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]

Haha. Haha. Yeah, keep telling yourself that, narration.

(Though there is a point to be made that things, indeed, could be worse.)

First things first. Get out of the motel and into cover. A burnt-out van suffices nicely, and he drops to one knee, carbine up, ears prickled.

This is beyond fucked - but now's not the time for panicking or soul-searching.

One hand comes off his weapon to key his radio.

"This is SO1 Colson, United States Navy. Anyone on this frequency, respond and identify."

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

There is a static that stands in for silence, and it goes on for quite some time.

But then there's a faint shift in the crackling grey noise, and then:

"Message incompletely received. Please repeat."

[boston_bruiser]

Oh for fuck's sake.

"Goddamn piece'a shit radio-"

He keys up again.

"This is SO1 Colson, United States Navy. Responding party, identify."

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

"You have got to be fucking kidding me," mutters the voice. Then, a little louder, "American sailor, this is the Canadian Border Patrol. Care to report your current position?"

[boston_bruiser]

A dry chuckle. "Would if I could, pal. Ain't got so much as a map."

He glances around. The landscape is still - in the distance is a long bridge and the towering remains of what, at first glance, looks to be the ruins of a department store. A closer look reveals a sign hanging off it, like a badly extracted molar.

"Opposite me is a river and a fortified wooded area. To my south is an arch bridge and a yellow brick building. Sign on building reads 'aviary'. How copy, over?"

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

"Bird Kingdom. About two clicks short of our current position," says the voice. In a faintly amused tone the speaker adds, "We can come and meet you if you don't mind the wait."

[boston_bruiser]

"I got nothin' but time, pal. Advise when you're close."

He takes his hand off his radio, returning his attention to the world around him. In the distance, from the direction of Bird Kingdom, comes vaguely parrotlike screeches. Around him, in the wreckage, comes the clatter of smaller animals scrambling about.

This- this is gonna be one hell of a thing to explain.

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

Don't look now, Voodoo, but you're being watched by tiny little beady eyes among the tumbledown bits of rock.

One of the creatures scuttles out from under a fallen brick to get a better look.

[boston_bruiser]

"-the fuck's up with you?"

No, seriously. The fuck.

(Mice-sized moose. Definitely not his world. Probably one of...shit, thousands of others.)

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

The moose does not seem inclined to answer. It flicks an ear at Voodoo and galumphs off, at least as well as any fist-sized creature can galumph.

Something splashes in the river, but something always splashes in the river.

Then the radio chitters. "You still there, Yank?"

[boston_bruiser]

"'firmative. What's up?"

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

"We're within sight of Bird Kingdom. Come on out to River Road, we can't wait to see you."

[boston_bruiser]

Please, Mr. Border Patrol Dude, could you say that any creepier?

"Copy, I'll be right out."

Fuck. Just what the hell has he gotten himself into?

There are some more burnt-out truck carcasses along the road, along with some crumbling concrete trash cans. He stays low and moves slow, listening for footsteps and voices and watching for anything human as he goes from cover to cover.

These guys ain't shit. Probably.

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

There are five of them, once Voodoo gets a look up the street to the west. They're wearing bulky but recognizable body armor, mottled green-grey, and carrying larger weaponry than one normally associates with Canadians who aren't deployed somewhere with NATO. And they're making a point of moving slowly, sweeping the area as they go.

[boston_bruiser]

Gee, those guys look friendly, let's go introduce ourselves.

-said nobody, ever.

Slowly, he reaches back to turn his radio off. It only feeds into his headset, but there's no use taking a risk.

He flips the fire selector on his carbine to semiautomatic and starts crawling, careful not to make a sound.

"A sailor," one of them says, chuckling. "That's gotta be a first. I call dibs on his gun."

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

"Must be delusional. None of them have their act together enough to field anything they could call a navy," says the leader. "It's probably a couple of guys who got one of the old Falls ferries patched up and running."

"Good at hiding, whoever he is," comments the big fellow at the rear of the group.

[boston_bruiser]

Another chuckle. "Hey, Yank! Don't be shy! C'mon, we just wanna hug!"

Five on one. That's stretching it, even for him.

No shame in fighting dirty.

He rests one hand on a flashbang, pulling it off his webbing. Pull the pin, chuck it into the middle of their cute little formation, and-

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

POP!

There's a lot of "Shit!" and "Tabarnak!" from the guys rolling on the ground pawing at their helmets. 'Course, that's four of them. Guy number five, the big fella in the back, dove hard for the nearest available truck as soon as something moved.

[boston_bruiser]

They don't get the chance to join him. Voodoo pivots out, puts the carbine's stock to his shoulder, and starts plinking away. With every suppressed chirp, one of their number falls until the big guy's the last one standing.

"DROP YOUR WEAPON! DROP YOUR WEAPON NOW!"

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

"You’re gonna getta trimm’in, Yank!" shouts the big guy.

Throwing is kind of like dropping, right?

[boston_bruiser]

"Goddammit-"

Ohhhhhh but how Voodoo hates your guts right now, you dirty Canadian.

He sprints to the next truck over and dives for cover, but not quickly enough - the frag blows, tearing his pack up something fierce. A chunk of shrapnel scrapes the side of his neck, dribbling blood down onto his collarbone.

Really, all it does it piss him off.

Voodoo keeps sprinting alongside the truck, catching the big dude from his blind side. He slams the dude's face into the grille of the truck, kicking his weapon out of his grip before wrenching his hands behind his back. Voodoo puts a knee on the back of his neck and presses as he digs around his vest for restraints.

"An' here I was-" (gee, those flexicuffs are tight, aren't they?) "-thinkin' you Canucks were polite. The fuck's the big idea? Huh? Not enough maple syrup in your coffee this morning? Beaver gnaw your nuts off?"

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

"You can forget ’bout dat, ol’ man," says the man through clenched teeth. "You fuckin' jinkers got one over on us the once. Never again, b'y."

At least, that's what it sounds like. The man's got an accent on him that sounds like it got thrown out of Ireland for scaring the other dialects.

[boston_bruiser]

"-you know, this whole 'talking' thing works better if you take the dick outta your mouth first."

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

"Lord thunderin’ Jesus, b’y!" He'd spit if he had room to do it without backscatter. "You're stunned as me arse, Yank. Won't make it farther than this, let me tell you."

[boston_bruiser]

"Yeah? Neither are you, if I ain't feelin' it."

He draws his pistol, pressing the muzzle to the back of the dude's head.

"Now - some questions. What's the date, who was the first man on the moon, and where're the rest of you assholes stationed?"