He listened to the gossip of the crowd. A couple of teenagers were arguing with an older man about the Europa mission. Malcolm, along with most of the rest of the town, had heard about it a few weeks earlier.
“They’ll rescue Savior and everything will go back to normal,” said one of the teenagers.
“You’re a fool if you think things will ever go back to normal,” said the man. “And there’s no way the mission goes off without a hitch.”
A rocket had been launched out of desperation, taking off from one of the small corners of California where law and order still reigned. Funded by the billionaire aerospace financier Tom Willis, the mission had originally been planned to put the first humans on Mars using solar sails and an advanced reaction drive. In the wake of Second Wind’s destruction, changing the target from Mars to Europa, where many claimed Savior still lived in exile, had been an easy enough sell.
“Things have to go back to normal!” shouted one of the teenagers. “They have to! We can’t live like this forever! Savior will come back, and he’ll kill Zeus, and, and…”
The teenager trailed off. Malcolm empathized with his frustration. So much had been lost in such a short amount of time. For him personally, the lack of electricity or running water was just the start.
I lost my powers. And I lost my friends.
He refused to let himself dwell on those types of thoughts as he headed out of the bazaar. Feeling sorry for himself wouldn’t accomplish anything. He had food for the night, and an extra bullet for his gun. That should have been enough to content him.
“Wind Runner!” A high pitched, mocking voice came from within a nearby alleyway. “Where are you going, Wind Runner?”
Malcolm was still recognized by his champion identity, though it was common knowledge to those who remembered him that he’d lost his powers. It didn’t gain him anything to be Wind Runner anymore, beyond the occasional pitying glance or disappointed stare.
Bennett, the leader of a small, poorly equipped local gang, stepped out into the street. He was a tall and beefy looking, and he had a face that seemed to be perpetually set into a sneer. He was in the habit of mugging anyone he suspected to be weaker than him and his gang, and the two thugs flanking him left no doubt in Malcolm’s mind what he intended.
“I’m going down the street,” said Malcolm. “I’m surprised that you couldn’t work that one out yourself, Bennett. Though I’m sure you’re pretty used to having simple things explained to you.”
Malcolm kept walking, hoping that he could shake Bennett and the thugs off with bravado alone. He had his gun on him, but the last thing he wanted to do was use it. A gun with four bullets was good as a deterrent and little else. He didn’t have the ammunition for a firefight against multiple opponents.
“What are you going to do, Wind Runner?” called Bennett. “Fly away?”
Malcolm gritted his teeth and pulled his gun out from where he had it tucked into the waistline of his pants. Bennett was the kind of man who he would have enjoyed fighting, back when he was a champion. He was a cocky bully, one that deserved what he had coming to him.
“Back off,” said Malcolm. “Or I open fire.”
“Rumor has it that you barely even have bullets for that thing.” Bennett stared at Malcolm, a slow smile creeping onto his face. His eyes darted to the side. Malcolm whirled, but not quickly enough to get completely out of the way as a hidden fourth goon swung a baseball bat into his shoulder.
Malcolm stumbled back. He fired, and was rewarded with a cry of pain as one of Bennett’s goons took a bullet to the leg. It wasn’t enough to stop them, not now that they’d struck the first blow. Malcolm didn’t have time to take aim again before Bennett and his thugs were upon him, punching, kicking, and eventually, stripping loose his pistol.
He let out a wordless cry of anger and hopelessness. Each time Malcolm felt like he was finally getting his footing back in the world, something else was taken from him. Would it just be his gun this time? Or would it be his life, too?
Shouts sounded in the distance. Gunshots attracted attention in Vanderbrook, scavengers knowing that if they arrived on the scene at just the right time, they could strip a body of whatever was left on it of value. Bennett swore under his breath and kicked Malcolm hard in the ribs.
“You’re not even worth me wasting a bullet on you to end your life.” He kicked Malcolm again, and one of his ribs surged with pain. “Thanks for the gun, Wind Runner.”
Something wet landed on Malcolm’s cheek, and then he heard Bennett and his thugs retreating, leaving him lying in the street. Malcolm stumbled to his knees, wiping away spit and feeling his face burning with hot shame.
They’d even taken the dead weasel from him. Malcolm scowled, knowing it meant he’d go hungry that night. He slipped a hand into his pocket and found that they’d missed the extra bullet he’d traded the fish for.
Maybe I can trade it for some food…
The thought wasn’t all that comforting, given the extent of what he’d lost that day. His face was bruised and puffy. His chest ached each time he took a breath. He stumbled through the streets, trying to avoid areas that would have any people in them, not trusting that he wouldn’t get jumped a second time if he stayed out in the open.
He’d been a champion once.
CHAPTER 3
Malcolm spent most of the rest of the day collecting materials to make more traps. There wasn’t much else he could do. He didn’t want to spend any more time in town than he needed to after the mugging, and aside from doing nothing, he didn’t have many other options.
He set up one more fish trap, and scoped out a tree that he might be able to use for a rock trap before heading back to his hideaway. He made his way there along a roundabout route, not wanting to telegraph to anyone where he lived.
He’d already given up his apartment, along with most of the remaining belongings inside of it. The section of Vanderbrook he’d once lived in was now too volatile for him to risk leaving any of his possessions on their own, and letting his guard down to sleep at night was totally out of the question.
Malcolm’s hideout was a small, very well-hidden cellar under a simple hatch in the ground in the ruins of an old warehouse. It was cold, and had a musty smell to it, but he’d found a small, solar powered LED flashlight in the early days after the collapse to use for light.
Malcolm waited across the street, watching until he was positive the coast was clear, and then slipped into the warehouse. He worked open the combination lock and pulled the hatch open, dropping down and replacing the lock on the inside to keep out any intruder that might happen upon it.
Everything as just as he’d left it. A single small mattress. A scattering of now useless electronics. A few rough changes of clothing; he’d sold all of the nice stuff in the first few weeks, before he’d developed the skill to trap his own food. He had no food now, of course, but he did have several full jugs of water, which he turned his attention to next.
Malcolm cleaned his wounds slowly, using only the water, but scrubbing as roughly as he could bear. They were mostly on his face - at least the injuries he could do something about. His aching shoulder and possibly cracked rib would have to be ignored.
He drank as much water as he could, filling his stomach until it was painful enough to make him forget his hunger. It was only late afternoon, but lacking anything else to do, he collapsed onto his mattress and forced himself to get some sleep.
Tomorrow’s another day. Fingers crossed. Maybe it will suck less.