So here we are, in the middle of Texas’ industrial wasteland without anything but a couple of pistols and the clothes on our backs. Not the best place to be right now. We covered as much ground as we could before the sun went down, but it gets dark early these days, so we were forced to find a quaint little rust pile to set up camp in. Ivan’s been growling at the edge of the fire since it got dark. He probably has something cornered back there. Maybe I’ll have Damien check it out.
Sunday, March 23, 2121- Another long day of walking. Nothing but a bunch of automated factories and skeleton crews lurking in the shadows. I haven’t had any food since last night. Oh, that’s right. Ivan did have something cornered, after all. I sent Damien to see what it was and not thirty seconds later I heard him spout some ignorant hillbilly exclamation and start firing his side-arm into the darkness. Then he disappeared into the shadows, himself. When he returned, he was dragging a decent-sized Burmese python, still mostly intact. Cursed things are worse than rats around these parts, but it provided a lot of meat, what was left after Ivan the Terrible tore into it, anyway.
I’m regretting my decision to leave the carrier though. I had plenty of time to think it out today. At our current rate, it would take us three or four weeks, if we were lucky, to walk all the way back to Missouri. Thankfully, I know some people just outside of Oklahoma City that will give us a lift. It’s still going to be a lot of wasted time, but we should be home before my birthday.
Monday, March 24, 2121- We made it to Waco today. Damien had enough credits left from the moneylender to get a few essential supplies: Water, food, ammo. I think he thought it somehow made up for selling me out with the rest of the crew. I’ll go on letting him think that. He did save my life, after all. We found safety among the bums tonight. They’re actually pretty friendly once they realize they have more than you. One even gave me his cot to sleep on for the night. Might as well enjoy it. I’ll be on the ground again for the next week or so.
Tuesday, March 25, 2121- I was way off on my estimate. We barely made it 20 miles today, and I doubt we’ll even be able to go that far tomorrow. It’s going to take weeks at the rate we’re going. We can fend off murderers and pythons, but I would have never guessed our feet would be our downfall. They’re completely destroyed. Of all the stupid things. My socks are caked with blood. At this point, every step feels like I’m walking on hot coals, and I think Damien might be worse off than I am.
We were planning on going around Dallas, but now I don’t know if we have much of a choice. That place is worse than Austin. There are more people there that want me dead than I can count. But, like I said, we don’t have a choice. We have to find some transportation, one way or another. Maybe I’ll sell Damien to the slavers. That’s what I’m good at.
Wednesday, March 26, 2121- This place has turned into a ghost town. Not one person all day, just miles and miles of automated factories, working by remote. It’s hard to even see the sky around here. Just like Damien said, “Smoke an’ axle grease.” Well, more dust than smoke, really. And dirt. Hard dirt. I can’t even feel my feet anymore, but my back is killing me. We try to find decent places to sleep, but I usually end up on the ground with a few layers of tarpaper under me. At least Ivan keeps me warm most nights. We should make it to Dallas tomorrow, for whatever it’s worth. Maybe then someone will put me out of my misery.
Thursday, March 27, 2121- I can’t talk long. They’re watching my every move. I was wrong about it being deserted out here. We got jumped last night. I took down two of them and Damien got another one, but their were at least twenty total. I haven’t killed anyone in a long time, but these people aren’t much more than animals. They definitely don’t work for the Coalition. They live in the factories, but I doubt if C.O.R.N. knows anything about it. Rogues of some sort, and they’re not happy about us killing three of their own. They’ve had us in a steel box with nothing to eat and little to drink all day. I haven’t seen or heard Ivan since last night. If he’s hurt, I’ll kill them all. Even if he’s not, they’re still going to regret this.
Sunday, March 23, 2121- Another long day of walking. Nothing but a bunch of automated factories and skeleton crews lurking in the shadows. I haven’t had any food since last night. Oh, that’s right. Ivan did have something cornered, after all. I sent Damien to see what it was and not thirty seconds later I heard him spout some ignorant hillbilly exclamation and start firing his side-arm into the darkness. Then he disappeared into the shadows, himself. When he returned, he was dragging a decent-sized Burmese python, still mostly intact. Cursed things are worse than rats around these parts, but it provided a lot of meat, what was left after Ivan the Terrible tore into it, anyway.
I’m regretting my decision to leave the carrier though. I had plenty of time to think it out today. At our current rate, it would take us three or four weeks, if we were lucky, to walk all the way back to Missouri. Thankfully, I know some people just outside of Oklahoma City that will give us a lift. It’s still going to be a lot of wasted time, but we should be home before my birthday.
Monday, March 24, 2121- We made it to Waco today. Damien had enough credits left from the moneylender to get a few essential supplies: Water, food, ammo. I think he thought it somehow made up for selling me out with the rest of the crew. I’ll go on letting him think that. He did save my life, after all. We found safety among the bums tonight. They’re actually pretty friendly once they realize they have more than you. One even gave me his cot to sleep on for the night. Might as well enjoy it. I’ll be on the ground again for the next week or so.
Tuesday, March 25, 2121- I was way off on my estimate. We barely made it 20 miles today, and I doubt we’ll even be able to go that far tomorrow. It’s going to take weeks at the rate we’re going. We can fend off murderers and pythons, but I would have never guessed our feet would be our downfall. They’re completely destroyed. Of all the stupid things. My socks are caked with blood. At this point, every step feels like I’m walking on hot coals, and I think Damien might be worse off than I am.
We were planning on going around Dallas, but now I don’t know if we have much of a choice. That place is worse than Austin. There are more people there that want me dead than I can count. But, like I said, we don’t have a choice. We have to find some transportation, one way or another. Maybe I’ll sell Damien to the slavers. That’s what I’m good at.
Wednesday, March 26, 2121- This place has turned into a ghost town. Not one person all day, just miles and miles of automated factories, working by remote. It’s hard to even see the sky around here. Just like Damien said, “Smoke an’ axle grease.” Well, more dust than smoke, really. And dirt. Hard dirt. I can’t even feel my feet anymore, but my back is killing me. We try to find decent places to sleep, but I usually end up on the ground with a few layers of tarpaper under me. At least Ivan keeps me warm most nights. We should make it to Dallas tomorrow, for whatever it’s worth. Maybe then someone will put me out of my misery.
Thursday, March 27, 2121- I can’t talk long. They’re watching my every move. I was wrong about it being deserted out here. We got jumped last night. I took down two of them and Damien got another one, but their were at least twenty total. I haven’t killed anyone in a long time, but these people aren’t much more than animals. They definitely don’t work for the Coalition. They live in the factories, but I doubt if C.O.R.N. knows anything about it. Rogues of some sort, and they’re not happy about us killing three of their own. They’ve had us in a steel box with nothing to eat and little to drink all day. I haven’t seen or heard Ivan since last night. If he’s hurt, I’ll kill them all. Even if he’s not, they’re still going to regret this.
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