The Buitres Rojos’ base was a crumbling ruin of an old estate that sat cliffside overlooking Lake Mathews. It was probably once owned by a Los Angeles millionaire but now was more like a fortress; fenced in with rusted scrap, barbed wire, mangy attack dogs, and the occasional mutilated human body. The luxurious high-windowed and columned front entrance to the building now was a spattering of graffiti and bullet holes, with the most notable signage being a very large crimson painting of a vulture. It wasn’t crisp nor well done really, just a slop of paint reminiscent of the carrion bird’s silhouette, but it worked to represent the gang because they also weren’t very cohesive nor refined themselves.
Despite a quarter of the building having fallen in on itself, there were still more than enough rooms to accommodate the gang and their various living areas. One of these rooms on the second floor was shared by Meat Hook and Cricket, that’s where they were now, two hours after everyone arrived back. In the end, Hook got Blister to drop the guy off at their room because they had a spare mattress – the one that used to belong to Dare. The girls dumped some water over the man to help clean him off a bit, it was probably a little irradiated, but then again everything was, and then they rolled him onto the gray, lumpy mattress in the corner. Crick had found a spare blanket somewhere… was little moth-eaten and smelt like piss but she figured it was better than nothing and threw it over the guy.
After that the girls got comfortable for the night, sitting together in their small hang-out area in the center of their room, with Meat Hook lounging in a chair with her son Michael in her lap latched to her tit in contentment, while Crick sat crisscross on the floor wearing only a baggy nightshirt and cleaning her two guns fervently and unnecessarily, riding the back end of her jet high. She itched for more but it already dried up. It always dried up too quick. Through the open doorway of their room, the girls could watch the raging barrel fire in the center of a living area where gang members were milling about, shooting the shit, and getting into fights. Their chatter, though rough, was comforting. This was home. And people were a little more light-hearted tonight, but the savory smell of a brahmin feast permeating the building would do that to any gang as they anticipated a rare and great meal.
Crick set down her 10mm pistol for the third time and cracked her knuckles before glancing over her shoulder at the guy sleeping on the mattress. She wasn’t sure if he would ever wake at this point, maybe he was in a coma, but it was surreal seeing the shape of a man sleeping in Dare’s spot. It kept tricking her mind that Dare was there, and the jet spiraling her brain into an obsession for looking that direction and being reminded of it wasn’t helping. She turned back and picked up her shotgun to wipe it down again, just to keep her hands busy so they didn’t shake around and pick fresh sores out of her forearms.
“So. Do you think Michael was Dare’s?” Crick asked casually, not looking up from her work, her face impassive as always and not giving away the tug she felt in her gut by voicing the question.
“Nah.” Hook said, she took a long drag, the orange tip of the cig glowing brightly compared to the soft string lights dangling erratically around the ceiling above them. “Nah Cricket. I think he’s Pitt’s. He has the same curly hair. Then again, he has an appetite for tits like Emberson. This fuckin’ kid never stops.”
“Hm.” Crick cracked a smile at that, glancing up to meet the eyes of her friend. But Hook was staring at her cigarette in thought, at her fingertips which were stained yellow from sucking so many of them down to the filter. “What about that guy back at Sunset?”
“The one with the gimpy leg?”
“Yeah.”
“Naw that was too early. Had to be after that I’m thinkin’. Would be a real wildcard though if so.” The small radio that sat on the floor beside Hook started to crackle, so she kicked at it with her foot while holding Michael stable with her hands. At the moment, it was hissing out the song Rumble by Link Wray through slight static.
“Well Blaine seems to think Michael is his. He even made you that bassinet and shit.”
“Well he’s not.” Hook laughed, “But I’ll take the handouts. Hey… what are ya thinkin’ about him?” She gestured lazily with her cigarette in the direction of Dare’s bed, of course referring to the mysterious man who was laying in it. Crick turned briefly to glance that way, eyes trailing over the shadowed silhouette of his shoulder under the blanket and the mess of his hair splayed over the mattress.
“He’s definitely human. But I don’t know much else… Maybe he’s a vault dweller. Skin never seen sun n’ all that.”
“Maybe he’s a cryo.” Hook replied.
“That’s possible too.” Crick agreed, but she looked away trying to avoid staring at him again and realized she was picking at her own skin. Fucking jet. And she grabbed her gun and pulled it into her lap just to hold it, to hold herself steady and grounded.
(Ser Kex 6)
Voices echoed in the darkness like little droplets of water falling into the deep abyss of a well. They seemed to drift upon a light wind, coming and going but still somewhat of a comfort amidst the sea of nothingness.
His heavy eyes crept open, if for only a second, blinking and disorientated. He was carried upon someone or something, but could do nothing to protest. The ground below was rough and broken. It looked as though it had been scorched and burned many years ago. Battered by countless storms and hammering feet. He could tell that he was no longer in those dunes of sweltering sands that he had been before, nor was the sun beating down upon him. It was dimmer and cooler with a slight breeze washing over his near-lifeless body. His head felt as though someone had driven a wedge through the middle of it until his eyes rolled back into his head and darkness consumed him once more...
It was impossible to say just how much time had passed, as his eyes slowly opened once more. It could have been hours or days for all he knew. A slight flickering light greeted him as he lay motionless on some sort of bed staring at the blackened, cracked ceiling above, wishing the throbbing pain in his temple would subside.
There was a raspy sound of guitar reverberating around the room. It was full of treble and static. This was like nothing he had ever heard before, soothing and exhilarating all at the same time.
“Maybe he’s a cryo.” came a rough voice from somewhere nearby, cutting through the melodic sounds.
He lay as still as he possibly could, jarring his eyes shut, hoping that this was just another one of those strange dreams. He couldn’t be sure of what was real and what wasn’t any more. The woman with the smashed skull, the vat of oozing liquid in the sand… Was it all just a terrible dream? It seemed like more of a nightmare than anything. At least most of the pain had subsided this time and he was as comfortable as he could ever remember being.
“That’s possible too.”
Are they talking about me? A cryo? What the hell? He thought to himself, trying to recollect his thoughts. Stay calm.
It was at this moment of pondering that he realized he couldn’t even recount his own name, nor where he had been or where he was. Perhaps he was suffering some extreme case of memory loss. Perhaps it would soon come back to him. That was the best he could hope for right now.
“That was Rumble by Link Wray,” started a rough voice. It was the kind of voice that you could imagine a dead person having, if they were able to talk that is. It was a voice full of sadness and regret. More of a croak than anything else. Genderless and ageless. “I remember back in the days before those bombs dropped, my daddy would play this record for me. We’d pretend to be rock and roll stars, heh. Those were the days. The days that I was blissfully ignorant to the chaos around me. The days that the slavers wore expensive suits and pinned flags on their chests instead of patched armour and assault rifles.”
The raspy voice stopped for a second, leaving only the buzz of static to fill the void before audibly sighing. The sound of a needle being put back onto a record came through and the song started playing from the start once more, filling the room with the enchanting sounds of guitar again.
gush of dry air caught in his throat, making him splutter and cough uncontrollably for a second as he rolled onto his side. His eyes jarred open and he found himself staring at two dirty women. They were dressed in mismatched garbs of cloth and armour. One of them, who’s eyes he could remember as clear as day, was holding a gun in her hands. She was a weird kind of terrifyingly beautiful… like a stormy sea or thunder in the skies. Was he their prisoner? Their captive? Their slave like the voice behind the music had said?
His brow was covered in little beads of sweat and his hair was stuck into clumps of blonde and brown. A word made its way out the very pits of his stomach without him even thinking about it.
“Please.”
His voice was as soft as silk, innocent and clear. The polar opposite from the roughneck one that had accompanied the old guitar song.
(Innokha 7)
Crick was wringing her fidgety hands around the barrel of her shotgun, watching the dark outlines of the gang members in the other room standing beside the crackling barrel fire when she heard the cough from the man they scraped off the desert floor. She turned, eyes narrowing in his direction, watching him roll over to his side in the first sign of life she’d witnessed since he first lost consciousness while staring at her.
”Please.” she heard his soft voice come from the darkened corner. Crick hesitated, only glancing toward Hook. But her friend was currently wrestling with Michael, holding the kicking babe on her knees while she tried to change out his cloth diaper.
A moment passed where Crick only stared back at the glassy eyes she could barely make out other than two faint bits of shine coming from Dare’s old mattress. She slid her shotgun off her knees, it clacked on the tile floor, then she stood and walked over to the man. Her stride was purposeful and confident even if the way she held her elbows showcased a posture that spoke the opposite.
God he still looks terrible, she thought as she looked down at the utterly soggy, sweat-soaked mystery man. She quietly dropped down to her knees beside him. “Shh. Here.” She said, voice more commanding than soothing as she grabbed a handmade canteen from nearby and popped off the stopper at the top. Cricket pushed at the man’s shoulder trying to get him to roll back over onto his back so she could slide a hand beneath his head and lift it while she’d give him sips of warm water to drink.
(Ser Kex 8)
The woman whose beauty was somewhat rough around the edges strolled over to him with purpose and intent in her stride. Her face was partially hidden by the dancing shadows of the room but he could tell that he was female at least, mostly from her slender, travel weary body.
If she hadn’t slid the clunky old shotgun from off her knees, he would have assumed that she was ready to blow his head clean off. Instead, she knelt down beside him, pushing gently on his shoulder, which still had more than enough force to send his frail, weak body back down to the canvas below. He felt a rough hand cup the back of his head, propping him up ever so slightly as the woman wrangled some sort of canteen from herself.
“Shh. Here.” came a voice from above, making him feel like a child.
A small steady flow of room temperature water flowed into his mouth and down his throat, which he drank all so eagerly, whilst trying pathetically to paw at her hands, failing to even raise his hands beyond his waist.
His mind went blank as he swallowed the water, not realising just how thirsty he had been. How long had he been out? It felt like forever.
As the canteen was removed from his suckling mouth, he gasped in a deep breath of warm, fuzzy air and cleared his throat, water slightly dripping down his chin and onto his chest. Things were starting to feel a little more real, in the weirdest way. His vision was clearer than it had been in that sandy hell hole of a place and he felt less of a bystander than he did next to the corpse of… of someone. Anna.
His mind raced, I - Why can’t I remember anything else? Where the hell am I? Who is this? Who - Who am I?
“Anna?” poked the man, staring at the woman above with a naïve curiosity in his eyes, “Anna, is that you? I thought you were dead.”
(Innokha 9)
For a man suspended in liquid for who-knows-how-long, he was incredibly thirsty. He ran the canteen dry before Crick pulled it away, her generosity lapped up by his greedy needs.. she hoped that would be enough for a while for him. Potable water here was scarce and giving him her own cut wasn’t exactly in the verbal contract Hook made when convincing Blister to dump this man in their room. You’ve just got here and I’m already forced to make sacrifices for you. Crick thought, with her brow scrunched and her eyes narrowed down at him as he gasped dramatically, his hands and fingers groping around and moving in some sort of effort to do something, but failing. She glanced at the water that dribbled down his chin and glistened on the top of his chest, the wasted water. For a fleeting moment she thought about wiping it up, but instead only cracked a half-smile, amused at herself for even considering it. Still… even in the dim light, the man’s white skin looked soft and unmarred, so perhaps that was it... she just wanted an excuse to try touching it to see if it felt the same as other human skin. Her expression went dire and contemplative again as she thought that, but then, the man spoke to her, catching her a bit by surprise.
Crick’s dire expression didn’t change, her eyes narrowed down at the man defensively as she knelt beside him and she held the canteen she was just nursing him from against her chest.
“Nah I’m not. She probably really is dead. Whoever she is.” Crick said.
“Hey! He’s awake!” Meat Hook noticed, shouting in their direction from where she sat with Michael. She pressed her baby against her shoulder and got to her feet, but before she could meander over to Dare’s mattress, another raider appeared in the doorway and struck up a quick conversation with her about dinner, all the brahmin that was cooking.
Cricket looked over the man before her again, looking into his face. “What should I call you? Do you have a name? What were you doing in that box?... Who are you?”
(Ser Kex 10)
The woman’s words about Anna cut deep, although there was something within him that recognised she was probably right. Whoever she was, she was probably dead for real, with only her name and the faded memory of her face remaining. He wasn’t sure why he felt sad about that… the more he thought about it, the more he felt like he was chasing ghosts.
A busty, brute of a woman clambered to her feet with a silent baby carelessly strung over her shoulder. She was talking to some other guy in the doorway, but it was hard to see around her large, intimidating frame. He could however smell something cooking not too far from here. Charred meat perhaps. Whatever sort of family this was, it certainly wasn’t your conventional one.
The questions posed by the small woman beside him were the same ones he had been asking himself since he had regained consciousness. Well, other than the one about the box that was.
Box? What box? He thought to himself, squinting back at the woman.
“My name?” he replied, gingerly pushing himself up against the cool wall to his right.
Fuck. What is my name?
“I - I don’t remember. I don’t remember anything, really. It feels like… my brain is full of rust.”
(Innokha 11)
“Hm.” Cricket hummed in reply, closing her eyes to think for a moment before staring back at the man who now sat against the wall across from her. Even that small pull for dignity of himself, sitting up, made her feel a bit more sympathetic for him. No memories, and awakened sitting on a decomposing mattress with nothing but a raggedly blanket covering his naked waist. He had nothing, not even a name. There was a time when Crick felt that way… stripped of all sense of self and personal worth and strength – including having no real name.
“Well…” she said, this time on a sigh, her voice a bit softer and more sensitive than before. “My name is Cricket. You’re with the Buitres Rojos. We’re a gang. I’m not going to tell you that you’re safe now with us, because that would be a lie and I’m not about that. However; we did scrape you off the desert floor and bring you here which is more mercy than we show most people we find in the desert, so at least you have that comfort.”
Cricket got to her feet in a smooth motion, not taking her eyes off the pale man sitting there, then she used the canteen to point toward an open duffle bag near the foot of Dare’s mattress.
“One of our gang members died the other week. You’re in his bed. It’s yours now.” Her steely impassive voice betrayed the dull throb she felt in her chest at saying the words. “You seem kinda close to his size. I think some of his old clothes in that bag there might fit you.” The duffle bag looked rifled through because it was. After Dare died, naturally his possessions were raided by the others and all that was left were various clothing items nobody else wanted to snag.
After that, Crick spared the man one last glance before turning and walking back toward the small hang-out area in the center of their room and the open doorway where Meat Hook stood. Partly to give the man some level of privacy, as fleeting as that really was.
“He woke right in time. They are going to bring a third plate so he can eat too.” Meat Hook said to Cricket, who had picked up her shotgun and was propping it against the wall near the doorway, situating it in a tactical position so she could quickly grab it if needed. She watched as Meat Hook was glancing past her to look at the guy on the other side of the room.
“Well. Hopefully he can keep it down.”
“Did you learn anything?” Hook asked in a rough whisper, her body was rocking rhythmically for Michael as she pat the little baby’s back.
Crick shook her head. “He claims to have no memory.” She replied in a hushed tone.
(Ser Kex 12)
Cricket. So my capture has a name huh? Must be nice...
The nameless young man dragged himself along the spongy, yellowed mattress towards the green duffle bag that Cricket had encouraged him to look through. He had hardly had any time to think about his nudeness, he hardly had any time to think about anything really. Perhaps by now the whole gang had seen more of him than he would have liked. The tired, old duffle bag that sat at the foot of the bed was partially filled with a tattered array of clothes. From moth eaten shirts to faded denim, it seemed as though whatever had been left behind was the undesirable attire.
These didn’t exactly scream gang clothes to him, not when compared to Cricket’s questionable choice for clothing. He dragged the torn denim jeans from the bag along with a long sleeved green t-shirt, one of the only ones that didn’t stink of a mixture of shit and cum. He held the clothes tight to his chest and peered around the room nervously.
“Some songs are timeless and dreams are forever… We could really use some more dreamers in this fucking hell hole.” came the rough voice from the radio once more. “Hmm… Sources tell me that the acid rains are still a ways from us, but there’s a nasty sandstorm coming from The Glow. So hunker down best you can and stay tuned to L.A.R… Here’s my kinda guy, Miles Davis with ‘Blue in Green’... I wonder what ever happened to that son of a bitch.”
I hope this dream isn’t forever… Forever is a mighty long time.
A light piano piece fizzled through the dusty old radio into the small room he currently occupied. He slowly raised his eyes from foot to head of Cricket. She was in conversation with the large lump of a woman with the baby. Perhaps Cricket was the leader of this gang.
“Cricket…” he said awkwardly, “Can I… Do you have somewhere I can get changed? In private?”
(Innokha 13)
"Really? Huh, strange n' stranger. Still a lil cute though I guess." Meat Hook replied. Cricket leaned her back against the door frame and crossed her arms over her chest.
"You gotta cigarette?" Crick asked. Her friend nodded and, using one hand, flipped open a pack she had in her pocket and held it out to her. Meat Hook, in a lot of ways, was an angel cloaked in the body of a robust grungy woman living in depravity. Aside from the fact she was like the only person Crick knew who would willingly share her endangered cigarettes, she was a genuinely amiable personality among a crew of bitter souls. Even though her build was stout, a little chunky, and full of deep curves -- her face was pretty. Sort of.. well, if you discounted the missing teeth and the patchwork of dark hair that was falling out in clumps. But when you know someone long enough, you don't see those things anymore. When Crick looked at Hook, she saw the crinkled laugh lines at the corners of her eyes and her wide, honest grin. Hook was loud, pushy, obscene, rude... but above all else, incredibly loyal and light-hearted. She had fun with her life despite living in a shit hole, something Crick could never understand -- as she was just another of those bitter assholes -- but the idea was an infectious one, and she wished she was a bit more like Hook and easily enjoyed the small things.
Cricket flicked an old zippo a few times before getting a flame to hold at the tip of her cigarette. She puffed it to life, her face briefly illuminated in the dark doorway by the flickering flame. The music changed, a soft melody sifting out from the crackle of the refurbished little radio. To Crick, something about the blissful optimism of radio music always emphasized the grime on floors, the filth in the corners, the stains on everyone's clothes, and the humanity in everyone's eyes.
From where the man-with-no-name could see Cricket, taking her appearance in wholly, he'd see a woman standing with a roguish poise... leaning against the doorframe of her room as if on guard, the relaxed way she crossed her ankles and arms only thinly veiling the alert attention the paid to anyone who walked near the entrance to their room, eyes flickering between faces as she carefully smoked her cigarette. She sipped from the smoke, as if savoring it, but the way her mind and eyes drifted elsewhere -- moving constantly like the way she lightly fidgeted and tapped her bare foot, meant she probably wasn't even tasting the cigarette at all. She looked different than the woman she was earlier in the desert... she didn't have her tough-girl leathers and chains on. She looked more like a junkie... nothing on but a baggy grey shirt that sagged down to mid-thigh, leaving visible a bruised collarbone and arms with sores she had picked open herself. Though her bare legs were long, tan and muscular, they still had bruises and cuts which were mostly diluted in the dim lighting of this place.
In another place, or another life perhaps, Cricket could have been a gorgeous woman. There were hints of that in her details. Like the fact that her naturally athletic body had great shape, her facial features were elegant and proportional including long dark eyelashes and full lips. But there was a carelessness to the way she was.. her skin was marred with imperfection from both old wounds and ramshackle tattoo jobs. And her chestnut hair, which would probably be thick and wavy if she grew it out, was butchered into a partly shaved, partly ungroomed mohawk mess. She felt eyes on her before the man spoke, and she looked in his direction just before he called out to her.
"That mattress is the most privacy you'll find anywhere." Cricket said flatly, annoyance playing in the way she only spared him a glance, a curt reply, then looked away and took another drag from her cigarette, pinching it between her fingers and examining it as if it were miles more interesting than the man trying to speak to her.
Meat Hook looked over toward the man and grinned a jokester smile showcasing the many black holes where teeth once were. "If ya need help dressin'.. I'll come give ya hand. Or more. Anythin' ya need Love."
