OILSKIN

CHAPTER 1: MUD, BLOOD, AND OIL.

This world isnt inhabited by small surgical survival groups, and even if there were they're quickly overran and sold off into different parts of an old, apocalyptic shattered America. Deep within the scourges of Minneapolis hide two distinct figures, Moses Mercado and Jackson Withers. Moses Mercado, or simply Moses, is a modern-day guerilla survivalist. Born and raised in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, he was robbed of his life as a child and forced into a systematic private military, trained to be apart of an elite force. After years of being trained, he was sold off to a community far north west from his hometown in a city called River Falls, home of the Oilskins. His life up until this point has been a fair discharge of pure ugly and heeps of love. With him shadows a pitiful excuse of a man. Jackson Withers is thirty-one years old. He equates to a somewhat standard Oilskin, but would not wear the coat unless he had to. The two hold camp quietly in an abandoned underground museum, its overarching ceiling of glass destroyed, creating a hole visible to the upper streets of Minneapolis. Moses circles a small pile of bodies as they rott from the dust in the underground air. Jackson sist nearby on a bench reading a small poetry book, reciting the words quietly to himself.
"Im guessing your parents forgot how to read after the war." Says Moses. His tone is stoic but dark; he means to bully Jackson.
"They both were drunkards in trailer parks... they only sought the bottom of a bottle." Jackson replies, while closing the book and looking up at Moses.
Moses looks back at him and sighs.
"Praise The Lord it wasnt inherited... its better to take a life that isn't yours." Moses picks up his Bolt action rifle and begins to clean it with a dry cloth. His rifle is varnished a dark brown with hints of dry mud. The rifle is chambered in 5.56mm, complemented with an extended 10 round magazine and a suppressor attachment screwed on the barrel. It's lastly equipped with a sightmark citadel 10x24 scope. The rifles nickname is Vespera, as its carved name alongside the stock insists.
"Oilskins are the Bastions leading force in dominance. Whether by capture or release, we are the end of most men."
Jackson snickers, then clicks his tongue. "I have the same scar as you do, killer, except mine doesn't define me."
"Oh? Then you'd be best to hold your tongue, should it be taken from you and fed to the Rancids."
Jackson sighs as hes told a direct order, Moses being his superior Oilskin. The Oilskins wear Duster coats, otherwise known as Oilskins, to protect themselves from water and other natural debris.
"Should we get going? The rains stopped." Whispers Jackson, almost fearful to speak.
Moses sits back down.
"I still hear engines up there, we wont leave till the Rancids leave."
The Rancids, a cannablistic survivalists group, who kill and slaughter anything that can walk. Like flies who swarm on dung, their walls are tight shut in the city of St. Paul, Minneapolis, their capital being Gehenna. Religiously ran by cultists who worship the body for consuming a body, believing that increased strength is earned by gorging on the flesh of others.
"Such filth." Says Moses while running a dry cloth across his rifle. Hes a man feared all along the midwest, even stories of him travel to the farthest parts of the new world. He is a Chicano, his grandparents settling in the US through El Paso in the early 80s. His eyes speak pain with dark circles, wrinkles and small scars that line his face. With long curls on the top and back of his head, the sides are shaved, revealing a knife scar that peaks to his left eyebrow, resembling a mullet. His mustache lines both sides of his face, and stops just below his cheek bone. His beard drapes to the middle of his neck, its thick and somewhat maintained. His oilskin duster raincoat is black, buttoned up to the collar. Over his shoulders and chest hangs the shoulder cape, hooked around his back. The bottom of the coat is cut and stitched properly above his knees, allowing for easier mobility. All oilskins wear this feature, others may style is differently. His pants are dark grey, with knee pads and cowboy boots. Lastly, around his right thigh is a belt buckled holstering a m9 berreta. Jackson has dark blonde, middle parted hair, with berry violet eyes and a seasoned beard, wrinkles detailing his face as well. The sleeves of his oilskin duster coat are ripped off, revealing his bandaged, burned arms. The dark, dim museum goes quiet for a moment as the Rancid race off above, leaving behind smoke and cigarette ash.
Moses and Jackson then leave from underground as they use an old abandoned stairwell to the top.
The air is thick of blood and rainwater.
Above them, the streets of old Minneapolis crack and crumble from rain and gunpowder. Nature being burnt from Riots and parties, trees cut, windows and buildings decimated from an old World War. The air red from the Rancids slaughtering of trespassers and animals.
"Two, standing above." Murmers Moses, as he squats down to prevent being spotted by a Rancid, standing on a flipped bus with a partner.
"Copy, moving closer." Jackson swiftly steps behind Moses as the two crouch walk to their enemies.
With just their kukri knives that are sleek and long like machetes, an Oilskin classic. They carefully kill the Rancid, letting their bodies fall to the ground, embracing the mud of the ground.
Leaving the small murder scene, the Oilskin operatives sneak back into the shadows, steadying themselves into the sewers of the city, both walking back to their horses, posted a mile outside its borders.
The two walk through the gunk and filth of the old world, debris and leaves press on with each step.
Jackson breaks the silence between them.
"Im gonna... try and talk to Jenna about working with ammo from now on... or maybe apply to the broken barrel."
Jackson felt dishonored to be an Oilskin, it was a nightly code given to people who were worthy. And in Jacksons mind, his unworthiness was portrayed as weakness.
Moses, without turning around, continued walking.
"Cool." Moses could relatively care less.
Jackson stops walking as his knuckles turn white, his brow low, and tone disrespectful.
"Fuck you Moses. You been the worst superior an Oilskin can ask for."
Moses chuckles as he turns around, swinging his rifle over his shoulder.
"And you cant take a direct order. You're a fool who should've never put on that coat."
He walks close to him, his eyes never leaving Jacks.
"Stop pretending and quit. You weren't meant for this shit."
Jackson swings on Moses, which he blocks before pushing him into the gunk of the sewer.
Moses takes out his pistol and aims it down at Jackson, bringing the hammer back.
"You're useless. An Oilskin that wants to be normal. A civilian."
Jackson struggles to get up, his body cloaked in filth. Moses looks at him, then holsters his gun.
"I didnt ask for you to join me. It was in the councils best interest." He turns around and continues walking down the empty sewers, the echos of rats and drip patters filling the silence between them.