Chapter 141: The Ink Must Flow
The chilly air slapped me. The light drizzle that had started to fall blended with the ash that swirled about my boots. The blood smeared around my side was hardly cleaned with it. Every step I took outside the bunker felt like a fight against my own body. My body trailed behind, lethargic, screaming in pain, but my mind was acute, sharpened by the urgency of my goal.
I glanced at the map Harris had given me. The mailing headquarters was straight down Ashford Street, a direct path if I avoided the worst of the rubble. Fires still burned in the distance, flickering like dying stars. The air reeked of smoke, scorched flesh, and something metallic—gunpowder, maybe. My boots crunched against shattered glass and broken stone as I pressed forward.
My vision blurred, darkening at the edges. The blood loss was taking its toll, a steady drain I couldn't afford. I clenched my teeth and forced myself onward.
A rustling noise from ahead made me pause.
Through the haze of smoke, I spotted movement—figures picking through the ruins of a collapsed home. Scavengers. They moved with practiced efficiency, overturning debris, rifling through whatever they could find. One of them looked up.
His eyes locked onto me.
I knew trouble when I saw it. As soon as he elbowed his friends, their gazes shifted towards me like wolves noticing an injured deer. There were three of them—emaciated, forlorn men dressed in ragged jackets. Their hands moved erratically towards improvised weapons—a crowbar, a rusty knife, a pistol with the slide pulled back. No bullets, then. That didn't reduce their threat level at all.
"Hey there," one of them called, stepping forward. His voice was too friendly. "Rough day?"
I didn't respond. My grip tightened on the map, shoving it into my coat. The leader noticed.
"What's that you got?" His steps quickened, closing the distance. "Supplies? Medicine?"
I shook my head. "Nothing for you."