NO MAN's LAND: the THAW - a Survival RP (IC/On Hiatus)

[Tayner]

Enos Grey, Glenwood, Colorado

"Hey, man, put the gun down" Enos said to the man who had just entered the shack.

"Why?" The man replied. A simple enough question.

Enos slowly turned his left shoulder to the man, showing off the Dixie Republic Flag on the sleeve of his BDU Jacket. The man, obviously surprised to see the symbol, lowered the gun from his shoulder to his waist, still pointing at Enos, but still, made him feel more secure. "i'm from Dixie, part of the First Scouts. I have a small team of men in town. What brings a fellow man from the Republic all the way out to Colorado?" Enos asked.

"Well, the same reason you're all the way out here, I guess, but you must be doing better than I did if you still have a team left." The man said, as he placed the rifle on the table in the center of his shack. "The name's LaForge, Luke LaForge."

"The Luke LaForge?" Enos asked.

"Is there another?" Luke asked. After a short pause he continued, "No, seriously, I'm asking."

"N-no, sir." Enos quickly said. "I-I was briefed on your mission, and i was the spin-off mission, really, so I'm shocked to see you. What are the odds?" Enos said. "Anyways, our orders were to see if we could find any survivors of the mission, or follow up on them, and to get information on any Remnant's forces.

"There seem to be no remnants left, not even a remnant of the remnants." LaForge said.

"Well, halfway across North America with no trace of them and finding a war hero seems like a successful mission. We're going to return to Dixie, but we're going to make a few stops along the way." Enos said. "Let me go inform my team." He said as he went outside. He told his team of the discovery, and while they were skeptic of Luke's validity, but once shown the dog tags, flag, uniform, and his old military ID, they belived the story. After Enos debreifed Luke, they put a map of Colorado on the table. There were various spots circled and crossed out.

"Before we get home, I want to swing by a few old world military installations." Enos said. "Cheyenne Mountain being one of those."

"I'm down." Luke said.

[Beiarusia]

Year 27: Day 241
March 14, 2043

Mercer // Starkville, Colorado

The group had set out just after dawn. Eight men heading north on what could only be described as a fool’s errand: to find a lost girl or, to Striker, to find a lost treasure, neither of which seemed very likely. And yet, come sunrise, they who had volunteered were packed and ready. For better or for worse the day began.

This part of New Mexico was rather secure and so travel was uneventful. Bandits had learned early on that the local militias were more than capable of defending against all but the largest attacks, and the infected were cleared out by regular patrols. Several miles out and the land became untamed, but still nothing bothered the northbound group save for the occasional Mutt that barked and howled but did little to threaten the imposing group. I-25 was peaceful almost, at least compared to the mess of roads in Colorado. Of course this could not last. A few hours after leaving Raton and they came across the remains of the sign welcoming travelers into Colorado. The cleared roads pushed on a little further but, ultimately, gave way to the rubble that awaited them all. Cracked asphalt – more so than usual – and cars too decrepit to justify scavenging.

“Road’s always been shit,” Mercer commented dryly, stepping around a rather large hole in the middle of the highway.

“You been here long?” Striker asked, hopping over the very same hole.

Mercer nodded. “Too damn long.”

By midday they had come to a small town, though that was being generous. Little more than a few houses overlooking the highway and the railroad that ran alongside. Starkville if the old map was to be believed. Abandoned and left to rot three decades after the Outbreak. They would rest here before continuing on to Trinidad and then to Ludlow, Lynn if they pushed themselves. Tomorrow they’d make way for Walsenburg and then to Pueblo, after which they would need to make a few choices. North would take them to Colorado Springs, and west to Salida. Striker wished for the former; Mercer the latter. Sera may or may not have made it to Salida, but it was a good place to start looking. Striker and his hired hand would be on their own if they wished to keep on to their supposed bunker.

Mercer addressed the others. “Take a break. I’m gonna check a few of those houses.”

“I’ll come along,” Striker said, resting an aluminum baseball bat over his shoulder. Far more stealthy than Mercer’s double-barreled shotgun.

The first house was little more than a shell of warped and twisted wood. A quick glance was all that was needed to tell that it was empty. The second had fared better, still having most of its walls, but was empty as well. A good sign. Better to find nothing rather than something unpleasant. The third and fourth houses were in similar states.

The two were stalking back to the others after the fifth house when Striker spoke up. “You know we’re not too far from Colorado Springs. Could be there in a couple days if we push ourselves.”

“Not happening,” Mercer said, his voice cold as he made his position clear.

“I know that, but think about it for a moment. Reasonably. Me and you, we both know something is there. Hell, ask any old timer and they’ll tell you all about NORAD. This place exists and no one has set foot inside ever since the Remnants kicked the bucket. Fact. You finding this girl, well, Colorado is a big place, and even if she’s alive-”

“She is,” spat Mercer without missing a step.

“If she is, well, how do you know she stuck around? After all that shit you guys stepped in, she’s probably long gone by now. So, here me out. We go and get out fortune, and then you take your cut and payroll this little escapade. Money talks, and even if you don’t find anything I’m sure some hired guns would scour the entire west coast for a good payday. You gotta be smart about this. Walking around in circles from one ruin to the next is gonna get you nowhere.”

Mercer didn’t say anything. As much as he’d hate to agree Striker did have some good points. If Sera made it through the winter she would have to have gone elsewhere. A town or settlement, and even so there was no easy way to figure out where.

“I’m gonna bring it up to the others,” Striker said.

He did and Mercer allowed him to talk.

[Dalria]

Absolom; Starkville, Colorado

The company of eight men had set off on their journey. This was something that Absolom basically felt compelled to do for many reasons he could not explain, but one of those reasons was clear, to keep running from his past. Although he didn't feel totally at ease among these strangers, these foreigners, there was a sense of mutual trust which kept his hand from his holster. His mentally had always been to keep to himself to survive, joining a group was always a risk.

As the men continued down the road, Absolom became increasingly aware of the chatter among the group. He was different; he was a civilized tribal. He knew that this was rare in this day and age, for no other reason but tension. By societies standards, Tribalism was a sort of reverse evolution. Tribal men were seen as disease carrying murderers who did nothing but contribute to banditry. Tribe's had various reasons to be threatened by the other half of the population; such as religious zealotry or overly-cautious scavengers. This all led to a mutual distrust by what is deemed "civilized" society and tribal society, there is some interaction in the southern and eastern parts of the wasteland of America but the northern tribes had always been more isolated and people of myth.

Although slightly frightened of interaction, deemed it would be best if he conversed politely with one of the men. After Striker came back from his little scouting walk with Mercer, Absolom approached him.

"I'd like to say I am sorry for how I acted earlier in the tavern once again. I have to be cautious... tribals aren't viewed very good 'round these parts, especially one from a northern clan such as me" Absolom shook his head as a sign of respect to Striker, "what were you and that man... uh, oh that's right Mercer! What were you and Mercer talking about over there? No need to pry, but he seemed pretty distraught during the conversation and working with the men I have, knowing what is on each others shoulders is key to mutual trust" Absolom questioned. In his gut he could feel something, as he spoke with Striker he felt uneasy, like something was watching them. Even dog rubbed near his leg in an effort to stay close to his master. Absolom didn't want to mention this uneasy feeling, but you could tell by a quick and subtle change in facial expressions at the end of his question.

[Beiarusia]

...

Year 27: Day 241
March 14, 2043

Striker // Starkville, Colorado

Striker was about to speak up when the tribal approached him with an... apology? It was unexpected and even unneeded - Striker wasn't one to hold a grudge - but accepted nonetheless. The man seemed truly sorry about how he had acted the day before, but his reasonings were justified. Tribes weren't too well liked in these parts, in part to cultural differences and the unfortunate association with Psychotics. Striker, on the other hand, could care less about a person's origins so long as there was money to be had in the long run. Of course the scavenger wouldn't join a bandit gang, but he would work with a bandit if it benefited him in some way and didn't involve the mass killing of innocents.

The scavenger waved away Absolom's concern and then addressed the question he had been presented. "We're talking about were to head once we reach a crossroads. You see, I'm up here for the bunker. Them, well, he lost some girl and is trying to find her. We're both going the same way now but may have to split ways, but I had a few valid points to present. Speaking of which-"

The man stepped around Absolom and called out for the others still resting. Once he had their attention he told them what he had told Mercer. Either waste their time searching all of Colorado or head to Cheyenne Mountain to potentially fund a more thorough hunt for the missing girl. To Striker it was a simple answer, and Mercer had not said no verbally. If the others were also on-board then it would make the entire trip a whole mess easier. Plus if 3/4 of the group ran off on some goose chase Striker would never make it through Colorado Springs. He'd need to convince them that his way was the right way.

How hard could it be?

[Sarejo]

---

Westley returned to the farm and said a tearful goodbye to Lucia, promising to be back as soon as he could. He had worked out a deal with David to check up on Lucia three times a week. He also left Lucia an old shotgun with some shells for protection. He still felt reluctant to leave, but he knew he had to for all that Mercer had done for them.

-Skip-

Westley looked towards Striker as he spoke. He shook his head and said, "You're persistent, I'll give you that." He dusted off his hands and unscrewed his canteen, taking a long drink before continuing. "I'm in this to find Sera. I already made that abundantly clear. But if Mercer believes she might be out that way then I will follow him. I gave him my word." he said, putting extra emphasis that he was loyal to Mercer, and none other in the group.

[Camicon]

Alya Iravani
Canmore, the Foothills Confederacy
January 3rd, 2043 | Year 27: Day 171
"It's only one season, Saba."

"One season too many. You won't be here when the new one comes."

Alya looked to her younger sister across the table, face half-hidden behind a fan of playing cards. Alya pushed a few dried berries towards the centre of the table, where they joined a growing pile. Saba did likewise, then slapped down her cards, face up. "Low-straight, five through nine."

Alya made a clacking sound with her tongue, and tossed her cards on the table in irritation. "Trip queens. Thought I had you there."

Saba reached out and collected the pot, popping a puckered raspberry into her cheek as she did. "Don't change the subject Aly. You were here when I had Reza."

Alya frowned as she gathered up the cards and began shuffling. "And you'll be fine when you have your next rugrat, whether I'm here or not. I'm no doctor, Saba. We both know that I'm more use out there making sure that nothing comes back here. Doc Dean will take good care of you, if only because he knows what I'll do to him if he doesn't." They both grinned at that, remembering the tongue lashing she'd given the poor man when Saba had been delivering her first child; neither of them could even remember what it had been over, only that Doc Dean had developed a nervous tick in his cheek that only presented when he was speaking to Alya.

Alya slid the well-worn cards back into their case and rose from the table. "Stay warm Saba. I'll be back in about a year, and when I'm back I'll help out with the kids and-"

"And then you'll disappear for another season the second they ask you. Which they will, because you're one of their best."

Alya tossed a smirk to Saba as she walked towards the front door. "Where do you think our nickname came from? We aren't called BAMF's 'cause we sit around getting old and fat."

"Stay safe, Aly." Saba whispered to herself, staring at the featureless door as it swung closed with a creak of the hinge.

---

Blairmore, the Foothills Confederacy
January 10th, 2043 | Year 27: Day 178
Final preparations were done. Supplies were packed away, weapons freshly cleaned, ammunition dry, clothes mended, winter furs packed, and all other odds and ends squirreled away. Weather was looking good, with the warm chinook winds melting away the modest snowpack which had built up over the last month. Though it wouldn't last more than a few days, and there would be little to no warning when a new stormfront moved in, January did tend to be one of the drier months of the winter. If she was able to get far enough south, and cross the old border before February came, then the snow wouldn't trouble her much. Ideally, she would have crossed Idaho and reached Salt Lake by March.

Alya doubted that she would find any significant settlements nestled in the Rockies. The Confederacy had pretty much written off any plans to expand further north than Jasper, or farther west than Banff; there simply wasn't enough arable land, and not a long enough growing season, or enough game, to maintain any sizable population. While the infected-deadzone on their eastern border, from Lethbridge to Calgary and then on to Edmonton, protected them from any unwanted neighbours, it also prevented any eastward expansion. There was talk about re-settling Pincher Creek or Twin Butte, but that could leave the Mounties dangerously overstretched if there happened to be any unfriendly neighbours that moving on up. This was largely what had motivated the Mounties to start sending scouts outside the Confederacy, to assess how far the Mounties could safely expand before exposing weak points that could be exploited by raiders or hostile communities.

A soft snorting sound roused Alya from her thoughts, and her face twisted in annoyance. Her travelling companion was a chestnut-bay mare, ten years old and exceedingly calm. Saba had named it "Little Sister", after one of three mountain peaks visible from their old home in Blairmore. Little Sister had been Alya's mount for the past several years, and though she responded well to commands Alya still disliked the beast. Horses in general honestly; she found them noisy in all the wrong ways, and largely unpleasant to be around. The amount of food and water they needed was, quite frankly, abhorrent, though so long as she stuck to the Rockies there would always be plenty of water and foliage to take care of those needs. If they weren't so useful draft animals then Alya would have gladly penned them all, and farmed them like they did cows. Whatever her personal feelings towards them, horses were valuable animals, providing leather, adhesive, catgut strings and, of course, very lean meat.

But the day was short, and she'd need to make Waterton Lake before sundown to keep her schedule. Swinging up into the saddle, Alya snapped the reins sharply, and urged Little Sister into a swift trot. Sun high overhead, though it would be quick to fall behind the mountain peaks, she rode south.

---

Salida Outskirts, Colorado
March 14, 2043 | Year 27: Day 241
Alya paused at the burned-out husk of what she assumed had been a town, not a short while ago. Snow had lightly blanketed the charred structures, unbroken save for a few animal trails and the odd boot print, evidence of scavengers that had no doubt picked everything clean. A chill wind was blowing in from the west, not strong enough to flurry the snow but still able to strain the rusted iron of those still-standing doors, sending the keening wail which marked many a ghost town to echo through the hillside.

Carefully, perched atop Little Sister, Alya's eyes flicked over the town. From her vantage point she was able to see the entire town stretched out before her, a motley collection of collapsed roofs and blackened stumps, with no life to speak of. The seasons had not been kind to this place. She sniffed at the air, and began picking her way through the various scents that pervaded the area. Little Sister was the strongest, the musky scent of sweat and shit; the pine trees, sharp and clean; and underneath it all was the harsh, lingering char from the fire that had ravaged the town. Less noticeable were the squirrels, rabbits, and deer that had only recently begun wandering through the area once more. However, there was one scent which Alya knew well, and was most definitely not naturally occurring: gunpowder. From it's faintness she suspected a small gun battle, probably no more than a few people and a couple dozen rounds, which meant that it had to be recent. Probably within the last day or two.

Still, Alya could not smell any fresh blood, nor the malodorous stink that people tended to pick up after spending months without washing. There was nothing to be gained by staying here, but what had happened warranted further investigation into the general area. Flicking Little Sister's reins, she turned away from the razed town and headed back into the trees. Game trails would be safer than following the roads at the moment, at least until she knew if whoever had destroyed Salida was still lurking about.

Picking her way through the woods, Alya was struck by how empty the world felt. Since leaving the Confederacy on her assignment, she had found no major settlements to speak of. She had first struck out for Salt Lake City, figuring that locals would have been drawn to the area and that at least a few of them would have settled nearby, but she found nothing substantial. Only the occasional raider or traveller, coming and going to hovels and hideouts that posed no threat to anyone. She'd heard stories from those who had been alive before the infection had swept the world, about how there had been many billions of people in every single corner of the planet, how intellectuals had once argued over whether or not the Earth would be able to sustain everyone; what a laughable worry.

[New Grestin]

March 14th, 2043
Resistance & Liberation

The Collected History of the Wasteland: The Southwestern Territories
_{Written by Harold MacDaniels, with assistance by Andreas Kordokofsky and Michelle Nguyen}

---

The Southwest would prove to be an intriguing point in the history of the Post-Collapse world. Often relegated to lawlessness and violence, the region played host to a variety of powers, including the Republic of Texas. The Republic, founded by a conglomerate of small villages in the years closely following the Collapse, successfully brought much of the former state under a form of frontier law. Military power was unheard of, as most of the Republic's efforts were focused on reconstruction and the enactment of new laws, all of which were accomplished after days of debate at the El Paso Accords. Bordered by the former state of New Mexico, the Republic was frequently the victim of violent bandit conquests. The most notable of these was the November 2036 campaign by the Great Khan Tolui, whose conquests would nearly shatter the Republic if not for a valiant last stand at Odessa.

New Mexico would continue to play host to a menagerie of bandit gangs, while the Khans provided a strange measure of security in and around Albuquerque. It was said that a girl with a pot of bullets on her head could travel the entire city without fear of rape or robbery. This was due, in no small part, to the Khan's draconian laws. Little is known of the origins of the Khans, though mention of their existence can be found as early as 2025 in an eyewitness report by a Remnant Reclamation Unit. Said unit was obliterated by "men on motorbikes with spears and rifles" and "the survivors were flayed alive and eaten." Only one such individual was known to survive this incident.

Arizona maintained a state of lawlessness for much time, with scattered towns keeping an uneven peace. It was rumored that the Laredo Cartel migrated to the state following the crackdown by Republic authorities, but due to the lack of written records, such reports cannot be substantiated.

The events in Colorado, during early 2043, are of particular significance, however...

Denver, Colorado | February 2043

Snow had been falling heavy for some time now. It layered the streets in sheets, ever thickening and coating the skyscrapers overhead in a thin veneer of ash. Veronica covered her face, keeping the heavy woolen bandanna close as she marched forwards. Behind her were others, clad in coats and helmets, rifles in hand. Boots met the wet, marshy earth as gunfire echoed throughout the city. All she could do was look forwards and grip the rifle close, her haggard form barely staying on it's feet as the gas-station came into view. She raised her hand and motioned towards it. Relief traveled like wildfire through the squad. The battles of the Liberation, the conquests of Coors upon the rest of Denver, had taken their toll. Now the mere sight of shelter was treated with a joyous fervor.

She let her pack hit the ground with a quiet, wet thump. Her tired eyes began to sag, threatening to drag her into the depths of sleep. She shook it off. I'll sleep when I die, Veronica thought, snagging a cigarette from her pocket. A lighter followed closely behind as the sounds of scavenging emanated from the gas-station. The rest of the squad milled about as an overzealous pair of troopers kicked and threw themselves against the barred door. All they needed was the prospect that food laid within to keep them working. Veronica sighed and flicked the lighter. The flame grew, then died. Frustrated, she repeated the action. Once more, the flame died, almost in tune with the harsh beating the door was receiving behind her. Another thud, another dead flame.

A loud, wet crunch resounded from behind. The door collapsed and the two troopers stepped inside. Veronica flicked the lighter once more, smiling as the flame grew and flickered. She brought it towards the cigarette. One of the troopers felt something snap beneath his foot as he stepped inside, a quiet string of obscenities emerging from his lips.

A deafening blast knocked her forwards. Her ears rang, drowning out the sounds of her own moaning. Hours felt like seconds as the ringing began to fade, and her eyes rose to see the gas-station, now a smoldering, burning wreck. Blackened forms wandered near it's auburn, seared exterior as she approached. A woman stumbled about, eyes like saucers as she searched for her missing arm. Another monstrous vision came in the form of a man, totally seared to a blackened pulp, shrieking for his mother. There were no tears, for they evaporated off his face as he laid there before her, dying.

Veronica dropped to her knees, bile rising in her throat. Blood and viscera surrounded her like a macabre painting.

Their Liberation was to be paid for in blood, bodies buried in the foundations of Empire.

The Empress would create a wasteland, and call it peace.

---

4 Minutes outside Westcreek, Colorado | March 2043

Veronica awoke with a start, gasping and panting. Her eyes flicked around the tent, expecting something, anything. There was nothing. Nothing but the dark, tan fabric structure around her. Light peeked in through the tent-flaps, casting the room in a quiet, warm hue. She sighed. Gathering her things, she tromped past the scattered empty tin cans and firewood to the outside. The heat of the sun bared down on her, yet the wind still carried with it the last death throes of winter. Around a small campfire were the rest of the expedition; eight in total, all either eating or playing cards. Andrew barely looked up from his cards as he called out to her.

"Hurry up, the meat's going to go bad soon."

She pushed past the small group and sat down, letting one of the troopers hand her tin can. Some kind of liquid sloshed around inside with a vague resemblance to stew, coupled with a few hastily cut chunks of cooked meat. There wasn't much room to complain. Compared to the dried food and...mystery meat that Bill used to feed them, the idea of eating something that hadn't died screaming sounded positively wonderful. In another time, that kind of business would bother her, but there were far worse traumas to be concerned with. Face stuffed, she turned to Andrew. The man's scruff was beginning to overtake his face, turning the younger man into some kind of grizzled soldier.

"So, any ideas where to check out next?"

He shrugged, still engrossed in the card game. Her eyes flicked to the ground between the players. A handful of 9mm bullets, a piece of scrap metal and a freshly killed rat were apparently the chips. Despite the food in her hands, the prospect of rat meat sounded delicious. One would be surprised the kind of ingenuity that abject poverty brought out in people. Elitch was no exception, and during Bill's reign, her sisters had developed a variety of rat-based recipes. She remembered her mother saying that, as long as you put enough salt on it, you could get people to eat almost anything. Veronica smiled at the thought as Andrew spoke.

"Probably Cheyenne Mountain. I've heard there's some pretty good stuff there."

"Stuff?"

"You know, like pre-war stuff. Military, that kind of thing."

"Hm."

She went back to her breakfast, thoughts drifting back to her nightmares. Just as her mind was beginning an angry diatribe on the horrors of the Liberation, Andrew's voice cut in.

"You were talking in your sleep again."

Veronica shot him an odd look.

"How would you know?"

He chuckled, throwing down his cards along with the rest of the players. He swore under his breath as one of the troopers, a younger blonde amazon cheered and snatched up her winnings. Andrew let a quiet sigh escape him as he rose, turning towards Veronica. A shit-eating grin plastered his face as he spoke.

"You're kind of loud, and we share a tent. It's kind of hard not to notice."

She laughed and downed the rest of the stag meat stew. Andrew might have been a brainwashed twit in her eyes, but at least he could be pleasant when he wanted to be. Didn't help that she wanted him to step on a landmine.

---

Coors, The Dominion of Denver | March 2043

"I think you're overcorrecting. You need to straighten your back out."

Jen rolled her eyes. The sun was peeking over the horizon, casting the city in an orange hue. Reds and yellows danced across the desiccated corpses of skyscrapers and shattered structures. A few fires burned here and there, out of sewer holes and body pits as the reclamation efforts churned forwards. Infected were being purged from the city at an astonishing rate and with an efficiency not seen since the Remnants ruled. All of this laid bare before Jennifer, but she could have cared less.

All that mattered at the moment was getting at goddamned window knocked out.

It sat in a skyscraper, opposite the stadium, taunting her with it's mere existence. Her compatriot, Adriana, stood nearby with golf-club in hand as Jen readied her swing.

"You're going to miss."

Another dirty look, another swing, another miss. Jen scoffed and stepped away, letting the amazon take her spot on their impromptu driving range. She wore a long, dark green jacket with a pair of tattered jeans. Bandoliers and regality had been tossed aside, sacrifices at the temple of competition. Jen was dressed in similarly casual fashion, a tan jacket over her old ratty tanktop and pants, remnants of her time as a scavenger. There was something comforting about it, in spite of all the discomfort she'd experienced in those clothes. All the terror and fear and agony she'd felt seemed to have melted away, replaced with a sort of pleased resignation. She knew this was her calling, to lead these people. These tired, these poor, these huddled masses yearning to breathe free.

She was still lost in her own grand narcissism when Adriana spoke.

"I know you didn't ask me up here without a reason."

Jen sighed, looking to see if the window had been shattered yet. It still had not.

"No, I didn't." Her voice seemed tired, almost as though the words had true weight. Their eyes met.

"We aren't going to keep pretending Elitch didn't happen, are we?"

The woman looked almost offended, stopping and propping herself against the club. Black hair blowing in the wind, Jen found her nearly impossible to read. Whether it was the fog of emotion or the way the hair obscured her face, she couldn't say.

"No, but you know we can't just tell everyone about it. The others will think you're playing favorites."

"Maybe I am, so what?"

"You know they won't let that slide. You already pushed them to the limit back in February. They'll revolt, or get you killed, or both of us killed."

There was a somber truth to her words, a truth Jen didn't want to acknowledge, but she knew she needed to. Her mouth had barely begun to form a retort when a voice called out from the hatch below. The shakiness and stuttering revealed it as Miller's.

"Paulson! We got the bastard!"

Raising an eyebrow, she stepped over and peeked past the hatch door. Elation was stifled with cynicism.

"Who?"

"Paine! Tommy Paine!"

Her heart skipped a beat. Without a second thought, she tossed her club aside and snatched the woman. The two quickly embraced and Jen was down the hatch and in her office, tailing behind Miller. Nearly tripping over a pile of history books, she paused by her desk, snatching up Tommy's reports and a handgun. The chamber was loaded, another nine waited eagerly, nestled in the magazine. Even if she didn't get anything out of him, she'd thoroughly enjoy killing the man. It was like having a splinter removed. The only difference was the amount of blood and screaming involved.

---

The door flung open, nearly knocked off it's hinges as Jen and Miller stepped inside. The room was bare, save for a small table near a chair. Strapped within was Tommy, along with an Enforcer. The man, clad in restored SWAT fatigues and a black executioner's hood, brandished a heavily modified scrap shotgun. He towered over the pair as Miller shoved the door closed, a heavy coat still hanging from his pallid frame. Jen nodded to the Enforcer, who quickly slapped Tommy across the face. That seemed to awaken the man, who seemed as though he need a moment for things to process.

Jen smiled wide.

"Good morning, Tommy."

Mockingly, she stepped forwards and knelt down, still wearing that terrible smile. Miller looked visibly uncomfortable as she grabbed his face, turning it and looking his head over for a moment before she loosened her grip and stood. Her attention turned to the Enforcer, who had leaned against the wall alongside Miller.

"Well, you guys didn't do a terrible job, I'll give you that."

Once more, she looked Tommy over. Her head swam with the possibilities, eyes flicking to the table. It was covered in all manner of implements from knives and scalpels, to more archaic tools like a hammer and a hatchet. She quickly slid the pistol from her coat and dropped it on the table as well. She didn't know why, but something about torture really got the creative juices flowing. Something about another person being totally vulnerable, perhaps. The why was irrelevant at this point, really. The how was what concerned her. How she was going to torment this living parasite, always nipping at her backside, for being such a nuisance. There were some formalities to get out of the way, though. She quickly pulled her hair up into a ponytail; even if it was red, blood was hard to wash out.

Still smiling ear to ear, and with a tone of amusement, she lorded over the man.

"Don't bother struggling. You're going to die in here, the question is if you die slowly or quickly. That all depends on if you give me what I need, which is the rest of your terrorist buddies."

[Derelldia]

March 14th, 2043
Salida Outskirts, Colorado

Eyes staring upwards, body remaining still, rifle lying to the side, the wind blowing through the tall trees, an assortment of nature's creatures running through the snow covered grass. Twas an odd start to the day for Locust. Normally he'd never lie around in the damp morning snow covered grass. However, he felt like there was nothing to do as of now. He was bored. No Dominion patrols to hunt down that were nearby. No random travelers to unsettle with his presence. He had the supplies he needed to get to another settlement, but what one? He knew there was Denver but that was just a suicide mission to even get near to it and keep up his weird mask aesthetic. No, that wouldn't do. There's that Walsenburg settlement. It wasn't far from where he currently was. Locust stood up, brushing off any snow from him, he picked up his rifle and backpack. He slung the backpack over his shoulders and, with the rifle in his hands, he started his journey to Walsenburg.

Walking through the snow covered woods, it felt similar to his meeting with the group who followed the man calling Wolfgang. Wind blowing through, snow on the ground, the smell of a battle in the air, the sound of someone else walking through the woods. Was an interesting evening. Finding people and having them point guns at them, somehow it always made him laugh. Always three people, always at least one lass. The newer group were different, compared to the group from before Salida fell. Locust sighed as he walked through the forest, occasionally he stopped to let his leg rest. He thought he'd be used to walking with an injured leg like this, turns out he isn't.

Locust leaned against a tree and turned his gaze outwards towards where he was going. The trees seemed to end giving way to the wide empty plains. Nothing but a patchwork of melting snow with the grass and plants breaking through while the mountains loomed in the backdrop of it all. No sign of Walsenburg in sight, or at least to what Locust could see as of now. The sight of some smoke rising from behind a hill slightly to his left in the distance seemed to signify some sort of activity. Could be anything from a small camp, raiders, The Dominion, anything. However, based on his own knowledge, he figured it must have been Walsenburg. He had been to it a handful of time before. Never stepping foot inside it, just around it to make sure travelers made it there safely. This time was different, he had to go inside it. Nowhere nearby it to randomly just setup his own camp and not be seen.

[Beiarusia]

...

Year 27: Day 241
March 14, 2043

Mercer // Starkville, Colorado

“You have to be persistent in my line of work,” Striker said with a sly grin. “And trust me, I’m on your side in this little hunt of yours, only I have a different mindset on what’s possible and what’s likely to get you killed. If you know where to look then by all means, but as I was telling Mercer here, if that girl’s alive, if she made it through the winter, well, she’d have be long gone from Vulture territory. Understand, you need information, and for that you need money, and I just so happen to know where the next payday is.”

Mercer stepped up, silencing the man with his presence. His voice was little more than a grumble. “We’ll talk about it later. Let’s keep moving before we waste too much time.”

The group continued north along I-25. It would take little over an hour to reach Trinidad, and if nothing harassed them they’d be in Lynn by nightfall. Lynn was abandoned, had been for the last fifteen years, but there were rumors that someone had holed up in Trinidad. Bandits or people down on their luck, it was hard to know, but if the rumors were true they’d likely be gone by now considering the harsh winter. Regardless, Mercer told everyone in the group to be on guard as they approached the town lest they find any surprises awaiting them. Eight men plus a dog should be fine to hold their own against most threats, but it was better to be safe than sorry.

Trinidad was just on the horizon when Mercer stopped the group. If one looked carefully enough faint smoke could be seen rising from the town. Not a raging fire but likely something being cooked or for warmth. Someone was home.

“How do you guys wanna play this?” he asked the others. They could risk walking in. Maybe they were friendly; maybe they were bandits. Likewise they could go around but doing so would waste time and they’d never make it to Lynn before dark, and camping out in the open was a recipe for disaster. Neither option seemed too good. It was now just a matter of picking the less bad idea.

[Wallenburg]

14 March 2043 || Cheyenne Mountain

Darkness surrounded her. She stared out into the endless void, searching for its black heart. Her fingers drummed against her chest. She was reclined, staring up into the dark, searching for a speck of light. But there was nothing. No light, no sound. Only the gentle push of the floor against her back, and the lightly drumming fingers.

She had been listening to the radio. The Louisianans were advancing north, slowly. They needed more land, more food. Their numbers were growing, and the future generations would need more land before someone else took it. The Texans were doing something. She wasn't sure what, but it couldn't be good. And then Denver had grown into a force of its own. The Louisiana chatter was exploding about Colorado. People were afraid. They had already killed a Louisianan officer, and there were two others missing, perhaps dead as well.

She smiled. Ah, what little did they know about all of that! She leaned forward and stood up. The sounds of shoes on concrete clicked out loudly underneath her after so much silence. She stretched out her arms and her back, reaching out into the empty darkness. She couldn't even see her hands, but the tips of her fingers tickled as they grasped onto the cold, dry air.

More footsteps, softer than her own, approached from far into the void. She walked toward them for a bit, then stopped and closed her eyes, replacing darkness with darkness. She heard a scraping metal sound in front of her --almost painfully loud after her solitude--and saw a flood of white light through her eyelids. She opened them, squinting against the harsh light.

"Are you there?" asked a voice.

"Yes, yes I am," she said.

A face materialized. An aging man, tired but still obstinate enough to face the challenges of the new world. "You need to come out. It's been three days and...well, you should see some other places here. Not just the quarters."

"There's nothing out there for us, dear. We'll never get back home. Denver's growing too quickly, and they'll never come this far to find us."

"Locking yourself up won't do any good. Come on, at least walk with me for a while."

She sighed and sat down at a nearby desk. She had only been in the darkness for an hour, but her eyes had already become accustomed to it. The desk, and everything else, was hard to see in the whitewash of the new light.

The man gave her an irritated look. "You aren't the only one who is suffering, you know. Hell, we're the lucky ones in this deal."

She snapped her head around and gave him a fierce glare. "You have no idea what--"

"What you're going through?" he interrupted. "Don't give me that shit. I'm the one who is responsible for her death. You don't see me dressing myself in my own misery. We have people depending on us, and people we depend on, and--"

"And we shouldn't burden people with our problems and pain, I know. That's why I want to stay here. Sure, I'm not contributing much, but I'm not taking much either." She stared at the radio, the cold machine on the desk, currently silent.

He sighed and knelt down next to her. "You need to make things better with Sera. She has her own burden to carry, and nobody to tell about it. We have the gift of each other to help bear through this, and she has nothing. I don't know if she misses Mercer or what, but I'd say she's doing even worse than us. I'm not asking you to give up the radio. Just...just remember that there is a world here as well."

She held her hand on the radio's power switch, tapping her forefinger against it. "Hugh, I just want to go home. But that isn't going to happen. We won't survive a journey alone to Louisiana, and Louisiana is never going to find us. What else do I have to live for?"

Hugh bit his lip and stood up. "All I can tell you is that you still have us. And you are not alone in this."

She stared at him for a moment, then took his hand and squeezed it lightly. "Okay, I'll come with you. Just...let's make it quick."

"All right, Lauren. Let's go."

[Beiarusia]

Year 27: Day 241
March 14, 2043

Sera Tallow // Cheyenne Mountain

Three knocks. A dull thud, thud, thud of soft flesh on cold metal. Hollow in the deafening silence of the hall. A moment and then another set, louder this time. A voice called out from inside and the door opened. The room beyond was dark, the only light coming from the flashlight left sitting on the console near where the old man worked, his hands hidden within the open panel amongst the circuits and wires. He didn’t bother to look up to the girl as she entered. “What is it?”

“I brought you lunch,” Sera said, her voice lacking any warmth. She stepped over to the nearest table and sat the bowl of soup on top, careful to not trip over herself in the darkness. Her delivery done she turned to leave, eyes lingering on the chair where the skeleton had once sat the day before. The body had since been moved. To where Sera had not cared to ask.

Ambrose glanced over to the lunch and nodded his head with some appreciation. He had been busy with the Security Center ever since gaining access, doing everything he could to restore power to the important systems that would, ultimately, give him some measure of control over the bunker. Thus far he had made little progress. The old man was certain that should he unlock the Power Station he would be capable of fixing whatever fault that prevented the generators from running at full capacity. In all likelihood the generators were fine and the issue lay with the wiring, a simple fix to be sure, but only if he could lift the security lockdown, and to do that he would need to reroute what little power there was reaching the Security Center to the correct consoles, something that was easier said than done.

Sera said nothing as she left the room. She closed the door behind her, descended the staircase with only the handrail to guide her feet, and stepped out and into the cold air of the complex proper, the sound of her footfalls muffled by the thick socks she wore. Soon enough she was back in the bunker and descending to the barracks that had been hers and everyone else’s home over the winter. At least here the power worked to some reasonable degree.

The girl was very tempted to head back to bed, to be alone, but her stomach growled in protest at the thought. She hadn’t had lunch yet, or breakfast for that matter. In fact, she had been on her way to eat something when Luke had given her the soup to take to Ambrose. Sera hadn’t complained and had did as told. Not that she minded. She was practically a servant girl as it was. On the rare occasions that she did come out from her room Sera was often busy doing whatever chores that needed to be done, like a robot stuck on autopilot, so the idea of delivering a meal to someone else was nothing more than another task to be finished.

Entering the kitchen the girl found herself a can of something - she didn’t really care what – and struggled with the opener for a few seconds, finally managing to lock the small blade to the lip and twisting the handle until the top popped off. Dumping the mess of beans into a bowl she stepped over to the microwave and entered in a random number of minutes, checking every so often to see if the food was warm enough. Satisfied with the temperature Sera went over to the table to eat. The first spoonful was bland. The second was much the same. She chewed slowly, not so much to savor the lack of flavors but more so because there was little reason to rush. No hurry. Why bother.

Hugh and Lauren stepped into the room, pausing as they spied the girl at the table, her back to them. Sera heard them enter and without looking knew exactly who was behind her. It wasn’t difficult to guess, what with only five people living in the bunker. She didn’t feel like talking and so said nothing to the older couple.

Another bite, just as bland as before.

[Partially Blind People]

Tommy Paine, unknown

Tommy came to slowly, cautiously opening his eyes to the harsh light that suddenly flooded into them. His instant reaction was to rub them but he found himself unable to, instead, he was restrained in a chair. He briefly struggled against the restraints but found himself unable to carry on as pain shot from the bullet wounds in his abdomen.

"Good morning, Tommy."

The room gradually came into focus. Various blurs became outlines, then shapes, then people. One in particular caught his attention instantly. Her. She knelt down in front of him before grasping his face, inspecting it. Her icy fingers bit into his skin, almost toxic to his very being, seemingly attempting to unravel his existence through touch alone. He held his breath as she did so, concentrating on remaining in the moment as terror threatened to overcome him.

"Well, you guys didn't do a terrible job, I'll give you that."

He released his breath quickly and replaced it with shallow, panicky gasps. The restraints seemed to tighten, digging into his chest, trapping him in this room, this nightmare. He glanced around, finding there to be little to the room apart from the chair he was sat in, leaving him the centre of attention, the maniac to tease, to torture. His body shook more whilst small beads of sweat began to trickle down his forehead, despite the freezing cold. The shadows seemed to leap at him, baiting him more than Jen did, smothering his already strained lungs. The brand on his leg burned more than ever, spreading a fire throughout his body, heat coursing through his veins at lightning speed.

He closed his eyes, no longer fighting the thought of Jen and what she would do, but fighting himself, pushing his emotion back, refusing to give in to the insanity that torture had given him before.

"Tommy you're a piece of shit, you know that?"

He nearly laughed at the voice. He hadn't heard his father speak in months.

"Six foot fucking five, built like a fucking bear and you're nearly crying at some edgy pseudo-psychopath? My lord, I knew the outriders had gone soft but I didn't think it was this bad!"

His breathing calmed, becoming deep and controlled, whilst his trembling hands settled into defiant clenched fists.

"So are you going to fucking face her like the man I raised you to be or are you going to wimp out again?"

He opened his eyes as she looked over him, facing her sadistic enthusiasm with stoic resignation.

"Don't bother struggling. You're going to die in here, the question is if you die slowly or quickly. That all depends on if you give me what I need, which is the rest of your terrorist buddies."

His voice did not waver as he replied. It stayed constant and resolute, true to his determination to overcome her.

"Jen, I'm glad to see you again, though it's a shame about the circumstances." He nodded to the torture instruments and the guards by the door. "I think you'll find I have no terrorist buddies. I do know a few freedom fighters, though."

[Mesrane]

Year 27: Day 241
March 14th, 2043

Davis McKinnon // Florissant, Colorado


Heavy boots tread on cracked asphalt as Davis plowed eastward, Charlie close behind. The last day of travel had taken them through the desolate emptiness of the Front Range, a disquieting sense of unease building within them with every step taken towards the east. There truly was no one around. It seemed like the mountains watched as warily as did the two travelers, aware of some horrible happening that Davis and Charlie were not.

Behind Davis, a deep baritone voice quietly took up Oh! Susanna. The ranger rolled his eyes. So someone's not bothered at all, he thought. Or he's just exceptionally good at pretending he's not, which seems to me a skill that a pastor should have.

Ahead, the cracked highway, one of the last testaments to the old world in this wilderness, opened up and split off. For the first time that day, there were buildings, albeit decrepit ones, lining the road. A bent, nearly faded sign filled with so many bullet holes as to make it unreadable marked the beginning of another lost, abandoned old world town, empty and dead like so much of the world nowadays. Or so Davis hoped. The previous day's surprise in Hartsel was not one he was eager to receive again.

He turned back to Charlie. "We need to find some rocks."

The sight of the town ahead brought Charlie's singing to a halt. Unease that Davis had been feeling all day finally showed itself on his face. "What for?"

"If anything's hiding in that town, they'll hear the rocks before they hear us."

Shrugging, the pastor threw his pack to the ground and began collecting small stones along the road without another word. Davis joined him. Soon they had amassed a small pile of rocks, which they proceeded to take and throw at various windows.

The shattering of glass pierced the afternoon's quiet, but the two men aroused the wrath of neither beast nor man. Only the birds, taking flight at the commotion, seemed to notice that anything at all was amiss.

Charlie retrieved his pack from the road and pulled his canteen from it. Taking a sip, he surveyed the ruins, analyzing every nook and cranny. He didn't have Davis' eyes, but he had as much if not more practice with scoping out places like this. It was a major reason for his being alive. "We got probably five hours of sunlight left and plenty of food. Let's take a quick look around and move on."

Davis nodded in agreement. "Yep. Mountains give us cover that we didn't have before too. Alright, meet back here in ten."

The two split up and began searching houses and stores on opposite sides of the town's sole street. Twenty-seven years of scavenging and flight had rendered shelves bare and cabinets empty, but there were still items of use to be found among the dust. Davis scrounged a half dozen .45 rounds from under a bed, along with a pair of tweezers and an unblemished roll of bandages.

And then; the gem. Some poor bastard's old Ford pickup was halfway out of a driveway, like the driver had tried to flee town to get away from the plague, only to think better of it without bothering to return the truck to the garage.

The car itself of course was dead, unusable. But on the seat Davis found a perfectly untouched case, containing within a CD of the Rolling Stones' album Let it Bleed. Being only six at the time of the outbreak, Davis was too young to know who the hell The Rolling Stones were, but he was positively mad for old world music, whenever and wherever he could get it. That he had no means to play any of it as yet did not deter him in the slightest.

Davis scooped up the CD and stared at it for a moment, caressing it reverently as if it was his own child. Eyes shining, he slipped it into his bag and moved on. Ten minutes had passed, and Charlie would be waiting.

They reunited at the same spot, right where the highway bisected the little town.

Charlie had his things spread out on an old rag. "Chef Boyardee and me meet again, it seems," he announced. "The Lord has provided us with three cans, still good, along with a magazine's worth of 9mm ammunition and some firecrackers. You?"

Kneeling, Davis removed the plastic baggie in which he kept his haul. ".45 rounds and some medical stuff." He didn't mention the CD, which was buried at the bottom of his pack.

They divided the supplies up between them and were trudging east again within minutes. The road was quiet as ever, but the Rockies and the whispering pines provided no comfort at all as the two men drew closer to Colorado Springs.

[New Grestin]

"Jen, I'm glad to see you again, though it's a shame about the circumstances." He nodded to the torture instruments and the guards by the door. "I think you'll find I have no terrorist buddies. I do know a few freedom fighters, though."

She sighed. The man wouldn't break under pressure. He was stubborn like that. Even back in Salida, when she'd used him like a plaything, he still held her off. That would need to change. Snatching up one of the reports, she thumbed through it as she paced the room.

"You know, Tommy. It's funny you should say that, because the report I'm reading is saying that you've killed at least ten people since you came to the city."

Jen dropped the report on the small table, her tone turning solemn, almost angry.

"Those people had friends, Tommy. Family. People who depended on them, and you killed them."

With little warning, she took a swing at the man. It hit, but not with the impact she'd intended. Pain shot up through her arm as it connected with his face. The realization of her mistake was made readily apparent as she rubbed her hand. Grimacing, she motioned to the Enforcer, who stepped forwards and decked Tommy across the face. A loud thud resounded through the room, making Miller wince as the Enforcer stepped away, arms crossed. Jen scratched her head awkwardly, then resumed.

"You think I'm some kind of tyrant, like I enjoy my position-"

She paused, snatching a rusted, near ancient hacksaw from the table. Admiring it for a moment, she leaned against the table and grabbed Tommy's face again, forcing him to stare her down.

"-And while I won't deny that there are certain benefits, my job is to keep the Dominion alive and stable. When you came into the city, were you raped and murdered? Were you ravaged in the street by a Lurker?"

Her grip loosened and she stepped away, sliding her jacket off and tossing it in the corner. The smell of sweat and vomit permeated the room as she snatched up Tommy's hand, settling the hacksaw against his right thumb. Jen continued, her tone carrying the grandiose egotism of a leader, coupled with the disturbed glee of a serial killer.

"No, you weren't, because I'm in fucking charge and you people aren't. You've killed my soldiers, wasted my time, and made a mockery of everything the Dominion stands for. So, we're going to start cutting and when you decide to tell me where they are, I'll stop."

Staring the man down, she let the teeth of the saw bite into his skin.

"Last chance, Tommy. It's do or die."

[Wallenburg]

Christopher Garmany || 14 March 2043 || Texas Creek, Colorado

I sat on top of the roof of the cafe, watching the sunrise. The wood of the walls and roof were splintered, and the blue roof had bleached slowly in the sun, leaving pale flecks of paint that drifted away in the rain and snow and wind. Like all other buildings lost in the forests of Colorado, it had suffered extensive water damage. The wood was warped and let the night air come through even more. But I was getting used to it.

Ver was not doing well. She had lost consciousness again, and Carlos had to watch over her most of the night. He thought that she was getting worse. The bullet must have done more damage, or maybe we missed something, he told me. Her condition really frightened him. I convinced him to get some rest and took his shift for him. All that time, Ver was just sitting there against the wall, lapsing in and out of consciousness. She muttered incoherently at times, until she finally went to sleep. Then I left the café and, with no infected nearby, I decided to venture outside, and watch the sun inch its way over the horizon.

The remains of the town were sleepy and quiet. There was nothing there to take, only the silence and tranquility of a world uninhabited by humans, healthy or infected. There were no creatures. There were no bandits. I wondered who had last passed through here, stopped here. The sun's rays broke in the east and shone down on the café. I smiled and felt the warm light sooth my cold frame.

"Chris, where are ya?" called out Carlos, awake and worried.

"Up here. Nothing dangerous out here, just the buildings and us."

"All right then. I'm making breakfast. Beans, raw."

---

We set out from Texas Creek early, Ver lying in an old cart we had found by a liquor store. She slept peacefully, her face calm, almost unnervingly so. I piloted the cart, dragging it behind us as Carlos carried most of our gear.

"How much longer to Colorado Springs, Carlos?"

"Another day or so. We'll probably have to make another stop."

The road before us stretched infinitely into the forest and brush. Pockets of snow still sat melting in places, especially deeper into the trees, where a growing canopy shrouded much from the fire sweeping slowly above.

"That's a lot of walking for two people, Carlos."

He smiled. "Well, you chose this. And I'm busy with my own share of the load. You'll just have to deal with the extra weight."

I grumbled unhappily and tugged on the cart again. It's wheels often disagreed with the cracked pavement, but it was better than the alternative. The first trees approached us and we trudged into its dark embrace.