He traced his steps once more, just to be sure. There was no doubt about it, that was one large host that had set up out near the old Raider camp. And yet they had not moved forward towards the town, but back near the way they had come, close to the irradiated crater of the Cloverfield, and ancestral home of the 91s, a small but stubbornly resilient Diesel Jock clan that had survived for as long as anyone could remember. To the west of the crater, stood the monument the locals called the Spire.
The tracks headed in that direction, trampling down the vegetation near the river. Wrapped up all along the path, the Devil’s Weed had claimed dozens of victims, slowly devouring the corpses in acidic juices, or in the rare case of Psions, the strong red tendrils growing into the mouth and ears and into the brain, shattering the skull in the process, but leaving the victim eerily alive. Several of those had been released from the main plant, the red tendrils waving from the fractured skull, as they moved in a parody of a Shambler. Pondering what to do with the information, he headed north along the river, broadsword at the ready.
Lockjaw twirled the faded PCH symbol underneath their shirt, nervous fingers tracing the outline. In a burst of energy, they leapt up and danced around their friend again.
“Yeah! That’s right! They had to take us up on the challenge!”, their high pitched voice muffled by the canopy of ivy that had been taking over the region this past year.
“Our King will show the way, the mighty Meatloaf shall not be defeated!”, yelled their companion, just as energized with the situation.
“So, what do we do to get ready?”, said the companion, after a while.
“Easy peasy. We rock out to the tunes, we give thanks for the guidance of the song, and we get hyped!”
“Battle for the Bands, Battle for the Bands!”, they both screamed in unison.
He sent the caravan off, towards the last known location of the Black King. The worst had come to pass, as the Final Knights had possession of the Spire. It was time for alliances, and no source could be overlooked. The Hellions had sent word to the Brotherhood of Steel and others that they had formed relationships with. The Black King was always a fickle ally, and the town had years ago driven his servants from El Dorodo, refusing to pay the tithe the Black King asked. “Steal from the rich, and give to the poor” - it was an old tale from before the Fall, and the Black King and his followers followed it faithfully. He had been on the opposing side of the Black King during the creation of the Spire, a servant of the Pitt-Jolies that had made the construction possible.
He looked towards the old building in front of him. More uncertainty, but there was little choice left to him. He had sent letters to the Pitt-Jolies, and to the head of the NBA at the Sta Ples center near Holywood. He would continue to try and curry favor to any that could help with galvanizing the forces that would be needed. The storm was no longer coming, it was here. The moon had peaked over the tree line, its light illuminating the entry way. His bruised knuckles rapped on the door. It opened, and Victor Frankenstein answered.
“Gonzo, so good of you to reach out to me. Come in, come in. We have much to talk about…”