Primal Gambit

Chapter 36: Vikhr Finds Malgrove

The old-world pickup rested atop a cliff compiled of debris. Vikhr had come a long way since train-hopping. The peak itself overlooked the corrupt borough of Malgrove, one of the worst areas surrounding The Dark City. Vikhr had seen the pittance in which man had buckled to; the emptiness people were willing to eke out an existence in, but nothing like this. There was little that defined the neighborhood from the rest of The Yard. He pulled the rusty screwdriver from the driver's heart and wiped the dripping metal on the dead man's jacket. Had the owner of the truck not threatened to turn the illegal hitchhiker in to the authorities for a quick reward, he may still have been breathing. Bits of breastbone flaked from the small incision as the Siberian stepped out of the vehicle and surveyed the land below him.

Junk buried the streets until they could no longer be seen – first floors to apartment blocks were drowned in the rubble. Tents and makeshift cardboard dwellings made up the space in between – even the rooftops fell victim to the homeless. Some buildings had collapsed completely, buried under old plane fuselages or freighter ships – and the rogues that resided within Malgrove, like parasites, had taken them over as well. It was as if some jaded and uninterested deity took their hand and leisurely threw the massive machines around, just to see how humans would react. One behemoth airship laid between the rooftops of two nearly crushed buildings. Streetlights were crooked and flickering, some keeled over altogether – padded by the debris below.

Malgrove had fallen and no one was there to reinstate it to the thriving borough of factory families it had once been. The sun had yet to rise, though the cloud bases caught the bright light and eradicated the shadows that dominated the night. The packs of wild dogs and other unnamed beasts were staved off for another day – nesting at the fringes of the neighborhood to await the next nightfall so that they may continue plucking the famished and the destitute from their sorrow.

Vikhr had arrived. The hellish scape was just as he had imagined it, and though he hadn't yet entered The Yard on foot, he realized the private contractor's forewarnings would prove sensible. The brute turned to the driver's side of the truck – the door squealing on rusted hinges as it opened. Gloved hands grasping the collar of the driver's vest, Vikhr pulled the slumped body to the earth and knelt next to it. Opening pouches and pockets, the Siberian looted anything worthwhile – loose bullets shuffled in his palm as he placed them into his own pockets. The shooter had to be near for the deceased driver to have been carrying them on his person. Unfurling a billfold from his back pocket, Vikhr found three dollars and a tattered ID. Throwing it to the side, he rose to the sight of Malgrove once more – wondering if he would have better luck seeking shelter in The Yard itself.

He paid no mind once he heard the distant yipping of a pack of dogs. Sitting down in the driver's seat, he put the pickup in reverse and backed up so that he could return to what was left of the highway – the only entrance into the borough. Though a pack of marauders may have been there to meet him at the exit ramp, it was something he was willing to risk. Perhaps he could strike a deal with them and make out with some cash before heading to the Inner City the next morning, though transportation would prove to be an issue.

His fingers clutched the center console in search of the shooter. Nothing but junk inside – loose papers, nail clippers, and a rock with baseball stitching drawn onto it. He furrowed a brow and shook his head, turning his attention to the glove compartment. When he opened it, his eyes were met by the shining obsidian steel of the shooter. Vikhr took it into his hand and looked over the specifications, making snap judgments toward the repairs he would have to make to it.

The piece was of Russian design, a small detail that filled the Siberian with hope. Even though the right winged group out of Russia had a chokehold on his people – the pistol was still a beacon of nostalgia. It reminded him of home, which felt farther away than it ever had. Vikhr had never used a shooter of this type before – it was so small that his finger barely fit through the trigger ring. The red-brown handle was dinged and scratched from years of misuse. He intended to disassemble it later to find out what needed to be cleaned or replaced.