Chapter 18

High in the broadcast booth overlooking the field from directly behind home plate, The General and Joker sit with their new host Mick Victor and another man neither of them has been introduced to yet. As usual, Joker stares an icy line through the wall, unaffected by the change of scenery around him but The General is lost in the sea of people beneath him. All across the field small fires flicker surrounded by ragged dwellings and gaunt-faced inhabitants. Their filth wafts upwards on the gentle breeze that finds it's way down inside the old ballpark.

Mick finally steps forward as if suddenly ready to address his new friends, visitors, and crucially important allies. The General can feel the sudden shift in the room despite the absence of any spoken words and he turns his attention from the human ant farm on the turf below and takes a better look at the man accompanying his fathers old war buddy.

The man is of small stature with pale, unhealthy looking skin. His eyes, which are sunken into his lumpy skull, appear grey and filled with sadness and despair. Tattoos grip at the man's neck like evil hands clawing at his jugular while a thin blonde mustache shields his thin upper lip. Despite the complete appearance of worthlessness the man gives forth The General feels in the pit of his stomach that this man possess some skill that makes him very important to their beckoning mission. Why else would Mick have asked him here?

"Gentlemen," Mick starts by addressing The General and Joker, "I would first like to thank you again for coming to our aid, I will forever be indebted. Second, I would like you to meet a man you will be working closely with in the coming days. Ulysses Lee and Joker Hundley, this is Petr Sobotka." The ghostly man, looking to be between the ages of thirty and forty nods.

"Mr. Sobotka will be a vital cog in our machine which takes back the wastes. As the son of former Russian mob leader, Serg Sobotka, Petr still has many loyal follows who know the Boston streets like no other and who, well, how should I say this... know how to think in ways my men don't," Mick chuckles as an insanely evil smile crosses the Russians severe face.

"Along with your men, I am sure that the growing power in the waste will crumble shortly. How many men and what supplies have survived the journey?"

"After a count we have been left with eleven men. Thirty undertook the trip," The General says in an extremely bewildered voice.

"Thats tough, and supplies?"

"Well, the arms they all bear. Pistols, nine's, forties, forty-fives. Shotties, mostly pump but a few semi twenties and twelves. Half a dozen submachine guns, all Tech-9's. The men who travelled with us also have brought weapons, what and how much I am unclear of. From the trucks we have a supply of a dozen AK's with two thousand boxed rounds along with two dozen nine's."

"Not a bad a haul at all my friend, would you say Mr. Sobotka?"

"Very nice," his haunting grey eyes twinkle with mischief.

"Oh and of course, the supply of C4 we salvaged just before beginning our trip. I'm sure you can find a use for that."

"Oh you have no idea," Sobotka's eyes light up as he speaks through a very thick accent.

"You spoke of the men that travelled with you. Can they help?"

"Most certainly I am sure of it."

"Who are they?"

"Well, there's Johan umm Kristmas and Saul something or other. They seam to be the unofficial leaders. Not trained fighters or hard cases but determined, especially Mr. Kristmas, he will surely help us if we promise to help find his lost love."

"And the others?"

"A young lady and three young kids, two teen girls and little boy. There's a hulking Scotsman by the name of Fergus who is built like an ox and enjoys destroying people, he'll most definitely be an asset. He also comes with a young woman attached. The last two I'm not sure of how helpful they'll be. One pretty Italian widower who has taken a great nose dive since her old man's death and a hobbling old Irishman, formerly of the IRA."

"Any man of the IRA can always be of some use."

"Especially with a whole cache of C4," Petr chuckles as his cold demeanor seams to be evaporating away.

"Okay, so the mission starts when?"

"I'm glad you're eager, first field operation will be tomorrow. Strictly recon though. We need to find where these bastards are based or where their strongholds are because we have to fucking idea."

"Motorcycles aren't exactly the best recon vehicles," The General says in an unconvinced voice.

"Certainly not, this will just have to be another opportunity to adjust and adapt."

"How many men will undertake this mission?"

"Five, maybe six."

"Two of which will be me and one of my men," Sobotka adds.

"Pick the three or four men you can rely on most to be quiet and controlled."

"I have one already."

"Oh yeah?"

"My friend here, Kiril. You'll find no better man than he."

"Alright, find two or three more for me so they can all be debriefed," Mick replies and nods to the young faced leader of men before him.

"I shall return," The General nods and leaves to exit the room followed closely by his loyal bodyguard. They come into a narrow hallway lined with old photos and make their way back to the open field.

"What do you think Petr?" Mick asks his Russian ally.

"I'm optimistic... surprisingly. That Kiril looks an able man."

"Able? You have no idea my friend. That silent, scarred, statue of a man is killer. A cold blooded, machine-like killer of the likes I've never seen before."

"Not often do my eyes and gut deceive me."

"Let's go back to the others, I don't like this," Faux grips at Torri's arm as they stroll among the masses of hunched over, heroin-using refugees.

"I'll be fine."

"I don't want you to fall into the holes these people have."

"I'm over that, I don't need it," Torri replies despite the fact that the very idea has been dancing in her head since their arrival.

"I'm scared."

"I'm just looking around, go back to the others if you want. I'll be back in no time."

"No, I'm not leaving you to them. I don't trust you."

"I can take care of myself."

"Just like that night in the field?"

"Well, I figure I'm not gonna live forever."

"Then don't do it for you, do it for me."

Torri pauses and ceases her gentle stride. With a deep breath she glances over at her best friend and loyal lover. Her blackish eyes lock onto the deep emerald of Faux's irises and she immediately notices the look of deep concern. Feeling sad and a little bit ashamed for causing her companion so much heartache, Torri reaches out and embraces Faux.

"I'm sorry Faux, I really am. I don't know what I'd do without you. Everything has gone to shit. I would feel so alone. I know Alieana loves me but she's got so many other things on her mind and ever since the captain died Orabella hasn't been the same."

"I'm here for you hun."

"I know. I know. Don't ever leave me."

"I won't. Let's go back to the others. I hate this place."

"Okay, yeah. That should be good."

Holding each other close they walk slowly back in the direction from which they came. Tears sit heavy in Torri's eyes.

The bikers and the others have a built a large fire and broken open a case of rations to ease their barren stomachs. The warm embers and fragrance of food draws a few roving beggars who are welcomed with open arms as everyone feels hospitable and warm after surviving such a treacherous trek.

One dirty man brings along a small, solar powered music player and turns on a tune in order to lighten the mood. The quality is poor as static strangles much of the tune, however Saul can still pick out the lyrics as they come back through a cloud from his past.

Sad to say I must be on me way

So buy me beer and whiskey 'cause I'm goin far away

I'd like to think of me returning when I can

To the greatest little boozer and to Sally MacLennane

The tune is happy and upbeat, tinged with heavy Irish influences. A true drinking song sung in bars and at wakes. But for the life of him, Saul can't recall the singer of the song. Just another aspect of the world he used to know that finds itself slowly fading into the black oblivion of time.

"So who the fuck is this 'queen' we've been called to dispatch?" one of the bikers yells out helped along by heavy amounts of alcohol.

"She's the damn reason we're all hiding in this shit hole," the dirty man with the radio whose name is Ben, replies.

"How she do it? Control so many blood thirsty, killer men?"

"How she do it? How else have women controlled men over the course of time? The tantalizing, slave making, male-neutering, sweet taste of pussy. All I can say is this queen must have a golden twat!" Ben chuckles over the hum of his radio.

"There's gotta be more to it then that," another biker dismisses his theory.

"Don't underestimate the power of pussy."

"Regardless, how are we going to stop her army?" Saul asks casually with his arm around Alieana.

"Last night I saw Serg Sobotka's boy coming to meet with Mick. I reckon that must mean something."

"Serg Sobotka?" Fergus ponders.

"Serg 'Slayer' Sobotka of Boston's Russian mob. Old Serg was supposedly in Moscow when the attacks happened and his boy Petr took the reigns and has done a brilliant job of turning his father's organization into a shining beacon of hope in this new city of hell. He can't stand to see another, let alone a woman, controlling the streets his father worked so hard to take control of," everyone is silent as they sit and listen to Ben's story of Russian mobsters.

"So are you sayin' we'll be working with Russian mobsters in this 'war'?" Hollowpoint asks in a voice that doesn't sound at all convinced.

"Wouldn't surprise me none."

"Outlaw and outlaw called to save the day. Got a job too dirty for your pretty little conscience? Have the criminals and dirtbags do the dirty work for ya," Molotov chuckles as he sucks on a cigarette.

"And you love every minute of it," Hollowpoint replies.

"Why yes, I do enjoy being the conscienceless one. It's my excuse for behaving badly."

"But anyways, from what I hear, Sobotka has some dangerous men at his disposal. Real old country muscle. Hitmen, spies, ex-Spetznaz agents, even some grizzled former KGB lieutenants."

"Let's just hope someone brought vodka," Iasan chuckles as he rejoins the group after acquiring a magnified stagger and slurred words.

"Well I see the Irishman found his whiskey, I'm sure the Russki's will have no problem finding a bottle of Smirnoff," Molotov flicks his spent butt onto the grimy, dead outfield grass.

"Russki's? What the hell yer talkin' boy?"

"Seams we'll be allied with some crazy Balkan bastards from now on."

"Well, better then some more hick-assed rednecks who tried ter burn half they face off," Iasan jabs back at the scarfaced Molotov.

"Keep laughin' ya mick prick. Old irish bastard."

"Take a joke boyo, i wasn't intendin' ter make yer hot under the collar," Iasan belts out a bark of jubilant laughter.

"You know what old man?"

"What's 'at boyo?"

"You ain't half bad for a whiskey drenched, bowlegged pikey."

"And you ain't too bad neither... considering your ma and da had the same ma and da," the others burst into laughter over this passionate insult.

"Well your parents were so worried that you couldn't tell your mother from your father that they decided to nurse you with bottle's of Bushmills to save you from having to suck on your mummies saggy, hairy tits."

"Now wouldn't that last scenario make yer ma and da ur aunt and uncle as well? And what about yer sisters? They be yer cousins too?"

"Haha, asshole," Molotov concedes with a slight smile creasing his lips.

"Inbred fuck," Iasan laughs back as he hobbles to his bantering partner and pats him playfully on the shoulder.

"Alright men, so starts our new mission," The General stands before the men he has chosen to undertake the Russian led mission. The group includes Joker, of course, along with Hollowpoint and a young biker named Greylocke. The forth and final member is Johan, you insisted on doing something productive in order to ease his troubled mind.

"Petr Sobotka will be your commander on this endeavor which will be purely reconnaissance, you will only fire your weapons in an emergency. The Russian will be bringing one other man who I have yet to meet but I am sure he will be more then well trained."

"What are we looking for?" Hollowpoint interjects.

"We need to find to find where these motherfuckers are laying their heads. What they are using to house themselves."

"How do we know they have a home and they're not just roving bandits?"

"We don't, hence the mission. But we have good reason to believe that they're a united army. You remember when we came into the city, we weren't fighting off scattered bands of thieves. Those men were working together as a unit. The attacks were very planned out."

"So we have to find who's controlling them."

"This 'queen' from what they say. An evil siren who's snatch brainwashes the men of the wastes. We hope to find her lair."

Just as The General finishes his statement, Petr Sobotka walks in accompanied by a man that oozes with danger and who's eyes appear keen and cunning. He's older then Petr but in far better shape, his lean but chiseled frame is covered in an outfit of tight, urban camo and his large feet encased in gray army boots. On one hip rests a vicious looking single-edged blade while the other is home to a small black Makarov pistol set in a speed holster. His face is cold and serious, sheathed in a thin layer of white whiskers. A strap hangs around his neck with a pair of high-powered binoculars tethered between his pectorals. His eyes scan his new partners with his gaze landing longest on Joker.

"Gentlemen, this is one of my most skilled men. Former Spetsnaz assassin, Rej Trevelyan," the others just look at him suspiciously. "Most skilled gunman you're apt to find anywhere near here." The General and Joker both look at each other simultaneously as if to say 'we'll see about that' but they just simply grin and return their attention to the two Russians.

"Well, this is Kiril Hundley, or Joker, whom you've already met. The other men I have selected I know will serve you well. This is Roland Hollows, we call him Hollowpoint, my sergeant at arms. Next is Mario Greylocke, just call him by his surname. He's are freshest member, patched in right after the attacks. Lastly we have Johan Kristmas, not an MC member but a good man regardless, he fought for this spot on the team."

"Very good, very good. Shall we be briefed then?"

"Go right ahead, I'm just here to sit in as I'll be staying behind," The General encourages Petr to begin explaining their mission.

"This is a recon mission, so that means NO shots fired. Understand? We fire only in an extreme emergency. Understand? What we're trying to establish is where these heathens are based and where they're murderous queen holds court. With this information we can choreograph a pinpointed attack. Recon soldiers are the most skilled and daring warriors on a modern battlefield and you men will hold that distinction after this mission."

"How are we traveling?" Hollowpoint asks.

"Not by motorcycle I assure you. We walk."

"Are we splitting up?"

"We will be, and I'd like to think of this unit as a machine steered by me. I'll address you to speak."

"If I wanted to be a mindless bitch-boy to a power hungry commander I would have joined the Marines, not the MC."

"Roland! Enough," The General cuts in before Petr can make a retort.

"We'll break up into three groups. Me and Rej and the four of you paired off. I don't care who goes with who."

"You take Joker bud, you'll need all the help you can get," Hollowpoint says to Johan whose face looks rather blank and empty. The scarred right face of Joker nods and glances in Johan's direction through his blackened sunglasses.

"Here's how it's going to work: me and Rej will be on the ground dressed as waste dwellers and we'll try and blend with the bandits. The two groups will be set up in the tallest buildings where you will watch all of our moves. Hopefully we will lead you to some sort of base camp or dwelling."

"And what if you're figured out?" Hollowpoint asks.

"Trust me, we can handle ourselves."

"Against an army of heavily armed murderers?" Petr simply grins and winks at Hollowpoint's disbelief.

"So when is the opportunity right to open fire?"

"When you deem a team member's life to be in danger."

"The second we step outside the Green Monster we're all in danger."

"You know what I mean."

"When do we move out?" Johan breaks his silence.

"As soon as we can."

"Then let's get on with it," Hollowpoint grumbles as he stands, ready to get underway.

The day before them actually appears to somber and quiet, an eerie beauty hangs over the demolished streets of Boston. A heavy fog dances and drifts in among the high standing buildings, the ghost of all those lost since the great fallout six years previous. Johan sniffs deep and his lungs are filled with air that still seams so familiar to him only this time the salty sea air isn't accompanied by the damp, oldness he's used to but rather a cold, dead heaviness created by a mixture of rotting death and hopeless despair. He sits stoically high above the ground with his silent, emotionless partner by his side. Peering out over the raped landscape through the scope of his Dragunov rifle, Johan can see their two allies moving slowly through the streets. Each identified by their own marker, Petr with a fluorescent orange cap and Rej with a line of yellow tape stretching across his broad shoulders.

The two Russians haven't encountered anyone yet which strikes Johan as a little odd considering upon their arrival in the city they were hit with an onslaught of heavily armed enemies. Needless to say, the vacancy of the streets is more then a little disquieting. For a brief second Johan takes his sights off of his allies and scans the surrounding buildings in hopes of discovering where their other two biker allies are hunkered down.

Before he can locate them a hand falls gently on his shoulder and he jerks back to reality with a start. Bringing his face away from the scope, he peers sideways at Joker who ticks his head as if to tell him to take a look at their friends on the ground. Johan obeys and finds that the Russians are being approached by a small group of tough looking men all armed with either rifles or shotguns.

Petr and his assassin partner talk calmly with their confronters as the fog between them and their guardian angels begins to dissipate under the eye of the rising, late morning sun. The talking goes on for a good ten minutes and Johan finds himself getting impatient.

"What the hell are they jabbering about?" he mumbles under his breath.

Joker coughs and hawks up a wad from deep in his lungs and sends it out through the window they sit in.

"I don't like this. I don't like it at all."

Five hundred yards from Johan and Joker sit Hollowpoint and Greylocke. The sergeant at arms peers through a set of old binoculars while Greylocke has his sights straight through a scope sitting atop a bolt action rifle. In the center of the crosshairs he can see Petr and Rej strolling casually down the middle of the street.

"Arrogant fucking Russians, do they realize what we sacrificed to come up here and help them?"

"More then those vodka guzzling, KGB bitches."

"Son of a bitch want to give me orders? You haven't earned that respect yet boy. How I'd like to shove both barrels of my twelve gauge up his Balkan ass and blow those rancid guts from every orifice of his flat fucking face."

"Best gunman left on this earth, bull-fucking-shit. Joker would have that commie cunt filled with an entire clip and have him bleeding out on the pavement before his boney hands could even touch iron," Greylocke sneers down the the barrel of his sniper rifle. "I oughta blow both of their goddamned brains out."

"Easy killer, as much as I'd like to we got a mission to do. Orders from The General."

"Who'd ever know? Just tell him the dirtbags didn't buy their disguise."

"And what of Joker and the other fella? You know how loyal Kiril is, we'd be the ones in the crosshairs next. Besides, I'm not quite sure I trust your shot just yet. Especially to take down a Russian Mob boss and a former Spetsnaz assassin. Let's just stick to the plan, chances are they'll get themselves killed without our help."

"I could hit 'em. I know it."

"We'll never know will we?"

Silence is once again upon them as they sit high above the old, broken city and thier two Russian 'comrades'. Finally, Petr and Rej are approached by a small group of men armed like a battalion. A gentle, satisfied grin crosses Hollowpoint's face and he chuckles just enough for Greylocke to hear.

"What is it man?" Greylocke whispers.

"Fucking asshole said he could handle the bandits. Let's see how well two minimally armed vodka-guts fair against six shotgun and rifle armed wastelanders."

"If shit goes down I'm blowing the assassin's head of first. For some reason I imagine that head will be good for an epic explosion."

"If shit goes down take out the one who poses the greatest threat."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah..."

"Concentrate, it could be happening any minute now."

"Where is everybody?" Petr mumbles as they stroll along Boston's cracked and dying streets.

"They'll be here when the time's right," Rej says back quietly.

"That I'm sure of."

They walk along, Petr has a small Uzi strapped tightly to his chest which is hidden under a battered old hooded cloak. His right hand is tucked away inside with it's fingers locked tightly around the submachine-gun's grip. Rej also dawns a cloak which hangs down to his ankles. Underneath, his urban camo fit tightly to his skin and his pistol and combat knife sit loyally on each hip. An even smaller pistol is strapped to the calf of his right leg.

Despite the eerie silence and ghostly vacancy of the streets, Petr and Rej remain cool and collected. Just another day of work in their everyday lives, men born and trained to perform under circumstances normal men would crumble and wither beneath.

The smooth, unfazed beatings of the two Russian's hearts soon ends as six shadows seam to atomize from nothing and grow larger, moving menacingly towards them. Rej and Petr both remain their composure as they are approached and confronted by six bandits armed with shotguns and rifles.

"Well looky what we got here, some fresh meat," one of the bandits, armed with a shotgun, says as he steps out ahead of the rest as if to be their leader.

"Don't look like they have much nuthin' to me."

"You fella's with the cause?"

"We'd like to be," Petr replies as Rej spies them silently.

"Where the fuck are you from?" the leader asks inquisitively.

"We're Russian."

"Russian? How the fuck you get here?"

"Why the fuck it matter?"

Without another word, the leader of the bandit raises his barrel and points in directly at Petr's face.

"You're in no position to talk like that to me you bitch."

"Of course not, my apologies."

"Somethin' aint right about you boys."

"I mind pointing that barrel somewhere else?" Rej speaks up.

"Oh, I'm sorry. How's this?" the bandit, with an evil sneer turns the aim of his barrel from Petr's face to that of Rej. The Russian hitman is not impressed.

"Get the damn barrel out of my face, fucking pizda."

"Pissda? What the fuck that mean?" Rej just smiles and looks the bandits straight in the eye unaffected by the hulking barrel shoved in his face.

"What's it mean you fucking asshole?!"

"You really want to know?"

"I'll fucking kill you."

"Drop the barrel and I'll tell you."

The bandits takes a deep breath and sneers with bitter hatred and evil. He lowers the shotgun's barrel and holds his hands out as if waiting for something special to happen.

"Pizda, with a Z in Russian... means," Rej takes a deep breath and flashes a playful smile, "Cunt." As the words roll of his lips in his common Baltic dialect, anger flashes in the bandits name from the humiliation.

"Let's see who the cunt is when you're bleeding in the road," he jerks his shotgun upwards in what he thinks of to be a speedy motion. To Rej's eyes the draw is slow and cumbersome. Without the bandit even knowing what is happening, Rej's hand flies the Makarov on his waist beneath his cloak and draws it with lighting speed. Using his other hand, he parries the shotgun barrel to the side of his head as a loud crack echoes out right beside his ear. He pulls the now hot barrel down and to his side and the bandit along with it. The hardened, skinny body of the bandits collides with Rej's athletic, statuesque frame. He leans his head down and whispers gently in the bandit's ear.

"Pizda motherfucker," he mocks just before sending three shells into the helpless bandit. The first punches through his belly filling his empty stomach with hot, heavy blood. The second is more north as it splits his trachea and spinal chord. The last shot smashes hard direct, right between the man's bloodshot eyes.

Before any blood can touch him, Rej tosses the lifeless body away and bolts back to what's happening in reality. Petr has unleashed his Uzi and is blasting off rounds straight through his tattered cloak which is quickly disintegrating. Two shots ring out, both from very different directions, and hit their target. The same target. A bandit armed with a bolt action hunting rifle suddenly finds his head exploding into thousands of pieces as two rifles shells hit it simultaneously from over two hundred yards out.

Two bandits remain and they quickly turn tail and run. Petr is out of shells and let's the Uzi fall back to his chest to allow the men to flee. Rej doesn't do the same. He fire's off the last shell from his Makarov which hits the farthest runner right between the shoulder blades. In a flash, Rej bolts after the last attacker with his vicious combat knife in hand. He quickly closes the distance and slashes swiftly at the bandit's ankle. The blade cuts neat and true as it severs the man's achilles tendon sending him sprawling in a heap and screaming in pain.

"You're all Pizda," Rej fumes as he rolls the agony riddled man over onto his back. "Bully the weak. How's it feel?"

"Just kill me."

"You welcome death to quickly. Maybe you should think about it some more," Rej weighs his knife in hand and sends the blade straight down through the bandit's uninjured ankle. He screams out once more and writhes in pain.

"Let's go Rej, before more show up that don't underestimate us."

"This is a mission for another day."

"Let's fucking go!" The two jog off as the streets begin move with bandits coming out of the woodwork. Behind shadows and with their knowledge of the Boston streets, the two Russians avoid any further contact with the enemy. Their hearts race as their feet carry them in a natural path back to safety. They finally regroup with the others just outside of Fenway Park. Johan and Joker arrive first followed by the Russians and finally the two bikers, Hollowpoint and Greylocke. The sergeant does not look very happy as his face is severe and marked with genuine disgust.

"What the fuck was that?" Hollowpoint confronts Petr and his trusty partner.

"Things got carried away."

"What happened to being covert and running strict recon?"

"He took something I said the wrong way. I felt threatened. I acted," Rej explains.

"I thought you assholes could handle it," Greylocke sneers.

"Can't say I'm really surprised. That what arrogance gets you. You Russki assholes. No wonder you were always getting outmuscled by the Irish in your drug trade with street skills like you just exhibited.

"What the fuck do you know about Beantown street politics?"

"I know you bitches constantly got ass raped by the Paddy MacManus' boy when you tried to start running crank over their tar business," Greylocke cuts in once more.

"How the fuck would you know?"

"Everyone know. The Russians are the Irishman's whipping boy."

"We'll get them next time," Petr steps between his man and the young biker who find themselves drawing near a heated exchange.

"There won't be a next time. 'Cus we aint workin' with you again. Let's go Grey," Hollowpoint storms off with Greylocke close behind him.

"What do you have to say Joker-man?" Rej chuckles at Joker.

joker just smiles and stares daggers through the Russian. With a snort he spits a large wad onto the ground and follows his fellow bikers.

"Yeah...." Johan says. "Yeah that," he walks away still longing for his ever elusive closure.

"What the hell happened?" The General demands from his sergeant.

"Damn Russki hitman couldn't keep his composure. The mission went all to shit because he can't hold his tongue. I'm not working with them again."

"You will if I say, I'll have to talk with Mick about it though. We can't have guys going off like that in dangerous situations. So there was no valuable information obtained."

"Not a goddamned speck," Hollowpoint grumbles.

"Go relax you two," The General says to Hollowpoint and Johan, "we'll figure out the next step and let you know tomorrow."

"Yes sir. Come on partner," Hollowpoint grumbles to Johan and struts off still looking thoroughly pissed off.

Johan quickly looses track of Hollowpoint in amongst the mob of refugees down on the field. His stomach rumbles for food and a tiny pinprick of pain stabs at his brain from the fatigue and the stress. He is slowly beginning to realize that his hail mary, prayer of a quest is nothing more then an unrealistic dream that's left him jaded and grasping at false hope. When was it time to just move on?

With his mind flashing between different thoughts and moods, he comes back to others where he is greeted with inquisitive faces. Saul and the others are eager to be filled in on his recent mission.

"How'd everything go man?"

"Like shit," Johan says plainly.

"What happened? Is everyone okay?"

"Yeah, we're all fine. As fine as we can be of course."

"You must be hungry, come and have a bite," Alieana encourages him with a bowl filled with what looks like rice and diced hotdogs.

"Thanks," he gratefully takes the meal and begins to inhale it with his bare hands.

"What's it like out there?" Fergus joins the conversation.

"Hmm?"

"The wastelands? What they like?"

"Like an urban wasteland."

"Take me with ya next time. I gotta see it."

"Why would you want to see it?" Regan asks indignantly.

"Who knows how much longer I gots ta live. Imma live while I'm still alive."

"Where the young ones? Torri and Faux? And Raul?"

"They actually found some other kids to play with. I think they really need it," Alieana replies.

"So what's next?" Saul asks his best friend.

"I have no idea."

"For you or for their great endeavor?"

"Both."

"Why don't you let them undertake their mission and tend to your own business?"

"My business? You mean my ignorant dream?"

"Man, I know you don't mean that."

"What makes you so confident?"

"I saw the way you bolted from that castle turret without a second thought. Hell bent on getting back to what you love most. The Johan I know, doesn't give up on anything unless he's physically restrained and relieved on consciousness. We're gonna find you your closure. Just leave that other fruitless mission alone and do what you need to do."

"But I can't help but feeling like my mission and their mission are some how intertwined."

"Then let's find out how."

"You think so?"

"Fuck yeah! I'm here for ya man. We walked on Mars together, I'll go anywhere to help you out. Absolutely."

"Well, we've got until tomorrow to start," Johan chuckles.

"It'll be a good campfire night tonight then. Take your mind off things," Alieana suggests.

"Okay, that' what we'll do then. Thanks again, to all of you."

The night is spent, by all the member's of the group, chatting and drinking merrily around the fire. For the moment at least Johan's mind is occupied by something other then Maria and his bleak prospects of finding her. With the help of friends and a bottle of Jamesons he escapes to another world.

Torri and Faux, as they usually do, break from the group in order to spend some time alone. With a bottle of Apple Smirnoff and a small stolen blunt in her hands, Torri leads her once innocent girlfriend into the shadows to further tarnish her adolescence. Not that she minds.

"Have you ever had this before?" Torri holds up the clear bottle embroidered with light green.

"No..."

"Me either, oh well, just as long as it gets us drunk."

The two find a spot within the decrepit remains of Fenway's seats well away from anyone else and Torri cracks open the vodka bottle. She raises the long neck to her mouth and sips greedily at the harsh but fruity liquid. A hard, bitterness hits her lips and tongue followed shortly by an unnatural sourish sweet flavor. Pulling away from the bottle, Torri wipes her mouth off and breathes a sigh of disgust and satisfaction.

"How is it?"

"Here, you try," Torri hands the bottle over as she continues to rinse the taste from her mouth.

"Kay," Faux now takes the bottle and, not wanting to look like she doesn't drink, pounds down a large, burning gulp.

The pair guzzle and sip until they find themselves properly inebriated. With a silly grin, Torri cuddles up to Faux and pulls out the blunt which she had lifted from a sleeping drunkard. Placing it between her plump lips, she strikes a match and sets the largest end ablaze. Her inhale is deep and hard, followed a few seconds later by frantic coughing and spitting.

"Here, you try," she fights off her coughing fit.

Faux, once again not wanting to look out of place, draws a long sip of pot smoke and lets it fester inside her lungs. As she passes the hand rolled cigarette back to Torri, her surrounding begin to swirl and she quickly passes out. Torri chuckles, takes another drag, smothers the ember at the end of the blunt and closes her eyes for some sleep with her best friend and love.

The world has become so dark and bitterly unbearable as it's seen through the the eyes of Orabella. The loneliness caves in harder with every passing day. Just the thought of the captain and his poor, simple, younger brother lying somewhere rotting in a city far away causes the widower to wish herself dead.

She wanders alone amongst the scattered refugees trying to find some way escape reality. The events of the past week have turned the Italian beauty into a disheveled wreck, a woebegone shell blindly suffering through her existence. The constant draw of the ever present heroine around her is becoming too much to bare.

She finally gives in to the temptation as she approaches a scared looking, hunched over man who is busy melting a fresh vial of dope with a lighter and dirty old spoon. He glances up at her through evil, sunken eyes that are glazed and strangled with redness.

"Whatchu want?"

"I'd like to join you," Orabella fights back some tears.

"Ya would would ya? Well my shit aint free darlin."

"What can I give you for a try?"

"For a try? Ya mean you never shot up before?"

"No... never."

"Well I suppose the first fix is on me. Take a seat sweet thang," the ugly junky scoots his butt over and pats the space on the blanket beside him for her to take a seat. Orabella sits down and proceeds to watch the man, who calls himself Rupe, fill an old hypodermic needle with the liquidized heroin. Once filled, he taps the glass cylinder with his middle finger to send the air bubbles to the surface. With a final squeeze, Rupe ejects the last remnants of air.

"I'll show ya how," Rupe places the syringe between his teeth and then wraps a large elastic band around his bicep. The veins bulge from his starving arm and he plunges the needle into a battle torn patch of skin on the inside of his elbow that looks like rotting hamburger. Half the dose is inserted and the junkie immediately begins to look floaty and stoned.

"The rest is mine?"

"Indeed... just.... find a good vein," Rupe sighs and hands her the half spent needle as he lays his head back and enjoys his escape.

Here it goes," her hands shake almost uncontrollably as the needle draws close to the vein. With a gasp, the dull tip punctures her soft skin and enters a fresh vein. As the tar enters her body her head instantly floats and all her pain, dulled beyond recognition. Just as the needle is removed the last thing she hears is Rupe's gravely voice.

"Now just lay yer head back and sleep, you won't feel any of this..."