The Junkyard Trap (Jeremy 02)(Francis 02)

Francis, as you stumble on the jagged stone, you careen forward and your gun flips out of your grip as you struggle to keep your balance. it clangs against the fence and into the dirt just by. You scramble over and recover it, blowing the ash from the parts best you can, and you're pretty sure it will fire.

The noise attracts the attention of Brace Win, though, and he leers at you through the chain. He takes a few steps forward, armed with a spear made from a shower curtain rod tethered to half a pair of garden shears. You train the gun on him, but he's within striking range of you as well.

"I'm fucking tired of this dance" he mutters through clenched teeth. "Put yer fucking gun down and let me finish my business or you'll regret it."

Francis, What do you do?

Jeremy, I'd vetoed your act under fire roll before. You were already, and still are, comfortably within range of the AV equipment.

Jeremy, What do you do?

Francis, you've got a bit of a scratch, something to brag about at Fort Cheeto to the working "girls". Certainly nothing to be concerned about.

Jeremy the next move is yours. The half dozen or so of Clint's Boys you've got locked up in that cage are clawing and tearing at the new walls, but they're at your mercy for now. What do you do?

You hear some scrapping, yelling, and POP POP! from around the curve, and the garbled sound of Brace Win's voice bubbling with blood, and you're pretty sure he's out of the picture.

These fuckers in the trap, though, have managed to pull enough junk out from next to the box spring that one of them is already trying to squeeze through, like a mongrel clawing its way out of its yard under the fence. He's still half in, but the rest of those fuckers are pressing up on him, squeezing him out and clamoring to be next. (+1 to rolls made to impede their progress out of the cage, that could augury or any other approach you may think up)

What do you do?

The AV equipment starts to hum and whir as the various devices start doing their thing. Jeremy, your hands are all over the cart, turning the volume knob on the TV, clicking the tracking button on the VCR, clicking in codes with a remote control. Sparks are coming out of it, but just as you'd expect them to, and for once in your life you don't jump at a sudden sound. You're in your element.

You've got one of the TVs lodged on the other side of the trash heap you're hiding behind, pointing directly into the cage. The screen is all busted in, and sparks are spitting out of it at the fuckers you've trapped. Then you hear... nothingness. It's as if the equipment has muted reality for just a moment. The caved in screen of your assault-television starts to buzz with static, the only sound you can hear, as it tunes into the frequency of the maelstrom. The old tubes and wires inside cease to be for a bit, and a void opens up. The poisonous moonshine fog that had been terrorizing your cozy little Troniverse starts to roll out of the busted old tube-set into the makeshift cage. The 8 or 9 guys in there start to sputter and cough, and a few of them pass out on the spot. Those still conscious are cursing you, but their speech is slurred as they get woozy with the booze-cloud. One of them vomits and passes out, and another slips in the vomit and smashes his head on a jagged pipe sticking out of the scrap. Before you know it, they're all unconscious at best.

But the fog is still rolling out, and before you can gloat or power down the AV stuff, the fog is rolling straight toward you. You take a shallow breath of it and cough at the bitter taste hitting your throat like a fireball. You stretch back your neck and take a deep breath of fresh air, and you're overtaken by the fog, your eyes burning and unable to see through its venomous density. You can't even see the controls, or your hands groping at them.

Jeremy, What do you do?

Francis, you hear the coughing and sputtering of Clint's Boys and can see the fog spreading through the scrapyard. You get a faint whiff of moonshine as the dry breeze pulls a wisp of the vapor toward you, and the scrapyard has become almost completely obscured by the fog; you're not sure what happened to Jeremy through all that. Suddenly, you can hear gunshots off to the south. You squint down in that direction and you can see the hulking sillohette of Jimmy loping straight into Clint's domain, the Wastes, after the one fucker that managed to squeeze out of the trap. He's taken his assignment to heart and seems to be unaware of the danger that lies to the south.

Francis, what do you do?