FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

'You want some?'

Corby wrinkled her nose, the tips of her canines showing as she tried her best to lean away from the proffered strip of smoked meat, 'Naw, that shit's gross. I don't know how you can stomach that.'

The large cougar grinned, 'It's good for you-'

'It's roach meat-'

'For real?' Taylor exclaimed, distaste plain on her face. 'No way. Only places you find roaches are ones that give you crotch-boils and have glow-in-the-dark shrooms.'

'Oh, my sweet summer child...' Eva sighed from beside her. She let the phrase hang. Following up with an explanation would only ruin the timber wolf's hopes of getting a full night's sleep ever again.

Taylor glanced at the bear sidelong, 'No way. You don't eat radiation and live that long.'

Lillith put the strip of hardened meat in her mouth and chewed it like she was chewing a cigar. She winked at Taylor as she offered a tightly wrapped bundle of the strips to her. The foil glinted in the dull interior lighting that illuminated the rear of the butchered Caiman's passenger bay like a guttering candle. Everyone stared at the meat strips with varying looks of disgust and expressions that said I might be hungry enough to give it a go...

Taylor swallowed a dry lump in her throat. Corby tried not to gag. Even smoked and immaculately prepped, the meat had a curious pale blue tinge to it and it somehow managed to look both bone-dry and greasy at the same time.

'Is it really roach meat?' Taylor asked slowly, her amber gaze locked on the jerky.

'It is. It's also rich in protein. Is good. Trust me.'

'Last time you said 'trust me', I ended up with buckshot with my arse and a black eye.' Jake mumbled. His gaze never left the tiny screens of their CROWS as he spoke.

'That's because you didn't trust me.' She replied flatly.

'All right! Okay, I'll try it. But if I die, you're paying for my funeral.'

'Most I can afford is the ditch outside town.'

Taylor paused, the tip of one of the meat strips gripped between forefinger and thumb. She looked the Feral dead in the eye. Then she shrugged That'll do and plucked a strip from the foil wrapping and nibbled the end of it carefully, her wary stare never leaving Lillith's amused expression. Her nibbles turned into a gnaw and then she was chewing on it like Lillith was. Lillith leaned back on the bench and grinned.

'Well?' She prompted after a moment's stunned silence.

Lucy pulled her geiger from its pouch and held it up out of curiosity. The tiger gave a slight shake of her head. The little device didn't even fizz as Taylor chewed thoughtfully. 'Dunno how she does it...' She muttered as she slipped it back into its pouch.

'Got the texture of old boots.' Taylor mused, 'Tastes kinda like duck with a smokey after-taste. Little bit of an acidic tang, too. Not too bad, actually.'

'Duck? All this time I really thought it was roaches you were cooking up in that tub of yours...' Beka said.

Lillith rolled her eyes, 'It ain't duck. That's just how roach legs taste after you've bathed 'em, let them dry out over a fire pit and then smoked 'em for a month and a half. They make for good field rations. How'd you think I survived in the mountains for so long?'

There was a pause in the chatter as they mulled over their own ideas, each one far too run-of-the-mill where Lillith was concerned. Building small camp fires, snaring small critters and foraging nuts and berries didn't seem to be up her alley. Not after she'd caught a two-headed boar, wrestled it to the ground and tore its throats out with her teeth a few years ago. That had been the squad's introduction to Lillith. She'd shared her kill out of pity for them - they had had no vehicle, barely any supplies and were armed with rusting weapons, and she had ended up guiding them back to a small village that was clinging to the muddy bank of a dirty river. She had ended up tagging along with them after that, travelling with them back down south, mostly out of curiosity and for something to do. The fact that she actively hunted the aberrations of the land was a bonus that also came with a con: she tended to eat her kills.

And offer the 'food' around to the others.

How she hadn't poisoned herself, they didn't know and any doctor brave enough to try to run tests on her soon lost their bravery along with a couple pints of blood and a finger or two.

'I don't believe you-'

'It. Ain't. Duck.' She reiterated firmly, rolling the strip of meat from one corner of her mouth to other. 'Drop by my place sometime, I'll show you how to cook one up.'

Taylor looked thoughtful. Beka opened her mouth to say more and then bit her tongue. Her teeth rattled in her skull as a dull, hard bang rocked the Caiman on its axels. The hull groaned and Jake sat more upright, a frown creasing his brow and a curse escaping his lips as Sergeant Hawthorne's voice crackled over the squad comm, the word 'Dismount' repeated sternly until they started to move. The back door dropped heavily into the packed dirt and they piled out in a half crouch, listening as Jake snapped out directions. The M240 atop the vehicle swivelled and then started chattering sporadically into the treeline that bordered the neighbouring field. A hail of gunfire replied and bullets spanged off the truck's flank and bit small chunks out of the road

The squad hurried around the side of the vehicle, swearing, dropping to their knees, peering gingerly beneath the Caiman and around the rear edge seeking their targets. The passenger door swung open with a kick and Hawthorne dropped to the shattered road, hauling a moth-eaten coyote in a tattered duster behind her. He gripped his chunky walking staff in one hand, the other groping for a hand-hold as he tumbled out behind the lioness.

'Sarge?' Jess asked, checking over her AR-15 and patting her holsters; her 9mm was still snug in its canvas thigh holster and her pump-action shotgun was still tight against her back, 'IED?'

Hawthorne pressed her crouch lower and checked under the truck. The V-shaped hull was blackened and scarred, and a quick fondle of the nearest tyre eased her fear over the vehicle's damage somewhat. It was scratched to Hell, but she couldn't see nor feel any leaks of any sort. The smell worried her, though. Warm rubber, hot oil and something faintly acrid tickled her nose. Brake fluid? She couldn't be sure and Eva couldn't give it a once-over until the guns had gone quiet. The road beneath the truck hadn't gotten off light. A two foot deep crater that was six foot or more in circumference had been ripped open and shards of old asphalt and rock had been blasted this way and that. An old pipe just beneath the road's surface had been cracked open. Stagnant water trickled out, pooling in the new basin. It held a faint glow and she made a point to not touch it.

Around her, her squad started returning fire, pointing their guns in the direction of Jake's tracers. Shouts could be heard faintly underscoring the enemy fire, but no words could be made out. Hawthorne swore bitterly. She knew things had been going too well for them the past week. She glanced up the road before going back to dusting her fingers through the dirt, looking for something. There was no sign of the haggard looking RG-31. Apparently, Lieutenant Kushner had fucked off without them in the confusion of the IED detonation.

Her questing fingers hooked gently around a thin, black wire bundle and her mind snapped back to the here and now. Kushner could wait. She had found three wires loosely braided together, laid down in the dirt and scrub, perfectly invisible to any passers-by leading away from the road. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled and she swung around with a shout, flicking her M16's safety off and squeezing the trigger. Another gun joined her and a stream of bullets raked the tall grass and gnarled shrubbery that groped thickly at the side of the road behind them. A meaty sound, a wet gurgle and a mist of blood settling on the foliage told her that whomever had been trying to sneak up on them wouldn't be getting back up any time soon.

Behind and above, a loud puff followed shortly by a distant explosion denoted a grenade hitting its target. The enemy gunfire was reduced to half a dozen weapons, which made the two sides about even, as far as Hawthorne was concerned.

'Wired.' She shouted over the chatter of guns, 'We need to check for any more flankers!'

Jess nodded, patted Corby on the shoulder and gestured to Hawthorne who was already slithering to the edge of the road. A nod at Lucy, laying prone on her stomach, her M16 firing in concentrated bursts got Jess's point across. Corby grabbed Lucy and the two women followed Hawthorne into the tangled foliage and down the gentle incline of the verge where they found the dead man, torn to shreds by bullets. He wore no serious body armour: just a thread-bare flak vest over a sweat-stained t-shirt, now sopping wet with blood and a pair of torn cargo pants now piss-stained. The grip of an M9 Berreta protruded awkwardly from its hip mounted holster and Hawthorne snagged it, giving its stained metal a quick look-over.

'This'll make a nice replacement for the one I lost.' She muttered.

Lucy cocked an ear at her as she prodded at the dead man. A whip-thin wolf, several holes in his torso, a chunk missing from his neck and his left eye socket punched clean through, his hand still clasping a small, cylindrical trigger mechanism. A trio of thin, braided wires ran out of its bottom and snaked into the grass, towards the road. His other hand was a stump, long since healed, a small, sharpened gardening fork strapped to his wrist.

'Professional job. Probably lost it during the war at some point and spent some time in a real hospital.' Lucy's idea of a 'real hospital' was pre-war, not the shacks, sheds, warehouses and run-down hotel husks they used these days. The tiger seemed almost wistful about the days-gone-by until she was snapped out of it by a shout followed by an explosion that put the three of them on their faces in the blood-muddied dirt.

Behind them, the Caiman rocked violently on its tortured suspension and the gunfire on their side of the road went silent. A rocket. Some bastard had fired a rocket at them, no doubt aimed at their turret. Hawthorne risked a look over her shoulder as she pushed herself back to her knees. Smoke clouded one side of their truck and everyone had pressed themselves into the cracked road, hands over their heads. Only when the M240 atop the Caiman sprayed the last of its ammo into the treeline did the others pick up fire again. Relief pushed away the fear that had seized their hearts and they continued carefully poking around in the grass. A trail of broken shrubs and stunted saplings pinpointed the triggerman's route. At the end of the route was a shallow creek bed, long-since dried up and within that natural depression was the remnants of a small, two-man camp.

There was a cold fire with a tin pot sitting in the ashes, a scattering of empty food cans and a half-empty bottle of gin sitting in the middle. A scraggly strip of cloth had been used as a sleeping bag and a small, splintered wooden crate with 'HI-EX' stamped on the side of it was pressed against the creek's crumbling bank, almost out of sight. Scraps of stripped wire, a handful of tools and an empty jar with a warning label painted on it sat on the crate's lid. They looked up and the down the creek and when they looked back to their left, a face obscured by a gas mask was looking back at them. The four froze for a moment, unsure of what was going to happen next or who was going to make the first move until the figure chucked an egg-sized black ball at them.

'Grenade!' Hawthorne shouted. The three of them sprang out of the creek and ran, hunched low. Three seconds later, the grenade detonated. A gout of dirt, stone and tin cans fountained skywards, pattering down around them.

Hawthorne demanded a quick roll call as she ran in a low crouch, gun raised. The gas mask was sprinting as best he could down the uneven creek bed. She judged the distance, tensed and then aborted her pounce when Lucy launched herself through the air, slamming the man to the ground. They wrestled for dominance but a hard jab with an elbow to the temple sent him limp and slurring curses. He tried to crawl away but the stock of Lucy's M16 punched the wind from his lungs and he tried curling up instead.

'I'll take these.' She snarled, snatching the small messenger bag of grenades from his shoulder. She peered in, nodded and handed the bag off to Hawthorne.

'That's a nice little P90 ya got there. Got any ammo to go with that?' Corby asked as she dropped down into the creek.

The vixen reached down and freed the gun where its sling had been looped around the shoulder strap of his flak vest. They rolled him over and patted him down, taking away his two combat knives and four pouches of ammo for the P90.

'Two magazines fully loaded... Jeeze, this guy's practically weighed down by bullets.' Lucy grunted as she rifled through the final pocket. A spare filter for his mask and a small butterfly knife was the last weapon they found. He had no sidearm, just the P90, bag of grenades and knives.

The three women glowered down at him. He glared back.

'He's part of the Crosshairs Clan.' Lucy pointed out. A patch had been sewn onto his shirt's shoulder displaying a feline skull in the centre of a reticle.

'Didn't think you guys came out this far anymore.' Hawthorne said, absently flipping one of his knives from one hand to the other. She leaned over him as he started swearing, his words muffled by his gas mask. 'You want to insult me, you gotta quit mumbling.' She snarled.

Somewhere behind them another rocket exploded.

'At least four metres off the mark.' Corby muttered in distaste, looking in the direction of the modified Caiman.

'I said,' The man sneered, 'Yew ain't gettin' it! It's ours! An' we ain't lettin' no filthy whores get their mitts on it, unnerstand? It's ours!'

'Eh?'

'What're you after this time? There's nothing out here worth having.' Hawthorne demanded. She was curious, though. The Crosshairs wouldn't waste their precious resources on cobbling together hardwired IEDs and grenades unless they'd come across some serious loot that they thought they stood a chance of getting. She slapped him hard and waved the serrated edge of his knife under his nose. He went cross-eyed watching as she pressed the tip of the blade between his eyes, 'Explain or I'll carve you up and send you home in bits.'

He stared at the blade for a moment then looked at her, all bluster draining when he saw the lack of emotion in her steel grey eyes. The blade tip slid down the front of his mask, traced across his neck and slowly dug into his shoulder.

'Up on the hill,' He started as he felt blood well up around the blade tip, 'there's an old truck stalled up on the hill. Weren't there yes'dee, but were here this mornin'. Boss wants it. Sez it's stalled. Wants its gun-'

'Gun?' Corby butted in, cradling her new P90 as she half-listened to the firefight just up the road.

'Scouts say it looks like a hundred-thirty mil-'

'It's ours.' Hawthorne said bluntly, cutting him off.

He paused, mouth open. His teeth clacked together as his anger came back, overpowering the pain of the knife pressing ever-deeper into his flesh and grinding slowly against bone. His fist swung up and clocked Hawthorne in the side of the head, sending her reeling and seeing stars.

'It's ours, bitch! Getcher own!' He screamed as he kicked and flailed his way into fighting a stance.

Lucy's own blade flashed across his line of sight and he grunted, his words becoming wet and breathy. He clutched at his throat, trying to stop the bleeding. Hawthorne kicked him back down and ran his other knife into the underside of his chin with enough force to crack through the thin bone of his skull. He stopped squirming as she speared his brain. She pulled the knife free and led the others back to the Caiman. Two more grenades arced over the road and exploded. There was the sound of an engine firing up and the opposing gunfire petered out. They hunkered down as a large, patchwork six-wheeled armoured vehicle crashed out of the treeline and roared away from them, a sheet of rusting corrugated metal flapping loosely from its side. The turret gunner spared them a half-hearted spray of bullets but nothing more.

Hawthorne did a quick head count and almost laughed at their luck. No one had been injured. They were more annoyed that they'd been forced to waste ammunition on a small contingent of Crosshairs that just wanted an old truck and its gun. The worst injury was the Caiman, but it'd survive too, with a bit of TLC and a new brake hose.

'He said it was a hundred-thirty mil,' Corby pointed out as Eva got to work giving their truck a proper going over, 'Rotten or not, it'd be nice to roll into town with something like that.'

'Also bloody their noses a bit more.' Lillith mused, 'If it weren't for that guy's tantrum, we wouldn't know what they were after. I say we take it for ourselves.'

There was a chorus of 'Hear, hear,' and Hawthorne frowned. She looked around. The nearest hill was several miles beyond the old creek. It had once been rich farmland but the ground water had been poisoned and the crops blighted. Now the fields were an odd mixture of barren soil and feotid, plant-filled mud. It was the only place she could think of to be the location of this mystery truck.

'Ah, shit.' She finally said, 'Anyone heard from Kushner and his lot yet?'

There was an awkward silence. Even Eva paused what she was doing, upside-down under the front near-side wheel. Hawthorne looked from face to face, the seed of worry germinating and blooming into a flower of dread.

'When did we lose contact?' She asked flatly.

'When we got hit.' Jake said. 'Last thing I saw was the rear-end of the 'yala receding into the distance without so much as a peep from them.'

'They knocked our comms offline. The brigands, that is. Radio's fucked. We'll need to pull the unit and refurb it when we get back.' Eva announced, 'Maybe Kushner tried making contact, maybe...' She shrugged, letting the accusation trail off. She and Kushner rarely saw eye-to-eye and it wasn't because she was taller than him. 'My priority is making sure nothing's been bent out of shape, so don't push your luck and go speeding about unless you have to.' The bear added. Hawthorne's mouth snapped shut. A moment later, Eva wriggled back out from beneath the truck and wiped her hands on her trousers, 'Done. Minor repairs, mostly just plugging things back in and taping a few holes up. We're good to go now. Just... Try not to brake too hard, okay?'

They gave her an odd look which she shrugged off. 'I've warned you, okay? No hard braking.'

'Promise.' She smiled, 'All right everyone, back in the truck!' Hawthorne said. Apparently, it had been brake fluid she could smell.

'Where're going now, Ms. Frizzle?' Jake asked as he swung himself into the back.

Hawthorne gave him a sour look which then dissolved into a grin, 'If the Caiman can make it to the turn-off, then we head for the Farm and see if that truck's still there.'

'And if it doesn't?' Jess asked.

'Then we walk home.'

'What about Kushner?' Eva enquired with faux concern.

'Screw him. He wants to ditch us, he can make his own way home.' Hawthorne growled, 'Jesse, you good?'

The old coyote was already back in the cab, fingers wrapped tightly around his staff. He stared hard at her with blind eyes and she shivered with discomfort.

'What's wrong?' She asked as she climbed in beside him. She slammed the door shut but the blast had bent the lip of the frame just enough for her to have to try again. The door closed properly on the third try.

'I heard we're going to the Farm.' He said pointedly.

'We are. The Crosshairs that ambushed us want the truck that's up there. Which means, that we want it, too.'

'No, we don't.'

She sent out a small prayer as she turned the key in the ignition. The engine grumbled to life on command though it had gained a faint rattle. She checked the dash. Nothing had lit up, so she figured it might be a bolt on the engine mount that had come loose in the blast. She squinted through the thick windscreen. Metal sheets had been welded into place across its outside surface, leaving them with a half foot wide horizontal gap in which to see through. Chicken wire had been stretched from the top of the spiked shunt bar mounted across the vehicle's formidable grille to the roof of the cab as an extra layer of protection against anyone stupid enough to attempt to climb on the vehicle. The wire had been torn now, long gashes in the fragile mesh opened up from grazing bullet hits and rocket blasts.

'And why not?' She asked as she put it into gear and released the brakes, another small prayer going out.

'The Farm's not a safe place to go. You should know that by now.'

'I am aware of that. It's poisoned land and haunted. But if that truck's still there and has a gun just like the bandit said, then it'll be worth it, especially if it can be retrieved.'

'Leave the truck be. It's not worth it.' The way he said it made her look across at him.

He was still staring straight through her. It felt as if he could read her thoughts. It was a disconcerting feeling. She shook it off, but he had planted a new seed of paranoia. He was along for the ride because of his intuition. More a sixth sense, really, that seemed to come and go of its own volition. It had gotten them this far; netted them two eighteen-wheelers, a couple barrels of oil and put them in contact with a small farming village that called itself Apple Farm that was Hell-bent on growing as much fruit and veg as they possibly could on their four-acre plot of fertile land. The owner, Tilly, had been happy to open up trade with the neighbouring town, Taggart.

Her grip involuntarily tightened on the steering wheel as she drove down the road, one ear listening to the faint rattle and the other listening to Jesse, 'How about we just stop at the Farm's threshold and look?'

He sucked at his teeth as he thought. 'Alright. But we don't go beyond the Farm's gate. Just look. Take the info back to town and let the Commander and Mayor argue about it. We don't want to incite Ma and Pa's wrath again.'

Hawthorne nodded, 'Sounds good.'

The farm in question was ten miles off the beaten track, set against a thick tangle of gnarled, leafless forest that bordered one side of the property. The house itself was on an overgrown one acre plot, its porch and one corner of its roof sagging and crumbling from neglect and the weight of the sickly foliage that crawled across one side. Tattered, threadbare curtains hung through glassless window frames, tilted awkwardly in the bowing walls. Something big and dark furred scurried between the house and delapidated shed, and Hawthorne tracked its movements through her binoculars. Atop the Caiman, the M240 did the same.

'Is that what I think it is?' Jake asked slowly.

'Yup. Ma and Pa have been breeding again.' Hawthorne sighed.

She scanned the property and tutted when she saw the barn nearest the house had finally collapsed. A twisting tree, with black bark and fat, sickly looking fruits hanging from its branches was rising from one corner. This time last year, it had been a small, withered sapling growing out of the water butte. Now it was almost fully grown and somehow producing 'fruit'. A flock of diseased birds sat in its branches, pecking inquisitively at this new developement.

'Almost time for another cull.' Jesse muttered.

'I for one am not looking forward to it.' Hawthorne replied, 'Jake, you got eyes on that truck yet?'

'Negative, Sarge. Maybe we're looking in the wrong place?'

She thought about it as she stared at the collapsed barn through her binocs. Maybe they were in the wrong place. Or maybe it was the right place and someone had beaten them to it. Maybe the ambush had been a distraction or a lure into an even bigger trap...?

'That's dumb, even for them...' She muttered under her breath. Jesse cocked his head and she explained.

'Crosshairs don't plan that far ahead. Never have. Maybe one day, though.' He replied. 'When they manage to evolve a couple braincells between 'em.'

'Ah, I think I got something.' Jake cut in, 'Eleven O'clock, high. I see something green and suspiciously canvas-looking.'

Hawthorne redirected her attention. She frowned. She had scanned that hill and hadn't seen anything, but there, just on the other side of its crest was something dark green and square, and suspiciously vehicular looking.

'I see it. Definitely looks like canvas to me. Good spot.' She said.

'Shame we can't go round for a better look.' He replied.

'Yep.' She sighed. The last time they had been to the Farm, they'd burned the bridge at the property's rear entrance and dumped a tractor across the front gates. The tractor had long since been stolen and there was no getting across the dyke without a replacement bridge and wading across was not an option. The things that lived in those shallow waters and mud pools were no longer fish and mosquitos in the traditional sense. They made starved piranha look soft, cuddly and well-fed.

'We need to go. Now.' Jesse stated bluntly. He was sitting stock still and his grip on his staff was turning his balding fingers white.

'Looks like Ma's just realised we're here.' Jake said. He sounded nervous and with good reason.

Something tall, lanky and hunched dressed in a stained floral pattern dress had hobbled out onto the crumbling porch of the house, dragging a heavy, blood-stained wood axe behind it. Yellow, blood-shot eyes glared up the long driveway at the Caiman that was parked in the gateway. It took a lurching step forward, its mouth dropping open to bare rows of broken teeth at them and a flailing, sinuous tongue weighed down by boils. It screamed, a banshee's howl that echoed across the warped landscape. Hawthorne threw the truck into reverse and stamped on the accelerator as a dozen of the dark furred creatures swarmed out of the basement windows, sheds and barns on all-fours, snarling with crooked teeth. Another scream, long and drawn-out got a reply from a deeper voice in the trees behind the property. Pa was also home.

'Fuck, fuck, fuck-' Hawthorne muttered.

'No bullets, just 'nades!' Jake announced.

A grenade arced low down the packed dirt drive and the hunched creatures scattered away from it. The explosion left a small crater in the drive and by the time the creatures had re-grouped, the truck was roaring away up the road, its rattle now loud enough for all to hear. Hawthorne risked a glance out of the side window. Sitting atop the hill that bordered the Farm was the truck that the gas mask had mentioned. The canvas across its flatbed was hanging loose and she caught a glimpse of a massive gun sitting in the back.

'Little bastard was right.' She muttered as she pressed the accelerator to the floor, 'That's a big gun.'

'It ain't worth it. I told you.' Jesse said. 'You saw what Ma and Pa've made between 'emselves this time. The truck ain't worth it.'

'How do you see anything?' Hawthorne asked, wanting to pull her mind away from the blighted farmer's children.

A thin smile showed the steel-silver tips of Jesse's teeth, 'Trade secret.'