Smack-dab, in the Middle of Nowhere (Waste Stories #1)

31. ...Run in Circles, Scream and Shout (Part 6)

Phoenix had finally reached the base of the Starry Place, and mercifully it appeared that nobody was nearby. He half stumbled, half ran past some of the final few huts, most of which still bore the same multi-coloured, round-ended plank designs as those that were higher up Mount Butt. Bleeding beneath old bandages and feeling like he was bleeding where soon new ones would be needed, Phoenix limped further, winding his way through the steep streets to find the village gate and get the hell out of dodge, to where he could concoct an amazing plan.

He needed to somehow get back to the Constellator to see what had happened. Everybody reacted differently to their first bonkerberry, and there was a chance that she had just passed out from the sheer energy. It wasn't super common, but it was far from unknown, either. But he needed to get back to have a look, and to show everyone that he wasn't lying (about this, anyway). Phoenix was just glad the Constellator hadn't started dissolving from the inside out, which was probably the worst reaction he had ever seen - and not just because it was a fat bloke who took a long, long time to dissolve. Hours.

Phoenix shivered from the memory, and kept limping.

A loud humming noise hummed away to his left, and he saw a large structure with no walls catching the cables and chairs that intersected the Constellator's hut at the peak of the hill. They were moving, now, with the cables winding through a giant, rusted wheel before being cast back up the hill, chairs and all. The whole thing looked to be supported by massive pylons the entire way up the slope, but nobody rode the chairs. Phoenix watched a particularly wretched-looking specimen swing precariously in a sneaky gust of wind before snapping off and falling to its doom below, and the doom of the hut it crashed through. He swore he'd never ride that thing. Never in a million years.

A voice shouted somewhere in a parallel street and Phoenix knew it was time to limp on. He heaved his tired body forwards, focusing his mind on his destination, trying to forget about the aches and sharp pains screaming at him from just about all over. He was weaponless save for one small knife that he usually kept stashed ... well, never mind where he stashed it, it was not currently convenient. The important thing was that his prized rifle was gone, not to mention the gemstones that were his grenades, the myriad little doodads and gizmos of violence that he kept in his pouches, and, rather depressingly, his new Waste Beast tooth knife, which he'd grown incredibly fond of. All of it gone.

But still, he pushed on, for the gate was drawing near. He could see the perimeter fence in the dim village light, and there was a distinctly white glow coming from somewhere just over the next row of buildings that surely must have been the main gate. Phoenix sucked in a breath and ducked into a tight alley between two fat huts, hoping to keep ahead, and not to mention out of sight, of the wild mob nipping at his heels. He inched along, wading through old food scraps, discarded clothing, and more than one dead crate-cat, before popping out the other side to...

...to see a giant angry mob of armed cultists no more than a few feet from him.

The mob, one giant scowl, collectively barred the Starry Place main gate, which was bathed in an almost blindingly white light emanating from obese floodlights anchored to the steep slope above the Mount Butt road. Those in the mob growled audibly and gripped spears, axes, wooden bats and even one beautifully carved wooden tewhatewha - an axe-like Old World cultural weapon that was old even to the Old World, and that nobody could pronounce the name of, but which didn't matter because it was still a tewhatewha.

"Oh," Phoenix said awkwardly, coming to a stumbling, gentle halt as the realisation of the situation passed slowly through his exhausted brain. "Err, hello."

"There he is!"

"Get him!"

And to the cliché cries of mobs chasing escapees the Waste over, the mass of star-speckled angry cultists lurched forwards towards Phoenix. The throng surged like a giant ooze monster, a creature known for its particularly deadly surging. The cultists at the front were the most enthusiastic, charging off at full sprint, weapons held high and waving around irresponsibly. Those in the back followed suit row after row as the message to charge reached the cheap seats, but they had the courtesy to keep their blades and other killing implements close to their bodies so as to not chop the heads off their forward counterparts, which was awful nice of them.