Door3Designs

The Great and Terrible Winter Battle of Sakura Hill By Kevin Sanborn Hayate shook the sleep from his mind as he stood up and stretched. The yurt was a poor substitute for the stables that he and his sister Sumire had left two months ago to journey to these strange new lands across the ocean. Still, it was better than the ship he had to stay in during their journey. He couldn’t complain much as the Utaku Legion, as was standard, contained a full complement of Stable Masters and hands to care for his brothers and sisters during their ‘extended’ stay here in this foreign land. He leaned down and nudged Sumire, still buried in her makeshift shikifuton and kakebuton. he grumbled softly, careful not to disturb the other six members of her squad that shared the large tent. Sumire’s response was what he expected as she lingered in the Dream of Golden Fields: she burrowed deeper into her kakebuton. He sighed before he reached down and gently pulled the covers from his sister. She

It was too late to change his decision to sneak into the camp to steal some food from the rough looking band of bikers. Too late to explain his circumstances or appeal to his attackers sense of mercy if they had any at all. In retrospect he realized that his hunger had made him stupid. Days of wandering the wastes, scrounging amongst the ruins of civilization for any overlooked tidbit, any morsel of food that would sustain him for a few days, hours, minute. Nothing was too small for a outcast like himself, nothing was off the table for a ‘ghoul’, a survivor of the ghostrock bombs, though ‘survivor’ might have been too generous a term as his skin had been horribly burned and face had been stripped away leaving him a living horror to the more fortunate folk. Three years of brutal savagery, suffering and fear had not softened the ‘lucky’ people into accepting a teenager who looked like one’s nightmare. It didn’t help that most people who shared his fate went mad… savage… and lost

In the dim confines of the abandoned high school gymnasium, recently converted into a vehicle fabrication bay, rested a vehicle affectionately named ‘The Warthog’. Dull green paint cloaking strategic angular panels, an overly robust suspension and a M2 perched in its ring mount marked this vehicle as an aggressor and not mere transportation. Closer examination would have picked out the precision and care which had been taken in creating the beast. This was no mere wastelander’s roadster. The creator, a diminutive woman cloaked in the black habit and wimple of her order finished loading the remainder of the Warthog’s gear into the open bed and opened the makeshift doors of the bay. A task which a normal man might struggle a bit in accomplishing, the small woman completed with ease, sliding the large wooden barrier out of the way before returning to the truck and climbing into the driver’s seat. A flip of a switch and push of a button and the Warthog grunted to life. The big block V8

Day 5: Evening Major Baxter relaxed as the straight razor began its sweep across his cheek. There was something… erotic... about trusting someone enough to have them place a razor across your own neck. He hated to use that word considering that the edged metal blade was being expertly wielded by the last person he would ever place that descriptive upon: The diminutive Sister Winters. The exercise in hygiene had begun simply enough when the Sister, a doctor, had insisting that she examine the wounds he had receives only 10 days ago. Sitting on a borrowed camp chair, there, at the rear of the humvee, the sister checked his wounds thoroughly. Firm hands removed the old dressing. Clean rags, soap and boiling water cleaned the healing wound of dried blood and sweat. Delicate fingers probed the areas around the damaged flesh. Satisfied with her examine the Sister replaced the bandage and dressing. He started to put on his shirt and jacket before he realized she was looking at him

The Sister fumed silently as she guided the Hmmv out through the gate of the town of Pangulch. She gripped the steering wheel of the truck as if she could rein in the events that, seemingly of their own volition, had conspired to render the Major’s current mission more difficult. Somehow, almost inconceivably, the action of one fool had set in motion events and try as she had to divert a course seemingly bound and set, it made no difference…“And the day had started out so well… as well as leaving a scene of innocence massacred could be.” Only an hour before they had arrived at the entrance to the town and what she saw while not causing an uplifting of spirit at least the scenes of order, security and commerce that rolled past her vision were not offensive. Just after the bombs had dropped there had been many isolated towns like this scratching a living from the ruins. …Now? Towns like this were becoming... less common. Gangs, outlaws, refugees and dispossessed soldiers were always

The Syker wiped the water from his face and chest, the Utah mountain air cooled his exposed skin as he finished washing the days sweat and dust off himself. Satisfied with his efforts he emptied the small pan of water out into the gathering darkness and turned to rejoin the survivors gathered around the center of the camp. And froze in his tracks. A small unmoving black figure stood a few feet away. It took a moment to register that it was in fact the diminutive nun Sister Winters who watched him. He struggled to calm the instincts honed from years of warfare that his surprise had triggered. “My apologies.” The woman said quietly with a slight bow of her head. He returned the nod wordlessly his mind hurrying to assess the situation. No one sneaks up on him. He should have sensed her presence well before now… and yet there she stood her habit and veil making her a part of the night as good as any stealth suit, only her pale face and wimple stood out from the monotone wardrobe. Not