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White Hounds Holocaust Campaign 6: The nautical logs of Benny

Martin Cookson picks up the baton of writing the adventures of the last post apocalyptic tenerife campaign ( for now) in the style of Benny.

(The following notes were found floating in a plastic detergent bottle in the Mediterranean Sea, Coordinates 32.390527, -10.379447, 110km west of the coastline of what was Morocco. They are written in Spanish on what looks like pages torn out of a school exercise book in a closely scrawled, barely legible hand in black ink. After a number of waterlogged unreadable pages the notes continue)

…so round and round we go “what do we need more of? What do we need first? Who’s gonna get it?”. Jaw, jaw jaw.

I mean, I ain’t complaining: we’ve got a ship and we’re seaworthy and we’re a damn sight safer than we have been. Our folks are mostly happy and we’re getting to grips with the ship. The engines are running smoothly and my disgusting experiments with raccoon oil are bearing smelly fruit.

But the other guys are right: we can’t live off of air and the ship can’t just ruin on raccoon oil so we have to think about resupply. Ever since our run in with Kirk Douglas and his viking boys I got me a hankering for some ship’s guns: in my mind’s eye I can see another bunch of pirates get sunk by some 20mm cannon. Sweet. But I’m snapped out of my reverie by Herry and Cesar. They say we need food and fuel more and that’s hard to argue against, although we kicked around some rumours of a ‘ship’s graveyard’ but that was off what was the African coast and so we had nowhere near the fuel we needed for that trip.

Robert Shaw

We need maps and knowledge as well and so we head to a remembered harbour on Gran Canaria. When we get there it’s a bust: it’s just a holiday marina so we wasted fuel for almost nothing. Cesar scrounged up a little fuel and water and we got us some crab meat (there were crab cages that made it look like the place was inhabited) but we saw nothing else, really. Me and Papagonzalex are more interested in any maps and charts that might be useful in the future and we get some of this stuff from the offices of an old cruise liner firm. It seemed to indicate there might be supplies on the north of Gran canaria so we sail off. We think we’re being watched and, sure enough, there’s some faces at windows as we pull out of the quay.

On our way around the island, we see the airport and through Cesar’s sight we see a really organised scavenging operation. Red flags with laurel leaves and the letters SPQR. A little shiver goes up my spine and I spit reflexively : the Roman bastards. Then I remember, the ones the Nato cannibals wiped – Mirella Rasawi’s lot? – out were an offshoot of some larger group, maybe these? Anyway, they’ve got what looks like slave gangs looting airport chairs and they’re kept in line by some legoinarrie assholes with a jeep mounted with what looks like a giant crossbow. I mean, , these guys are assholes but they’re well-armed highly motivated asshole.s

[When the notes resume the handwriting is much shakier]

So, I’m writing this laid up in bed after a pretty shit time. My memory is pretty shot but I’ve talked to the others and pieced things together.

Well, we decide we definitely don’t want any trouble with the Roman fucks so we carry on north. They’ve got fields and farming – slaves again – and the whole thing is looking creepy. When we go to the north the marina is another bust: same set up; a marina which looks pretty unpromising. But it’s in a much more industrial area. There’s factories and a power plant so, you know, there’s maybe something to grab? We take the launch head into port. Because there may be more of the legionary assholes around we try and keep a low profile and we overhear a conversation. There’s a chat between some high up Roman dude and someone he calls ‘professor’.

This professor seems nervous, held against her will but she’s been persuaded to help restart the power station. After making it clear that he better get this done or there will be a price to pay, the Roman officer (?) gets on a quad bike and rides off.

We have a whispered conversation: we could sure use a professor and maybe if we spring this one she’ll be so grateful that she helps us. We try and creep around but there’s some Roman guards still keeping an eye on the Prof and they hear us. So now everything goes to shit. 

I try and keep a watch outside while Harry and Cesar go in to see if they can get the professor while the guards come outside looking for us. Well, our guys try and creep in but these Roman assholes are no joke. And they spot Cesar and go for their guns. Cesar drops one but there’s no hiding our presence now.

Harry throws his javelin but these guys have some sort of armour and it doesn’t do anything. So the brave idiot charges in with his fencing sword. Cesar meanwhile reloads and shoots another guard.

Meanwhile, I’m outside and this guard come snooping around so I try and nail him with the ol’ harpoon gun but it’s a piece of shit and misfires so I don’t hit anything. They don’t seem to spot me and go back into the building. Well, I can’t leave my guys in the lurch so I try and sneak in but I kick a can and it alerts these assholes. Right now, I am in the goddam shit and no mistake. 

Cesar shoots again but somehow it dings off the guard’s armour and goes ricocheting off. Harry’s slashing like madman but not managing to land a thrust so he picks up the gun that the guard Cesar plugged dropped. I ain’t got no choice so I pull my knife and jump in. Harry shoots and misses the guard but clips me. And when I say ‘clips me’ I mean he wrecks my whole fucking arm and I go down. Cesar shoots again and again. Even as I’m blacking out I hear shot after shot.

Turns out Harry is in the shit too: he gets shot at, tries to get behind cover but he’s too slow. He goes down. Luckily Cesar is either one hard or one skilled bastard and he captures the injured legionnaires and persuades the professor – who turns out to be called Maria Naviad to join us. She does, although she’s pretty short of options to be fair.

Back at the ship the Roman guys are pretty defiant. They say the whole of the north of Gran Canaria is under their control. They’re well-organised, well armed and function off of a slave based economy.

There’s lots to think about there but I ain’t in no condition to think. Harry’s doing his beast but my arm is pretty badly shot up. It may end up being so weak my raccoon strangling days are gonna be over for good.

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