Easy Bullets

Here's some gamer fiction I knocked out at lunch for my current post-apocalyptic campaign, predominantly to amuse myself:

Oslo waved the wand before him, listening to the sputtering clicks of the Geiger counter on his chest harness. Reattaching the wand, he checked the readout. “Just trace rads,” he said to the hunchback mutant beside him.

Like him, the mutant clutched a makeshift torch in one hand. In his other, he raised a modified lead pipe. Along its length, odd bits of metal and glass had been welded. Behind them, two more muties guarded their backs. “And what about chems?”

Oslo shrugged. “Betty’s dead, ain’t she, Shiner?” Betty, Oslo’s long-time scavenge partner, had a penchant for analyzing toxins, a skill that had done her little good against the Rad Wolves they’d encountered on the surface.

A pool of dirty water filled the next few feet of the tunnel before them. At least, Oslo hoped it was only dirty. Beyond that, the light from the torches didn’t reach.

“The munitions dump is this way,” Oslo added.

“According to Sidewind. You trust that hole-jumper?”

“He led us to the tank, didn’t he?”

Shiner glared up at his employer. “Which was occupied.”

Oslo nodded. “By scavs. Easy enough acquisition.”

Shiner waved his torch over the water, studying the tunnel and the water itself. “What about the biters?”

Oslo grunted. “Myth.”

Shiner shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“Enough,” Oslo said and stepped slowly into the water, his torch moving ahead of him, throwing light and shadow across the water and tunnel before them. “Come on,” he said over his shoulder, taking another step, his leather boots sinking into the musty water. From a holster, he pulled a blaster, an alien energy weapon he’d traded heavily for in Amarillo, remaining charges unknown.

Suddenly, a tortured voice barked something unintelligible from the darkness before them. Oslo felt a feeling of intense anxiety wash over him. A psi. Steeling himself, he leveled his weapon blindly before him. Behind him, he heard the patter of retreating footsteps. Cowards. “Cowards!”

Next, he felt a wave of nausea wash over him. He vomited his lunch of hard tack and bat meat. More psi tricks. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and strode through the foul water, which now reeked, apparently agitated by his passage. “Frack you, mole!” Oslo fired blindly ahead of him.