1994

Today’s Prompts were a list of songs from the Nineties,

I picked – One from 1994

After the catastrophic event that turned the world upside down, small factions ran the five districts of Manchester City Centre. The Northern people ran the northern quarter of Manchester. Though there were no lines drawn in the sand, everyone knew the boundaries. And kept to them, Ken and Magda had been tasked with keeping surveillance on the Western Clan whose territory covered Victoria station, Shude Hill, the Corn Exchange and Blackfriars. And it had been said they were encroaching on the Northern Quarter, Thomas Street, Tib Street. And Church Street which was designated for trading. People came from all around to sell their clothes, vegetables, and other goods they could trade with people from the other four fractions.

Jacob from the Western Clan had started charging people to set up their stands, and if they did not comply, well, they had to pay the toll. Or what were a few broken bones between fractions?

Monday,11.29 pm 3rd May 2225

“He's here,” Magda said in a hushed voice,

“I see him," Ken slid in between a dumpster and a sign advertising the Mounjaro, the fat-fighting drug from two thousand and twenty-five.

Jacob the Leader of the Eastern Clan's scavenger group, he was a ruthless individual, a shoot now asks questions later sort of guy. He and his group of three were rummaging around the Northern Quarter, where Magda and Ken had spotted them trying the locks on their storage units. Their brief was to watch and report back. But unknown to Ken, Magda had a history with Jacob.

“Ken, I need an answer now.” Magda’s piercing gaze drilled into the back of Ken’s head as he worked to connect with the Head Office. The radio he held was barely functional, falling apart in his hands.

“They're not answering, what can I do?” he shouted back.

“Shall I take the shot?” Magda had her rifle poised, her finger on the trigger, and the target in her crosshairs.

“We are here to report back, wait,” Ken was on his radio trying to contact his team leader at the Head office of the Northern Clan. This was on the top floor of the old Affleck Palace Building. Turning the Radio off, then on again, “Control, this is Eagle One, come in over.” He shouted. “Control, this is Eagle One, come in..., over.”

            “Hurry, he is getting up. I have just cause; they have broken a lock on the unit. I need an answer, NOW.” Magda hissed her voice barely more than a tremor in the darkness. Her hands were steady, but her breath came in short, sharp bursts. The cold metal of the rifle pressed against her cheek, grounding her as adrenaline surged through her veins.

Ken crouched lower behind the dumpster, sweat prickling at his brow despite the chill in the night air. The distant hum of the city was gone—replaced by the heavy silence of curfew, broken only by the faint scuffle of boots on broken concrete and glass.

Somewhere nearby, a dog barked, then fell silent. “Control, this is Eagle One, come in over.”

Magda’s finger hovered over the trigger. Through the scope, she watched the target, Jacob, hover in and out of the storage unit, his silhouette illuminated for a split second by the flicker of a dying streetlamp. Every muscle in her body screamed for action, but she waited, pulse pounding in her ears.

“Ken,” she whispered, urgency sharpening her tone. “He’s moving. I need an answer. If we lose him...” She did not finish the sentence.

Ken fumbled with the radio, static crackling in his ear. “Head office isn’t answering,” he muttered, voice tight with frustration. He risked a glance at Magda, saw the tension in her jaw, the way her eyes never left the scope.

A bead of sweat traced down his temple. “What do you want me to do?” he whispered, panic edging into his voice. “If we don’t get the go-ahead.”

A sudden shout echoed from across the street. Jacob was waving his men forward, their shadows dancing along the pavement. Magda’s grip tightened. She could feel her heartbeat in her fingertips and pounding in her ears.

“Magda, wait,” Ken urged, his voice barely audible. “Control, this is Eagle One, come in over.”

For a heartbeat, time seemed to freeze. Magda’s world narrowed to the crosshairs, the rise and fall of Jacob’s chest as he laughed and joked while stealing their supplies. Magda thought that this one decision could ignite a war between factions.

She exhaled slowly, steadying her aim. “I can’t wait any longer,” she whispered and squeezed the trigger.

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Magda’s breath caught in her throat. For a split second, the world held its breath with her. Shadows flickered across the alley. Her finger hovered over the trigger, sweat slick on her palm, every muscle taut with anticipation.

“Now or never,” she thought, heart hammering in her chest.

She squeezed the trigger.

The crack of the rifle shattered the silence. Jacob’s body jerked violently, collapsing before his men could react. The man to his right froze, eyes wide with shock—then crumpled as Magda’s second shot found its mark. The third man barely had time to register the chaos before he, too, dropped to the ground.

The fourth man dove for cover, his handgun flashing in the darkness. Bullets ricocheted off the dumpster, sending shards of metal and concrete flying. Ken ducked instinctively, the air humming with danger as a round whistled past his ear.

“Move!” Magda hissed, adrenaline surging as she dragged Ken away from the hail of gunfire. The night erupted into chaos, but for a moment, all Magda could hear was the pounding of her own heart. She shook it off. “We gotta go,” Magda said, half-standing and crawling away. Ken was shell-shocked; a bullet missed him by inches as it zipped by his head. Magda pulled him away, “Ken,” she shouted, “Ken, pull yourself together, we need to go.”

He shook out the shock, “Right, shit, what have you done?”

“I did what I needed to do. Now come on, we need to get to the safe house quickly.”

Running along Thomas Street, towards Tib Street, a few shots were fired in their direction, hitting walls and ricocheting in every direction. Two more men had joined in the chase.

Ken screamed, clutching his hand. “Ah, bloody hell, I’ve been hit!” His radio clattered to the ground, skittering across the pavement, landing in pieces. Magda grabbed his arm, dragging him low as more bullets ricocheted off the walls behind them.

“Keep your head down!” she snapped, glancing back to see if they were being followed. They were.

Ken stumbled, nearly tripping over his own feet. “I can’t—my hand—Magda, I dropped the radio!”

“We’ll get another one if we live through this,” Magda hissed, pulling him along. “Move!”

Zigzagging down the alley, ducking behind bins and broken brickwork. Ken’s breath came in ragged gasps. “I can’t feel my fingers—.”

“Get your head down low and follow me.” They reached No. 25 Tib Street. Magda burst through the battered door of the safe house, slamming it behind them. She then secured it, pushing an old wardrobe up against it, then turned to Ken, hands on her hips, out of breath, and shaking her head.

Ken leaned against the wall, cradling his injured hand, blood dripping down. “You saw that, right? He was aiming right at me!”

Magda shook her head, a wry smile tugging at her lips. “You looked like a headless chicken out there. Next time, try not to scream like a girl.”

Ken glared at her, sweat streaking his face. “Next time! Next time!” he gasped for air, “Easy for you to say. You are not the one with a hole in your hand.”

She stepped closer, inspecting his wound. “You will live. I have seen worse. Sit down, let me see.”

Ken slumped onto a crate, wincing as Magda tore a strip from her sleeve and wrapped it around his hand. “You think they’ll follow us?”

“Probably. But they will have to get through that door first.” She tied the makeshift bandage tight and, thinking about what just happened, “You did all right, Ken. Just… try to keep it together next time.”

He managed a weak grin. “No promises.”

Magda rolled her eyes, but there was a hint of warmth in her voice. “Come on, hero.”

Taking out her torch, Magda went first. “Stay close,” she said to Ken, who was holding his hand up and stopping the blood from flowing. Down two flights of stairs, they reached the tunnel and stopped to listen. The door slammed upstairs. Magda shone the torch in Ken's eyes, “Stay close and stay down.”

The brickwork is stained with decades of grime and water damage. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and rust; Magda’s torch beam cut through the darkness, revealing walls slick with condensation and patches of moss clinging to the mortar. The floor was uneven, littered with broken tiles. She turned to Ken. The tunnel’s silence was oppressive, broken only by the distant echo of the people smashing on the door upstairs. Their shadows danced along the walls as they moved, her torch flickering over faded graffiti and the remnants of a time gone by.

Every sound seemed amplified in the confined space, the scuff of Ken’s boots, the drip of water, the distant slam of a door above.

Ken and Magda moved further down the tunnel; at a junction, they went right.

“Hurry up, will you?” Magda said, “They’ve broken through. I can hear them coming” Magda stopped and let Ken get in front.

They came to another door, Ken opened it, then moved to the side to let Magda in. When she was safe inside, he slammed it shut and locked it, pushing a chair back under the handle.

“Shush,” Ken said, putting his finger up to his mouth. “I think that've gone the other way.”

After a while, Magda instructed Ken, “Get the radio out, we need to inform head office.”

Ken pulled back a wardrobe using only his good hand to reveal a secret cupboard. On opening the door, he took out an old suitcase, placed it on the table, and opened it.

Since the collapse of civilisation, electricity came in short supply, made from wind turbines on the top of the old Arndale Centre car park and a water wheel that used the flow of water from the River Irwell into the Manchester Ship Canal. There was no Wi-Fi, no Internet, and not a single mobile phone left in working order. Communication had reverted to relics of the past. The radio Ken dropped was a survivor from the Second World War—a lifeline from another era, the radio in the case was now their only connection to the outside world.

Magda took over, pulled out a lead, and attached it to a battery she was carrying in her bag. “Is it on?” she asked.

“Yes, turning a few dials and flicking some switches, the radio came to life. White noise came from the built-in speaker.

“Here,” Ken passed Magda a set of headphones with a microphone attached. Plugging in the audio plug, the noise from the speaker disappeared.

Ken pressed his ear to the door, every muscle tensed. The muffled clatter of hurried footsteps echoed from the corridor—then, without warning, a deafening explosion ripped through the silence. The entire room convulsed. Plaster rained down on them from the ceiling, dust swirling in choking clouds as the walls trembled. Ken staggered back, heart pounding. For a split second, time seemed to stop. Magda’s wide eyes darted from the trembling ceiling to Ken, searching his face for answers as the world above them threatened to collapse.

Magda shook her head, jaw set with grim determination. She collapsed into the battered chair, exhaustion and fear weighing her down, her trembling hands gripping each side of the table, every muscle taut, her left hand trembling as she flicked a toggle and slammed her palm down on a button. With her right, she gripped the dial, twisting it with urgency, the radio’s ancient casing rattling beneath her touch.

“What is it?” she demanded, her voice sharp, eyes locked on Ken. The question hung in the air, heavy with desperation and the threat of imminent danger.

He was standing at the door listening to the commotion on the other side.

“Hey,” Magda shouted. “What's the frequency, Kenneth?”

What is the frequency, Kenneth - REM 1994