Purgatory & Pair'O'Dice: Watcher of the Damned, #5

By R. H. SNOW

Purgatory's a Hell of a Town - but it's the only way to get to Pair'O'Dice!

The Watcher's Mutant Posse teams up with the rough-riding New Tejas WildLand Express to bring Justice to this Post-Apocalypse Frontier Town. It's a highstakes game as our Heroes Fight, Gamble and Romance their way to Freedom. But High-Tech trouble's in the air - and Revolution is the only way out! Join the fray in Book 5 of WATCHER of the DAMNED - PURGATORY & PAIR'O'DICE!

• Language: English
• Publisher: R. H. SNOW
• Release date: Jul 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9781737358527

Book preview

Copyright 2021 Rosa de Oro, a Texas Publishing Company

All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission except in the case of brief quotes used in reviews or articles.

Characters, names, and events are fiction and works of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to real persons, living or deceased, are purely coincidental. All events, incidents, places and establishments are written fictitiously.

All rights reserved.

(Paperback) 978-1-7373585-0-3

(E-book) 978-1-7373585-2-7

DEDICATED TO THE TREASURES OF MY HEART:

God my Father, David my Love, Roxanne my Heart, Danny my Soul

— and Texas, my Texas!

We Will Be Free!

Dear Reader,

Is survival or the treatment of the people around us more important? Many argue that is what makes us human, yet both have played that role in the history of our species.

Purgatory & Pair’O’Dice is the fifth in the Watcher of the Damned series, encapsulating the struggles of human life after the biological apocalypse. Post-apocalyptic source material, like graphic novels, video games, shows, and other books, have inspired the series, which deals with mutlifaceted divisions along biological, societal, moral, and religious lines. Though some have argued that the cultural fascination with mutants and the apocalypse is indicative of an overall fear of globalization, the fear is not that we could become an animal with lesser humanity; rather, that we already are.

Thank you for picking up the book, and enjoy.

Arthur DeVitalis

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I

Balanced precariously on the edge of the balcony, she stood, her soft bare feet placed perfectly on the rim of the railing. Times like these, she imagined she could fly, somewhere far, far away from the spectacle of the City and its bustling life.

Not that she wanted to leave Purgatory; she just liked the idea of flying.

She remembered a time when she had been out there, alone in the wilderness, without hope or help; the WildLands were a terrifying and vicious place, and she had been alone, cold, and hungry.

Then He came.

Now, as far as her eyes could see, it all belonged to her, all because of Him. She purred in recognition of his Kingdom, laid out before her, the wonders of civilization made perfect by His hand.

The brightly colored rag-streamers, fluttering in the chill night breeze, beckoned; the punched tin lanterns, the silverware windchimes, the whirligigs made from old soda cans—they glittered in the torchlight, recycled jewels on the velvet darkness of Pair'O'Dice Pier. From the tower, she could see it all; vibrant, smoky, smelly, rowdy—Purgatory and Pair'O'Dice, the dichotomy of humanity come to life in one glorious, grotesque goulash. Her pale blue eyes surveyed her moonlight kingdom:

To her north lay the great Purgatory Municipal Dump, with its myriad mountains of trash, the effluvia of a half-century of waste. Its pleasant towers of bones and bottles were playgrounds to explore, the hidden places and secrets that only she knew; within the mountains lay a cave of mysterious sounds and puzzles. She hoped that the one who kept it safe and secret would let her in again, so she could see the wonderful blinking lights. If not, she would simply go down to where the dead fish lay, and bathe herself in their exquisite smell.

To the northeast lay the smoldering ruins of HighTown, the Hostess Cabin a crumbling shell beside Hizzoner Norris' and Boss Zhu's cabins. All were now just glimmering coals of the day's destructions; by morning, the burned-out hulks would be a prime target for scavenging. She wrinkled her small pink nose at the smell of the burnt bodies that lay within their homestead pyres: across town, to her southwest at the far border of Industrial Boulevard and LowTown, another group of men were sacrificed in a concrete cellar turned crematorium. They were victims of the War for power in Purgatory,

She was glad it was not Him.

To her south, the comforting sounds of home drifted up to her delicate ears. The smash of beer bottles and the shouts of men fighting could only mean one thing: the Party Pontoons of Pair'O'Dice were open for business. These were the sounds of industry and enterprise, the sounds which made her King happy. The din of iniquity mingled with the pleasant clink of tokens, music for their time together even sweeter. But tonight, He was nowhere to be seen. This was unacceptable. She yowled in dismay—surely somewhere, wherever He was, he would hear her and eventually return.

He did not.

Despondent, she leapt from the balcony.

Landing on the tree limb below, she turned her face to the west, and spied His army of acolytes, fearsome soldiers in the finest regalia of cast-off biker gear, sports equipment and military surplus; a river of men, headed to the Municipality, to take control and end the reign of His Challenger once and for all—

And there He was, magnificent in his pulchritude, resplendent in his glory, the Light of her life and Only Man On Earth. At the head of the Column, by torchlight, He conferred with his Captains, sending them into battle for His name's sake. She called to him, but He did not answer; she called again—

He turned his warty face towards her call.

Princess! You impudent priss— Chartreaux bellowed to his attaché—Sugar, why is Princess Precious Sweetums in the tree, and why are you not up there with her? Get her down this instant, before an owl takes off with her—the rest of you, get down to the Jail, and find out where my Hostesses have gone, or there will be all Hell to pay... and make dead certain Winston and his allies are still in jail.

Princess Precious Sweetums purred and waved her silky silvery tail, happily out of reach of the odious Sugar. From this perch, she could watch everything unfold in Purgatory and Pair’O’Dice below—

Sugar approached the spreading Oak beneath the balcony. He wiggled his fingers enticingly, Here, kitty, kitty— then swore beneath his breath: Come here, you mewling hell kitten...

She sharpened her claws and waited to shred Sugar.

It is good to be Princess.

The mob came, bearing torches. Beating on the door, they demanded obeisance.

Open up, you buffoons—we’re here for the prisoners.

Howard, the Head Jailer, opened the sliding peep-hole and glowered out at them. Says who?

A handsome thug pushed to the front of a group of eleven BrigadesMen, dirty, tired, and still dressed in their sooty bunker gear from the morning’s fires. Says the Bosses. Let us in.

Nobody told me nothin’, so get lost. The sliding hatch slapped shut.

Hey! Handsome Thug hammered on the door. HEY! Nobody tells the Bosses no!

Where's Captain Gordon? Why ain't he here? Howard winked out of the peep hole once more.

He's doin' bidness, the Thug offered.

Yeah—funny bidness. Howard slapped the peep hole shut.

Harvey swore loudly and hammered on the door again.

Howard opened the sliding hatch again—I ain’t gonna let just anybody who claims to be official in here. There’s funny bidness going on all over Purgatory—fires, Bosses in Jail, runaway slaves and fugitive whores—and now you show up. I call shenanigans. Get outta here before I call the cops.

We ARE the cops! Handsome Thug barked. You know me, Howard!

Yeah, I know you, Harvey. Y’all are also the firemen, and the work crews, and the militia. How do I know you ain’t tryin’ to take over Purgatory for yourself? Or maybe you’re trying to break your buddies out of Jail. Howard glared out the door, his heavy brow low and furrowed. I don’t see no orders. Scram.

A murmur rippled through the group. Taken aback, Harvey changed his tactics. Look here—we’re the Posse, and we’ve been formed to round up all the troublemakers and try to figure out who started all this crap. Bosses Chartreaux, Balogun, and Waitie sent us. Come on, Howard, we’re just trying to do our job. Now let us in.

The disgruntled Howard was having none of it. First of all, we ain’t buffoons, so screw your snotty ways. Second of all, I’m under orders from Habib. Nobody in or out of this jail except by his command—that’s the way it’s always worked, and that’s the way it is now. So, unless Habib tells me otherwise, I ain’t doin’ nothin’ for nobody.

Where’s Habib? Harvey demanded.

He’s left for the evening—probably already down at the Party Pontoon or gone home to start drinking again. If you find him and bring him with you, I’ll take his orders to let you in. Howard offered.

A disheveled, pasty Hombre beside Harvey whispered in his ear: We don’t have time for this. Habib’s not at his house—we already went by there. He’s probably out getting smashed at one of the Fine Establishments. By the time we get there he’ll be too drunk to speak...

Howard was adamant. You can do it the way we always do, and make a visit, but it’s two in, and two out—no unauthorized personnel. Take it or leave it. You better hurry—visiting hours are almost up. The Jailer slapped the access panel shut, leaving the Posse to discuss his offer.

Pasty Hombre whispered: What do we do, Harvey? The Boss is going to kill us all if we don’t get this all under control, but we can’t just shoot up the jail. Waitie and Balogun won’t stand for it.

Harvey hedged his bets. Chartreaux gave us orders to make sure the prisoners are secured, and that’s all we’ve gotta do. He didn’t say we can’t secure them at the Jail… Let’s get in there and count heads, and then at least we can say we’ve confirmed they are still there. We can deal with Howard later. He knocked on the door again, and the access panel slid open to reveal Howard's dour mug. Sweating, Harvey capitulated. Fine, just let me and Omar in—

State your bidness then—who are you here to visit? Howard pulled out the log book.

Harvey grumbled: Dominic Santos. Upper floor.

Leave all weapons outside the door—and don’t forget, I’ve got these Rangers in here. They’ll just as soon shoot you as look at you, so no funny bidness. A white hat appeared behind the Head Jailer and grunted.

Yeah, yeah, we know. Rangers. We’re sick of them. Okay, let’s get this done.

From behind Howard, the Ranger imposter whispered: We’re good to go. Howard called into the jail over his shoulder:

Two visitors for Santos—coming through.

This was quite possibly the best cup of tea brewed since the Happening.

Dominic breathed in the aroma of the steam and let it caress his lungs; the sweet, goldenrod leaves had aromatic quality, a hint of mild licorice and anise with a slightly green flavor. Sitting at his desk, Habib leaned back, nervous.

I don’t like waiting for the shoe to drop.

You should have some more tea. Dominic inhaled slowly, allowing the tea to reach every part of his body and soul. Nervousness will not help the Revolution start any faster.

I know that, Dom—I guess I’m just not like you. I’m an impatient man. Pushing his gray fedora back, Habib grabbed the teapot and poured a fresh cup; it had been his Grandmother’s, a graceful silverplate affair brought over from Egypt when she emigrated to Houston with his Grandfather. He poured quickly, nearly sloshing the contents out of the matching tarnished cup. I’m just glad that last visit is over.

It was an unpleasant but necessary visit, Dominic replied. I must remind the Jailers to not clamp the shackles so tightly around my wrists next time.

Lourdes sipped her tea, enchanted by its bouquet. Cuffs are always uncomfortable...

We ain't seen uncomfortable, yet. Habib slapped down the cup on the table; The Jailers just poked the Boss Bear: after tonight, Boss Chartreaux and the rest of the Bosses will be calling for our heads. Howard’s stall worked just long enough to buy you time to get to your cell from the tunnel, but his defiance of the BrigadesMen probably just cost him his life at Purgatory. The Bosses don’t take kindly to the word ‘no’...

The Revolution has room for men willing to confront lynch mobs. The Jailers will have a purpose in the New Republic, even as they have purpose here—to uphold the rule of law. Sipping slowly, Dominic mused.

Perhaps if you weren’t so nervous, you’d feel better. This is not like you, Habib... Lourdes sipped the tea as if she were sipping a fine whisky—with purpose. You’re usually smooth as silk. Why the sudden jitters?

Having changed out her tunic to something less gore-splattered, Lourdes was now wearing one of Habib’s old, long-sleeved dress shirts, knit leggings beneath it. Her sprained wrist was wrapped in fresh gauze, thanks to the Medic. Barefoot, with a .30-30 rifle slung from a strap over her shoulder, she still exuded a casual elegance, the khaki pin-stripes of the once-white cotton shirt matching the khaki strap of her weapon. All the women’s clothing had been sent off with the Evacuating Teams, so she took what she could get.

Habib couldn’t help but notice she looked fantastic in what she could get. He rapped his thick fingers on the desk, distracting himself. I’m nervous because I don’t like thugs pushing into my territory. The Bosses’ goons thought I was gone home for the night, and they tried to come around and take over my Jail. Nobody takes what’s mine... Habib sneered, and his face took on the aspect of a mobster protecting his turf. This is my House.

Well, I’m glad you held your temper and stayed hidden. If they saw you staying after hours at the Jail, they might get suspicious. Letting just two of them in was a good cover—they saw the imposters and now they can report that Dominic is still in chains, Evangelo is still spouting scripture, and Winston is sick in his cell, Lourdes said smugly. She delicately adjusted her headscarf, wrapped as a Hijab. Also, the foul chamber-pots were a nice touch to keep nosy visitors out of cells. I don’t think his visitors cared too much for that special Jail-House aroma.

It's a special concoction I thought up myself. Dead fish and sour beer make for a horrible smell. Proud of his own creativity, Dominic poured himself one more cup of tea. How’s your ankle, Lourdes? Still suffering too much to leave civilization?

It’s much better now I’ve found true contentment in this cup. Why would I ever want to leave here? She drank the rest of her tea, then stood. When will the roof be accessible?

Holding his cup, Dominic pointed with one finger down the hall. The Jailers are screwing the access ladder back into place as we speak. You will need a spotter if you are going to cover the roof. Your wrist is badly sprained—but if you have a spotter to help reload and watch your six, you can do it.

Lourdes sniffed. Fine—you know my strengths and weaknesses, Dominic. Send me your best, and I will take him.

Your weakness is you don’t acknowledge your weaknesses. You get so focused on what you’re hunting, you don’t notice what’s hunting you. Other than that, you are the best sniper I have—and I need my best sniper now, so your conveniently injured ankle came in handy.

I’m glad I could be of assistance. Lourdes said coolly. Do you have a pair of binoculars? I’d like to do some rooftop reconnaissance tonight.

Dominic pointed to Habib: That would be Habib’s wheelhouse. Set it up with him now while we are expecting a break. Habib, you’ll be Lourdes’ spotter this evening; set post until midnight, after your planning session. Also, we must arrange night shifts and breaks for the Night Watch with the Jail’s evening crew.

The cells have plenty of sleeping space—once we get the Ranger’s bodies hauled away. I’ll ask Sanders and the boys to take care of it and get cleaned up. He’s a wizard when it comes to clean-up and disposal.

Dominic put down his teacup and stretched carefully. This has been most refreshing; but now I must confer with the Lead Jailer about his script and protocols for any additional visitors, and you need to figure out how we are going to feed a Revolution.

We've got a great mobile setup with the WildLand Express and Camp Forlorn. Habib steepled his thick, cracked fingers, deep in thought. We just need more food and a basic kit to give out to new recruits. All our pre-existing infrastructure is ready to receive: camp kitchens, shelter, supplies, and transportation are fully functional and staffed with cooks, camp bosses, craftsmen, and wagons. Camp Forlorn even has long-term sanitation now, thanks to the addition of the mobile outhouse unit.

Credit goes to the Civicians of Purgatory here; at my requests, Winston designed that solution, and Camp Forlorn was happy to have it. Dominic stirred a sugar slice in his hot tea. I'm glad Winston will finally see it in action.

Habib grimaced. He may not want to, considering his history with your CampMaster...

He doesn't have a choice. Lourdes huffed into her teacup. He'll just have to pull on his big boy britches and deal with it, just like other people dealt with their romantic dramas—in a mature fashion. She looked at Habib pointedly.

Habib ignored her pointedly. With Constables Winton and Ellison deactivating and evacuating the Purgatory WildLand Express Outpost Unit to Camp Forlorn, it's all water under the bridge now anyways. It's do or die.

Yes, and that die may include death by ALGOS drone. What do you know about them, Habib? Dominic queried.

Other than what the Watcher said, I've got nothing—what does ALGOS even mean, anyways? The MoneyMan puzzled at the word.

ALGOS—Aerial Lethal Global Orthogonic Searchers. Death-dealing surveillance drones that shoot flames, plus fire off explosive, incendiary and melting ‘assassin’ rounds. They also deliver a lethal shock if touched by hostiles.

Grabbing Habib's pencil, Dominic drew a rough sketch of a hollow, foot-wide, honeycomb-shell sphere. Whimsical, he added a miniature hybrid-thruster engine at its core, a retractable arm with a pincer grasper, and a slender telescopic gun barrel.

They’re programmable drones, enhanced by their own internal artificial intelligence, and usually partnered with human ‘handlers’ who communicate with them remotely. Now imagine this ball is covered in millions of tiny fiber optic beads that refract and project the immediate surroundings on ball's surface to create active camouflage that 'cloaks' the drone, rendering it virtually invisible. This is what the Watcher is warning us about… he is remarkably knowledgeable about them.

You know way more than me, Dom. Drones weren't in my wheelhouse at the Firm. Habib clammed up.

The Firm? Curious, Lourdes prodded the MoneyMan.

It's nothing Chickie—just an old hangout. Habib lied.

A good ol' boys club, was it? Lourdes sniped back. Well, we're in a different world now—and these killer bots are part of it. We do know the ALGOS are deadly and smart, and the Watcher's concerned about them showing up here. No one's seen anything like them since the Happening. How are they here now, Dom?

I don't know. They haven't ever been reported to me since that time. But here they are—and that means they've always been out there. Either there was an agreement for them to not come into the Co-op, or there was a way to stop them from coming. Either way, something has changed. The big news is that they have not breached the Purgatory DeadZone for Tech—the same mystery that stops us from using radios and WeSpeex Devices in the DeadZones may also stop any higher level of Tech. But how?

Scratching his ebony-scaled head beneath his cowboy hat, Dominic pondered aloud. There has to be a jammer, or some kind of device creating these DeadZones. Someone has an answer to this mystery, and we need to find that someone. It could help us stop the ALGOS.

Winston may know. I think he's a lot more powerful than even you may know, Dom. Habib tapped his cup with a thoughtful finger. As Purgatory's Top Boss, he was the only one who had Old Diego's ear before he passed. Diego was the one the Consortium sent to originally enforce the System here in Purgatory; if anyone knew about the mechanism for the DeadZone, it would have been Diego. And Diego trusted Winston... maybe he said something to Winston before he died.

Well, that info won't help us any if Winston shoots his mouth off and get shot in return entering Camp Forlorn. Lourdes scowled. You know how he is for holding a grudge.

Carlos can handle him. Dominic sipped his tea.

Carlos can handle just about anybody if he's given enough warning. Is Camp Forlorn expecting visitors? Making plans, Habib pulled a small notepad out of his desk drawer and began to take notes.

I sent a generic message via WeSpeex Messaging to our HeadQuarters at Triste Outpost. They should have passed the instructions to expect visitors for Camp Forlorn, but I have not fully informed anyone outside this immediate circle of the Afterling or the Watcher just yet. Troubled, Dominic warned: I must make certain the WildLand Express has not been corrupted by the cancer that pervades the Rangers. While I was being tortured, I heard Commander Shaney's cohorts say they would install 'their man' at the top if I was deposed.

Lourdes set down her cup sharply. Over my dead body.

Appreciative of Lourdes' sharp declaration, Habib joined her. Yeah, it'll never happen, Dom. I'll die before I let them take you.

You are true friends, but I would prefer you live to avenge me. Circumspect, Dominic's demeanor suddenly changed to serious. I need you to save Rose and the Revolution if it all goes south. That's my Daughter... A strange look crossed his elegant features. I barely know her, but what I do know of her makes me love her. I would keep her safe within the Jail, protected from the ALGOS by the Purgatory DeadZone but she chose to go with Marshal Azarian, and I must respect her choice. He sighed. I suppose I cannot blame her; she doesn't know me. Other than as a memory in her Mother's mind, I wasn't there for her, all these years...

You are there for her now, Lourdes patted his arm. Daughters will do what daughters will do, but if she knows she can count on you, she will be back.

Thank you, Amiga. Dominic chuckled warmly. And now, Fathers must do what Fathers must do. Gracias for the glorious tea, Habib. It helped greatly; I am breathing easier. We must make sure to bring some with us. We must enlist a crew to pack supplies this evening. Dominic stood. After that, we must take turns sleeping. The next few days will bring great challenges, and little rest. Meeting adjourned. Clutching his ribs, he tipped his hat, then took his leave.

Lourdes watched him go, concern lining her sculpted face. They hurt him bad, Frank. He’ll kill himself unless he gets some rest.

Habib poured the last of the tea into a cup and studied it. The Judge’s got no time for rest. This is war, and there’s no win or lose—it’s win or die. That means getting prepped. Habib pulled a ledger book from his drawer, and a set of pens, red and black. We gotta feed an army, and I’ve gotta find a way to do it. He rubbed the back of his neck, tense.

Behind him, Habib heard the office door lock, then light steps; a slender hand rubbed his shoulder. You look like you could use some attention yourself. Her fingers moved down to his chest to fiddle with the lapel of his tweed jacket. Maybe you need to relax a little.

Habib shooed her hand away. We don’t have an appointment.

He could feel her small rounded breasts press against his broad back as she leaned over to whisper in his ear: This one’s on the house...

He slapped his pen down on the desk. Lourdes, why are you here? You know I keep it all bidness between me and you girls—if it ain’t bidness, then you’ve got no bidness here.

Lourdes gave him a cool look. The word is 'business' Frank. With an 's'...

That's what I said— Habib grunted back. Bidness.

So you say. Business, business… it’ always business with you. Her frosty green eyes narrowed. Then it’s none of your business what my business is here. She turned on her bare heel, but she might as well have been wearing a pair of stilettos—each step she took, she stabbed Habib in the heart. She flung open the door and breezed out. See you on the roof at twenty-two hundred.

He couldn’t help it; he watched her walk away. Narrow escape there, Buddy, he said to himself. Mopping his brow, Habib turned back to his ledger book. It was time to plan a war.

Riding point for Sam’s Rebel Band, Evangelo was grateful for a short ride through a late-night WildLand; rifle slung to his side, he was hopeful that this trip would remain uneventful. They were moving down a little-used trail through the low-land Elm and Pecan Savannah, bordered by a small creek carving through the prairie grasses, following it to the chosen encampment. Long ago, Evangelo had ridden to this encampment on a shared assignment with Dominic and Shaney, and he charted his way through the waving sea of grass to the last spot marked in his memory. William rode forward, unsure of the way, but trusting his rider; Evangelo remembered another horse, another time, when he was a young man, and Shaney rode with him.

Evangelo petted William’s silky mane, a horse to be treasured in his own way, in his own time; the shining bay of William’s coat was so different from his first mount’s snowy whiteness. Then the little Ranger thought upon his first horse, Star, and his first love, Shaney...

First horses, first loves; they can never be replaced—only revered.

The first horse was gone to greener pasture and his first love was currently burning on the ash heap of bitterness, but at the least stars till looked the same. Bright and clear they sparkled above, as eternal as the Hand that placed them...

Evangelo gazed up at them, finding his north star to guide his way—and while he was at it, he scanned the skies.

The Watcher had given him a quick and dirty briefing on the matter, taking care to stress that the deadly drones were usually operated in stealth mode. ALGOS used active camouflage to hide, rendering them invisible. The Watcher said unless they were directly confronted, the drones would not engage unsuspecting bystanders, even with an active target in range. Instead, the drones would simply wait in the shadows until the active target got alone behind closed doors—

So, the goal was to keep Rose hidden in plain sight, and always in a crowd. Despite having beaten the drone to death, the Watcher wasn't concerned about being identified by the ALGOS. When Evangelo inquired, the Watcher dismissed it with a wave of the hand, messaging that his Nomex fire hood obscured his face enough to evade the facial recognition program.

His heads-up display blinked: it was the Watcher hailing him Ring-2-Ring.

#WATCHER: It’s not an emergency, but you may want to avoid the skunks. I can smell one to our northeast…

Evangelo almost laughed—then hesitated; the Watcher was a man who took all threats seriously, and he expected others to take them seriously, too. But mainly the exchange was just a reason to make some light conversation.

#EVANGELO: Duly noted—thank you; we’ll be on the lookout. Good catch there...

Up and down the line, Evangelo could hear light chatter among the Rebels as they walked; having cleared Purgatory, they were feeling free to talk quietly amongst themselves. If they were spotted by an outsider, they would merely be taken for a group of WildLand Express agents headed to Purgatory for Market Mayhem Weekend, pack animals loaded with goods. The sounds of men moving in the woods served to keep predators clear of the area—even the wild Chupacabras knew to stay away from armed men in large groups.

Only the women stayed silent. Just the sound of their higher-pitched voices would be enough to attract wandering search parties or bounty hunters who might happen by. This path would be less travelled, though, and Evangelo was glad for it.

Off in the distance, the little Ranger heard a wail, and at first thought it to be coyotes; but a strange, rhythmic beat accompanied it; Evangelo wrinkled his brow, as he knew coyotes didn't play drums.

#WATCHER: I’m seeing lights up ahead, and I’m hearing music on the wind; I can also smell venison and bar-be-que’d pork.

#EVANGELO: I can faintly hear the music, but I’ll take your word for it on the rest. We’ll halt the cart here while a team scouts ahead.

It was always amazing to Evangelo how Agent Azarian was able to sense these things so clearly, even with all the noise and distractions around him. But he's not Agent anymore... he's Marshal Azarian now, Evangelo thought to himself. The Watcher had risen from Prisoner of the System to Marshal of the Revolution in only fourteen short days. Evangelo wondered what kind of culture shock it must be for the Watcher to experience those massive changes in such a short time.

That culture shock was about to be compounded.

Holding his hand up, Evangelo gave a quiet command: Company, Halt. This brought the caravan to a stop. We are within sight of a camp—Advance Team, come forward.

Sam and Mansour came forward on foot; they, with Evangelo, would be the ones to ensure that all was copacetic within the Camp. The Camp Leader's reaction to Sam’s presence would be the litmus test for the Rebels’ trust.

I want to believe that all our WildLand Express agents are on board, Sam confided to Mansour and Evangelo. Leadership should be aware of our situation. But Dominic overheard Shaney’s Rangers talk about putting their own man in charge once the Director was deposed—we have to make sure this WildLand Express Camp hasn’t been compromised like the Rangers.

Mansour grunted in agreement; It’s best to be cautious until we know for certain who’s in charge at the camp. But we better hurry it up—I'm not too keen on meeting these ALGOS...

Concerned, Sam scanned the tree line for any sign of an anomaly. Judge Santos informed members of the council, but we've decided to keep information about the drones on a need-to-know basis. He doesn't want to panic the group; the less they know about the drones, the better for now. If they don't know one's there, they won't accidentally see it and activate its defenses.

Trying to hide his discomfort at the thought of invisible flying death-bots, the little Marshal prepared to enter camp, announcing dutifully to the rest of the group: Marshal Azarian will be in command of this detachment while we are gone, and will await further instruction via Ring comms.

The Watcher held up his hand so the crowd could readily see him.

Mansour waved a subdued farewell to the group as they departed—Wish us luck.

We’ll need more than luck… Evangelo muttered softly, turning his eyes to the skies. Dismounting, the little Marshal and his two Constables shouldered their weapons and walked into the night, toward the welcoming light of the Camp ahead.

Clumps of Survivors were standing, whispering to each other as the Watcher waited for word from the scouting team. Having been instructed to not discuss any sensitive subjects, they chatted about the last time they had camped in the woods, or the best time they went hunting; but mostly they talked about how hungry they were.

Boy, am I hungry right now. I could eat a bear, if’n one came out of the woods at me. Gunny rubbed his stomach and hoped for bears.

Gramps, you ain’t seen hungry, Goins grumbled. I didn’t get my breakfast this morning, and now I’m wishing I had those eggs and taters everyone keeps yammering on about.

I ain’t going to lie, Goins, I ate ‘em, and they was good. I had a full breakfast, and I’m still the hongriest man alive.

Says you, Sampson. I fought fires all day and got arrested—so I’ll bet I’m hungrier than the whole camp right now. Winston sniffed the wind. That’s some Deep East-Texas Style pork ribs right there, on the breeze…

The Watcher stood silent, leaning against Oro and listening to the others bantering in the shadows of the slim crescent moon. He strained to see anything in the dark, but with his Ring's Nite Eyes tech on the fritz, the Watcher couldn’t see the way he wanted.

He longed for the Afterling’s help—she was better than even a newly minted Ring for night vision. She alone could see the death-bots before they might arrive on scene; her ability to pick up the drones' muffled heat signature made her extraordinarily helpful in this situation. Stationed beside the wagon's tailgate, she was peeking out from between the blanket-flaps, watching for any hint of trouble. At least, that's what she was supposed to be doing...

From the back of the wagon, he heard a rustle, and a whine—Oskar, stirring in the wagon bed once more. This was followed by warm, lyrical voice of Rose—chirpy, with a soft, Central Texas drawl. Oh, sweet baby, there is no need to be afraid... shhh, shhh...

Murmurs followed. He is having bad dreams. Something must have frightened him terribly today.

She began to sing quietly, comfortingly to Oskar:

"Be the treasure of my heart, sunlight of my soul!

Tesoro de la Corazon, mi Amada del Sol!

Tesoro, Tesoro, treasure of a thousand tears—

Be the treasure of my heart and soul, all my hopes and fears!"

The love in her voice transformed the Song of Tesoro from anthem to lullaby, wrapping a warm blanket of protection around her baby—the Chupacabra cub. Rose's voice trickled out of the wagon and into the Watcher's heart, bringing with it all the love that eluded him. He found it inexplicable and maddening and yet...

The Watcher listened to the women’s quiet voices in the cart, barely whispering to each other above the buzzsaw snores of the now-sleeping Oskar.

Rose whispered once more: Do you think the WildLand Express Camp will be friendly to us?

Oh yes, they are very friendly to us. Araceli murmured, a hint of the Rio Grande Valley in her accent. They are always so kind to us, and they don’t press the Hostesses to pay up when they win at the tables. But I still pay out anyway, because they are so sweet.

WildLand Express Agents are alright, Kendra offered. Her voice had that urban twang associated with the TroPlex. They might act crazy from time to time, but at least around Sam or the Director they behave.

I wonder if they have food to share with us… the Afterling mused.

The WildLand Express has everything! Araceli effused. You will be amazed and delighted!

If Cookie knows we're coming, he'll make something special, just for us, Kendra whispered. He's the best cook ever, and a true Gent.

How nice—perhaps he’ll have some sweet potatoes or maybe even some beans, said Rose to her friends. I’m positively famished.

You aren’t the only one, an eavesdropping Watcher sympathized. He felt around to see if he had any pears left in his pockets that he might give to her, but there were none. He had packed away all their food supplies in their secured gear bags, and he had no intention of feeding her a full meal in front of this pack of hungry people. He knew she would attempt to feed everyone, and while there might be enough for one meal for everybody, that would be all.

He heard an unfamiliar voice, a melodious East Texas whine—that must be Destiny. We are going to a camp? Will the Man in White be there?

Marshal Evangelo? Oh yes, and you will want to say hello right away! Araceli said with an enthusiastic sigh. She bent down once more to whisper in Destiny’s ear: The Marshal is the Man in White and your one true love. His name is... pausing, Araceli whispered to Rose: What is his name?

Oh! His name is Rafael Evangelo. The Afterling looked circumspect; but women who want to seduce him call him ‘Raffi’.

Thank you. Araceli leaned down once more to whisper to Destiny. His name is Marshal Rafael Evangelo, but you like to call him ‘Raffi’.

Kendra interjected: And he’s not a loser. He doesn’t need you to fix him—he just needs you. You’re wild about that in a man.

I’m in love with the Marshal? Sleepy, Destiny muttered to herself, The Marshal is the Man in White?

Oh, yes, Araceli trilled once more, It will be a beautiful love story.

The Man in White... Destiny whimpered softly. He was there—he held my hand and kept me safe while that girl was being raped... She shuddered at the memory.

Oh, Destiny, it was all a dream, just a bad dream! Panicked at having triggered Destiny's flashback, Araceli lied, squeezing her friend's hand.

Maybe you need to back off talking about men—Destiny's not ready for that, yet. Kendra leaned over and grumbled to Araceli. Maybe not ready ever. Not after what Boss Chartreaux's goons did to her...

You are so right. I am so sorry—I only wanted to make her happy with beautiful romances. Chastised, Araceli recalibrated, Now you need to rest, Destiny. You must get well so we can travel later.

Oh, I’ll sleep while we row down the river in this pretty little rowboat, the hallucinating Destiny mumbled moonily. And I’m so glad that Sam let us travel with this dog. The Watcher heard Oskar snuffle contentedly. I love dogs.

Lucky dog. The Watcher smiled to himself, imagining Oskar might be very comfortable being hugged by four women.

Well, I suppose you could say Oskar looks a little like a dog, said Rose helpfully.

Only if you are blind, whispered Kendra honestly.

That's why Love is blind; Rose quipped, it makes all things beautiful—even ugly men!

The women laughed, and it echoed through the dark woods. The Watcher scowled and rapped on the tailgate of the Hostess Wagon and hissed:

Shhhh!

His rebuke echoed through the wagon, and they stopped chatting. Araceli whispered to Rose: Is that the only sound the Marshal can make?

Oh no, he growls and grunts and sometimes laughs wickedly, Rose whispered back. It's really quite scary... but no, he doesn't talk. His tongue doesn't move properly.

It's probably just as well, Kendra sniped. He'd just say something grumpy.

Rose's blunt description and Kendra's assessment bothered the Watcher. I can't talk, but I can still hear, you gossiping minxes. The Watcher growled, low and loudly, and the whispers ceased.

He reached a hand inside the blanket to wag a beckoning finger to Rose. She poked her head out from her station beside the flaps. Yes Deva?

Deva, Deva, Deva… the Watcher understood Rose was using the Afterling Honorific as an attempt to show him respect, a Deva to her cloned Asura—but it was still jarring. In their heretical world view, soft-skinned, unmutated humans of the Insider Empire considered themselves godlike compared to the rough-skinned, virus-mutated Survivors of the Outlaw Nation—Devil-like creatures they called the Damned.

He scowled. Every once in a while, the epithet would still slip out of Rose’s sassy, perfect little mouth…

Devil.

He gazed at that perfect little mouth, currently trying to be not sassy. He wondered what it would call him if this Devil kissed it.

#Scan and report.

Yes Deva, I've been continuously scanning, and I've seen nothing. Do you want me to come out?

#Stay put for now, but keep your voice down and your eyes open. Don't get distracted.

The Watcher grimaced. While he was cooling his heels, he could at least do some research regarding the dangerous drones. Fortunately, he had managed to surreptitiously save back copies of his notes from his internship.

He opened his HeadsUp display:

###ACTIVATING HELPER BOT###

#<3 SPEEXBOT: Hello, I’m Talisa, your comfortingly calm SpeexBot Personna<3

#WATCHER: Talisa, create a schematic; use our previously compiled classified data on Aerial Lethal Global Orthogonic Searchers, and color-code all labels for use with QuikSearch. Activate VisualTrax, and make it top-level accessible with an EZ-Icon.

#<3 TalisaBOT: Right away, Saul<3

#WATCHER: Thank you, Talisa.

#<3 TalisaBot: My pleasure, Saul <3

Talisa's pink heart glowed for a few seconds, then the icon popped up—a bright yellow exclamation point emoji leading to the file, algosschem.hol. The Watcher opened it to study the three-dimensional image, then put in the background; he returned his HeadsUp display to translucent mode, so he could see observe his environment more clearly.

It’s been twenty minutes, the Watcher fumed. Growing impatient, He glanced at his HeadsUp display to check for any messages from Evangelo. Nothing… but the