Chương 26: Chapter Twenty-Six: The Camp Investigation Part I

"It's thick here, isn't it?" Royle asked.

"I can smell it. I can hear you walking on it. The ground is soaked, too, isn't that right?" Hollis looked over the camp he had once explored through a computer screen as a kid.

"It's practically a swamp. Campfire moss on the ground, the buildings, everywhere."

"There's running water nearby… there," he said, pointing to a nearby cabin, "and there, and behind us. All over. North, east, south, west. The cardinal directions. And intercardinal. Evenly spread out. I hear it running softly." To Hollis, the sound was difficult to isolate from the rest of the noise in the forest, let alone locate. Still, he followed Royle's directions to the nearest source of water.

What he saw appeared to him as a large pillar of fire that started thick at the base and tapered out as it grew up the side of one of the cabins. Water seeped down from the top of the main trunk of the vine. The pillar had leaves sticking out of it. He recognized them, having just cultivated them when repairing the skipagan trap.

"Woody grape vines," he said. Now that he knew what he was looking for, he saw similar vines covered in campfire moss evenly distributed around the camp just as Royle said.

"This isn't natural. Someone cultivated these." Royle turned his head as he listened.

"Do they normally pump out water on their own like that? I can't find anything on it in my skills." Hollis didn't need to consult his Cultivation or Naturalism skill to get the answer. He had been researching this already. They flashed it into his head anyway.

"No," he said.

"Someone did this. Breathed life into them. Activated their adaptations and abilities." He managed a grin to himself.

"They gave the vines Spirit. Just enough to keep them constantly pumping out water." Breath, Blood, and Mind were spent so easily, but a little Spirit could give a plant a fraction of a soul, just enough to keep an ability active long after the explorer had left. Though the woody vines were only able to maintain a trickle, it was enough to keep the camp flooded for years.

"Explains how the moss could grow everywhere," Royle said.

"Doesn't explain where it came from, but it's not nothing." Hollis looked around the camp.

"So, we check the cabins, the treehouse tower, and then the corpses. Which one do you want?"

"I'll keep watch over the corpses," he said.

"You climb the burning tower." Hollis tried to have good humor about it but failed. There were a dozen or so cabins, each of which was a potential jump scare in waiting. Just under half of them had caved in to one degree or another, leaving nothing to explore but thick carpets of flaming campfire moss. The ones that were sealed still managed to be musty. He found fewer animals than he expected. Some squirrels pelted him with tiny gusts of wind when he opened one, a warning he didn't want to ignore.

There were supplies here and there. Most of the cabins were designated to one master or another, but when they fled, their wares and tools went with them. Hollis considered whether it was worth peeling up a layer or two of moss and digging under decrepit beds or inside a wardrobe that leaked a black goo, but he thought better of it. The moss had not outcompeted the mushrooms in the dark corners of these cabins. Fungi could be dangerous to even breathe near.

"Please tell me the answer was in the cabins, and we can go home," Royle called to him as Hollis waded through moss and mud that threatened to rise above his boots.

"No luck," he said.

"I found a security camera, but it was pointed at the parking lot."

"Damn." The men joked, with varying levels of success, to inject levity into the thing they were putting off the most: the bodies. In the game, they had each investigated mausoleums and ancient tombs, but it was different in real life. Even the sensory bleed of the cursed CD-ROM didn't match the hollow dread of staring down at a real corpse. With a glance at the burial mound near the bonfire, Hollis chose to go up the treehouse tower instead. But how would he climb the raging inferno? There were other ways up.

Long ago, a collection of long, viney fisher snares had been incorporated to form a sort of elevator that could be activated by giving them Breath. Those had died out. What remained of them were surprisingly durable tendrils of dried vine, one of which still wrapped around a fish carcass. Predatory plants were quite common in Periapt. They had an amazing array of powers, but needed a bit more than just sunlight and water to survive. Without anyone to feed them, they couldn't last. [Naturalism lvl. 6] In addition to providing sustenance, fisher snares' rotting meals help attract flies and other insects to their flowers to assist with pollination. Hollis thought that to be neat. He examined the trunk of the tree which held the tower and found it would be dangerous to climb. The false fire was all-consuming. It might not burn him, but it could rob him of a foothold or clump off in his hands as he climbed. It wasn't safe to climb the trunk without clearing the moss. He had a better idea.

He grabbed a nearby fisher snare, gave it Blood and Breath, and soon found the reinvigorated predator back in working order. The platform it had been attached to, which served as an elevator, was long since decayed, but the vine itself was thick and sturdy. It wrapped around the upper branches before returning down to the ground on the other side of the tree. Hollis activated the signature ability of the fisher, and it sprang into action, much more slowly than he anticipated.

It contracted, sounding like the ropes on an old pirate ship, lifting him as he held on. In his head, he pictured it being nearly instant. In reality, it took nearly a minute to rise a few dozen feet to the platform above. Not slow, but not as fast as he hoped a vine capable of capturing fish would move. This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version. To be fair to the vine, it had been dead only minutes before.

It would return to that state when he walked away from it, staying near the sturdiest part of the aged platform. [Archaeology lvl. 3] The treehouse was an engineering marvel. Not only for its height, but for its complexity. It was a large, complete building, all told. Or at least, it had been. Every window had been smashed. Every door broken in. The main room, which he remembered being some kind of meeting hall, was covered in campfire moss.

A respectable library had been ransacked by the look of it, and those books that remained had become home to either moss or mold depending on whether they got enough sunlight. He didn't know what he expected to find, but he was certain to be thorough anyway. Many clues could be hidden by the moss. Clues, like the claw marks he uncovered on one of the doors. They could have been from a sword or similar, but he expected they were not. Something had reached right through the door… through every door he could see.

Whatever it was, it had busted in the door frames while it was at it. There were similar gashes in the wood inside the various rooms. Hollis imagined it was the result of something very large sticking a clawed arm in like a giant looking for a snack, but the inspector didn't confirm it, so he didn't have enough evidence to prove it. Regardless, something had ravaged the place. It wasn't a neat or thoughtful job, either. It was pure destruction.

After twenty or so minutes and only finding a box of small-caliber ammo from the Outer Islands that didn't fit his guns, Hollis had only one place left to check: the tower. This climb took a few minutes, as he prioritized finding a steady hold over speed. He managed to get up without a hitch. [Traversal lvl. 4] The tower was designed for a lookout to keep an eye on the forest and the shores of Beckett's Sound beyond. It looked like a firewatcher tower, but there was open space in place of window panes.

Someone had put the shutters up on the openings to close it off. This door, like all others, was smashed in. Hollis walked all around the outside on a thin wraparound porch. Then, he entered. The room was much the same as the others. Something large had entered the door, splintering it. There was less campfire moss up here than expected, likely because moss didn't like direct, unabated sunlight. It would dry out.

A bow and quiver sat on the bed there, with half a dozen guns laid out in a row like someone had prepared to use every one of them. After a quick check, Hollis determined they had used every one of them. Empty ammo boxes rotted on the floor along with general debris. Some kind of hoarding pest had been in here, but had moved on. Hollis searched the place top to bottom. It was the most complete room he had come across. Whatever had happened at the camp, this tower was a part of it. A battle had played out.

The evidence was clear. The inspector repeated all of this to him as he surveyed the damage. He only found one thing out of place. A breadbox. It had sat on a table in the center of the room, but had fallen to the floor. It caught his eye because it wasn't in the style of a rough survival camp. It was metal with a white enamel coating. It appeared to be hand-painted. [Archaeology lvl. 3] The manufacture of high-quality consumer products had become commonplace in the years before the continent was abandoned.

Craftsmen specialized in kitchen utensils and appliances, such as breadboxes, though factories could produce cheaper variants by the thousands. This piece is an antique of high value. It would fetch a high price to the right trader. An old breadbox would be part of some right Outer Islander's prized collection. It was pretty to look at, the type of thing a grandmother might have, with paintings of blue vines and leaves, with little birds resting on them.

In a world where luxury was a thing of the past, even a fancy breadbox could shine. But it was what was in the box that interested Hollis. [Investigation lvl. 5] You see an old leather-bound journal, hastily stored in a breadbox. The pages were bent when it was put inside. Hollis removed the journal and gently placed the antique kitchenware on the ground where it had fallen. He leafed through the book. In an adventure game, a journal was only as valuable as the last used pages, so that was where Hollis turned.

The writing was almost illegible from poor penmanship and years of moisture and decay. Deciphering it would take Hollis a magnifying glass and a few hours, but he had something better: his Investigation skill. Just like in the game, the obscured text appeared on the indicator. 19th of Summer, 11 o' 5 o' 4 The soothsayer drank the sap of the Great Firewood Tree and had a vision of flames.

This vexed her something awful, for the last time the firewood trees had all lit up was in the days leading to the abandonment of the continent. She stared into those flames, and I swore I could see the fire in the glassy part of her eyes. Said it was the old camp in Beckett's Sound that was on fire. She saw trees ablaze, the camp in ruins. Told us we needed to get there but couldn't say why. 7th of Fall, 11 o' 5 o' 4 There are no trees ablaze at the old camp. There are no people here, either.

Night is falling, and the fog is moving in. All I see are creeping strands of the mist like wet hair tangling through the brush as it sneaks along the forest floor. Soon it will be everywhere. It is too late to run. The path will have been cut off by now. … Still no trees ablaze. The fog is thick now. I hear nothing. I see nothing. Maybe the stories the storyteller told were meant to scare farmers so they'd throw silver in her tin. … We see no fire, but there are travelers in the fog with lanterns.

We call to them, and we see them walking in the distance. They don't come to us. Hosea and Simms, two of the Cat's Eyers we hired, went out into the fog to greet them. It's been half an hour. … The fog did not bring the foretold fire. It brought darkness. Built the bonfire real big just to get some light and saw we are under it now. There are no stars. No matter how big we build the fire, the light never seems to get through it.

There's no use being in the lookout tower right now, but I ain't leaving while there's still sharpshooting to be done. Something is out there. Something that makes no noise. I have half a mind to dig up Gunther's grave and join him for the night. None are safe here but the dead. … The fire never came. I've barricaded myself in the tower now. Can't see those on the ground… can hear them though. The bonfire only breaks through the fog by the will of an errant wind. I may be the only one left soon. …

I loosed all my arrows. Fired all my rifle rounds. The fog ate it all, and I can't say if one shot made purchase. Something is at my door. It's clever. I saw it through a crack in the window, peeking at me through a big eye as I read some old diary entries from back when me and Jim first met. I hope I see him again when Olivia comes through on her promise. I'd like that. Maybe I'll be a singer then. The soothsayer's fire never came. — Mellanie Cornwallace, Sharpshooter of the Young-Tomlinson Party.

Can't walk to your doom until you've finished your journaling. Hollis looked out over the camp. It was like staring down into an inferno. He felt it was deeply beautiful. How many could say they had seen something like it? How many had survived the view? The fire came all right.