GunBarrel Gauntlet: The Last Bronze II

01. Eight Days.

Once it had been a beach, until the ozone had drunk the ocean. The last tide lines could be traced in the receding lines of dead animals husks left to dry out in the cloudless glare. The larger shapes still had the outline of sharks, dolphins . Two figures passed the bones of a whale that had settled on its back, carrion birds taking flight between the ribs as they scattered in alarm.

Loading a pellet into his slingshot, one of the figures took aim and released the tire rubber tension, catching one of the fleeing vermin as it fell back to the cracked earth surface. Lifting it by the wing, the hunter added it to his bag, a doctor's clutch case that had been given shoulder straps.

"Gettin' dark. Let's go." The other spoke through the layers of rag insulating his face from the sun.

Nodding his head, the hunter's eyes were covered by welding goggles and bandages like his associate.

Leaving a record of tracks in their wake as their boots impacted the sand, the pair travelled beyond the dead sea toward the skeletons of a city. Stalking through the ruins of civilization, their movements were cautious like animals, always hesitant to enter the next barren street of broken windows. Scaling up onto the second storey of a shopfront, they crouched near the edge of the roof as they surveyed what was left after The Big One.

"What do you see Mack? It's quiet out there." The hunter spoke, naturally quiet.

"Nuthin'. We'll take the tracks back home, run through the cauldron i reckon'.

The grind of rocks moving brought their focus toward a terrace front some blocks away, crumbling brick falling onto the street below as though something had moved. Frozen in position, they counted their heartbeats for a minute before moving on, slinking back down from the roof to run across the vacant streets to reach Sanctuary, the hidden refuge from the horror of the world above ground, the world of the hereafter.

Unseen behind the iron grate of the terrace's upper balcony, hungry eyes watched the pair depart from their previous position, the black pit of their soulless pupils following Mack and Weary's progress south until they faded from view, the long shadows of sunset putting the city's architecture to sleep.

* * *

Descending into the substructure foundations of a multi-storey building, the elevator cage arrived at the lowest level with a sudden jerk, gates opening onto a passage intermittingly lit with electric lights. The distant rumble of the generator put the two men at ease now, the familiar sounds of home.

Armed guards were waiting for them, lowering their rifles when they recognized the scavengers returning from the surface.

"Weary, the Colonel is waiting for you in his office." One of the guards spoke.

The slingshot hunter adjusted the bandages and goggles over his face to reply:

"The Colonel? Tell him I'll be right there, after scrubdown."

Weary's right eye, the only one he still had, rolled from one guard to the next before they parted, allowing Mack and himself to continue to the decontamination room.

Stripping away the layers of tattered clothing and dropping them into a rusting bath, they scooped up handfuls of a clay powder from another tub and washed themselves with it, rubbing the dry earth across their limbs and torso to try and absorb as much grime as possible.

Once they were dressed in cleaner rags, Weary and Mack parted ways outside the pipes of the retro-engineered decontamination rooms. Knotting the bandage that covered the wound of his missing eye, Weary traversed the underworld that was Sanctuary, home to a collection of survivors from the city above that had persevered to remain sane after the Lawless Times, and The Big One.

Knocking on the door above the paint chipped title that spelt 'OFFICE, Weary waited until a voice with a foreign accent called for him to enter through. The parting door revealed that the Colonel already had company, a tough looking woman with tattooed arms and a shaved head. Behind the walnut desk was the hawkish old man with a white moustache.

"Weary, come have a seat with us. This is Carrion" the Colonel nodded toward the bald one "if you haven't already met."

Shifting her position to take a look at Weary, Carrion extended her hand to shake, callused and strong with the black dirt of hard work in her nails. Like Weary, she too was missing an eye, a patch covering the left side of brow.

Taking a seat provided, Weary noted the open maps and books on the antique desk.

"What can i do for you, Colonel?" He asked.

"As you both know, our fuel and water is getting lower every day. Now what you don't know is the latest estimate of how many litres Sanctuary has left. Eight days."

Weary and Carrion remained silent, waiting for the good news.

"Once the generators run out of fuel, it will only be a matter of hours before the Cannibal Animals discover the tunnels we have been ventilating the carbon monoxide into. I've been talking with management about our options when this came up..." The Colonel turned a map over for the two guests to read, pointing toward a location somewhere in the centre.

"There used to be a military base here before the anarchy. Up until a year ago i was in communication with their leader Doc Idaho until he dropped out. We know they have water, the only water in that region. "

"So what do you want from us?" Carrion asked.

"Straight to the point, I like that." The Colonel grinned. "We're putting together a truck in the workshop, and we need you to drive it north to find this base. Find them and negotiate. You were a truck driver before, have you still got the reflexes?"

Studying the vein of roads on the map, Carrion nodded.

"Sure, I can drive any truck you got Colonel. How 'bout sharing one of those cigars, just to convince me?

"And I need you Weary to work with Carrion and the rest of the team we're putting together. I hate to send any of my medically trained staff out there, but they're gonna need someone who can patch things up if they should encounter any marauders." Passing a cigar box over the table, he continued speaking as the trucker selected one.

"Me? What about one of the doctors? I was only a nurse before the anarchy." Weary offered his honest opinion.

"You got something they're missing though; Balls. We need someone who can fight with the rest of the crew. Figured you had the right mix. Besides, putting you two together will make a pair of eyes"

In his mind's eye, a flashback of someone striking out at the right side of his face made Weary pause for a few seconds.

"I'd have to fight either way, might as well be out in the open this time."

"Good man!" The Colonel offered him a cigar, to which he declined. "Pack only what you'll need to survive and meet me in the workshops in two hours. There will be some resistance, agitators in Sanctuary who will protest against sending the truck out with our last rations to find this water, so don't breathe a word to anyone until we are ready to open the gates."

Metres away in a cavity between the walls, a skinny teen had overheard the conversation through an echoing pipe near her ear. Turning anxiously to retreat back from where she had come from, she whispered to herself 'eight days... eight days...' as she scurried away to make her own plans...