Ash and Dust
The air inside the hollowed-out coal mine was thick with the scent of ozone and rotting pine. The leader, her skin looking like cured leather stretched over a skeleton, leaned over a rusted chemical vat. She didn't look up when the scout walked in, boots crunching on the grit of the tunnel floor.
"What the fuck is a deathcon?" the newcomer asked, his voice echoing against the damp shale walls. He tossed a jagged piece of scrap metal against a support beam.
She wiped a smudge of caustic grease from her goggles.
"It’s when those hunters gather a larger group of marks for us to knock off," she rasped, her eyes darting back to the bubbling sludge. "How’s the candy production?"
"It’s going well," the scout replied, a predatory grin splitting his face. "We found this old method that lets us cut it with cheaper materials. Shortens the shelf life, might get someone sick, but we’ll be long gone before they realize it."
"Good." She straightened her back with a series of audible pops. "Did the order of Mist come through?"
The scout’s grin vanished. He spat into the corner. "No, we didn't hit the convoy. I don’t know what those hunters do, but there were a dozen of them on the caravan bringing gear in. Not taking that risk. Why are they even out here?"
"There’s this big raider out there making a muck of things," she explained, checking a pressure gauge. "They’re hunting it. We’re gonna use the chaos to get rich. The Hunters will never know it’s gone till it’s too late."
The scout tilted his head, the shadows of the mine dancing in his pupils. "Too late...?"
"Yeah. No medical supplies, shittier weapons. If we pull this off and they’re left with nothing, there won’t be any witnesses unless we’re sloppy."
A slow realization dawned on the scout. He let out a low, dry chuckle. "Ah. I get it. Understood..."
A few days later
Location: Duster Hide Out
The second hideout was colder, a concrete bunker buried beneath the ruins of an old mountain lodge. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting a sickly pale glow on a map spread across a scarred metal table.
"I don't think what you're planning is a great idea," the younger man whispered, his hands trembling as he stared at the red marks she had scrawled across the paper.
The leader slammed her fist onto the table, making the kerosene lamp jump. "WHAT DO YOU MEAN? IT'S BRILLIANT!"
"The people here have their own customs, their own way of doing things," the subordinate argued, his voice cracking. "Are you sure that this is going to work? That this is a good idea?"
"It’ll be fine," she growled, pacing the small room like a caged animal. "We steal some weapons, grab their meds, a few of them die. They look like idiots in front of the locals and then the Dusters can collect some protection money."
The younger man shook his head, looking around the room as if the walls themselves were closing in. "Protection money? None of our people want to go head-to-head with any type of raider. They barely can handle a Zerker one-on-one."
"That’s the point!" She leaned in close, her breath smelling of stale tobacco and chemical fumes. "We take the money, and then we fuck off. Once the raiders clear the locals out, we move in, take the rest of the stuff. It’s free!"
The subordinate looked at the map one last time, the scale of the impending slaughter finally sinking in. "And what do we do when the raiders spread?"
She grabbed her coat and headed for the heavy iron door, her silhouette sharp against the dim light. "We do what the Dusters do. Stay one step ahead of the curve."
