From the Future, to the Future
By Chris Van Deelen
"Fireblast!" Exclaims the tall, scarred man as he races through the heavy forest, jumping and leaping over rocks and fallen trees. Every so often he glances over his shoulder, trying to pinpoint his pursuers.
The man is powerfully built, a couple of inches over six feet in height. He has short, deep brown hair, deep grey eyes set in a broad, scarred face. He is wearing faded combat fatigues and combat boots.
He hears a high pitch yell coming from no less than a dozen yards to his right. Without pausing, his gaze covers the area where the noise came from, looking for movement. Other than the occasional yell and the noise made by his pursuers as they chase after him, the early evening forest is silent.
He raises his right hand, in which he is holding an HK MP5PDW Submachine gun. He fires off a quick three round burst of 9mm hollow points in the direction of the sound. The rounds tear through the underbrush, but he is not rewarded with a scream of pain.
He continues to run, his heart racing, labouring to keep his muscles laced with oxygen. In the Deathlands, if you aren’t in excellent shape, you get chilled real fast. But even with the shape this man is in, he is nearly at his limits. He has been running for nearly an hour solid over rugged terrain.
He continues to race through the underbrush. His mind wandering back to how he got into this predicament.
He used to be a gunner on War Wag One, the mobile command post of Trader, probably the most feared, admired, hated, and loved man in all of the Deathlands. After a treacherous attack near the ville of Mocsin which wiped out the entire convoy, all except War Wag one. The survivors, lead by Trader and his two captains, Ryan Cawdor and J.B. Dix, travelled deep into the Darks in what used to be Montana, in search of a fabled ‘gateway’ that was supposed to be a way out of the Deathlands.
Trader was dying of rad cancer, eating his guts. One night while the survivors made camp, he picked up his old battered armalite and walked off into the night. That is the last time anyone ever saw the man. Shortly afterwards Ryan, J.B., Henn, Finn, Okie, Hunacker, Doc Tanner, Krysty. Abe, and Koll all left on foot to travel the rest of the route to this hidden gateway. That was nearly three months ago, and it is assumed that they either discovered the gateways, or they are dead. In the Deathlands, the latter is the most likely scenario.
He, Cohn, and the other dozen survivors waited a total of one hundred hours before they left, returning to Traders Established trade routes, attempting to rebuild the convoy, and pick up where Trader left off. They had some success, after all, they do know where Trader had caches of ammo, weapons, food, and other good stashed, as well as the location of several redoubts which were still stocked with literally tons of pre-freeze tech.
They found themselves in what used to be the western part of Michigan, on the outskirts of what used to be the Manistee national forest. They know that there was a cache of located near the ruined ville of Rothbury. They had planned to re-arm the weapons, stock up on fuel and food, and continue on their way. It never happened.
The muties must have been around the last time the cache was used, because as they opened it and entered the muties attacked without warning, without hesitation. Every one of the muties stood at no less than six feet, six inches tall. They were incredibly thin, and the most disturbing feature was their heads. The heads were elongated, almost like a banana, totally bald. The eyes were set deep in the face, and jet black. Their mouths were wide and filled with tiny, serrated teeth. They had slightly pointed ears, but no nose to speak of, not even an opening where the nose would otherwise be. They had seven fingers on each hand. The fingers were long and tapered, with no less than eight joints.
As for clothing and weapons, they wore animal skins and tanned leather hides for boots. They were armed with spears, knives and clubs, nothing that would pose a threat to a man with a blaster, but with surprise on their side, the muties had a distinct advantage, that could very well chill the entire party.
The man being chased was off relieving himself after the long haul when the attack took place. He barely had time to zip up before a half dozen of these strange muties burst out of the bush around him. With reflexes honned from years of fighting and surviving, he was able to cut down four of the muties with his submachine gun, burning out nearly an entire clip of the precious hollow point rounds.
One of the two survivors threw its spear, missing the man’s face by a hair. Trader used to say that there is a time to fight, but more importantly, was the time when you decided not to fight. He barely had a chance to see that the rest of the party from War Wag One was busy trying to fight off the attackers, as at least another half dozen muties began to advance towards the man. He turned heel and ran, hoping to not only escape the attack, but get some of the muties to give chase, leaving that many less for Cohn and his friends to deal with. Unfortunately for him, it worked better than he had imagined.
Over the past hour, he ran, occasionally stopping to fire a burst at any of the pursuers who managed to get too close. By his estimate, he has managed to chill no less than another seven of the strange muties. It just wasn’t enough.
Just ahead of him, he spots what appears to be a small cliff, rising about one hundred feet into the air. The cliff is covered in small plants, and trees are all around it. He turns and makes his way to the cliff face. He is nearly at the end of his rope and would rather face the muties and chill as many as possible before they send him on the last train to the coast.
He reaches the cliff and turns around, scanning the forest for his pursuers. His breath comes out in heavy gasps, misting the air around him as the heat meets the cold. He spots the first of his pursuers a few seconds later.
Without hesitation, he lifts his MP 5 and fires a burst at the mutie, hitting it in the stomach. The hollow points hit, driving deep into the muties guts, splintering as they travel. The energy of the rounds impacting through the mutie back several feet as his guts are turned into jelly by the rounds. The mutie drops, screaming in pain. The wound is fatal, but it will take a long time for the mutie to die.
A second, then a third mutie race into the clearing near the man. Holding the submachine gun in both hands at his hips, he flicks the selector from burst to full auto with his thumb. He squeezes the trigger and pours at least a dozen rounds into the muties. The first mutie takes two rounds to the chest and one to the neck, nearly decapitating him. The mutie behind is sprayed with blood and gobs of torn flesh. The mutie behind the first is spared a similar fate. The second mutie takes four rounds, two in the stomach, one in the upper arm, and one grazes the mans face, breaking off several teeth, and neatly pulping the eye with splinters. Both wounded muties go down.
The man smiles a grim, predatory smile and squeezes the trigger once again, but to his surprise and horror, the gun locks open, the magazine spent. "Fuck!" He shouts as he drops the MP 5, and claws at the leather holster containing his hand blaster, a IMI Desert Eagle 44 calibre blaster. A big automatic with enough stopping power to drop a mutie buffalo at thirty paces.
The mutie, seeing the mans predicament, laughs an harsh, guttural laugh. "Chill you Outlander!" He snarls and raises his primitive knife, charges towards the man before he is able to clear the blaster from its holster.
The attack is quite fast, but poorly executed. The man is unable to dodge the mutie, but reaches up and grabs the arm wielding the knife. The muties impact is jarring, slamming both into the cliff face behind the man. He grunts in pain as the sharp face of the cliff digs into his back.
The mutie leans forward and digs its teeth right into his shoulder. The man is unable to suppress the scream of surprise and pain. He can feel the muties acidic saliva begin to burn its way into the wound on his shoulder. The muties stench is nearly overpowering. It was a smell of unwashed bodies, and rotted meat.
In desperation, he angles the holster up and pulls the trigger. The heavy calibre round smashes into the muties leg, splintering the bone and passing through the other side. Its just what the doctor ordered. The muties teeth unclench as it screams its own pain. The man angles the big blaster up slightly higher, and squeezes the trigger again, this time the round smashes right through the muties groin, destroying its manhood and testicles. The pain and shock from the wound is far too much for the mutie and it collapses unconscious.
He pulls the blaster out of his ruined holster and fires once, pulping the muties elongated skull, sending it to buy the farm. The body convulses once, then lies still.
He stops, crouches down and scans the surrounding trees. No further sign of pursuit. He steps forward and picks up his discarded submachine gun, and ejects the spent magazine. He reaches to his web gear and opens up the magazine pouch attached. Its empty. The man frowns, and closes it. He slings the weapon and keeps the Desert Eagle ready.
He grimaces as the wound on his shoulder flares, the acid still slowly eating away at the flesh. He pulls his shirt open and yanks out his canteen, pouring half of the contents over the wound, washing away the acid.
Finally, he turns around and inspects the cliff face the mutie slammed him into. His jaw drops to the ground as he notices that part of the cliff face has broken away to reveal a section of clear metal. Intrigued, he grabs a section of the jagged rock face and tugs on it. It breaks off, revealing a little more of the metal. Determined to see just what it is that he has discovered, he continues to work at the wall.
After five minutes, he has cleared away enough rock to reveal a small metal doorway. He is unable to see any sort of handle or sec device to open it from the outside. Over the years he has seen everything from standard key locks, to punch pads, and retina scanners. The only time he has seen a door like this is when it was to be opened from the inside only.
He reaches into the jacket and removes a small block of plas-ex. He moulds it into small strips, placing it all around the outside of the doorway. He then places the detonator in the explosives and steps away from the door, far enough so the blast will not harm him, but not too deep into the forest to risk contact with the mutie hunting party.
Holding the remote in his right hand, he places his hands over his ears and opens his mouth, a trick taught to him by J.B. Dix when it comes to dealing with explosives. He hits the switch and ducks as the explosives go off, covering the area with dust and pelting the trees with small chunks of rock and metal.
When the dust clears, the man walks over to the doorway and inspects his handiwork. The explosives did their job admirably. The door was blown right off its hinges, revealing a long corridor, which stretches about as far as he can see. The corridor is lit, but all the light strips within ten yards of the doorway were blown out from the explosion.
Cautiously he enters the corridor, stepping over the jagged remains of the door. He sneezes as he breathes in the dust from the explosion. He rubs his nose and slowly makes his way down the corridor, holding his Desert Eagle out in front of him, just in case.
The corridor stretches for over three hundred yards. It ends at another large metal doorway. Unlike the door he just blew open, this doorway has keypad set into the wall. He glances at it, knowing that the combination could take him years to figure out. He reaches into his jacket for more Plas Ex. "Dark night! Am I gonna run out of everything?" He curses in disgust.
He turns around and is about to leave the redoubt when he spots something out of the corner of his eye. He stops and glances at the wall, just at eye level. Someone, in the past, probably just after the Skydark was kind enough to leave a message painted in red paint on the wall. He reads it to himself.
Over his years of travelling throughout the Deathlands he has seen numerous messages like this in various redoubts and installations. The reason why so many people did this is lost in the ashes of the long night.
He counts his blessing, crosses his fingers and punches the code into the keypad. The sec door slides smoothly up into the ceiling.
With a final glance over his shoulder, he enters the facility. Once inside, he finds himself in another corridor, this one running to his left and right. Along the corridor are a number of doorways, each one closed. No map of the redoubt is visible, and no tags are on the doors. He shrugs his shoulders and winces in pain. Time to explore this triple weird redoubt.
He takes the corridor to his right and slowly walks down it, his gun still held ready. A sound from behind him causes him to whirl, the blaster up and ready to spit death at who ever followed him in. To his embarrassment and relief, it is only the sec door closing.
He spends the next hour walking through the corridors, checking out each and every room he comes to. Nearly all of the rooms were offices, all fully furnished and looking as if the occupant had only stepped out for a coffee.
Finally he comes to a large junction. To his delight he spots a map hanging from the walls. He studies it over carefully, noting where the store rooms, armouries, and quarters were kept. From the map, it appears to cover three levels, and is nearly a mile across, by nearly a mile and a half wide. Its going to take quite a while to explore it, but if he is lucky, Cohn and the rest may still be nearby and the discovery of this new pre-winter redoubt will prove to be invaluable.
First things first. He wants to re-stock on ammunition, explosives and food, and then maybe get a good night rest before continuing to explore the redoubt. He studies the map, notes the location of the armoury medical center and the dormitories, and then heads in that direction.
A short while later he locates the armouries. Opening the door he walks into the first of many rooms. His jaw drops as he glances about. Nearly every weapon has been removed. Shelves fill each room. These shelves at one time would have held thousands of blasters, sec wag chillers, grens, missiles, and other weapons, only a handful of crates remain.
The first crate he opens contains nothing but spare magazines for a blaster, not even any ammunition. He kicks the crate with his boot in frustration. He searches through all the crates in the various chambers, only managing to find a pair of hi ex grens, and about eighty rounds of nine-millimetre regular ammunition for his HK MP5. Not very much, but every last round helps.
In the second last chamber he discovers a crate hidden amongst a pile of trash. He carefully pulls it out, fearing that the last people to leave may have boobied it. He inspects the exterior carefully before finally opening it up. He is rewarded with a brand new SPAS 15 assault shotgun, with a spare half dozen magazines and three boxes containing twenty rounds of double O buckshot. He eagerly scoops up the weapon, loads the magazines with the ammunition, putting the left over rounds in his pockets.
He grins at his new blaster. "Can’t wait to try you out." He says out loud as he sights the weapon in. Satisfied, he slings the scattergun and heads back into the corridor, intent on locating food and a place to sleep, as well as to check out the medical center to take care of the wound.
About ten minutes later he locates the mess hall and dormitories. He enters the kitchen first and rummages through the cabinets. As he figured, they were fully stocked with self-heats and bottled water. He grabs a self-heat of steak and herb noodles and another of corn on the cob with fresh peas and sits down at one of the many tables to eat.
He downs both in record time, not realising just how hungry he was. Must have been all that running he thinks. As he eats he thinks about Cohn and the rest of the crew of War Wag One. He seriously hopes that they were able to fight off the strange muties they encountered, and not ended up paying the ferryman.
A slight scraping sound behind him causes him to whirl around. A yelp escapes his lips as the wound on his shoulder is pulled, breaking off part of the dried blood. He sees nothing. Slowly he pushes the chair back, wincing at the scraping sound it makes. He takes the SPAS 15 in both hands and creeps towards the open door.
He crouches at the mouth of the door, and peers into the corridor. To his relief, he doesn’t see a thing. He relaxes and stands up. Without warning, a hand smashes down from above, connecting solidly with his wounded shoulder. The blow knocks him to his knees, and causes him to lose grip on the scattergun. It goes sliding off down the corridor to his left. The agony is so intense it nearly causes him to black out.
The attacker, another one of the strange muties, lets itself fall from its perch just above the door. It lands lightly next to the fallen man and leers down, its acidic saliva dripping to the floor. "You chill many us, outlander." It growls. "I chill you, you meat for us now."
The words break through the haze of pain clouding his thoughts. Still on his knees, he slips his hand down to the knife sheathed on his belt. He feels as the muties long fingers wrap around his shoulder and as they haul him to his feet. The mutie turns him around to face him, it leers as it pulls him closer. "You chilled now outlander." It hisses in malevolently.
"I don’t think so stupe." He snarls as he whips the sixteen-inch serrated edged knife from its sheath. Without a second thought he slams the blade into the muties stomach. With a savage yank, he pulls the curved blade up through its stomach, and intestines, destroying its heart and tearing open one of its lungs. Hot blood flows like water from a tap over his hands.
The muties eyes widen in surprise and shock at the sudden attack. A pathetic squeak emerges from its toothy maw as it lets go of his shoulders and tries to cover the hideous wound with its hands. It slips to its knees, the blood flowing from the wound and congealing around its rag clad feet. With a look of sheer hatred it pitches forward onto its face. The mutie shudders once and then is forever still.
He leans forward and wipes the curved blade clean on the muties rags. The pain from his badly abused shoulder causes him to stumble, nearly falling over. His pain drenched mind recalls that a medi centre is not too far from the dormitories and mess hall.
Half-blind from the pain, he barely remembers the journey thought the corridors to the redoubts medical facility. He pushes the door open and stumbles in, nearly tripping over the table near the doorway. He nearly passes out. He turns his body so that he is facing the doorway and props the scattergun on his leg, the barrel facing the entrance. He allows himself to rest of several minutes.
After about a half-hour, the pain and nausea subside, enabling him to get to his feet. He walks over to the medical cabinet. Through the smoky glass, he can see packages of gauss and other medical supplies. With his right hand he grabs the knob and pulls. The door is locked.
He removes his IMI desert eagle and smashes the glass out with the butt of the big hand blaster. Still using the weapon, he smashes the jagged pieces of glass out of the frame ensuring that he will not cut himself as he removes the supplies.
To his pain filled delight, the cabinet is filled with rolls of gauss, tape, and antibiotic soaked pads. He places the SPAS 15 on the counter and carefully removes his blood soaked jacket and shirt. He looks at the badly bruised and bloodied wound, wincing as he notices that a portion of the muties teeth broke off and is buried in the flesh.
Pulling open one of the many drawers on the counter he quickly locates the instruments he needs. He takes the bandages, instruments and tape over to the sink and gets to work. First, he thoroughly washes the wound, and then removes the jagged tooth. Then with great care he places the medicated pads over the wound, covering the pads with the clean gauss, finally taping the whole bandage closed so its dirt free and secure.
With another glance to the door to make sure that he doesn’t have any unexpected visitors, he grabs his torn and blood soaked shirt and jacket and beings to clean them off. Soon, not only is the wound treated and bandaged, but his clothing is clean.
Knowing that the wound will need to be changed and cleaned on a regular basis, he searches through the medical centre until he locates a small bag. He fills the bag with several packages of the medicated pads, a half dozen rolls of clean gauss, a couple of rolls of tape. As well he grabs a bottle of broad band antibiotics and painies, as well as a bottle of rubbing alcohol and clean instruments. Finally, he grabs a small package of sutures and rolls of suture line, just in case.
He new a man on war wag three who got his hand bit by a small mutie weasel. The bite didn’t seem to bad, and all he did was wash it off and place a bandage over it. Several days later. He hid his pain quite well, and it wasn’t until his crewmates noticed the odd rotting odour, which seemed to permeate his cabin. Opening it, they discovered that the small bite had become infected and gangrene spread up from the wound. They could see bright red lines of corruption racing up his arm into his shoulder. By this time the man was so far gone he was on deaths door. He died three hours later.
Ever since that happened, the man has made sure that any wound, no matter how minor it seems, should be cleaned as soon as possible. He knows that he waited a lot longer than he should have, but with the antibiotics, and the alcohol, he should have no trouble fighting off any potential infection.
He smiles as he thinks that if trader was around, he would have slapped him triple hard for being such a stupe and waiting so long to do something about it. He didn’t know Trader that well, but he did respect him and he misses him none the less.
Time to find a place to get some sleep he thinks to himself as he throws the still damp clothing over his shoulder and heads out into the hallway.
How the hell did that mutie get into the redoubt he wonders. Its possible that part of the redoubt may have be opened over the years due to the seismic activity birthed during the war, or any number of possibilities. Either that, or the strange muties are a hell of a lot smarter than he gave them credit for. All things considered, since there is no evidence that anyone has been inside the redoubt since the Skydark, it is most likely the latter.
He opens the first doorway he finds to the dormitories. He glances inside, making sure that there are no hidden surprises waiting for him. The room appears to be clear. It is small in comparison to some of the others he has seen in the past. This room has only a total of six cots as well as a single round table with six high-backed chairs surrounding it. There are also lockers located beside each cot. All the cots are rumpled and messed, as if the occupants just recently vacated them. A single door is located at the rear of the chamber.
He grabs one of the chairs and props it underneath the door handle, making it very difficult to break in. If someone tried, he would have plenty of warning to grab his weapons and chill anyone foolish enough to attack him.
That finished, he crosses the chamber and opens the door at the rear wall. As he figured, it’s a private washroom. Two shower stalls, two toilets and a counter with a pair of sinks built into it is located behind the door.
For the first time that day he notices just how ripe he smells. With a grimace he quickly checks the taps. After a few loud groans and startling bangs, a rusty stream of water comes out. He waits for about thirty seconds, and the water clears up. Smiling, he goes to the shower, and turns on the taps. As the water runs and clears, he goes back into the main chamber.
Removing one of the grenades from his web gear, he pulls the pin and jams it in between the door and the chair. If someone does make it in while he is showering, they will be in for a nasty surprise.
He strips off his sweat and dirt caked pants and underwear and places them on the sink. He places the shotgun just outside the shower and brings his curved blade into the shower with him. He spends nearly half an hour cleaning and simply enjoying the feel of the hot water running over his muscular, scarred body. Showers, let alone a good bath, are rare and much treasured luxuries in the Deathlands.
When finished, redresses the wound on his shoulder and then grabs his clothing and washes them as thoroughly as possible. He then places them over one of the bunks to dry out.
Naked, he removes the gren from the door and replaces the pin. He then begins to rummage through the lockers. They are locked, but he uses his knife to pry them open. All but one of the lockers are empty.
The locker contains a small pile of clothing, including T-shirts, blue jeans, a couple of lacy bras, and G-string panties. Must have belonged to a young woman he thinks as he fingers the soft fabric. Been a long time since he spent any time with a woman, nearly fourteen months. The last time had been with a mutie gaudy in Mississippi, near the great muddy. She had three breasts and could do magical things with her muscles.
He replaces the clothing and continues to go through the locker. He finds a small leather kit bag, which contains a hair comb, makeup, soap, a razor and pads. Again, he replaces it. The only other item of interest is a small bag. Opening it, he discovers a small portable CD player and nearly two dozen CD’s. He checks the back and is disappointed to discover that there are no batteries, but there is a wall elec adapter as well as one for a wag.
He rummages through the collection of CD’s. He has never heard of any of them before, but then again, he has only had the chance to play with CD’s a couple of times while travelling with Trader and the convoy.
He sees CD’s with names like CCR, Soul Asylum, Metallica, and a large number of others. Lying down on the bunk closest to the bathroom, he plugs the CD player into the wall and settles down to listen to music created well over a century ago. He feels himself starting to nod off about an hour later. Knowing the sound of the CD player would drown out the sounds of someone trying to break in, he turns it off and places it on the floor beside the bed.
He places the IMI desert Eagle under the pillow, the SPAS 15 next to the bed, and the MP 5 PDW on the corner of the bed, and settles down to get some badly needed sleep.
He wakes up. Checking his wrist cron, he discovers that it is just after 7 PM at night, the next day! He has slept for over twenty-four hours. The combination of the wound, running and combat took their toll. He can count the number of times he has slept like this on one hand.
He changes the bandage on his shoulder and then dresses quickly. Securing all his weapons, he slides the chair away from the door and opens it quickly, his MP 5 at the ready. No one is there. Still, even though he doesn’t see anyone he moves into the corridor on Triple red.
He goes directly to the mess hall and downs several self-heats and a couple of cans of coke. He wishes that there was coffee here, but for some reason it is totally absent. The entire time he sat facing the entrance just in case.
His meal finished, he heads back into the corridor and locates another map on the wall. He plans to continue exploring the redoubt since there is no doubt in his mind that if Cohn and the others survived the attack that they would have travelled on without him at least twelve hours ago. One of Trader’s rules. If you get left, you get left. Survival of the mostest.
Looking over the map, he spots one section marked off limits to all those of security grade B Seventeen or less. That gets his curiosity. He quickly memorises the directions to the section and makes his way there.
Fifteen minutes later he arrives at a heavy sec door with a keypad located next to it. Remembering the message in the corridor, he punches in the code three five two. The door opens to reveal another stretch of corridor, this one with several more doors leading off the left and the right.
He heads down the corridor, opening the first door he comes to. Peering inside, he sees a bank of comps, a strange looking control panel, and an odd coffin like table located in the centre of the room. He walks in and begins to look around. There is nothing that he can see to indicate what the exact function of the room is. Walking over to the coffin like table he is surprised to see that it appears to have a thick, arma-glass cover that can be locked from the outside. Peering inside, he is unable to see anything except for a thick, cold grey fog.
As he is inspecting the case, a shadow passes in front of the door. He looks up as another one of the strange muties steps boldly into the room. The man raises his shotgun and is about to squeeze the trigger when the mutie pulls its arm back and cracks a whip. The end of the whip wraps around the barrel of the scattergun, and the mutie rips it out of his hands. The man is quite powerful, but the mutie is obviously much stronger.
The mutie drops the whip and charges at the man, reaching for a knife tucked into its filthy pants. The attack is clumsy and the man side-steps it easily, lashing out with his steel toed boot, hitting the mutie in the side where the kidney is located.
The combination of the force of the kick, as well as the muties speed force it into the control panel. He hears the comps start up and several lights on the panel begin to blink. The mutie is doubled over, the panel the only thing holding it up. In a smooth motion, the man draws his Desert Eagle and puts a round through the muties skull, coating the wall and the control panel in a red paint of blood, brains and gore. The entry wound is small, only about the size of a mans thumb. The exit wound totally destroyed the face. One of the muties eyes, oddly intact, sticks at the wall, staring at the man as if accusing him.
He notices that the table with the arma-glass top begins to glow and fill with an odd mist. He trots to the doorway and glances to the right and left, then above, making sure there are no more muties waiting for him. Seeing none, he reaches down and picks up the whip, unravelling the end from his scattergun. He heads towards the main entrance to the corridor.
As he reaches goes through the door, he turns and begins to punch the number into the pad to seal the door. He hears an odd whining noise and then the corridor is filled with a flash of white light. The whining ends. He turns around and cautiously returns to the chamber. The comps have stopped running and one monitor flashes the phrase DE THAW PROCEEDURE SUCCESSFUL.
He looks at the table and nearly jumps out of his skin as the mist clears to reveal the form of a very unusual mutie woman laying naked, apparently asleep inside the chamber. Her skin is darkly tanned, with odd spots running down the arms as well as part of the shoulder. Her ears are long and pointed, breaking through her mass of dark hair. Her lips are slightly parted revealing sharp fangs.
The most startling feature is a long tail. He hands have only four fingers, and they are more talons than actual fingers. Finally, his gaze crosses her feet, which are long and end in three long claws, nearly finger like in appearance. She is, without a doubt, the strangest mutant he has ever laid his eyes on. But in an odd way, she is probably the most attractive mutie he has seen, as her features are fine and delicate, if not extremely exotic.
Holding his Desert Eagle, he walks over to the chamber and unlocks it. Swinging the lid off, he backs up and watches as the strange muties eyes snap open.
End of Part One
Go to Part Two