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Mar. 20th, 2007 02:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ursangnomeMy Lady and I are soon to be involved in a live action RPG campaign - "Threads of Damocles". The basic concept is that an experiment at Penn State in 2012 shatters what we think of as the spacetime continuum into a number of "shards" or "threads". Each shard seems to roughly correspond to some portion of the Earth, but with an alternate history and genre. So, Silicon Valley's gone cybertech, Manhattan has ended up steampunk, and so on. Up until game start, the world has only been loosely connected by unreliable gates between the shards.
The campaign allows a player to write his or her own character, but it has been in development for a long time. To help keep folks interested (and to generate some personal histories and such), players are encouraged to write character stories. I resisted doing so for quite a while, because I'm not so much interested in playing the game before we actually play the game. Doubly so before character abilities were generated.
However, there's much to be said for having a story to introduce yourself to the other players, and to engage in a bit of that history-building, and so on. So, my compatriots and I got our act together and wrote a story. While it also sits in the e-mail logs and wiki for the campaign, I'd like to keep this someplace of my own, too.
Background: The Post Holocaust Midwest
On the day of “the Event”, the Midwestern US split off into its own shard. At the same time, an odd electromagnetic pulse from the Event caused massive disruption through the ICBM silos and cruise missile storage facilities in the north-central US, that caused many of the nuclear devices to detonate. The Post-Holocaust Midwest (PHMW, or P-Poc) was dropped into a nuclear winter, followed by a massive dust-bowl event. The electrical power grid was nigh completely destroyed, hundreds of thousands to millions of people died, and all semblances of normal governance and commerce evaporated. Mad Max came home to roost for decades.
Eventually, enterprising people started getting oil fields in Oklahoma and Texas running. And with petroleum came vehicles, and the hope of regular trade and a working economy. Caravans of traders in petrol and goods started plying the dusty roads, starting to pull the midwest together again. “Maddie's Oasis” is the vanguard of a major caravan, moving in to scout, make deals, and provide a bit of carnival atmosphere before the main body of the caravan arrives. Players in the P-Poc are generally associated with the Oasis.
Dramatis Personae: The Tribe of Three Guardians
The “Tribe of Three” are not exactly part of the central Oasis staff proper. Where other folks provide security, or entertainment, or regular trade items, the Tribe of Three are... specialists in odd specific requests. When you need a very specific car part, guidance into a dangerous part of the badlands, salvage work, a courier run, or what have you, the Tribe of Three are willing to help you out, for a price.
Miryam (played by my Lady) is a half-Irish, half-Native American fox shaman, occasionally more energy than sense. Rom (played by a friend of ours) is our laconic Native American wolf totem-warrior, ever practical and quite deadly. Cody (yours truly) is... a glorified mechanic.
One of the Oasis' showgirls (Rosalie) has asked Miryam if the Tribe could secretly repair the badly broken, but much beloved motorcycle belonging to a member of the Oasis security team...
Rosalie's Request, Part 1: The Tribe of Three at the Cheyenne-Mason High School Reunion
The sky was a leaden sunset over Rom and Cody as they sat in front of the canvas shelter pitched off the back of the patchwork machine they affectionately called the, “Grover Cleveland.” While it clearly had Jeep ancestry, it had been lovingly and creatively hybridized with parts of varying colors from several related, and more than a few unrelated, models of automobile. While not Detroit's finest, it still ran these thirty years after the Event, which is more than could be said for most of that city's products.
The two sat silently engaged in upkeep tasks while the light still held. Cody had parts and tools spread out on a drop cloth around him, cleaning dusty gunk from an antique carburetor. Rom applied file and whetstone carefully to the edge of a handaxe, honing it after rough use. The hustle and bustle of the Oasis camp seemed somehow distant while the two worked.
The bubble of quiet popped when Rom, without looking up, murmured, “Here comes trouble.” She came skipping up, whistling a tune from a children's cartoon that had not been broadcast in living memory. Her red hair stood out strikingly against the gray sky.
“Evening Miryam,” Cody said in greeting, “You sound cheerful.”
“Yep! I got something for you boys.”
Rom glanced up, “Is it squishy or crawly? 'Cause is if it, Ah ain't interested.”
“Nope! It's a job.”
Eyebrows raised, the two men sat up straight and attentive, “Oh? Who wants what?”
“It's Rosalie. She has a repair job, and we may have to make a run for the parts...”
Cody's brow furrowed, “Rosie? What does she have that would need us to fix? Oh, wait. You don't mean..?”
Miryam nodded, “Yep, I think you guessed it.”
“Miri, they only made about 500 of those, and that was more than 40 years ago. Maddie's regular guys haven't been able to fix it because finding parts is impossible.”
“That's never stopped us before,” she reminded him.
Cody paused, thinking, “True. How's she paying?”
“I figured we'd just keep it as a trade of favors. We're flush enough right now, anyway. Best to save for a rainy day.”
“Fair enough. We should probably hit the road in the morning, so maybe we canl get this done before the Oasis moves on again. Playing catch-up's a pain. I'll start packing the Grover Cleveland. Rom, will you go draw a few days food from Maddie, please...?”
***
The sun shone down mercilessly on the Frankensteinian Jeep as it bumped over the rough, cracked asphalt, nearly dislodging the small, figure that sat precariously perched on the passenger-side window frame, half hanging out of the vehicle. She squealed, and held on more tightly to the side mirror.
“Miryam, get your ass in the car,” drawled Rom from the back seat. She responded by squirming a few centimeters further in, settling her backside on the door handle, and continued to hang out the window until his hand on her ankle pulled her the rest of the way in.
Cody sighed, steering around a particularly large crater, “Children. I work with children...”
The redhead sniffed, “Hey, my momma always said the lord looks out for fools and little children. I'm just filling my role so you don't have to fill the other. Anyway, y'all have gone and made me lose the trail. Stop for a second.”
The Grover Cleveland slowed to a halt. Rom, ever vigilant, turned to face out the rear of the vehicle, while Miryam clambered out onto the hood. Sitting cross-legged, she stared out into nothing and began to beat out a rhythm on the metal with one hand, a small stone held loosely in the other. This was soon accompanied by a quiet chanting under he breath. Cody let the car idle for a few minutes, waiting, until without seeming to break her trance, she murmured, “Forward...”
“You sure you're set safely?” he asked.
“Mm-hm. Forward, a little more... right-ish... there!” She took a deep breath, and seemed to focus on the sky. “See that red cloud, like a streak across the sky? Follow that. We won't get there today, but if we head thataway until sunset, we'll be in hollering distance, and have a safer drive come morning.”
She scampered back into the car, and with a pointed look at her companions, primly fastened her seatbelt. “Who wants to play I Spy? Loser cleans camp in the morning?”
“You cheat,” came from the backseat.
“Do not!”
Cody sighed again, “Children...”
Her hazel eyes glittered at him, “You only say that because you never win!”
“Do not taunt the driver. And I spy with my little eye something that begins with.... h...”
***
A long, low, institutional-gray building sat in a wide depression, ringed by hills. Only two stories high, the main building was nearly a quarter-mile long, and L-shaped. Many of the windows were broken, some were boarded over, and a few were smoke-stained. A couple of outbuildings stood nearby, and the parking lots around the front of the building were cracked, with scrub-brush growing in patches along the faults. Fields with odd posts at their ends sat untended, overgrown. A forlorn sign on a low wall at the front of the building was missing some letters, but a little puzzling could make out the name, “Cheyenne-Mason High School.”
Scrub, grass, and ancient dead plantings dotted around the school building provided ample cover for an approach. The Grover Cleveland sat parked out of line of sight, behind the crumbling remains of the wall of a handball court. The nearest corner of the building had garage doors, suggesting an auto-shop. A careful eye would see the rope running up the corner of the building to the roof.
Up on the roof, the Tribe of Three stood atop the housing of a long-defunct air-conditioning system, peering through decades of grime on a long line of windows, down into a large open space. Across the high room, out through long-ago shattered glass, wisps of white smoke escaped.
Three decades ago, what was below them had been a gymnasium. The roof had begun to leak 20 years ago, so the frames holding basketball hoops were rusted, the walls water-stained, and the wooden floor warped and buckled. Directly below their windows bleachers still stood, barely holding the weight of people packed onto them. The gym floor, too, was packed, with an odd collection of people.
Most of them seemed normal enough. Their clothes were ill-kept, their faces pale, and a bit thin. But that described many folk in the P-Poc. Their eyes, though, were bright, almost feverish. Scattered around, mostly at the front of the crowd near the stage, were some who stood out. Bigger, probably men, clearly better fed, they were clad in an odd collection of cast-off sporting goods. Most wore helmets, and many had pads and guards on shoulders, arms, and legs, the plastic yellowed and cracked with time. The armor was bound on with bits of rope, cord, or leather, all this showing through the rips and tatters of orange, green, and white football jerseys. Among them were a scattering of women in green and white pleated skirts, and orange tops, carrying sad, depleted remains of wilted pompoms.
On the far side of the room, where another set of bleachers once stood, a makeshift stage now looked over the floor. Everyone in the room stared at its central figure – an old, lean man, with a large nose and bushy eyebrows. His pate was bald, ringed with long, lank, white hair. He wore a shirt of wide black and white vertical stripes, and his eyes blazed while his voice rang strong and clear over the assembly.
“... and so, my dear brothers and sisters we must remember that which was taught to us by our Saints of this Latter Day. Recall the teachings of Brothers Joseph Smith, and Brigham Young, that our Revelations are not complete!”
“Mormons?” Cody whispered, “That's not so bad.”
The preaching voice continued, “Once again, we send our men out to reap what has been given us to reap. To cut down the wicked grain of heathen roots! But righteous deeds call for cleansed souls. And so, we partake of the most blessed of sacraments. For is not Christ within every man? His flesh is man's flesh! And did he not bid us partake of his body, his blood?”
The preacher's arm swept to the right side of the room, where a small cage sat. Within it, crouched a woman in torn gingham, frail, eyes glassy with knowing fear. In her arms was a small boy of perhaps seven or eight years, dirty, emaciated, gazing into nothingness.
“Even the heathen man is the body of the Savior!” He gestured now to the left, where a fire grew, a kitchen grill hanging above it. “Cleansed by fire, to partake of it is to partake of the Holy Spirit!”
“Cannibal Mormons?!?” Miryam whispered in a near squeak, “Not so bad?!?”
Below the Tribe of Three, a hymn began, making a joyous noise unto the Lord...
Tune in next time, for Part Two: The Tribe of Three vs the Cannibal Mormon Football Team!
Roaslie's Request, Part II: The Tribe of Three vs the Cannibal Mormon Football Team
Rom snorted. "Ah don't wanna make deals with cannibals." His worn face bore a look of distaste, as if a skunk had gotten into his laundry.
“No,” Cody scowled, “Are we agreed that we have to get those poor folks down there home before dinner?” Miryam nodded, Rom shrugged. “Right, then let's get a move on.”
The trio jumped down from the housing, and jogged across the roof in a low crouch. The rope they'd used to go up brought them back down next to the garage door of the school's auto-shop. Next to which was a normal, metal door. Rom, first on the ground, took up a watchful crouch at the corner of the building. Miryam tried the knob of the metal door, expecting to find it locked, but the knob turned with only a bit of resistance. With a shrug, she noted, “Well, at least they're hospitable,” and slipped through the door, Cody and Rom close behind.
Without a word to the others, Rom quickly stole across the room to the far door, moving like a jaguar on the prowl.
Cody sagged as he looked over the workshop. Somehow, a tornado had managed to reach inside the room, while leaving the walls intact. Tools, car parts, empty welding tanks, and other detritus were scattered haphazardly around the room. Cabinets lay overturned, drawers spilled open, closets stood open, contents ransacked. “Hospitable, but not tidy. It would take me a week to find what we need here. I guess Rosie's going to be disappointed.”
Miryam blinked, and started looking more closely at the mess around her. She wandered among the metal bits, idly kicking a bolt across the floor. It skittered under a spread of canvas, and struck something underneath with a hollow, almost bell-like bong! She stepped over, lifted a corner of tarp, and saw the glint of chrome. “Hey, Cody! I think I got whatcha need over here!”
Cody brought out a wrench, nodding, “Why am I not surprised? Fine, if you can manage that, do you think you can find me a can of gas, and maybe some motor oil, while I get this thing apart?” A few minutes of wrenching and rummaging, and Cody held a few bits of oddly shaped metal. Next to him, Miryam stood with a red gas can in one hand, and a plastic bottle bearing a Pennzoil label in the other.
“Excellent! Trade you?” After swapping, Cody scanned about until he discovered a large, dust-caked empty glass bottle. Placing it on a nearby bench, he poured in first some gasoline, then a bit of oil, then a bit more gasoline. Satisfied, he screwed the top back on, and gave it a hearty shake.
Miryam looked up at the big mechanic, “Boom?”
“Yes, boom. Boom is definitely called for. Now, if we can only manage to deliver it...”
Across the room, Rom was peering through the small glass window set in the door. When Cody and Miryam approached, he said, “We've got a linebacker and a tight-end out there. They'll be perfect.” Cody looked at him, a bit confused. “Just follow me,” he whispered, and slipped out the door.
Keeping close to the wall, Rom slunk along the corridor, taking out his bow as he went. Two figures in the ragtag equipment stood ten yards down the hall, facing away from the auto-shop. A few moments later, an arrow sprouted from the base of the larger one's skull, just beneath his helmet. As he began to slump the smaller one started to turn in time to see the source of rapid, muffled footsteps as Rom seized the face guard of his helmet and twisted it savagely, the snap of the tight end's neck audible from the other end of the hallway.
Rom pointed down the hall to the door of the locker rooms, then grabbed the smaller prone figure's ankles, and started dragging. Cody, getting the gist, began hauling the other downed man over the aged tiling. It was awkward work, dragging a man backwards, made more so by the door and twisty little corridor that led to the body of the locker room.
“Heck, you know this is the woman's... Hey! Who in tarnation are.. glkkk!” The woman was sallow and sunken-faced, her brown hair as stringy as the tattered orange pom-poms she carried. Certainly, her eyes didn't normally bulge out quite that much, but Rom had to think fast, and pinning her to the wall by the throat seemed a quick expedient to keep her from screaming.
“Here's one for Miryam,” he murmured, “cheerleader, even.”
Cody stepped up, her frightened eyes staring, “Ma'am, I'm sorry for the inconvenience, and the lack of decorum, but I'm afraid it is necessary...”
***
Some minutes later, the Tribe of Three left the locker room indistinguishable from the locals – pads, helmets, pompoms, and orange shirts drew the eye away from unfamiliar faces. Rom drawled, “Hey, Miryam, ya look awful purty in a skirt...”
She thwacked him with a pompom, “Shut up, Mister 'tight-end', before we have a talk about who should and shouldn't wear spandex pants!”
The door to the gymnasium was just up the corridor. They entered quietly, unheard over the sound of the assembled singing another hymn. Rom looked at his partners, tapped himself on the chest, and pointed over to the right hand side of the stage, where the cage still held a fearful woman and child. Then, he headed off through the crowd.
Miryam and Cody exchanged a glance, nodded, and headed toward the cook-fire at the other end of the makeshift stage. As they approached, the crowd thickened, and the mix of people tended to be more hefty men in helmets and pads than the lean, hungry looking parishioners. Cody bore a worried scowl. “Miri,” he whispered down in her hear, “if I get close enough to use this, I won't get two steps away again before I'm caught.”
“What, our distraction needs a distraction?” She smiled, “Fine. I have an idea. I think you'll know when to go...,” She broke away, and wedged her way through the press of armored bodies towards the center of the stage.
The hymn came to an end, and the preacher stepped up again to his podium, bearing a wicked, gleaming knife in one hand, “Thank you, Sister Francine, for that lovely hymn. Now, in a moment, we may partake of our most most dear sacrament...”
Miryam broke into the open space before the stage and podium, turned to face the crowd, and began a loud, high kicking, semaphore-enhanced cheer.
“TWO! FOUR! SIX! EIGHT! EATING FLESH IS REALLY GREAT!” All eyes in the room turned towards her. Over in the corner, Cody lobbed his glass bottle onto the coals of the cook-fire...
The preacher stood, stunned for a moment, “Young lady, that's hardly appro...”
“OUR TEAM! OUR TEAM! IT'S THE WINNER! WE'RE GONNA EAT OUR FOES FOR DINNER!”
On the cook-fire, gasoline began to boil. Cody sprinted away, along the front of the stage...
The preacher came around the podium, moving towards the exuberant girl, calling to the dumbstruck warriors in the front of the audience, “Stop her!”
“GO CANNIBAL MORMONS!!!” Miryam finished with much jumping and waving of ragged orange tassels, ignoring the knobbly hand of the preacher reaching down for her....
***FOOM!***
Over at the cook-fire, the bottle exploded in a gout of flame and oily petroleum. The mixture stuck to whatever it touched, be it walls, stage, or people, carrying orange fire wherever it landed. Cody, just ahead of the blast, barreled into Miryam in fine linebacker fashion, momentum and pumping legs carrying her out of the old man's reach. He continued, half-carrying her toward the cage.
The back of Rom's hatchet came down on the old lock of the cage, breaking hasp from body. Wrenching the door open, he reached in to the two cowering forms, “C'mon, 'less you WANT t' be dinner.” The woman within took his hand. He quickly helped them out, and headed for the door of the gymnasium that led out onto the overgrown athletic fields, with Miryam and Cody soon behind them.
Outside, Cody and Rom tore off the helmets – the last thing they needed now was restricted vision. “Miryam,” Cody began, “Get those two to the Grover Cleveland. We'll be right behind you. Rom, catch!” He tossed a spool to Rom, while keeping hold of the wooden toggle at the other end of the line. The two crouched on either side of the doorway, pulling taut the piano wire with all their might.
Pursuit and fleeing audience came immediately, the first few tripping on the wire, and ending in a heap before the door. Soon, the way was clogged with angry, scared, thrashing bodies. Rom and Cody dropped the wire, and sprinted for the Jeep.
Miraym was getting the woman and child settled in the back as the men arrived. Rom reached back, grabbed his thirty-ought-six, and took the front passenger seat. Cody leaped into the driver seat, and started the engine with a roar, throwing the Grover Cleveland into gear. Screams of fear and rage carried after the dust-plume left behind as the Tribe of Three sped away. A plume of smoke rose into the big sky, marking where yet one more piece of The Was slowly burned to the ground.
***
Back at the Oasis, both the evening and the entertaining were well underway. Miryam pulled out a chair at a table nearest the stage, and straddled it backwards as Rosalie finished a rousing rendition of “My Tallahassee Lassie Has A Hi-Fi Chassis” to a round of applause and mug-thumping. As the noise died down, the Indian girl stood up again.
“Hey, Rosie, how about a change of pace? I think it's time for some audience participation, don't you?”
The pretty courtesan paused for a moment, then her eyes widened in comprehension. “What, exactly, do you have in mind?”
'Well, Zero's in the same chair he was in when I headed out Thursday morning – if his butt's there any longer, it'll start sending out taproots. Clearly time for a mission of mercy!”
Laughing, one girl grabbed each arm, and they pulled the gruff, slightly confused trader onto the stage. Rosie draped a red feathery boa artfully around his shoulders while Miryam fiddled with the PIPOD, until a catchy Latin beat came thumping out, then scampered up next to the others as Rosie coached Zero through the first verse.
“...that's hands on your head, right hip, left hip and Ay Macarena!”
What with all the gyrating on stage, nobody was looking out across the central square of the Oasis camp. If they had, the other two members of the Tribe of Three would have been caught taking something that wasn't theirs – rolling a 40 year-old defunct custom motorcycle from where it forlornly sat by the Reverend Wolfwood's doss to over behind the caravan's utility trucks...
The campaign allows a player to write his or her own character, but it has been in development for a long time. To help keep folks interested (and to generate some personal histories and such), players are encouraged to write character stories. I resisted doing so for quite a while, because I'm not so much interested in playing the game before we actually play the game. Doubly so before character abilities were generated.
However, there's much to be said for having a story to introduce yourself to the other players, and to engage in a bit of that history-building, and so on. So, my compatriots and I got our act together and wrote a story. While it also sits in the e-mail logs and wiki for the campaign, I'd like to keep this someplace of my own, too.
Background: The Post Holocaust Midwest
On the day of “the Event”, the Midwestern US split off into its own shard. At the same time, an odd electromagnetic pulse from the Event caused massive disruption through the ICBM silos and cruise missile storage facilities in the north-central US, that caused many of the nuclear devices to detonate. The Post-Holocaust Midwest (PHMW, or P-Poc) was dropped into a nuclear winter, followed by a massive dust-bowl event. The electrical power grid was nigh completely destroyed, hundreds of thousands to millions of people died, and all semblances of normal governance and commerce evaporated. Mad Max came home to roost for decades.
Eventually, enterprising people started getting oil fields in Oklahoma and Texas running. And with petroleum came vehicles, and the hope of regular trade and a working economy. Caravans of traders in petrol and goods started plying the dusty roads, starting to pull the midwest together again. “Maddie's Oasis” is the vanguard of a major caravan, moving in to scout, make deals, and provide a bit of carnival atmosphere before the main body of the caravan arrives. Players in the P-Poc are generally associated with the Oasis.
Dramatis Personae: The Tribe of Three Guardians
The “Tribe of Three” are not exactly part of the central Oasis staff proper. Where other folks provide security, or entertainment, or regular trade items, the Tribe of Three are... specialists in odd specific requests. When you need a very specific car part, guidance into a dangerous part of the badlands, salvage work, a courier run, or what have you, the Tribe of Three are willing to help you out, for a price.
Miryam (played by my Lady) is a half-Irish, half-Native American fox shaman, occasionally more energy than sense. Rom (played by a friend of ours) is our laconic Native American wolf totem-warrior, ever practical and quite deadly. Cody (yours truly) is... a glorified mechanic.
One of the Oasis' showgirls (Rosalie) has asked Miryam if the Tribe could secretly repair the badly broken, but much beloved motorcycle belonging to a member of the Oasis security team...
Rosalie's Request, Part 1: The Tribe of Three at the Cheyenne-Mason High School Reunion
The sky was a leaden sunset over Rom and Cody as they sat in front of the canvas shelter pitched off the back of the patchwork machine they affectionately called the, “Grover Cleveland.” While it clearly had Jeep ancestry, it had been lovingly and creatively hybridized with parts of varying colors from several related, and more than a few unrelated, models of automobile. While not Detroit's finest, it still ran these thirty years after the Event, which is more than could be said for most of that city's products.
The two sat silently engaged in upkeep tasks while the light still held. Cody had parts and tools spread out on a drop cloth around him, cleaning dusty gunk from an antique carburetor. Rom applied file and whetstone carefully to the edge of a handaxe, honing it after rough use. The hustle and bustle of the Oasis camp seemed somehow distant while the two worked.
The bubble of quiet popped when Rom, without looking up, murmured, “Here comes trouble.” She came skipping up, whistling a tune from a children's cartoon that had not been broadcast in living memory. Her red hair stood out strikingly against the gray sky.
“Evening Miryam,” Cody said in greeting, “You sound cheerful.”
“Yep! I got something for you boys.”
Rom glanced up, “Is it squishy or crawly? 'Cause is if it, Ah ain't interested.”
“Nope! It's a job.”
Eyebrows raised, the two men sat up straight and attentive, “Oh? Who wants what?”
“It's Rosalie. She has a repair job, and we may have to make a run for the parts...”
Cody's brow furrowed, “Rosie? What does she have that would need us to fix? Oh, wait. You don't mean..?”
Miryam nodded, “Yep, I think you guessed it.”
“Miri, they only made about 500 of those, and that was more than 40 years ago. Maddie's regular guys haven't been able to fix it because finding parts is impossible.”
“That's never stopped us before,” she reminded him.
Cody paused, thinking, “True. How's she paying?”
“I figured we'd just keep it as a trade of favors. We're flush enough right now, anyway. Best to save for a rainy day.”
“Fair enough. We should probably hit the road in the morning, so maybe we canl get this done before the Oasis moves on again. Playing catch-up's a pain. I'll start packing the Grover Cleveland. Rom, will you go draw a few days food from Maddie, please...?”
***
The sun shone down mercilessly on the Frankensteinian Jeep as it bumped over the rough, cracked asphalt, nearly dislodging the small, figure that sat precariously perched on the passenger-side window frame, half hanging out of the vehicle. She squealed, and held on more tightly to the side mirror.
“Miryam, get your ass in the car,” drawled Rom from the back seat. She responded by squirming a few centimeters further in, settling her backside on the door handle, and continued to hang out the window until his hand on her ankle pulled her the rest of the way in.
Cody sighed, steering around a particularly large crater, “Children. I work with children...”
The redhead sniffed, “Hey, my momma always said the lord looks out for fools and little children. I'm just filling my role so you don't have to fill the other. Anyway, y'all have gone and made me lose the trail. Stop for a second.”
The Grover Cleveland slowed to a halt. Rom, ever vigilant, turned to face out the rear of the vehicle, while Miryam clambered out onto the hood. Sitting cross-legged, she stared out into nothing and began to beat out a rhythm on the metal with one hand, a small stone held loosely in the other. This was soon accompanied by a quiet chanting under he breath. Cody let the car idle for a few minutes, waiting, until without seeming to break her trance, she murmured, “Forward...”
“You sure you're set safely?” he asked.
“Mm-hm. Forward, a little more... right-ish... there!” She took a deep breath, and seemed to focus on the sky. “See that red cloud, like a streak across the sky? Follow that. We won't get there today, but if we head thataway until sunset, we'll be in hollering distance, and have a safer drive come morning.”
She scampered back into the car, and with a pointed look at her companions, primly fastened her seatbelt. “Who wants to play I Spy? Loser cleans camp in the morning?”
“You cheat,” came from the backseat.
“Do not!”
Cody sighed again, “Children...”
Her hazel eyes glittered at him, “You only say that because you never win!”
“Do not taunt the driver. And I spy with my little eye something that begins with.... h...”
***
A long, low, institutional-gray building sat in a wide depression, ringed by hills. Only two stories high, the main building was nearly a quarter-mile long, and L-shaped. Many of the windows were broken, some were boarded over, and a few were smoke-stained. A couple of outbuildings stood nearby, and the parking lots around the front of the building were cracked, with scrub-brush growing in patches along the faults. Fields with odd posts at their ends sat untended, overgrown. A forlorn sign on a low wall at the front of the building was missing some letters, but a little puzzling could make out the name, “Cheyenne-Mason High School.”
Scrub, grass, and ancient dead plantings dotted around the school building provided ample cover for an approach. The Grover Cleveland sat parked out of line of sight, behind the crumbling remains of the wall of a handball court. The nearest corner of the building had garage doors, suggesting an auto-shop. A careful eye would see the rope running up the corner of the building to the roof.
Up on the roof, the Tribe of Three stood atop the housing of a long-defunct air-conditioning system, peering through decades of grime on a long line of windows, down into a large open space. Across the high room, out through long-ago shattered glass, wisps of white smoke escaped.
Three decades ago, what was below them had been a gymnasium. The roof had begun to leak 20 years ago, so the frames holding basketball hoops were rusted, the walls water-stained, and the wooden floor warped and buckled. Directly below their windows bleachers still stood, barely holding the weight of people packed onto them. The gym floor, too, was packed, with an odd collection of people.
Most of them seemed normal enough. Their clothes were ill-kept, their faces pale, and a bit thin. But that described many folk in the P-Poc. Their eyes, though, were bright, almost feverish. Scattered around, mostly at the front of the crowd near the stage, were some who stood out. Bigger, probably men, clearly better fed, they were clad in an odd collection of cast-off sporting goods. Most wore helmets, and many had pads and guards on shoulders, arms, and legs, the plastic yellowed and cracked with time. The armor was bound on with bits of rope, cord, or leather, all this showing through the rips and tatters of orange, green, and white football jerseys. Among them were a scattering of women in green and white pleated skirts, and orange tops, carrying sad, depleted remains of wilted pompoms.
On the far side of the room, where another set of bleachers once stood, a makeshift stage now looked over the floor. Everyone in the room stared at its central figure – an old, lean man, with a large nose and bushy eyebrows. His pate was bald, ringed with long, lank, white hair. He wore a shirt of wide black and white vertical stripes, and his eyes blazed while his voice rang strong and clear over the assembly.
“... and so, my dear brothers and sisters we must remember that which was taught to us by our Saints of this Latter Day. Recall the teachings of Brothers Joseph Smith, and Brigham Young, that our Revelations are not complete!”
“Mormons?” Cody whispered, “That's not so bad.”
The preaching voice continued, “Once again, we send our men out to reap what has been given us to reap. To cut down the wicked grain of heathen roots! But righteous deeds call for cleansed souls. And so, we partake of the most blessed of sacraments. For is not Christ within every man? His flesh is man's flesh! And did he not bid us partake of his body, his blood?”
The preacher's arm swept to the right side of the room, where a small cage sat. Within it, crouched a woman in torn gingham, frail, eyes glassy with knowing fear. In her arms was a small boy of perhaps seven or eight years, dirty, emaciated, gazing into nothingness.
“Even the heathen man is the body of the Savior!” He gestured now to the left, where a fire grew, a kitchen grill hanging above it. “Cleansed by fire, to partake of it is to partake of the Holy Spirit!”
“Cannibal Mormons?!?” Miryam whispered in a near squeak, “Not so bad?!?”
Below the Tribe of Three, a hymn began, making a joyous noise unto the Lord...
Tune in next time, for Part Two: The Tribe of Three vs the Cannibal Mormon Football Team!
Roaslie's Request, Part II: The Tribe of Three vs the Cannibal Mormon Football Team
Rom snorted. "Ah don't wanna make deals with cannibals." His worn face bore a look of distaste, as if a skunk had gotten into his laundry.
“No,” Cody scowled, “Are we agreed that we have to get those poor folks down there home before dinner?” Miryam nodded, Rom shrugged. “Right, then let's get a move on.”
The trio jumped down from the housing, and jogged across the roof in a low crouch. The rope they'd used to go up brought them back down next to the garage door of the school's auto-shop. Next to which was a normal, metal door. Rom, first on the ground, took up a watchful crouch at the corner of the building. Miryam tried the knob of the metal door, expecting to find it locked, but the knob turned with only a bit of resistance. With a shrug, she noted, “Well, at least they're hospitable,” and slipped through the door, Cody and Rom close behind.
Without a word to the others, Rom quickly stole across the room to the far door, moving like a jaguar on the prowl.
Cody sagged as he looked over the workshop. Somehow, a tornado had managed to reach inside the room, while leaving the walls intact. Tools, car parts, empty welding tanks, and other detritus were scattered haphazardly around the room. Cabinets lay overturned, drawers spilled open, closets stood open, contents ransacked. “Hospitable, but not tidy. It would take me a week to find what we need here. I guess Rosie's going to be disappointed.”
Miryam blinked, and started looking more closely at the mess around her. She wandered among the metal bits, idly kicking a bolt across the floor. It skittered under a spread of canvas, and struck something underneath with a hollow, almost bell-like bong! She stepped over, lifted a corner of tarp, and saw the glint of chrome. “Hey, Cody! I think I got whatcha need over here!”
Cody brought out a wrench, nodding, “Why am I not surprised? Fine, if you can manage that, do you think you can find me a can of gas, and maybe some motor oil, while I get this thing apart?” A few minutes of wrenching and rummaging, and Cody held a few bits of oddly shaped metal. Next to him, Miryam stood with a red gas can in one hand, and a plastic bottle bearing a Pennzoil label in the other.
“Excellent! Trade you?” After swapping, Cody scanned about until he discovered a large, dust-caked empty glass bottle. Placing it on a nearby bench, he poured in first some gasoline, then a bit of oil, then a bit more gasoline. Satisfied, he screwed the top back on, and gave it a hearty shake.
Miryam looked up at the big mechanic, “Boom?”
“Yes, boom. Boom is definitely called for. Now, if we can only manage to deliver it...”
Across the room, Rom was peering through the small glass window set in the door. When Cody and Miryam approached, he said, “We've got a linebacker and a tight-end out there. They'll be perfect.” Cody looked at him, a bit confused. “Just follow me,” he whispered, and slipped out the door.
Keeping close to the wall, Rom slunk along the corridor, taking out his bow as he went. Two figures in the ragtag equipment stood ten yards down the hall, facing away from the auto-shop. A few moments later, an arrow sprouted from the base of the larger one's skull, just beneath his helmet. As he began to slump the smaller one started to turn in time to see the source of rapid, muffled footsteps as Rom seized the face guard of his helmet and twisted it savagely, the snap of the tight end's neck audible from the other end of the hallway.
Rom pointed down the hall to the door of the locker rooms, then grabbed the smaller prone figure's ankles, and started dragging. Cody, getting the gist, began hauling the other downed man over the aged tiling. It was awkward work, dragging a man backwards, made more so by the door and twisty little corridor that led to the body of the locker room.
“Heck, you know this is the woman's... Hey! Who in tarnation are.. glkkk!” The woman was sallow and sunken-faced, her brown hair as stringy as the tattered orange pom-poms she carried. Certainly, her eyes didn't normally bulge out quite that much, but Rom had to think fast, and pinning her to the wall by the throat seemed a quick expedient to keep her from screaming.
“Here's one for Miryam,” he murmured, “cheerleader, even.”
Cody stepped up, her frightened eyes staring, “Ma'am, I'm sorry for the inconvenience, and the lack of decorum, but I'm afraid it is necessary...”
***
Some minutes later, the Tribe of Three left the locker room indistinguishable from the locals – pads, helmets, pompoms, and orange shirts drew the eye away from unfamiliar faces. Rom drawled, “Hey, Miryam, ya look awful purty in a skirt...”
She thwacked him with a pompom, “Shut up, Mister 'tight-end', before we have a talk about who should and shouldn't wear spandex pants!”
The door to the gymnasium was just up the corridor. They entered quietly, unheard over the sound of the assembled singing another hymn. Rom looked at his partners, tapped himself on the chest, and pointed over to the right hand side of the stage, where the cage still held a fearful woman and child. Then, he headed off through the crowd.
Miryam and Cody exchanged a glance, nodded, and headed toward the cook-fire at the other end of the makeshift stage. As they approached, the crowd thickened, and the mix of people tended to be more hefty men in helmets and pads than the lean, hungry looking parishioners. Cody bore a worried scowl. “Miri,” he whispered down in her hear, “if I get close enough to use this, I won't get two steps away again before I'm caught.”
“What, our distraction needs a distraction?” She smiled, “Fine. I have an idea. I think you'll know when to go...,” She broke away, and wedged her way through the press of armored bodies towards the center of the stage.
The hymn came to an end, and the preacher stepped up again to his podium, bearing a wicked, gleaming knife in one hand, “Thank you, Sister Francine, for that lovely hymn. Now, in a moment, we may partake of our most most dear sacrament...”
Miryam broke into the open space before the stage and podium, turned to face the crowd, and began a loud, high kicking, semaphore-enhanced cheer.
“TWO! FOUR! SIX! EIGHT! EATING FLESH IS REALLY GREAT!” All eyes in the room turned towards her. Over in the corner, Cody lobbed his glass bottle onto the coals of the cook-fire...
The preacher stood, stunned for a moment, “Young lady, that's hardly appro...”
“OUR TEAM! OUR TEAM! IT'S THE WINNER! WE'RE GONNA EAT OUR FOES FOR DINNER!”
On the cook-fire, gasoline began to boil. Cody sprinted away, along the front of the stage...
The preacher came around the podium, moving towards the exuberant girl, calling to the dumbstruck warriors in the front of the audience, “Stop her!”
“GO CANNIBAL MORMONS!!!” Miryam finished with much jumping and waving of ragged orange tassels, ignoring the knobbly hand of the preacher reaching down for her....
***FOOM!***
Over at the cook-fire, the bottle exploded in a gout of flame and oily petroleum. The mixture stuck to whatever it touched, be it walls, stage, or people, carrying orange fire wherever it landed. Cody, just ahead of the blast, barreled into Miryam in fine linebacker fashion, momentum and pumping legs carrying her out of the old man's reach. He continued, half-carrying her toward the cage.
The back of Rom's hatchet came down on the old lock of the cage, breaking hasp from body. Wrenching the door open, he reached in to the two cowering forms, “C'mon, 'less you WANT t' be dinner.” The woman within took his hand. He quickly helped them out, and headed for the door of the gymnasium that led out onto the overgrown athletic fields, with Miryam and Cody soon behind them.
Outside, Cody and Rom tore off the helmets – the last thing they needed now was restricted vision. “Miryam,” Cody began, “Get those two to the Grover Cleveland. We'll be right behind you. Rom, catch!” He tossed a spool to Rom, while keeping hold of the wooden toggle at the other end of the line. The two crouched on either side of the doorway, pulling taut the piano wire with all their might.
Pursuit and fleeing audience came immediately, the first few tripping on the wire, and ending in a heap before the door. Soon, the way was clogged with angry, scared, thrashing bodies. Rom and Cody dropped the wire, and sprinted for the Jeep.
Miraym was getting the woman and child settled in the back as the men arrived. Rom reached back, grabbed his thirty-ought-six, and took the front passenger seat. Cody leaped into the driver seat, and started the engine with a roar, throwing the Grover Cleveland into gear. Screams of fear and rage carried after the dust-plume left behind as the Tribe of Three sped away. A plume of smoke rose into the big sky, marking where yet one more piece of The Was slowly burned to the ground.
***
Back at the Oasis, both the evening and the entertaining were well underway. Miryam pulled out a chair at a table nearest the stage, and straddled it backwards as Rosalie finished a rousing rendition of “My Tallahassee Lassie Has A Hi-Fi Chassis” to a round of applause and mug-thumping. As the noise died down, the Indian girl stood up again.
“Hey, Rosie, how about a change of pace? I think it's time for some audience participation, don't you?”
The pretty courtesan paused for a moment, then her eyes widened in comprehension. “What, exactly, do you have in mind?”
'Well, Zero's in the same chair he was in when I headed out Thursday morning – if his butt's there any longer, it'll start sending out taproots. Clearly time for a mission of mercy!”
Laughing, one girl grabbed each arm, and they pulled the gruff, slightly confused trader onto the stage. Rosie draped a red feathery boa artfully around his shoulders while Miryam fiddled with the PIPOD, until a catchy Latin beat came thumping out, then scampered up next to the others as Rosie coached Zero through the first verse.
“...that's hands on your head, right hip, left hip and Ay Macarena!”
What with all the gyrating on stage, nobody was looking out across the central square of the Oasis camp. If they had, the other two members of the Tribe of Three would have been caught taking something that wasn't theirs – rolling a 40 year-old defunct custom motorcycle from where it forlornly sat by the Reverend Wolfwood's doss to over behind the caravan's utility trucks...
