Voodoo - Under Way

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

Back before the Great War, if for some reason you wanted to travel from Washington to Las Vegas without taking a plane or a train, you got in the car and you made for the nearest interstate, and you didn't think twice about it until your kids in the back seat started screaming at you to stop at the next hotel with color TV and a pool. But that was then, and this is now, and following the remains of the interstate blindly out of DC will get you eaten by Deathclaws if you're lucky. The safest routes follow older, smaller roads- where roads still exist at all, since DC was a massive strategic target- and they aren't particularly direct. All the direct ones go to places Voodoo and his people really don't want to be.

Fortunately, a few of the old US highways lead to places that weren't completely pounded flat by the Bomb, and some of the old state roads may have fallen to pieces but still make their presence felt, and if you have a compass and an understanding of just how far magnetic North has moved since your own time and enough patience, you can make good use of that to get to places that just might have more humans than horrors.

Comments

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

"Will do," Al replies. "Beats getting eaten."

(Someone's been having nightmares about Wasteland wildlife lately. Or possibly Wasteland humans. But mostly wildlife.)

[boston_bruiser]

(Eh, it happens to the best of us. Nobody likes post-nuclear wildlife.)

To Aaron: "I'll keep the rest of my people here for now in case the raiders try anything. If these guys are undisciplined as I'm thinkin' they are, the recon ought to be done before sundown. Got anything we can hitch our steer to?"

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

"Sure. Old Post Office ought to do it," says Aaron. "Let's just see about- Duffy, what's got into you?"

The taller man's staring out at the path coming down from Cannon Hill, down to the bridge. He doesn't say anything; he just points.

"Hell's bells," mutters Aaron. "What the hell's got hold of your steer there, Voodoo?"

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

Well, the ruckus over the big green fellow finally got settled without anybody doing any shooting or stabbing, which is good. Fawkes might be tougher than humans, but even a metahuman's got no real liking for pain. The others weren't the source of any particular fuss once the Fawkes matter was handled, so by and large the travelers are settling in at the old VFW.

Al, of course, being the exception. The sooner he and Voodoo get their recon done, the sooner dinner becomes an option.

[boston_bruiser]

As the crow flies, Tunnelton is about five miles from Rowlesburg. The area Aaron marked out is a smidge over three. It's not the easiest terrain to move quickly over, but it could be worse - the Laurel Mountains are only a couple hundred feet off the valley floor, and their slopes are nice and gradual.

Voodoo moves quickly, but silently, rolling his feet with every step to deaden the footfalls. There's an old strip mine pit on the east side of a nearby hill, close to what was once Buckeye Road. It's their first stop, and if they stick to the slopes and don't silhouette themselves, it should be easy enough for the two of them to sneak up on the place.

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

Al's not enjoying this- not that anybody is likely to particularly enjoy stalking potential raiders with the sun going down- but he's not letting that stop him. He's not quite as silent as Voodoo, but he's pretty close. He's also listening very, very carefully for the sound of footfalls in the detritus of rain-damaged mountain undergrowth and half-dead trees.

At one point he pauses, and makes a swift 'wait, what was that?' gesture to try and catch Voodoo's attention.

[boston_bruiser]

Voodoo's head snaps around, trying to locate whatever Al's alerted to. He thinks he hears something, but it's not human. Whatever it is, if it blows their recon, they're going to have a hell of a time - and not in a good way.

He holds out a closed fist, waving Al down before he prones to the deck himself.

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

Al doesn't bother nodding. He just drops as quietly as he possibly can, flattening himself in the direction of the noise.

There's something white-furred, or possibly white-wooled ruffling and snuffling its way across the mountainside. From the look of things, it's around the size of a yao guai. Yao guai don't have big curling horns, though. This does, along with a long and pointed head that might've owed an ancestor or two to the order Ungulata- back before Mother Nature and Asshole Uncles Ionizing Radiation and Industrial Chemistry pushed them into mutating themselves a fine pair of saber-like teeth. What element of ancestral genetics cursed the thing with an opossum-like hairless tail as long as a man's arm is probably best not considered.

[boston_bruiser]

Yeah, Voodoo'll be just dandy if he doesn't have to visualize just what kinds of processes were used to make this particular abomination.

(What the hell would you classify it as, anyway? A sabertoothed...goat-thing? The only way he'd know Latin is if he used Google Translate.)

Slowly, he takes his suppressor out of his rig and screws it on to the muzzle of his carbine, making sure of the fit before he lines up his sights on where he guesses the beast's heart is, finger on the trigger guard - for now.

(He's never gone big-game hunting, and he's pretty sure he's thought this before, but Sergeant-Major Shephard's hillbilly skills would be just dandy right about now.)

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

The wind shifts, bringing a whiff of something sulfurous from the creature's direction. It grunts, snuffling some more among the dead things on the ground, and starts to turn away towards the mountain's upward slope.

[boston_bruiser]

Whoo. At least it's got a stink to match its size. They won't miss it, so long as they keep upwind of it.

Voodoo waits until the thing disappears over the slope, then slowly stands, motioning Al up as he continues on. They've got no time to waste if they want to finish the recon before sundown.

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

Al comes to his feet and brushes himself off. He glances over towards the thing's trail a moment, but says nothing. There's no point in what the hell was that when it's painfully obvious neither of them know.

Maybe later. Time to creep around to that pit mine and have a look.

[boston_bruiser]

It's only a mile or so more until they can get a good view from a reverse slope onto the pit mine. Voodoo can already see a thin whisp of smoke rising from its general direction. He's not getting his hopes up quite yet, but if they're not there, they're close by. They've settled in on a nearby slope soon enough.

"Jackpot."

In the pit mine below them mill about a platoon's worth of people best described as a bunch of undisciplined thugs with guns. There's no order to their madness - some are yakking with their buddies, some are sleeping, some are in the process of getting drunk off what looks to be hooch. Some have made a small fire pit, and one raider is cleaning a fresh batch of scalps by it.

Voodoo takes out his binos, scanning from side to side.

"I count thirty shooters," he whispers, handing the binos off to Al so he can take a look for himself. "Most with Chinese assault rifles, the rest with pistols and blades. No heavy weaponry, nobody standing watch. The ones by the fire look drunk."

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

Al peers through the binocs, grimacing. "At least they haven't got prisoners," he mutters. "Less chance of somebody who doesn't deserve it getting hurt."

[boston_bruiser]

Voodoo nods. "So long as they keep themselves on the low ground, this won't take long."

His eyes flick over the terrain.

"You and Fawkes'll be my base of fire, right here. Josepha'll go with Kate, and Hector'll go with me. We'll circle around the rim and get on their flanks as you fix them. -Aaron might need some extra hands to help clear the tunnel, so if any try to surrender, let them, but don't go out of your way to take 'em alive."

A beat.

"Okay - location, terrain, numbers, setup, armament. That's good enough for recon. Let's head back."

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

"Before that white thing comes around again," Al agrees. You don't forget a sight or a stench like that.

[boston_bruiser]

By the time they get back, get dinner, go over the plan, and move to the hill, the sun has just set over the horizon, and most of the raiders look to be bedding down. A few are staying up to keep watch, but the fire's still going. Voodoo and Hector have found a good position looking down into the pit - there's barely anything in the way of cover on the rim of the pit besides chicken wire and some sheet metal, but the angle the guys in the pit will be shooting up from already puts them at a pretty severe disadvantage.

He keys his headset. "Hector and I are set. How about you guys?"

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

"Found a decent vantage point," Josepha answers. "I've got very good line of sight on our friends down below."

[boston_bruiser]

"Good."

He checks that his carbine's fire selector is set to semiautomatic, then lines up on one of the raiders still awake.

"Okay, Fawkes. Get this party started."

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

"With pleasure."

(By Fawkes' standards, that is a quiet voice.)

(And anyway, once the Gatling laser starts lighting up his side of the pit, there is really not much point in being quiet.)

[boston_bruiser]

It's chaos, at first - the lasers cut through the camp like red scythes from the heavens, and a handful of raiders fall before they can figure out where the fire's coming from. Then Josepha and Kate open up, and that only adds to the confusion as the bodies mount. Some of them are trying to shout orders, but their voices are lost lost over the screams of the wounded and dying.

Voodoo waits a few breaths, and then opens up with his carbine, striking down any mook still stupid enough to have a weapon in their hand. This isn't even close to a fair fight - just the way he likes it.

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

The majority of Capital raiders are borderline to outright psychotic, or chem fiends, or both; with rare exception they barely even seem to realize when they're going down, except to spit vitriol at the person taking them out. This band is, perhaps, not quite so far gone. Voodoo's going after anyone stupid enough to have a weapon in their hand? A few of them- two, three at the outside- aren't even trying to stand up to the onslaught, and are running like hell for the far side of the pit.

In different directions, in the hopes that someone other than them will be the one who gets shot next, but they're running rather than fighting, which... is something.

[boston_bruiser]

Sorry, dudes. Like they say, run and you'll just die tired.

The 5.56 millimeter round has a nasty reputation for creating some nasty-ass wounds due to deceleration-induced yawing inside the body cavity. You could probably get some good testimonials to that effect from the guys trying to rabbit!

(You know. If their lungs weren't exploded.)

This wasn't a close fight to begin with. The gunfire dies down as abruptly as it started.

"I don't see movement. Josepha? Fawkes?"

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

"Nothing on my end," reports Josepha.

"Nothing here," notes Fawkes. "Shall I sweep the area while the rest of you go through their possessions?"

[boston_bruiser]

"Do it. We'll sweep the pit and secure their kit. Might be able to sweet-talk Aaron into a third hog, we show up with guns and ammo for his people."

He gets to his feet, nodding in approval at the scene.

"Thirty raiders dropped and not even a scratch on us. Good job, everyone."