Arthur Broderick

Nighttime has an eerie element of peace. I’m sure I’m not the only one who feels it, I think it must cover the whole of the wastes. An odd, unwelcome peace. I mean, everything in the wasteland is eerie, but the peace that night brought is…different. But, hey, peace is peace. Right?
I watch the sky prepare itself for the night. The sky slowly melts from a rich blue to a faint orange-purple. Evening was a while off, but darkness would be here soon.

I sprawl across our sofa that my father had salvaged from an old block of flats so many years before. There’s a lot I have now that I wouldn’t if not for my dad. I look around the make-shift shack that has served my family well for almost fifty-years. The sun was filtering through the gaps in our shack, it’s made of corrugated iron and isn’t the warmest. The little searchlights of sun that had broken through the metal highlight some of our stuff, the dust and dirt floating in the light like a halo around the photograph of my mum and dad, and me and my brother. We still have the old table my dad found in a caravan, the chair with only one arm my granddad got from a moving lorry. The TV, which we stored food inside. A ceramic cat, whom I have named Tyrone. Two toasters, a second - much more burnt - armchair and a lamp that didn’t have a shade or a bulb. And the bookshelf. Some books were burnt beyond comprehension, others were barely readable. Some were fine.

I live with my brother in our shack, now. Since our parents were both killed. Not in a tragic, comic book style at the same time, scaring us for life and pushing us towards justice. No, they died separately. I suppose thats worse…I barely remember my dad. I mean if it weren’t for my brother, Tiber, I’d never know what he looked like. Mum always said he was Tiber with wrinkles.
He and Tiber share the same long face and thin lips, the same jet-black hair that they slicked back over their head. The same eyes, thin, jade green. Dad had his hair short, but Tiber keeps his long. Ponytail style down his back. Different generations I guess. Nowadays, ladies like long hair.

I was the polar opposite. And by that, I mean I got everything from mum. I had her thick, wavy brown hair that barely brushed my shoulders. The same uneven tan that was always darker on the right hand side ‘cause of my fringe. The same foggy blue eyes and full lips. I have a rounder face than anyone in my family, and I would have freckles, had the sun not bronzed them in a dirty tan. I’m just as thin as Tiber, we both get barely any food, but he’s a lot taller. Apparently. I think it’s the coat, makes him look longer. In fact, I’ve never really understood why he wears a trench coat. It’s impractical, it’s torn at the bottom, it’s covered in dirt. That’s why I stick with the simple look. A Tee-shirt I salvaged - it’s old, kind of torn - jeans, and I wear one of my mum’s old scarfs around my right bicep. I dunno why, it just feels right. It’s not a pink, feminine girly one. It’s dark green, she always wore it. It was thin and light and see-throughish.
Call me sentimental.

I lay back on the sofa and close my eyes. The light seems to make its way through my eyelids, create shapes and colours which dance before my eyes no matter which way I look. Little shapes amidst the blackness.

I almost sleep, almost. Then I hear the door swing wide open.
Tiber must be home.
I keep my eyes closed. I hear the clink-clank of his steel-toed boots echo around the metal shack. I stir, slightly, and open my left eye to a squint. I slowly look around the room and see Tiber. His eyes hit mine. Damn. I open my eyes. “Morning, Princess” Tiber says, straight faced.
“Where’d you go?” I ask him. He probably mentioned it when he left but I can’t remember everything, can I?
“Whisker Lake” he tells me. Whisker Lake is a reservoir in the mountains, or it was before the war. Back then it had clean water, people had it flowing through pipes into their homes. What a luxury that must have been. Now? Now we had immensely irradiated sludge, bustling nests of Slaughtermice. Them? Huge, deadly monsters that had mutated from the Otters that lived in the mountains, way back when. The simple thought of them sent…ugh…sent a shudder down my spine.

“Get anything?” I ask, hoping for Slaughtermouse meat. We’ve eaten nothing but cabbage for the last week. He shrugs and drops his rucksack on the coffee table. He lifts out a damp-looking lump of something, wrapped in a burlap rag. My eyes light up and feel my heart beat faster. Meat. Actual, real, fresh meat. He places the bundle on the table and begins to slowly unwrap it. Already, my senses are overcome with the fresh aroma of meat. Cold and sweet. I begin to salivate at the sight of the dark red slabs in the fabric. Bloody and raw, fresh cut from the bone.
Oh, meat.

I smile at Tiber, and he smiles back followed by a slight chuckle “We’re eating well tonight, little brother” he says, warmth in his eyes.

We sit around a expertly crafted fire pit, dug about eight inches deep, just behind the shack. The sun setting and the meat roasting. The tender scent of roasted meat filling the evening air. It was incredible. Tiber sharpens his weapon of choice - a broad sword handed down in our family for generations, the first born son is given the blade and the name of their father. That’s where Tiber’s name comes from. Tiberius Lucius Broderick. My father was Lucius Darius Broderick…I’m sure you get the rest. I am Arthur James Broderick. Not the first born. The sword, though, that was a family heirloom. Our great-grandfather, Dante Gregory Broderick, had scavenged it from an Old-World museum in Capitol - the biggest settlement since the war. He’d used it to fight his way back to the mountains to build this house. He trained granddad, who trained dad, who trained Tiber. Tiber was expert with the blade. Me? I’ve never been given a weapon…or trained for combat at all…Not that I’m bitter.

“Rorschach has been active again” Tiber said, shattering my train of thought. “Huh?” I say, my attention shifting back to Tiber. “Rorschach, he’s been doing stuff”. Rorschach was the leader of the Mutant Army. Way back when the bombs fell, not everyone died. I mean, obviously. If we had all died my family wouldn’t be here. But whoever didn’t manage to find shelter was left victim to the war. Those who weren't killed were mutated, horrifically. Most mutants are deformed, hunched creatures with faces that show the occasional glimpse their once human self. Though their eyes were empty and their screaming voice begged for death. These are the mutants we pity, Tiber and me.
We fear the mutants that still look human.

They look human, with a mutation that has given them ridiculous adaptations. Powers and skills that aren’t innately human. A gene that has defected due to the immense radiation in the air. Like stretching their limbs, like their bones were soft rubber. Or others - like Rorschach - have frightening abilities. Abilities that can turn the tides of war in your favour. Rorschach can take control of another living organism. Don’t get me wrong, Mutants aren’t violent killers and most keep themselves to themselves, but they’re unstable. They can overreact and kill, whether intentionally or accidentally. But they do kill, which has lead to one, unwritten law around the wasteland. No Mutants Allowed.
Rorschach’s biggest motivation is changing this.
“What’s he doing, like?”
“Gathering. Again” he said “Recruiting for another Heaven’s Gate, looks like” I’m surprised he mentioned Heaven’s Gate. After all, it was the day our father died.
Heaven’s gate. Fourteen years ago, back before Rorschach took the throne of head mutant, Armandas Cyle was the leader. Headstrong and violent, with the power to stiffen his arms like blades. He lead the mutant army to storm the grande settlement of Heaven’s Gate, biggest settlement outside of Capitol. Gande Hone, the then newly appointed leader of The Survivors - a human militia, of sort - got wind of the upcoming mutant stoke and took arms against their forces. This resulted in, what my mum called “the bloodiest war since the Siege of New Yorkshire”, god knows what happened in that battle, but the Heaven’s Gate attack, the Great Attack, was worse. The outcome? Almost everyone dead. Surviving, were two mutants and a handful of humans. We never found out the fate of our dad, but…but I like to stay optimistic. I look to Tiber “Surely” I say “Surely, Rorschach, and Gande for that matter, know that another war will achieve nothing?”

Tiber prods the meat, watching it roast “You’d think. The survivors will be better equipped for the next war” he says, I see him look into the fire, the reflection burning in his eyes “And I’ll be there, fighting like dad did” he says.
I like that idea, following our father into war. Out in a blaze of glory.

“Meats done” Tiber says, lifting the slabs from the flames. “Tonight, baby brother. We eat like kings.”

The sun breaks through the windows in the corrugated iron walls. That’s what wakes me, and I was fine with that. It was peaceful. But Tiber was up, always up and ready before I’d even opened my eyes.
“What’s up?” I yawn, stretching and sitting up on the sofa.

Tiber spins on his heel to face me “I’ve made a decision” he says, sliding his blade into the leather sheath on his belt. “We should have some brother-brother adventure time” I rub my eyes and slowly adjust to being awake.
“Oh? Where” I ask, as he roles up a an Old World road map. On which he had marked out hut. He slides that into his rucksack. He then looks through the window, a his eyes following a dirt path through the dead grass down to the main roads.
“I think, don’t quote me on it. But I think there is a settlement near here” he runs his fingers through his hair “Appleby, I think”

“How far?”
“About 8 miles, less than half a days walk” he says, with a slight whisper of optimism in his voice.

“What’s in Appleby?” I ask, putting on a shirt. I have two shirts, a black tee with a word on the front, probably a brand, and a white tee that was bloodstained and dirty. I slide on my white tee and sit up. Tiber shrugged “Hell if I know, but there is something in Harbour”
I pull the map from his rucksack, to the sound of Tiber’s ‘tsk’. I unroll it and run my finger along the paths and roads.

“Won’t find it” he tells me
“Why?”
“Old-Worlders called it Hull, had a big harbour in it”
I rescan for Hull…and, bingo. “What’s in Harbour?” I ask “Besides dirt, mutants and radiation” I add sarcastically, Tiber takes the map and rolls it up. I know there must be something, it was a good two days on foot.

“Father once told me…about this…this merchant”
I say nothing for a few moments, then raise my eyebrow and rub the back of my head “A…merchant?”
Tiber seemed to brush of my scepticism “Father told me about a guy, rich old scavenger. Lives underground” he tells me “Sells these remnants of the Old-World, weapons and such. Old-World tech” he says.

I say nothing, and allow Tiber to carry on "This guy has an ancient handle that I need for my sword”

"we're risking our lives on a two day journey for...a sword handle?" I ask
Tiber nods “Father told me this merchant is one of sharpest eyes in the Wastes”. I sighed, I'd assumed we'd be getting something worthwhile from this great quest. Maybe even get me a weapon.

“So, this merchant? He's in Harbour, Hull…whatever we’re calling it?”
“Father told me; Kingston Gregory, under the Old Aquarium.” Tiber has always had a thing for Old-World tech, especially the weapons. It doesn’t surprise me he’d risk our lives to get a handle for that sword rather than get a new weapon.
With this, I had the vaguest of ideas about our brother-brother adventure time. I know we’re heading out on a two day trek to Harbour. I know, if I am ever given a weapon, I would be just as competent. But, Tiber is the leader of out Army of Two and I have little to say on that matter.