Tornado Trailer Park (Pt. 5)
“Goddamn, awful, stinking, beasts,” Clem hissed, frantically looking around for a place to hide. The wound on his leg didn't look too bad, but if he didn't get it bandaged up soon it could start to fester. Running on it was certainly not going to do it any good.
It looked like he had fallen into a bowl shaped depression, long walls of junked cars and the bent remains of trailer homes surrounded him on all sides. It would take a while to climb out, but at least there were a lot of little hidey-holes he could crawl into for now. Seeing one that looked large enough, Clem began to grab up as much of his spilled belongings as he could carry.
That was when the thunder of the raccoons paws came to a sudden stop.
Clem looked over his shoulder. Lining the depression's wall, taking up almost half its circumference, were hundreds of raccoons. Clem stood and faced his pursuers. He could see the one that he'd kicked, with its weird scar running across its face, staring directly at him with an almost human look of pure hatred. The rest, though, seemed to be focused past Clem at the far side of the depression.
“Well looky what we got here,” A voice drawled from behind him.
Five men, dressed in the tattered remnants of military camouflage and carrying an assortment of weapons, stood along the opposite wall. The largest one, the one who spoke, was carrying an assault rifle and was lazily pointing it in Clem's direction.
“You look like you got some trouble, Mister,” he said slowly, as if he was simply observing the weather. “Dontcha know you ain't supposed to rile up the 'coons? They don't take too kindly to people invading their territory.”
“I must have missed that part of the brochure,” Clem said. A couple of the men chuckled a bit, but the large one glared at them until they shut up. “Don't suppose you could help me out a bit?”
The raccoons had begun to inch closer, a few hopping down onto various ledges and outcroppings. Scarface never took his eyes of Clem.
“Oh, I don't know,” the big guy sighed. “You look kind of fat and soft. I don't know if you'd get a good price. You may not be worth the ammo. What do you think, Mathers?”
“He looks like he's got a strong back,” the one whose name must have been Mathers responded. He was a heavily muscled black man and carried a long, chip bladed sword slung casually over one shoulder. He was looking at Clem as if he were appraising a side of beef. “We could sell him to the Apes, they're always looking for people to dig in the mines. The Swampers may take him, he could serve as gator bait, maybe?”
“What the hell are you people talking about?” Clem shouted, panic in his voice as the raccoons began to close in. “What do you mean 'sell me'?”
“You got any weapons in those bags, Mister?”
The raccoons, with Scarface in the lead, reached the floor of the depression. A few of them rushed for one of Clem's duffel bags, tearing into it and each other in a frenzy to get to what was inside. The rest of the horde began to make their way down the side.
“I just got an old paintball gun and a pocket knife. You gonna help me or not?”
The big guy made a gesture to a skinny, red-haired kid that stood next to him. As the ginger began rifling through a pack that was he carrying, Clem could hear the clink and rattle of chains coming from inside it, the big guy hunched down and gave Clem the same appraising look his companion had given him.
“This is how it’s going to work out, Mister,” he drawled. “You're going to leave that knife. My friend Enoch here is going to toss down a chain for you to climb up. If you can reach us before the raccoons get a hold of you then we'll keep you alive long enough to sell you to some Apes over to
Clem didn't know what the hell Parlay was. He also knew that he didn't want to be sold to anybody. Given the choice between that and being eaten by a ravenous horde of raccoons though....
“What's it going to be, Mister?”