Iron Wraith Posted Jan 31, 2012, 9:37 pm	Dalton Zhou wearily fumbled at the latch on the mouldering ISO container that constituted the Wraiths permanent accommodation at Firelight. As his eyes became accustomed to the diffused glow of the oil lamp and the faint odour of vomit and sewage played around his nostrils he saw Carl Bang sitting up uncomfortably on his bunk. He waved weakly and Dalton could see the sickness in him seeping through the dark sweat patches under his arms and the wet sheen on his sallow face. The other occupant in the room lay face-down on his bunk groaning quietly. "Still feeling rough?" Carl nodded. He started puking even before he woke. Being a foot soldier was never a healthy occupation in Evan, but Firelight was the worst. Rumour was the radiation could cause you to mutate into a giant insect. It was a stupid, ignorant lie of course, but that didn't mean your liver couldn't mutate into a mass of cancer infested slime or an insect eat you in the arena. No sensible person volunteered for the pit, if the opponents didn't get you the environment would. Until recently Carl's experience in the pit had been relatively benign and he had escaped serious injury and had begun to wonder about its reputation for lethality. The last few times though had been a horror. Big cats that were on you before you could even get the safeties off and last time those damn hoppers. Carl had faced some real dangers out on the roads and thought of himself as tough, but poisonous grasshoppers the size of cows that could jump over a building were too much. If there had been a few it would have been merely scary, but there were so many he'd had to reload his rifle running the whole time. The girl hadn't been so lucky. It was a miracle that the hoppers were so dumb and some had got themselves hung up in the buildings until late in the fight, otherwise they'd have been overrun. Daltons cool shooting had kept those pursuing Carl at bay, he smiled up at his room mate who would probably still be in the cells had it not been necessary to spring the two newcomers. "It'll pass, the hard suntan always does. What amazes me is that you don't seem to suffer from it anymore." Since Dalton has been in Firelight, the palsy has hit him badly. There are times his hands shake so much that he can't even eat. Months languishing in the Gladiator pens have taken their toll in other ways too. He's pretty sure he'll be dead before the year is out. Then again he thought last year that he'd die in the pens. It was only a few weeks ago that the other two had been captured and they'd been able to put up a team on their own. As a result he'd won his freedom, but at what price. It cost hundreds of dollars for some rusty water and rancid meat from some mutant critter that had been killed in the arena, at least he hoped it was some critter. It was no better than what he got in the pits, but now he had to cook it himself. He was sure he'd puke if he actually managed to get some real food. He held up his shaking hands and grinned. "How would you tell the difference?" He looked to the prostrate form of Guy Folks. Until a few weeks ago he'd been enjoying the high life in the safety of Somerset, and then a bad turn of luck had seen him captured by Manhunters. All the while the guards on the gates of Somerset watched and did nothing. Folks had quickly earned his freedom from the pits and was still suffering from mutant hopper bites when Dalton had suggested they try and score some transport in the Am Night. Dalton shook his head. It had been a stupid thing to do. They already had the offer of a lift out but a moments idiocy had damn near killed them both. What the hell was he going to do with their winnings anyway, sure they could lift out the guns and add a little security to the ISO, but then again until recently the only thing they had owned had been a bucket of vomit, so they hadn't needed it to be secure. Now they had car and a rare engine to protect. "How's she doing?" The new boy's voice broke in on Dalton's thoughts. O'Connell had been his driver when they'd been captured. Ironically she had also been Wraith's second in command, so she and Dalton had plenty to catch up on. Unfortunately in the last bout she had been badly chewed by a hopper before she'd been able to earn the favour of the crowd. That meant that she and therefore the rest of them were destined to go in again. It wouldn't be for a few weeks though as she was still weak from the wound, the poison and the sun. That's if she didn't starve. He had seen her reaction to the meal of fried hopper that she'd been given in her pen. The pirates were nothing if not frugal. "She'll live to fight another day." Guy nodded wearily and then heaved over the side of his bed into the bucket. Not much came up, but he dry heaved a few more times and groaned as the effort pulled at the crude stitches that Carl had put in. It would be some weeks before this little enclave would be in a position to do anything active as they were all injured to one extent or another and they had limited medical supplies. He could hear Carl groaning and his belly rumble as he staggered to the can in the corner. Wearily Dalton sat at the table and, in the warm glow of the lamp, began to pore over the bundle of papers that trundled to and fro between Firelight and Badlands and beyond to the extent of his far flung "Empire". He had encouraged correspondence in the pens to take his mind off his situation and in fairness to supplement his supply of toilet paper. He grinned lopsidedly at the recollection and absent mindedly handed a grateful Carl a sheet of the nice soft stuff that Frazier used for the Somerset reports.
Iron Wraith Posted Jan 31, 2012, 9:42 pm	Two dishevelled half-starved nondescripts sat in the corner of the Wraith's Firelight ISO giggling and systematically demolishing a bucket of Texan style fried lizard. Carl Bang looked up from tending Sharon O'Connell's wounds and hissed to Guy Folks. "Who the hell are those guys anyway?" Folks shifted uncomfortably. The bald truth was he had no idea. He'd been drinking in the tavern trying to garner up the courage to go into the pit again to free his driver. At some point the two had got into drinking with him. Now he recalled he had done most of the buying, charging it to Wraiths tab. Somehow he had recruited them to make up the numbers to an even half dozen. "...Erm, they're just two guys who were hard up looking for work. You gotta admit, they pulled their weight in the arena..." He trailed off uncertainly at Carl's scowl. "You ain't got the authority to go recruiting on behalf of the gang. Hell if Dalton wasn't all gripped up again he'd go spare. He assumed they were just other gladiators, not that you'd gone and offered them membership. This ISO is cramped enough as it is." He raised his voice a little to call over to the new comers. "Say what line of work you fellas in anyways?" Evidently frightened that their meal might somehow disappear if they didn't eat it immediately, Ezra Hansen the heavier set one replied sloppily between mouthfuls, spraying the ISO with half chewed fragments of greasy junk food. "Jamar and me'r' truckers, right Brother?" "S'right." Carl groaned. Wraiths had more than its share of truckers. The gang had only ever owned one van and that had been sold after its first run proved it to be a death trap. Even town events with trucks were as rare as medicine. A gnawing doubt suddenly crystallised. The way Ezra had spoken suggested he wasn't sure. "You don't seem too sure? Jamar was it?" The gangly monosyllabic one worked his jaw for some moments before committing himself to a response. "Your man there said we was sworn in and you had a code... We did our bit, we're in the gang now... We never said we was anything we wasn't... not our fault if you got the wrong guys..." He trailed off and Carl felt his heart sink. If Folks had mentioned the code then they were committed, it was stupid and inefficient, but Wraiths never threw anyone back. If they did they wouldn't be up to their necks in useless mouths to feed. He shook his head. Dalton would be waking up soon and it would fall to Carl to explain why there were two more occupied bunks. "When you finished your meal, why don't you two take off for a while and see if you can find us some paying work. I gotta get the trailer set your crash space up." Ezra poked Jamar and scooping up the remains of their meal they reluctantly sloped out of the ISO. Jamar looked despondently at his buddy. "Well at least we got fed this time."
Iron Wraith Posted Jan 31, 2012, 9:46 pm	A few days later Dalton Zhou, the exiled leader of the Wraiths, was conferring with the other three veterans of the Firelight contingent. They had been getting used to the new arrivals and despite some initial inconvenience were coming to terms with their cramped existence. Dalton had been predictably irritated by Folks unauthorised recruiting, but his annoyance was mitigated by the help that they had undoubtedly rendered in securing O'Connell. It was also clear that the two vagrants were on the edge of starvation as their desperation attested. They had agreed that, whilst it was more like four extra mouths to feed, the guileless way Ezra and Jamar handed over their guns to the gang armoury had eloquently indicated their trustworthiness. As they were the only two guns in the ISO it was clear that security would be better with Jamar and Ezra on board. It was a testament to the Wraiths that even in straitened circumstances, simple appropriation of the weapons hadn't occurred to anyone. Jamar and Ezra had been taken to the tavern and introduced as gang members and were told that their food and drink should be added to the Wraiths tab. Despite the ad-hoc nature of firelight, the letters of credit issued by the Deathrace Mafia were honoured all over Evan and so even in this benighted place Dalton had full access to the vast wealth of the gang. Ironically, due to some "administrative difficulty", he was unable to do much with it other than buy food and commission repairs. Without this restriction the money probably would have been lost long ago. Taking advantage of one of the newcomers periodic binges Dalton had decided to discuss the longer term future of the gang in Firelight. Inevitably the conversation came round to the newcomers who remained something of an enigma despite persistent enquiries. "So, we know they know their way round a truck, that heated discussion about "Jake Brakes" whatever the hell they are seems to prove that." Of all the Wraiths, Sharon O'Connell had taken most speedily to Ezra and Jamar or "Jamez" as she referred to the seemingly inseparable pair. They had been recruited to rescue her and she was grateful for that. She also however saw the vulnerability in their unquestioning trust of everyone. She spoke up. "They are honest, biddable add loyal as hound dogs..." Carl interrupted with a smirk. "Yeah, and about as smart. They smell about the same too." Guy folks grinned. "They seem really grateful to be given a berth, but they have a twisted concept of money. The other day I saw them trying to bargain over a bucket of baked locust from some transient street trader. They were desperately trying to explain that they were in Iron Wraiths and didn't have to pay for food anymore. I've explained the whole tavern deal with them maybe a dozen times, but I still don't think it's really sunk in." Dalton nodded. "I think their brains have been fried. It explains why they have no idea how they ended up here, how they can only find this place since Sharon put that paper lantern outside with their names on it... and yet they can read, discourse with some skill on some high-brow topics and on occasion Ezra gets all mystic and poetical. Clearly they are educated, but their memories have been damaged somehow. Then again this close the Aurora, maybe that ain't surprising." He grinned weakly and all but Sharon smiled sadly. She turned her head away to hide the misting in her eyes. They all knew that Dalton wasn't long for the world, the hard radiation having all but consumed him. He was now reed thin and could only control the shakes in this left hand by tying it into his belt. He couldn't even take a leak without sitting down anymore. He continued. "So Jamar Not-sure and Ezra Don’t-Know , both probably truck drivers and therefore both pretty useless, but definitely both a little crazy." Sharon chanced an observation. "Both pretty gutsy, and in this place maybe that's enough." Dalton shrugged. She had a point and weren’t they all a little crazy.
Iron Wraith Posted Jan 31, 2012, 9:52 pm	It was getting late and Jamar and Ezra were working their way through a couple of beers.  The novelty of just being able to walk in and order something hadn't worn off.  To be fair they still needed reminding on occasion but word had got round to the random barkeeps that kept the tavern operating and anxious for sales and tips they had taken to accosting the pair and offering them their "first one free". Someone had asked if there was anyone willing to "help rescue someone from the pit" earlier in the evening and not knowing what the pit was, but always willing to help a soul in trouble, they had both ambled off with the stranger.  After some confusion (where Ezra had somehow managed to get his belly ripped open on some barbed wire) they had found themselves in a dark sulphurous enclosure with some other people.  They had been handed some guns that had sticky tape over the mechanisms.  Then the people who had given their guns away suddenly dashed off through a door into one of the buildings.  Jamar had been about to ask what was going on when suddenly some gates opened and some enormous beetles came barrelling out into the enclosure.  It took no real intellect to realise that if they didn't want to be lunch they'd need to get the guns into a condition to fight and without a word they'd both started ripping off the tape. They took up the best position they could and seeing one of the others was muttering "don't let me die, please help Me." they decided he must be the one that needed rescuing.  Confused as to why the people who left hadn't taken him with them Ezra decided he needed looking after.  Jamar just tried to get a vantage point. It all happened far to quickly and before they really knew what was going on, the shooting had stopped and they were led out of the enclosure.  The scared looking guy was bundled off into a cell and they were escorted out with no explanation.  With nothing better to do they had both ambled back to the tavern hoping to scrounge a drink or two. Now not a half hour later some lady showed up again asking for help rescuing someone from the pit. Jamar was a sucker for a damsel-in-distress and despite not being quite sure what "the pit" was he decided to help.  Ezra said he'd help too, but his tummy hurt and they had concluded that he was probably hungry.  They decided a cheese burger was just the thing and were wondering how they were going to pay for it when Jamar had a stroke of genius.  He slipped off to the damsel and smoothly offered their assistance.  If only she could assuage his colleagues desperate need for sustenance.  He lost track of what he was saying halfway through, but it had the desired affect and before long he and Ezra were tramping down some dark tunnel, the remains of their cheese burgers sliding warmly into their stomachs. Ezra was still trying to wipe off the red stuff that had somehow found its way onto his midriff, probably ketchup, when his attention was drawn to the Giant Turtle.  He had no idea where it came from, but it clearly needed a good killing and he hobbled to find cover while firing repeatedly.  He was confused to see Jamar run over to it as he was sure they'd never met the turtle before, but the turtle gave Jamar a big slobbery kiss and Jamar fell over probably love struck as usual.  Ezra had kept firing as he was sure the Turtle had been cheating on Jamar and that just wasn't on.  Then he noticed some other guys backing away and the Turtle was making moves on them! He had been right about the two timing reptile, he decided to give the Turtle a big kick in the pants to teach it a lesson. Later in the bar again Jamar was feeling better, but Ezra's tummy still hurt.  The lady from before had come up and, thanking them profusely, had given them a bag of stuff as a reward.  Jamar though the bag might have cheese burgers and she had obviously had forgotten that Ezra and Jamar had already eaten, but she said a deal was a deal and they had taken the bag and decided it was time for bed. They were wandering back to their apartment, when they saw a little lantern with their names on.  Loath to ignore such a remarkable coincidence they decided to investigate.  The lady at the door seemed pleased to see them and they vaguely recognised her.  Jamar later confessed that she was an aunt he used to know in Texan and he’d forgotten she was visiting.  There were a few other people there and they had a nice chat and a few drinks.  They told them about their adventures and showed them the bag.  Disappointingly it only had paper and bits of metal in it.  They had given it to Jamar's aunt as a present as some of the bits of paper had pretty pictures on it and aunts liked that sort of thing.  Before long they just wanted to curl up and sleep.  Ezra's mum came and tucked them in and they were soon asleep. The truck lurched left and rolled as the cannon tore into its side.  The last thing Ezra Hansen had seen was the leering face of a Manhunter before the gun butt crashed into the side of his head.
Iron Wraith Posted Feb 7, 2012, 8:42 pm	Jamar woke to Ezra insistently shaking his arm. The anguished confusion on his face, drifted into amiable bemusement. "Mornin' Ez, that time again?" Ezra nodded excitedly and capered about in bare feet until Jamar finally crawled from under the fusty bedding. The rest of the Wraiths were still dozing. Now they had recovered from their various injuries they seemed to sleep better. Jamar stole one look at the peaceful form of Sharon O'Connell before he allowed himself to be drawn outside into the cool of dawn. He shivered as he leaned up against the ISO to relieve himself. As Ezra pulled on his boots Jamar idly studied the steam rising from the stream of urine that sparkled golden in the early morning sun. His bladder empty, he buttoned himself up and then wiped his hand across the cold metal of the ISO collecting the dew. He rubbing his hands together and wiped them on his jacket to clean them and then collecting more dew rubbed it through his hair to smooth it down. Behind him Ezra was gibbering excitedly. Jamar finished his ablutions and turned to see what was exciting the attention from his long-time friend. Ezra was pawing at a buggy that was parked up behind the ISO. It was grubby, a little dented and dinged, but it looked serviceable. Jamar was sure that it hadn't been there yesterday and would be astounded if it was there much after breakfast. No attempt had been made to secure it, almost as if it had been abandoned. Naturally acquisitive he mooched over to check if there was anything to stop someone driving it away and hiding it somewhere. Within second he saw the anti-theft system. The ignition had a short strip of green electricians tape over it. On the seat was an envelope with his name marked clearly on it, even more prominent was the cipher of the Death Race Mafia. Jamar had been around long enough to know that anyone seen in that vehicle before he had acknowledged receipt would be the target of every low life scum the Mafia could hire. In Firelight that sort of money went a long way, it was a buyers market and you only paid on success. Jamar also knew that, unless he acknowledged receipt within hours, someone with good clothes and bad manners would come to remind him. Jamar was in no mood for visitors. Gathering up the envelope and his friend, Jamar headed over to the Tavern where he was sure to find someone who could explain what was going on. There was obviously some mistake, the Mafia didn't owe him a car and he certainly didn't want to be owing them one. Ezra got more excited as he scented breakfast in the air. Jamar was just getting used to the fact that for the first time in years, he could eat when he wanted to rather than being forced to scavenge what he could. Ezra still hadn't worked it out and Jamar wasn't sure if he ever would. Ezra seemed to be able to function, and was on occasion sparkling company indeed, but other times he couldn't remember the simplest things. Jamar put it down to the dent in his forehead, he'd obviously taken a bump and it had scrambled his noodle somehow. When they got into the Tavern he forestalled the usual confusion by hollering to the sleepy-eyed patron for two gut-busters. Today's server nodded sleepily and called through a hatch to the kitchen. He scribbled something on a piece of paper and held up an inked pad. Jamar pressed his thumb into the ink and onto the paper, committing Wraith funds to another breakfast of champions. Jamar wasn't quite sure why a plate of mushrooms should be so described, especially as he knew that the best ones grew over by the septic tank, but Frenchy, the chef, was adamant that if you didn't know, you didn't deserve to know. The meal was delivered and consumed in short order and, seeing someone who looked like he could be mafia, Jamar left Ezra contentedly sipping some herbal infusion. The Mafioso’s stance and dress told everyone all they needed to know about for who he worked and where in that organisation he fitted. His overalls and baseball cap said he was Death Race Crew, that they were clean was a clear indication that he was admin rather than hands-on, the arrangement and number of the badges suggested him to be middle tier mafia, exactly the sort of person who should be able to sort out Jamar's little problem. Jamar approached warily, unconsciously keeping the document in front of him with his name and the cipher in plain view like a shield. "Errm, Sir. My name is Jamar, I think there has been some mistake." The Mafioso raised a single eyebrow at the word 'mistake'. "Ok, Jamar, what mistake is it that you think you have made?" Jamar blinked. How was this suddenly his fault? He considered pointing this out but quickly decided against it. You didn't go round telling the Mafia that it had made a mistake without making sure your burial fund was paid up. His eyes rolled upwards as he desperately racked his brain for a way of phrasing his query without seeming to question the Mafias efficiency. "Uh... Oh yeah... Um I found this outside our lockup and assumed it was for me, but I don't remember buying a car... no money see... anyway I was just thinking maybe it was for some other Jamar..." He trailed off. It was pretty weak, but he couldn't find another way to put it. The Mafioso tilted his head, sighed and, with a less than friendly arm around Jamar's shoulder, he steered him over to the placing board that occupied one wall of the room. He looked up and with his finger traced down the listings until it rested on one of last nights amateur events. His finger tapped the entrant list and he pushed Jamar up close. "That you?" Jamar looked up and saw his own scrawl in the signature section. Vague memories of entering the event slowly coalesced in his foggy memory. Yes, he remembered vaguely being involved in some sort of event with buggies and rockets and Gatling guns. He thought he had dreamt it, but it must have been real. "Errmm... yes. My memory is kind of hazy though?". The Mafioso took his arm from around Jamar's neck and he looked at his quizzically. Jamar shifted uncomfortably in the scrutiny. Eventually the Mafioso raised both eyebrows in resignation. "Ok, get knocked about did you? We'll it's quiet, let's see if we can remind you Champ." Wandering over to a grubby VCR machine he rummaged in a pile of tapes until he found what he was looking for. "Here we go, event 181218. Putting it in the machine and starting it, he plumped down in a sofa to watch. Uncertainly Jamar perched on the arm eyes glued to the "Magic Telly Box". Together they watched Jamar's incompetent attempts to drive the buggy in a straight line and his pathetic marksmanship, the Mafioso snorting in derision and Jamar getting redder in the face. Eventually the Buggy's got to close quarters and even Jamar couldn't fail to hit with his Gatling gun. Begrudgingly the Mafioso conceded some positive comments about Jamar using the cover effectively. Jamar couldn't see any evidence of a specific tactical plan, he just ended up trying to point his buggy back in the direction of an opponent after it bounced all over the place from the recoil. That probably offset his innate incompetence. Whilst the fight went on there was an onscreen tally of points scored and Jamar was surprised to see that after most of the other vehicles had been knocked out, he was steadily gaining on them. With few opponents left, his team mates were all over the arena leaving him alone to concentrate on his opponent. When they ended up jammed against the bridge Jamar managed to get several shots in at point blank range. Anyone else would have succeeded in finishing their opponents, but typically Jamar bounced away in the wrong direction and when his opponent went around the outside he ended up chasing him by going under the bridge. The Mafioso was getting quite complimentary by now, slapping Jamar's back. "Smart fella, most Ams just tailgate, you know you gotta choose your angles." In the final seconds having overshot again a lucky bounce off a barrier flipped Jamars nose round and he put a final burst into his opponents flank finishing him. The Mafioso hooted. "Nice flick turn, I got you wrong fella, you got some moves on you." Now there were only four entrants left. The two Wolfhounds were quite away up field, Jamar's team mate had joined him in attacking the opponent who had just surrendered. It looked like there would be some repositioning before the final fight and that would probably mean Jamar would be out of position and end up getting chopped. All of a sudden the resignation flags of all the other competitors came up and the event was over. Jamar was in second place behind Wolfhounds. Jamar smiled. Second place wasn't bad at all. After a few seconds his face soon screwed up in confusion again. "I don't get it, why'd they resign?" The Mafioso leant over and paused the machine. "It's Am night kid, it's a bit more tactical than a straight combat with provided gunships. The point of these is the winner gets to keep the car they fought in. If you get it all bust to hell and back there's no point. Winning's good, but if all you win is the prize money, you might as well enter one of the combat events and get a fully functional car to fight in." He gestured at the screen. "The Toro fella was out of the running, he'd only be risking injury. He may have been breached or even out of ammo. Wolfhounds must have figured they didn't need to improve their position enough to risk damage to the car. Once Toro resigned, they knew their resignation would end the event and you wouldn't be able to run any more checkpoints to catch them up." Jamar nodded understanding. It was just as well he hadn't know all this before the event, he'd have spent the whole time trying to do the maths and probably got dead into the bargain. He looked hard at the flickering image on the screen. He could see himself looking dazed and petrified, head at a funny angle from the final bounce. He was pretty sure that the car was the one parked outside the ISO. "I don't understand though, that says I came second?" The Mafioso winked and restarted the machine. The event ground down and the footage cut away to a score board showing the same numbers as before. Each competitor was colour coded and they were ranked in score order. Jamar was still there in second place. Then a caption appeared showing "Winning Team Bonus" and all the numbers on Jamars team jumped up by several points. Then some cheesy graphic had them rearranged and suddenly Jamar was top. His name lit up and they cut to some footage of the car he was driving, his car. He grinned and the Mafioso grinned with him. "I guess Wolfhounds must have forgotten in their excitement that the winning team gets a bonus. If you had resigned before them your whole team would have been down the rankings and a lot poorer, and you wouldn't have that car. It isn't just about coming first; you gotta consider the effects of your decisions." He wound the footage back to the point of resignation. Jamar looked closely at himself again. He hadn't resigned instantly as he clearly hadn't a clue as to what was going on; Wolfhounds had jumped the gun and had paid a hefty price. Doubtless their team mates would be disappointed in the outcome as well. Jamar was suddenly a little worried that he might find himself in an alley with a disgruntled competitor. The Mafioso checked that he was done and rewound the tape, putting it back on the pile when it was spat out of the machine. He smiled at Jamar and took the envelope from him. "The prize money, five grand and change, is in your teams account, and that car is now yours and your responsibility. Once word gets out that you have acknowledged receipt that tape on the ignition won't be worth jack. I suggest you get it stored somewhere safe pronto. That Rocket is a rarity in these parts, and a loaded Gatling gun makes a powerful temptation to rustle." Taking the hint Jamar sprang up and, scooping up Ezra as he went, dashed back to the ISO to pass on the good news.
Hector102 Posted Apr 18, 2012, 6:55 am	I can't get the whole idea about Ezra .Can you elaborate it clearly? sell car Australia
Iron Wraith Posted Jun 6, 2012, 7:46 pm	In the dark of the ISO, at just before midnight, Ezra Hansen bawled uncontrollably while Jamar did his best to comfort him. "S'ok Ez, we'll see her again real soon, won't we Carl?" Carl shifted uncomfortably at the hopeful expressions in the eyes of the two vagrants. He knew how attached they both were to Sharon in their own deluded way. He wanted to shake them out of it and yell at them, after all it was their stupid nonsense about Deadmans Drop that had made Sharon go up there. Of all the stupid pointless deaths he had experienced in his few years, Sharon's was the worst. Rammed by an idiot high on novocaine and crushed into a rock wall, all because Ezra was having nightmares about Zombies. He had thought that they lived in the wrecks that littered the track and came down every few years to terrorise the town. Sharon had agreed to go up there and stop them form scaring her "little boy". Of course access was limited to race days and so Sharon had entered a pro-race in that stupid Buggy that Jamar had won. Carl could see her face now, gleefully recounting how it would be easy money to boot. Just let everyone get past then follow slowly and pick up an easy fifth place. Of course that took no account of idiots doing a 180 at the first bend and shunting her. The flimsy bottom had fallen out of the Buggy taking the engine and Sharon with it. He winced as he recalled seeing her body cut in half by the muscle car as it bounced her into the rock. He could have yelled at Ezra who was deluded enough to think his "mum" had gone with Jamar's "aunt" to stay with friends in Somerset. They hadn't seen the crushed corpse. They should know the truth, but Carl remembered that it was a selfless act from the two simpletons that had sprung Sharon from the pit in the first place. Besides it would have been like kicking a puppy. Instead they had shown them the otherwise undamaged Buggy and claimed that the front wheels and engine had been swapped for a ticket with the "pipeline" that shipped passengers to Badlands. Ezra and Jamar, who had consistently failed to grasp the concept of the vast cash reserves of the gang, accepted the story out of hand. It was only later that they realised that Ezra hadn't understood that "mum" being in Somerset would prevent her from tucking him in at night. It was this revelation that had started the tears. He was was relieved when Dalton spoke up in answer to Jamars question. "You'll see her soon Ezra, I promise." "Cross your heart and hope to die?" "Yeah... Hope to die." Ezra slowly stopped snivelling and snuggled down in his fusty bedding and Dalton drifted over to Carl and put his hand on his shoulder. Carl could feel the tremor in the bony hand and was again suprised in the strength in the old mans grip as he spoke softly to himself. "We all will sooner or later. It's about the only thing in this world you can guarantee."
*JD_Basher* jd.basher@charter.net Posted Jun 7, 2012, 2:49 am	OOC: Keep up the good story!..... I like the way you use the 'mentally afflicted' (PTSD?) gangers here as a positive point of the subject! JD
Iron Wraith Posted Jul 10, 2012, 8:59 pm	Jamar sat on his fusty bed rocking frantically back and forth and humming loudly. Dalton wheezed as he sat himself upright concerned by the intensity of the noise and activity that had roused him from a fitful sleep. He instinctively looked over to Sharons bunk to see if she had an inkling as to what had set Jamar off. Sharon wasn't in her pit and her gear was gone. He was half-way to cursing her when Dalton suddenly remembered that Sharon was dead and gone and the grief bit him again, sharp but fleeting. He cast his eyes over to where Carl usually crashed, but his bed was equally vacant. "Where in the name of Sam Hall is everyone". Jamar stopped humming and stole a quick glance across the room at the baleful old half-zombie that was his boss. Normally his aunt would look out for him, but she was dead. Not dead! Not dead! She was away in Somerset. The old man looked at him through rheumy eyes, his wasted frame pallid in the fritzing actinic light of the arc lantern. Overcome with emotion Jamar started rocking again muttering a litany under his breath. "Not my fault! He turned into me. I had no room. It could happen to anyone. I told him to get out. The fire would have killed him. I saved him. The car blew up as well, he'd have been dead then. Not my fault! They didn't have to shoot at him. He could have made it. Blew his leg off. Not MY fault!" Dalton shook his head. He'd not known the two newcomers long. Jamar had seemed mostly lucid if a little slow. Ezra was plain crazy. When they'd first shown up Dalton had one of the "doctors" check them out as they were being de-loused. The doctor had been fairly uninformative. It could be brain damage as Ezra had a significant dent in his forehead. They had been living out of doors for a long time and aurora-stroke was a possibility. He'd even postulated that it could be a coping strategy for distress. Either way there was nothing he could do. Dalton hadn't expected much, free medical advice was worth about as much as you paid for it. He had to accept the presence of the two, as a burden initially, but they had soon proved that they were willing to take a risk, sometimes stupid ones, pull their weight and now they were as accepted as any of the older gangers. He was glad Sharon had taken them under her wing. She seemed to be able to penetrate the foggy thinking and random associations that typified what passed for a conversation with Jamal and Ezra. They had settled down somewhat accepting her into their twisted world view as an unusually fixed point. When the crash up on the high track had claimed her life, they had been unable to accept it, instead constructing simple fantasies to deny it all. The most recent had been a trip up the mountain to visit aunty. They'd had to enter a race to get access, something Dalton would have probably forbidden had he known, but as the pair flitted in and out without explanation it was only after Jamar came back with a winners receipt that they had realised that Ezra had climbed out of the car at the start and was still up there. He'd wandered down in his own time and other than a "chat with mum" no-one had any idea what he'd been up to. Dalton looked at his desk. It was littered with the scrawlings of the lieutenants out in the other towns, piles of notes and scrip and the occasional winners claim slip. There was a new one on the top for an Am night, showing just under $2000 in winnings. Jamar was down as the driver. That explained it. They'd entered another Am Night and their inexperience had finally outstripped their incredible luck. They'd been in half a dozen events together in the pit. They'd been marginally successful and there was a hope that when the gang finally got out of Firelight, it would do so in some style. Now Ezra had got himself badly hurt and Jamar was blaming himself. The door opened a crack and Dalton was suprised to see Ezra slink in apparently unhurt. Had Jamar imagined it all? Sometimes the two of them woke in the night after some nightmare of a past or possibly fantasy life. These episodes were especially unnerving for the rest of the gang as Ezra was often lucid and comprehensible. The panicked ravings tended to bear out the common assertion that Ezra had staggered in from the desert after a bandit attack had hit his convoy, there had clearly been some encounters with the local fauna and it hadn't gone well. There had apparetly been some sort of betrayal as well if his daytime ravings were to be trusted. Jamar didn't seem to be suprised by Ezras entry and continued his rocking unabated. Ezra joined Jamar on the bed and started mimicing him. Dalton decided to go and find Carl and ask him just what the hell was going on. He wasn't going to get any rest with the two lunatics moaning and wailing. It was unsettling and Dalton wasn't willing to put up with it unless he had no other choice. With some difficulty he made his way over to the bar. He seldom made the trip as he couldn't hold anything down that was sold there and the journey was always painful and tedious. On the rare occasions he had to go he preferred to be accompanied by Carl who could steer him around the worst of the obstacles and catch him when his shambling gait tripped him up. Dalton was sure that death would soon catch him, his body was systematically shutting down, but he was unwilling to accelerate the process any more than necessary. He asked around the dim-witted patrons who populated the place so early in the morning and was dissapointed to find that Carl wasn't there. On reflection there was no reason he should have been, but there wasn't really anywhere else to go. Tutting and cursing Dalton stumbled back to the ISO, sliding on the oil rich muck that explained why agriculture had never really taken off in Firelight. He was passing the Pit when on a hunch he turned off toward the shanty that served as the Mafia's track-side quarters. There was usually a crowd here and one of them might know where Carl was. After a few enquiries he found himself in a shabby first aid station where he found the answer to the mystery. Carl was helping Guy Folks to his feet, or rather to his foot. Sharon's gunner was deathly pale and incoherent. The arena saw bones was covered in his blood and grime and was dropping Guy's lower leg into a plastic barrel, doubtless to be sold out the back door to some mutant dreg with an uncomplicated diet. Despite the squalor of the Pit the 'doctor' seemed to have done a competent job. Guy was high as a kite but still able to hop. In time they'd get him a prosthetic and he'd be as good as new, well better than now anyway. As they left together Dalton pondered on how he could be loosing the Firelight faction of the Wraiths one limb at a time.
Iron Wraith Posted Jul 23, 2012, 6:59 pm	Dalton Zhou leaned forward on his bunk. "He did what?". Carl Bang his erstwhile gunner shifted uncomfortably. "He entered the Am Night event with the buggies." Dalton shook his head in disbelief, only a day ago Guy Folks had lost a leg in an Am Night for a Biter. He had no right risking life and limb in order to gain the dubious benefit of a Buggy. "What the hell was he thinking Carl?" Carl shrugged. "I'm not sure he was thinking stright at all. Afterwards he said that it was probably a dumb idea, but he thought his luck couldn't be so bad two nights running. Besides he had learnt his lesson and was making sure he only attacked from the rear when he had shaken off pursuit, not going at it like a bull like Jamar does." Dalton raised his eyebrows questioningly. He didn't speak. Always best to let them use their own words and besides he couldn't spare the breath or even stand the pain of breathing these days. Carl shuffled from foot to foot under the gimlet stare and started blurting. "Well he starts out well enough, taking calulated risks of flank fire to get behind them. He found himself two enemies already engaged with a team mate so they were distracted. He got between buildings so he couldn't be flanked, lined up an easy shot with the heavy rocket and then promptly missed. He follows up with the gat and got a few good hits in, but all of sudden his team mate is out of it and both enemies have nothing better to do that turn on him. Somehow he got all snarled up in the rubbish around the buildings and the next thing the Buggy has turtled." Dalton shook his head wearily. "And then he surrenders and gets safe home for tea and medals, Yes?" Carl shrugged again. "You would have thought he'd have learned from last time, but he got out of the buggy and tried to turn it over. Ends up with a Gat in the guts. They patched him up as best they could, but he's not going to be good for anything for a long while." Dalton rubbed his eyes. "I thought that it was all Jamars fault last time, but clearly Guy is as thick as either of the Lunks and doesn't even have the redeeming benefit of a head injury. Where the heck is Jamar anyway, I've been looking for him all day to help with my bandages." Carl looked at the ground. "He went to visit "Aunty" again. Got his tires burned off and lost all the underbody armour but he came down safe enough. Looks like we now know what happened to Sharon though. I couldn't work out how she lost the front wheels so quickly. It wasn't the collision, it was the terrain. I hadn't appreciated that there was molten Lava on the track up there." Carl shook his head. "Dead Mans Drop is a bloody death trap."
WarChylde Posted Jul 25, 2012, 5:36 pm	Great story, please keep it going.
Iron Wraith Posted Aug 19, 2012, 10:47 am	Carl Bang carefully picked apart the layers of filth encrusted cotton fabric that in some other life had possibly been someone’s shirt. An hour or so earlier the much delayed monthlies had turned up in the post. Carl had been dispatched immediately to collect them from the deranged looking courier who had just got in from Badlands. The fat cloth wrapped bundle with Wraiths name on it had been obviously on a trying journey as it was filthy, battered and reeked of fuel. As was customary he had taken the bundle back to the ISO ready for Daltons review. Inside was a sealed note from the Badlands contingent and many smaller bundles. These would have been forwarded from Gateway and further afield. It was a fairly effective system as each station copied and forwarded mail to each connected station. Most of the messages Badlands received had been relayed by Gateway from Somerset and Elmsfield. Years ago there had been a contingent in Sarsfield who would have posted to Badlands direct, but they had managed to get themselves killed. The aptly named Gateway was really the hub, Badlands a relay station and Firelight was the end of the line. The Badlanders looked on themselves as the elites of the gang as they had voluntarily penetrated Evan furthest. To them, Firelight didn't count as everyone there had either been captured and brought there, or had been born there. None of the Firelighters had any idea what the countryside 2 miles from the compound looked like. Most of the Badlanders had scouted in the rough wilderness around the truckstop. They had brought back scalps to prove it and some had even been to Sarsfield and back when Wraiths had a contingent there. In truth though, now they were little more than a glorified post-office for the more active stations. The small circuit there rarely held events and those were often poorly attended. In reality they didn't earn their keep and should have been either reduced in number, or required to compete whenever an event came due. The lack of hospital facilities meant however that injuries might take months to heal and there was often no-one fit for duty. There was also the consideration that without Badlands, communication to Firelight would be even less frequent. Gateway was a little busier. They seemed to place in an event at least once a fortnight. They also entered one of the most dangerous leagues on the calendar, the Pedestrian Combat League. This had been running over the last few weeks and the team had been surprisingly successful to date. There were some talented psychopaths on the circuit there and toe-to-toe fights with live rounds were fairly lethal. In truth Carl was excited to see how they were progressing. Hilda Tingle the lieutenant there was shaping up to be a formidable all-rounder and if Wraiths ever came out of semi-retirement it was likely that Gateway would figure prominently. Elmsfield on the other hand was barely functional. If they had any way of extracting the token team there, they probably would have before now. It had been kept on for the occasional league event there and to maintain contact with one of the camps. The camp had since gone bust and now the childish scrawlings of Randy Hickey rarely contained anything more edifying than "We is all reel wel.". They only bothered to post a reply when they had placed in an event. Then again overheads were low and a presence there at least kept their name on the map. There was also some valuable equipment there, probably more valuable than the crew that guarded it. In theory they should have sent everything to Gateway direct, but the route between the two was more hazardous than most and so they sent it to Somerset instead who made sure a copy was forwarded in their more frequent mailings. Carl assumed that Aubrey didn't feel the transcription of a five word 'report' three times a year was an undue burden. Carl spent the best part of his time on the Somerset messages. The incidence of banditry meant there might be a dozen copies sent before word finally got back that the first one had arrived safely and could he please stop carping on about whatever had been important months ago. Somerset had the largest contingent and was busiest, and to be fair, the most organised. Rene Frazier often sent dozens of sheets of good quality paper each month. Somerset made the lions share of Wraith income and was now the only active scouting station. Most of the leagues were based there as well, so there was always something going on. Steeling himself for the task ahead Carl went through the process of separating the bundles and sorting their contents into originating station and date order. He separated out the copies of reports he had already seen and put them aside for when he had more time to sift through them for any extra information they might contain. Dalton used to do this himself, but now he barely had the energy to read the new stuff. Carl had been drafted into reading all the mail and summarising it for Dalton. He would then take dictation for replies as he went along. Not that he minded too much. Daltons dictation had diminished since his illness had started to affect his lungs and Carl was often left to compose replies himself. Sometimes however Dalton needed to attend to things personally. This month was going to be one of those times.
Iron Wraith Posted Aug 19, 2012, 10:56 am	The first sign of trouble had been the Badlands note itself. Usually Alex Fox wrote, but today the handwriting on the envelope was very different. Carl slit the top and pulled out a greasy scrap of notepaper. It was terse, in contrast to Alex's florid style. Carl thought Alex fancied himself as a wordsmith, but in truth the long words and endless similes were rather tedious. As he read Carl shook his head. He wouldn't need to worry about that again. Bored with sitting around, the Badland contingent had signed up to the first events they could find. Both were death races, both with Macho Vans. In the first event they had rolled and failed to finish. Then again no-one else had either, the Macho Van being some idiots idea of a killing machine. Overburdened with overpowered weapons and an underpowered engine, they generally lumbered, rolled and burned. Realising the best bet would be to hang back, they had entered a second almost identical event. This time they had actually made it over the bridge before their vehicle was brought to a halt by gunfire. Sadly a pursuing van had been unable to stop and had smashed into the stationary and by now unarmoured van. Alex had been killed in the collision. James Deems was still badly injured and was likely to be unfit for weeks. They had yet to elect a new leader. Carl shook his head as he put the note back into it's envelope. He was itching to start on the fat envelope from Somerset, not least because his stomach was still unsettled from a lapse of judgement at a trackside food vendor last night. His method was to leave Somerset until last. With chance having such an influence on life and death, he was naturally superstitious and he didn't want to jinx himself or the Somerset contingent by breaking from his ritual. Carefully shifting position to ease the pressure on his bowels he reached for the envelope that had come from Gateway.
Iron Wraith Posted Aug 19, 2012, 10:59 am	Carl read with growing alarm that things in Gateway had gone badly wrong. Hilda and two other gangers had been wiped out in the Ped Combat league. The Gateway report had been written by Kim Ballinger, a reasonably successful death racer. She had outlined the overall situation and basically it had been just her and some guy called Potts who Carl hadn't heard anything of until now. It was bad enough that another three experienced gangers were dead, but Ballingers judgment had clearly failed her as she'd then hired three gunmen into the gang and sent them into the arena to secure Wraiths position. Worse she'd sacked a number of "unsuitable" candidates and spent thousands in wasted recruitment fees. It went against Wraiths ethic of commitment freely offered being freely accepted. The placing fifth in the league didn't matter a damn as there was no shortage of money. It got worse when he opened a second note that had clearly arrived via a different courier from Gateway. The handwriting was different, and it was signed by someone called Bruce Doton, apparently one of the gunmen hired on by Ballinger. He was offering his services as section leader as he "doubted Miss Ballingers command ability". Carl was inclined to agree with his assessment as the woman shouldn't have been fool enough to hire on those who went where the money was. He took an instant dislike to Doton however for sneaking off to teacher to ratify what was effectively a coup. He compared the content of the two notes and referred back to past reports. It was clear that Ballinger was in a difficult position and was out of her depth, but she was a loyal ganger. Hilda had spoken well enough of her. Potts was a drone, he'd do whatever who was in charge told him, but he would be unlikely to have any influence in the proceedings. Doton clearly had the support of the other man who had hired on with him. No surprises there, Wraiths were wealthy enough and whilst the equipment at Gateway was clapped out, they could pick and choose their events and were far better off than the poor scavvies who were forced to enter just to make enough to live on. Carl shook his head. It sounded like Ballinger would be out voted 2 to 1.
Iron Wraith Posted Sep 4, 2012, 10:19 pm	Ezra Hansen's world shrank to the crosshairs in front of him. The voices in his head receeded in the silence of the arena and a sort of cold calm decended. He wasn't sure how long he had been in this duel, but he couldn't recall how he had got here. It came and went he supposed, he could recall snapshots of his life, but no coherent train of memory. It seemed he remembered where his emotions ran high, combat was burned in his memory and the other thing. It was when he'd tried too hard that the bad memories came. He'd stopped trying now, it wasn't worth the pain of... whatever it was. He looked across at his driver... Jamar was it? It didn't really matter, his face briefly swam out of the fuzzy swirl of half-remembered names and faces. As soon as he switched his attention back to the gunsight the face faded try as he might, he couldn't bring it to mind. Ezra sighed inwardly. He could function, but he was living for the moment every second of every day and he could only remember these stressful moments for longer than a few minutes. If he wanted to have anything to hold onto, he had to find it out here, where the sulphur was strong and the radiation stronger. An enemy drited across his gunsight and with paracticed ease he punched some rounds through it before it was behind a building. He didn't bother trying to suggest strategies to his driver... whoever that was today. He'd either do the right thing or they'd both end up in the medics hut, or in a hole. There wasn't much Ezra could do, the controls were unfamiliar. He was pretty sure that wasn't just his flaky memory either, he seemed to subconciously know waht to do to set the gun up, but the one time he had driven, the car lurched all over the place. He was probably heavy handed. Foot to the floor... come on you sluggard heap of crap, up into the second gear train when you hit 25. The truck was tough, but even it couldn't withstand that amount of sustained fire for long... damn it they are nearly through... Another car drifted lazily past, its course determined by a bad slide on some rubble. Another burst... it twists under fire, another... a hand raised in surrender... We don't kill them when they surrender, even if they are bandits. We let them go, walk back... yes armed. We may need them to return the favour, hopefully not soon though, not all of them follow the code. Ok freind, fight over for you. Stay out of the cross-fire and we'll see you in the bar maybe... Oh, nearly snapped my head off... Turning... and there's another one... Suddenly it was all over and the automatic safeties locked in. "Yee Haa. Did it again EZ!" Ezra looked blankly at Jamar, trying to remember something important. The rumbling in his belly told him it must be time to eat. Jamar drove the car out of the arena and they parked up outside the ISO. Ezra climbed out and grinned faintly when he saw the little paper lantern outside. They were home again. He could never quite remember where Jamar took him when they went for their little drives, but he always seemed to be excited when they got back. Driving must make him very happy. Jamar produced a flask from inside his leather jacket and offered it to Ezra. Taking a pull they stumbled over the threshold. Carl looked up from his mail and shook his head at the disturbance. Ezra was saddened to see that Mum hadn't got back from work yet, but he knew she had been working up at Dead mans Drop a lot lately. His face froze momentarily as he had a vision of paper flowers fluttering in a mountain breeze, but his mind fogged again almost immediately and his lopsided grin returned. Yeah, maybe he'd head up to the Drop and suprise her.
Iron Wraith Posted Sep 7, 2012, 7:35 pm	Carl was sitting in the Firelight Tavern having decided he needed a break from poring over badly written documents in the dim light of the ISO. Jamar and Ezra had made themselves scarce earlier in the morning, shushing one another and obviously out to misbehave. With Guy down at the trackside sawbones getting the rash on his stump looked at, it was unusually quiet and Dalton had fallen into a fitful sleep. Carl had been worried about disturbing him and, weighing the Somerset bundle in his hand, he had decided that it could wait until after lunch. He wasn’t sure he’d made the right decision as he picked suspiciously at his meal. Frenchy had claimed it was a potted meat sandwich but had pointedly avoided specifying the exact species of meat. Food costs were high in Firelight as it was so far off the beaten track. Over time the quality of life in the ISO had improved. Once the Mafia Bank had recognised that they were affiliated with a wealthy gang in Somerset obtaining supplies had become merely difficult. It had been easier to eat out than try to store and cook food in the ISO, but it did put you at the mercy of supply. When those supplies started to get scarce Frenchy got far too creative for Carl's delicate digestion. Jamar Ross came bounding across and Carl wearily waved him to a seat. As Carl took the plunge and reluctantly took a bite of the sandwich, Jamar watched, clearly agitated. Carl chewed mechanically, one eye on Jamar who kept waggling his eyebrows and bouncing up and down. Eventually Carl was unable to endure the antics of the crazed trucker any longer and putting down his sandwich he turned to ask what the news was. “Gotta a secret, Ezra’s gone to see Aunty!” Carl shook his head. He couldn’t understand the almost religious fervour that took Ezra time and time again onto the lethal dead-mans drop circuit just to visit the site of a death he didn’t even acknowledge. It was scarcely news, but Carl glanced over to the race roster and saw that Ezra’s name and mark were indeed on an event. The race was long over, but it often took hours for Ezra to find his way back to the ISO. “When are we expecting him back?” Jamar waggled his eyebrows again and with obvious delight sprung his trap. “Ha, ha. He ain’t coming back! He’s off to Somerset to see his “mum” and to stay with her for good. He’s been missing her too much here, so he took off. He may be there already…” Carl shook his head, he was too befuddled to pick out the half meaning from Jamar’s rant. “How’s he getting there? Is he using the pipeline?” Several gangs had offered to transfer gangers out to the Badland station releasing the passengers from the danger of a solo trip through unknown and highly dangerous territory. Some of the altruistic ones even offered the trip free or for a donation. If it weren’t for the risk of another Wraith getting captured by the Manhunters and the limited opportunities Badlands, the small continent here would have probably moved on by now. Jamar shook his head. “Nooo, nothing mundane, he said he was going in his chariot of fire… I dunno if he had a bow of burning gold but he didn’t take any gun.” Jamar tapped his head conspiratorially and winked. “You know Ez, he always was a bit crazy, who knows what he meant.” Realisation suddenly dawned on Carl and he looked in vain for any sign of understanding on Jamar’s face. Seeing the excited look on the truckers face he was sure that Jamar firmly believed that Ezra had gone to Somerset. He clearly hadn’t grasped the implication of being with Sharon. His appetite gone, he wearily left his lunch to report to Dalton. As he stepped out the door Jamar greedily swept up the remains of the sandwich and stuffing it into a pocket for later he bounded over to the race board. As he scanned it for a suitable event to enter he inadvertently brushed out Ezra’s name with his sleeve. High up on Dead Man’s Drop, a gust of wind blew paper flower petals from a pathetic memorial to Sharon O’Connell across the track. Placed only moments before in a solemn if childish little ceremony, they came to rest, a few feet away, against the burning tire of a wreck that had been caught in a lava spring. As they charred, the smoke mixed with a filthy plume that rose from the blazing muscle car that was the funeral pyre of Ezra Hansen and was dispersed northwards by the mountain winds.
Iron Wraith Posted Sep 21, 2012, 10:40 pm	“What the hell is this supposed to mean?” Carl hissed in exasperation at Jamar. Barely two days had passed since Ezra had died up on the mountain. He stabbed his finger in the ledger, HIS ledger, where a new name had been appended. Blythe Fuentes stood uncertainly a little distant from the argument. She had been mooching drinks in the bar, peddling the usual sob story, when she’d noticed a goofy looking guy who looked like a soft touch. He’d bought her a few drinks, offered a meal - which she’d accepted and then suggested they go back to his place where they could talk. She’d assumed he was hitting on her and as he wasn’t gross, seemed safe and it would mean not sleeping in a skip she’d gone with him. As it had turned out the offer had been for a permanent bunk and even more surprisingly not a shared one. She had looked out at the filthy alley and the brightening aurora and decided on the spot that she was never going to spend another night out in it if she had the chance. The ISO looked homely and someone had made an attempt to brighten it up with paper lanterns and the like. There must be a kid here too judging by the childish stick figures of “Mummy” were anything to go by. She’d been pointed at “Auntie Sharon’s” bunk and was relieved to see that the all pervading essence of “boy” had been largely held at bay. There was even a privacy curtain. Carl looked at the hustler that Jamar had brought in. She looked ok, other than the tell-tale signs of a spell in the pit, he could understand Jamar wanting a tumble. But signing her on? He shook his head. Maybe she wasn’t the staying kind, but he’d see how far it went. “OK… Blythe was it? You got a week to prove yourself. Impress me by then and we’ll ratify your membership. Maybe!” It was all bluff, he could see Dalton in the corner and they knew each other well enough by now that he wouldn’t let him break the code, in all conscience Carl wouldn’t break it anyway, but the code assumed that someone with half a brain was keeping the logistics of the gang in mind. Another mouth to feed… he corrected himself. She was taking Ezra’s place… maybe… a zero sum. Carl sighed resignedly. “Might as well do this properly, Ok Blythe. Check your gun in there. I’ll need your full name and any previous job… other than gladiator.” As she stowed her gun, Blythe shrugged out of her jacket and flung it on her new bunk. “I was the surgeons mate on a truck convoy.” Carl saw the staff and intertwined snakes tattooed on her shoulder and glanced at the grinning Jamar who nodded in Dalton’s direction. Carl smiled for the first time in several days. “Miss Fuentes, let me introduce you to the rest of our happy band.”