Moving away from Feria and Baird/Sam playing house...
Obviously, Delta Squad is going to be the heros in pretty much every fan fiction, but there seems to be a lot of rage against the Stranded. I don't know when they became the bad guys. Their own government nuked them, conscripted them, knocked up their women and left, in that order. If someone did that to me and then got up in my face about paying taxes or driving the speed limit again, I'd be pretty pissed.
This chapter contains violence and strong language, just throwin' that out there for the faint of heart.
"Ohh yeah, you'll come out real pretty darlin'"
Pete jammed his shovel into the broken rubble and leaned down to check the loader's underframe. Four hours of work left most of the chassis clean and clear, but the massive tires were still six or eight inches deep in dirt. That, their partial deflation and the sheer size of the loader had kept it here, untouched by previous salvors amidst the ruined bridgework and materials. Pete rubbed his hand lovingly along the chest-high rear fender; he'd driven by her many times himself, until curiosity made him stop and walk close enough to see the big lettering on her rear: BELTMAN L79O. O for 'oilburner'. O for 'burns-any-goddamn-sludge-you-want'. O for all those fat zeros on the bill of sale he'd get when he cleaned her up. "You're gonna get so fuckin' fat off all them groceries, Pete-o," he muttered to himself, pinching at his gut in dismay. "Already gettin' fat enough. Gonna have to give half of 'em to Peewee." First things first, though: he'd have to get the loader to his workshop in town.
For that, he'd need his truck.
Just outside the former construction site, the big wrecker crouched on its six fat tyres, a conglomeration of brutish angles and dull weathered metal, ready for work. He'd pulled it out of a bog near Ereburg upside down and restored it to running condition himself, which explained the water-pipe exhausts and the cab welded from quarter-inch steel plate and t-beams. He checked on the pulley block shackled to the loader's rear bumper and followed the steel cable all the way back to where it disappeared into a cutout in the huge rear bumper of the truck. Both outriggers were down and locked, heavy rubber mats were over the pulling cable… nothing left to do now but start her up. Pete climbed into the cab, door sqealing in progress, opened up the air valve crudely bolted to the dash and pushed the starter button. With a hiss and a lurch, the motor turned over and caught, black smoke rolling around the cab as it came to life. He moved the gearshift from park to neutral, tapped the pedal once to help 'wind up' the turbo and moved over to the winch control box behind the cab.
"Alright girl," he grinned, "let's you, me 'n' Peewee get the fuckin' job done." The cables sang as the heavy-duty hydraulic winch drew them tight. Pete eased down on the winch lever some more and things on the loader began to creak and groan as they felt the strain. For a good ten seconds the cables vibrated and the loader's drivetrain moaned like a dying animal without anything else happening, then suddenly the truck jerked and tossed Pete off the winch controls. He landed on his ass in the dust and rubble, cursing and coughing.
"God damnit! God damn son of a bitch." He rolled himself upright, reaching for his favourite ballcap that had been thrown off. "Ohh, you piece a' shit you slid on the outriggers." He stared in dismay at the tracks dug into the weathered concrete from the steel outrigger pads. The outriggers themselves still looked straight and true, not bent or pushed-in any. "Thank fuck, Peewee'd have my ass if I damaged the truck like that." Now that the immediate relief was over, annoyance set in. Normally, the weight of the wrecker concentrated on the two posts would be enough to hold it firm; evidently this job was going to require extra anchorage. Pete crawled up into the cab and shut off the engine, dejected. A half-day project was turning into a week's worth of work all by himself, and if he asked around for help, someone would come strip it down to the axles overnight. Bastards.
Pete caught a glimpse of movement off in the west. Dust was swirling around some small vehicle barreling along the cracked blacktop. As it drew closer it materialized into a Packhorse painted in dark grey with a figure's head and shoulders sticking up through the sunroof. It began to decelerate as it approached the construction site and Pete reached over almost instinctively and opened the glovebox. Inside, wrapped in an oily rag, was a Boltok pistol and a small box of ammunition. He hesitated a moment, hand poised in midair over the weapon. This wasn't a tool for doing useful, constructive work; it was an ugly brutish thing that had only ever caused misery each time he pulled it out. His hand finally closed around the leathery grip as he heard gravel crunching under tires; the pistol quickly disappeared into the back of his waistband and he pulled his shirt down over the hilt. He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel as he looked over at the Packhorse now blocking the exit.
It wasn't raiders after all; it was even worse. "Hoo boy, the fuckin COG just showed up," he muttered. The too-familiar gear emblem was neatly stenciled on the doors, although some enterprising jarhead had crudely sprayed a red skull over the circle in the centre. Extra armor plate was welded onto the doors, quarter panels and hood and an empty circle slide was all that remained of the gun turret. What business they had here, Pete didn't know or care to know, but he suspected it was related to the helicopter that had flown over the town and circled it last week. He shoved open the cab door and climbed down. No amount of armed knuckle-draggers was going to hold him back from his job.
By this point, both occupants of the Packhorse had gotten out and he could give them a once-over appraisal. They were both overfed to the point of being an insult to everyone else on Sera, and underneath the plate armor and automatic weapons, neither looked entirely pleasant, either. "Holy spirits," Pete muttered to himself, "look at this low-brow with his fuckin' bullet necklace an' matching skull tattoo. Nice spiked helmet you hired ape." The other man was a bit more officious looking, with a maroon beret on his bald head and a bunch of coloured squares fastened to his armors chestplate. "Son of a bitch got his goddamned colour-coordinated brooches on." They were both stalking forward with a purposeful sneer on their faces (well, the officer had one) and Pete figured out that they wanted to talk to him about something, and he probably wouldn't like what they had to say.
The officer paced back and forth a bit, looking over the truck in front of him. Pete's presence barely seemed to register on his face. The helmeted soldier didn't take his ice-blue sights off Pete, tapping his trigger finger against the shotgun in his hands as though eager to do… something. The officer spoke without looking at either of them, eyes fixed on the truck's bed crane. "S'cuse me sir, is this your vehicle?"
"Joint ownership between me an' Peewee. Who's askin'?"
"Peewee," the officer snickered. "We're with the COG Redevelopment and Transition Section, doing a preliminary overview of this division. Tell me, where do you get fuel for this vehicle?"
A-ha, Pete thought. That's what they're after. "It comes outta a big round tank. How about I get back to work now?"
"I take it that filling tank is someone else's doing." The officer was frowning at him now, starting to be annoyed by Pete's terseness. "A vehicle like this is a big asset for any community, but also a big cost to the owners. One of the things the COG is doing for 'redevelopers' like yourself is fuel vouchers, in exchange for service rende-"
"I pay my own bills by working," Pete replied, slamming the cab door shut. "Didn't get no COG help for the past sixteen years, don't need none today. Go find yourselves someone else to bother, I got shit to do."
"We'll be going soon enough, sir." There was an underlying threat in the officer's voice. "There are plenty of people in Prescott Junction who want and need our help."
"Prescott Junction doesn't exist no more. It's Baldhead River now."
"It's Prescott Junction," the officer stated icily.
Pete's temper was beginning to bubble up inside him. He'd expected the COG to make a move like this; after all, they'd been re-developing all the settlements clustered around Ephyra and what remained of the Jacinto Plateau. Remoteness had spared the Mordan Flats division for this long, but it couldn't stall them forever. Sooner or later, people were going to have to take a stand unless they wanted to be under the thumb of the COG again.
Sooner or later.
"It's called Baldhead River," Pete hissed, "because of all the fuckin' skulls still left in the river from when you assholes burned Harburg to the ground with your god-fuckin' damned space laser. You couldn't just drop it in from above, oh no, you had to sweep it in from the side and flash fry half the people in the flats. And those were the lucky ones, cause the rest of the poor bastards staggered into the river before they died, tryin' to cool down. You wanna complain about losing Prescott Junction? Blame your fuckin' selves."
"We were fighting a war for you, asshole," the helmeted soldier interjected, shoving Pete with the barrel of his shotgun. "Now we have to come save you from the shit-flinging apes you've become. Look at you, fucking Stranded trash in your greasy pants and shitkicker cap. What a fucking waste of our time. Should've used the Hammer again on this place years ago.'
Pete fixed him with a steely glare, hand creeping up and backwards from his waist. "Sergeant… call off your dog before I put it down."
"I don't think so," The officer's voice was calm, measured and smug. "The COG has need of your machine, with or without you. By the powers of the Seran Redevelopment Act, I'm commandeering this vehicle and all its contents. Harrison, tie this monkey up and leave him in the shadows." He paused for a moment, considering, then adding, "Just don't damage the truck."
"I don't fucking think so," Pete shot back. "PEEWEE!"
Unseen during all this time on his ruined column perch, the big mountain cat sprung into action. He leaped twelve feet onto the soldier with the helmet, two hundred pounds of claws and teeth and overprotective fury. The soldier screamed, his gun going off into the ground and for a split second neither Pete nor the officer moved, ears ringing from the blast. Then the officer drew his snub pistol and Pete launched himself headfirst at the man's stomach. It felt like a brick wall and made his neck pop, but it had the desired effect of bringing them both to the ground. The officer managed to avoid cracking his skull open on the concrete slabs and swung the pistol across Pete's face, the front sight opening up a gash under his nose and across his cheek. He got three good smacks in before Pete recovered enough to punch wildly into the soldier's face, cracking two fingers in exchange for his fist then slamming into the man's windpipe. The officer dropped the gun and reached up with one hand and Pete grabbed his skull in both meaty palms and slammed it against the ground. Once, twice, and on the third time the man's eyes rolled back in their sockets and he groaned. Pete rolled off him and staggered up on one knee, seeing double.
The grunt, meanwhile, had managed to kick the big cat off himself, his armor taking the worst of the scratches. Bleeding, he launched himself onto his feet and grabbed up his shotgun, cocking it and aiming it at Peewee, crouching and gasping by the back bumper of the truck. Just as his finger pushed through the trigger guard, a shot tore through his waist. He half-turned in shock, and Pete steadied the Boltok with both hands and shot again, the bullet ricocheting off the soldier's backplate. Just as the shotgun barrel swung in a few feet from his face, Peewee pounced again, teeth finding the soldier's unprotected neck. The man fell facedown, screams of rage becoming bloody gurgling sounds. The shotgun dropped harmlessly to the ground.
Pete staggered up onto both feet, woozy from the headbutt and beating and with blood dripping off his face in great rivulets. He sighed and looked over at the human rapidly turning into a ragdoll in the jaws of his companion. After a few more seconds to make sure the man was done, he called Peewee off. The cat licked his bloody jaws and looked curiously up at his master. From his right, the officer groaned again, trying to rise up into a sitting position, cursing furiously.
"Gonna pay for that. Gonna get, uuugh, get the airforce in here. All your friends… gonna burn-" A tattered workboot pressed his chest back down to the ground. Pete leaned back and squinted, trying to sight a straight line down the barrel of the Boltok to the man's face.
"Welcome to Baldhead," he wheezed, as he slowly squeezed the trigger.
By the way, oilburner = diesel engine, which is named after Rudolf Diesel who is a real man. Since Sera is a sort of 'alternate universe' i see no reason why they'd call them 'diesel' engines there.