Growing tired of his nonsense, I decided to get to the heart of the matter, to see whether or not he would be an asset to the posse, or if he was going to become part of my rations. After all of thirty seconds of conversation with the twisted little man, I was convinced he was completely cracked. It wasn't until he started to poke his fingers into my death wound that I decided to put his lights out, if only temporarily. A nutter he might have been, but there was something about him that I almost liked. Besides, he had a good amount of trade bait, as well as, other odds and ends that most likely served a greater purpose than that of a cosmetic holiday affectation. So, we carted the strange little nut into the back of the prosti-things wagon and once again started to head out, when the second and most surprising arrival appeared.
Before I could take a step, there was a meaty tapping on my shoulder. I slowly turned and saw a face I thought was long gone. The youthful, yet muscular figure was standing with sun to her back. A tireless bicycle frame rested across her shoulder, and her all too familiar optimism was radiating from every pore in her body. The Papergirl was back and as jubilant as ever. Joy. One more kid added to the roster again. She didn't appear to be harrowed at a glance, and she gave us a satisfactory explanation as to why she didn't transport with us from Arizona. Apparently (as far as she could figure), the machine wasn't set up to move as many people as we had on the platform when it had activated. She was held in some sort of stasis until the machine could cycle through and start the transfer process once more. Heh. At least it didn't happen to me. Apparently she'd been tracking us all this time, always a few days behind us. She'd worn out both tires on her bike and was beginning to give up hope when she saw the burning remains of trailer town - she correctly figured we weren't that much farther ahead. She got as good a welcome as I was willing to give her and we got under way.
After a dozen or so miles, the dwarf (whom I will refer to as Rumpled-foreskin from here on out) prattled on incessantly, questioning who was in charge of our merry little band. This is an interesting point considering that no one, aside from the Kid, really was designated "leader"- and that was self-appointed. Otto and I considered us senior posse members, thus the closest thing to a leader this group was likely to see . . . and neither of us really wanted the job. Afternoon turned to evening, and after five verses of "the holy man can't stop praying cantatas," it was time to set camp for the night. On the second watch of the evening, I had noticed my watch partner Otto seemed oblivious to everything. In fact, the word unconscious would be a better way to describe his state of being at the time. As I checked for vitals on the incontinent mass that was Otto, my attention was drawn to a brief, repetitive flash of light. The irregular pattern came from a small scrub tree several hundred yards away from camp. With the rest of the posse unconscious in one form or another, I went off quietly to investigate. With as much stealth as my training would allow, I slowly made my way toward the small tree. The mirror was attached to the tree via a nondescript necklace. It was then that I heard a voice I had figured for dead for fourteen years:
"Sloppy work, shooter."
Even when he whispered, the unmistakable commanding gravel and sandpaper tone of one Lt. Luther "Hard-boiled" Kreed was indeed in the here and know. I did an about face and instinctively saluted. I know what your thinking, especially if you've been following this journal for a while. Isn't the Lt. an authority figure? Isn't it a fact that you can't stand authority figures? Get this straight. Lt. Kreed was/is the only being alive or undead that I ever actually had the privilege to call "friend," so I show the proper respect that his rank gives him. Got it? Good. What followed was a brief and confusing moment of catching up on things - after all, I buried him myself. This first piece was easy to figure - obviously the Lt. was a harrowed just like me. As close as we could tell, he dug himself out about a week after I planted him. He apparently made his way back to the ruins of Houston and helped protect the struggling community that was starting to rebuild there. New Houston today was still thriving and growing. Apparently, the good Lt. had been trailing us for the last few miles (since shortly after picking up the dwarf) and wanted to verify my identity. There were many questions passing through my mind about the Lt. and the rest of the Phantom Brigade. Were any others left? Were they all Harrowed if there were? The answers weren't forthcoming though. The Lieutenant was on a re con mission and had to be brief. Then he was simply gone. As I turned to collect the mirror from the scrub tree, it too was gone. I remember the Lieutenant being fast, but not that fast. It was obvious that he was not traveling alone. I put the questions on hold for the time being. Otto was still in the grips of the Lieutenant's well-placed chain brain as I re-entered camp. As the last watch ended, the Holy Man began his daily mantra of praying to the east. That's when the damned wind decided to kick up again, but this time it came with a few new surprises.
At first we thought the objects traveling within the unnatural gale were harmless. The screams of pain as one of them imbedded into the dwarf quickly shattered that theory. I don't know what the locals called the things, but I call them killer tumbleweeds. Another cry of pain sounded behind me. It was most definitely the Kid's voice, squealing like a stuck pig. Visibility was at a minimum due to the damned sand blown up by the wind, so I attacked the closest target within an earshot - the dwarf and his thorny dance partner. Here's the bitch about trying to kill one of these tumbleweed critters. It's very hard to find whatever the creature uses for a head (or any vulnerable spot for that matter), mainly because of decentralized, "basket-like" nature of its anatomy. I missed the tumbleweed with a flesh rip attack due to the above fact. The dwarf wasn't so lucky and took the blast to the leg. He then did the totally unexpected: screaming a battle cry, he leapt chest first into the campfire, creature and all. The crazy little bastard not only found the quick way to kill those things, but also miraculously managed not to set himself on fire. That was the good news. The bad news was the wind was still kicking and more killer tumbleweeds distracted the posse. The Kid was still in the grips of his attacker. Otto, being Otto, dispensed his usual automatic retribution, only partially wounding posse members. I was on the receiving end of said help when two of the creatures attached themselves to my legs. After a few carefully placed brain blasts, I managed to seat my dance partners permanently. The Kid wasn't doing as well. The tumbleweed was starting to burrow his spinney tendrils deeper into his leg. He was hesitant to use the gats on the thing, most likely for fear of blowing his own legs off. With a bit of begrudging haste, I made my way to the Kid through the blinding sand and wind and grabbed a hold of the nasty critter with both hands. Otto and Fallon managed to bang the thing up quite a bit, so finishing it off wasn't going to be too difficult. A dose of body control to tear the beast out of the Kid's leg (the Holy Man was most likely going to patch him up after the fight any way, so I figured what were a few more wounds to deal with until then), and the blast of a flesh rip sent the unholy terror screaming back to Hell in shredded pieces. Then the wind stopped as quickly as it started, as it always did. In the aftermath, the Kid seemed to bear the worst out of the posse. The Holy Man earned his keep, laying on hands and what not. The Kid was on his feet and was his normal cocky self in mere minutes. After the Holy man did his rounds, we broke camp, the mystery of the wind no closer to being solved than before.
As we headed out toward Houston once again, we planned on a pit stop at a truck stop that Rumpled-foreskin said he had been to on several occasions in the past. Two more days on the road left us with a desire to get out of the open and to trade up for more travel provisions. A few miles into day three, we arrived at what appeared to be an abandoned town. The town, if you could really call it that, centered on a crossroads. A small cafe, rested on one side of the road, and a one-floor motel-style rooming house rested on the other, directly across from the cafe. A large garage/gas station was adjacent to that . . . and that comprised the bulk of town. The road leading out of town had a meager barricade running across its width. The first sight that caught my attention was the door to the rooming house swinging back and forth in the breeze, apparently of its own volition. We looked to the dwarf for answers, but he merely shrugged. This was the place he had told us about, but it had been thriving the last time he'd been through, a little over a month ago. The majority of the posse went to investigate the cafe, fresh vittles on their minds. I had other ideas. From what the dwarf had told us, this place usually had a fair amount of traffic coming in and out on a semi-regular basis. Not a person or vehicle was to be seen and that smelled of trouble. The Kid must have picked up on my vibe and was right with me as we approached the swinging door to the rooming house. Almost at the same time, the Papergirl opened the glass door to the cafe . . . triggering a booby trap. A number of sand-weighted steel drums (that we had assumed at a distance were for water or fuel) came tumbling off the roof and onto the posse. She caught the brunt of it, as the rest of the crew dove for cover. Although no one was seriously hurt, the noise was incredible. So much for the element of surprise.
The lobby of the rooming house was deserted. Behind the front desk was a small pegboard, which were numbered one through nine. Number seven was the only one with a key. I've come to the conclusion that being dead has corroded my basic common sense. Like a green cadet, I reached for the key and yanked it from its peg as I came around the desk. I wasn't "completely" surprised when the trap sprung and rightfully hit me full on. A spring-loaded frame of an old steel re bar, formed into 1' x 1' square loaded with a good number of rusted knife blades, swung up and out from the desk, hitting me square in the chest. Great set up to take out an air sucker, but not particularly effective if you're already dead. Causally removing the embarrassing evidence of my myopia, the Kid and I proceeded with a touch more caution. When we arrived at room seven, I made sure to actually look for traps. As expected, the door was rigged with a similar trap, which was quickly disarmed. The room was a fairly plain set-up with no real surprises. Or so we thought. After what was only a few minutes of searching the room, a faint scratching sound could be heard from the closet at the far end of the small room. After the Kid and I barked at whatever might have been in the closet for a moment, as well as firing a round into one of the hinges, we threw the door open to find . . . nothing. After a tentative search of the very empty closet, the dwarf made his entrance into the room. I left the two of them to continue the search for hidden doors, as I exited to the exterior of the rooming house to conduct a similar search. The Prosti-thing began ransacking the rooms, dragging the mattresses (prewar, and still in decent shape back to her wagon).
After many fruitless minutes, I abandoned my efforts and made my way toward the cafe. The Papergirl had just freed herself from her cumbersome pile of barrels as the remainder of the posse entered the cafe. I elected to take the high road and did the spider crawl to the structure's roof. What I found was another rather nasty trap. Passing the rack that had held the barrels, I found four insulated wires running from each of the four corners of the roof, terminating at four crude explosive charges. The wires lead through the roof into the structure below. What made it particularly nasty was the fact that the town's water supply, a huge tank, was centered on the roof. Blow in the roof, crush and/or drowned any poor brainers down below inside. I had no idea what the wires were connected to down below, but I quickly disarmed the charges before any of my traveling companions triggered something we'd all regret.
The people of this town must've been hiding something pretty damned special to rig up so many elaborate traps. We weren't given too long to ponder that concept however, because the Kid came out of the rooming house yelling about finding a hidden passage way in the closet floor. With due haste the posse double-timed it to the passage. A concealed hinged door in the floor of the closet dropped to a dirt-floored crawl way, which looked to run back out under the room to the street. Rumpled-foreskin lit a candle to test the air flow in the passage and got a positive draw - it was obviously open a bit at the other end. I ventured in first on the ceiling of the low tunnel with another bit if itsy-bitsy. The dwarf came next, with the Kid behind, trying to shine a light down ahead of us. Otto sadly just couldn't fit his bulky frame into the narrow tunnel, but Fallon stood behind us just to cover our asses. Crawling off slowly into the darkness, I could feel a faint draft on my face. Behind me, the dwarf had produced a long device that looked for all the worlds like a big, bulky candy cane. As he came forward, he methodically prodded the dirt floor ahead of him looking for traps . . . which he promptly found. A long depression in the tunnel floor that I had passed blindly over suddenly exploded upward in a spray of dirt. The walking corpse that had concealed itself beneath the floor lurched upward, scrabbling at the dwarf as I tried in vain to maneuver back into some sort of helpful position in the cramped space. The Kid had hauled out the gats but didn't have a clear shot. This meant Rumpled-foreskin was on his own. As it turned out, he was fine. Raising the "candy cane," he hit some sort of triggering mechanism and promptly flayed most of the thing's head and upper torso in a rapid spray of projectiles. It dropped almost immediately, and I only had to pick a few errant missiles out of my posterior. Mentally I added "Junker" to the dwarf's list of attributes.
The tunnel terminated several hundred yards on with another trap door in the ceiling. Beneath it was another spring-loaded knife trap (anyone opening the door from above would have gotten a surprise) which was easily dealt with. Pushing upward, we clambered up to find ourselves behind a stack of empty packing crates on the inside the garage on the other side of the street. The place looked to be thoroughly scavenged but we looked around anyway, after yelling our current location to Fallon. Rumpled-foreskin was giddily going over the rusted remains of a candy machine, and the Kid began to toss through the piles of rubbish. I kept itsy-bitsy going and took the high road to the ceiling of the garage. There I found two disturbing items of note that merely deepened the mystery of what had happened here. A weight and pulley system utilizing chain (presumably to haul out engine blocks and such) was still attached to the ceiling . . . and coated with what could only be dried blood. A quick check from the Kid showed that the drain in the center of the garage floor also had blood traces. A person or persons unknown had been strung up here and bled . . . a lot. Disturbing item number two was made all the more so due to its location. On one of the ceiling supports, written upside-down in dried blood in small block lettering were the words "itchy and tasty." Only someone in my position - on the ceiling - could have written it. The thing in my head giggled quietly. I had no idea what it meant, but I decided to keep my mouth shut about the last discovery - at least for now. Otto and Fallon arrived on the scene, but the garage held no further answers to what had happened at the town. Leaving the garage, we headed back toward the cafe to see if the Holy Man and Papergirl had turned up any answers.
The cafe was at first glance a bust as well. Everything looked, if a bit disused, completely normal. Too normal. We gave the place a good going over, but could find nothing of interest - other than the obvious fact that all the cutlery was missing from the kitchen (real big surprise there). A light metal door leading to the basement from the kitchen was the only item of note. It had been wedged shut from our side at the floor . . . almost as if someone were trying to keep something in. Which is exactly what I figured someone wanted us to think. Dropping to all fours, I quickly checked the door for traps. Sure enough, the wedges at the doors base were wired to something on the other side of the door. After a bit of jury-rigging I managed to come up with something to keep tension on the wires and still allow us to open the door. A C-shaped stairwell greeted us, bending back out of sight from a landing halfway down. On the landing rested a chair and modified steel garbage can, loaded with sharp bits of scrap and angled upward toward the door. A primitive, though an effective, firing mechanism trailed to the wires in my hand. Anyone kicking those wedges out of the way would have gotten a chest full of scrap both from the cannon and shredded door. Nice. Maneuvering around the set-up, the basement was also disappointing. Walled with cinder blocks, the room was narrow, nondescript and empty. We were about to go back upstairs, when Otto of all people made the comment that the basement seemed too small. We paused and gave the walls a good once over. Sure enough, one wall was newer than the rest - the basement had been partitioned off. No doors or secret panels forthcoming, we came to the conclusion that something had been walled either away the world or there was another way in that we were overlooking. While we puzzled things out below, the Papergirl, Holy Man, and Prosti-thing and went back up to the kitchen to poke around.
I'm not sure who found the "secret door" first, but sure enough it was in the kitchen. One of the large ovens was a fake. Opening the large oven door revealed that the bottom had been cut away, revealing a shaft dropping down into the darkness. Some quick mental measurements approximated the shaft's exit on the other side of the "newly" erected wall. Rigging up a cooking grease-fueled torch, the Papergirl volunteered to be lowered on a torch down the tight shaft, utilizing some rope from the Prosti-thing's wagon. Choking on the smoke from the makeshift light source, the Papergirl reported that the shaft opened up into a large space, and that she could make out three hand dug side passages on two walls. What really drew our attention was her description of what dominated the room - a huge pile of swag, at least ten feet in diameter at the base. She yelled running description of clothing, canned goods, parts and even weapons had us all drooling.
Back in the basement, that was all our resident "Lord of Destruction" needed to hear. Fallon let loose with on the wall with an atomic blast, while; I unleashed several brain blasts, carving a rough hole through the wall, revealing a ten by twenty-chamber. Who needs a wrecking crew when you have Sykers and Doomies around? Sure enough, two tunnels branched off to the left and a single tunnel directly ahead of the chamber. Our various light sources illuminated the dangling Papergirl, suspended over a truly impressive pile of goods. The Kid charged forward into the pile, hooting and hollering. That's when the gunfire began.
The Kid, Otto and I, being the first to enter the room, were the first to get hit. I took one to the chest from one of the left-hand tunnels. The kid was attacked by something in the pile of rubble. He kept screaming, "Deaders! Deaders!" and I didn't have any reason to doubt him. He always had a way of knowing when he was in the presence of the undead. Traps and an ambush in an otherwise empty town were too much for me to swallow. The entire encounter didn't make sense. The only area we weren't being attacked from was the passage directly ahead. So, with a burst of body control induced speed I sped through the opening and was on my way. Leaving the skirmish in the (hopefully) capable hands of my traveling companions. Ignoring Otto's bellowing demands, I continued up the passage, hoping to find some sense in the scenario. The sounds of gunfire and yelling echoing behind me, I quickly found that I wasn't alone. After only traveling for a few moments, I found myself once again in the presence of my former commander, Lieutenant "Hard-boiled" Kreed. I'm not even going to pretend to know what the hell the town was rigged for, let alone who did it. Time and dead brain cells have washed that completely away.
The Lieutenant had apparently been keeping tabs on the posse and me since the last time I had encountered him. His voice had then taken on the old all business tone that I had remembered from Banshee. He stated that there was a job that needed to get done and that he needed people from outside of the Houston area to do it. After a few moments to consider if the posse was par for the job, I vouched for them. (with mild trepidation . . . after all, an 80% success rate for job performance might have been too low). He seemed pleased at my compliance, but told me not to speak of the job yet, and that I would be filled in on the details in Houston. Then, just as before, he was gone.
As I waited for the rest of the posse to arrive, the voice in my head (which had been prattling on nonstop since the garage) had kicked up the intensity. It was out right taunting me to commit terrible acts on the posse, especially the Kid. No surprise seeing as the Kid with those gats of his was about the worst thing a Harrowed could ever encounter. What was most disturbing, I felt almost compelled to comply. I could only imagine that every Harrowed came to a juncture in his un-life where the thing that kept him going would eventually win. Too bad for it that "giving up" wasn't in my vocabulary. Whatever my fate was to be it was going to wait. My former Commander and only friend needed me, and no Hunting Ground horror was going to stop his shooter from getting the job done.
1/20 - For nearly two years I've been traveling with an ever-changing roster of what I've simply referred to as "The Posse". Only Otto has been the one constant in a sea of changing faces. Although I quietly respect his skills I would never call him a friend. The one true friend in my life was back from the dead and was in need of my and my associates' services and we were on the way to render it. The Kid, who housed the undying spirit of the Guardian, was a very observant individual at times. He spotted the streaking form of the Lieutenant close behind me in the last tunnel I had exited back in the bowels of the truck stop. I feigned ignorance at his inquisition on the subject, but I doubt he believed me. I could've cared less. When it was time for the posse to be informed of the situation they would be - and not a moment sooner.
The rest of the group had managed to finish off the three armed deaders in the tunnels that led off of the diner's basement, while the Kid (with some well-timed help from Otto) apparently got the one that had been hiding in the huge pile of gear. On closer inspection, the pile wasn't all it had appeared. Sure there was a good amount of trade bait, but none of it was what you'd call practical. Lots of novelty items, hygiene and beauty aids, dishware and the like...but not much in the lines of food, ammo and survival gear. Still, several of the group combed through what was there and loaded it into the Prosti-thing's wagon - we knew the stuff could be traded near Houston. Clem was pressed into service hauling stuff up and down the stairs as a few of us did final sweeps through the tunnels to make sure they were clear. Everywhere we went there was evidence that something bad had happened in the make-shift warrens beneath the truck stop. Why had the folks gone underground? Why the walled off room and pile of swag? Why all the booby traps? What had happened in the garage? What finally got them? The walking dead we ran into seemed to be the reanimated remains of the folks that used to live here, and we found no similar remains of "invaders". Too many questions, with not an answer to be found. Eventually the oppressive, creepy atmosphere got to everyone. The tunnels seemed too quiet and filled with too many shadows. Leaving the rest of the pile behind, we sealed off the basement and tunnels as best we could and got underway once more. The Holy Man even said of few words in that weird lingo he speaks for whatever good it might have done.
We were off to Houston. It was the last place on Earth that was close to being called home and I a mild pang of joy at the thought of going back. As my mind swam with a myriad of possibilities I'd noticed that the VIMH (Voice In My Head) had gone dead silent. I wasn't sure how to take that, but I relished in the internal quiet for as long as it would last.
After three hours of travel we approached the large ruined expanse of the once great city of Houston. Even at this distance we could see the swirling chaos of the maelstrom that lay about the heart of the city. The outer regions of the city were much like those of most any other large metropolis: various burnt out and collapsed buildings, rubble strewn lots and wandering scavies eking what existence they could from the one proud city. A main roadway had been cleared of most of the debris which ran us away, yet parallel to the swirling ghost storms around Houston proper. The struggling infant community of New Houston had been built in the remains of the outer sprawl of Houston nearest to the space center, so I assumed that this is where the road led us. We didn't even get a quarter mile into suburbs when it became clear to me that we were being watched. Every so often a shadowy blur could be from the corner of your eye amongst the wreckage. It didn't take a great leap of logic to determine the source of our unseen watchers and even less of a leap to figure out who in our group garnered so many watchful eyes. Doomsayers were rare, but not unknown in Texas. I estimated at least two Snipers had Fallon in their sights from the moment we entered town. Very prudent considering the overall destructive and mostly unstable nature most Doomsayers inevitably display eventually. Fallon was no different in my opinion. I'd miss him as much as the dozen or so other temps I've traveled with in the past months, which is to say not very much at all.
As we proceeded towards the new city at the edge of the wreckage of the old, we noticed something very strange. There were no vehicles of any type to be seen, neither working nor wrecked. It quickly became clear as to the fate of the absent transportation when we finally approached New Houston. The massive wall around the obviously prosperous community stood at least thirty to forty feet in height and stretched outward in a great circle for hundreds of yards. It was constructed completely out of cars, trucks and whatever other vehicle one could imagine. While it was nothing compared to the immensity of Junkyard, even I had to admit that I was impressed with what had been done since last I laid eyes on the area. The unseen eyes didn't waver from our little band as we approached the massive gates. In fact, I could feel several more observers on us as we entered.
The posse proceeded to waffle with the gate guards on town customs and laws. The Prosti-thing got info on where to set up for business and the remainder of the group got lodging for the week. I had other maters to attend to, so with a silent nod to the gate guard I left the posse to their affairs and quietly attended to mine. After a short while of sight seeing I was approached by the Lieutenant. The details of the mission were then laid out. The Posse, with the aid of the Lieutenant and a small squad of his men were to infiltrate the old Houston space facility and attempt to contact the Junker who resided there. He had been, until recently, friendly with Houston proper. Several months past he had cut off communications with the city government, which corresponded a bit too conveniently with the advent of the memory stealing winds and the bizarre temporal disturbances. In fact, it was estimated that the space center was the "center" of the disturbances. There was also a new twist to the scenario: night-time creatures that had been plaguing the surrounding countryside also corresponded to loss of communications with the aforementioned Junker. They were never seen in the daylight or for that matter near any source of strong light.
With facts of the mission in hand, I shifted the conversation to a more personal level. I found out that a large number of Sykers had indeed come to call Houston home. The oath of unity had become a faded pact and Brigade emblems were warn out of nostalgia, not out of group unity. I will admit to slight feeling of disappointment upon learning of the changes made by my fellow soldiers. Although I, like most Faraway veterans, disdained the upper hierarchy of military authority, I did long for the sense of discipline and unification that a military environment provided. Even that aspect was missing there. After several more moments of conversation I was provided with lodging at the main barracks and traded up the majority of my provisions for two very important things. First there was my constant search for .50 caliber ammo. Finding a weaponsmith that could do the work, I provided as many empty casings as I had managed to save and anted up trade for the rest, for a grand total of forty rounds. Lastly, I was directed to a doctor who could provide me with a remedy for an aliment I'd had for some time: a replacement left arm. Not some damned Cyborg implant either, but a clever device power by strain. A minimal expenditure would get me about five hours of use. I needed to be at 100% for the Lieutenant, which meant I needed to be more or less whole. I'd be under the knife for the remainder of the day, right up until the meeting with the rest of the posse before sundown. As the surgery commenced I could help but feel a growing sense of anticipation at the coming mission. There was something powerful and almost| preordained in the air. I couldn't be more specific than that. Whatever it was to be, it would have to wait until I was done with my alteration.
As agreed earlier, the Lieutenant had one of his men, an oddly garbed Syker named Diablo, approach Otto about the mission. Otto wasn't my favorite choice, but was really the only one. No one would take the Kid seriously and the rest were either to unknown to me or not trusted by the constabulary. The Lieutenant and I, along with two other Sykers called Tremaine and Daymund, waited in the shadows while Diablo conducted the negotiations with the posse. Then we made our presence know. Afterward, the Lieutenant laid out the specifics to the posse (and we calmed the Kid down about a misinformed idea of using a "time machine" to travel to the old west to kill Stone). It was also made crystal clear to Fallon that he had been assigned two shooters that would drop him like a bad habit if he were to endanger the city or the mission in any way. Finding what I'd equate to a baby-sitter to watch of Clem, we made our exit of the large ville in a rather interesting fashion. The meeting took place close to the ville's outer wall; in fact Diablo was sitting on the hood of an old Gremlin that protruded from the base of the wall. With thud of his fist he popped the hood and clambered into the empty engine compartment - a cleverly disguised tunnel entrance. The Lieutenant and the other Sykers followed in kind so the posse and I did as well. As I suspected the entire wall had a series of various tunnels and murder holes through out its entire structure. One could easily get lost within the vast and elaborate labyrinth without the proper guide. After traveling through several makes of ancient automobiles we exited a good distance from the main gate of the ville. A mile of shattered road, buildings and terrain stood between the looming space center and us. That was the good news. The bad news was that the sun had gone down, which meant that we were open to attack from above...which of course is exactly what happened.
The things were slightly smaller than a man, and seemed reptilian in body structure - kinda like pterodactyls the size of a good sized child. Any resemblance to a dinosaur past that was moot however. We weren't even sure if the things were even actually "alive". The bodies were twisted and covered with boney ridges and leathery skin, and the heads were elongated, tapered with viciously curving beaks...with no eyes to speak of. The bat like wings were tipped with nasty claws, as were their sinewy, powerful legs. A barbed tail rounded out the creatures' natural armament, as a flock of them flew at us from the direction of the space center. The first thing we picked up on regarding the winged terrors was that gunfire wasn't very effective. Bright flashing attacks like Fallon's atomic blast and my brain blast were much more effective. At one point the Holy Man unsheathed his sword to assist Otto, who had one of the damned things on his arm. The Holy Man missed the creature with his first attempt and would have cleaved off Otto's arm if he wasn't as well armored and stout as he is (I would have loved it if the stupid bastard had become an amputee; especially after all of the months of bullshit I have endured from him on my previous condition).
We dispatched the critters that we could in a running fight; periods of tense calm were punctuated be screams and intense blasts of energy and gunfire as the things attacked, retreated and attacked again. Finally making the huge parking lot around the space center, we bolted for the main entrance to the facility. Yet another structure apparently devoid of life greeted our eyes as we move inward with caution through the shattered front windows. At center forward of the building's spacious interior was an information kiosk. Escalators behind it branched off upward to both side to a shadowy upper shopping level, while another set led down into stygian darkness. Two sets of walkways branched off on either of the far sides of the complex, both marked as leading off to various terminals. A handy map indicated that both security and the powerplants for the center could be reached by going down. Moving forward slowly, we began a reece of the structure. Diablo headed for the upper galleries, while Tremaine headed off toward the left hand terminals. Daymund remained at our backs, covering the doors. While some of the posse went right, the Lieutenant and I moved forward past the kiosk. As if on cue the silence was shattered by the damned screaming wind. It seemed to come from everywhere, howling like a maddened beast and buffeted us with rubble and trash. This time, again, it didn't come alone. The group scattered in all directions, seeking cover - the fun was just beginning.
1/27 - The scream came over the Lieutenant's communications gear as the dark mass carried on the Banshee wind began to overwhelm us. The winged terrors came at us from all directions as we attempted a short offensive. Two facts put a damper on our conflict: small and medium arms didn't have a great impact and the creatures' sheer numbers. I made my way to the only defensible position available - the information kiosk. I wasn't alone for long. The Papergirl joined me as well as the eviscerated form of Damond. One of the terrors had managed to rip him in two, but being dead already has it's perks. The next arrival was the weird yet marginally useful Rumpledforeskin.Fallon was doing his good deed for day by projecting an aegis spell around the kiosk whilst dispensing Doomsayer justice to the flying horrors. He had left a small opening at the kiosk entrance for more souls to clamber into when circumstance would allow it. The Kid and Otto were trying to hold their own in their own particular fashion: bullets and bravado. The Lieutenant was at the main entrance to the facility and was being pushed back by the sheer number of beasts. Diablo was nowhere to be seen and Tramaine was the next to join our increasingly crowded makeshift bunker. I hadn't a clue as to where the prosti-thing was. Probably trying turn a few tricks with the winged nasties.
During the continued conflict it was brought to my attention (by the dwarf) that a small security camera was active in the kiosk. Being the weird little sod that he was the dwarf gave the lens a big sloppy lick. The power indicator on the device immediately went dead. I could only imagine that the eyes on the other side didn't need to see a close up of the dwarf's tonsils and hit the kill switch. The dwarf Junker went for the camera's innards as I followed the power cables to the floor of the kiosk. The cables lead to a service panel and after an embarrassing waste of strain (note to self - look first, then brainblast) I opened the small door and saw a dark tunnel that lead downward for about two meters. The dwarf did have one indisputable use: he glowed as brightly as Clem and was, at the moment, my only source of light. Without uttering a sound I grabbed the pint sized Junker and dropped him down the hole. The tunnel was the only means of escape available to us and we needed a light source. To Hell with pleasantries - I needed to get to the bottom of things, and being nice wasn't on the list. In fact, I didn't even take the time to let the other kiosk dwellers know what I was doing. Unless they'd all gone blind in the seconds that had passed they would put the pieces together and follow my lead.
The dwarf wasn't a sporting fellow as it turned out and didn't take kindly to being dropped down a shaft. At least, that's what I had thought at first. The passageway was very narrow and only allowed one person of average size to pass at a time. The dwarf latched himself to my back in what I though was an attempt to use me as a shield. What he was really doing was providing me with enough light to see what was ahead while providing any one behind us with a beacon to follow. All seemed to be going well until we spotted movement up ahead in the tunnel. By this time we had several more travelers following behind us, one of which was Fallon as well as the rest of the Sykers that were in the kiosk. There were only two nasties in the tunnel up ahead and were dealt with fast enough.
It was then that I felt an icy hand grip my mind. The voice had apparently grown tired of being a passenger and wanted the drivers seat. Loose in the playground of my powerful mind, it unleashed a Brainblast behind me and struck Fallon. A hollow sounding "sorry" escaped my lips as fought in vain to regain control of my body. Fallon was not impressed. The terrible sound of a Doomsayer powering up was unmistakable. It was also quite insane - after all he was in the tunnel with us as he attempted to his unleash atomic wrath. The voice felt this also as it's dark tendrils dug deeper into my mind and I was propelled forward with unholy speed through the darkness, dumping the miniature Junker in my wake.
Alas for poor Fallon he never did get to finish his spell. Tramaine was one of the guns the Lieutenant had assigned to Fallon back in Houston. Three well -placed shots were all that was needed to end Fallon's path to destruction. He had been warned, and it's always a good idea to heed the warnings of a Syker. It was then that the voice let go of the steering wheel, so to speak and let me drive once again.
Once I attempted to absorb the events of the last few moments, I continued to move forward. The tunnel led to a vent on a first floor shopping area near the ramp for the security level. The first thing that was plain to see was the impaled body of prosti-thing in the center of a long dry fountain; her body hung upon the jutting metal pipes that once spewed water into the air. The voice once again imposed its will on me. Needing to repair some minor wounds anyway, I took my pound of flesh from the one spot I didn't think the prosti-thing would mind; her ass. After my small meal my group spotted the remainder of the posse and Lieutenant Kreed. They had managed to kill a great many of the winged terrors and had driven off the rest by setting fire to the escalators. Even the wind had stopped. Fearing our reprieve would be short lived I re-animated the body of the prosti-thing as well as the lifeless form of Fallon, which the Papergirl had conveniently dragged out of the tunnel simply so those behind him could pass. I didn't think it would hurt to have a couple of distractions in case the festivities weren't at an end yet. Besides, it was a hoot to finally have my own little "unholy host" to push around.
We marshaled our forces and we about to prepare our selves for the final leg of our journey when a voice with an odd accent came over the PA system. The voice directed us to a large steel wall containing a speaker hidden from view. The wall rumbled and ground open to reveal two very large machines with multiple legs and huge gun turrets. The voice instructed us to follow the sentries, and that all our queries would be answered. Considering the shape we were in and the fire power that faced us, it didn't seem we had much choice. The passage was short and we entered a large chamber. The space had probably served as storage at one time, but it had definitely undergone some renovation. It now bore all the trappings of a mad scientist's laboratory, straight out of an old vid. I could only presume this was the lair of the scientist were had come here to contact in the first place. Several people in lab coats scrutinized our strange little band as we were ushered further into the massive lab. A rotund man who appeared to be in late fifties got up from a control consol and casually made his way towards us. He introduced himself to us as Doctor Benoit Quidam. Every time he spoke it sounded as if he had something blocking his sinuses; it was almost unnerving. After a bit of discussion we found that it was indeed the doctor who had inadvertently caused both the Banshee wind and the temporal distortions that had been surrounding countryside. That was all the Kid needed to hear. He insisted that he be sent back in time to confront the legendary Stone. The doctor was puzzled by a few details, most important of which was the fact that a savage looking little child was armed with ancient relics and demanding anything at all. After a few moments of history cortices courtesy of Otto and myself, the doctor still seemed mystified. Not that one could blame him. It was still a hard pill to swallow that the Kid was actually the vessel for the immortal spirit of the Guardian. It was after a demonstration of the nigh infamous Gats on my prosti-zombie as a means of demonstration that the proverbial "shit" hit the fan. Upon hearing the Gats, one of the many lab technicians spun around boring a hole straight in the Kid with his eyes. His enraged voice shouted,
"YOU"!!!
The Kid swung around as well to see the false image of a lab tech fade to reveal the sunken-in features of his eternal antagonist - Stone. The final curtain had been drawn and the last act was under way. The Kid managed to get off the first shots, but was thwarted by the deader as he ghosted into the floor. This didn't stop either of them from continuing to unload at each other. In the chaos, a random stream of rounds from Stone managed to cut my Doom-zombie in two. The bastard was every bit as dangerous as the Guardian had described him. The good news was that we outnumbered him. The bad news was that all the random firepower was striking all sorts of interments and control panels. White sparks and smoke started to erupt from all directions. The disoriented doctor didn't even have time to activate his attack sentries because he was too busy throwing his body over one control panel in particular, which must have been the one for the temporal device. As I was ducking and returning fire I noticed that Otto was dangerously close to a large tank containing one of the doctor's more lethal pets. A monstrous four-armed ape with no facial features save a large, toothy mouth and the container had begun to crack. Only the Kid seemed to show a spark of recognition at the sight of the abomination when it was pointed out to us earlier. Just as I was about to warn Otto of his dilemma the sound of a gurgled scream cut through the din of combat. I turned, knowing what my eyes would see, for you see I'd heard that sound once before - fourteen years past. The sound of the only person I called friend once again dying a horrible death. The stream of bullets walked up the torso of Lieutenant Luther "Hardboiled" Kreed, slamming him into a wall. As he raised his weapon to return fire, several rounds reached his head, bursting it like an over-ripe melon. My former commander had been killed for the second time right before my eyes.
At that moment I felt a something snap within me and every emotion I'd suppressed for nearly two decades exploded in a firestorm of uncontrollable rage. Through the flying shower of sparks, I broke cover and strode into the center of the room. Smoke and gunfire swirled about me as I called the son-of-a bitch out. Predictably, Stone's response was "You're pathetic. You don't stand a chance against me." There was no way in Hell that I was going to stand for it. I was determined to make that undead bastard Reckoner tool know the meaning of the term "Grim Servant of Death".
"SHUT YOUR GODDAMNED MOUTH AND GET YOUR WORTHLESS ASS OUT OF YOUR HIDING HOLE SO I CAN SEND YOU SCREAMING BACK TO HELL YOU BASTARD!"
I must've impressed his "Infernal Badness", because he complied. He smiled and I couldn't wait to wipe it off of his decaying face. But fate, as I've found, is often a cruel mistress. The entire lab seemed to erupt into a rippled white flare and the world itself seemed to be taking itself apart. I screamed, closing my eyes against the glare, firing at random. Suddenly everything went quiet. As I uncovered my eyes I found my self very much alone in a great sea of white nothingness. I was still in the throws of rage and demanded, to no one in particular, Stone's head. I asked my Voice what had happened and was met with silence for a few seconds. When it finally chose to speak there was no tone of arrogant confidence that I had come to expect. Instead, there was fear and uncertainty. It had no idea what had happened. Then it began to scream. As it did I felt as if I were suddenly caught in some sort of ethereal undertow. The faster I seemed to "move" the louder Voice's screams got. With one final bellow of defiance and a weird tearing sensation in the back of my skull, Voice was gone. That's where my pain began. Horrible, never-ending, gut-wrenching pain. First the artificial arm I received in Houston crumbled away like dust only to be replaced with an organic one, sprouting from my shoulder like a flower growing on film shown at high speed. Then my eyes exploded. As the pain washed over me like a tidal wave I could feel the fluid running down my face and reason's pale light was replaced with uncertain slumber. Time stopped. My over-taxed nerves began to calm, the pain receding and the nothingness around me began to be replaced with a haze in which shadows moved. Sounds came and went but I couldn't identify anything specific.
As the haze began to clear I heard a faint voice growing louder in my ear. The voice was disturbingly familiar to me, as was what my newly regrown "eyes" were starting to register. What was more disconcerting than the fact that my eyes seem to have grown back was the strange sensation pounding in my chest. It suddenly dawned on me that it was my heart beating. I had a pulse. Odd thing for a dead man to have, but even more odd was that I found I was actually breathing. My confusion only grew when I realized I was lying prone on a high cliff ledge with my sniper rifle aimed at blurred image. Through my scope a pale smaller blur was positioned near a larger purple blur. My heart began to race as impossible thoughts went through my head. The voice in my ear was much clearer now, more so that my still blurred vision. The voice was indeed too familiar. It was the voice of a dead man twice over and he was giving me an order.
"Shooter take your shot! Take it now"!
Reflexively, I pulled the trigger and hoped for the best. The best wasn't anywhere to be found that day. When the signal came through for retreat and "principle target missed" came over the mike in my ear, I knew I had just failed at an assassination. An assassination I had completed fourteen years ago. On Banshee.