Chapter 7
A New Shoot
Railton was much larger than Bridge-Pier Village—a rare mid-sized settlement in Southern Tarvakh.
The town sat on the ruins of an old subway station. Its core was the shell of a vast concourse hall. Most of the reinforced-concrete vault had survived; after the Impact, a few fires and years of rain had left the shell brittle, webbed with cracks like old, split hide. Inside, the hall had been turned into market stalls and storehouses. Underground air-raid tunnels linked to several branch lines—now where drifters hid from sandstorms and harsh winters.
The tavern backed onto the square, where traveling merchants most often stopped. Pack rabbits chest-high to a man were usually hitched out front—thick ears, broad backs, heads down in the dry grass.
Beside the square, a notice board hung crooked. Rusted rail segments lay scattered around it like the town's bones. Out on the edges of town stood scattered mud-wall homes and workshops roofed in scrap iron, smelter chimneys trailing black smoke.
Every time Eren came, the place felt busier than the village and messier too. The air mixed rust, smoke, and the charred edge of cooking food. Wind lifted dust in sheets, but brick walls and the vault kept it warmer than open barrens.
When Eren walked into Railton, the sun had just cleared the broken wall east of the rail square, throwing long shadows across rust-red tracks. The square looked the same as always: a few tilted utility poles leaning together like drunkards; the notice board nailed to the old concourse wall, papers rattling in the wind, edges yellowed and curled.
Seven or eight people lounged along the square's edge—some wrapped in torn cloaks, some leaning against the wall smoking hand-rolled cheap tobacco. Smoke bloomed white in the cold air and thinned fast.
Eren went straight to the notice board and scanned the torn sheets.
On top was a guild notice. Below it, a crooked stack of postings—new over old, corners lifting in the wind like a deck of worn cards.
He read down the list: escort Crystone samples to the southern contact point, 25 Crystone coins; carry a letter to a hamlet outside Railton, 8 coins; survey the edge of an abandoned mine west of town and bring back Crystone samples, 50 coins; escort a batch of mutant seed stock toward Rusak, 80 coins.
Farther down, several sheets had been folded. Eren opened one—scrawled lines: a name, a bounty, alive or dead, 120 coins, details in person. Another was shorter: guide wanted, destination undisclosed, details in person, 200 coins. A third had only one line, no signature, no pay: find someone who handles trouble.
Eren pressed those back flat. His finger stopped on the first listing. He had walked the southern contact route several times; he knew it. Twenty-five coins was not much, but the risk stayed manageable. Eight coins to run a letter to a village was not worth the trip. People had died on the mine fringe—no point betting your life. The mutant-seed run toward Rusak was too long; he would need partners, and the math still looked bad.
A bearded man came across the square—Rick, who managed the notice board and had known Eren a long while. Rick squinted at him and kept his voice low. "Eyeing the Crystone sample run? Route's solid, pay's fair. Employer's out back—want to talk?"
"Sure."
Rick pulled the sheet free and handed it over. "Come on."
By the fire in the yard, a short, heavyset middle-aged man sat. Rick stepped up and gestured. "This is Eren. Lives in Bridge-Pier Village. He's been picking up work here a while—reliable, never missed a delivery."
Then Rick turned to Eren. "This is your employer—Hassan, from the guild. Moved in not long ago."
Eren and Hassan nodded to each other. Hassan got straight to it. "Simple job. Three Crystone samples to the southern contact point within three days. Twenty-five Crystone coins total—five up front as deposit, the rest when you deliver." He produced a crude hand-drawn map and pointed.
Eren glanced at the map. The southern contact point was not new to him. He nodded.
Hassan saw the nod, dug a round iron disc from his belt pouch, and pressed it to the map's corner. "Then we're set. Five coins—deposit's yours."
Eren took the coin. It sat heavy and cold in his palm. His thumb caught a burr along the edge. Flecks of brown rust mottled the dark iron face; a stamped "5" sank in the center. Slanting sun caught the surface and picked out a scatter of gray-blue pinpoints of light.
Hassan flattened the map on the table. "This is your proof for the final payment—keep it safe. One more thing: don't get any ideas about running off with the goods." He handed over a small iron token stamped with the guild mark.
Eren did not argue. "Go ahead. Check it."
Hassan got up and led him to a back room. The door creaked open. He took a cloth bundle from a cabinet, cut the wire seal, and held it out—three gray-blue Crystone samples throwing cold light from inside.
Eren took the bundle, checked it, and hefted it. "All good."
He tucked the token and bundle into an inner pocket and left through the tavern yard.
The sun had just passed noon. He stood a moment by the notice board and worked out the timing. He had made the southern contact point once before—roughly 25 kilometers, five or six hours one way. Leave now and he could reach it before dark, but the return trip would be a pain, or he could overnight there.
He opened his pack. Half a flask of water and one hardtack cake—that was all he had brought today. Enough for a short run, not this one. Better to restock and leave tomorrow.
He turned north, toward Bridge-Pier Village.
When he got back, the sun still hung in the west.
Auntie Li was crouched by her gate mending the fence, winding thin wire around the posts with practiced hands. Footsteps—she looked up and saw Eren.
"Back already? You take a job?"
"Yeah. Leave at dawn tomorrow, back that night."
"Pack extra food, then." She set the wire down, brushed her hands off, and headed inside. "Wait."
Eren waited where he stood.
A moment later Auntie Li came out with something small wrapped in cloth and pressed it into his hand. "Pickled radish—I made it myself. Take some for the road." She looked away as she said it, like she did not want thanks.
Eren weighed it in his palm, tucked it into his belt pouch, and smiled.
"Thanks, Auntie Li."
"Since when do you thank me?" She crouched again for the wire. "Uncle Zhang said mutants've been spotted nearby. Watch yourself."
"Got it."
"Go early, come back early."
Eren grunted and walked toward his hut.
He pushed the yard gate, checked the fuzz-clump wheat plot out back, watered it, saw nothing wrong, then went inside to get ready.
The route was not long; nothing out of the ordinary to bring. He took the big waterskin from the shelf and filled it from the jar. The jar was nearly empty—he would refill at the town water station when he got back. The dry ration pouch still held two hardtack cakes and several strips of sun-dried meat, hard enough to crack a tooth, but they kept you fed.
Flint, rope, bandage cloth—he checked each in turn. At the bottom of the pack lay a folded hide blanket, the usual thing for a long road. He might not need it this trip, but it weighed little.
Last, the hammer. He unclipped it from his belt and turned it on his knee. Fine sand had wedged in the gaps between the old gear teeth; his fingers could not clean it out. Sweat had darkened the grip toward the haft, but the iron hoops still held. Done checking, he hooked it back at his hip, cinched the pack, and set it against the wall—ready to grab at dawn.
When he finished, Eren boiled a little porridge on the clay stove. After he ate, he stood in the yard a while, then went through his usual routine: bodyweight work, hammer drills—never skipped. He scooped cold water to wash his face, went inside, banked the fire and tamped the ash, and slept.
Eren left at first light the next day to deliver to the southern contact point.
The sky was still deep gray. Cold air carried the barrens' fine grit—rust and dry earth mixed together. He shouldered his pack and left the village. Gravel crunched under his boots; dust climbed the uppers at once. Behind him, Bridge-Pier Village was still lost in morning fog.
Wind picked up once he was clear of the mud houses. Sand drove straight into his collar. His cloak flapped open; he pulled the neck closed, hood still pushed back so he could see.
South out of the village, he followed the old highway bed—pitted surface, asphalt crumbled into plates like peeling skin. Dead grass and low scrub on both sides. In one stretch bare rock showed through the soil; slanting dawn light caught gray-white Crystone scattered in the cracks, crushed dust mixed in, almost no gleam to it.
Eren slowed, crouched at the edge, and turned a loose stone with his fingers. He lifted a chip toward the light—gray, dull, Crystone slag. Useless; no one bought it. He tossed it back, brushed his hands, and stood.
After nearly two hours the landscape shifted. Barrens gave way to the rim of the old industrial belt. Ruined buildings lined both sides of the road—iron factory shells half collapsed, steel frames twisted outward like bone through torn flesh. Farther south, shipping containers stacked high enough to cut half the sky, rusted sheet metal layered in salt-white oxidation, wind dragging a low metallic hum from them when it blew.
The road narrowed to a lane barely wide enough for two people abreast.
Eren knew this was where trouble liked to happen. His hand found the hammer haft. He lightened his step and swept the rust holes and corners along the container walls.
At the tightest stretch, he saw a child.