“I walked toward the mess hall, and saw Brendon waiting for me at the cafeteria door. I was pretty sure he was smiling, but he could have honestly been furious, melancholy, or stoic. I could never be sure with that metal face of his. We entered together and I was taken back by the diversity of the ragtag group of survivors in the room. Some were normal, others had triple jointed legs, more still had deformed heads or faces. This one guy had a normal upper body, but stubby, strange legs.
I got in line for the food bar. The person working it, a mutant with a six fingered, taloned left hand, shook my hand and welcomed me to a the police station of Patriotsburg. He gave me a scoop of canned beans and a pack of salty crackers. I never liked beans (and certainly not for breakfast), but after not eating for about 24 hours, I was sure I’d manage. Besides, food was surely in short supply and I had no idea where my next meal might come from. Brendon had already eaten. We sat down at a table with a seemingly unmutated girl, and the man with stubby legs.
As I ate, Brendon asked them about the situation in the town. The man started going on about anti-mutant rabble seizing the townhall and sabotaging most of the towns vehicles. Apparently there was truth to the Chief of Police’s claim after all. Brendon asked the girl if the man was her father. She began to sob.
We finished eating in silence and left the cafeteria. I said that we should see if there was anything we could do to help the injured. Brendon agreed, so we followed some quickly erected signs to a makeshift medbay. It was, as I expected, a mess, although I figured it was like this already for many days. No one seemed to be in critical condition, but several people were being given oxygen to help them breath. Like me.
Suddenly, an alarm went off and a stretcher came in, carried by four humans. It was a mutant, screeching in pain from a mandibled face. They put the stretcher down and I saw the wound. It seemed to be gunshot wound, in the upper leg. Because I had been in the military, I knew basic medical treatment, but not for things this serious. I asked if there was anything I could do to help. They told me to help restrain him, they’d run out of painkillers weeks ago.
Many long hours later, he was stable. I was free to go. On the way out, I asked one of the doctors what had happened to him. He’d wandered too far into the city and was attacked by the radicals, I was told. They barely found him in time.
Brendon and I wandered the compound for a couple more hours and treated ourselves to another meal, although not much else happened. Because our hopes of receiving a vehicle were dashed, we decided to leave Patriotsburg and find a ride elsewhere.”
I got in line for the food bar. The person working it, a mutant with a six fingered, taloned left hand, shook my hand and welcomed me to a the police station of Patriotsburg. He gave me a scoop of canned beans and a pack of salty crackers. I never liked beans (and certainly not for breakfast), but after not eating for about 24 hours, I was sure I’d manage. Besides, food was surely in short supply and I had no idea where my next meal might come from. Brendon had already eaten. We sat down at a table with a seemingly unmutated girl, and the man with stubby legs.
As I ate, Brendon asked them about the situation in the town. The man started going on about anti-mutant rabble seizing the townhall and sabotaging most of the towns vehicles. Apparently there was truth to the Chief of Police’s claim after all. Brendon asked the girl if the man was her father. She began to sob.
We finished eating in silence and left the cafeteria. I said that we should see if there was anything we could do to help the injured. Brendon agreed, so we followed some quickly erected signs to a makeshift medbay. It was, as I expected, a mess, although I figured it was like this already for many days. No one seemed to be in critical condition, but several people were being given oxygen to help them breath. Like me.
Suddenly, an alarm went off and a stretcher came in, carried by four humans. It was a mutant, screeching in pain from a mandibled face. They put the stretcher down and I saw the wound. It seemed to be gunshot wound, in the upper leg. Because I had been in the military, I knew basic medical treatment, but not for things this serious. I asked if there was anything I could do to help. They told me to help restrain him, they’d run out of painkillers weeks ago.
Many long hours later, he was stable. I was free to go. On the way out, I asked one of the doctors what had happened to him. He’d wandered too far into the city and was attacked by the radicals, I was told. They barely found him in time.
Brendon and I wandered the compound for a couple more hours and treated ourselves to another meal, although not much else happened. Because our hopes of receiving a vehicle were dashed, we decided to leave Patriotsburg and find a ride elsewhere.”