It's eerie, just how still the place is. There's not even wind to whistle through what little brush there is.

Then, from up ahead - voices, drifting along on the warm afternoon air. Voodoo holds up a fist. There's a bend in the road not far off - he takes to a crouchwalk, moving quickly and quietly towards it before slowly peeking around. The road terminates not far after the bend on a modest plateau. The National Parks Service built their firepits well - there are all kinds of unfriendly-looking guys clustered around it, painted just like the ones that attacked the caravan. Most are gathering brush for a fire, and others are milling about, tending to their weapons. They're a motley crew, with most having nothing but a homemade tomahawk or axe to their name, but one has a squirrel gun that looks to be in decent shape, and the head honcho, the meanest-looking of the bunch, is lugging around what looks like an M1A1 Thompson. Like-new, too.

"White Legs," he whispers when he gets back to the group. "Squad or two up at the campsite. Mostly bladed weapons, some small arms."

He nods to Follows-Chalk. "What're you packing?"