The Blastlands Saga

by DK Williamson

  Sean smiled when he saw Jack. “These are the guys that took down a GG with a shovel. Harold, Ed, and Sid.” He pointed at Jack. “This is Sergeant Jack Traipse, the man in charge.”

  Jack offered his hand. At first, the three were surprised, but they shook hands in turn. “Are any of you wounded or sick?” Jack said.

  “No.” Harold said. “Trahearn said we are free to leave if we wish?”

  Jack nodded. “That’s right. We can spare you some water or food if you want to go. You’ll need to go thirteen or fourteen miles due west to clear the radiation zone. That’s a rough trip.”

  “What if we stay with you? What then?”

  “We’ll do what we can for you. We’ll get you to the Freelands if you want.”

  “Trahearn tells me a man named Frank Parkes helped create the Freelands.”

  “That’s right.”

  “This is Harold Parkes, Jack,” Sean said.

  Jack blinked in surprise. “Frank was your uncle?”

  “It’s true then?”

  “If you’re originally from Idaho and have a mother named Ruby, it probably is.”

  “Do you have a brother called Richard?” Tony asked.

  Harold nodded, but said nothing for a few seconds. “It is true.”

  Jack gestured at the trio. “Sean, take these guys to the hill and have Will look them over for illness or radiation. Get them some food and water. Tell Thomas that if he wants, to get himself and his bolt-action up here pronto.”

  “You got it.” Sean pointed south. “Follow me.”

  As they watched Sean and his charges walk away, Tony said, “Frank Parkes’ nephew. That is the weirdest thing.”

  “Sure is, but the day is young. You going to stand around all day, or put all that Ranger training to good use?”

  Baker smiled. “Permission to resume my position in the line, Sergeant?”

  Jack laughed softly. “Let’s go.”

  . . . . .

  Jack was right, the day was young and not without more surprises. In the midst of a lull in the battle, a large and obviously mutated feline creature walked into the area between the rad and TGG lines.

  “It’s a cougar,” Tanner said over the TROG. “At least it used to be. Never seen a cat that size before.”

  The animal was furless, its jaws outsized with teeth to match.

  “The dead bodies are drawing it in,” Dunn said. “That thing’s huge.”

  The cat seemed oblivious to the people on either side until something on the GGs side drew its attention. A shot rang out, prompting the mutated cat to charge.

  Automatic weapons fire poured from the line as the horror closed. Despite the size, speed, and fearsome look of the creature, it fell before it made the GGs defensive line. A relief to those there, but it was soon gone.

  The rads charged, apparently enraged by the killing of the beast. Their attack looked like something from the days of muzzle-loaded weapons and massed charges. The Greater Good troops responded in similar fashion as they did to the cat’s attack, but there was far more than just one target now.

  The rads numbers were larger than the Rangers estimated, attacking the portion of the GGs line that was on the western side of the creek. They’ll take the defensive line, Jack thought.

  The Rangers opened fire. The rads had overwhelmed two or three fighting positions and the fight there had become very, very basic: contact distance shots, blades, and even hand-to-hand. Because of the isolated location of the GG positions, moving reinforcements there was difficult for The Greater Good.

  Jack directed the Rangers to put fire on those rads who ran at the gap in the line and might finish the fight for good. It worked, and with no fresh bodies to continue the fight at the edge of the Greater Good’s line, the rad attack faded away into another lull.

  “Maybe there’s something to the rads religion. I mean if you have giant cats fighting on your side… you got something,” Thomas said.

  Jim smirked. “You want to go join them?”

  “Not today. Decisions like that shouldn’t be taken lightly.”

  The Rangers kept at their surreptitious battle, eventually splitting into two groups, one to the east to more easily fire on the rad flanks when they attacked, the other west to have better firing angles on the GG line.

  The Rangers noticed the rads carried mostly bolt-action rifles, many with no sights or scopes on them. Jack thought it likely poorly trained volunteers made up a sizable portion of their force. Maybe sending your best to Old Norman wasn’t such a good idea, he thought, even though he knew these rads were probably not connected with those he followed west. Heaven help us if they ever all band together.

  Only once did anyone in the fight notice the Rangers, a mistake Al Dunn made by standing up too near the tree line and catching the attention of a Greater Good machine gunner.

  A ten or twelve round burst cut through the trees, causing the already prone Rangers to flatten themselves even farther, and eliciting a yelp of pain from Al as a 7.62mm bullet tore through the lower left leg of his coveralls and took a piece of his leg with it.

  Al scrambled for cover and Jack helped him to the rear, the Ranger grimacing and groaning the entire way to where Beth awaited to patch him up.

  She quickly had his boot off, pant leg rolled up, and started to work.

  “Stop your whining,” Beth said.

  “Fuck this hurts!”

  “I’d imagine. You have a two-inch long rip in your skin. A couple of inches over and you’d have a shattered leg.”

  “So you’re saying I should look on the sunny side?”

  “Sure, why not.”

  “Fuck this hurts!”

  Beth rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Ranger up, Al.”

  “This fucking hurts. You ever get tagged like this? If not, shut up.”

  She glared at him. “If we were intimately acquainted, I’d show you a dandy scar I carry. It’s a helluva lot longer than a couple of inches.”

  Al looked chagrined. “All right. Sorry, Beth. I won’t say another word.”

  “Forget it and stay still.”

  He winced as she started treating the wound. “Fuck this hurts!”

  Beth gave Jack an exacerbated look and went back to work. Jack returned to the line.

  . . . . .

  McCarty stopped Flour Power at the Ranger encampment near the Marais des Cygnes late in the afternoon. They’d made the trip back, but it took far longer than they intended.

  As they neared Geneva that morning, McCarty heard the tell-tale sound of a hemp cord tire coming apart, loose strands slapping inside the wheel well. He was able to affect a repair, but it cost them time.

  Once in Geneva, Art went to track down Captain Drake and seek approval for his plan to reinforce the unit in the Blastlands while McCarty refueled the truck and acquired a new tire. This too took longer than planned.

  Drake had ridden to Oldiola, so Art had to travel there. McCarty feared the problem with the tire might occur with the other three on the truck, so he sought four spares to take along on the return trip northwest. Another delay beset them when there was a mix-up with the gas tanks brought out to refill Flour Power.

  In the end, McCarty had Flour Power ready to roll by the time Art had Drake’s approval and a small team assembled to accompany him back to the Marais des Cygnes.

  Art had gathered an interesting force of Rangers: Baskin and Stafford, a pair just recently minted and trained alongside Tony Baker; two temporary Geneva assignees named Watts and Karlsen who were at Demon Station during the incident with the alien Ogres; a medic named Jennifer Lewis; an intel and tech specialist named Amanda Hays; and a station commander named Dan Geiger.

  . . . . .

  The Rangers continued their work against the rads and TGG until late in the day when it looked like the rads decided to dig in and wait until dark. Jack doubted the rads would try a night assault, and if they did, there was nothing the Rangers could do about it. They pulled back to
Ranger Hill knowing the ground in front of TGG’s defensive line, and within the line itself was strewn with the bodies of both rads and GGs.

  Sean greeted them when they wound their way through the barbed wire placed on the north slope. He saw Al limping.

  “We heard you got tagged. You okay?” he asked.

  Al nodded. “Sure. It takes more than a flesh wound to stop me. You just have to Ranger up and take it, you know?”

  Jack suppressed a laugh.

  Hal Daley joined with Jack as they washed their hands before eating.

  “Did you see the guy with the tan sombrero and shiny long barreled revolver out there today?” Hal said.

  He shook his head. “On which side?”

  “The rads. Mr. Vaquero and his Lucky Sombrero, that’s what I call him. A leader. Saw him directing those following him.”

  “What’s so lucky about his hat?”

  “Shot at him during one of their attacks, but missed him, twice. Had Al take a couple of shots and he missed too. He blamed it on his leg wound, but it’s something more. You didn’t get him either.”

  Jack chuckled. “I told you, I never saw him.”

  “That’s what I’m saying. Lucky bastard. Gotta be the hat.”

  . . . . .

  By the time it was full dark, most of the Rangers were preparing for bed save those that would be on first watch and Jerry Michaels who was energetically cranking the rotating charging handle on a TROG. He had taken it upon himself to see that all seven of the unit’s TROGs were fully charged for the next day.

  Harold Parkes made his way through the dim light the skies provided to Jack’s spot on the hilltop as he double checked the gear he would be taking with him in the morning.

  “Am I disturbing you?”

  “Not at all. Do you need something?”

  “No. We have been well treated, fed, and checked by your medic. You have my thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. You guys have been through a lot.”

  “The medic Cooper said Frank left a journal. I think I’d like to read it.”

  “It’s worth the time. I’m sorry he’s not alive to see you again. I met him when I was small. All I remember was that he was very nice, and everyone thought the world of him.”

  “Did he ever speak of my mother? Of me or my brother?”

  “He mentioned all of you in his journal. He told of how you ended up with TGG. I don’t know if you knew him, but Frank’s friend Andy Brown is still alive and lives in the Freelands. He might shed some light on the subject. My mother knew Frank. She said that was a topic that bothered him. He didn’t like to talk about it because he saw it as a failure he would never be able to correct.”

  Harold nodded. “Mom knew that I think. I see it now that I’m older. She tried to find a way to get us out once she realized what The Greater Good was, but it was impossible. She wasn’t stupid. She fought the only way she knew how. She resisted by telling my brother Richard and I there was a better way, that we should remember what it was like up in Idaho.”

  “What if you had pretended to convert? Would that have helped?”

  “No. The process is long and arduous. By design. If it were simply a case of accepting their beliefs, everyone would convert, but that would destroy the system.”

  “How so?”

  “The Homeland couldn’t function or exist without Low Ones. If everyone embraced The Good and became righteous, the system would collapse on itself. GGs need to be elite to justify their privileges and their authority. Being born into it is easy, converting is not.”

  “Frank suspected that’s what was happening.”

  “My mother spoke of Uncle Frank a lot. She was sure there were survivors elsewhere, and some of them had to be better than The Greater Good. She thought he would seek them out. Because we were outsiders and refused to embrace The Good, we were considered untrustworthy. We were Low Ones and they never let us forget it. For a long time I was angry with Frank and the others for not coming to help us, to get us out. Eventually I realized that was impossible. It would take an army to pull that off. TGG kept growing, gaining territory. Mom told us that if we had the opportunity to escape, take it. I did. They had us pulling carts with explosives and ammunition on them. They’d chain us to the carts when we pulled and to each other when we weren’t, like we were draft animals. Ed and me had an idea. We worked our cuffs on the cart handle all the way from the Rockies to here. Finally they went, and once they did we did the same at the first chance. He got the guard’s attention, I swung the shovel, and here we are. The question is, where do we go from here? Your Freelands? Where else is there?”

  “There are other places. Some are… bad let’s say. Others are fine places. Some people don’t put down roots, they just wander. I’d guess most of this world is beyond anyone’s control. If you want to see the Freelands, you can come with us when we leave, or go on your own, but this is some pretty hostile ground we’re on. We’ll do what we can for you.”

  “That’s what Sean said. It’s hard to believe that you might help. That’s why we keep asking.”

  Jack smiled. “Ask all you want. The answers will be the same. You can judge us by what we do as well if words aren’t enough. Nobody is going to chain you or force you to do labor. You walk away into the dark and nobody will stop you, but you’ll probably have a bunch of us advising you to change your mind. I don’t know what it’s like to grow up under a system like you did, so I don’t know how to convince you we’re on the up and up. If you get to the Freelands, you’ll see.”

  “I am inclined to believe you. We’ll sleep on it.”

  . . . . .

  17

  Ranger Hill and Down a Deep Dark Hole

  . . . . .

  Ranger Hill was a mound of activity before the sun came over the horizon. Jack and the cousins Dando prepared to make their way to L-01 while the rest of the unit made ready to repeat the previous day’s tactics against the rads and TGG.

  Jack left Hal Daley in charge of the unit, a decision that garnered no complaints.

  “You sure you don’t want to take a larger force, Jack?” Daley said.

  “I’m sure. We’re not looking for a fight. Sneak in, find what we need, and get out. You might need every rifle you can get if either side takes an interest in you. It’s a possibility.”

  “True enough. Hopefully Al learned his lesson.”

  “Maybe you’ll see Mr. Sombrero again today.”

  “It’s Mr. Vaquero and his Lucky Sombrero, Jack. It sings that way.”

  Jack laughed. “We’ll be on the TROG.”

  “Good luck.”

  . . . . .

  The trio of Rangers moved quickly, but cautiously, eyes open and weapons ready. They had crossed the wide highway to the east and used an old county road to make good time covering almost half the distance to the site of L-01 when they hit a snag: a creek with no bridge on the roadway, removed in some fashion long ago.

  They went south, following a faint and disused trail along the bank and found it terminated at a narrow point near a bend in the waterway.

  “Think we can jump it?” Jack asked.

  “Ditch our rucks and get a good run at it… I’d say yes,” Will said.

  “Last guy will have to toss everything over,” Stan said. “That means water monsters might gather by then. I’m thinking we go alphabetically by first name.”

  Will glared at his cousin. “I’m game, but you take the tail position on the next one.”

  “Deal.”

  Will passed his radiation meter over the running water and saw no movement of the needle. “I guess it’s not terribly hot, but I wouldn’t drink it.”

  Jack went first, leaving his Savage rifle with his rucksack and TROG. Will was correct, a good run and solid leap would clear the creek.

  Stan followed, and after Will tossed the gear across, he joined them as well, with no sign of monsters lurking in the water.

  They moved to the southeast for a while until
they were sure they were west of the launch control facility, then altered course accordingly.

  About a mile west, they slowed. If the maps were accurate, the road they walked on would end ahead and they would need to move overland from there. As they neared the end of the road, they could see tall brown grass. This would aid them in staying out of sight when they drew near the facility.

  On the road to the south was a figure, a man walking slowly in an ambling gate. The Rangers backed away from the road, the man paying them no mind. He was without clothes, more skeleton than man and apparently unaware of the Rangers. He moved past and walked away.

  The trio stayed low in the grass, looking ahead from time to time and finally seeing the shingled roof of a long building. It could only be the Launch Control Support Building. They were to the west-southwest and changed their line of approach to come at the place from due west.

  A fence once surrounded the facility, and while some of it still stood, the majority had gone down long ago. The trio noticed it as they moved over it, the grass growing through it without any difficulty.

  They crawled to within fifty feet of the building. Decades of grime and dirt coated the windows. To their right was part of the asphalt parking area, cracked with age and buckling where trails of grass forced its way through. Stan pointed at himself and then at the building.

  Jack nodded. “We’ll cover you,” he whispered.

  Stan moved quickly with his rifle at eye level until he reached the wall and knelt. He rested his rifle against the siding and removed his rucksack. He drew his pistol and stood, peeking at the edge of a window, then crouched again. He pointed at his eyes and shook his head, indicating he could see nothing.

  Jack and Will rose, crossed the distance quickly, and knelt next to Stan. They shed their rucksacks and left them at the base of the wall. Jack left his bolt-action rifle as well.

  “Which side?” Stan said.

  Jack pointed to the south.

  Stan nodded. “Someone bring my rifle,” he said as he moved below the window and around the corner.