Cypress had spent the better part of the day being pursued by a ranger with a big iron on his hip. Around sundown he'd ducked into an abandoned warehouse, hoping to lose the lawman through some other exit, but so far it seemed he'd done nothing but get himself lost. In the metal maze of shelves long-plundered of anything of value, his thoughts turned from running to hiding as the light in the building dwindled. He was wandering half-blind through a loading bay when he came upon a peculiar sight: a long-abandoned truck had entered the warehouse backwards, which was to say it entered it forwards, having smashed through one of the docks and warped the shutter around its hood. Cypress squatted nearby for a closer look: There seemed to be just barely enough room to crawl through the broken windshield, and he didn't have a better idea.
He stepped on the bumper, squeezed himself into the truck cabin, and promptly tumbled forward into a veritable ball pit of small paper boxes—a few of them crumpled beneath him, but their sharp edges mostly just hurt. After laying there in silence until he was certain he was alone, he cursed through his teeth and sat up in the pitch darkness. Sparking his trusty lighter to see what exactly what he landed in, his brow raised when the flame revealed he was sitting waist-deep in a bedload of... candy?
He hated the stuff, but there were so many brands he knew he'd never seen before that he almost forgot to light a new cigarette. A deep drag helped clear his mind, at which point he realized that if nobody had found these before, they were unlikely to find them now, and this was a perfectly good place to lay low until dawn. He crawled through the candy to set up at the rear doors of the truck, prepared to open them if need be, even if he had no clue what awaited him on the other side.
He certainly had no clue the other side of the truck was painted with a bright orange jack-o-lantern and strung up with little pumpkin lights. Eventually he had to open one of the truck doors a crack to let the cigarette smoke out, which spilled to the ground outside like a graveyard in a vampire movie. Spooky.
He stepped on the bumper, squeezed himself into the truck cabin, and promptly tumbled forward into a veritable ball pit of small paper boxes—a few of them crumpled beneath him, but their sharp edges mostly just hurt. After laying there in silence until he was certain he was alone, he cursed through his teeth and sat up in the pitch darkness. Sparking his trusty lighter to see what exactly what he landed in, his brow raised when the flame revealed he was sitting waist-deep in a bedload of... candy?
He hated the stuff, but there were so many brands he knew he'd never seen before that he almost forgot to light a new cigarette. A deep drag helped clear his mind, at which point he realized that if nobody had found these before, they were unlikely to find them now, and this was a perfectly good place to lay low until dawn. He crawled through the candy to set up at the rear doors of the truck, prepared to open them if need be, even if he had no clue what awaited him on the other side.
He certainly had no clue the other side of the truck was painted with a bright orange jack-o-lantern and strung up with little pumpkin lights. Eventually he had to open one of the truck doors a crack to let the cigarette smoke out, which spilled to the ground outside like a graveyard in a vampire movie. Spooky.
Rhett returned to the spot circled on his trekking map expecting ants, scorpions, roaches, the usual sugar-hungry and easily tempted. He half hoped for bear, fattier meat and more useful hide, but the scorpions were good eating too. Even roach meat was more lasting and nutritious than processed sugar, and leaving the candy there last week had saved Rhett the danger of carrying a packload of sugary bear bait all the way back to the caravan outpost for not-enough-caps in trade.
Rhett couldn't smell the cigarette smoke through his gas mask, but he could see it pooling out from the gap in the door and knew the stink of wandering denizen could end up baiting creatures far worse than bear. He rapped sharply on the side of the truck with the butt of his grenade launcher, so as not to startle any of the smokers (?) within. "Don't camp in there, folks, thissa winter trail for crawlies following rain, and you're fogging up the bait."
Rhett couldn't smell the cigarette smoke through his gas mask, but he could see it pooling out from the gap in the door and knew the stink of wandering denizen could end up baiting creatures far worse than bear. He rapped sharply on the side of the truck with the butt of his grenade launcher, so as not to startle any of the smokers (?) within. "Don't camp in there, folks, thissa winter trail for crawlies following rain, and you're fogging up the bait."
Rhett's tapping on the side of the truck caused the cracked-open door to open a bit further, sending a few boxes of petrified cupcakes tumbling down a curtain of smoke to the ground outside.
Cypress's first danger-tuned reflex was to look to the visitor's weapon, but when he saw it was a grenade launcher he relaxed: someone with intent would not have come so close, and it was just as well, for firing back within the walls of the truck would have given his eardrums an all-expenses paid trip to hell for a week. No fight, then. His focus broadened to the rest of the abnormally tall man, settling on his gas mask and remarkably red hair. Why did everyone in the wasteland look so weird? He had to be the only normal-looking person for at least a hundred miles, if not more.
He adjusted his cracked pilot's goggles over his bloodshot eye.
"It'll be our secret," He said in his raspy voice. Then he closed the door and left Rhett with the small pile of dropped candy.
Cypress's first danger-tuned reflex was to look to the visitor's weapon, but when he saw it was a grenade launcher he relaxed: someone with intent would not have come so close, and it was just as well, for firing back within the walls of the truck would have given his eardrums an all-expenses paid trip to hell for a week. No fight, then. His focus broadened to the rest of the abnormally tall man, settling on his gas mask and remarkably red hair. Why did everyone in the wasteland look so weird? He had to be the only normal-looking person for at least a hundred miles, if not more.
He adjusted his cracked pilot's goggles over his bloodshot eye.
"It'll be our secret," He said in his raspy voice. Then he closed the door and left Rhett with the small pile of dropped candy.
Wouldn't be the first ghoul-or-ghoul-adjacent looking rambler as made themselves bait for a hunt, but whatever this stranger was trying to tempt was going to be too big or too numerous to carry home before spoilage, and Rhett's back didn't relish the idea of hauling anything gigantic up a tree for field butchery anyway.
The gas mask muffles Rhett's grunt of concession, and he snaps his fingers at Junkyard to leave the chocolate alone, the mangy old mutt having skulked out from under her stalking shadow robbed of a chance at fresh meat. Rhett whistles high and sharp, and waves the OK at his hired sniper that they were moving on.
Junkyard won't leave off the chocolate, so Rhett scoops it up. He could use it to set a bait trap in the woods, somewhere ramblers were less likely to seek shelter, and greedy old waddling dogs were less likely to OD.
♪ ♫ ♪
The gas mask muffles Rhett's grunt of concession, and he snaps his fingers at Junkyard to leave the chocolate alone, the mangy old mutt having skulked out from under her stalking shadow robbed of a chance at fresh meat. Rhett whistles high and sharp, and waves the OK at his hired sniper that they were moving on.
Junkyard won't leave off the chocolate, so Rhett scoops it up. He could use it to set a bait trap in the woods, somewhere ramblers were less likely to seek shelter, and greedy old waddling dogs were less likely to OD.
♪ ♫ ♪
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