by RW Krpoun
“Yeah. So?” Shad was getting annoyed.
“So we’re trying to fight the last war. You know, you’re always going on about history and how so many militaries enter a new war trained for and expecting what happened in the last one.”
“Yeah?”
“So that might be what Cecil is banking on, that we stick with what we experienced and learned on our last tour.”
“Still clear as mud,” Jeff observed. “Derek always takes forever to get to the point.”
“Thinking is painful for him,” Fred agreed.
The Radio Shack manager flipped them off. “So we’re wrong: we’re not the issue.”
“We’re not?” Shad rubbed his scar.
“No. Just our being here is.”
That stopped the other three. “How do you figure?” Fred finally asked.
“I haven’t worked out all the details, but Cecil is the expert on the Undead and Death Lords. He summons us and sends us on a wild goose chase, then sic’s the Death Lords on us. However, he’s given us good horses and good guns, and we’ve got a head start, so there’s a decent chance we’ll fight through.”
“Plus he set our wards so simply we can get ourselves home without ever seeing him again,” Fred pointed out. “Let’s face it, our combination to freedom is 11111; all we needed was to find out what the number was.”
“So you’re saying we as four men don’t matter, just the fact that we’re here,” Shad rubbed his scar again. “What does that do for Cecil?”
“That, I don’t know,” Derek admitted. “Maybe we’re a test, part of a plan to reopen the roads again.”
“As a core concept I can’t fault it,” Shad admitted. “It explains the way we’ve been left to our own devices.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” Jeff finished cleaning his cup. “Now, how do we hunt Death Lords?”
“Hang onto that marble, obviously,” Shad grinned. “It’ll be like shooting over bait.”
“Wait-we don’t want to go after Death Lords,” Derek objected.
“Why not? Four more and we go home,” Jeff pointed out.
“Yeah, but that is what Cecil wants: for us to be dead or gone home,” Derek pointed out.
“So you want to go after Cecil instead,” Shad rubbed his temples.
“Yeah. We need to find out what his game is.”
“Why? This ain’t our planet, monkey-boy,” Jeff grinned.
“Movie quote!” Fred banged knuckles with Jeff.
“Because who said his plan is only about the Realm?” Derek shot back. “And even if it is, there’s good people here.”
Shad stood and started pacing. “If we go after Cecil we’ll have to ditch the marble,” he pointed out. “Without the marble hunting Death Lords will be a lot more time-consuming.”
“And Cecil won’t be easy to find, or easy to talk to,” Jeff pointed out. “I expect he’s tracking the marble, too. When it stops moving he’ll figure we’re dead or coming for him.”
“Is there some way we can hide the marble so no one finds it, in case Cecil doesn’t pan out and we have to hunt Death Lords to get home?” Fred asked.
“Huh,” Derek picked up the tracking device thoughtfully. “Maybe.”
“So we find Cecil, then what?” Shad asked.
“We say ‘explain your plan and we won’t cut off any more fingers’,” Jeff shrugged.
“Dude!” Derek was appalled.
“Or waterboarding.” The Jinxman spread his hands. “We are reasonable men: a compromise can be found.”
“I like the fingers plan,” Fred observed.
“One big problem with your entire concept,” Shad snapped his fingers. “How do we find a local who is connected, respected, and does not want us to find him?”
“That is a problem,” Derek admitted.
“I think we had better decide which option we’re choosing,” the Shootist sat back down. “Then we can decide our next move.”
“I say we go after Cecil,” Derek said firmly.
“I have business with him,” Fred nodded. “He kidnapped my kid.”
“Meh,” Jeff shrugged. “I’m easy. I would like to go home ASAP, but leaving behind unfinished business isn’t a great idea.”
“Cecil,” Shad sighed. “Apparently we were noticed in the Prison. If we let Cecil drag us here and then trot off home that could give other ambitious types the idea that we’re useful tools. The regular time difference isn’t as fast as one hour to twenty-eight days, but its high enough that we have to think about future generations here. I don’t want to be dragged back to a Sphere at some future point because someone thinks we’re user-friendly. Obvious there’s more loopholes in the rules about crossing back and forth than there are in Obamacare.”
“OK, so what’s our first move?” Derek grinned.
“We ditch the marble,” Shad said firmly. “We’ve already established that Cecil is smarter than the average bear, so we don’t want to bet our pet goat-molester against him.”
“Screw you,” Derek flipped the Shootist off.
“What about hunting Death Lords?” Jeff objected. “We might need a manual way out.”
“So we hunt Death Lords,” Shad spread his hands. “How hard can that be? Even though they’re not invading, they certainly made the rumor circuit in Bloodseep. We can find ‘em the old-fashioned way. And remember, they’re looking for us. Besides, after another one bites the dust they’ll be onto the fact that we know about the marble.”
“How about we drop another Death Lord before we head after Cecil?” Fred suggested. “From the looks of the red line they’re worth a lot of XP, and it’ll make Cecil think we’re dancing to his tune. If we ditch the marble after a second kill it won’t look so strange.”
The others considered that. “Good idea,” Jeff nodded. “Cecil isn’t going to be a soft target; extra XP will certainly help.”
“We might learn something or figure out something useful along the way,” Derek nodded.
“OK, we hit a necromancer,” Shad rubbed his unshaven chin. “Anyone have an issue with that? OK, Derek, stash the detection device and the papers you found on tattoo boy or his gear so it looks like we missed them in case his buddies find this place. We’ll continue to Wellring, fat, dumb, and happy, still on Cecil’s quest.”
“But everyone will know that we know what’s going on, captured gear or not,” Jeff objected. “We burned off a rune.”
“Cecil will know,” Derek admitted. “But I bet he didn’t tell the Death Lords about the nature of our ward-runes. Cecil will figure we’re heading home, the Death Lords will figure we got lucky and are still on Cecil’s task. After the second encounter it won’t look strange that we put two and two together and ditch the marble. But Cecil will figure we’re only three kills from HBO and running water.”
“A lot of assumptions,” Shad shook his head. “But its easier to convince a person his plan is working than anything else.”
“So let’s get down to loot,” Jeff clapped his hands.
“We took some money, a lever-action shotgun, and three placet off the Death Lord,” Derek reported. “Shad gets the shotgun and everyone else gets a placet.”
“I’ve seen that type of shotgun before,” Jeff said.
“It’s a Winchester Model 1887,” Shad said with satisfaction. “Riot-length barrel, seven round tube magazine, designed by John Browning. You saw a cut-down version used in the second Terminator movie, although that had a custom lever-action so Arnold could work the action one-handed.”
“Do you just sit at home jerking off over books on guns?” Derek asked.
The Shootist flipped him off. “I like guns. You like goats. Don’t judge.”
“You do nothing but judge,” the Alienist countered.
“No, I just talk poorly of people, things, and places, there’s a difference. Like the difference between a racist and a bigot.”
“There’s a difference between a racist and a bigot?”
“
Absolutely. A racist believes that all people of a certain group are inferior. A bigot believes that everyone is inferior to himself until proven otherwise, and is inclined to assign said failures by their membership in specific groups. For instance, Irish are drunks, Jews are greedy, French are cowards, gingers have no souls, and so forth.”
“True gingers do not have souls,” Fred stated firmly. “Neither do people from Tibet.”
“Fred…,” Derek sighed.
“Don’t even start,” the big man held up a hand. “You can’t argue with facts.”
“As fascinating as this little journey into your minds is,” Jeff interjected. “I would like my placet made for extra damage to my Winchester.”
“Yeah, make one for my tomahawk,” Fred nodded.
“OK. I’m going use mine to put a hex to protect my Le Mat’s ammo,” Derek stood up and tested his ankle. “When do we leave?”
Shad glanced at the east. “Thirty minutes.”
“My complaint about Dead Island isn’t that there was a shortage of guns,” Shad objected as the Black Talons rode across the prairie. “Firstly, it made sense given the setting, and secondly, when you get into the city in the last third of the game there are plenty of guns. What I objected to was the arbitrary limit on how much ammo you could carry. All you could have was fifty rounds of pistol ammo, a certain number of shotgun rounds, and so forth. There’s no logic in that. A weight limit, making ammo hard to find, all that works. But to just say ‘that’s all you can carry’ is just lazy. And it didn’t matter that you were carrying zero shotgun shells, you couldn’t add a single pistol round. Now, Riptide was stuck with the same situation, but they positioned ammo around so if you switched weapons regularly it really didn’t affect gameplay.”
“That’s probably why the developers went bankrupt,” Jeff agreed. “Dead Island 2 looks to be a lot better.”
“Sara would watch me play sometimes,” Fred mused. “She thought the game was just killing black people with improvised weapons.”
“She wasn’t far wrong,” Derek conceded. “The developers didn’t seem to have a viable ethnic mix for a major tourist spot.”
“You can’t go wrong with a sandbox zombie environment,” Shad said thoughtfully. “I liked the Left 4 Dead series, but it was too rushed and there was no character development. Every mission being a frantic run from the zeds got old.”
“The idea was to play with your friends,” Derek observed.
“I didn’t think that really added all that much,” Fred disagreed. “Even with Shad’s big-screen it was hard to keep track of the big picture with four of us playing.”
“And the AI gave better support than most players,” Jeff nodded. “Especially Derek, who was either looting or saving his own ass when things got tough.”
“I told you to quit sticking me with the female character every time,” the Alienist shrugged.
“The Resident Evil set in Africa was pretty good,” Shad changed the subject. “Five or Six. It wasn’t sandbox, but they did a decent job of giving it that feel.”
“Plus your sidekick was smoking hot,” Jeff grinned.
“Yes, she was indeed,” the Shootist agreed emphatically. “Helluva set of pixels on her.” He pulled out his watch and checked it. “Derek, its four minutes after twelve.”
The Alienist pulled up his sleeve and examined the ink marks. “Yep, we got our XP boost, same as always.”
“That confirms the Death Lords are still after us,” Fred idly slapped the stock of his Sharps. “More support for our current theory.”
“Time for lunch, too,” Jeff reminded them.
“So what is the plan?” Derek asked as the Black Talons set up their night camp.
“Tell me about the tracking device, that mirror-thing,” Shad countered.
“It will give a rough direction and distance if you’re fifty or more miles apart. As the range shortens it gets much more detailed in its data. Within twenty miles they should start getting a rough idea of the terrain you’re in. You can’t use it constantly, but you can easily check every hour, more often if the range is short.”
“Going on the assumption that there is a Death Lord waiting at or around Wellring, which I seriously doubt is the extensive ruins we have been led to expect, we’ll have to draw it in,” Shad dropped his saddle at his sleeping spot. “I’m getting really sick of horses, by the way.”
“How?” The Alienist declined to sidetrack the conversation.
“They’ll be tracking the marble, and that sort of substantive edge can make you sloppy. When we get close we’ll find a good spot, and I’ll take the marble and make a camp. You three will be in overwatch, ready to take the shot when the Death Lord shows up. We don’t have to kill the rank and file, just the boss.”
“Kind of hard to snipe someone at night without any optics,” Fred demurred.
“That’s why starting at midnight we travel at night and rest during the day. Even if the Death Lord is leading revenants we can outrun them on horseback.”
“Not bad,” Jeff nodded. “And it doesn’t give away the fact that we know about the marble.”
“We shouldn’t send just one guy alone,” Derek objected.
“We shouldn’t, but you’re the spell-lobber, Jeff’s the medic, and Fred has to make the shot. I’m it.”
Derek scowled but held his peace. In Iraq both Shad and Jeff had made a point of taking as many or more risks than anyone else in the squad, leading by example. It was one reason why the entire squad had been willing to follow them into the many hair-brained schemes the pair had come up with.
“You know, if this works, we should hang onto the marble until we reach Wellring,” Fred suggested. “If we don’t dump it at the second necromancer killing Cecil might not be sure if we figured it out or just lost it. Or got clipped by someone else.”
“Good idea,” Shad nodded.
“So how do we ensure that the Death Lord does what we want him to and attack our camp in broad daylight?” Derek asked.
“We make a habit of making camp before dawn, which allows you guys to slip off unseen and the tattoo-monkey to attack before the sun comes up in full force. Second, we don’t pick the best camp. Not something so easy it looks like a trap, but not the best defensive terrain.”
“Sunlight doesn’t affect the sort of Undead the Death Lords will be using,” Derek observed. “But they prefer to attack at night because Undead can see in the dark.”
“You can’t always get what you want.” Shad said reflectively. “This could work. Remember the times we sucked the foreign fighters into a fight by sending a detachment out by itself with air support on fast tap and a mechanized QRF waiting out of sight? The stupid bastards never learned.”
“To be fair you need survivors to pass on the lesson,” Jeff pointed out. “They weren’t much on the basic skills of the soldier but they would stand up and fight like the best. Lots of courage, no tactical sense.”
“They were hardcore,” Shad agreed. “Lotta true believers cashed in their chips. Still, the principle is the same; so far the Undead here seem to line up with those we faced in the Prison: head-on charge. That is a trait we can exploit.”
“Still leaves you with the task of staying alive until Fred gets the shot,” Derek pointed out. “And that means you can’t just jump on a horse and ride at the first sign of ‘em. You’ll have to make it look like they really caught us unprepared.”
“I’m a Shootist with four revolvers, a repeating shotgun, a point in tactical reload, and plenty of silver ammo,” Shad shrugged. “A close-in fight is what I do best. You guys just be good spotters and get Fred read into the shot as quick as possible.”
Jeff slapped the Alienist on the shoulder. “Its just like old times.”
The morning of the fifth day the Black Talons made camp in the early morning darkness; actually Shad and Derek made camp as Jeff and Fred had quietly dropped from their horses half a mile earlier. Once most of the household arrangements had been
made Derek slipped off, his Scav skills and natural abilities letting him move like a ghost.
As the sky grayed Shad walked the camp perimeter, checking the layout of the three bedrolls fluffed up with sacks of grass to mimic occupants and looking for anything that could give away their ruse. Satisfied he sat with his back to a large beech facing the most likely line of approach and adjusted the lay of his cartridge belt, shoulder rig, and bandolier of shotgun shells.
The camp they had chosen was on the deeply eroded bank of a creek; to the north trees and brush grew thickly while to the south the cover dwindled away markedly. Three hundred yards to the west, across the creek, an outcropping of exposed rock stood nearly sixty feet above the plains, nothing of note to a melee-based force but an excellent vantage point for a skilled man armed with a rifle designed to reliably kill a bull bison at six hundred yards.
Shad expected the Undead to come from the north using the cover of the brush. They could follow the creek from either north or south, but at the camp and for a hundred yards in either direction the banks were taller than a man and nearly vertical. Before Derek had left he had strung thread between the trees to the north tied to cans containing a fistful of stones as a simple early-warning device.
The day was partly cloudy but warm, with a mild breeze out of the north; his shotgun across his lap Shad closed his eyes and tried to doze. He had already spent two mornings performing this charade and he was tired. Derek had pinned hex-sheets to both his own and the Shootist’s shirt that would give either a shock if the sheet was folded, a crude means of communication that Derek had cobbled together.
He was dreaming about sitting at the table with Derek, Fred, Jeff, and the others of their group, slinging the dice, laughing at someone’s outburst, having a good time. RPGs were probably lame and childish, but the Shootist found they let him funnel nervous energy and dark thoughts/memories into a controllable medium and expend them harmlessly. Survival techniques, he had learned, come in many forms.
He was abruptly snapped awake with the instant clarity that soldiers and hunters of men quickly develop. Shifting his shoulders slightly, he worked his fingers and toes as he listened and smelled carefully, seeking whatever it was that had alerted the primitive lizard-brain buried beneath the gray tissue, the part of his mind that remembered the days when Men had not been apex predators.