We turned south, after being led across the bridge. Three guards walked in front of us, while the man with the red Mohawk and dual swords followed closely behind. I glanced nervously at their rifles. The barrels had remained pointed down, but I couldn’t help noticing how tense the guards seemed and the cold glances they gave Catayla. Mohawk, in particular, seemed tense and never removed his finger from the trigger.

I caught him muttering something about ‘aliens’ and ‘Peacekeepers.’ The rest of the guards remained silent, but their eyes held the same level of friendliness.

“So, ah,” I said, turning my head to look at the red-headed Witcher wannabe. “Where are you taking us?”

“Old cruise port.” He never made eye contact, keeping his gaze on Catayla the entire time.

“Are there a lot of survivors there? I’m looking for some people.”

“We’ve got some. I imagine the Captain can help you find your people, but not until he’s had his face-to-face. Like that with newcomers.”

“You expect some trouble along the way?”

“We’ll be there soon. Then I’ll let the captain decide if there’s gonna be trouble or not.”

Twilight was just beginning to fade by the time a high wall of stacked cars and shipping containers came into view. Spotlights swept the area, and quickly fixed on our position as we moved closer.

“So, uh, Mohawk,” I said.

“Names Worthy,” he growled, finally caring enough to look at me. The only female in our detail, a tall blonde, snorted as Worthy made his introduction.

“You got a problem?” Worthy snapped at her.

“No … no problem at all, Sam.” The other guards started laughing.

As the guards started yelling back and forth I turned to look at Catayla. She smiled slightly and seemed relaxed. I hadn’t expected her to so easily give up her weapons, and I was even more amazed at her level of calm when surrounded by those who were so obviously hostile to her.

Why had she been sent alone? I had little experience with the military, only my dad’s old stories. I did know that they never put their own in danger without a reason. The Peacekeepers could have sent an armed convoy with a full detachment of trained diplomats, and yet they sent one girl. An admittedly badass girl, to be sure. I just couldn’t shake the feeling that she was here for something else.

I knew one thing. She would do whatever it took to complete her mission, whether it was good for Charleston or not.

The blonde guard held up her hand, signaling a stop as we approached a large, makeshift gate. It had been made from a chain link fence welded to car tires and had metal scrap added as reinforcement.

“So, Sam,” I said.

“Call me Worthy,” he spit.

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

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

He narrowed his eyes as he turned back towards Catayla, “specially not with such an interesting traveling companion.”

Catayla’s mouth tightened slightly, but she was otherwise unaffected. She matched stares with Worthy, giving him a slight smile. The wide, toothy smirk he gave in return unnerved me. It was the smile of a predator, one that never touched his eyes.

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

“Radios don’t work, They’ll send a runner. Just a little patience goes a long way.” He rolled the ‘l’ in ‘long,’ drawing out the word.

I was growing bored when I finally heard orders being yelled from the top of the gate. I could see movement as well, but it was too dark to make out details.

“How many are inside?” I wanted to plead, but I was able to keep my voice neutral.

“We’ve got a few thousand,” Worthy said. “Might be more in the rest of the city, but we don’t find many survivors these days. We’d come across them in the beginning, but …”

“Heard the Navy base up in Goose Creek has survivors,” said the blonde guard. “Just rumors, though. No one has made it that far north.”

“What about the Air Force base?” I said. “They’re closer, and if I remember bigger than the Navy base.”

“Bridgette,” Worthy angled his head toward the blonde, “was with a group that passed by there. Completely wiped out. No trace, just weapons strewed about like everyone just up and vanished.”

“Strangest thing I’ve ever seen,” Bridgett said. “No telling what’s out there. Guns are useless half the time. Skin’s too thick, or they heal too fast. Some of the things out there don’t even have bodies you can hurt. They’re just shadow.”

“How’d you fight something like that?”

“Fire hurts most of ‘em,” Worthy said. “That, and we’ve got a few mage types with some tricks.”

“That’s —” my comment was cut off by the grinding sound of the gate rolling open. Several men on the inside were pushing it but stopped once it was open enough for a single person to walk through.

A tall brunette in black slacks walked out. Her hair was put up in a bun, with loose trails flowing down her neck and shoulders. Her glasses made her look a bit like a librarian, but it was offset by the pair of knives strapped to her waist and the bandolier that looped around her waist.

“Worthy,” She called out. “Please report.”

“Survivor Ma'am,” Worthy said. “Had this one with him.” He pointed to Catayla with one thumb.

“She’s—” I began.

“Welcome, Peacekeeper,” the woman walked towards Catayla and offered her hand. “My name is Patricia Sterling, but I prefer Pat when talking with friends.”

“Pathfinder Orvilio,” Catayla said, shaking the woman’s hand. “I am an official representative of the Hegemony and I request an audience with your leaders.”

“Of course. We were not aware you would be coming, or we would have greeted you properly. Please, wait here while I go get my associate and send word to the captain.”

The woman stepped back through the gate, motioning Worthy to follow her.

“Well,” I said. “What was that about?”

“It’s only proper they’d recognize me,” said Catayla. “It would be quite concerning if others lacked your proper level of … initiation.”

“What? Oh, you mean the tutorial. I wanted to ask about that, but Sebbit just—"

The gate began to open wider, and Pat reappeared with someone new. Sam must have still been inside. I found myself hoping he’d been taken down a peg … or three.

“Alright, please follow me,” she said. “This is Sergeant Tiller. He’ll escort you to the ship, the captain will be waiting for us there.”

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.

“Please,” He said, “Follow me.”

The three guards that had escorted us from the bridge began to follow, but Tiller waved them away. Either they felt we didn’t need an armed escort, or they knew such precautions would be meaningless if Catayla grew hostile.

The other side of the gate was dark. There were no lit windows or streetlamps. The faint smell of smoke and grilled meats filled the air, but any fires had long since been doused.

We passed through a city of tents and ramshackle huts that had been strewn about over a large parking lot. Eyes peered out at us, and I could hear the quiet whispers of children, but no one came out to greet us.

My stomach grew cold as I realized they were afraid.

Eventually, we came to a ramp that led up to a massive cruise ship. It seemed like a city by itself. It easily should have been able to fit all the survivors that were now crammed into shacks and tents.

“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, and the chandeliers were massive structures made of glass. Everything was coated in a thin layer of cheap gold paint.

I instantly disliked it.

Pat walked up a spiral staircase to the third level of the ship and we followed her through a set of double doors.

In the center of the room was a large wooden table. Three chairs had been placed on the side closest to me, and a large man sat alone on the other side of the table. His face was weathered, with thick grey eyebrows. His shirt had been rolled up to reveal forearms covered in corded muscle and deep scars.

“Hello,” the man said, raising a glass to his lips. “I’m Captain Smith. Welcome to my ship.”