Wasteland Warlords Episode 2 - 4 Search for the Sooq

Their eclectic party headed deeper into the urban sprawl, following Bacon Bits’s directions. Instead of being overshadowed by taller and denser buildings the farther in they got, they found themselves surrounded by higher and higher piles of rubble. Huge swathes of the city looked as though they had been carpet bombed. Burned-out vehicles littered the street—where there still was street to walk on.

In places, the potholes had turned into sinkholes that swallowed entire blocks. From the dank, shadowy sewers below, glowing reptilian eyes blinked up at them, watching as they carefully edged their way around the crumbling asphalt. Clay kept his M4 tucked up in his shoulder pocket, at the ready. They seemed to be waiting for full dark to fall, but he didn’t want to be surprised if some of them decided to come out early.

They kept on the move through the night, constantly checking back over their shoulders and listening for the telltale buzz of drones.

As the sun rose the next morning, heat waves followed it up from the cracked asphalt. The sea breeze didn’t offer much relief, just blew in the tantalizing, salty smell of cool water beyond their reach.

A little before noon, Clay spotted signs for a school zone. Under an ancient overpass, he caught sight of an overgrown football field, dilapidated baseball diamond, and a circular track that had seen its best days decades ago. A pair of horse-like creatures galloped around the lanes, chatting in low voices to each other as they ran. One let out a whinnying laugh.

Clay let the rest of the party know they were there, but didn’t suggest going after them. They weren’t threatening, and, at least for the time being, they didn’t seem any more dangerous than the yuppies around St. Louis who loved to start their mornings with a jog. Sure, it was annoying to be reminded that you could use more cardio while you were trying to enjoy your morning donut and coffee, but that wasn’t a reason to kill someone, even if they were monsters.

“There,” Bacon Bits said, pointing her chipped hoof toward an open field to the east. “We have arrived just in time to get the drop on them.”

Clay followed her line of sight, but didn’t see anything that resembled a dungeon. The place looked more like it had been an old solar field back before the Merge. Shattered panes of dark glass littered the field, and thick gray electrical cords had been pulled up from the hardpacked desert dirt. Here and there, the metal posts the solar panels had been mounted on still stood. A few had numbers on them in runny spray paint. Weird choice of graffiti, but not exactly scary.

No monsters. No dungeon.

Clay glanced over his shoulder at the pig, still safely cuddled in Alex’s arms.

“Where’s this thing supposed to…” His question trailed off as a deep rumbling shook the ground beneath his boots.

From beneath the overpass rolled an enormous vehicle that fell somewhere between a battleship and a space shuttle transport. The little round RV satellite dish planted on the pinnacle of the metal monstrosity narrowly passed below the concrete flyover. Black solar panel glass crunched beneath its CAT 797F Haul Truck tires as it nosed its way onto the open field. Clay couldn’t imagine steering a hulk like that, but whoever was at the helm guided it nimbly between the numbered metal poles.

With a creak and hiss of air brakes, the massive battlewagon lurched to a stop at the center of the field next to the spray-painted number 1.

Clay’s first instinct was to attribute this monstrosity to a new attack from Lynes, but the grunginess of the beast didn’t fit with the Gearhead’s M.O. All the Incant’s non-animal creations were sleek and shining.

More evidence rolled onto the field behind the battle wagon.

“It’s not alone,” he finished the thought out loud as he twisted back toward the overpass.

“That’s an understatement,” Alex said softly.

Joe whistled under his breath, squinting at the armada of inbound battle vehicles.

There were so damned many of them, and all of them were as unique and varied as the creatures who piloted them.

Finally, the significance of the poles and numbers clicked in Clay’s head. It was a campground. Each pole denoted a site.

Massive diesel-pusher RVs rolled in after the battle wagon, then shining retro Airstreams reflecting the last rays of sun. Behind them came tiny teardrop campers pulled by old but well cared for trucks and jeeps, and bulky camper vans strapped with rattling pots and pans and grills. An old Indian rumbled in towing a tiny one-person pop up, which would be more than enough room for the pair of pint-sized gobbos riding double on its leather seat.

Every single vehicle in that strange caravan was being driven by wasteland creatures. Gray bearded goat demons in Hawaiian shirts watched their mirrors as they backed their rigs into the designated camping spots. Owlbears in short sleeve button-ups and khaki shorts hopped out of their jeeps, chocked their wheels, and began cranking out slides and rolling down awnings. Clay even spotted a stooped bipedal tortoise in denim overalls guiding in an old converted school bus.

“Behold, the Sooq!” Bacon Bits squeaked, wriggling in Alex’s grasp. “We must move to a position of power before they have time to put down stakes!”

“Those are leveling jacks, not stakes,” Joe said. “And since they’re electric, doesn’t look like we’re going to beat them to it.” He gave an appreciative grunt. “Damn, automatic leveling and dual AC. Imagine the price tag on that puppy. We shoulda been a dungeon, then we could afford to mosey around this wasteland in style.”

Clay eyed Bacon Bits. “You’re sure this place can be reasoned with? They’re sure as hell dressed for war, and they could have anything hidden in those campers. Rifles, mortars, rocket launchers—hell, bigger monsters.” They’d have to have some bigger monsters somewhere in there, because what he was seeing right now amounted to the equivalent of a bunch of retirees tooling around setting up barbecues and lawn chairs.

“Without one such as me to lend you credence?” Bacon Bits said, puffing up her tiny body. “You would not stand a chance. But with a powerful dungeon lord such as the Great Blue Wyrm on your side, they will not dare attack without giving us an audience.”

Out in the solar field-turned-campground, a minotaur in a floppy-brimmed sunhat started setting up a horseshoe pitch.

“Maybe it’s just an illusion,” Joe said, shifting his weight uncertainly, “but these people don’t exactly look all that dangerous.”

Clay had to admit his brother had a point. Sure, they looked like monsters, but if the wasteland had taught Clay anything, it was that looks could be deceiving. The room service cart that ended up trying to eat him in the Bakersfield Mariott had been lesson enough. Besides, some of the worst monsters he’d encountered so far were of the human variety. Griff had insisted that not all the things that had come from Hearthworld were evil or bad—he himself was a prime example. Altogether, the most defense the Sooq was mounting was a pair of sentries roaming the perimeter of the solar field—and even those guys looked like they were a few decades past their prime.

“Nope, no illusions down there.” Griff, who’d been silently casting his good eye back and forth between the rumbling caravan and the little pig, finally spoke up. “Well, unless you count one or two a’ them gals makin’ themselves look a little younger’n their years.” He fixed his keen blue gaze on Clay. “Way I figure it, there’s two kinda dungeons out here in the wasteland. One that’s just itchin’ to chew up and spit out raiders, and one that don’t bother you if you don’t bother it. Some of us done the fussin’ and fightin’ thing already, and now we just want to live the rest of our lives out peaceable.”

“Like retirees,” Alex said.

The old weed chuckled. “Aye, lass, just like that.”

“Tiki hut!” Joe stabbed a finger at the colorful thatched bar folding out of the battlewagon’s massive armor-plated side. “Nobody who runs a tiki hut can be evil.” He turned his head to the mechacoon hitching a ride on his shoulder. “Remember that, Chonk. That’s one of my five life rules that have never led me astray.”

“All right,” Clay said, pushing down the images of what might happen if they were wrong and everything in this place opened fire when they walked in. “Let’s see if we can’t find somebody down there willing to talk to us.”

Even though they were heading into the caravan just to talk, Clay kept his M4 ready to rock, just in case everything went sideways. In their short time in the IZ, they had learned a clear display that they weren’t pushovers was the safest way to do business. Joe followed suit, keeping Bertha in hand, but didn’t fire up the chainsaw yet, and Chonk kept his hedge trimmer off for the time being. Alex was still carrying the pig, but Clay knew if things turned sour, she and Griff could take care of themselves.

A team of sentries from the western edge of the solar field moved to intercept them. Clay kept an eye on their trigger fingers—or trigger hooves and trigger feathers, in this case—as they approached. Two rifles packed by an aging goat demon and owl-bear, both of whom looked like heavyweight fighters past their prime, and a stumpy little balding imp with a wand and an attitude twice the size of his buddies.

“Y’all can stop right there, er you can die right there,” the imp drawled, taking a defensive stance and aiming the wand at them. “Yer choice.”

“We’re not here to make trouble.” Clay put up his hands, without taking them too far from his rifle. “We were hoping to talk to your leader about an artifact we’re looking for.”

“And just whoooo,” the owl-bear demanded, “may we say is calling?”

Bacon Bits raised her chin in a dignified stare. “The Great Blue Wyrm of Santa Clarita.”

“Never heard of it,” said the imp.

“You must be joking!” the little pig spluttered, squirming awkwardly in Alex’s arms. “Why I am known from the mountains of the wasteland to the sea! My supreme reign struck terror into all who passed my way.” She shot an embarrassed glare at Alex. “These fools are mistaken, that is all.”

“Ever heard of Lumberjack Joe and his faithful sidekick Chonk?” Joe said, tipping an imaginary cap. “We’re kind of famous.”

The sentries stared, completely unimpressed.

Griff slipped to the front of their party.

“We’re just some folks interested in buyin’, if you’re interested in sellin’,” the old weed explained. “Might be, I did a fair bit of business with the Troll Nation, back in yesteryear.”

The imp’s ears perked up at that. He frowned, forehead furrowed in consideration. He spat a brown stream of chew into the dirt, then jerked his head at the goat demon. With a bleat, the bruiser hoofed it through the campground toward the battlewagon.

Joe grinned at the rifle-toting owl-bear. “So. Hot enough out here for ya?”

Alex shot Clay a look—the usual he’s your brother—and Clay braced himself for this to erupt in fire and chaos and bloodshed. Joe was a friendly guy, the kind of guy who never really made the connection between the appropriate time for small talk and a good time to shut up.

But the owl-bear replied, “Ninety-eight yesterday in the shade. We had to stop off in Oxnard so the older RVs wouldn’t overheat.”

Joe’s eyes lit up. “You guys are driving campers with that old-timey coolant system? What make do you have?”

“A feeeeew different transmissions across the board,” the owl-bear said gesturing to the sprawl of vehicles littering the field, “but the worst are the Dolphins.”

“No way!” Joe slapped the owl-bear’s bugling arm muscles. “I lived in a Dolphin for years! It didn’t go anywhere—I bought it for parts and swapped out its engine for my truck’s—they both had that old 460 V8, you know?—but its beauty was on the inside. That shower-toilet combo was slick as hell.” He sighed. “Those were the days.”

In Alex’s arms, Bacon Bits looked on aghast. “Why are we discussing dwelling inside water mammals and the area’s climate? These things have nothing to do with our objective.”

“Because old men love to talk about the weather,” Joe told her, rolling his eyes. “Everybody knows that.”

“So… you are attempting to make an ally?” Bacon Bits asked, sounding supremely unconvinced.

“No, I’m attempting to make a buddy. They’re more valuable than allies, ’cuz you can drink with ’em.”

Before the teacup pig could respond, the goat demon returned, huffing and puffing from the exertion. They must not see much action for him to be out of breath after a little jaunt like that. Maybe the battlewagon was enough to scare potential attackers off.

“Tajira said she’ll see you kids,” he announced. “But you have to you leave your weapons out here with us.”