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]

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.)

[boston_bruiser]

There's going to be four very loud gunshots in the space of about a second, and one very dead scorpion. If Voodoo didn't already have tinnitus, he'd be well on his way to getting it.

He points to the slumped-over tribal. "Check for a pulse," he tells Hector. "I'll cover."

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

Hector nods and drops forward to get two fingers on the tribal's neck. A moment later there's two shots echoing off the walls, another dead White Leg suddenly slumping all over the floor of stall four, and Follows-Chalk with a smoking .45 in his hand. "What?" he says. "The man was trying to climb over the wall."

[boston_bruiser]

So he was. Voodoo leans down to check - yeah, that dude's not getting up anytime soon.

"Good shit," he says, straightening back up. "How many did you and Josepha get?"

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

"Three, I think," says Follows-Chalk. "Unless I didn't see somebody?"

"No, three's right."

"Okey-dokey, then. Three."

[boston_bruiser]

"Not all of them, but they ain't the mission."

To Hector:

"Leave him. If he ain't dead, scorpion's put him in the hurt locker for a good long time. A dumb grunt like him'll be more trouble questioning than he's worth like this."

Then, to Follows-Chalk:

"Back on the trail. Get us to that general store."

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

Chalk nods, but pauses to rummage through the dead man's belt pouches. Once he's grabbed what was left of the White Leg's ammo he steps over something disgusting on the floor and heads out. "Not far from here," he says. "Feels good to be doing some actual scouting, not just following the others' marks."

[boston_bruiser]

"Careful what you wish for," Voodoo says, reloading. "Too easy to bite off more than you can chew with this gig. You've seen it."

Indeed, it's not far from here - it was probably once respectably rustic, but now, nestled amongst the red rocks, it's falling apart like everything else. GENERAL STORE is stenciled on the face above the awning, and some rusted car hulks and picnic tables decorate what was once a modest four-space parking lot.

"No movement I can see. We'd better get that gear and get lost before more White Legs come running."

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

It was a well-stocked store once. Inside there are cupboards, albeit with their doors hanging off, and shelves with toolboxes and basic camping equipment, and lunchboxes and duct tape and half a dozen other things looking as good as anything can in a not-very-well-sealed building two hundred years after the Use By date. The soundest-looking cabinet is against the back wall, and contains several packages clearly marked with green or red cross emblems. "That looks right," Chalk says. "I've seen those marks plenty of Back When places. That means medicine, right?"

[boston_bruiser]

"That it does."

It's locked - and surprisingly, the glass is still intact. The butt of Voodoo's carbine fixes that. He grabs the one nearest him and opens it up - there's nothing missing he can see.

"Everyone take two, then we're out of here."

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

"Fine by me," mutters Hector. "I keep seeing something green moving when I look outside."

"Gecko, probably," says Follows-Chalk; he's busy rigging up a sling to make carrying his share easier.

"Thing's the size of a young yao guai, son."

"Really big gecko, then," says Chalk, unperturbed. "There's a couple of those around. Sometimes they eat baby bighorners."

"Well, you can just rock me to sleep tonight."

[boston_bruiser]

"Won't bother us if we don't bother it. Probably."

A quick glance up into the sky. It's certainly not as early as he'd like. With how big Zion is, that's a problem.

"C'mon, we're burning daylight. Let's-go-let's-go-let's-go."