Sage and Stone
(from the journals of Ortho "Stone Cold" Glick)
by Rick Catanzaro
Chapter II
The faint smell of desert flowers wafted ghostlike in the cool desert night. The evening sky was clear and was filled with thousands upon thousands of distantly ancient possibilities. As I gazed to the heavens I slowly began to focus upon one particular point in the night sky. It was always visible in the mid-winter night and I always managed to find it. Mind you, I don't have any extraordinary knowledge of astronomy, but after all these years I could always tell where Banshee's star hung in the sky. It's light both warms and chills my soul simultaneously, but then some things are best left unspoken of - even if they can't be forgotten. My attention shifted back to more immediate matters, namely being on second watch for the night. According to Crusty we had reached the halfway point in our journey just as the sun was beginning to set. We found a relatively level spot (at least for the rocky terrain we were currently traveling across) and set up camp. It was in a natural bowl like depression surrounded by slippery slopes of loose rock rising on all sides. I definitely wasn't thrilled with the choice - too many shifting shadows and places for creatures of the night to hide. Still, it provided a slight break from the wind and the depression allowed us to make a small cook fire without casting a lot of light across the landscape to attract attention to ourselves. Crusty attended to the fire building and to the (shudder) evening meal while we had gone about the business of setting up camp. The mash in his battered stew pot smelled like boiled mutants in sock water. The Sage had happily consumed an amazing portion of the putrid potion in a very hasty fashion, even going so far as asking for seconds. Crusty then scooped a bubbling ladle full of the mixture from the pot and plopped it into a chipped bowl, passing the steaming filth under my nose. Flakes of dead skin from the back of his hand drifted down and mixed with the other unidentifiable ingredients in the stew. My stomach lurched.
"Care to shample my waresh, shmiley?"
"That crap should be sealed in a lead lined drum with the word ?BIOHAZARD' burned onto it and tossed into a bottomless pit."
"Hey, it's shupper. No shkin off my assh if'n ya don't want none!"
He promptly spun away with his blight water stew, mumbling various slurred obscenities as he shambled his way back to the cook fire. Slater was the fortunate one. She had come prepared for the outdoor trek. The expandable tent that she had been keeping in one of the many compartments within her mechanical mount was large enough for the entire posse. Neither Crusty or Creeps made any attempts to enter the temporary domicile however, so I followed suit. Throughout the entire length of our journey thus far, Slater hadn't uttered a single sound. During our long ride into the mountains, Crusty had babbled non-stop, reminiscing about his past. I tried to tune most of it out, but the focus of the rant seemed to be a ?German muscleman that talked funny' and how he had stabbed some priest in the head with a knife and had done ?nasty things' to a young Chinese boy in Lost Angels back before the war. Creepy seemed to listen intently, continuously interrupting with questions, but Slater's gaze never left the trail ahead of us. Even through all the layers of cloth she placed between herself and the world I could sense the force of her personality - not Syker sense, just pure intuition on my part.
The light from Slater's tent still burned at the halfway point of the second watch. From the temporary shelter came strange, faint metallic sounds, accompanied by whiffs of ozone and brief flashes of odd colored light. I could only guess what she was toiling away at behind the thin walls that held out the rest of the world. I envied the privacy she had afforded herself. If I had a mechanical sentry like her mount scanning the area for unfamiliar entities, I might be comfortable in an enclosed, unprotected structure such as the tent as well. The rest of the group was in the tight embrace of sleep (or whatever passes for sleep where Crusty is concerned). The night seemed like it was going to be a peaceful one, and I began to think that my watch would be an uneventful one. That's when the trouble began.
At first I only detected a low steady grinding noise coming from the surrounding hills, and some thin trickles of loose stone and scree rustled down the slopes. I was slow to become alarmed - after all, seismic activity wasn't unheard of in this part of the country, especially since the war. I'd experienced it several times. It was when the sounds began to form a distinct pattern that I went on the alert. That's when I saw them, dark shapes silhouetted against the darker night. At least twenty jagged shapes ranging from man-sized to head-sized were lined up around the hill tops surrounding our campsite, and it quickly sank it just how perfect the trap was that we had stumbled into. I've seen a great many beasts in my travels, but I never thought I'd encounter a pack of Rolling Stones - let alone be surrounded by them. A few years back I had been in a bar in a tiny ville called New Galveston, Texas and I overheard a wandering Tale Teller talk about his own encounter with the rocky critters. According to him, these living rocks could move themselves at high speeds for short distances, presumably to make uphill ascents to set up for the downhill rushes that earned them their name. What distinguishes these horrors from their surroundings is the complete absence of smooth edges. Every Rolling Stone is covered with a multitude of jagged, rock like protuberances, which they use in conjunction with their mass an velocity to rend their food into a bloody pulp. Once their prey is down, the things secrete a highly corrosive acid, reducing the remains to a liquified stew which is then quicky reabsorbed. Personally, I had thought the bard was yanking everyone's collective chain for a handful of trade goods. I'm glad I'd been paying attention at the time.
There wasn't much time, so I set off the loudest alarm I had. I marked off a .50 caliber chit on the cost of ammo chart and made it known we had company with the pull of the trigger. The bullet had barely left the chamber when a massive flash of light flew over my head in a wave of heat. A white hot arc of plasma slammed into the hill top directly above me, pulverizing at least six of the igneous intruders as well as a good portion of the hillside itself. It wasn't too much of a surprise to me when I turned to see who was shelling out that kind of damage. The diminutive silhouette was barely visible through all the dust and debris the exploded hillside had kicked into the air, but it didn't take a genius to figure out a Junker device had just been triggered. Unfortunately, he swift actions put me into an even more dangerous situation. All of the debris in the air, the darkness and the uneven ground caused me to loose my footing as I spun. As one might guess, the end result was me ass over teakettle in a full roll down the embankment I'd been watching from. The good news was that I didn't suffer any major injuries by the time I finally came to a stop. The bad news however, was two-fold. First, I ended up directly in the path of three Rolling Stones already on the move. Second, at some point during my tumble, I'd lost my grip on my rifle and had dropped it. Not my 30.06 piece of crap hunting rifle, but my pride and joy, first born child, lil' grim servant of death NA M-42 .50 caliber money makin', life takin' baby.
I barely had time for the shock of my missing weapon to sink in before the Stones were upon me. I was lucky enough to regain a semblance of composure and pump a hastily aimed Brainblast into one of the smaller ones, shattering it to bits. The other two however slammed into me with full force. The first was about two feet in diameter, and it took me in the chest, missing my head and face by inches. I felt the rocky spines pierce my flesh, and two ribs snapped as I tried to roll with the blow. The second and larger one drove straight into my legs as I tried to move; the jagged stone ripped through my light armor like it wasn't even there, churning the flesh beneath into raw hamburger and I felt the knee go with a crunch of bone. A scream ripped from my throat. It was looking doubtful if I would be writing any more journal entries in the near future, but I refused to die in the dirt without a fight. With as much focus as I could manage, I boosted my fading strength with a fair helping of Body Control and heaved the magma made menace off of my battered chest. I caught the faint whiff of acid as I threw the creature several meters from me causing some minor damage to my hands in the process. With yet another major shot of Body Control, I attempted to block most of the pain shooting through my body. At least I hoped I wouldn't feel what was going to happen next. The larger Stone shifted on my leg and the smell intensified. I heard the hiss of my flesh begin to burn a few seconds before the shock of pain shattered the mental barrier I had erected. I started to black out, but I held on, desperately trying to gather enough strain to do something...anything. Suddenly the sounds of small motors, gears and servos approached, followed by the hollow sound of metal on stone, and the pressure on my leg went away. Opening my eyes I saw Slater's mechanical mount, smashing the creature apart with its metallic hooves. I eased back, as I felt my blood continue to flow. At least I wasn't going to be rock food.
A long silence followed that seemed to defy temporal law. My leg. That's what kept going through my mind. I've lost one of my legs. The silence continued as I laid there in the dirt looking up at the stars. Thoughts of my immediate future, the job at hand especially, raced through my mind. The thought of becoming some small town oddity was not a very tasteful one. Just as I was beginning to accept the hand I'd been dealt, the mummified visage of Slater knelt beside my maimed frame. My twisted reflection gazed back at me from her mirrored welding goggles. It was unnerving to be gazed upon with such intensity, and that intensity seemed to last forever. Pity? Scorn? Affection? What lay beneath the layers of protective coverings? I was so preoccupied by all of those fluffy headed thoughts (hell, write it down to blood loss) that I hadn't noticed that she had removed her gloves and that hands were on my leg and chest. Then she spoke, although I couldn't make out what she was saying. Her voice had the quality of smooth, liquid crystal; unbroken streams of cool acoustic bliss trickled through my mind as a warm heaviness spread through my battered body. If not the healing touch or the barely audible prayer, the sword sheath I noticed strapped to her belt beneath the gaping trench coat cinched it. Our Junker was also a Templar. As I was being healed, I gave her a look that hopefully conveyed the thought "your secret's safe". I must of gotten my point across, as she acknowledged with a slow nod and continued her attempts to heal me.
After a few hours, I miraculously found myself on my feet again. The joint was incredibly sore and I favored my off leg a bit, but I was walking. My ribs were still tender as well - bruised, but not broken. The rest of the Stones had apparently been vaporized by Slater or stomped into submission by her mechanical horse. Crusty and his hell beast apparently dealt out some pain too. The hellish critter had it's snout buried in the remains of one of the shattered Stones (good lord...was it eating?) and Crusty was humming a dissonant tune to himself while reloading shells into his ancient wheelgun. Dr. Creepy was in a world of his own. Hovering over the shattered remains of the Stones, the old Sage scribbled away madly in one of his multiple unfinished tomes, apparently sketching the internal anatomy of the things. A quick search of the area turned up my rifle, but a rush of joy quickly washed away in a wave of shock. As I drew closer to my favorite traveling companion, I quickly noticed the barrel was actually bent! It may have only been a measure of five to seven degrees, but it was enough to render it useless. A more thorough inspection of the rest of the firearm showed nothing else to be damaged, but the repairing the barrel was beyond my meager weaponsmithing abilities.
"Can you repair this?" I cradled my rifle like a broken child in hopes that the Junker might be able to fix it as she had fixed me. A slow shake of her head managed to further sink my already drowning spirits. I quickly regained my composure and made my way over to Crusty and the scattered remains of our campsite.
"My price just went up, dead man." I held the damaged weapon mere inches from the Prospector's desicated face. A large flake of dead skin hung from the tip of his nose like a shingle hanging from the eaves of a rotting house. His rheumy eyes narrowed as he looked from me to my rifle and back again.
"I didn' shay nothin' ?bout replaschin' no weaponsh! Ifin'ya washn't sho gawd-damned clumshy we wouldn't be havin' thish convershation!" Our eyes locked in a silent contest of wills. The idea to Brain Bomb the deader flashed in and then quickly out of my mind. Eliminating the only contact with my unseen employer would've ended the best possibility of getting my rifle repaired. Still, the two of us continued to face each other, and the tension in the air intensified, neither of us wanting to give ground. A sputtering interruption from Dr. Creepy surprisingly defused the situation.
"Mr. Gabby. Mr. Ortho. Please...there has been enough violence for one night. We should not forget that our employer is expecting us to retrieve his prize, and is paying us, ah...handsomely for the privilege! I'm sure you will be compensated for the loss of your weapon, but we must all work together if we are going to succeed in our mission. I believe that it's my turn to be on watch, so the rest of you should get some sleep. We still have a long journey ahead of us in the morning. Indeed! Promises to keep and miles to go, so now we sleep...or something like that. I misremember, exactly. Are either of you familiar with the poetic works of...no...I suppose not. Well, duty calls!"
With that said, the Sage spun on his heel and went about the business of quietly straightening the camp and throwing some more dry brush on the fire. Crusty and I were both taken aback by the Sage's amazing and uncharacteristic bout of lucid insight into the situation. Our eyes met one last time as Dr. Creepy walked away. Slater had already disappeared into the bowels of her tent, and the interior light was extinguished.
"Ash much ash I hate to shay it, the crazy bashtard's got a point. No hard feelinsh', huh?" The dead man extended his hand to me in a lame attempt at reconciliation. I simply stared at the rotting appendage, a mask of contempt covering my features. Making no attempt to return his gesture, I simply nodded and walked away. The deader once more spewed forth a string of obscenities that I was beginning to get used to, and I got a quiet bit of satisfaction as a heard the soft thud of his lower jaw once more coming loose from his bandanna and plopping into the dust. Dr. Creepy was right, but I wasn't about to give either of them the satisfaction of admitting it. I stalked off to my edge of the campsite and settled down for some shuteye. The few hours of rest I'd get wouldn't be much, but I was glad to take it. Although healed, my body and mind felt like about fifty miles of unrepaired Arizona highway in August. As I drifted quickly off, I silently prayed there would be no more excitement during the night.
The haze of morning began to coat the surrounding hills like a blanket, chasing away shadows with the orange gauss of sunlight. The temperature rose quickly as the coolness of the night dissipated under glare of the sun breaking through the red streaked sky. I thought that I'd be the first one up, but Slater had already packed her tent and other belongings into her mount and was already up and ready to get on the move. Crusty was nowhere to be seen, and neither was his hell beast. Dr. Creepy had pen and journal in hand and was making his way toward me, chewing a thin piece of breakfast jerky.
"Yes, a beautiful morning... a beautiful day! Zipp-a-dee?do-dah and all that, eh? Shall we now commence with our, ah...agreement? I have several questions pertain..."
"Where's the Prospector?" The Sage looked as if I'd asked him for the Meaning of Life. His mouth still hanging half open from being cut off in mid sentence, a trickle of jerky juice trailing down his chin. Blinking quickly, he wiped his chin with the back of his sleeve.
"Whatwhowhy? Prospector? You mean, I assume, Mr. Gabby? Why is it that you would presume that I would know where he went? Was it my turn to watch him?" From most other people, a response like that would've of come off as sarcastic. It was much harder to determine Creepy's disposition. His state of mind seemed to shift from coherent to dementia as easily as the wind change direction.
"As a matter of fact, yes - it was your turn to watch him, as well as the rest of us! Why the hell do you think it's called ?being on watch', you idiot!"
"Oh dear. I'm, ah...sorry if I was remiss in my duties. I've never been on a little excursion like this before. Usually there are paid guards who are posted on watch. But, as you say, I am obviously in error in this circumstance. No matter though...surely between the three of us we'll be able to find him. Perhaps he's just scouting ahead or somesuch, eh?"
I tell you, if I thought our unknown employer could live without the services of the old fool, I'd have turned his head into a one use water sprinkler right then and there. Ah well, like the crazy fool mentioned, it was a new day. Shaking my head and wishing for a bottle of good old fashioned aspirin, I set about the business of tracking the now absent Prospector. A few minutes of searching revealed two sets of tracks heading away to the northeast - away from the mountain we were attempting to travel to. The first and slightly older tracks belonged to the hell beast, the second and newer tracks (of course) to the Crusty himself, painting a pretty clear picture of what happened. Dead horse wanders off. Dead guy goes after it. Simple. What wasn't so simple is why it was taking Crusty so long to return. The tracks were about three hours old, and though I'm not well versed in the nature of undead horses, it seems to me a hell beast would be able to fend for itself pretty well on its own. The whole situation reeked of trouble. Regardless of any of this, the Prospector needed to be found before we could head off again. He was the only one with accurate directions to the exact mountain we needed to get to. Without him, we might as well all go home. With this in mind, our search began as the blazing sun climbed higher in the unforgiving Arizona sky.