Chapter 5: Into the Storm and the Mutant Wilds

The low-altitude warship "White Dragon" streaked above the sanctuary, quickly vanishing from public view.

We left behind the last safe haven, the ship slicing through the sky like a comet. People watched us go, some praying, others just hoping we’d last the week. I caught a glimpse of a kid waving, clutching a battered teddy bear.

Within satellite coverage, its flight was relatively safe and could maintain high speed.

For a while, the ride was smooth—almost comfortable. Simon pushed the throttle, and the engine sang, the vibrations humming through the hull.

Once beyond satellite coverage, manual mode and low speed were required.

The moment the satellites faded, everything got tense. Every bump, every flicker of the controls, felt like a warning. The smell of ozone mixed with sweat and stale coffee.

Simon skillfully piloted the warship through mountains, avoiding armed patrol drones overhead.

He flew like he was born in a cockpit, dodging drones and weaving through the peaks. The rest of us just held on, knuckles white on the armrests.

But his headphones blasted rock music so loud I suspected he’d learned to fly at a DJ booth.

You could hear the bass thumping through the hull. Simon yelled over the music, "AC/DC keeps me sharp!" Peter grumbled about his taste in bands.

Peter leaned on the gun console, tapping his pipe before lighting it and relaxing.

He puffed away, the sweet smell of tobacco mixing with the ozone. It felt almost normal—like a lazy afternoon back home, if home was a flying death trap.

Samuel entered sleep mode in the rear compartment; his 95% prosthetic body consumed huge amounts of energy.

He looked like a statue, eyes closed, plugged into the wall. You could hear his servos whirring, recharging for the next fight. Peter joked, "He’s more machine than man now."

In non-combat mode, he mostly slept; otherwise, his energy demands couldn’t be met.

It was strange, seeing a hero powered down like an old smartphone. But out here, every watt counts.

Only I sat in the co-pilot seat, cautiously watching the distant scenery.

I kept my eyes peeled, fingers twitching over the controls. You never know what’s lurking beyond the next ridge. The cockpit smelled of metal, oil, and a hint of fear.

When White Dragon crossed the clouds, lightning struck the ship, rocking the cockpit.

The whole ship shuddered. Simon cursed, Peter just grinned and tapped his pipe. I checked my harness twice, heart pounding.

Peter patted my shoulder, reassuring me; he said the next several thousand miles would be peaceful.

He winked, like he’d seen it all before. I wanted to believe him, but the thunder outside made me doubt. I remembered the stories about fallout storms and mutant birds.

Only upon entering the area beneath the dark clouds would we need to prepare for combat.

It was like crossing into another world. The light faded, and every shadow looked hungry. My skin prickled with dread.

He seemed familiar with the world outside the sanctuary; there were many small sanctuaries beyond.

Peter talked about the outposts—places that called themselves sanctuaries but ran more like outlaw towns. He described one where the welcome sign was a skull with "No Hope" scrawled in spray paint.

But not all were dedicated to the noble cause of human survival.

Some were run by thugs, others by cults. You could trade for water or lose your head, depending on who answered the gate. Simon muttered, "Reminds me of the old farm back home, before the bombs."

Many sanctuaries were little more than bandit groups, extracting all value from anything entering their territory.

Peter said he’d seen places where you paid a toll in blood, not credits. The world outside was wild, lawless. He remembered trading a gold watch for a gallon of clean water.

Peter said he’d seen a tall tower outside another sanctuary, built of bones.

He described it like something out of a horror flick—bones stacked like firewood, reaching for the clouds. The wind whistled through the hollow skulls, like a thousand lost voices.

No one knew how many lives it took to build, including human bones.

Sometimes, you find a skull with a gold tooth or a wedding ring. Makes you wonder who they used to be. Simon shivered, recalling his grandfather’s stories.

As for the flesh… Peter just smiled and said nothing.

He didn’t have to say it. We all knew what happened to the rest. The silence hung heavy.

White Dragon flew for three days straight; the distant sky gradually changed color.

The sun turned sickly, the clouds thickened. By the third day, even the air tasted wrong—like burnt plastic and old blood.