Riding Again

The lifeless forms littered the floor of the canyon had but recently been active Adam’s – Frankenstein Monsters animated by a movement of Humours about their patchwork-corpse bodies. The tin stars that adorned their forms, the weathering of their skin and the guns that hung on their hips indicated that these had been hard creatures, spending their time in the outdoors riding fast and shooting straight into any danger that lurked in the wasteland of the Sublime. These Adam’s had been Rangers. No doubt some ambush had claimed the Rangers. Marauders, hiding along the rim of the canyon undoubtedly – or perhaps Mexican Hitlers (the clones of a long-dead dictator) or Killbots. Neither side had the need of flesh and bone to repair themselves the way an Adam did. Still, the sides of the canyon were treaterous and anyone who climbed down risked a long slow descent filled with the possibility of a fall. It didn’t matter to him anyway. He had gathered up what Parts he could from the remains, picked over by carrion-eaters and scavengers chased away when he arrived. He sat now, cutting away from bodies those few parts that remained in good order and stitching them together with others of their kind, working slowly and carefully the needle and thread. Soon, with the application of electricity, the Rangers would ride again.

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Riding Again

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