with any sign of medical supplies was manned by a short, stocky woman with a shaved scalp and a scar looping over one ear. She locked eyes with me, mouth set in a grim line.

  She snorted. “Hope you ain’t looking for freebies.”

  “Got pearls to trade,” I answered, forcing confidence. “Need antibiotics. If you have bandages, too.”

  She gave my limp a once-over, then motioned to a battered ammo box by her feet. “How many pearls?”

  “six,” I said, swallowing. If I offered more, I’d have nothing for food or rent. “Plus… some worthless bills if you take those.”

  Her eyes flickered with a faint scorn. “Pearls can get you small things, but antibiotics?” She squinted. “For two pearls, you get half a strip—maybe enough for a few days’ dose. That’s it. I got bandages, but you pay with more pearls or something else of value. Or you limp away.”

  A coil of frustration tensed my gut. I only had three pearls total. The third I’d wanted for bullets, or to leverage for a place to sleep. No choice. “I’ll do it,” I said tightly, rummaging in my bag. My leg throbbed so fiercely I nearly crumpled then and there.

  She took the pearls with a dispassionate grunt, counting them in her palm. She fished out a small blister pack with maybe five antibiotic pills left and handed over a few tattered bandages. “Don’t blame me if you need more. Market’s dried up since the Empire’s goons started raiding caravans.”

  I forced a nod, stuffing the meager supplies into my pack. My foot gave out a moment, and I caught the edge of her stall to steady myself, hissing with pain. A few men standing nearby snickered, eyeing me with a predatory curiosity. I glared at them, refusing to show how vulnerable I felt.

  One of them—a wiry man with an oily grin—stepped forward, blocking my path. “You look half-dead,” he sneered. “Wouldn’t mind giving you a bed, sweet thing, if you pay the right price.” His gaze crawled over my body in a way that made my skin crawl.

  I tightened my grip on my chunk of steel. “I’m not interested,” I muttered, voice cold.

  He chuckled, leaning in. “Feisty. That might cost you more.”

  Before the situation escalated, a gruff voice barked from behind. “Knock it off, Keld.” A tall, broad-shouldered older man strode over, a half-rusted shotgun slung across his chest. His left eye was cloudy with cataracts, but he moved like someone who’d broken bones in the past. He flicked a glance at me. “You need rent money for a corner to sleep in? Talk to me, not these leeches.”

  “Keld” spat on the ground, but backed away, muttering curses. I felt my heart thunder, equal parts relief and annoyance that I needed rescuing. The older man pointed to a cluster of tarped enclosures near the back. “You can rent space for the night. Five worthless bills or one pearl. Payment up front.”

  I hesitated—I only have one pearl left. “I have bills,” I said, hoping he’d accept them.

  “Fine. Let’s see ‘em,” he grunted.

  With a trembling sigh, I dug into my pack, rummaging for the wad of worthless old-world currency I’d hoarded. I peeled off five crumpled notes—he didn’t even check the denominations. Probably just a system they invented to maintain some sense of economy. He snatched them, counting quickly, then nodded. “Follow me.”

  We wove through more stalls, some hawking rotted produce or rancid meat cuts that turned my stomach. I felt half a dozen sets of eyes on me, a combination of curiosity, malice, and perhaps pity. The older man gestured to a canvas partition near the back corner. “You can rest here. Don’t expect luxury.”

  I gave a curt nod, stepping under the tarp. The space was basically a portion of the strip mall’s corridor sectioned off by scavenged doors and cardboard. A tattered sleeping bag lay in one corner, the floor cracked and stained with old oil. It smelled of stale sweat and roaches, but it beat sleeping in the open.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  He fixed me with a stern look. “No fights, no stealing. We hear trouble, we toss you out.”

  “I got it,” I rasped, biting back the urge to collapse right then. My leg was on fire.

  Satisfied, he disappeared, leaving me alone. I inhaled, letting my gaze sweep the cramped area. Barely enough space to stretch out, but it would do. The city had taught me not to be picky.

  Before I could rest, my stomach reminded me of its emptiness with a sharp pang. Food. With my meager funds, I had maybe enough leftover bills to barter for a small meal—assuming anyone sold edible stuff that wouldn’t kill me. For ammo, though? That dream seemed out of reach now.

  I limped back into the main corridor, ignoring the throbbing in my thigh. A small vendor stall caught my eye—two battered signs reading “Fresh-ish Food” in marker. A stocky woman with a shaved head stood behind a makeshift counter, eyeing me warily. The smell from her station was a medley of questionable stew and rancid meat. My stomach churned, but hunger overrode caution.

  “How much?” I croaked.

  She barely glanced up. “Two worthless bills for a bowl. Or more if you want something that might not poison you.”

  I only had a handful of bills left after paying rent. “Give me the stew. I’ll risk it.”

  She shrugged. “Your funeral.” A moment later, she ladled a sludgy, brown concoction into a dented tin cup. The aroma was rank, but the warmth made my mouth water. I handed over the bills, then forced down a sip. Salt and some gritty texture rolled over my tongue, but at least it was hot. Maybe my body would handle it.

  Clutching the cup, I staggered back to my corner. Over the next few minutes, I forced each gulp of the stew down, ignoring how it tasted vaguely like decomposing vegetables. The warmth spread through my belly, a fleeting comfort that made me want to cry in relief. Then I sank onto the tattered sleeping bag, rummaging for the antibiotic pills. That short walk had cost me precious strength.

  I swallowed one pill with a sip of water, wincing at how raw my throat felt. The bedding beneath me was lumpy, stinking of mildew and old sweat, but for now, it was safer than the open. I caught glimpses of people milling about outside my tarp partition—some passing with guns strapped to them, others gawking at a battered woman hunched over a cup of stew. The tension in the air remained thick, but nobody approached me. Possibly they had bigger worries, or saw me as too broken to bother with. Fine by me.

  Despite the ache in my leg, a creeping exhaustion weighed me down. My head felt heavy, eyelids drifting. This meager corner was far from safe, but for the moment, it was a step up from the roamer-infested streets. I clutched my chunk of steel close—my only real defense—praying that I’d get through the night without some new nightmare crashing in.

  A faint swirl of rancid air drifted through the tarp gap, and I inhaled it, breathing in the harsh reality of this place. At least I made it this far, I reminded myself, letting the stew’s last dregs settle in my stomach. The city had tried to break me, the Empire had tried to kill me, but I was still here. Tomorrow, I shifted on the tattered sleeping bag, cursing the cramped, sour-smelling corner I’d rented for the night. My leg throbbed like a second heartbeat, each pulse a reminder that my wound was far from healed. Every time I tried to settle, the stale odor of sweat, mildew, and something else – maybe roach droppings – clung to my nostrils, turning my stomach. But I had nowhere else to go, and at least in this patch of the strip mall, no one was aiming a gun at me. For the moment.

  Despite the exhaustion dragging at my bones, sleep remained elusive. I couldn’t ignore the cloying dampness of the sleeping bag’s fabric, the sticky grit coating the floor beneath. Gods, I was caked in grime, my clothes stiff with dried blood and city filth. My hair felt matted, clinging to my face and neck with sweat and who-knew-what. After weeks of scrounging, I was starting to forget what it felt like to be clean.

  “Tomorrow,” I murmured, voice low. I told myself that if I made any decent trade deals or found a job, maybe I could buy a short respite from this filth – a corner of the outpost where I could set up a makeshift bath. The mental image flickered, so appealing it felt almost absurd: the idea of fresh water poured over my scalp, rinsing away the layers of grime, roamer blood, and dried sweat. In this realm, it was an indulgence, a dream as distant as the old world’s luxuries.

  For now, the conditions around me could only be described as disgusting: the stench of unwashed bodies mingled with the rancid odor of half-rotten food from the nearby vendor stalls. The rough plank walls had been hammered together from scavenged plywood, each crack a possible breeding ground for insects. Occasionally, I’d see a flicker of movement in the corners, something too big to be a roach. Probably rats. The city teemed with them—often the size of cats, sometimes bolder than any living creature had a right to be.

  I tried not to think about it, focusing instead on the faint sounds of the outpost settling down for the night. Murmured voices, an occasional grunt of laughter, the scratch of worn-out battery radios that some scavengers used for entertainment. At least no one seemed eager to pick a fight this late, or maybe my chunk of steel and the gleam in my eye told them I’d lash out if cornered.

  The flickering lamplight from the corridor outside illuminated my makeshift shelter in fits and starts, casting dancing shadows on the tarpaulin overhead. Each time the flame guttered, the darkness swallowed me whole, making me acutely aware of every ache and cut on my body. The antibiotic pills I’d swallowed earlier left a bitter aftertaste, but hopefully they were working their magic, keeping the infection from spreading further up my thigh. If the fever held off, maybe I’d stay upright.

  But the restlessness in my mind refused to let me rest. I kept picturing the day’s trek: the collapsed buildings, the reek of corpses, the near-brush with Empire patrols. That drained me, yes, but so did the sticky layer of filth across my skin. The sensation made my muscles itch beneath my clothes. I could practically feel the city’s grime embedded in every pore.

  Tomorrow, I repeated to myself, a thread of determination anchoring me. I’d scrounge for real water – or pay someone with worthless bills, if that’s what it took – to have a basin full of something that at least resembled clean liquid. I’d wash off the dried blood. Scrub away the clammy residue of fear. Maybe I could even rinse out my bandages properly, prevent the wound from festering any worse. The notion felt too hopeful, borderline naive. But it was something to cling to.

  Outside, footsteps shuffled past my tarp, accompanied by gruff voices bartering for nighttime favors: some men looking for extra drinks, some for more sinister deals. I kept my head down. If anyone pulled back the tarp uninvited, they’d face me brandishing my steel bar. My body rebelled at the tension—lack of real rest, the stress of possibly needing to fight off intruders. It all coiled in my stomach, sour and knotted.

  Could tomorrow actually be better? The city seldom offered real hope, but I refused to yield to despair. Maybe the rest of the Scavengers would have a job that didn’t involve me risking a bullet in the head. Maybe I could actually breathe without stinking of gore. Small goals, but I’d cling to them like they were a lifeline.

  As the corridor grew quieter, I let my eyes drift shut, half-dosing into a doze. The coarse sleeping bag prickled my skin, and the grimy floor pressed against every bruised joint, but I had no alternative. In my drifting thoughts, I pictured a place far from the rotting architecture, a place where the wind carried something other than the stink of ruin. The image was fleeting, but it steadied me, enough to let the ache in my leg and the heavy swirl of exhaustion lull me toward a restless sleep.

  Yes, tomorrow might be as terrible as today. But there was also the faint possibility it wasn’t. If nothing else, I’d try to find that bath, wash off a layer of death, and pretend for a second that survival here could be more than just living in squalor.