Melting Era

Some time towards the the end of this century, there will be at least ten billion of us.. Possibly more. Magi looked up from the worn page to the ruins of New York. The Rotten Apple was undergoing the last year of the twenty-first century and Emmott's prophesy had been realised. People were everywhere, you couldn't escape them.

'Way to go, Steve.' the drifter murmured in a husky voice, pocketing the orange book before spitting some built up black phlegm into his hand to clear his throat, then licking the spittle back up to retain the moisture.

From his place on the wall, the mud-covered man slipped into the sluggish mass of denizens heading for the Superlative market. The sun had decided to be especially relentless that day, with the packed lot only ever getting comfort from the sweat running off each other's bodies. The stink of the city's boiling garbage was so bad that people generally preferred to breath from their mouths, and even then they could taste the scum in the air. It wasn't just the humans who were suffering either, the metal of Gotham's buildings were getting fried too. If the structures didn't melt into themselves, they broke and crashed to ground level, decreasing the already tight spacing even more. In short, every day was an aching yellow haze. In the orange book, Emmott foresaw this as unusual drought, the casual terming of the infernal condition usually got a rise out of Magi.

Below waist level of the sweltering horde, the coffee brown haired scavenger felt a little hand clutch at his pocket, no doubt some child thief trying his luck on one of the few guys with pants to store stuff in. Whoever it was cried out upon trying to slip their paw into the pouch, a cavity of broken glass defending the lower zipped compartment that Magi kept his beloved text in. This defensive ploy meant he had to wear garden gloves a lot of the time, but mostly served him well.

'Better luck next time, runt.' the denizen spoke, kicking at the spot he'd heard the sound come from. His foot hit something fleshy, the tyke then scampering off through the forest of legs.

After the usual agonisingly slow trudge, the group came upon the Superlative market.

More fortunate countries, such as the UK, the United States and most of Europe, may look like something approaching militarized countries. That's how Emmot had put it, and yet again, the limey had been right. Patrolling the catwalks atop the high walls that surrounded the market were a platoon of Superlative Gunslingers, their attire and weapons a composite of police and military gear. With the breakdown of government, New York's troopers and enforcers had merged into one faction, The Superlative, a force that had taken to making their ends meat by pushing regular denizens around. They weren't all bad though, the markets they set up offered regulars a chance to get their hands on sorely needed food, medicine and technology... for a price. That, and they were the only group with enough backbone to oppose The Crowd.

'Next lot, move in.' ordered the Flag Captain with the microphone, Magi's party then shifting from the front gates into the exchange.

The area was essentially two curved lines of caged market stalls, their backs against the high walls and their fronts facing the sand-covered selling floor. Wasting no time, the raw umber eyed nomad climbed onto the metal frame of the nearest stand and free ran his way to the vendor he wanted. He found Blight taking a smoking break at the back of her box while her son, Andro, manned the stall. The stocky woman had honey-coloured skin, which was fair by New York standards, curly henna red hair, yellow-green eyes, and an olive rash running up the left side of her face. The sickly marking was the result of the Dog Flu breakout that had plagued The Rotten Apple a few years beforehand, one of Emmot's New Global Pandemics. Being a vendor as well as the partner of a Gunslinger, The Superlative had eventually cured Blight of her condition, but the scars of the past remained.

'Great, it's raining corpses now.' greeted the seller in a gravelly voice as she noticed the nine fingered wanderer through the bars of her roof. 'What news from the other side, Magi?'

'I ate half a pigeon yesterday.'

'Half?'

'Cats were on it first.'

'Ah, got anything mediocre for me?'

From his deepest pocket, the sepia-skinned rover brought out a litre of water in a glass bottle, briefly placing it in the light so Blight could see it was clear. 'Holy cunt.' the vendor cursed, standing.

'I want a gas pack for it.'

'I'll give you half a pack.'

'You really want to try and fuck me over this?'

'No, but I know a trick who will. Half a pack and a fuck, that's Christmas reincarnated for you.'

'I want a full pack.'

'What do you need with gas anyway?'

'I'm a collector.' Magi replied, the image of his speedboat hidden at the docks popping into his head.

He'd get to Maine on that tub, one way or another.

'Yeah and I'm a Duchess. Truth of it is I've only got half a pack to spare.'

The grubby itinerant whacked his hand on the bar. 'Principle source of energy, my ass.'

'Big word, that from your orange book? I could probably pool in another half pack from the other vendors if you gave that up too.'

'No way.' he answered, Emmot's manifesto had put him ahead of the game a bunch of times, giving it up would have been like losing a limb.

'Well then my offer stands.'

'Shit... throw in three treats as well and it's yours.'

'One treat.'

'Three.'

'Two or nothing.'

'Three or I vomit on you.'

'Three it is. Andro, get out the junk.'

From the front of the stall the nine year old pulled out a stray of knick-knacks. Magi hated Andro from the bottom of his heart, not only did he get shelter at night, a meal a day, and two parents to wipe his ass for him, but since he was a Superlative brat, he barely had to do any work. In that split second the New Yorker would have liked nothing more than to strangle the life out of the little shit.

'How's it hanging, Andro?'

'S'okay. Say, what do you think the world is more like: Fallout, Mad Max, or Fist of the North Star?'

Magi clenched his teeth, the punk had access to The Superlative headquarter's entertainment centre too. I am going to rip your head off and shit down your neck! he thought while shaking his head. 'Couldn't tell you, sport.'

'Yeah, they're all pretty different from the way things turned out, huh?'

Swiftly refocusing his attention, the vagabond looked to the treats in the drawer. There were scissors, bubblegum, a bandage, a condom and a towel.

'I'll take the towel, the condom and the scissors.'

Blight collected the items and pulled up the gas pack from underneath the rug at her feet, then writing the address of the hustler she knew on a slip of paper and placing it all in a plastic bag. The dirty journeyman rested his head on his hand. 'This friend of yours, she cute?'

'She's fuckable, and she's got most of her teeth to boot.'

'Swell.'

With this, the pair hesitantly traded the bottle and the bag, then holding the objects to their chests when they'd received them.

'Nice doing business with you, Magi. Now get the hell off my stand.'

Moving to the roof of another stall, the bearded roamer was swiftly apprehended by a strnager, who climbed up the block and looked attentively to his blue bag. The teen had porcelain skin, the lightest he'd ever seen, messy platinum blonde hair with little bones tied to the locks, and crimson eyes. What's more, she was wearing a robe made of alligator skin, the teeth of the beast lining her hood, and she was wearing a harness that held a multitude of various blades by their sheaths. She was a Sewer Hunter. Somewhat taken aback, Magi took a second to appreciate the sight. According to Emmot, 25 per cent of mammals had been at imminent risk of extinction in 2013. By his estimate, those 25 per cent must have already gone the way of the dodo, with thousands of other-land based species joining their ranks. The only mammals that had endured the hard times were those who could adapt to hunting humans, thus the alligators managed to thrive in The Rotten Apple's filthy underbelly. Not many had the skill or the equipment to take a snapper down, thus Sewer Hunter sightings were rare.

'Sax.' the girl with the reptilian tail running down from her back spoke, pointing to the bag.

'Uh, sex?'

'Nej, sax.' she repeated in her soft voice, placing her two index fingers together and making a cutting motion, then producing a a pair of measly fish from her robe pocket.

Now he understood, she wanted to trade her bottom feeders his for his scissors, the petite skinner must have been watching him while he spoke with Blight. By her accent and her the language she used, Magi could tell the teen wasn't a local. Going by the orange book, she was probably one of Emmot's climate migrants, who the Englishman described as people who would move away from their own country due to inhabitable conditions, insufficient water or food, or conflict over the increasingly scarce resources. New York may have been a hell hole, with the vast majority of residents in a constant state of starvation and the bodies of those who didn't make it perpetually reddening the Hudson river, but the European cities Magi had heard about... they were simply necropolises.

'All right, I'll trade.' the rogue with blackened feet replied as he got the cutters out of his bag. 'Maybe after that you can sign language me how the fuck you got here from wherever you came from'

'Ja, vi kommer handel.' she nodded, the pair then gradually handing each other the items.

'Times up. Everyone move out.' the Flag Captain on the wall ordered, the back gates then opening to let the denizens exit.

The twosome dropping onto the selling floor, Magi placed his bag into one of the glassless pockets and tried to further converse with the Sewer Hunter, but it seemed the scissors had been her sole interest in him, the teen remaining quiet.

Hearing the next lot getting called in, the smelly scounger considered following her back to her dwelling, then the howling started. Turning around with everyone else, the vagrant watched as several shapes jumped out from the mob. The roaring men were wearing cloaks made out of human skin and were aiming their firearms at the Superlative Gunslingers.

'CROWD BRIGANDS!' someone cried, and in that second every watching party made a choice. They were either going to run away, join The Crowd in taking on The Superlative in hopes of looting the market afterwards, or help the Gunslingers beat the Brigands. Having some rather valuable gear on him, Magi would have liked to run away, but the vast stampede of the others who wanted to get involved soon placed him in the middle of the action. Gun shots and bodies flew about the place at frightening speed, the quick-footed transient barely dodging a streak of bullets before taking cover atop one of the stalls with a rectangular metal signpost at its head.

'I hate this city.' he grunted as he got out his health insurance.

In the Emmot's book, when the writer asked a colleague what his main counter for the grim future was, the guy had replied 'Teach my son how to use a gun.' Magi liked that passage, it was a fitting end to the foreboding text, and what's more, he'd taken it to heart. In his hand was an Americorp Anti-personnel pistol. The frame was small, the magazine held ten slugs, the bullets were cheap and plentiful, and most importantly, the shooter was accurate as Stephen Emmot himself.

From his left, a Brigand launched himself onto the stall, machete in hand. 'Howdy.' Magi greeted, before blasting the cannibal's brains out. From his elevated position, the Superlative ally then began executing all the would-be raiders he could see, their blood soaking the sand below. Swiftly running dry of bullets, the denizen was left defenceless as a blur tackled him off the roof and onto the selling floor. In the next instant his bag was snatched from his pocket, and the fast-mover tried to make their escape. Grabbing hold of their leg, Magi tripped up the thief, soon realising it was none other than the Sewer Hunter. You too. he thought in a melancholy manner as they both reached for their weapons. Blocking her dagger thrust with his left hand, Magi brought out a fistful of broken glass with his right and kept hitting the girl until she was still.

After The Superlative had won the battle, Magi reclaimed his scissors.