"I'll be right back." Said Irish as he opened the door to the humvee, stepped out with his rifle in hand and pulled his pack from inside. He hoisted his pack onto his back, slung the rifle over his shoulder, and shut the door. The pressure on his wound made him wince, but it wasn't as painful as it was before. He looked towards the raided town and he could get a faint whiff of the smoke and char. He raised his scarf over his mouth and nose, then lifted his goggles over his eyes, adjusting them comfortably.
Alright, time to work, thought Irish as he began walking towards the town with a noticeable limp. The scarf helped, but only in a pinch; the smell of burning corpses still entered his nostrils but Irish wouldn't let that deter him from scouting the place out. He entered the town, looking left and right, scanning for signs of life, supplies, anything that could be useful. Corpses littered the ground, everywhere he went. Men, women, children; no one had been spared it seemed. Poor souls, thought Irish, may they rest in peace.
There were several sets of boot treads around the corpses, a few of them Irish recognized. They were standard issue militia boots of Foundation troopers. Among the tracks were spent casings, Irish crouched down and picked one up. He looked at the base of the casing, it was marked '5.56mm'. Casings were scattered all over the place, it was obvious there had been a large skirmish. Eit'er The Foundation is takin' a likin' to slaughter, or summat went awry.
Irish was following the tracks for a bit when he discovered another set of prints, much larger ones, as if made by a giant. Well now, 'tisn't every day ye get to see a feller big enough to make these. He set his focus onto the large prints and began to follow them. They led him to a shack, the inside dimly lit, preventing Irish from getting a clear view of what was inside. He walked up to the doorway and poked his head in, looking left and right as his eyed adjusted to the low lighting. He saw nothing but empty corners save for some wood and metal scrap. He noticed a corpse slumped against the wall directly across from the doorway, untouched by fire but the man had blood running across his chest. Irish stepped towards the man, a short and stout figure with a rather large and thick ginger beard.
"Why weren't you burned like the rest o' the town? What did they need from ye, old man?" Irish asked, speaking his thoughts softly. He turned back towards the doorway and briskly walked outside. He found the exit tracks and continued to follow them. The large tracks were heading in the same general direction as those of The Foundation. Towards the other end of the town, both sets of tracks were met with tire tracks, the tread marks identifiable as Foundation tire treads. Irish could clearly see that the large prints overlapped those of the Foundation troopers' and vehicles'. Whoever had made them seem quite interested in The Foundation's own interests. All tracks led out of the town and down the road that led towards the dome.
A chill began running down Irish's spine as he contemplated who might've been tracking The Foundation. He had heard tales of men, wanderers from down south, people with strange and almost mystical abilities. They were known as The Savants and it was told that it was because of them, entire settlements have removed from maps and all roads leading toward them deemed untraversable; some might even go as far to say they were cursed. Irish had never given much thought to these stories, always figuring they were just wives' tales or just the work of bandits that had been horribly misconstrued by the faults of going by hearsay. He couldn't explain the feeling, but the strong possibility that The Savants were something other than works of fiction. Irish shook his head and attempted to cast the thought from his mind, but it still remained as if imprinted into his head. Regardless, someone, or some thing Irish's mind had interjected, had taken great interest in The Foundation's activities and left a dead, burning settlement in their wake. At that moment, Irish was uncertain if he really wanted to know.
Turning back, Irish headed back for the humvee, walking considerably more briskly than before. The pain in his leg was almost nonexistent at this point, though he still walked with a slight limp. He approached the humvee and reached for the door, pausing only to look back at the burning settlement for a moment, then he opened the door, threw his pack inside and clambered in after, shutting the door behind him.
