[b]East Village, Manhattan[/b]

	Centuries ago, the Franklin Delano Roosevelt Parkway had been a triple-tiered artery in New York’s massive system of roads. Powered by the demand for the automobile, roads were built on top of existing roads, which fed off into additional junctions and outlets. The War had changed that, with the blasts of atomic weapons bringing down sections of the elevated expressway. In the absence of life, these sections of highway sat vacant until settlers began forming camps above the city around them. What once was seen as a high ground for key settlements, separated from the streets, quickly turned into a continuous network of shanty towns.

	The FDR Parkway still sat, partially collapsed. It never could be fully repaired, nor did anyone want to take up the job. The organically apocalyptic spread of shacks turned to buildings constructed of brick, wood, and rusting steel plating had covered the entirety of the expressway. Supports were reinforced with a patchwork of uneven repairs of many different materials, matching the buildings behind. Like most of the city, the rubble had been cleared where it could: streets were blocked where buildings had totally collapsed, of course, but the throughfares and detours around them were clear. The rubble of destroyed buildings formed a patchwork of reconstruction in others.

	By the shore of the East River, at the foot of New York’s mottled cityscape, the spread of elevated shack structures had produced almost an undercity. Tarps and wires draped unevenly from the highway to the buildings besides hung low, swinging in the wind. Neon signs lit the darkness, advertising anything from stores to bars to more general businesses. Rusted hulks of old boats still lay tied up beside rotted docks, covered in graffiti. These, too, were too low priority to be moved or disassembled for scrap but served a use in allowing old fishermen to sometimes catch fish off their bows.

	Rain blew in from the south, gently sweeping underneath the highway’s cover despite its best efforts to protect the people from overhead. A man in a hooded raincoat, scavenged from many years ago, ducked his way into a dark alley where a sign advertised a drinking establishment: its name was the Old New York Pub. An immediate rush of warm air greeted the man and a feeling of comfort washed over him. The brick-walled establishment was lit by soft red light. He let down his hood, taking in the smells of liquor and hearing the piano tune of a swing number played over a gently crackling radio.

	“Hey, Charlie!” called out the bartender. Behind the counter, wearing a shirt with rolled up sleeves covered by a vest, a redheaded man waved. Charlie grinned, throwing up a wave of his own before sidling over to the counter.

	The bartender didn’t hesitate to initiate the ritual. He poured a beer from the tap in front of him, some [i]avant-garde[/i] bitter pale ale flavored with a spicy kick from a radscorpion’s venom gland. It came, naturally, out of Brooklyn. Charlie slid a few bottlecaps across the counter and accepted the pint glass, taking a drink out of the chilled glass. The Old New York Pub’s refrigerator had been out for a while until the owner had paid some mechanic to fix it. Learning how to fix prewar consumer goods and figuring out how to fabricate parts was a lucrative business for the smarter New Yorkers who weren’t picked up by the Engineering Division to work on bigger projects.

	“What’s been happening lately?” asked the bartender, who went by the name of Phil.

	“Not much, my boat just got back into port,” Charlie admitted. “Took the coastal route up Long Island Sound to go deliver some cargo to New Haven.”

	Small trading communities had popped up in some of the old Connecticut cities, initially from the brahmin routes that traders would use along I-95 going to the Commonwealth. As more boats, controlled and regulated by the Trade Division, came into service New York was able to ship greater amounts of cargo much faster to and from these settlements. Most of the city’s food was grown in farms directly around these cities, often owned by feudal lords and squabbling strongmen.

	“Nothing exciting?” Phil asked, leaning back against the brick wall of the bar. Charlie shook his head and smirked.

	“I saw a mirelurk. Shot it. I’ve been getting good with that hunting rifle I bought from your brother. The one with the scope, remember?”

	“Are you able to get a good shot off those boats for yours?” Phil asked. He had always been into guns but could never join the Security Division. As a kid, he had slipped and fallen off a pile of rubble near his native home in the Bronx: he had to deal with a bum leg for the rest of his life. New York’s doctors were not as good back then as they are now. “My brother used it as a sniper for a little bit. Used to say he picked off raiders in Jersey like it was nothing.”

	“You know, the boat isn’t that bad,” Charlie replied. “They’re like big barges, they sit very low to the water. Wouldn’t go on the open sea with them, fuck no. But they’re good enough for a nice calm trip up the sound or the river.”

	He lifted his hands up and mimed holding a rifle: “I just saw the guy on the shore, just laying there.” He emulated recoil and made a gunshot noise with his mouth. “Super easy, just balanced my barrel on the gunwale and popped him one. It went right through the shell. I love that thing.”

	Phil shrugged. “I shot some dinner plates with it once,” he chuckled.

	“What a waste of a perfectly good dinner plate,” lamented Charlie as he took another sip. The spice jolted through him as it went down his throat, giving him goosebumps. He was pretty sure the drink was still radioactive on some level, too.

	He sat in silence for a bit, listening to the music. The jazzy, upbeat rhythm of the song seemed awfully inappropriate. It seemed more like a dance club’s music: there were about five people inside the bar, none of whom were dancing. The door opened again, another figure entering and taking off his raincoat. He wore the dark blue shirt of a SecDiv man. “Charlie Park?” he called out. “I knew I could find you here!”

	“Goddamn, is it a fuckin’ reunion in here?” Charlie said before he turned around. He recognized that voice: Sanjay Knight. Sanjay’s main job had him accompany the boats up the Hudson from time to time, since city policy required that a SecDiv agent be a part of any armed TraDiv expedition. Like many things that got wound up in the city government’s bureaucracy, Sanjay’s presence was often redundant when most of the sailors were armed themselves. He merely served as an official rubber stamp to give “jurisdiction” for use of force in the wasteland. Still, he was a good guy, and Charlie liked having him around.

	Sanjay smiled and came to sit next to him. He was tall, striding across the floor with a cheerful bounce to his step. He slapped Charlie on the shoulder: “I heard you got back yesterday, right? Had a job for you.”

	“Man, another contract?” Charlie asked incredulously. It made him good money, he just never felt that he had any time to rest. He finished the beer with a loud tap as the empty glass hit the table. Phil wordlessly refilled it for another exchange of caps.

	“Gonna have to get a few more of these in me before you convince me,” Charlie told Sanjay. The SecDiv man grinned, reached into a pocket on his grey cargo pants, and put a handful of caps down on the table.

	“Shots’ll do it quicker.”

[b]Chelsea, Manhattan[/b]

	Charlie found himself quite hungover on a pier in Chelsea the next morning, untying a line from the weathered wooden dock. The previous night’s rain had turned into a ghostly grey fog, obscuring the high-rises of the city and casting a dreary mood on the quiet docks. Other boats and barges were preparing for the day’s trip, which typically brought the slow watercraft only to Poughkeepsie. Sanjay helped a sailor dragging a wooden box onboard, making an audible rustling clink when it slammed on top of another one. Sanjay’s contract had them traveling to Almont and the cargo was unmistakable: Charlie knew the sound of ammunition rattling in a box.

	The Trade Division never specified any restrictions on who the various companies of New York sold what to, and arms merchants were among the Wasteland’s traditionally most profitable companies. Bullets made in Brooklyn often found themselves in Almont sold to bandits and raiders. The infamous Gunners, who often ambushed settlers and caravans in the wilder regions around White Plains, were big fans of New York ammunition. Security Division officials found themselves confiscating caches of ammunition that were sent back to the city and, curiously, repackaged to sell again. The caps just stamped themselves.

	SecDiv officials in the City Council were often at odds with the TraDiv representatives for the back and forth. The Council, meanwhile, tolerated the ordeal so long as it didn’t get out of hand. They were no position to legislate commercial activity like that and didn’t mind the additional revenue being brought in for other projects. Charlie didn’t care much if his cut was healthy enough to do as he pleased.

	“How are you feeling?” asked Sanjay, slapping Charlie on the back. The sailor grumbled, shaking his head.

	“This is the last time you convince me to do anything,” muttered Charlie. His head was throbbing.

	"Well, give us a couple days and we’ll be back in Almont. The pay here is pretty good, just gotta be on the lookout for those Gunner guys.”

	The one good thing about Almont is they provided some semblance of mafia-like protection to the New Yorkers. Smaller independent traders were often harassed by the Gunners who didn’t belong to the splinter faction in charge there. New York City, meanwhile, provided good quality products enough to convince the two groups to maintain a status quo. Roving bands of Gunners knew better not to attack the New Yorkers, lest they draw the specific ire of mayor. Potshots and ambushes still happened, but not like they used to. It was the less-organized bands of raiders that they needed to worry about.

	The crew of the ship had brought aboard the last of the cargo and signed off on the courier’s order. While the ammunition came from the factory in Brooklyn, it traveled on a specially cleared subway car for intracity cargo. This stopped at the station in Chelsea, one of the “cargo stops”, where a team of workers unloaded the boxes with dollies. The whole process was much faster than the Brahmin carts of old. The boat’s captain, a veteran seaman, climbed to the wheelhouse that sat elevated over the barge’s wide cargo deck. Jad Hemsworth had proven himself for over thirty years on the Hudson and had the scars to prove it.

	Charlie and Sanjay both heard the foghorn go off from the wheelhouse once the preparations for departure were complete. Sanjay helped as Charlie pulled the lines connecting the boat to the dock loose and onto the deck. Beneath them, the hull reverberated with the thrumming of the barge’s atomic-powered propeller. A small powerplant no bigger than a common nuclear train’s reactor drove two propellers. In the cool morning air, the boat moved away from the pier and turned due north.

	The sun, barely rising above the city ahead, peeked over the fog with its golden rays. Charlie found himself a seat on the deck, an old poolside lounge chair that leaned back next to a table, and made himself comfortable. The trip north would take a while.