Retriever

“Ready?” Speed nods, checking that his packs are secure and his belt is charged. The guard heaves on a chain, lifting a concrete slab for the Retrievers to roll under, then releases it gently, securing the colony.

He waits for air to cycle through tubes mounted at the back of his neck, then breathes deeply, watching as a weather balloon bobs wildly overhead between bands of grey and bruised purple streaked across a mustard sky.

The balloon’s surface is patched and faded, but it remains airborne, tethered to the northern headland by a metal cord. It is the Servers’ job to ensure the cli-data makes it to the Forecaster. Only the Forecaster can foretell Bounty Days, when the sky is still, and the ocean drains beyond the horizon, revealing slick tidal mud and the Espy Trove.

The Trove collects remnants of the Time of Plenty: before the oceans rose, the air burned, and the people moved underground. Spare parts, tins of food, and stuff deemed essential by naïve humanity are harvested by the ocean’s current, then trapped in the labyrinth of twisted pylons, scoured sandstone, and impenetrable bedrock that lies beneath the esplanade.

There is no need for reconnaissance. The layout is as familiar to him as the veins in his muscled forearms. Speed is a Retriever; chosen and trained from birth, to resupply the colony on Bounty Days.

He signals for a group to drop under a concrete overhang as his eyes scan the horizon. They are not alone. The spume of steaming ocean parts, revealing a flotilla of crocodiles moving south. Two crocs rise, pale underbellies clash and jaws thrash, and a third rolls a bag of flesh till it no longer screams. A Raider. They must have noticed the ocean’s departure. Without the Forecaster, their colony was dependent on observation and brute force, hoping to harvest both the Trove and the Retrievers’ collecting.

He signals for the others to move quickly, searching the cavities further along as the first group reappears, packs full. The laden team is to return to the colony. He will cover them. Raiders do not travel alone.

Thud.

Speed searches the skyline as a Retriever falls to the ground, an arrow expertly shot through his neck. He checks the charge lights on his belt, unclips a charge ball, waits for movement amongst the twisted metal above the boulders, and hurls it. Light fills the air as a bolt of current jumps and weaves between rods like a Catherine Wheel catching a Raider. He jerks uncontrollably, and the smell of burning flesh fills the air. A wedge-tailed eagle swoops in, retrieves the Raider’s body, and drops it onto the lapping shore, where crocodiles wait. They thrash the body into chunks, and the eagle returns to recover its share.

“Go!” he yells, turning to the laden Retrievers. They pound towards the colony, their feet sinking into the slick mud as the Trove seeks to reclaim its wares. A charged arrow lights the darkness in the rocks around the entrance, and he sees a colony guard, bow in hand, and a group of Raiders waiting for them.

He lobs a charge ball into the boulders and watches with satisfaction as two men jerk and fall and others retreat to the shelter of the maze. The Retrievers forge on, dodging Raider arrows, seeking cover, then dragging forward in a leapfrog procession, their hands hitched to their belt, ready to use their kill chargers in close combat.

Speed unclips the packs strapped to him and drops them to the ground, chasing after them. It is his job to ensure a successful retrieval. He must secure the entrance for this team, and those he hopes will follow. At the south end of the esplanade, there is only wailing and screeching as the crocs and wedgies feast.

He flings another charge ball behind the hidden Raiders, hoping they believe they are cornered by returning Retrievers. The charcoal remains of a barren tree trunk flare as pockets of gas left by fouled air hiss and pop. The fire dances over the scarred land, taking hold in oily puddles hidden in the shadows of shiny boulders, and the Raiders run. The guard fires charged arrows into their soft flesh, and they fall one by one into the tidal mud.

The laden Retrievers hasten, noticing a chink of light appear between the concrete slab that secures the colony and a rock platform. Speed sprints after them as a flash of charge ricochets against the rocks. A Retriever drops to the ground with a groan and Speed checks behind. They are close. He heaves her over his shoulders – there is no time to unload packs from her limp body – they must retrieve the supplies for the colony. A Raider’s hand lunges for him from a muddy grave, and he trips, sinking into the ooze. Speed aims the charger at close range. The Raider thrashes and stills. He squelches forward, dragging the dead weight towards the gap, watching the first Retriever roll under and the slab lower.

“Wait!” he yells. They must not have seen him, or?

He looks behind him. The air is crackling as current shoots between ironstone shards and contorted metal. Fire licks up and over the stones unearthed by the tidal flats and then hovers blue on a long, vaporous line. The line washes inwards on the ocean’s current, gathering pace, boiling, and then departing, leaving only a flicker, searching for its next fuel load. The mud pops and the flame flares, racing forward. Fast.

That smell: burned flesh? He can no longer tell if it is outside or the seared skin of his nasal passage as he sucks broiling air through the filters, then lifts the bag of flesh laden with supplies and hurls it at the gate. It lands with a thud against the platform, and he hears the chain crank.

He is a Retriever. Mission accomplished.

Photo by Daniel Burka on Unsplash