Post by The Lost Traveler on Aug 19, 2014 15:46:12 GMT -5
Four months after First Contact.
After years out in the Wastes, Jimbo had learned one crucial truth.
The Wasteland wasn’t dead.
That is not to say that it was alive either. The blasted craters of long bygone eras, the withered trees singed black, the tepid waters once crystalline but now were a murky green, all of it indicated that the world, the old world, was truly gone and dead.
But, at the same time, there was life to be found in the Wastes. Flora that crept through the arid and dry packed ground of the Wastes, mutated beasts of all sizes and shapes, and, of course, the humans. The humans. The humans that clung to life stubbornly even after the end of the world.
The humans that still caused death.
Jimbo was already awake at the crack of dawn. The sheet metal that covered his shack on the outskirts of the Port had enough cracks in them that the polluted light of the sun could trickle in when morning came. He reached down and powered off his heater. Out in the Wastes, the dead of night became frigid cold. If he didn’t have a heater under his mattress and was not wrapped up in a layer or two of blankets his old body would have frozen to death by now.
He reached for his hunting rifle, he had to go out to prepare some breakfast, when a knock sounded on his door.
“Jimbo! Open up! I gotta talk to ya!”
Buddy.
Even if the man couldn't tell Buddy apart from his voice, only the merc would be able to navigate around the mines that hide among the rubble of the old ruins to find his shack buried below. Jimbo headed to the door, disarmed the tripwire rigged to his sawed off shotgun, and then open the door a crack – then trust it open wide. “So it is you, Buddy.” Can never be too careful.
The man towered over the Jimbo, who even had a bit of a stooped back in his old age. Buddy wore threadbare metal armor – and it, plus his height, made for an imposing image. He stomped into the room, his metal boots clanging against the metal floor of the shack. Pausing only a moment to look down at the untied string of the tripwire. “You really do need to be reconsider bobbytrapping the front door. Isdan’s ass is still smarting.”
“It’s the idiot’s fault that he tripped it when he left. I warned him that it was there.”
“But you still didn’t disarm it.”
“I do that now.”
“That you do.”
The small smirk on Jimbo’s face from the banter withered and died, “Why are you here, Buddy?” Buddy and his Boys were the guards for the Scav’s territory. Big, coated in metal and wielding heavy weaponry – they were more than enough to deter any gang from charging at the airport – that and the minefield in front of them, of course. Still, if he’s here, at the shack, instead of guarding the doors than something must have come up.
"A Scav raiding party, Ginger’s, is heading out soon.”
“So?” But even as he said it, Jimbo felt a creeping unease. He knew.
“They want you to join.”
He closed his eyes, felt the wrinkles around them, the aches that had seeped into his bones over the years, the tinge of laughter and singing that resounded in his skull – no matter how soft the whisper was through the nullifier. He forced the words pass his lips, “They’re going pass Vault 66.”
“Yep. To the northeast, a farming village just south of Sag Harbor.”
“I thought the Guards knew better than to settle so close to the Port. Anyway, is this an order from Big Tony?”
“It is.”
“…I’ll pack up.”
……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..
Ginger had vivid red hair which was shaved to a buzz cut on the sides of her head and jutted out in the middle. Yeah, the Raiders of the Port weren’t getting points for originality here. But still, Jimbo considered, she was a good choice to lead the raiding party. The rumors about her varied, from her having a harem of BDSM slaves to her joining up with the Inquisitors for their torture sessions for the sole purpose of mutilating dicks, but there was no denying the truth that she had one hell of a sadistic streak. Her modus operandi was to leave no survivors.
Which, in turn, meant no loose ends. So Big Tony put up with her.
Outside of Ginger, there were ten people there in all. Ginger and Buddy, who would be acting as a coleaders for the operation, each had a squad of five raiders. Buddy brought along a couple of his Boys, one of which was Isdan who glaring a hole in the back of Jimbo’s head (the guy could hold a grudge) to fill out his ranks, and Ginger had gathered up a handful of Scavs as well.
Their destination was a farming settlement called Derringer, named after a wastelander family that helped found the community, not that many people remembered that anymore. Their target was a shipment of armor, both leather and metal, that was being delivered to Izzy’s Items, the town’s general store. The goal was not to torch the settlement to the ground (despite what Ginger may want) but to ambush the caravan delivering the goods to the settlement then cart the goods back to the Port.
While leaving no survivors behind.
The whole mission should take a week. Half a week to get there, a handful of tense minutes for the gunfight, and the other half of the week to carry the cargo back.
Jimbo added a few extra days to the calculations. After all, things never go that smoothly.
So when they did reach their ambush point, one of the many craggy hills just south of the settlement, overlooking a windy path into Derringer itself, the whole party ground to a halt.
For from their vantage point they could make out the form of the settlement a few miles away, a mixed clump of scrap metal and wooden buildings, along with a mirroring wall, dug into a ditch, which circled the settlement. From this height they could just make out the flickering fire, the soft echo of distant shrieks, and forms that coursed through the shadows of the flames, downing other figures, human figures, to the ground in limp piles.
Jimbo saw it all, and he could only say one thing.
“Damn.”
After years out in the Wastes, Jimbo had learned one crucial truth.
The Wasteland wasn’t dead.
That is not to say that it was alive either. The blasted craters of long bygone eras, the withered trees singed black, the tepid waters once crystalline but now were a murky green, all of it indicated that the world, the old world, was truly gone and dead.
But, at the same time, there was life to be found in the Wastes. Flora that crept through the arid and dry packed ground of the Wastes, mutated beasts of all sizes and shapes, and, of course, the humans. The humans. The humans that clung to life stubbornly even after the end of the world.
The humans that still caused death.
Jimbo was already awake at the crack of dawn. The sheet metal that covered his shack on the outskirts of the Port had enough cracks in them that the polluted light of the sun could trickle in when morning came. He reached down and powered off his heater. Out in the Wastes, the dead of night became frigid cold. If he didn’t have a heater under his mattress and was not wrapped up in a layer or two of blankets his old body would have frozen to death by now.
He reached for his hunting rifle, he had to go out to prepare some breakfast, when a knock sounded on his door.
“Jimbo! Open up! I gotta talk to ya!”
Buddy.
Even if the man couldn't tell Buddy apart from his voice, only the merc would be able to navigate around the mines that hide among the rubble of the old ruins to find his shack buried below. Jimbo headed to the door, disarmed the tripwire rigged to his sawed off shotgun, and then open the door a crack – then trust it open wide. “So it is you, Buddy.” Can never be too careful.
The man towered over the Jimbo, who even had a bit of a stooped back in his old age. Buddy wore threadbare metal armor – and it, plus his height, made for an imposing image. He stomped into the room, his metal boots clanging against the metal floor of the shack. Pausing only a moment to look down at the untied string of the tripwire. “You really do need to be reconsider bobbytrapping the front door. Isdan’s ass is still smarting.”
“It’s the idiot’s fault that he tripped it when he left. I warned him that it was there.”
“But you still didn’t disarm it.”
“I do that now.”
“That you do.”
The small smirk on Jimbo’s face from the banter withered and died, “Why are you here, Buddy?” Buddy and his Boys were the guards for the Scav’s territory. Big, coated in metal and wielding heavy weaponry – they were more than enough to deter any gang from charging at the airport – that and the minefield in front of them, of course. Still, if he’s here, at the shack, instead of guarding the doors than something must have come up.
"A Scav raiding party, Ginger’s, is heading out soon.”
“So?” But even as he said it, Jimbo felt a creeping unease. He knew.
“They want you to join.”
He closed his eyes, felt the wrinkles around them, the aches that had seeped into his bones over the years, the tinge of laughter and singing that resounded in his skull – no matter how soft the whisper was through the nullifier. He forced the words pass his lips, “They’re going pass Vault 66.”
“Yep. To the northeast, a farming village just south of Sag Harbor.”
“I thought the Guards knew better than to settle so close to the Port. Anyway, is this an order from Big Tony?”
“It is.”
“…I’ll pack up.”
……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..
Ginger had vivid red hair which was shaved to a buzz cut on the sides of her head and jutted out in the middle. Yeah, the Raiders of the Port weren’t getting points for originality here. But still, Jimbo considered, she was a good choice to lead the raiding party. The rumors about her varied, from her having a harem of BDSM slaves to her joining up with the Inquisitors for their torture sessions for the sole purpose of mutilating dicks, but there was no denying the truth that she had one hell of a sadistic streak. Her modus operandi was to leave no survivors.
Which, in turn, meant no loose ends. So Big Tony put up with her.
Outside of Ginger, there were ten people there in all. Ginger and Buddy, who would be acting as a coleaders for the operation, each had a squad of five raiders. Buddy brought along a couple of his Boys, one of which was Isdan who glaring a hole in the back of Jimbo’s head (the guy could hold a grudge) to fill out his ranks, and Ginger had gathered up a handful of Scavs as well.
Their destination was a farming settlement called Derringer, named after a wastelander family that helped found the community, not that many people remembered that anymore. Their target was a shipment of armor, both leather and metal, that was being delivered to Izzy’s Items, the town’s general store. The goal was not to torch the settlement to the ground (despite what Ginger may want) but to ambush the caravan delivering the goods to the settlement then cart the goods back to the Port.
While leaving no survivors behind.
The whole mission should take a week. Half a week to get there, a handful of tense minutes for the gunfight, and the other half of the week to carry the cargo back.
Jimbo added a few extra days to the calculations. After all, things never go that smoothly.
So when they did reach their ambush point, one of the many craggy hills just south of the settlement, overlooking a windy path into Derringer itself, the whole party ground to a halt.
For from their vantage point they could make out the form of the settlement a few miles away, a mixed clump of scrap metal and wooden buildings, along with a mirroring wall, dug into a ditch, which circled the settlement. From this height they could just make out the flickering fire, the soft echo of distant shrieks, and forms that coursed through the shadows of the flames, downing other figures, human figures, to the ground in limp piles.
Jimbo saw it all, and he could only say one thing.
“Damn.”
