Crashed!

The first step was taking an inventory of everything that might be worth saving from what was left of Hunter Army Airbase.  Sure, we know that anything that could fly, most likely took off a long, long time ago, never to return.  Anything else there was still hot with radiation...or so people thought.  We'd been there.  It was still warm, not hot.  The nuke that had narrowly missed Savannah and hit near Georgetown hadn't been a big one luckily.  If the Chinese had meant to take out Hunter, they'd done just that, even without a direct hit.  People avoided the area.  I say "people." 

The Moldi, as we call them around Savannah, somewhat occupied that area.  Atom Bomb Eaters, they called themselves.  It was a reference to their resistance to radiation, one can assume.  I guess their name somewhat described their most unique trait aside from being very, very ugly.  Some folks have said that the Moldi would carry out radioactive metal from inside the nearby bomb crater and place it where they didn't want normal people going.  It was their fault so many areas around Fort Stewart and the outskirts of Savannah were still hot. 

We talked about the Moldi and we talked about the riches of the lightly guarded holdings at the nearby Army airfield.  We'd sit at the Pirate House, drinking lemonade spiked with moonshine or beer that wasn't flat half the time.  The local folk band of the night would play a song and we'd all stop our conversation, regroup our thoughts and start planning all over again when their song was finished. This went on for several evenings.

When I say "we", I mean "us" as in the Broadstreet Bastards.  We more or less ran Broadstreet and East Bay Street.  We controlled the booze, hemp, tobacco and (deleted--street reference to female anatomy) mostly but we dabbled in other things too.  Savannah was a happening place because of us and what passed for the local government loved us.  We kicked a little their way for work on roads, sewage, communications and such.  A long time ago it was called "taxes" but taxes were something you had to pay to a higher power.  We were the higher power in our area and everybody knew we didn't have to pay squat.  But we did.  We loved the place and wanted to make sure it stayed lovely.  It was a jewel in a junkyard. 

But the problem with “some” is more.  You get "some" and you won't "more."  Some call it greed, we called it progress. 

Security was always the problem.  We had fresh water, plenty of food and even plumbing in most areas.  But half the people in Savannah at any given time were just passing through.  You had pirates to the north, Cubans to the south and a growing population of Moldi to the west.  BB had about 50 soldiers, who were nothing but soldiers.  The Marsh Men, another crew, had around 75 but not much gear.  The Salties were mostly fisher folk but they added around 20 well armed troops to the mix.  The local city militia numbered under 100 boots and weren't worth the worn out wool socks our guys threw away.  In all, there might have been around 200-250 boots to defend Savannah at any given time.  This was a problem for business.

The Moldi would raid us about once a month during the winter months and that would trail off in the summer to start up again around late fall.  At first it was 10 or 20 of the diseased mutants would rush in and try to carry off whatever they could.  We'd drop one or two and they'd get a couple of us in return.  Then they slowly started stepping it up five here and ten there.  Pretty soon, we were dealing with 50 or more at a time, often with light military vehicles and remakes (rebuilt civilian cars and trucks).  They had .50 cal weapons and hit us with the occasional rocket launcher, no doubt all salvaged from Fort Stewart.  Now that they were sending their big stuff into the mix and more troops (cheaper and more available than heavy weaponry), it was obvious that their confidence was building.  People were getting scared and some talked about moving.

We came up with all kinds of ideas during our planning sessions.  The best one was a doozy.  The best looking aircraft at Hunter Army Airfield was one of two CH-47 Chinook helicopters.  No, it wouldn't fly but we had people who had worked on them before and was sure it could be made flight-worthy again.  We had plenty of guys who claimed to know how to fly it too.  We could slowly rebuild it where it sat inside a hanger, then when the time was right, fly it back to Savannah.  It wasn't like a jet or a prop-plane that needed a runway.  We'd land it right in Forsyth park! 

Then we'd make it a bomber of sorts.  We'd then burn and blast the Moldi to a scattered gang of ugliness that a small farm work crew could wipe out.  With our chopper-bomber, they'd never come back either.  Then we could work on cleaning up their radioactive mess and expanding some too. 

Work began in the spring.  First, a few of us with a couple of mechanics slipped out to the air field.  It took two trips but the grease monkies figured out all the parts we needed to get the thing airborne.  All we had to do was get it to fly a few miles into the city.  No problem. 

It came time to make the final move.  The crew of tech had sneaked into the airfield for the last time and made their final touches.  They radioed in and said that they'd seen a few Moldi poking around the tower that stood near the hangers.  I remember the radio being filled with static, often a sign of radiation. 

This wasn’t the first time we’d seen a small patrol like that.  They were always small and infrequent, apparently never detecting us or noticing our work inside the hanger. 

Everything was set.  The aircraft was fueled and all it needed was a pilot. 

We went in during the early morning hours, just before dawn.  Since we weren’t carrying any tools, parts or fuel on this run, we entered at the far end of the airstrip.  It was heavily cratered from the war and fast movement was difficult.  It was the cautious man’s path though.  You could move from one crater to another, sure to have plenty of cover if you took fire.  I was carrying my Mossberg MVP in 5.56.  It was a bolt action rifle with a fluted barrel but what was special about it was that it took standard NATO 5.56 magazines.  I had a small Nikon scope mounted on it which wasn’t the most fancy example of optics but worked well for me.  The rifle’s wooden stock had someone’s name carved into it in Chinese.  It wasn’t uncommon for the Chinese to use American weapons and it wasn’t that uncommon for us to recover them at some point.  The rifle had most likely been snatched from a sporting goods store showcase and carried around by some Chinese soldier or brigand.  I’d found it wrapped in an oil cloth in a deserted cabin cruiser that was drifting down the Savannah river one day. 

I had carried a single grenade of local manufacture and a road flare.  If things went bad, we’d stick the flare into the fuel tank and make a run for it.  Once we started that bird up, the Moldi would know exactly what we were doing. 

We had no idea after we’d wenched the aircraft out that so much racket was to ensue.  The thing is, there is only so much you can do to get one of these birds ready to fly without cranking it up.  You’ve don’t want the first time you crank it up to be the first time you try to fly it too.

I was strapped into one of the fold-down passenger seats in the back.  The pilot tried the first start, which made a lot of racket and blew thick white smoke everywhere.  Cursing and coughing, he tried again.  The second time was the same result but with less smoke.  Again and on the third try, he got it.  The engine began to torque up and soon the blades were spinning.  That was when something thumped on the wall opposite from where I was sitting.  Then a window shattered.  I pulled my pipe gun out of its holster as soon as I was out of my safety belt.  I easily kicked the rest of the safety glass window out as another bullet hit the chopper near where the first had struck. 

A pair of Moldi was shooting from behind a low brick wall in front of a one story administration building.  One had some sort of long gun, maybe homemade and the other had a pistol of some sort.  They weren’t doing much damage but at the time, nobody knew what the chopper could take.  My pipe gun was a break-open single shot pistol that fired a 20 gauge round.  It was made from a small door hinge, a piece of pipe and a crude action but it worked.  Up close, it was a murderous bastard but at the range between us and the Moldi, it was a grouchy old man hurling insults.  I fired it anyway, at least to let them know that we were shooting at them. 

The pilot was a quick thinker.  He lifted into the air just a bit and swung the old girl around 45 degrees.  This put our aft section and our M60 facing them.  BUMP BUMP BUMP BUMP BUMP!  It began taking apart the brick wall the Moldi were hiding behind.  Cover became concealment and not even adequate concealment.  Brick flew everywhere around a cloud of reddish dust.  Magically, our gunner didn’t hit either one of them and they were able to take off running before he fired another short burst after them.  Both had gotten away. 

This encounter is what I think doomed the whole operation.  The pilot and crew were all spooked a little bit and rightfully so.  We had to get out of there and fast.  The pilot took us up about like being on a rocket powered express elevator.  I swear to you all that I heard something metallic snap towards the rear of the chopper.  Nobody else seemed to notice as we began to head towards the city. 

Suddenly the chopper jerked hard to one side and back again.  My head slammed up against the seat so hard that it felt like I’d hit against bare steel instead of cushion.  I cursed and before I could ask what was going on, we were spinning out of control.  The world was a sickening blur of motion.  The pilot was good and fought the craft hard but it wasn’t enough.  The hand of almighty himself was all that could help us at that point.  I don’t know how high we were or how fast we were going but I remember it crossing my mind that everything would be fine if I just held on, even though strapped in. 

I don’t remember the crash.  We can all assume that I was knocked out when we hit.  The chopper was nearly broken in half and there wasn’t a soul anywhere as I glanced around.  I painfully undid the straps and struggled to keep my balance on the tilted deck.  My head was killing me.  I just wanted to shut my eyes and stay perfectly still.  But I couldn’t.  There was a horrible itching sensation all over me. 

That was when I stepped out of the wreckage and found out where I was.  I was just on the edge of “THE” crater.  It was a good place to land since it was mostly water and mud with no vegetation.  It wasn’t a good place to stick around in though, since the radiation levels were still high.  That was why I’d been left behind.  I wiped the blood from my nose and mouth and realized that the others must have assumed I was dead when they did an evac.  There was a blood trail leading out of the crater and I knew I’d gotten lucky in the middle of an angry mob of bad luck. 

The first thing to do was leave.  You don’t mess around with radiation, friends.  The M60 was still on its mount along with half a belt of ammo.  I left it, just grabbing my rifle and praying that the scope wasn’t knocked off zero or broken completely.   My grenade and flare were both missing too.  I assume the survivors had apparently had time to grab those items on their way out but not make sure I was really dead.

The mud wasn’t as bad a tidal sludge but wasn’t easily navigated through either.  Struggling through it zapped all my energy.  Before long, I found myself completely out of breath and with my head pounding worse than before, laying in some tall swamp grass.  It was safe to assume that the grass wouldn’t have grown where it did if the radiation levels had been dangerously high.  The way my head felt, death would have been a release anyway.  But just when one might think it couldn’t hurt any worse, it did. 

As I got up from my resting, I tried not to cry out in pain.  It was so awful that I fell to my knees and puked.  Noise discipline was not a great concern anymore.  Where were the other guys, I wondered as I re-collected myself. 

In the distance, there was a snapping of rifles and the familiar pop of pistols being fired.  Trouble.  The Moldi must have come to investigate the crash and ran into our guys.  Then a firefight was on just to the north east of me.  Our guys didn’t stand a chance, I figured.  Besides, I wouldn’t have been much help in a fight since it hurt to walk, much less run.  The best path to take, I figured, was straight north.  West would take me right back into the frying pan. 

For as long as I could, I’d walk with my eyes closed.  The idea was to just open them long enough to check the path for obstructions.  I frequently stopped to rest.  After about an hour, my head was feeling better.  Not great but it was better enough that movement wasn’t a problem.  Sleep was on my mind now.  Every few minutes, I’d ask myself, “are you nuts?  If you sleep here, you’ll be found and killed!  Just another 500 yards and you can lie down.” 

This went on for at least a mile or two.  Coming across a stream was great luck and a long drink of water made me feel a lot better.  Just when I was contemplating walking the rest of the way to Savannah, I noticed a small overturned wooden boat.  It looked like it had been there for year, just a few yards from the stream’s bank.  After a quick check for snakes sleeping under it, I crawled beneath and passed out.  My dreams were replays of the crash, over and over again.  Sometimes a detail would be added or omitted, such as landing in a lake of fire or hitting an oak tree to explode. 

Something thumped hard on the side of the boat.  I woke up and blinked, trying to remember where I was.  Again, something landed hard against the old wooden john boat.  That was it, I thought.  I was caught.  I could risk a shot at my captors or do myself a favor and put one through my own head.  Decision time was coming fast.

“Come out of there!” a hoarse voice shouted. 

I held my breath.  Maybe it was just one of them.  I could shoot him and make a break for it. 

“Get up, you lazy bum!” called the voice again.  “Help us with the net!  The rain is coming!” 

Saved by assumption.  The Moldis were working a net in the stream and thought I was a worker sleeping in an apparently popular hiding place. 

“Yeah,” I replied back in a rough voice, trying to sound like a Moldi.  “Be right there.  Got to put some clothes on.”

The voice became a little more aggravated.  “What do you need clothes for in the water?  Come on before a storm hits.” 

Good, I thought.  They were working the stream in water deeper than what you needed to roll your pants up to collect a net from.  I supposed they were using a barricade net.  But there is one thing to know about a Moldi.  Don’t think just because the ugly mongrel is barefoot that he won’t chase you.  Their hide is tougher and a good portion of them don’t bother with shoes. 

As soon as the fisherman walked away cursing at me, I slipped out from under the boat and headed off in the opposite direction.  Maybe I’d gone fifty yards when I ran into, literally ran into, a young Moldi about my same height and build.  He had been coming down the trail when I’d ran smack into him.  He sat there flat on his ass, palms flat on the ground, staring at me in shock.  I leapt to my feet as I bought the butt of my rifle up into his chin.  He fell backwards, his head striking a small tree’s trunk. 

I pulled out my trench dagger.  It was a piece of rebar sharpened into a point with the other end bent around into a knuckle-duster type grip.  I started to sink the dagger into his chest but noticed that he was totally unconscious.  Now, I’m not a humanitarian and if I was, it wouldn’t have mattered since I don’t consider Moldi to be human.  But it was a matter of time and noise.  I let him slide, that is, if my blow from the stock of my rifle didn’t kill him.  I doubt it did.  They are a tough breed and anyone knows not to try one in a bare knuckle boxing match. 

For a moment, my headache was gone.  I ran like the devil himself was on my heels.  Tree limps and brush hit me in the face but I didn’t care.  I just ran down the little game trail, hoping I was still going in the right direction.  I finally fell to the ground, out of breath and seeing spots. 

I’d bought myself a little time but not much.  Quickly, I recollected myself and got back moving.  Was I being followed?  Maybe.  Who was following me?  Fishermen?  I knew enough about the Moldi to know that warriors seldom engaged in menial labor.  Aside from hunting, they spent most of their time preparing for the next raid.  That didn’t mean that a few fishermen didn’t have a rifle or a shotgun between them.  I had to be close to Savannah territory and they had to know their chances of a violent encounter increased for every foot they got closer to our land. 

I found a clearing or what was close enough to be a clearing in the thick swamp.  If someone was after me, they’d have to pass through it.  Snatching down a few branches, I made a hide and waited.  Thinking better of it, I removed my 10 round magazine and replaced it with a 30 round NATO magazine I carried as a spare.  A thick pine tree was my brace and I held my scope on the trail.  Hopefully, the scope was undamaged in the crash.  At that close range, it shouldn’t have mattered that much if it was off a little. 

I didn’t see the whole Moldi but I saw the color of his shirt:  brown.  It was a dirty looking homespun wool shirt.  I didn’t think, just pulled the trigger.  I saw a spot of red appear on the shirt and a scared hand reach up to grab it.  Looking back, it would have been a better idea to wait and shoot the second or third man in line.  But nerves were worn thin and common sense was only lingering on the porch. 

Curses came from across the narrow clearing and shots rang out.  I didn’t move.  Bits of tree limps and leaves fell around me from the return fire.  I didn’t budge.  The scope was on its lowest power but I still had to look around it to see if I could detect movement.  I did.

BAM clack-clack BAM! I put two into the bush that had shaken.  A Moldi fell dead and rolled out a little ways into the clearing.  I worked the bolt and swung my rifle to where I’d heard noise.  A hot pain flashed across my jaw, just about the jaw line.  Damn I was hit…

It wasn’t that bad but enough to make me take my eyes off the targets.  A buckshot pellet had cut the side of my face.  But I had been lucky.  Another inch and I would have got hit in the mouth or the neck.  It bled like crazy, turning my collar red. 

You join a gang because you think you are tough.  You stay in a gang because you turn out to be.  I was tough. 

I brought my rifle back up and aimed at where I thought the shot had game from.  A raspy voice shouted an insult my way and I pumped three more rounds in the area it came from, though I doubt I hit the foul mouthed fiend that I had wanted to.  Just then I heard screaming and shouting as 4 Moldi burst from cover and charged.  What happened next was like watching a slow motion video. 

I hit the first one in the leg, a terrible place to hit a Moldi since most will drag along after you.  This one did just that, pipe gun in hand.  The second one took a round in the mid section but didn’t seem to realize he was hit.  He just buckled over, nearly falling and continued to run towards me, screaming.  The third I missed completely.  I don’t know how but I did.  The fourth took a round center-mass and fell flat on his face, sliding through the grass for about a foot.  That left me with two to deal with who were immediate threats.  By now they were too close for my scope so I just sighted down the barrel and fired.  I hit the wounded one a second time, this time in the chest.  He stopped his charge, holding his left breast and looking at the ground.  Hit but not down. 

I’d just chambered another round when the uninjured one was on top of me.  He was flailing fists but doing no real damage since most of the blows were landing on the top of my head.  The rifle was knocked out of my hands before it could be used as a club.  I got to my trench dagger and swung it up at the Moldi.  I got him across the arm, making him jump back.  Blood ran down over his deformed skin, across his fingers and dripped onto the ground. 

He cursed and shouted for his comrade, who was coming up behind him slowly, a pained expression on his face.  “Use your pistol,” he urged, pointing at me. 

“Use your knife,” the wounded Moldi replied, pointing to a machete handing in a homemade scabbard on the other’s rubber belt.  “Not a very big one.  Not a very good blade either.” 

The wounded Moldi still held his pistol ready.  I wondered if I could make it for my rifle just a few feet away.  The uninjured Moldi just stared at me from behind wild eyes. 

“Give up,” he grunted.  “Give up and put down your blade.  We might trade you back for goods.”

I knew that never happened.  Moldi were never bargained with, not in a situation like the one they wanted to put me in.  Besides, I had enough sense to know that any deal made in the field by lightly armed underlings wouldn’t be honored back in their settlement.  They frequently burned people to death and anyone would choose bleeding out on the forest floor to that. 

“Come on, bitch,” I said, beckoning with my left hand.

The wounded Moldi laughed and then coughed.  “Kill him, tough man.” 

Always bet on the guy who is fighting for his life if the odds are anywhere near even.  Never bet on the guy who is fighting to save face.  The Moldi took a step towards me, machete in hand.  I threw my trench dagger right at his face.  It didn’t stab into him but cut him open badly.  It was better than it flipping and hitting him with just the handle and knuckle guard though.  Blood poured from his forehead and over his face as he swung wildly with his machete.  I jumped to one side to put him between me and the one with the pistol, who already had it up aiming it. 

I got my hands on the rifle and fired, hitting the attacking Moldi in the chest.  He fell to his knees, dropping his blade.  The Moldi held up his arm, like he was about to call a “time out” and then fell backwards, dead.  I had another round in the chamber in seconds. 

The wounded Moldi held his pistol on me but I had a good chance of hitting him too.  Time froze for a moment.  Slowly, I took a step backwards.  The Moldi didn’t move but stared at me with soulless eyes.  Every step I took put me further from him and improved my chances.  I heard distant shouts behind him and knew that there were more on the way, undoubtedly fresh and well armed.

I don’t remember making the decision to start into a run but I did.  A shot cracked behind me and a bullet whizzed by my head.  Later, it was easy to figure out that the Moldi who I’d wounded was as close to a private citizen as Moldis got.  His ammo was his own stash and he was reluctant to use it unless he really had to.  No burst of 5 or 6 rounds came but I still ran like a mad man.  The odds of me holding them off a second time were slim, even though I still had half a magazine in my rifle and another 30 rounds in my pocket, plus my 10 round magazine. 

After running another exhausting mile or so, I didn’t hear the sounds of pursuit anymore.  I kept up a brisk pace for another mile and found a FASCAM shell right where the trees started to thin out.  FASCAM shells scattered small land mines everywhere and after 10 years or more, they could be covered over well by brush.  That was bad but what made it worse was that I knew I was near the entrance to a more recently planted minefield.  The only good news was that it meant I was almost home.  I knew a few of the minefields near the south-west of Savannah but was familiar with the one in front of me.  The best thing to do, I thought, was crawl…slowly.  I crawled through the wet grass, feeling ahead of me with the butt of my rifle.  I finally saw one mine, a large anti-tank mine, partially unearthed by erosion caused by a tiny stream.  Anti-personnel mines were what I was afraid of though.  Those were hard to detect and even a bump from my rifle could set one off. 

I looked up to see if I was still being followed.  Nobody was behind me, yet.  But I saw something that caught my attention.  A white tailed deer grazed just 50 yards from me.  I’d been so quiet and slow that it hadn’t seen me.  There were a lot more deer now than there used to be.  One reason was less people and another reason was that people saved ammo for killing other humans, generally only hunting deer as a last resort.  This one perked its head up and tested the air.  It must have smelled me.  I watched as it slowly figured out where I was and took to a bounding run, right back towards Savannah. 

It wasn’t perfect but it was better than nothing.  This deer hadn’t stepped on a mine with his four legs; maybe if I followed him, I’d do fine with two.  I got into a high crawl and followed where the deer had run.  This was a better idea than you might think since most AP mines I knew of in the area were bounding-mines or generically called “bouncing betties.”  Your chances of surviving one improved if you were lower to the ground, or so I’d been told. 

Stealing a glance behind me, I saw a horrifying sight.  At least 30 or more Moldi were all standing here and there along the tree line.  They all looked well armed and most wore camouflage clothing.  They didn’t shout or curse, much less shoot at me.  Apparently, they knew full well about the mine field.  They all stood like hungry dogs watching a cat from behind a glass window.

Why weren’t they shooting?  The must have been worried about the rusty old guard tower, barely visible in the distance and the bunker at its base.  No doubt it had a machine gun or two but from behind cover, could have done little to the group at that range.  They could have all dropped down after killing me and any return fire (if any) would have only nailed one or two by accident. 

The problem I had besides the Moldi standing at the edge of the minefield was one of animal mechanics.  The deer covered a lot of ground quickly when it ran and normally left several feet between each time its hooves hit the ground.  There was a good chance that it had leaped right over a mine that I would be sure to crawl over. 

I was almost through the minefield when I lost track of where the deer had ran before.  Cursing, I looked around to see distant shapes, slowly retracing my path behind me, keeping low as well.  The Moldi had been waiting for me to get through the minefield so they could follow safely. 

A hatch flung open on top of the round concrete bunker and a person wave out to me.  A long rust stain ran down from the hatch to nearly the bottom of the weather-worn bunker. 

“Come on!” he called.  “Just run straight ahead and you’ll be ok!” 

I got up to my feet and ran.  The light snap of a .22 rifle sounded from the tower, first one or two shots then a rapid burst.  Why such a light rifle, I wondered?  The Moldi were now running as well.  I got to the barbed wire and carefully tried to get through it without being badly cut.  No luck.  I got cut several times but after a minute, got through it.  Fortunately the wire was lighter near the bunker, the idea being that in front of the bunker was the worst place to be anyway. 

Bleeding again and with my clothes torn, I ran for the bunker.  A knotted rope was thrown over the side and I began to climb it.  A rifle round smacked the concrete near me and the .22 on the tower began to snap away again.  There was no way they could hit the Moldi who were a good 250 yards behind me. 

I got to the open hatch and someone helped me inside.  The hatch slammed behind me as I dropped a few feet to the top of a wooden staircase.  “Come on and bring your rifle,” said someone who had just dogged the hatch and came down a latter behind me. 

The person was a man in his 30’s wearing a brown garrison cap and old Marine digital camo.  He had an M14 in his hand and wore a black armored vest.  I ran behind him down a dimly lit hallway that led towards the front of the bunker.  At the end of the hall was another round hatch, which the soldier rapidly turned a crank to open.  Daylight came through wire-mesh partially covered gun ports.  Two more soldiers were aiming rifles next to a fake machine gun made from PVC pipe and plywood. 

“Don’t shoot until you know you’ve got a shot,” the soldier said to me.  “If we can’t keep ‘em back with the .22’s then we wait until they get within 50 meters before we let them have it.”

I didn’t brace my rifle out of the gun ports like the soldiers did but took aim from further back in the room, bracing from some stacked wooden crates.  Nobody there seemed to have much experience.  I waited until I had a clear shot and fired first.  I hit the Moldi right in the spine, dropping him cold.  The others in the bunker began firing too and we had three Moldi down in no time.  They paused to return fire and one of the soldiers hit the floor of the bunker, holding his bloody neck.  They tried to move forward again but we killed two more of them.  It wasn’t worth it to them and the rest turned back, retreating same way they’d came in.  A light mortar barked from behind the tree line but its shells fell harmlessly around the bunker but did manage to break a window out of the tower.  Ironically, I don’t think a single Moldi stepped on a single mine.  I was starting to doubt there were that many still out there.  I knew that the militia occasionally moved mines from one field to another, depending on the threat and depending on how easily the particular mine was to move. 

The soldier on the floor died while we were waiting for a quad to ride out from the nearest outpost to do a medivac.  I was taken back to Savannah were I was treated for mild radiation poisoning.   

Nobody else survived the operation but me.  As a result, the Moldi occupied the airfield instead of just patrolling it occasionally.  Apparently, they’ve started working on one of the old aircrafts, having our same idea. 

Fetcher gang warfare

This brief account of a skirmish between the Fetcher gangs outside the areas of Atlanta not controlled by Mars Tribe.  This account is given in an interview done by the Argentinian news service to a Fetcher named "Bliss."  Though the news team is English speaking, they were forced to use a translator because Bliss is a near-mute moldy, though of average human intelligence. (See Moldies or Man-2). 

News Agency of Argentina:  Start by telling us your name and a little background on yourself.

Bliss:  My name is Bliss.  I'm a second generation Man-2 and I work in hazardous area salvage.  Some would call me a Fetcher.  That's slang.  Slang is when you use a special word you like to use.  You apply it to something that already has a name. 

I grew up near Stewy (Fort Stewart).  My folks weren't part of Atom Bomb Eaters (a large local tribe) so we didn't have much.  We lived near a pond and ate fish.  My mom and dad grew corn.  One year it was too dry.  Our crops died and the pond almost dried up.  It became just a big mudhole and all the fish died.  They left to talk to ABE about use going to live in Stewy.  There was some kind of trouble going on there.  Must have got caught up in it.  Neither of them ever came back.  My brothers and sisters went south down the road, looking for help.  I don't know what happened to them.  Basemodels probably killed them, that was all that lived to the south.  A basemodel is like you men with the cameras.  No offense. 

I went north.  I got in with a new family on a farm outside of Atlanta or Toxic City or CT.  Good people.  Most of them were Originals like my parents but weren't too bad off.  They traded with Mars Tribe sometimes.  Those guys were loaded.  I knew from an early age that I wanted to be loaded too. 

News Agency of Argentina:  Describe life on the farm, away from your parents. 

Bliss:  Wasn't bad.  They told me about God.  I learned how the man who owned the farm and his wife both had cancer.  Something in the soil, they think.  They became moldies during the war.  No more cancer.  That was 20 years ago or more.  I won't say his name because he doesn't believe in what I do.  But I believe in God and his miracle.  Have you ever seen a miracle?  The farmer did and he thanked God everyday that he woke up without cancer.  That was everyday.  He also thanked Jesus.  Him too. 

Work was hard but it was rewarding.  What I mean is, it felt good to do the work.  We grew all kinds of stuff.  Had pigs too.  Basemodels tried to rob us a few times, stole a couple of pigs.  We killed one and put another one out of his misery.  Stomach shot.  Did him a favor.  But the farmer felt bad so he built a church.  We also took some warning sighs from around the outskirts of Atlanta a placed them around the farm here and there.  I'm not sure what they said but it was about chemical hazards.  Nobody tried to rob us after that.  Farmer and his wife says it was the church and me and the other hands say it was the signs. 

One night the farmer saw us burning a field we'd harvested.  Said he saw the devil's face in the flames.  He and his wife said at church that the devil had been summoned by one of the farm hands or the house women.  That next day someone trashed my room while I was working.  Maybe they were looking for something, I thought.  They might think I summoned the devil.  It seems like if the devils face was in the fire, we who were closest to the fire would have seen him.  I told the farmer that and he asked me how the devil had tempted me to evil. 

I have never drank alcohol, cursed or stolen anything from a living person.  The devil tempts me like anybody but unlike a lot of people, I do not give in.  Some do, maybe some of you, and that doesn't mean you are evil.  You just have to not let him tempt you a second time or a third or a fourth or a fifth.  Even the old Bible says that. 

So I left the farm and go in with a Fecter gang.  I was good at it.  Brave.  Strong.  Fast.  High chem tolerance.  DD (Death Dust) didn't phase me.  Wasn't long before I had a real share in the gang. 

News Agency of Argentina:  How long had you been in the gang?

Bliss:  Let's see, cold, hot, cold, hot, cold, hot and cold again.  3 years? 

News Agency of Argentina:  What can you tell us about the battle at Shoe Warehouse?

Bliss:  Everything.  Most Man-2 don't wear shoes.  Some do but don't need to.  Some like sandals, give the feet air.  Feels good in the sun.  Mars Tribe didn't care about a warehouse full of shoes.  It was even called Show Warehouse.  Battery Bob, the leader of the gang, he said it even had words that spelled "Shoe Warehouse" across the top of the building.  If you could read, you'd know it said that and that would tell you what was inside the building.  Every Fetcher gang that does well has someone that can read.  You also need at least two guys who can speak loudly.  Those are the facts. 

Mars Tribe told everybody who was fetching that they could have anything near Shoe Warehouse.  They put a green mark on the road signs to let people know that it was a free area.  That is how you know.  Orange or Red means their stuff:  stay out or die.  They didn't want the shoes and had taken out all the food they needed from a food store across the street. 

You can sell shoes to Basemodels and get good stuff.  They always need shoes.  If your stuff is chemical free and not radioactive, they'll take it.  We knew we could make out good after we found out about the place.  Mars Tribes sends guys out, you see.  You pay them and they'll tell you what areas Mars Tribe has opened up to Fetcher gangs.  Rules though.  You've got to have rules.  No more than two Basemodels per party.  No automobiles.  Only what you can carry and don't leave traps. 

News Agency of Argentina:  Were there other gangs in the area?

Bliss:  Yeah.  That was the problem.  There had been hard rain lately.  That brings out the Basemodels.  Toxics in Toxlanta aren't as dangerous then.  DD is harmless when wet.  Wet with water.  Or soft drink.  Or soup.  It wouldn't matter. 

Like I said, rules are rules and they are there for a reason.  Basemodels don't think our rules matter.  They want us to obey their but they don't act like ours mean anything.  Not you all but most.  We came across a party that was nothing but Baselines, all wearing chemical suits.  Some call them "chem suits."  Chemical-suits is the proper word.  We saw them over at the food store.  One waved at us and we waved back.  No problems so far.  Battery Bill said for me to stand outside Shoe Warehouse and keep an eye on them.  I didn't mind but I wish I'd had a gun.  All I had was a sword, the same one I have now. (a cheap Samurai sword, made in India but with a good edge---ed). 

The other 5 guys went into the dark building and started loading up shoes.  Four guys carry, two walk security.  You need six people.  Four plus two is six.  I lost sight of the Basemodels.  I was going to walk in and tell Battery Bill but then something happened.

KA-Boom!  I heard an explosion and then screaming.  It wasn't the loudest but loud enough to scare the piss or urine out of me.  I heard the guys shouting at one another.  "Bring him into the light!" somebody called out. 

It was Cricket Cap.  He always wore a hat with a cricket on it.  Fishing hat or something.  Let me start by saying this was the first time I'd ever seen anyone with both hands blown off.  Just blood stumps...like bloody tree stumps after a tree has been cut down.  He was in shock too.  Shaking, cold and talking nonsense.  He tried to say that a pair of boots at had exploded.  Battery Bill tried to tell him, no it was a bomb or a booby trap.  After just a few minutes, Cricket Cap was dead.  They couldn't stop the bleeding.  Battery Bill cried and said he blamed himself.  I actually blame whoever set the trap.  That seems like the person who you'd consider guilty. 

News Agency of Argentina:  Who set the trap?

Bliss:  I don't know.  Everybody immediately said it was Basemodels who did it.  Them across the street.  So Battery Bill says two things,  they are there illegal and they set the trap.  King was a good fetcher and he says, we should just go find a Mars Ganger and tell them.  Anger can make things hard to figure out.  Everybody has been mad before and anyone who has been mad over a killed friend knows how hard it can be to think.  Think about what you are doing at the time.  Everybody but King said the Basemodels set the trap and everybody was getting mad at King too, so I kept my mouth shut. 

News Agency of Argentina:  What happened next? 

Bliss:  We didn't have many guns.  King had a shotgun, pump action.  Battery Bill carried a mini-14.  Very nice gun.  Only two mags though.  Joker, King's younger brother, carried a .380 pistol.  Me and Locks carried just swords and a couple of good knives.  Locks had a couple of fire bombs.  Molotov Cocktails people called them.  Invented in Asia, the home of China. 

Battery Bill told me to follow Joker and Locks to follow King.  He'd stay nearby with his rifle.  He told us to sneak around to the sides of the buildings and wait.  When the Basemodels came out, whoever was closest ambushed.  That means to jump out and attack someone.  Jump out from hiding.  Whoever was not closest was to come running once they heard shooting.  If they tried to run, they'd run into the others or him.  Dead meat, we all thought. 

Me and Joker hid between a couple of old cars.  I hoped that the Basemodels didn't come out where we were but they did.  Joker was excited and popped up from over the hood and started shooting his .380. 

I looked up but had nothing to shoot.  All I could do was watch.  Don't know why I was even there.  Blap-Blap-Blap---a Basemodel in a green chemsuit grabbed his arm and dropped the rifle he was carrying.  It was a nice AR-15.  Those are the best for a lot of reasons.  (Edited---Bliss trails off talking about the benefits of carrying an AR type rifle until we got him back on the subject---ed)  I wanted to rush out an grab it but didn't. 

Joker shot 8 times or maybe 9.  All that shooting and he only hit one person from just a few cars away.  The other Basemodels, must have been 10 or so, more than we'd thought, fired back at us.  Plunk, plink, plunk!  Bullets were making Swiss cheese out of the cars we were behind.  Swiss cheese is made in Europe.  Or America.  Or anywhere I guess. 

Joker reloaded his pistol so fast that he even dropped a few bullets on the asphalt.  He didn't bother to pick them up.  He just raised his head to shoot and all I heard was something that sounded like someone dropping a melon off the roof of a house.  Joker just stood there leaning over the hood of the old car.  He was fine except he had no head.  No head = dead.  It doesn't matter who you are and how tough you are supposed to be. 

I pulled Joker's headless body back down.  You guessed it, shot in the head by the Basemodels.  I tried to get the pistol out of his hand but he wouldn't give it up.  I think his last thought was "I have to hold on to this pistol no matter what."  I gave up and started climbing under the cars away from the shooting.  The shooting stopped though and I heard shouting.  Boom!  Someone, either King or one of the Basemodels fired a shotgun.  I heard Battery Bill shooting from where he was across the street. 

That was when something under one of the cars caught my rig.  I had left my pack behind across the street but still had my rig on.  I started to take it off then thought about how much I liked it.  So I just struggled with it. 

The shooting stopped and I heard the Basemodels talking through masks.  They killed King, I knew that and they weren't sure they had killed Joker but pretty sure.  I was sure he was dead.  Both brothers, dead and gone, I thought.  It was sad but I had my own problems, you know. 

All they had tried to do was make a little money and it amounted to getting bombed and shot.  I knew Battery Bill and Locks had taken off, I was sure of that.  Gone.  I didn't blame them.  You know, problems of my own. 

I had just got free from whatever had me hung up.  That was when I see a gas mask face staring looking right into mine.  Someone looked down to see if anyone was hiding under the cars and it was me.  It scared us both but I did something I didn't even think about doing.  I reached with both hands and yanked the mask off the Basemodel's face as hard as I could.  It slipped off and out from under his hood.  I saw his face for a second.  Surprise was how he looked.  He put his hand over his mouth and nose and tried to snatch the mask out of my hands.  I don't know about you but I have a good grip.  I can hold a coffee can full of lead for an hour.  Maybe not an hour. 

He finally choked and died, almost as quick as having his head blown off but not as gross.  I heard the other Basemodels saying, "Jackson?  Jackson?"  Then they came running.  I crawled out quick and took off through the parking lot.  Bullets whizzed by me, close too.  I knew I'd get hit but there is something you'd do well to learn.  Most people don't shoot as good wearing a gas mask.  They shot worse than Joker.  At least he'd hit somebody.  If they would have hit somebody, that somebody would have been me. 

I got to where I thought Battery Bill and Locks might be.   They were no where to be found.  Just poor dead Cricket Cap.  The Basemodels were behind me but going slow, cautious.  They thought I might have a gun. 

News Agency of Argentina:  What did you do then?

Bliss:  Hid in the shoe store.  I didn't think about it until later but the reason they didn't follow me in was that they saw Cricket Cap and figured out what had happened.  They knew the trap that had killed him had been inside the building.  They knew there might be more.  And besides, nobody wants to go into a dark building not only full of traps but with someone doing an ambush somewhere inside.  I already told you what an "ambush" was. 

News Agency of Argentina:  What did you do after they left you alone?

Bliss:  I don't know why, but I followed them.  I thought maybe I'd see someone from Mars Tribe maybe and be able to show them where the Basemodels were.  We all have to stick together, you know.  It was easy to follow them too.  They had a hurt man with them and even though he was bandaged up, he was still bleeding.  I think it must have been the one Joker shot in the arm.  When the suits get punctured, the Basemodels don't stick around anyway.  It was a drop here and a drop there, but it was plenty enough to track them.  You also learn to look for smudges in the dust, poison kind and regular kind.  It had been dry for a while too, even easier to track somebody.

News Agency of Argentina:  Did you eventually find them?

Bliss:  Yes!  I'd lost them for a little while but then found them again.  They were under a bridge making camp.  But when I saw them, it all made since.  They had been tracking Battery Bill and Locks.  They had caught them too.  I didn't know it but I'd been on the trail of my friends and my enemies at the same time.  Battery Bill and Locks looked like they'd been beaten up, but were standing beside a tall metal pole or pipe sticking out of the ground.  It went all the way up to the top of the bridge.  Each had one hand handcuffed to a chain that ran through a metal loop that was bolted onto the pole. 

The Basemodels had a camp set up there but it was temporary I think.  There was a huge water tank or something turned over with a door cut into the side.  Over that door was a showerhead, maybe so they could wash off the Death Dust.  You always know a regular human place since they have to keep the DD off of them.  I don't care for it either and it taste terrible.  It kills them though.  Quick.  Everybody knows that around here.

A few of the Basemodels came up with some old car tires.  The tires could have been from trucks too.  Hard to tell from where I was hiding.  They cut the tires and put them around the pole, just a few feet between Battery Bill and Locks.  There was a big stack of them. 

That was when one of them said, "This is payback for our friend you did like that."  Or something like that.  I could hardly hear them. 

They took one of Locks' own firebombs and threw it into the tires.  It caught on fire but only burned in the middle of the tires. 

"We can stand this all night!" was what Battery Bill shouted. 

"Just wait," said one of the Basemodels.  "When it gets going, you'll pull one another into it.  The one who lives can go free!  Sound like a deal, mold-trash?" 

They said "mold-trash" a lot too.  They were all derma-phobes.  Dermaphobia is the worst thing that can be wrong with anyone.  You can't hate somebody just because they an physical improvement of yourself. 

"We're good friends," Lock hollered.  "You'll never make us do that!"

"Just wait," the evil Basemodel said again, from under his ugly looking gas mask. 

The tires began to blaze and the heat was too much.  Fire will make you do anything and say anything.  Battery Bill was trying to get away from the heat just a little at first but even just a little caused him to pull Locks closer to the raging fire around the pole.  Locks screamed as his shirt caught on fire.  I didn't want to watch but I did want to see who would win, so I kept watching. 

Locks was bigger than Battery Bill and gave a hard snatch on the chain.  It pulled Battery Bill right into the burning tires.  He let out a holler like you wouldn't believe and literally jumped the other way.  He was burned bad in his arm and face.  They say some Man-2 don't feel much pain.  That is only a few and that wasn't Locks or Battery Bill, I can tell you that. 

Battery Bill dug his feet into the ground and leaned back.  He pulled Locks into the flames, this time on purpose, I think.  He leaned back so far that he almost laid down on the dirt.  Locks jerked the chain so hard that he dislocated Battery Bill's wrist, you could tell.  I thought he might pull Bill's whole hand off.  But he didn't. 

Locks whole arm, shoulder and face was in the fire.  He thrashed around but couldn't get a good foothold to pull himself out of the fire with.  Battery Bill jerked on the chain with all his might, trying to pull it with his good hand.  Suddenly he cursed and let go.  The chain was red hot where he'd grabbed.  Locks fell out of the fire a little and dragged Battery Bill just a little closer.  But Locks was done for.  His whole face was burned and was nothing he could do even though he was still close to the roaring fire.  He tried to stand and instead just fell.  A few minutes later, he was dead. 

It was sad to me, so much that I cried as I crawled away from hiding place nearby.  Anyone will tell you that I don't cry easily either.  We'd tortured and killed dozens of Basemodels with fire but not that way.  When we did it, it was to teach the Basemodels a lesson like not to come on our land, take what was ours or not give us what we needed more than them.  It wasn't because they were "normal" and we were Man-2.  It wasn't because of hate. 

News Agency of Argentina:  What happened to Battery Bill?

Bliss:  I don't know.  I never saw him again.  He was badly burned and I knew even if the Basemodels let him go, he wouldn't be doing any fetching for a long time.  I had to make a living still.  Also, I wanted to get as far away from the Basemodel camp as I could.  Seeing a Basemodel burned up and hearing him scream was different.  You knew they deserved it and even if that particular one being burned or tortured some other way didn't deserve what they got, their kind did----all of them!  But seeing Locks burned that way and Battery Bill being forced to kill him was too much.  It was all over a simple misunderstanding. 

News Agency of Argentina:  Do you still believe it was that party of normals that set the bomb that killed your friend?

Bliss:  If it wasn't them, it was some just like them. 

News Agency of Argentina:  Do you want to kill all normals?

Bliss:  No, some are okay, like you.  But there can't be any peace until we are all Man-2.  At least there can't be any peace until we have everything we need.  When the war broke out and God punished Basemodels, they were so jealous of us that they killed us on sight, even little kids.  They are still jealous of us and they all hate us deep down, even if they don't show it.  Not you all though.  But Most, most all. 

News Agency of Argentina:  What if all the normals moved to South America or Australia and left all the Man-2 here?

Bliss:  They'd take everything with them, I've been told that.  They would take their farms, animals, vehicles, weapons and their women.  What do you call a Basemodel trying to swim with a rifle? A drowner!  You see what I mean?  They are the greediest kind of animal on earth. 

News Agency of Argentina:  What do you think of the Moldy tribes that are peaceful and trade with the normals?

Bliss:  Wait and see.  I heard a preacher say something once.  "Nothing lasts forever, nothing but extinction."

Someone who can draw.

I need a handful of sketches done for a small handbook-section of one of my books or just a new Cruel New World website.  They don't have to be very detailed but I get tired of using random pictures off the web to give the readers of this blog a basic visual as to what I'm talking about.  It works but I don't like doing it. 

The typical Moldy is the one I need a sketch of most.  Male or female would be fine.  And before anyone starts to draw one, keep in mind two things:  first, a moldy is in no way related to a zombie.  Second, whatever drawing I select for this blog will be the one others work off far into the future.  Unless I die, the Cruel New World thing is going on for a long, long time into the future.  I've got a lot of plans for it and social metaphore, high adventure and future-history are always on the table. 

Here is what a moldy looks like in words:

Height:  human ranges based on age, sex and former racial make-up.
Weight:  normally slender due to increase motabalism.
Eye color:  frequently gray, pink or black
Hair:  patchy or thin in places.  Many wear wigs or head wraps. 
Skin:  Covered in purple or red rashes or mold-like scars from said rashes.  Sometimes accompanied by unusual hair growth in the scar area.  Note:  the more heavily rashed or scared a moldy is, the more likely he or she is to have nerve damage.
Dress:  Many moldies have stopped wearing shoes due to loss of sensation in their feet.  This is esecially true in warmer climants.  Where foot hazards are present, they often wear rubber sandles made from automobile tires.  Most wear discarded clothing though some such as Warm Star Community were clothes made from hemp which resemble earth-tone pajammas.  Fetcher gangs wear backpacks and other load carrying gear as well as carry gas masks or homemade respirators.  Most Fetcher gangs wear old military uniforms though Mars tribe issues their own Fetcher gangs with brand new Urban camo uniforms with the Mars Tribe logo on an arm patch. 

Most of the coastal moldies wear shorts to save on material and wear fewer animal skins than others living in rural areas.  White Buck Tribe has their own black and brown military uniform which is supplies to them by their trade partners, Mars Tribe. 

Cruel New World Breakdown 1: The Moldies, south eastern US.

Here are is the start of white might eventually become a sort of wiki for the Cruel New World series.  Let's start with one of my favorite subject:  the Moldies.


Moldies (aka The Afflicted, Man-2)

The Moldies came about as a precaution made by scientist in the wake of M.A.D. (Mutually Assured Destruction).  After the cold war between the USA and USSR, science to toughen up man kind to survive after a full scale nuclear war, was put to the wayside.  Funding was cut and the idea of all out nuclear war was growing distant in the minds of the scientific community.  Genetic experiments of all types were still conducted and much advancement was made in the field, though little thought was put towards creating a more survivable human to live in the wake of a nuclear conflict.

However, relations between China and the USA soured soon after the economic near-collapse of America.  China not only built up its navy and nuclear arsenal but also its chemical and biological weapons stockpiles.  Interest in the changing people into tougher humans to survive a large scale conflict involved WMD was renewed.  But science had came so far that it was no longer about making a person more resistant to radiation and bio/chem warfare.  The idea was also put forth to include making a human who would evolve more quickly based on what may be encountered after a potential war.  A program was put in place to research how humans could not only largely survive such a war but reach new heights of intelligence afterwards.  Longer natural lifespans were also to be increase. 

The problems came about when the war approached at a faster rate than was previously expected.  When it was obvious that war with China was unavoidable, the project(s) were rushed out too quickly without proper testing.  People were given an injection of a serum which they were told was to protect against a deadly new strand of flu.  In fact, this drug was meant cause the person's genetic structure to alter the moment radiation levels rose or they were exposed to certain toxins.  This part didn't work and some people started mutating shortly after being given the drug.  Though this was blamed on bio-terrorism and few cases of "premature alteration" were ever reported.  It is difficult to tell what caused people to become "moldies" before the war or how many actual cases there were. 

What is certain is that after the onset of the war, moldies began appearing by the thousand.  The transformation into "Man-2" as it was code-named by the government, was a rapid one, taking anywhere between a few days to a week or more.  The more rapidly someone changed into a moldy, the less likely the person was to survive the transformation.  The slower cases appeared to retain higher mental function, sensory and motor skills than the "fast burners."  Some argue that the length of transformation into Man-2 was dictated by what harmful factor the transformee was exposed to and what levels.  Some reports state that no outwardly harmful factors were involved at times.  The transformation into Man-2 could be induced by high levels of stress, normal illness such as a common cold or without any noticeable factors at all. 

Most in the government weren't aware of the Man-2 project and mistook the moldies are victims of bio-chem warfare.  Some even thought their condition was contagious and orders were given to shoot on sight.  This was the start of the bad blood between moldies and humans.
The project was largely unsuccessful in most aspects.  Though Man-2 caused the affected humans to build up a tolerance to radiation, many harmful chemicals and most known bio-weapons, it had horrible side effect.  The most noticeable side effect was the horrible rashes which left unusual grayish green scares.  Hair fell out in patches and either partially regrew or never came back.  Often the rashes would invade the person's mouth and throat, causing them in some cases to lose the ability to speak or taste.  Some suffered partial or total blindness.  Roughly half to three quarters of cases originally suffered from some form of psychosis.  Damage to the nervous system also occurred in roughly 1/3 of reported cases, often causing the victim to feel almost no pain in most of the body and very little sensation at all.  Some reported that victims suffered from chronic thirst, dryness of the mouth and skin. 

There project did have some victories though.  Besides Man-2 allowing affected humans to live through man-made disasters and the aftermaths, it allowed them to also require resources for basic survival.  More food and water sources became instantly available.  Moldies can normally consume rotten food and drink stagnated water with no noticeable effects.  Most appear to need less food than the average human to stay relatively healthy, however, all seem to need more water than normal people. 

There are also reported diseases that seem unique to moldies.  A few cases have been reported over the years of moldies dying from coughing fits that last for hours or days before finally killing the individual. 

Baron of the Coast era Man-2 info:

Years after World War 3, moldies have somewhat adapted and in some cases, actually evolved into a somewhat higher functioning human than the original injectees.  Though none have reached the level of "super human" as was the project's original aims, many have either reverted to previous intelligence levels or have at least dropped to a lower level of psychosis and slightly higher mental function.  Children born to moldies have a 90% chance of being moldies themselves but have lesser rates of mental illness than their parents.  Multiple births are frequent and there are seldom cases of miscarriage. 

Moldy society is a tribal one.  Moldies frequently group according to levels of mental function/illness.  The more mentally ill are prone to roving in packs, raiding and stealing from both the normal human population and other moldies.  The ones with decreased mental function yet less frequent or severe mental illness often find employment as scavenger gangs, entering areas too toxic or irradiated for humans.  These are often refereed to as "Fetchers".  Most of the time they will be led by a "Fetcher Captain," normally a moldy or normal human of average or above intelligence.  Fetcher gangs often work for a larger tribe as a way to make money from the tribal members who don't fit well into their settlements.  It can also be a form of punishment in the tribes.  One might serve in a Fetcher gang for 1 year for theft or for example, 3 years for the assault of another tribe member. 

It is not uncommon to find outcast humans living in Moldy settlements.  Most humans living among Moldies are outlaws, runaway slaves and deserters from various armies or paramilitary groups.  One intriguing aspect of Moldy tribes is their acceptance of normal humans with physical defects.  A crippled person is often welcomed into a Moldy tribe and cared for, if they are of average human intelligence.  Moldies also believe that mating with normal humans cause a more intelligent Moldy to be born as offspring, though this has never been proven.  Offspring of humans and moldies almost always bare no normal human traits.  The same percentage of normal humans born to moldies exist when one or both parents are moldies.  Many maimed and crippled war veterans have been known to live among moldy tribes, some even leading them.  However, Moldies have little tolerance for drug addicts, normal or otherwise. 

Slavery is legal in most Moldy tribes, though outlawed in most normal human settlements.  Normal human slaves are normally only found in the most isolated moldy settlements.  This is due to the fact that most moldy tribes don't want to draw unnecessary attention to themselves and avoid breaking most laws of nearby normal human settlements when at all possible.  Fetcher gangs are said to kidnap normal humans for slaves but this is most likely urban legend. 

Largest moldy settlements:

Fort Stewart:  Atom Bomb Eaters or ABE.  This tribe moved into what was left of Fort Stewart Army base in Georgia after an indirect hit from a highyeild nuke launched from a Chinese sub in the Atlantic ocean.  Tribe ABE, as it is normally called, became a beckon for thousands of moldies in the area after the first months of WW3.  Scouts were sent out from the half-ruined base to gather up the most desirable moldies from southern Georgia and northern Florida.  By the first year's end, the population of the tribe had doubled.  The US military made no effort to remove the moldies from the base not only due to the radioactive status of the area but also because of the containment it provided for Man-2 in the area.  Years later, various military factions bartered with the moldies for some of the heavier hardware contained in the base, most of which the moldies were unable to use.  After a bloody civil war (started for unknown reasons), the tribe became more isolated and stopped recruiting other moldies from the area into their tribe.  Rumors of Tribe Abe building strength to attack the coast city of Savannah are persistent.  Some speculate they may soon do so with Cuban support.

Northern Atlanta/North Georgia:  Mars Tribe.  Mars Tribe likely got its name from the fine Red Dust or powder (aka Death Dust) that was used in a massive Chinese chemical attack on the city of Atlanta.  Death Dust or DD has little affect on the Moldies except for giving them an uncomfortable burning sensation in the throat when breathed.  Most living in the toxic zones do so in relatively sealed environments and use respirators or gas masks while out in the open.  These areas are not advisable for normal human travel unless one uses a full chemical protection suit.  Some moldies of Mars Tribe are said to have built up a tolerance to the dust and use no protective gear in the city.  Mars has a loose confederation of Fetcher gangs called "Martians" though most Martians are only considered probates of the tribe for years.  Mars Tribe is one of the wealthiest of all moldy tribes occupying the Southern States.  They have extended their territory into northern Georgia where they frequently clash with normal humans living in the area.  Mars Tribe is famous for collecting DD and using it as a payload in make-shift rockets which are fired into normal human strongholds in the North Georgia mountains.  Though the dust is said to have lost a lot of its effect over the years, it can still be weaponized and used to deadly effect. 

Carolina Coast:  Tribe Iron Claw or TIC.  TIC is a medium sized tribe consisting of no more than 1000 members, occupying several islands on the coast of South Carolina.  Their symbol is a red crab claw on a black flag which is difficult to recognize at a distance.  They survive mostly by fishing and have little contact with the outside world, both normal and moldy.  Some have reported seeing large alcohol stiles on their islands protected by heavy machine guns and homemade cannons from under fortified shelters.  However, they have never displayed any open hostility to passing vessels and avoid contact if at all possible.  Their islands are surrounded by rusting ships, most visible during low tide.  Some say these ships (mostly military) were part of a Chinese landing force and others claim that TIC dragged the ships out and sunk them on purpose to create reefs.  Radiation levels around the sunken ships are higher than normal but not dangerous in the short term.

Central North Carolina:  White Buck Tribe (WBT) or White Buck Collective.  WBT boasts the highest mental function levels of any moldy tribe.  They occupy the smallest settlement tucked away in the NC mountains and maintain a close alliance with Mars Tribe to the South.  They are the most hostile to humans of any tribe and are known to be fierce fighters.  Unlike most moldies, they tend to posses good motor skills and are the most mobile of all the tribes.  They purposely keep their numbers small due for fear of breeding out their genetic advantage they have over the other nearby tribes.  WBT maintains a fleet of armored cars as well as dozens of motorcycles, modified to run on alcohol.  Unlike most moldies, they covet technology and will go out of their way to obtain it, often sharing it with other allied tribes.  WBT is rumored to have control of a remaining global-mapping satellite in orbit, selling access to it to other tribes.  They also sell valuable maps to other moldies, presumably made from their satellite data.  Most maps are covered with packing tape for water-proofing and have a drawing of the White Buck on the back, denoting their origin.  Numerous attempts by various human paramilitary forces have been made to destroy the White Buck Collective but all have failed.  As of recently, Mars Tribe has been cutting off trade with anyone hostile to WBT, even when WBT has initiated the hostilities.  WBT is also the only known tribe of moldies who refer to themselves as "Man-2", the government codeword from before the war.

Southern Florida:  Crocodile Clan.  CC's symbol is a crocodile holding the globe in it's mouth.  In addition to their holdings in southern Florida, they also occupy and control a large oil rig in the gulf.  What little oil that is produced there is normally sold to Cuba.  Likewise, anything that breaks on the rig and needs skill to repair is normally performed by Cuban engineers and techs.  Though considered a large tribe, they are known to be one of the least intelligent for their level of organization.  Cuba would be to blame for this since they frequently send advisor to assist the Crocodile Clan in running their tribe.  Part of the Cuban/Crocodile Clan's military and economic alliance includes the Cubans working constantly to put down or resolve civil wars which are fought among the clan every few years.  The frequent civil wars has left central Florida dotted with tribes of CC castaways and rebels.  Most of these small tribes are hostile to the human populations in the area with few exceptions.  Crocodile Clan maintains a small fleet of small ships, including a former Coast Guard cutter.  The cutter has since been refitted with more easily maintained weapons by the Cubans.  The cutter, name the "Hell Shark", has participated in escorting cargo vessels from Canada down to Cuba and has been known to randomly shell human settlements on the coast. 

Cuba/Dominican Republic:  El Gato de Noche Tribe.  This is not a real tribe by most standards but rather Spanish speaking section of moldies residing in the Caribbean and completely under Cuban control.  They are notably intelligent and receive various forms of special training from the Cuban government.  They are known for committing acts of sabotage and stirring up moldies near American human population centers.  They are "walking WMD" and are rumored to carry plagues into North America, which moldies are immune to but humans are certainly not.  Some have been spotty by spies wearing Cuban army uniforms while in Cuba.  All are devoted Marxist and are frequently seen attending state-funded communist rallies.  A black cat with an arched back on a red background is their symbol, often worn as a patch.  The Cats of the Night frequently carry Communist propaganda to the other moldy tribes, both large and small.  Most of this propaganda is in the form of video and cartoon books to save on the fact that many moldies have lost their ability to read and many of the younger ones are never taught.  Such dogma is often completely lost on wealthy tribes such as Mars, who essentially rely on capitalism to sustain itself. 

Southern Alabama:  Children of the Warm Star Tribe, CWS or Warm Star Community.  These relatively peaceful moldies operate several large farms and a scattering of smaller ones.  Most specialize in wheat, corn, soybeans and peanuts but one of the larger ones grow large amounts of hemp, though most of it goes towards producing rope and clothing for trade.  Warm Star are some of the most religious of all tribes, their religion coming as close to 20th century Christianity as moldies ever get.  This is not without their own spin on things however.  They claim that normal humans carry the "mark of the beast" and those who were transformed/born moldies are marked for Heaven and God's new Chosen People.  Their contact with others include sending out missionaries to various moldy tribes and trade with both moldies and normal humans.  The "Warm Star" is a reference to their status as an agrarian society.