The resilience of the human spirit, and stomach, is a formidable thing. Nausea born of psychological revulsion, rather than illness, possesses a curious threshold. One could, it seemed, retch and retch until the act became routine, until the mind built a fragile dam against the flood of disgust.
By the time the last vestiges of daylight had bled from the sky and the oil lamps in the Honey and Maiden were once again casting their wavering, smoky light, Michael had achieved a state of grim equilibrium. What was the alternative? Go home, order takeout, and go to bed early? He remembered his mission with a clarity that pierced the fog of cheap, oily alcohol: anthropological research (the bed) and, more critically, securing something of value to take back.
His earlier disgrace had been swiftly cleaned away by other servers. Now, with a female form tucked under each arm—Lynda the Wolfkin and Faye the Foxkin—Michael reclined like a dissolute monarch. He would open his mouth, and delicate, if grimy, fingers would place morsels of food upon his tongue. The truth was, if one could divorce the experience from the knowledge of what one was eating, the flavors were surprisingly complex—smoky, salty, with an odd, gamey richness.
This new composure was built upon a foundation of deliberate mental scaffolding.
First, he told himself, these are just unusual proteins. It's not like I'm eating a person from Fujian. That would be barbaric.
Second, the olfactory issue with the ladies… well, that was a problem of infrastructure, not character. A good bath would solve it. He could fund their bathing with a single roll of his paper treasury!
Third, and most pragmatically, his salesman's bag held a potential solution to any… intimate complications: the solemn, jet-black, heavy-duty garbage bag. Folklore from the trenches of bachelorhood suggested such items could, in a pinch, serve as improvised protective measures.
He washed the strange food down with generous gulps of the 'Atomic Vodka'—the tavern's finest. His initial revulsion had been tempered by an attempt to drink water. The single mouthful of what Old Gimpy assured him was Cinder Town's 'purest' water had been so mineral-bitter, so laden with the taste of rust and dust, that the petrol-tinged burn of the vodka felt like a cleansing fire in comparison.
As night deepened, the tavern filled. This was the scene Michael had been waiting for. The crowd served two purposes: first, a noisy backdrop against which he could eavesdrop, hoping to glean fragments about this world and, more importantly, any whispers of a way back home. Asking direct questions was risky; overhearing answers was safer.
Second, he planned to stage an auction. Once the room was sufficiently packed, he would unveil his treasures—the medicines, perhaps some toilet paper—and barter for gold, jewels, anything of tangible worth back home.
Regrettably, his research into the former goal was hampered by the latter's enthusiastic assistants. Lynda and Faye's constant attentions—the whispered innuendos, the strategic refilling of his cup, the distracting press of their bodies—made sustained eavesdropping impossible. He caught only snippets: talk of "scav runs," complaints about "rad-zones," and a heated debate over the value of pre-Collapse ball bearings versus dried grub-meal. It was a confusing puzzle.
He decided he couldn't wait for perfect intelligence. He was getting drunk, and a drunk man makes a poor auctioneer. Before he made his move, however, a more pressing biological need demanded attention.
With a theatrical smack, he patted Lynda's backside. She yelped in feigned outrage, then giggled as he stuffed a handful of toilet paper squares into her hand. "Where's the bog?" he asked, slurring his words slightly. "Nature calls."
"Oh, let me show you, boss!" Lynda cooed, eager to please. "There's a little one on the third floor. Much nicer."
Michael waved her off with what he hoped was an air of lordly impatience. "Don't need a nanny. I'm not a child. I won't do a runner—see?" He gestured to the remaining nine-and-a-half rolls of paper on the table beside his satchel. "My fortune's right here."
Lynda opened her mouth to protest, but a sharp, almost imperceptible look from Old Gimpy, who was polishing a glass with a filthy rag, silenced her. She realized the truth. This mark wasn't going to skip out on a tab. His collateral was more than enough. Best not to annoy him. Besides, a sly thought crossed her mind: once he was upstairs, they could surely skim a few more squares from his stash. He'd never notice in his state.
Thus, Michael stumbled alone through the small door behind the bar. The stairwell beyond was pitch black, the air thick with dust and decay. He moved slowly, each creak of the ancient wood sounding like a thunderclap to his drink-heightened senses. The third floor was a marked contrast—slightly cleaner, the walls less crumbling, suggesting it housed the establishment's privileged few.
He found the small closet-like bathroom easily enough. But as he reached for the handle, a voice from the adjacent room froze him in his tracks. It was the way the speaker mangled the name—a guttural, unfamiliar pronunciation—that snagged his attention. They were talking about him.
"…searched the perimeter twice, master. No sign of any entourage, no hidden support. The fool just waltzed in. Is the one called 'Mi-gao' truly so stupid?"
The voice was familiar—John, the minotaur bouncer. A chill, colder than the tile floor, seeped into Michael's bones.
A second voice answered, older, drier, laced with an authority that brooked no question. "Stupid? No. Naïve. He has the look and the goods of someone from a high-tier Vault, someone with status but no street sense. All the better. Those old Vaults, even now, must be stuffed with treasures. Let the girls get him good and soused. Then we take him. Cleanly this time—no repeat of last night's fiasco with that thieving rabbit-skank. A few hours in the cellar with the hot irons, and he'll sing the location of his Vault. Then, my friend, we retire."
Michael didn't need to hear more. The word 'Vault' pinged in his memory, a term from old video games and stories, but its meaning here was terrifyingly clear. They didn't just want his toilet paper; they wanted his world. They wanted to torture him for a map back to his bathroom.
All thoughts of auctions, cultural research, and profitable trade evaporated, replaced by a single, primal imperative: run.
This world is insane, he thought, panic sharpening his mind. They'd torture a man over paper towels? Seriously? My life's got to be worth at least a crate of instant noodles!
…
Fortune, for once, favored the desperate. His descent back to the first floor was a blur of held breath and muffled footsteps. He found the back door, guarded by a snoozing brute whose bicep was the size of Michael's thigh. Slipping past him was almost disappointingly easy.
Outside, the night was his ally. A thin, watery moon provided just enough light to see by without illuminating him clearly. He glanced toward the main gate. Torchlight flickered there; the guards were still active. That route was suicide.
The wall, however… scaling it from the inside looked far more feasible. The jumbled heap of debris offered handholds and footholds. He had to move fast.
He became a shadow, flitting from the lee of one shack to the next, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. Once, he flattened himself into a doorway as a patrol of two men passed by, their conversation a low murmur about ration quotas. Their obliviousness felt like a miracle.
Finally, he reached the base of the wall. It was a monument to ruin—the gutted frame of a pickup truck piled atop a mound of concrete chunks. He climbed, his fingers scrabbling for purchase on rusted metal and rough stone. The satchel, now holding his precious, stolen car emblem, thumped awkwardly against his back.
He hauled himself onto a relatively flat section: the crumpled hood and roof of what had once been a majestic vehicle. He was about to swing his legs over and drop into freedom when a sliver of moonlight caught a dull gleam directly before him.
He was standing on the remains of a Rolls-Royce. Time and abuse had reduced the automotive legend to a sculptural lump of corroded metal. But there, on the ravaged grille, the Spirit of Ecstasy hood ornament still stood, defiantly intact. The 'Flying Lady.' The little silver goddess. That was the source of the glint.
Without a second thought, he dropped to his knees. He wrapped both hands around the cold, smooth figure, braced a foot against the ruined grille, and pulled. Metal groaned in protest. With a final, grating crack, it came free in his hands. He shoved it into his satchel, a hard, cold lump of potential salvation.
His triumph lasted precisely two seconds.
From the direction of the tavern, a commotion erupted—shouting, the crash of overturned furniture. They'd found his seat empty. The hunt was on.
Panic returned, redoubled. He swung his legs over the wall and pushed off, dropping into the darkness beyond. The impact jolted his ankles. As he scrambled to his feet, his shoe scuffed against a flat, bent piece of metal half-buried in the dust. A faded, rust-pitted sign. He squinted in the faint light.
Stamped into the metal were the words: WAYNE STATE U…
The rest was buried or torn away. But the letters were clear, the font hauntingly familiar. A university sign. From his world. It lay in the dust at the foot of Cinder Town's wall, a silent, profound, and terrifying clue. He had no time to ponder it. With the shouts growing closer, he turned and fled into the barren night, the weight of the little silver lady banging against his hip with every desperate stride.