Gallows Humour | Watty's 2023

The City of Crows

The city was in their sights by midafternoon. As was Radio, trailing behind at a distance that turned it into a blob. An obvious blob that they couldn't shake. Maybe if they figured out what it wanted, they could get it to stop stalking them. They could pawn it off on a scavenger who actually wanted a devotee.

They occupied their mind by plotting ways to rid themselves of Radio, and when that got repetitive they started thinking of how to handle the After Market. Convincing a bunch of permanently grouchy corpse robbers and merchants to do anything would be like walking barefoot on shattered glass. And after that they had to... what? The market could move but the faction would try again. They needed a longer term solution, something, they imagined, that would involve the gun in their pack. But they decided to leave that for after they made sure the After Market in the upcoming city didn't explode.

They reached the outskirts of the city as the sun hit the spiky line of the horizon. Knee-high wild grass gave way to young trees and wildflowers upheaving the sidewalks. Bushes spread unchecked up the sides of buildings that had once held offices and living spaces. A scavenger could spend months clearing some of those apartment complexes and hotels. Scorch marks and ash pits marked the street before the front doors of certain buildings, an indication to civilians and scavengers alike that those ones were a corpse-free place to rest. In recent years, some of the less nomadically-inclined civilians had begun to make homes in the upper floors.

A rabbit skittered across their path, dodging from undergrowth to undergrowth. That would make good stew one day. The After Market would be yawning awake, many thousands of lamps lighting up like eyes opening and real eyes glittering in the oily dim light. True hurried through the abandoned streets. They had to hope the Market hadn't moved since the last time they were here. Then again, maybe that would be a good sign. Maybe somebody else had figured the Faction out.

No such luck. They ducked into the underground parking garage and saw the lights.

The Market was still popping its bones; merchants laying out wares on the threadbare cloths draped over makeshift tables; a cook near the entrance was stoking a fire under a giant cauldron of perpetual stew that had been going approximately sine the beginning of the apocalypse. The tail-end of a cheery smile followed his latest patron away, a greasy rat tail fell between bony shoulder blades and kept his greying hair out of his fine-lined face. His eyes were of the wide, slightly downturned variety that gave his expression a sort of lost-lamb-esque quality that some people might call inviting, but True would call prying.

"Jonesy." True lifted their hand in greeting.

The cook nodded back, smile fading. "Little early, True, gotta give this new meat some time to marinate."

"Not here for food. I need you to keep people out of the Market." Even as they spoke, scavengers were trickling into the potential death trap. Jonesy's gaze lingered on the tender spot below True's eye. They weren't his favourite scavenger, not they they were anybody's favourite scavenger, but Jonesy had no use for those who didn't fall sway to his friendly chatter. And True had no use for his chatter, until now. People liked Jonesy, they would listen to him. Or at least he had favours he could cash in with pretty much everyone who passed. True would just have to grit their teeth and owe him for the rest of their miserable life.

"Hit your head a tad hard, huh?" he said.

"No, I'm serious."

"I think your lisp's worse today, maybe you should have a seat. I'll get you a bowl." He was already turning away. True slammed their fists on the lip of the cauldron. Stew sloshed over the dirty ground.

"Galya's dead!" Their shout ricocheted off the cement rafters and bounced around between Jonesy's ears for a concerningly long time. At last, the cook did move. There was that prying glint in his eyes again that made True reoil, regret at their slip tying their tongue. The had needed him to care to listen, but saying her name felt like giving him too much.