Solomon Island: Places of Interest
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Welcome to Kingsmouth!
Ran into Jack Boone right outside the Agartha entrance in Kingsmouth, Maine. After spending a bit of time talking with him I get the distinct impression that he doesn’t belong here.
I come from the South…the real old South. My partner Wolf and I ride for a higher authority. When you need to know us, you’ll know us. You got a whole lot to learn about the secret world first, kid. And when you’re all learned up, then you gotta understand what you learned. Kinda like peeling the layers off an onion. Probably be as much weepin’ involved too, won’t lie to you. Won’t talk down to you neither. You and me, we’re the same, I’m just more experienced, is all. And experience don’t count for much these days. We’ve been stretched out thin as gauze, and we need all the cool heads and steady hands we can get. Thought I had a measure of the absolute darkness in this world. The darkness waiting its turn, patient as all hell, to come through. Turns out I was wrong. So, guess we both got some learning to do.
Too much going wrong for such a little island. But this is how it always starts, as I’ve born witness more times than I’d care to remember. Begins with a single act, usually someone being damn stupid, damn greedy or both – let me tell you, kid, that kid is the worst kind. Then…then it just piles on and piles on. Once that cellar door is open, ain’t no one wedging the damn thing shut again. You won’t find ordinary people in a place like Solomon Island. They’ve all been touched. Because, you see, here’s the thing about the secret world: it’s the kind of secret that spreads. The kind that sticks. Hell, that’s how myth and legend get going, on a whisper, passed door-to-door, gone viral. Mighty dangerous things to get into people’s heads. That’s why most myths are ninety-nine percent warning. Yeah, heh, about as effective as the ones they slap on a packet of smokes.
Sign of the times, to see your people back in circulation. The Dragon. He-he. You play your cards with one hell of a poker face, and then, then the casino goes up in smoke and you were never there. Hell of a coincidence. The other societies are pissing in their pants, you know that, don’t you? Afraid of what you might mean. That all the empires they’re been building up brick by brick for centuries gonna mean squat in the end. Could be you’re right, but hell, I never wrapped my head around “chaos theory.” Even if what happened here was because a butterfly flapped its wings or somesuch, I’d find it hard to begrudge the butterfly. Well, I heard you guys have whole orchards of the critters. Well, you listen kid, I ain’t here to pass no judgement. Find the measure of yourself, and if it should match up with the company you keep, well then, I tip my hat to you. Society is what keeps us apart from the dark.
For a Fistful of Zombies
Jack Boone has a zombie problem. He shoots them, but they keep coming back. Finding out more about the zombies, what makes them tick, could go a long way towards solving that problem.
Your report about the habits of the dead is interesting. It appears they can be lured like dogs, but unlike dogs, they show no signs of learning the lessons of the whip. Use this to your advantage. If a tactic is effective, be merciless. Their biology is curious: no heartbeat, no flow of blood, and no evidence of brain activity. So how will you know when the dead are really dead? You will simply know.
Our wisdom flows so sweet. Taste and see.
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