Crystal Apocalypse

by leeroy_gIBZ

4: Diary of a Wimpy Kid

The next few hours were spent in heart-hammering panic, cowering in the shadows, fearfully avoiding the raiders above. Sugarcoat dared to glance out through the grate a few times, and what she saw did wonders for her lack of hope. They weren’t the average ragtag band of marauding bandits – the men, all men, grizzled and stern, dressed practically in charcoal-grey camouflage, were fit and fed, and spectacularly well-equipped. Numerous times she heard the signature rev of motorbikes, and the disheartening thud of arrows and cheer of drilled troops rose and fell like waves on a beach.

“Any ideas?” Lemon Zest whispered, from her hide in the tunnels.

“No. They’re too many to fight, and they’ve got bikes, so running wouldn’t be an option. They’re alert too – so I doubt stealth would work either.”

“Well, more waiting then I guess. Maybe they’ll leave after a while?”

Sugarcoat shuffled over, and peered through the thin bars separating her from the army, “They won’t. This looks like their home. They’ve walled it off.”

“Shit. What do we do then?”

“As I said before, I have no idea. Maybe I could grab a patrol by surprise tonight; steal his weapon and uniform.”

“Would that work?”

“Probably not. But its better than starving in this place. Let’s go back down, I don’t want to spook them again.”

Lemon Zest nodded, and Sugarcoat led her back through the winding labyrinth of tunnels. Dark and dank concrete gloom surrounded them, and Sugarcoat was very glad neither she nor her friend suffered from claustrophobia. Sunny did and, for once, the drifter was relieved that her girlfriend wasn’t with her.

“This place sure is big. What is it, some kind of sewer?” Lemon asked as the pair walked.

“My guess is that it was supposed to lead rivers into the reservoir. If there was a town or something up above, they’d need to tunnel below to get the water to flow the right way.”

“Sure. But wouldn’t there be another way out then?”

“We passed it a few minutes ago. There was a cave in I couldn’t get through.”

“Oh.” Lemon sighed, adjusting her borrowed jacket, “I guess we have to fight those guys then.”

“No sense in waiting around here then. We’re running low on torchlight anyway.” Sugarcoat said, starting back up the tunnel.

They walked again, half-blind up the rough gravel floors, until Sugarcoat stopped suddenly, placing a hand over her friend’s mouth. In front of her, only a few feet away, were a pair of soldiers – grim and stern, scouting their hide. The girls inched back into the darkness, letting the men pass dangerously close.

Once their backs were turned, and once Sugarcoat had told Lemon Zest to stay still and stay quiet, she unfolded her spear, and started off behind the raiders. One looked vaguely familiar, in the flickering firelight of their burning torches – he was young, lanky with blond hair and cracked glasses. The other was a stranger, older with a beady eyes and a greyish pallor to his skin. That was the one Sugarcoat aimed for – that was the one who was choking on his own blood seconds later, lying on the floor and dying.

Trenderhoof gasped, dropped his torch, brandishing his sword at his attacker. “By the authority of his dark majesty, King Sombra, surrender now peon, or die by my hand!”

His archaic register caught Sugarcoat by surprise, but not enough to stagger her. He went down too, nonlethally with a bash from the blunt end of the spear. Sugarcoat tried not to kill anybody she knew. Memories, and all. That and the former hipster was a decent person, years ago anyway.

“No, you surrender. And don’t talk like that, you sound stupider than usual.” Sugarcoat said, gagging him, tying him to his deceased partner, taking his sword and crossbow for herself.

After collecting the other soldier’s weaponry – another sword, and a sawed-off shotgun – she returned to Lemon Zest, still crouched in a corner.

“I’m back.” She whispered, “I found soldiers in the tunnel. They must’ve thought to scout here after they heard you. It’s now or never, let’s go.”

The pair walked nervously back the last hundred metres, until the reached the grate – now unscrewed, and taken for scrap. It was night, almost – and most of the soldiers seemed to be enjoying dinner, if the chatter and cheer emanating from one of the larger shacks was anything to go by. Sugarcoat went alone, tiptoeing across the greyish dirt, toward one of the huts – the quartermaster’s store, if the sign above it was any indication.

The building – corrugated iron, mismatched brick, charred timber, garage door – was guarded, but only by two men – masked and rifled. With a crossbow, from behind a nearby dune, Sugarcoat shot the first one, killing him outright. The second, tired and hungry by the look of him, and his persistent glances toward the mess hall, didn’t notice. The weapon was reloaded, and the guard definitely noticed the bolt clanging against the metal, only inches away from his neck.

“Intruders! Intruders in the castle!” He bellowed, looking around with his gun for said intruders.

Seconds later, a bell was rung somewhere – and its frantic cry alerted the rest of the compound. Meals forgotten, men scrambled for their weapons, searched for the invaders, and soon the grounds were filled with warriors as merciless as the desert they had colonised. By now, Sugarcoat had retreated into the tunnel, dragging the dead guard along with her. He was remarkably heavy for somebody living in a world without agriculture.

“You’re back. Are we leaving?” Lemon asked, oblivious to the corpse beside her.

“Not yet. They saw me. We’ll hide here, and wait until everything dies down.” She replied, looting the man’s corpse. That one had his pack on him, complete with rations.

“Got it. I’ll stay out the way then.”

Things did die down, relatively. The general himself – Sombra, if Trenderhoof was to be believed – even emerged from his ramshackle keep, dressed in mismatched armour, and a cape badly painting to look like ermine to personally investigate the day’s second commotion. The survivor was interrogated and, due to lack of evidence, was merely dismissed from his post, told to sleep, replaced with another pair of men. Others retreated to their barracks, after eating and one last round of drills. Apparently, Sugarcoat noticed, it had been the responsibility of the now-incapacitated Trenderhoof to lock up the “corral” that night.

So, by narrowly avoiding yet more patrols, Sugarcoat had made her to their garage, and had stolen a dirt bike. The other vehicles had their tires slashed, tanks emptied, and bodies keyed for good measure. The intact bike was negotiated as quietly as possible back to the tunnel, and it was only then that Sugarcoat realized that she didn’t have a way of getting over the fort’s wall.

“Well, I have the bike. Problem is, I don’t fit the uniforms of any of the guards I killed, and the gate out is still locked.” She explained.

Lemon Zest swore, “That fucking sucks. And we were so close to getting out of here too. Knew we couldn't beat Heart.”

“Trust me, I know how you feel. We’re running out of time too – sooner or later somebody is going to notice their ride is missing.”

“Say, how good are you with that bike?”

“I was easily the best in our school, why?”

“Well, if you could find a ramp, we could jump the wall, right?”

“That almost sounds like a good idea. So, it’s the best thing I’ve heard all day.”

The walls, upon later inspection, were far more manageable than those of the reservoir. The salvaged car bodies and iron sheets were stacked only to about eight feet – easy enough to jump over. After another look around with the binoculars, Sugarcoat designated a nearby sand dune her ramp and, with Lemon Zest holding on for dear life, she rammed down the accelerator.

The bike, lightly rusted and spray painted black, roared in response. They picked up speed, soldiers panicking and yelling – fumbling for weapons the third time that day. Bullets whizzed and nipped by as the girls rode on, the promising of freedom – the sand dune – drawing ever closer.

And then they were on it, and in the air – shadowed and soaring against the cloudy moonlight. Landing hurt, with a worrying mechanical crack announcing their return to the earth. There was no time to assess the damages, and Sugarcoat drove off into the darkness – the only things visible being the narrow stretch of sand illuminated by the bike’s headlamp, and the lethal paths of the tracers Sombra’s Legion fired after them.

Sugarcoat weaved and dodged the pursuing men as best she could; bullets ricocheted off the bike, sparking in the night. One caught Sugarcoat in the ear, ripping most of it away, knocking her off. She landed, heaped in sand, body screeching in pain. The bike came to a stop metres later, Lemon Zest having found the brake, pushing it for all it was worth.

Dazed, and half alive, Sugarcoat pulled herself out of the sand dune, thanking her lucky stars she missed the cactus just inches away. Brushing the grey ash off her again, she stood up, and limped over to Lemon Zest. The blind girl was hiding behind the bike, alive and panting.

“Thought… thought I’d lost you there, Su. Don’t run away like that.”

“I’ll try my best. Good work with the bike by the way.”

“Thanks. So now what? They’re still after us, right.”

A look through the binoculars confirmed that, and shot clacking off a close by rock confirmed it. It looked like Sombra had valued her at ten men, on mountain bikes, peddling as menacingly as one could, shooting blindly and screaming threats all the while – any chivalry they once had forgotten in the brewing sandstorm and chilling night.

Sugarcoat climbed back on the bike, helped Lemon on, and started driving again. She was faster than they were, far faster, and had siphoned enough gas from the other motorbikes to keep riding for days, if need be. They weren’t going to catch her in a thousand years; the self-proclaimed King’s show of force had failed to intimidate.

The duo kept riding, parched and hungry, nervous and persistent, until the sun began to weakly rise behind them. Only then did Sugarcoat stop, braking the bike in front of an old gas station she had cleared days before.

“We made it. You can let go now.”

“Really? I’m… I’m out of that hole. This isn’t a dream or anything? We actually survived – you’re actually here, Sugarcoat?”

Thought it made no difference, she nodded proudly. “Yes, I’m here, Lemon. We’re okay. I left some food and water here in case I ever needed to go back. Let’s go inside and get warmed up, alright?”

After stowing the bike behind a counter, she took Lemon by the hand, leading her, past emptied aisles and bare fridges, through the abandoned store. The back room was warm, and a loose plank loosened behind a crate revealed two cans of ravioli and a soda bottle refilled with clean water. They drunk and ate well that night, the bike’s first aid kit and guard’s backpack being put to good use; wounds were finally treated, stitches were sown, and hunger was staved off.

Once Lemon comfortably slept on a looted bedroll, Sugarcoat returned to the storefront. By now, the sun was casting the ever-there clouds a sickly yellow, warming the wastes until only one coat was needed. The white-haired girl kept watch, staring hopefully into the distance, crossbow in hand, until her friend awoke. No people walked that road that day, be they drifters, raiders, or dog-minded cannibals. It was quiet, yet the faint snores and mumbles from inside assured Sugarcoat that she wasn’t alone. Once the coast seemed happy to stay clear, she took the soldier’s own journal, crossing out “Property of Snips” and writing her own name, and then the last week’s events in a calm, weary cursive.