launched bullet casings as the Gulf Graveyard's form of currency shortly after the Infection. While few could afford his custom built masterpieces, he always drew a crowd.
"It's August twelfth twenty thirty four, first entry of the day, Diary, and I finally got you some new tapes. Sorry it's taken so long. Luckily not too much has happened. Well, I take that back. I found a pretty nice cache of copper piping on a salvage about a month back, and Craven bought all of it, he's such a sweet guy. I can't believe how old he is, nearly fifty from what I've heard. He looks so young, though. Hmm, I wonder if the rumors about him building a chainsaw launcher are true? Oh, that Harvester story teller is setting up; I'll record his story, then tell you about him later." Rose spoke into her cassette recorder before joining the gathering around Spike, the Harvester Loremaster.
Spike was of average height with sandy blonde hair, one of the few Harvesters who chose to not wear a white hoodie. Instead, his uniform consisted of a white t shirt with a red arm band around his upper arm and a red bandana tied around his mouth and nose. He had a table leg with a long railroad spike driven through one end strapped to his back by a belt that crossed his chest, which was itself crossed by a bandoleer. Also slung across his shoulder was a small messenger bag, within which he kept a rather large tome. Spike kept an incredibly thorough record of Blood Oak's history in the tome, along with collected stories and legends told by other Gravers. These stories were what he told the people of the Bazaar on Saturdays. Some tales made the people laugh, but others, like the one Rose was about to hear, were meant as warnings.
"Gather round young and old, listen well to stories told. I tell you now, this tale's a fright. Rethink your plans next storm filled night. The horsemen ride the winds of fear, so listen close and you will hear. Death, Famine, Pestilence, War, terrors few have seen before." Spike began to a round of applause, his rhyming introductions always pleasing the crowd, even when they foretold warnings.
"Stories tell of Hivemind, our Zero, being unlike any other. Those of us who have traveled our ravaged world know him to be truly one of a kind. They say that somewhere inside the beast, still burns the fire of a man, a soul that retains some semblance of humanity. I would wager someone among us has been spared his horrible blade on a night of wicked wind and driving rain. Yet, a Zero he is, and Zeros mustn't be taken lightly." Spike began, the crowd sitting down on the soft grass around him to hear his tale.
"Hivemind is easily as well known for his mercy as he is for his terrible guard. Branded by fear and flesh as the Four Horsemen, Hivemind's constant guardians, and if legend is to be believed, his first victims. Each horseman named first by the terror their presence inspired, soon accounts told of the unexpected accuracy each of their titles held." Spike continued, scanning the crowd, all eyes locked expectantly on him.
"The rider, Death, charred black as night, escape from him with all your might. His shell, burned firm from fire within, not conscience at all to his own sin. Famine, the rider riddled by bruises, test not your wit, he falls to no ruses. Some say battered by his own hand, still he strikes fear all through our land. Pestilence, scarred by the flies from our guns, yet still the terror of our ablest sons. Though you see through him via scars of a battle, he sees you all as a slaughter of cattle. Last though is War, the most terrible of all, who survives our blades, though through his head they fall. Still bloodied today from cuts of the past, all know in battle he'll surely leave last." Spike rhymed once more, eliciting a very different response this
"It's August twelfth twenty thirty four, first entry of the day, Diary, and I finally got you some new tapes. Sorry it's taken so long. Luckily not too much has happened. Well, I take that back. I found a pretty nice cache of copper piping on a salvage about a month back, and Craven bought all of it, he's such a sweet guy. I can't believe how old he is, nearly fifty from what I've heard. He looks so young, though. Hmm, I wonder if the rumors about him building a chainsaw launcher are true? Oh, that Harvester story teller is setting up; I'll record his story, then tell you about him later." Rose spoke into her cassette recorder before joining the gathering around Spike, the Harvester Loremaster.
Spike was of average height with sandy blonde hair, one of the few Harvesters who chose to not wear a white hoodie. Instead, his uniform consisted of a white t shirt with a red arm band around his upper arm and a red bandana tied around his mouth and nose. He had a table leg with a long railroad spike driven through one end strapped to his back by a belt that crossed his chest, which was itself crossed by a bandoleer. Also slung across his shoulder was a small messenger bag, within which he kept a rather large tome. Spike kept an incredibly thorough record of Blood Oak's history in the tome, along with collected stories and legends told by other Gravers. These stories were what he told the people of the Bazaar on Saturdays. Some tales made the people laugh, but others, like the one Rose was about to hear, were meant as warnings.
"Gather round young and old, listen well to stories told. I tell you now, this tale's a fright. Rethink your plans next storm filled night. The horsemen ride the winds of fear, so listen close and you will hear. Death, Famine, Pestilence, War, terrors few have seen before." Spike began to a round of applause, his rhyming introductions always pleasing the crowd, even when they foretold warnings.
"Stories tell of Hivemind, our Zero, being unlike any other. Those of us who have traveled our ravaged world know him to be truly one of a kind. They say that somewhere inside the beast, still burns the fire of a man, a soul that retains some semblance of humanity. I would wager someone among us has been spared his horrible blade on a night of wicked wind and driving rain. Yet, a Zero he is, and Zeros mustn't be taken lightly." Spike began, the crowd sitting down on the soft grass around him to hear his tale.
"Hivemind is easily as well known for his mercy as he is for his terrible guard. Branded by fear and flesh as the Four Horsemen, Hivemind's constant guardians, and if legend is to be believed, his first victims. Each horseman named first by the terror their presence inspired, soon accounts told of the unexpected accuracy each of their titles held." Spike continued, scanning the crowd, all eyes locked expectantly on him.
"The rider, Death, charred black as night, escape from him with all your might. His shell, burned firm from fire within, not conscience at all to his own sin. Famine, the rider riddled by bruises, test not your wit, he falls to no ruses. Some say battered by his own hand, still he strikes fear all through our land. Pestilence, scarred by the flies from our guns, yet still the terror of our ablest sons. Though you see through him via scars of a battle, he sees you all as a slaughter of cattle. Last though is War, the most terrible of all, who survives our blades, though through his head they fall. Still bloodied today from cuts of the past, all know in battle he'll surely leave last." Spike rhymed once more, eliciting a very different response this
Similar Books
