|Edward Shaw part 3
Things were not good. In fact, they were at the opposite end of the scale from good, resting firmly within the bad section. But it was the really dangerous area of bad, the place where you don't go on your own and the police have stopped patrolling. This was a bad with snipers in windows and real gangs roaming the streets, and you can bet that not one of the gangs this deep in the bad scale were called the Jets or the Sharks, and none of them spontaneously burst out into large musical numbers. These are the gangs that bite people's ears off for something to do. That's the area within the bad scale Edward was, looking down the main street of New Wycombe, over a long row of still and silent carnage. Corpses littered the floor like a gruesome carpet; there was a definite red motif to the ground and several walls as well. Not even a solitary buzzard had landed to pick from the buffet available, there weren't even any circling overhead. Something had happened that had caused the buzzards to decide to try a new diet before eating in this town. And that was bad.
Susan wasn't happy. Her nostrils kept flaring, eyes wide open and showing a lot of white, Edward was having great difficulty keeping her from bolting. He was having almost as much of a difficult time to keep himself from running too. Edward Shaw was not a coward, not by any stretch of the imagination. During his wanderings, he had faced many terrors, demons speeding down on him from a darkened snow covered forest mountainside, creatures built from the bones of the victims of a crazed cannibal cult, more walking dead that you could shake a Peacemaker at, and recently, a Los Diablos.
No one knew what was going on in the world. Most had no idea that there was anything 'going on' that they might want to know about. To them the world was as normal as it had ever been, but with a giant step forward in science and technology thanks to the discovery of the super-fuel ghost rock. These people had no idea that there was a whole new breed of weirdness crawling around in the shadows and the wild places. Some knew, some had been affected by it, maybe seeing their recently buried mother claw her way out of the grave looking for a brain hot pot, or maybe their group had been attacked by a massive Mojave Rattler on the way to Salt Lake City. These people fell into three categories: The Unfortunate, those who had been destroyed one way or another, whether they were killed, left a gibbering wreck, or so terrified that they continue life scared of the shadows, mere mockeries of who they once were. Then there were the Stoics, those who refused to let a little thing like a giant sea dragon change the way they do things, no siree-bob! These folks just carried on, making changes where needed, but refusing to give in. Finally there were the Pro-Active. There's weird shit going on, and somebody's got to do something about it. They picked up their gun, tomahawk or notepad and got out there, either fighting it or studying it. Edward was firmly in the third group, and he was very good at it, unfortunately he was too good it seemed. [ Continue ]
written by Paul Guess