Post by KayKay on Jun 2, 2018 5:36:23 GMT
The Greenwich area was infamous among Londoners for its treacherously decaying cobblestone roads; roads decorated in patchworks of ankle-deep potholes and stones that poked out of the road as if to grab at the feet of passing travelers. It seemed every other block the roads would give way into a deep crevice several feet wide, that often stretched from one building to another. So deep were these rifts that the dirt that had once been the road's foundation could be seen. These were memoirs of the Cataclysm seventy-six years ago, and in that time the community had Greenwich had neither the budget nor time to repair its torn and battered streets.
The state of the roads made traversing Greenwich with a wheelchair particularly difficult, so it was an unusual sight to see a woman patrol the roads with one. An enormous rottweiler trotted loyally by her side, his jaws muzzled and his leash a thick chain that was gripped gently by the woman's hand. The woman herself wore little more than brown rags that masked her figure and face, and a deep-set hood that wrapped over her head. Her appearance gave few people a second glance, for dirty rags fit the fashion of the Greenwich slums.
The brick buildings that lined the streets carried the neglect of its roads. Graffiti decorated the old walls, and few glass window panes remained; most windows had been bordered up with plywood. Where there had once been open space and greenery, now there were shanties of plywood, corrugated metal, and plastic, made to accommodate those forced from the England countryside long ago. They could be found en mass in the once green parks, filling up the spaces between buildings, or even atop the buildings themselves, where doors of cloth fluttered in the wind like rotting flags of a dying nation. Electrical wires protected by thick pipes wrapped around the larger buildings to create a ceiling of cylindrical steel that stretched over the streets like a spider's web, providing electricity a few hours each day to those who could afford it. Down the street, one of the largest buildings yet loomed, a rusted thing of concrete that had once been a parkade, but now served as a mountain for shanties.
This parkade was the woman's destination – or rather, the underground garage that lay beneath it.
As the woman's wheelchair reached the concrete ramp, strong hands gripped the wheels to control her descent. The large garage door in front of her was long out of use, degraded by the passage of time. A smaller door frame had been cut into it, and a thick steel door sat within. The woman knew from experience that it was chained and locked on the other side.
The dog’s ears perked up as she rapped her knuckles on the door, and she gave him a comforting scratch under the chin. She muttered a soothing word in Arabic tongue, and the Rottweiler sat diligently next to her.
A grill in the door opened, and a pair of eyes shone out at the woman. They went wide when they caught sight of the wheelchair, and there were several whispers behind the door. "Name?" the owner of the eyes growled, ignoring the murmurs of his comrades.
The woman lifted a hand to the rags wrapped around her face and lowered them to her chin, revealing the face of a dark-skinned woman with an expression set like chiseled stone. Her eyes – a striking silver – stared into the man's, and the whispers rose into excited chattering.
"Oi! That be Ember," cried a woman.
"Why she here?" hissed another.
"It's like Reynard said!" came the voice of a boy, who sounded no older than twelve. "I told you, ma! I told you, Reynard saw her near Morden Road!"
The woman removed yet more bundles of rags from her lap, and withdrew a thick leather sack. "I bring goods," she said. Her tone was even, neither overtly compassionate or noticeably cruel. "Food. Blankets. Money."
Her last word drew yet more excited whispers, and there was the banging of chains as the man at the grate scrambled to unlock the door. It was opened cautiously, creaking in protest on rusty hinges, and a feeble, dirty man with blue eyes shining with hope stared out at her. Behind him, the woman could make out other faces, illuminated by the flickering orange glow of torches in the dark underground. This parkade was one of countless entrances to the London Undercity, where the homeless built shelters of scavenged garbage that made the shanties above ground look like estates.
"This is to be shared equally," the woman told the faces looking out at her. She tossed the heavy sack with one hand, allowing it to fall at their feet. "There is enough to feed each mouth for three weeks. By that time I will return with more."
There was no immediate reply. The crowd stared at her in stunned silence. Then, hesitantly, the man up front bent down towards the sack and began shifting through its contents. When pulled canned food, fresh bottled water, cash, and even a blanket, his blue eyes lit up with a wide grin. The whispers of the crowd behind him turned to cries of excitement, and soon the rest joined him at the floor to gather what they could for their families. Under the woman’s watchful eyes they shared the gift’s contents; none dared to upset her by fighting for their share, lest she never again return. Even as they collected large handfuls of cash, it was common knowledge that they would need a wheelbarrow’s worth to escape the undercity. Perhaps, someday, the woman would return with just that, but for now even this was enough to bring tears to the eyes of many.
With the help of her dog, the woman began to wheel her chair back up the incline and back onto the streets. She stayed, one hand readied at her concealed firearm, watchful for potential thieves or gangs until the door to the parkade closed once again. Then she pulled from her rags a pocket-map of Greenwich, and crossed the location out. The next location in line was Deptford Railway Station, the oldest station in London and long abandoned after the Cataclysm. She would drop by tomorrow.
The woman began to push her wheelchair back down the rotting cobblestone. First, she would need to get more supplies.
The state of the roads made traversing Greenwich with a wheelchair particularly difficult, so it was an unusual sight to see a woman patrol the roads with one. An enormous rottweiler trotted loyally by her side, his jaws muzzled and his leash a thick chain that was gripped gently by the woman's hand. The woman herself wore little more than brown rags that masked her figure and face, and a deep-set hood that wrapped over her head. Her appearance gave few people a second glance, for dirty rags fit the fashion of the Greenwich slums.
The brick buildings that lined the streets carried the neglect of its roads. Graffiti decorated the old walls, and few glass window panes remained; most windows had been bordered up with plywood. Where there had once been open space and greenery, now there were shanties of plywood, corrugated metal, and plastic, made to accommodate those forced from the England countryside long ago. They could be found en mass in the once green parks, filling up the spaces between buildings, or even atop the buildings themselves, where doors of cloth fluttered in the wind like rotting flags of a dying nation. Electrical wires protected by thick pipes wrapped around the larger buildings to create a ceiling of cylindrical steel that stretched over the streets like a spider's web, providing electricity a few hours each day to those who could afford it. Down the street, one of the largest buildings yet loomed, a rusted thing of concrete that had once been a parkade, but now served as a mountain for shanties.
This parkade was the woman's destination – or rather, the underground garage that lay beneath it.
As the woman's wheelchair reached the concrete ramp, strong hands gripped the wheels to control her descent. The large garage door in front of her was long out of use, degraded by the passage of time. A smaller door frame had been cut into it, and a thick steel door sat within. The woman knew from experience that it was chained and locked on the other side.
The dog’s ears perked up as she rapped her knuckles on the door, and she gave him a comforting scratch under the chin. She muttered a soothing word in Arabic tongue, and the Rottweiler sat diligently next to her.
A grill in the door opened, and a pair of eyes shone out at the woman. They went wide when they caught sight of the wheelchair, and there were several whispers behind the door. "Name?" the owner of the eyes growled, ignoring the murmurs of his comrades.
The woman lifted a hand to the rags wrapped around her face and lowered them to her chin, revealing the face of a dark-skinned woman with an expression set like chiseled stone. Her eyes – a striking silver – stared into the man's, and the whispers rose into excited chattering.
"Oi! That be Ember," cried a woman.
"Why she here?" hissed another.
"It's like Reynard said!" came the voice of a boy, who sounded no older than twelve. "I told you, ma! I told you, Reynard saw her near Morden Road!"
The woman removed yet more bundles of rags from her lap, and withdrew a thick leather sack. "I bring goods," she said. Her tone was even, neither overtly compassionate or noticeably cruel. "Food. Blankets. Money."
Her last word drew yet more excited whispers, and there was the banging of chains as the man at the grate scrambled to unlock the door. It was opened cautiously, creaking in protest on rusty hinges, and a feeble, dirty man with blue eyes shining with hope stared out at her. Behind him, the woman could make out other faces, illuminated by the flickering orange glow of torches in the dark underground. This parkade was one of countless entrances to the London Undercity, where the homeless built shelters of scavenged garbage that made the shanties above ground look like estates.
"This is to be shared equally," the woman told the faces looking out at her. She tossed the heavy sack with one hand, allowing it to fall at their feet. "There is enough to feed each mouth for three weeks. By that time I will return with more."
There was no immediate reply. The crowd stared at her in stunned silence. Then, hesitantly, the man up front bent down towards the sack and began shifting through its contents. When pulled canned food, fresh bottled water, cash, and even a blanket, his blue eyes lit up with a wide grin. The whispers of the crowd behind him turned to cries of excitement, and soon the rest joined him at the floor to gather what they could for their families. Under the woman’s watchful eyes they shared the gift’s contents; none dared to upset her by fighting for their share, lest she never again return. Even as they collected large handfuls of cash, it was common knowledge that they would need a wheelbarrow’s worth to escape the undercity. Perhaps, someday, the woman would return with just that, but for now even this was enough to bring tears to the eyes of many.
With the help of her dog, the woman began to wheel her chair back up the incline and back onto the streets. She stayed, one hand readied at her concealed firearm, watchful for potential thieves or gangs until the door to the parkade closed once again. Then she pulled from her rags a pocket-map of Greenwich, and crossed the location out. The next location in line was Deptford Railway Station, the oldest station in London and long abandoned after the Cataclysm. She would drop by tomorrow.
The woman began to push her wheelchair back down the rotting cobblestone. First, she would need to get more supplies.