I: The Way to Florence
The ceiling tile was cracked overhead. Of all the destruction and devastation apparent in the building, it was amazing that this was the part that the Ranger noticed. Perhaps the wanton disarray all around him was such a commonplace that something like the ceiling crack could stand out for a moment.
As he entered the room he carefully surveyed the landscape while gripping his .38 revolver. He only had three bullets in the cylinder, but no one else knew that. There weren't that many "someone elses" left, but you never knew when you were going to run into some crazed squatter or worse. He kept it ready all the same. He carefully stepped over some debris that had fallen onto the floor. Once, in the forgotten past, this had been a store of some kind – a sporting store, he hoped – but now it was just another wrecked ruin of a bygone age.
He'd entered the town this morning, having come upon it while moving East across what used to be Highway 64 in Tennessee. It had taken him a while to cross the old Tennessee River, now bloated with water since the Old World hydroelectric dam system hadn't been working for decades. He also had to be careful of radioactivity, which was far more dangerous than the amount of water. The ruins of the town were visible against the horizon, but he could tell that it hadn't been a very large town to begin with. It had certainly shrunk by the decade of "recession" that had gripped the nation prior to the Great War and shrunk further by the Great War itself.
Moving along what was left of the roads, he saw mostly the remnants of gas stations and fast food places. Why was it that all these little Southern towns had an oversupply of these fast food places? It boggled his mind that there could have ever been a market for four or five different chains in the same small town, but he had seen it again and again as he moved East. It sometimes made him wonder if the Western world didn't ask for the catastrophic consequences of the Great War. But there was no use in philosophizing something that no one was around to hear, care about, or even understand. Typically, if he did come across a wastelander, they were ignorant of any issues larger than clean water, cooked rat, and perhaps an old can of Treet. Other times, they were barbaric and didn't really do much communicating that didn't involve screaming, wooden bats, or guns.
As he'd passed a burned out husk of a building, he'd caught a glimpse of movement inside. It could have been an animal or a person. He'd fished for his .38 revolver and checked his cylinder before taking another step. Once he was armed, he slowly approached the building. As he'd stepped over the threshold into the old store, he'd noticed the ceiling tiles and tried to take in his surroundings. If anyone was here they weren't making a sound anymore. He moved quietly, as quietly as he could. He'd learned to move quietly in the years following his introduction into the new society of the wasteland. It wasn't a place you wanted to attract attention much.
While looking around, he noticed that nothing was left on the shelves of the store. Sometime he could walk into an abandoned store or gas station and find a few things left – typically stuff that had been considered useless at the time. He had found, in his years wandering across the wasteland, that "useless" was a luxury you didn't get often. Old cans of pre-war food were tastier than the most succulent rat any day. Like anyone with sense, he had a checklist of items he looked for when he found a place, but this place didn't look like it had anything to scavenge.
Just then, as he was looking through a back window at the rubbish beyond, he caught movement again. He spun towards it with his gun ready. He saw a man – or what used to be a man. The man was very old and very skinny. Wrinkles hung off of him in a manner that immediately told the Ranger that this man had not eaten in a while. Right now the man was cowering in front of the Ranger in his gear. Philip wondered, in that moment, what he must look like to a standard wastelander - a creature from the recesses of some pre-war horror film. He had riot armor on with a long duster and what must look to anyone as a gas mask covering his face. To top that off he was brandishing a .38 caliber pistol.
"P, p, please, don't hurt me." The old man stammered.
Philip slowly and carefully slid his handgun back into his holster inside the duster, trying to indicate he had no intentions of harm to the old man. He had made the determination pretty quickly that the old man could not be a threat to him.
"I'm not going to hurt you old timer." He said as he began to slowly remove the face mask.
The man seemed unsure and didn't really relax much. Philip pulled the mask away and left it hanging by the straps, much like old fighter pilot masks would. Once his human face was revealed, the man's tensed posture slowly relaxed. Once Philip saw that the man wasn't going to pull it together and calm down, he decided to rummage around a bit.
"Is there anything left in this place?" He asked.
No answer.
"How long have you been here, old timer?" He asked again as he moved some empty boxes around on an old store shelf.
Still, he got no answer. He turned back around to the man, who was still somewhat cowering in the corner where he found him.
"My name's Philip. What's yours?"
The man looked at him with scared eyes, almost as if he were more scared of the Ranger now than he had been when the mask obscured the human face. Philip decided to take a different approach. He slowly moved his pack around from off his back and opened it up. He didn't have much food, hence the trip into the town, but he felt he might get more information out of the old man if he offered a little something useful other than the knowledge that he wasn't some monster. He found a small tin of beans, one of the little seven ounce cans with the pull-top and pulled it out. He popped open the top and carefully set the open can on the floor near the man.
"There. It looks like you haven't eaten in a while. I know it's not much, but maybe it will help some. I'm not going to hurt you, just looking for some information about this place."
The reaction was slow at first, but sped along faster than he could have imagined. The man gingerly reached out for the can and pulled it to himself. He eyed it suspiciously before sticking his bony fingers in and pulling out a bit of beans. He scooped them into his mouth and then began devouring the whole can. Once complete, he didn't look quite as scared anymore. Philip waited for him to be done. While the man ate, he sat down on an old crate nearby.
"Th, th, thank you, mister." The old man said.
"Don't mention it." Philip responded.
"Haven't eaten in a week." The old man stammered. "Not real food anyway. Ate a rat day 'fore yesterdy. Didn't count as real food. Fur is awful for a man to eat."
Philip took this to mean that the old man had eaten his rat raw, not cooking it. He shuddered at that thought – but food was food. Better than starving. While he watched the man eat, he reached into a pocket on the inside of his jacket and pulled out an old packet of cigarettes. He'd found so many packs of cigarettes during his travels across the wasteland that he'd taken to smoking just to do his part in getting rid of the things. Eventually, as with anything, he'd found he liked the simple process of drawing the fire and tobacco through the paper cylinder and into his lungs. The heat both warmed and burned and a soothing feeling spread across him. He never got used to the taste, which he was only partly convinced was affected at all by the years of neglect and radiation.
After a few minutes – there weren't that many beans in the can – the man set the empty container down and looked at the Ranger. Philip held his hands in an empty shrug to indicate he didn't have anything else for the man. Nevertheless, the man's demeanor had improved significantly. Philip just hoped his gamble would pay off with information, as he didn't have cans of beans to just give away like that.
" You alone here, old timer?" Philip asked after a moment of silence.
"Pretty much." The man said. "There's a few kids on the other side of town, but they pretty much leave me alone if I don't wander over their way."
"I don't suppose there is anything worth having on this side of town then. If there were, I imagine they wouldn't leave you as alone, huh?"
"Not much here."
"How many of them are over there?" Philip asked, hoping there weren't many and they were really kids.
"About seven of them, I think. Least there was when I last saw 'em."
Philip thought that over. He didn't know the area and seriously doubted this old man could give him enough information to go on. He needed supplies terribly, though. He was down to a few rounds in his .38. He had a good knife and a bow with arrows, but nothing to beat a gun. He'd been hoping to find a sporting goods store in the town that wasn't terribly ransacked or burned out, but he was starting to think that this was a pipe dream. Still, if he didn't try, who knew how long it would be before he came across anything like civilization to trade with. He felt he should give it a try anyway.
"What kind of supplies are on the other side of town?" He asked.
The man just kind of looked at him like he wasn't sure what Philip had said.
"Any stores left?" Philip asked again.
At this the man brightened just a little and said, "There is old Bagger to the south a little. He has stuff and sells it some. I ain't got nothin' to trade for it though, so I never go."
"Old Bagger, huh?" Philip said. "How far?"
"Not far." The old man said. "There's one of them old self-storage places down the way a bit. He's set up there. Kinda on the way to Florence, er, a, what used to be Florence anyway."
"I see." Philip said.
He mulled it over in his head for a bit. This old Bagger must have a decent set up or else the kids the old man had mentioned would have taken him out a while back. It sounded like it was worth a shot anyway. He said thanks to the old man and then began to leave the storefront.