The Blastlands Saga

by DK Williamson

  He went to the frequencies used to send messages to Rangers in the field and caught a repeating broadcast on the Geneva Ranger station band. It was Amanda’s voice. “Ranger Sergeant Traipse. You are one day overdue. Please try to contact this station or any other Ranger post. Message repeats.”

  Jack tried the citizens band, but knew contact was not favorable without a better antenna position. He heard nothing but static in reply to his broadcast.

  As darkness fell, the rads lit several fires and began playing music. They sang and danced, gyrating in the firelight for a few hours before they went to sleep.

  As they had the previous day, the rads were in no hurry to resume their trip, and late in the morning Jack learned it was for the same reason. Another rad group with handcarts came from the south and increased the group’s size to over a hundred. They were back on the road by midday. Jack gave them quite a lead before he took to the road.

  The road moved through places much more built-up than the areas to the east. Jack knew the buildings and overgrown areas that surrounded them were prime locations to spring an ambush, and while a force of a hundred rads were an unlikely target, a single Ranger was.

  The rads continued west, with Jack staying as far away as he could while still catching glimpses of them as the terrain rose and fell. For quite a while he saw no sign of the rad group, but as he crested some high ground, he spotted them. He’d gained considerable distance on them and he surmised they must have stopped for a rest. He moved into some nearby brush and continued west at a slow pace until the rads moved away.

  Jack surveyed the area ahead. He could see large concrete structures, towers and multi story buildings. He looked at his map. “A prison,” he whispered. Even at a distance the place gave off a foreboding feel. As he grew near, Jack was sure it wasn’t just an overactive imagination. Something very bad had occurred there.

  Jack stopped at the entrance to the facility. A few footprints Jack guessed were a week to ten days old led through the crumpled front gates, but there was no indication of their leaving. A damaged sign hung at an angle near the gate. J EP HAR CORRECTION L CENTER - ENTRANCE. BE PREPAR D TO S P. Jack stood for a moment and surveyed the place.

  What remained of the chain link fence that once surrounded the facility was gnarled and rusted, twisted with razor wire and bent fence posts. The open areas were a tangle of brambles. Black scorch marks around many of the barred window openings told a tale of fire, while mangled steel entry doors told a different story. The red roof of one building, burst open from the inside, told yet another. On the dour concrete walls of the penal institution, painted in large red block letters, was a single word Jack felt must describe the scene from decades before, NIGHTMARE.

  Not knowing what happened, and knowing he likely never would, he felt the single word epithet would have to suffice. Jack shook his head and moved on.

  The rads’ pace slowed and once again, Jack found himself closing on them. Jack thought the rads may be wary of something, so he moved into some brush near a building and watched them until they disappeared from sight. He waited several minutes, then moved out. Jack did not go far before he saw motion ahead and to his left.

  A man wearing faded brown canvas work pants and a tiger stripe camouflage fatigue shirt stepped from behind a building with his right hand raised, a sign he was not hostile. He held a large caliber lever gun in his left by the forend. Jack recognized it as a Marlin, a hulk of a rifle chambered for one of a few hard-hitting cartridges. Jack couldn’t place the man’s age. His tanned and wrinkled face was that of a person who spent a great deal of time in harsh weather, frying in the sun or taking windblown snow and ice season after season. He could have been forty-five or eighty-five, or anywhere between.

  The man looked down the road where the rads went, then back at Jack. “Hey, kid. You don’t want to be going that way, least not till those loons get clear.”

  “I’m following them.”

  “Why do you want to do something as dumb as that?”

  “Long story. I’m a Freelands Ranger.”

  The man raised his eyebrows. “That explains the dumb part. What’s the why?”

  “They may be up to something that’s bad for the Freelands.”

  “You think?” he said with a dubious look. “I doubt it. Those loons and their sort do the same thing every few years. Don’t know why, but a bunch of them gather together and head up OKC way on some kind of quest. Usually they don’t come back.”

  “Usually?”

  “Yep. Those that do are few in number and busted to hell. Like I said, dumb.”

  “You’re probably right, but I need to do it.”

  The man shrugged his shoulders. “Your damnation. If you got something to provide, I’ll share a rabbit supper with you. I’ll warn you now, I’m a fine cook.”

  “Thanks for the offer, but I need to keep tabs on them.”

  “They’ll stop by the creek crossing for the night. They always do. You can go check, but trust me, they’re there. Pick’em up in the morning.”

  Jack paused in thought and decided to trust his instincts. “All right. I have some canned vegetables to contribute to supper.”

  “Fair enough. Follow me.”

  The man led Jack up the road to an old two-story house. Despite the decrepit look of the exterior, the inside was still livable. “A lot of us roamers use this place when we’re passing through. Leave it a little better than you found it is the rule.”

  “Roamers?” Jack asked as they climbed the stairs to the second floor.

  “Yeah. Folks that roam the land. Ain’t tied to nothing, so’s we ain’t got much to lose.” He opened a door at the top of the stairs. Inside was another set of stairs to the attic space above.

  “Are you an organized group?”

  “As organized as our sorts get. We stay up on each other, meet up every so often, but we don’t have rules or dues,” he said with a smile. “Name’s Abel Pilgrim.”

  “I’m Jack Traipse.”

  “Traipse? I heard that name sometime, but don’t recall.” The attic was modestly furnished with basic furniture: several chairs, a pair of tables, and three beds. A cabinet crowded with cooking utensils and dishes sat between a cast iron wood stove and a sink with a hand pump. Pilgrim gestured at the tables as he leaned his rifle against the wall. “Have a seat, ain’t no reservations here. I’ll get supper going.”

  Jack pulled a straight-backed wooden chair out from under a table, and after dropping his rucksack and LBE on the floor, took a seat.

  “You born Freelands?” Pilgrim asked, lighting a pair of oil lamps.

  “Yes,” Jack said as he removed a glass canning jar from his ruck. “Raised in Geneva Settlement. Work out of there also.”

  “Yeah? I been there a few times. Been a while though.”

  Jack took the jar and placed it on the cabinet where the man worked. “Where do you come from?”

  “Nowhere… least that’s what it is now. Before the Calamity, it was called Houston. A huge place. I was a mail carrier down there. Walking routes, residential, sometimes going floor to floor in the skyscrapers.”

  “How did you survive? I know Houston was hard hit.”

  “That’s putting it mildly. The aliens buried the place in their muck, then the Russians nuked the hell out of it. I wasn’t there to see it though, that’s one reason I survived. As soon as that gasbag parked itself over the city, I up packed, took off, and headed north, just after I called work and told them what I was doing. My boss told me he’d can my ass if I didn’t show.” Pilgrim paused to laugh. “I told him I’d make it to my appointed rounds through gloom of night and all that crap, but I drew the line at alien invasion.”

  Pilgrim lifted the latch on the jar of vegetables and sniffed as he raised the lid. “Nice. You want the jar back?”

  “No. Maybe someone else might find it useful.” Jack sat down at the table once again. “Where did you go?”

  “I told you, north.” The man
looked over his shoulder with a smile. “Despite the traffic, I made it to northeast Texas before I ran out of gas. There wasn’t any to be had. The government was trying to keep a lid on the panic, so they made a go at bottling people up. I ended up at a camp in De Kalb, down where Texas used to be. Once the aliens started dropping their muck and spawning their creatures, the camp became crowded and only got worse. Once the nukes started flying… well, the place went mad. The government lost control of the situation and other people tried to take over. The smart people started leaving before it got completely out of hand. It ended up getting ugly from what I heard. Real ugly. Some left in groups, but I decided to go it alone. I figured I’d do best on my own. I had the legs for walking and a dismantled AR-one-eighty rifle in my bag. I reassembled it and went looking for places where there wasn’t anybody. Spent a couple of years pretty much alone with that rifle as my only companion. I loved that rifle. She did well for me until about ten years ago when she gave it up.”

  Jack pointed at the big Marlin against the wall. “Quite a change to go from a twenty-two caliber center fire to a Marlin levergun.”

  Pilgrim laughed. “I’ll say.” He dug into a pocket and tossed a gold colored object at Jack, who found it was a .45-70 cartridge with a cast lead bullet. That meant Pilgrim’s rifle was a Marlin Model 1895. The hefty.45-70 cartridge dated back to the 1800s and was a veritable monster compared to the 5.56x45mm round the AR-180 fired.

  “I hooked me that Marlin out west. Abandoned and still in the factory cardboard box it was shipped. Took it to a guy in the Cherokee Nation I know called Meriwether Fleet. He had ammo for it, but they was black powder cartridges. I didn’t know what to make of it. Never shot anything like it before, but it grew on me. Cast the lead hard and it’ll blow holes in most anything. You can roll you own if you have cottonwood charcoal, saltpeter, and sulfur and you know the mix. You don’t need a chemistry degree to do it either. A kiln for the charcoal and the right gear for mixing, and you’re set. Save your brass, buy quality primers, and bang away. The Holy Black, that’s all I use now.”

  “Aren’t you concerned about the smoke giving away your position?”

  “No. Scares the hell outta most people, all that noise and a giant cloud of white smoke. Those that ain’t dead and don’t scare easy, well, I use the smoke to my advantage and run away.”

  Jack laughed, not sure if Pilgrim was serious or just being entertaining.

  Less than thirty minutes later, Pilgrim put dinner on the table, breaded and seasoned chunks of rabbit meat with mixed vegetables and biscuits. Jack found Pilgrim’s culinary skills more than passable.

  The two men talked for a while, and then they went to bed.

  . . . . .

  Jack’s internal alarm clock woke him before dawn. He arose, dressing and packing quietly so he would not disturb Pilgrim. He needn’t have bothered.

  “You leaving?” the old man said as he sat up and stretched.

  “Yes. I want to be in position before the rads move out.”

  “You got time. I’ll fix breakfast. They won’t be heading out till full light.”

  “I’ll need that time to get close to them.”

  “Well, good luck, kid. Next time I’m over Geneva way, I’ll drop in and see you.”

  “You do that. I’ll show you the sights, such as they are.”

  “One other thing, Jack. You be careful out there. Duty is one thing, getting killed is another. Remember that.”

  “I will. Thanks.” Jack touched the bill of his cap and then went outside. He moved west until he felt he was near enough to the rads’ camp to start moving stealthily.

  He crept through the dense brush until he smelled food cooking, then he slowed even more. Inching his way into sight, he discovered the rads were exactly where Pilgrim said they would be. While some members of the band cooked breakfast, most of the others packed up to move. About an hour later, the rads moved out. He looked at the jerked beef he was gnawing on. I guess Pilgrim was right. He’s probably eating pancakes about now. I had time for breakfast after all, he thought.

  The rads moved quickly. A mile west of the creek crossing, they moved north. Jack estimated they had traveled five or six miles when the rads stopped in the mostly burned remnants of a town. Jack lost sight of them and he approached cautiously, using the burned remnants of buildings to mask his movements. He discovered the rads had stopped and were stowing their tents and carts in a building Jack guessed was formerly a garage.

  He slowly made his way closer. He saw they had completed their work, and were gathering in an open area beside the garage. A handful of men stood in front of the group. One of the men began speaking, but Jack was too far away to hear anything. He continued his approach. After several minutes, he caught the faint sounds of one of the voices. It sounded as if he was exhorting, but Jack could not make out the words. He inched closer a few more yards and cupped his hands behind his ears.

  “— know the heathens hold that which Father Atomic provides. It is not theirs to keep. It is ours for the taking. It is ours by right, by ritual, by holy baptism in the glorious rays of the true pure light, and by the diktats of Father Atomic to reclaim the means of our salvation!”

  The gathering cheered, waving their weapons in the air. Jack could see that every one of them was armed.

  “Brother Nelson shall lead us on our crusade, and he has words for us.”

  Another man stepped forward and raised his hands, silencing those that still cheered. “We have gone over the plan. We know what we must do. Let each of us rest, prepare, and contemplate, until we depart. Team leaders will go over things one last time before we go. Rest, for today we shall be victorious!”

  The gathering broke up into groups. Some sat together and talked, some lie in the sun, while still others tore down weapons and reassembled them.

  Jack wondered what the rads were up to. It looks like they’re going to launch an attack. What’s the target? Jack could see the man with the aluminum case still carried it with him. He had hoped they might leave it in the garage. Where the case goes, I go… unless they plan on going into OK City.

  Jack slowly made his way to the west and found a building he might use to watch the rads with a bit more security. It was a mostly intact building that had received some fire damage in the past. He discovered the place was once an army surplus store, but it appeared there was little of value left inside. Jack found he could oversee the area where the rads were resting by looking through a split in the front wall of the building. He pulled a wooden box to the wall to use as a seat and saw it had a hinged top. He opened the box with some effort and found a small stack of rotting military manuals, mildewed gun and skin magazines, and three intact volumes of the Able Baker Prepared Citizen series.

  He removed the latter, then opened one of them and read,

  The Soviets have a massive nuclear arsenal that grows larger each month. So does the good old US of A. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist or a nuclear physicist to figure out that sooner or later, we’re all going to be living in a radioactive paradise once the two toughest guys on the block decide to settle things. Hopefully it will be later and we won’t need these books, but if it does come to pass, The Able Baker Prepared Citizen series is here to help you live, thrive, and survive in the Post-Apocalyptic States of America.

  He flipped open one of the books. How to make an Effective Radiation Mask from Household Items read one heading. A Radiation Meter made from the Contents of the Average Garbage Can, read another. Yet one more was How Activated Charcoal will Save your Life.

  Jack decided to add the volumes to his rucksack load. “I could write my own section, Testing the limits of the GP Large Rucksack with Frame,” he muttered as he secured the top.

  A few hours later, the rads lit cook fires and prepared a meal. While they ate, Jack followed suit. Shortly after they finished, the rads gathered into groups. As they talked, the rad called Brother Nelson walked from group to group, briefly speaking with the me
n and women.

  Eventually, the groups came together and Brother Nelson spoke with them once more, then they moved north. Jack once again shadowed them. They moved near a larger abandoned urban area, larger than any Jack had ever been in before. Jack could not pinpoint where he was exactly, there were no landmarks to aid him, but he knew that if he wasn’t yet in Old Norman, he soon would be.

  The rads moved west and north, then west once again before they stopped. They gathered once more, and then split into two groups, the larger moving west while the smaller group stayed where they were. Brother Nelson was with the smaller group, as was the rad carrying the aluminum case, so Jack kept them under surveillance. This group also carried several shovels and mattocks, along with other gear Jack could not identify.

  Brother Nelson looked at his watch every few minutes, then led the group north a short time later. The rad group turned east, then north again. Jack noted the sun closing in on the western horizon. “Following these folks in the dark is going to be fun,” he muttered.

  The rads stopped just short of a small road bridge and concealed themselves on either side of the road. They waited.

  Jack crept closer as the setting sun cast longer and longer shadows. Suddenly, a barrage of distant rifle shots rattled from the northwest, soon joined by more gunfire. Jack recognized the sound of a firefight and knew it must involve the other group of rads.

  The group Jack was following remained stationary. Several minutes passed before one of them stood and gestured ‘follow me’ with his arm. Jack was sure it was Brother Nelson.

  The rads moved quickly north, their weapons held at the ready. Jack rose and followed, but let them extend the distance between them.