Open Apocalypse

[Gangsta Moll Deactivated]

The trail from the township up to the pass is steep and hard going: under the shifting sand sometimes we walk on tarmac, cratered and melted.

They see us from afar and we make no move to hide - open handed, walking in full view.

Their wheeled vehicles are bent and patched, belching smoke, evidently recovered and maintained more by luck than skill. Earth movers, diggers - digging and construction machinery designed for work rather than transport - curious choices for a world in chaos.

The horses, by contrast, are magnificent beasts: emanating strength and power- dozens, maybe hundreds, of them, wild and proud but corralled by the riders.

The riders control their horses with military precision - and visible skill - both horses and riders have the look of fierce fighters.

Wary, they canter only a short way down the trail before stopping, patient, watchful, as we continue our approach: putting a safe distance between their chosen meeting point and the people milling and setting up camp behind them.

 

[DoctoroMindbender]

Passing through town, there is no evidence of our conflict with the Watermaker's fanatics. The zombies are efficient, consuming everything organic including bones and clothes. No one is sure what they do with the inorganic material, though any possible answer is not good. We walk in silence, finally passing past the edge of the town, towards the camp. I feel exposed, walking out in the open. But if they are going to kill us, they would of done it by now. The knowledge brings me little comfort. But the silence, is worst of all after what happened yesterday, after what happened last night. But there are rules on the road - you don't ask other's their history, and they agree not to ask yours. I am curious about Ruby, as a person, where she learned to fight like that, but I know that if I ask I will have to answer questions about my own past I would rather not. We walk through the clearing. Armed men on horses staring down at us. It has been so long since I've even seen a horse. I step forward, my hands outstretched, opened to show that I am not hiding any weapons of my own

"We are but simple travelers".

[Gangsta Moll Deactivated]

Close up, I see these horses - and some of their riders - bear fresh wounds: peculiar long straight slashes that look almost like narrow burn marks. They also look - in their eyes if not in their alert bearing - tired ... exhausted...

They are silent as we approach: hear Elijah"s simple greeting in silence. Then one, with a flick of his head, beckons us to follow, turns his horse, and walks it slowly into the encampment. His two companions slip into place beside us - a moving pen, a cell which contains us. People watch, silent...

I recall how silent was our own journey today - Elijah's and mine - I could almost say journeys, plural, as if we walked together but alone, separate. I was lost in thought - maybe he was too - but I silently (and I smile as I firm that word in my head) -  I silently vow that if we end this day alive - and together - we will talk, as humans do ... used to do, I correct myself.

I can sense Elijah's tension, and I share it - we are committed, have offered ourselves effectively to the mercy of these people: and mercy seems an absent quality among them, as their dark eyes follow us.

Edited December 9, 2022 by Gangsta Moll

[Gangsta Moll Deactivated]

(Washakie, NPC):

Washakie spares only a passing thought to the approaching strangers: a curt nod and three outriders canter out to corrall them: time now to tebd to the People, not to be distracted by idle curiosity about isolated wanderers out of the outlands. Though, on second thoughts, he signs for a clan leader, signals her to question the strangers on the lands to the west through which they have travelled. Then dismisses the strangers from consideration and turns to the construction of the encampment - and its defence.

[DoctoroMindbender]

I return a frank nod to the man on the horse. He sees the quick sign, but can not decipher it. What I can decipher is the second person approaching. It's been so long since I've done this, I see if I can remember how. I take step forward, and shove out my open handed, offering it in a greeting of peace and friendship.

[Gangsta Moll Deactivated]

The woman who steps forward is beautiful: mesmerisingly so. Big dark eyes, jet black hair cascading past her shoulders, a fringed leather tunic moulding to her shapely form. Young, with old eyes. In response to Elijah's proffered hand she raises her own. A gesture of her hand brings women hurrying to set down on the ground leather drinking pouches, a plate of dried fruit, a small carved stone bowl smoking with a sweet white smoke.

She sinks to a cross legged sitting position with easy grace, a silent gesture inviting ... commanding?...us to do the same.

The pouches contain a liquor that makes my mouth burn. The bowl, passed silently between us, holds smouldering dried leaves, seeds: inhaling it leaves me light headed.

The silence extends, her big eyes watching us.

Then she gestures, down the road from which we came: "share with us .." a sweeping gesture of her arm encompasses the encampment and her people: "share with us your journey, and knowledge of the lands through which you have come"

[Dirtydan]

Mason watched from his perch, hidden in sticks, rock, and debris. He pulled an old artifact, that he'd scavenged from a corpse of a scout, it allowed him to see over great distances useful for protecting his home. He watched as the larger group confronted two individuals, "Fools, why, why, why! I don't get." He whispered softly. He laid his rifle out in front him running his fingers across the once finely crafted curves now chipped, and broken from use. He lowered his eye along the sight, a horse reared up its head, his finger curled around the smooth trigger pressing back softly feeling the resistance push back. 'Don't shoot' the gun seeming to say to him. The women took a drink from the pouch, mason head rose. "Too far, can't risk it, can't risk it, can't risk it" he chanted, laying the rifle on its side he he brought the artifact back to his eyes watched the meeting. A smile curling across his face, what was this feeling ... was it longing, jealousy he didn't know. "Stay away, please, stay away" tears began streaming down Mason face. A turmoil began welling up inside him, people, friends, ... women he craved all those things. Mason bit down on his thumb hard drawing blood, he steady himself. "Can't trust them, can't trust them, can't trust them, CAN'T TRUST ANYONE!" He echoed through his teeth clench. 

[DoctoroMindbender]

Quote

Then she gestures, down the road from which we came: "share with us .." a sweeping gesture of her arm encompasses the encampment and her people: "share with us your journey, and knowledge of the lands through which you have come"

I chew on those words, considering them. The lands I came from are hard and cruel. How much to tell, how much to leave out.

"I come from far to the west. Mostly small communities and hard scrabbles farms, around whatever little bit of water can be found that isn't deadly poison. We took the road," I say, pointing back at the town we had come from "going east. But so far all we have found is dust, the burnt out husks of cities, and madmen following somebody called 'Watermaker'".

[Gangsta Moll Deactivated]

(Washakie, NPC):

Washakie stays near the crest of the pass: immobile, inscrutable, watchful.

From  gang leader to leader of .. a nation ...has been a hard journey, twisted and tortured. Inside, the simple street thug still wrestles with the greater demands of a leader of tribes. Shocking how easy it was for the gangs, founded as they were on violence and chaos, to survive - even to thrive, when civilization collapsed: while the civilized, resting on organised power and convention, devolved so catastrophically to selfish mindless destruction. Looting was a skill that proved its worth: likewise killing. But leading a gang is not as simple: and melding the horsemen and their nascent tribes into the emerging gang family requires craft and cunning.p

But violence is never far away. The mistake with the fighting machines cost dear: there will be a challenge and part of him wants to lose - but he knows he will not, the habit of winning, the lust fir killing, still lives beneath his calm surface.

The scouts approach the most verdant vegetation - the sure source of the spring. The shout is one of pain, the scream if a man and the anguished neigh if a horse: brief chaos and two men lie mangled, their horses buried up to their necks in tangled dead branches and dusty earth.

Another mistake: and challenge is sure, in time, but for now the tribe knows what to do. A party skirts the ....trap..., spreads out. Another party runs to the two strangers, holds back only at a gesture from the clan leader. Tension in the air: someone will pay...

 

[Dirtydan]

The screams of agony peirce the silence of Masons secluded lookout. He bolts up right his rifle clenched in white knuckles hands. "They split, they split, I need to move" he groans running back to the path  leading to his home. His other hand thrust into his pocket, feeling his bullets again. 'Maybe it's enough' maybe I can win' Mason thought, to himself as moved stealthy through his home turff. He scurred up a large tree, to man a trap a large logfixed to a rope set swing down along the path. He waited quietly, his leg fidgeting wildly his eyes frantic, crazed. He was ready to fight now confident he could take the now divided forces.

19 minutes ago, Gangsta Moll said:

(Washakie, NPC):

Washakie stays near the crest of the pass: immobile, inscrutable, watchful.

From  gang leader to leader of .. a nation ...has been a hard journey, twisted and tortured. Inside, the simple street thug still wrestles with the greater demands of a leader of tribes. Shocking how easy it was for the gangs, founded as they were on violence and chaos, to survive - even to thrive, when civilization collapsed: while the civilized, resting on organised power and convention, devolved so catastrophically to selfish mindless destruction. Looting was a skill that proved its worth: likewise killing. But leading a gang is not as simple: and melding the horsemen and their nascent tribes into the emerging gang family requires craft and cunning.p

But violence is never far away. The mistake with the fighting machines cost dear: there will be a challenge and part of him wants to lose - but he knows he will not, the habit of winning, the lust fir killing, still lives beneath his calm surface.

The scouts approach the most verdant vegetation - the sure source of the spring. The shout is one of pain, the scream if a man and the anguished neigh if a horse: brief chaos and two men lie mangled, their horses buried up to their necks in tangled dead branches and dusty earth.

Another mistake: and challenge is sure, in time, but for now the tribe knows what to do. A party skirts the ....trap..., spreads out. Another party runs to the two strangers, holds back only at a gesture from the clan leader. Tension in the air: someone will pay...

 

 

[Gangsta Moll Deactivated]

(Washakie, NPC):

Bows are tensioned, drawn, their fire hardened wooden arrows targeting the man in the tree, the hidden silent hunters waiting the signal to loose the brief hail of death. But if this trap be the work of many then one captured rather than killed may be .... induced ... to betray the rest.

A silent signal, and a single arrow flies true, pinning the man's swinging leg to the tree: and a second, impaling the hand that grasps the gun - grasped, past tense, now, as the long gun clatters to the ground.

[Gangsta Moll Deactivated]

The sudden confusion is as intense as it is brief. Fighters rush into the circle where we sit, ferocious, furious: but the clan woman holds them back, calms them, with a gesture, regards us. I can almost see her weighing us in her mind: our own astonishment must be evident, and it would be folly to have surrendered ourselves into their midst only to trigger such a crude trap.

"It seems. we may all need .... allies....tell us of this water maker.."

[DoctoroMindbender]

1 hour ago, Gangsta Moll said:

The sudden confusion is as intense as it is brief. Fighters rush into the circle where we sit, ferocious, furious: but the clan woman holds them back, calms them, with a gesture, regards us. I can almost see her weighing us in her mind: our own astonishment must be evident, and it would be folly to have surrendered ourselves into their midst only to trigger such a crude trap.

"It seems. we may all need .... allies....tell us of this water maker.."

Driven by instinct, my hand rests on my gun. My mind races, as I start to map out cover and escape routes, heart beating against my chest but before I can even stand up the excitement is over.

Settling back down, I respond "Indeed. We were ambushed by his followers yesterday, but there is no telling how long they were laying in wait beneath the sand. Fifteen. Armed with barely functional guns salvaged from God knows where, but fanatical. They speak of this 'Watermaker' as a prophet. They said they would reclaim our water. I do not wish to find out what that means."

[Gangsta Moll Deactivated]

I like this young woman with her quiet composure and assured confident command. And I very much like this sweet white smoke from the stone bowl. Even the second sudden quick commotion from the trees hardly registers, I feel very calm, very happy, this is nice, everything is very very nice.i try to say so but I think I jumble the words and Elijah and the woman smile and that is nice, very nice, lovely. Elijah and the woman seem to get on well, which is nice. And the men squatting on their heels with us seem nice too.

I stand but I feel a bit dizzy. Which is nice even though I nearly fall over but I am glad when some of the men stand and stop me falling over: which is nice of them. The woman is nice and tells them to take me to bed which is nice and I giggle a bit because I am a bit woozy and very very happy which is nice as they lead me to one of the nice conical tents.

[Gangsta Moll Deactivated]

(Kinimara, clan leader, NPC):

Kinimara registers the fracas but her focus is on the strangers and what they may tell, and she trusts the Tribe to deal with trouble: and if they cannot, then she cannot without them - life, here, in this dangerous transit land, hangs by a thread and only the interwoven threads of the Trive - of each of the Tribes - can weave a rope sturdy enough to hold even when some strands break.

The stranger woman is unused to Kinnikinnick smoke: but the man is of stronger stuff. Time enough to interrogate the woman tomorrow  - may she and the braves enjoy a relaxation and sleep tonight.

With them gone, Kinimara turns back to the man. His talk is clipped, concise, almost curt: but to draw him out, to talk, to learn not just of the lands but of his journey - and of him, as a man...

[DoctoroMindbender]

Quote

With them gone, Kinimara turns back to the man. His talk is clipped, concise, almost curt: but to draw him out, to talk, to learn not just of the lands but of his journey - and of him, as a man...

They talk for a long time. As the twilight descends, Elijah lays out the lands from wince he came. Taking up a stick, he draws forth a crude map, showing settlements along the roads, raider bands and other dangers in a short, tactical manner  - but carefully talking around his own past. This is the most he has talked since starting the journey East.

[Dirtydan]

The man clenched his teeth in silent agony, so quickly snuck up on. how did they find him he was careful, planned or at least he thought. Perhaps the days of sleeplessness left him sloppy. He clenched his teeth with his free hand he he pulled the tripwire. A large log swung down across the path crashing into 2 horses in the front of the group sending their riders casascading violently down the to the unforgiving rocks. His free hand reached to arrow through his rifle hand and snapped the quils from the arrow and slid his hand off his crimson essence spilling forth. He turned pulling his rifle to his frantic blood shot eyes. He aimed, his vision blurry, his body cold and sluggish, he slipped falling to hard ground beneath him. He struggle to remain conscious but his vision went black. Finally the man had fallen asleep yet somehow he clung to life.

On 13/12/2022 at 13:14, Gangsta Moll said:

(Washakie, NPC):

Bows are tensioned, drawn, their fire hardened wooden arrows targeting the man in the tree, the hidden silent hunters waiting the signal to loose the brief hail of death. But if this trap be the work of many then one captured rather than killed may be .... induced ... to betray the rest.

A silent signal, and a single arrow flies true, pinning the man's swinging leg to the tree: and a second, impaling the hand that grasps the gun - grasped, past tense, now, as the long gun clatters to the ground.

 

[Gangsta Moll Deactivated]

(Washakie, NPC):

Washable watches: sees the man fight, sees him fall.

Killing is waste: in this world so inimical to human life, wasting life is ... a waste ...

 Before the fall, before civilization failed, fighting was fun: a fierce, frenzied fire - for dominance, for survival, it had a purpose, however twisted and warped, it meant something, it was how the gangs ... fought .. it wasn't just killing.

It was civilization that fell apart, after the fall: the civilised who killed, wantonly: not to win, not to dominate, not to lead - just killed ... and were killed ... until they were all dead. Or feral.

The horsemen were different: not gangs but ... teams... hunters ... working together,  sharing: bonds of ... friendship ... and ..fucking ...forming lines of leadership, of command.

The melding of gangs and hunters made the People: built the Tribes, grew what might become a Nation. Clans held together by friendship ... and fucking ...bonds of leadership. But hunters don't fight: they squabble, yes, tussle, argue, disagree - they don't fight with the fierce ferocity of the gangs. And that, Washakie realises - not for the first time - is their weakness.

Fighters fight with a ferocity that is mad - rejecting reason, despising defeat, insane human doomsday machines, unstoppable until stopped. Like the mad man in the tree - fallen from the tree, now: a waste to kill such a one.

Wearily, Washakie walks to the fallen fighter: gestures to carry him to the tent where he can be tended to.

But ferocity alone is not enough: not for the huge endeavour that awaits. Fighters need leadership - a fighter to fight for the fighters, a leader to lead into the fight. And Washakie is weary: to lead the People is wearying enough - to lead their fight - the fight that must be coming- needs a fighter with fight left in them.

Time to talk with Kinimara and the stranger with whom she seems, at a glance from afar, to be forming a bond ...

 

[Gangsta Moll Deactivated]

(Kinimara, clan leader, NPC):

Kinimara notes the concise, clipped conversation of Elijah: the clear sketching of the map; the evident though unstated ... experience... knowledge...

From the tent where the braves have taken the stranger woman drift the sounds if giggling - someone is happy - and then the soft grunt: "mmmppphhh" of a man consummating sexual union - and the answering moan: "uuñngghh" of a woman penetrated - fucked - and by the sound of it, enjoying it. Kinnikinnik is potent, especially to the uninitiated - bonds may be firmed tonight.

Elijah's face betrays nothing: his ... relationship ... with the woman is ... inscrutable...

Kinimara brushes aside the distraction. Washakie joins the pair, squats, ignores Elijah, addresses her: "so...?"

[DoctoroMindbender]

Having given what information I can, I nod to this woman, this Chieftan of the tribe. With weary, eyes I watch Washakie approach, taking the measure of the man. I see the stature, the confidence, but also the weight on his shoulders that he tries to hide from those around him. A leader, perhaps? And there is a hardness about him too, calloused hands and an even more calloused expression across his eyes. I know that expression well. I have seen it many times, staring back from my own reflection. Maybe these are people who are understanding of survival, even if it means great evil ... of knowing, late at night, all alone, when the whiskey can't drown the memories anymore that deep down you enjoyed doing it. Or maybe it's the guilt, and shame, all the lies eating at my guts. Either way, I know that if I am going to find respect, maybe find a home here, I will need to be honest. But not here, not yet. I owe Ruby the truth first.

Edited December 16, 2022 by DoctoroMindbender

[Gangsta Moll Deactivated]

I wake, incredibly refreshed: surprisingly so when I recall my ... state ... the night before. The smoke bowl, I surmise, in the clear light of day, was an intoxicant - aphrodisiac, I smile silently as I dislodge a bare male leg from mine. They seem less refreshed than am I, in fact, sleeping soundly: but whiskey is perhaps a less pure intoxicant than whatever i inhaled. The naked male bodies tangle in quite an erotic way, snores and gurgles only mildly spoiling the effect as I retrieve my clothes and dress. A long time since I had such a night...

Outside, three young men leer as I step out through the tent's low entrance: boys really, not yet men. One is nudged forwards, bumps into me. His hand grabs at my breast, gropes it, his mates laughing.

I take his wrist, lift his arm, sweep his legs out from under me with my foot, fall with my knee on his back as he hits the ground, twisting his arm up and back:

"You want to fuck with me, ask nicely"

And because I feel sorry for him, because he is just a boy, because I wish not to be the hair-triggered cage fighter that I am, I help him to his feet.

His eyes are wide. Oddly, he places his hands together, executes a deep bow, and I return it with the shallow nod that in the dojo - and in the cages - shows appropriate respect for a defeated opponent. It is strange, familiar, I want to laugh, I restrain it to a smile:

"Now, fuck off"

An old man sits, his back against my pack. His face is like sun tanned leather, lined and creased. His eyes are slits against the low morning sun: they stare into my very soul and I feel judged, stripped naked to my spirit: but I feel ... skittish ... free ...

I glare back at him: "Fuck you too.."

His face cracks, into a laugh that is almost manic - and that I recognise as Sensei's laugh, that I loved so much.

"Only if you ask nicely" he responds.

And I laugh too.

I drop down to sit cross legged between Elijah and the old man, facing the beautiful clan woman: "What's for breakfast?" I laugh.

Then I see the faded tattoo on his forehead - a triangle enclosing a dragon - and the smile freezes on my face.

Edited December 16, 2022 by Gangsta Moll

[DoctoroMindbender]

I watch as Ruby walks out. I can't help but crack a smile, watching the young boys make their attempt. I was that young and stupid once, though if asked I would fiercely deny it. Boys never change, it seems. The old man, however, gives me pause. I do not want violence, but I fear it will ... and then her reaction. I laugh, it's been so long since I've laughed. It felt so good. But as she sits, as I see her expression change. Something is not right. My body tenses up again, a coil always wound to tight until one day it breaks. I become conscious of all the people around me, their eyes looking at us. Where once I felt like I was living in the nostalgia frosted memories of my past, I know feel so alone, so vulnerable. I squeeze Ruby's hand, a silent signal of support. I don't know this woman, not really, but she's also the closest thing to a friend I have left in this forsaken world.

[Gangsta Moll Deactivated]

Elijah's hand finds mine, and it feels like - it is - a touch of friendship, of support.

My eyes on the old man's face, I reach down, and with a finger in the sand I sketch a simple triangle and inside it the kanji sun and sky. The old man's eyes burn into mine. I can feel that my hand is crushing Elijah's: is it the white smoke, or my own native recklessness, that makes me issue such a challenge in such a place at such a time? What do I expect? Why did I do it? 

[Gangsta Moll Deactivated]

(Washakie, NPC):

Washakie watches the woman.

Fighting and fucking: dominance and bonding.

So the woman chose fucking first: but fights well too. Washakie smiles inwardly at how easily the young braves turn from swagger to deference.

The sudden tension when she sees the tatto is palpable: and explains much about her. Brave, to issue such a direct challenge - or reckless: maybe both.

It is hard not to laugh: hard to compose himself, to intone, with heavy drama:

"The ancient enmities are washed away in the rivers of wasted blood: They are before your time, and almost before mine."

Washakie laughs, a manic helpless laugh that leaves him breathless:

"For fuck's sake!"

and executes the very shallowest of almost imperceptible bows.

 

Edited December 16, 2022 by Gangsta Moll

[DoctoroMindbender]

I am ... confused. I don't know exactly what is going on, but I know enough. The shared looks, the hasty movements. I avoid stand-offs, duels and gun fights as a rule, safer to strike from the security of cover or with strength of numbers, but still I have stared down other men, alone in the street. This fight is a foolish thing, it always is, but if she wants it is her right. I scan the crowd, seeing who might be looking to jump into a fight once it starts, or who might be waiting in ambush. My fingers move nervously, of their own accord, my hand ready to strike with gun or knife should this turn ugly. But I hope it doesn't. I was hoping to find safety here, maybe even a home, not my corpse bleeding out into the dust.