Jack stood in a short line in front of a counter and looked at the green chalkboard that listed the short menu. He opted for an egg salad sandwich with a dill pickle and pine needle tea. With no options but cake, he passed on dessert. It’s pie or bust for me, he thought. He paid for his order and waited for it to be served. He looked at the towers and saw one had a .50 caliber machine gun on a pintle mount. He was hard-pressed to think of a reason they needed such serious firepower at an open-air eatery. When his order was ready, he went to the counter. A man pushed a plate and glass toward him and said, “Eat, get your water, and get out of here. We don’t want no trouble.”
“I’m not here for trouble.”
“You’re a Ranger out the Freelands, I can tell. You ain’t trouble, but all of your kind have tendency to drag it along behind. Got it?”
Jack nodded and gestured with his head toward the nearest tower. “I would think a fifty-cal ought to keep the trouble to a minimum.”
“You might think it, but you’d be wrong. Never, ever, underestimate the stupidity of the human mind. Mix that with unpredictability and homicidal tendencies and it takes almost nothing for them to start trouble. Look, kid, you seem a sensible soul. The water won’t cost you anything, just to show it isn’t personal. I just like getting through the day without hearing that thing bark,” he said with a gesture at the tower.
Jack ate his sandwich and pickle, then filled his canteens and rejoined the trail. Three or four miles up the road he stopped at Mike’s Trout, a fish farm that sold live fish and fresh, dried, or salted fillets. Jack bought some of the dried and salted variety to restock his travel food. As Mike wrapped the fish in paper, Jack noticed a sign on the wall behind the counter. Coming soon, Caviar! it read.
Jack pointed at the sign. “Is that real? I mean actual caviar?”
“Sturgeon roe, processed and salted, but not for awhile. We have the sturgeon, but we’re not ready for production just yet.”
“Is there a market for that sort of thing along the trail?”
“We’re going to find out. Maybe the Freelands if we can get it down there. Hear there’s lots of people live there.”
Jack shoved his food into his rucksack. “Good luck.”
Late in the day, he stopped at a camp located near a small ghost town, but decided to leave when he saw the only other inhabitants, a quintet of rough looking and ill-equipped men.
A pair of them followed him at a distance when he left, but he moved into the trees and concealed himself. The men stopped at the point where Jack left the road and spoke for a few minutes before turning back. When they walked out of sight, Jack walked a mile east and camped near a slowly running stream.
. . . . .
8
Do Mutants Dream of Radioactive Sheep?
. . . . .
Jack was up at dawn. He was excited. If he made good time on the road, it was possible he could be back in the Freelands by the end of the day. He was on the road early and walked briskly. He had two options, follow the highway to the wild and lawless settlement called Falla and cross the nearby lake to the south toward the Freelands settlement of Quinton, or he could go north of Falla and use a ferry or some other watercraft to cross to Checotah, another Freelands town. Raiders frequented Falla, and that concerned him. He hoped to make radio contact with the Ranger posts in either Freelands settlement when he was close enough and seek guidance.
Just a few miles east, Jack could hear a large amount of gunfire ahead, so he proceeded cautiously. The gunfire continued, faded off to silence, and then resumed. He could hear automatic weapons fire, some of it belt fed machine guns and based on the sheer volume of fire knew that it was no small dispute. By the time he was within sight of a highway interchange, he already knew he needed to avoid the fracas, and looking at the distant firefight through his binoculars simply confirmed his decision.
He went to his map to determine a route around the interchange. He decided to go overland toward the Canadian river to the north and then work his way east. “I guess Checotah is where we’re going,” he said quietly.
He went north past an overgrown cemetery and angled to the northwest. He crossed a highway and moved along a creek until he was about a mile from the Canadian River.
Jack came upon a trail and stopped. There were many sets of tracks headed northwest, mostly the hoof marks of horses and the boot prints of men. He was sure the tracks meant raiders, and he guessed they might be headed for a bridge that spanned the river some miles away. It dawned on Jack these raiders may be among those that took part in the issue down south, and if that were the case, there could be many more. Seeing and hearing nothing amiss on the trail, he crossed and entered the trees on the other side.
Twenty minutes later, Jack stopped when he heard an odd sound, a familiar and dreaded one. It was crazies burrowing and he knew that if you could hear it, it meant they were close.
The crazies were a threat faced by settlements and homesteads on the edge of the Freelands, especially in the south. The Ranger curriculum described them as “bands, sometimes large, of not quite mindless, but savage, semi-feral human beings,” but there was little humanity within them. Their usual modus of attack was to tunnel under settlement walls surreptitiously, forming a chamber in which to gather, and then explode from underground and attack, grabbing food, clothing, and other items before escaping out the same tunnels they used to enter. Unfortunately that was not all they sought in their assaults, all too often they would take people away as well.
Those kidnapped faced an ordeal. As Art once told Jack, “Nobody but the crazies know what they do to people to turn them into one of them. People smarter than me think it’s some kind of ritualistic behavior that converts folks. It doesn't take long though. Kidnap victims return as crazies in raids in as little as a month after abduction. Attempts to help captured crazies has never worked. Whatever it is they do, it destroys the person they once were.”
Their tunneling ability was legendary, and locating the entrance to a tunnel before they completed it was one of the most effective ways of preventing an attack. A common call for Ranger assistance came from homesteaders imperiled by crazies, attacks that were simple ground assaults with no tunneling necessary. While the crazies commonly used arms, they usually wielded some form of melee weapon and very rarely used firearms.
Jack had dealt with them a couple of times when he was a member of Geneva’s militia and knew they were hard to stop. They would fight savagely until rendered dead or suffered wounds grievous enough to incapacitate them.
Jack moved to the largest tree he could find, an oak with a three-foot diameter trunk. The tree’s roots would give him space. It was unlikely the crazies would try to surface through such a barrier and open ground was more to their liking. With his back against the tree, he tried to pinpoint the sound. It finally dawned on him that they were coming up in multiple locations. He looked at the branches above him and considered climbing when he heard the tearing of ground cover and collapsing earth, the tell-tale sound of the crazies breaking the surface. He could not see them.
He turned and looked around the tree trunk. Fifty feet away he saw a man emerge, dirt falling from him, his clothing torn and shredded, a rusty steel pipe in his hand. In no time, two more followed. Jack brought his rifle to his shoulder and backed away slowly and quietly. They had yet to see him and he hoped to slip away.
He made it thirty feet before a hole opened up a step to his right. A filthy long-nailed hand extended from the ground and groped at the surface, then a head emerged. The crazy saw him and howled a high-pitched warning to the others.
Jack fired a round through the crazy’s head, then several more down the opening in the earth. He looked up and saw several charging him from the other perforation with more coming from the ground. Another hand came from the nearest exit and somewhere nearby, he heard another hole opening.
Instinct honed from countless hours at the range took over: buttstock buried in the pocket of the s
houlder, proper cheek weld, look over the rear sight to the circle of steel that surrounds the front sight post, place it on the target, keep the trigger pull smooth and precise. Above all, don’t panic, make your shots.
At the close ranges he was dealing with, Jack sought headshots where possible. He fired shot after shot at the group charging him, dropping them all. The crazy coming out of the ground next to him was next, then another that came out immediately after.
Another bunch from the first hole came at him. From somewhere behind he heard another high-pitched scream. I have to move, get them all in front of me, he thought. He moved to his right, shooting another crazy as it emerged from the nearby opening. As he passed it, he turned and backpedalled several steps, then stopped and fired. A cluster from the two most distant holes came at him, another hand reached from the nearest.
I need space and time to reload. He turned and ran, loosening the shoulder straps on his rucksack. He stopped and dropped the ruck, then brought his rifle to bear and fired. Too many, too close! He fired until the firing pin pounded an empty chamber. His right hand drew his .45. He thumbed off the safety as he brought it up to eye level. It won’t be enough.
He fired three rounds at a trio that came from the right. They fell, but one stood and came on again, a streaming wound just beneath the left eye not enough to stop the creature. He aimed and fired, turned left and saw three more just steps away. He fired, the first in line dropped, a hit on the second opened a deep gash across the top of its skull, exposing bone. It wasn’t enough. The wounded crazy and the one charging alongside plowed into Jack and all three fell to the ground.
Jack kicked free and rolled, bringing his pistol up. The wounded crazy rose, then fell as pistol shots rang out from Jack’s left. He ignored them for the time being and sighted on the remaining attacker who carried a broken wooden tool handle. He fired and when the crazy fell, he saw bullet wounds in the creature’s back.
Jack looked to his left and saw an odd-looking man clad in camouflage some thirty yards away, reloading a pistol. Crazies ran at the man while others charged Jack. The man’s intervention bought Jack precious seconds. He dropped to a knee next to his rifle. His empty .45 slid into his holster without a thought as his left hand retrieved a rifle magazine from a pouch. Jack lifted his AKM, pushed the magazine release forward and rotated the empty mag out. The fresh magazine was locked in place at nearly the same time the empty hit the ground. A quick yank on the bolt handle slammed a 7.62x39mm round into the chamber. He was back in business.
The trio charging him was close. Five rounds stopped them, the last falling just feet away. Jack looked at the man who saved his life and saw he was in trouble. The man grappled with an opponent while a pair of crazies closed. Another crazy was rising to its feet nearby.
Jack fired at the pair running at the man. One fell dead while the other went down and rose, only to die after a few more rounds from Jack’s rifle finally did sufficient damage.
The man got the best of the crazy he was battling and pushed it away, hard, sending it tumbling. The other crazy closed and the man fired his pistol, dropping the creature as his pistol’s slide locked open. He began moving back, then fell as he tripped over an exposed tree root. The last crazy charged once again as the man groped for another magazine.
This is going to be close, passed through Jack’s mind as he tracked the crazy over his sights. Two steps before he reached the man, Jack fired. The crazy fell to its knees and tumbled into a heap beside the man.
The man stood and holstered his empty pistol, then raised his open right hand. Jack lowered his rifle and waved in return. The man walked toward Jack.
“My intent was to assist you, but it turned into the reverse,” the man said in a clear voice as he neared. He looked like no one Jack had ever seen before. He was hairless, his ash grey skin was thick and leathery in appearance with bands and patches of black, brown, and blue pigments distributed throughout the surface. His dark grey eyes conveyed intelligence.
“You did assist me. I expect I’d be dead if you hadn’t. I guess I returned the favor.”
The strange man laughed. “I suppose so. Most of your kind would have shot me as well.”
“You mean Rangers?”
He shook his head. “Conventional humans.” He pointed at his face. “They see this and assume mutant. That generally brings gunfire.”
“If you are not a conventional human or mutant, what are you?”
“I am the product of mutation, a radiological resistant variant I suppose you might call us, but vastly different from those many Conventionals call mutant. I am called Button, Button Gwinnett.”
“I’m Jack Traipse. Nice to meet you. Radiological resistance. Does that mean radiation won’t harm you?”
“I wouldn’t go that far, but we have a far higher tolerance to exposure than Conventionals. A result of the Calamity, one of many changes brought about by those events.”
“In the Freelands there are many rumors about radiological resistant humans.”
“No doubt. Smart mutants or mutants that can talk, we have heard such things. The few Conventionals that know of us have not disseminated knowledge of our existence. That has been at our request.”
“I understand why. There is a potential for serious problems. Then again, there might be a great many benefits.”
“It is a matter of much discussion among my people, but we have achieved no consensus.”
Jack nodded. “Interesting name you have. Button Gwinnett was an—”
“A figure from history. An Eighteenth Century revolutionary. Many of us are named after such people. Our access to books was once limited. One of the few our parents possessed was a history tome. And so we have Alexander Hamiltons, William Whipples, and Benjamin Franklins.”
“And Button Gwinnetts,” Jack said with a smile.
“Yes. A fine enough name, but a poor one for abbreviating to a nickname. Alex, Bill, and Ben are fine, but Butt?”
Jack laughed. “I’d go with Gwinn instead.”
Button smiled and pointed at Jack. “I may abscond with that idea. Might I inquire about your reason for being here by yourself? Most unusual for a Freelander, even more so a Ranger.”
Jack knelt next to his rucksack and shoved the empty AK magazine into a cargo pouch. “I was taking a shortcut from Old Norman back to the Freelands. It ended up being more hazardous than I thought,” he said gesturing at the bodies littering the ground around them. “The latest in a long string of questionable choices.”
“I see. A southerly route might be safer at this time. Lately there is a great deal of activity from those who worship radiation and the disturbed ones with which we just fought. There are also more armed men riding the trails and roads.”
“We call them rads and crazies. The others are mostly raiders I would guess. A large band of them were defeated down south and they are scattering. I think I will go back west to the rail bed and follow it south. If you don’t mind my asking, why are you out here alone?”
“A merchant friend of ours is overdue. We expected his arrival yesterday. Several of us are out to see if we can find him. I was on my way to check a trail not far ahead when…,” he said mimicking Jack’s gesture at the dead crazies.
“You have enough population to need traveling merchants?”
“We have the same need of goods as you in the Freelands, but we cannot produce enough for ourselves as isolated as we are. One of yours trades with us.”
“I would imagine you would have several merchants willing to do business with you if they knew about it.”
“Perhaps, but we need to be cautious. We have discussed making contact with the Freelands. That is as far—”
A noise to the south interrupted them. They both knelt.
“Hooves, I think,” Jack whispered.
“I believe you are right. Men on horseback?”
“My ears aren’t that good. Does your merchant use a pack train?”
“Yes. That shou
ld have occurred to me. I should go see.”
“Mind if I go with you?” Jack said as he hefted his rucksack onto his back.
“No, I don’t mind. You seek to do business?”
Jack laughed with almost no sound. “No. It might be men on horseback.”
Button led the way after reloading his pistol. Jack was impressed by his ability to move quietly. It was obvious the man possessed a high degree of fieldcraft. They covered a little over a hundred yards before Button stopped and knelt. Jack followed suit.
“It’s the merchant. Perhaps that is what prompted the disturbed ones to surface. Stay here while I tell him we’re here. I don’t want to startle Carson.”
“Bill Carson? Man of a thousand old jokes? That’s your merchant?”
“Yes, that’s the one. I take it you know him?”
“We go back a ways. Long enough I’ve heard every joke in his arsenal.”
Button suppressed a laugh. “Then come along.” He stood and stepped onto a trail, Jack following.
“Mr. Carson, it is Button Gwinnett.”
Carson looked over the back of a mule and smiled. “Apologies for being late. I had to take an alternate route, several alternate routes actually, and I’ve told you before, call me Bill.”
“I know, Bill, but we have manners here in the wilds. I have an acquaintance of yours with me.”
Bill looked past Button and saw Jack, not recognizing him at first because of the beard. He shook his head in bewilderment. “How in the world did you end up here, Jack?”
“That’s a long story illustrating the faulty judgment of one Jack Traipse. I knew you ranged far and wide, but this has to be pretty far off the beaten path, even for you.”
Bill smiled and tapped the side of his nose twice. “A good businessman goes where there are paying customers. Unfortunately, business is hampered by many hazards these days. Roving bands of raiders, rads, and I saw evidence of crazies a few miles back. Been hearing gunfire off and on for two days. I just heard shooting up this way as well. That you?”
The Blastlands Saga Page 46