The moon, a tarnished silver coin smudged by high, thin clouds, cast a feeble, uncertain light over the vast expanse of the Great Barrens. By its glow, a figure moved, a solitary speck against the immensity of the desolate landscape. This was Derrick, a scavenger by trade and necessity, his progress a series of cautious, deliberate steps. The ancient, patched cloak wrapped tightly around his slender frame did little to stop the night wind from stealing his body's warmth, a chill that seeped deep into his bones.
Every footfall was placed with the utmost care, a silent testament to twenty-one years of survival in this unforgiving place. Derrick knew the Barrens as intimately as he knew the gaunt lines of his own body. He knew that when the sun's oppressive heat vanished, the land's more secretive inhabitants emerged. The lizards, scorpions, and rattlesnakes that buried themselves in the cool sand by day now slithered and scuttled across the surface, hunting, breeding, living their lives under the stars. By daylight, they were ghosts; by night, they were a legion. A single misstep, a bite from one of these creatures, might not kill a man outright, but the resulting injury—the swelling, the fever, the weakness—would be a death sentence of a slower, more cruel kind. A scavenger who couldn't move quickly was a scavenger soon to be added to the detritus of the wastes.
His current, desperate courage for this night trek came from a recent, grim discovery: the body of some less-fortunate soul, long since reduced to bones beneath a slab of reinforced concrete, its feet still encased in a pair of remarkably intact calfskin boots. It was these boots, now tightly laced around his own threadbare trousers, that gave him a fighting chance against the venomous denizens of the dark. Several times already, he had felt the distinct, unsettling crunchand frantic wriggle beneath his sole, a sensation that made his stomach lurch even as he registered the potential for a meal later.
After what felt like an eternity of walking, the moon reaching its zenith, Derrick finally saw his destination. From a rise approximately a kilometer out, the settlement of Cinder Town lay before him. To an eye accustomed to the electric blaze of a modern city, it would have seemed a pathetic, dimly lit outpost—a few scattered, yellowish electric bulbs on a perimeter wall and the three-story central building, their glow weak and pathetic. But to Derrick, whose world was primarily shades of grey, brown, and profound black, the sight was nothing short of magnificent. It was a beacon. A promise. It solidified a resolution that had been growing in his heart for weeks: no matter the cost, he would find a way into Cinder Town. He would become a loyal, unquestioning hound for the one they called Harry Potter… Michael.
There was a time, under the rule of the short-lived镇长 Andrew, when the idea of joining the town held little appeal for a seasoned scavenger like Derrick. Membership offered marginally safer sleep, but little else. Water cost the same for residents and outsiders alike. The town was merely a place to sell scrap and buy meager supplies, or on the rare occasion of a valuable find, to spend a few caps on a cheap beer at the 'Honey and Beauty Bar,' perhaps earning a startled shriek from a barmaid with a daring grope. A simple, fleeting pleasure.
But everything had changed with the arrival of the new master, Michael. With what seemed like madness or divine inspiration, he had invested a staggering fortune, hiring nearly the entire town to dig not one, but four deep-water wells. And against all odds, he had succeeded. Where once there was dust, now there flowed a seemingly endless supply of sweet, clean water. Other rulers would have hoarded such a treasure, squeezing every last cap from the thirsty. But Michael… Michael was different. He allowed the townsfolk to drink their fill, for free. More than that, he put them to work, offering the one thing more precious than water itself: full-bellied security. It was a life that 99.99% of the wasteland could only dream of.
So, Derrick had set his mind to joining. The main obstacle was the town's strict new admission policy: only complete family units—a man with a wife and children—were being accepted. For a lone scavenger like Derrick, this was a formidable barrier. Yet, he was not one to give up easily. If he didn't meet the conditions, he would create them. From a secret hiding spot, he had retrieved his entire life's savings: sixty-one bottle caps. A king's ransom. His plan was to travel to one of the unofficial trading zones and seek out a "seafood merchant"—the wasteland's grim euphemism for the women who traded their bodies for survival. They were a far cry from the bar maids, but they were cheap. One cap for a quick encounter; three for the whole night, including a meager breakfast. He was certain he could find one willing to form a more permanent, child-bearing arrangement for his sixty-one caps.
But when he reached the usual zones, he found them deserted. He was too late. Others had the same idea, and the scarcity of women in the Barrens meant the "merchants" had been snapped up quickly. Despair, cold and heavy, had settled upon him.
Then, a new rumor, a lifeline: Master Michael had a dangerous task ahead. He was hiring mercenaries. The pay was one thing, but the real prize, the thing that made Derrick's heart pound against his ribs, was the promise: any who survived the mission, even if maimed, would be granted a place in the town. It was his last chance.
That was why he now found himself shivering in a shallow scrape in the earth a stone's throw from the town's lights. Charging the gates in the dead of night was a sure way to get shot. He would wait for dawn. Carefully, he cleared the pit of larger stones, then sprinkled a pungent mixture of crushed herbs and infected-manure powder around its rim—a crude but effective barrier against crawling things. His dinner was the scorpions and small lizards he'd inadvertently crushed on his journey, eaten raw. They were crunchy and bitter. Washing them down with the last swallow of warm water from his canteen, he curled up in his cloak, the image of the town's lights burned behind his eyelids. He would sleep now, gathering his strength. Tomorrow, he would need to be at his best, for he knew the competition for the master's favor would be fierce. He had to be chosen. He wouldbe chosen.