The Blastlands Saga

by DK Williamson

  An older gentleman —Alexander Fremont was his name— came up to me and shook my hand and said, “I think you are just what this place needs.”

  I asked him what he meant by that and he replied, “This place needs something to inspire them, and you are the man that will help them find it.”

  I told him I’m no leader. I know Idaho cattle and Idaho farming and this ain’t Idaho. He said, “I know, this used to be Oklahoma. Oklahoma doesn’t really exist anymore. Oklahoma was just lines drawn on a piece of paper to designate a state in a country that no longer exists. This is a new world, scavenging from the carcass of the old. We’ll do that for awhile, until we gain no more from it, then we’ll either devolve into barbarism, or we’ll be ready to start climbing the ladder back to where we were before mankind, with the help of the aliens, tried to annihilate itself. I think you, and those that will help you, will get us climbing, keep the barbarians at bay, and give the people that populate tomorrow a chance to thrive. The better we do at saving the knowledge, at maintaining civilization now, the sooner the generations to come get to the top of that ladder and start reaching higher. It might be decades instead of centuries if we do it right.”

  I was flabbergasted at what he said. I told him he sounded like the one we need to head up all that he was talking about. He shook his head and said, “No, I’m just an old man with a head full of knowledge, most of which is utterly useless in this new order. I’ll do what I can to help you, but I think you will see this through. You seem like the type that gets things done, as they say.”

  “Mr. Fremont, I’m flattered you think I am capable of pulling that off, but truth be told I’m only doing this till we find someone better,” I replied.

  “And what if we find there is no better someone?” he asked.

  “Then I’d say we are in a lot of trouble,” I said. Mr. Fremont thought that was hilarious and laughed. I guess he thought I was joking.

  We talked as a group for awhile longer, then decided to see where we stood. Alexander Fremont asked for a show of hands for those who wanted to oust the thugs currently running things. A whole lot of hands went up. When he asked for those that were opposed, not one hand was raised. I suggested we go into town and see what folks in there thought about it.

  We started walking toward town with the vehicles following behind. AJ and Lyman were back on the machine guns, just in case. Most of us were walking with our weapons slung over our shoulders. As we neared town we could see that they had built a low wall around the area where they lived. It wasn’t much, but it looked like it might slow down attackers.

  As we neared the gate on the northwest side of town, a group of about dozen and a half armed men came out. They were obviously surprised to see us, and I think they were surprised at how many of us there were, which was probably better than fifty.

  “That’s most of’em. The big guy in the front is the leader. Name’s Huxley, Corn Huxley,” Harv said to me as he pointed at the man. He was big all right, six-five or better, but tubby and wearing the worst looking Stetson I ever seen.

  The fat man yelled at us, “A little bird told me what was going on out here, and it stops now. No gang is moving in on us.”

  “No gang is moving in on you,” I yelled back, “but you don’t run anything here anymore. These folks do, and they want you gone.”

  He yelled back, “And you think you gonna do it? These people do what I say, when I say it. They ain’t so stupid as to go up against us.”

  While he was yelling, the two humvees pulled up, one to each side of our group. Lyman said to me, “Say the word, boss,” loud enough for Corn to hear. By now everyone on both sides had their weapons unslung.

  You think that’s gonna scare me?” Corn shouted. “What’s your name anyway, tough guy?”

  “My name is Frank Parkes. You don’t know me, and I don’t give a damn if you’re scared or not. We didn’t come here to scare you, we came here to see you gone. You’ll go, either on your own or bloody. You choose,” I yelled back.

  Corn hesitated, then had a brief exchange with one of his men. Then he yelled, “You tellin’ me you cut us all down just for this sorry place?”

  “No,” I shouted back, “for the people. It doesn’t have to come to that. You pack up and go, nobody dies. You want to end up dead, go ahead and push things. These people will tolerate you no longer.”

  “All right, we’ll go. We’ll take our shit and leave,” Corn replied.

  “No, you will take whatever vehicles you need to carry your men. You will take a week’s worth of sustenance and no more,” I shouted back.

  “That ain’t right,” He yelled back, “you gotta do better’n that.”

  “You ain’t in no position to argue,” I replied, “Make your decision.”

  “All right, all right. We’ll go, but you know this ain’t right.”

  We made them leave their weapons by the gate and escorted them to their homes and watched them pack. Some townspeople moved two pickup trucks for the thugs to use along with food and water in boxes. They picked up their weapons on the way out, loaded up the vehicles —they all fit, but it was tight— and left. As they were pulling away, Corn yelled, “You ain’t seen the last of Corn Huxley!”

  Andy said, “I think he’s serious.”

  AJ replied, “I think you’re right. We’ll be ready when he returns,” and proceeded to get some volunteers to dig foxholes, or fighting positions as AJ called them, near the gates around town.

  The rest of us went to work bulking up the walls on each side of the gates. By supper time we felt we were ready if they came back. We set up a watch schedule for guards at the gate and along the wall. Turns out we didn’t have to wait long.

  About the time it was full dark we heard a vehicle coming up the road, moving fast. It was one of the pickups Corn took with him. The driver had to make a corner before he could hit the gate and he understeered into a slide which caused him to miss his target, plowing into the wall next to the gate, stopping the truck in its tracks. The wreck killed the driver and all four of the men in the bed. Two of them got launched over the cab.

  The rest of the thugs came charging out of the brush fifty yards away or so. It was a slaughter. Corn got hit by at least a dozen bullets. I guess he was still unpopular in these parts. Two of Corn’s men survived and were last seen fleeing down the road into the night.

  . . . . .

  The next couple of weeks were real interesting. Most of the people here were happy that Huxley was gone, but they wondered what was going to happen now. I told them they should do what they did before, take care of the generators, purify water, fix supper, and hug their kids. Nothing changed except the thugs were gone.

  They said they thought they needed someone to organize things, so I told them to find somebody who does that sort of thing well. Elect a group of people you think are willing and able and get them to help, so they did just that. Problem was, they picked me to head up the damned group, a council they call it. I told them I only been here for a week or so, how am I supposed to know what needs done. They said they trusted my judgment and figured I’d do the right thing. I’d like to know whose brilliant idea that was.

  I have no idea how to run things, so when someone comes to me with a problem I ask them, “who would best know how to fix that?” If they know who, I send them to that person. If they don’t know, then I find out. And then get them together. And tell them to figure it out. Alexander Fremont told me that’s called being a ‘delegator’.

  That’s how I’m spending my time now, getting people together to fix things, or build things, or find things. Marjorie wants to start collecting books before they rot away in all those abandoned places out there. AJ thinks we ought to salvage as much electronic gear for similar reasons. There are a dozen other folks that got the same kinds of ideas. Most of them are good ones and we need to find ways to get them done.

  There are a few other settlements and towns around here. I’m thinking if we can work to
gether, trade stuff we have for stuff they need and the other way around, and salvage what we can while we can, maybe things get better. Maybe we can stop being so isolated from each other. Maybe that town south of here has a guy that knows about rail cars. We have a guy that knows electrical generation so maybe he can help out some town that needs power, that kind of thing. That’s a lot of maybe’s and I don’t have much in the way of answers. Maybe we’ll find the guy that can make it all work.

  End of Volume I

  . . . . .

  “As you can guess,” Marian said looking up from the book she held in her hands, “we didn’t need to ‘find the guy that can make it all work.’ We already had him in Frank. He worked tirelessly to find those people who possessed knowledge or skills that could help.

  “He found the right people to get the hydroelectric generation station down near old Fort Smith to work. He organized teams to use diesel-electric locomotives to recover all the rail cars they could find with coal, propane, refrigerants, and whatever else they could haul into the settled areas. He created salvage crews to recover electronics, weapons, ammunition, medical supplies, seeds, chemicals, minerals, livestock, and the list goes on and on. You can read about that in volume two, if you are interested. I wanted you to read the first volume for a couple of reasons.

  “First, it’s important to know what kind of people survived those first years after the Calamity and the hell that followed. There are very few people who went through those events as adults left with us. We owe it to them to remember and appreciate what they did for us, and why it’s important for us to continue what they started.

  “Second, I think you, as Rangers, need to keep in perspective the thing you protect. It’s this,” she said as she gestured around the area, “this place and all the other places similar to this one. Places where people can live freely, and safely. Free to be whatever they choose, and safe because people like you risk your lives to keep it that way.

  “No doubt you noticed we did not cover the Rangers or their origins. Lieutenant Geiger will touch on that a bit later, as he is more well-versed on Ranger history than I. Do you have any questions before we take a break?”

  A few hands went up. Marian pointed at Sean and asked, “What is your question?”

  “What happened to all of the people who traveled with Frank?” he asked.

  “That would take more time than I have to answer. Could you narrow it down a little? Who specifically did you want to know about?

  “Andy Brown and AJ Somerset,” Sean replied.

  “You have good instincts,” she answered with a smile. “They, along with Frank and some others, formed the first group of Rangers. They set out the basic principles that Rangers still follow today. I’m stepping into Dan’s territory here, so I’ll let him finish this later. AJ was killed during a Ranger pursuit of raiders nineteen years ago. Andy is still alive and not in the best of health, but living in Heaven. If you are interested in reading about any of the group that went to Heaven, stop by the library anytime.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. I will do that,” Sean answered.

  “Another question?” Marian asked of the group. A few hands went up and Marian pointed at Thomas Young.

  “Are there really twenty foot high aliens out there?” he asked.

  “Well, I’ve never seen one, but I know a lot of people that have and dealt with even bigger and stranger creatures, but once again I am encroaching on Dan’s area. I am positive you’ll hear all about them.”

  “Another question?” Marian asked of the group. Only one hand was raised. The Archivist pointed at Jennifer and asked, “Your question?”

  “When Frank’s group attacked the raiders in Kansas, Oklahoma, were you the little girl with the book?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Marian answered as tears welled up in her eyes. “That was me.” She held up her left arm and showed the group the scar that was a remnant of that day. “I have my own physical reminder of how important it is to have people in this world who are willing to go out of their way to help others. You also have probably discovered that I have always loved books,” she said with a smile.

  “If there are no more questions, I’d like to close with something. Normally we would also cover volume two, but as you are on a crash course that isn’t possible. I would like to read you Frank’s last entry. He wrote this in 2010, a little over two years before he died.”

  . . . . .

  April 2010

  It dawned on me that I haven’t written in here for a spell. Been very busy. Busy doing worthwhile things. The Settlements and her people are doing well. Well enough they can do better without me getting in their way. There’s a lot of folks smarter than me that will make better decisions than I ever could.

  I’m going north with a group in a few days to help some people that are going to settle up in what used to be Kansas. Haven’t been there since we passed through in ‘99.

  Going to a place up on the Nosho River. It’s supposed to be Neosho, but somebody dropped a letter somewhere along the line and it’s kinda stuck with folks. Maybe we can change it back later, or maybe the new name sticks. That’s happened in a lot of places. It seems to be the way of things.

  We’re going up in three groups. The first group will settle just north of what used to be the border. The next group a ways north of that, then us a further ways north to a place they named Geneva. It gives us enough folks to support each other if trouble comes. A different place from the rolling plains out near Dodge City. Where we’re going is hilly and has woods.

  Kansas used to have wheat and cattle up there, and I bet they still do, or still can, and I know a bit about both. Looking forward to playing that game again.

  It dawned on me that I stopped hoping we would survive a few years ago. Normally I’d say that to stop hoping is a bad thing, but it turns out I stopped hoping for just survival and replaced it with hoping we continue to thrive. I never would have thought we’d be where we are today, but these people are gonna make it. These are good folks and they made it happen. They hope, and hope is vital. They help and look out for each other.

  Every month or so I hear of new people coming here and choosing to stay. They heard tales of this place and they set out hoping it was real. For many it’s where they want to live and build a future.

  Hope’s a strange thing. You can’t touch it or see it, an intangible I think they call it. You can survive without it, but I don’t believe you can thrive without it. I think if you go long enough without hope, you wither inside, like plants in a drought. If you have hope, you’ll find it to be a powerful thing, and when you get a group of hopeful people working together they can do some amazing things.

  Don’t get me wrong. This place isn’t perfect and it never will be, because there are people here and there aren’t any perfect people on this planet of ours.

  We got a lot of folks here who did the same thing I did, probably better than I did. They had to leave their homes and whatnot and made it to the Settlements, or the Freelands as most folks been calling them lately. They come from all over and I mean all over. All of them got harrowing stories, but they made it. They made it with their humanity intact, their decency intact. They lived through hell and made this place somewhere worth living in. A home damn it!

  For a long time I figured we humans wouldn’t survive, or if we did it would be some crazy group like TGG, or the Soviets, or some totalitarian bullshit running things. That ain’t no way for people to live. It never was and never will be. Now I think we might make it, Lord willing and the river don’t rise. Maybe those other groups make it too, and maybe someday we’ll have to dance. If we do, don’t bet against the folks that live here. They’ll be fighting for something. Something important. They’ll be fighting for their homes, their freedom, but most of all, each other, and that makes these people a force to be reckoned with.

  So I figure I go up north and help some folks while I still can. Life has taken a toll on me and I know I ain’t got a
lot of years left, but I also know I can still do folks a little good. I figure I done my best, even though that ain’t much. I wish I were smarter so I could have done more, but you play what you been dealt, no cheating allowed. Life don’t allow cheating.

  I’ll write in here again when I get the chance. It’s just ramblings. Don’t know who’d want to read what I gotta say anyhow. I am not much of a writer, but I guess I said that up front.

  . . . . .

  “Thank you for your time,” Marian said. “I’ll give you back to Lieutenant Geiger and see you this afternoon.”

  The group stood and applauded the archivist as she left. Lieutenant Geiger said, “Everybody take a break and be back here in fifteen minutes.”

  . . . . .

  The Lieutenant stood before the seated trainees once they returned and said, “All right, now that we’re all here, let’s talk about the Rangers and why they came to be.”

  “In 2001, the Freelands Rangers were formed. At that time, the towns down south, like Heaven, Hell, and Kings Town, had decided they were a lot better off working together as one community than staying isolated from one another. They learned that sharing knowledge and resources, trading with one another, and working together to provide security, worked awfully well.

  “The problem was, most security was local. Town militias could protect their own settlements and go aid other towns in emergencies, but they really couldn’t help guard merchants on the roads, or salvage teams in the field, or settlers who lived outside the communities because, just as they are now, militias are made up of men and women from the community. They have responsibilities within their communities, and pulling them from those responsibilities would be detrimental to their town.