Primal Gambit

Chapter 58: A Call to Arms

The harsh sounds of the whipping wind could be heard far above, where the rusted garage walls finally touched the outside. Deep in the dank underground, Drexel slumped far into the crevice of an old-world desk chair, his furry Russian hat shrouding his eyes in darkness. It was his turn on radio duty, which required him to sit for an excruciatingly painful amount of time in front of the massive salvaged radio, tuning in to various frequencies to gather intelligence on those planning to head into The Yard. This had given the gang of chop shoppers the upper hand as they frequently knew where scavengers would cross the borders into the badlands before it happened.

Radio communication at one point became an archaic method of transferring messages, though in the great relapse of the technological boom many previous technologies were resurfacing due to both their accessibility and reliability. Most people of the Inner City had delved into the fresh forms of communication but had since reformed. In The Yard, where all technology had been sent to die, the old ways were never replaced.

The wooden door creaked open behind the slumbering Drexel as someone entered the room. He was torn from his rest once the intruder kicked the chair over, sending the thin-framed maniac onto the floor.

"Hey what the fu..." Drexel swiped his hat into his hands and looked up through strands of sweat-clogged hair towards Axle, who growled down over him like the alpha of the pack.

The leader's grizzly paw grasped the smaller man by the chest and yanked him up, his other fist clenched and ready to pummel the insubordinate. Before he struck he bellowed a warning for all to hear:

"What did I tell you 'bout falling asleep on radio duty?" His face more closely resembled a wolf bearing fangs than it did an enraged man.

"I'm sorry Axe it just kind of happened I don't know h..." He adjusted his goggles with a free hand as the fall had contorted them across his forehead. As he shrunk in fear from the man that was about to make a lesson out of him, they were both suddenly pulled from the moment.

Their heads turned to the radio, white noise filling the room in eerie wonder as they waited mutedly for someone to begin speaking. Axle released Drexel from his grasp, who then pulled his hat back over his head.

"Which frequency is this?" Axle whispered out of the corner of his mouth. There was a superstition amongst the chop shoppers that had they spoken too loudly, the men on the other end would be able to hear them. Axle humored them. Drexel slowly leaned over the table and looked at a logbook that contained various frequencies and the factions that commonly used them:

"It's one of the ones the man-hunters use." Drexel whispered back referring to Marcotte, moving slow to ensure he didn't make a sound. They both listened cautiously, afraid to unsettle the spirits hiding within the white noise. Before Axle could answer they both heard the inklings of a voice coming to life:

"Mud Wasp, tag number: 0314, moving up on coordinates. Cookie Cutter, what's your current location?" The first voice fell silent as Axle pushed Drexel towards the table.

"Write the next numbers down, Drex." He whispered anxiously. The smaller man moved to the table and picked up a nearby pencil, the end of which was teethed down to a wet nub.

Axle had taught most of the clan how to record numbers. Whenever someone was on radio duty the leader had them write the numbers down. Even if they did not understand the symbols they were etching onto the old yellowed paper, Axle would be able to decipher it and discover the useful data later.

They both remained eerily still as a second voice resounded throughout the room, listing off various coordinates – those of the Cookie Cutter's location as well as where the two helicopters were headed. The latter number was what really mattered. When the white noise drowned out into the void and the two men were left surrounded by silence, Axle turned to Drex: