Voodoo - Grim Oop North

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

There are worse places in the world than this.

Yes, the room he's in is falling to pieces. Sure, the sky looks like a sullen gradeschooler tipped over the cup she'd been washing her paintbrushes in. Yes, the air smells oddly sharp when the breeze trickles across the leaden river.

But overhead there's a couple of black blots moving and for all that they're probably large birds, they're not circling. And while the road between the building and the river is not so much a road as a mildly contiguous group of asphalt chunks blasted pale by time, it's not stained with the dull rust brown of old blood or punctuated by bullet holes, so there's that. Hell, even the brownish things scurrying in the dry grass and rubble outside at least have the decency to be smaller than a man's fist. That counts for something, right?

... right?

Comments

[boston_bruiser]

"Miss? I get to keep my shootin' arm and you can take 'til the sun burns out."

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

She chuckles quietly. "Oh, you'll be fine. When I do a job I make sure it doesn't need to be done twice, and this is no exception."

[boston_bruiser]

Voodoo grunts once in acknowledgement as she finishes up. One last pull, a quick knot, and it's done. He stands up, holding his arm up to the light, eyes darting over the threadwork. It's good - not perfect, but good enough.

He digs into his vest, taking a frag out and placing it on the table.

"In case of emergency," he says. "Now - that map."

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

"Thank you, young man, that's awfully kind of you," says the woman. "Right this way."

The map in the other room is old, and stained in a couple of places. Here and there, mostly along the lines where it would've been folded up and shoved in a glove compartment once, it has holes. But even by the flickering light of a hurricane lamp it's readable as a map of New York State and a not insignificant part of Pennsylvania; the woman marks out a route with one finger. "Not the most direct passage," she says, "but considering some of the things folks say live in the old wildlands, and just how very few people ever make it across the Long Eighty alive in most spots, well..."

[boston_bruiser]

Voodoo leans in closer, tracing a finger of his own along the route, eyes scanning the map for alternates. There aren't any - at least, none he can see. The interstates would be quick, but they'd silhouette him against the sky on bridges and interchanges.

His attention refocuses back to his current predicament, tracing a path towards Buffalo. He'll skip Grand Island - no point in betting that a bridge'll still be intact.

"Twenty-three miles. I hurry and I can get there before sunrise."

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

"You'd best be extra good at hurrying," says the woman. "The muskwa don't need to see you to find you in the dark."

[boston_bruiser]

Voodoo can't help it if a smirk curls at the corners of his mouth as he drops his night vision goggles over his eyes.

"These ain't just for show, Miss."

He gathers up the rest of his gear, taking his carbine in hand as he turns the doorknob. He pauses, turning to look at her over his shoulder.

"You have a nice night, now."

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

"Look after yourself out there, young man," says the woman. "Somebody ought to."

[boston_bruiser]

He nods, once.

Unbolting the door is easy enough, and he closes it behind him as he steps out onto the darkened wastes. He looks around, sparing a brief glance up at the sky.

(Twenty-three miles. Ain't shit. You used to run twenty.

Used to.)

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

There's patchy clouds here and there, but not enough to conceal all the recognizable constellations- and there's nowhere near the sort of skyglow you'd get with any sort of a proper town close by, so there's just about every star you could care to mention in the parts of the sky that he can see. Humans've done some godawful things in this world, but they haven't taken that away.