Four Dogmen
"Are you okay?" It was all Randy could manage.
"I feel miserable, but thanks for asking, Randy. Anyway, it’s good to see you grown up." Rakhmanov’s voice was trembling a bit. "I know you’ve got a million questions—and I’ve got plenty for you too—but there’s no time. You need to get as far as possible as soon as possible. Unless you want to end up like Antero."
"I don’t get it… We’ve got the Moon Cross, weird infections—and the Winged Sun, with all this tech, just sits back far away, as well as the guys in Mirny?"
"If only it were all up to me!" Rakhmanov snapped, his voice tight with barely restrained fury. "But right now, you do need to run."
Instinctively, Randy’s gaze darted to the sky.
"It’s coming for me?"
"I’d bet anything that drone caught the signal from the bracelet.Any kind of signal—radio, quantum… Desmoduses hone in on them like flies on meat. Once they find the source, they destroy the user. If the gear’s worth salvaging, the Moon Cross scouts steal it."
"The Moon Cross? What the hell do they have to do with this?"
"Too long to explain. Just move, boy!" And then Rakhmanov suddenly shouted:
"Cold and darkness, Randy—behind you!"
Stunned, Randy whirled—and saw four monsters hurtling down the tracks.
At first glance, they almost looked like shaggy Greenland sled dogs. But each was the size of a yak, with jaws packed full of fangs as long as a man’s finger. And they weren’t all by themselves.
Riding low across the beasts’ powerful necks were humanoid figures—faces daubed in white and black clay that made them look like skulls. They wore armor crafted of no-matter-what, plates and wires fastened with wire and bone, and held their weapons ready as they charged.
Randy froze, and then panic snapped him into motion.
He yanked the scavenged weapon from his belt and bolted to Antero’s corpse, trying to jam the gun into the dead man’s stiffening hand. One finger on the trigger did nothing. He remembered—it needed all five.
Too late. The beasts were almost on him now. He could smell their breath—hot, reeking, alive.
He squeezed his eyes shut and pulled the trigger.
A white bolt blasted from the gun, striking the lead creature square in the chest. It yowled like thunder fell and tossed its rider, but stayed alive. The man hit the ground, rolled, then sprang to his feet with eerie agility. He shouted something in a guttural dialect and raised a harpoon gun, aiming it straight at Randy’s head.
And that’s when Randy understood who they were.The Lost Kids, Antarctica’s nightmare.
They robbed traders, bled farmers for tribute, kidnapped anyone they could get their hands on—either to feed to their beasts or offer up to whatever mad god whispered in their ears. Same filth as the Moon Cross. Just fewer in number.
And here he was—smack in their path.
Based on the rider’s gear—and more importantly, the size of his mount, easily the largest in the pack—Randy picked out the leader. He wore a form-fitting graphite-gray jumpsuit reinforced with dull matte plates that looked like they’d grown straight out of the fabric, molded to his joints and muscle lines. Draped over his back and shoulders was a pale gray, almost silvery fur mantle with slits for his arms—one of those rare pieces that screamed authority. His tall boots had thick, snow-crusted soles. A crossbow and quiver of bolts were strapped across his back. A winter respirator covered the lower half of his face; his eyes, ringed in thick black paint, looked like hollow skull sockets. A fur hood was stitched directly to the mantle, and from beneath it, a single long black lock dangled by his temple, twisting in the wind.
To his left loomed a hulk, ring punched through one colorless brow. Bright green dreadlocks spilled from beneath a cracked flight helmet, draping over his chest and back. A homemade cleaver swung from his belt. His squat gray riding dog looked like it would crumple under such a brute.
The third rider blazed red—beard, brows, and hair bursting from beneath a greasy bandana like fire. Even his dog matched, paws shifting restlessly.
The fourth—still aiming a harpoon at Randy’s head—looked like a soldier from the Golden Age. His once insulated jumpsuit and flak vest were patchworks of gray, black, and white, streaked with dirt and old blood. A cracked round helmet clung stubbornly to his skull, its broken visor bolted back together with wire.
“Hey! You the one who offed this guy?” the soldier barked, nodding at Antero’s body.
“Wasn’t it your damn drone?” Randy shouted back, still clutching the bolt gun.
“Randy, shut up!” Rakhmanov hissed—still hovering nearby like a ghost. “Please, hand them the gun…”
“Old fart’s got sense!” said the mountain-like man with green dreads.
“You moron, Kitty,” the redhead snorted, smacking his friend’s rusted shoulder plate. “It’s a hologram, dumbass. Just a Blackout-era comms link. That guy could be chillin’ on the Moon for all we know.”
His laughter cut short as the gang leader slid off his hulking beast, snatched the gun from Randy’s hand, flipped a switch, and fired a white-hot bolt into the dead man’s wrist.
The hologram blinked out at once. The air smelled of scorched circuitry and burnt flesh.
“Goddamn it. No wonder he was glowing like a saint,” Kitty grunted, dismounting with a grunt.
“Could he be from the Winged Sun? That’s real bad news,” the redhead added, rifling through the corpse’s coat. “Means they’ll be sniffin’ around here soon.”
“Clearly you weren’t in Mirny, Ezra,” the “soldier” said darkly, stepping forward until the harpoon’s tip pressed coldly against Randy’s skin. “Or you’d know…”
“What do you mean, in Mirny?” Randy gasped. “You bastards made it there too?!”
“Shut your damn mouth!” the “soldier” snarled, jerking the harpoon just enough to slice the skin Randy’s temple. Blood trickled down, soaking his scarf and sweaters.
“Fox, you hear that?” Kitty sneered. “Dude’s got some business in Mirny. Planning to have a nice little chat with the skulls, maybe?”
“What happened?!” Randy shouted, nearly in a panic, despite the harpoon point and the monstrous jaws closing in.
“They’re dead, kid. All of ’em,” Kitty said as he tore off Randy’s belt—axe included—and ran thick fingers expertly over his coat. He quickly found the hidden pouch of Alda’s jewelry and tossed it to his boss without a word. Then his hands slid down Randy’s leg.
“Back off, freak!” Randy spat, jerking away.
The harpoon bit deeper. The cut along his head widened, hot blood seeping faster now.
They’re lying, Randy told himself. They’ve gotta be lying. These savage psychos could not take the whole spaceport. Dad says, Mirny’s a fortress which can shelter people if nukes fall.
But deep down, he felt the walls cracking.
The gang leader hadn’t said a word, hadn’t even looked at Randy. Still astride his beast, he poured Alda’s little treasures into his palm, inspected them briefly, then dropped them back into the pouch. His silence was worse than a threat—it made him feel like death personified.
Randy’s blood chilled. No way the bastard’s mute. He’s in charge. And if he’s this quiet, it’s because he doesn’t even need words.
The Lost Kids stripped Antero’s body and gripped Randy’s map. He’d memorized it after three days wandering—but it wasn’t much comfort now. Only one thing gave him a shred of hope: they hadn’t killed him yet. Maybe he could buy time or talk himself out of trouble.
But if the rumors are true, Randy thought, and these bastards are hungry, nothing will save me.
They bound his wrists tight with a coarse rope, the other end wrapped in Kitty’s thick paw. With a sudden yank, the brute nearly pulled Randy off his feet.
“Get on behind me,” he ordered, almost lazily swinging a leg over his dog’s massive back and looping the rope once more around his forearm. “Fall off and I won’t stop. You’ll be dragged belly-first until something tears loose.”
By midday, the terrain had changed drastically. The mountains loomed higher, sharper, meaner. Scraps of life appeared—first a few patches of gray moss and rust-colored lichen, like dried bloodstains. Then brittle tufts of grass, twisted shrubs, and even the occasional dwarfed tree, stunted by the wind.
Finally, they reached a narrow stream trickling over black rock, steam curling from its surface. Judging by how casually the bandits approached, it wasn’t toxic. Kitty’s mount dipped its head to drink—then recoiled with a snort. Too hot.
Above, snow drifted down like ash. Randy let the flakes melt on his cracked lips to ease his thirst. His arms had gone numb, thighs and knees throbbing from the brutal ride, and the rope had rubbed raw patches deep into his skin. To dull the pain, he focused on the dog’s rolling gait beneath him and tried to memorize every rock and tree. This was a world far removed from the bland outskirts of McMurdo.
There was barely a path to speak of—just a winding maze through cliffs and canyons, marked only by signs the bandits seemed to read instinctively. They rode with unnerving ease along ledges that dropped into nothing, climbing steep slopes as if the dogs had suction cups for paws.
From one high pass, through the haze, Randy glimpsed the Central Glacier—the father of Antarctic rivers—sprawling its icy mass all the way to the pole. Its rim caught the sun and shimmered gold.
Too observant for his own good, the young man soon found a thick black sack yanked over his head. Ezra, the red-haired thug, rode up beside him and tugged it down tight. Breathing through it was hell—worse than having his nose jammed into Kitty’s unwashed dreadlocks.
“It sucks that the guy was from the Winged Sun,” Ezra muttered.
“Don’t sweat it,” Kitty replied. “Didn’t Arce say they’re just a bunch of brainiacs and a couple of guards? It sucks that before we get to their place, our dogs will eat us alive.”
“We hit Mirny. We’ll hit them too!” said the third rider, who had the gruff bark of the “soldier”.
“You screwhead, Yoon,” Ezra snapped. “Mirny only worked because of Fox and her gift. And we barely made it out. Who knows what Winged Sun’s been cooking up for fifty years.”
“C’mon!” Kitty laughed. “You’re saying that raid ended badly? We’ve got the guns, ammo and maybe, fucking immortality!”
“Shut up.”
The new voice was deep, calm, laced with steel. When did she join them? Why no one even greeted her?
“Well, well! Fox,” Kitty jeered. “Don’t be shy! You made out better than anyone. Too proud to admit it?”
So that was the newly arrived woman’s name, or more probably, nickname. Fox.
“Seven Winds will provide more,” she said passionately. “I’ve been aboard the Pine Island, I’ve seen how posh it is. And at least, we know what to expect there.”
Randy stiffened. Her speech sounded different. She spoke as if she'd read more than just a pub sign in her life.
“Now that Harald’s gone, we can even buy Railtown’s non-interference.” said Yoon.
“Save our sugar!” Fox snorted “His mouse-brained daughter clearly took after some passing drifter, she won’t move her ass if even we attack Anwar.”
“Maybe we should just burn Railtown,” Kitty suggested cheerfully.
“Then the traders stop coming, so no work for us,” Fox shot back. “If we’re going to burn anything down, it’s Pine Island. It will burn like a huge drakkar.”
“Drakkar? What’s that?”
“A ship of vikings. These guys lived far in the north, they were raiders, like us, but sailed wooden ships instead of riding dogs. When their chieftain died, his body—dressed in battle gear—was set adrift on a ship and ignited with a flaming arrow. Imagine what a sight that must have been!”
Wow. Randy had heard countless stories about Seven Winds—wealthy, fortified, still untouched by the Moon Cross. The city, from which he had to regain MacMurdo. And now these raiders were headed there too. Maybe the sack over his head wasn’t so bad after all. It made him look like a dumb puppet, and the dog riders couldn’t possibly tell how intently he was soaking in every word.
"I don’t get it. Why do we need this prick?" Ezra nagged, talking about Randy. "Skin and bones!"
"You’re not much better!" Kitty shot back. "Heard there’s a brothel in New Beijing for boy-lovers. With that face, they’d pay a fortune for him."
Fury boiled over—Randy slammed his forehead into Kitty’s back. Once. Twice. A third time—until the brute shut him up with a sharp elbow to the gut. The others laughed, but the woman did not.
"Let’s see what he can do first," she said. For some reason, that drew quieter, more knowing chuckles.
"It’s not every day you find someone who can handle Winged Sun tech," she added.
"Then why’d you destroy the bracelet instead of keeping it?" Yoon said.
"You brilliant tactician," Fox snapped. "You want them tracking us? Arce might have been a liar, but even he never crossed Winged Sun. I’ve heard the stories. If I had Golden Age tech, I’d kill anyone who tried to..."
"Fox," Ezra interrupted, "some flying bastard’s been trailing us! Maybe we should lure it in—take it down?"
"If it wants to get closer, it will. There’s no certain way to lure it."
"You think it’s them? The Winged?"
"Worse," she said flatly. "Looks like the Moon Cross."
"What do we do?"
"Shut up," she said. "It hears everything."
"At this distance?"
"I mean it," Fox replied, cold and deliberate, each syllable a weight.
The Lost Kids obeyed her without another word. They rode in silence, all the way to their hideout. Randy only knew they’d arrived when he heard new voices and the clatter of boots—more raiders shoving other people around, calling them orca’s children, yelling for them to stay away from the dogs.
The wind was gone now. Their voices echoed sharply, like in caves.
"Why’s he all alone? Did you kill the others?"
"Hey, boy! Mine or the slave market?"
"Ha! I’ve needed a pair of hands in the workshop forever!"
"Kitty, what about a little torture? We seeing any tonight?"
Finally, the dogs stopped. Someone hauled Randy off and dragged him forward. The moldy sack stayed on—he’d gotten used to the smell by now. It was warm inside, enough to sweat under all his layers. Someone grabbed the rope at his wrists and led him down a twisting path. Rails beneath his feet, then stairs—three steep flights up a hollow, echoing metal staircase.
The barking, the cursing, the clanging—all faded behind him.
Two sets of boots stayed close. Two voices. A door creaked open. Then shut.
Kitty shoved him down into a seat—something rough and makeshift. A door laid across two metal barrels. Kitty stood behind him like a glacier, his silent presence heavier than any pack from the Junkyard. He heard Fox sit down too and place her feet on the table.
"You hear me?" she asked.
Randy nodded, heart racing, already scrambling for answers that wouldn’t betray Rakhmanov—or McMurdo.
"What wind blew you into that gorge? And how did the man die?"
He started a made-up story about being a cartographer from McMurdo and heard no objections, only Kitty’s malevolent chuckles.
"The man you were talking to... Do you know him?" Fox cut in.
"Hell, no."
Kitty slammed his open palm into Randy’s face. The back of his skull hit the wall. His cheek flared with heat.
"You know him?"
"First time I met him,—"
A new slap split his lip. Blood trickled warm and sticky, the room bursting into flashes of white pain.
"How many teeth," Fox asked coldly, "do I have to knock out to hear the truth? Kitty’s got all night, and he likes doing this."
"He... he stayed at our place once. When I was a kid," Randy croaked. "That was the first and the last time."
"When?"
"Ten years ago."
"His name?"
"Rakhmanov. What’s it to you?"
Another slap from Kitty—but this time Fox hissed at him to stop.
"The backpack—was it yours?"
"No. I took it from the dead man."
"Then where’s yours?"
"Fell into a gorge."
Fox said nothing for a few moments, tapping out a rhythm only she seemed to understand. Maybe weighing whether Randy was a liar or just a lucky idiot.
He tried to picture her face—same black-and-white warpaint as the others, maybe. Beneath that? Weathered skin, red acne, brown teeth, probably older than she sounded. Raiders were not supposed to age well.
"You made that map yourself?" she asked. "From old sources? And where were you heading?"
"Prince gave me the map and sent me to find a new route to Mirny. Mark any important sites I found."
Kitty burst into laughter, slapping his thighs.
Randy’s stomach dropped. He must have said something wrong.
"Where do you think you are right now?" Fox asked.
"I… I’d say a cave," Randy sniffled, wiped his nose with the back of his hand, and stomped off. He guessed it could be Silver Palace, but he didn’t want to show off his knowledge to these disgusting people.
Fox asked Kitty to go bring her weed. He was surprised, but had to comply.
"What’s your name, cartographer?" Fox asked, left alone with her prey.
"Randy."
"You already know mine. Now you’re going to answer my questions—honestly. Lie, and I’ll call Kitty back, and we’ll play."
She leaned in closer. "Why did your Prince send you to Mirny?"
"He’s sick," Randy lied. It was risky, but safer than the truth. "He thinks the cure’s there."
"Let me guess—he planned to pay for it with that shiny gold of his. Naive idiot." Fox sneered. "You know about the bunch of idiots he already sent there?"
"No idea."
“Hell, you’re young. They’d never made it back. He’s really short on people if he sent you alone," Fox said.
"Everyone’s on high alert. A squad of Moon Cross was seen near the city. Prince’s reinforcing defenses."
"I’d love to see what those look like," Fox said, voice thick with scorn.
"I saw them myself, though from far away," Randy said with composure. Time to bait the hook. "If you’re planning to hit Seven Winds, you might need their guns first. They’ve got these white-blast guns—deadly from a hundred meters at least. Bet you don’t have anything like that."
"How many people have you seen?" Her tone shifted. She was interested now.
"At least twenty. And they’ve got good armor, too. Just like in Golden Age. "
Randy, foolishly, had thought it might be worth pitting one evil against another before he died—but the effect was instant and brutal.
Fox was on him in a flash.
She grabbed a fistful of his hair through the sack, yanking his head back to bare his throat. An ice-cold blade touched the young man’s skin.
“So you’re one of them?” she hissed. “Trying to lead us into a trap?”
She hauled him to his feet, the knife biting into the soft skin beneath his jaw.
“The Apostle should’ve trained you better.”
“You mean the Moon Cross man? I’m not one of them! I swear on my first father’s memory!” Randy gasped, his terror breaking free all at once.
“You aren’t much of a liar. You’re a nobody,” Fox growled, pressing the blade harder.
Starving, concussed, hands still bound, Randy had no way to fight back. No idea where to run even if he could. Her very presence seemed to blot out the light—to snuff out hope.
“Snow in your snout!” he snapped, voice cracking. He felt skin tear beneath the blade. Again. “I’ve already suffered because of those bastards—twice! First time was before I was even born!”
The blade’s pressure slightly weakened. Was Randy really that convincing this time? He continued.
“I went to Mirny alone—with nothing but a hatchet and a knife—not for some old crook’s cause, but to save my parents and my brother! There’s an epidemic in McMurdo—people die every day—and the Moon Cross are outside the walls! My family’s trapped between them and the infection, and penicillin does not work against it!”
Fox didn’t answer right away. Her breath was hot against his ear, the knife trembling slightly in her grip.
“What a turn…” she finally exhaled. “You’re telling me a dozen fanatics are threatening the city?”
“Fine,” Randy groaned, his voice hoarse. “I lied... There’s more. Closer to two hundred.”
Her grip tightened, and he flinched.
“But I wasn’t lying about the weapons,” he said quickly. “If it weren’t for the bird plague, they’d have occupied McMurdo in no time. It’s only the disease that keeps them out.”
He could bet he heard a sigh.
Their faces were close—too close. Randy could feel the grime of Fox’s face paint against his cheek and recoiled at the thought: when it came time to sell off their loot, she and her gang would ride into Railtown scrubbed clean, pretending to be peaceful merchants.
Her grip on his hair had loosened a little. The knife was still pressed to his throat, but no longer biting into the skin.
“If you’re not with the Prince,” she said, her breath hot with smoke and something strangely sweet, “then where’d you get the map? Why were you headed for Mirny?”
Randy, knowing it was pointless to lie—and dangerous to provoke her further—told the truth. As he spoke, Fox sank into a chair, dragging him with her, settling him with his back against her legs like he was nothing more than a pack of gear.
“There’s no point going to Mirny,” she said once he’d finished. “The city’s dead. One big grave.”
“So it’s true…” Randy whispered. He braced for tears—but none came. His eyes stayed dry. “You snuck in and slaughtered everyone. That’s what you were talking about on the road, wasn’t it?”
“Not exactly,” she said. “By the time we got there, the haul was the richest we’d ever seen. Couldn’t even carry out half of it. But there was no one left alive. Some died from this “bird plague” which now ravages McMurdo. Others were smart enough to get out early.”
She paused, then added, “I ran through some papers and logs. One of the first to run was that young doc you were after. Reynard, or whatever his name was. You wouldn’t have helped anyone, kid. Most likely, you’d have caught the disease yourself.”
Randy clung to every word, hunting for any crack, any inconsistency. One of his bound hands pinched the other hard enough to bruise. Hell—he would’ve let them cut off a finger if it meant waking up from this nightmare. A prisoner of madmen. A failure. The promise he’d made to his family unraveling by the second.
“Those poor souls wiped out their med bay just trying to stay ahead of it. No antibiotics, no serums, no painkillers.”
“They’re hoping,” Randy croaked, lowering his face into his bound hands. “They’re waiting for me…”
The journey had barely begun—and already, everything had gone to hell. He’d left his father and brother for nothing. Abandoned Masako for nothing. Turned the town against his family—for nothing. He didn’t care anymore what Fox or anyone thought of him. He was past shame.
“Life is unfair,” said the woman. “And hope doesn’t count for much. You’ve already been damn lucky. Escaped the Crossbearers. Dodged the plague. My boys didn’t gut you—and that’s only because I felt like riding with them today.”
Her voice sounded strained. Why?
“If it makes you feel better, half my crew dropped after Mirny. Looked like the same crap that’s eating your town alive. They were like family, too, you know.”
The door creaked open again. A few seconds later, someone placed a glass on the table. Fox stood, leaving Randy slumped in the chair, and dropped a quiet “thanks” before taking a few sips.
“How… how did you survive raiding the place?” Randy asked bitterly.
“How the hell are we still walking?” she said, voice low, with a dark smile behind it. “Luck, kid. Dumb, filthy luck. That’s why we worship Lady Fortune.”
She took another sip.
“You didn’t get sick. Didn’t die in the fall. So maybe your family pulls through too... or maybe they don’t.”
For the first time in his life, Randy wanted blood.
He wanted to slit this woman’s throat from ear to ear and watch the ground drink her dry. He hated her more than he’d ever hated anyone. More than the Crossbearers. They were vague—shadows, rumors, like a blizzard rolling in from the east. Fox and her gang? They could be smelled. They were real. Tangible. Everything decent people should find twisted and repulsive.
“I don’t know anything of value,” Randy muttered. “You took the gold... So what do you need me for now?”
"You've seen us. You know where we are,” Fox snapped—though minutes earlier, she’d made him guess the location.
“So… death it is?”
“Death’ll come,” she said. “But first—I’m starving. Naoko, take care of it, yeah?”
Someone tugged Randy by the arms and led him down a flight of stairs. When they reached the bottom, the sack was yanked off his head. He took a deep breath—his first in what felt like forever—and looked around.
No signs of the wretched woman. The first person he saw was a round-faced girl with narrow dark eyes and a gentle smile. Her black hair sparkled with an absurd tangle of colorful clips. In one hand, she held a tallow lantern. In the other—the filthy sack she’d just pulled off.
She barely reached Randy’s shoulder and was drowning in a massive orange coat that dragged behind her on the stone floor.
“Nothing you can do,” she said, her voice tinged with a quiet kind of sympathy. “Either you’re with them, or you’re a corpse. Just be glad you’re not mining silver for them… Dying’s easier than that.”
They walked down a long tunnel, its walls scarred and gouged, confirming what Randy already suspected—this had once been a silver mine. Steel supports clung to the ceiling like ribs, and rusting machines lay half-gutted along the walls, slowly being stripped for parts by the mine’s new masters.
Patches of phosphorescent mold, widely used. around the continent, glowed faintly on the walls. In the distance, one could take them for ghosts. Rumors of spirits haunting these mines had probably been started by the Lost Kids themselves, just to scare off the curious. His sharpened senses caught the scent of roasting meat, and his mouth flooded so fast it nearly choked him.
Naoko led him into a wide chamber where a fire crackled warmly, casting flickering red light across the faces of the people gathered there—just over thirty of them, by Randy’s count. They were dressed like most folks in Antarctica: in cloaks, jackets, and trousers sewn from dog hides and sea beast leather, thick felt, or military fatigues from the Golden Age—now patched up and layered with scraps of metal and rubber for extra protection.
One man—bald, maybe twenty-five—was missing a nose.
Near the stove—cobbled together from broken chunks of rock—a wiry, bearded man with dark hair braided into a long plait crouched, slowly turning a spit with meat skewered on it. Off by the wall, red-haired Ezra was sharpening a knife with wild fury, muttering, "Dull, damn it, dull!" Randy immediately decided to stay as far away from him as possible.
On a pile of firewood sat two women mending clothes. One was tall, dark-skinned, and shaved down to a scalp, with small rings in her eyebrows. The other was a redhead, half-naked despite the cold, missing one of her front teeth.
Finally, stepping toward Kitty and Randy came a shirtless, stocky, slightly pudgy “lost kid,” around thirty-five. He had a round, unshaven face, curly hair tied back in a short tail, and small eyes which looked friendly.
He gave Randy a once-over like he was some kind of exotic animal and groaned with disappointment.
“Wish you were a girl, sweetie.”
Randy couldn’t help himself and showed him the middle finger. Every ounce of his exhaustion and helpless fury was packed into that single, defiant gesture. He tensed, bracing for a beating, but the man just burst into laughter, planting his hands on his hips.
“Feisty, huh? And starving too—can see it in your eyes! Billy, feed the kid!”
“One sec,” said the dark-haired guy tending the spit.
“Don’t overdo it,” Kitty called out, already walking off to the far end of the room. “Feed him just enough not to starve. No more.”
“By the dog god and the sea devil!” the half-naked man said cheerfully. “We’ve got food, praise the night—and the kid’s gotta eat!”
Kitty lowered himself onto a bench covered with animal pelts, sprawling his endless legs to either side. The women, having set aside their work, settled down on his left and right. Billy began the ceremonial distribution of roasted potatoes and grilled rats—almost a family scene, if you didn’t know better.
The rats were scrawny. But to Randy, they tasted like the finest meat on earth. Even in a hole like this, you had to find a way back, and that fight required strength. Watching Randy eat—burning his mouth on the potatoes and choking on the bones—the raiders laughed at him like children, having no other entertainment. Henry, laughing the hardest, shoved a foul-smelling army flask under Randy’s nose.
“Railtown’s rotgut, damn it! Take a swig…”
"Just a swig," turned into Randy draining the small flask in several big gulps, nearly howling from the fiery burn in his throat. The heat surged downward, filling every cell in his body, then suddenly shot to his head, clouding his mind, dissolving his fear, anxiety, and all thoughts at once.
The robbed Henry cursed like there was no tomorrow, shaking Randy like a kitten caught by a dog, but the young man, who had never consumed anything stronger than fermented yak milk, only grinned foolishly in the raider's face and told him to go to a number of places. Enraged, Henry slammed his prey against the wall twice. The Lost Kids around him were splitting their sides from laughter.
"Orca’s son!" the owner of the flask kept ranting. "What do you want me to treat your wounds with?"
After everything that had happened in less than a day, Randy was glad not to remember anything and not to think. He stared at the ceiling, seeing flowing, colorful shapes that changed form every second, while the ground beneath him spun faster and faster. He was flying somewhere, yet staying in place, savoring the illusion of his troubles leaving. And he didn’t realize—whether in reality or in a dream—he was covered by something soft, lifted from the floor, and carried off into the darkness.
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