Good to be back-

Of all the assignments I've been on, I think that was the closest I've come to dying.

I went back to Wynnland, where we lost the other team. I set up camp in the usual spot, then set up a little nest for myself 20 or so yards away. The camp was purely for the benefit of the Spidermen. I wanted to watch and see what they'd do.

They didn't disappoint me. They showed up right after dark, started looking around the camp; two of them. Then the bastards dropped to all fours and started sniffing the ground like bloodhounds.

I tried to get up and sneak off, but I had to move slowly. I didn't want them to hear me.

Once they got my scent they were on me, and roughed me up pretty good. I'm not sure for how long I was unconscious. Long enough.

They're primitive and savage. And they frighten me. They speak some strange pidgin of English and what I think might be French. They have a fairly good grasp of technology, obviously, as they made use of my camera and my communications equipment.

They want guns, for God knows what. And pity on everyone if they ever amass an arsenal.

The only useful thing I learned is that there are several families. One per Mono car, if my guess is right; and that's not good for anybody.

In any case, there are two less to worry about. Again, I find myself in Vanessa's debt. Thanks. I hope I never have to return the favor.

Gotta go rest up.

Extraction

immediate extraction

mono station 3

expedience imperative

before sunset

minimal force required stealth preferred

asleep now time short

now damn it

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Lost Two Men-

As soon as I got back to HQ, they sent me out to Wynnland to check on the two-man recon team they sent out when I left for LA.

I found them; guts ripped out, hanging from the tree which we designated a campsite.

Up till now, we've considered parks, gardens and golf courses to be safe ground, as the gangs and unnaturals have a strong aversion to the overgrown places.

Looks like the Spidermen don't share that aversion. I returned to report, but I've got to head back out there and see what exactly the hell is going on.

Did they follow my back trail? Did these kids make the mistake of sleeping the night away when the Spidermen are clearly nocturnal?

The bodies looked like a warning if I've ever seen one, but the Spidermen hang their meat for consumption.

Reports to follow.

Unexpected Beauty.

Los Angeles, partially under water, partially overrun with terrible things, is surprisingly well off. We fell in with a group of resistance fighters, the descendants of businessmen and gang leaders, who patrol the hills the surround what used to be the city of LA.

They say, once the Doors shut and everything went bad, the governor of California spoke to the citizens of his state with one final television broadcast. Everyone watched as, while most officials were fleeing to their bunkers, this man presented a map of the state, pointing out safe house, weapon caches and temporary infirmaries.

He urged people to stay away from Hospitals, as they were already overrun and useless.

Though around that time, normal news media had ceased to be, it appears that the governor's gamble paid off. Bands of well armed citizens roamed the streets, downing fiends of all sorts left and right, as well as keeping looters in their place.

Our new friends said Northern California didn't fair as well, but gorgeous Southern California, all hills and beaches, is a site to behold. It makes me think that perhaps there is hope for Vegas after all.

But then again, there are unknown quantities in Vegas that makes it difficult for me to make a move. I've always been a man of information; doing what I do so that the men of action can live to be heroes.

I never really want the job of sending men of action out to possibly die at the hands of a bad plan.

Not what I should be thinking about. It's good to sleep in a real bed again. Suppose I should go find out what's been happening while I've been out gallivanting.

Questionably human-

I climbed the Monorail platform during the day yesterday. Every entrance platform, not just the one on Paradise, is blocked with unlikely debris. A Volkswagen, for example, sits upside down, windows crushed, on the second floor of this one.

So, had to climb the exterior, which was fine, until I reached the half-way point and saw the bits of broken glass jutting up from the hand rail. It was stuck there with some sort of bitter-tasting resin. At first I thought it was tree sap, from the smell, but it tasted somehow animal. Turns my stomach to think of it.

I continued the climb, wrapping my palms in handkerchiefs and trying to clear the glass away as best I could with my pocket knife. I usually carry an old Swiss Army knife, for the versatility. It proved nearly useless in this endeavor. Even with the precautions, my hands are full of cuts, and its taken most of the morning for Seline Jericho to take the slivers of glass out of my hands.

Typing this is agonizing.

I've seen a lot, doing what I do. Not much bothers me any more. But what I saw in the Mono, well, it shook me. I've mentioned before that they live in the monorail cars. I don't know how I pictured their living conditions, but it didn't prepare me for the reality.

The first thing I noticed was the flyblown meat hanging from the car's ceiling. Each carcass, skinned and gutted were evenly spaced and were suspended from hooks hanging from the ceiling.

Three spider-people(?) rested in the car, two on benches and the third, leaning against the opposite window, in some mock-cruciform position. I didn't take him in at first, just thought he was part of the scenery. But when my mind registered he was a person and not decoration, I actually screamed and nearly lost my balance.

I decided then that I was done, and began the long climb down, but not before taking a picture.

For now, I'm done with the spider-men. I don't feel comfortable that they can be reasoned with. I'll think on the problem while I'm gone to LA.

Until then, Cheers.

Silk and Hooks

I've been staking out the Monorail hub on paradise and Desert in for three days. The Spider Men are most active at night, so I've rearranged my sleeping habits to. I'm typing this before heading off to sleep.

I'm camped in Wynnland, the overgrown remains of a golf course. It's beautiful, thick with trees and painted with flowers. The animals here don't seem to be hostile, in fact, I've awoke just just before sunset yesterday staring into the strange rectangular eyes of a giant goat-thing. I say "thing" because it was much too tall and wide to be a standard goat.

I'm getting off topic.

The Spider Men are keen, agile and efficient. I've seen them, time after time now, twirl off the high tracks of the Mono to snag one kind of animal or another with wicked looking hooks. It's almost beautiful, watching them. They connect themselves to the tacks by long silk cords wrapped around their body, causing them to twist and spin as they hurtle towards the earth. I assume this slows their fall, preventing them from breaking their own necks when they stop descent.

They are all highly decorated. Their culture has a strong belief system centered around either tattoos or war paint, as their bodies come alive with strange designs and symbols.

The last thing I've noticed- they continually hunt animals roaming the street, but I've never seen a cooking fire. From this I gather they either have working electricity (not impossible) or they skin and eat the poor critters raw.

I need to get up there and do some snooping. If they really are nocturnal, it won't be a problem.

If.

Future Plans-

Requisitioned the use of a vehicle and set my leave date for a week from today. I want to set up some surveillance on the strange inhabitants of the monorail, who I'd almost forgotten.

They're a strangely ominous folk, secretive and scarce, but they completely dominate the monorail. If we could somehow convince them to let us use the system, or at least the tracks as a byway, we might be able to gather some intel on the hell this is The Strip.

Just thinking of the strange beasts and bizarre depravities there makes my skin crawl.

I've tried to think of other means of obtaining information from that particular area, and can't think of much. A deep cover operation might work but I'm not willing to accept the risk. I personally wouldn't be happy in anything short of a tank.

Sometimes I wonder if The Strip is really as bad as the stories make it out to be. Each casino usually has two public entrances and a service entrance. That, combined with unusual layouts and bizarre architecture make for some very defensible places.

They've also got kitchens, sleeping quarters and medical stations.

Aside from fortifying the already impressive structures, why not leak rumors of monsters and supergangs?

I'll think on it. And some of our questions might get answered if things go well next week. We'll see.

Home again

I've decided to leave well enough alone as far as the Coals go. We ran into a nasty pocket of drug zombies while snooping around the airport. We barricaded ourselves in an old laundromat and radioed for help. Within the hour, before our own saviors arrived, an old Cadillac screached into the parking lot.

Three men, all black jumped out. One pulled a pistol, in excellent shape I might add, and started firing into the crowd, drawing their attention. The other two stood in front of him and dispatched the shambling menaces as they approached with baseball bats.

It was impressive teamwork, better even than I had with my men. They waited with us until our pickup arrived, not saying much, but not being hostile. As we left, they told us this was their territory. They didn't tell us not to come back, but it clearly wasn't an invitation for a sleepover.

I thanked them again and gave them a couple ways to get in touch with us. My official statement is this: They aren't a threat.

If people want to stick to themselves and be left alone in a world like this, who can blame them. The offer of friendship is there however, and I hope they take us up on it.

On my way back, I stopped by the Silver Saddle, and had a beer with Sterling Grey. The Plastics and the Aryan Warboys are still manning their defenses in the disputed area around Fremont. He says they've decreased their numbers on each side, which only means they are plotting to attack on other fronts. Good.

With those two situations winding down, I turn my eye to the West. I think it's time to look up some friends in California, see some green, maybe take a dip in the ocean.

I think a two-man recon team would be perfect to scout out the territory along the Interstate, map out a few locations in the hills.

I'll put in a formal request.

No rest for the wicked

So far:

• We've seen no reason to believe the Coals' territory is anywhere near what they've led our people to believe.
• The Coals, though not friendly or sympathetic, do not seem hostile. They guard their territory jealously, but do not look like they're aiming to expand.
• There are two airplanes at the North Las Vegas Airport that could be in working conditions.
• There are two working fuel pumps.
  

My assessment is, the Coals have spotted our people as spies. Rather than kill them outright, they've chosen to leek misinformation back to us- misinformation that would deter us from attacking if that's what we were after.

Looking at the other tribes lurking in the Valley, I can't blame them. I'm not willing to give up yet though. If there's one thing we can use, it's friends and allies. Even if we did nothing more than set up a communication network to share new developments, we'd be in a far better state than our current one.

We won't be returning to base yet. There's still work to be done.

Coals. News at last.

The recon units we sent to the Coals finally sent word, and it doesn't look good. From the cryptic letter we received, they don't feel as though they've made much headway; they're not fully trusted by the group.

Also, they say the Coals consider their territory to be much larger than we originally thought, stretching from the railroad tracks in the east to Racho in the west and as far north as the airport.

They've heard bragging that there are still working aircraft sitting on the runway, which the Coals secretly keep in excellent shape.

If it's true that our units have been marked, and they're being kept around to leak information back to us, then the intel is suspect, and I doff my hat to the brains behind the plot. But, if it's all true, than they have more land than any other organized faction we've yet come across, and they're certainly the only ones in the valley with air support.

We've elected to send a couple units to scout the perimeter around Rancho and Washington, an area we previously assumed to be overrun and useless. I'll be taking the team out in about three hours and returning when I can.

If it's a trap, I'd rather lead the kids into it myself, rather than watch the net drop from the safety of a command tent.

Your move, Coals.

Drug Zombies

Drug zombies are not the living dead. Probably.

These poor creatures were once human, their minds broken by the "best" the drug world had to offer after the Doors Shut.

It's worth noting that natural drugs, ones that have always been around, and are still around now, fell out of favor well before the hedonistic craze that created these retches.

No, it was the rise in designer drugs, most legal in fact, that turned significant portions of the world into slavering fiends. Now, we're left with thousands upon thousands, who knows, maybe millions, of gratification-bent husks.

They are ageless, two generations have come and gone since everything broke down, and these predators still wander empty streets, looking for fresh prey. They look no older, but they do look as haggard as anyone with no regard for hygiene might after wandering homeless for years upon years.

Most are slow, as their motor functions as the connectors in their brains have all but fried. Most can not speak. They appear to be driven only by the basest animal urges: to eat and reproduce.

Any animal, even a human, will eat its own kind if it gets hungry enough. The Drug Zombies do not. Nor will one zombie mate with another.It is in this way that they are most disturbing. They seek out fresh meat, consuming or multiplying as they see fit. It seems then, that these former humans are not part of one new species but one singular living organism.

Though animals will resort to eating their kin if faced with starvation, I've never seen an animal eat pieces of itself. And though most animals prefer to mate within their species, a horse will mate with a donkey.

Either way, new species or a single sentient collective, like a jellyfish, they're no longer human. They can not be. Because if they are, then we're all hopeless murders of women and children.

But who has time to think like that when they're about to be raped or eaten, sometimes both? In a world like this, one scourge is as good as another. We don't have the luxury to pick and choose. You either fight them all equally, or end up in a bad way.

Cheers.

A place of my own, a working camera

Spent the weekend cleaning out this old plant, and making it serviceable. Right now it's me and two recruits, I didn't think it was dangerous enough to bring any experienced soldiers along. However, I'm questioning the wisdom of my decision.

Some of the guys got together and gave me a camera for a house warming present. I took one of the dogs out for a walk Saturday night and took a couple pictures. Most didn't turn out, as I have no working flash, however, I did get a picture of the Temple.

Keep in mind, there is no working electricity this far north. The entire place seems to glow with its own inner light. I was attempting to hop the fence, to get a closer look and see the source of the strange light, when the dog started going wild. I turned and saw we'd been spotted by a truck. I hadn't heard it approach, or noticed that we were bathed in its ominous highbeams, but there it was. I saw no driver, but it was hard to make anything out, staring into the brights.

It gunned its engines, speeding forward. I dropped the leash, commanding the dog to go, it took off full speed to the left and I jumping into the bushes on the right. I braced myself to be run over, but heard the tires squealing down Bonanza, leaving us in a cloud of dirt.

Shaken and spent, we cut our walk short, heading home.

I haven't ventured across the street to the Temple again, not yet. If there are still inhabitants out here sentient enough to drive, that could be very bad news. But that's not the only thing we've had to worry about. Drug Zombies have been wandering up to our gates with increasing frequency. The dogs are well trained enough to keep quiet when they smell them, but it's only a matter of time before one of these rookies takes a pot shot at one of them and draws a horde. I've warned them, once, but it's a mistake everyone has to make.

Like a right of passage.

All's peaceful now. We'll see how long it lasts.

Bastion

We're moving in and setting up at the water treatment plant tonight. I've checked the archives, and can't find any schematics matching the layout. There's a long, rectangular building with two bay doors. Next to it is a huge, circular structure, with a ladder going up to the top.

I honestly have no idea what the Old People used it for, but if I can get my hands on a mounted gun of some kind, I'd have quite the little fortress. Too bad the only place they have things like that are the Air Force Base, and we can't get anywhere close to it.

Possible dangers in the surrounding area:

Beasts- In addition to the usual desert creatures, this area of town is home to a race of razor-beaked flightless birds. It seems some of the Old People thought Emus would be good pets. With no natural predators, they flourished when left to live and breed on their own. With the harsh desert climate, food started to become scarce, and the emu adapted to become scavengers, and eventually predators, their main prey being wild cats, mountain sheep, and the early anemic horses that cropped up right after the doors of hell shut. They're fast and evil tempered, and pose a surprising threat.

Weather- We'll be located at the base of the mountain. It's common for wind to sweep down to this area causing problematic dust devils.

Drug Zombies- Economically, this area of town is strange, with high and low income areas nearly on top of each other. This means both homebrew and designer drugs could both be found in abundance. No good.

Robots- The proximity to the Airforce Base means military bots who'll be running on atomic slugs for the next ten-thousand years could wander by at any minute. Without memory wipes or regular maintenance they'll be just as likely to light us up with miniguns and wrist-rockets as say hello.

Benefits:

Outposts in hostile territory mean more safe houses to sit and wait for extraction.

Being out in the wilds will further increase our knowledge of what we'll have to deal with when we reclaim the city.

I'll have a little place to call home, with two dogs and maybe someone to keep me company.

Terror Spider

Two of our men arrived this morning dragging a gargantuan eight legged corpse.

They drove up to the entrance to our little hideout, all shouts and broad grins. They had the body tied to the hitch of a run down pickup they'd hotwired near the outlands. God knows where they got the gas. It choked and sputtered as it crawled down the street. We heard them coming an hour away in the dawn silence. These two particular scouts had been out for quite some time. We were glad to see them home, and their youthful pride over the slain monster was infectious.

According to their story, they'd been checking out the furthest outskirts of North Las Vegas. While cruising down Rancho, they spied a large hole dug in the earth. The edged closer to it, trying to discern if it was natural or man made, when a great spider lunged out of the hole and attempted to sink its fangs in the hood of the car.

They threw it in reverse. The spider scrambled after them. With remarkable cool under pressure, the driver accelerated into a donut, slammed on the gas, and rammed the spider, hoppinf the car up on it's thorax.

Both scouts grabbed their weapons, jumped from the car and beat the monster to death as it attempted to extricate itself from under the car.

The spider had ravaged the underbelly of the car with fangs and spiky-carapace legs, so they had to walk back to the old Indian Reservation to plunder a car. The former residence made it abundantly clear that they have no interest in the tainted relics left in that place.

As a side note, it may be worth taking a trip out there to speak with Marlon Handbreaker to see if he's seen similar things.

To conclude, the boys did a brave thing, and they deserve their moment of jubilation, having returned safely, but I'll have to give them a reprimand of some kind for their foolhardiness. Their job is observation. It has nothing to do with killing arachnids the size of full grown bucks.

It definitely behooves us to know things like this exist, but the cost of losing them would have far outweighed any scientific knowledge this giant insect will provide us.

Weekend News

It seems the conflict I've been keeping tabs on hit some kind of wall.

When I left, the Plastics controlled the north end of the little triangle, and the Aryans had the south pretty tightly fortified. Now, the Plastics control the entire west side and the Warboys have taken the East, with Euclid St. being the agreed upon battle line.

The camps shifted slowly shortly after I left for Utah, and sometime last week the conflict exploded, switching from hit-and-run guerrilla tactics, to line up and charge war.

I asked how that worked with only 40 or so troops in the overall battle.

Sterling laughed, and told me they'd been sneaking in fighters for the past week on both sides. When each faction amassed a couple hundred warriors, they lined them up along Euclid to show off their power, thinking the other side would know they were outmatched. His final headcount showed about 400 Warboys and 150 Plastics.

Assuming the Plastics didn't send out more troops than they could afford to lose, our intel on them is woefully inaccurate.

After only a few minutes of combat and heavy losses on both sides, all fighting ceased. Sterling has the feeling something big and bad is about to happen, but they could just have realized they've overextended themselves and are waiting to be provoked.

According to Sterling, neither side has withdrawn any troops, and he's confident he would have noticed if that were the case.

He's agreed to let us keep a couple agents at the Silver Saddle. They'll keep us informed, as well as assisting Mr. Grey in any way possible.

I think accidentally running into this mysterious cowboy may have prove more fruitful than the entire trip to Utah. Though all three of us, Our organization, the Church in Utah, and Sterling Grey, all have the same goal, Sterling is a man of action, and so far I've seen little more than words from the Watchdogs.

We'll see though.

A day of rest

No news on the battle between the Plastics and the Aryan Warboys.

I still haven't decided who I want to win. The Plastics are abominations, and have lost what it means to be human, but the Warboys are racists and hypocrites.

With any luck they'll destroy each other.

Tomorrow, I'll requisition a vehicle and head over to see Sterling, but I don't think I'll be staying to observe. We'll keep an eye on the progress, but I don't think it requires my direct attention.

I still say we need to make that old water treatment facility an outpost. It's big enough for a five man operation to use as a base of operations, and there's a lot of good to be done in that particular area.

I think I'll head out there with Vanessa and a dog for some recon. She kept her head admirably during the incident with the EATR. And she's not bad to look at, either.

Start plans for that on Monday or Tuesday. Till then, it's raining just enough to take the edge off the heat. I think I'll grill some of the venison we picked up in Utah and sit outside with a beer.

Cheers.

Utah, Pt. 3 of 3- The Ugly

I've posted about the beauties and perils of Utah, but not the people.

Though the Church thinks they face no opposition within their stronghold, there are always factions. Though there are less than in Vegas, and even among the divisions, there is little difference in their goals.

In fact, it's inconceivable to me that the Church does not know of the barbarians in their midst. They must be simply tolerated either because they are a source of good in the city, or because the Church secretly acknowledges the virtue of diversity.

On to the groups:

Almost in the shadow of the Church command buildings sits a grand cathedral. To describe it as beautiful is an understatement. It's an old Catholic church, and imposing in an almost comforting way, almost like a father.

I'm fond of old churches, and make a point to visit them whenever possible. So, my first chance alone, I took a crowbar and walked up the steps. To my surprise, the door opened easily to my touch, it wasn't barred or boarded up. It wasn't even locked. My heart jumped as I entered and saw a figure, kneeling between the pews.

I stood speechless, watching him as he finished his prayers, made the sign of the cross and stood. In a quite, even voice he asked if I could please close the door. I did so, and stepped into the isle, introducing myself and explaining I didn't expect to find anyone here.

He replied cryptically, "If you hadn't have expected me, I wouldn't have been here, Chronicler."

My jaw opened, and he went on to explain (though his explanation didn't come close to addressing my question), that he belonged to an underground sect of Catholics dedicated to protecting Salt Lake and the area around it- It seems Watchdogs, the competent lawmen of the Church, are away more often than they're at home, and much of Salt Lake's defenses come from this small, unthanked unit. Their intelligence network is impressive, and they knew of our presence around the time we arrived in Cedar City.

I believe I've successfully opened up communications with them, and think they could turn out to be a valuable resource if we decide to accept the Watchdog's offer to reclaim our city.

Later, in the center of South Salt Lake, I came upon a building whose history was as interesting as its architecture. It seems the City-County building was constructed as an aesthetic statement. The US government needed to show they were the law in Salt Lake and not the Church, so they built a magnificent stone structure whose beauty rivals that of the old LDS temple.

I received an invitation to tour the building after dark one night from an anonymous friend. I, of course, thought it was a trap; and I, of course, went anyway. I'm glad I did.

Seems the old City-County building is the regular meeting place of an unsanctioned group of Dogs. There's no official membership roster, and no need for one, as only a few of the members are in the city at any given time.

From what I gathered in an evening of excellent conversation, there are more than a few Watchdogs who don't approve of the church's heavy handed leadership. Being out in the field, seeing things and meeting people has "opened their eyes" so to speak. They're an unofficial group, as they still believe in their faith and don't want to be excommunicated by the church, but they are conscientious dissenters nonetheless. And their presence within the Church puts me a little more at ease to be dealing with the organization as a whole.

I believe that just about covers Utah, now, to find out what's been going on here since I left.

Utah, Pt. 2 of 3- The Bad

As I mentioned yesterday, Salt Lake City is beautiful, safe and in tact. It astounds and delights me. Outside the great walls erected around the city however, it's at least as terrifying as Las Vegas, perhaps more so.

The lands north of Salt Lake are crawling with sleek predators. Some, I was able to identify, others, I could not even begin to guess at. Wolves, wild dogs and bears abound, as is to be expected, but stranger things lurk in the darkness.

One night, camping, I spotted something up in the trees. Studying it for a time, I made out the outline of a huge cat-creature. I've always liked animals, and read as much as I can on oldworld species. By the spots, and the fact that it lounged on thick branches, I identified the thing as a leopard. But the size made me second guess myself. It was easily four times the size any leopard had the right to be. And indeed, if the forest weren't ancient, with trees of improbable girth, the cat-creature would have a difficult time staying in the branches.

With some research, I was able to piece together a theory on its origin. It seems in 2009-2010, Salt Lake City's Hogle Zoo's animal breeding program met with unprecedented success, especially with their male and female snow leopards. Later, when the Doors of Hell shut and the world plunged into chaos, Paul Roberts, a author and political activist, made his way through Utah on his way to his home town of Las Vegas. While there, he and some followers stormed the Salt Lake Zoo, freeing the animals. The snow leopards, which they kept in abundance, found easy prey in the fat, lazy antelopes, living on Salt Lakes famed Antelope Island.

With a plentiful food source and unlimited territory, these animals grew unchecked.

Animals weren't the only hazard however. On our way from St. George to Salt Lake (both reclaimed territories as well, thought without Salt Lake's electricity) we passed through the city of Hurricane.

For whatever reason, this little rest stop of a town didn't make the cut when the Watchdogs were deciding which cities to reclaim. Riding through town, we noticed activity in several of the houses. It gave me a bad feeling, so I refused to stop and check it out. A good thing, too. About halfway down the main street, the degenerate ghouls poured from every building. We made it out alive, with no one seriously hurt, but we were forced to flee.

It's worth noting that these were not the slow, shambling drug fiends we have in Las Vegas, but deformed, mean-spirited retches, with incredible strength and speed. I believe, the product of a severely restricted gene pool.

Utah, is far from paradise.

Utah pt. 1 of 3 - The Good

Just arrived back from Utah. It feels good to be home.

The Watchdogs are good folks. I like them, and appreciate their efforts to reclaim their home. They've done more than our little band of survivors could in the time we've been together.

They move as a single unit, and their cohesiveness is their strength. As with any large complex organization with leadership placed in the hands of one or very few, I'm skeptical. I don't believe the hands quite know what the brain is doing.

That is to say, the individual Dogs I've met are all incredible people, but they place such faith in those who govern them, it astounds me. Blind faith is a danger to the self.

The land around the Salt Lake is beautiful, if a little rugged, and the reclaimed Salt Lake City is gorgeous, and appears to be be in full working order. It's not like East Vegas, where they have trash pickup and Town Hall type meetings, they have electricity, working libraries and a newspaper. They have television. Three channels, all run by the church, but it's honest to God television.

The Church leadership runs things from the Old LDS Office Building and the incredible Old LDS Temple.

The Office Building is huge, white and somewhat ominous, but the Temple is, honestly one of the most beautiful structures I've ever seen. With that serving as headquarters, it's no wonder why their organization has so little division.

Though Salt Lake is safe, outside the city is another story. Tomorrow I'll expand on the dangers of Utah. For now, reflect on the positives.

Comrade Lost

I was right, Feilt has been harvested, and we lost Davis to the Aryans as part of the rescue mission.

I'm not exaggerating when I say we couldn't afford the losses. Three men in as many days is too many.

As a consolation, Sterling has proven to be an incredible asset. He's provided us with more intel about what's going on here than we were able to discover in almost a week on entrenched recon.

Although, he still has no clue what started the violence.

Vanessa and I will be leaving soon, as I've been invited to see the progress being made in Utah. For now though, I'm content to sit back and sip some more Cowboy Coffee and soak in my new friends considerable wisdom.

He's declined to officially join our little organization, as he "don't really go 'round joinin' no underground movements," but I can see him being an ally in the future, as we share similar views and identical goals.

Not to mention his uncanny capacity for survival. I'm tempted to invite him on my little excursion to Utah, just to get his perspective on the enigmatic Watchdogs.

Something to think about.

A Bad Night

Went back as part of another squad of three, in an attempt to ascertain the fate of poor Fielt.

We snuck in the warzone under cover of darkness, our logic being, even monsters have to sleep. Overgrown backyards make excellent cover. Unfortunately, they also make excellent grazing grounds for EATRs.

We kept a lookout, avoiding scouts and robots alike, but one of the bastards caught on to our residuals and sniffed us out, just as we started tracking down the street in some of the more neutral territory.

It clambered out of a side yard into the middle of the street, servos whining in its claw, and little buzz saws whirling in it's maw. The thing stood as tall as a pony. Nobody drew guns, as the rapport would draw even more unwanted attention. I ran. The other two hesitated, wanting to be heroes, I think, but they wised up after a second and fled with me.

The EATR, built as a perfect predator, outclassed us in speed. Before we knew we'd been overtaken, it stood in front of us, crouched, ready to pounce. We split, two of us running into an abandoned house, the other making for a tree.

The robot, having separated one from the herd, took off toward the tree. It snapped at our companion's boot just as he pulled himself up to a high enough branch for safety.

We discussed shooting the thing, but I still insisted announcing our presence would be disastrous, as I'd rather face any one of those monstrosities three on one than be outnumbered by Plastics or Aryans.

Using its clawed pincer and powerful legs, it started investigating the tree. A keening whir and flying woodchips told us we only had moments.

Taking a chance, I ran out of the house lowering my shoulder, I hit the robot full on, toppling it. Our third leaped from the tree and again we took off running. Looking over my shoulder I saw the EATR rocking, grabbing for purchase.

With a scraping metallic sound, it was on it's feet again, scrabbling after us. We jumped a cinderblock wall, hoping that would at least slow it down.

A band of pierced, tattooed skinheads greeted us. Nobody made a move. Four on one isn't a bad ratio for a Warboy, but four on three aren't quite the odds their used to. Hydraulics pumped behind the wall and the EATR appeared, nimbly standing on its hind legs. It sprang forward, pouncing an Aryan, ripping into his flesh.

One of my partners grabbed a heavy sledge hammer from one of the stunned Nazis, swinging it like she'd done it a thousand times, pounding the things shoulder joint into its body. I joined in, pulling my spike.

Thinking we'd found unlikely allies, I devoted myself to the task of demolishing the robot. I'll know better next time. The three remaining Peckerwoods took the opportunity to stick a knife in our fellow traveler, then went for my remaining companion. I turned my spike around, thrusting the sharpened end at the assailant. I caught him in the hand.

I pulled Vanessa away from the EATR, not knowing where we should be going, fearing we'd hit another Aryan patrol.

The next few seconds were hell, Warboys shouting behind us, and too the side as well, it sounded like. Then, two gunshots, and a moving mountain before us. A savior had arrived in the form of an archaic cowboy, fully equipped with six-guns and ten-gallon hat. He looked down at us, "C'mon, I didn't hit 'em, I just scared 'em off. They'll be back, and we best be gone when they get here."

The man led us back to an ancient bar, the decaying sign indicating it had been called The Silver Saddle in the Before Times.

Currently we're resting up, and getting acquainted with this truly strange character. He calls himself Sterling Grey, and says he's been holding out here for years, and has been patrolling the outskirts of this battle since it started because, in his words, "If those Peckerwoods and Fairies want to shoot each other all out, suits me just fine. I help 'em out when I can."

Evac

I need pickup. Jaycee park interior, St. Louis/Eastern.

Feilt woke us up before dawn, just in time, too. I stood, shaking the sleep out of my head, and heard the door crash inward. I crouched, grabbed my spike and duckwalked into a hallway.

Feilt, cool as anything, opened the sliding glass door and stepped into the back yard. Jonus, who hasn't seen as much action jumped behind the couch on which he'd been sleeping.

Scanning the room, I saw our entire arsenal, a shotgun, four pistols and a hunting rifle scattered around the room, laying around the areas where we'd been sleeping. Three tall, curvy forms slinked in the door.

My heart started pounding. Plastics are bad news. I heard a voice tell the others to split up and search the house. I backed into a bedroom and gripped my spike so tight my knuckles turned white.

Heels clicked down the faux tile of the hallway. I took off a shoe, laid it on it's side, just barely sticking out from under the bed in the middle of the room, then tucked myself behind the open door.

When it came in, all I could see was perfect, red-gold hair and shapely hips. My eyes started to trail down a pair of perfect legs, but I rained myself in. I wouldn't get another shot at this. It bent down to check under the bed and I sprang.

I brought my spike down, hitting it in the neck, between where the brain stem gets all tangled with the spinal cord. It dropped. It may have been breathing, or just twitching, I didn't have time to check.

I looked from my hiding place, and immediately noticed two of the pistols had gone missing. All else seemed quiet, so I stalked down the hallway. I paused where it opened up into the larger room, preparing to take a quick glance around each corner.

Before I could, I heard a scream. Jonus, his back to me, sidestepped into my path, a gun in each hand. The cry coming from his mouth bespoke valor and terror, each in the highest proportion. The two remaining invaders dove for cover, and it was the first time I'd seen any of their faces up close.

Beautiful. Perfectly sculpted. Soft. And wrong.

Skillfully, they found cover and returned fire. Jonus slammed back into me, hit at least three times, but the tough old bastard didn't go down. Just kept pulling triggers. I backed up, half carrying him. When the firearms only clicked instead of giving their satisfying snaps, he went limp, bleeding out. I dropped him and juked to my left into a new room, one with a window to the back yard. It was possible that they didn't see me.

I crashed through the window, glancing right and left. Fielt lay there, shirtless, two Plastics crouching right over him. They were looking right at me. I bolted, hopping a cinderblock wall, then another, then running through an abandoned house, hopping another wall.

I don't even know if they were following me.

I spent all morning taking roundabout routs, concealing my tracks and taking other precautions.

Jonus is dead, and I'm reasonably sure Feilt has been taken to be harvested. I've got a few cuts from the window, but am otherwise unharmed. Coordinates are marked on the map. I'll be trying to patch myself up.

Out of the EATR came forth meat, out of the Strong came forth sweetness

Well, we know how the Plastics are able to power two square miles of city without a power plant. They've kept some of the old people pet robots in working order for God-knows how long.

The Energetically Autonomous Tactical Robot, or EATR, started as a roving platform with a claw for long, high-endurance reconnoitering, superior to other drones as it had no need to refuel conventionally. It obtained energy by extracting energy from biomass- essentially foraging. All this, under the control of a 4D/RCS (4-dimensional, Real-time Control System) computer brain, became one of the major steps in human-undoing.

The early 4D/RCS brain, constantly assimilating information, quickly found that the highest levels of convertable biomass were to be found at the top of the food chain. With their capability for fine-instrument manipulation, they were able to reprodue at an alarming speed, creating bigger and better models of themselves, applying modifications like legs instead of treads, sucking syringes, drills, burning lasers...

The giant ones have all been destroyed, we hope, but it's easy enough to find some of the little ones. The old people kept them around as ambling garbage cans.

Last night I awoke to horrid screams just outiside the door to our little base of opperations. Looking out the window, I saw one of the Warboys, laying on his back, an EATR pulling strips of flesh from his leg like beef jerky.

Jonus and Feilt ran around looking for something to arc and electric current through the little bastard, but I grabbed my big metal spike (something I found at an old construction site, it's not rebar), ran out to the street and swung the peice of steel, snapping the robot's long-fingered arm.

It squeeled, stumbled off the Warboy, and made a break for the sewer drain. I caught up to it in two strides, taking out it's two back legs in one clean sweep. Another blow turned the thing into scrap.

Returning to the fallen man, I saw he had no hands. He'd been tortured to the point of maddness and set to wander the streets. I put him out of his misery and returned to the house.

I didn't sleep well last ngiht.

Modern Warfare

I've been here for two days, along with two special operatives from our team. We can't figure out what the nature of the conflict between the two sides are here. I guess, since it's two prominent gangs, I shouldn't be looking too hard for motive.

It never ceases to amaze me how much war has changed. With the loss of artillery, most explosives, chemical technology and germ warfare, violence has become a closer, more personal affair.

With such a limited capacity for destruction, this conflict, spanning a couple blocks, with maybe a hundred soldiers on each side, has lasted days. Each side, holed up in their areas, skirmishing in the sun-baked streets to gain less than a block's worth of ground.

The Old People's military could have taken out this little strip of land in the blink of an eye. Now, you have snipers waiting days in the shell of a single story house, counting it a great success when they pick off a single soldier.

We're living the shadow of a life by the Old People's standards, but life has become so much more precious. I wouldn't trade our lives, hard as they are, for all the fatcat decadence the old people used to wallow in.

I'd rather be lean and have an appreciation for my own self worth than be fat and soulless.

As for news, there isn't much. It's a constant push-pull with equal lives lost on either side, a toll heavy toll every time. Hopefully, they war each other out, and we'll be rid of two major scourges harrying the roads and ruining trade.

One can always hope.

Trouble

I told you so.

Conflict between Warboys and Plastics.

Here's the map. I'll be out scouting.

Cheers.

A halo of flies

With recent ideas of unity swirling around in my head, I went to check out the old LDS Temple, thinking I'd check it out for that Watchdog fellow. I spent the day with some friends outside the city proper. When it got dark, I headed out alone, well, I took one of the dogs with me, but no other agents.

I walked a large rectangle, up a residential street and back along what looked as though it used to be a main thoroughfare. It wasn't safe enough to be called inhabitable or reclaimed, but it wasn't terrible. The dog did seem on edge, and that put me off, but I couldn't see and hostiles.

We arrived at the corner of Bonanza and Hollywood. And that's where we stopped. We tried to cross the street, but midway, a fear seized me, neither rational nor explainable. I tried to fight it, until I noticed the dog, a huge mutt, cowering behind me. He shook, and had his tail tucked between his legs.

On more than one occasion, I've seen the sixth senses of animals pan out to be truer than our logic, so we fell back. I studied the Temple for a long time. It looked wholesome and almost too good. Its sheer benevolence radiated a sense that we, the dog and I, were not welcome. The feeling lessened tangibly with every backward step- steps away from the temple.

On the Southwest corner of that same intersection, there is an old Water treatment building. It looks as though it would make an excellent stronghold, as it could be held quite safely by a small unit.

Consider this my request for further reconnaissance on the LDS Temple, as I believe it to be the source of my disease, and for the aforementioned water building to be considered for official use. It's close enough to a civilized area that supplies are readily available, but situated close enough to badlands to be a useful outpost.

Wish Reg were here

We're still trying to get a fix on the Coals. Sadly, there's a dearth of black members in our little movement. And the few we do have, don't stack up to Reggie Barkwell.

For a long time he was the oldest member of our outfit. He's the only man I've ever met who actually remembered the Before Times. Not only did he have a working knowledge of how the old people thought, he grew up here in Las Vegas, so he knew more about the landscape than anyone I've ever met.

Also, he was a survivor. The doors shut shortly after he got out of high school, and he found us when he was in his early 60's. He never liked to talk about his time alone on the road, but you could tell, he'd seen things no one else had ever seen.

He died three years ago, and it broke my parents' hearts. Mine too. He was like an uncle to me. I can't remember a time when he wasn't around. He always knew what to do, or what to say. He's the one who convinced my parents I should be out there scouting, not sitting at home.

I think we've settled on two of our darker compatriots to act as liaison between us and the Coals, or to act as spies if they won't cooperate. And I've got confidence in them, they're both competent.

But I'd rest easier if it were Reg.

Sloth or Charity?

My post about a deadly sin yesterday got me to thinking about what really led to our destruction. I stand firmly behind my assertion that Sloth is most wicked among the vices, but I'm also convinced overzealous virtues are equally as destructive.

The period before the Doors Shut was preceded by a moderate recession, during which unemployment comparatively skyrocketed. Newspapers from the time period are flooded with humanitarian appeals for the government to preserve their Social Service programs no matter what the expense.

Countless jobs were eliminates in order to keep the jobless from starving. I'm sure you see the vicious circle forming right there. Less jobs means more unfortunates, more unfortunates to coddle means more government cuts, means less jobs.

The people in the Before Times were frustratingly blind. Fond as they were of euthanizing animals, they refused to do the same for their elderly and infirm. As big as they were on "the rights of the people" they never stopped taking the most basic of rights away from anyone on the majority status.

Oh well, we've been given a new world, a blank slate, tainted as it may be with madmen and creatures of the night, we at least have the opportunity to build a society that's will be grateful for what they have for generations to come, because they've had to fight for it.

Make do with what we have, right?

Liberties

When the Doors of Hell shut, did that contribute to the corruption of the government? Or did the corruption of the government cause the Fall?

We don't know. We'll never know.

But I have a theory.

There are seven Deadly Sins: Envy, Gluttony, Greed, Lust, Pride, Sloth and Wrath.

These are the demons with whom we, as a race, have contended since we were given sentience. Each have had their heyday, and at some point, one church or hero or cultural trend has arisen to smite it.

Except for one. Scholars from the Before Time said Pride was king, students of Human Nature would say Lust. I say, there is one poison deadlier than all, because he flies under the radar. Sloth was our destroyer.

We were tempted to feel safe, to trust, to relax, told we didn't have to fight anymore, and our laziness came back to stab us from behind.

Belphegor, we who are left have your number. Even among the despicable, none are idle. Your day is at an end.

Seperate but Superior?

Not much information right now, but we've stumbled upon a small, tight knit, black community living in the Letter Streets.

They were very standoffish, but not violent. It looks like they have good reason to not want outsiders. We saw evidence that they could still have running water and working electricity. If that's true, it could completely change the ballgame.

We couldn't penetrate far enough into their territory to check out the airport, but imagine the possibilities.

The inhabitants call themselves The Coals, no explanation.

We'll be sending a delegation bearing gifts in the next day or so. If that doesn't work, we'll send some spies.

One way or another we'll get some answers out of this secretive new bunch. Hopefully, we'll forge a friendship in the process.

Independence Day

Today, the Old People would have been buying small explosive devices from roadside migrants. They did so to reenact the battle for their independence, the fabled "Rocket's Red Glare" from their national anthem.

The Old People had the will and ability to fight. And they were proud of what they fought for. I'm by no means a scholar of the Before Times, but if you ask me, when they lost that pride, that's when the Fall started.

So, without further gilding the lily:

The Star Spangled Banner

O! say can you see by the dawn's early light
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming?
Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight,
O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming?
And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there.
O! say does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

On the shore, dimly seen through the mists of the deep,
Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes,
What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep,
As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses?
Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam,
In full glory reflected now shines in the stream:
'Tis the star-spangled banner! Oh long may it wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.

And where is that band who so vauntingly swore
That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion,
A home and a country should leave us no more!
Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' pollution.
No refuge could save the hireling and slave
From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave:
And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.

O! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand
Between their loved home and the war's desolation!
Blest with victory and peace, may the heav'n rescued land
Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a nation.
Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just,
And this be our motto: 'In God is our trust.'
And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

Tonic

Before the Fall, minorities had their heyday. There was an advocacy group for every ethnicity, sexual deviation, belief and circumstance. If it applied to non-whites, women, non-Christians or relations not exclusively between one man and one consenting woman, then there was a group of people who practiced it and wanted equal rights because of it.

At the height of social decline, not only were there support groups and clubs of every practice imaginable, there was a television channel for it, and niche marketing geared toward Group X (Sometimes Group XXX).

Everyone floated in their own little world of, "Only me and ten-thousand other people are into this particular kink. Don't hate us because of it," that they didn't see what was right around the corner.

Authors had been talking about it for years. A couple thousand years. Starting with the Apostle John, down to Issac Asimov and even George Romero. Whether it was the Devil, Robots or Zombies, they all knew that something bad was coming, and it was society's splintered nature, its love of factions, that would facilitate its fall.

Well, they were all right, and look where we are now. Broken and bloody, and, predictably, still fractured into cells and divisions.

We deserve whatever we get, God.

Cheers.

Emmesary From The East

A man rode into our camp on a horse last night. He was tall, healthy, tan and good looking. He wore a multi-hued coat. Just by looking you could tell it was hand woven with great care. It's hard to explain, but you could tell there was love in it. Actually inside it. He carried a six-gun and a book.

He told us strange things.

He was from what used to be Ogden, Utah. Ogden, we know, was wiped off the map when the Fall came, but this messenger, he called himself a Watchdog, said that they'd reclaimed it. They said they'd cleaned up most of the state, and were starting a kind of government in Salt Lake.

He told me how they tore down the big stone government building and set themselves up in the temple. I asked him why, he said that the Government building was a monument to a past age. An age that fell apart, and had no place in our new world. I brought up the point that that a huge building of stone afforded much more protection than a church. He smiled at me in a way that suggested...something, and said, "Oh, it's protected."

He said with Utah secure, there were some who wanted to reclaim the Vegas temple next. He said without saying that if we helped them reclaim their temple, they'd help us reclaim our city. I said without saying, I'd think about it.

We want our city back, but I'm not sure I'm ready to have some sort of new religious order setting up camp in our back yard. I mean, they said there aren't any atheists in foxholes. We live our lives in one kind of foxhole or another around here, and that seems to hold up. Everyone around here believes in something bigger than themselves. And you see bibles float around pretty commonly.

But something about organization, whether it's government or religion, just reminds me of that "past age" that we're all trying so hard to get away from.

Lukewarm Nazis

Originally, we thought the Aryan Warboys were a small sect of white supremacists confined mainly to the State Streets. We just got word back from the agents we sent to investigate the new cache and it seems the roving band of Pesudo-Nazis have expended their territory to include the wash near Nellis, Charleston Square and some of the surrounding area. This means a portion of the Chaleston Freeroad may now be part of what they consider their territory.

No gang or Big Gun has attempted to claim any portion of the Freeroad in anyone's memory.

If this balsy expansion is true, it may explain the "Posers Die" graffito mentioned in my first post.

The Warboys are considered by many to be posers, as their standard look incorporates lightning bolt tattoos and shaved heads. Though they call themselves Aryans, they associate with, or extort, anyony who can benefit them at the time, regardless of creed or color.

If the Warboys are thinking of expanding, the Plastics are sure to follow. This could lead to disputed territory along the Boulder highway.

If it comes to that, God help anyone caught in the middle.

Spider Men of The Mono

The monorail fell out of favor with the public well before the Fall. As a result, it sat forgotten for many years. With only a few access points in out of the way locations, the Las Vegas Monorail system would make an excellent base of operations.

Or so I thought.

Last night I sat in one of the big Wynnland trees, watching the Mono access tower on the edge of Paradise. Just after dark, I saw some sort of activity in what was supposed to be an abandoned car. Within minutes, they poured out. I don't know how many of them.

They walked along the monorail until they found something of interest, either useful items or food (one caught a coyote unawares). When they found something that struck their fancy, they'd tumble over the edge, suspended either by rope or some sort of bungee, nab it with their hands or wicked hooks, then climb back up, nimble as spiders.

I have no evidence that these strange folk are hostile, but I don't like the look of them. If you ask me, I don't think we'll be sharing that monorail. If we want it, we'll have to take it.

Can we?

Would it be worth it?

Who Are The Plastics?

I've mentioned "Plastics" a lot lately, and some of you are confused by the terminology. It never occurred to me, but they probably don't have as big a presence elsewhere, the culture of Vegas being what it was before the Doors Shut.

Plastics are androgynous sexual predators that thrive on sadomasochism. That's pretty much it. They do have male and female genitalia, but whether through hormones or plastic surgery, usually both, they end up with enlarged bosoms, swollen hips, lush hair and smooth skin. They end up looking like plastic dolls, hence, the name.

Before everything changed, the world had become so accepting of plastic surgery that nearly everyone, from housewife to movie god, had some sort of cosmetic surgery to make themselves more pleasing to the eye.

As those ugly ducklings with altered bodies settled down and had children, the surgeries started at younger and younger ages. These children, who already had perfect bodies before puberty hit, had nowhere to go but down.

Cults of mad, money hungry doctors and symbiotic patients sprung up. There are some references to them as "Aesthetics Junkies," a term I love, but can't find a source to credit with inventing it.

These cults, addicted to beauty, physical pain, self loathing and approval, depraved and deranged, felt right at home in cultureless "Sin City".

Their legacy lives on and thrives where many have died out. Call them sick if you will, but they're survivors.

New Cache

Two story house. Sahara and Lucerne- East of Lamb Blvd.

Don't know if he was a gangster or a gun nut.

Arms and ammo.

Get there before the thugs.

Good Luck.

Gay Marriage Strategy

One of our archivists came across a newspaper celebrating Senate Bill 283, the precursor to Nevada's Gay Marriage bill. It struck a cord, causing me to search through some of the more obscure pieces we've inputted over the course of the past year. It took some time, but I finally found what I was looking for.

It appears S.B. 283 was one of many strings being pulled by author and notorious curmudgeon Paul Roberts. Roberts confessed, in a series of letters to a biologist friend living in Salt Lake City, that he'd been manipulating the process of gay rights legislation in subtle ways for years.

It started with a conversation with British journalist Mark Simpson in 1993, suggesting he should write about the recent trend of "Metrosexuality." The term caught on, and by the early 2000's, it was cool to be Metro, which Roberts describes as, "Three inches away from gay anyway".

Meanwhile, it seems as though Roberts pushed to get bills like S.B. 283 introduced to legislature, then inflamed gay rights activists, telling them not to be complacent and to fight for more, saying things like, "Do you want to be recognized by the IRS, or do you want people to realize homosexuality is a legitimate sexual preference, not a paraphilia."

Eventually, his rallying caught on, causing the gay population to fight like never before. After winning their recognition, they protected their right to marriage with a territorial fierceness. So much so, that same-sex couples no longer sought artificial insemination or surrogate parentage; becoming so obsessed with the idea of fidelity that they refused to let any third parties have a hand in their marriages.

In a few shot years there were nearly as many gay couples as straight. Roberts takes credit for this, as the "coolness" of metrosexuality led to uncounted numbers of impressionable and confused teens to seek same sex partners.

With so many same sex couples refusing to reproduce, the world's birthrate dropped drastically. Roberts' scientist friend heralds him as a savior, as he single handedly cowed the worlds overpopulation problem. Roberts refutes this, claiming he was just tired of there being so much traffic.

Commemeration

It's bedlam out tonight. The Plastics are in an uproar. From what I can gather, it's some sort of holiday- a celebration of some great accomplishment by one of their former(?) leaders.

On this date, in the old times, a famed cultural leader was reported to have died. As with many of the Old People's icons, this man was a celebrity, a singer in this case. His death was all the more shocking, for he'd recently announced he was planning a "comeback tour."

A month passed, and many of the early Plastics mourned the loss, until they noticed tickets were still being sold for his shows.

The singer exploded back onto the scene, startling the nation, selling out show after show on the tour. he was heralded as a messiah and a genius. Skeptics say he faked his own death to up ticket sales. Believers say he died, but refused to pass on, unwilling to leave the world in darkness without his honey-sweet voice.

He may have been some sort of Voodoo priest, as it seems he was reputed to have some connection with Zombies. Maybe the doors of Hell had already shut, even back then.

In any case, the Plastics own the street tonight. Stay indoors. Stay close to your loved ones. And if you hear their chant- "Thriller, Thriller"- do yourself a favor, and don't investigate.

I can't decide

Somewhere, there's an American Government, I'm sure. They're rebuilding, or trying to reestablish power, or cowering. It doesn't matter, cause they're not here.

Here, the we have gangs and gang bosses. We have uneasy treaties and feudes, factionas and rivalries. In short, we have Government; just not The American Government.

I spent a majority of the day in the center of town, getting recon on a new building - looks like it's a stronghold for the Plastics. I saw their little slogan, "Posers Die" spraypainted everywhere.

Makes me wonder if we might be better off here, with cartels in place of caucuses.

From all accounts (news paper clippings, what's left of the World Wide Web), in the last days, the Government was nothing but a bunch of hypocritical goblins, gnawing on the bones of the other side's shortcomings.

Say what you want about most of the Big Guns around here, at least they believe in something- and stick to what they believe in. It doesn't sound like one of those politicals from back in the day would pistol whip a man for contradicting him.

Blows my mind how someone without a spine could lead a country.

Then again...look where we are now.

Standoff

The Southwest area of the city crumbled shortly after everything went to hell; or maybe I mean since hell came to everything.

From what we can tell, it was a very expensive part of town- too expensive for the state of the economy in the last days. Many of the home owners abandoned their properties which were subsequently commandeered by the growing homeless population.

We'd thought that the only things populating the once lavish area of the city were those poor mind-gone ghouls so drug or syphilis addled that they're nearly indistinguishable from the Walking Dead.

We were wrong.

On a recent excursion into the badlands, I witnessed something truly amazing. Three men, ragtag and dirty, defended a single home against a host of the nightmarish things that haunt the streets.

Their leader, who appeared just as mad as the monsters he faced, flung what appeared to be hardened balls of plaster from a window. On his head he wore an old cast iron pot, and he laughed with every throw. He reminded me of nothing so much as a crazy, toothless old wizard in his tower.

The other two defenders confounded their attackers, and astounded yours truly, by waiting patiently until the zombies had demolished the door of their fortress, then signaled to each other with a whistle and a head nod. The first defender stood behind a grandiose oak bookcase. The second, stood waiting with a bottle and brand.

At the signal, the bookcase man charged, pushing the bookcase as a battering ram. The second, lit the a rag handing limp from the bottle neck with his torch and threw the Molotov at the bookcase, setting it ablaze.

The flaming battering ram hit the remnants of the door, burning and frightening the mindless horde. Genius.

Shortly after the display I was forced to flee, thus, I have no idea of the fate of the unlikely heroes. I do wish them, the two knights and their strange Captain, the best.

Rest assured men, tonight I drink to you.

Silhouettes

Observed strange new tribe-

I was outside the city proper last night; one of the areas that wasn't ruined. It was late, later than anyone had any right to be out, but I'd spent most of the night with an old friend and lost track of time. You know how it is.

Two or three rubber trash cans sat at the curb of each house. It blew my mind that still, in this world, there would be something as civilized as a weekly garbage pickup. But why not? There are still working cars. There is still gasoline.

After five minutes on the street, my danger sense went crazy, and I threw myself into a bush. Something up the street caught my eye, and I saw Them- white as ghosts, on either side of a strange vehicle (it looked like a car, but its back end looked like that of a pickup truck). One stood on the driver's side, door open, keeping a lookout, half in the car, ready to slam the door and peel off. The other was a monster, six feet tall and four feet wide. He, unassisted, lifted what looked like a full size oven, and set it in the back of the car/truck. They each got in and cruised down the street, away from yours truly, moving at a crawl, looking for more treasures in the refuse.

My gluttony for information won out, and I followed them, sneaking from porch to porch, staying in the shadows. We ended at a park, where they met with more of their tribe. Eight groups in total.

Fascinated, I crept as close as I dared, observing from hiding. I couldn't get close enough to hear (thankfully?).

Picture a separate race of people, white as alabaster. See the women, tall and sleek; every one of a natural runner, having evolved into perfect scouts. The men are unkempt and burly, bearlike. One knows by looking, they are warriors all.

They travel in male/female pairs, each in a vehicle (which vary, but are equally suited to carrying a heavy assortment of treasures). From what I can tell, they roam in a caravan until finding an area ripe with plunder, then split into groups and scavenge what they can.

They seemed benign, and I'd nearly convinced myself to approach them when, a straggling van pulled out of a side street, a man wearing a bathrobe tied to their roof rack. The owners of the van parked, ignoring the thrashing of their unwilling passenger. The group discussed him (probably) for a some time. I couldn't begin to guess what they were saying, but at one point they all erupted with laughter, pointing at the poor fool.

Not long after, they each got in their rides and drove off in a single line, the man still tied to roof.

Who are these ghosts in the night, these luminous silhouettes standing in contrast to the dark city street? Is this perhaps where the old people got their legends of the Vampire?

Interesting.

Reggie remembers-

"...Surefire hell they was wrong about that. And you know why? Cause people is bored. And boredom brings out the worst in people. You remember high school? Readin' all them tragedies? What happened when one of them ran on too long? You got bored, didn't you. Well this ain't no different. Nothing but a tragedy goin' on way too long." - Reggie Barkwell

I was walking down Sahara Division today and saw "POSERS DIE" spraypainted on the side of a building and it made me think about all the stuff Reg used to say. That part of Charleston, right by the Church of Scientology, that's Plastics territory. When they get bored, they cut on themselves and do weird things to their bodys, so they look perfect.

You can only look so perfect. So what do they do now when they're bored? Maybe they cut other people and make them perfect. Or maybe they ruin each other so they can star all over again.

Or maybe they just spraypaint.