The Temple Of The Leaden Lady

The temple is quite possibly the most important holding in the God-Empresses land, held by Clan Piscatelli, they are also quite possibly the only manufacturer of iron in the whole of Texas, without guns, the God-Empress loses strength, loses authority, without lead all it will take is one curious mutant or cocky gang of raiders to take Rime Rock and so it is Mox’s destination.

The walk to the Temple is always long, not because of long distance but because of the car graveyard that stands between the temple and HQ.

No one quite knows what this place is, there are rumors, sure, most say that it was an old world junkyard, but that doesn’t quite fit as the field of garbage and burnt out vehicles is truly massive and not confined to the walls of a landfill.

To go around it is impractical, Mox would easily increase the travel time from a half a dozen hours to a couple of days of nonstop moving, by then the situation at the temple will have broken down, defenders either dig in or get more time to loot the premises before escaping. Workers will be killed and machinery will be damaged, making the facility worthless.

No, the only way forward is THROUGH, that’s the normal route caravans take when traveling between the two settlements, patrols were tasked with ensuring the path through the graveyard is clear but since their disappearance, there’s no telling just what state the route is in. Come what may, Mox and her companion will just need to adapt to whatever awaits them in that maze of busted rigs and garbage.

There’s the sound of movement over head and once again Blood-Upon-Sand swings down in front of the viewing window, holding her rifle in one hand and grasping a handhold in another.

“I will scout ahead, stay the course” she says before kicking off the front of the mech, disappearing from view and leaving Mox to march on alone.

The cars are stacked high, creating walls that even the mech cannot overcome, forcing Mox to be funneled through lanes that twist and turn, in some places even shifting as several cars have tumbled down from the great piles forcing the mech to climb over the obstacle before continuing on.

There’s the sound of static to Mox’s left, belting out of the radio, a small red light gently blinking on and off before the static cuts off, replaced by the voice of a grizzled older gentleman.

“Hello? Come in Team Sierra” the voice speaks in a heavy accent, one Mox hadn’t heard before in the area.

Reaching over she lays a hand on the boxy radio before pressing two fingers down on a button, opening her side of communication.

“This is The Fist Of The God-Empress, who am I speaking to?” She asks, her words echoing off the walls of the cockpit like she were sitting in a closet.

“My name; it is Constantine and YOU are Team Sierra now, at least until current mission is concluded” he begins his words a deep baritone that when paired with his worlds paint a clear image of the man in Mox’s mind, a great big bear of a man sporting more then his fair share of scars and host to the ever rare quality of old age.

“I require update on progress, where are you right now and what is destination?” He continues, the words taking on a fizzling, static quality as the connection ebbs and flows.

“We’re heading towards Piscatelli turf, we’ve just entered the graveyard” Mox reports, only half paying attention to the radio as she steers the rig around a sharp corner of piled up trucks.

“Understood, be advised; mutants have been sighted in area, last reports indicate horde of 8 individuals” he says, the sound of crinkling paper implying that he’s reading it directly from said report.

Mutants are the product of some poor fucker stepping into the mist hoping to get super powers, instead they lost their minds, mutated into things that only resemble human beings from a distance and as such, mutants are a mixed bag by their very nature.

The radio fizzles and ends with a click, signally the end of the conversation allowing Mox to focus on maneuvering her rig through the obstacle course of piled up garbage and long abandoned vehicles, coming to a series of tires piled up in such a way to **** Mox through an S shaped path through the mass of sun baked rubber.

There’s a noise high up on the ridge of one of piled up cars, a disturbance that rattles the stack of compacted garbage and ancient automobiles, a side mirror clatters down from the pile and lands in the path of the mech with a crunch. Turning to the source of the commotion though, Mox cannot see anything.

In the far distance Mox can hear gun fire, loud and slow, she knows all too well who the shooter is, though that’s hardly a source of comfort.

She continues on, the heat from the desert sun beating down in the mech creating a hot car effect inside, sweat drips down from Mox’s brow as she drives the rig forwards, each step disturbing layers of dust and sand, each locomotion accompanied by the sound of hissing hydraulics and dull thumping of heavy steel pounding the dried out earth below.

While the sight of the great engine of war might scare petty raiders and desert rats off, mutants are not rational combatants, they do not care about numbers or advantages, they hardly take their own safety into account when spotting a potential meal, they are driven almost solely by their desire to feed and their desire to mate.

What’s more, they’re crafty, a few of them still retain a modicum of resourcefulness, they lay traps, collect potential weapons and do what they can to gather protective gear. Perhaps that is why they are such a threat, creatures of the rifts rarely think like humans, they don’t gather weapons or form primitive tribes, they simply act as their nature entails.

In the distance there’s a howl, one that cuts through the relative silence of the graveyard, a throaty, wild cry that speaks of mindless hunger and irrational rage. There’s not a man alive who could make such a feral roar. Mox’s grip on her controls tightens slightly as she presses on, it’s far too late to consider a stealthy approach. The eyes are on her now.

Up ahead the winding path of the maze widens, turning from a corridor to a kind of chamber, one that hosts several large piles of junk, piled high in pyramids of weathered plastic, burnt rubber and rusted, jagged metal. Mox can make out a teddy bear amongst one such pile, stained and ripped and trapped amongst the debris, in a tomb made from a turned over shopping cart.

It’s then Mox notices the faces poking over the stacks of cars that line the walls of this chamber, like wildlife looking into a forest clearing, watching her with the hungry intensity of starving animals.

Their faces are lopsided and deformed, baring only traces of their former selves, brows are distended and jaws are either too large or hideously malformed. Their eyes are as varied as the rest of their forms.

Some are bloodshot, others sporting the milky white of cataracts or are yellowed and jaundiced, most tragically however are the ones that look so human, with only a small flicker of light swirling inside them.

That howl sounds again like the call to war, this time far closer as several of the lopsided, deformed heads rise over the top like soldiers mounting trenches, revealing the fullest extent of their deformities, additional limbs, arms or legs that do not end in hands or feet but instead in flippers or blunt nubs.

Their bodies, are host to disgusting growths like cancerous tumors that hang off their torsos, legs and necks, they clearly have no respect for modesty as they bare their flesh, worse still it seems their more intimate areas weren’t left untouched by mutation.

Feet slam into the dirt, the only weapons to their name being a collection of rusted pipes, jagged shards of metal, bricks and long empty glass bottles. What little armor they wear is made from similarly improvised components, hubcaps cover bellies, bent license plates are used as bracers, a few of the mutants were able to fit their heads into bicycle or motorcycle helmets, their skulls thankfully just normal enough to allow their use.

They number in the tens, and that’s only the ones Mox can see straight ahead, no doubt there are others lurking, holding just enough self control to hang back and watch how the initial engagement goes.

As they charge forward Mox has an opportunity to consider her approach to dealing with the mutants…