The Northland Chronicles: A Stranger North
Page 1
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
About The Author
The Northland Chronicles:
A Stranger North
Henry J. Olsen
Copyright © 2013 by Henry J. Olsen
Should you share this book with others, I give you my thanks. However, should you try to profit from my work, expect a knock on your door from a certain bearded man in the near future …
ISBN10: 0-9894193-1-2
ISBN13: 978-0-9894193-1-4
Unbound Adventure Press
P.O. Box 27
Black Earth, WI 53515
http://simplyunbound.com
For my father
The man who helps everyone
and asks for nothing in return
I’d like to thank the following people for their help in making A Stranger North a fine sci-fi adventure.
Charles Borchert
Chris Garland
John Maresco
Gary Olsen
Gaila Olsen
Stephen Robak
Stanley Serkosky
Judy Serkosky
Elaine Smith
Claude Smith
Thank you once again. None of this would have been possible without your assistance.
“Lastly, private, if you ever see the man in this photo, you are to report to HQ immediately.”
Prologue
Central Ontario, Early Summer, 2036
“Hey Aristotle,” Jackson shouted across the saloon. “Who’s Bertrand Russell?”
Without so much as a blink, Aristotle continued to read her book, a hardcover that looked heavy enough to snap a moose’s back.
“I told ya,” Grant said, elbowing Jackson in the ribs. “The woman is an ice queen. Looks like you owe me a drink.”
Franco, owner of Franco’s Saloon, smirked in amusement from behind the counter. The sun had just fallen below the horizon, yet Jackson and Grant were already heckling the other patrons. This was going to be a long night.
“Wait, let me try one more time,” Jackson said. He stood six foot five, with ice-blue eyes and dirty blond hair. Years of farm work had given him enough strength to wrestle a black bear. His body was a weapon all in itself; the pistol at his hip was merely a backup.
“Hey Aristotle,” Jackson shouted. “What’s your real name, honey?”
Aristotle didn’t acknowledge the comment, as she turned to the next page of her book, A History of Western Philosophy.
“Looks like you owe me two drinks,” Grant said. He was a stocky man, about six feet tall with dark hair. Like Jackson, he was a farmer, though his physique didn’t show it. He holstered a pistol as well.
“What’s your poison?” Franco asked.
“Whiskey, straight up,” Grant replied. “Same for you, Jackson?”
“Fine,” Jackson said.
“Two glasses,” Grant said, making a V with his fingers, “of the good stuff.”
“Oh, it’s all good — only the finest moose piss for you boys,” Franco said, giving his bar a once-over as he turned to pour the drinks. He had five customers tonight. Jackson and Grant were seated at their usual stools on the long end of the L-shaped counter. Two other patrons sat on the short end, their backs to the entrance, drinking bathtub brew and bickering about who’d bagged the bigger buck. Franco couldn’t recall their names as they didn’t come in often.
And at a table near the front door Aristotle sat alone, in the same crimson hoodie she’d worn every day since she first stepped into Franco’s a month or two back. She was cute, with round eyes, a smooth nose, thin lips, and short brown hair. Young, too — Franco guessed she was twenty or so. Her real name was a mystery — another regular had nicknamed her Aristotle, “cause she reads too many darn books,” as he’d explained. Jackson and Grant thought the name was a hoot, too, so it stuck. Franco wondered what her name really was, but as long as she bought and paid for a drink when she came in, he was content to let it go. She didn’t say much, letting the mammoth revolver she always placed on her table speak for her.
Besides, Franco knew she just came to his saloon for the light — the unflickering electric rays that beamed down from above. Since the Desolation, most buildings relied on oil or kerosene lanterns, but not Franco’s Saloon. Solar panels, recovered from a derelict office building with help from Jackson and Grant, charged a battery by day to power fluorescent bulbs late into the night. The lights were a unique feature that few bars in Ontario could boast of.
Franco finished filling two whiskey glasses, eyeballing them to make sure they were even, and slid them across the counter. For their help, Franco had offered Jackson and Grant free booze for three months. He wasn’t convinced he’d gotten the better end of that bargain.
“Enjoy the drinks, boys,” Franco said.
“One shot!” Grant said, raising his glass and clinking it against Jackson’s. Then both men downed their whiskey in one gulp. One shot, indeed, thought Franco. The phrase had caught on a few years before the Desolation, imported from some far corner of the world.
“Two more,” Jackson said, pushing the empty glasses back across the counter.
“Coming right up,” Franco chirped, wondering what he’d been drinking when he agreed to give Jackson and Grant bottomless glasses.
As he began refilling the whiskey, the front door creaked open and a new guest stepped in — a man Franco had never seen before. The stranger set his bulky green pack by the door and proceeded to the counter. He was lean, stood about six feet tall, and wore a dark plaid flannel shirt and tattered blue jeans. A vintage revolver was holstered on his hip.
“Make yourself at home,” Franco called out.
The stranger gave an easy nod in reply. That’s when Franco noticed the beard, hanging from the stranger’s chin like a shrub just begging to be pruned. Franco hadn’t seen even a mustache in years, not to mention a full, bushy beard. Every grown man he knew kept his face smoother than a sow’s nipple. The line between man and nature had blurred over the past decade, leaving the daily shave as one of few ways a man could stand up and proclaim, “I’m civilized, dammit!”
Without a word, the stranger strolled up to the bar and took a seat next to Jackson.
“Nice beard you got there, buddy,” Jackson said. “I think my neighbor’s goat has one just like it.”
Grant’s nose flared as he fought the urge to giggle.
“Don’t worry — the drinks aren’t as bad as the humor,” said Franco. “What can I get ya for?”
The stranger looked up at the taller man from the corner of his eye, then back at Franco.
“Whiskey, neat, if you wouldn’t mind,” he said with an upward nod.
“Sure thing,” Franco said. He grabbed another glass and picked up the whiskey bottle he’d left sitting on the counter. It was running low, and though the label read Jim Beam, it hadn’t held a lick of Kentucky bourbon in years. Despite the wide assortment of bottles along the wall, Franco’s Saloon served only two va
rieties of hard liquor: clear and brown. Not that Franco went out of his way to advertise that fact.
“What’s a scrub like you doing, asking for something ‘neat’?” Jackson asked.
“Will you give the guy a break?” Franco said as he slid the drink to the stranger.
“Thanks,” the stranger said, lifting the glass to his lips to try the whiskey. “Not half bad.”
“Where you from, anyway?” Jackson asked.
“Maine,” the stranger replied.
“Oh yeah?” Jackson said. “And how’d you end up here?”
Fair question, thought Franco. Without any infrastructure left to provide fuel for motorized transportation, a guy couldn’t just hop on a Greyhound.
“I walked,” the stranger said.
“Right,” Jackson said with a nasal snort. “And my buddy here flew in from the moon.” He gave Grant a hearty slap on the back, hard enough to make the hefty man grimace.
The stranger shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said as he lifted his glass and closed his eyes, inhaling the alcohol vapors before taking a sip.
Jackson stared at the stranger for a moment then downed his whiskey in one gulp, slamming the empty glass on the counter.
“I’ll have a whiskey, neat,” he said mockingly, shoving the glass toward Franco.
“How about you let me catch up first?” Grant said, discreetly winking at Franco then taking a small sip of whiskey.
“How about, our friend Frankie makes me a drink?” Jackson said.
Franco frowned in reply. He didn’t appreciate the nickname.
“Sorry,” the stranger cut in. “Is my being here a problem?”
“Oh no, sit and stay awhile,” Jackson said with an exaggerated smile. “Bless us with your beardedness, as Frankie pours me another drink.” He grabbed the whiskey and swirled it around the bottom of the bottle.
“Jackson …” Grant soothed, putting his hand on the taller man’s shoulder. With a grunt, Jackson shrugged it off.
“No, I think it’s about time I hit the road,” the stranger said as he began to stand up. “How much?” he asked.
“Two bucks,” Franco said. The stranger took a two-dollar coin from his pocket and set it on the counter.
“But it’s so dark out,” Jackson warned derisively. “There could be wolves out there!”
“I think the wolves will make better company,” the stranger said with a grim smile.
The room fell silent — so quiet that Franco could hear the faint buzz of the lights overhead.
“What was that?” Jackson demanded.
“Oh, I think you heard me just fine,” the stranger said, turning to walk away. “Cheers, boys.”
Still sitting down, Jackson reached out with his left hand, grabbing the stranger’s left shoulder.
“Stay,” he growled.
The stranger stopped.
“Let go now,” he said, “and I’ll call us even.”
“That right?” Jackson said, rising from his stool. He towered over the bearded man.
Franco mouthed “No” at the stranger, while making a throat-slash gesture. No one got into a fight with “Stone Fist Jackson” and escaped without a broken bone or two.
A wry smirk stretched across the stranger’s face. Does he know something I don’t? Franco wondered.
“It’d be a shame if you wasted that genuine Kentucky bourbon on a scrub like me,” the stranger said. “Wouldn’t it?”
Jackson glanced at the bottle in his hand.
“It’s all just moose piss anyway,” Jackson said. With an angry roar, he swung the bottle over his head, toward the stranger’s skull.
Franco cringed, anticipating the sound of shattering glass.
It arrived — just a little later than expected.
The stranger reached back and clasped Jackson’s wrist — the one resting on his shoulder. Bending forward, he yanked on Jackson’s arm. Then with superhuman strength, the stranger threw Jackson over his head, effortlessly swinging the man’s body through the air like a pickax.
A pop sounded as Jackson’s shoulder dislocated. He cried out in pain. Then the stranger released Jackson’s arm, letting the giant man’s body slam against the floor. Shards of glass scattered about as the whiskey bottle exploded from the force of impact.
Franco’s eyes shot wide open — What the Desolation was that?
The two men on the short end of the counter must’ve been thinking the same thing — Jackson had landed right at their feet. They glanced at each other, then tossed a few coins on the counter and hightailed it out of Franco’s Saloon faster than two deer running from a wildfire.
With a groan, Jackson sat up, slowly getting to his feet. He stumbled around, woozy from his encounter with the floorboards. His left arm hung limp at his side. With his right hand, he reached for the firearm in his holster.
Grant — still seated behind the stranger — dove to the floor.
“I wouldn’t recommend that,” the stranger warned Jackson.
Jackson ignored the advice. He pulled out his pistol and cracked the air with a wild shot. The bullet whizzed past the stranger, lodging itself in a bear trophy mounted on the wall.
The stranger raised an eyebrow, then without taking his eyes off Jackson he whipped his six-shooter out from its holster, spinning it around his finger as he extended his arm.
Then his thumb cocked the hammer. His finger pulled the trigger. The bullet screamed out. And Jackson’s body fell forward, victim of a gunshot wound between the eyes.
Franco stared at the scene. His brain couldn’t process what his eyes had just witnessed. He’d seen death strike before, yet never with such speed and surgical precision.
With a whimper, Grant fumbled for his pistol. The stranger spun around and approached the panicking man with deliberate steps. He slid his revolver back into its holster then clenched Grant’s shirt collar with both hands.
“Hammersnap!” the stranger shouted, hoisting Grant into the air. “You wanna die, too?”
Sheepishly, Grant shook his head back and forth.
“Good. Have a safe flight,” said the stranger. With a growl, he chucked Grant across the room, as though the man weighed only as much as a sack of potatoes. The air in Grant’s lungs rushed out in a loud “Oof” as he crashed against the rear wall and fell to the ground.
Who is this guy? Franco wondered. The stranger fought like a robot, programmed to neutralize all obstacles. Maybe he was good with a mop, too.
“You gonna help me clean up this mess?” Franco asked.
“I’d love to, but I think we’d be getting a little ahead of ourselves,” the stranger replied, raising his hands in the air. His eyes were focused on something behind the counter.
“What’re you talking about?” Franco said, sneaking a peek behind himself. All he could see were a bunch of liquor bottles and a mirror.
“Sorry,” the stranger called out. “Did I shoot your boyfriend?”
“Hey now,” Franco cried out. “Why, I’m straighter than a —”
“Boyfriend?” A woman’s voice cut in. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
Aristotle! Franco had forgotten about her. She was still sitting at the corner table, the massive revolver having replaced the book in her hands.
“What’s a little thing like you doing with a large bore gun like that anyway?” the stranger asked. “The kick must nearly snap your arms off.”
Aristotle narrowed her eyes at the stranger.
“You know why you got a gun on your back?” she asked.
“No, but it’s not the first time and it won’t be the last,” the stranger replied.
Aristotle rolled her eyes. “Both those men must outweigh you by fifty pounds. You tossed them around like rag dolls. Explain yourself.”
“Every man has his secrets,” the stranger said.
“Yeah? Every man also has his price,” Aristotle said, cocking her revolver.
“Shoot me now and you’ll never find out,” the stranger said
. “Besides, I was acting in s —”
“Self-defense?” Aristotle finished his sentence. “Say a little farm dog nips at a wolf. If the wolf rips out the dog’s throat, is that self-defense?”
The stranger paused, seemingly caught off guard by the question.
She’s said more in the last minute than she has all month! Franco thought to himself. He had a unique vantage point. The stranger and Aristotle had to look at each other through the mirror; he could see both of their faces directly.
A moment later, the stranger offered a shrug.
“I’ve never thought about it,” he said.
“Then you’d best start thinking about it,” Aristotle said. “Cause you obviously got more power than you know what do to with.”
“Well, if it’s no trouble to you, I’d like to know the name of my judge, jury, and executioner,” the stranger requested. If he was afraid of imminent death, his voice didn’t show it.
“Oh, I’m not gonna shoot you,” Aristotle said. “Killing you’d be a waste of talent.”
The stranger didn’t reply for a moment, waiting for Aristotle to say more.
“What’d you have in mind?” he finally said.
“I’m putting you on probation,” Aristotle answered.
“You some sort of cop?”
“No, but if you break my terms, you’re gonna wish I was.”
“Terms?” the stranger with disgust. “I don’t live by —”
“I don’t think you’re in any position to bargain,” Aristotle cut him off. “Now listen up. I got eyes and ears all over. If I catch wind of you causing trouble, you’re liable to find yourself on the wrong end of my revolver again.”
“That’s it?” the stranger asked, surprised.
“Well, I’d tell you to get cleaned up and make yourself useful, but it ain’t my place to play babysitter — you gotta find your own way,” Aristotle said. “Now, you’d best march right outta here. Keep your back to me.”
Still holding his hands above his head, the stranger cautiously sidestepped toward the exit, maneuvering around Jackson’s dead body then coming to the door. After picking up his pack and swinging it onto his back, he put his hand on the doorknob.