Ferry Island was a town in Babel city that strutted like it was still alive despite all it had endured. Towers of glass and steel that had survived a meteor shower, acid rain and snowstorms rose into the orange like sky, cracked but upright.
A few neon signs flickered over broken restaurants that had long been closed and had no plans of serving food in the next few years. After Vicente took charge of the town, he had changed the name to Toxic city. But the name had not caught on. And nobody thought it was big enough to be called a city.
Some people even joked that Ferry Island was just an aspiring Kingsbridge town with a bad haircut.
In this town, new flyers had been plastered on every wall, lamppost, cracked subway entrance. Even on the roads, posters had been glued down.
In bold letters, they highlighted two women that were being sought and the prize for their delivery.
