Across the expanse of what might once have been called an oblast, somewhere near what might have been called Finland if not for its lack of borders was a sprawl of orthodox society, a secular sea of shipping containers, handmade shelters and badly repaired buildings where more crosses were hung than streetlamps culminating in a gigantic forty foot crucifix tethered to the former town hall, now the seat for the Body of Christ fellowship, the focal point of religious affairs across the stricken community.
Ranks of steel containers were haphazardly stacked forming narrow avenues in which scaffolding was erected to facilitate movement between the tiers. Every now and then, a break in the container walls would be stuffed with gaudy shelters made from any reclaimed materials left to hand. Slanted roofs made of road signs and walls erected from white goods stood side by side, hardly any space separating them.
Structures peppered the landscape, rising higher than the containers and shelter roofs. These once proud buildings had been blasted into shells and repaired with love and attention, badly yet serviceable. Important venues were located in the brick buildings, most noteably the Body of Christ church in the centre of the oblast.