Mutant Screg
Totally not a mutant
Ryan shouldered his pack and moved on. As he walked, the burned down houses on either side of him appeared more and more sparingly. The smell of smoke still clung to the air, although the majority of town was now down wind of him. Fire had ravaged the small town recently, a week or two ago at most. Even with the passage of time, the area still smelled of acrid smoke and felt thick and greasy. As the sun finally began to dip below the horizon, Ryan flicked a switch on the side of his helmet, activating the headlight. Hazy from years of layered filth, the light reached only several meters away before petering off before the growing dark. Somewhere nearby a coyote howled. Ryan's skin grew rough with goosebumps. The chirping of insects was the only ambiance to accompany his thundering footsteps. Despite Ryan's best efforts, trying to walk quietly in power armor was like venturing up north in nothing but one's birthday suit. As the sun set completely, a shooting star traveled in a hopeful arc across the night sky.
Ryan awoke to small, hurried footsteps across densely packed earth. Reaching for the knife lying under his pack that had doubled as a pillow that night, he stood up as quickly as his slumbering body would let him. The night before, he had stopped to sleep under a rocky overhang. From underneath it, one could see for miles while remaining relatively inconspicuous. As Ryan brandished his knife, serrated and sharpened to perfection, a coyote yelped and fled. In its mouth was a chunk of salted jerky from his bag. Having found his laser pistol in the dark, he fired desperately from the hip at the thieving animal. Each shot missed by a large margin. Cursing, he jumped into his suit of power armor and gathered his belongings. With a swift kick he scattered the ashes of the dying fire, the embers glowing brightly against the still-brightening sky. Moving on, he observed his surroundings once more to see what he could not have seen at night. Nothing but completely flat, infinitely broad fields in all directions, broken up only occasionally by more burnt down houses. Studying the ground as he had done a million times before, it was once again done in vain. The marauders that had burned their way through the countryside left little evidence of their passing, save for the aftermath of their pillaging. Rain had fallen only sparingly within the last month, not even close enough to help a boot print stick for more than a day.
He had been tracking them for roughly three weeks. Before then, he had heard many stories of their savagery by the few who had managed to survive their onslaught. With thousand yard stares and a curiously neutral expression, they told of men painted in the blood of their victims from the last town they sacked, and of their contemporary battle tactics reminiscent of a pack of wolves. Reports weren't detailed enough to reveal if it was one large raiding party with a lot of mileage or if it was the work of a larger organization. Despite their scorched earth approach to ransacking, there were some consistencies between all of their targets. All of the bodies were missing at least one appendage, most often a hand, foot, one or both eyes, and occasionally an entire head. Every single one of them, however, were missing their heart. Livestock and pets, although butchered along with every other living thing present, were left relatively intact. They were trophy killers no doubt, and people were their preferred prey.
Without stopping, Ryan undid the drawstring on his pack and peered inside to ensure that no more damage had been done in his sleep. Once neat and organized with care, the contents of his bag were now mixed up haphazardly every which way. At first, everything seemed accounted for. His clothes, although streaked with mutt slobber, were present, as well as the rest of his rations which had fortunately been buried further down in the bag, as well as various knick-knacks and bits of scrap metal. As he was sifting through the contents, he realized that he could see the sun-scorched earth through a hole in the bottom of the bag, the size of a small child's fist. Hurriedly, he made a second pass through everything, and reached the conclusion he had been loathe to reach. His compass was gone, having either fallen through the hole or taken by the coyote. Although usually redundant in a world where the sun's existence was an overbearing truth, the Panhandle Wasteland was home to terrible summer storms, often lasting for several days at a time. During those storms, the sun is all but invisible under a thick blanket of green and black clouds. Although travel was still possible while in a suit of power armor, it was notoriously easy to get turned around and led astray inside these tempests.
He stopped in disbelief. Already the sky had begun to darken, threatening to plague the land with a never-ending onslaught of rain and lightning. Somewhere far off, thunder sounded. If he was to be caught and led astray within the storm, he would lose his target and his personal mission would be deemed a failure. He could not and would not fail those who had fallen in his absence.
With a renewed purpose, he broke into a run and continued his month-long path northward. He had no other choice but to beat the storm, or wait it out someplace safe.
Ryan awoke to small, hurried footsteps across densely packed earth. Reaching for the knife lying under his pack that had doubled as a pillow that night, he stood up as quickly as his slumbering body would let him. The night before, he had stopped to sleep under a rocky overhang. From underneath it, one could see for miles while remaining relatively inconspicuous. As Ryan brandished his knife, serrated and sharpened to perfection, a coyote yelped and fled. In its mouth was a chunk of salted jerky from his bag. Having found his laser pistol in the dark, he fired desperately from the hip at the thieving animal. Each shot missed by a large margin. Cursing, he jumped into his suit of power armor and gathered his belongings. With a swift kick he scattered the ashes of the dying fire, the embers glowing brightly against the still-brightening sky. Moving on, he observed his surroundings once more to see what he could not have seen at night. Nothing but completely flat, infinitely broad fields in all directions, broken up only occasionally by more burnt down houses. Studying the ground as he had done a million times before, it was once again done in vain. The marauders that had burned their way through the countryside left little evidence of their passing, save for the aftermath of their pillaging. Rain had fallen only sparingly within the last month, not even close enough to help a boot print stick for more than a day.
He had been tracking them for roughly three weeks. Before then, he had heard many stories of their savagery by the few who had managed to survive their onslaught. With thousand yard stares and a curiously neutral expression, they told of men painted in the blood of their victims from the last town they sacked, and of their contemporary battle tactics reminiscent of a pack of wolves. Reports weren't detailed enough to reveal if it was one large raiding party with a lot of mileage or if it was the work of a larger organization. Despite their scorched earth approach to ransacking, there were some consistencies between all of their targets. All of the bodies were missing at least one appendage, most often a hand, foot, one or both eyes, and occasionally an entire head. Every single one of them, however, were missing their heart. Livestock and pets, although butchered along with every other living thing present, were left relatively intact. They were trophy killers no doubt, and people were their preferred prey.
Without stopping, Ryan undid the drawstring on his pack and peered inside to ensure that no more damage had been done in his sleep. Once neat and organized with care, the contents of his bag were now mixed up haphazardly every which way. At first, everything seemed accounted for. His clothes, although streaked with mutt slobber, were present, as well as the rest of his rations which had fortunately been buried further down in the bag, as well as various knick-knacks and bits of scrap metal. As he was sifting through the contents, he realized that he could see the sun-scorched earth through a hole in the bottom of the bag, the size of a small child's fist. Hurriedly, he made a second pass through everything, and reached the conclusion he had been loathe to reach. His compass was gone, having either fallen through the hole or taken by the coyote. Although usually redundant in a world where the sun's existence was an overbearing truth, the Panhandle Wasteland was home to terrible summer storms, often lasting for several days at a time. During those storms, the sun is all but invisible under a thick blanket of green and black clouds. Although travel was still possible while in a suit of power armor, it was notoriously easy to get turned around and led astray inside these tempests.
He stopped in disbelief. Already the sky had begun to darken, threatening to plague the land with a never-ending onslaught of rain and lightning. Somewhere far off, thunder sounded. If he was to be caught and led astray within the storm, he would lose his target and his personal mission would be deemed a failure. He could not and would not fail those who had fallen in his absence.
With a renewed purpose, he broke into a run and continued his month-long path northward. He had no other choice but to beat the storm, or wait it out someplace safe.