Thread: The Day the Lights Went Out [Langschwert x Cal]

He took in the little family with a sweep of his eyes, his smile genuine. They, at least, looked like a slice of the pre-change world, a bit worse for wear perhaps, but still intact. They hadn't had to fight for food, hadn't had to fight to keep from becoming food like he and his little group of merry men had. They hadn't lost anyone to starvation or a rock thrown by an eater. Until this incursion onto their peaceful little lives, it seemed, they had not even seen violence. Of course, their daughter was another reason to smile, the eldest one. Her, he singled out for a moment, but her mother had other plans as she came forward to offer her thanks. Within a few moments, the green-clad giants had become normal people, their helmets off and their guard down, swords sheathed and halberd used as a harmless walking staff. The only woman that had come inside the house with them was down on one knee, making candies appear in her hand to the screeching adoration of her youngest sister. Her middle sister was hanging on the arm of the halberd-wielder, who when his helmet came off was revealed to be an older man, around their father's age, who had a ready laugh. Her father and mother, though, were speaking to him. He accepted their thanks graciously, nodded to her words, and spoke a moment later. We need to bed down for the night....we speared a couple of wild pigs on our way in, and if we want them to be cooked right we need to get them cooking soon, which means coming to a stop anyway. How about we stop here for the night and let ya'll come to our table? We even have a spare tent and some cots, if ya'd rather stay outside the house. There was a general sound of agreement with that, and he was about to suggest all of them step outside when she suddenly became quite ill, and rushed past him. He didn't say anything...he had that reaction himself, the first time he saw something killed, and he could only guess by their lack of livestock or obvious weapons aside from the shotgun that had been useless for nearly a year now that they had not killed any animals in their entire time here. And so, he left the matter in the hands of his second in command, a tall black man that he called Deuce, to settle the affairs and get the wagons onto the property. They were broad based, broad axeled wagons drawn by sturdy plow horses, modeled after the Conestoga wagons that had conquered the prairies in decades past, complete with hooped canvas tops that shed rain with repeated applications of water sealant. Within an hour, they would be drawn up in a rough circle with a central fire pit on a little used piece of land that her and her sisters used to play tag on in more innocent days. His steps, however, were more purposeful. As her family was drawn out to help them set up the wagons, he moved around the house slowly, finding her behind it with the rather obvious signs of her recent retching. He waited until he was sure that it was passed, stepping around a corner to give her the privacy she clearly wanted, before coming up on her as she punched the side of the cabin. Gently, he laid a glove clad hand on her shoulder, speaking as he did so. Your first time seeing death? It's never easy, or it shouldn't be, but the first time is especially horrible. I'm sorry that you had to see that, but don't let it eat you up inside....it will, if you let it. His tone was gentle, threaded with more than a touch of sympathy and shared emotions. After a moment, his hand lifted, and he shot her a gentle smile. If you need to talk, I'm here. We've all been there, all of us who have traveled. When you're ready, we can use a hand in getting set up. With that, assuming she did not flag him down immediately to speak, he turned, and started back toward the front of the cabin. He and three others stripped out of their armor, leaving him working in just a loose fitting, holey pair of jeans that have clearly seen better days. Above them, he wore only his skin, stretched taut over muscle built in the earliest days of his life and refined since the change, with relatively little food and a lot of physical labor. While he helped set up the tents, another man expertly slaughtered the pigs, cutting them into primal cuts and throwing them into a large pan, where they were tossed with the preciously conserved spices and then laid out on grates near the fire to cook. Normally, they would never waste food doing an actual barbecue, but this day at least they had a surplus, and the McIntyres seemed to need the boost in their spirit. It would still take a while to cook, and while it was the people who had stayed with the wagons...another two in green armor, three more women and a half dozen children ranging in age from an infant in her mother's arms, to a fourteen year old boy who wanted so badly to be given his own armor it hurt, were entertaining her sisters and parents, as well as each other. As the night wore on, more suits of armor came off as it became apparent that more eaters were not coming, but there was always at least one person in full armor, watching, and none of the warriors who she had first seen attacking ever let their weapons get more than a snatch away from their grasp. A pot of only slightly wrinkled potatoes was put in the coals next to the pork when it was time, and later a couple of precious cans of green peas and carrots were put in a second, smaller pot next to the first. Dinner was served shortly thereafter on wooden plates, less likely to be broken as they moved about, but with good silverware taken from abandoned houses. Water from the stream down the hill, purified through a filter her father had, was the drink of choice, and in spite of the relative plainness of the meal, it was a filling one, which was rare enough these days. Only after dinner did the instruments come out. One of the women picked up a banjo, the man her middle sister was so taken with had taken up a fiddle, and even Michael joined in after a few minutes, drawing an acoustic guitar from it's case in one of the wagons, resting it across his knee. The music was simple, country tunes, and none of them were what might be called good singers by the basis of the pre-change world, though Michael had a strong baritone and the woman who was part of their A-list, Annabelle, had a surprisingly pleasant soprano. They had to. To get music in this world, one had to make it themselves, without an iPod to help. The fiddle player even drew his bow across the string for a dancing tune, and those people that might be interested in it drew one another out onto a clear patch of dirt near the fire to try their hand at dancing. The night wore on, eventually drawing down for time to sleep. People wandered off in groups of one or two to speak, though Michael could be found most of the night on the rear tailgate of one of the wagons, tuning his guitar. Likely, he'd still be there when most of the others had gone to sleep, having resigned himself to taking first watch. It was a typical night with them...just a bit of happiness among the destruction, a ray of light in the darkness. Her father was already making plans that night, trying to see how best to take advantage of the man's coming.