It took Barry a month to find what was probably his only solution to coaxing Clarkson Barclay out of hiding.
It was far from Salvation’s limits, into dry gulags of misty no-mans-land, thick with Big-Smokyo’s sulphuric fog in which survivors of a cannibalistic fashion might lurk; folk without admission into Morth’s sanctum, crazy crackpots with only primal things in mind.
Barry took his shotgun and two of Amott’s guards, a pair in which Captain Amott had trust. Both guards had Assault Kakashnikovs of a familiar old-world variant.
Nobody shot off anything but warning rounds as shadows, lurking and circling in mists stood watching Barry and his companions, foraging through ruins of bricks, mortar and old cars.
On that misty Monday morning, Amott’s guard Mustapha found a jackpot.
“Mi…umm….Barry!” Said a stumbling Mustapha, mindful of his Colloquium Lingua.
“I found…. a thing. I think…” Said Mustapha, scratching at his facial hair and staring at an