Alive and Fighting: Revelations

Alive and Fighting: Revelations

August, 2034

              "How much for the blank tapes?" Rose asked, showing the caravan trader what she'd picked from his wares.

             
"I only accept trade, sorry," The trader replied from the driver's seat of his cow and goat drawn cart. "Have anything you're willing to part with? Scrap metal, weapons, books, actually clean water'd be great. I'm headed to the Alamo Graveyard after this, water's better than bullets out there."

             
"How much water do you want for the tapes?" Rose inquired, several mason jars of fresh, clean water wrapped snuggly in her messenger bag.

             
"Eh, not too many people need tapes anymore, fuckin' no one back in Rushmore wanted'em," The trader began, rubbing his bristly chin. "Half a liter sound good?"

             
"Have a tank or bottle or something I can pour it into?" Rose asked, removing a half liter jar from her bag.

             
"Yep, there's a big ol' plastic tank in back…anything else I can do for you?" The trader asked as Rose poured the jar’s contents into the large plastic water tank.

             
"No thanks, I've got everything I need now. You mentioned the Rushmore Graveyard, how much land does it cover?" Rose wondered, returning to collect her tapes.

             
"Well that depends, are you asking a Blackfoot or a Pale One?" The trader inquired, confusing Rose completely.

             
"Uh…whichever you prefer." Rose responded, fitting a tape into her old cassette recorder.

             
"The Pale Ones say it stretches from Arkansas all the way into Canada, and from Ohio to Nebraska. Blackfeet say the same thing, but tell you to get off their land, then five seconds later they start shooting." The trader explained with a chuckle.

             
"Wow…well I'm glad you were able to make it here. I've been out of tapes for close to three months now." Rose said, as the trader was cleaning his sunglasses.

             
"I'm happy to be of service, with any luck I'll be back soon enough. It was nice meeting you." The trader said, tipping his battered gray Stetson hat with a smile that Rose returned.

             
Leaving the trader’s cart, Rose looked over the market that had recently begun gathering at the intersection of North Boulevard and Third Street. The area used to be a small gathering place where local bands would play and people could walk from the numerous nearby bars and restaurants to hear them, before the Infection spread. Now, it was but a disjointed reflection in a broken mirror compared to what it had once been. Even amidst all the dangers Blood Oak had to offer, the Crossroad Bazaar was something pleasant. Harvester and Grey Klan, Vulture and Great Ape, even Reapers, all laid aside their arms here and recognized it as safe zone, a place of armistice, if only for the brief time at the Bazaar.

             
The stalls were simple, gathered in a few crude rows. Some merchants had built lean-tos of sheet metal and plywood, whereas others were just sheets held up by tent poles, but each had a bounty of goods available. From fresh produce from urban gardens and fish from the Mississippi River, to salvaged metal and timber, the local population of Graveyarders, also called Gravers, were hard pressed to not see something useful under a stand's awning. The jewel of the Crossroad Bazaar was, without a doubt, the stand belonging to Craven. His stall bore signs of professional construction not seen since before the Infection that had taken most of the world from the brink of death into a horrible state of undeath. Craven, unlike most other vendors, sold only one type of ware, and that was guns. Widely regarded among those skilled enough to build firearms, Craven was THE Gunsmith, not A gunsmith. He was the one who had launched bullet casings as the Gulf Graveyard's form of currency shortly after the Infection. While few could afford his custom built masterpieces, he always drew a crowd.

             
"It's August twelfth twenty thirty four, first entry of the day, Diary, and I finally got you some new tapes. Sorry it's taken so long. Luckily not too much has happened. Well, I take that back. I found a pretty nice cache of copper piping on a salvage about a month back, and Craven bought all of it, he's such a sweet guy. I can't believe how old he is, nearly fifty from what I've heard. He looks so young, though. Hmm, I wonder if the rumors about him building a chainsaw launcher are true? Oh, that Harvester story teller is setting up; I'll record his story, then tell you about him later." Rose spoke into her cassette recorder before joining the gathering around Spike, the Harvester Loremaster.

             
Spike was of average height with sandy blonde hair, one of the few Harvesters who chose to not wear a white hoodie. Instead, his uniform consisted of a white t shirt with a red arm band around his upper arm and a red bandana tied around his mouth and nose. He had a table leg with a long railroad spike driven through one end strapped to his back by a belt that crossed his chest, which was itself crossed by a bandoleer. Also slung across his shoulder was a small messenger bag, within which he kept a rather large tome. Spike kept an incredibly thorough record of Blood Oak's history in the tome, along with collected stories and legends told by other Gravers. These stories were what he told the people of the Bazaar on Saturdays. Some tales made the people laugh, but others, like the one Rose was about to hear, were meant as warnings.

             
"Gather round young and old, listen well to stories told. I tell you now, this tale's a fright. Rethink your plans next storm filled night. The horsemen ride the winds of fear, so listen close and you will hear. Death, Famine, Pestilence, War, terrors few have seen before." Spike began to a round of applause, his rhyming introductions always pleasing the crowd, even when they foretold warnings.

             
"Stories tell of Hivemind, our Zero, being unlike any other. Those of us who have traveled our ravaged world know him to be truly one of a kind. They say that somewhere inside the beast, still burns the fire of a man, a soul that retains some semblance of humanity. I would wager someone among us has been spared his horrible blade on a night of wicked wind and driving rain. Yet, a Zero he is, and Zeros mustn't be taken lightly." Spike began, the crowd sitting down on the soft grass around him to hear his tale.

             
"Hivemind is easily as well known for his mercy as he is for his terrible guard. Branded by fear and flesh as the Four Horsemen, Hivemind's constant guardians, and if legend is to be believed, his first victims. Each horseman named first by the terror their presence inspired, soon accounts told of the unexpected accuracy each of their titles held." Spike continued, scanning the crowd, all eyes locked expectantly on him.

             
"The rider, Death, charred black as night, escape from him with all your might. His shell, burned firm from fire within, not conscience at all to his own sin. Famine, the rider riddled by bruises, test not your wit, he falls to no ruses. Some say battered by his own hand, still he strikes fear all through our land. Pestilence, scarred by the flies from our guns, yet still the terror of our ablest sons. Though you see through him via scars of a battle, he sees you all as a slaughter of cattle. Last though is War, the most terrible of all, who survives our blades, though through his head they fall. Still bloodied today from cuts of the past, all know in battle he'll surely leave last." Spike rhymed once more, eliciting a very different response this round.

             
"Fear is most certainly the correct response to this verse. The Four Horsemen are none to be tangled with. Alone, one could easily slaughter dozens of you. Together, if allowed…they could easily purge the city of life. Though it sounds odd to hear, give thanks to our Zero, for what mercy he shows. Sightings of him or his cadre of Horsemen are all during fierce storms and other dangerous times. It is believed that he considers these times when people would be dying anyway, or perhaps he simply enjoys the chaos. I will leave you today with this, a storm is blowing in; you can see the clouds coming up the river. The Horsemen, though sightings are rare, are distinct in appearance. Their flesh is bronze, like a rusted beam, and just as tough. They are known to be adorned in heavy chains and shredded tires. Each though is distinct from the others as my verse described. Death is a much darker shade and leaves a trail of ashes in his wake, Famine is covered in black and purple bruises, Pestilence has holes that pierce all the way through his torso and arms, and War has lacerations that still bleed a horribly toxic blood. Please, finish your marketing and go home. Bolt your doors and close your windows, this is no time to seek danger." Spike warned, stepping down from the crate that served as his bandstand.

             
"Hey look! Tyrone's putting up the new wanted posters!" A Graver shouted from somewhere in the crowd.

             
The throng of eager Graveyarders that had just begun to separate from Spike's story quickly re-converged, Rose included, to see who had done what to get publicly bountied. While a few private firms of bounty hunters operated in Blood Oak, issuing bounties to the public was a rare sight and almost always meant a professional hunter had failed. These bounties usually remained unclaimed for months, and rarely did the bounties survive long enough against the undead to ever be claimed. Tyrone was well known for making rounds among the different tribes to collect wanted posters and putting them up in the Crossroad Bazaar on Saturdays. He had just put up the second, and final, poster when the group of onlookers made it to the bounty board.

             
"Wonder who's pissed off the Klan this time." Spike said, startling Rose as apparently he had directed his statement to her.

             
"I've got no idea really. I do my best to avoid them, but every few weeks I see these posters of some poor soul they've set sights on." Rose replied after realizing Spike was indeed talking to her.

             
"Honestly I'm surprised they put out as few bounties as they do; they've a lot fewer allies than enemies." Spike wondered, looking to the posters to see if they were in fact issued by the abhorred Grey Klan.

             
"I always imagined they do most of their own bounty hunting." Rose guessed, eliciting a nod from Spike as the crowd moved enough for them to read the posters.

              "Huh, I've been hearing about this Daniels kid. Didn't know he was causing the Klan this much trouble though," Spike said after reading the new posters.

             
"I've always wondered, why do they call themselves the Klan? Seems weird that they'd misspell their own name." Rose wondered, looking at Chase Daniels' artist rendering on the wanted poster.

             
"No, that's spelled right. The Klan's leader, goes by the name Noose, was alive before the infection. Back then there was a group that called themselves the Ku Klux Klan, bunch of racist mother fuckers whose family trees didn’t have any branches. So when the dust settled after the Infection, Noose took their name, but not their ideals, and formed his new group of Zealots. Noose claims their only intention was to wipe out the zombies, but he also knew people would still be afraid of the Klan name for the atrocities they'd committed. He wanted to carry that fear over to the new Klan. Like I said though, he only took their name, oh and their pointed white hoods. Only instead of pointing up like a bunch of clown hats, the Grey Klan's hoods hang like tails off their heads and down their backs." Spike explained, always happy to talk about history.