Wasteland Pulp Fiction Mini_Series updated Weekly...

[Carib]

NOTE: Okay, this is the first work of Fan fic I have ever submitted. I know this maybe a new add, but I would appreciate some constructive criticism and perhaps a lil praise, where necessary.

Thanks, peace and hair grease. This has been long delayed. But here's my contributions... So enjoy. More to come. This will be a weekly or bi-weekly affair, so come, grab a Nuka cola and pack of smokes and enjoy. Now on with the show.

---Rama


Wasteland Pulp
By: Rama Toulon
AKA: Rama Stryfe / Carib the Nuka Cola Chaser


INTERLUDES

INTRO #1: Three Isn’t Company

The post apocalyptic sun was now high at noon day in Californian Sierrain mountains, just twenty five kilometers from Vault City, along the unkempt and unmaintained highway which was once used during the pre-war times, it was said thousands of vehicles passed the might asphalt highway that stretched on forever. Those must have been glorious days. Those days ended when the Chinese and Americans got tired of talking. Now it was a battered and pot hole ridden highway plagued with slavers, mutated fauna trying to make a meal out of you or the disenfranchised trying to relieve you of your hard earned goods.

Along the way there is a quaint Poseidon Gas N’ Go station, one of very few remaining intact after the post war days. It even had two gas bots still functioning, though they bzzt now and again. It was even amazing they still had fuel, which was rare like gold.

It was truly quaint, it still held old magazines from before the war, old liquors, and even the occasional happy pie, a pre-war treat that was guaranteed to never spoil or go stale.

Of course, getting there was easy, you followed the road and you’d find it, getting service was another matter. Inside were five figures, two behind a counter, and three attempting to get some descent service. Heated voices were being pitched; one was from a dusty old man with bulging grey eyes and wispy white hair. His white shirt was laden with grease and dark red substance, possibly blood. His eyes were magnified by his equally thick glasses that seem to enlarger his already hateful and pessimistic eyes. In his hand was an antique widow-maker double barrel shotgun , it wasn’t held in a threatening manner, but in the old geezers experience, you didn’t trust people, especially people who didn’t have your same skin color or carried around a tribal and a freak in a mask.

No matter where you went in the wastelands, be it in the mountains, the ruined cities, the deserts or forests, there were always two types of people: assholes and bad asses. The man with the nuka cola hair and bronzed flesh was the latter and he had his fill from the old bastard and his equally ornery son.

�Listen here, you old fuck wad… me and my friends here just want some supplies which we will be happy to pay for. We want no trouble, we just want some goods and we move along. Whatever racial angst you may have are yours. I don’t give a fuck if you care for swell guy, tribals or muties. Business is business.� Carib said, attempting to be civil with the bigot. It was strain because he knows his brother in, the large man in the hockey mask was trying to go forward when the small tribal girl placed her hand on his arm, giving a nod of her head.

She whispered, “Easy big fella. Let your brother do the talking.� She gave a warm smile, trying to give Smitty assurance that it would be alright and there would be no need for bloodshed. Smitty tightened the grip of his machete. But he would obey the tribal, the small light brown skinned tribal with tattoo markings of her people that extended on her left arm to her wrist. A few other tattoos dotted her body, two death claw paw marks on each of her bosoms. She was embellished in a dusty looking leather jacket, cut sleeve desert fashion. Her long, straight hair was at her mid spine, tied together with strings and brahmin sinew. She had a round petite face and slender body. Even in her clothing, she still looked like a tribal. She wore dark shades over her eyes. During the day she never took them off.

�Okay, swell guy.� The old man said, as if thinking it over, “we’ll deal. Jus’ keep an’ eye on your lil tribal trash and the mutie. I don’t take kindly to freaks. A god fearin’ Christian can only be sooz forgiven. You fuck up, and my son Bart will have your balls for breakfast. You got me ‘boy’?� The old man sneered, his man wet with salvia, having a lack of teeth do that to you.

�Sure thing pops. Just keep your fuckin’ drool in your mouth.� Carib retorted.

�Watch who you be addressin’ swell guy? My old man is better man then your black ass would be ever be you stupid monkey. Whats wrong with your lil tribal bitch?�

�Watch is cracker.� Carib retorted. “we came to shop, I didn’t come here to waste words with some inbred fuck whose mother is probably his sister. Besides, the light hurts here eyes ass hole.�

Bart went on, mush to Carib’s disgust and Smitty’s silent rage. �Too bad they didn’t kill all the swell guy before the great cleansing, hell, this would be a better place without some jungle buddies goin’ about an--“ The words were cut off when Smitty’s hand was now empty and the blade he was wielding was now hilt deep into Bart’s flat chicken chest. No one didn’t even see the blade soar through the air and piercing through bone and flesh.

His mind couldn’t comprehend as his white shirt darkened with his own blood. Death at the hands of mutie.

Carib didn’t even wait for the old man to draw his shotgun. It was duck and cover time, the tribal Roadrunner diving behind some book shelves, Carib firing off a shot at the old geezer and ducking. Smitty was standing when the twelve gauge went off and sent hot buckshot into his chest, knocking him over.

�You jus’ killed yourselves boy!� The old man drawled, salvia dripping from his maw. “You killed my boy you fuckin’ freaks!�

Carib looked and saw Smitty was on the floor, no real blood, but the wind was knocked out of him. Thank goodness for padding and mutations. The masked figures eyes merely stared upwards, like when a baby stares at the ceiling from his crib.

Carib elbowed the showcase, dropping a roll of toilet paper into his palm. Reaching in his pocket, he pulled out a bottle of rotgut, on the label it read: Really strong drink or cleaning fluid, you be the judge. Pouring the strong smelling liquor on the paper roll, satisfied it was thoroughly soaked in the beverage.

Carib whispered to the tribal girl named Roadrunner, “Take a shot at the dude’s bottles behind him. When I give the word fire at them, forcing him to duck and I’ll chuck this is way. Old bastard. Okay?�

She nodded, pulling out the off black Colt 6520 from her belt, a pistol that looks like it had passed in far too many hands. It was a gift from Carib, one that she cherished like how her people cherished their weapons of war.

�ONE!� Carib shouted.

The old man was right in-between reloading the shotgun when the tribal popped up from her hiding place and fired at him, the old geezer took cover, not knowing the plan was to smash the bottles behind him. The hollow points spattered the bronze and clear liquors all over the floor and all over the old man. Hard earned booze which he swindled and killed for was now soaking his already reeking person.

�Fuckin’ Tribal, that was my best liquor.� The old man shrieked as his life’s worth of booze was now wasted.

�TWO!�

�What the hell?� The old man rasped as he thumbled the last shell.

�THREE.� The next sound was a flicking of lighter, and an ignited paper roll flying through the air and landing right where the old man was crouched. The flames touched the liquor and the next thing the geezer feels is his body being covered by flames.

Smitty began to rise, dusting his body and looking to Carib, who was giving him a stern look for his action. Roadrunner came running to the two, attempting to block her ears from the old man’s wails of torment and woe.

The old geezer sprang up, ablaze, his lungs wailing so loud, all Carib and Roadrunner could do was raise their guns and fill him with hot lead. Two shots and he was down, burning on the ground.

�Sorry…� Smitty said, his eyes down cast, not wanting to look his brother in the eye.

Carib sighed, placing his hand on his brother’s burly shoulder. “its okay, Smit. Just relax next time okay. Do that somewhere else and we might not have made it out alive you know?�

Smitty nodded his head, Carib smiled at his little brother with approval, patting Smitty’s broad shoulders . “Good. Let’s blow this pop stand. Take what we need and let’s move before someone notices and our reps take a nose dive.�

Roadrunner took a basket, and cleared the rack of Happy Pies and a few other accessories. Carib reached at the scorched desk and nabbed a dew Jimmy hat condoms. Always good to be prepared for anything. No one knows what diseases are floating around these days.

Smitty just grabbed one of the double bladed axes hanging on the wall, and taking a few rounds of .44 JHP and AP rounds to boot. Filling their duffel bag of survival gear, extra shotgun shells, some nifty magazines and road maps, they reach outside, seeing their jeep parked as it was before. A gas bot was watching over it.

The jeep was an old military jeep, most of the old olive drab colored had flecked away, though the spare tire remained in tact, only a few bullet holes made it stand out. Having dodged various excursions in the wastelands.

�Thanks, tin can.� Carib said, passing the gas bot, popping the trunk, dropping the loot in the back trunk.

�Your welcome Bttzzz. Sir. Have a nice trip.� The bot said in its synthetic voice. It was made to sound fair and civil to all customers, which was both a comfort and at the same time creepy. The bot didn’t even realize that Carib and his friends had just massacred his masters. Well it didn’t mean anything to Carib. They started it, Carib finished it. One less ass hole to bother this already disturbed world. He sighed inwardly as he got on the drivers side, Smitty in the back seat and Roadrunner at the passenger side.

Twitching the ignition, Carib got the 4x4 Jeep started and headed towards the east, getting a footing on the 160 year old unmaintained road. Thank goodness for four wheel drive. “We’re off to good ol’ Vault City. This time, Smitty, no slicin’ and dicin’. The people at VC don’t know better.�

�I don’t like Vault City, Carib. They’re assholes.�

Carib gave a chuckled as he patted Roadrunner’s tattooed hand. “I don’t like ‘em any more then you do. But hey, they asked us to come over and so we shall. They have a nice job… besides, we off to see Doc Hill and Zoe. So that should be enough.� Carib starting picking up speed down the highway, zooming pass the endless highway, the long faded markers on the road, long erased by time and indifference.

Roadrunner leaned back, removing her reflective shades and quickly closed her eyes. “Tell me when its night fall.� And she closed her eyes as the shades were removed, not even allowing her sensitive pupils to be blinded by the glare. Smitty remained in the back seat, sitting erect and looking just as intimidating, staring far ahead.

It would be a long drive, but they’d get their soon…. Very soon.

Still Carib could see the violence as it unfolded just a few minutes ago. Apart of him was disgusted at himself for being so off handed about it and another struggled to see what the big deal was. Death was something we all had coming.

�We all have it comin’.�


TO BE CONTINUED....

[fallout ranger]

Ah, very good, I'll be waiting for the continuation.

[Ernesto]

Real fucking obvious reference to From Dusk Till Dawn, but other than that it's pretty decent.


And ditch the Pulp Fiction in the title. I walked in expecting royales with cheese and 5 dollar shakes. Although I know the subject matter is going to pulp, you don't need to tell the reader that. It's Fallout, it's not going to be happy fun times.

[Carib]

Apples and Red Violins
By Rama Toulon
AKA Carib FMJ the Nuka Cola Chaser



Earlier in the Morning…

“Whoa there, short stuff. This is private property. No trespassing’.� A scarred up mutant sentry barked, at the approaching female, his large green hand in her face. “Get movin’ normie you have no place here. No permission no entrance.�

The female scuffed. She was a fair heigthed 1.75 meters, dark brown skin, a woman of ancient Creole and Negroid heritage, her face was round and her lips puffed a bit, though not huge. She wore a black skull bandanna and adorned in a very stylish single sleeve leather jacket with a white t-shirt with the Cat’s Paw logo on the chest.

“I wasn’t askin’ permission troll,�

“Now, listen here normie, we don’t take jive from n-.� The second sentry didn’t even have time to finish, when the girl grabbed her Colt 6520 Delta elite and her battered but trusty sawed off and fired both in almost harmonious synchronicity. The 6520 dropped a 10mm armor piercer round through the left sentry’s throat, drilling a nasty cavity into the dark green flesh and severing an artery or two in its wake. The sawed off scatter shot, designed for portability and close lethality, not precision shooting, then again, Apple wasn’t in need of long distance attrition.

The double barrels sent a hail of scatter shot at point blank range into the sentry bosses’ chest, tearing him a new windpipe.

Both mutants collapsed to the ground, neither really dead, but with every moment and every breath were getting closer to their graves. Their weezing and pain meant nothing to her, she walked on by, grabbing the pass key from the ripped up mutant boss. As if he could resist.

“I’ll be taking that,� she snatched the card from his neck and left the mutant to have his lungs crushed by the increased air pressure invading the cavity in his chest.

She looked back for a moment and stared at the pens where the Brahmin were kept. There she saw the weirdest thing ever.

“Mooooo.�

A Brahmin with one head. “Mono headed Brahmin…. I knew this place was crawling with freaks. No one is ever going to believe this.� She said to herself. Mono-headed Brahmin were supposed to be some fairy tale. Things made up to amuse children. Apple still had a hard time believing what she saw. Mono headed brahmin.

Entering the farm, she saw a small room, a guard station and a secure looking reinforced door. Sliding her new found pass key across the reader, she heard a faint buzz as well as the releasing of three heavy locks.

The door slid open without even a squeak. And then there was a red stair well winding down maybe twenty feet below. She followed the railing, pistol out, just in case she met any other sentries.

Reaching bottom floor without incident. It was sort of disappointing in a way; she had expected resistance and received only silence.

A wooden door lay before her and she let herself in without even a faint knock. Creaking it slowly, pistol ready. With wush, the door swung open and Apple had her pistol leveled. Lowering it, she could only see a flurescent light tubes hanging above work tables, and a few lit computers and other techno-paraphernalia.

Edging slowly towards a lit terminally, she looked down at the already open file.



Running Search Program…. Accessing Poseidon net…
Enclave NET Files…
Running Diagnostics……… Searching for Subject………
Priority: Observation
Subject: Apple
Alias: The Red Violin
Gender: Female
Threat level: High


Apple hated computers. In her mind as her fingers raced over the cumbersome keyboard, tapping keys frantically, a computer was a waste of breath. Ironic that a computer never breathed, though she had met a cyborg or two that would beg to differ. In the background of what was once the Stranger’s den, Apple left four dead mutant sentries lying in their own blood. On the outside it looked like some pre-war farm, complete with picket fence which incidentally wasn’t white since time and neglect long ago bleached away the lead based pants. Looking on the inside just made her hated this place even more. It was stank of antiseptics and death… It was sterile, though it was covered in what appeared to be living tissue of some sort etched into the walls, and other geneticist paraphernalia. Just behind her was a operating table wet with that bizarre pseudo flesh and of course blood.

Every time she got near the jelly flesh like gunk she could swear it was probing her, feeling her thoughts. It was that feeling that made you think you were being watched. Whatever the stranger was tinkering in wasn’t good. Apple would know, passing her hand behind her neck for a brief moment - as the archaic computer system was searching for the information she required - her finger tips brushed across the bar-code tattoo etched into her flesh. Memories of a small room and bright white light filled her head, and sudden pang of pain hit her skull.

Oddly enough this wasn’t from memory.

“Tut-tut… Have I taught you nothing child.� Came the metallic rasp in her head, only as she looked over her shoulder, it wasn’t a distant memory, it was a man adorned in a black military fatigues, his pitch hair brushed back with two locks dangling at the base of his neck and dark reflective shades on his hidden eyes. His lips formed into a mournful smirk, like that of a father catching their child committing some deed they were disciplined for previously. The Stranger was handsome in a sinister sort of manner. His face was pale, but he was muscled up, fit and seeming well nourished compared the rest of the wastelands populace. His hands were gloved. Apple wondered why he always wore shades, but it was one of those questions for another time.

Funny, Apple thought as she rubbed the back of her scalp, her fingers going through the scarlet tipped hair. Apple could see her already bronzed flesh and oval face in the shades reflection and all she could do was sneer as she saw her own hatred reflected back into her own hateful gaze.

“What?! No Good afternoon, ‘Mr. Essex‘? Have the children of these dark times no manners?� He asked, it was almost a taunt as it was a rhetorical question, especially to a girl who had no more manners and subtlety of a savage deathclaw. Apple was about to reply but before she could even part her lips to give him a piece of her mind, he moved like a blur before she could even grab her sawed off shotgun.

His fist connected sharply with her stomach, pitching her like a rag doll against the operating table. Before she could even gain her senses, she felt his steely grip clench around her lower jaw and felt her body being lifted as if she were a mere doll.

“Y-You…� she began to choke out, both from the tight grip on her lips that distorted her words and the fact she was furious. “Y-You… stole my life… my mind…. U-used me… and threw me away like I was just a play thing.� Her eyes blazed with defiance, a trait which the Stranger had come to both disdain and admire.

Essex tossed her to the tiled floor, knocking the air out of her lungs. “The fly has no favor in the web, child. You are useful to me, that is why you live. That is why I made you better.� He retorted, not caring to justify anything to this girl who was nothing more then a specimen. An experiment and a weapon to be used… and discarded if strategy required.

“W-what? What did you say?�

“Silly thing. I gave you gifts. The least you can do is accept them and not get on like a spoilt child who lost their Nixon Doll. Remember you sold your soul to survive. I delivered… you belong to me. End of discussion.� Essex said, turning his back. “Now leave and only come if and when I summon you.�

Apple wanted to grab her dagger and drive it into his heart, to cut his throat and feel his icy blood bathe her face, but it was almost funny. Thanks to him she could see in the dark and survive in the irradiated land. Then again, thanks to him she lost a life… a child and her eternal soul. Apple the Red Violin, on the ground, on her knees, her palms touching the icy floor, grabbed her stuff, picking up the rickety shotgun and not even caring to look back at the console to see what it may have discovered on its archives.

At the moment it was pointless. Essex had won once again and now it was off to civilization, to the light and people… the things she hated almost as much as she hated him.


*******

CHRONICLES OF THE VIOLIN

Decadent Downtown, Old Moscow, apartment complex area, north Main Street....

PROGRAM RUNNING.....

ENTER the RED VIOLIN


It was a small, quaint apartment. Three main rooms. weed, which was tidy and would fit in well with the standards of the EPA. It had a fully stocked fridge from Nuka colas to other products. A one bed room, which had more room than a standard eight by eleven prison cell. And the main room where an old burned out TV from the pre-war era stood on a stack of books and the coffee table was the main feature. On the coffee table you can see several different books and articles that survived the holocaust.

Sociology and Psychology 101 by Vault Tech.

Two Dean's Electronics, for all those budding new mechanics and electricians.

A large science Journals about micro biology. A stack of Pulp Comics. Three black and white, noir esque comics that were gritty and violent.

Then there was a the Lavender Flower, a pre-war romance novel by fabled romantist and erotica author Dorothy Rixon. Some people could never understand why she went for her cousin.

As you prgressed through the rest of the apartment, things seem to change.

There was a sound of shuffling feet and a male voice cursing.

Behind the door, you'd see two women and single man. The man was tall and had a face that was very hard to look at, old poker marks and other horrible knicks. His name was Albert, and Albert wasn't happy. Not happy at all. Not mainly with the proud looking female standing, a double barrel shotgun at her side. But his anger, his grievance was with the brown skinned girl who was in bed, covers over her naked torso.

She had been caught cheating. But not with another man, no with another woman. And that mad Albert, made him see red, and that was the reason why he had a knife in one hand.

He took another step. His already bloodshot eyes seem to get redder.

"Al.... Please don't. You don't understan-" The wife began, her voice shaky.

"Shut... the..." He seems to be so angry that the words came within intervals, a synaptic lapse of judgment that was clouded by primal emotions that drove humanity. "Fuck.... up.... cow.... can't... you see.... Yer man is at work. Don't worry, I settle with you after I deal with the chicra here.

"Yeah, so wanna screw my fuckin' wife, eh?" His voice rose, it was clear with murder and rape intent.

The woman stood and shrugged her shoulders. "It seemed she needed...." she licked her honey brown lips at Albert's wife for spite. "That she needed a woman's touch. I did you a favor." She had enjoyed the lust derived from the woman; she always liked them when they felt another woman's touch for the first time. And she knew how to please.

"A fav...?" He seems to stutter at the words, his hands on his ears as if trying to block out mental interference, and it made him shutter with rage. "A favor... You fuckin' lesbian whore, I am gonna carve you from crack to neck. You hear me, I am gonna--"

The girl simply made a crack sound from her neck and smiled evilly. "You are going to die." She finished for him. The man made his move, but she was faster.

With a whirl and pivoting on one foot, a pale brown figure moved like a blur and swung her Widow-maker to her right, squeezed the left barrel trigger.

BAMMM!!!

A figure is propelled through the darkness of an apartment window and lands awkwardly on a dumpster, two stores down. His shattered remains stare blankly. Back in the apartment room, the barrel smoked as it had laid low a man.

One shell left....

The few inhabitants saw the spectcle, but didn't seem to care. The only one's who seem to take notice were the heavy set men down stares by the old pay phone who saw their comrade fall to his death with a gapping hole in his chest.

They weren't pleased. A second later, feet began to rush upstairs.

*****

The footsteps come pounding up the stairs, but there is the sound of another set of footsteps coming in the opposite direction. There's a voice in the hallway. "HEY, FELLAS!"

It's followed by the sound of gunfire and several thuds. The door opens, and Ron Spears steps in, Beretta lowered. "Did you kill that fat guy...? Guess you did." Well, his hombres were sorta pissed off. Must be a good shot with that scattergun, huh? Have fun."

The merceneary shuts the door with a grin and a wave.


*****

The woman who blew Albert Taner out the window stood smiling, her widowmaker tapping her shoulder blade. She was a slender girl, she could pass as maybe as young as seventeen or perhaps eighteen, but she was older, you could tell in those shinny amber eyes. She had a round face as if it were perfectly round face - or perhaps a bit of genetic artistry - that even looked girlish.

But she was a woman, either through years of killing or perhaps experience, she was a woman. She was more than a woman. She was a woman who carried a shotgun.

The now-would be widow, sat cringing in bed. She expected a fight, but never expected the slender, chocolate skinned woman to blow her husband out of the window like that. The way she carried out the act as if it were like a involuntary reaction. She raised the weapon, squeezed the trigger and death came out from a barrel.

True her husband was a fat slob, but she never wished him death. He never hurt her or beat her, he was always kind, but he wasn't very apt in the art of love, and when she strolled the streets, horny and hungry for pleasure and happened by and saw the young female violonist, she was instantly seduced by the girl. The young, fresh looking teenager. But as she got involved, she realize the girl wasn't as young as she looked, and when they made love, which was the first for Albert's widow; it was a whole new world of colors and flavors. But all that seemed dull as she reawkened in a nightmarish reality where the violinist murders her husband.

"Why did you kill Albert?" She aksed from the bed, her legs shivering from under the covers in fear. Any moment she could have urinated on herself in just fear. What made her more afraid is how angelic the girl looked, how pure and clean, not the murderess she saw before her.

"Easy," The girl began. "He had a knife, he threatened me... bam, problem solved."

"Charlyn... I-I. Go, please... Go." The widow began to weep bitterly.

"Fine," Charlyn hissed. She was getting annoyed now. She began to walk towards the window, she didn't even take on the merc, as if absorbed in her own world. Charlyn felt confused, wasn't sure how to feel. She reacted with her usual instinct, and now the woman whom she was falling in love with has pushed her away...

Like so many of the others, she thought broodingly. The violinist was adept at hiding her outter emotions. From the outside one could see a haughty girl, but in the inside, rage was brewing.

Now the merc, She thought as she got a glance at the man. Can't have himt hinking I left him ignored. That'd be rude.

Her amber eye's scanned the merc who came upstairs and had gunned down the angry lot of thugs.

A cruel lopsided smile rose on her face and she answered Ron Spears. "I suppose I should thank you for killing those men. So thanks. Anything I can help you with? I was on my way out." She quickly walked quickly past him and took the books on sociology and other materials on the coffee table.

"This is my fee." She muttered in respect to her love affair with Albert's widow.

She nudged the merc by the shoulder with her own as she walked by.

"Oh, yeah, thanks for the help. Though I could have taken them, I am glad your ammo and not mine got wasted." She said coldly. Her hands grabbed the ends of the window and she opened it. The fire escape was still there.

Opening the barrel of the shotgun, she removed the used shell and inserted another one. Smiling happily as it snapped shut, fully loaded. She began to head out of the fire escape and looked back at the merc.

"You want something?"

Ron shook his head calmly. "Where you headed from here?"

She halted in her tracks. Are all people this talkative? asking and nitting questions? Charlyn thought with cold centempt. But with her little memory she had, it was something she had to endure.

"Going away from here before some decides to be a hero and I have to kill someone else.... or get killed." She always acknowledged that there was someone faster and deadlier; reason why she always made sure she was a step quicker... and a little deadlier. "You wanna come?" She offered. She hated walking by herself and perhaps the merc might know something. And if she found anything fishy about him, she'd kill him.

Simple and easy.

She looked back at Mrs. Taner and blew her a kiss. The woman seem frozen in a livid and frieghtened state. Charlyn decided she had tasted enough of her pain and headed for the window.

"So you comin'? We head down town or something. I saw a place somewhere outside town that looked interesting."

The corne of Captain Spears' mouth turns up in a smile. He nods. "I was gonna go downtown, too. Yeah, I'll come with you."

She gave an untrusting eye, not sparing Spears anything. Honesty was a vice she had in spades.

"Fine." She creeped out the window and reached the main stair well of the fire escape. The escape ladder was pad locked to the main stair case. Grabbing her small lockpicks, she began to pick at the lock. Her brown bag was placed at her feet. It had most of her stuff, she still had another bag stahsed somewhere.

"So, you have a name? Or do you charge in, berretas in hand and save people from a raging mob coming up the stairs?" As usual, she spared no one her dry and caustic humor. No one. She used the tumbler to pick at the lock. At anothert time, she would have used her own gun to blast the lock, but doing so at uch a close range would brake pieces of steel into her face. And she didn't want that.

Ron chuckles. "Ron. What about you?" He watches her pick the lock and follows her down the ladder, keeping a barely safe distance.

The fire escape began to shimmy slight as Ron made a move forward. "That is very unwise." She said with caution. Her voice alone convayed the message as she spoke the ominous words from over her slim shoulder.

snap.

The lock came free and the ladder slid down. "Piece of cake." She tucked her tools away and faced Ron. "the names Charlyn. Some call me Violin." She grabbed the side handles and slid down the ladder military style; hands on the side, legs on the side handles and gently slid down.

Her bag was on her shoulder as she plopped down on the wet snowy side walk. It wasn't as cold as it looked. Summer was climbing weakly to this area o Idaho, and it was welcomed.

Ron waits for her to get away from the bottom of the ladder, then slides almost all the way off of it. Then he kicks off of it and flips backwards, landing like a cat on his feet. He walked after her calmly.

"Violin, huh? You play one or something? My mom used to play one."

She walked ahead of Ron, she wasn't really into small talk and would spend most of her time replying and not looking him in the face. "Yeah, I play a violin." She said tersily.

Passing in a narrow alley, they passed through the ruined area of Moscow, a place of rotting buildings and bones interwoven into the very asphalt.

A small red sign, long has the neon light died from within, but it still stood.

The Jack Rabbit bar.

It had an out of business sign hanging near the sign. As they descended the small steps to the back door, Charlyn once again took out her lockpicks and pryed at the lock.

"Have to pick up somethings here." Charlyn said from over her shoulders.

Ron yawns and watches behind them, one hand under his leather holster for his best throwing knife. He watches Charlyn alternately.

"What stuff?"

Entering the bar, it was a very dusty place, the brown was layered by a thick film of gray dust. The sound of her feet were muffled by the gray blanket that was everywhere to be seen. The days light shun through the boarded windows of the long forgotten bar. Taking some matches she had pelfered from her ex-lover, she lit some wax candles that lay standing.

The dull amber light filled the room and the tiny rats creeping about ran. Her foot kicked one of the fleeing creatures in the head, shattered the vertebra and killing the creature.

"One for the rat catcher in the sky." She muttered antipathtically. She hated vermin. The creepy eyes, the hair, the fleas; it was something innate to her. She hated rats - period. Taking glance left and right she saw the bar was the same as she left it months ago.

It was a roomy bar complete with three different dispening machines. The classic orange-copper tinted nuka cola machine, which oddly after how many years of neglect could still give a fresh nuka cola - this of course, if you knew how to shake it just right - then there was the candy machine. The glass broken and the cadnies nibbled on and rotting.

The sign of dead vermin could be seen.

The third machine was a coin machine. It was out of service, the red sign painted in bold couldn't be missed.

The bartender's area was webbed, and glasses of old liquire had been long plundered during the end times, before the rebrith of the world. Maybe two or three bottles of booze or copper tops remained. Near the cash register was a acket of expired 9mm AP and JHP. She grabbed the box and sent it to Ron, who caught it.

"Could come in handy," she said flatly.

Jumping over the bar counter, she went near a floor panel and picked up a crow bar that sat webbed in the adjascent nook to her right. Swallowing whatever disgust that welled up inside, she took the bar and removed the sticky material that was meant to entrap insects and small prey.

"I have some...." She thought on the words between her prying and lifting motions to snap the open the boards. "Personal things and other stuff. Oh, and be a dear, Captain Ron and fetch that colorful map on the wall to your... far right. The one of the upstate area." With that, the board snapped and a thick leather doffel bag with multple straps lay underneath.

"Gravey pot." She said with a confidant smile as she lifted the bag out of the compartment. Slinging the bag on her shoulder and placing the lesser bag within the larger one. It was one fit and it was light.

"Hid it here for years.... and still good. So we can now head up upstate. Find somewhere warm to sleep. Oh, and one more thing - what are you Captain of?"

Ron cocks one of his eyebrows.
"I... never said I was a captain." He figures she saw the dog tags and made a wild guess, or maybe even heard of the Nightmare Company or Ron Spears. He shrugged and walked over to the map, grabbing it off the wall and rolling it up. He walks back, taking a moment to really process her question. He remembered all too well.

Fire. Screaming. A tremendous explosion. Men screaming either in horror or rage... sometimes both. The stench and taste of blood. Copperish, like a penny. The musky scent of urine--one of the rookies who couldn't handle himself, maybe, or even one of the bodies that pissed itself a few minutes after death, or maybe that one kid with the little freckles that had been whining about having to piss for the past mile. Mutants roaring, ghouls screeching. Thge second in command, Chase Segal, holding his intestines and staring at Ron, blood smeared on his face. "CAPTAIN, WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE!!!!!!"

Ron snapped back to reality and coughed. He spoke up, and sounded very shaken.

"I was leader of a group called the Nightmare Company. We were a paramilitary defense group for a Vault."

He says nothiong else, because it's obviously a very emotional subject.

Charlyn smiled. "Well Captain, your tags gave you away and well, the way you move, the way you nadle your berreta for example, and the dog tags. Obviously you are military. Don't ask me how I exactly know this, just call this my 'sixth sense'." She tapped the side of her covered temple with her fore finger. She had a deep insight into many things, she could see little details one ignored and saw a thousand possibilities. It was a handy trait to have, but it was unpredicatble and often left her feeling confused when she knew so many things about others and nothing about herself.

Edden.... Something entered her head.

Who the fuck is Edden? She thought. Then after a moment, the Red Violin thought about the name and recalled the place of darkness and remembers a brown skinned man with cold golden eyes calling her that name. He stood next to her and handed her a grenade. His look was gaunt and stoic, the type that didn't show affection, be it for someone or when he was placing a pistol to someone's skull and squeezing the trigger.

He had the eye's of the hunter.

'Remember, Edden. Take cover.' He had said, his voice hinting a sense of concern, but it was hard to decide if it was comradship or something more...

The past faded and Charlyn was back in the world. A piece of the puzzle set down in the giant mosaic made by amnesia.

"Well, it seems I found something, a piece of the puzzle. Call me Edden. Charlyn isn't my name, but do call me Edden if you please."

******

AWW, GODDAMMIT-- another flashback?

Edden... Eddins... PFC Michael Dwayne Eddins... his body swinging from the wreckage of the watchtower, disemboweled with a trail of organs leading ten feet to the ground, swinging helplessly, his eyes bulgi g in their sockets with his face black, mouth fixed in permanent agony..........................................................

Ron cleared his throat. "Edden. Pretty name." He tucked the aforementioned dog tags under his shirt.
"I saw an inn about a half a mile north of here. They said they had running water and a working tub in every room."

"Thanks, I think the name is pretty too. Just hope its my real name." She said in agreement. But still she felt some frustration in gettting fed bits and pieces of memory. As if someone from within was giving her what it wanted, making her dangle for the carrot before the eyes, so to speak.

Edden gathered her stuff and didn't really pay mind what Ron said till she hoped over the counter and grabbed a coin from her pocket. She was feeling a twitch in her left hand.

"As for the Inn, how far is it from the Nuka Cola Facility on the map?" She asked. She wanted to head there, but some warm water and good bath never killed no one.

Caffine was low and she had no more caffine tablets. Reaching in for a silver dollar coin, she dropped in the slot of the nuka cola machine and punched for the nuka cola classic.

Slapping the button there was a rattle but no response. Grabbing each ends of the machine, she began to shake it like a maniac and threw two kicks near the dispenser slot.

The machine rattled and the sound of a cola falling into the basket was heard.

"Gravey." She said as she grabbed a bottle. Doing a reverse snap kick, the machine rattled and dropped three more. She took two and offered the third to Ron. "You want one." This was a rare moment when she looked at him directly.

Just as Charlyn - or was it Edden? was handing Ron the coke, a rat who had crawled up the back of the Nuka Cola machine launched itself at the unfortunate girl.

Rats were highly intelligent, very social beings. And unlike many animals, they had the ability to not only see effect, but also cause. So when the rest of the rats who lived in the abandoned bar saw the woman in the brahmin-smelling clothes crush the hapless old rat's vertebrae, they frenzied. A single volunteer was selected to bring about justice.

Despite Charlyn's superb reflexes, the entirely unexpected attack surprised her completely. Her arms were laden with Nuka Cola bottles, and even when the furry creature landed on her shoulder she didn't drop the precious liquid to be shattered against the hard floor.

Take this you smelly human!

With that, the rat, his claws digging into the leather, bit hard and deep into her neck with teeth hard enough to crush bone and eat the marrow. At this point Charlyn's eyes bulged, and she frantically reached for a weapon - any weapon -, but the rat quickly jumped away. Before anyone had time to react, it had scurried in underneath the rubble, its blood-covered nozzle in a ratty grin.

Letting go the bottles was all she needed. Placing her hand firmly behind the creature's head, she used her forefinger to steady it and her thumb pressed into the side of the rodent's temple. The pressure started small, but it began to build, and the creeatures fragile skull began to press inwards, causing blood to rush behind the red beedy eyes and the creatures softened its grip.

It let go as the pressure intensified. They looked eye to eye. The cold emotionless void filled Edden, even when blood trickled from behind her neck wound, she didn't care. The rat was that what mattered.

"I... hate.... rats." She said stiffly as her tumb pressed harder into the vermin's skull, and the last pitful squeak was heard just before the creatures head splattered in her palm. Looking at the ruined creature in her hands, she cast the creature away. It fell with a wet thud in the dark corner.

Grabbing her bottles she tucked them in the bag. Removing a single stimpak, she gave herself an injecting and felt the healing chem work in a flash as her wounds began to heal.

"Let's go before more rats jump out of the wood work."

Ron smiles, taking the Nuka-cola. He opened it easily with a knife and drank the entire bottle in two swallows. He threw it out one of the windows and followed Edden out of the bar.

"From that last little nibble, I'd say they don't like you either."

He looks at the map and laughs. "This inn is a real geographical oddity. It's a half a mile from everything, us and the factory. It's to the east if you want to go."


Edden seemed to agree with the captain. "Fine. Let's go. Lead the way...." She turned to look at the old bar. "It was a nice stash den while it lasted. Fuckin' rats." She muttered in contempt. The quickest ways out of town was to follow the eastern block area and travsere through the alleyways to reach outside of Moscow and to find this fabled inn.

A warmth bath would be nice. She thought. Grabbing her shotgun, she decided she'd carry it all the way.

"So, let's go. And when we reach the Inn, I play a tune for you on my violin." It was a promise in gold. Charlyn had been itching to play a tune, one of he tunes she heard on a holo-disk that an old ghoul gave her. The ghoul was very kindly an dhad taught her many of the extinct sounds long forgotten after the great war. Now she wondered ever became of the ghoul.

*******

Ron walks behind her all the way to the Inn, aptly named the Cold Oasis. He opens the double doors and enters, nodding to the man at the front desk.

"Hey. How's it going? Can we get a-- 'scuse me."

He turns to Edden. "You do want your own room, right?"

A sign on the wall reads

ROOMS AVAILABLE--TWENTY DOLLARS A NIGHT, THIRTY WITH SHOWER

*****

The Inn of the Oasis

She reached in her pocket, grabbing a wad of cash and placing it on the table. "One room for me, and one for Ron here. And a shower for me, and well, if he wants one. Seperate rooms, no interruptions and makes sure people knock." She gave an extra ten dollars to the Man at the desk.

It was a quaint place, a pre-war inn, that was preserved from the horror of the nuclear holocaust that engulfed the world.

A vending machine caught her eye. Grabbing a coin, she inserted it and pressed the button. A snicker bar was being moved by the coil, the slender chocolate bar sliding forward and dropping down in the bin. With a hand movement as a quick as a cobras strike, she had the bar in her hand.

It was preserved by ICE-Tec, a special freezing technology that kept anything tasting good and fresh. Anything. She peeled the plastic rap and picked at it.

Her shotgun was hanging around her waist and the colt 6520 in its leather holster.

Ron pays money for his room and takes the room key. He walks up the stairs towards the room.

"Night, Edden. I'll see you in the morning."

He opens the door to the room and shuts it quietly. Edden's room is right next to his. First thing he does is lock and bolt the door. The bolt's a little cheap piece of shit, and so is the lock--one hard kick and the whole thing would fly in.

He removed his shirt and pants, then his underwear, and got into the shower. He let the hot water wash the accumulated dirt off of his body, and made good use of the soap and rag. He looked in the cabinet by the stall and found a bottle of Head & Shoulders. Hot Damn.

Ten minutes later, he got out of the shower and put on a pair of loose boxer briefs and a sleeveless shirt, both from his knapsack. Laying a knife on the nightstand and the Beretta--safety on--under his pillow, the tortured man fell asleep.

*******

Program running.....

Second Scenario.... Identity found, humanity lost....

((("The subject is in position. Awaiting advice to pursue."))) The voice halts on the radio awaiting further orders.

A voice speaks, but no one but the figure looking from the shadowy roads could hear.

((("Understood. Observation prerogative activated."))) The man said in response to the mysterious figure behind the radio.

A second figure emerges from the shadows. "What are our orders?" He asked, his voice even and patient. As if he were always in the habit of being formal.

"To observe the subject. Monitor behavior. So far there has been one incident in the town of Moscow. A dispute that ended.... rather badly." The first man said.

"I see." He seems to weigh on the words. "The subject is remembering."

"Yes. But Mr. Essex expresses that we follow and not reveal ourselves."

"Understood."

Both men stood in the distance and looked at the Inn. Waiting and pondering.

*******

Oasis Inn, Room #6.... 23:00....


A key enters the slot, the tumblers meet, a turn of the wrist, the door opens. As Edden enters she sees a small room before her. Not the sort of tight space that would cause a claustrophobic to hyperventilate, but it was still small. Or maybe, Edden just had picky tastes.

It was the latter. She was picky.

A single bed fit for two or four people. Two people would be comfortable. Over that, it was crowded. Edden hated the thought of slumming. The room was also complete with some posters and two paintings. One was a fuzzy painting of some long forgotten rock star she recalls vaguely seeing such portrait sometime ago during her hazy travels.

The bed was enough, clean sheets, two pillows. Heaven.

Another feature was the small bathroom complete with toilet, toilet paper, a shower and tub.

A TV was sitting on a table. Whether it worked or not, wasn't much of an issue yet. Three book shelves complete with books and other reading materials. A foot locker and locker were just next to the head of the bed. She opened the foot locker and dropped her bag inside. All her items, belongings and lost memories lay inside that large bag. Sealing the lid, she took her footlocker key and closed it. The key was a skeleton key, could work with almost any locker or foot locker. A key-man back in some one horse town had given her a set when she cleared out some unwanted guests.

Grabbing the handle of the larger locker, she opened it and placed her shotgun inside, leaving it to stand. To her surprise, someone left a small box of .12ga shells. Making a mental note, she made sure she'd take it when the time came to leave.

Grabbing the beige towel, she began to undress. Boots, sox’s, jacket, shirt, panty, bra, it was all gone. She was naked and swathed in a towel.

Reaching to the locker once more, she removed a rectangular strong box and grabbed some scented soap. She had some cleaning to do. The feeling of being grimy ticked Edden badly. A clean woman was a good woman.

She made sure her door was open and grabbing the Colt 6520, she took that along. Her room door was locked, but in case someone came charging in, they'd get a nasty surprise. Paranoia was a short coming of the lovely Edden. She knew it and accepted it. It had saved her life a couple times.

Turning the handle counter clockwise, warm water began to fill the tub. A couple candles lay about. Taking some matches from the cabinet by the sink she lit them and waited for the tub to fill before she would settle in.

A tune came to mind. Something like the money light sonata. She had sung that song before with the violin. Dropping the towel.

A sound of water being moved by human flesh could faintly be heard as the sound of a sigh of pleasure escaped through her lips as she set her self in the tube. Her upper torso, save her breasts were submerged in the warm water. The sound of relief echoes through the walls as the steamy water began the process of losening the dirt on her flesh. Her many rings were set aside on a small bench and she rested her head backwards as the heat from the water relaxed her tight limbs.

This was heaven on some scale. The chain of a key was hung around her neck. She wasn't sure what the round key was for, but soon she'd find out.

It would all come back to her.... eventually.

Grabbing the violin and stick, she began to play the low haunting melody of the Moonlight Sonata. Even Ron in his room could hear the melodiac tragedy being played out, and whomever heard it couldn't help but be moved by tears.....

******

The man's tortured dreams wouldn't stop. He knew the rule--kill yourself in the dream, you wake up. Not the case. In every dream, he died only to have a worse one.

The smell of burning fat was accompanied by a sizzling sound--one of the three obese men in Nightmare company had met up with a super-mutant carrying a flamer. Pork rinds for everybody. A ghoul with a plasma saw was ripping hunks off of Caparzo's legs and letting him watchj as they were cooked and eaten. The whole time he was in a ditch surrounded by waste and corpses. Sludge, that's what it was. He could feel where the meat hook had gone into the space between the bones in his left lower arm. If he pulled, blood would shoot out. He slipped in and out of consciousness.

The dreams would last for so long tonight...

******

She played on as if possessed, the cat-gut stronmgs met and clashed and played music that tore at the hearts of all who heard it. One old man was sobbing like a baby at the frentic playing of Edden. She in her tub, her cut short hair and head tilted forth, tears streaming down her cheeks as shje recalls the past... and the song plays on.

*****

The Past

Men and women screaming as rotten things jumped from nowhere and ripped into a young would be merc. She remembers his face well. He was a young lad, handsome, courageous, but also kind and warm hearted. She remembers sharing a cup of coffeee with this lad at some palace among others like their kind.

*****

The playing intensifies. Her eyes shut, but the fingers and hands moved along as if possessed.

****

The past realies on....

The boy was standing back to back with her when the wolf monsters came out of the shadow, as if they were being spawned from the very darkness. His rifle went off and her shotgun blazed death. They were fighting tooth and claw, one not giving up. They were winning.

But it would be short lived. The lad had his trat ripped out as a wolf pounced on him and clenched its teeth on his soft voice box, tearing it out. He was dead and Edden was screaming as she blasted the wolf's head off clean. Then another figure came and grabbed her by the arm. Same golden eyes and brown skin. He pulled her away from the battlement, his free hand unleashing death on the shadow hounds. They reached the silver gates.

tears were in his eyes when she faced her 'savior'. His eyes held no warmth, nor did his touch. He saved her life. When the gates slammed shut, She ept looking at the dorection of the fallen lad....

*****

The song ends, and claps errupt from all around the inn. She stops, her hands aching and her eyes full of tears of for a past she can vaguely recall.

There sat in the tub of warm water, was a weapon, a woman with no past... and she weeped because she feared she had no future.

*****

Somebody else screamed. Ron caught glimpses--an M-60 firing wildly, laser beams slicing a ghoul into sections, someone's head exploding. Dell Jones, Ron's best friend, running from a huge mutant. Ron ran towards him, hand outstretched. Not fast enough. Dell was impaled through the back, mutant's hand suddenly growing from his chest.

The entire Inn, right after it was done clapping, heard the scream as Ron bolted upright.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

He picked the Beretta up, breathing heavily. There was enough clear, odorless sweat to fill a bucket coming from his forehead. He chuckled weakly. Just a dream, he told himself. Just a dream.

******

The shellshocked soldier got up and put his pants on. He didn't feel right now. He tucked three throwing knives into their harness and took the knife with a black, weighted blade. He tucked the Beretta into his pants. He rose and walked towards his door--when he heard a noise from in the hallway. Something scratched on his door.

Shit.

He pulled the Beretta out... then changed his mind. He looked in the closet--instead of a rack, there was a cord to hang your clothes. He tore it out, then ran to the bathroom and got to the sink. He turned the water on as hot as possible, and filled up a small glass full of it.

He put the water glass up above the door frame, and wrapped the cord in a loop under it. The door opened, and the man from the front desk stepped in with a shotgun. He expected the captain to bve sleeping in the bed--not standing in the blind spot, smiling.

Ron tugged the cord, and hot water landed in the clerk's eyes because he looked up. He screamed, and Ron hit him square in the Adam's apple, causing him to gag and stumble backwards. He let go of the shotgun, and Spears kicked the front end of it, causing it to flip over. He grabbed the stock and pulled the trigger, blowing the clerk into Edden's bedroom door. No pellets went through his body--none hit anything inside Edden's door.

The captain laughed, spun the shotgun like a toy, and cocked it. The clerk's sightless eyes stared up at nothing. Another clerk with an M4 rushed up the steps--and got blasted. Ron shouted to Edden.

"EDDEN, WAKEY, WAKEY, EGGS AND BAKEY!"

The old man down the hall ran out of his room with a rifle, saw that the clerks were fighting a tenant, and decided to help the clerks. He thought they were on the same side. He raised the old rifle--and Ron put another shotgun shell into his ancient body. Sveral clerks in plain clothes were running around in the lobby.

NOT ANOTHER AMBUSH!

Gun fire and screams awoke her from her daze. Like a snake coiled for the kill, she sprang out of bed and began to get dressed. Putting on her clothing as before and grabbed her double barrel shotgun, she got dressed.

Her large brahmin hide doffel bag was slung across her back, pistol in one hand, shotgun held in the other.

She felt a hand on her shoulder and her shotgun's barrel slamming against his temple sent him realling backwards. An unfamilar hand was treated as a hostile. Nothing more.... nothing less.

Ron gave a war cry.

He was in trouble. It was an ambush. They were under attack.

Mind focused, Edden inserted herself into the terrible world of battle mode. Opening her door, she blasted tenants and clerks who got in her way.

A thunderess double blast from the widowmaker sent a man fly through the air and across the lobby. His chest eviserated, his eyes clouded and dead.

She moved along, reloading the shotgun with two more buckshotshells. The wily Edden hadn't forgotten to take the extra shells she had found in the locker room.

Red began to fill her gaze and instead of gunfire and screams, all she could hear was the symphony of a hundred red violins.


*****

The Outside

The two men dressed in fine suits of gray and black looked to the other. "Shall we proceed, Gog."

The other man shook his head. "No, we have our orders Magog. We stay hear and await further instruction." The other replied mechanically. His voice seemed like an synthesised robot voice appearing to be human.

Both of them could pass for twins or even brothers. But they weren't all that identical. Gog was a beefer looking man with a hard face that seemed to have been chisled from stone. Magog on the other hand was slightly leaner, but still had that face that seemed carved from rough stone. Both their brown eyes were hidden from view by speical shades. How they could make out in the dark with shades was anyone's guess.

"The subject is active."

"Yes. Something must have triggered her."

"You think it was the man she was with?"

"Affirmative, Magog. She is prone to responding to acts of violence. It attracts her, though she is probably unaware of the attraction." Gog deduced. Essex had informed him of Edden's patterns.

"We shall watch and wait." Gog said as he folded his arms across his broad chest.

******

Ron wasstanding at the top of the stairs, armed with the shotgun and the M4. He started firing bursts into the clerks in the lobby. They were all hiding under cover of some sort. He saw Edden coming towards him down the hallway and gave an apologetic look.

Bag on back, clerks and tenants behind them, Red Violin fired a warning shot in the ear.

"Sorry for all the damages." she threw a roll of bills on the table. "This should cover it." She said blankly. The tenants cringed, but one among them began to draw a gun.

Like a flicker in the air, she could sense the danger, but instead of responding with her shotgun, she responded in words. "If I were you, I'd put down the gun and go back to your room. Be a good lad and put the gun down. Now."

She cocked the hammer of the Colt 6520 she had. "I don't feel like killing you today and you don't wanna die."

The man lowered his fire arm and walked off to his room. The violin playing stopped and Edden was herself again.

"Let's go, Ron. I think we wore out our welcome."

Ron lowers the M4 halfway, and walks backwards, keeping an eye on the clerks and tenants. They get out the door, and Ron shuts the huge double doors... then puts the M4 in the bars to keep them that way.

He turns and starts walking, pumping the shotgun to get the shells out. Six shells. He gives these to Red Violin. He drops the empty scattergun on the ground.

"I'm real sorry about that. I didn't figure the clerks would try to rob us."

Edden smiled wickedly. "Yeah, well. In this world, you just can't trust anyone." The words rang true and anyone who heard them had to ask the question: Was she right?

"C'mon, let's go Ron. I'll cover you. This place is giving me an odd vibe." The feeling felt like a tingle on her flesh that cause each hair on her arms, neck and back to rise. "Something ain't right." She muttered to herself.

Ron opened the doors of the inn that led to the exit, and Edden kept shotgun trained on the tenants. Some hung around, the wiser ones went to their rooms.

Little did Edden and Ron know, they were being watched carefully....