To: Mr. Ortho Glick, USA special forces, retired
From: Fortague Winston Smythe, British Secret Service - Bond project
Subject: Unexpurgated Deliniation of Tactical Resources in an Extraterritorial Tactical Dispute
Mr. Glick,
As per your request regarding missing intelligence during your unfortunate yet thankfully temporary non-ambulatory incognizance, please find the attached file entitled "Unexpurgated Deliniation of Tactical Resources in an Extraterritorial Tactical Dispute". Note I have taken the liberty of downloading said file into your encrypted palm-sized recording device. P.S. - I have a few suggestions regarding increasing the security on said device should you be interested.
Hmm, let me see...
First there was a slight change in the time stream when the papergirl never arrived with us at the destination and a heavy smoker (smog shaman) named Salem Winston (or something like that) ended up arriving right around the same time as Pepe LePew. Neither of them had any serious weaponry, LePew had a pistol and an axe, the smoker had his smokes. Nothing Algernon would be worried about, so we decided to trust them instead of robbing them and tying them up in barbed wire. Besides I had left my barbed wire behind.
We then had a mostly uneventful night if you don't count the hammering noises coming from the general vicinity of myself. The posse woke up, got into the truck I had rebuilt during the night and headed off after the bad guys.
Wasn't long before we came to some strange monorail station where the rail led out into the ocean. I tried repairing the video cameras but only got a couple to work; no cameras from other parts of the park were available and nothing seemed out of the ordinary if you discounted the ghostly image of a clown trying to murder the human light source we call Clem. Knowing that resistance was futile and that there was little else to do, we continued on after the bandits. Cursing that I didn't take the time to make the truck a hover vehicle, we climbed up on the railing and hoped that the train was out of commission and continued pursuit, minus yourself who "fell asleep" under the truck in the parking lot, thus necessitating this monologue (note that we are parked in Lot 7D).
We continued down the track and came to a gap caused by tidal erosion. The Wango-Tango kid decided to jump first and did pretty well, almost as well as Algernon might have jumped... of course Algernon would have jumped far enough to actually make it to the other side unlike our kid. So the Wango-Tango kid is off balance and about to fall to his doom into the water when Otto and Rocky the Flying, er Clem, jump to his rescue and save his immortal butt from dying again.
So we continued on for a few hours more until we could see an island with another monorail terminal in the distance. Bravely the posse set out to charge into the terminal to continue pursuit while I muttered something about morons, ambushes and turkey shoot. With a sudden flash of common sense, the posse begins to slow their charge as their brains rush to catch up. Using Otto's rifle scope, he notices the distant figure of a man in the station looking back with a pair of binoculars. The man suddenly seems surprised to discover that he has been spotted and runs off in the distance.
Cautiously the posse enters the monorail station and tries to spring the ambush prematurely. Suddenly shots ring out and the posse is under fire. I myself bravely set my back to a corner and began to weigh his options. The options begin to dwindle when the Wango-Tango kid charges off after the ones down the ramp and automatic fire is heard. Our brave Mr. LePew "becomes prone with the ground" (his words, not mine) and begins to er, um... well... I'm not sure what he planned seeing as how he had his axe drawn but he never bothered to actually close with the enemy. Otto had gone charging in the same direction as the kid, and the smoker had begun alternating between throwing lit cigarettes and creating a real mess with a windstorm centered in the information kiosk. Well, to shorten a long story, a couple of bad guys decided to actually shoot our brave "yours-truly" who was still in contemplation on the best use of his abilities and offering some advice to our heroes... such reminders about prisoners and questioning were some of the brilliant things I said, but I digress... so I decided to end the fight and begin shooting. Of course it didn't last long after that.
Now that the fight was over, I decided to mention the people who were trying to be quiet inside the locked security office next to me. Our somewhat resourceful warlock then picked the lock and offered the honor of opening the door to our burly friend Otto. Otto burst into the room and sees one of the bandits holding one of the women hostage and making demands. In a move similar to one that Algernon would have used, Otto takes the difficult shot and shoots the bandit and for once we have a prisoner since the bandit didn't actually take a fatal wound and passed out due to the shock of the hit. I thought about mentioning how Algernon probably would not have blown off the arm of the hostage in that maneuver but decided to keep my thoughts to myself.
But we saved a few of the hostages. Getting information out of the shaken women was difficult at first but got easier once Otto was told to keep his mouth shut.
Now that we had a moment to think about what our plan was and who was going to have to remove the bullet from LePew's posterior, we began to assess our surroundings. Things looked pretty grim but that was mostly due to LePew's posterior and the fact that the warlock had begun chopping off bandit heads and removing the skulls from the wrapper that God had placed them in. The freshly severed hand that the Wango-Tango Kid found in the lost and found didn't appear to belong to anyone we fought and the warlock expressed little interest in it.
So we gave the prisoners the weapons the bandits had used and sent the women back to the mainland, told them to find you and to wait for us as long as they could.
At this point, I began to try to get the cameras in this location operational as well. Despite the sabotage of the video system, I managed to get one working, it showed a sinister ghostly clown turning towards the camera and charging it with an evil grin, but I kind of expected that. Then the camera broke.
We got away from the monorail station and started down the main street in Anytown, USA. I told them that everything they found would be warped and twisted, but did they believe me... nope. I warned them not to go into the cafeteria and especially not to go in the kitchen, but they didn't listen. I told them that the cameras were evil but the warlock had to take an instant picture of the Wango-Tango kid and wait for it to develop into an image of the kid being hung by the strap of a tote bag. Personally, I think that going into the theatre was one of their biggest blunders but they wanted to see the talking meat puppet. Sigh.
Finally, the ghostly clown started to show himself and taunt members of the posse, trying to play with their minds. Of course I would have expected better than simple pokes on the shoulder and the like, but we finally got it cornered into a tree. Since the tree offered no possibility of escape without us seeing, I knew that there was no possible way that the ghost could be up there so I casually asked the group if anyone had an axe we could use to cut down the tree with. Of course the group was quick to mention the obvious fact that I was suggesting that we chop down a tree that had no chance of having a ghost caught in it. Personally I wouldn't have thought that I'd have had to remind them that it was getting dark and that the concrete floors of the monorail station didn't burn well but they agreed that the tree had to come down. LePew, after a brief pause, realized that the thing strapped to his back was indeed an axe and suggested that it might help. He stepped up to the tree and swung with all his might, but the tree didn't seem to be hurt much. LePew swung again with all his might and again the tree wasn't hurt much. Then I made the realization that perhaps LePew doesn't actually have much might to begin with (Ed. Note: Str 1d8 - I kid you not) so I suggested that the Wango-Tango Kid with his mighty 11 year old muscles give it a try. Took the kid a couple of whacks but the tree fell (revealing no clown) and the mighty hunters headed back to the monorail station with their, er, um... tree.
No one seemed interested in my comments that Algernon would have remembered to tie up our prisoner. Of course he wasn't there when we returned.
I think that about sums it up Mr. Glick. I hope that this missive serves to catch you up to speed on what has transpired since your untimely absence from conciousness.
Signed,
Fortague Winthrop Smythe, British Secret Service - Bond project
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1/7 - With the danger of "Clown Island" past us we made our way back in the direction of the surviv...er...rescued women's town. The first leg of the journey passed without incident. It was on my watch, the second evening from Dempsey Land, that the bizarre occurred. One of the more interesting perks of un-life is that, for the most part, you don't need a lot of sleep. Naturally, I get more shift duty than the majority of the posse. That suites me just fine. It's the only time they're quiet and I can get some well sought after silence. Discounting the times I draw a watch with the Wango-Tango Kid, of course, which was the case on a that most unusual night. At first, the..."disturbance" was subtle. A faint, yet somehow unsettling odor that triggered a subconscious feeling of danger was carried to us on the breeze...it smelled familiar, but I couldn't quite place it. I alerted the Kid to its presence and though he acknowledged the scent it didn't seem to mean much to him. After waking Otto, the Kid and I followed the smell a few dozen or so yards to the northwest, away from the camp and into the dark Texas night. That's when the wind kicked into over-drive. The further we tried to press forward the more intense the wind became, rising to a screaming, howling blast of night air, sand and sagebrush. The odor intensified as well. The scream of the wind, combined with the smell suddenly sank through my spirit infested brain and brought the memories kicking and screaming into my mind. Impossibly, it was a Banshee wind - I don't know how or why, but there's nothing else it could have been. It was as if the low dry grasslands around me had been transformed, and I was back on that God-forsaken rock, standing on the blood soaked plains of that which I had hoped never to see again. My instincts and the thing in my head were screaming danger, so I unleashed my 50 caliber pet. I had to use the Kid's shoulder as an improvisational bi-pod to get the most leverage possible. The wind had other plans for the Kid however. Guardian junior's tiny frame couldn't stand the force of the atmospheric onslaught any longer and he was literally blown away. He tumbled like a rag doll straight back into camp, his screams lost on the wind. The situation was looking grim. I struggled to remain upright against the gale, peering vainly ahead. I was sure that something was I didn't want to meet being carried toward me on the astral spawned wind, and I wanted to meet it on my own two feet, gun in hand. Just when I thought I could take no more, the wind simply stopped. The odor and sensation of Banshee likewise ceased - as suddenly as it had started...like the door to Hell had simply been closed, shutting its terrors quietly behind it. With more than a fair amount confusion and a Hell of a lot of curiosity, I made my way back to camp. The situation back at camp was...shall we say...unique.
The Kid was no worst for ware after his tumble. He was stopped from his airborne tumble (I'd say fortuitously) rather suddenly by the side of the transport by the truck we had been fortunate not to have lost yet. The remainder of the posse and passengers were, to varying degrees, inexplicably affected by the unnatural burst of weather. Otto and Fallon seemed to have trouble remembering the rest of the posse's names. In fact, it seemed they lost about three to six weeks of short term memory in a matter of minutes. Clem, the Kid and myself seemed to be unaffected. One of our two rescued female passengers wasn't so lucky. The whimpering, drooling mass of meat that was once a woman sat twitching in the passenger seat of the truck. A quick test of retinal and motor response confirmed that she wasn't comatose, but she might has well have been. It seemed as if her mind had either been wiped nearly clean, or her memory had regressed to a near state of infancy. What made matters worst was the fact that the direction the wind had come from was the direction we had to travel. The woman needed medical attention that we weren't able to give her, and she was the only one able to drive the truck. You guessed it - we were once again on foot. So what else is new. Travel seemed to be the only option at the time, considering the fact that the Hellish wind could come back at any given moment The truck wasn't going to give the whole group much shelter and by our estimates, we only had twenty or so miles to travel to get back to the women's ville. If we packed up and traveled the rest of the night, we estimated that we'd reach it before dawn.
Upon approaching the gate of the tattered, little community, one feature stood out like old El Chupacabra's belly button. The tower guards' heads were encircled in thick strips of leather and cloth. Looked to me like the killer wind was a constant problem for the ville. Once the guards recognized the two women we were traveling with, we were granted entry. The townsfolk were understandably disheartened when we arrived with only two of the six women we were hired to retrieve from the amusement park from Hell. The town's mayor and original contact for the job, a tall lanky man named Brett, was shaken but not especially surprised to see one of the women was a mobile vegetable. He was quick to notice that we had taken our own losses as well, most notably the loud, opinionated limey Junker (wish I'd found out about what the bastard had done to my palm corder before he'd bought the farm...I still kinda feel cheated). Less notably, the Warlock brainer (whose name I didn't bother to remember) and Winston Salem, the Smog Shaman were lost as well. The Canuck Anti-Templar, in my humble opinion (and that's the only one that matters here) doesn't count as a loss per-say, seeing as I managed to make him into my own shambling animated play-thing (I wanted more, but the others had been lost to head wounds or no body was recoverable). After a bit of discussion it was revealed that the wind had been plaguing the small ville for a few weeks, and that the memory loss that Otto and Fallon had experienced was not an uncommon occurrence. The mindless woman was more of a rare case, though again not entirely unheard of. Curiouser and curiouser, says Ortho. The mindless woman was carted off to what passed as the town's doctor and the posse momentarily dispersed, engaging in the various activities that they do upon hitting what passes for civilization, when it occurred to me that I had been ignoring a very important fact. Though I didn't notice myself, judging from some of the townsfolk's reactions, I smelled like a wasted rad rat that had been rotting in the sun for months. Kelly had told me once that liquor had a pickling effect to deaden the smell of death. After terrifying the local shopkeep out of a bottle of local rotgut and some directions, I made my way out into the street. I wanted to get more information on the "Banshee Wind", as I privately called it, from the local leadership. That's when I first encountered the Holy Man.
He was making his way towards the middle of the street with an ornate carpet rolled up under his arm. As I walked past him, he began to lay out the lavish rug, faced east, kneeled and began a sort of ritual chant of some kind. After a short scan through the "worldly knowledge" bin tucked away in my head, I recognized the Holy Man as being a Muslim. From the reaction I observed from the various townsfolk poking their heads out from an assortment of windows and doors in the light of dawn's first sunlight, it wasn't too difficult to discern that the Holy Man had been in town for at least a week. Noting the whole scene as mildly interesting (but unimportant) I moved on to Brett's dwelling. The ville's leader sat on his front porch in an often repaired rocking chair. The conversation was short and to the point. The Banshee Wind had been plaguing the small ville for a few weeks and always came from the northwest. As the discussion was coming to an end, my eyes beheld a sight that might have garnered a reaction of sexual stimulation...that is to say, if I were only allowed to the have sex one last time, and the fate of the earth depended on it, and I were on a desert island, and the only choices for gratification were between the aforementioned "sight" and a tribe of pig-monkey men who all suffered from leprosy. Well, that and if the dead were allowed to rise to such an occasion, which we're not. The woman had the look of a steroid casualty that dressed like a hooker. As it turned out she was in fact an "entertainer" (exotic dance /prostitute), complete with a horse drawn wag with a fold-out stage (the world has truly gone completely to Hell). She began to toss her pitch at me, but quickly stopped when she became aware of my...condition. Ignoring the hulking prosti-thing, I made my way towards the posse who were in the process of packing up for the long haul out of town. I noticed an annoying sound over my shoulder that seemed to be following me. As sure as Otto was functionally brain dead, there was the public hole (judging by her size I'd have to say chasm) for hire droning away about needing to hire bodyguards and so on. Following behind her was the Holy Man with righteous intent in his stride. After a good deal of scrutiny (mostly on my part) it was decided that we would allow the two of them along on a trial basis (ah, that damned number again...I'm glad I've never given any credence to numerology...blowing away every new pair of brainers that tried to hitch up with the posse would get tiresome, eventually). If they lived past two weeks they'd elevate to "junior posse members" and so on and so forth.
With the women delivered, our provisions replenished by the townsfolk (hell of a way to get paid for a job, but it beats fish) and our new initiates in tow, we "saddled up" and headed out. At least hooking up with the hooker provided us with a means of transport in the form of her wagon...she even knew how to handle it. It took me a few days to get my bearings, but once I did the lay of the land became a bit more familiar to me and I knew we were getting close to Houston, the city I secretly hoped would still be a form of "Syker Central". I would be good to be back amongst people that were nearly like me. Having a large population cluster close wasn't such bad luck considering we were 500 or so miles from our normal base of operations. Besides, It would be nice to learn a few new mind tricks if the opportunity presented it self. If I were really lucky I might be able to dig up some useful info on that bastard Killian. I haven't forgotten my obligation to send that arrogant son of a bitch straight to Hell...and in my business information is almost as valuable as Ghost Rock. Hell, I might even get a real "contract" job. It's been so long since I've done an honest-to-God job that most of my old contacts might think I'm either dead (hah) or retired. The downside was that Houston was in roughly the same direction as the mysterious origins of the Banshee Wind . Most likely not a coincidence.
The road to Houston was as functional as most roads in the Wasted West. If you moved slowly with, say a horse-drawn wagon, then you made marginal progress. Any thing with an engine would be hard put to pass over that nasty patch of blacktop. That brings me to bizarre exhibit number two. Day two out of the ville, mid-morning. I was walking point, a dozen yards or so ahead of the wagon. As we made our way down the broken, twisted roadway I noticed the road ahead, in fact the entire area in our immediate path, suddenly seemed to shimmer and distort. Normally, I would have attributed it to the all too common heat-generated optical illusions that you get with sunlight and black top. This shimmer was different in the fact that it seemed to be slowly expanding forward and a dark shape seemed to be growing at the center. Then the weirdness really started to hit the fan when the shimmering started to make actual apparent physical changes to the immediate surroundings. The road a few odd yards ahead of me lost it post-apocalyptic state and was replaced with newly paved highway. The dilapidated remains of a billboard was replaced with an upright, shiny new one, advertising some brand of cigarette. The once mangled and partially missing guard rail reformed as well, suddenly appearing whole and completely intact. That in and of itself was enough to give pause to the entire posse. Everyone froze and went on full alert. What happened next could only be described as impossible. The dark mass at the heart of the shimmer grew in size and clarity as it approached...and took on a startlingly familiar shape. Red flashing lights and the wail of a siren confused some of the younger posse members who weren't familiar with pre-war tech. Otto and I knew what we were seeing and it was still impossibly hard to swallow. Here, in the middle of nowhere, decades past when one could possibly exist, a pristine, waxed and shined Texas Ranger's cruiser rolled to a stop just at the edge of the area where the shimmer ended...and out came a Texas Ranger. We all stared, dumfounded, and I silently mused over what Kelly would have done in this situation. The Ranger was dressed just as a remembered pre-war law man would be. The uniform was crisp and clean, and sunlight gleamed off his mirrored shades and silver badge on his shirt. Now, either this was the most eccentric Law Dog that ever walked the face of this blasted Earth, or we were looking at the genuine article. From the brainers overly cautious reaction to us I was leaning hesitantly toward door number two. It got even more interesting when he'd seen all of the collective hardware we were openly packing and actually called loudly for backup on the shoulder mike clipped to his uniform. As he cautiously backed up and made his way back toward the door to the cruiser, The Kid noticed the law man had a gleaming .44 on his hip (the kid lucked out when Otto got his memory whipped - Otto forgot that he was be in possession of the nigh-infamous Gats, so the kid retained possession of them full time and was on the lookout for the hard to find ammo). The kid was practically drooling and tried to make a move for the Lawdog. Otto and I shot that proposition down with a sharp "no". Fortunately, the Kid actually listened and stayed put. Mere seconds after the law man entered his cruiser, the shimmer effect suddenly snapped back the way it came with a faint sound and effect akin to a soap bubble popping, sucking most of the car with it. The altered landscape also instantly reverted to its normal state with the unexpected retreat of the phenomena. If the Kid had made a move toward the vehicle, he would have been dragged off to whatever point of origin the weirdness came from. The only evidence we had to prove the entire incident wasn't a mass hallucination was the full one and a half feet of the front end of the cruiser that remained behind. Apparently the vehicle had stopped slightly outside of the radius of the weird phenomenon...two headlights, most of the radiator, part of the frame and body and half a tire, cut clean through as if they were butter, but otherwise immaculate in condition. Well, the scavenging for parts commenced and just when we thought the fun was over, that damned Banshee Wind kicked up again. The rest of the posse opted for whatever protection the prosti-thing's wagon would offer. I stood my ground. Whatever the wind really was it became clear that whatever was driving it was focusing on me. Chainbraining the horse so it wouldn't bolt and run, I took as much of the onslaught as I could. Then, the wretched voice in my head began to wail...pleading for me to seek shelter. Normally, I relish tormenting my intangible guest, but something in it's tone and the overwhelming sense of danger compelled me to comply. No sooner had I made my way to the wagon's rear panel that the wind again simply stopped. After we took inventory of one another and no one was any worst for the wear, I once again asked everyone if they had any mental flashes in conjunction with the wind. Again they all answered no, confirming in my mind that someone or something was gunning for me. I needed more information and all signs seemed to point to Houston.
After traveling for most of a day, we crested a small ridge and came upon a rather large, fortified settlement. What appeared to be a large spot light was cutting across the dusky sky from within the strangely set-up ville's walls. I would've preferred to move on, but curiosity got the better part of the Posse and in we went. The whole set-up appeared to have once been a huge drive-in theater...in fact a large screen dominated one end of the considerable stretch of blacktop that the ville was built upon. The whole joint was surrounded by chain link fence and dotted with crude towers obviously cobbled together from scrounged telephone poles. At the center of the compound was a hunge ring of single and double wide trailers, crudely armored on the outer faces and topped with wooden walkways, sandbags and barbed wire. From our slightly elevated vantage point, the set-up looked sort of like a wagon wheel from above. A scaffold set-up perched at the wheel's"hub" with some sort of box-like structure atop it. Dotting the fence perimeter were what looked like (nah...couldn't have been) several small corn fields in the fading light. There was a surprising amount of traffic about, and we followed a number of various vehicles toward the gate. A large functioning neon sign (as if the searchlight wasn't enough of a clue...the place seemed to have a partial power grid...some sort of generator) that bore the slogan "Hyperion Drive-In". A marquee below the sign read "Welcome to the Trailer Town Trading and Entertainment Center". It looked as if there was an entry fee to be paid. The prosti-thing put up the twenty in trade to get us into town. That was my main reason for allowing her to come with us. She was practicly rolling in trade goods. One point in the "keep" column so far. As we entered the gate keeper handed a number of tickets equal to the number of folks in the posse and told us to enjoy the show. The black-topped area outside the ring of trailers was covered with a scattering of vehicles, rigs and mounts of various sorts. It looked as if the inhaditants had turned the old drive-in theater into a thriving community...complete with a film selection for entertainment. As we made our way into inner area of the ville it was becoming clear that we weren't in your "run of the mill" wasteland hole. First off was the aforementioned working electricity everywhere. The inner area was teeming with people of nearly all walks of life. The kicker was the concession stand located at the base of the tower inside the ring of trailers. The selection extensive, and consisted entirely of pre-war brand named snack and candy items. That's where I started to feel suspicious, especially with the prior events of the day. The posse however, were estatic over the possiblity of consuming something that wasn't crawling about on the ground minutes before being devoured and dove in head first. The Kid and Clem were especially overjoyed at the sight of the various sweets. The fact that the stand had everything the posse asked for smacked of another situation that I'd rather forget. The most prevalent item for sale was popcorn. In fact, most of the movie goers seemed to be purchasing popcorn hand over fist. Very strange considering all the other items to chose from. I tested the water as it were and asked if they had anything for the metaphysically challenged. The concession clerk wasn't phased in the least by me, and politely directed me to a stand that would beter suit my needs. Not a surprise the the stand turned out to be outside of public sight, near the rest rooms. After as plesant and informative a conversation as I'm capable with the deader who ran the special stand, and following a quick view of the fully functional rest room (complete with working plumbing, urinal cakes, and a sec guard), I started to put a jigsaw of gleaned facts together into potentially disturbing picture.
First, the entire city seemed to revolve around some strange religion involving the deification of various directors of old pre-war movies. Second, the city was run by some brainer the local populace called King Korn (Korn...popcorn...interesting). Then there was the mention of the day time entertainment for the following afternoon. Movies were the staple of night-time activity, but during the next day, entertainment consisted of the execution of some sort of criminal. The deader wasn't too clear as to who the prisoner was, or what it was he might have done (and more importantly from my point of view, whether or not he was a local). Taking stock of what I'd learned, I made my way back to the rest of the posse. The only one not accounted for was the prosti-thing. She appearently had set up shop near a canvassed area at the far end of the blacktop of the town's interior...apparently plying her wares. The rest of us took our seats, which were a string of bleachers located on top of the concession stand and surrounding trailers. Directly above us was the tower at the center of the hub of trailers, which I clearly identified now as the projection booth for the massive screen. The gathered crowd became silent as an odd little fellow made his way onto a stage that sat at the base of the colosal movie screen, accompanied by the electrical pop and whine of feedback of a PA system cranking into life. So this was the Korn King. The rotund figure was barefoot, dressed in patched overalls with no shirt and sported an inverted cardboard popcorn bucket atop his balding head. A ragged red velvet cape, obviously scrounged from a costume shop, lay across his shoulders, completing his ensemble. His appearance didn't smack much of royalty, and his voice went past the border of ridicule. He spouted the usual rhetoric that goes with most religons. It was just a different flavor...right down to the sacrament. What struck me as being odd was that a good portion of the other movie goers around us ingested the two items standing in for the bread and wine: popcorn and cola. Only Otto and Clem drank of the "holy" liquid. I threw a quick warning to Otto as to my suspicions on the food and drink, as well as the general bad feeling I got from the entire city. Small, yet steady dosages of psychotropics mixed with certain light patterns from say, a movie on a large screen could be an effective way for a religious fanatic to ensure a flock of loyal followers. When the Korn King finaly shut his Korn hole the first of three features began. The first picture involved dinosaurs causing some group of brainer white-coat scientists a world of trouble. I didn't hang around to see the last two. I wanted to find out a little more about what the city was really all about. I wandered about to see if I was the only one not totally engrossed in the nights main entertainment. As it turned out, a fair number of people were milling about the areas around the circled trailers, which kind of had an open air market kind of feel. Lots of folks not from the ville obviously used Trailer Town as a trade center of sorts. Of course a good number of people out and about were city sec force members. After a good deal of dead ends concerning the next day's execution and a fruitless venture of trailing the projectionist after the movies ended, I decided to shut down for two hours.
The sounds of the Holy Man and at least two other muslims rang through the still dawn air as I pounded on the back entrance to the prosti-thing's wagon. She answered in an expected state of near undress. Typical of her type. After a stern prompting to get dressed, I directed her to get some kind of information on the forthcoming "entertainment" from one of the male gaurds. Where a horror fails a whore might succeed. After mere minutes, the prosti-thing returned. Though she didn't get the brainer's name, she did manage to get his description: an old, blind black musician whose crime was still unidentified. Oh joy. The description seemed to match the enigmatic sightless bard that frequented the posse's path from time to time...haven't heard anything from him since that near miss on the Colorado, down from Lake Powell. Wheezer. His usual habit of inexplicably giving us musical clues from time to time (very often helping us to nearly avoid danger or providing much needed clues), made him seem to some of the group like an infrequent guardian angel. Personally, it didn't bother me a bit that he was being killed. What bothered me was he was like a bad penny, always turning up in and around bad situations regardless of any help we gained from it. If he were here all the way from northern Arizona, then my feeling of suspicion about this back-water movie land increased ten fold. That was all I could stand. I set about rounding up the rest of the posse and suggested that we leave immediately. I was getting sick of fighting the good fight and not getting paid for it. It Otto and the Kid found out that it WAS in fact Wheezer being executed, it was going to be a firefight desguised as a half-assed rescue attempt for sure. There was one problem with my strategy though. Namely the Kid. Apparently, he found a weaponsmith to make him a batch of .44 ammo and it wouldn't be ready until roughly 5:00. The same time the execution was scheduled to take place. Seeing as .44 caliber ammo was almost as hard to come by as my .50's, I begrudgingly opted for the altruistic path (again) and told the posse what I had learned. The path was choosen, so all we had to do was wait (myself, praying that I was mistaken about the identity of the prisoner)
As entertainment hour began, we positioned our self in the crowd near the large stage. From behind us the comical voice of the Korn King filled the air. He was positioned on the narrow walkway around the projection tower. He commanded the prisoner be brought forth and sure enough a hooded, frail figure was lead up to the stage in front of the screen by two guards followed by another four, all variously armed. The crowd made the typical mob noises: boos and hisses galore. The Korn King spewed off some pseudo-royal/quasi-religious garbage to get the crowd going, but wouldn't say what the accused's crimes were. Then the hood was removed...and to my dismay I found I was right. The familiar wrinkled features of the musical oracle we all knew of as Wheezer were revealed from beneath the sack cloth hood. Mockingly, the Korn King ordered the frail old man to perform for the populace one last time before he was forever silenced, and a battered guitar was thrust into his hands. Shuffling forward to a microphone stand at the edge of the platform, Wheezer tuned the instrument as a hush fell over the crowd. As the opening strains of "Help!" by the Beatles filled the air, it was clear that he was indeed the man we had first meet in Dango. Each subsequent song seemed to target one of the members of the posse, letting us know that he knew that we were present. That's when the Wango Tango Kid changed. Not a physical change, but his voice and attitude took on that of the Guardian's. With a booming yell, the Kid forced his way up the stage, both gats drawn, and demanded that they'd "better let his daddy go now". Well, that was the beginning of the fun. The guards went for their guns and the Kid let loose with the gats. The Korn King went into a religous frenzy as he ordered our death and light shot out of the tower onto the screen, an image declaring "Coming Attractions" backlighting the battle. Chainbraining the stage guard, I turned my attention upon the next immedate threat: the bulk of the ville security force heading through the crowd toward the stage and colossal screen. I paused only long enough to send my zombified Canadian axe wielding slave off to take care of the Korn King. The worst thing that would happen would be that I short one dead Anti-Templar - big whoop. The Holy Man and Fallon were already on stage with the Kid and Weezer to offer the old man some protection. Otto and I were at the base of the stage, ready for attack. The guards were slowly making their way throught the now panicking crowd. I then turned up their collective panic dials up another notch with a well-timed additional Chainbrain. To my silent surprise, I managed - not only to take out the approaching guards - but at least fifty other spectators as well. Sec men and spectators fell like jack straws, tangling the retreat of others and generally causing mass hysteria. Then the real danger loomed it's ugly heads. The light from the projection booth took on an eerie glow as images solidified on the screen: a preview of some space horror flick. Looked like a pack of soldier types running through corridors, shooting at black, insect-like alien things. A metallic, crashing soundtrack boomed out of the speakers around the ville, adding to the general chaos and a deep barritone voice-over said "in space...no one can hear you scream...". Suddenly, one of the alien things on the flickering screen emerged into living, breathing three-dimensional life directly above the Wango Tango Kid's unsuspecting head....followed by another....and another. Standing close to eight feet tall, the creatures began to crawl from the screen, hitting the stage alone and in pairs - huge claws and massive jaws dripping what could only be acid (whee - my favorite), judging by the liquid's effect on the wood. Between that and the firefight with the guards, the stage was slowly beginning to come apart. The Holy Man grabbed the blind singer and guided him through a mass of unconscious spectators to safety, while the gun-toters laid down a suppression barrage against the "aliens". Another well placed Chainbrain helped the gunslingers finish off the first wave of movie nasties (ah Chainbrain, the only thing I received from Fran that was worth a damn). Fallon and I started to head for the for the source of the danger: the tower. We quickly realized that the projection unit needed to be taken out immediately. Our best estimate of distance from the stage to the tower was about 400 yards. Neither of us had anything to range the tower, so to the tower we went. The Doomie got to within Nuking range with two consecutive Quantum Leaps (at least I think that's what Hell had called them). I didn't get there quite as rapidly. In fact, I didn't even get half-way before the green mushroom cloud enveloped the tower, tumbling nearby trailers and people in an indiscriminate wave of destruction. As I climbed to the rim of the outer, untouched ring of trailers (Spider Climb helps a lot when you've only got one arm), the depth of the shit we had fallen in became all to clear.
Out of the rubble and smoke that was once the tower arose a massive black outline of a ragged form on horse back, dozens of stories in height. The desicated, boney form couldn't be mistaken for anything else...we'd all heard stories in our travels of the Reckoners. Here before us was undeniably the image of one of the damned creatures. The appearance led me to assume that it was the one known as Famine. The crowd was in the grips of abject horror as the vengeful Reckoner unleashed it's anger upon the city. It seemed, however, that its grip on the material world was tenuous at best, as it's form began to thin and diminish as it struck out at the living as they tried to flee. I stood before the thing, awestruck at it's size and the wave of evil and blackness that poured forth from it - I couldn't think. I just stood there, like a deer caught in the headlights of an onrushing truck. It's already dissipating form struck forth with a giant boney hand, grasping one of the circled trailers like a child's plaything. The trailers were apparently connected, and with a horrible screech of rending metal, the giant form snapped the trailers like a giant whip, causing a chain-reaction of rippling, bursting debris. The action displaced the remaining trailers in a wave of scrap, sand bags and metal. I missed being caught up in the torrent only by hurling myself backwards off the trailer on which I stood, getting off yet another Brainblast in defiance as I fell backwards into chaos. My last glimpse of the image of the Reckoner was the thing reigning in it's massive mount as it reared above the town, hooves flashing. With a howl that seemed to fill the whole world, the image began to break quickly apart into threads of smoke and glowing ash...and was gone.
As the fires burned around the remains of Trailer Town, it was obvious that, good or evil, the ville was dead. Survivors already dashed about the wreckage looting and scavenging for anything they could get their hands on. The sound of gunfire mixed with the screams of the lost or dying as the dusk passed quickly into night. Falling back to the prosti-thing's wagon, we just tried to watch out for what was ours, and cautiously made our way clear of the Hyperion Drive-In. My zombie apparently was blown to bits in either Fallon's Nuke or the resultant chaos spawned by Famine's appearance - I could find no trace of him. We passed some traffic in leaving, and saw quite a bit of what tends to happen to humanity in survival situations - when the gloves are off and one's conscience is put on hold. No one spoke up about it, and we just rode on...too numb...too tired...and we'd seen too much. It was hard to believe that several hours earlier, the place had seemed on the surface like an oasis - a bit of hope in the wastes. Like so many things these days however, it's tempting surface concealed a dark, predatory blackness, waiting to strike. But did we do the right thing? I'm not so sure. So many dead, and for what? And how many of the townsfolk had no idea what they were becoming a part of? These are questions for more caring souls, I suppose. I admit I'm troubled, but more with the unbelievable waste than anything else. More loss than gain, in my opinion. With the posse yet again leaving it's telltale trademark of a destroyed city in it's wake, I was left to ponder another troubling enigma - the mystery of the oracle-like Wheezer. Was he really some sort of guardian angel, guiding the posse on some sort path of good? Most likely he was just some deader who got his jollies off of messing with the posse's collective head. Whatever the case, we didn't get the chance to ask the old fart because in the confusion, he had simply vanished. The Holy Man had no explanation for his disappearance, which didn't surprise me at all. From what I recall the old music man had a habit of making short of himself when whatever he had come to do was done. Something very intense was waiting for us down the road. I could only hope that I'd make it to Houston to find the answers. I'm starting to think my inner fight with...it...has just begun.