The chopper gang surge forward like a powerful, savage beast of many heads. Things seem to spell impending doom, but the terrain presents a disadvantage: the bikes are traveling uphill, even if it is only a mild incline, and the area is riddled with varmint tunnels. The weight of the hogs and riders are too much, and a pair of Buitres end up going ass over head as their front wheels get snagged in collapsed warrens.<br/><br/>Enough remained for Rez and her people to engage in time-honoured pack tactics; the trucks split off. Two head off north-east, and the bulk of the Buitres are after them, harassing the vehicles with melee weapons, saving precious ammunition for targets that really warranted bringing out gun. The remaining truck had attempted to follow, but it struck a pot hole and a much-patched and abused tire gave out on the thing. The sound the tire made was like an explosive going off, and the truck came to an ignoble stop. Through the window one can see the driver behind the wheel, and he's got a piece: a small machine pistol with an extended clip for maximum spray. The driver was shirtless, and his face was smeared with white paint. His nose was daubed red, and his hair was drawn into two pony tails at the side, both slicked up and held in place with some sticky concoction that made the orange lengths glisten in the sun. As there was no door, one could easily see the gigantic, voluminous pants he wore: dingy, dirty white with blue and pink circles. There could be more in the back of the truck; there is enough room for at least half a dozen passengers in the back of the thing.<br/><br/>Each of the trucks continued to play their bizarre, old world siren song. The sound grew more intense, seemingly in response to the angry roar of the Buitres' rides.<br/><br/><hr/>Nobody Ark 1-3 knows whose fault the apocalypse was. Not Q, not his fellow marines, not their immediate superior. The 'we' of the Marine Corps? The 'we' of the American war machine? Almost certainly. But for Q and his unit it was: need to know basis; national security; follow orders. But perhaps Adam. Perhaps Eve. Perhaps the Eden Site, Flaming Sword Protocol In Full Effect! Maybe they knew. Maybe not.<br/><br/>From Q's position, he had a pretty great view of things. In fact, he could see roughly four dozen hostiles dressed like . . . it took a moment, but yes! There were four dozen hostiles dressed like fucking clowns hiding in the tall grass. The ice cream trucks were leading Rez's people into an ambush. The clowns had nets, lengths of weighted rope or barbed wire, intended to bring the birds down. And then: machetes and pipes with nails and bits of glass embedded along the edges. The odd molotov, lighter in hand, not yet lit up so there would be no tell-tale smoke, but nevertheless ready to barbecue a vulture.<br/><br/>Bozo was in control. This was their show, and the birds were flying in the pattern the carnie ringmaster wanted.<br/><hr/>Amanuel knew that the screws were miscalibrated for the task he had set himself. The sacred configuration could be performed by hand - the ideal would be proper, calculated turns with a holy tool, but the beatified wrench rested back within the hold! - and answers would come, though flawed they would be because such was the way of things done by flesh.<br/><br/>OOC: Ebb, you can ask questions anyhow, if you like. Catch: no bonus if you act on answers, and you -1forward for each question you ask. You can ask as many as you like. :)