July 14th, 2030
0900 hours
80F, 75% humidity
Wind 5mph out of the southeast

The Sierra Team's second full night in Grady is much more restful than the first. After a good night's sleep, showers, and a hearty breakfast, the Sierras pack up and prepare to depart. They leave town with full fuel tanks and water jugs, and more food than they packed in (save most of the candy the team brought along for hearts-and-minds; a sticky-faced Sgt. Offut denies having anything to do with the sweets theft).

Before leaving, Cao, Guillory, Rios, and Saul Noble gather as much intelligence about the white inmates reported to have fled the area shortly after the initial riots and mass prison break. Interviews with prisoners confirms what Tyron and Luis already reported. About 50 white inmates, members or affiliates of the Arkansas Aryan Alliance (Triple-A), headed south on the 65, trading away most of their guns for the ADOC's functional vehicles. They left in a van, a pickup truck, and a prison bus, taking about a dozen firearms (pistols, mostly) as insurance against any potential double-cross. Their destination is unknown, but the white inmates indicated that they were heading for a "White Homeland" somewhere near the Arkansas-Louisiana border. Franks earlier reported hearing from the Gould Police Chief that the prison convoy had indeed passed through his town two days before the Cummings rescue operation. Apparently, for reasons as-yet unknown, the stolen ADOC pickup truck stopped in Gould; a firefight ensued and four inmates were killed (the truck is shot to hell). The ADOC bus, however, carried on its way, still heading south on the 65.

Half of Grady, it seems, stands along the shoulders of Business 65, waving goodbye and shouting out their heartfelt thanks as the Sierra convoy rolls out of town. It's a bittersweet farewell.

The convoy rolls past the Grady militia outpost at Choctaw farms, then past the ASDF platoon temporarily occupying a corner of the Varner Supermax, and a couple of miles further on, its former position at a large homestead about midway between the settlements.

Next stop is the small town of Gould, prewar population, 755. Up ahead in the road, a police SUV with a horse trailer hitched to the back is parked across the median of State Route 65. Coming up on the convoy's left (east), just past a house, a tree-lined dirt lane branches off to the east. About 50m down this road, between the highway and a small wood, a man on horseback, black Stetson on his head, climbing sun at his back. The horseman is dragging something behind him at the end of a taught rope. At least part of the object is a bright orange in color. The rider can't help but notice the vehicles rolling slowly past him. He reaches up with one hand and casually tips his hat.


Your Turn.

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 21:42, Sat 31 Aug 2019.

The departure from Grady had been accompanied by a round of handshakes, accompanied by an exchange of salutes when it came to Simonton and some of the other members of the ASDF Task Force. And then it had been back into the vehicles, with waves and smiles for the watching townspeople as the three vehicles headed off on the next part of their mission.

Lauren had settled into the front passenger seat of the JLTV, her eyes hidden behind her Wiley X Valor ballistic sunglasses, her helmet stowed by her side, smiling and waving back to an elderly couple who watched from their front porch as the convoy moved past. Their picket fence had once been white but the paint was chipped now, peeling, yellowed in parts. But the fence still stood. Just like Grady.  Lauren had allowed herself a smile at that thought as she had turned her attention to the road ahead of her, watched Choctaw Farms roll by exchanged a wave with the Lieutenant commanding the ASDF troops at the Supermax, Flores. Cao had briefly spoken with her once during the operation, the first night.

They've scarcely left Flores' unit behind in their rear view mirrors when Skillins says "Looks like the road's blocked up ahead, Ma'am."

Cao nods, her eyes flicking between the police vehicle ahead of them and the horseman to her left, her hand waving briefly in a gesture acknowledgment as he tips his stetson to them. "I see it. Let's see how Mr Guillory wants to play this one." The military operation in Varner was over, Guillory was back on point. Lauren leans back against the padded headrest so that she can call up to the JLTV's gunner's position. "Gunner, stay alert but try not to look threatening." She knows that the two are mutually exclusive. But she has to give the order anyway. The war against the Varner inmates is hopefully over, although some remain unaccounted for.  They can't point the fifty cal at anyone they see. But they can still be wary.

"That guy is hauling something orange." She muses, the comment addressed to the vehicle crew as a whole rather any one individual. "Prison jumpsuit?" Other than a vehicle identification panel she can't think what else it might be. And a prison jumpsuit seems a lot more likely than a vehicle identification panel.

Scott is somewhat relaxed in what's becoming his customary seat in the Suburban, but the sight of the rider and whatever his mount is dragging brings him upright in a hurry.  Long years of practice allow him to get out, "Bourbon checking all Sierra units, we've got one mounted subject dragging something on a lasso," without stammering or giggling at the absurdity of what he's reporting.  He's at the same conclusion as Cao regarding the likely origin of the orange object but he can't actually report that until he verifies it, so...

He scans the foliage in his sector, conscious of the vehicle's other occupants doing the same thing, but deep down he doesn't expect this is the tripwire for an ambush.  The classic model is something that demands immediate action, optimally a well-endowed blonde in need of help changing a tire, and this is just too damn weird.  "I'll make contact," he decides.  "Saul, you're my cover.  Sexton checking Falcon.  Gimp and I will be out with the subject."

As Rios eases the Suburban to a slow roll, he grabs his carbine with his left hand and starts opening the armored door with his right.  He suppresses a smile at the thought of Cao's ongoing ulcers as he leaves his helmet on the floorboards once again, but the other guy has set the dress code for this meeting.

"Mornin'," he calls out as he and Saul dismount.  "Governor's Task Force.  Howya doin' there?"

In one respect Grady had been a good place for Mike Carswell. He'd made a difference. Devin Taylor and Jamie Walker had both been on the bus headed for Little Rock. Jamie in particular probably wouldn't be here right now if the Sierra team hadn't rolled in to Grady a few days ago. Carswell usually tries to keep his emotions in check, hidden behind alternating layers of cynicism and sarcasm that had seen him having more than his fair share of run ins with higher authority. Before the War it had been Managers. More than once Gabby had told him that his career dissipation light had  just went into high gear. It was another line from a movie. After the shit hit the fan it had been FEMA pukes then more than one military officer that had thought that their shit didn't stink that had felt the sharp edge of Mike Carswell's tongue, the acerbic personality that he was unable to keep in check.

But some of those layers had peeled away in Grady. He'd told Jamie that he'd check up on her when he was back in Little Rock. Kid had been through a lot. Everyone in that house had. By all accounts the little dude that had held the flashlight for him as he'd dug the bullet out of Jamie's body hadn't said a word since they'd got back to Grady. That kid was going to need just as much help as Jamie.

So if that is a recaptured - or dead - inmate that the guy on horseback is dragging along behind him, Carswell isn't going to waste a whole lot of sympathy on him. Fucker deserves everything that he's got coming to him. If he's still alive. The paramedic's still wary though. His carbine is within arm's reach as he stays in the back of the Suburban while Saul dismounts.

Before dismounting, Saul gives the situation a run through the Mk I Eyeball, eyeing the distances to the cowboy towing a possible hard-luck prisoner and the roadblock further down the highway.  His hands reach the decision for him, racking two double-ought buck shells out of the weapon and replacing them with two sabot-discarding slugs.  Those two bits of metal will put the hurting on anyone. Or kill a horse dead, which would be the primary target for putting the rancher out of the fight.  Finally, he puts an easy smile on his face and pushes his appropriated helmet down on his melon.  Happy to be the iron fist in Guillory's velvet glove.

Saul pushes his door open and slides out, moving with a non-feigned limp behind and to the right of Scott. He's keeping his weapon's barrel pointed down in a non-threatening manner, but his hands are ready.  He gives the man on the horse a two fingered "country wave" with his right hand, making like the stock is a steering wheel.

Maybe more of an aluminum fist... he thinks as blood flow returns to his legs.

The rider flashes a bright white smile below his aviator shades, replies, "Doin' just fine, thanks. Chief Dante Wayne, Gould PD. Just out doin' a little... moppin' up, I think the army calls it."

The man is wearing a hunting camo shirt and dark denim jeans, but a metal badge is visible pinned to his breast pocket. He's got a pistol holstered on his hip and an expensive looking scoped AR-15 clone strapped across his back.

As the horseman's mount clops closer, the Sierras confirm that the object dragging in the dirt behind it is indeed a corpse. Its filthy, tattered orange clothing indicates convict provenance.

"Welcome to Gould. You don't mind waitin' a couple of minutes for me to load up Thunder here, I'll be happy to give you a police escort into town." He gestures towards the waiting police SUV.

Chief Wayne dismounts, walks back to the corpse and removes the lasso from around its ankles. He leaves it by the side of the road, walks Thunder over to the trailer. The body belonged to a black man (Chief Wayne is also African-American); it's missing the top of its head; a large bloodstain radiates from a small black hole in the dead man's side.

"Stupid motherfucker pointed a toy gun at me," the police chief explains nonchalantly. A second man emerges from behind the SUV, slinging an AR-15 carbine. He's wearing a t-shirt with a Gould PD logo. "That's officer Wilkins, my second in commmand." Wilkins nods in acknowledgment of the newcomers, but doesn't speak or smile.

[Insert any continuation of conversation here.]

The Sierra convoy falls in behind the Gould PD SUV, Thunder's twitching tail beckoning them follow.

Up ahead, hanging from a blue State Route 65 sign, four bodies obscuring the white-lettered Exit 212, Pendleton 1 Mile. Their formerly white jumpsuits, now soiled with blood and other bodily fluids, are stretched tight, barely containing the bloated corpses within. The men's cracking faces are black, eye sockets empty or swollen shut, but one of them has straight, straw-colored hair belying his "ayran" heritage. A crow alights from the sign as the vehicles draw near, circles back when they've passed.

Chief Wayne's Police SUV pulls into the Gould Fire Department parking lot. Apparently, both agencies are small enough that they share a building.

"Home sweet home," Chief Wayne says cheerily, dropping the butt of a cigarette as he emerges from his vehicle. "It ain't much, but it's all we got. Gotta keep it safe. Come on in," He leads them into the building. Wilkins hangs back, stays with the SUV, perhaps to tend to Thunder. He still hasn't spoken or smiled.

A skinny man in dark t-shirt and pants blue sleeps on a leather couch in the common room. Chief Wayne doesn't wake him. A grey haired woman sits behind a desk in an office just off the common area, an old-fashioned manual typewriter clicking away under her busy fingers. She looks up briefly, then back to her typing. She bears an uncanny resemblance to Chief Wayne. The somewhat plump senior citizen looks to be in her sixties or early seventies. The chief is in his late forties or early fifties. Wayne lifts a banker's box from the edge of her desk, but doesn't introduce the woman. He squeezes past the Sierras and enters another office, sets the box down, sits on the edge of the desk, takes out another a cigarette. After lighting it, he pats the lid of the box, says, "So, I hear you've got some mail for us."


Your Turn.

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 00:35, Sun 23 Dec 2018.

"Standard drill applies." Lauren tells her crew as the JLTV pulls into the parking lot. "Driver and gunner stay with the vehicle at all times. And no one goes anywhere alone. That's an order." As far as they knew most of the Varner inmates that were unaccounted for had left the area days ago but there were bound to be some stragglers so there was no point in taking chances. As the orange clad body that the Gould cop had been dragging behind his horse demonstrated. "And everybody stay alert."


The Air Force Captain reaches for her helmet before she opens her door, secures it in place. Guillory probably wouldn't like it. In a way it felt as though it was becoming almost like a challenge between the pair of them, her insisting on wearing one, him insisting on not doing so. She probably is overreacting but she's warier now than she had been in Grady. It doesn't take a huge stretch of the imagination to visualize escaped convicts lurking in every ville that they pass through.

Her carbine is also in her hands rather than slung, albeit held at the low ready, in an attempt to appear unthreatening as she steps out of the vehicle and stands on the asphalt, feels the morning Sun hit her. Unthreatening. It's relative term given that she's weighed down with carbine, helmet, body armor, a full fighting load, her eyes hidden behind her ballistic sunglasses. She probably looks more like she's about to take part in the Siege of Kaliningrad rather than a meeting with an Arkansas police chief.

"Do you want to take Saul in with you while I keep an eye on things out here?" She asks Scott after she's walked over to the SUV. Saul. Not Mr Noble. More progress. And Civil Affairs was their thing after all.
This message was last edited by the player at 21:09, Sun 23 Sept 2018.

Scott makes sure his back is turned so Chief Wayne can't see his face before he gives Cao's headgear a raised eyebrow and the hint of a smirk.  It's as much as he's willing to poke that particular tiger today, but it's more than he would have dared before Grady.  Nothing like a little extrajudicial homicide to bring people together.  He decides not to share that particular thought, as half the team still seems to be processing events at the prison.  "Yup.  We'll bring him up to speed and get a local SITREP."

Inside, he hangs his sunglasses from his plate carrier's MOLLE by one temple, using the act to give him a moment to assess the room.  He removes his baseball cap as he sidesteps to allow Saul to follow him in and gives the woman a respectful nod and a, "Ma'am."  He figures Saul, too, knows an admin dragon when he sees one, and will observe the forms when in her lair.

"That we do," he says in response to the chief's statement.  "Do you have time for a brief on local conditions?  It looks like you've got local security pretty well sorted..."

Swinging his legs out of the rear seat of Bourbon Street and closing the door after him Carswell stands in the parking lot next to the vehicle for a moment surveying the scene. His carbine is slung over his shoulder but attire leans more towards Guillory than Cao, his helmet left behind in the SUV and sleeves of his OD fatigues rolled up to expose tanned forearms. He’s still wearing his assault vest, though it’s more for its carrying capacity than anything else, in particular the EMT gear that he’s carrying.

A black Under Armour ballcap and his Oakleys are shielding his eyes from the Sun as he takes a casual stroll over to Ace Hardware. ”Ladies.” he grins, nodding to the truck’s female crew and raising his hand to his cap, one finger touching the brim in what might be a nod towards southern courtesy. ”I figured I might take a stroll down main street, say hi to a few people, show them their tax dollars at work.” It’s said with a totally straight face. And, of course, talking to people he might get a different perspective to what the Police Chief might be about to tell the Task Force’s ‘official’ delegation.

”Anyone want to come with me?” He’s not asking because of Cao's instruction that no one should go anywhere alone. He isn't aware of that but even if he was he would have probably decided to ignore it. After all, it’s not as though Guillory is following all of her ‘recommendations’. He’s asking because he’d genuinely welcome some company. And sometimes people opened up more to chicks. It was a thing.
This message was last edited by the player at 09:46, Tue 25 Sept 2018.

This is a hard man, Saul thinks to himself while he watches the police chief.  He's trying to build a mental map of Gould and its government, comparing it to places he's been and watching how the system reacts.  Here, in this town, they aren't taking chances.  Instead of marking territory with spray-paint, they're hanging bodies from street signs.  Convicted felons it would seem, Saul just doesn't want to find gallows set up down the street for "regular folk" who stray out of line.

Experienced eyes track through the secretary and he threads the needle of acknowledging her presence without interrupting her work.  The now ubiquitous helmet, symbol of the internal dynamics of the Sierra Team comes off his head, and gets tucked under his arm, mainly as an excuse to have something to do with this hands.  Once upon a time this building would have been cooled by air conditioning.  Now, it just smells like law enforcement.

"Looks like y'all run a tight ship here, Chief," Saul says, voice carefully modulated to pass no judgment on anything the chief might have done in order to secure the safety of the town.

"Heh! Yeah, guess you could say that." Wayne says, bemused. He opens a tall gun safe in the corner of his office, revealing an assortment of rifles, carbines, shotguns, and pistols; he replaces his rifle in the vertical rack (Guillory recognizes it as a Daniel Defense DD5) and shuts the safe again. "I can't say I was surprised by the prison break. Always thought it was 'when', instead of 'if'. They were understaffed. Everybody knew it."

He lets the accusation hang. Guillory and Noble represent the state government. Chief Wayne obviously feels aggrieved.

"We take care of ourselves, best we can. Have to. Grow our own food, brew our own fuel. We could use some electricity. Been asking the governor to get the hydro plants up and running again, for a while now. Fact, one of these very letters is for governor Ralford- from your truly." He pats the bankers box firmly, for emphasis. "Any idea if he actually reads any of this shit?"

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 03:00, Wed 26 Sept 2018.

"I could be convinced to stretch my legs," Carissa says in response to Mike's question.  "Only so much girl talk, you know?"  She smiles at her fellow passengers at that.  Exactly zero percent of the conversation in the truck had been girly.  Unless stories of birthing ponies counted as girly since there were horses involved.  Girly seemed to be something the world left behind a few nukes ago.  Instead there had been some lively discussions about well balanced knives and different techniques for putting the pointy end of sharp objects into assholes (metaphorical assholes, not literal).

The cowgirl slides out of the truck, pops her back, and sets her ball cap on her head, sunglasses perched over the brim.  She reaches back into the truck and produces her M4 which gets slung over the "battle-rattle" that everyone in the team has been decked out in.  She wants to see the town, put her father's practice of bringing the situation in focus before getting distracted by the small details.  First, though...

"But Mr. Carswell," Carissa drawls out the mister in a nod to his far advanced age compared to her youthful twenty-five, "do you mind if I start with a look at this horse?  Looks like a beast."  Her head tilts towards the trailer they followed in from the outskirts.  She doesn't wait for an answer before heading over the horse trailer and giving the police officer hovering there a nod.

"Quite a creature," she says to the man. "Mind if I take a look?"

Okay, maybe she does have a thing for ponies.

Carswell winces internally at the Mister. From his perspective it’s not even as if he’s that much older than her, or at least he doesn’t think so. Based on appearance and a single conversation with Saul he had her down as mid twenties, which made him ten years older than her give or take. But viewed through her lens he’s probably ancient he thinks with a rueful chuckle. He briefly wonders if he would have thought the same thing when he was twenty five. Probably.

”Mike’s fine. And sure, let’s do it.” he says with a grin as he falls in to step with Carissa, who's already moving. Horses aren’t really his thing – he prefers his mode of transport to have an engine and a gas pedal – but he wanders over in the direction of the horse anyway, nods to the dude when Carissa speaks to him. ”Howdy.”

The deputy nods, anwers, "Go ahead," on delay. He speaks quietly, his voice deep and low. He takes a step back but keeps a hold of the reins.

Thunder is a powerful stallion. Muscles buldge underneath his smooth black hide. He's definitely well taken care of.

The officer isn't much for conversation, answering questions monosyllabically, if at all.

Leaving Skillins and Kabua with Razorback, Rios with Bourban Street, and Watkins and Murray with Ace Hardware, Carissa, Carswell, and Anderson go for a walk down Gould's main street (Main Street). Unlike their recent experience in the neighboring town of Grady, folks here keep their distance. The strangers know they're being watched- faces appear between split curtains, or peeking from behind cracked doors. No one approaches them. Waves are ignored, smiles seldom returned. It's hard to read the overly wary reaction. Some of the locals appear cowed, others silently defiant, hostile even. There's a tension here for sure; its nature and source, however, are unclear.

Kabua delivers the box of letters labeled Gould to Chief Wayne's office, takes the town's outgoing mail back to Ace Hardware. Bored, Watkins, acting as Sierra's unofficial posmaster, cuts the tape seal and opens the lid, thumbing through a portion of the motley assortment of envelopes.

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 20:49, Sat 29 Sept 2018.

While Scott and Mr Noble are ensconced with the police Chief and several others are taking a walk down Main Street Lauren remains largely within the confines of the parking lot, carrying out the occasional leisurely circuit around the parked vehicles. It’s not as though she’s actually expecting trouble, not this close to the scene of the breakout. She reckons that any prisoners that came through here are long gone, it’s more a case of establishing procedures, following protocols. Not letting their guard down. She does make one concession though, cradling her carbine in her arms rather than holding it at the low ready.

As she circles around she makes a point of sharing a few words with the half of the team that have stayed with the vehicles. It’s small talk for the most part, an attempt to reach out to them, make them feel valued, although there are a few awkward silences when she tries to engage with Skillins, the conversation eventually revolving around the benefit of the JLTV’s air conditioning. Clearly she has some work to do to try and find common ground between them.

Once or twice she glances at her watch as she moves around, taking note of how long the others have been away. When Guillory and Noble had first entered the police station she had mentally berated herself for not discussing duress codes, though Guillory might have taken it as a sign of paranoia. She also looks up and down the street from time to time, although the locals that are out and about are being far from forthcoming and after her third attempt to engage passers by with a smile elicits next to no response she switches back to her own game face, tight lipped, eyes hidden behind her sunglasses. It’s probably not the best way to win hearts and minds although given the way that the people here are acting she’s not sure what the best way actually would be here for the atmosphere is very different from Grady.

Her current circuit having carried her to Ace Hardware, she stands, nods to Watkins and Murray, glances briefly at the envelopes that Watkins is thumbing through, tries to ignore the beads of sweat that are trickling down her forehead. ”All quiet.” she says, looking up the street again.

”Do you ever get the feeling most of these folks would prefer it we weren’t here?” Carswell remarks quietly as he reaches the junction of Main Street and B Avenue. The United States Post Office is on his left, the second O and the C missing from the lettering on the red brick wall that identifies it. Maybe they just didn’t like the thought of ‘the Government’ poking about. Wouldn’t be the first time that he’d come up against that attitude, both before the War and after it had started.

Or maybe it was something else altogether. But given the fact that no one was engaging with them he had no clue what. "Do you want to keep going or head back to the vehicles?" Maybe Scott and Saul might have better luck with the police chief.

Scott nods, unfazed.  "Chief, they were understaffed before the war.  Corrections was never a field to attract as much talent as it needed, and too many of the senior officers were in the Guard or Reserves and haven't come back.  I can't sugarcoat that situation so I won't even try."

He crosses the room and folds his arms, staring at the state map tacked to the wall.  He keeps Chief Wayne in his peripheral vision, blading his stance to make it an invitation to join him rather than a calculated insult.  "The two big problems with the dams are the EMP damage to the controller equipment and a distinct lack of hydro power engineers.  If you've got anyone in town who retired out of the power company, the state could use 'em.  Having said that, it's not exactly my department, but I think the Whillock station should be online by the end of the month, and the crew will start working their way down the Arkansas River next."

He cracks a grim smile.  "Actually, the first lady does the rough-cut sorting of his mail.  But she makes sure he sees all the important shit."
This message was last edited by the player at 19:47, Fri 28 Sept 2018.

From her position on Ace Hardware's passenger-side door sill, Xandra has a pretty good elevated view of the team's position and the nearby streets.  The phrase "too quiet" is on repeat in her head, cycling anew every time a curtain twitches.  The folks in Grady were anxious for outside contact.  The citizens of Gould seem afraid of it.

"Anything with excess postage and tape or strange white powder?" she asks Watkins, and immediately regrets it.  The mail bomb joke isn't as funny out loud as it was in her head.  "Um.  If there is, don't tell me.  Just kick the box out the door."

"Keep going," Carissa says to Mike's question.  She's standing still on a street corner with her head on a swivel, as her father would say.  Something isn't right around here, damned if she can figure out what it is though.  Did things get so bad that people got paranoid?  Or are things currently so bad that people are living in fear?  Or yes, everything sucks.  She wishes Saul was here to walk her through it all, positive that he'd be able to sort it out.  Hell, he'd probably walk up to a door and have a friend inside of 5 minutes.  That's not her.

"Reminds me of some creepy-ass religious horror movie," she says.

Instead of joining Scott at the map, Saul takes a step back to take in the chief's office.  His eyes sweep over the various bric-a-brac tacked up to the walls and sitting on shelves.  Over the years, he's been in the offices of a great many of his superiors, usually in good graces, but not always.

"Amazing how many of our washouts and used-to-be's ended up working in the penal system," Saul offers up to the conversation.  "And it seemed like every third chuckle head we put in prison was back on the streets in less than a year, angrier than before.  Sure made Memphis interesting."  It's said lightly, but it's calculated.  Saul is dropping the: "hey, I'm a cop too" card to see what it brings out of Wayne.

Chevelle smiles, appreciating Murray's black humor. Then her brow furrows. It's not the joke; she's noticed something odd. She checks another letter to be sure, then another, and another. After the seventh or eighth, her suspicions are confirmed. Chevelle looks up, makes eye contact with Murray and Cao and reports,

"Someone's opened most of these envelopes, then tried to tape them back up."

-
This message was last edited by the player at 23:44, Fri 28 Sept 2018.

"Got my start in corrections," Wayne says, deadpan. Coupled with his poker face, the impression given is that he considers Guillory and Noble's comments a personal affront. Two or three seconds pass, uncomfortably slowly. Then the police chief cracks a smile and says, "But I feel you. Got out as soon as the academy came to its senses. The COs that couldn't... not the best and the brightest."

Chief Wayne walks around his desk, sits down, opens a drawer, removes a bag of shredded tobacco leaf and some rolling papers, and starts rolling himself a cigarette.

"Real shame what happened to 'em, though." Lighting up, he changes the subject. "So how long you plan on stayin'? We got things pretty well in hand here. Folks over in Pendleton, though- had some trouble with flooding. I'm sure they could use a hand. I haven't been able to spare any of my people, 'cause of the trouble up at the prisons."

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 20:51, Sat 29 Sept 2018.

Up ahead, near the end of the next block, Carrissa, Carswell, and Anderson see a group of kids jumping rope in the street, double-dutch style. They're having too much fun to have noticed the strangers yet.

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This message was last edited by the GM at 00:05, Sat 29 Sept 2018.

Tampering with the mail. That was a federal offense. Or would be if there was a functional Federal Government in Arkansas. As it is Cao is inclined to pass this particular problem over to Guillory, rationalising that it's a civil problem rather than a military one. Given the events of the past few days mail tampering is the least of her concerns.

On the other hand, the mail had come straight from the police station. That would suggest that the tampering must have been done by someone in there. That's not a particularly reassuring thought. And then there's the question of why anyone would tamper with the mail. It's not as if anyone in Gould is likely to be mailing a hundred dollar bill to their cousin Joe in Little Rock, so theft seems an unlikely motive.

Reading what the people are saying? That sounded more plausible, although it's the sort of thing that she thinks Communists would do, not something she would expect in a small town in Arkansas.

"Let me see the letters." she says to Watkins, using her left hand to take off her sunglasses and hook them on to her assault vest while her right hand reaches out for the letters. "It's authorized under martial law provisions." she adds without prompting, just in case Watkins has any misgivings. In truth she has no idea whether it's authorized or not. But then again, shooting a number of escaped prisoners without even attempting to take them back into custody probably wasn't authorized either.

Not wishing to open any of the letters while she's standing in the parking lot just in case anyone is watching her, once she has the letters in her possession she places them in a pocket of her camo pants and casually strolls over to the JLTV where she retakes her seat and starts to read through them.

Cao skims a few of the pre-opened, outgoing mail. The letters' contents are prosaic, mundane, offering a snapshot of life in Gould but few clues as to why they've been tampered with, or who did the tampering.

From four of the letters, a sample:

• Rain did a number on the bean crop. Hope we can salvage it.
  
  
• Have you heard from Lamar? Last letter we got from him was in January. He couldn't say but his uncle thinks he was in Poland somewhere. I pray to God that he's OK.
  
  
• Aunt Mavis passed on in her sleep last Friday. It was peaceful. We buried her next to Gramma Purcell.
  
  
• Billie had the bady- a little boy. She named him Michael but M.J. swears it's not his child.

No warnings. No pleas for help. No discernible distress codes.

-
This message was last edited by the GM at 22:19, Sun 30 Sept 2018.