The transition between worlds was losing its novelty, its terrifying grandeur diminished by sheer repetition. By the fourth time, the act of stepping through the shimmering emerald portal felt less like a journey between realities and more like commuting through a particularly disorienting subway turnstile. The brief, stomach-lurching twist of spacetime, the momentary blindness—it had become routine, devoid of ceremony. Needs more fanfare, Michael thought with a grim, internal smirk as the familiar, baked-earth scent of the wasteland filled his nostrils. Definitely a two-star experience.
Back in the brutal sunlight, the temporal math clicked in his head. Three and a half days had passed here. He found Zach exactly where he'd left him, but the Ogre's condition had deteriorated sharply. The spark of vitality was gone, replaced by a listless, sunken-eyed torpor. His massive chest rose and fell in shallow, alarming hitches. An Ogre's metabolism, Michael had learned, was a marvel of endurance, allowing them to survive for weeks on a single massive meal. But healing from catastrophic injuries was a different matter—it demanded a constant, colossal influx of energy. Zach wasn't just hungry; he was starving to death, his body cannibalizing itself to fuel the repairs.
"Up and at 'em, big guy," Michael called out, trying to sound cheerful as he maneuvered his groaning scooter closer. He heaved the two large, reeking buckets of kitchen slop onto the ground before the prone giant. "Dig in! Don't be shy, it's all for you." His tone echoed, with unintentional irony, the hearty solicitations of Auntie Fatty back at the greasy spoon.
Internally, he cringed. This wasn't food; it was the dregs of a restaurant's kitchen, a congealed, greasy mélange of rice scraps, vegetable peels, and the occasional forlorn noodle, all swimming in a murky, unidentifiable broth. Back home, feeding this to livestock was illegal, a frowned-upon practice blamed for spreading disease. He was braced for disgust, for outrage, ready to kick his scooter to life and flee if Zach took offense at being offered literal garbage.
Zach's single eye fluttered open. It focused on the buckets, not with revulsion, but with a reverence usually reserved for religious relics. A low, awe-struck groan rumbled from deep within his barrel chest. "Ancestors' mercy… such bounty! And… soup?" He looked at Michael, his expression one of profound, bewildered gratitude. "Master… your generosity shames the sun."
Before Michael could process this, Zach had seized a bucket in both massive hands, tilted his head back, and began to pour. A torrent of greyish-brown slop cascaded into his maw. He swallowed convulsively, a sound like a clogged drain clearing, until nearly half the bucket's contents were gone—at least twenty pounds of the stuff. He set the bucket down with a thud, wiped his greasy lips with the back of a meaty hand, and let out a sigh of pure, unadulterated bliss. "Exquisite."
Only then did he remember his manners. Turning to Michael with an expression of sheepish courtesy, he rumbled, "My apologies, Master. My hunger… it overcomes my hospitality. Please, share this feast?"
Michael's stomach did a slow, unpleasant roll. "I'm… good," he managed to choke out, turning away slightly. As he watched Zach set upon the second bucket with undiminished gusto, a pang of something akin to guilt twisted in his gut. This simple-minded, monstrous creature viewed swill as a banquet. When I'm flush, Michael promised himself silently, I'll get him some real food. Maybe that discount bulk pasta from the wholesale market. Something with an expiration date, but still… a step up.
…
By the time Michael returned for his fourth procurement run, the effects of the calorically dense (if aesthetically challenged) diet were undeniable. Zach's wounds had knitted over with thick, scabrous tissue. The Ogre moved with a cautious but returning power, the deep-seated weakness replaced by a simmering, impatient energy. The "slop treatment" was working. One more feeding, Michael estimated, and his personal colossus would be battle-ready.
"Don't need any tomorrow, Auntie," he told the disappointed restaurant owner as he handed over his final ten-yuan note. "Hog's going to market." Her face fell; his regular purchases had been a tidy, illicit bonus.
…
The morning sun, a pale, fierce eye in the bleached sky, beat down on the crest of a low hill overlooking Cinder Town. Michael lay prone in the dust, the cheap plastic of his 115-yuan, 8x "military" telescope pressing against his brow. The device was a joke, its lenses blurry at the edges, but it brought the ramshackle settlement into sharp enough focus.
Behind him, like a small, sulking mountain, lay Zach. The Ogre's transformation was striking. Not only had his wounds healed into ugly, rope-like scars, but he had also been… accessorized. It wasn't exactly plate armor, but it was a significant upgrade from "naked and armed with a tree."
A heavy, rusted manhole cover was lashed to his left forearm with fraying nylon rope, serving as a crude pavise. The passenger-side door of a derelict microvan was strapped across his chest and belly, a misshapen, dented breastplate. His original club had been discarded in favor of a new implement of destruction: the thick, solid axle from a long-dead truck, which he hefted as easily as a normal man might wield a baseball bat.
Arming his sole enforcer had been a priority, but funds were catastrophically low. These "upgrades" had been scavenged from a junkyard, purchased for just above scrap value. The final trip through the portal, laden with two slop buckets and this metallic junk, had nearly snapped the scooter's frame in half. To finance it, he'd been forced to pawn his laptop—his last non-essential possession, his gateway to movies, games, and a semblance of normal life. It had fetched a pitiful 850 yuan.
The transaction had felt like signing a contract in blood. This venture, this desperate gamble, was now all or nothing. Failure wasn't an option; it was ruin.
As they had set out from the cave that morning, a grim, fatalistic resolve had settled over Michael. Sink or swim. Do or die.The clichés rattled in his head, their truth cold and hard.
This resolve lasted approximately seven minutes.
They were still a good two miles from the town's jagged perimeter when Michael raised a fist, signaling a halt. A new factor had entered the equation. Another group was approaching Cinder Town from the opposite direction, and they had arrived first.
Cursing under his breath, Michael dropped and scrambled back to the hill's crest, Zach lumbering reluctantly behind him. Through the shaky telescope, the newcomers came into view. They were a ragged band, maybe three dozen strong, dressed in a motley assortment of patched fabrics and scavenged leathers. Their weapons were a testament to wasteland ingenuity: spears fashioned from pipe and sharpened rebar, clubs studded with nails, a few battered shotguns. They were advancing on the town with a tense, shuffling purpose, shaking their weapons and shouting challenges that were lost in the distance.
A siege. In the brutal economy of the wastes, fighting over a clean water source was as logical as breathing. This, in itself, didn't surprise Michael.
What nearly caused him to drop the telescope was the identity of the person leading the motley charge.
It was Jaunysmoke.
She was unmistakable. And she was, without a doubt, in command. While her followers trudged through the dust on foot, she rode in style—or at least, in unique wasteland panache. Her chariot was a heavily modified pedal-powered rickshaw. A long-limbed man with dark skin pumped the pedals with grim determination, sweat gleaming on his brow. The rickshaw's sides had been armored with welded sheets of rusty steel, transforming the humble vehicle into a makeshift, rolling fortress.
Perched regally in the cargo bed stood the rabbit-eared woman herself. The morning sun glinted off her golden hair, which flowed freely around shoulders left bare by a daring leopard-print bandeau top. A matching, impossibly short skirt completed the ensemble. The overall effect was one of savage, impractical glamour. But it was the accessories that truly defined her new role. Slung across her back, its handle worn smooth, was a fireman's axe. And resting casually on her shoulder, its twin barrels pointing skyward, was a sawed-off, double-barreled shotgun.
The combination was jarring, yet somehow perfect. The delicate, almost kitschy animal features, the provocative clothing, and the brutal, business-like weaponry created a dissonant, electrifying aura of danger and allure. She wasn't just a barmaid who'd knocked him out and robbed him; she was a warlord.
Michael's throat went dry. He adjusted the focus, drinking in the details: the confident set of her jaw, the way her tail twitched with predatory anticipation, the careless grace with which she balanced the heavy shotgun. Forget the betrayal, the stolen toilet paper, the lump on his head. At that moment, peering through his cheap spyglass, only one coherent thought formed in his mind, accompanied by an involuntary, hard swallow.
Damn. She is… spectacular.