[SOMEWHERE IN NEVADA, 08:25]
Along an ill-maintained stretch of desert road, an unarmoured grey van rattles steadfast to its destination. Errant tumbleweeds and dried flora was all that could be seen for many miles, in the far distance a faded mountainscape looming over the soon-to-be-blistering-hot valley. The occasional burnt-out wreck meant a swerve was required, but the driver was clearly familiar with these obstructions.
On the side of the van, an angry-looking emoticon was crudely painted over the sliding door, with underneath the text "GECKO SECURITY SOLUTIONS" in thick black letters. The word "Security" seemed pasted on with a large sticker, the edges curling and the glue drying in the baking wind. Inside, the back of the van was a claustrophobic assembly of slightly nervous grunts, trying their best not to take up too much space near a more experienced fellow, who was languishing back with a smoke, dark eyes unmoving behind the sleek black agency shades that dominated his features. The lack of windows meant the already less than comfortable air was hazy with wisps of burnt tobacco, and it did not take long until the grunt sitting in the back corner piped up and broke the silence that had dominated them since the briefing.
"Oi. Put that out, I don't want to be breathin' that shit. Don't you know how bad that is for ya?" The sunken-cheeked man pointed at Statham, who raised an eyebrow.
The ex-agent shrugged, inhaling sharply until the entire remainder of his cigarette was a smoldering column of ash, before reaching back, opening the sliding door by a smidgen, and tossing it out into the wastes, slamming the door shut.
"There, out."
"Thank you for your understanding, jerk. Hope it's worth the brushfire."
Clint's starved features betrayed an outlaw past. He returned to what he was doing, rummaging through a chest of equipment that was prepared for the group, before gleefully pulling out a stinking, stitched-up leather duster.
"Oh man, I call dibs. You dweebs can have the other crap."
He immediately threw it on, ignoring the moths fluttering out of the sleeves and carelessly hitting the grunt sitting next to him in the back of the head.
"Ow! I don't think you should wear that. Think the previous owner died in it, plus black leather is kind of hard to pull off."
"Just means he wasn't worthy."
Quinn and Jeff, the more subdued grunts, simply shared a nervous glance with each other before returning to twiddling their thumbs. Jeff mused to himself about how much cooler everyone around him was than the jerks in his hometown, and hoped the lead pipe he had been issued was as sturdy as it felt to hold. Quinn simply breathed deep, hoping to lower some of the first-mission-shakes that were wracking their body. Statham had ceased relaxing, sitting straight up on the uncomfortable and stained cushion, staring straight at the wall.
Driving the van was Orson, the other veteran, clad in heavy rags and a stained headwrap, one studded, gloved fist on the wheel while conversing with the man seated next to him. Chester, the last of the grunts Orson and Statham were to lead throughout the assignment, wore a stained wifebeater and a sleazy little mustache, which had led to the rest of the group refusing to let him sit in the back. This proved a blessing, as he could provide valuable information to the driver about the upcoming change in scenery, which he was all too familiar with.
"So, tell me again about the strip clubs."
"What? There's no strip clubs. I mean, there are, but they're boarded up. Don't think there's strippers anymore, at least."
"Lame. So what's the deal with the place we needed to go through? Cojones?"
"Coyote. Settlement I used to call my home, real touchy about their independence. Left because the trash fires aren't good for the airways, see." Chester let out a phlegm-filled cough to demonstrate.
"Right. Tunnel coming up, tell the others to get ready and keep their eyes open."
"Will do."
[SECTOR 17, Approaching Coyote's Gate, 9:00]
Travelling through the underground passageways that pierced straight through the desert mountains was rarely without zed problems, though this one had been kept meticulously clean by "volunteers" from the approaching town. Despite this, the crew kept alert for every hint of noise, for they knew that a group of desperados could be just as dangerous in the dark as the shambling dead.
Emerging into the glare of the false-sun that hung above Nevada once more, Chester immediately began rattling off instructions to Orson.
"Alright, so what you definitely do not want to do is tell them we're here on any agency's behalf. As far as they're concerned, we are just a group of folks out for a nice Sunday drive."
"Okay, got i-"
"Now what's even more important is that we make clear we are armed. More armed than we actually are, I mean. If some hungry boy with nothing to lose smells the flop sweat on us, they'll waste no time and just rob us on the spot. Oh, and don't mention the smell. Definitely do NOT mock anyone's facial hair, either."
"Sheesh, alright already, it's no sweat! I've bluffed my way past hundreds of third-rate cowpoke gatekeepers before. You just tell them their hat's nice and they let you right in."
Chester relaxed visibly.
"Good, good… just making sure."
The van reduced in speed as it approached a large, heavily plated bus, which was blocking off the only way out of the tunnel, with both sides of the road completely sandwiched in dense concrete buildings. If you were to inspect these closer, you'd find that none of them actually possessed anything in the way of an entrance, let alone windows. Featureless gray walls, with jagged intermeshing rooftops ensuring there was no way through but to honk the horn and hope for the best.
Orson stuck his head out the side window, waving towards the vagrants who popped up behind the armoured windows of the bus, already aiming their junkyard rifles towards the van in case of trouble.
"Oooy! Just some good ol' boys here, looking for a motel!"
Silence, save for the rattling of a little bus door squeezing open, a slightly dumpy-looking fellow wearing a wide-brimmed black cowboy hat stepping out on the road, hands hovering above the sizable twin holsters he wore.
"I reckon you must be mighty stupid, showing up on my doorstep after we just turned away your leader. I already told her, bandits ain't welcome in Coyote. I don't know where you found a working engine, but that piece of junk is not driving through MY town."
Orson sheepishly ducked his head back in, shrugging at Chester, who had his hands up in surrender this entire time.
"Better step out, I think. Explain ourselves. We could also just turn around, but the other route into the Sector is three hours away."
The tell-tale sound of multiple lever-action rifles cocking in anticipation was all the convincing Orson really needed. He swung open the door, before yelling out.
"NOT BANDITS! SORT OF! WE'RE COMING OUT, DON'T SHOOT!"
As he slowly came out, he rapped on the side of the van three times with a meaty fist, signalling the others to emerge as well. Chester calmly exited as well, waving hi to one of the gatekeepers, who tipped his hat back.
Jeff and Quinn also shakily exited, with a pissed-off looking Clint in tow. When Statham came into view though, the Marshall stepped back in shock, drawing a long-barrelled revolver and aiming it directly at him.
"Are you fuckin' shittin' me?! You fucks brought an Agent here? Give me one real good reason not to ventilate your sorry hides right now."
Statham turned around, entered the van and shut the door behind him.
"Huh, guess he'll wait inside. Uh, HE'S FINE! FAILED CLONE, NOT DANGEROUS!"
The Marshall seemed to consider this for a moment, then turned to one of his bandana-clad aides without moving his aim off the group.
"These folks seem dumb. Don't see no guns on them, anyhow. What do you reckon?"
"They seem to got one of us with 'em, and he don't look like no slave. I say let 'em in, but watch closely."
He finally lowered his revolver, securing it to his belt once more, before tipping his hat back into a less threatening angle.
"Y'all heard the man! We'll move the gate, but no funny business. If anythin's missing by the time you leave, there'll be hell to pay."
The group breathed a collective sigh of relief, save for Clint, who was itching to show off his wicked sick moves on these hicks.
Orson gave a quick peace sign to the Marshall, out of gratitude for not flaying him alive, before getting behind the wheel and once more bringing the van's engine to life. The rest piled back in as well, finding Statham to be calmly smoking and reading a pornographic magazine, surprising no one.
One by one, the shadows moving behind the heavily reinforced windows of the bus began to flit about. With a mighty roar, the ancient engine that powered their improvised gate screeched to life, as the hulking obstruction drove itself out of the way, parking in a blind alley that almost seemed made for this express purpose. Driving in, the group noticed that as soon as they went through the passage, it immediately returned to its closed position. The crew were fearful for the return trip through this dump.
For their part, the "citizens" of Coyote were not very keen on their presence either. Not that there'd be much reason to stop, considering there didn't seem to be much worth stealing anyways. A group of emaciated grunts were gathered around a fire while roasting some kind of meat, their facial crosses sunken and hopeless. Only one seemed apprehensively curious about the vehicle passing them by, but quickly returned to hungrily eyeing their roast.
"Wow. That's grim, man." Quinn shuddered, thankful for the tasteless yet filling ration package that he had eaten last night. A recruitment bonus, on the house. All others to be bought with scrip. What the hell was scrip, anyway? Did the powers that be even approve of them as legal tender?
Clint scoffed.
"Ain't seen nothing yet. At least these fellers were cooking something approximating an animal. Gets worse further in you go."
The crew was silent for a while, simply watching the boarded-up buildings go by, along with their unwashed inhabitants who were casting dark looks toward the group. At one point they drove by a larger, more maintained building, which seemed much better guarded. Bandana-clad figures were unloading unlabeled crates, smoking, and performing other such duties required of the average mook.
Finally, Statham was the one who broke the silence, having put down his magazine with his cigarette butt as a crude page marker.
"We're about to go past a checkpoint. Last bit of civilization, or what goes for it here. After that, should be a half hour drive to our destination, some flophouse called "Buddy's Bed and Breakfast".
Jeff suppressed a chuckle at Statham's pronunciation of 'buddy', which was a word he seemed to spit out with an especially large dose of vitriol.
"That brings us to our assignment. Place we're headed is nothing special, which is why a couple of ex-MERC scientists bunkered up in the Presidential Suite. Thing is, one of them screwed the rest. Don't know why, don't care. Fingers were pointed, shots were fired, and now it's up to us to get there before MERC does, or any other vultures looking for action. You've all been issued your equipment?"
The group nodded in acknowledgement, with as exception Clint who gave a spirited description of where he told the quartermaster to stick the pipe he had tried to issue him. More details followed, such as the placement of the scientists' fortifications and the patrols assigned. Statham and Jeff would stay as close to the scientists as possible, guarding them with their very lives, while the rest was to use their own judgement and set up ambush points.
Orson and Chester would be set up in the room below the objective, to serve as additional eyes on the stairwell and parking lot.
Quinn had decided to stick with Clint, as he seemed to know what he was doing.
Of the whole group, not a single member took note of the fact that information this vital came at great costs, usually for those assigned to guard it.