Trent felt better about the slowed pace they took through one of the city's three parks, which acted, according to V, as a kind of buffer zone between Cash Flow and Valley, the next district south. The soil had a springiness which lightened his step, and the air in the benighted park didn't carry the stale, foul odor that permeated everywhere else.
He would soon blame this false idyllic atmosphere for what happened next. As he and V passed by a squat concrete public restroom, a wasteoid sprang out of hiding, snarling as it raked its needle-claws through Trent's right bicep. He howled as fiery pain burned the narrow gashes, pulling his gun with his off hand and firing at the angular creature. It was fast, skittering back and forth to dodge his shots, drool slopping out of its open mouth.
Trent switched the gun to his right hand, bringing the shield up as the wasteoid lunged, its stab repelled by the golden energy. He whipped the barrel of his gun against the side of the creature's head, and when it came back around, he had the gun pressed against its throat. He fired twice, dropping the wasteoid as blood and brain rocketed out of the exit wound. He tucked the gun and shield away, grabbing at his gashes. It felt like acid had been poured on his skin, his own blood mixed on his forearm with the green bile from the creature's needles.
"God, this hurts," he snarled, pulling his hand away. "V, I gotta get this washed out."
"Agreed," said the guide. "I'll wait here. You head into the bathroom. I'll warn you if anything comes up." Trent grunted, slipping down a set of steps and into a dingy, battered washroom. Graffiti of various sorts covered the walls, and three of the four mirrors by the sinks had been shattered, glass glinting dangerously all over the counter and floor. He pumped soap from a wall mounted dispenser into his left hand after pulling his shirt off, taking a whiff of the puffy white foam before applying it. It smelled like green apple body lotion, the sort Claire used to use.
He scrubbed the soap into his wounds, cringing as it worked into the open flesh. He let it sit for a minute before leaning down into the sink, splashing cold water into the cuts to rinse away soap, blood and green ichor. Trent repeated the process two more times, relieved that on the last rinse there came no more green.
Trent located a maintenance closet at the back of the restroom and opened the door, revealing a clutter of janitorial supplies. He needed none of these, locating what he wanted on a tilted set of metal shelves. He grabbed the first-aid kit out and set it on the clear part of the counter, popping the clasps and opening the red plastic case. Though all of the painkillers were absent, there remained a box of bandages and three rolls of medical wraps. He took one out, strapped himself up, and pocketed the other two, leaving the kit where it sat.
V stood right where he'd left the guide, smoking a cigarette and looking around for trouble. "All taken care of," V asked.
"Yeah. Just one thing, though."
"Hmm?"
"Can I get one of those?"
Trent stepped out of the park onto the sidewalk, gaping openly at the sheer volume of innocents around them. The park had begun to slope downhill, marking their entrance to The Valley district. Trent felt thankful for the easy descent, but now his mind emptied of anything but awe. "The Valley," said V, clapping him on the left shoulder. "Most densely populated part of all Scumville. Also a bit of a downer, lately. The Pusher's people have been coming through a lot these days, doing their thing. They leave the peddlers alone, of course, and ignore anyone stoned out of their gourds."
"I assume we need to keep a low profile, then?"
"You're a quick learner." V guided Trent into the throngs of innocents, their hands present since they were all closely grouped. Trent found the uniformity of their faces more disturbing now than he had before, a point he attributed to their concentration of numbers. Their proximity made him acutely aware of their odor, a kind of light sweatiness born of constant worry and fear. He understood well enough the petulant mosquito that worked itself into most folks' hearts, sucking out their joy and leaving behind only an itch that can never be scratched, no matter how many locks one puts on the doors and windows of their homes.
V cleverly directed him through the thickest crowds, completely avoiding contact with any of the Pusher's people, until they came out on a long, empty street running east and west. What Trent saw just two intersections away puzzled him. There stood a towering gray concrete wall, stretching off in both directions as far as he could see and beyond, broken only by a foreboding tunnel, in which hung at least a few overhead lights.
"What's that," he asked, pointing ahead.
"That's the north end tunnel. It leads to the next district we have to pass through. Trent, make no mistake about it, the next district is the most perilous one in all of Scumville. It splits the city in half, blocked on north and south sides by one of these walls."
"Is it more dangerous than the Pusher's headquarters district?"
"Yes," V said gravely. "It's called The Scrapyard. You can imagine what that implies."
"It's the junkyard for the entire city," Trent said evenly.
"That's for starters. It's also a place where there are no rules whatsoever, except for my non-involvement. When any of the Pusher's people have a problem with someone in the gang, they settle their differences in the Scrapyard. There's four or five guardians in there, but they only focus on protecting and escorting the few innocents brave or stupid enough to want to pass through to the other side."
Trent looked at the tunnel entrance, yawning open like the maw of some unknowable beast, prepared to devour any and all foolhardy enough to pass within. He took out his firearm, thwapping it against his thigh in a steady rhythm.
"I'm ready," he said, sniffing.