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DAWN ROSE OVER the dilapidated landscape. A group of seven stood firmly in place, watching wisps of pink and orange light illuminate what lay in front of them. A mound of jagged, twisted metal stacked higher than their vision allowed them to see. It would take hours to climb the pile and work themselves around the perils that sat within. This was not the first attempt and would not be the last.
A man in the front of the group nodded and pointed toward the sheer wall of debris. The order was clear. It was time to climb.
His head bore an open-faced helmet, crudely shaped from the same scraps of material that made up the environment around them. All of them held improvised spears, crafted with whatever could be scrounged from the mound.
Dirty, unkempt hair was present on the few of them who had it. It grew in patches of vibrant colours, atypical of their human appearances. Some coughed sporadically, deep punches of wind that left a disturbing rattle in the middle of their chests.
They steeled themselves, moving their makeshift weapons in front of them. Slowly, they advanced. Their eyes scanned the sides of the mound, watching and listening for a burst of movement or noise.
Satisfied, they began to climb. The scouts in the front paused to help the others up behind them. It was slow and arduous. The mound had no consistency. Handholds and ledges were only present where the metal had shifted in a way that supported them. It was a perilous, makeshift path that left ample opportunity for scrapes and cuts. The scars and bruises they bore from previous tries were valuable as reminders of the proper ways to ascend.
They stopped at the end of a provisional platform. It sat sloped, wedged between debris. It was some sort of hull, although its function was lost on the ragtags that stood upon it to rest. The surface played upon their fingers, and some found themselves absentmindedly tracing the textured pattern of circuits imprinted on the metal.
Progress was impeded. The great pile had shifted since the last attempt, and the path ahead was not as intuitive as it had been when it was climbed before. A scout reached up, prodding for crevices and junctures in the material with his fingers.
One woman crouched, conserving her energy. She let her forearms sit on the tops of her thighs and observed the path of the sun. They were making good time, but an angry sunburn, blistered and raw, reminded her that they wanted to be off the mound before the sun reached its highest point. It was an ugly burn. Stiff, red, and itchy. Some of the other scouts covered themselves with dust as a precaution. The woman had too, but perspiration had already removed all but the thinnest layer of protection.
She was youthful, although leathered in appearance. Young enough to have not had the chance to experience a different sun, one of less intensity, with properties that did not alter the growth of hair and the complexion of skin as dramatically as the one above.
Her body was lithe and lean. Resources were scarce. They hardly had enough food to sustain themselves or the others who awaited their return at the bottom. Each trip cost them in time and number. Expeditions had started with ten, but the shifting landscape of the mound and competing groups had taken their toll.
She was lucky enough to have rudimentary armour. Scraps of aluminium covered the front of her chest. There was a label there, a table of nutritional information written in something old and forgotten. Even if the text could be read, it did not mean that the person reading it would be able to do so unharmed. She carried a polearm in her left hand. The top was flat, like the blade of a shovel. It doubled as a climbing tool, allowing her to stick the edge into gaps and crevices. Shards of glass were attached to the edge with adhesive, warning anyone within its range.
Someone grunted in approval, and she made her way over to the metal that blocked their progress and resumed the climb. It was not in one’s best interest to stray.
A few hours later, the sun was high in the sky. The woman’s arms throbbed. They were close to the top now, but they had lost someone, a man, to poorly settled debris. He had slipped and, not able to catch himself in time, descended by force to the bottom of the cruel metal pile. She knew they would find him when they returned. They had dealt with broken ones before; it meant more food to go around, and not just because there was one less mouth to feed. Survival was the only thing they had out here, living among the discarded rubbish.
Finally, they ascended. The metal burned as she pulled herself up over the last edge with the rest of the group, revealing a large platform. Though it was solid, the woman could tell by the way it groaned under their feet that it was not stable. It may move today, tomorrow, or even a month from now. There was no way to predict the whims of the mound.
Walking carefully, they made their way to the middle of the platform. Large black plastic bundles lay strewn about. Some were partially open or torn, while others remained sealed at the top. The woman hurried to one of them and used her weapon to pierce the plastic barrier that blocked whatever the bag contained. She stooped, ducking under the border of the tear and making her way inside.
Once there, she disturbed the contents, sweeping her polearm over more bundled plastic. One of the pieces gave way to a spongy mass, a neglected loaf of bread. It was mouldy. Green and blue masses with white at the edges clustered against the outside of the crust, but she did not care. She bit into the side fiercely, starved for the morsel. She dug both hands into it, trying to pull the entire mass of bread out of the side of the bag. If the group were careful, they would be able to bring it down from the top of the mound.
She cried out for assistance, and two other scouts came to help her. Together they pushed, managing to get the enormous loaf out of the plastic bag and next to the edge of the platform.
A quick search of the other bags proved fruitless, and they collected other miscellaneous materials. Metal and glass for weapons and armour, firmer plastic that could be shaved down and made into clothing or tools.
The effort was cut short by a cry of rage from the other side of the mound. A second group stood on the top of the platform. They wore similar clothing to the first and visibly existed in a similar condition. They bared their teeth and waved their weapons, signalling an intent to fight. The woman and her group did the same. Descending the mound empty-handed was unacceptable.
They charged, fanning out across the platform. The woman ran to the left side, moving around the bread that lay on the edge. She raised her pole and swiped at the nearest opponent, making contact with their shoulder. Crimson dots appeared over the pink skin, the glass striking deep into the muscle. Her opponent faltered. He dropped his weapon and clutched at the injured spot, unable to raise the affected arm. The woman raised a knee and brought it viciously to his head, breaking his nose. He shrieked and fell to the ground.
She struck with the flat part of the blade over his neck. The bone snapped, and he lay still.
Across the top of the platform, similar scenes played out. In some, the woman’s allies were successful. Other times, they were not. These skirmishes started on top of the platform, but, due to balance, often finished themselves when the combatants fell off the side of the ever-shifting metal. It was a terrible battle, scored by the clang of weapons and screams of pain.
The debris below the main platform shifted. The woman slid against it, moving her heels against the metal in an attempt to slow her descent. In desperation, she swung her blade, lodging it in the side of the loaf of bread.
A member of the other group managed to do the same. He landed below her, and their eyes met. The sunlight hit the greenish sick glow of his pasty skin. Short, curly brown hair covered the front and back of his head in patches, exposing a reddish, crusty scalp.
She kicked, striking him on the mouth. Her heel came back bloody, and he screamed, spitting a dislodged tooth. The woman howled and kicked again. His grip loosened, and he fell limp, unconscious. His body skipped like a stone as it made contact with the shifted pieces of the mound on its way to the bottom.
Whatever sense of victory she may have had from killing her opponent was made hollow by her compromised position. She dangled, trying to find purchase in the extreme angle the metal took beneath her.
The mound shifted once more, levelling the pitch of the platform to something less drastic. It would be enough to support her if she were careful.
The woman used her spear to manoeuvre herself to the edge of the loaf of bread. She angled the pole of her weapon against the ground, using it as support. The wind carried the moans of dying scouts. She would see if any of her group’s survivors could be helped, and together they would limp down the mound with the gargantuan loaf.
Elsewhere, an engine rumbled. It powered an oblong vehicle. The sole occupant was something tall and iridescent. It breathed and lived in a way that was incomprehensible to the woman or any of the other remnants of traditional humanity who lived among the scraps of technology that had long since passed them by.
The roar of the craft was impossibly loud. It filled the woman’s ears, and she felt the rumbling deep within her essence. There was nowhere to run or hide, and she had no choice but to watch this vehicle and its unfathomably large driver make their way closer. They moved like twin mountains, and the thought of climbing as it pitched and rolled made her head spin. Every sense in her body recoiled at the sight. She knew the living thing was unsafe and incompatible with her existence, no matter the lack of attention it paid.
More bags, identical in appearance to the ones present among the ascent, were pitched by the being from the craft. They dropped without any sense of order or care, lying busted on the ground. The terrible thing’s head shifted, and for a moment, she could feel its vision upon her being. The acknowledgement disturbed her, and she realised she was shaking in fear.
It was the cold realisation of inscrutability. Her primitive mind did not let her put it into words, but she realised then that this thing could end her existence and the existence of those that lived below the mound in one undeliberate, incognisant action. Such was their relationship to the being in this place.
Suddenly, it left. The woman watched the being move back to the craft, and she stayed still as the impossible noise that powered it retreated off in the distance. She waited a minute, and then one more, just in case the terrible thing returned.
The mound shifted, bringing balance back to the platform. The woman forgot the bread that lay next to the edge and instead inspected one of the new bags, cutting it open to check the contents. Inside were dozens of loaves, just as impossibly big and in the same illegible packaging as the first.
For a moment, she thought beyond her immediate survival and pondered the implications of the bounty before her. However, the pang of hunger in her stomach at the sight of the scraps shoved them away, down to the bottom of the primordial soup. She would descend, assemble another group of scouts, and climb up the mound again.
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