Waste.

London. At least that was what it had been called. Cathy Ellen knew that. However the broken streets were nameless to her. Strewn with rubble they were lined with dark husks of buildings. Carriages lay on their sides, bones scattered around them. She did not cringe when she stepped on a human thigh bone, snapping it in half. The weight of a trench gun in her hands and luger pistols on her hips offered her only comfort. Even though there was always the chance that such old weapons would malfunction.