Scene 5
Vance had cancer.
The rust red Sun eased over the horizon, like a molten ball of lead sinking into a stream. It dashed and spilled its rays of dying light over the Bayou that both Lawman and Carter rowed to with mounting trepidation. It would have been a resplendent southern evening if it weren't for the distant cascades of oily black smog that scarred the sky, blotched out the rays and made to swallow the Sun, that vast molten ball of lead, as it sunk lower and lower in the sky, shadows elongating like talons from the brooding willows beyond and underneath that space, where god only knew what lay…
Where the stuff of hearsay and rumour lingered.
Vance had cancer and the fees were exorbitant. Immediately Lawman understood why he was on this voyage, he knew the gamble that Vance was being forced to make; all chips in, caps out on table, no second guesses, no take backs. All or nothing. All or oblivion. Lawman also knew who owned the doctors clinic: Oswald, the slimy bastard. He had his hooks in everyone on this voyage. Lawman was appealed to with his sheriff instincts to preserve the only scrap of civilisation clustered against a corner of the Mississippi; the Post. Then there was Vance who was being blackmailed with his own life into making this voyage. Leicester had to do what Carter told him to and the guide had a literal fucking bomb collar around her slender neck.
And just to be sure everything went smoothly Carter and Vyatch were on the company payroll, one a hot blooded sadist and the other a cold blooded killer. Lawman considered whether those two Cazadors were being coerced – maybe Carter was pushing Vyatch into it, but Lawman immediately dismissed this. No, they'd do it just for the money, along with Katherine. Just for the chance to get their hands to rest upon that tech and the wealth it promised.
As for Kees, what was his angle? Lawman's eyes rested on Kees as he sat with the guide at the prow of the boat. The dinky boat swayed as the gentle waves lapped up against the side. The journey was silent. No words exchanged, no good company to be had let alone good humour. Just cold anticipation of what lay ahead. Lawman wondered what was going through Kees' head. Was he really just as he seemed; a loyal and dutiful servant of Oswald who was only here to supervise a special interest, or was there more behind that inscrutable expression and those glasses that flashed in the sun's dying rays. Lawman could only wonder.
The prow of the rowing boat slid its way between the dark trees now, slipping under the shadow of their overhanging branches as the little boat carved its way into the bayou, moving over the surface of the water like a silken sleeve sliding over a dark mirror. A chorus of Radcrickets croaked, as though warning of whatever impending peril lay ahead. The silent company of four ignored them as Carter and Lawman rowed further, ploughed deeper into the currents, and the boat was enveloped by the shade of the overhanging branches.
They entered a dark and cool place where the air was close and the light that filtered through from through the branches and leaves was pale. It dappled the company with flickers of sunlight that reminded Lawman of the flickering of candles or the dying embers in a campfire. All that was missing was the warmth, which was replaced with the comparably chilly breeze that rolled in from deep within the belly of the bayou.
"We're almost there now…" Kees breathed within the silence. It was like a prayer, something to reassure them all as they rowed deeper. "…we're almost there."
"You smell that?" Lawman asked as he sniffed at the air as they rounded a tree protruding from within the fathomless waters.
"Smells like burning rubber," Carter grunted.
"No. something else. Something other than that."
"It's flesh," said Kees disinterestedly. "It's burning flesh."
Lawman and Carter both gazed at Kees with similar expressions of surprise. Kees looked at them.
"What? You think I don't know what burning flesh smells like?" He countered. He shifted his glasses and turned back to looking ahead. "Row on, gentlemen," he instructed.
They did and the silence descended again. The only sounds being the paddles as they broke the glass like surface of the water and Carter as he shifted his automatic rifle further up his shoulder. The smell was growing stronger, more pungent, as the boat crested at the shore of the bayou and the men disembarked along with the guide. The smoke was a haze through the air now, coiling chokingly around the trees ahead.
"Anything moves I'm gonna blast it to kingdom come, ain't that right Betsy," Carter said as he unslung his assault rifle and kissed it tenderly.
"You name your guns?" Lawman queried.
"You got a problem with that?"
"No. but you may want to keep it down."
"Oh? Why's that, sheriff."
"Because I don't want anything or anyone to know we're here. We slip in and we slip out." Lawman instructed. He was putting his foot down on this. "I don't like the look of things. This whole trip don't sit well with me."
"Well, I'm tellin' ya," Carter spoke up. "I'm not gonna wait for whatever may lie ahead to strike first. That shit ain't gonna fly."
"Carter, we need to…"
"Do as Lawman says, Carter," Kees interjected. Carter gave him a repugnant look. Kees took a step closer to Carter. "He's the scavver, Carter, not you. Don't make me repeat myself."
Carter spat to his side, his mood turning several shades darker, but Lawman knew he'd do as he was told. Oswald was right about one thing; to have everyone dancing to his tune this sure as hell was a slick operation.
Kees turned to Lawman. "After you," he said. "We'll follow your lead."
"Great," answered Lawman drily. "And the guide?" Lawman motioned to the de facto slave, whose wild eyes darted to the dark corners of the bayou – not out of fear Lawman shrewdly surmised, but as though searching for the earliest opportunity to escape. Yeah, it's only a matter of time until enslaving a southern tribesgirl bites us all in the ass…
"What about her?"
"Will she be followin'? Only it looks to me like she's looking for the best route to escape, Kees."
"She'll follow." And Kees drew out of his pocket a small mechanical device with a blinking red light and a trigger. It rested snugly in the palm of his hand. The tribesgirl's soft brown eyes latched onto it as her clammy hand slipped around the surface of her bomb collar. She gulped.
"Christ. You know how much of a bastard you are? You know this is gonna backfire on us, don' you? We're entering into her territory."
"Your moral quandary has been duly noted, Lawman," Kees' intoned. "Now get moving…"
They moved in single file, carving a way through the long grass, the marshes and through the looming trees. It wasn't long before the air was thick with smoke as they entered into a clearing.
"Holy mother of…" Carter murmured.
The space was a graveyard.
A litter of tombstones of tortured steel rose out of the ground. Stumps of twisted metal stuck out of the scorched earth like trees that failed to grow. Dented propeller blades were embedded in the ground as though they had been shot from an explosion, spewed forth and spat out of a crescent fireball – only the aftermath of which could now be seen in the remnants of what remained. The crashed vertibirds scarred the landscape, the familiar oily black smoke spewing forth from their blazing remains.
Lawman spotted charred corpses as he paced around the crash site, and power armour, scorched and bent, littered the field. Most men who survived the crash had evidently tumbled out of the wreckage burning to death – the ones who wore power armour were shot down, their armour torn to ribbons by some armour piercing round issued from god only knew what kinda gun.
Lawman hunched over one of the fallen soldiers in the breathless silence, he clasped his hand around the body's dog tags. It felt like he was trespassing in an empty graveyard, the place haunted by a strange quiet.
"Brotherhood of Steel," he read out load, his voice reverberating in the eerie silence. "Lance-Corporal Sawyer."
Lawman shook his head in sadness and not without a little fear for the safety of his own voyage. The Brotherhood were hardened soldiers – fanatical in their belief in prohibiting the use of technology and preserving humanity. But Christ – they were shot down in droves. How many vertibirds were there littered in this carnage? Six at least. And a chinook. So much for entering the South loud, proud and with guns blazing. The brotherhood always were a bunch of stubborn blockheaded fools.
Lawman spotted something in the dead soldier's hand. He leant over and prised its bony fingers apart and found an audio cassette. He picked it up, turned it over. It was mostly undamaged.
Lawman looked over to Carter and Kees. They both watched him without saying a word. He took the cassette, placed it in his pip boy, and pressed play.
The device whirred and clunked as suddenly the crackle of static infected the silence, its crackling resounding off the surrounding trees as though the noise came from them; a thousand hushed whispers spilling forth from the looming darkness…
"This is Lance-Corporal Sawyer… *static* …Yee haw! We've just entered southern territory boys! Can you smell that fine country air yet? …*crackle*… someone put on some old world tunes, I feel like celebrating…"
Lawman listened attentively as a catchy old world tune he recognised as 'You better watch yourself' by Little Walter blared aloud with the sound of trumpets. And for a creepy moment it was as though the rustling trees came alive…
"You'd better watch yourself,
Oh, you'd better watch yourself,
'cause I've got my eye on you…"
"…*static*…Lance-Corporal, turn off that fucking racket. I can't hear myself think back here…"
"…Sir, Paladin Salter, sir. Just trying to boost the men's morale, sir! …*static*…"
"You've gotta watch yourself…"
The music cut off suddenly and it felt, all of a sudden, as though the looming trees were still and listening. Or at least as though something or someone out there was listening…
As Lawman gazed out to the brooding trees his clammy hand rested on his revolver. A cold sweat glistened on his brow.
"…What did I tell you about playing music, soldier? *whir, clunk*…."
"…Sir, it won't happen again, sir…"
"….It better not or I'll report you to… *Crackle* … what the fuck…"
Suddenly the sound of explosions, shattered glass and the sickening noise of wrenching steel blasted from the cassette.
"We're going down, I repeat, we're going down – holy sweet fuck!"
"All vertibirds down! I repeat, all vertibirds down…"
There was a tremendous thud as Lawman almost felt the vertibird crash into the dirt, only to be replaced by the crackle of laser fire and the heavy rattle of gunfire in the distance. Men's screams pierced the air as Lawman pictured them roasting alive.
"Retreat! Retreat!" The voice of Paladin Salter could just be made out in the distance. "To me! To me! Fall back this way! Bring the suit! The Chinese armour, bring it!" and then the cassette whirred and clunked into deathly silence.
Lawman sat still in the ghostly quiet, almost as though the sounds that had just visited upon everyone's ears were still playing over and over in their minds.
The guide muttered something dark under her breath in her mother tongue – some bastardisation of a pre-war Cajun dialect. Suddenly Mr Kees spun around and hit her across the cheek. The girl whirled, falling to the ground in shock, but as she glared up at Mr Kees her stare was as hard as ice.
"Hey!" Lawman burst forward, shoving Kees. "The fuck you playin' at, Kees."
"Ha ha ha…" Carter cackled. "Lawman, you got a hard on for the southerner, huh?"
Lawman ignored him. His glare bent on Kees.
"Are you going to hit me, Lawman?" It was a question asked almost as politely as though it were spoken at a dinner reception.
"You know damn well I'm not gonna hit you," Lawman seethed, "but you ain't gonna hit that girl again either."
"Trust me, Lawman, if you knew what she said you wouldn't be protecting her…"
"You won't hit her again." It wasn't a question. It wasn't even a demand. It was simply a statement of fact. An assertion.
Mr Kees looked down at the furious woman and simply lifted the trigger slightly. The guide flinched. "No, Lawman, I don't think I'll need to," The little man said in foreboding tones.
Kees brushed past him and walked across the clearing. The others grudgingly followed him after a while. Their footsteps crunching in the ash and soot. Kees had stopped at some mighty footprints that trod their way hastily in a southward direction, away and into the trees, through them and beyond, out of sight.
Mr Kees turned to the guide and spoke a few words in her language. She hesitated before answering him. Carter and Lawman looked on non-plussed.
"Interesting…" Kees said to himself enigmatically after the guide had finished. She glowered at him as his gaze followed the trail into the looming darkness beyond. "Very interesting…"
"You gonna tell us what the fuck she said, Kees?" Carter retorted.
"I asked her where the footprints are headed."
"And…"
"She says that beyond this place, if they kept going in a southerly direction, they'd chance upon a tribe of dangerous individuals who live on the edge of the 'habitable zone'. Beyond that is a dead town whose name time has forgotten and that squats as silent as a tomb by the waters of the Bayou. Beyond, still further than that, deeper south still, well…"
"Well what?"
"The footprints of the survivors are headed to a place she refers to as Terror Bones Parish, where demons hidden from the eye lurk amidst the trees and swirling mists, ensnare passers-by and tear human flesh from bone and devour it."
"Yeah," Carter spat, "when we headed there?"
"Hopefully never," Kees replied drily, "I never put much stock in tribal stories and folktales – but something tells me whatever lies there really is dangerous."
The tribeswoman shook her head and muttered a few more desperate words.
"How the fuck you come to speak her language anyway?" Lawman asked.
"Oh that's easy," said Kees. "I'm a Southerner myself. And you know something, Lawman? I started off as a slave too – until I worked my way up to where I am now."
"Bullshit."
"Believe me or don't. I don't care, Lawman. But it's true. I was a slave for one of the Post's more local tribes, captured from the Deep South and made to work the land. I have the lashes across my back to prove it.
"Oswald was the one who bought me from them. He set me free. Not the law. Not a sheriff. But Oswald. Don't get me wrong, he didn't do it out of kindness. He saw potential in me. And I owe him my life. The guide will be set free, Lawman…. Eventually. But first she will go with us to the vault and she will guide us through the perils that lurk ahead. After our hands firmly rest upon the tech file, and assuming she's still alive, then there is no longer any need to keep her in bondage. She will then be permitted her freedom.
"All things have their price, Lawman…"
The sun sank lower, the shadows grew longer, and the darkness grew deeper.
"It's just business."
Soon they would set off back the way they came, reach the rowing boat again and report back to the Mayweather. But before that they all stood, back to the blazing carnage, gazing into the darkness that lay south, and wondered.
They all looked deeper into the shadows creeping amongst the trees and Lawman found himself wondering what hell waited for them…
…and what hellish fate had come to greet Paladin Salter.