Wednesday, February 22, 2051
What was the intersection of State Road 93 with State Road 71 back in pre-Collapse times is now a ruin of despair. With no government caring for the roads, the pavement has become broken beyond recognition, little more than large chunks of gravel. The intersection has it even worse off – the overpass heading south shattered to pieces long ago, showering the underpass with rubble and creating an unnatural canyon.
The Lazarus team has been following the so-called ‘Pan-American Trail’, a series of roads, trails, and paths that circumvent some of the worst that the Badlands have to offer. State Road 93 is their current path, heading into Rising only a few dozen miles away, but even this ‘safe’ path is rarely trodden – and even rarer does anyone care for it. The pylons holding up the high-speed maglev train high above the grim muck of the Badlands dot the landscape, providing the only evidence of human civilization throughout most of the journey. The Lazarus team has arrived at the intersection of 93 and 71, set on continuing down to Rising – and, from there, their future.
Wormwood stands up in his seat and studies the intersection, through both his own augmented vision and his Valkyrie scope. “Looks like a great place for an ambush, if someone around here was so inclined.” Mac mutters under his breath, counting each one of the pylons as they pass with unerring accuracy. “Who would ambush people who never come down this road, Worm?” Wormwood flips Mac the finger, “Would you rather I didn’t look and we got our tenders caught?” Pacoy mutters under his breath about tempting fate.
Pitbull hums along to Circuit Grin’s “Imminent Shutdown”, a synth heavy, but surprisingly gentle track, as he circumvents boulders and road debris with ease as Mac scoffs. “You’d probably get off on that, Worm. If you look for an ambush, there’s undoubtly going to be an ambush.” Nevertheless, Mac rights his eyes, counting the pylons under his breath without looking at them, his head snaking up to be between Pitbull and Wormwood as he scans the intersection. The only thing more likely to draw an ambush than saying “This would be the perfect spot for an ambush” would be saying “Who would set up an ambush here?” Pacoy thinks to himself as he adjusts the rifle in his lap.
Wormwood stiffens. “Something moved over there! Pits, shut that bloody noise off and stop the car so I can hear.” Pitbull scowls as the music decreases to a murmur. “Whatcha think ya saw?” He growls, with little effort to hide his irritation at turning down his music. Wormwood sends the digital file of the flash of color he spotted to the others’ computers and cranks up the gain on his augmented hearing as the engine dies. “Well I’ll be – that’s quite a thing you’ve spotted there, Wormwood.” Mac whistles through his teeth.