“Huh! Too good to be true…” A soft, warm female voice reached Randy’s ears.
His magnetized eyelids finally lifted, and the young man saw a round, tawny face with shiny brown eyes and a kind smile.
“Cath, your brother’s waking up!”
“Blessed be the Sun!” came the tired reply from the Lost Kids’ leader. “Now maybe I can finally get some rest at all.”
Cool, gentle hands checked the spot where Kitty’s bullet had torn through his shoulder. Shivering from the cold, Randy slowly took in the room: a row of beds with nightstands, a man asleep against the far wall, a metal table cluttered with medical tools—just like Dr Osokin’s old workplace. On the wall, scrawled in thick charcoal letters, was a blunt warning: WASH YOUR HANDS. ALWAYS.
The medic, a cheerful, chubby woman, introduced herself as Pratibha.
“I can’t believe it… Your wound closed up overnight! Honestly, I’ve never seen anything like it. Yesterday, you were in bad shape—I was afraid you’d die from sepsis.”
“For real?” Randy knew exactly what sepsis was—his stepdad and stepbrother talked about it all the time. It used to steal lives right out of their hands and was especially dangerous for new mothers.
His hair was damp and clammy, but the rest of him was dry—the “living” sheets, like the ones in his dad’s hospital, soaked up sweat and other moisture, releasing antiseptic in return. The daylight flooding the room stung his eyes—they weren’t used to it anymore. He felt weak, but otherwise… okay.
Slowly, he sat up and spotted Fox. She stood with her back to the window, hands on her hips. The mysterious device on her forearm was gone. Her skin had the color of ash, but her long hair was brushed at last, spilling over her shoulders like thin black snakes. The ugly red mark on her eye was gone.
“It was scary to get near you. Or rather—hot,” she joked. “But hey, all’s well that ends well. How are you feeling?”
“Wrung out,” Randy admitted. “No joke—I even dreamed about it. Two giant hands were twisting me like a soaked rag. Bones, muscles, tendons—everything snapping to hell…”
“And then?” Fox asked, grinning.
“Then someone crushed my head in a vise. And no, Fox, it wasn’t funny. I didn’t just see it. I felt every second of it.”
“Are you in pain now?”
Randy shook his head. The sooner he got out of here, the better. Probably.
“Then get dressed.” Elder Sister nodded toward the pile of clean clothes on the nightstand.
With a sudden burst of energy, Randy slipped into a dark blue long-sleeve, pulled a charcoal-gray knit sweater over it. They still had holes where the bullet had gone through, in need of repair.
Then he shot a look at the women, silently asking them to give him some privacy. They left him for a couple of minutes.
“You sure about leaving, young man?” Pratibha frowned. “You were practically dead all day yesterday…”
“But now he’s almost fine—your words, remember?” the leader of the Lost Kids said, calm in a way that sent a strange chill down Randy’s spine. “Besides, we’re not hitting the road yet. We’ll stay at an inn for the night. And you’ve performed a miracle, Pratibha. We owe you.”
“What for…?” the medic mumbled, flustered. Randy could’ve sworn she blushed, even with her deep skin tone.
“For dragging me back from the other side,” he said firmly, and suddenly saw Fox bite her lower lip.
On the nightstand where his clothes had been, a delicate golden necklace slithered down like a snake—from the stash his mother had given him before his flight. The Elder Sister used it to pay the medic for his life… Or something else?
And she was still keeping his jewelry.
Photo Credit: Ádám Szedlák
“How long have we been here?” Randy asked once he and Fox stepped outside. In the daylight, the height gap between them struck him again—she had him by a good half-head, even with her narrow frame. Next to her, Masako could’ve passed for a child—if you didn’t look too closely at her face.
“By tonight, two full days,” the woman replied.
Randy took it all in.
Railtown had earned its plainspoken name long before the Blackout. Back when trains still ran, it had been a terminal—one of the big ones—shipping coal, gold, and silver out of the surrounding mountains to ports along the Antarctic coast. He tried to imagine the clatter of freight cars and the whistle of steam; all he heard was the groan of a manual cart somewhere down the line.
These mountains could hide anything—maybe not gold every time you took a swing, but something worth digging. And the trains never came back empty, either. Food, tools, new settlers—wave after wave of them—rolled in to scatter across the south.
The old terminal grounds had once been almost a little town in itself. Clinic. Hotel. A couple of bars where the miners and railmen would kick back on weekends. Not whiskey bars—those days were gone even before the Blackout—but brightly colored drinks that either gave you a buzz or knocked you flat. Railtown had its own well, its own greenhouse, mushroom cellars, and algae pools. Folks here didn’t panic when supply lines dried up—they knew how to scrape by.
People used to say, As eternal as Railtown. Standing here, Randy could see why. It wasn’t because people were better here—they weren’t—but because the chief, Harald, was the kind who could squash a rebellion before you even realized you’d been thinking about one. And because Railtown had teeth. Even in its best years, the station kept a trained security crew armed with more than tasers. No wonder Fox’s gang kept their distance—pretending to be prospectors, leaving the dogs at home, and snatching their prizes well beyond city limits.
When the Blackout hit, Harald didn’t just survive: he turned it to Railtown’s advantage. Piles of coal sat waiting in the depots. Diamonds, gold, silver, coal—all of it could be traded for seeds, livestock, and fertilizer. And the roads—dozens of them—fanned out from here in every direction.
The old high-speed trains were dead now, their guts fried like every other machine that had relied on the old tech. The three passenger trains parked here when it happened had become long, narrow homes for the first wave of refugees. Freight cars had been torn down and rebuilt; loaders and haulers stripped and salvaged. Tinkerers managed to cobble together a couple of dozen railcarts to keep what was left of the Mainline alive.
If you had sugar, batteries, or gold, you could hire one—steam-powered, burning coal or landfill gas. Most people settled for the kind you pushed or pedaled yourself. And everyone was expected to pay or work their passage.
Randy’s eyes drifted back to the Mainline and the faint silhouettes of railcarts in the distance.
“So what’s Stella gonna do about the Moon Cross threat?”
“Don’t get your hopes up. She’s nothing like her father. Best case—she scrapes together a militia to defend Railtown, but only once the cultists are already kicking down the gates. This cow hasn’t even warned the townsfolk since we met yesterday.”
“Maybe she sent scouts and is waiting to hear back?” Randy refused to believe anyone would just sit and wait for disaster. “You shouldn’t have sold that dog. At least it doesn’t need rails…”
“You trying to get to Seven Winds in a day or what?!” Fox shot back. “Every day—hell, every hour—counts.”
“Oh, and now you care? After all the time I lost ‘cause of you and your little gang?” Randy snapped. “You people snatch folks off the road, work them to death, shoot, kill… and suddenly I’m the one you feel sorry for? Why, Fox? Why not set everyone free—the people you tore from their families for your precious Pine Island and its crazy riches? Or is it just easy to play noble now that your thug pals are gone and the gate guards took your gun?”
Fox stared at him, hard enough that Randy braced for a punch. Instead, she spoke slowly, steadily.
“All I can say is, if it had been just you and me, I’d have let you go right then. From the moment they spotted you by that body to the second we got here, I was playing a part—one I’ve been stuck in for way too long. One I hate myself for.” She held his gaze. “We came to Railtown so I could help you, Randy. So I could finally walk away from the Lost Kids for good.
“I’m not going back to them. And if I do, it’ll be to set the people free. Yes, every man we’ve kidnapped.”
“How are you gonna pull that off?”
“I don’t know… I don’t. But I’ll find a way. There has to be one. But right now, Seven Winds is goal number one.”
He could barely breathe. He should’ve hated her—but he couldn’t. Her voice hit him like a blade, raw and aching.
And yet… was this just another performance? Another one of her roles? The smart move would be to nod, keep her close, let her think he believed every word—until he was in a better position. If she meant what she said, he could use that. If she didn’t… well, he’d be ready.
“Not long ago, you didn’t even know I existed. And now you’re saying you’d put your revenge on hold… for me? And for some backwater town?”
“There’s no such thing as a backwater town, Randy. No first-rate or second-rate people. You’re not better or worse than anyone else. But you pulled me back from a state worse than death. Reminded me of what being human means.
“There’s no forgiveness for what I’ve done—I know that. You have every right to detest me, to turn your back. If that’s what you want, we'll go our separate ways.”
She pulled a small pouch from inside her coat—the one with Alda’s jewelry—and pressed it into his hand. Randy felt the weight of the pouch in his palm, heavier than it used to be.
“But first, you might wanna know more about how the cure works. Let’s go to Von Bellinsghausen*, your backpack’s in the hotel room anyway.”
The medicine! Holy Sunshine, this is real, he thought, remembering Pratibha’s quiet awe. The young man realized that the strange fever the medic woman had mistaken for signs of sepsis was, in fact, nothing more than a symptom of the metamorphosis Henry had told him about back in the Silver Palace. His mind could barely grasp it.
And his wound ached too little for a relatively fresh bullet hole. He even stopped noticing.
They walked alongside the wall of the old passenger terminal, their reflections sliding over the black glass like shadows in a mirror, almost as if two more people were walking beside them. Fox turned under a curved archway rimmed with endless strings of tiny, colorful lights.
“Where do they get power for all this?” Randy asked before he could stop himself.
“Don’t you know? A hydrostation to the north,” she replied.
Soon, they stood before a pair of reddish metal doors, their surface intricately woven into a fantastical pattern of flowers, curling leaves, and strange animals. The blacksmith’s apprentice in Randy couldn’t resist—his fingers traced the cold metal, admiring the craftsmanship. Fox pressed the brass bell plate, and a deep, rich hum rolled into the damp, chilly air.
Only now, with the walking and talking both paused, did Randy notice the gnawing twist in his stomach. Before the echo had even faded, Fox pushed the door open.
Inside the lobby stood a stocky man with a thick gray mustache, a hat pulled low over his brow, and a dog-fur coat. He grinned like a cat spotting a juicy fish head, then smoothed his heavy brows that looked like a second set of mustache.
“Well, well, Cath! Wasting no time, I see…” He flicked a glance at Randy.
“Evening, Branimir,” Fox said evenly. “We’re about ready to eat each other alive.”
The innkeeper savored the list as if he could already taste it. “Gull, pickled soy sprouts, black mushroom, seal meat… chicken with potatoes… fried eggs with toast.”
Randy’s stomach flipped, and his mouth watered instantly.
“I hope you won’t say no to a meal,” Fox murmured, almost lightly—but there was a thin thread of sadness in her voice. “Let me help you this much, at least. And may your road be bright, if you choose to take it alone.”
He opened his mouth to refuse—but the hunger was a physical thing now, clawing at his ribs. And there was something else—her concern, however grudging, tugging at his curiosity. She must have shared her blood with him. Why?
“Bring me a little of everything,” Fox told Branimir. She unbuttoned her coat and stepped into the dining hall, where laughter and music swirled through the air.
She scanned the room first—calm, methodical—picking a table close to the exit, where she could watch the whole floor. Behind her, a sign nailed to the wall read in sloppy red letters: DON’T JACK THE TABLEWARE.
Picture Credit: Roman Bocharov (R.Dioneth)
Branimir’s place was packed. Von Bellinsghausen pulled in everyone—traders of every stripe, hired guns, gold hunters, working girls, wandering preachers, rumor-peddlers, bounty hunters. Anyone who, as the saying went, lived off the soles of their boots. Locals liked it too. Here you could fill your belly, sip herbal tea or something stronger, and, for a bit extra, soak in a barrel of steaming water. Deals were struck here, arm-wrestling matches settled grudges, and traveling performers worked the crowd. Day or night, the place never stopped buzzing.
The smell of seal meat and fried eggs crept over from the kitchen, clawing through Randy’s thoughts. Yeah, he could slip away here, maybe even find someone willing to listen about what she’d done. Tell the right ears, and Fox would be the one under guard this time. But an inner voice—the one that sounded surprisingly like his stepfather—kept tapping at the inside of his skull.
You don’t throw away such a sharp tool.
He’d seen enough in the last few days to know she had knowledge, tech, and reach. She could get him to the Seven Winds faster than anyone else in this city. And she’d already paid with two dogs to buy them both passage, though whether that was for his sake or her own, he couldn’t tell.
She caught him staring. For a heartbeat, he thought she’d call him on it. Instead, she glanced away, scanning the crowd again.
Randy’s eyes snagged on a guy at the next table.
Skinny legs propped up on the wood, wide-brimmed black hat tipped low, and in his arms—an honest-to-God six-string guitar. He cradled it like something alive, running long, spidery fingers over the strings as if combing someone’s hair. His own hair—dark blond with threads of gold in the lamplight—fell past his shoulders. Thick black smears framed his eyes, drawn with all the subtlety of a chunk of charcoal. Tattoos covered his hands; one, a bold black cross, cut across the first knuckle of his middle finger.
Randy had seen a guitar before—mostly at old Mariachi’s gatherings back in McMurdo. Mariachi treated it like a lover, polishing it with a scrap of suede after every song. Then there was Billy from the Silver Palace, whose instrument looked like it had survived a street brawl—or caused a few—barely holding together, more hammer than harp.
“Hey, kid! Play Young Mary’s Titties!” a burly red-bearded man bellowed from across the room, an anchor tattoo twisting on his forearm.
“Shove it—along with Mary’s titties,” the guitarist shot back, grinning like a small but venomous snake. “I’ve got my own setlist tonight.”
“I’ll pay in bullets!” the bearded man growled, slapping the table. Judging by his breath, he’d already spent a few rounds of ammo on contraband liquor from Dumont d’Urville.
“Bullets, diamonds—don’t care,” the guy said lazily. “I’ve got a deal with Branimir, not with you.”
The redbeard’s face tightened. “Who taught you to talk to your elders like that? Want a mouthful of snow, punk?”
He heaved himself up, a wall of muscle and scar tissue, the kind of man who could snap the guitarist’s neck just to make a point. But the guy didn’t flinch. He just watched with cool, almost amused detachment, as if he were studying an animal behind glass.
Randy’s fingers tightened around his fork until it bit into his palm.
“Relax,” Fox whispered beside him, catching the change in his posture. “There won’t be any blood.”
Then, without warning, she raised her voice—bright and carrying—toward the guitarist:
“Well, I’ll be damned! Look who it is! What brings you to Railtown, brother?”
She didn’t just approach; she dropped onto the bench beside him as if the anchor-armed brute weren’t looming over the musician at all. As if he didn’t exist. And when a woman like her does that, striding straight into your space, beautiful and cool, it’s easy to feel the ground shift under you.
Caught off guard, the loudmouth froze, hands on his hips, booze-soaked brain grinding through its gears. He needed a move that wouldn’t make him look weak in front of the woman… but wouldn’t mark him as a coward to the crowd either.
Then he felt the cold barrel of a pistol press gently but unmistakably against the back of his head. Whatever fire he had left went out like a snuffed candle.
“Everything all right, friend?” came a calm voice from behind—Branimir.
“Yeah, just... wanted to request a song,” the anchor-man muttered, teeth clenched.
“How’s that working out for you?”
“Not great.”
“Then maybe take your seat?”
“Yeah... maybe I will.”
Branimir didn’t lower the gun until the brute slunk back to his seat, shoulders hunched, greeted by open laughter from the crowd.
The guitarist offered a quick, muttered “thanks.” Whether it was meant for Branimir or Fox, Randy couldn’t tell. Then the man dropped his feet from the table, adjusted his grip, and struck the strings with such force that the entire room—the redbeard included—fell dead silent.
It was nothing like the delicate picking from earlier. The sound that ripped out of that guitar was raw and strange, nothing like anything Randy had heard back in McMurdo.
At first, the chords dropped like stones into a dark, deep well. Then they softened—tentative, thoughtful, almost tender. A minute later, the melody turned uneasy, mournful... then exploded in a storm of rattling strums, each one hitting Randy square in the chest.
Spellbound, he watched the guitarist’s fingers blur, pausing just long enough to press a chord before launching into another furious run. For the first time, Randy wished his parents hadn’t steered him toward Masako’s forge. He should’ve begged the old Mariachi, the only musician in town, to teach him, even though the old man never took students.
He threw a glance at Fox. Her eyes had gone wide and changed their color to stormy gray, like they had when she saw Ezra dead. Around them, the spell had caught everyone.
One man sat frozen, glass halfway to his lips. Another forgot to inhale from his joint—it burned down to his fingers, making him hiss. A third had slumped forward, face on the table, staring into nothing.
The final note trembled on the string like a raindrop clinging to a rooftop gutter… then slipped away, dissolving into the smoke and hush.
No one clapped. No one spoke. The noise of the dining hall had faded into something closer to reverence.
“That’s Golden Age music at its finest. Don’t forget it,” the guitarist said, tipping his hat just slightly before pulling it back down.
“Yeah… and definitely not meant to eat to,” Randy whispered to himself, still staring.
This was nothing like the lively strumming he’d grown up with. This was something else—something alive, filled with danger and soul. The guitarist wasn’t just background sound. He sang, too—low, wandering notes that cut through the room, pausing only for sharp little riffs.
All Randy had ever known were Masako’s humming, or the old songs his parents and neighbors sang around fires. He could still hum every lullaby Alda used to sing. And yeah, Mariachi played at every celebration in town, but time had inevitably damaged his guitar and, consequently, the sound. Music had been the color in the gray. But there was so little of it!
“I’m Lex,” the guitarist said once the three of them had gathered around the same table.
“I’m Cath. And this is my brother Randy,” said the former leader of the Lost Kids.
“Nice to see some fresh faces. You guys wouldn’t happen to be refugees, would you?”
Amazing how fast rumors spread… and how quickly nonsense could twist into something dangerously close to the truth.
Just then, Branimir returned with a tray full of steaming food. For the first time in what felt like days, Randy saw enough food to fill him up. It felt like a miracle. Still, Lex—and his music—pushed hunger into the background.
“No, Lex,” Fox said with a smile, breaking off a crisp piece of gull wing. “We’re on our own. But don’t be shy—the dinner’s on us.”
“Looks like a plan!” the young musician replied, winking.
*Fabian Gottlieb von Bellingshausen, polar explorer
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