T2k Exemplary Campaign: Trespassers, epilogue
Bob hits the back of Smythe's truck at a dead run, his speed and not-insignificant bulk nudging the idling vehicle forward slightly. The screams and moans almost drown out Smythe's backwoods accented voice--if Bob weren't desperate for some kind of guidance in this situation he wouldn't consciously realize she had spoken
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With the .45 in one hand and the sawedoff in the other, Sergeant Smythe is taking little shit from anyone. They're American? Sure as hell, by the accents. Road bandits, maybe. Though they had a plan, that's for damn sure. Just doesn't seem to have held out. But where in Browning's name did they get those damn rifles?
Keeping those cold eyes trained on her targets - not humans, not wounded, just targets to her - she's able to not stare at the poor dead bastards. "Shutcher traps, crawl onna rud here." One boot kicks an abandoned rifle aside, though who knows - it may come in handy.
"OI! Mind th'dead, naw." The last to Bob, who she doesn't want to call by name. Not in front of these two, yet. It gives him something to do while she decides what to do with these two - interrogations first. But damn, that's going to eat into what little medical supplies they got...and they're still bandits, even if they were as red-white-and-blue as Toby Keith in 2012.
Fuck it. They can't talk if they're dead, and she tucks the shotgun away before retrieving and tossing a first-aid kit to the less-injured of the two. The .45 doesn't waver. "Do y'r needs." She'll wait, she's got time.
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So the friend of the fallen Phil is named Craig, and he lets out a final agonized shriek before crawling up onto the road. He requires significant help from Broseph, who seems to be recovering his wits.
It is Broseph who does the talking--well, the talking worth mentioning, anyway. "Thank you," he says in response to the IFAK, applying the quick-clot and bandages to Craig with a not-unpracticed hand. "What are you two, traders? Heading to Goose Lake, maybe? 4A's Ranch?" The lake straddles California and Oregon, the ranch... well, that's where Bob had said he was heading, and the lunk freezes in mid-stride when he hears the name.
"I'll be right back," Bob calls out quickly, slinging his Saiga and hurrying back to the horse. A few moments later there is a shout but the horse is no quieter. "You're a bad, bad horse!" he can be heard chastising as he picks himself up off the ground.
Broseph has finished wrapping up the worst of Craig's wounds and is busy handling his own by this time. "Just don't go to Whiskeytown Lake, bro." That's west of here, not north. Locals would know. "Sure, they got electricity, food, and even elections!" A sore spot for MilGov, that's for sure. "And y'know why, dude? 'cause the Chinks own the joint. They got the dam, so they got the damn power." He spits in derision, though plenty of blood and nastiness comes out too. That seems like all that's going to come out of his mouth for now.
As these fellows aren't likely to reappear any time soon rolls for their medical stuff is neither required nor desired. If the plot needs them to reappear, well, they have something to be thankful for--or at least, merciful. ;)
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