Zan Carson made his way through the streets of Bloodoak Lake, focusing his sight on the blood-red sky of the horizon. Even after he fled from his homeland, it was clear, nothing changed. Still, seven years after the death of his wife, war raged night after night, leaving nothing but bloodshed and death.
Bloodoak Lake had long ago lost what its name stood for, the lake, and what replaced it was a nine mile field of cracked, water deprived terrain scattered with bones and vehicle husks. War had ravaged the town many times before and continued to do so, each time turning the town into less and less of a community and more like a wasteland, like the world around it. Somehow, though, those that were left managed to survive off of what water remained beneath the ravaged earth, using an old water tower in the center of town as the provider. To these people, the water tower was a god, and time and time after they had to fight to defend it from constant raids of the surrounding world. As far as Zan was concerned, though, he was safe, free from the human regime's rule, and had plenty to drink. There were far worse places in the world than Bloodoak Lake, and as far as he was concerned, the town itself was a heaven compared to the rest of the world.
Slowly, he made his way down one of the nearby alleys, allowing the sounds of the battle outside the town to entertain him, constant explosions and crackles. After years of living in Bloodoak, he had grown fond of the fighting, for it provided entertainment for such a dreary place, whereas there was little more to do besides drink, sleep, and guard. Each explosion was like a firework show of its own, providing an artificial light that illuminated the entire town for a few brief moments, almost like the lighting of a thunderstorm from the world before. A large, metal staircase resided up ahead, coated in rust and blood stains. Hesitantly, he made his way up the staircase, slowly, for time after time the staircases had collapsed beneath people from years of enduring the war's pounding. He reached the top and moved along a long stretch of scaffolding, allowing himself to get a better view of the conflict in the distance.
Two people approached him, one a man, the other a woman, both dressed in military uniform.
"It's been going on for two hours now," the man spoke, lifting a canteen to his mouth, grinning.
"I know. I've been watching it," Zan responded and then leaned against the scaffolding's railing.
The man chuckled. "Poor fools are being torn apart by the HR."
"Who? Our people?"
"No. Trading caravans."
"Traders?" Zan questioned with surprise, whereas such an event was almost unknown.
"Yeah. Apparently they, the HR, doesn't want the traders to supply us."
"Well, we need to form the offensive."
"We can't," the woman interrupted and leaned against the railing, beside Zan, sighing. "Our numbers are too weak; we've been cut in half from our original force after that attack last week."
Zan slammed his hand against the railing. "If we lose those traders, we lose the entire town."
"We know," the woman responded, depressedly. "There's no other option, though. Maybe the HR will pass our town by, if we're luckly."
Zan looked towards a small bunker-like building near the former lake's edge. He nodded. "What about the sewers? Maybe we can flank them."
"It won't work," the man spoke and began pacing along the scaffolding.
"It did for a long time, back in New Richlend. We could capture their vehicles."
"This is different, though, Zan," the woman replied.
"How?"
"This is a war-torn landscape that hasn't seen green grass in years. Who knows what's living down there."
"Well, we have guns. So who cares?"
"Maybe we can nagotiate with the HR."
Zan snarled. "They don't nagotiate. They only kill people. Either way, I'm going through the sewers whether you like it or not. It's our only logical option. Meanwhile, you and the others can form the defensive along the town's borders."
Zan quickly turned away and began moving back down the staircase, listening as his two companions argued. Really, though, he had no idea what he was doing. Even if he did survive the trip through the sewers, once he arrived to his destination, he had to be quick and quiet. The HR wouldn't hesitate to kill him if they spotted him. He looked towards a couple a patrolling guards and signaled for them to follow.
"You two, we're going," he spoke.
"Where to?" one of the guards asked, running and loading his gun messily.
"The sewers."
((Sorry about the long post
))