Voodoo - Utah

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

It's a long haul across a lot of territory if you're planning on making it through Utah. Longer if you're doing it with the deliberate intent of being as careful as possible. The place is crawling with hostile wildlife, hostile tribals, and just general hostility of every human and other living kind.

Voodoo and his companions are good at surviving hostility by this point. Not everyone is.

Like the shaven-headed fellow with all the tattoos whose neck is bent at an incredibly awkward angle, up to the side of the path ahead.

Comments

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

"Is that so?" One gets the impression that if there were eyebrows left behind those bandages, one of them would be rising now. "You do come from a long way off, then. Otherwise I'd imagine you'd have heard about what the White Legs did to New Canaan, as part of Caesar's price to let them join."

Hector mutters something; the bandaged man's eyes narrow. "Tell your companion there that I don't test people with falsehoods. New Canaan is no more- undoubtedly because of me- and the Legion is waiting on the White Legs to finish their campaign of blood and fire before extending their reach into these valleys."

[boston_bruiser]

Voodoo holds a hand up in what he hopes is still the universal signal for "dudes, chill" before pulling up a nearby chair and sitting opposite the table from Joshua.

"If those White Legs have half their numbers in brains, they'll have bottled up the valley by now. We're good, but we can't leave with the terrain giving them that big an edge. Even if we could, they're Legion proxies, and from what you say, the Legion itself ain't far behind. Figure you know how I feel about those kinda guys."

He leans back in the chair, regarding Joshua for a moment more.

"Looks like that puts us on the same side."

He points a thumb at his chest. "I'm Voodoo. That's Fawkes, Josepha, Al, Hector, and Kate. We ain't much for numbers, but we've got lots of gear and lots of fights under our belts."

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

Graham considers this, although neither his hands nor his attention to the cleaning and stripping of the stack of pistols before him so much as falters. "Even with the White Legs broken, you would still need maps or a guide to find your way out of the area," he says. "The good news is that once that happens, we can help with that. Daniel, one of the other New Canaanites, has made many maps of the region. For good neighbors such as yourselves, he'd share them once the fighting was done and the smoke cleared. It would be wise, though, for us to prepare for an evacuation. In the event something went wrong, we'd need pre-War tools to help us navigate beyond Zion. Whether they came from you or from one of the places here in Zion that the Dead Horses or the Sorrows consider taboo-"

He shrugs.

"Well. So long as they function. A route should be prepared for the people, no matter how experienced or skillful their defenders might be."

[boston_bruiser]

"'Pre-War tools'. We talking compasses, shit like that? 'cause we got those."

To prove his point, he digs into a pouch on his chest rig before producing one, holding it up to the light for Joshua to see.

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

"Compasses, yes." Graham leans forward to peer more closely at the compass. "Not bad. I suppose it would be excessively providential to hope that you might have communications hardware and an emergency medical supply kit to spare? Follows-Chalk would be able to guide you to the most likely places to find substitutes if that's the case."

[boston_bruiser]

"We got headsets and pocket radios," Voodoo says, tapping the mike running along the side of his face. "Blowout kits, too, but nothing we can spare."

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

"Understandable," says Graham. "In that case, I'd like to ask your assistance in securing enough of those supplies from the old facilities to meet our people's needs before any other moves get made. I'm afraid I can only offer you Follows-Chalk's help- the other Dead Horses won't go near the remaining pre-War buildings. The Sorrows believe in a spirit that lives in the caves here, say the spirit punished them once for trespassing. They put marks around the cave entrances and the old buildings to keep people out. It doesn't work on the White Legs, of course, but the Dead Horses are spooked. Follows-Chalk may be inexperienced compared to the rest of them, but he knows enough of our language to ignore the taboos about pre-War buildings."

[boston_bruiser]

Voodoo nods, once, and stands. "Guess we better get to it."

Joshua's bodyguard glares at Voodoo as he passes by on the way to his group.

"It'll be a different ballgame after sundown - we need to move light and fast. Hector, Josepha, you're with me. Fawkes, Al, Kate, you stay here and standby in case the White Legs move on this place. Help Joshua if he asks, but otherwise, just sit tight and wait for word. Hooyah?"

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

"Can do," rumbles Fawkes, and the humans nod along with him. "Good hunting, Voodoo."

There's a patter of feet as Follows-Chalk trots up to the group. "I just got told I'm gonna go with you," he says. "What are we looking for today?"

[boston_bruiser]

"Comm gear and medical kits," Voodoo says, changing out his carbine's magazine for a fully-loaded one from his vest. "Joshua says you know where to find that stuff in the valley. He right?"

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

The young tribal purses his lips for a moment, then nods. "North and west of here," he says. "I saw an old building once, with the hand mark on it that keeps the Sorrows out. There's things in there that look like what you want. Gotta be careful getting there, though."

[boston_bruiser]

"Oh yeah?"

Keeping the muzzle pointed at the cave floor, Voodoo pulls the bolt halfway - indeed, a round is chambered and ready.

"Careful why? White Legs, wildlife...?"

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

"Things that live there, mostly," says Follows-Chalk. "Bigger geckos. Sometimes yao guai. Sometimes green things you don't ever get to see too well before they drag somebody off and you never see them again."

[boston_bruiser]

Such is postnuclear armageddon life, huh?

"We'll keep an eye out. You know the way, so you're on point."

Beat.

"You know - taking the lead."

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

"Okey-doke," says Follows-Chalk brightly, in that faintly stiff manner you only really get from someone who's just sure they're using somebody else's words properly. "Let's get moving."

As they head out he notes quietly, "Lots of Back When places to choose from just in case, but for the things we need, best to start with the really closed up places. Three I know of: a building down by the river called a "Fishing Lodge," the old ranger station in the northwest, and the general store right by it. Probably the general store's the best one."

[boston_bruiser]

A few quick hand signals from Voodoo, and the group forms a wedge as they head back out into the canyon.

"You know this valley, we don't. General store it is."

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

The route Follows-Chalk takes used to be a winding trail for hikers; there are reflective circles hammered into the trees every so often, where there isn't a visible beaten path underfoot. Now and again Chalk stops the group to let something pass. Herbivores, usually, at least if the enormous sheep-like things he calls bighorners haven't taken up eating meat in the years since the War. Arachnids at times, too- "Watch out for those little brown scorpions," he mutters as something the size of a middle school child scuttles by. "They won't kill you, but you'll be seeing funny for hours after, and you'll be hurting for days."

Josepha wrinkles her nose. "Is there a treatment for that?"

"Oh, sure, but I only got enough for one person," says Chalk. "The shaman's got more if we need to take you back."

"Great."

The path continues, winding upwards over a hill to rejoin the cracked remains of a road wide enough for cars. A battered sign to one side reads CAM GR UND.

[boston_bruiser]

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?"

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

Silently, Follows-Chalk indicates the war club at his hip, then draws a pistol of a design that should look familiar- Joshua Graham was working with a whole stack of them. Chalk's looks as if it's in better shape than most, though. And from the sound of things he's carrying plenty of ammo for it.

[boston_bruiser]

It's no rifle, but it'll have to do.

"No room for subtlety here. Hector, you're with me up the middle. Josepha, take Follows-Chalk around the right. Move fast, move with purpose. Center of mass, shoot 'til they drop. Let's go."

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

Hector makes a satisfied face and readies his shotgun. There's no point getting into this if you're not going to go big, after all. Josepha and Chalk creep towards the right, weapons at the ready.

[boston_bruiser]

They approach the bend slowly, weapons at low-ready, without so much as a peep. Voodoo unhooks a flashbang from his chest rig, pulls the pin, and lets fly a line drive that smacks one of the White Legs right in the chest before it detonates.

The four of them move quickly through the camp - Voodoo can't see what Josepha and Follows-Chalk are doing from where he is, but they must be doing something right from all the yelling and screaming. One White Leg with a tomahawk takes two to the chest and one to the head, and one tries to give a haymaker of a swing with his axe only for Voodoo to deflect the blow, break his arm, and pull out his pistol to put three in his chest.

Then it gets quiet - but not the "job's done" kind of quiet, the kind of quiet you get when your enemy's hiding, regrouping. He transitions back to his carbine, speedwalking as he sweeps the campsite.

"ANY OF YOU FUCKIN' COCKSUCKERS STILL ALIVE BETTER COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP. ONLY WARNING I'LL GIVE."

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

Good news, some of the White Legs speak English.

Bad news, that really should've been 'spoke'; the ones who could've translated what Voodoo just said have all been shot. Maybe there's a wounded one who could be questioned, but the ones who're in hiding aren't coming out for an owslandr who's just cut through the camp like a yao guai looking for her cub.

This might get a bit messy.

[boston_bruiser]

And the Pope might be a bit Catholic.

Voodoo keeps his pace up as he gets Hector's attention and points at a squat hut near one end of the campsite. It's one of those old campground bathrooms - the ones a step up from a portashitter, but still missing some trappings of civilization. Those White Legs are keeping awfully quiet - and he doesn't think it's because they've been spooked off.

You know all those movies where our hero stands in front of a door as they dramatically kick the lock in? Makes for good cinematography. Also makes for short life expectancy. First, it puts you off balance. Second, there's a reason they call doorways "the fatal funnel". Guys who know what they're doing stand with their back to the wall and give that lock a nice mule kick instead.

The door never had a chance - the lock's a century past its prime, and Voodoo moves in quickly, carbine up as he sweeps each of the stalls.

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

Stall one, empty.

Stall two, empty. Although there's a Vault-Tec Li'l Scout lunchbox in the toilet for some reason.

Stall three, one slumped-over White Leg and one alive and irritated scorpion the size of a seven-year-old child.

(There'll be another White Leg, more lively this time, in stall four. But, y'know. Scorpion.)