Under the Milky Way

The big glass doors were stuck, well and truly. Roxanne could just see the carpet on the other side, swollen and thick with some kind of moss. At least, she hoped it was moss. The gum boots of her waders slid on the slick tiled forecourt as she pushed and pushed, gaining absolutely no traction whatsoever.

“Pull, you dickhead”, said a voice at her ankles, “I’m getting soaked here”.

She pulled, mindful of the waves crashing over the steps behind them. The tide was rising along with the wind. The door remained steadfastly closed, then were flung open, spilling Roxanne and Stuart to the ground.

“For fuck’s sake, get in!”.

They scrambled to their feet, four of them in Stuart’s case, and squelched inside.

The building was once lauded for its innovative architecture and reviled for being too expensive and too ostentatious. Now it was a wreck. The birch and brush box timber panelling was mouldy and dripping with algae. Elsewhere, rubbery fungi sprouted from the seams and sea weed littered the floor. Unknown slimes gathered in corners threateningly. The vaulted windows of the atrium had long ago been shattered by tropical hailstones, driven horizontally by cyclonic winds. While the building itself is still just above the sea level, waves regularly crashed into the remaining doors off the concourse and the basements were completely flooded.

“What the hell are you doing here? I thought we decided this mine. You agreed. This is mine!”.

Gale was livid, the streaks in their yellow eyes pulsing with rage.

“Settle, petal, we’re not here for good. This is just a visit, you might say”. Stuart was already halfway up the stairs, seeking somewhere, anywhere, that was dry. His fur sprayed water as he leapt from stair to bannister and back again, showing off. His prehensile brush tail clung to the rails, giving him extra momentum.

“Bloody better be.”

Behind him, Roxanne held her hand out to Gale and was rebuffed. Gale preferred to travel along the walls, perfectly at home in the rank steamy, tropical environment. Roxanne trudged up the stairs, struggling to find purchase on the slippery concrete.

Pausing at the top of the main flight of stairs, Stuart turned back and yelled “Is the Joanie still dry? I’m sick to death of this rain.” Not waiting for an answer, he sped off again.

Astonishingly, the Joanie, or Joan Sutherland Theatre, was dry. Well, there was some pooling in the orchestra pit from the flooded basement, but for the most part the cavernous space was mildew free. The seats and aisles were littered with the debris of refugee life; empty tins, wrappers, torn blankets and filthy clothes, broken toys and destroyed books, and dead tech. Ever since the power was permanently cut to the coastal city, technology was rendered useless. No mobile phones could work without the towers and satellites, circuitry died in the humid air and even solar charging was impossible under perpetually leaden skies.

Years ago, a brief nuclearish, nuclear-maybe, war had erupted across the globe, bringing on a definitely nuclear winter and then a ridiculous nuclear spring, the result of which was unlivable weather on the coast and surprisingly moderate weather inland. All the survivors packed what they could and headed to the once-red and was now-green interior, leaving their million-dollar ocean-side apartments and multi-million dollar houses to the elements, and to what came after.

Because what came after was very interesting.

One of the “problems” of nuclear radiation was how it affected the DNA of all organic matter, and these DNA changes were…substantial.

Non-human creatures became a little bit human. They became self-aware, and irritatingly vocal. And a bit profane, but sweary marsupials were nothing to what happened to the actual humans. Many of them died. Many, many of them, unable to recover from the radiation sickness. Then the generations born of the that came after were a little less human. Perhaps a bit furrier then they used to be. Perhaps their ears were a little pointier. Tails became less vestigial and more actual. Some adapted quite well the the new Waterworld, others did not, and followed their predecessors to the inland.

Roxanne was one of the former. She was born in the harbour city and there she remained, friends with Stuart and some others of the less human variety, all of them spending their days foraging for food and sparkly things. Anything to get out of the rain. Which brought them here. It was becoming a lot easier to break into buildings nowadays, what with the decay and general falling-down they tended to do when uncared for. It also meant a lot of the old food stocks had already been depleted, most of the cans and freeze-dried items were already pilfered, and it was awfully difficult to catch, kill and eat an animal that could plead for its life and call you a bastard as it runs away, chuckling gleefully.

That was when Stuart thought of the opera house. Designed to entertain, and feed, thousands of people, people who left very quickly for the interior when transport became available. The opera house, populated by at least one non-binary gecko (Gale) and maybe a few others of the reptilian variety. Populated by creatures who couldn’t open cans. Bingo.

The motley crew gathered themselves in the Joanie, planning their next move. While Stuart tried to get the location and general condition of the industrial kitchens out of Gale, who was typically obtuse and claiming to not understand the word or the concept of “kitchen”, Roxanne picked through the discarded trappings of human life. Nothing useful. Certainly nothing edible.

Straightening up, she declared to the others that she was going to find them herself and, now desperately craving tinned peaches, went exploring.

Gale watched her go for a minute, the yelled “Wait! Not that way!”, before charging after her, Stuart bounding along behind them.

“That way leads to the..!”

“To the what, Gale, what does it lead me to that you refuse to say?” Roxanne had had enough of the nonsense spouted by the less-than-humans and just wanted peaches. Or maybe pineapple! She stalked off again, heading down, to the nether regions of the non-public areas, to where she imagined the kitchens and storerooms to be. She pushed open doors and was pleased to find the decor was becoming more humble and utilitarian as she went - the kitchens must definitely be this way. Finally, she descended a gently sloping ramp and though swinging double doors into a cavernous, stainless steel wonderland of culinary goodness. Or at least it would have been decades ago. Now it was waist-deep in murky water and dripping with moulds and fungi of immense proportions. Unfazed, Roxanne walked carefully into the water, trusting that her waders were a still somewhat watertight. She could see the store room on the other side of the prep area.

She could feel the water pressure compressing the rubber waders against her legs, still dry for now. The water was very cold, with a slight current, and more than a little rank. Moving slowly as to not splash her still-dry torso, and to avoid almost certain cholera from ingesting the water, she pushed through the water towards the store room.

Behind her, Gale almost whispered “Roxanne, you should probably come back now. Roxanne? There’s a….a big…oh christ, ROXANNE! THERE’S A FUCKING BIG MUTANT CROCODILE THAT LIVES IN HERE!”.

Roxanne paused, and slowly turned to face Gale and Stuart, who was somehow clinging to an overhead rack of utensils. “What did you say? There’s a crocodile in here, and you didn’t tell me before I came in?”. As she spoke, she was gingerly climbing onto the bench top, trusting that stainless steel is pretty much indestructible, but not knowing for sure. “Stuart, I need those peaches”. Roxanne was pretty much close to breaking point, and only sweet peaches would bring her back.

“I know, peach…ah, Roxie, I know. Maybe we can still get them. Can we actually see this croc? Maybe it’s out for lunch…”. His voice trailed off, realising the ridiculousness of what he had just said.

They all looked around, Gale sliding under to water to see if they could see hide nor scale of the monster croc. Nothing. Maybe it was gone? Maybe it was asleep?

“Stuff it, I’m going for it”.

“Rox..!”

With renewed determination and extra care, Roxanne slid off the bench and back into the water. Ignoring the freezing splashes of water coming in over the top of the waders, she ploughed on towards to open doors of the storerooms.

It was much darker in there, the cracked windows obscured by foliage and grime. Allowing her eyes to adjust to the light, Roxanne felt around the shelves. There. She could hardly believe it. Huge one kilogram tins of…something. The paper labels had long ago been eaten off by snails, leaving only the printed Best Before dates on the bottom of the tins - eighty years ago. Never mind. Sugar is a wonderful preservative, and want is a wonderful motivator. Grabbing two from two different shelves, hedging her bets that the like foods were stored together, Roxie turned and made her way as fast as she could to the kitchen door and relative safety. Suddenly, her feet were swept from under her and she plunged into the water. She dropped both cans, which mercifully bobbed in the water near her head, and grabbed hold of the nearest solid object - the prep bench again. She hauled herself out, three times heavier now her waders were full of water, and stood, unclipping the wader braces to try to drain some of the sludge out. As they collapsed around her feet, Roxanne could just about see two enormous eyes emerge from the water, before sinking back in again.

Stuart was beside himself. “Cheesus, Roxie, don’t DO that to me!”. He scrambled down from the utensils rack and fished for the bobbing tins. At least make this trip worth it. Although they weighed almost as much as he did. Stuart managed to fling first one, then the other to the doorway, to be retrieved by Gale.

Roxanne wobbled on the bench, uncertain of what to do now. Stuart could easily ricochet around the room and out the door, her path was somewhat more perilous. Between the bench and the storeroom, a massive greenish body slowly rose and fell, something glinting between the spines on it’s back. It rose again and Roxie, intrigued now, was able to see more clearly what the foreign object was. A small silver locket, snagged on the plates of the crocodile. Heart shaped. She hoped it hadn’t belonged to a child, and that the child wasn’t eaten by the crocodile. No, of course not, There are no children here anymore. Roxie waited, waited for the bulk to slide past and into the storeroom before she made her move. Hoicking up the the waders, she leapt into the water and swam as fast as she could for the ramp.

Later, after hanging her waders up to dry and cobbling together some rags for temporary clothing from the refugee waste, Roxanne finally cracked open the first tin.

Chickpeas.

Of course they were bloody chickpeas, in a poncy place like this.

With a huge sigh, she tried the next tin.

Peaches.