Warning: contains strong language, scenes of torture and unconsensual sexual interaction. Sorry for a spoiler, though.
More than anything, Randy wanted to know how Fox, Henry, and the others had survived the bird plague. He’d picked up a few things about infections from Dr. Osokin and Arseny. Different strains of the original virus could have wildly different kill rates. And bacteria—well, those could mutate depending on where they landed, sometimes so drastically that even antibiotics were impotent against them.
Not that he clearly remembered what antibiotics even were anymore. And the plague, according to his stepfather, was caused by a fungus.
Then it clicked: Henry had already spilled the beans about how the whole gang owed their lives to their Elder Sister. So Randy had to make the man reveal more. But how?
Luna, raced ahead, clearing fresh snow with her narrow chest and quick legs. Then Randy and Henry climbed the steps carved into the rock, ascending to a ledge that led to the tower platform. It was a circular lookout with clear panes and rust-patched metal walls, filled with the dusty remains of old equipment, a chest of coal, and a stone hearth.
From twenty meters up, the world spread out like a map: a quarry beyond the broken bridge, the railway snaking toward the cargo terminal, even a real forest—scraggly but unmistakable—that had crept up over the past century since Antarctica had been seriously settled. The sky was calm, clear. The Elder Sun, for once, seemed gentle.
"Last year, the snow had melted by now. But look at those drifts!" Henry pointed toward the gorge where the railway vanished. "If your parachute’s buried in that, you’ll be digging ‘til next winter."
Randy shot him a look.
"Hey, don’t gaze at me like that," Henry added quickly. "It hasn’t come to that. Yet. Here, take the flint, get a fire going—I’ll fetch some snow for the kettle. Why sit without tea like a pair of dumbasses?"
Randy gathered the coals and had just gotten the fire to catch when a bone-shaking roar split the air, followed by a heavy thud and a string of curses. He shoved the flint in his pocket and leaned out over the platform.
Henry lay sprawled on the lower landing, groaning, his right leg bent at a sickening angle.
"Damned step—may it burn in hell!" the man howled, trying—and failing—to sit up.
"Scraping ice off stairs—now there’s no royal job," Randy echoed one of his stepdad’s favorite lines.
Even if it wasn’t a full break, the dislocation looked nasty—swollen, crooked, tendons maybe torn. And there, in the snow beneath the stairs, lay the knife stamped with Masako’s mark—the same one Randy had earned a bruise trying to steal last night.
It would be easy: climb down, grab the knife, take Henry’s coat, flask, and spare boots, and then run. No one else was around. Henry wouldn’t be chasing anyone anytime soon. The dogs might track him, sure—but they weren’t impossible to lose. Trying didn’t cost anything.
The same thought came to Henry. He knew Randy was young, green, missing his family like hell. And when he saw the boy coming down the stairs, he tensed—hand drifting instinctively toward the knife. Randy noticed.
"Thanks, Henry!" the young man called, carefully crouching beside him. "Gotta cut the pant leg—need to see how bad it is and get some snow packed on there. Looks like you’ll be walking with your knee from now on…"
Randy raised his voice. "Hey, Luna!"
No answer. The dog was gone, probably she rushed back to the kennel. Randy called again, louder. Nothing. Then he sucked in a breath, jammed two fingers in his mouth, and let out a whistle that echoed down the mountainside.
He unwrapped his scarf, slid off his belt, and began bracing Henry’s injured leg. He couldn’t help but smile when Henry’s eyes went wide as dinner plates.
"Go find someone else… one of the guys…" the older man muttered, already trying to breathe through the pain. "No idea if the dog even heard you."
"We need to immobilize the joint first," Randy said, working quickly. "Sooner’s better."
Then, while tying one leg to the other, he added, like it was nothing:
"And while we’re at it—how about you finally tell me how you all made it through the epidemic? What does it have to do with Fox?"
“Gangrene!” Henry cursed. "When Arce was already half-dead, she grabbed a syringe, filled it with her blood, and started injecting it into the sick. And the ones who weren’t infected yet... each got their own shot.”
“Impossible. It does not work like this! My dad’s a doctor…”
“Be cursed! You’ve asked for the story, and here it is! I’ve got nothing else! Out of all Arce’s people from Mirny, only Ezra made it out. And I don’t think it was just luck or caution. He was the only one who treated her decently. The rest... not so much. Holy Night, the treatment hurt more than the disease itself. Imagine someone cramming cramming your gut, chest and skull with burning coals. Your bones cracking from the inside out..."
"Can’t imagine," Randy muttered.
"And you won’t!" Henry was strangely cheerful now. "A bullet, or this—" he nodded at his mangled leg, "—it’s nothing."
"That how it was for everyone?"
"Every last one. Not all of us made it through the shot. But at least now, we don’t fear hell!" Henry barked a harsh laugh.
"Not a chance!" Randy scoffed. "With that leg, you wouldn’t even make it to the shithouse."
"Care to bet? Only thing in your pockets is the wind. What’s with the face? Think I’m mocking your misery? Nah. It’s all true. We’ve stuffed crap into open wounds, drank from puddles, eaten meat gone green—and survived. If something doesn’t kill me in the first half hour, it probably won’t. But don’t get your hopes up—Fox doesn’t go handing out her blood to just anyone."
But Randy’s mind was already drifting elsewhere. A plan was forming. Reckless, desperate, probably doomed—like most of his ideas. But still... a plan.
Luna padded silently across the snow, graceful and near-invisible where white met rock under a clouded sun. She stopped at the ladder, barking in concern. Randy briefly considered dragging Henry onto her back—but that would be pure hell for both of them.
"Luna, go home!" he shouted. "Find Kitty! Kitty, you hear me?" The dog only snorted.
"Don’t bother," Henry grunted. "She won’t listen to anyone but us."
He gave the command himself. Luna shook out her fur and galloped toward the Silver Palace. Watching her go, Randy had a new thought: these beasts could be befriended. Just because they could easily tear your arm off didn’t mean they would—at least not on their own.
With Kitty’s help, they hauled Henry back to the base.
"Either you’re a saint, or sly as the devil," Fox said, watching them carry Henry to the infirmary, which shared a sector with the workshop and fell under Kitty’s charge. Before popping Henry’s leg back into place, Kitty gave him a generous dose of narcotic mushrooms. The sweet smoke drifted lazily into the workshop.
"It’s simple," Randy said, keeping his tone flat. "If he died, I was screwed. The dogs would’ve hunted me down, especially in this snow. I’m no expert with that light cutter, and what kind of lunatic runs off without food? Or a weapon?"
A glint of curiosity lit up Fox’s eyes. A quick smile—fast as lightning—flickered across her face.
"A kid, but not a dumb one..."
"You really that old?" Randy shot back, annoyed.
"There’s a decade between us. And a year in a gang’s like five anywhere else."
"When I’m ninety and you’re a hundred, who’s gonna care?"
"You that sure you’ll make it to ninety?"
"I’m sure I wanna go to Seven Winds. Join you. Be one of your fighters. Mirny’s gone—there’s nothing left worth saving. I’m not going back to a graveyard."
Fox burst out laughing right in his face.
"Then you’re not even making it to twenty. Bet you don’t even know how to shoot."
"I learn fast."
"Drop it," she said suddenly, voice serious. "If you can avoid killing, don’t start. Not ever."
And for a moment, it wasn’t the gang leader speaking—it was an elder sister. Not to the Lost Kids. To him.
Fox and Randy stood close enough for the young man to finally study the Elder Sister’s eyes. Only now did he notice their uneven color: gold streaks flared outward from her pupils like cracks in glass.
“Fixing up your armor and guns? Might as well be killing for you,” he said. “Only it’s the coward’s way.”
“You’ll be where I say and do what I tell you,” she snapped back.
She was sharp. She had to know he was still trying to get to that gun. But even now, Randy could hear that rough, stubborn voice inside him. No way he was backing down.
“What if I ask the whole gang to take me in?” he said.
The brutal hand that had been squeezing his chest for days twisted tighter. It was now or never.
“Don’t get too cozy,” Fox said. “They won’t just let you in. They’ll test you first…”
The cocky heat drained from his body like cold water had been dumped over him. It wasn’t the idea of pain—it was what kind of test she meant. What if they made him kill a slave? Or worse, torture one to death just to prove he wasn’t bluffing?
Then I’ll have to kill Fox, he told himself, clear as sunrise. And if I can, I’ll off myself too.
The thought didn’t feel good—but it felt clean. The hand on his heart finally let go, and he could breathe again.
“We’ve all been in the same boat,” Fox said, her voice low. “We’ve ended up in other people’s hands. Been tortured. Ezra’s missing nails and half his teeth. Kitty’s got burn scars across her chest. Billy—he was just a fisherman. Lost two fingers in Seven Winds because his rivals framed him. Said his dead brother ran with raiders. They made him pay the price.”
“You wanna knock my teeth out? Cut off a finger?” Randy asked, eyes narrowed.
“That’s pointless and ugly,” she said with a grimace. “I’ll test you another way. If you can keep it together—if you don’t scream—you’ll be one of us.”
Relief hit him like a breath of real air. No killing. Not today.
“Then I guess you can call me ready.”
Something soft brushed his fingers—a rolled cigarette, same kind Kitty used to dull Henry’s pain. But Randy, sensing a trap, flicked it into the water bucket. Fox shook her head like she was disappointed she’d overestimated his wit. Then, without another word, she strode away.
Randy decided he’d earned some rest. He lay back, hands behind his head, and searched for something—anything—to keep his mind busy. Thinking about his family would only make things worse, piling fresh pain onto the ache already inside him. As if more pain wasn’t already on its way.
Instead, he focused on the drone—the one that took Antero’s life. Where had its deadly flight begun, and where had it gone next? What connection did it have to Fox? And how in the world had her blood cured the disease—if that’s even what had struck McMurdo?
Even if she was immune, could a few milliliters of blood really work miracles?
And had Henry really meant what he said—that they could drink from any puddle, eat rotten meat, and still survive? Or had he just been messing with him?
Some time later came Naoko, strangely taciturn and stripped of her serene smile. She briefly told Randy that Henry wanted to see him.
“Something happened to him?”
“Nothing new. Tomorrow, he will be absolutely fine,” the girl replied, lowering her eyes. Reluctant to play mind games, Randy stepped inside, holding his breath. The infirmary was so full of mushroom smoke it made his head go round.
The man lay stretched on a lopsided cot, his injured leg elevated on a pile of coiled cables. A filthy wool blanket was thrown over his body like a tarp, and his cheeks were slick with sweat. He looked like a sea lion with the flu.
Randy stopped, awkwardly. “Still breathing?”
“Takes more than a staircase and a brat’s sarcasm to kill me. Come closer. Let’s pretend we’re friends, just once.”
Randy pulled up a busted stool, and waited. Henry fumbled in the side pocket of his vest and pulled out a small roll of yellowed paper.
“Here. Don’t be a fool this time.” he said, extending it toward Randy. “You earned a gift.”
“It won’t make you behave funnier that you already do. Might even make you stop clenching your damn jaw for once.”
“When?..” asked the young man, turning the cigarette warily between his fingers.
“Now!”
“Joking, huh?”
“Don’t be a fool,” Henry repeated. “I want you to see your folks some day.”
Randy lit his hand-rolled cigarette from the oil lamp, slowly brought it to his lips and inhaled. The thick smoke seemed to burn his nostrils, throat, and lungs. A minute passed, but he noticed no other effects.
“And by the way, I need my knife back,” Henry said hoarsely. Randy had nothing else to do but obey.
Midnight, Fox’s pitch-black riding dog, lazily walked inside the room, his claws clicking softly against the floor. It was surprising that the mighty animal did not knock anything over or break a thing. The long furry muzzle sniffed Henry’s face, the red tongue licked his forehead. And then the dog sneezed, irritated by the smoke.
“Bastard!” Henry snarled, hastily wiping his face with his sleeve.
“Another story, maybe?” Randy took the final long drag, still hoping to feel something in the first place. “How did Fox end up with the gang? If she isn’t from Mirny, where’s she from?”
The older man frowned. Midnight stopped waving his majestic tail, hearing someone approach. Henry lowered his voice.
“From now, I don’t owe you anything. If she wants, she will tell you herself. Now give me the roach.”
“Sorry, what?”
Henry snatched the cigarette roach out of Randy’s hand. Two seconds later, Kitty stepped inside with a wide green on his needle-thin lips.
"Damn, didn’t even get to eat, and now this is going down..." he said, giving Henry a sharp look. "Let’s go, I guess...”
"Damn, didn’t even get to eat, and now this is going down..." he said, giving the prisoner a sharp look. "Let’s go, I guess...
Following Kitty, the young man ended up in the hall where, the day he got caught, the gang had been roasting rats. But man, it looked so different now! All the junk was gone, the benches and stools shoved to the walls, and the floor was swept clean. And there were two paraffin candles — a real luxury. Did Fox seriously have them lit just for him?
The Elder Sister sat back in the high chair, one leg crossed over the other. One hand, clenched into a fist, propped up her chin, while the other absently stroked the silver fur of her mantle.
"Ready?" the Elder Sister asked brightly.
"Do you even need to ask?" the young man shot back defiantly, trying not to look at her. But he couldn’t help it.
"You remember — not a single scream..."
Kitty led the captive to a grim-looking structure in the middle of the hall — a rusty metal frame, made of hollow pipes and braced by crossbars strong enough to hold even a larger victim’s weight without tipping over. Iron loops were welded to the upper bar; after ordering the prisoner to raise his right arm, Kitty started tying it to one of the loops with a thin rope. When he began with the left arm, Randy, to his growing dread, noticed that the Lost Kids, except for those who had gone up to the watchtower, had quietly flooded into the hall and seated themselves in silence, eyes fixed on the boy, without any jokes or laughter.
To be tortured in front of a hostile mob gathered to gawk—that alone would have crushed Randy’s spirit before his escape from McMurdo. But whether it was the weight of misfortune that made him stop caring, or Henry’s mushrooms kicking in, the young man himself looked at them with contempt, as if at a pack of stray dogs.
"So, you came up with this to entertain the gang?"
"This concerns everyone," the Elder Sister answered, standing up from her chair and taking a heavy whip off her wide belt. It was as long as her arm.
"Fox," Kitty said in a hoarse voice, already fired up with anticipation. "Let me try... I haven’t touched a whip in ages, let the old guy have some fun!"
The Elder Sister frowned — it was clear she hadn’t anticipated the request.
"Come on, please..." The giant whined like a bratty kid.
Fox looked at him, then at Randy, then back at him...
"You know what it’s like to go hungry..." Kitty insisted.
“Knock yourself out," the Elder Sister said, tossing him the coiled whip with a careless flick. Kitty grinned, weighing it in his hand. Randy, stretched out on the frame with his ribs almost tearing through his skin, almost moaned in frustration.
To hell with you, assholes...
Fox settled more comfortably into the chair, ruffling the hair of Naoko, who sat at her feet. Randy glanced around at the quieted gang, already regretting his audacity.
"Shit, you all are so intense!"
In the blink of an eye, he arched his back in agony, his spine searing with pain, and almost bit his tongue off: damn Kitty hit without a warning. The second blow, even harder, landed just beside the first, and the row of candles before his eyes instantly blurred into a mess. Unable to scream, the pain raked through Randy even more. He fought to keep the tears back, but after the fourth strike, they started to spill down his cheeks, still soft with youth. Screw it... Don’t scream... Don’t scream... Or you might as well just hang yourself.
The Sister’s whip didn’t just burn like red-hot iron — it was heavy too, as if it had been crafted from metal wire. And with a brute like Kitty swinging it, every blow hit like a hammer. In no time, Randy’s back became a blazing bonfire, and his whole body stretched tight like a string humming with pain. Struggling to hold himself together, he now looked like a fish being gutted alive — too broken even to scream in its death throes. Kitty paused after the eighth strike to let Fox inspect his handiwork.
"You satisfied?" Randy croaked, his lips parched, humiliated by the tears running down his face.
"Good enough," Fox said, like she was commenting on cooked bat meat. "Kitty, untie him."
Her voice was flat, empty. That hit Randy harder than the agony, the fear, or the humiliation. The howl Bitch! blew up inside him like a grenade, but the words that slipped out were nothing like it.
"Kitty, don’t rush it! I’m just getting into it!" Randy said, forcing as much cheer into his voice as he could. "You can't just grab a half-eaten sandwich outta someone's hands! Or are you tired already?" "Had enough?" his tormentor asked, not even trying to hide his surprise. "Believe it or not… no!" Randy laughed like a drunk, his whole body shaking. The leader of the Lost Boys, who had been silently watching the whole time, unexpectedly stroked his cheek, took the whip from Kitty, and shoved him aside with her hip. "That’s it. Playtime’s over!" "What an honor," Randy muttered, squeezing his eyes shut again.
He could feel the torn skin on his back bleeding freely now. The whip lashed out again like a black snake, cracking loudly against his half-naked body. Fox wasn’t hitting as hard as her henchman, however, Randy twisted as much as the ropes allowed, cursing fiercely and filthily — that at least wasn’t forbidden. Squinting through the pain, he caught a glimpse of Kitty lightly tapping Naoko on the shoulder. With a mischievous smile, she crawled over to him and knelt down in front of him. What the hell—? She pressed her cheek against the warm, velvet skin of his stomach, kissed the sharp bones jutting out on either side above his belt, and in the blink of an eye, undid the heavy buckle and the buttons on his trousers.
“What the hell are you doing? Get off... I said get off!” Randy hissed, feeling that not the hell of torture, but a wave of pleasure could ruin him.
But the girl acted like she didn’t hear him. And she seemed to like what she was doing. Gripping his hips tightly, she went to work with her mouth and tongue — at first teasing him with the lightest touches, like the brush of a breeze, then taking him in fully with growing hunger. Another lash of pain collided inside Randy’s mind with an overwhelming, dizzying pleasure he had only ever heard about in crude whispers from fishermen on the pier.
So this was what they meant... But why here, in front of the whole gang, Kitty, and Fox? Was it meant to sabotage his resistance? Or did these foul people just improvise?
A minute — and the scorching mix of pleasure, humiliation, and agony burned away every other feeling, thought, and sensation. Randy stopped moaning, stopped hissing and cursing; he simply bit down hard on his lip, taking both the caress and the whipping in silence — bit so hard that blood seeped from between his teeth. Another twist of her tongue below — and his soul tore free from his battered body, his consciousness shattering into a thousand blinding shards, giving way to unexpected calm and emptiness.
Blinking through swollen, tear-stained eyelids, Randy saw Naoko rising to her feet. She licked her lips like a cat after a good meal, but looking at her felt unbearable. Meanwhile, Kitty was untying the ropes around the captive’s throbbing wrists. The rest of the gang, as if snapping out of a trance, burst into intense whisper, which rapidly grew into wild, chaotic cheering — but to Randy, the noise seemed distant, half-muted, as if his hearing had dulled. Freed from his bonds, he couldn't stay on his feet; he collapsed onto his knees, casting a dazed look around at the Lost Kids.
"There’s no pleasure greater than the end of pain — right, Randolph?" Fox said thoughtfully, crouching down beside him.
"You’re all... s-sick twisted freaks," Randy spat out through chattering teeth, shivering from the cold that crashed over him.
"As if that’s something bad," Fox chuckled, unfastening the metal clasp on her fur cloak. "Kitty, cover him up, will you? And fetch some booze, if we’ve got any left."
The cloak stirred in the huge man’s hands and fell over the Randy’s bloody, burning back. Randy flinched at the fresh spasm of pain but still raised his eyes to the gang leader, his heart hammering in anticipation of something extraordinary.
And there it was. She was smiling — not hungrily, not arrogantly, but with a hint of respect. Then, slowly leaning forward, she kissed his torn, bloodied lips, gently licking away the blood — the final, crashing note of the hellish symphony that had played out. At once, Naoko and Kitty moved in, lifting the young man under the arms and leading him away through the flickering tunnels, as the rest of the gang roared in wild, Dyonisian delight.
Picture: UrbEx Estonia
Enjoyed reading this piece? Love post-apocalyptic and cyberpunk fiction?
Her moment of telling Randy not to kill, then later orchestrating his torture, beautifully captures her contradictions. It underlines her as both a guardian and a tyrant.