Chapter Four
The trip to Metigoshe from Waskada was longer than Patrick expected, and he had to set up camp and call it a night before he fell out of his saddle from exhaustion, only ten kilometers or so from Waskada. Even though Patrick and Demon made camp in one of the old farms that dotted the Assiniboian Wasteland, it took almost an entire day to get to Metigoshe from Waskada. The map on the Pip-Boy said it was only about 60 kilometers from Waskada, but it didn't take the terrain or the changing landscape into account. Gone were most of the gravel roads that divided every square mile from another, used to split up the land among the earliest pioneers over 300 years before. Now those roads were mostly grown over by brown grass and weeds, the gravel having been absorbed by the soil over the decades of neglect. Bridges that once spanned small creeks were also in disrepair, and now only the most important of roads and the largest of rivers had bridges. Otherwise, it was fording rivers at narrower crossings or shallower water. For Demon, it wasn't hard to wade across the shallow water for most of the crossings, though as they got closer to the town, the water went from a clear blue to a murky brown to almost black. A cloudy haze began to form on the horizon, and quickly went smoky and grey, and got darker and darker the closer they got to the town.
The smell wasn't that great either the closer Patrick got as well. There were stories that Metigoshe used to be part of a beautiful and pristine Provincial Park, a wildlife preserve of lakes, trees and cabins. However, there was something more valuable under the land than above it: coal. With fossil fuels becoming extinct, the old provincial government (with some prodding by the US occupation force) eagerly stripped the provincial park designation away in the late 2060s, and sold the lots to mining companies, turning the old Turtle Mountains into a huge strip mine. Millions of tons of coal was pulled from the ground, and although the coal was mediocre at best, the sale was a godsend in the desperate times of the Resource Wars. Most of the profit was funnelled to the provincial government that owned the land. Although there was unrest about it, the huge amounts of money that was then poured into healthcare and roads and lower taxes made the population more accepting. At least, the people that didn't have their cabin or fishing spot taken away and suffered the physical ailments that came, that was.
After the War of 2077, and the arrival of Assiniboia, the coal mines were once again opened up, and gave thousands of people precious fuel for warmth and cooking, such as Patrick and the Morrison clan had done. But the big factories in Winnipeg also demanded coal to power their machines to make the goods for the nation, not to mention fuelling all the steam powered trains that the UAR uses. The mines are still being run today, with new ones being opened up constantly, though the legacy of 200 years of disastrous mining had taken its toll. The land is almost completely polluted by the tailing ponds, poisoned water and useless land, and mixed with the radiation from the radstorms that came north from "Radiation Alley" where American missile silos were hit in the War. Altogether, the land was a disaster zone, one that only the desperate or those forced to worked or lived here.
Demon delicately sidestepped the murky pools, and snorted at the awful smell. Patrick had wrapped a handkerchief around his face to block out as much of the smell as possible, but it only did so much. He swore he could feel years draining from his body as horse and rider continued through the wastes and open pits where crews toiled away, chipping at the rock to unearth more of the precious coal. Patrick could see that most of them were chained together, and armed RAMP officers in gas masks stood watch over them. Most of the miners were prisoners and criminals, sentenced to work until either they paid off their debt to society or until they died. The later happened more than the former.
After hours of traveling through the hellish landscape, they reached the outskirts of Metigoshe by noon. The town was, much like the landscape around it, dirty and rundown. Even the newest houses had grime and soot on them from only a few months, and no one dared paint the houses if they could: the paint wouldn't stay the same color between start and finish. Very few people were outside unless they absolutely had to, and no kids were running around playing. Only in Metigoshe would kids be forced to stay indoors all day.
In the stale, filthy air, an Assiniboian flag bravely flapped outside a two story brick building, the "Red Ensign" barely red, and only the faint outline of the Union Jack could be seen in the top canton, while the coat of arms of a bison trampling an eagle, crowned by maple leafs, was frayed and tattered from age. Since painted signs were useless in Metigoshe, a large wood cut out with 'RAMP/ DISTRICT OFFICE" hung outside for everyone to see. Patrick dismounted and tied Demon to a grimy hitching post, and walked inside.
A door bell dinged as Patrick walked in, and dinged again as the door closed behind him. Three men, two in RAMP uniforms at the front desk and a third in a dirty black suit in the back, looked up to see a dusty rider with a couple days stubble on his chin. He looked much like any traveler on the roads, and one not used to the smell of the town.
"Can I help you sir?" one of the RAMP members asked, leaning on the desk.
"Yes, I'm here to see Commander Mackenzie."
The officer appraised Patrick with that comment, frowning that such an ordinary person wanted to see the district Commander. "He's in a meeting at the moment, can I take a message?"
"Well, he asked me to come here, about Waskada?" Patrick offered.
The RAMP officer raised an eyebrow. "What's your name, if I may ask?"
"Patrick Morrison."
The officer raised the other eyebrow. "Commander Mackenzie wanted to see you as soon as you got here. One moment."
The officer dashed away, and knocked on the door behind him. A mutter of disgust came from the other side of it, and the RAMP officer stuck his head in, and said something lower than Patrick can hear it. The officer jumped out of the way as the door swung open and a tall, heavyset man in a red uniform with more stripes and badges than he had ever seen on a policeman barged out.
"Mr. Morrison?" the large man, who could only be Commander Mackenzie, asked.
"Yes, sir?"
The man laughed, and held an arm out. "No need to call me Sir, at least not yet," the man exclaimed, grabbing and violently shaking Patrick's hand in greeting. "Come over here, let's talk!"
Patrick walked around the desk, the three other men in the room stared after Patrick, surprised that the Commander was so jovial, compared to what he was usually like.
"Jim, I would like you to meet Mr. Patrick Morrison. Patrick, Jim Stewart, the Reeve of the District. I'm sure you have heard of his work."
They shook hands, a much more gentle, but still firm, handshake than Patrick had with the RAMP Commander. He was a younger, thin man, dressed in as fine a suit as you would find outside of Winnipeg, and held himself with a dignity and upbringing far removed from the farming folk in the area. However, the suit was dusty and dirty, as was the Commander's Red Serge. Not even the powerful could get away from the pollution.
"Anyway come sit, sit!" Commander Mackenzie offered, motioning to a chair beside the Reeve, which Patrick took. The Reeve shuffled a bit, moving his body a bit to be away from the dirty farm boy, but Patrick didn't comment on it.
"So Patrick, tell me about what happened in Waskada," Commander Mackenzie asked. "I'll get you lunch, because it looks like you haven't eaten yet."
Patrick began to tell the story of what happened, while a Brahmin slice sandwich and a bottle of Nuka-Cola was set in front of him, and the RAMP man then sat behind his desk. As Patrick told his story, both men paid attention to him; the Commander with a policeman's keen ear and the Reeve at first out of amusement, but then full on interest and admiration as the tale unfolded.
"Well, I'll be," the Commander said when Patrick finished. "I knew that Raider camp was nothing but trouble."
"Why couldn't you have dealt with it sooner?" Reeve Stewart asked, fixing a stare at the commander.
"I'm short handed as it is, thanks to goddamned Winnipeg. Because they don't like me there, they are keeping men and supplies tied up for me. If I had five more men, I could have wiped out that camp months ago. But as is, I'm lucky that the bastards at HQ aren't stripping more men from me."
The Reeve turned to face Patrick. "You are to be commended for taking action at great personal risk, Mr. Morrison. I will get you a financial reward for your actions."
Patrick shook his head. "I didn't do it for money, Mr. Stewart. I did it to try to get my brother."
"Patty – can I call you Patty? – don't ever turn down money. Especially when this stringy bastard is offering it," the RAMP Commander laughed. The reeve gave a small, polite, but uncomfortable laugh at the Commander's joke.
"We will get you 200 Assiniboian Pounds. Should help you for getting supplies for what you have coming up next," the Reeve said.
"Coming up next?" Patrick asked.
The Commander stood up, and walked over to a large map of Assiniboia, with all the districts highlighted, black lines for the railroads, and dots for all the towns in the area. "We have a lot of issues all over Western Assiniboia, so I guess it depends on where you want to start."
"Wait, what? What are you talking about?" Patrick asked.
Commander Mackenzie turned around. "Oh, right. I should have asked first. But, you know that the RAMP is short handed on officers, and we just don't have the manpower to do everything that is expected of us, especially with the Brotherhood kicking up a fuss at Fargo again. So this is where we rely on outside help, on men and women that we grant the title Auxiliary. And since you've already proven yourself, I want to name you one."
Patrick blinked. "Uh… Commander," he started. "I…"
"Don't say it," Mackenzie said. "I know you aren't exactly raring for adventure and danger, but you have proven yourself, that you can stand up in a fight by yourself. And, I promise, if you help the RAMP, we will help you."
Patrick looked around the room, and at the big map of Assiniboia, with it's red borders and large black dots for towns, and the large insert of Winnipeg in the top left corner. Melita was on the other end of the Dominion from Winnipeg, with dozens of other dots all along the thin, mostly straight black lines of railroads and the curvy blue lines of rivers. Just the ride from Waskada to Metigoshe, and from Melita to Waskada, showed just how big this country was.
And they needed him of all people to help out?
But, if the RAMP could then help to find Zach…
"Alright, I'll do it,"
Commander Mackenzie smiled. "Excellent."
Reeve Stewart cleared his throat. "I think the biggest concern we face is here, at the water plant."
"What's wrong?"
"The Water Treatment plant here in Metigoshe is having issues, namely with the Controller Chip for the filtration system. Vault H near Winnipeg should have one, or at least the capability to rebuild it, so we want you to go there and see if you can get one. This isn't a dangerous mission, but it is of vital importance," the Reeve said.
"Why haven't you got a caravan or the RAMP to send one earlier?"
The Reeve sighed. "If only it were that simple. We want to keep this on the downlow, and word can spread quickly, especially if one of the two engineer's we have that maintain the plant were to suddenly go away. And we can't We also cannot afford to alarm the people here that we have an issue with the plant. The community is already a bit restless with the dangerous pollution and lack of safety in the mines that if they thought something was wrong with the plant, we could have a riot. So this needs to be kept very quiet."
Patrick nodded. "I see. Well, Vault H, that's…"
"Southeast of Winnipeg," Commander Mackenzie said, pointing at a spot on the map. "Other side of the country."
"That would be quite a hike," Patrick said, thinking it over in his head. That was over 250 kilometers away, and, guessing about 30 kilometers a day with Demon, with stops along the way. "Would be almost 10 days to get there. I… I don't think I can do that."
Commander Mackenzie chortled a bit. "What makes you think we are going to send you by a Sleipnir? No, as a RAMP Auxiliary, and you are going to get free rides on the Unified Assiniboian Railroad system, as all Auxiliary's on official service would receive. We don't want this to seem like a problem, but we want to get it done."
Patrick nervously drummed his fingers on his legs. He wasn't afraid of trains: he loved going on them as a kid. But the furthest he had ever gone was to Souris, to see family years ago. But going to Vault H, that would be on the other side of the country, further than he had ever gone before...
"You just don't want to go, do you Patty?" the RAMP man said, crossing his arms over his broad chest.
"Well… no." Patrick finally admitted. "I'm not a really cut out for this work. I have no experience in these things. No knowledge of what to do. No…"
Commander Mackenzie waved his hand to cut Patrick off. "Look, don't do this for me, or for the town of Metigoshe. Hell, I don't care if you don't want to do it for Assiniboia. But do it for your brother. We, and I mean the RAMP and the Dominion will do everything possible to help you get your brother and the other kids. I promise you that, Patrick."
Patrick leaned back in his chair, and looked up on the roof. He really did want to find Zach, and he knew couldn't do it alone. While he had been told that Commander Mackenzie was a bit head strong and brutish at times, he was never one to lie, and always got the job done. He took the RAMP's raison d'etre to heart: We Always Get Our Man.
Patrick sat up again. "Alright, I'll do this."
Commander Mackenzie grinned, and Reeve Stewart beside Patrick nodded. "Alright! Excellent! The train for Turtle Town is scheduled to leave in three hours, but we need to make sure you're outfitted. After that, you can take the South Line from there to Atwood, and then up north to Winnipeg. You should be in Atwood by the day after tomorrow, and then at Vault H in… three days. Shouldn't be any problem. Oh, and we can ship your Sleipnir on the same train.
"Honestly, what can go wrong?"
The train was two hours late pulling into the station at Metigoshe, and that was three hours after Patrick arrived in the station. Patrick had been left to sit in the old wood building, as first Commander Mackenzie and then Reeve Stewart left, leaving the young man alone. The wind picked up and began to howl outside, making the old timbers creak. The red paint on the outside had been peeling in the spots were it wasn't black from soot and smoke, and the inside wasn't much cleaner, with a worker in dirty overalls constantly sweeping the interiors. A man in a blue UAR uniform who functioned as station master, ticket manager and tourist guide, dozed behind his booth. The loud clack-clack-clack of the Radio-Teleprinter in another room, giving updates on trains, news and the occasional private message, would make the few people in the room jerk upright, drowning out a radio that was too quiet to hear much from, but too loud to totally ignore.
Patrick was relieved when the the semi-streamlined steam locomotive, a copy of a copy of an original 1930s locomotive type known as the Royal Hudson, wheezed into the station. The engine was a 4-6-4, a model with a long history, including taking the King and Queen across the country once over 200 years before. Almost every steam locomotive in Assiniboia is a Royal Hudson, or as close to them as a post-apocalyptic survivor nation could build.
Although the UAR had designed new engines, such as the fusion powered Atomracer and Nucliner, the lack of uranium, steel and other resources meant that only a few of those engines had been constructed and they would only be used on the major lines. Otherwise, it was all old fashioned steam.
Patrick's nerves had hit an all time peak waiting for the train. He wasn't really looking forward to dashing all over the country to run errands, but now that he was an RAMP auxiliary – he had taken the Oath of Service in Commander Mackenzie's office – he had to serve his country. He might have been one of the most reluctant RAMP members ever. If he did just enough, hopefully by then the RAMP would have found his brother, and he can take him and go back home. That is all he really wanted.
Five people got off the train. A man in a suit and suitcase, who promptly started coughing at the disgusting air in Metigoshe; a woman and two children, a boy and girl, who were dressed in dirty clothing and with depressed, saddened faces; and an older man with a heavily wrinkled face, leaning on an old cane. Patrick wondered for a moment what their stories were, but he grabbed his backpack instead and stood up, ready to move to the line.
The conductor from the train, still in a dignified blue suit with brass buttons that were only starting to turn black because of the local atmosphere, walked into the station, carrying a megaphone.
"The train for Turtle Town will leave in an hour." The conductor announced. "All those going to Turtle Town, please have your tickets ready and we will screen you before boarding. We apologize for the delay."
Patrick stood up and walked over to the screening area, where eight other people were standing, all but three of them in dirty miner's garb. An older woman in a blue dress, with a few black marks from the soot and air, was first in line, and breezed right through. The non- mining men were, although sooty, cleaner, in worn but respectable clothes, carrying large suitcases, and looked to be not from around the area. Most likely from further South in old Dakota, and traveling into Assiniboia for work, Patrick guessed. Two security men in a mish-mash of metal and leather armor began to pat down and check the passengers boarding the train very thoroughly (though they were more respectful to the old woman, and not quite as much to the lone female miner, who growled as one of the men copped a feel), and only with great reluctance allowing the approved passengers to continue on after the ticket and the person was found to pass muster. One of the dirty miners was found to have a knife, a finely crafted combat knife, in his pocket, and it was snatched from him and tossed into a bin nearby. The miner protested, and at least asked the knife be placed into his luggage, but the guards refused, and the miner reluctantly walked away, into the cleared area. Patrick knew that those knifes were not cheap, often an entire week's wage for a miner, and now it was most likely going to find it's way, somehow, into the black market. The guards at the UAR stations were known, almost reviled, for their often-lucrative position and how many handled it.
Patrick was glad that all his guns were going to be packed in the luggage car. He did a mental check: a service rifle, the R91 assault rifle picked up at Waskada, a 10mm pistol, four knives, and a .44 Magnum revolver, given to him by Lieutenant Joseph before he left Waskada. Patrick was almost a walking armoury already!
When it was Patrick's turn, the first guard snatched the ticket from his hand and looked at it. He suddenly stiffened and looked up.
"Oh, sorry sir. You don't have to be screened," he apologized, handing the ticket back. "RAMP members are automatically cleared."
Patrick didn't say anything, but pulled the bag over his shoulder and walked through to the gathering area, where the rest of the passengers were relaxing on old, wooden benches. Patrick made his way over to an unoccupied spot, and sat down.
The wind howled and the old wood building creaked and groaned. A couple speakers connected to a radio hummed some music that barely sounded through the station. The two men from Dakota were talking to themselves, while a couple of the miners began to doze off, the half-comfortable seats lulling the perpetually exhausted workers to sleep.
Patrick looked up at the old clock on the wall, which signalled 7:58. The train still had half an hour before it was ready, and outside the clang of metal cars, along with the deep rumble of excavated coal falling into cars momentarily eclipsed the wind, music and silent conversation.
At 8 o'clock, the radio was turned up, and the familiar ditty of the Assiniboian Broadcasting Corporation echoed through the silent halls. Some of those in the room turned their attention to those radio and the hourly news update, while others, like the two men from down south, ignored it. Patrick at that moment realized he hadn't listened to the radio for a couple days, just before the attack on Melita… he shook his head. He wasn't going to think about his family. Not right now.
"From the Assiniboia Broadcasting Corporation in Winnipeg, this is the Eight O'clock News Update for May 10, 2218. Good evening, I'm Lindsay Kennedy.
"Our top story is the remarkable change of fortune in Turtle Mountain district. After a raider attack in the southwestern corner of the Dominion that left 38 dead and 27 children missing, one survivor from the Melita area took the law into his own hands and charged into the raider encampment in old Waskada. This man managed to kill the leader of the bandits and set the rest of the raiders against each other before RAMP reinforcements arrived. The local District Commander of the RAMP has made this man an Auxiliary of the RAMP for his service, but the name of this Auxiliary has been classified top secret at this time, as the RAMP hopes that they can continue to use his services in the future."
Patrick listened to the radio, his eyes gone wide. How the hell did the radio find out about what he was doing already? Commander Mackenzie must have been responsible for it getting out, though it irked Patrick that he wasn't told he'd make it onto the news.
Patrick grumbled a bit, but was somewhat mollified that they hadn't used his actual name. And, really, this story would come up, be talked about for a couple days, then go away again.
But, thinking about it: Auxiliary? That was a stupid title to give someone. It basically meant they were second best, the backup.
A few more news stories were provided, and then the local weather (grey, smog, possible radiation storm tomorrow, so the town and mines would most likely be shut down), and then back to the music. Patrick was nearly dozing off when he conductor lifted the megaphone to his lips and started shouting that the train was boarding, interrupting Patrick's rest. He looked to the clock to see that it was 8:15 now.
"Well, I guess that's the signal," the old lady in a streaked blue dress said, groaning as she pushed herself up from her spot.
Patrick nodded as the man left, walking back out of the secure area and out into the station, with a happy step despite his cane and aching bones. Patrick wondered for a moment why the man came to him, but he left some questions in his mind that he couldn't quite answer yet. At least he had some time on the train to think about it.
The train wheezed into the station in Turtle Town, and gave a groaning sigh as the steam was released was turned off. It was almost one in the morning, and even the short trip from Metigoshe was longer than expected. At this rate, it might have been easier to just mount Demon and walk to Vault H than take the train.
Patrick shook his head to push away sleep for a while longer. One thing about the train, at least it could put him to sleep. That you couldn't do on a Sleipnir, especially the nearly wild Demon.
Speaking of the equine, Patrick walked along the station platform to the boxcar reserved for animals. The plank had been lowered and a half dozen Brahmin where being lead out to their new home (or, more likely, to be slaughtered here), and Patrick climbed up after they were gone. The stench of the Brahmin still lingered though, but Patrick was sure that it would never get out of this car.
On one end a couple stalls had been built for Sleipnirs, and the pure black beast of Patrick's shuffled a bit in his stall that was almost too small.
"Easy boy," Patrick said, petting the massive nuzzle as Demon snorted. "Going to have to change trains soon anyway, and I can take you for a ride around the area. Stretch and let you run free."
Patrick untied Demon and lead him down the ramp, and onto the platform. As soon as he got off and out of the station, a woman with a nice shirt, a leather jacket and a skirt noticed him, and started calling out. She was a beautiful women, in her mid 30s, but already with creases on her forehead and cheeks, and had dark blue bags hanging under her eyes, but bright blue eyes that locked in with his.
"Patrick! Patrick Morrison!" The woman shouted, jogging along the platform. "Are you Patrick Morrison?"
"Yeah?" Patrick asked, confused. How did this random stranger know him?
She gave a sigh of relief. "Oh, that's good. You would have no idea how many other people I have stopped today looking for you."
Patrick raised an eyebrow, more confused than ever.
"Oh, sorry, I should give you my name. I'm Clarice Fairbank, the mayor of Turtle Town, President of the Chamber of Commerce, and owner of the Wild Times Inn and General Store. Commander Mackenzie of the RAMP said you would be coming."
Patrick sighed. This didn't sound good. "Look, I'm not here for long… I'm just waiting until the train is ready to go on west."
Clarice frowned. "Unfortunately, the train might not be going further west today. Or for a long time yet. A group of bandits, calling themselves the Dakota Liberation Army, have been threatening us and the train, and we cannot allow it to continue on."
Patrick was now the one frowning. "Why haven't you done anything about it then?"
"Because the RAMP closed the detachment here a few years ago due to budget cuts and a 'reorganization,' which basically meant taking the best men and sending them down to Fargo in case a war breaks out again with the Brotherhood of Steel."
"Yeah, I heard about that a couple years or so ago," Patrick said.
"But that's not the worst of it. Just before that, a group of tribals from… I dunno where, down south, pushed out by the Brotherhood of Steel for not swearing fealty to them, or some sad sob story. They came up north, and asked us if we would help them set up a settlement at the old International Peace Gardens. We had a vote, and agreed, and sent some food, building materials and seeds to help them. But it seems they just backstabbed us. That Dakota Liberation Army of bandits showed up almost immediately after, started attacking Turtle Town. Not just the town, but also farms in the area, and caravans that supply us. Taking Brahmin and Sleipnirs, and killing whoever may get in their way. But lately they have been getting bold, attacking the town and shooting at trains. If they were to destroy the train or the train track, we are better than dead."
Patrick fiddled with the leather reins in his hand. "Don't you have a militia or something? I've been busy with some other things for the commander…"
The Mayor and businesswoman shook her head. "Our militia, even if we could get everyone together, is just a rowdy band of kids and old men that would rather get drunk or run away than actually fight, even if it is to protect their homes. Farmers, residents and other businesses have been packing up and leaving for a long time, and at this point, only the most stubborn, or the foolish, have stayed. Dozens of people have been killed in these attacks, and Winnipeg doesn't give a damn. At least Melita got a full time RAMP detachment, you lucky bastards. But since we here are nowhere near the borders of Assiniboia, they believed they could gamble with our town. And we are losing now.
"I know you are busy, but could you please help us, Auxiliary?"
Patrick winced at the name he had been given by the DBS. Was he going to be turned into a fictional caricature now? One that would protect Assiniboia and drive out raiders and bandits wherever he goes? He only kicked out a band of raiders in Waskada! It was starting to feel like his life was a comic book like the ones they still printed in Winnipeg, or Captain Mark on the radio…
Clarice cleared her throat, snapping Patrick out of his thoughts. "I can give you something for your troubles. Five hundred Assiniboian pounds and a 20% discount at my store. And, until the caravans were threatened, I had one of the best stocks in the whole district. Once that Dakota Liberation Army is gone, I can restock better than before." She paused. "I could… give you something better than that though."
Patrick noticed the change in her voice, as if she was trying to seduce him. "I'm not doing this for the money. I'm doing this for my brother."
"Commander Mackenzie told me about your brother. I'm sorry for your loss, but could you please help us? Do it in the name of your brother, and help us. Help me."
Patrick looked up at Clarice. She was nearly begging, pleading now. It almost made Patrick uncomfortable, but he managed to nod, slowly pushing her back.
"All right, I'll help you."
Clarice Fairbank smiled, something that, from the look of it, she hadn't done in a long time. "The bandits are just south of here, at the International Peace Gardens. Kind of ironic, if you think about it. They are good Sleipnir riders, and have trained and breed the biggest, fastest beasts you can find in this area. Without their Sleipnirs though, they are nothing. If you can do something to their Sleipnirs, like poison them or something, they will be unable to do anything."
Patrick nodded. "I know that alcohol does nothing good for a Sleipnir. Dump enough bottles of booze into their watering hole, and they should be as near death as you can get without putting a bullet in them."
Clarice continued smiling. "Clever guy. I like a clever man." She shook her head, her face becoming serious again. "Fortunately, I have enough of that. Come on, I will get you some whiskey and vodka."
Patrick swung up on Demon, and followed her off their train station platform and down the street, past the old, decaying statue of Tommy the Turtle that gave the town it's name.
"This place used to be something else; Boy-see-vain or something like that. Even the elder's can't remember how it was said," Clarice said as they walked by. "When my grandparents and a dozen other families came her 70 some years ago, they just renamed it into something more pronounceable."
"So your grandfather rebuilt this town?" Patrick asked as Demon walked through a deep pothole in the broken pavement.
"Yeah. A bunch of people from Winnipeg homeless, Brandon displaced and some people from Grand Forks that wanted to remain part of Assiniboia after they left all came to settle here. He died soon after the town was started up. A pack of radgopher's tore him limb from limb when he was on a scouting party in… must have been 2140, if I remember right. It was my grandmother who really kept this town going, being the only lady with a large amount of education at the time. She was promptly made the mayor and schoolteacher. She even taught me when I was younger. She loved teaching so much, that she fell over and died in the schoolroom when she was 89 years old." Clarice sniffled. "The funny thing was… she was just teaching me and the other kids first aid."
Patrick did his best to stifle a chuckle, but Clarice looked up, and smiled. "Don't worry. She had a good, long life. And she would have appreciated that bit of humor as well."
Clarice turned around and walked over to the two-story building at the edge of the town, with the old sign that was stitched together of different pieces of rotted wood to spell out "Wild Times Hotel" with "General Store" as an afterthought.
Clarice took a key and unlocked the front door as Patrick pulled Demon to a stop in front of a hitching post, which had a long trough divided into a food and water section. There was a pile of hay under the rafters, so Patrick grabbed an arm full and dumped it in, followed by a few pumps of the old-fashioned water pump to top off the water trough. As Demon put it's head into the trough and starting chewing on the hay, Patrick took a currycomb from the saddlebag, and brushed down his stead. It had been a while since he did it, so the fur was matted from sweat, grime and dust. After a few minutes, the black coat shined in the moonlight, and satisfied, Patrick put the brush back in his bag. With Demon taken care of and content, Patrick wrapped the reins around the post and went inside.
The room he stepped into was, well, a bar. It was dark and musty, with the smell of spilt beer and whisky hanging in the air. The floor was covered in dust, and the bottles behind the counter, if they weren't empty, were almost. It looked like not many customers had been here for a while.
Patrick glanced around, at the old signs that hung from the wall: rusty metal signs promoting Allen's Ale (proudly Nova Scotia since 1918… wherever Nova Scotia was) and Red River Rum, which was still being made in Assiniboia today. And of course the obligatory Nuka Cola sign, with intact neon tubes, but no way to light it. They always said Nuka Cola had a dispenser on every corner of America before the War of 2077, and Canada was no different. Most of them had since been picked up and hauled to Winnipeg for the scrap metal, but some towns still had a big old box promoting the long gone Nuka Cola. More numerous was the Borealis Ginger Ale, the Canadian alternative to the American drink, but virtually extinct now. Patrick could only remember drinking it once, and in a small glass for his graduation from school a few years before.
A door slammed to the side, and Patrick turned around to see Clarice carrying a small box full of bottles, which clinked and sloshed together. She pulled out two bottles of whiskey and slid them across the counter to Patrick. Patrick however wasn't looking at the drinks, but the fact that she had taken off the leather jacket, and the skirt was a lot shorter than he remembered, and the shirt wasn't exactly practical in the harsh climate of Assiniboia, showing off a lot of skin.
She set the box on the counter, and walked around to Patrick, gently taking hold of the leather armor he wore. Patrick could smell a perfume tickle his nose, the strong scent of flowers that he was sure she didn't have before.
"Mrs. Fairbank…"
"Miss," Clarice corrected him. "Mrs. Fairbank was my mother. Marrying was too much of a hassle for me." She gave a very seductive smile as she said that, making Patrick shudder.
"Miss Fairbank," Patrick said. "I… I don't know what you are doing..."
She gave a faint smile. "Well… I know you said you would help my town. But, well…" she started gently stroking Patrick's chin, making Patrick shudder again from the touch. "I could use some help. More… personally."
She's really trying to flirt with me? Why me?
"I… I uh…," Patrick stammered, his face turning red.
"You've never… done it before?" She asked, curious and amused. "A strong, strapping man like you?"
Patrick did have some dalliances before. Well, one: Vanessa, back in the last years of school. But it never really clicked, for some reason that Patrick still didn't know. And since then, he had been busy on the farm and helping his grandparents to pursue any romance.
"Well…" Patrick started.
Clarice interrupted with a quick kiss that surprised Patrick. She forced her tongue into his mouth, exploring and savoring it, before pulling back, and giving a smile. "It's fine. I like breaking in a new guy."
She then lead him up some stairs to a room, closing and locking it behind her.
Pip-Boy 3000 InfoTracker Note #298
Boats, Trains and Caravans: Getting Around Assiniboia
Prepared by the Assiniboian Department of Transportation, June 2175
If you are planning a trip around our great nation, you should keep in mind that we have many great options to get you from where you are and where you want to go!
The rivers and lakes of Assiniboia are perhaps the best natural transport system we have, and they've been used since the earliest days of Indians and settlers in these parts. But instead of canoes and little planks of wood, we have boats powered by miniature fusion reactors that can travel anywhere. The Red, Assiniboine and Souris rivers are perhaps the most important waterways and many companies strive to provide a reliable and easy way for people and freight to travel all over our great nation, and since most raiders don't have a boat, perhaps one of the safest! *
But maybe you get seasick? In that case, why not try out the trains we have to offer? The Unified Assiniboian Railroad is proud to run massive fusion steam engines that can travel over 80 kilometers an hour and link many towns that were started by the same railroad 300 years earlier, or newer towns that know the best way to go is by train. Perhaps the quickest way to go, the railway built old Canada hundreds of years ago, and despite wars and disasters, they continue to help us today. Plus, they are fast enough that most raiders wouldn't dare to try to stop a train! **
If the train is too fast for you, or you are too far away from the river or rails, then how about a caravan? Many companies and towns all over Assiniboia rely on the timely arrival of the caravans, composed of wagons pulled by Brahmin or sleipnirs that can go anywhere that the railway and boats cannot. The Royal Assiniboian Postal Service, Rediboine Trading Company, the Union of Independent Traders and Great Northern Caravan Company, plus many smaller companies, have armed guards and great security measures to insure that your products will make sure that raiders will think twice before attacking caravans of precious cargo! ***
So the next time you want to travel across our nation, by land or sea, keep in mind many of the great ways you can go!
*Raiders sometimes have boats and can attack other boats.
** Raiders are known to stop trains through many devious ways.
*** Raiders are known to attack caravans, thinking twice or not.