It's quiet for a moment, before I get over to Toby and hit him with another heal. Hopefully that will be enough to get rid of any remaining burns. I look over to see George is fine now too, the wound on his shoulder barely visible.
“George, Toby, Seymore, go check on Robert and make sure those assholes stay dead. Greg, come help me with Sara and Karen.” I take charge and give out orders. George looks like he wants to argue but is stopped by a simple “Sure thing” from Seymore.
Me and Greg make our way back over to Karen and Sara, who are still near the wrecked planter. I bend down to check Sara while pointing Greg to Karen. Sara's breathing is fine at least, but she still isn't awake yet. Which is very concerning, because I don't think my healing can do any more. Karen finally starts moving after Greg whispers something to her. She's still shaking, but at least isn't sobbing anymore.
In the distance I hear some shouting by the others, followed by a quick bang. I turn and tense up, ready for whatever may come next. I start to relax after the shouting continues but no more shots ring out. I turn back to find Karen sitting up, with Greg rummaging through the food bag on her back. Karen isn't crying anymore, but is still red eyed and shaking.
“How long has she been out?” she asks, presumably talking about Sara.
“Since the first car. She had a cut on the back of her head but I healed it.” I reply.
Karen just sniffles for a moment, before taking a deep breath to recompose herself.
“She probably has brain damage. We'll need specialized care to help her.” Karen says.
“Shit!” Is all I can muster in response.
“Yea, we are not finding anything like that around here.” Greg states.
“Karen, are you good? I might need the healing crystal for the others.” I state.
Karen looks up at me, jumping a little as the healing crystal slowly spins around into her vision.
“Uh, yes. I think I’ll be fine. I’ll check Sara in a minute after I catch my breath. Go make sure the others are OK.” she replies.
I give Greg a look to ask him to keep an eye on Karen. Thankfully he gets what I’m asking immediately and nods affirmatively in return as Karen sits back down next to Sara. I recall the healing crystal and start making my way up the street. From the sound of it the shouting has devolved into bickering, with everyone seeming to have differing opinions over something.
“We might have gotten something out of the cock sucker. We should have interrogated them!” George argues.
“Cultist or not, leaving someone in that condition like that is too brutal.” Toby replies.
“Toby is half right George. We weren’t going to get anything out of them like that. And having Lucy heal them would have just been a massive waste of resources.” Robert says.
“We shouldn't care about them at all. They already gave away their humanity. But that one wasn't going to be giving us anything useful either. The grunts normally just follow the orders of the higher ups.” Seymore comments.
It's easy to hear them down the street now that everything is quiet. And I'm so focused on the conversation I almost stumble into the hole left by the fireball that exploded in front of our caricade. Just looking at it makes me happy we somehow avoided a direct hit from those. The road is gouged out a good four inches down and half a foot in diameter, with what was clearly molten slag pooled up at the bottom but now cooled. At least cooled enough not to be glowing hot, as I can still feel a faint heat coming from it when I'm on the edge.
I slip around the hole, making extra sure I don't step anywhere near the edge to be better safe than sorry. I continue over to the others as quick as I can while they continue their bickering. Now they've moved on to discussing about what to do with the cultists truck.
“It would be nice if we could use it, think they left the keys in it?” Toby asks.
“No dice, it could have anything ranging from a simple tracker to a remote bomb. One of the things they drilled into us was never vehicles you find laying around or reappropriated from the enemy. Magic makes it all too easy to set explosives damn near untraceable by normal means that have nasty trigger conditions. The most we should do is carefully loot it for small supplies.” Seymore replies.
“I ain't using no tainted shit!” George snaps.
“We're not picking up anything tainted George. We steal anything that looks useful and probably isn't contaminated.” Robert says.
“So we are looting it?” Toby asks.
“As long as we don't take anything big we should be fine.” Seymore replies.
I’m almost to them when the smell hits me. Though it might be better to say I hit the smell, because it was like a brick wall. Something akin to burnt bacon or maybe a burnt steak, but so much more intense and vile. I wrinkle my nose an gag for a second, before managing to recompose myself and keep going. I never wanted to know what a burnt person smelt like, and unfortunately now I do.
As I get closer to the bickering group the smell only gets worse. I seriously wonder how these guys can stand around and argue in the middle of this. Soon I can even make out gouges and splatters in the dust where stray bullets had been sprayed down the road. Soon I stumble across the first set of bodies. Three of them bunched and jumbled together behind A fairly large work truck. Well, what was left of them anyway. Most of the cultists midsections have had huge chunks just removed, blood, guts, and other viscera slathered about both the bodies and surrounding environment. Their automatic rifles jumbled and tangled with their limbs and robes in what was probably a panicked attempt to bring them up.
I move on, repressing the nasty memories of the corpses strewn about the streets shortly after the attack. Speaking of, I haven't seen any corpses in the streets recently. I wonder if all the zombies ate them all. A few steps later I find the remains of the rest of the cultist group. A lot of these one have chunks missing like the last three, but with the added damage of being massively burned. Some of the other corpses aren't part chunky man salsa, but are none the less still mostly overcooked people pork. A lot of them are burned only on the back, laying face down, like they were trying to run away but the fire caught them anyway.
Looks like fireball bitch cooked her own team mates trying to kill Robert. And the fact that he’s arguing right now makes me wonder how he didn't join them. The shield isn't that powerful is it? It can't be, all my shit is supposed to be low level.
I step past one cultist who has a bullet hole right between his eyes and continue towards the sounds of the bickering, only to find the four of my survival group mates standing over a final charred body with a box truck parked behind them.
“How the hell are you all standing around with this smell?” I ask them.
“My nose doesn't work.” Toby replies.
“I've smelt worse during my service.” Seymore says.
“Dumbasses at my college frat house.” Is all George says, like that explains everything. Just the opposite, leaves me with more questions.
“I'm trying to ignore it.” Robert replies.
“Cool, does anyone need any more healing?” I ask, hoping to get it out of the way as soon as possible.
“I'm fine.” Robert replies, which makes me raise an eyebrow at him.
“Still feelin young, so no complaints here.” Seymore says.
“My hands still sting a little but…” Toby starts, only for George to start yabbering.
“Yea, my shoulder still fuckin hurts. You said you healed it but it doesn't feel fucking healed!”
This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.
“George, don't be an ass.” Robert chastises him.
“Look George, I’ve already healed you twice. Not only do I have NO medical training yet, I got this shit only like TWO days ago! Go ask Karen to check you over and if she says you need another heal I will give you one. But if the first two didn't do it there is a good chance it's beyond my abilities. I don't have mana to be wasting right now” I snap at him.
Mana: 7,957/25,008
Fucking hell I knew the shield crystal took a big chunk but I didn't think I was that low. At least I regenerate mana now instead of slowly losing it.
“So, Toby, you said your hands still hurt?” I turn and ask him. Pointedly ignoring the fuming George who starts stomping off to get the required second opinion.
“Yea, just a little left over stinging. I think you fixed most of the burns already.”
I set the healing crystal on Toby and turn my attention to Robert as he and Seymore turn towards the cultist box truck.
“And Robert, you're sure you're fine? Didn't you like, take a fireball to the face or something?” I ask him, my skepticism leaking into my tone as I follow them.
“Almost, but she missed when I ducked behind the other side of their cover instead of jumping into the middle of them.” Robert replies.
“OK, still, how didn't you get shot?” I follow up, only to receive a shrug and a quick. “I think the shield blocked or deflected them.” Which is completely bonkers and probably bullshit given my level but at this point I'm not gonna bother caring as long as he doesn't need healing.
It isn't until we are on top of the box truck that I realize its back door is open, already thrown up and retracted into the ceiling. What we find waiting for us is a bunch of boxes all piled throughout the back. About half of them are cardboard, stacked ontop of one another and slapped with various labels and symbols that might mean something to the cultists. A few are clearly homemade wooden crates, crudely slapped together from what I suspect are planks originating from old pallets. The remaining small handful, three to be exact, are secure metal containers. Army grade, secure metal containers. How do I know this despite having never seen one? Might be the fact that the closest one is right in my face and painted with ‘PROPERTY OF UNITED STATES ARMY’ all over it.
“Score!” Toby yells.
“Not quite, we need to be careful about what we take.” Seymore replies, before leaning his rifle against the edge of the truck's deck and lifting himself up with the side handle.
“I see you’re feeling alot better Seymore. Think you can keep the rifle out? I know it will be tough without a sling.” Robert addresses him as he and Toby pull themselves up into the truck.
“Little missy’s magic got my arthritis under control. I should be able to make it work. Now this…” Seymore says as he slaps the top of one of the military crates. “Is a more pressing issue.”
“They probably stole them from the bunker they took over.” I surmise aloud.
“No, bunkers don't have the kind of hardware these would contain. At Least they shouldn't. They might be repurposed but, I don't see any of the usual marks for Jimmy open job.” Seymore replies.
“Jimmy open job?” I ask.
“These models are probably older than you youngin. And they are absolute pieces of shit.” He says, then points to the side of the box.
I hop up into the back of the truck, not even having to step up as I manage it in one ‘small’ jump. Increased stats for the win, though I've only put like one point into everything else. The rest is still just he bullshit bonuses from getting turned.
The ‘box’ is a rectangular metal crate with reinforcement bands running all along the sides and top, about two feet long and a foot wide. Outlined with many groves, handles, and even a few latching points so it can be hooked on any side or the top. It looks sturdy, but Seymore says otherwise.
“These were the United States Army's first attempt at a modern, smart, and tough storage solution for both logistics and on the battlefield. But these wastes of metal were more a hindrance than anything. They were supposed to have some sort of advanced system that would make it pop open automatically if an authorized user tried to access it. Saving you the precious seconds of fiddling with the locking code. But it never worked, damn things would randomly pop open if an officer walked by or half the time not open at all. You could tape your dog tags to your ass and twerk in front of it like a party girl who's had too much to drink and it would just sit there beeping angrily at you. Don't ask, we were bored as shit sometimes between assignments.”
The image of buff military dudes twirling in front of a box was one I didn't need in my head. And judging Robert and Toby's reactions they didn't either.
“Then the ducking codes never even worked. Half the time the damn boxes would forget their own codes. And with no physical keys your options were to rub yourself all over the box like a striper or go get some random dude to walk by it and hope it opened.” Seymore continues. And honestly, having this story told to me by a guy who looks in his eighties is kinda surreal.
“That is until someone named Jimmy figured out how to reliably get the damn things open. Not regulation obviously, but by that point even the officers didn't care. Thus the Jimmy job was born. One Of you youngins finds me something somewhat thin and I'll have these open in a jiffy.”
“How thin are we talking?” Toby asks as he dives further into the back of the truck to start ruffling through the cardboard boxes.
“No bigger than a fifth an inch I'd say.”
“We'll see what we can find. In the meantime let's sort through the boxes we can access. We probably don't have long before they send someone or something to check on all that noise.” Robert replies.
And he has a point, we can probably scavenge some of the cultist's guns off them. Anything else we can yoink from this truck would be extra helpful. Seymore breaks off his ogling of the metal crates in favor of helping the other two guys loot the cardboard boxes. I have a different idea however, and beeline straight for the home made wood ones. The others may have ignored them since they probably can't open them, but that isn't a problem for me.
I get to the first one, this ugly five by one foot thing coming up my waist is made of a mismatch of different wood types. I check the edges of the lid and lo and behold, I can get my fingers under it well enough to get some grip. With a good upward yank I cause the nails holding it on to bend and give slightly while the rest of the bxo creaks a little. A second yank and the lid comes clean off and I throw it to the side, revealing the contents inside.
“What the hell?” I blab aloud, completely caught off guard by the contents.
It's just random bits of metal, some long, some fat, some thicker than my arm. Tubes, plates, random twisted and sorted bits. Just a shity box filled with scrap metal. I was expecting food, ammo, weapons, medical, basically anything but random scrap.
“What is it?” Robert asks, not being able to see inside the crate from where he is.
“It's metal, just crap tons of shity metal.” I reply.
“They might be using it to build or something? Oh sweet, jackpot!” Toby shouts. I look over to see him pulling some reflective looking bags out of one of the cardboard boxes. Something is written on them but I can't quite make out what.
“We are not eating those Toby.” Robert states plainly.
“Why not, we're not going to survive on just gummy worms.” Toby replies.
“First off, we have more than gummy worms, You know this since you helped pack the bags. Second, we don't know what the cultists have done with those. They could be tainted for all we know.” Robert says.
“Don't necessarily need to be tainted. Those are the old UGR-E rations. Some of those were nasty when they were new. But I think those were phased out a while ago. Check the expiration date on them.” Seymore says as he walks over and starts digging through the box I just opened.
“Uggg, September of twenty thirty three! Shit, cultists can keep these!” Toby spits as he slaps all the MREs back into the box.
“Yea, I’ll take my chances with the gummy bears.” I reply as I reach down to rip the lid off another wood crate. This one takes three tugs, but I get it to pop free and peruse its contents.
This one is somehow weirder than the last one. Waiting for me is a crate filled to the brim and completely stuffed full of boxes of tampons. I mean, there are women among their ranks, but sending this many seems excessive. I vaguely recall those two in front of the truck arguing about getting to an outpost. So why send an ungodly amount of tampons to an outpost… it just doesn't make sense. I pull a few boxes out, they don't feel unusually heavy, so I set them aside and open one. It contains…. tampons. OK, weird. Maybe something deeper in the crate?
I keep digging, creating a small pile next to me of tossed away boxes. It only takes another layer of boxes till I notice the neat stacking of the contents seems to fall off as boxes sit crooked and not as well packed. Almost as if they are stuffed around something deeper in. A few more Haphazardly discarded boxes later, and something long, round, black, and metallic sits partially still buried. I stare for a moment, unsure of what I'm looking at before I just reach in and yank the thing out.
This reveals more like it stacked below and next to it, before boxes tumble into the new space and partially obscure those too. The first thing I notice is that this thing is heavy. Not so bad that a regular person couldn't lift it but they definitely wouldn't want to carry it around all day. The tube is about six inches in diameter, and maybe a foot long. It has some strange caps on the ends, one of which is flat, the other sticking out more and slightly rounded. I roll it over in my hands, looking for any kind of identifying markings to figure out what I'm dealing with.
‘FGM-305 Tube Unit’
OK. What the hell is a FGM-305 then? It looks kinda like military hardware, at least I'm getting that vibe from it. I hold up the writing side to Seymore, who is currently trying to shimmy a piece of metal into the seal on the metal crate.
“Hey Seymore, do you know what a FGM-305 is?” I ask him, which causes him to snap his head around so fast I'm afraid for a moment he snapped his own neck.
“Oh. Oh no. That is the missile tube for a FGM-305 Manpad Launcher. The fact the cultists have that is concerning.” The old man replies. Before going back to attacking his box with renewed vigor.
“Great, now we gotta worry about cultists with rocket launches and demons.” Toby days as he rips open another cardboard box.
Before anyone can say anything else a loud pop comes from the box Seymore is working on. He shoves his impromptu shiv deeper into the box then slashes down the crease between the lid and the rest of the box. The lid pops up and fully swings open with a light groan.
“No son, the cultists have to worry about us with rocket launches now. Be a dear and bring me that missile Lucy.” The old man says as a shit eating grin overcomes his face.
While I don’t appreciate being called dear by an old man with a creeply happy grin, I do as asked because I like where this is going. Seymore reaches down and with a grunt and no small amount of effort pulls a damned shoulder mounted rocket launcher out of the box.
“Ooooh shit, who's gonna get to use it?” Toby asks with a hint of glee and want leaking into his voice.
“Not you, noodle arms, this thing kicks like a damn elephant. And I've seen you barely handling that shotgun there Robert's got.” Seymore says.
“Hey! My arms aren't noodles!” Toby replies, but Seymore ignores him and continues.
“I'm too old to use this myself, I try and I’ll blow out my shoulder. But I can teach you all how to. It's easy, they managed to make them so even idiots could fire it with simple instructions. So even that crank ball George can fire it if necessary.”
That gets a snort out of me, because George is an ass and I will enjoy shit talking him behind his back like a teenager any day of the week. Oh wait, I am a teenager, even better.
“So who do you recommend holds it? Because we are not fitting that thing in a bag.” Robert says matter of factly.
And he's right. Now that Seymore has fully pulled the launcher out it's easy to see just how damn big it is. The thing is at least two feet long, and that's without the ammo tube attached. It's bulky, with padding where I assume the shoulder would go when aiming, near the back of it. An optics piece juts out about where a person's eyes would be, but is clearly more digital that traditional given that it looks like a pair of night vision goggles. A keyboard of sorts sits in front of the optics covered in all sorts of buttons and even a dial and a selector switch.
“Little missy here is our best choice. She's got the strength to carry and fire this effortlessly.” Seymore says, much to my surprise.
“Me?” I ask, caught off guard. Because who gives a seventeen year old a missile launcher?
“Yes you. As I said anyone with a pulse can fire this. It's heavy, meant to be dragged around by dedicated teams of two, one for the launcher, one of the ammo. So the problem isn’t skill, it's weight. Even now I’m getting tired holding it. Here, take it and you’ll see what I mean.” He says as he offers me the damned missile launcher.
I timidly take it, even as Toby objects, voicing what I’m pretty sure is on everyone's minds. “Not to sound like a sore loser, or say Lucy’s bad or anything. But is uhhhh…… how old is she? Is it really a good idea to give her the launcher?”
I take the launcher before anyone else can reply, and I immediately feel what he means when he says it's heavy. The launcher itself has to be at least thirty pounds. At Least I think it's thirty pounds, since my sense of weight is a bit warped versus a regular person due to my strength. But that just makes me realize Seymore is right, I can carry this all day if I need to. It won't be pleasant, but probably doable. A regular person without fitness training like Robert, Toby, Greg, or even George. They might be able to heft this around for a few hours at most, and would probably struggle to aim and fire it properly. Especially if they were already fatigued from toting it all day. I throw it up onto my shoulder to get a feel and find it's actually fairly comfortable thanks to the padding on the shoulder rest.
“Seymore’s the expert here. If he says it’s the best course we follow along. Worst case scenario she just holds it until someone else needs to fire it. Besides, Lucy has proven herself fairly responsible.” Robert says.
“Fair. We should finish up here. If that's what they were transporting no way in hell they aren't going to check all the noise and come looking for this truck.” Toby replies.
“I’ll give Lucy here some training on it while you two finish up. Since we know they are transporting military grade hardware, look for any gear or ammo.” Seymore states as the other two get back to work. I barely have time to register the statement before Seymore is all up on me about my posture and grip.