Ortho's Journal - Vol. I
Back when he was in still in the service, Ortho went through his share of psychiatric therapy in an attempt to improve his atrocious people skills. He didn't get much out of it except a habit of keeping a journal as a means of organizing his thoughts and contemplating his actions. This portion of the Shelter will be dedicated to "Stone Cold's" ruminations as he wanders the Wasted West. The journal itself takes the form of a special audio-only palm-corder, and the data slug entries he records are transcribed verbatim (or as close as possible) here. His latest entry is posted first, so if you're new to the page, start at the bottom and work your way up. Dates reflect the date of the game session.
11/14 - Utah. Well, I guess you could say the last couple of weeks have been...entertaining. For starters, it worked out that we had to stay in the "Village of Two Heads Rotting" as I came to call it for about six days. The Templar as it turns out wound up a near deader with a heap of head wounds. Too bad I was so busy with the Apostate scum - I would've liked to see that happen. Out of the entire group, the Holy Roller is the one I...dislike the most. Templar + witless + reckless = liability (target waiting to happen).
After the group pooled their entire collective medical knowledge (which wasn't much, considering the unconcious Templar was the only one who had any real healing skills), we were looking at close to a week of down time waiting for her to heal. I decided that was too long to be sitting around doing nothing and wandered off away from the rest of the group. Well, that wasn't the only reason. Faced with that much downtime, Fran had also begun to size up the rest of the male members of the group - and I don't mean in a "finding a weakness" kind of way. She had dipped a bit too far into her drug cache and ended up in quite a state, frothing like a bitch in heat. Not that Screech is unattractive, mind you. Its just the idea that she can bench press three of me at three sets of thirty. A strong woman is one thing...she's something else entirely. Besides, I don't really relish the thought of my "problem" resurfacing again any time soon - sex just might bring it back to the surface. Well, needless to say, ALL the males in the group were a bit...cautious around her during our stay in the village.
I took the extra time to expand my horizons (so to speak) and added a fresh "bullet" to my Syker clip. I found a nice quiet piece of rock to squat on, and pulled inside of myself, beginning the mediatation process through which we Syker types explore the channels of mental energy we draw our powers from. I had something in mind, and I began making the mental connections needed to rechannel the flow of some of that energy into what would eventually manifest as a new ability. It would just take concentration...and time. It wasn't even a full day however before the Lunatic and Straight Guns showed up, nearly shattering the progress I'd made so far. The Lunatic was shouting about a map, whether I had it or not, telling me to hand it over, blah blah blah. I opened my eyes long enough to reach into my jacket, pull out the old piece of paper and say, "Here ya go, Kelly". Between not being able to read the map and not being able to decide who to give it to, I had kept quiet about it. I figured if it was important, the right person would find out about it and come looking for it. Figures that person would be the Lunatic. Giving the map to Kelly was my way of snubbing my nose at the self-righteous Guardian. After that, I was left pretty much alone. After five days of solitude, the power was fully developed in my mind and ready for use. It was a nasty little thing called "Fleshrip". My old CO "Hard-boiled" Kreed used it on more than one occasion back on Banshee to get info out of prisoners - very messy, but effective (though sometimes fatal). Interrogation isn't my style, but with this bunch I'm traveling with, I'm figuring having as many tricks up your sleeve as possible is the way to go.
Upon my return to the group I did some catching up. The Templar was back up and stumbling around, and the focus of attention seemed to be upon a native woman I didn't recognize. As it turns out there was one survivor left in the village (the woman - the source of the scream). After cleaning her up a bit and calming her down, Two Strokes managed to get a bit of information out of her. Apparently the last surviving scav we'd been searching for had come stumbling into the village several days before our arrival on his last legs, muttering about a map, a lost city and "flying darkness". He died not long after. Her grandfather took the map and hid it, saying he suspected what it led to, and it was better left alone. Not long after, the group led by "the bald men" arrived, apparently tracking the scav to the village, demanding the map. When the old man denied knowledge of it, the group put him to torture and the destruction of the village began.
While I was learning this, Screech came stampeding over a small bluff screaming about bugs. Auto immediately asked if they were moths (damned bug sniffer) and Fran's screamed response of "the crawly kind, the crawly kind" left him visibly dissappointed. He figured that killing any kind of bug was better than killing nothing at all however, and lumbered off in the direction Fran had come. Already a bit bored myself, I decided to follow, the wounded Templar bringing up the rear as an unwelcome third. The source of the "bugs" was supposedly the corpse of the dead scav that Fran said she had taken away from the village to dispose of (loot in private more likely). The Templar stood over the dessicated body and began mumbling some ritual over it. This got old really quick, and since no bugs were to be seen, I wandered back to the village. As I walked away, Auto stood near the Templar with that glazed look he gets when he's trying to understand something and the info just isn't seeping in (happens quite a bit). About ten minutes later Dusty and Auto returned, covered in greyish bug ichor. According to Auto, the Templar was attacked by a relatively large caterpillar looking thing. It even managed to get a bood bite out of the Templar's neck before Auto blew it off her back. I noticed both the Lunatic and Straight Guns made a point of inspecting the wound, and I heard Straight Guns mumble something about it not being a Vampire as the two exchanged curious glances. Odd.
After helping the woman to bury her dead, looting and burning the remains of scavs and salvaging a couple of their horses we were ready to move on. The woman opted to remain behind (just as well if you ask me) and said she might try to make it back to Powellville and tell them what had happened. Two Strokes had been pouring over the map, and while he couldn't read French (none us could), he was positive it corresponded to the surrounding territory and was fairly sure he could follow it to its marked destination. After gathering up some provisions, we were off once again.
The next week on the trail was rough. Lots of canyons, dead ends, back tracking, steep grades with loose rock - overall inhospitable country. Actually reminded me a bit of Banshee and I felt a bit twitchy - kept having the feeling we were being watched or something. We did without cookfires at night and we quickly learned how cold this region could get. Several of the group had to double up on bedrolls and such to keep warm, as I kept pretty much to myself as usual. Overhead, we sometimes heard the sounds of the moths but we didn't have any more run ins with them. The map eventually brought us to a narrow passage with steep high walls, worn through the rock over the centuries by a shallow creek at its bottom. It was a tight squeeze, barely wide enough for one of the horses, but it seemed the direction we had to go. After following it for several miles (many of the group seemed to feel more than a little claustrophobic), Two Strokes called for a halt, saying that our current location (though not our ultimate destination) was marked on the map. After some searching about in the confined space, we found a series of handholds carved into the rock leading upward. It looked like a nasty climb, so Screech and I scooted up the cliff face "spider" style. After going up several stories worth of vertical distance, we came discovered a large hollow ledge carved out of the rock (probably at one time by the water) containing an old indian cliff dwelling. We've seen a few of these before, and this looked to a one-family "house". Both Screech and I got a weird vibe off it though, sitting there empty and quiet. Fran volunteered to check out the interior while I kept watch, which was fine by me - the place was giving me the creeps. Fran is as tough as they come (though I'd never tell her to het face) and can look out for herself. I was suprised that I actually began to feel a bit worried about her though, as I waited for what seemed like a lifetime for her to come out. Eventually she reappeared and motioned for me to come inside. The first thing she showed me was a small room whose entire enterior had been painted black: walls, ceiling and floor. Didn't take long to realize that it wasn't paint, but rather very old, dried blood. Then she guided me to the back of the structure where a mural had been painted: a huge, black reverse spiral pattern, surrounded by hanprints of various sizes and colors. The spiral was one of the pictographs drawn on the old map - Two Strokes had said it represented "evil" or "dark magic". Fran and I just looked at each other silently, wondering just what we were getting ourselves into with this whole bug hunt thing.
After climbing back down and reporting our curious findings to the group, we resumed our trek up the creek through the narrow passage. As it got toward late afternoon, visibility began to drop as less and less sunlight filtered down to the bottom of the canyon. We passed a disturbing sign of the nature of the area: a dead tree wedged about 15 yards above our heads in the passage. Two Strokes mumbled something about "flash floods and narrow canyons" and the group picked up the pace a bit. Around dusk the passage finally opened up into a small box canyon...and promptly dead ended. Accusations started to fly as Two Strokes fired back that he was positive we were at the correct location. Everyone was tired, wet and edgey as we began to search the floor and walls of the canyon for any sign of a "lost city". The Junker fired up his jet pack and took to the air to get an overhead view of things. It wasn't long before he came roaring back down, yelling that he'd found it. The city was apparently high overhead inside a massive hollowed out ledge. A narrow path (only wide enough for one person at a time) wound down around the outside of the canyon, terminating about 10 yards from the canyon floor. We were able to make out traces of handholds that had been there at one time, but had either erroded, or more disturbingly, had been chiseled away. Using the Tempar's rope and some more Spider action from Fran, we were able to rig up a means to get to the path. The Guardian and Straight Guns hobbled the horses just inside the narrow passage before climbing up behind the rest of us. As we climber the first thing we saw was another mural. This one was huge, painted on one of the vertical canyon walls, and was composed entirely of multi-colored handprints. From his arieal perspective the Junker pointed out that the hands were placed to form a spiral pattern, the fingers all slayed toward the center - there were hundreds of them. I wondered silently to myself how they managed to get that high up the cliff wall to paint it - the hands even looked to be of different sizes. I didn't wonder for long however, as we continued to climb the steep path and the city finally came into view.
We were first greeted by a huge pair of ancient wooden gates, hanging open, set into a stone wall hundreds of yards long - completely filling the face of the incredibly broad ledge. Four silent guard towers were spaced out along the walls. So much for gold so far. We carefully made our way inside, as the city stretched out before us. City is right - there aren't any villages around anymore that could compete with the size of the place. Streets wound their way between buildings of different shapes and sizes off into the darkness of the huge alcoved space. There was no time to explore however, as the sun had almost gone down and we needed to find a place to hold up for the night. As a few of us searched around for signs of the moths, the rest scoped out one of the guard towers for a place to camp.
The inside of the tower seemed as good a place as any. It had a door (albeit an ancient dry wooden one) and was basically a large open space inside, nearly three stories tall. Two old pole ladders allowed axcess to a trap door to the roof. There were even "ob slits" carved into the walls, allowing us a limited view from all sides. After eating yet another cold meal from our dwindling supplies, we broke up into guard shifts and settled in for the night. When my shift came, I discovered (lucky me) I was sharing my post with the Templar. I was hoping for a nice quiet watch - should've known better.
As the rest of the group slept, the Holy Roller suddenly got it into her head that she should check the trap door at the top of the tower. Strapping on her sword, she hopped onto one of the creaking ladders and made her way up toward the ceiling. As I lost her in the darkness, I hoisted my gun and observed her progress through the night scope. When she got there (damned if I know why), she drew her sword and began hacking away at the ladder she was standing on, and it began to sway dangerously back and forth. I've never been one to help someone in a bad situation when then situation is of their own doing, so I just continued to quietly observe. It appeared that she was trying to simultaneously sheathe her sword and still hand on to the wildly swaying ladder. That's when things went a little crazy.
Missing her sheath, the Templar dropped the sword. I followed its progress down, where it finally slammed blade first into Straight Gun's shoulder, pinning him to the ground. He awoke screaming, as the rest of the group scrambled for their guns. I swung the rifle skyward again to see what the Templar was doing. It seems the ladder had slammed into the wall, pinning her against it nearly 10 yards off the floor. Now you'd think she would have said something like "It's me, I'm alright" or "Watch out for the sword" - nothing. The group was looking around frantically for the source of the trouble and eventually their eyes fell on me, gazing at the ceiling through my rifle scope. I looked away for a moment to see Kelly trying to fish out his gun one handed, not at the right angle to try and remove the sword. I motioned with the rifle barrel and said "Up there." before looking back through the scope. That's all the information the Lunatic needed apparently, as the gats went off blindly into the darkness overhead. Through the scope I could see the shots had missed the Holy Roller and that she was trying to break herself free of the ladder. A beam of Syker energy flew from behind me, and I saw the Templar hit by it. It didn't seem to do anything at first, but as she freed herself and fell, I could tell she finally was trying to say something - only what came out of her mouth were loud unintelligible grunts and squeals. I had to smile to myself realizing Screech had used "Shhh" on her - apparently Fran didn't care for the Templar either. The Holy Roller hit the ground without landing on anyone and was back up again in moments grunting and squealing and waving her hands in front of her. Two Strokes yelled out , "Don't shoot! It's the Templar!" but the Lunatic responded, "Dammit, man get out of the way! It's obvious she's been posessed by the bugs or something! She attacked Kelly! Don't you remember she got bit? Just listen to her!". With that he unloaded his gats into her head at close to point blank range, some of the rounds sparking off her helmet. The force of the blows slammed her body violently into the back wall of the tower - hard enough to actually punch her through the ancient crumbling stone and adobe. Her body arced out over the edge of the cliff and fell out of sight into the darkness. While I didn't set out to kill the idiot, I can't say I shed any tears over her passing (then again, I never do at all).
I sat up the rest of the night getting all of this down, and its with a feeling of satisfaction that I sit here watching dawn come to the canyon through one of the ob slits as I await entry into what we've travelled so long to behold. Still, I can't help but wonder what the two Wendigo Sykers were doing out here, and what they were really looking for. Perhaps the answers await us within the ancient walls of Cibola.
- S.C.
11/7 - Utah. Two days in Powellville is two days too long. After we were served up some of the local "currency" for breakfast, Grinner made good on the other part of our contract. We were introduced to our guide, a young 'breed kid named Reggie "Two Strokes". Unfortunate choice for a name, as most of the group illustrated with an endless stream of barbs, taunts and insults (most coming from the Lunatic). The guide was slightly taken aback by the verbal onslaught and needed some convincing from Grinner to come with us on our trip across the lake to find the source of the ville's bug problem (and possibly some ancient indian gold). Once on the water with our new life-jackets (worn by all except me - orange makes to good of a target), Two Strokes proved to be a far superior steersman than Fran had been. Screech (as I've come to call her) found herself sitting on the side and doing grunt work with the rest of us for a change, taking orders instead of giving them. I'll admit she's got her uses, but she's still a damned officer. Screw 'em all.
The trip across the lake was uneventful. Upon reaching the far shore around mid-morning, we managed to find the raft that had belonged to the scavs that came to Powellville with their sickness and tales of the "lost city" (Two Strokes successfully I.D.'ed the craft). No sign of the surviving scav (must have been a trick getting the big craft back here on his own) and the most recent tracks were well over a week old. The likliest trail followed a rough cut stream away from the shoreline, coming from uphill through the woods. Having no better prospects, we took it with Two Strokes leading the way. Our guide told us that the going would be rough, but if we pushed ourselves we might make a small indian settlement he knew of by sundown. We travelled roughly uphill over the uneven ground for several hours until the trees began to thin out and the Templar (Holy Roller) called for a stop, saying she smelled smoke on the wind. Otto (the Bug Sniffer) confirmed her senses by spotting a black column of smoke on the deepening horizon about two miles off. Two Strokes mumbled something about it being in the same direction as the settlement, and we picked up the pace with a sense of foreboding. Following the smoke led us into a shallow gorge lined with scrub pine, which opened into a larger ravine with a creek running through its base. That's where the fun began.
The source of the smoke was several wooden structures that had been set ablaze. Our trail had led us right to the aforementioned settlement, just as it was being victimized by what we thought at first to be a good-sized group of thrill-kill seeking scavvies. The first visible attrocity was two scavs doing a poor old bastard with a selection of knives by the creek, bleeding him off into the cold water. Several more rode around on horseback, waving torches and yelling into the lengthening shadows. A third group had formed a line outside a single as-yet-unburned structure. Looking at their attitudes and postures, it didn't take any stretch of the imagination to know what was happening inside. The woman's scream that tore loose from the building and echoed about the steep walls of the ravine cleared things up for any doubters.
With a cry of "Die Servants of the Reckoners!", the Holy Roller drew her sword and charged across the open ground toward the building (so much for surprise factor). I became one with the background as the rest of the group started to pick their targets. The Junker triggered his flight pack and took to the air. The kid swerved past my position on her bike in an attempt to back up the Templar, as Bug Sniffer, Straight Guns and the Lunatic opened fire. Straight Guns made short work of the two by the creek with a killing style and grace that I've seldom seen - there's something almost beautiful about seeing limbs ripped off a torso at range with a .44. Damned impressive shooting, especially with that antique rifle of his. While the scavs outnumbered us, they didn't seem particularly well-armed, and they definitely didn't fight smart. The men outside the unburned building fell to the Bug Sniffer and the Lunatic, as the horsemen rode out of the smoke towards us, guns blazing. Fran met the lot of them on the open ground and Chainbrained their mounts right out from under them. Man and beast alike began to die...hard. Sniper fire erupted from the unburned building, tearing into Straight Guns and the Lunatic as the Holy Roller fought her way inside and disappeared from view. The kid also disappeared into the smoke behind the buildings. We thought we had things about wrapped up when the REAL fun began.
Suddenly, our targets increased nearly twenty-fold. While our companions fired upon our new "foes", Screech and I knew what the score really was. We'd both seen One Man Army in action before (though not at this magnitude). Somewhere hiding in the smoke and carnage there was another Syker. Turns out in fact that there were two; one wearing a black special forces cap and combat armor (the source of the "army"), and the other with the unmistakeable mark of an Apostate emblazoned boldly upn his forehead like a badge of dishonor. As Bug Sniffer, Straight Guns and the Lunatic narrowed down the target possibilities with an effect akin to a lead hose being sprayed across the ravine, I dropped my Chameleon and Screech and I went on the offensive, closing with the other Sykers. Fran was closer to "A" boy, so I paired off with Mr. Army.
I opened my conversation with the black-capped fellow with a .50 caliber "hello" to his chest. Didn't drop him though; his combat armor must have been good to stop one of my little "grim servants". Either that or "fate" was with him. The kid came barreling out of the smoke and slammed the Syker to the ground by pulling a mid-air 360 degree spin and smacking him upside the head with her bike. Before I could blink, she'd already landed and had pedaled off to her next target without looking back. As the Syker shook off the blow and got back to his feet, I noticed the kid's blow had knocked his cap away, exposing another "A". That's when I decided to throw down the mental gauntlet and cook up some Apostate brains, Brainbomb style. The sucker proved to be tougher than anticipated, and he didn't fry up too easy. I still managed to make the bastard squirt fluid from every orifice in his head before he tried to send me a brain-born recipe of his own. He was already way over the line from pulling the army stunt, however. Whatever he tried to do didn't work out the way he wanted, as he fell face forward into the dust. Raising his bleeding head from the ravine floor, he managed to sputter, "You'll never figure it out!" and promptly died, the remains of his grey matter puddling out of his ears.
Normally I try to pay more attention to what the rest of the group is doing, but the Apostate bastard had me seeing red. I felt cheated out of the kill and decided to make a proper example of him. I did a quick pat down of his gear (after all bullets aren't cheap these days) and came up with an interesting piece of paper in his jacket; some kind of map, possibly written in French. Probably had something to do with his dying words. I didn't care to think about it at the moment, and contented myself by taking the bastard's head off with my knife (even threw in a bit of Body Control to do it in one neat swipe). After scrounging about for an appropriate piece of wood for a pike, I spiked the head on top of it. Looking around the remains of what ever this place had been called, my little war trophy seemed to fit in nicely. It seems that Fran had been on the same wavelength as myself (now there's a distasteful thought...) as she came out of the smoke bearing a similar pole-mounted ornament. We faced each other grimly for a time, not having to say a word. Before finally turning and walking away, she flipped the dead Syker's badge to me (hadn't even thought to check mine). Wendigo.
Still don't know what's going on with the rest of the group, and no one's come looking for me yet. I'm sitting here between these two heads trying to get my own back together. Both of the Apostates turned out to be Wendigo. Don't know much about them, other than the fact there were hard-cases and loners back on Banshee - dealt with some bizarre stuff if memory serves me right. But what were they doing here in the middle of nowhere, and what's with this map? Looks real old. Does this have anything to do with the moths or the "lost city"? The sun is going down, and we'll have to find some cover soon. If this is moth country (and I've got a feeling it is), these fires will attract them like flies on shit. Its going to be a very long night.
- S.C.
10/24 - Utah. Lakeside town called Powellville. What a dump. It seems the locals were impressed by the way we wasted the moth. The mayor himself made a lot of noise "up close and personal" about it. This of course prompted the Lunatic to spill forth a wonderous, longwinded proclamation of how we were going to save the town, right the wrongs, yadda yadda yadda. This prompted me to ask how much our help was worth to him and his town. The Lunatic and the templar made the usual "ridding the world of evil for its own sake" speech. I ignored them and pressed the payment issue. The reply from Phil "Grinner" Thompson, the aforementioned mayor (WAY too many teeth for one man's head to hold) was, and I quote:
"We ain't got much, but we could pay ya in, uh, boats and fish."
It must be that I'm spending way too much time with this bunch. Ordinarily I would have simply gotten up and walked out the door (probably causing some damage in the process for the insult). Two things (I guess) made me keep my seat. First thing was that Straight Guns piped up about the addition of life preservers and a guide down the river to Lake Mead (practical, but still shitty payment to wipe out mutant moths). Second thing was a "lost city of gold" called Cibola that the mayor seemed far to quick to bring up, considering we were complete strangers to the town. It seems a couple of scavs may have found the fabeled city, and their discovery seemed to coincide with the appearance of the moths. There was no physical proof that a city of gold had been found - just the rumors. Now I won't work for fish...but for the possible chance at a city of gold? Needless to say we agreed to take the job. I had some badly filtered water, stomached as much of the socializing as I could and asked where my room was. When that brainer of a mayor said we'd have to sleep three to a room I had to fight the urge to pistol whip the bastard on the spot. No WAY was I going to be sharing a room with anyone. He lamented that they were a small town and space was tight, so I opted to bunk down with the critters out in the stable (at least pigs don't try and talk you to death).
The next day we all got ready for the bug hunt, as the group formed a plan. We figured that it might be a good idea to intentionally attract a whole mess of the things and fight them in a spot of our choosing as a means of "thinning them out" before trying to find their hive, or nest or whatever they were calling home. Seemed reasonable to me so I went along with it. Fran had the idea of building a huge bonfire for bait since they seemed to be attracted by the light, and found a good location in a lakeside pasture outside of town. The Junker spent most of the day digging a trench near the tree line, big enough for two. The Papergirl spent time making nice with the local kids trying to get some more information, but it was a waste of time. I took the time to get a feel for the area and find the best vantage point to snipe from. Otto was still back in town unconcious, wether from the tranks, sniffing the bug or both we weren't sure. Some of the group was starting to get concerned.
The wheels were in motion and all the players were in place by nightfall. Using Arson, Fran lit the huge bonfire and we settled in to wait. Straight Guns and I were positioned at the far end of the clearing; me on top of an old barn and the Law Dog in the shadows of a delapidated lean-to. Fran and the Junker were in the trench, and most of the rest of the group were hidden in the trees. Then there was the Lunatic. The damned fool was parading back and forth not four feet from the blazing pyre we were using for bait. Time passed slowly.
A couple hours later, things got a lot more exciting - fast.The swarm flew in from across the water, presumably from the far end of the lake. The Lunatic drew the most attention and quickly went down beneath 9 or 10 of the black fluttering insects. The Templar had one attached to her chest and another had settled down on a fencepost nearby, apparently waiting for an opening to strike. Straight Guns and I were relatively safe in our ranged postitions, so we could pick off moths with impunity. The rest of the group wasn't as lucky. The Papergirl managed to attract the attention of three bugs. I guess being up in the trees atop a makeshift perch (constructed for her by some of the local knee-biters) made her a pretty ripe target. All in all she held up pretty well though, considering she'd armed herself with knives and fishing spears. If there's one thing that kid can do besides be a nuisance, it's throw stuff around. The Templar hacked up the moth that was trying to get to know her better, as I pooped the one that was on the fencepost. Fran and the Junker were dancing around with their partners (Fran a bit more successfully than Max), while Straight Guns blasted away at the swarm covering his partner. Though it didn't look like he was doing too well, the staccato blasts from the gatling pistols were proof enough that the Lunatic wasn't out of the fight yet.
And that's when the Junker decided to do it...AGAIN. The blast of plasma that roared from his "cannon of misfortune" as I've come to call it was beyond belief. The funnel arced out to 120 meters and was at least 6 meters across at it's end - and the Lunatic, encased in his "moth ball" was at the dead center of the blast. The resulting damage from the Junker's toy left a white hot trench of burning plasma that at the very least, managed to attract most of the rest of the moths to a very crispy end. Those that didn't go willingly were helped along by some well placed Chainbraining by Fran (note to self - need to learn this power).
Now, you'd think that we had seen the last of the Lunatic. Not the case. By the time all of the moth dust had settled and the remaining bugs were pulped, most of us were none the worse for wear. Only the Junker, because of the insistent attentions of a very persistent moth, was down for the count (which was all the more appropriate for what happened next). To the posse's amazement, a wet, burned and near naked Guardian emerged from the shallows of the lake, gatling pistols clenched in both hands. I knew exactly where he was heading and what was on his mind, but he confirmed it with a booming "WHERE'S THAT DAMNED JUNKER?!" that echoed out across the lake. I decided it was time to quietly get a closer view of the impending show. That's when the Templar decided to attempt to close the curtain before it began, barring the Guardian's path.
Normally, I don't take sides. Most of the time I like to watch from a distance. However, this was the second time that the Junker's tool went haywire at the expense of the posse and I felt that he had whatever was coming to him. I also can't stand pious, self-righteous blowhards that try to stand in the way of a man's right to revenge. I illustrated this belief by placing the barrel of my rifle up against the back of the Templar's head (when I want to get behind someone, no one's going to know until its too late). I was mildly suprised when the Templar spun and disarmed me (underestimated her skill with the blade - it won't happen again). With my rifle knocked aside and my dander up, I tried to give the bitch a permanent headache. To my dissappointment, I had underestimated her force of will as well. She layed this crap on me about being "part of the problem instead of the solution" and to my embarrassment, I found myself backing down. It was fine, though because the Lunatic was not about to be denied. Even dripping wet, crispy and in his birthday suit he cut an intimidating figure (those quivering fingers on his gats probably helped too). The Templar backed down and as the Lunatic approached the unconcious Junker, he showed that he had a "unique" sense of vengeance. When he used the spook juice port on the back of the plasma thrower for a urinal I almost smiled.
With this bit of employment behind us (fish...I can't BELIEVE I'm getting paid in fish) I made my way alone back to the stable in town to try and get some shut eye. I still have an uneasy feeling about the blind man from Dango being here. The mystery of his means of getting to this place aside, WHY is he here? Is he a spy for the Old Man? Is he watching out for us (figuratively speaking)? Or is it something else? I don't like being shadowed - thats usually MY job. And what about this "lost city of gold"? Could such a thing really exsist? When I was a kid I used to make-believe I was a...no. That time is dead and best forgotten. Down the river Silas and his Doomies continue to search for...hell knows what. But it can't be good. Lots of questions with no answers as usual. No matter which way the winds blow me tomorrow, I can only guess things are going to get a lot more...interesting.
- S.C.
10/17 - Arizona. Another week in Dango. Most of the group's funds had dwindled and we were starting to get restless. During what I like to call "The Long Wait", two new brainers talked their way into the group. The first is a gunfighter who folks call the Guardian; he's to stealth and tact what a ghostrock bomb is to gardening. The other one (his "sidekick" I guess you could call him) is a Law Dog by the name of John Kelly. While he pals around with this Guardian fella, he seems mildly annoyed with his partner's personality. I like to refer to these two as "Loudmouth" and "Straight Guns" (though sometimes I think "The Lunatic" is a better moniker for the Guardian...). While having a meal at Beano's, the others were approached by an unusual fellow known as Mr. Coco. As always I listened at a distance from my "private table". It seemed that Mr. Coco had learned that we were considering a journey to Lake Mead (as had most of the town thanks to The Lunatic flappin' his pie hole). He informed us that a cross-country land route would be too dangerous, as Silas and his green robed fanatics were increasing activity in the area and "only a fool would think about trying it" (actually that's why we were going...not the fool part, mind you...). He suggested a water passage and , if we'd do him a favor along the way, would provide us with the transportation. All we had to do was stop in and check on an aquaintence of his, one Mamasita Gata, and her enclave of "Water Witches". Hadn't heard from her in a while and he was worried. If we proved successful he mentioned something about "further employment possibilities". The Old Man runs a tight ship, but I got a feeling this Coco guy has some shady business going on the side - seemed awful eager for us to keep the business between us. Anyway, fortified with a weeks worth of provisions and a large inflatable raft (our "transportation" from our "benefactor") we prepared to leave. Before we left however, I tested out my chilli powder "scent scrambler" on our new employer. Just to see if it worked, mind you. Don't think he saw the humor in it. What the hell...I'm not planning on making it back to that ville anyway.
On the Colorado River. The first day went uneventfully. Most of us spent our time learning how to paddle and control the raft. The thing steers like a pregnant rattler. Outside of the incessant prattling and posturing of the Lunatic and the occasional nasal whine of Fran's voice, it was more or less a quiet trip. The evening was a different story. A few hours after we went ashore and made our first camp, Loudmouth and Straight Guns went off to scare up some game - didn't feel like breaking into the dry rations yet. After the Lunatic's antique gatling guns went off, most of the group went scrambling after them into the woods. I stayed behind to watch the camp along with the Templar and the bothersome Papergirl. Then the gats went full-bore and an unholy scream split the night air, which got the Templar's attention and scared the piss out of the kid. My "team spirit" was on stand-by, so I kept the camp company. Two minutes or so went by before the group came back with dinner. Both Loud Mouth and Straight Guns were covered in blood - vampire to be exact. Turns out the blood suckers had scoped out the same deer for dinner as the Lunatic and had started an argument. Too bad for them, I guess.
Next couple days were just as much fun. Made our way to the witch village and met Mamasita Gata. Weird bunch of folks, but not really suprising living as isolated as they are. Fed us good, though. The papergirl tried to tell them a story about the good the group had done for Dango and passed out some newsletters. Unfortunately she seemed to stick to the gorey bits (heh...kids...) and ended up freaking the little ville out. Mamasita said something about "children being seen and not heard"...first thing anyone has said in awhile I can agree with 100%. Before sending us on our way, "Mama" advised us to head toward Lake Powell before heading off farther down the Colorado. She noted we didn't have lifejackets and warned about the upcoming severity of the rapids through the Grand Canyon. Aparently there was a village on the shore of Lake Powell ("Powellville"...gee, how creative...) that had lifejackets and such for trade, so again - off we went. Her parting words to us were to "watch the skies at night" and something about not lighting a fire. We found out soon enough what she meant.
We made Powellville at nightfall on our fourth day on the river - a little fishing ville with a dock and such. No beacon lights were lit and the town was cast in darkness. As we approached what looked like the meeting hall, one of the residents approached and quietly tried to get us to come inside, pleading with us to not make any noise. Otto just couldn't keep his big mouth shut and got a back full of tranquilizer darts for his trouble (he didn't go down...he's a big cuss...but it showed the folks were serious about the silence). His noise attracted something however...several big somethings with wings, black as night. One knocked the Papergirl off her bike as we rushed for the buildings. The Lunatic stood his ground, protecting her, and started blasting away even though he couldn't have seen exactly what he was shootin' at (macho hero crap). His efforts did manage to kill one of things and drive the rest off. Turns out the things were huge black moths, and they left a black sooty residue on everything they had touched. God knows why, but Otto fell to his knees beside the dead one and, well...inhaled. Promptly passed out. Guess the tranks finally kicked in on him.
As I sit here in a corner in this sorry excuse for a bar called "The Dock", scribbling these words with these happy townsfolk all around me (they'd never managed to kill one of the things before), I'm left to ponder a disturbing postcript to the evening. After the moth was dead and we all entered the bar, we were greated by the familiar guitar strains and voice of Wheezer. One doesn't have to be well-versed in pre-war music to get the gist of the song he was singing as we entered...the line he kept repeating was "don't come around here no more...". One of the townsfolk said it was by someone named Tom Petty and the Heart Breakers, as if that was supposed to mean something to me. How the hell did that blind man get up here from Dango? Wasn't he still there when we left? Asked around and no one seems quite sure. Regardless, it certainly doesn't bode well for this little foray into Utah.
- S.C.
10/10 - Arizona. I awoke with an uneasy feeling about the mission today. I couldn't bring myself to think of this group I'd been thrown in with as a "team". Things started out bad and just got worse as the morning progressed. As I said, the medical complex we were hired to clear had been quarantined and sealed off due to an overabundance of deaders wandering about its halls. These weren't your ordinary run of the mill type deader though, as we quickly found out. The "plan" (if you can call it that) was to split into groups; me and Roach covered the group from a skylight in the roof, Fran covered the front door, and the rest (Otto, Max, the Doc, Dusty, the kid, The Old Man and Choon) took the frontal approach. After avoiding a pretty obvious trip-wire, the first group of deaders jumped the group in a patient ward; there were only three and it should have been easy. Not the case. We didn't have a great view from the skylight, but we could see well enough what happened. The group took the usual proceedure in taking on deaders and went for the head...but it proved in vain. These disgusting pustule covered deaders seemed to be able to regenerate from just about everything we threw at them. We just got coated with vile hawked-up balls of glowing phlem for our trouble...and everyone noticed that we started to weaken (everyone except The Old Man and the Doc that is - guess being dead does have some advantages). The kid lost it (don't see what good she does anyway) and ran screaming for the exit as two more of the deaders came out of a neighboring room. I left my position of defensive advantage to engage the enemy in close quarters (didn't have clear line of sight anyway), but even my efforts proved less than effective. The Doc got the brilliant idea to try to get to the basement where he knew some hydrochloric acid was stored - wanted to try to melt them. The Old Man thought there were more deaders down there, but in the heat of the conflict, no one could stop the Doc from trying for it. Personally I think the Doc had lost it by that point - for a dead guy he sure had a weak stomach. I guess in retrospect it was a brave attempt. Stupid - but brave. That was the last any of us saw of him (we did manage to keep his weapons though).
Then we got lucky. The Templar got a good lick in with that sword of hers and lopped one of the thing's heads clean off. That dropped it cold. After a bit more experimentation with knives and a handy fire axe, we found out it was blade attacks to the head that did the trick. The (mutant?) Syker Roach sent Otto running to the town armory for all the blades he could come up with, but we managed to off the five deaders before he returned. Turns out that the only items of worth for this situation ammounted to a few hatchets, an old military sabre and a large scythe anyway. After much debate (this bunch talks too much), these were eventually distributed. At this point The Old Man brought up the idea that proceeding downstairs after the Doc may not be the best course of action (tight quarters, poor to no lighting). A storm cellar entrance to the rear of the building provided a larger area for the group to take advantage of. At this point I positioned myself on the outer town wall (maximum range, maximum damage) as a "loose plan of action" was devised. The Templar (Dusty) and Choon went in through the front to attempt to disarm the trip-wire detected earlier while the rest of the group positioned themselves around the storm cellar doors. After disarming the trap, Dusty and Choon would then enter the basement and attempt to drive some of the deaders toward the awaiting guns of the rest of the group. Meanwhile the Junker (Max) would attempt to cobble up some sort of "flame-thrower type" mass damage weapon to provide backup (this came at the Old Man's request, and he said to "make it messy").
Well, as plans go, this one was at best a 60% success. The trip-wire should have been a tip off, but the fools just weren't careful enough. It seems our not so run of the mill deaders proved very adept at setting traps utilizing some of the more volatile medical supplies in the building. The first few that went off (tripped by the Templar I think - I can't believe Choon would be that clumsy) managed to take out a good portion of the building that Roach and Fran had been standing upon. Fran managed to stay on the roof, but the Roach lost his footing and fell through the resulting hole, injuring himself. Meanwhile the battle out back was going O.K.; deaders popped out, we picked them off. Then Max showed back up and things went to hell...literally. The Old man wanted "messy" and that's what he got. The blast from the Plasma Thrower that the Junker came up with swept through the cellar doors, wiping out the rest of the deaders...and the cellar doors...and the cellar...and most of the rest of the medical complex. Guess there were some more "volatile chemicals" down there. Dusty and Fran managed to get away, but Roach is gone (weird...he cleared the blast, and we couldn't find anything like a death wound on him...) and there was no sign of Doc or Choon when the smoke finally cleared. Nothing could've lived through that.
For obvious reasons I've revised my thinking upon who the most dangerous individuals of this little group are. I can't imagine The Old Man is going to want to keep us on after this. Don't really care, so long as I get paid.
- S.C.
10/3 - Arizona. Hired for a job to pick up the pieces of another group in a town called Dango. Town is run by a kid (of all things) called "The Old Man". Harrowed. Don't like working for the dead. I've sent way too many of them on to their final reward. Pay's above average, so I figured I'd stomach it for now. Before heading out, the first group showed back up at Dango and helped eliminate a threat to the town. Since the first group had successfully completed the mission, I figured my job was over before it had begun (still expecting to get paid, though - nothing yet - must be gettin' old). Not the case - The Old Man kept me on. New job is to retrieve cache of medical supplies from the town medical facility which has been quarantined and boarded up, filled with plague deaders (fee still in negotiation stage).
Interesting to find out that a member of the first group is a Syker from an old Banshee Squad - the Black Lightnings. Interesting, yeah...but that group was all brawn - the only brains they received was through the efforts of Phantom Brigade. Strike one. And the chick whines somethin' awful. Strike two. Top that off with the fact she was an officer. Strike three. Interesting yes, but not worth my time.
I sat through part of the evening before the new job at a better than average pub grub dive called Beano's listening to The Old Man groan, moan and self recriminate about the shape of the town. Fought the urge to put a bullet through his head. Spent the rest of the night off in a corner analyzing the remainder of my new "associates". Only three of the seven are of any concern: Fran (the Banshee Syker), Roach (the Earth Syker - odd lookin' goober) and that bald asian guy in the Grizzly Adams getup. Of the three, the asian guy (Choon?) is the one I find most intriguing and potentially dangerous. While his ability to affect others in any form of leadership capacity is obviously limited, individually he's obviously the one to watch out for.
As I prepare myself for tomorrow's mission, I sit here hoping that the disease that's followed me all the way from Banshee won't resurface to distract me. Probably should have a doctor take a look at me, but the only one 'round here is another "dead man walkin'" like The Old Man. Working for harrowed is bad enough. The idea of having one for a doctor is especially...distasteful. The mission will be difficult. Always is when a large group is involved - too many undisciplined personalities. Too much potential for error. Not like the old days. Not like back in the Phantom Brigade. Even the other Sykers seem too wrapped up in their personal vices to make this anything close to a smooth operation. Have to see if working with a group is worth the effort - traveling with one certainly has its advantages the way things are Earth-side these days. But larger groups also mean more targets (not that being seen is ever a problem for me). Will wait and see.
- S.C.