Through back alleys. Over fences. Across sun baked streets where workers cursed as I bumped into them. The images of my pursuers wrapping their meaty hands around my throat kept me moving even when my lungs threatened to catch flame. The patter of my steps matched my heart's maddened pulse all the way back to the market, where I fell in with the crowd.

  I found somewhere safe before tossing the latch box onto the dirt, bending over, and hurling whatever was in my empty stomach.

  After spitting, I said to myself, "That is the last time this box tries to kill me."

  I knew Red's boys would come looking for me. With how quick they found me last time, this place must be rife with workers from the OutPost. Time was a short friend for me today, but it wouldn't matter. Find Chuckles. After that, I'm free… from BorderTown, from the OutPost, from all of this.

  With a final breath breaking my panic, I picked up the latch box.

  "The end is near! The sun burns brighter and brighter, the truth of its light searing to the eye," a wearied voice called out from a street corner. The old man wore red and orange robes, his wrinkled face pocked with black marks and blue tattoos.

  Gearheads and nomads, laborers, wirejacks, people with visors on their heads; people of all kinds littered the sidewalks. A couple street punks across the street hung out on the corner, but they weren't part of Chuckle's crew. They people watched with smug grins.

  "Soon, we will all take our turn and catch flame in its eternal glow. I have seen it, out beyond the city, in the wastes. Sun storms that melt steel. Firestorms that rise like dust. It is the earth coming for retribution," the old man continued. He stood on the corner preaching to passersby.

  Wild chickens fought by my feet, forcing me to dance out of the way while their owner called to me from a nearby food stall.

  "Stop by. Stop by! Eat something! I have real meat," the street vendor enticed, her thick foreign accent hindering her english. She chopped at thick, fat mushrooms with a gleaming blade.

  I passed her by.

  It was hard to tell what part of the market I was in or where the crew was lurking. Knowing the guys, they'd find me before I found them. That's what I'd expected when I'd conceived the original plan, but now with the OutPost looking for me… Was there time?

  "There is no time!" The old man called out to me as I passed him. Startled, I caught the old man's hollow gaze. "But it's not too late. We can save the earth. Save our home. We've constructed mountains of steel and forced them to do our bidding. With this power, we too can reverse our mistakes and combat the sun."

  I kept walking. Not a good idea to get stuck with crazies like that. The old man turned back to the crowd without missing a beat and kept chastising them.

  Chuckles and them aren't here.

  Dogs barked ferociously behind a fence as sidewalkers passed by. Their ferocious voices bid curious intention and dangerous threats, but none of us paid them any mind.

  Ahead of me, an open garage door leaked the smell of motor oil onto the narrow street. It reminded me of simpler times. Passing by, I couldn't help but peek inside.

  A turbo MK 4 sat on wheel stoppers, jacked up by a machine. It was beautiful: a Japanese muscle car whose design had to be fifteen years old, but that didn't matter. Cars like this were classic.

  It was kitted out, with a dust shield instead of a windshield, no side windows, filtered hood scoops, bulletproofed doors, and thick wheels for running over road bumps, smashing debris, and toughing out the hot asphalt roads. It was in rough condition. Different colored patches of metal plugged up holes and missing bits.

  This was a classic car in the city, doubling as a street racer and a luxury item. It was strange seeing a model like this out here in the wild. I guess a classic is appreciated no matter where you go.

  A young woman in coveralls rolled down to her waist, tank top splattered in grease stains, stood on the front of the car, crouching over the engine block. Almost white, blonde hair ran like silver strands down the sides of her face. Her arms strained as she cranked on something with a tool.

  "The base rod is melted to the frame! You burned it up," she called out to someone when she couldn't get the tool to turn.

  A melted base rod? That was a common problem when a car was pushed past its limiters. Whoever owned this car was a fast driver… I wondered if they were a racer.

  Suddenly, the quickened smack of feet on the sidewalk erupted behind me. My heart jumped, and I pulled the case to me like something precious. A couple of kids ran by, chasing each other in ragged clothes.

  I huffed an annoyed sigh.

  They aren't here either.

  On my way, I spotted a couple of laborers on the corner across the street. They sat in the shade of a squat building, their worker garments rolled up and unzipped. Tanks tops, undershorts, and bare feet, they were young, exhausted, and sun-kissed… and smoking.

  I broke from the crowd and crossed the street.

  Sheepishly, I passed them by at first, stopping at the street corner nearby to feign my search. A young man, barely twenty-one, sat back against the wall, eyes glazed over with no thought to them.

  "Hey, bub," I said, interrupting his peace. He looked up with only his eyes. "Have you seen a group of boys, real tough-looking, street punk type, roaming around here? One's real tall with a mohawk." He looked at me like I was stupid.

  There were a ton of people around these parts who fit that description.

  "Yeah, I figured," I said, slumping against the street corner. Pretending to look around for the boys, I asked him offhand, "You don't have an extra one of those, do you?" His eyes found me again, this time annoyed. Through his cigarette, he replied.

  "What do you got in return?"

  The main markets were alive with noise. All types of strangers walked the skinny paths between tents and stalls. My eyes explored with a disappointed desire for a cigarette drumming my thoughts.

  The market stall criers called from their stalls.

  "You sir. Let me interest you in some special items. Straight from the inner city. Fly scanners. Wash tubes. Weather radar. Things wastelanders need, I have."

  "Come in. Stop and see what we have brought from across the wasteland. All kinds of exotic wares. Forgotten designs. Strange artifacts. Trinkets, toys, tech. I promise you something will catch your eye."

  "Hey there, mister. You look like you need a drink," a short boy with freckles beckoned to me, following me down the avenue.

  "No thanks." Still no sign of Chuckles and the boys.

  "Come on, LowDowner. Got real strong drinks with real fruit and real alcohol. I know city boys like you are tired of that synthetic crap," the boy assuaged as he kept following me, climbing over crates and through stalls on his way, much to the annoyance of stall keeps.

  "I said no."

  "What's in that case? It looks heavy. You don't want to set it down and take a rest?" Fed up, I turned to the kid finally. He'd climbed up on a streetlamp's base so we were eye to eye.

  "Listen," I said, surprised to find not a little boy but a plucky-eyed girl with terribly shorn hair. "Quit following me ya little creep." I wagged a finger in her face to accentuate my point.

  I kept going. Unfortunately, so did she.

  "Sorry. Didn't mean to interrupt your brooding. It's just…" She hopped down from a stall, cutting me off. "Wait. I'm sorry. Come on, do me a favor, pops. My dad's restaurant is empty today. Couldn't get a customer in all morning. If folks saw someone like you drinking there, they would come piling in. What do you say? I can get you free drinks." I don't want a drink, little brat.

  It was probably some kind of grift anyways. No one offered free drinks on a hot day. They didn't have to.

  The little girl looked sincere… but then I heard it. Quick steps behind me.

  I yanked the case out from my side just as hands gripped onto it. The boy was barely fifteen, with sun-baked skin in ratty overalls. Street thieves.

  He scrambled for my case, trying to rend it from my hands, but I was too strong. I just pulled the case close to me, cocked back my fist, and tuned the kid in the jaw. He slumped back into a stall, shaking the wares on its top.

  "Oh shit," the girl yelled, intending to dash away. In frustration, I swung the case around, smacking her on the head, the force of the impact tossing her to the ground. She gripped her skull, writhing in the dirt.

  Serves you little shits right.

  "Hey!" A thick voice erupted from the crowd. A sun burnt man with thick black hair and a barrel chest thundered my way. "What're you doing?"

  "Mind your own business," I said, turning to go. He stepped up to me.

  "So, you like beating on little kids?"

  "Oh fuck off, would ya? They were tryna steal from me," I spat, fed up with this whole damn place. He didn't like my answer. People started to stare.

  "Fuck off, huh? How about I shove that case so far up your ass, you'll taste it?"

  "It's true," a nearby stall vendor stepped up to defend me, spitting on the boy rubbing his jaw in the dirt. "They are street thieves. Get out of here you little rat!" The street vendor kicked at the boy.

  "Don't you touch him," the burly man said, gripping the street vendor by the shirt.

  I see. It made sense now.

  This guy was the second part of the equation. If I had indulged the girl, she would've led me back to her restaurant, where he'd be waiting to beat me into submission and jack my shit. The boy was a plan B if I didn't come back. They probably eyed me because of my case.

  "Get off of me!" The street vendor cried, an old man with a ring of steely hair on his scalp. People were looking now. The market was starting to grow interested. Not good. The commotion would attract the eyes of any nearby workers, too.

  I slunk away, past the girl as she rubbed the back of her scalp with a palm, and slid into the masses of stalls to escape the attention.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Unfortunately, the big man wasn't so easily distracted. He tossed the street vendor back into his stall, the vendor flipping over the table flailing wildly. His stock crashed to the floor.

  "Hey!" The assailant shouted, charging after me. Seeing this, I didn't hesitate. I bolted away from him into the crowd. The man pushed his way after me, tossing whoever was in his way aside.

  Here we go again.

  I burst through the crowd into a back street where exhausted laborers rested on the sides of a narrow road. They all turned their heads when I crashed into their quiet reprieve, heaving, checking behind me for the lumbering man. Luckily, I'd lost him.

  I crossed the road and turned a corner to put myself out of view.

  Finally, I felt safe. A woman was beating freshly washed clothes in the alley, hammering the fabric with a club to knock the desert dust off before taking them inside. Voices echoed in the shadowed space and dogs growled and barked at one another in someone's house.

  "Goddamn kids. This place is a nightmare," I spat, finally huffing a relaxed breath. The quicker I'm out of here, the better. But now where the hell am I? This place was giving me a crick in my neck.

  I turned another corner, finally shirking off the feeling of being watched, when I entered an alley closed at one end. Three men were standing around talking and drinking beer. They were dressed in dirty orange jumpsuits, the same as from OutPost. There was a pause in their conversation as we all locked eyes.

  I wasn't sure if they knew who I was… and they weren't sure if they were supposed to, so a tense moment passed between us where no one moved. One of them, the lead man with a scar from his chin to his ear, flicked his eyes down to my case and back up to me. That's when I knew. The case was a give away.

  He knows who I am. As if knowing that, he looked at me nervously, like I was a skittish cat he was afraid to spook. Then…

  With a turn of my heels, I bolted back down the alley.

  The woman cursed me as we collided. She fell to the dirt; the clothes ripped off her clothesline. Hot on my trail, my pursuers jumped over her, ravenous like beasts for their pray. If they catch me this time… I didn't want to think about it.

  As I turned onto the street, a group of street punks were passing by on the sidewalk. Head first, I crashed into the crowd. They cursed and kicked at me, promising to beat me into pulp if they caught me, but I broke through too quickly and tore my way down the street.

  The three men followed my path, crashing right into the middle of the punks, too. Pissed someone else had the gallstones to mess with them, the street punks pushed and shoved the men around, blocking their path out of spite. Wild-eyed and confused, my pursuers fought back, tugging their way out of the fray. I watched them scramble behind me, relieved. That bought me precious time.

  That was... until I thumped against something so hard it stopped me dead in my tracks. I fell back on my ass, completely shaken.

  With his back turned to me and his fists clenched, shaking in rage, the big man from the markets stood over me. He whipped around to see who'd knocked so callously into him, and we locked eyes.

  "There you are."

  "Oh, come on," I muttered. The thief's anger turned to sadistic joy as he clenched my jacket with both hands and wrenched me to my feet.

  "I'm gonna rip your head off!" He shouted and, with incredible strength, tossed me into a nearby wall. The breath was punched out of me. The impact was so hard that my next breath felt like it was my first one in this life. Gasping, I slid back to my ass, choking from no air.

  Unfortunately, he wasn't done. He pulled me up by my collar and punched my guts with a brick of a fist. I gripped the case so hard I thought the handle would snap in my palm. Drooling and seeing stars, I leaned against the man to keep from falling on my face. Once again, the man gripped my collar...

  "Give me that goddamn case," he spat, slinging me like a bag of potatoes across the street. I tumbled over the concrete, case tumbling beside me. Eventually, I stopped, flipping at last onto my stomach, the sandy road on my cheek.

  "Fuck," I said, miserable. With much hesitance, I tried to raise myself up. It's not over yet.

  Meanwhile, down the street came barreling the three men.

  "Hey! Piss off! He's ours," one of the men cried out. The thief from the market whipped around to meet them. He was so impossibly large the three men paused their approach.

  "Yeah? And who the hell told you that?" The thief spat angrily. He showed no fear at all, almost ignorantly so.

  "Jesus," of them exclaimed.

  "Who has this guy been screwing over?" The other worker said, referencing me. The scarred worker, their leader, stepped forward reluctantly.

  "This guy's ours. We're taking him back with us... with everything intact."

  "Is that right? Come on, then. Come and take him," the thief said, popping his knuckles. The men hesitated. I could tell two of them didn't want the trouble, but the scarred man kept himself bravely forward.

  "I don't want to hurt you, stranger, but I will," he said with ice in his tone. A violent animal had surfaced in the scarred man. All at once, he didn't look so ordinary. He cracked his neck and rolled up his sleeves. "If you refuse, I won't lose sleep putting you down."

  "Try me," the thief said, unafraid. A fight was brewing.

  Why is he doing this? I asked myself. Over a case? With effort, I rose to my knees, reaffirming my hold on the case. Then, on shaky legs, I tried to rise to my feet.

  Meanwhile, in the street, the two men squared off.

  The scarred worker broke into a pose... something I'd only seen in movies. It looked like a karate pose or... something else fancy, except not so exaggerated as in a kung fu movie. The look on his face told me he wasn't joking about it, either.

  On the other hand, the thief was a brawler, no doubt. A life on the streets as a big man had taught him all he needed to know, and it showed in his confidence. Personally, if there was money to put down, even with the fancy tricks, I'd still put it down on the big guy. Size counted for everything out here.

  Knees wobbling, I stood. With my hands on the wall, I started to limp away from the battlefield, having hurt my ankle in the fall…

  The two sized each other up, the scarred worker circling the bigger man on careful feet, calculating and searching... for an opening. His movements had the nuance of a shadow but an old shadow.

  The thief had no such grace. After a moment of tense inspection, the thief broke forward, sick of the mirror games. With the stance of an amateur boxer, he rocketed out a punch.

  The scarred man sidestepped past it, ending up behind him. The move was astoundingly suave and quick.

  The thief thought so, too, whipping around surprised. There was a moment of hesitance before he rushed in again. This time, the thief tried to bulldoze the scarred man with his size, but the scarred man backed off expertly until the big man dropped the act. The thief spat at the warrior, but the scarred man didn't care. He kept his cool.

  The man's reserve... it was impressive. I didn't know anyone out this far had skills like that. How does someone even acquire them and for what purpose?

  It was a perfect maneuver on the scarred man's part. The thief was between him and his two companions. They carefully closed in on him from behind, strategizing ways to attack the thief now that he was surrounded. The thief knew it, too. He was in danger.

  Panicking, he threw a wild punch, a haymaker swinging wide. If it had connected, the old man would've had his skull knocked off, but the fist swung into open air. The old warrior had ducked him again. His moves looked almost effortless.

  Maybe he does have what it takes.

  The thief, frustrated but calm now that they had switched positions again, gritted his teeth in what may have been... worry? Anxiety? The scarred man was just as sure of himself as he was at the beginning. No, even more now. Something was awake that wasn't there before. He was ready to strike.

  The big man strode forward, one step closing the distance. This time, he was sure he would hit. His fist shot out, an uppercut faster than a bullet. Clearly, the thief had knocked enough people out with it to make it a reliable tool.

  But the old man again sidestepped it, the meaty hammer inches from its target. This was the moment. The scarred warrior been eyeing the guy up, seeing what he was made of. Now he knew.

  With a twist and a step, the uppercut was sidestepped, much to the surprise of the big man, and the scarred warrior landed in a readied stance as if he had planned it all out ahead of time. The old man swung with his hips, digging his hand into the big man's face with such force it knocked the brick's head backward.

  He dug his fingers into the man's cheek and nose, a strange fist technique. It dug blood from the thief's nose and made him stagger back. Crimson dripped down the big man's chin.

  "There it is!" One of the men said, growing more confident in the scarred man's chances.

  "Good hit, Jace." The two men ushered him on, anxiety in their body language. They were scared for him.

  The big man stepped back and wiped his nose, more angry than hurt. With a meaty thumb, he closed a nostril and, with a mighty breath, blew out blood from the other.

  "Let it go, stranger," the old man said. "He's not worth it."

  "Forget him," the thief said, his eyes deadening with anger, "It's just you and me now."

  "If that's how you want it," the old man said. The thief cracked his neck. Then, he exploded into action.

  A flurry of fists excited the air, a left, a right, another left. The old man weaved out of the way of all of them. The thief was setting something up though. A right-hand fight ender. When he figured the scarred warrior was firmly in the trap, he sprung his move. Swinging from the hip, he launched his fist like a cannonball.

  The old man couldn't escape like he had before, by sidestepping... but he did duck under it. In total surprise, the thief found his fist meeting with open air again. Stumbling, he had time enough to realize the scarred man was just behind him... and had set up his own trap. The big man was open wide.

  With an elbow, the old warrior drove his weight into the thief's side, drawing out the first sign of pain in the fight.

  It was incredible. A couple ribs were fractured, at least.

  Who is this guy?

  The thief waddled away, gripping his side. This was their chance. The two other workers rushed the man, grabbing onto his arms. Bad idea.

  Like an enraged beast, the big man flailed around, pulling them along. The two struggled to hold him down, doing well at the start, until the thief clenched his teeth and pulled up some hidden strength he'd had hidden away.

  With a foot like a cinderblock, the thief stomped on one of their ankles. The worker cried out and fell, the thief twisting in his grip until he was free from one of them.

  Then, he grabbed the other worker, who, terrified, struggled to get away. Gripping his shirt collar, the thief picked him off the ground and tossed him into his buddy. But, the old man's iron elbow came in handy again as he rushed the big man and turned the fractured ribs into cracked ribs.

  Instead of cowering from the pain, the big man just winced, gritted his teeth again, and a strike of his own. It was a wild back fist that roared in the wind as it passed. The scarred man ducked it just in time. What would've happened if the hit had landed? A shudder ran through me, thinking about it.

  Left wide open, of course, the scarred worker closed in, hitting him in the same ribs with an uppercut. This withdrew a hollow breath from the thief, but it didn't bring him down.

  Unfortunately, it was over for him. The old man ducked his head and pieced him up, unleashing a flurry of punches. One to the gut, one to the ribs, and the final one, a palm to the nose that gushed blood.

  The thief, dazed and out of his mind, stepped back, holding his face as life dripped between his knuckles.

  It was amazing. The old man had done it. I'd never seen anything like it in my life.

  As the other two men rose back to their feet, that's when I realized I'd been staring dumbfounded in the middle of the street. Time to go.

  Feeling the impending doom, I readied myself to leave. But before that, the old warrior caught my eye again when I witnessed him stepping up to the big man once more. How much can the guy take?

  "I told you to let it go," the scarred worker said, nodding to his compatriots to take him. They grabbed the man's arms.

  Again, like a trapped animal, he struggled in their grip. Weakened but not enough, he shoved one of them off and to the ground. The other one wrestled with him, holding onto one of his arms more successfully.

  "It's over! Just give up," the old man said, annoyed. When the thief didn't listen, the old warrior took matters into his own hands and hugged the man's arm. He broke the thief's grip and outstretched his arm.

  But this was a mistake. The thief wasn't as knocked around as they thought.

  Blood enraged, the thief sent the other worker to the dirt with one solid kick. The poor man gagged on the ground for breath.

  Now, it was the thief's turn. He hugged the old man's arm, just like the old man did to him. The only difference, this guy was insanely strong.

  To the old man's surprise, he reversed the grip, lifting the old warrior off his feet by his one arm. The old warrior shouted in pain and flailed his legs, sensing imminent pain.

  I'd never seen such animosity, such blood rage wrath in someone's eyes before. As if he'd been dreaming of this moment, the thief still holding the old warrior in his grip, the old man dangling helplessly in the air behind his back, the thief wrenched the man's lead hand up and out. All it took was one hand.

  Then, the two of them knotted together like a pretzel, the big man gripped the warrior's wrist with both hands.

  "You talk too much," he spat, blood dripping from his lips. "Got a lot of fancy moves. Let's see how they help you now." He lurched the man's hand back so hard I winced from a distance.

  The old man shouted, flailing hopelessly. Then, pop. His wrist snapped, and the old man's hand twisted sickly around. That's when the big man let him down, but before he let the old man go, he pulled him close by the arm and launched a fist into the poor man's gut.

  Drooling, the old man backed away doubled over as quickly as he could.

  With satisfying rage, the big man launched another punch. The old warrior blocked it with his forearm, but his whole body shook like he had been hit with a sledgehammer. Again, the same thing happened, this time the impact knocking the wind out of the old man despite him covering up. He fell to his knees, weak.

  Before he could get up, the brute, completely mad, grabbed him by the skull, picked him up, and rammed his forehead into the man's face. The old man fell back onto his feet, backstepping with the legs of a newborn foal, completely out of his mind, before crashing into a wall behind him.

  The impact bounced the old man's body back. For a second, it looked like he would throw a punch of his own. My spirit rose for him, briefly. But the enraged man was a monster. With sadistic anger, he loaded his final impact, packing it with all of his rage, animosity, and frustration. When it hit, it was with the force of a shotgun.

  The old warrior's face wrenched back. Blood shot from his mouth, his nose, and all the wounds in his face. He fell back against the wall, sliding to his ass. It was over. He was done.

  My heart sank for the old man. You almost did it.

  To add insult to injury, in a fit of rage, the big man stomped the warrior's face between the wall and his foot, rendering the old man useless. He fell to the concrete. It was over.

  With that scene in mind, I snapped back to reality, ripping myself from the strange scene that had taken hold of me. With renewed vigor, I limped my way back down the street.

  "Someone! Someone help!" The two workers shouted, unable to do anything for their comrade. But the beast was done with him. Wiping the blood from his mouth, he shot a look around... for me.

  As I turned a corner to dash into an alley, I threw one final look down the street at the carnage. What met me was a devil's gaze.

  I knew now that after all that shit, he was coming for the case, and he wasn't gonna let me leave with or without it.

  Accent Interview with Blythe Whittaker, CEO of Harsdal Global