The whisp of smoke was what got our attention. We stop a long way off.
Three Finger up on the roof of the truck looking through the spyglass signals, she sees something. I poke my head out and ask what.
“Looks to be a camp. No one around.” she replies.
“Any salvage?”
“Likely. Not close enough.”
A few minutes later, the vehicles are hidden and Crash and I are armed and walking toward the distant camp. About halfway we stop for another look through the spyglass.
“There’s some prime salvage alright.” Crash smiles as he looks the camp over, “Still no one in sight.”
Crash passes the glass over and I have a look for myself. I scan the nearby hills for lookouts, outposts, guards, but there doesn’t seem to be anyone.
We draw out weapons as we enter the camp. It’s a series of ramshackle structures built from scraps of tarps stretched across rods and pipes. There were several small fires smouldering that created the smoke that drew us in. I keep watch while Crash looks for salvage. He goes from tent to tent poking his head in to each one briefly, calling out his finds as he goes, “Tools, tools, scrap, clothing, scrap, empty gas can, containers… fuk-ushima! Bridger, look!”
There in the larger middle tent was a butchering table big enough for a man and all the knives and tools needed to do the deed. On an old rusty drum were the bones leftover, they were people bones, we had wandered into a camp of man-eaters.
“Eyes on Crash, we need to go, NOW.”
“Where have they all gone?” Crash asked around great gasps of air as we ran full Nightrider on the Highway out of the camp.
“Don’t know, hope they don’t see us.” I panted back.
No comments:
Post a Comment