Day 5112

Bridger’s History Book

355 days of imprisonment.

You could feel it in the air, the guards were more tense than usual, more eager to punish the slower workers, something was happening. I kept a watchful eye to the frontier of our quarry prison and to the High Nocturne’s throne room that overlooked it.

At midday, the number of guards in the quarry had doubled. Those that weren’t directly supervising us stood in small groups making conversation and looking about expectantly. Their weapons cradled in their arms or resting over shoulders.

“The Driver, his windscreen filled with sand.” Three Finger exclaimed in Wasteland speak as she pointed with one of those fingers to herself.

The High Nocturne was a very persuasive and charismatic leader and would regularly step out onto his balcony to address the members of the cult over a jury-rigged public address system. Looking up again, the Nocturne was nowhere to be seen.

Before sunset, there was a great noise of engines as the quarry frontier was opened and two large trucks with cages on the rear that were used for the transport of slaves backed in. They were immediately followed by the Nocturne’s own personal armored war-rod. It was a custom, high riding hot-rod built for battle and bred to intimidate. It was flanked on either side by armed cult members. 

The matte black war-rod stopped and the engines were shut off. When the dust cleared, the High Nocturne was seen atop his vehicle in his full ceremonial garb as the cult’s high priest.

The slaves stopped working and turned toward this new sight, and the guards didn’t discourage it. The Nocturne had never descended into the quarry before, and the fact that nearly every Spider cult member was present, had to mean something grave was about to happen.

The Nocturne raised his hands to the sky in a religious gesture and spoke, “Today you will serve the cult of the Spider in a capacity that will bring you honor in your afterlife. I have come among you to select those that will be sacrificed to the gods in order to secure our victory in the coming war against those that would attempt to defile the sanctity of our domain!” 

Panic began to set in among the slaves. The rumors of the cult’s practice of human sacrifice were rampant and imaginative. 

“Those four there!” the Nocturne’s leather clad finger stabbed the air in the direction of four slaves who had been captured from the Legion gang.

“We begin with the defilers themselves! No army, no legion can stand against the might of the Cult of the Spider!”

The four Legion members were too weak to fight the guards as they were dragged toward the cage trucks. Were we to assume that the Cult of the Spider was about to go to war against the Legion? If that were the case, things were about to get ugly fast. Legion had a reputation as one of the biggest, baddest motorized armies in the Wasteland.

“The Driver, his windscreen clear.” I whispered to Three Finger.

“Officer Four-Oh-Seven-Three.” she gasped in reply.

“The tanks, full of sand.” Zag muttered in defeat, his eyes downcast.

The Nocturne continued, “Their blood alone will not be enough to ensure our victory, we must offer a STRONG sacrifice to the gods in order to secure a victory against the defilers, for they are many.”

He looked over the slaves and began to point out those he intended to use for sacrifice, and they all shared a singular trait, they were the strongest slaves in the quarry. The guards began to move forward to gather up those who had been selected, their weapons at the ready.

In the confusion, I had failed to notice that four of the guards were headed right for me their pikes drawn. Three Finger’s eyes grew wild when she spotted them on their approach.

They were on me before I could even brace for it. Those selected by the Nocturne were being moved into a line in the sand and were shown off to the remaining slaves. We were a sorry display, thin, ragged, tired, half-starved.

“Let these stand as an example of our commitment to the gods and our commitment to carrying out their work in the Wasteland. Their innards will be spread on the altar of the temple as an offering and their flesh consumed to make our armies strong for the coming conflagration. Those that would defile our ways will know the wrath of the…”

The Nocturne paused unexpectedly and all eyes turned in anticipation of his next words. But it was one of the nearby guards that gave the first hint that something was wrong, his eyes widened in disbelief.

We all turned, and there atop his war-rod, the High Nocturne stood frozen in shock, an arrow had pierced his neck. The blood bubbled at this throat as he attempted to speak. Before the guards could react, another arrow pierced the Nocturne’s side. He pivoted on his heel and clawed upward toward the balcony of his throne room and that was when we spotted her.

Standing on the rail of the balcony was the nearly naked concubine called Adept, a long bow in her hand. She strung another arrow while the guards gathered their wits and let it fly, lancing the Nocturne in the torso again. That final arrow was the death blow and the High Nocturne fell onto the roof of his war-rod.

Adept vanished off of the balcony as the slaves took the opportunity to rise up against the guards in their confusion.