The transition was, as ever, a silent theft of reality. One moment, the cool, concrete silence of the warehouse, smelling of oil and loneliness. The next, the Wasteland's embrace—a dry, abrasive heat that felt like a physical weight, the scent of dust, baked clay, and the faint, ever-present metallic tang that spoke of a sick world. The time, gauged by the savage angle of the sun hammering through the cracks in the lean-to's roof, was mid-morning.
Michael blinked, the afterimage of swirling emerald light fading from his vision. He stepped out of the makeshift garage, the gravel crunching under his boots. Two figures were already waiting, their postures etched with a relief so profound it was instantly alarming. Old Gimpy, leaning heavily on his stick, and John the Minotaur, a mountain of fur and muscle, both wore expressions that were the mirror image of a sigh held for too long.
"My Lord. You've returned," Gimpy said, the words less a greeting and more the release of a pent-up breath.
John merely grunted, a sound of solid reassurance. They offered no exclamations of surprise at his method of arrival. No questions about the sealed lean-to that served as his new gateway. In the days of his absence, a silent, mutual understanding had crystallized. The howof his comings and goings was a mystery placed firmly in a box marked 'Do Not Open,' sealed with the wax of survival. Their discretion, their unspoken pact to protect this secret, was a loyalty more valuable than any oath. Michael had not asked for it; they had given it.
But their calm was a dam against a tide of panic now rising in Michael's chest. You've returned.The phrase, heavy with unspoken waiting, implied a timeline. His shopping expedition, complicated by the bizarre interlude with David and the sheer logistical nightmare of procurement, had taken the better part of a day in his world. Here, in the Wasteland's faster-flowing time, nearly five days had bled away.
Five days. Had the raiders come? Was the attack over? Was Cinder Town a smoldering ruin?
He didn't wait for an explanation. He was moving before the thought finished forming, breaking into a sprint towards the town's entrance, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. The sight that greeted him, even before he reached the gate, confirmed his worst fears. The usual daytime openness was gone. Blocking the entrance, a hulking, rust-streaked monument to a dead world, was the Greyhound bus. Its tires were deflated, its windows boarded, transforming it from a mobile barricade to a permanent, skeletal gatehouse.
He scrambled up the metal stairs bolted to its side, his boots clanging on the rungs, and emerged onto the sun-baked roof. The world beyond the wall unfolded before him, a scene of deliberate, gathering malice.
Where there had been empty, shimmering badlands, now sprawled a festering camp. A disorderly galaxy of filthy tents, lean-tos of scavenged plastic and hide, and the dark mouths of dug-out pits dotted the plain about five hundred yards out. In their scant shadows, men lounged or squatted, conserving energy, their forms indistinct but numerous. At the camp's heart, glowing under the sun like a pagan idol, was a battered water tanker truck. A dozen brutish figures armed with an assortment of blades and blunt instruments stood guard around it, a clear declaration of the camp's most precious resource. These were not traders. This was a besieging army.
Michael's eyes, sharpened by adrenaline, began to count. He lost track after four hundred. The camp wasn't a monolith; it was a coalition of scars. Seven distinct clusters were visible, each with its own rough banner or marking—a painted skull, a bundle of feathers, a severed hand symbol daubed on cloth. They kept their distance from one another, a pack of rival jackals temporarily united by the scent of the same prey.
His gaze swept the groupings, searching for a familiar shock of white hair. He didn't see Audra. But he didn't need to. His eyes snagged on a specific cluster on the left flank. There, pitched slightly apart, was a military-green tent, less tattered than its neighbors. And parked beside it, a splash of incongruous, faded blue and chrome, was his scooter. His stolen, much-missed Xiaomaolu. A jolt of pure, petty fury shot through him, momentarily eclipsing his fear. She's here.
His attention narrowed on her contingent. They were different. Where the other raiders postured, brawled, or drank openly, this group was quiet. They sat in the shadows of their shelters, still and watchful. And they were, unmistakably, of East Asian descent—black hair, dark eyes, features that spoke of a lineage that had somehow survived the cataclysm. A strange, unexpected pang struck him. Are you descendants of the lost? Do you even remember what you are?
He was still staring, his mind a whirl of strategy and surreal kinship, when Old Gimpy's wheezing voice reached him from the roof access. "They appeared yesterday, near noon. Audra's lot, the Black Hand, Snaggletooth's crew. We saw the dust, got everyone inside, barred the gates. We waited for the rush… but it never came. We thought it a trick. A feint. Then, this morning, more arrived." He pointed a trembling finger towards the horizon, where another, smaller dust cloud was resolving into a band of thirty-odd figures trudging towards the camp. "They're waiting. Gathering strength. My Lord… what do we do?"
The unspoken question hung in the air, louder than Gimpy's words: How many more will come?
The cold, tactical part of Michael's brain, the part that had been a mediocre salesman but was learning fast, assessed the situation. Attack? Lead a sortie against a force that already outnumbered his guards four-to-one, with more trickling in by the hour? It was suicide. He'd need miniguns, not spears. No, their only hope was the wall. They had to dig in, bleed the attackers dry from behind their defenses, and hope the cost became too high for the fragile raider alliance to bear.
But they wouldn't just wait. He turned to Gimpy and John, who had joined them on the roof. "The truck. In the lean-to. It's full. Weapons. Armor. Lights. Get the trusted men, unload it. Sort it. Bows and vests to the guard, immediately. The rest to the storeroom. The generator and fuel by the west wall—set it up now." He spoke in terse, clipped sentences, the blueprint of a desperate defense forming as he gave the orders.
John's single eye, which had been fixed on the enemy camp with grim resolve, widened. A slow, fierce grin split his bovine features. The prospect of real, manufactured weapons, not the sharpened scrap they'd been using, was a tangible shot of courage.
As the two men hurried away, shouting orders, Michael began a slow circuit of the wall. The inspection was sobering. The defensive ditch, meant to be a moat of thorns, was only three-quarters complete. On the eastern and northern sides, a trench, perhaps a meter and a half deep and lined with vicious cactus spines and jagged metal, offered a real obstacle. But here, on the southern approach by the main gate—the most logical avenue for a mass assault—the ground was barely scratched. A pathetic scattering of cactus segments and a few pits were the only defense. The hastily built-up wall of earth-filled sacks mirrored the failure; it was low and vulnerable here.
This is where they'll hit, he thought, a cold certainty settling in his gut. The soft underbelly.
He was back on the bus roof, mentally sketching kill zones and fields of fire, when a primal instinct, a tickle on the back of his neck, made him look up. He snatched the binoculars hanging from his neck and raised them to the enemy camp, scanning towards Audra's green tent.
And there she was. The woman called Jinx, the Steel Rose. She stood in front of her tent, no longer the seductive bartender but a creature of war. A fire axe was slung across her back, a long knife was strapped to her thigh, and on her hip rode the massive, worn handle of a .44 Magnum revolver. Her white hair was pulled into a severe, practical ponytail. The transformation was startling, stripping away all pretense to reveal something lethal and focused.
As if feeling the weight of his gaze, she turned. In her hands was a long, brass spyglass. She raised it, pointed it directly at him on the bus roof. Through the magnified lenses, their eyes met across the barren expanse. A distance of a few hundred yards, a chasm of impossible circumstances.
She held the stare, unblinking. Then, slowly, deliberately, she raised her left hand. Not in a wave. A single, slender, middle finger extended towards him, a universal, elegant "screw you."
A white-hot bolt of indignant fury, absurd in its pettiness amidst the gathering siege, lanced through Michael. The audacity! The sheer, unmitigated gall! After she'd robbed him, ambushed him, and now besieged his home?
The anger demanded an answer. A rebuttal. He was Harry Potter Michael, damn it. He lowered the binoculars, his mind racing. He needed a gesture. Something unequivocal. Something that said, You think you've won? You have no idea.
Inspired by a hazy memory of late-night television, of wuxia dramas watched with his grandfather a lifetime ago, he settled into a stance. He ignored the watching guards below, the vast enemy host, the impending battle. All his focus was on the woman with the spyglass.
He began a series of movements, slow and deliberate at first, then gaining speed. It was a crude, remembered imitation of the famed "Dragon's Claw" technique from The Heaven Sword and Dragon Saber. His hands became claws, slashing the air in front of him, weaving intricate, aggressive patterns. He stamped a foot, pivoted, his body a conduit for a furious, performative energy. It was nonsense, of course. Pure, unadulterated theater. But it was histheater.
He finished the "form" with a final, sharp extension of his fingers, pointing them like a blade towards her distant figure. He held the pose, chest heaving, not from exertion but from the rush of defiant madness.
Lowering his hand, he raised the binoculars again. Across the distance, he saw it. Audra had lowered her spyglass. Her face, pale even at this distance, was no longer a mask of cool contempt. It was set in hard, rigid lines, her mouth a thin, bloodless slash. The casual mockery was gone, replaced by something colder, more dangerous. A promise.
The message had been received. The duel, absurd as it was, had begun.