Voodoo - Salamank

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

There used to be forests hereabouts, and farm country to some degree, but that was a long damn time ago. These days whatever grows expends a great deal of effort to do so and looks as unappealing as possible in an attempt to avoid being eaten. As for the farming, well... Voodoo may at some point catch sight of a few creatures in the distance that look familiar. There were critters like that down in Point Lookout. Not a whole lot of vegetable farming to be seen, though, not around here.

Maybe it's that it's October.

Maybe not.

Either way, this is a place where you have to work damned hard to get anything out of the land at all, and not everybody necessarily appreciates that. Some people would rather just take what other people raise up. There's always somebody like that.

It's been a mighty quiet journey south towards Salamank. That wisp of smoke up ahead in the distance has a nasty, heavy, greasy look to it that doesn't exactly promise more quiet.

Comments

[boston_bruiser]

"I said-"

He lets his carbine hang by its sling as he grabs the raider's arms, wrenching them behind her back as he delivers a solid kick to the back of her knees, staggering her.

"-get on your fucking knees-"

He drives her to the ground, keeping her upper body pinned with his torso as he pins her legs with his shin.

"-and put your hands on your fucking head."

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

"Fuck-"

She grimaces, but just barely manages to pull her arms upward.

"Least I get to leave a good looking corpse," she mutters.

[boston_bruiser]

"Yeah, you wish."

He stands up, giving her a brief patdown. It doesn't reveal much - some chems, an empty stripper clip or two, what looks to be a pre-War penny. All of it gets tossed to the four winds behind her.

He stands up, glancing over at the young girl with the rifle. He shakes his head at her.

"Get up," he says to the raider. "Armor off. You'll be givin' it to these people."

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

The raider opens her mouth to object, looks at the guns trained on her, sighs, and wobbles to her feet. As she nearly falls over she notes, "Like they'll even put this stuff on. I know their type. They're too soft."

The older woman's expression doesn't change, but she makes a gesture that's enough to cause the raider to blanch.

[boston_bruiser]

"Funny, I don't remember askin' your opinion."

He keeps his carbine trained on her as she takes it off, throwing it at the prisoners' feet.

He looks to the old woman. "Where's home for you guys?"

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

"Salamank," says the woman. "We were on our way back from New Albion with-" She jerks her head towards the spitted, still-roasting pig. "-new breeding stock. These people took out our guards before they knew what hit us."

[boston_bruiser]

There was a "Salamanca" on the map Tupelo gave him. Nearby, if he remembers right. Could be the place.

He gathers up the rest of the weapons, field-stripping them and tossing the parts deep into the underbrush before pocketing the ammunition. "Okay, I'll give you an escort back. You," he says, pointing to the raider, now stripped down to her skivvies, "are goin' the other fuckin' way. Ta-ta, bye-bye, see you never, yeah?"

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

"... yeah, okay," says the world's most startled raider. "Let's go with that."

And she staggers off into the distance, although the young woman looks as if she really, really wishes she knew anything about how to work the rifle she's currently holding.

[boston_bruiser]

Voodoo sees that look. Oh, he sees it.

"Don't waste a bullet t'do what the wildlife'll do for free."

He pats Thomas on the back. "You good, old man?"

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

"Wuh-" Thomas jumps involuntarily. There's an abashed look on his face as he pulls himself back together. "Yes. I- I'm fine. I'm sorry, I- I'm fine."

"It's all right, Thomas," says the woman gently. "Go and see if you can carve off any of that pork. If we can't breed the poor thing we might as well at least bring the meat back with us, and get something out of the deal for our troubles- do you like pork, Mr.....?"

[boston_bruiser]

"Ain't no 'Mister'."

He watches the raider limp off into the distance.

"People call me Voodoo. -and sometimes, if it ain't cooked 'til it's dry."

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

"Well, this boar's not nearly that badly done yet, and I figure we owe you for saving us from those people," says the woman briskly. "We'll make sure to set aside a couple of pounds for you."

[boston_bruiser]

"'preciate it."

-man, how long has it been since he's had proper meat like that? Too damn long. Surviving on Blamco and beans and whatever else he can scrounge does a number on a guy.

"Let's try and hurry it up gettin' outta here. We're exposed on this road." He nods to the spitroast. "You need a hand with the boar?"

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

"Wouldn't object," says Thomas, who's doing his best against the bulk of a pig that outweighed him and his wife put together. "I normally leave the butchering to the younger folks, I"m afraid."

[boston_bruiser]

Voodoo walks over, effortlessly slinging the boar across his shoulders as he glances around, checking their surroundings.

"Okay, time's up. Scavengers'll find these guys soon enough, and we don't wanna be here when they do. You-" He points to the young woman with the assault rifle. "-you're on point. You two-" He points to the older couple. "-are in the middle. I'll bring up the rear. Let's move like we mean it."

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

The girl nods. So do the older two. "It's not far," says the woman. "Just be aware that they've got guards on the city perimeter. They don't much like surprises coming from the road in Salamank."

[boston_bruiser]

"Why do you think I'm in back?"

A beat, as he realizes that might be the kind of rhetorical question that needs an answer.

"'cause you guys look friendlier. 'sides, it's not like they'll stay mad once they see this fuckin' thing." He pats the boar.

"Now let's move. Don't bunch up."

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

"I suppose that's true," says the woman. "Let's pick up the pace, then. No need to keep the guards waiting, or make you carry that thing any longer than needful."

[boston_bruiser]

The woman is right - it's not far to Salamank. Probably a mile, at most.

That's when they hear the racking of rifle bolts.

"Halt! Who goes there?"

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

"Penelope, Antoinette, and Thomas Jimerson," says the older woman, "and this gentleman with the pork roast is called Voodoo."

There's a skeptical silence for a few moments before the guard says, "I thought you three were buying breeding stock."

"We were," says Penelope. "Unfortunately, we were set upon on the way back. We owe this gentleman our freedom, possibly more."

[boston_bruiser]

Voodoo grunts, adjusting the boar on his shoulder.

"Let us in and we can give you the full debrief."

A beat.

"Sooner's better."

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

"... yeah, okay," says the guard. There is a sound of guns being lowered and put away. "Get that gate open, Will."

[boston_bruiser]

Will complies, and the gate creaks open.

"Thanks."

He nods for the three in front to go first.

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

The gates are not as big and heavy as the gates of Megaton; they're more the sort of thing that you'd expect to find at a community airport, chicken wire and pipes and deceptively heavy and sturdy for their appearance. Will has to round up two other guards to start pushing them open and hold them apart long enough for the Jimersons to get through, and they've already started easing it back into place by the time Voodoo steps across.

The road here isn't paved, not the way the old road outside is, all scabrous chunks of faded asphalt. Here they seem to have pulled up the failing pavement years ago and replaced it all with gravel and pebbles- dusty, sure, but maintainable, and easier on the legs than constant slipping on broken concrete. To one side of the road, a white-on-green sign reads:

C TY OF
SALAMANC

ENTERING
SENECA NATION
TERRITORY

Someone apparently found it less effort to draw a line of white paint down the back of the C than it would have been to fill the terminal A back in. It just wouldn't be a post-atomic world without some kind of pointless linguistic corruption, would it.

[boston_bruiser]

It'd be missing an element of nessecary grunge, for sure.

Around them are some reasonably camouflaged watchtowers - some are built into telephone poles, others into trees. Small houses line the road, the kind that would have something growing in the backyard with better soil and climate. It's warmer than he'd expect for October in New York - the bombs are to blame, probably.

He keeps mum, watching the road ahead of him.