The survivors had taken over the port. Shipping containers and cars had been stacked to reinforce the existing fence, giving it the feel of a fortress. It was already dark as we arrived, and spotlights quickly fixed on to our position. Seemed we were expected, or perhaps nightly attacks were common.

Mohawk, who had introduced himself as Sam Worthington, had marched between Catayla and I to the outskirts of the makeshift fort. Three of his men marched close behind us, while the rest of the guards had stayed at the bridge.

I noted that the three following us all carried their guns at the ready, barrels down but obviously pointed in Catayla’s direction. All three sets of eyes never left her.

Sam was the only one who seemed unfazed by the incredibly tall blue-scaled alien.

Catayla had been reluctant to give up her rifle but had relented after using her communication disk to contact her superiors.

It seemed a little odd to me. I didn’t have any experience with the military, other than my dad’s old stories. Still, I knew they never put one of their own at risk, unless it was critical to the mission. The Peacekeepers could have stormed through any barricade the survivors had put up. I would have at least expected them to send an envoy. Trained diplomats, maybe.

Catayla had a different mission beyond just ‘making contact with the natives.’ I just wasn’t sure what it was.

What I did know was that the mission would come first, even if it went against what was good for what remained of Charleston.

Looking over at her I didn’t see any obvious signs of tension. Her shoulders were relaxed, and she held her arms loosely down at her side, barely moving them as she walked. She looked straight ahead, I had become so accustomed to her constant scanning that it caught me off guard to see her so relaxed.

I had tried to use analyze on her during our journey, prior to reaching the bridge, but it had failed. I had the same experience with Sam and the rest of his guards. At first, I had thought just Peacekeepers were immune, but it seemed the protection extended to ‘citizens,’ as well. Or perhaps it only worked on monsters. Same thing in the end.

The rest of downtown had been abandoned. Too many threats, not enough people to hold it, or so I’d been told. Only a few outposts had been established outside the port, they acted as spotters and as a base of operations for scouting parties.

We stood just outside a makeshift gate the survivors had made from an old chain link fence, with car doors added for reinforcement. Car tires had been attached to the bottom, no doubt so it could be rolled open.

“So, Sam,” I said.

“Call me Worthy,” Sam said. His voice was deep and clear. It projected through the empty space outside the gate, drawing everyone’s eyes. A skill maybe? Or perhaps he had spent some time in the theater?

“All right, Worthy. Anything you can tell me about who’s in charge?”

“You’ll find out soon, Finn,” he said. “Boss man’s not the type to keep you waiting.”

He turned to look at Catayla, “specially not with such an interesting traveling companion.”

Catayla turned her head slightly but gave no indication that she was worried. Myself, the grin Sam had as he described Catayla as ‘interesting’ unnerved me. It was the smile of a predator. Wide and with lots of teeth, without ever touching his eyes.

“All right,” I said. “So how about telling me how much longer we have to stand out here.”

“Radios don’t work,” Sam said. “A runner will be down shortly. Just a little patience goes a long way.” He rolled the ‘l’ in ‘long’ drawing out the word.

We waited for several minutes, and I began to hear orders being yelled from the top of the gate. I could see movement as well, but it was too dark to make out details.

A thought I had been repressing suddenly hit me, and I could no longer ignore asking.

“How many?” I said. I looked towards Sam. “How many people survived?”

“We’ve got a few thousand inside,” Sam said. “It’s hard to say how many survived outside of that. We hardly see any survivors, these days. We’d get a trickle the first few days, but now..”

Sam’s words drifted off and he lowered his eyes. “Heard the Navy base up in Goose Creek has survivors. Just rumors, though. No one has made it through this far.”

“What about the Air Force base?” I said. “They’re closer, and if I remember bigger than the weapons station in Goose Creek.”

“Gone,” Sam said. “Completely wiped out, first day. We’ve got some of them here, a couple of the top brass as well.”

One of the men behind me spoke, “Guns don’t do shit to some of the things out here.”

“True,” Sam said. “Skin’s too thick, or they heal too fast. Some of the things out there don’t even have bodies you can hurt, just shadow or even liquid.

“Hell, we fought of a pack last week. I shit you not, ooze monsters. Just slithering piles of goo. Bullets, blades, anything, just went right through. Ate through just about anything they touched, too.”

“How’d you stop them,” I asked.

“Fire hurt ‘em,” Sam said. “That and we’ve got a few mage types that had a few tricks.”

“Shit, that’s…” I began but was cut off as the gate began to slide open.

The gate stopped opening after making enough room for a single person to walk through.

The woman who walked through was tall and wore a white blouse and a pair of blue jeans. Her hair was put-up in a bun, with loose trails of blonde hair flowing down her neck and shoulders. Her glasses gave her a bit of a librarian look, but it was offset by the pair of knives strapped to her waist and the bandolier that looped around her waist and shoulders.

“Worthy,” She called out. “What have you got here?”

“Survivor m’am,” Sam said. “Had this one with him.” He pointed to Catayla with the thumb of his right hand.

“She’s…” I began.

“Please,” the woman said. “We’ll get to you in a moment. Just let me confer with my associate for a moment.”

The woman and Sam stepped back through the gate, leaving Catayla and I with our three guards. Two more stepped out to join them, keeping us surrounded.

“Well,” I said. “Any of you see any good movies lately?”

I didn’t get any reaction at all. They just stood there watching Catayla and I. Probably more her than me.

After several minutes the woman with the blonde bun returned, this time with another man. Sam must have still been inside.

“Alright, you can come with us,” She said. “My name is Patricia Sterling. Folks around here call me Pat.” She turned to point to the man at her side.

"This is Sergeant Tiller, he’ll be accompanying us to see the boss. Try to be on your best behavior.” She smiled sweetly before turning on her heel and walking back through the open gap in the gate.

Sergeant Tiller was a tall skinny black man. He looked more like a pencil pusher than a soldier. He didn’t wear any identifying uniform, just a pair of khakis with and a blue button-up shirt. On his hip he wore a thick leather belt and holster, it rode low on his hip just like in the old cowboy movies. His gun was an old six-shooter with an ivory handle and nickel plating.

Tiller gave us a look before putting his arm out at an angle, letting us know to go ahead.

As we followed the blonde woman in, Tiller and the rest of the guards were close behind.

It was dark inside, there were no windows with lights or streetlamps to illuminate the way. Someone, however, had strung white Christmas lights up between the buildings. It created a kind of path for us to follow.

Existing structures had been built onto with bits of metal and plywood. Shipping containers, too, had been converted into homes. I could make out a few campfires and tents in the distance, and the smell of grilled meat mixed with smoke and excrement reached my nostrils.

Eventually we came to a ramp leading up to a cruise liner. “This way,” Pat said. “The boss will meet us in the dining hall.”

The interior was gaudy, decorated to appeal to those that had never seen real luxury. The floor was fake white marble tile, the chandeliers were massive structures made of glass, and everything was coated in a thin layer of cheap gold paint. The walls were decorated with tile murals depicting flowers, landscapes or swirling geometric shapes.

Pat led us up the spiral staircase to the third level of the ship and led us through a set of double doors that had been left open.

The interior of the dining room was slightly more subdued. The walls were wood paneled and contained prints of famous paintings in expensive frames. The floor was covered in a thin red carpet.

As I walked in I noticed a bar to my left, made of a dark brown wood and staffed by a short bald man in a grey vest and black tie. Only a single table remained, small and round and placed at the center of the room. Around it were three chairs. Sitting in one was a man with grey hair and a weathered face. He was probably sixty, but he wore his age well. His shoulders were still firm, and he didn’t have any flab around his belly. His forearms, exposed by his rolled-up shirt, were hairy and covered in corded muscle and deep scars.

“Hello,” the man beamed. “I’m Captain Smith. This here is the Gilded Lady. Welcome to my ship.”

He stood and walked towards Catayla and I and offered his hand.

“Thanks for the welcome,” I said while shaking his hand.

Soon he turned to Catayla, who also took his hand. Her own making even Captain Smith’s hands look small.

“Well,” the large man said as he sunk back into his chair. “Gus, Catayla, please take a seat. We’ve got some business to discuss.”