The Blastlands Saga

by DK Williamson

  “Is there a radiation problem around here?”

  Floyt shook his head. “Chemicals. Somewhere upstream. Save your filtration for when you need it.”

  Jack sighed. “You sold me.” He perused the shelves and found some packaged dried beans and vegetables that looked good. He paid for them and filled his water containers, after passing his radiation meter over the gear and tank.

  Jack was soon back on the trail north, headed for the large salvager camp near Old Ada. Both Chuck and Kay had told him there was some alien infestation nearby and scavengers commonly frequented the city. The trail moved from the rail bed to an old major highway south of Old Ada. Jack made it to the salvager camp before dark, his diversion in Fitzhugh not slowing him much. The camp was large, with several dozen tents and a few light structures. Salvagers made up the bulk of the people present, but there were merchants and travelers as well.

  Shortly after entering the camp, he saw a trio of salvagers he knew—an old pro named Clyde Dando and two young men learning the trade, Ned and Kyle Cates—in the midst of a conversation with a pair of merchants. He’d once gone with the trio on a salvage expedition.

  “—but most places get called Old when they are largely intact but have little or no population, like here,” Dando said.

  “But there’s places like that that aren’t called Old Whatever. There’s places called Old Wherever that have large groups living there,” said one of the merchants.

  “I know. What are you gonna do? It’s people being people. Generally speaking, if you see a lot of salvagers—and heaven forbid, scavengers—you probably have a ghost town where not many live.”

  “So, what’s the difference between a scavenger and a salvager?” asked the other merchant.

  “There’s some similarities between salvagers and scavengers,” Clyde said. “It goes with the business. The problem is scavengers just grab up anything that looks like it’s valuable and run off and sell it. Half the time they tear up useful gear in the process or try to grab an item when they know we’re looking for it. A salvager’s primary job is to find items that folks in the Freelands or other places need. Some things are always in demand, like certain engine parts or propane gas, that kind of thing.” The merchants nodded. “Others are special requests, like lab equipment or a specific medical instrument. Sometimes we make money off what we find. Sometimes it costs us a lot more to recover something than we ever get paid. For the most part salvagers work together. Scavengers would steal from their own kids. Salvagers take the time to learn the trade, like these two,” he said with a gesture at the brothers Cates. “Salvagers are technicians, archivists, and a whole lot more. Scavengers are jackals. That’s the difference.”

  “You live and learn,” one of the merchants said.

  Ned Cates noticed Jack. “Hey! It’s Ran—”

  Clyde cut him off. “Jack! Good to see you.” He looked at Ned and his brother, and spoke in a soft voice. “Rangers aren’t the most popular folks with some who be here in the camp, especially if there are raiders and such around. Nothing they’d like more than catch a single Ranger out here. Remember that.”

  Ned nodded. “Sorry, Jack.”

  Jack smiled. “Live and learn.”

  “You’ll camp with us tonight,” Clyde said.

  “Be glad to. What brings you out here?”

  “Looking for some cartography instruments for Professor Limestone and the medicos need parts for oxygen concentrators and dialysis machines. There’s an old school here that might have the instruments and a possibly a warehouse that might have the concentrators and such. That’ll take some searching.”

  “Any word on the alien situation here?”

  “It isn’t much. They spawn in the northwest part of the city, but there’s nothing bigger than bipeds, and they’re pretty rare. Mostly cockroaches and sometimes ladybugs.”

  “A scavenger got bit by a ladybug yesterday,” Kyle said.

  “Died this morning,” his brother added.

  Dando nodded. “Died stupid, risking his life for a bauble. You up here about aliens?”

  Jack shook his head and explained his reasons for his journey.

  “Don’t envy you having to do that,” Clyde said. “The area you’ll be going into is pretty sparse on population, but there’s plenty of danger. You know that.” He smiled and rubbed his hands together vigorously. “Now, let’s see about dinner. The Cates boys there are quite the cooks.”

  . . . . .

  5

  A Burden Borne

  . . . . .

  Jack was ready to go at first light. He walked with his salvager friends into Old Ada and they parted ways near what was once a university campus. The trail followed the old rail bed northeast to the Canadian River, crossing a bridge once built to handle train traffic. A sign placed on the south side of the bridge read ‘You are leaving Old Ada, the last thing resembling civilization in these parts.’ Painted below was, ‘Thank goodness for that!’

  He followed the rail bed to the northeast until it entered the remnants of a small town. A water tower to the west was one of the markers Kay Rush had noted. Were he to follow the rail bed, it would take him to Oldenville, the site of another salvager camp, but Jack was going north, following a dilapidated road. Several miles north, he turned west down a winding road that was heavily overgrown with ground cover and trees that had managed to defeat the asphalt roadway and push their way skyward.

  Eventually he navigated his way to an east-west road that was only slightly more recognizable. He turned west, crossing a swath of destruction seventy-five yards wide running from the southwest to northeast. It was the path of a tornado, the downed and uprooted trees a testament to its power, as was the sight of scoured away asphalt along the twister’s path.

  Jack came to the ruins of a small church located on the north side of the road. The wrought iron cross on a sign frame was all that might show this was once a place of worship, but it served as another marker for Jack. One mile west, he turned due north and wound his way through heavy tree cover. Less than a quarter of a mile away was supposed to be a triangulation station, a steel marker inset within a concrete pedestal and used in geodetic surveying before the Calamity. In the time since, they served to aid in land navigation.

  Jack’s navigation to the point was almost perfect and it took him just a minute to find the triangulation station. “Lew Braden would be proud of me,” he whispered. From there he shot an azimuth to the west-southwest. He had nearly a mile of heavy woods and brush to navigate in order to reach a creek bed, which would intersect a trail along which his father’s remains were buried. The route was much as Kay had described and he found the trail with no difficulty.

  Kay had told him Hardin’s remains “are buried about fifty yards” from the creek. Jack turned south on the trail and stepped off fifty paces. He scraped a mark on the trail with the heel of a boot and started searching the western side. It took him two passes back and forth before he found the concrete block. He dropped his rucksack at the side of the trail and pulled a collapsible entrenching tool from its pouch. Folding it open and locking it in position, he knelt next to the block and pulled the concrete from the ground, rolling it off to the side.

  Jack dug carefully. It didn’t take long before he found he was in the right location. A heavy canvas bag became visible, and soon enough he excavated it free of the earth. He untied the top and found a second bag filled with bones and the note Kay had left with Hardin’s well-worn Ranger star attached to it.

  He held the star and looked at it. It was Hardin’s, evidenced by one edge ground slightly concave from years of rubbing against a metal button on the brown denim jacket that was his usual uniform. “It’s silly, but that raking noise is my good luck charm,” Hardin often said. Tears welled in Jack’s eyes at the sight of it as memories flashed through his mind. He’d seen that same star since he was old enough to remember, and the impact it had on him was surprising.

  After a few minutes, Jack
folded Kay’s note around the star and placed it in a breast pocket. He tied up the bag and fitted it into the main compartment of his rucksack. Jack felt something hard and sharp poking him in the knee as he knelt next to the rucksack. He shifted and saw it was a weathered and fraying piece of denim with a worn button riveted through. He picked it up. It was the very button that wore down Hardin’s Ranger star. Jack tore the button free of the fabric and looked at it for several seconds, rolling it between his fingers. He shoved it in into a pants pocket. Silly indeed. He shouldered his ruck and let out a loud breath. “Let’s go get the box,” he said quietly. Along the way, he wondered why there were no weapons with Hardin’s remains. Probably scavenged, he thought.

  Jack knew finding the box would be difficult. It had been five years since its burial, and it was likely much had changed since that time. Hardin’s instructions were understandably vague. He buried the box despite the severity of his wounds and was fighting for his life as he made his way to the trail where he would die.

  Jack was looking for a large white oak tree with a prominent fork. As he neared the area where the tree was located, he saw the likelihood of things changing was 100%. There were no large trees to be found save for those that lie in a tangled jumble, victims of another tornado or powerful storm two or three years before. Small trees and vines dominated the area now, and Jack knew he had his work cut out for him.

  He plowed his way to the downed trunks, many of them in the process of succumbing to rot and termites. Fortunately, the big white oak retained its fork, and its natural resistance to rot had kept it intact. Jack climbed onto the trunk and walked down it to the base. He looked at the shape of the fractured wood and estimated the diameter, then hopped to the ground and went in search of the stump.

  Twenty minutes later, he found what he was looking for. Ten paces due south. About a foot down, he thought. Jack paced off the distance and started to dig. He cleared a hole about three feet in diameter, providing enough space to dig with little hindrance. A foot and a half down, Jack knew he was off target. He guessed he was a little far, I’m taller than he was. My pace is longer and he was wounded.

  Jack dug back toward the tree stump. Eighteen inches was the difference. A scrape with the e-tool exposed a rounded silver corner. It was the box. Several minutes of labor resulted in the extraction of the box. He brushed off most of the dirt that adhered to the aluminum surface, then set it aside. A small amount of water on a rag was enough to clean his hands, and a few swallows proved sufficient to quench his thirst.

  Jack placed the box on his lap. Stamped into the front surface was NSN: 8145-00-121-0271. He assumed it was an identifier of some form. A throw of the latches and a hard pull on the top created a hissing sound when it opened, as if it was vacuum-sealed.

  Inside the box were loose papers folded over once, plastic binders holding bound papers, and Hardin’s M1911 .45 caliber pistol. Jack wondered where his father’s rifle might be, but knew it was unlikely he would ever find out.

  The binders held U.S. Air Force documents. Jack flipped through them quickly. It appeared they dealt with missile deployments, warhead specifications, targeting directives, and a vast array of other topics. Much of it concerned the missile fields near Whiteman Air Force Base in what was once called Missouri, but was now The Blastlands.

  The loose papers were all handwritten in the script of numerous different people. All of them appeared to be notes written by members of The Greater Good and radiation worshiping cultists, save for one sheet, which was a note from Ranger Sergeant Hardin Traipse.

  It read,

  If you are reading this, it means you dug this up and opened it. If you are decent folk, I hope you will see that all this gets to the Freelands and gets delivered to a Ranger Post. If you are a Ranger, then I hope you’re smart enough to know what to do with this. It’s important and I imagine recovering it will cost me my life. You’ll find my pistol in here. Give it to Art Sierra, if you would.

  Last off, if you are with The Greater Good, fuck you. It took five of your boys to do me in, and I’m not the best we have. Don’t lock horns with us. You’ll come away dead or broken if you do. And I hope my pistol jams up on you at the worst possible time, too!

  Ranger Sergeant Hardin Traipse, Freelands Rangers, 2020.

  Jack couldn’t help but smile at his father’s comments aimed at The Greater Good. Gut shot and dying, he still had the gumption to take a swipe at them. That’s my father wrapped up in a handful of sentences. Duty, pride, and cockiness. He put the note in the same pocket as Hardin’s Ranger star, replaced the contents into the box and closed it. He opened his rucksack and slid it into the main compartment. After securing the straps and ensuring there was nothing that might rattle or cause any other compromising noise, he threw the ruck onto his back and tightened the shoulder straps. “Let’s head for Kings Town,” he whispered.

  Jack moved south toward a road. Several minutes later, he could just see the asphalt through the trees when he caught the noise of footsteps and voices, a large body of people moving down the road. He moved to a nearby tree, its trunk shrouded by dense underbrush, and found a place of concealment that allowed him to observe the road. A large group of people passed, walking quickly, many of them wearing the fetishes and emblems common to radiation worshipers. It was common for these ornaments to be radiologically hot, displayed prominently as pendants or brooches. Jack could not identify the band this group belonged to, but based on the standard one of the rads carried, they were followers of Father Atomic, a figure revered by a considerable portion of rads. As far as the Rangers could tell, Father Atomic was a myth, but one who provided great impetus to those that were believers.

  In the middle of the group was a man carrying a silver case, a case now very familiar to Jack. It’s stamped with NSN: 8145-00-121-0271, I’d bet. A smart guy would go to Kings Town. His face twisted into a grimace as he considered a course of action. That means Ranger Sergeant Jack Traipse is going to follow them, isn’t he? Jack extricated himself from the brush. “Yes, he is,” he muttered with another grimace and shake of his head. He quietly moved west and angled toward the road. A few hundred yards ahead was the band of rads. That many will be easy to track… and be your death if they catch you.

  Jack set out after them, moving near the tree line to minimize the chance the rads might spot him. The winding road they were on soon turned into a straight east-west route and he let the rads pull distance on him while he monitored them through his binoculars. The rads stayed on the road for several miles, eventually veering south to join an old state highway. The highway curved its way to the northwest until it too became a straight east-west run. “Straight is efficient, but I’d bet these things were mind-numbing to drive down,” Jack muttered to himself.

  The rads maintained a brisk pace and as evening came on, they showed no signs of stopping. Once darkness took hold, they lit torches and lanterns and continued west, finally stopping near a ghost town. Jack had closed with them in the darkness, and once he was sure they were stopping for the night, he did the same. He camouflaged his position, ate some food, and went to sleep hoping he would awaken before the rads left.

  . . . . .

  Jack awoke just before first light. He ate and waited until it became bright enough to see if the rads were still where they were when he last saw them. They were, and after observing them for some time, he felt they were not in any hurry to set out again.

  By midmorning the rads were still there, and Jack considered abandoning his surveillance and returning to Kings Town. Very soon, something changed his mind.

  A group of similar size to the one Jack had been following came in from the north and joined the rads. They pulled several carts with them. Combined, he estimated they numbered more than eighty.

  Shortly after noon, the group packed up and started west. Jack let them get some distance and resumed his trail. As he passed the ghost town, he saw a bent and worn sign that read ASHER to Ashes, All Gone Now.


  Seven miles west, the highway turned to the northwest. As Jack approached this portion of the roadway he saw a jumble of wrecked and rusting cars, sheet metal, and a myriad other pieces of junk blocking a road to the south. A large sign positioned in front of the barricade read, WARNING! - DISEASE - DO NOT PROCEED PAST THIS POINT. IF YOU DO, DON’T COME BACK THIS WAY OR YOU WILL BE SHOT.

  Such things were common in the days just after the Calamity. Isolated pockets of survivors might succumb to a disease outbreak, spreading fear to others in the area. Often the fears were unfounded, but fear and suspicion were a natural response to those whose survival hung by a thread.

  Jack followed the road northwest for a few miles until once again it ran east-west. The rads stopped before dark and set up camp. Jack moved in as close as he dared, two hundred yards away. He found a place where he could watch them from concealment, and settled himself in for the night. He ate and turned on the TROG, switching it to the shortwave bands. He scanned the frequencies, hearing the propaganda station that broadcast ‘messages to the nation’ from President Rutledge, the final, and apparently still-serving, American president somewhere in the east. Tonight’s message concerned his plan to reclaim America and its way of life. Jack’s interest waned less than ten words into the discourse and he turned the dial.

  He picked up numbers stations, broadcasts of odd music, spoken verse, or Morse code interspersed with spoken or generated voices delivering a string of numbers, sent by unknown parties to be decoded via one-time pad by unknown recipients as a secure form of communication. The procedure had been used as far back as World War I, but the reasons why it continued and who was behind it was an unknown to those that lived in the Freelands.

  Jack heard other stations from survivor’s enclaves around the world, Germany, Scotland, Japan, Mexico, The Bahamas, and Argentina on this night. These were but some of the pockets of humanity that faced similar perils as those that lived in and around the Freelands. Occasionally, new stations came on the air, just as old stations that once broadcast had dropped off the air and never returned. The Calamity had made the world far bigger than it had been previously.