Alive and Fighting: Revelations
August, 2034
"How much for the blank tapes?" Rose asked, showing the caravan trader what she'd picked from his wares.
"I only accept trade, sorry," The trader replied from the driver's seat of his cow and goat drawn cart. "Have anything you're willing to part with? Scrap metal, weapons, books, actually clean water'd be great. I'm headed to the Alamo Graveyard after this, water's better than bullets out there."
"How much water do you want for the tapes?" Rose inquired, several mason jars of fresh, clean water wrapped snuggly in her messenger bag.
"Eh, not too many people need tapes anymore, fuckin' no one back in Rushmore wanted'em," The trader began, rubbing his bristly chin. "Half a liter sound good?"
"Have a tank or bottle or something I can pour it into?" Rose asked, removing a half liter jar from her bag.
"Yep, there's a big ol' plastic tank in back…anything else I can do for you?" The trader asked as Rose poured the jar’s contents into the large plastic water tank.
"No thanks, I've got everything I need now. You mentioned the Rushmore Graveyard, how much land does it cover?" Rose wondered, returning to collect her tapes.
"Well that depends, are you asking a Blackfoot or a Pale One?" The trader inquired, confusing Rose completely.
"Uh…whichever you prefer." Rose responded, fitting a tape into her old cassette recorder.
"The Pale Ones say it stretches from Arkansas all the way into Canada, and from Ohio to Nebraska. Blackfeet say the same thing, but tell you to get off their land, then five seconds later they start shooting." The trader explained with a chuckle.
"Wow…well I'm glad you were able to make it here. I've been out of tapes for close to three months now." Rose said, as the trader was cleaning his sunglasses.
"I'm happy to be of service, with any luck I'll be back soon enough. It was nice meeting you." The trader said, tipping his battered gray Stetson hat with a smile that Rose returned.
Leaving the trader’s cart, Rose looked over the market that had recently begun gathering at the intersection of North Boulevard and Third Street. The area used to be a small gathering place where local bands would play and people could walk from the numerous nearby bars and restaurants to hear them, before the Infection spread. Now, it was but a disjointed reflection in a broken mirror compared to what it had once been. Even amidst all the dangers Blood Oak had to offer, the Crossroad Bazaar was something pleasant. Harvester and Grey Klan, Vulture and Great Ape, even Reapers, all laid aside their arms here and recognized it as safe zone, a place of armistice, if only for the brief time at the Bazaar.
The stalls were simple, gathered in a few crude rows. Some merchants had built lean-tos of sheet metal and plywood, whereas others were just sheets held up by tent poles, but each had a bounty of goods available. From fresh produce from urban gardens and fish from the Mississippi River, to salvaged metal and timber, the local population of Graveyarders, also called Gravers, were hard pressed to not see something useful under a stand's awning. The jewel of the Crossroad Bazaar was, without a doubt, the stand belonging to Craven. His stall bore signs of professional construction not seen since before the Infection that had taken most of the world from the brink of death into a horrible state of undeath. Craven, unlike most other vendors, sold only one type of ware, and that was guns. Widely regarded among those skilled enough to build firearms, Craven was THE Gunsmith, not A gunsmith. He was the one who had
August, 2034
"How much for the blank tapes?" Rose asked, showing the caravan trader what she'd picked from his wares.
"I only accept trade, sorry," The trader replied from the driver's seat of his cow and goat drawn cart. "Have anything you're willing to part with? Scrap metal, weapons, books, actually clean water'd be great. I'm headed to the Alamo Graveyard after this, water's better than bullets out there."
"How much water do you want for the tapes?" Rose inquired, several mason jars of fresh, clean water wrapped snuggly in her messenger bag.
"Eh, not too many people need tapes anymore, fuckin' no one back in Rushmore wanted'em," The trader began, rubbing his bristly chin. "Half a liter sound good?"
"Have a tank or bottle or something I can pour it into?" Rose asked, removing a half liter jar from her bag.
"Yep, there's a big ol' plastic tank in back…anything else I can do for you?" The trader asked as Rose poured the jar’s contents into the large plastic water tank.
"No thanks, I've got everything I need now. You mentioned the Rushmore Graveyard, how much land does it cover?" Rose wondered, returning to collect her tapes.
"Well that depends, are you asking a Blackfoot or a Pale One?" The trader inquired, confusing Rose completely.
"Uh…whichever you prefer." Rose responded, fitting a tape into her old cassette recorder.
"The Pale Ones say it stretches from Arkansas all the way into Canada, and from Ohio to Nebraska. Blackfeet say the same thing, but tell you to get off their land, then five seconds later they start shooting." The trader explained with a chuckle.
"Wow…well I'm glad you were able to make it here. I've been out of tapes for close to three months now." Rose said, as the trader was cleaning his sunglasses.
"I'm happy to be of service, with any luck I'll be back soon enough. It was nice meeting you." The trader said, tipping his battered gray Stetson hat with a smile that Rose returned.
Leaving the trader’s cart, Rose looked over the market that had recently begun gathering at the intersection of North Boulevard and Third Street. The area used to be a small gathering place where local bands would play and people could walk from the numerous nearby bars and restaurants to hear them, before the Infection spread. Now, it was but a disjointed reflection in a broken mirror compared to what it had once been. Even amidst all the dangers Blood Oak had to offer, the Crossroad Bazaar was something pleasant. Harvester and Grey Klan, Vulture and Great Ape, even Reapers, all laid aside their arms here and recognized it as safe zone, a place of armistice, if only for the brief time at the Bazaar.
The stalls were simple, gathered in a few crude rows. Some merchants had built lean-tos of sheet metal and plywood, whereas others were just sheets held up by tent poles, but each had a bounty of goods available. From fresh produce from urban gardens and fish from the Mississippi River, to salvaged metal and timber, the local population of Graveyarders, also called Gravers, were hard pressed to not see something useful under a stand's awning. The jewel of the Crossroad Bazaar was, without a doubt, the stand belonging to Craven. His stall bore signs of professional construction not seen since before the Infection that had taken most of the world from the brink of death into a horrible state of undeath. Craven, unlike most other vendors, sold only one type of ware, and that was guns. Widely regarded among those skilled enough to build firearms, Craven was THE Gunsmith, not A gunsmith. He was the one who had
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