The journey through the dense, suffocating jungle was a torturous ordeal. Krexx – for the tattooed man had barked his name at Mike as they fled – moved with a practiced, almost predatory ease, his heavy boots barely disturbing the leaf litter. Mike, however, struggled. Carrying Anna's limp form, he crashed through the undergrowth, branches tearing at his clothes and skin, sweat stinging his eyes, his lungs burning with every ragged breath. Yet, an unfamiliar reserve of stamina kept him going, pushing past the point where he thought he'd collapse. He focused on Krexx's broad, retreating back, forcing his legs to move, one agonizing step after another.
The barely discernible animal trail they followed gradually became more defined, less overgrown. They began to pass crude but effective tripwires made from scavenged vines and fishing line, and almost invisible snare traps cleverly concealed in the foliage – clear signs of a human, albeit a very cautious human, presence.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, they emerged into a clearing. A makeshift barricade, a formidable wall of sharpened logs, scavenged corrugated metal sheets, and sections of what looked like airplane fuselage, formed a defensive perimeter around a small, haphazard collection of crude huts and lean-tos. This, apparently, was Krexx's camp. He called it "Heaven." It looked anything but. Smoke curled from a central fire pit, and the air hung heavy with the scent of woodsmoke and something else, something vaguely unsettling and feral.
Two armed individuals, a hulking man with a face like a bulldog, whom Mike would later learn was Rex, and a wiry, nervous-looking woman with suspicious eyes named Scylla, clutching a sharpened metal pipe, stepped forward from the shadow of a guard post, blocking their path.
Rex grunted, eyeing Mike and Anna with undisguised hostility. "What'd you drag in this time, Krexx?"
Scylla's gaze, narrow and appraising, lingered on Mike. "More mouths. We're already stretched thin as it is."
Krexx, however, simply shouldered past them, his authority unquestioned. "They're with me," he growled. "Girl's hurt bad. Fetch Elara."
Rex and Scylla exchanged a look, a flicker of resentment perhaps, but they didn't argue further, stepping aside warily as Mike, stumbling with exhaustion, followed Krexx into the heart of the compound.
The main hut, a larger, slightly more permanent structure, was dimly lit, the air inside stale and close. Several other survivors, a motley collection of hard-bitten, wary individuals, looked up as they entered. Mike registered a skittish young man with darting eyes (Finn), a grim-faced older woman with the hard set of a former soldier (Mara), and a powerfully built, sullen man who seemed to radiate resentment (Jax). Their faces were etched with suspicion and a weary resignation.
Krexx gestured impatiently for Mike to lay Anna on a makeshift cot fashioned from lashed branches and tattered blankets.
He then turned to the assembled group, a predatory, almost theatrical smile stretching his scarred lips. "Everyone," he announced, his voice booming in the confined space, "meet... what's your name again, pretty boy?"
Mike, panting, heart still racing, looked up from where he knelt beside Anna. "Mike."
"Mike," Krexx repeated, drawing out the name. "And his injured friend. Welcome," he paused for dramatic effect, "to Heaven. My Heaven." A dark, humourless chuckle rumbled in his chest. His eyes, hard and cold as flint, swept over Mike. "The rules here are simple. I'm in charge. You pull your weight. You don't cause trouble. You do that, you might just survive." His gaze was a clear, unambiguous warning. This was his domain, his kingdom, built on brutality and fear. He was, Mike realized with a sinking feeling, the undisputed alpha.
Just then, a woman entered the hut, moving with a quiet, almost ethereal grace that seemed out of place amidst the rough surroundings. Elara. She was perhaps in her forties, with calm, perceptive eyes that held a surprising depth of empathy. Her clothes, though as worn as everyone else's, were cleaner, more functional. She carried a small, leather pouch from which emanated the faint scent of herbs. There was an aura of quiet competence about her.
She immediately went to Anna, her touch gentle but professional as she examined the bloody wound.
"Another one?" she asked Krexx softly, without looking up from her patient. "What happened this time?"
"Fang-cat got her," Krexx replied dismissively. "She was with him." He nodded curtly at Mike.
Elara assessed Anna's wound, her brow furrowing with concern. "It's deep," she murmured. "She's lost a lot of blood."
She closed her eyes for a moment, her expression one of intense concentration. Her hands hovered just above Anna's wound. A faint, almost imperceptible hum began to emanate from her, a sound Mike felt more than heard. A soft, pale golden light, barely visible in the dim hut, bloomed between her palms and the raw, torn flesh.
Mike stared, astonished, speechless. The other survivors, however, looked on with a mixture of awe and a strange, almost bored familiarity – they had clearly seen this before.
Under Elara's luminous touch, the bleeding visibly slowed, then gradually stopped. Anna's breathing, though still shallow, seemed to even out, become less ragged. Elara's brow was beaded with sweat, her own face paling with the effort. The golden glow faded. She swayed slightly, looking profoundly exhausted, but then nodded, a small, tired smile touching her lips.
"She'll live," Elara announced quietly. "But it will take time for her to recover. The gift... it drains."
Krexx watched Elara with a shrewd, calculating expression, then turned that same unsettling gaze back to Mike.
"See that, Mike?" he said, his voice a low purr. "We all got our... talents... here. Courtesy of the welcoming injections we all received. Elara's our angel of mercy." A chilling, expectant grin spread across his face. "Makes you wonder what your special trick is, doesn't it, Architect? Something good enough to earn your keep in my Heaven."
Mike felt a knot of cold dread tighten in his stomach. He instinctively touched the pocket of his jumpsuit, the hard outline of the vial case a sudden, stark reminder of its presence. He had no answers for Krexx, no discernible "trick." And in a place like Heaven, under a man like Krexx, being useless was a death sentence.