the road. I pull out my SpitStick and hit it right between the eyeballs with a pepper-pea. It grabs its face and drops to the dust, moaning and rolling into the ditch.
“Well played!” hollers Toad.
“That’ll run the ol’ eyeliner,” I say. I’ve seen makeup ads in Toad’s old magazines, and some of those women look a lot like GreyDevils. Yet another GreyDevil puts a hand out toward Frank’s flank. Once again Toad flicks his whip and— pop! —the Devil yanks back his hand and stands there sucking on the sore spot.
It’s fun to talk tough about Toad pinging GreyDevils with his bullwhip, or about toasting their butts with rock salt, but this is not just an armchair adventure story. I would like to do nothing but sip tea and read poetry with Ma, but sometimes you have to dig in the dirt to survive. Sometimes you have to go out into danger in order to survive. And sometimes you have to strike out in order to protect yourself, and your things, and the people you love. Right now the Scary Pruner isn’t just filled with things we want , it’s filled with stuff we need . And if the GreyDevils take our stuff, it’s not like the old days when you could just get more stuff. So we can’t politely ask the GreyDevils to leave us alone.
For two or three miles the pepper-peas and whipcracks do the job. The GreyDevils come in close, more for a look than an attack, and only one or two at a time. Toby pops one on the forehead with the end of his fight-stick just as easy as if he were shooting snooker and that GreyDevil’s head was a cue ball. The Devil drops to the ditch, and Toby hasn’t even shifted in his seat.
It’s even kinda fun for a while, like shooting silly targets at a carnival. But GreyDevils are beginning to line the roadside ahead, and when I look back, I can see a growing cluster of them gathering behind us. Just like stray dogs, GreyDevils can be troublesome on their own but are most dangerous when they start running in packs. Although GreyDevils aren’t really healthy enough to run. Shuffling in packs, I guess. And they’re not so bright, what with their brains all cheese-holed by chemical smoke and PartsWash, but they’re hungry and they’re desperate, and they know travelers are easy pickings. Especially if the travelers are in an overloaded wagon pulled by dos oxii .
Mainly we just want to keep them at bay as long as possible. We learned a long time ago that it’s a long haul home, and you don’t go straight for the Whomper-Zooka. We carry plenty of extra saltpowder packs but the supply isn’t endless, and you don’t want to use up your precious reserves on the early stragglers. The Whomper-Zooka is built for a crowd. So we stick to smaller weapons as long as we can. Some days we can get all the way back home without blasting anyone.
Today doesn’t look like one of those days. Like bees in a swarm, the GreyDevils aren’t capable of planning an attack, but once they get worked up and swirling in the same direction they become a terrifying force. And now they’re starting to do just that. The sound of their feet never stops. It’s like a thousand snake bellies slithering over dirt. I can hear their rattling coughs, and even the sound of their breathing is creepy, like someone blowing bubbles in warm cheese. They wear anything they have found—rugs with armholes, T-shirts advertising soda pop or music festivals, strips of old curtains and carpet they’ve ripped from abandoned homes. Some are wearing rough sandals made from discarded tires, although they’ve been known to tear those off and pitch them into the fire. During snow snaps they bundle up in furs and scavenged insulation, decrepit tarps—whatever they can find.
They are sickly and undernourished, and their sore-infested skin looks like a cranberry biscuit rolled in coal dust. You can’t tell if they are male or female. You can smell the stench of them and their crusty, weepy wounds.
And now they’re moaning. A sad, long,
“Well played!” hollers Toad.
“That’ll run the ol’ eyeliner,” I say. I’ve seen makeup ads in Toad’s old magazines, and some of those women look a lot like GreyDevils. Yet another GreyDevil puts a hand out toward Frank’s flank. Once again Toad flicks his whip and— pop! —the Devil yanks back his hand and stands there sucking on the sore spot.
It’s fun to talk tough about Toad pinging GreyDevils with his bullwhip, or about toasting their butts with rock salt, but this is not just an armchair adventure story. I would like to do nothing but sip tea and read poetry with Ma, but sometimes you have to dig in the dirt to survive. Sometimes you have to go out into danger in order to survive. And sometimes you have to strike out in order to protect yourself, and your things, and the people you love. Right now the Scary Pruner isn’t just filled with things we want , it’s filled with stuff we need . And if the GreyDevils take our stuff, it’s not like the old days when you could just get more stuff. So we can’t politely ask the GreyDevils to leave us alone.
For two or three miles the pepper-peas and whipcracks do the job. The GreyDevils come in close, more for a look than an attack, and only one or two at a time. Toby pops one on the forehead with the end of his fight-stick just as easy as if he were shooting snooker and that GreyDevil’s head was a cue ball. The Devil drops to the ditch, and Toby hasn’t even shifted in his seat.
It’s even kinda fun for a while, like shooting silly targets at a carnival. But GreyDevils are beginning to line the roadside ahead, and when I look back, I can see a growing cluster of them gathering behind us. Just like stray dogs, GreyDevils can be troublesome on their own but are most dangerous when they start running in packs. Although GreyDevils aren’t really healthy enough to run. Shuffling in packs, I guess. And they’re not so bright, what with their brains all cheese-holed by chemical smoke and PartsWash, but they’re hungry and they’re desperate, and they know travelers are easy pickings. Especially if the travelers are in an overloaded wagon pulled by dos oxii .
Mainly we just want to keep them at bay as long as possible. We learned a long time ago that it’s a long haul home, and you don’t go straight for the Whomper-Zooka. We carry plenty of extra saltpowder packs but the supply isn’t endless, and you don’t want to use up your precious reserves on the early stragglers. The Whomper-Zooka is built for a crowd. So we stick to smaller weapons as long as we can. Some days we can get all the way back home without blasting anyone.
Today doesn’t look like one of those days. Like bees in a swarm, the GreyDevils aren’t capable of planning an attack, but once they get worked up and swirling in the same direction they become a terrifying force. And now they’re starting to do just that. The sound of their feet never stops. It’s like a thousand snake bellies slithering over dirt. I can hear their rattling coughs, and even the sound of their breathing is creepy, like someone blowing bubbles in warm cheese. They wear anything they have found—rugs with armholes, T-shirts advertising soda pop or music festivals, strips of old curtains and carpet they’ve ripped from abandoned homes. Some are wearing rough sandals made from discarded tires, although they’ve been known to tear those off and pitch them into the fire. During snow snaps they bundle up in furs and scavenged insulation, decrepit tarps—whatever they can find.
They are sickly and undernourished, and their sore-infested skin looks like a cranberry biscuit rolled in coal dust. You can’t tell if they are male or female. You can smell the stench of them and their crusty, weepy wounds.
And now they’re moaning. A sad, long,
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