Play@YSDC

Saturday March 14th, 1931 1.45pm
Johnson Bayou Oilfield, Johnson Bayou, Cameron Parish, Louisiana

The two men took Lawrence to see Henry Jones. He was watching a group of men toiling at one of the wells on the site. He looked around as they approached.

”This here’s Neil Armstrong,” said the mid-western man. ”Says he’s good with machines, electrical and mechanical.”

Jones studied Lawrence for a long moment. “Yeah? Where did you learn that, Mr Armstrong?”

1d100

"Worked out on a farm since I was just a kid." "Neil" explains, relieved that he doesn't have to much lying- yet.
"So if something broke, we'd usually have to fix it ourselves; I picked up some of it from my father, some from books, and some from plain old experience. It's just about the only thing I'm really smart with, aside from dealing with plants and animals."

Jones thought for a moment, then said, “There’s a busted tractor around the back. Get that going and you’ve got yourself a job.”

The two men took Lawrence around the back of one of the wooden huts where a couple of vehicles had been parked up. ”That’s the one,” said one of the men who had introduced himself as Hank, pointing at a McCormick-Deering tractor that had seen better days. It was rusty and the engines were removed, exposing it to the elements.

”Over to you,” said Hank.

"Well, I've already figured out why it doesn't run: it hasn't got an engine in it." "Neil" comments, stifling a laugh.
"I'll have to see what I can do with what I've got..."
With a crack of his knuckles, Lawrence gets to work. This certainly isn't the first time he's had to get a tractor up and running, and with any luck, it won't be the last.

Mechanical Repair 50%: 1d100

Lawrence, for the first time in days, is in his element.

Oops… that should have read “… and the engine’s covers were removed…” but hey, we’ll run with it as originally written!

‘Neil’ had been a farm boy his entire life so tinkering with tractors came naturally to him, not least because there was rarely enough money growing up to pay for a mechanic so him and his daddy had learned to fix their own tractor whenever they could.

Hank and his colleague, Jens, stood and watched for a while before ‘Neil’ got them involved, lifting and carrying and scouring some of the other vehicles that stood nearby for spare parts. “You’ve got a real knack for that,” said Hank as Jens cranked the starting handle and the engine coughed into life.

At the sound of the running engine, Henry Jones emerged from his office. He looked over and nodded. “You’ve got a job, Mr Armstrong,”he said. ””Hank, get him kitted out and he can start this afternoon. He can take Tucker’s old bunk.”

”This way,” said Hank, as Jens drove off on the tractor. ”We’ll stop by the stores then I’ll show you where you can sleep.”

"I've got to sleep here?" Lawrence asks, curious but apprehensive. Getting separated from his group could spell trouble, especially knowing that this is where the root of the problem was lurking. Then again, who said he had to be a good worker? What are they going to do, fire "Neil Armstrong"? Unemployment was the least of his concerns, especially here.
"I'll have to get my things from where I'm staying, if I do."

”No problem,” said Hank. ”Jones wants everyone on-site so you’re available in an emergency. It also prevents any problems with the locals. It’s fine, though. Me and some of the boys have a card school going! Do you play Skat? Poker?”

"Never heard of skat before, but poker? Of course I do. You can't trust a man who doesn't play cards; he isn't willing to put himself on the line." Lawrence comments. He was never much of a clever social manipulator, but maybe he could get some people to spill their secrets over cards and a drink... and get some pocket money on the side, of course.

After stopping by the stores to pick up some gear, Hank took ‘Neil’ to one of the wooden buildings near the entrance to the site. ”Here you go,” he said, pushing open the door to reveal a bunk room with a dozen beds. The beds were made up of a wooden frame with a slatted base, with a mattress on top. A wooden cabinet with a padlock hasp stood on one side, with a low wooden nightstand on the other.

”That’s mine,” said Hank pointing to one in the middle of the room. ”Far enough from the door so I don’t hear it banging, and far enough from the head to avoid the smell.” He pointed to the first bed on the right. ”And that’s yours. Stick around long enough and you might get to move.”

‘Neil’ couldn’t help but notice the mark on the wall next to his bed, where the door handle had banged often enough to leave an obvious dent in the wall timbers. It seemed that his bunkmates were none too gentle when it came to opening the door.

"Why don't they just not slam the door?" "Neil" asks, carefully scrutinizing Hank. "Unless they do it to get on the nerves of the new blood, like me. Lucky for them, I've got a whole lot of nerves. More room to fit them, the doctor told me."

”Most of the fellas are just roughnecks and they ain’t got their wives or mothers around to remind them of their manners. They don’t mean nothing by it, it’s just the way it is when you’ve got a lot of men working together,” said Hank. ”Anyway, let’s get your gear stowed and get working. Jones ain’t gonna pay us to stand around yakking!”

Hank helped ‘Neil’ to get his belongings put away. ”You can go and get the rest of your stuff from your lodgings tonight,” he said, then he took him over to a workshop, another wooden building with sturdy workbenches filled with broken tools and half-assembled machinery. ”Jones wants you sort this lot out first, then head out and see if any of the guys have anything for you. Ok? I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

Hank headed out, leaving ‘Neil’ on his own.

"Why, it looks like I'll have my hands full for a while..." 'Neil' chuckles as he watches Hank go out the door and, once he thinks he's properly alone, searches the workshop up and down for any carved snakes, symbols, or other oddities.

Spot Hidden 30%: 1d100

It didn’t take ‘Neil’ long to spot what he was looking for. It was subtle, but once he’d seen it, he realised it was everywhere. Tool handles were lightly carved so as to resemble snake skin, with similar carvings adorning all sorts of hidden surfaces. The underside of work benches, the inside face of door panels. It must have taken ages - no wonder there were so many broken tools lying around!

Hank was back around an hour later, as ‘Neil’ was on his hands and knees, looking inside one of the cupboards. ”How you getting on?” he asked.

"Just clearing everything out before I get started- I don't wanna leave anything out of sight. It's a good way to forget something." 'Neil' comments, trying to seem casual after the shock of his strange discovery. All these carvings, and in so many places- how many people were in on this? Could it be everyone?. Thank God all this heat and moisture already had him sweating.

”Sorry it’s such a mess. The last guy we had went a bit nuts and let the place go to crap,” said Hank. ”He got into religion big time and started neglecting his work. Not that I’ve got anything against religion, you understand. But when you’ve got guys relying on you, you’ve got to be on the ball, right?”

"The Lord only set one day aside for rest." 'Neil' says, the words feeling hollow in his mouth; he stopped believing in things like "God" and "rest" a long time ago. You can only rest when you're dead, and even that's in question.
"This old guy, did he get fired or something? I figure this ain't the kind of job where they forgive slacking off."

Hank’s face went pale. ”He’s no longer with us. He got bit by a loads of snakes and didn’t survive.”

”Sorry, man. He was an ok guy, before he got religion.”

"I've had some experience with snakes, myself. Nasty, mean creatures. Best left alone, if you ask me. " 'Neil' states, obviously unnerved. He still hadn't forgotten what that wicked old sorcerer Brophy had told him about the wrath of Father Yig- the blood of that sacred snake was on Lawrence's hands, and he'd spent the ensuing year waiting for that snake-god to strike him down.
"He must have had one hell of a preacher, getting into religion as suddenly and strongly as he did. Either that, or he was just nuts."

”I don’t rightly know,” said Hank sadly, with a shake of his head. ”I know he used to go to the church in town, but that was before they told him to skedaddle, on account of him disrupting Father Daigle’s sermons. That old priest don’t have much patience when it comes to things like that!”

”Apparently there’s some sort of fire ‘n’ brimstone preacher that caters for the folks that work on the plantation but whether Brian had anything to do with him, I’ve really no idea.”

"Brian, you say the fella's name was? Where'd he go and get himself bit by all those snakes at?" Lawrence inquires, his eyes occasionally flicking towards the strangely-carved tools.
"He must've fallen into a nest, or something..."

”He was out on the plantation, somewhere. Some of the workers brought him in, said he’d been bitten. We couldn’t do nothin’ for him. He was too far gone by then,” said Hank with a sad shake of his head.

"Well, I wish he'd made it... If only so I could have a word with him about all these tools he left me." 'Neil' remarks, looking back at his unfinished work.
"I guess I'll stick to getting my preaching from Daigle. Good man, real pious- now that I think of it, why do you suppose Brian raised such a fuss at church if he was so deep in religion? Seems real odd to me."

”I really don’t know,” replied Hank, ”But once he got the idea of snakes into his head, he just wasn’t the same.”

"Mind's a funny thing. It fixes on the strangest of things... It's like blinders on a horse. Your eyes fix forward, and that's that..."'Neil' remarks, although it would be more accurate to say that this is Lawrence's own thoughts on life itself. He'd worn blinders his whole life, unaware there was anything but the forward march of time towards the same quiet life his father had lived, but now they'd been torn away, and he wasn't sure what direction was the right one. If nothing else, he knew what to flee from.
"I think I'll get back to work. Last guy definitely wanted to keep me busy."

Hank left him to it and ‘Neil’ made good progress in tidying up the workshop. That proved to be both a blessing and a curse; the room certainly looked the better for it, but it was also much easier to see all the snake carvings now…

At 6.00pm, a whistle sounded from the direction of Henry Jones’ cabin and ‘Neil’ could hear the sound of voices as men started leaving the oilfields and heading back to their cabins.

What’s Lawrence doing? Heading to his bunk? Something else?

Packing up and rinsing his hands under the water pump, ’Neil headed out the main gate towards town. About half way back, he heard a commotion in one of the fields adjacent to the road.

A young, dark-skinned woman woman - one of those who worked in the cotton fields - looked over the fence at him. ”Mistuh, can you help?! It’s ma brother! I think he’s bin bitten by a snake!”

Lawrence hesitates, staring blankly. He was an out-of-towner, as far as anybody knew- but could the truth have already escaped? Nyatanga and his agents could be anywhere, and they certainly wouldn't have forgotten the face of the man who had slain one of their sacred snakes...

Lawrence blinks, and rubs his temple. This work was getting to him, and always had been; but whether this was a trap or not, he couldn't stand to leave a possible innocent to die. He'd done it too many times already.
"Sure thing," he says, "I could see what I can do. Where's he at?"

”Jus’ here,” the woman replied, pointing in the direction of a nearby tree, where another woman knelt by a young man with light brown skin, who was sitting propped up against the trunk. His trousers had been torn up as far as his knee and Lawrence could see twin trickles of blood running down his calf. His skin glistened with sweat.

The woman knelt by the man was talking to him. ”Stay wit’ us, Ezekiel. Dis man’s gonna help you.”

"Sit still, now. Did you get a look at that snake? And more importantly, have you got a doctor in town?" Lawrence comments, kneeling down to have a look at the bite. He'd done his fair share of wound-stitching and bonesetting on the farm--sometimes on himself, no less--but there was only so much you could do about a snakebite without antivenom.

First Aid 50%: 1d100

Lawrence cleared the blood from the wound, then stopped. The twin puncture wounds he expected to see, weren’t there! Confused, he looked up into the face of Ezekiel who grinned wolfishly, his teeth red with blood.

As Lawrence was still trying to process this, he heard sudden movement behind him and he felt himself grabbed from behind. Hot breath on his neck and a deep voice behind him said, ”Don’ stroggle, mon! Don’ make me knock you out! De boss wont to see you…”

"Oh, damn you. That's a good trick..." Lawrence mutters, cursing his own generosity. He should have known better, being in enemy territory... But he wasn't dead, not yet. He could find an opportunity, still, if he could keep from panicking. If he could get this one's guard down, then put an elbow through his teeth...
"Let's talk, then- no need to make things get any worse. What's your boss's name, what does he want from me?"

”You find out real soon,” came the reply. Lawrence could feel the man behind him, the sour smell of sweat filling his nostrils.

In the distance, the sound of an automobile could be heard approaching.

1d100

Lawrence tried to twist out of the man’s grip but was rewarded with fists like two iron clamps, gripping his forearms tightly. ”Don’t be a fool, man,” came the voice from behind him, pushing him forwards, towards the fence. ”Climb over,” came the instruction, and Lawrence could feel the man’s grip every moment that he did so, like he was shackled and couldn’t escape.

On the other side of the fence was a motorcar, to the rear of which stood a young, dark-skinned man in an ill-fitting suit. The trunk was open, and Lawrence found himself pushed in that direction. A foot tangled with his own and he found himself falling forwards, the grip suddenly released so he collided with the mudguard and hit the floor. As he tried to recover, he found himself lifted up and thrown bodily into the trunk before the trunk lid was slammed shut, cutting out the daylight and leaving him in darkness.



The car doors opened and shut, then the engine started. The car was put into gear at the second attempt and it lurched off down the road, with the driver seemingly aiming for every rut and pothole he could see. Lawrence felt the car turn from time to time but he lacked the knowledge of the local geography to attempt to guess where he was being taken. The slow build-up of fumes in the trunk wasn’t helping his concentration either…

Sometime later, a groggy Lawrence heard the crunch of car tyres on gravel and felt the car come to an abrupt halt. The trunk was opened and he was himself lifted out bodily and dragged inside an imposing looking, colonial mansion. Two large doors were pushed open and he found himself deposited in a chair at the end of a long table, laid out for fine dining. At the far end, a neatly attired older man sat, smoking a cigar and sipping at a glass of red wine.

”Well, well, well. Now who do we have here?” he said in a distinct Southern accent. ”So who are you and what brings you here?”

"The name's Neil, Neil Armstrong, and I'm here for work," Lawrence remarks. All the while, he keeps his eyes peeled, looking over anything and everything- most importantly, a quick way out.
"And who have I got the honor of dining with tonight?"

The room was tastefully decorated although minimally furnished, with just the table and chairs and a sideboard. The heavyset man who had dragged Lawrence into the room stood behind him. Off to one side, by one of two large windows overlooking a carefully manicured lawn, stood another man, tall and dressed in a suit that suggested he was a butler. Behind the man who had spoken to him was a second closed door.

”’Armstrong’, and here for work, eh?” The tone suggested that neither his alias nor his cover story was being believed.

”Strange that you should resemble one of the visitors staying at Mrs Hebert’s home. The ones posing as journalists and authors, going around and poking their noses in other people’s business.”

"You can just call me Neil, sir. It was a real interesting trick your men played on me, faking a snakebite- where'd they learn that one from?" Lawrence asks, trying his hardest to keep composed in front of a man who, as far as he knows, could be Nyatanga himself with a new face, just like Brophy.
"And what would you suppose we're here for?"

The man laughed. If Lawrence had to describe it, he say he laughed carefully, which seemed to be an odd way to describe it, but it was the way best suited. He felt a shiver at the back of his neck as the man briefly closed his eyes, then they flicked open again, staring at him mockingly. ”Why not just use your real name, Lawrence?” he asked. ”Oh yes, I’ve heard about you and your friends. Perhaps it is time to do something about that.”

From the fireplace, there was a slithering, cracking sound. Looking over, Lawrence saw movement in bucolic, marble surround…