Sage and Stone
(from the journals of Ortho "Stone Cold" Glick)
by Rick Catanzaro
Chapter I
"Something has gone terribly right!" That's what the crazy old Sage kept screaming over and over again. The fact that he could be heard at all was nothing short of amazing considering my distance from him and the incredible amount of gun fire erupting all around us. Dancing about like a chicken with his head cut off, the Sage seemed totally oblivious to the red hot rain of lead that flew around him. These guys were either blind or the old bastard was the luckiest sack of wrinkled meat in the world. It's hard to believe that one old man, a harrowed prospector and an old hunk of stone could make a whole town erupt like a ghost rock bomb on Judgement Day. If only I'd kept going when I saw the sign leading me to this dung heap of a town...
Three days out of Lake Meade and the silence was glorious. No incessant, high pitched nasal whining. No tiny brained cro-mags misquoting the works of Frederick Neitzche. No foul smelling, dead professional wrestlers. Like I said. Glorious. I'd had enough of travel by water and opted for the longer, drier route over what was once known as the Black Mountains. Nice area, if you don't mind wormlings and other nastiness. After three energetic days and nights I was ready for some down time. As blind luck would have it my reprieve came in the form of the weird little town of Kingman, population 38. A recently crossed out 36 and 37 next to the newly stenciled number pointed to the fact that the town was actually experiencing some growth. An image from the old western vids my father used to watch came unbidden to my mind. Funny, I thought to myself...the numbers always went down in the movies.
The sun had set and three hours passed, placing the time at roughly 1900 hours. As I entered the town, I became aware of several very strange things. First off was the complete absence of perimeter walls, gates and guard towers. There wasn't even guards or sec forces posted on the main road. It was inconceivable to me that this town was still standing, let alone growing, this close to Las Vegas. Second were the townsfolk themselves. Normally when I enter a village, most folk stop and notice. Sykers aren't all that common and my bald pate tends to attract attention. I've also been told I put out a "bad vibe", as if death herself was standing off just behind my left shoulder, grinning at folks. Frankly I don't get what that means. I don't feel like a "Grim Servant" or anything like that, but I can't deny that people have gone out of their way to get to the other side of the street when they've seen me coming. Regardless, the combination of bald head and bad mojo usually gets most folks to give me a wide arena of personal space in which to operate. Things in Kingman were definitely different. Here folks actually greeted me with smiles and warm hellos. It was then that I noticed that some of these kindly folks stank. Many had holes straight through them, or were missing body parts. It didn't take long for the truth to sink in. I was in a town populated by harrowed - no wonder the population was climbing. In the Wasted West, dying is a real growth industry...and the stock is always rising. A town full of walking deaders honestly wasn't too shocking. I'd been to one such ville before (actually, it was there that I received my gift from the powers that be - a blessing you can see by just looking into my eyes...but that's another story). Nevertheless, I felt I'd be remiss if I were to let down my guard. Once a soldier, always a soldier.
There wasn't very much in the way of buildings. I counted seven structures total, none of which were likely to contain anything close to milrats. The tallest structure was a bell tower of an old adobe church. Old sniper habit. I always seek out the highest point inside a town when I come in. After making a mental inventory of my surroundings and wading through a passel of pleasant corpses I made my way towards what appeared to be the town Inn/Saloon. The sign read "The Dead Man's Hand" - not very original, but the skeletal hand epoxied to the door frame showed a certain truth in advertising. As I entered the establishment, I made my way toward the bar to inquire about a room for the night. At least those were my intentions. A man with half the flesh torn from his face engaged me in the usual "What can I do ya fer, stranger?" pleasantries. Rudy, as the deader's name turned out to be, set me up with a one room special and a bottle of mineral water (translate as barely strained dusky colored pond water). I've had worse.
I thought most deaders liked a little alcohol, either to pretend to drown their sorrows or to cover their stench, but I only counted ten bodies scattered around the place. Sure, it was about a third of the town's population, but the number still struck me as being a bit sparse (not that I was begrudging the lack of a crowd mind you). I occupied an empty booth in a dark corner and began checking over the few patrons, searching for that subliminal "payday" sign indicating some possible work or an easy mark. It was then that I was joined by the first of two unwanted visitors.
"You won't find what you're looking for here, my friend. At least...not at this, ah... humble... establishment." The tall, bony figure seated himself across from me without being invited. The cut of his clothing reminded me a Doompriest, but the colors were all wrong. His robes were a deep, velvety black with red satin adornments about the hood and sleeves. An old, weather beaten leather satchel hung from one shoulder, which he un-slung and dropped to the table as he sat. His voice had a quavering, youthful high pitched quality incongruous with his features; late seventies, long white beard, bad teeth and worse breath. Being as tired as I was, my already low tolerance for social interaction was now scraping bottom. If I had Strain I would've Brainbombed the old looney, gone off to bed and left the following morning. Instead, I sighed and decided to take the old man's bait.
"What makes you think I'm looking for anything, old man?"
"Come, come now my good man. It doesn't take ah...a student of the occult such as myself to discern that first, you're a Syker, a soldier of supernatural mental prowess. Second, judging from the hardware you're toting about, one can easily determine that you have chosen to continue to make your way in life in, ah...shall we say...a most...unsavory way."
As he was speaking, I noticed his chest rise and fall in regular rhythms and I could sense a heartbeat fluttering away in his chest. Definitely not traits of a dead man. It looked like I wasn't the only breather in town.
"I assume there's a point to your observations, old man. Perhaps you should get to it before the inside of your head ends up adding to the stain on the wall behind you."
Threats usually go one of two ways. They either get you what you want or they get you into a fight. It turned out to be the less messy of the two options, but I admit the reaction took me by surprise.
"Oh, how marvelous! Yes, yes...you are just the man our...ah, expedition needs!" He was on the border line between hysterical and giddy, clapping his cadaverous hands rapidly like a sissified school boy. He quickly regained his composure as he continued. "Oh! Ah, please forgive my...ah, outburst. It's just that you are the first Banshee Syker I've ever met, which brings me to the first part of my, ah...two fold offer."
He paused to bring out a large, time-worn book from his satchel, followed by a fistful of pencil stubs and old disposable pens. He then rifled through the pages of the tome until he came to a blank section. His gaze intensified as he went on.
"My name is Ezekial Black, and I'm what some might call an, ah...expert on the occult and the arcane. You, my fine friend, are the first of your kind to grace me with your presence. I wish to study you to better understand the working differences between your particular style of mental prowess and those of your earth-bound brethren."
How did he know I served on Banshee? "And the second part of your offer?" I asked carefully.
"Ah, yes...you'll do for that as well, I'm sure." The tone of his voice was starting to put my teeth on edge. "You see, my, ah...employer sent me forth to seek person or persons of dubious morality to act as, ah...protection, so to speak, for a brief sojourn into the mountains."
Back into the mountains. Just what I needed. Then again, I was low on rounds and travel rations. Paying for my one night at the Dead Man's Hand had nearly wiped out what was left of the Lake Meade scrip from my very short stint in law enforcement. It really didn't seem like I had any other prospects.
"It'll cost you a hundred a day in trade to be your...encyclopedia. As for providing protection, I don't. I'm an assassin, not a mercenary. If your boss wants me along regardless, I'll discuss my price with him. I don't negotiate with middle men."
No sooner had the last syllable left my mouth when the din of aggression erupted from a card table at the far end of the bar. That's when I first saw him. He was the dirtiest, foulest and oldest looking harrowed I had ever laid eyes on. More images from my father's old western vids popped into my head as I stared at the crusty mockery of a man in cracked leather cowboy boots. Ancient flannel and moth eaten dungarees hung from his emaciated frame. Flakes of long dead skin slowly drifted down from his arms as he shook a gnarled fist in anger at the other dead men seated across from him. The other hand had hauled an antique hogleg from the sagging gunbelt at his hips, and he swung the gun back in forth in the faces of the corpses across the table. Quickly, every other deader in the place had surrounded the squabble, and all eyes were riveted on the gun toting fossil. Rudy was the only one speaking to the ancient stiff, and I managed to catch the names "Gaby" and "Mr. Johnson". All the while, Ezekiel (or Dr. Creeps as I quickly named him) sat and watched the proceedings with a fevered, childlike glee, scribbling away at another smaller tome he had pulled from his satchel. The fight stopped before it had a chance to really get started. With a final flurry of garbled obscenities that would have made a zombie's momma blush (during which the old deader's lower jaw fell completely off, clacking onto the table in a shower of dry sinew, cards and poker chips), the old timer backed down and the room relaxed. Holstering his gun, he grabbed his jaw and hastily tied it back to his head with a tattered blue bandana before turning and slouching away...directly toward our booth. Let me guess, I thought to myself. This pile of decaying flesh is Dr. Creepy's employer.
"Well, loosh shlike the Doc'sh found me a new gun." The smell alone would have put El Chupicabra to shame. When he spoke he sounded as if he had a mouth full of ball bearings combined with the tone of someone who gargled with battery acid. Sub-vocalized mumbling sputtered out between what passed as intelligible speech. The blue bandana circled his face, holding his jaw in place, calling to mind the ghost of Jacob Marley in A Christmas Carol. Amongst the dirt encrusted clothing and tattered flesh hung a great many pockets of various sizes and depths. The remnants of iron filings and unidentifiable matter encrusted his split, yellowed finger nails. My first guess was that he didn't do a lot of cooking (at least I hoped not). My second guess was that prospecting was the chosen profession of my crusty new acquaintance. At least it went toward explaining the hike back into the mountains.
"You shure loosh shlike a nashty somnabish...and a Shyker ta boot! Nothin' I like shbetter than a mershenary who'sh divershified!"
"First off, Crusty I'm a highly trained Faraway Syker assassin - not a Merc. If you need someone taken out of the picture, I'm the man you come to see. If not, then you might want to look elsewhere."
"Holy sheep shit! If'n you ain't got shome king shized ballsh! Well, Mishter "Highly Trained Shyker" what would it cosht me to hire on a fella like yourshelf?"
"One thousand in trade. Half up front, plus the cost of ammo."
Crusty glared at me with exasperate scrutiny through one eye. The other had closed as his face pinched up tightly as if he were either contemplating my words or about to make one hell of a painful movement. A blast of foul smelling flatulence answered the question (yet another interesting trivia fact - I had no idea harrowed could break wind). He rubbed his matted beard with his hand, his jaw creaking back and forth with the movement.
"Howshabout four hundred AFTER the jobsh finished, plush the cosht of ammo?"
Seeing as how old Dr. Creepy was already shelling out a hundred a day for my trouble, the cost of ammo and a flat four hundred wasn't too bad of a deal.
"Deal. What's the job and when do I start?"
"Well, we shtart tomorrow at shnoon. I gotta shend word to the lasht member of our exshpedition. She'sh in a town jusht a bit shouthwesht of here. She'sh a mechanical geniush. As fer shpecifics? I'll fill you in on thoshe in the morning!"
With a cracking pop of old bone and sinew, Crusty made his way away from the booth and stepped out through the door of the Saloon. Dr. Creepy tried to follow suit but I grabbed his arm before he'd gotten too far.
"Lesson one: Earth Sykers and Banshee Sykers aren't "brethren". No Oath of Unity, you see. There. Lessons are done for today. That will be a hundred in trade."
"Yes, yes...history is, ah...important as well, but I'm looking to unlock more than one door. Tomorrow! Tomorrow!" With that the old Sage slipped from my grasp and skittered out after the Prospector. Strange. I had even boosted my strength a bit with a touch of body control as a precaution. Perhaps it would be wise to conduct some studies of my own concerning Dr. Creepy.
Normally I'd insist on details before agreeing to a job, but I'd slept only five hours out of the last seventy-two and the idea of uninterrupted slumber was overpowering. As i lay back on the narrow cot in my room, it wasn't hard to imagine that we were going relic hunting. When a Prospector hires an occultist to head into a mountain range there isn't much else you'd probably go hunting for. I was just glad to get away from Crusty's stench. A mechanical genius? He must mean a Junker. Wonderful. I hope for once this is a smooth operation completed in a short amount of time. With my last thoughts on the money, the mists of sleep rolled over my weary eyes.
It amazes me how much the military is still effecting the daily routines of my life. Thirteen years since my military service was abrubtly ended and I still wake up at 0500 hours. It looked like I had a good deal of time to kill before Crusty would be back in town with the fourth weaver in this unraveling tapestry, so I went on a little scouting and information gathering expedition. My first order of business was to find something edible, at least by non-harrowed standards. Something I could eat now and rations that I could take with me when it came time to hit the road for good. I think I got a good two yards away from my door when I nearly tripped over Dr. Creepy. He had stretched himself out across the hallway around the corner from my room and was fast asleep. I guess the old Sage was very serious about studying my work. I hoped for his sake that he was as serious about paying me. I was about to give the withered loon a gentle kick to wake him, when his eyes abruptly open and he shot to his feet like a rocket.
"THE SECRET SAUCE WILL SET ME FREE! Huh? Wha...? Oh, my. You're, ah...awake! Excellent, excellent! We can begin after breakfast. So much time, so little to do! Come, come!"
"Uh, don't you mean...? Never mind." If the day was going to start like that, then its ending would either be entertaining or I'd be out a hundred a day in trade. I'd have to set some boundaries up for Dr. Creepy. The last thing I wanted was a twenty-four hour shadow watching my every move. Actually (more to the point), I didn't need a potential witness to events executed on my part that may or may not be illegal. That could wait until after breakfast. Like I said, I had a lot of time to kill.
"You're planning on paying today, right?"
"Pay you? Oh, yes...of course, of course. All in good time my friend. You're not one for, ah...social pleasantries are you? I've noticed that trait in a small percentage of Earth Sykers that I've encountered as well. It's very interesting, don't you think, that the first Faraway Syker that I happen upon also happens to exhibit some of the same behavioral patterns as some of his Earth bound counterparts..."
If Fran's father were alive somewhere in the world, this man might be him. I was completely ignoring the old fool - not that he seemed to care or notice. He continued to prattle on as we walked down the stairs, through the hallway, across the room and finally to the bar of the Dead Man's Hand. At least he'd have to shut up to eat. I was surprised to find a fairly mixed menu at the bar that I hadn't noticed the night before. There was a nice assortment of fare, nearly rivaling those served up by Mr. Coco back at Dango. They even had real coffee, as opposed to the sub stuff I was accustomed to finding in small villes. Not bad for a town of dead flesh eaters. As I had hoped, breakfast stifled Creepy's verbal torrent long enough for me to establish some ground rules to our temporary association.
"OK, Creepy. Here's how things are going to be between us. You get two hours of my time per day to do your research. You can have that all in one shot, or spread it out through the day - your choice. I expect payment for my generosity at the beginning of each day because, to put it bluntly, I think you're a flake. I'd hate to have to track you down and extract my pay from your sorry hide. Last and most important, when I need privacy, I expect you to give it to me. I'll offer no explanations, and I won't accept any arguments. Those are my terms, and they're not open to debate. Take 'em or blow."
Dr. Creepy simply shook his head in rapid agreement, shoveling the food fast and furious into his gaping maw, little bits of egg and potato showering the counter. Stifling a belch, he then dug into his satchel and withdrew a handful of various electrical components and batteries, along with a number of small caliber rounds. Doing some quick mental math, I tallied the pile of trade goods as the Sage produced an embroidered napkin from his sleeve and delicately wiped at the corners of his mouth. Finding the stuff acceptable, I stashed it in my various pockets as the Sage once again drew a book and pen out of his bag and grinned at me. "Very well. Let us begin."
"It's almost time for the Prospector to return." The Sage spoke with a center of calm that completely contradicted his earlier behavioral antics. The man was full of surprises - from his prompt payment earlier that morning, to his fully abiding by the social stipulations I insisted upon. Was his mania actually a ruse to keep the curious at a manageable distance? It didn't really matter to me. I could find out if I decided I really needed to know easy enough. For now I'd simply tolerate him. At least I managed to find a good place to do some trading. It was a moderately well stocked establishment called "Dante's Equipment and Trading House" (gotta love the sense of humor in this town). The place was run by a classically proper looking deader that went be the name of Mr. Alighieri (familiar, but I couldn't quite place it). His attire had a much older look to it than the rest of the townsfolk, and he seemed to have a kind of "pre-Victorian" air about him. His accent was similar to Guiseppi the meat vendor's back at Lake Meade, just not as thick. Not only was Mr. Alighieri the owner and operator of the store, but it turned out he was also the de facto mayor of Kingman (at least he claimed to be). His store had a much larger inventory than I had first suspected. So large in fact that he had everything I asked for. What was even more astonishing was that he never left the counter he was standing behind. All of the items I inquired about always seemed to be within arms reach. A strange harrowed trick perhaps? I didn't press the issue. Even more unusual was his willingness to allow me to start up an account with the store on credit. This definitely left a bad taste in my mouth and I declined. Unlike the other deaders in town, Mr. Alighieri seemed to mask an almost sinister presence beneath a veil of curt politeness. One more thing to add to my long list of "things to be wary of".
"It's almost noon. If Crusty is as punctual as he is smelly...then that should be him and our fourth right now." As the two figures rounded the bend that led into town, we could see that both of them rode horses. Well, actually...that's not quite true. They resembled horses, true enough, but closer inspection showed that both mounts were fair representations of their owners. The Prospector's creature resembled what I believe old Straight Guns once referred to as a Hell Beast: a demonic visage, pale white flanks with pieces of flesh missing here and there, and glowing ruby eyes the color of hell fire. It wailed with the sound of a hundred lost souls when the Prospector pulled on the reigns, and several of the dead townsfolk scurried to get out of its way. Crusty's companion was another story. The sounds of servos, gears and rotors could be plainly heard as the two riders approached. A glare of sunlight reflected off of polished metal as they drew near, making me squint. The source was a bit of a surprise, as the new fourth member of our merry band was riding a fully mechanical horse. I guess the old fossil wasn't exaggerating about our mystery woman being a mechanical genius - I just hoped that she didn't turn out to be lunatic number three. Almost every Junker I've come across seemed obsessed with creating weapons of mass destruction just because they could. Not that I'm opposed to overkill from time to time. I'm just reminded of something my old Lieutenant said once: "Only a Junker brings a mass driver to a knife fight." Time would tell. The small woman gingerly dismounted her mechanical steed. Several layers of dirt covered cloth covered most of her face. A pair of welding goggles and a wide brimmed hat concealed the rest of her features. In fact, there wasn't a single bit of her flesh to be seen on her person. Heavy gloves encased her small hands (was that some sort of circuitry cover the backs of those gloves?) and a long duster complete with large and small pouches and pockets hung downward to meet thick, heavy work boots. The tops of the boots were even circled with small pouches. In fact, everything the woman wore seemed to be covered in pouches and pockets bulging with who knows what. I guess she took the concept of being prepared to the Nth degree. Crusty came forward with the introductions.
"Thish here ish Shlater. Boysh, Shlater...Shlater, boysh.".
"You going to tell me what the job is now?"
"Jeshush H. Chrisht yer an impashient shomnabish! Yer right, though...the fashter I get thish over with the shooner we can head out."
Crusty proceeded to explain that he had actually been hired by another party who wished to remain anonymous. Once I got the old turd to convince me that our nebulous employer wasn't Silas and his greenies I let him continue - as long as the Doomies weren't involved, I could care less who was funding this little junket. Our employer was a collector of rare and unique items (loosely translate as relics). Crusty didn't even try to deny it. The Sage's presence was enough of an indicator that we weren't going mountain climbing for the view. Once almost all of the cards were on the table, I went for the jugular (so to speak) and doubled my price. I figured that a relic of any kind would be worth a hell of a lot more than four hundred in trade. That, coupled with the fact that Sages were not only rare but are rumored to be very expensive to secure made eight hundred not so unreasonable a price to ask in my mind. The haggling went back and forth for a short time. All the while Dr. Creepy seemed to be in some sort of trance, communing with forces unseen or simply with the voices in his head - hard to tell. Slater never spoke a word (too good to be true - finally a mute) and hardly looked away from the two extra large saddlebags bolted directly to her creature's frame. She also had yet to remove a single garment from her face, which led me to believe she was one of two things: an incognito criminal, or a horribly scarred mutant. Snap evaluation? Sure. I wasn't too concerned either way, but I was admittedly curious. I found her silent intensity mildly refreshing. When all was said and done, I managed to negotiate my eight hundred in trade and we started to head toward the hard, dark peaks of what had once been known as the Black mountains. They were well named from what I could see at a distance. As we were getting underway, my mind started to wander back to my old posse. As much as they were disorganized and for the most part undisciplined, I had gotten used to the way we functioned and more or less knew what to expect from them. The old fossil might be good in a dangerous situation, or he might just cover his own ass. As for the Sage, who could tell? My money was on him becoming supper for some desert nasty. I held off judgement on the Junker. Silent but deadly? Perhaps. Regardless, an unsettling feeling came over me as we made our long approach toward the looming mountains; my hopes for a quick, uncomplicated mission seemed to be slipping as far away as the mountains awaiting us in the distance.