Chapter 3: Viva le Guillotine
They had probably past by several of these flotillas on the way through the swamp. Wasteland traders and scavengers, with varying degrees of hospitality. Most of them were nice enough to at least stick a shotgun at your face and curse in Cajun before pulling the trigger, provided you were smart enough to take the hint. Still, some of them were friendly enough to barter. Caps for fuel, ammo, and other necessities. Higher quality stuff, however, required other venues of payment.
Desmond and his apprentice dragged the thing by the tip of its tail into the mouth of the houseboat. The weathered ghoul manning the counter looked down the creature, taking the tape measure from his neck and going down the creature. Finishing, he turned to look at his fellow ghoul, spitting to the side.
"Eighteen feet. Not bad for a tourist."
"Ugly fucker, he is. Smart though, almost got me a few times. Now, about payment?" Desmond asked.
The Cajun ghoul opened a lockbox, gingerly working around several wires. He put a map on the table, with various colored lines running from the bayou to Texas.
"Here's yer map and here's yer routes. Pick'ems are yours to make. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got gator stew and leathers to whip up."
Back on the airboat, Vana threw out the three broken harpoons they received from the melee. It was bad enough that bullets couldn't pierce the beast, but even the heated harpoons they spent most of their caps on only seemed to agitate the monster. At any rate, the sooner they left this death-hole, the better.
"Charming folks, these Cajun bastards," Desmond exclaimed as he joined her in the boat. "Nice little society they've built up. Basic civilization is better then no civilization."
"Is that what your countrymen would say?" Vana asked as she fished for the keys in her pocket.
"Story of Europe," Desmond admitted. "What little we got is all we got. You got the real estate, the water, the food, the shelter, you call all the shots."
"Sounds familiar," Vana sniffed.
Yeah, it's wasteland survival 101, isn't it? When the bombs dropped, most institutions fell apart, couldn't handle the weight of the world caving in, so they buckled their knees and fell on their asses. So, with no cavalry on the horizon, the best you could do was look after you and yours. You do well at that, you have the opportunity to put together a gang or a tribe. Oh, but who am I kidding, you know how this works, don't you?
Well, it didn't take particularly long for the French to figure that out. I mean, I can't particularly blame them; they had the guns pointing east even if the Krauts never came over the line. Without a government telling them where to point, there wasn't much stopping some of the more ethically flexible from arming themselves and other like-minded entrepreneurs.
We'll call these remarkable gems of humanity "le robber barons," which I believe is French for "The Robber Barons." Just in case you were hankering for a little slice of nobility from your typical thieves and rapists. In general, they typically hole up in anything that can be easily defended. Army bases and forts, mansions are popular too, but some of the more ambitious among them tend to utilize abandoned castles. Fans of the status, I take?
Anyhow, these lots tend to enjoy reenacting the feudal era; usually carrying off any food, valuables, or pretty girls they take a fancy for. For them, brutalizing others is something of an art form. Best of all for them, for the longest time, they didn't even need to make a threat to live off the other survivors.
See, Europe has become a dangerous place. To the north, raiders attack from the sea, putting to the blade whatever they can't carry off. To the south, religious nutters seek glory and look for any excuse to wage war on heretics. There are also those who fear collecting a debt from the underworld, rumors being as they are conjuring up all kinds of sordid imagery. To say nothing of the east, those who carry the wrath of the past and will annihilate any and all who oppose them. Huh, I seem to be getting poetic at the moment? I'll explain everything in due time. I shall only explain one shithole per story. Keeps things interesting, see?
Anyway, for the longest time, these robber barons had been reluctantly tolerated. Primarily because most folks are cowards and are afraid of risking their own necks, but also because of the belief that these barons were the only line of defense against the nasties of the rest of the world. And this lie went strong for about a century or so, but as of late, some chaps are taking matters into their own hands.
I have little love for the French. Cultural differences, you understand, dating back to Hastings. Still, if I'll give them credit for one thing, it's that those buggers know how to revolt like no one else. Over the decades, an underground movement was formed with the intended goal of liberating France of all oppressors, both foreign and domestic. This group called themselves the Marquis, and in basic terms, resembles a combination of those yahoos you call the Railroad and the Minutemen all the way up in Yankee-land proper. These guys are really good at putting together Intel, and they've got the balls enough to try and take on anyone who they deem in desperate need of a scalping. They wear no uniform and fly no colors other than their old flag. Over the years, they figured out the proper ways of guerilla warfare, whittling away the barons' power over time. And once people stop being afraid of you, the clock itself starts to tick. Most are fool enough to try and die fighting, and as of late, the Marquis is eager to dish out its own brand of justice…
Ines snaked through the hallways, listening carefully as she held her battle rifle in front of her. She wasn't supposed to be here, she didn't want to be here, but she had to be absolutely sure that that pig paid every debt she had been owed. For herself. For Jacques. For Pierre. For Marcel. For her family.
Passing by the window, she could hear the gunshots and screams from down below. The Marquis had breached the walls, and the bandit "soldiers" had barely been roused from their slumber when their sentries had been killed. Her knife still soaked in the blood of two who had been unmindful. Her orders had been to link back up with the main assault, but Ines was willing to be insubordinate just this once.
She recognized this place. God help her, she still recognized this place. She remembered being younger, scared, and somewhat innocent when she had been first brought here. That… monster, Gaspard Lamont, often desired new playthings to hold his attention. And for weeks, she had been his. So many tears shed, so many pleads to be released back to her family, still lying dead where they were shot. So many violations, so many beatings, so many threats and taunts. When he grew bored of her, once the last glimmer of hope had seemed to leave her eyes, he discarded her like he had of the others. She had heard rumors that it was custom to have his guards hunt down those he no longer desired and that they would be free to do with them as they pleased. Fortunately for her, the Marquis found her before the guards did. Fortunately for her, she met Jacques, who took her in and gave her shelter. Fortunately for her, she met Pierre, who taught her how to fight against her trauma and turn it into a fire to help the Marquis. Fortunately for her, she met Marcel, who taught her how to laugh, dream, and even love once again. The war against Lamont would take all three from her over the years.
She remembered the doorway. She almost had to stop herself from screaming when she saw it again. Steeling herself, she threw her back against the doorframe, battle rifle crossing her chest, barring in her still beating heart. She was going to kill her last ghost. Her last nightmare. After this, she would bury her past and look to the future, once and for all.
"Gaspard!" she screamed. "Justice comes for you!" She kicked the doorway open after a few attempts. She entered the room with her rifle drawn. She had expected guards, perhaps. At the very least Lamont himself, possibly even on top of another poor soul she could only empathize with and weep for afterward. She did not expect an iron gauntlet to belt her in the stomach, forcing her to drop her weapon as the armored figure forced her against the wall.
Her eyes couldn't help but dart around the room. In addition to the one pinning her to the wall, there were three other similar figures in the chamber. All shaped like larger than average men, all wearing body-armor and trench coats, and all with the face-concealing masks that made them look all the more like monsters. They carried with them weapons that put hers to shame, in addition to the massive swords on their backs. Most of their backs. One had his drawn, straight through the carcass of the man who had once been Gaspard Lamont.
As Ines tried to process what had happened, two more figures had entered the chamber. One of them looked like someone had endured far too much radiation poisoning, an ailment Ines had rarely seen in her time in the wasteland, let alone one with all his mental faculties organized, while the other…
The other was simply the most beautiful woman she had ever seen in her life. Tall and blonde, she carried with her poise and complexion that Ines simply didn't believe were possible in this wasted land. Ines was confused. If women like this existed in the world, then why did people like Lamont terrorize people like her so much? A question that was superseded by another, more pressing matter. Just who were these people?
The rotten man exclaimed something to the armored guests. The armored ones responded in kind. Ines had never had much of formal education, but judging on what little she could understand, the rotten man spoke English, and the armored ones spoke German. Ines wondered what a limey was doing this far into the mainland, and why the others were speaking Ger-
Terror welled up in her once again. If these people were what she thought they were, then she would have preferred dying down below during the shootout. She did not know much of the Teutonic Reich, but what little she did know terrified her beyond words. Fate was cruel.
The woman barked what sounded like an order to her men, although one could never really tell with German. The woman slowly approached her, gently pulling down the arm that foisted her against the wall, and looked into Ines' eyes. A small smile crept onto the woman's face.
"So, you have an issue with Gaspard, as well?" she spoke in perfect French.
"Who are you?" Ines asked.
"We… we were never here. We don't exist," the blonde woman smiled. "You entered this chamber by yourself and took your revenge. Understand?"
It was against Ines nature to follow the orders of someone she just met, but something about the woman told her that this wasn't someone to argue with. Ines swallowed and nodded.
"Excellent. You are free to take the head with you and bask in the glory of your triumph. You earned it," the blonde woman added in a chipper tone.
The rotten man approached behind the blonde, motioning to a briefcase and asking something of the blonde. The blonde took the briefcase. She looked down to it and paused for a moment. She then looked towards Ines, and the faintest smile crept on her face.
"Have the kapitan escort you to the rendezvous," the woman said, still in French. "I shall join you once the matters here are settled." The rotten man nodded, leaving the room as he was flanked by two of the armored ones.
"May I ask your name, Mademoiselle?"
"Ines. Ines Dubois," she answered.
"Call me Fleur. I'm here because Gaspard took something that didn't belong to him, and didn't return it when I asked. So I punished him." "Fleur" looked Ines up and down. Clearly, Gaspard had some fun with this one. She prevented herself from tut-tutting. If he had been a good boy and enforced her will as she had asked, she'd have provided him with enough pets at his leisure. But, perhaps fear and tears were a turn on that her copies weren't able to provide? And she was still a cute one. "Fleur" was almost tempted to try a piece for herself. Almost.
"Tell you what? How would you like to be my friend?" "Fleur" asked. "In this briefcase, I have something that can make you a hero. Perhaps even a queen, if you proceed correctly."
Ines balked. "What are you talking about?"
"Fleur" smiled.
Some distance away, Desmond lit up another cigarette as the shell and the rest of her bodyguards rejoined.
"Well, that was uneventful. A lot of work and planning just to throw that suitcase back into the hands of those Frenchies," he groused.
"A calculated risk, as usual," the shell placated the ghoul. "With the Marquis overthrowing the barons quicker than expected, it would make due to have a few friends with the new rulers of the French wastes."
"Rulers? You that keen on these?" Desmond asked.
"Keen? Surely you can recognize the pattern on display? The rebels overthrow the government. They set up a new government, based on liberty, equality, and brotherhood. They find, over time, that some deserve it more than others. Much more so. They look after their own and leave the others to fend for themselves. The others band together. And the song starts all over again."
From the window in the tower, a hand gripping a severed head by the neck reached out, to the cheers of the castle's new owners. "For now, let them bask in their triumph. Ines Dubois shall go down in history a hero of the revolution. Not only in liberating her people, but giving back life to the wastelands. More then a hero, she'll be seen as a deity down the line."
"Quite the gift you have bestowed upon her. Godhood isn't something you've been known to share, Mel," Desmond spoke.
The shell bristled, just slightly. "Names, Lockheart. Anyway, this gift won't come cheap. My master will be very…hands on with her new client. I told her she's invited to Chateau deRictoberg, and that my master will want to appraise her personally, perhaps even invites her into the… alliance. If… that is, she promises to be a good girl…"
So there's the long and short of it. A constant cycle of revolution, doing as revolution does. Winding up right back where we started, doomed to do the whole thing over again. Still, the model is nothing if not sustainable. A violent order is preferable to chaos, we've determined.
"Who's "we?" Vana asked as the engine finally started up.
"One at a time, Vana, my dear," Desmond laughed as the water under the houseboat started bubbling. As the airboat sped off, a giant maw encased the houseboat from below, dragging the building, its sole occupant, and its recently deceased kin below the water. Cute little buggers used to be so much smaller.
