Chapter Five
The sun that was just peaking over the horizon to the west shone through the partially broken windows, and landed squarely on Patrick's face. He winced, and rolled over, his arm brushing against the soft skin of Clarice Fairbank. Patrick shuddered, partially from the cold air that was now seeping under the blanket over his nude body, but also from the memories of the previous night.
To put it bluntly, it was not good. Well, Patrick didn't think it was good, and he apologized the entire time. He was in the way, he wasn't doing it right, he finished way too soon. Clarice tried to reassure him, that going off that quickly was fine. Just needed practice. That he wasn't awkward or weird.
But it sure felt that way. He still felt weird and ashamed at what happened last night.
Maybe that's why it never worked with Vanessa.
Patrick groaned as he pushed himself out of bed, and splashing some water from a nearby bowl onto his face. The cold water woke him up better than any cup of coffee or tea he had ever drank. He hurriedly got dressed in the clothes he wore yesterday. And the day before. And the day before that...
"Grab a bite to eat from the fridge downstairs," Clarice mumbled, making Patrick turn around to see that she remained tucked under the blankets. "I'm just going to rest a bit longer."
Patrick was about to say something, but Clarice's eyes had already closed. He just snuck out of the room, carefully closing the door behind him.
The fridge behind the bar had an assortment of food in it, so Patrick grabbed the Brahmin stew, and started devouring it. It was cold, like the room, but at least it was filling.
Patrick looked out the window out front, only to notice the hitching post was empty. He blinked, and looked again… but Demon wasn't there.
The bowl dropped, spilling some stew on the counter. Where the hell was his Sleipnir? He ran out the door, and looked around. The reins that had help Demon to the post had been cut, and it was clear that a sharp knife had done it.
Patrick turned around and ran back into the Wild Times Inn, and dashed upstairs, barging in on Clarice's room.
"He's gone!" he nearly screamed, startling and scaring the sleeping woman.
"What are you talking about?" she replied back, her eyes wide at the angry man in front of her.
"Where the hell is Demon? He was tied up last night, and now he's gone!"
Clarice sat up, the blankets falling away to show off her nude body. Patrick was too angry and terrified at losing his animal to be aroused or shocked at the sight. "I… I don't know. Those Dakota bastards must have took him. Should have told you to put him in the stable here. May have at least slowed them down."
Patrick growled, and kicked at the floor. "Fuck, I wish you would have told me that."
Clarice grabbed a night robe on a hook near her bed and threw it over herself. "I can call someone around here and get you another sleipnir to borrow. Old Man Dickinson has the strongest and most secure stable in the town, and he should be able to lend you a horse."
Patrick was already through the door and heading downstairs to grab his backpack and rifle as Clarice got out of bed, and grabbed her bulky leather jacket from yesterday. She quickly caught up to Patrick and the two quickly walked across town, right up to the old curling rink. The sign had been painted over with "Dickinson Livery Stable", but the picture of curling rocks and brooms still came through.
Patrick burst through the door, startling the elderly gentleman writing something, and making ink fly over the bespectacled man's letter. "Damn it! I'm already running low on paper, and this isn't cheap stuff," the old man grumbled.
"Mr. Dickinson, Patrick here had his horse stolen last night," Clarice said.
The old man pushed the glassed up on his nose. "Miss Mayor Fairbank... it was those bandits again from the gardens, wasn't it?"
"Had to be."
The man grumbled. "Damn… must have been a fine specimen of a horse. They haven't taken many over the past few months, and of them they had to be the best breeding stock. I know they nearly got my prize stud one day. But at your place? They must have really wanted him."
"Can you get me another sleipnir?" Patrick demanded. "I'm going to take care of them, once and for all."
Old Man Dickinson whistled. "Serious?" When neither answered, the old man grumbled and pushed himself from his desk. "I got a few mares and a couple geldings. Do you want speed or endurance?"
"Fastest horse you got. I want to get Demon back as soon as possible."
Old Man Dickinson muttered to himself as he pushed himself off his chair and walked back into the building that had been turned into a stable. "A lifetime of training and breeding sleipnirs. Used to have a bunch of pens and pastures they could walk around and graze in, but now with these bandits, I can't keep my eye off them one moment."
The old man stopped. "Wait, how did they know that you are in town, young man? When did you come?"
"By train last night. Clarice here stopped me and asked me to help with the bandits."
The old man sniffled, and pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose in it. "You wouldn't to happen to be that Auxiliary fellow, are ya?"
Patrick grimaced. "Maybe…"
Dickinson nodded. "I thought so. After hearing of Waskada, the only man that could have possibly done anything about these bandits had to be that Auxiliary. Brave young man you are."
Patrick tried not to say anything. It was becoming clear that he was going to be known as "Auxiliary" now for the rest of his life, for one stupid thing. That wasn't exactly reassuring to going back to a normal life.
The old man stopped in front of a stall with a large, yet quiet, gelding. It's body came up to about Patrick's shoulder, making it a bit smaller than Demon, with a lovingly cared for coat of grey and white hair, with a solid grey mane and tail.
"Aradesh here is a fine creature. Won a few single rider races in the fair in Killarney a few years ago, and should still do fine if we could even go to them now. But he is the fastest gelding we have. Can run a fair distance without tiring, yet quiet. He would have been good for kids and first time riders, if he didn't have it in his head to go fast all the time."
"What kind of name is Aradesh?" Clarice asked.
"Some name I heard from traders that went on the Rocky Mountain Trail down to Denver. Some big shot in a town in Cal-ee-four-nah, or however you pronounce it."
"Perfect. How much do I have to pay you to rent him?" Patrick said, walking up to the pen and stroking the horse, who just nickered and stomped its hoof, pushing it's nuzzle into Patrick's hand. A lot friendlier than Demon, that's for sure.
"I got it Patrick," Clarice said, much to both Patrick's and Old Man Dickinson's surprise. "Just get going."
Patrick looked to Old Man Dickinson, and he shrugged. "His gear is in the locker over there. I assume you know how to saddle a sleipnir?"
Patrick didn't say anything, but unlatched the stable door and lead Aradesh out of it's pen, and got it to stand beside the locker. First the thick wool blanket, then the saddle, an expensively well-done leather saddle that must have cost as much as the horse itself, and Patrick snugly fastened the straps around the midsection of the sleipnir. The halter was changed to a fancy leather one with reins - much nicer than what Patrick could afford - and with that he slipped his boot into the stirrup and pulled himself up. Aradesh snorted as Patrick landed on his back
"Be careful, Patrick," Clarice said as Patrick turned the gelding toward the large doors at the end of the old curling rink, which Old Man Dickenson was already opening. "Oh, and you better take this," she added, holding up a couple bottles of whiskey.
"I'll do my best." Patrick replied, taking the bottles and slipping them into the pockets on his leather jacket. He snapped the reins and Aradesh, free of his pen and seeing the open door in front of him, reared with a whiney, and dashed forward, the clip-clop of eight powerful hooves on the hay covered cement floor echoing through the building as Patrick guided him out.
Running down the old residential street, in no time at all Patrick and Aradesh were at the old highway that ran through the town. Patrick pulled on the right rein hard, and it turned Aradesh's head to the south, down what was once Manitoba Highway 10, and he quickly turned, and to the south Patrick and the borrowed sleipnir ran.
Aradesh only managed to sprint five kilometers before Patrick had to slow down the creature. It was panting heavily, and sweat was running off the sides off the grey and white sleipnir. However, that five kilometers was perhaps the quickest Patrick had ever gone, only fifteen or twenty minutes. Patrick forgot to look at the Pipboy to actually measure the time.
For the next twenty kilometers or so, Patrick allowed Aradesh to trot, quickly and expertly making its way over the broken pavement of old Highway 10. The wind was calm, and over to the west Patrick could see the smoke and clouds of Metigoshe, with a greenish tinge to it, and the occasional steak of radlightning. But over here, it was almost pristine wasteland: a few greenish-brown grass spots trying to push out in the harsh sun and cool weather, ruins of old cars where they stopped when either gas or fusion cells ran out, the collapsing hulks of homesteads, farms and houses from years gone by.
After about an hours riding, Patrick reached a sign with "International Peace Gardens" in white letters on the rusty green sign. Old paint had dried over the "International" and "Peace," with "American Victory!" painted over it in black, though that paint was nearly gone as well. Patrick grimaced at the sight. History lessons tried to drill into their students how bad the Americans had been: it was rumored they were doing their best to rename everything to show their superiority over the Canadians they had annexed. Parks, monuments and anything that at one point celebrated the ancient friendship of the US and Canada, or Canadian nationalism, was destroyed, renamed or forgotten about. The International Peace Gardens, a make-work project in the Great Depression that was to celebrate the friendship of the two neighbors, was to be turned into a memorial to American imperialism and Canadian subjection.
The sign passed behind him, and the horse and rider continued along the road. As they continued, Patrick glanced ahead to see some smoke, barely visible, wafting up into the sky. It appeared like it was a campfire, but it was a lot closer than the actual park. Patrick pulled Aradesh off the road and into the hilly terrain, and they began to walk in a straight line toward the smoke through the small, nearly lifeless bushes that struggled to grow on the side of the road.
After ten minutes slowly making his way through the difficult land, Patrick was on an outcrop that looked over a small depression, where he noticed a couple people sitting around a campfire: a young man, not much older than 18, and an older woman. Patrick pulled the sleipnir to a stop, and pulled slipped his own gun off his back to hold it at the ready.
"Hello down there!" Patrick called out, making the two people jump and turn around, their own rifles quickly and swiftly off their backs and in their hands, but not pointed at Patrick. When they saw the rider and the grey-white sleipnir, they lowered their guns, but not that much.
"What the hell are you doing? Get down from there!" the woman shouted, gesturing him. "Those Dakota Liberation Army folks can see you!"
Patrick swung off Aradesh, and lead the eight-legged creature down the slope to where the small camp was. It looked like it had been there a while, with the dirt all around the small camp fire and the two tents stomped down almost as hard as cement, and weeks worth of ashes were in the campfire. They were dirty, their clothes were dirty, and were thin from lack of food. They weren't starving - there was a pile of hides from the radstags, as well as rotting radgopher and coyote bodies, all the useable meat scraped off – but they weren't exactly comfortable.
The boy and the women were only wearing simple leather and cloth clothes that were dyed different shades of green, brown and black like camouflage, though beads and bits of carved wood and bone were attached on necklaces and strings that hung around their wrists. The woman had her hair done up in an intricate weave and braids, while the boy had only one long braid with beads done up, and he went without a top covering to show off his young, lean body. He must have had a thicker skin to manage to live through the cold climate of Assiniboia like that.
"What the hell are you doing down here?" the lady asked, concern in her voice. "Nobody comes this way."
"Then what are you doing here?" Patrick asked in return.
She looked south, toward the old Peace Gardens. "Managed to escape those damn Dakota Army bastards. But now all we can do is just… survive." She looked back. "Oh, my name is Jenna, and this is my son, Derek. He's a great shot. The only reason we have survived as long as we have out here."
"My name is Patrick Morrison," Patrick introduced himself, before frowning. "Then why didn't you go to Turtle Town? The mayor said that she had helped set the town up."
Jenna gave a bitter laugh. "As if, PatrickMorrison," she said, as if it was one long name. Must not have been used to surnames. "They just gave us a bag of seed, a half-full wagon of food and supplies, and wished us luck. Though it was more likely she wanted us all to just fall down dead." She shook her head. "Almost as soon as we managed to get some houses and the first crops planted, those bastards from Dakota came in, shot our leader and the sheriff we elected, and declared that they were now servants to their 'noble goal' of freeing North Dakota from Assiniboia."
"So, it wasn't the townsfolk who just started attacking Turtle Town and the train?" Patrick asked.
"Hell no, PatrickMorrison! We wanted to build a new town and try to survive, after that Brotherhood of Steel marched in and took over the area around Chicago. We just wanted to be left alone; not have our food taken from us, our kids ripped from our hands to be made into warriors. Assiniboia, we always heard, was a land of plenty, one of peace. A large group of us left because of it."
"I'm very sorry to hear that," Patrick said, though he personally questioned if she was lying or not. "But, is there someway we could get rid of the Dakota Liberation Army? Kill them or their sleipnirs or something?" Patrick asked
Jenna winced. "If you were to kill the sleipnirs, our town would have nothing. We have raised and trained sleipnir's for a decade or more, and have gotten very good at it, selling and trading them to others for food and supplies."
"I thought you were given seeds to plant," Patrick said.
"The seeds that the bitch that calls herself a mayor in Turtle Town gave us were useless. They didn't grow. After that, the Dakota bastards started raiding trains and farms to get enough food to feed themselves, while the rest of us starved. That first winter… almost a third of us died, and we got weaker and weaker while still serving those bandits." Jenna looked down at her feet as she spoke, as if remembering the bad things that happened back then.
"Those sleipnirs are the only thing that prevent us from being killed outright," she finally said. "Our people are great at breeding, raising, and breaking them, and we can train them to be excellent mounts. If you killed them, you might stop the bandits for a while, but would doom the rest of us. It is the only thing my people know they can do. I know you are not here for us, PatrickMorrison, but please do not kill us as well."
"Alright, is there another way to fight them then? I'll do my best to not kill the sleipnirs if it will help you guys, but I need to stop the attacks on Turtle Town," Patrick explained. "And how many are there?"
"About ten, fifteen or so… not that many. But they are vicious, cold blooded killers." Then she was quiet. While it originally looked like Jenna was trying to think, she began looking up into the sky and mumbling something. Patrick raised an eyebrow, as she heard him say an oath: "Oh Great One, the one that looks over our people, who guides us to greener pastures, and gives us hope when we need it, please aid in my quest now."
"What was that?" Patrick asked.
Derek, until that moment silent, kicked Patrick in the leg. "Quiet PatrickMorrison! When speaking to the Great One, you must never interrupt!"
Patrick grunted, rubbing his calf. Great, they were tribals. Tribals with some strange superstition.
Jenna gasped, and Patrick and Derek turned toward her. "Their ritual!"
Patrick was more confused now. What was Jenna talking about?
She looked to Patrick, with a small smile. "Before they go on a raid, their leader and chief priest presides over a ceremony where they drink a special water they call "firewater," and they say it gives them strength and courage to fight. They each drink a bunch, then they do a dancing ceremony for the spirits, then they take their sleipnir and go to battle."
Patrick thought about it. "Must be alcohol of some kind." Patrick then brightened up. "Do they all drink from the same thing?"
"One large white bowl, where the mix this firewater together. It's kept in the small temple they made until this ceremony, when it's taken out," Jenna explained.
Patrick grinned. "If someone could poison their… um… firewater, then they should all fall over dead as they dance. Just a syringe of Med-X should do more than enough to do it."
Jenna nodded, then frowned. "The problem is that they have the temple guarded all the time. Need to be able to sneak past the guard to get it. Could you do that PatrickMorrison?"
Patrick shook his head. "I don't think so. I'm guessing they mix a bunch of alcohol together, right?"
"Yeah, it's what the leader does, always topping off the bowl. The bottles are inside though the temple though. We were never able to see how they made it."
"Well, we just sneak two more bottles in," Patrick said, pulling out the other bottle of whiskey from his pocket. "Inject Med-X into both of theses, leave them where they will find it, and they will dump it in, mix it up, and then it will be done!"
Patrick swung his backpack of his shoulder, and found the med-kit he carried with him. Inside, he found, just like he hoped, two syringes of Med-X. He injected one into each bottle, and held them up. "Now, we just get this to where they mix the firewater, and then it's all done."
Patrick, Jenna and Derek all sneaked through the forest toward the International Peace Gardens, and reached the brush line where the forest had been cleared out to allow the old-world gardens to be planted, and the tall monument to the long-forgotten peace between the two countries.
Patrick looked behind him, to see the content Aradesh tied to a tree and sniffing at the ground, chewing at the few green-brown sprouts of grass all around. The gelding was close enough to be easy to get after this was done, but far enough away so as to not attract attention.
Derek was very stealthy, barely making a sound as he went through the forest, a bottle of poisoned whiskey in one hand, and his trusty hunting rifle in the other. Jenna wasn't able to keep up as well, but she said she knew how to handle a gun, this one an older service rifle that must have been snatched before she ran off into the forest. Patrick, with the other bottle and his assault rifle, went with Jenna.
When they reached the perimeter, Patrick could see a guard in rough and aged leather armor, with tattoos all over his face, arms and chest. Despite the chilly afternoon, he didn't shiver at the cool breeze. Patrick silently envied him: his entire life living in Assiniboia, and he couldn't handle the weather as well as this tribal did.
The guard was rather impatient, grumbling to himself, most likely about how he was out guarding when there was a raid planned. Jenna said that, although there was only 10 or 12 bandits, two or three would always stay behind, locking up the settlers in a large building until they were all back with their spoils. If he was still here, they wouldn't have left yet.
The guard turned around, and began walking the other way as Derek slowly and carefully sneaked out of the bushes behind him. Patrick and Jenna watched as Derek, despite his youth, expertly came up behind and slapped his hand over the Raider's mouth to muffle any screams, and quickly twisted his head, snapping the raider's neck. The moment of surprise and panic wasn't enough to save the raider, and he instantly went limp, where Derek laid the body on the ground. He kissed his hand, and touched the raiders head, before bowing slightly.
"That's our asking forgiveness from the Great One for taking a life. Even if it's for the greater good, taking a life is not something to take lightly. It will haunt Derek for the rest of his life, and into the afterlife." She paused, looking at a skeptical Patrick. "I know you do not agree with our traditions, PatrickMorrison, but they have helped us, like worshiping your Chris God has helped you."
Patrick was about to correct her, as the Christian religion was the right one. But… he only grunted. He thought all the tribal beliefs were silly, but he wasn't going to say that out loud. At least, not in front of one that just took down a man bigger and stronger than himself, and not when they had more important things to do.
Derek looked over to the bushes, and waved his hand, signaling to Patrick and Jenna that they could leave. Patrick carefully got past the bare bushes, and caught up to Derek, with Jenna following behind.
"The temple is there," he whispered, pointing to a large building that, at one point, must have been an interpretive center for when tourists came to the Peace Gardens.
Patrick nodded. "Well, we split up and go different ways. If one of us is caught, the other should be able to make it. Just need to put the bottles beside the other ones, and he should use them, right?" Derek and Jenna nodded.
"Alright, let's go!" Patrick whispered, and the three split up. Jenna went off to warn the other settlers, so that they knew what was going to happen, and maybe cause a small disturbance to distract attention from the temple.
Patrick made his way past the old buildings and struggling crops. There was no irrigation up here, so that might have been one of the biggest reasons the crops failed. Even though the bright guys at the University of Manitoba in Winnipeg made new crops that could grow with little water, and survive an unexpected snow, they still needed water. He, or someone in Turtle Town, would have to teach the tribals here how to do that later, if they made it through this.
One of the buildings, an old greenhouse, had been turned into a makeshift stable. Some dirty, skinny and downtrodden men and women slowly, weakly, cleared out the dirty stalls and feed the sleipnirs and brahman. Another guard stood over them, gun and tatoos and everything. He turned around, barked something at a dirty figure, then kicked a woman that was moving too slow for his taste. She fell, and slowly got back up, before he kicked her again. She didn't get back up.
Patrick grimaced, but he had to keep moving. He reached the backside of a building across from the temple, and saw the guard standing in front of it. He was perhaps the biggest man he had ever seen: over six and a half feet tall, with muscles that bulged with strength, covered in black, blue, red and green ink in patterns that Patrick couldn't even begin to describe. A thick beard and long, wild hair, as well as fearsome red eyes completed the look of a terrifying monster that this man must have been while in combat. Patrick shuddered, and hoped he would never have to find out.
Patrick continued to watch the front door, every so often looking around to make sure no one was sneaking around him. He was just waiting for the signal…
BANG! A gunshot echoed out, making a few birds in the dead trees all around the park fly off in startled terror. BANG!
Patrick watched the guard look around, and then run off around the temple, followed by some other bandits, all dressed in leather and cloth rags, some with bright beads to show their order in the hierarchy.
With the one guard gone, Patrick took one more look, and made a mad dash to the door, not looking around but sprinting as fast as he could. He skidded to a halt on the stones right before he would slam into the large double doors, and he slowly pushed one open, glad there was no lock on it.
When he got inside, his suspicions were confirmed that it was an old interpretive center for the park. Old paper brochures covered the floor, while a round desk with old computers in the center of the room dominated the room. Old displays on either side, one extolling the valuable friendship between Canada and the US, lay in discarded ruins on the floor all around the room. Would that have been like that even before the War of 2077?
Patrick didn't have time to think about that. He quietly walked around the room. The bowl that Jenna talked about had to be around here somewhere…
He saw some trails on the floor, long straight lines. She did say that the bowl was dragged out, so it must have been on wheels or something. He followed the trails, until he got to another door. He carefully opened it, and slipped inside.
A great big bathtub, rusty but still showing white porcelain, filled up most of the room, and filled with a strong, noxious fumes of a lot of alcohol in a small room. There were only a dozen or so bottles, three each of vodka, whiskey, beer and wine. Patrick picked up one of the bottles of whiskey, and replaced it with his own contaminated one. Patrick slipped out of the room and carefully closed the door again, afraid that any little noise he made could be picked up by a bandit. He looked around, and noticed the room was still empty, but a shadow covered the door again.
"Damn, the guard must be back," he muttered, and looked around. There was an emergency door off to the side, with the sign "Opening Door Will Set Off Alarm" right next to it. Patrick grumbled, and looked around, but except for a few broken and unbroken windows, there was nothing else. He walked over to the door looked closer. It looked like there was no power to the light above it. He knew that the fusion batteries they were using to power those doors were starting to die out now, and the raiders wouldn't have been interested in replacing them. But you never know…
Patrick slowly made his way to the door. He took a deep breath, and pushed on the handle. There was a click, but no sirens went off. Patrick sighed in relief, and pushed it all the way open, and slipped outside.
He made his way to the nearest bunch of trees, and began to make his way through the forest back to where he, Jenna and Derek all came in. It was all going according to plan. At least for him.
A loud scream off to the side made Patrick stop. He looked around and gasped as he saw two bandits dragging a woman behind them. It was Jenna!
Patrick was almost ready to dash out and try to rescue her when a hand touched his shoulder, making Patrick turn around. It was Derek, holding a finger to his lips.
"No. Don't go." Derek said. Patrick was about to argue, but Derek shook his head. "The Great One will help her."
Patrick could see that Derek wanted to go save his mom, but it was clear that, as much as he wanted to, he knew well enough that if he tried, he would be captured like her.
"What will they do to her?" Patrick asked.
"The Great One will help her," is all Derek said, a mantra that must have given him some comfort.
Patrick sighed. "Did you get the bottle in?"
Derek shook his head. "No, they all ran after me after I fired my gun. I'm sorry."
"Don't worry, I got my bottle in."
Derek put his hands together and bowed. "The Great One favors you, PatrickMorrison. You are as smart as a computer, strong as a deathclaw, and brave as a wolf. You are truly blessed."
"What's a deathclaw?" Patrick asked. He'd never heard of that before.
"Big monster. Shrugs off bullets like raindrops. Even the best hunters have trouble taking them down." Derek looked to Patrick. "But you are like that."
Patrick looked away, embarrassed at being praised like he was. He wasn't that smart, that strong, or that brave. He just…
Jenna screamed again, this time inside a building. She was suddenly silent again, and Patrick and Derek looked at each other.
"They must be having their way with her," Patrick said. "I'm so sorry Derek."
"I understand, PatrickMorrison. As soon as the raiders came, that made her their 'sex bitch.' Whenever anyone of them needed to, their would rape her." He was quiet. "Mother was with child many times because of it, but she would talk to the Great One with the Shaman, and then she would not have the child any more. She said it was because she did not want to be the mother to a child raised here, to be abused or turned into raiders like them." He looked down.
Patrick blinked. That… that was terrible. Abortion wasn't illegal in Assiniboia, but the Church didn't exactly like it. They knew sometimes you had to make a choice. But this seemed… worse.
"They already took me and wanted to make me like them. They beat me, attacked me, made me fight other boys. I became strong, and angry. They said I was worthless to my face, to make me angry, but they actually meant I was becoming a great fighter. They always lied like that. If they said I was good, it meant that they were trying to make me let down my guard so they could beat me some more. They were trying to break my belief in the Great One. I… I wavered, but I never broke. Until they had me kill my best friend in a ring fight."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Patrick said after a moment silence.
Derek swallowed. "Nothing you could have done. It was him or me. One of us would be broken.
"But one night, a few weeks ago, Mom broke me out of my training house, and took me out to the forest. We lived there since, always moving. She would never go to the town, knowing that the townspeople would never help her. They never did even before the Dakota Liberation Army started up. I would sneak back here and take some bullets, some guns, some food when they never looked. It helped us survive. But she was always scared when I left, afraid that I would be captured and put back into that room."
Derek stopped talking, and looked down. Patrick didn't say a word, not knowing what he could say. Would the people in Turtle Town have helped Jenna and Derek? He didn't know. Clarice clearly didn't have a great opinion of the tribals, thinking they were the bandits attacking the town. Maybe Patrick could convince her and the town otherwise?
After a long time and as the sun began to set toward the west and made the shadows from the trees and the two pronged monument stretch longer and longer, Derek pushed Patrick's shoulder. "The ceremony will begin soon."
Patrick nodded. "When it happens, we should be ready to kill them before they try to kill any of the others." Derek grunted in agreement, and his face went into a hostile, violent mode. He had some revenge to get, Great One or no.
The two men got up, and slowly made their way to either side of the stable. Already bandits were herding the people together to watch the ceremony, and the leader of the band was walking out of the temple with two slaves pulling the bowl. When it reached the right spot, he stopped and the two slaves stopped as well, making sure to do so slowly so as to not allow any of the firewater to spill.
The leader raised his hand, and began talking in the language of his tribe. It was a mixture of actual English words, and some that were made up.
"Night comes, we drink holy firewater, we fight weakers! Night, we kill iron sleipnir in their town!" the fighters cheered, and the impoverished settlers, surrounded by the fearsome Dakota Liberation Army, gave a weak, half-hearted cheer. Anyone that didn't would get a rifle butt to the head, as one old man got.
Patrick's eyes went wide. If they destroyed the train engine, then Turtle Town would have no train for a long time, not to mention that the tracks would be ruined for a long time to come, and cut off Melita, Metigoshe and other towns to the west.
He sure hoped the bottle of poisoned whiskey got dumped in.
The fighters lined up, and were each given a glass to drink, the leader being first. He dipped his dirty glass into the strong smelling water, and raised it to his hips, swallowing it. After him, the other nine bandits there also took their glass and drank.
Patrick watched, waiting. They drank a second, then a third glass. A couple were just getting the forth when one bandit gasped and gagged, another clutched at his chest then fell, unmoving. The leader's eyes went wide.
"Firewater… kill us!" he gasped, falling to one knee. "Bad guy, traitor, killus!" He croaked, and fell over, followed by the other ones.
The three bandits that didn't drink the firewater including the big guard from the temple, all cried out in shock. "Bad guy! Traitor! Killus!" they screamed out, running toward the assembled group of people, terrified, surprised, and some were even excited, at watching their captors die in front of them. But as the last guards charged up to start killing the slaves, they began to scream.
Patrick jumped out now from behind the shadows, the R91 assault rifle in hand. He fired a burst in the air, stopping the raiders in their tracks.
"Dakota Liberation Army! I am these people's protector, and I have come to lay vengeance on what you have done to them! By the power invested in me by The Great One, I am the fury, the oncoming storm, the destroyer of worlds, and you will not survive!" Patrick shouted at the top of his lungs. "If you dare try to kill a single person here right now, you will not live to see the dawn!"
The three bandits, shocked and quaking at the sudden appearance and the forceful cry of Patrick, screamed like little girls, dropped their guns, and ran away. As they turned to run, a gunshot rang out, and one of them fell. Another gunshot, and the temple guard collapsed to the ground. A third shot, and the last one crumbled like a deflating balloon.
Patrick looked behind him, Derek working the bolt on his rifle after those three expertly places shots. Patrick shouldered his gun, and walked to the front of the crowd, the malnourished and starving people making way for him in awe.
He turned around to face them. "My name is Patrick Morrison, and I am a Royal Assiniboian Mounted Police Auxiliary. With the help give to me by Jenna and Derek, I have come to help you, and free you from the Dakota Liberation Army.
"If you come with me, I will take you north to Turtle Town, where you will be welcomed with open arms. I will promise you that. Take your sleipnirs, you brahmin, your possessions, and we will leave this cursed place for good," Patrick said. They just looked at him, before they began to clap and cheer him. Patrick smiled: the cheers, the chorus of "Thank you!" "Praise the Great One!" and a dozen other things made him feel better, and glad that he helped them.
Some of them came up to him, and clasped his hands, while other went to the others, and began to beat on the dead bodies, unleashing their anger. Patrick turned around to see Derek was kneeling at the three raiders he killed, kissing his fingers and touching their forehead.
Patrick, making his way from the adoring people, went over to Derek, who was giving his blessing to the last body. "Should we go check to see if your mother is okay?"
Derek paused, and then finished the ritual, standing up. "The Great One will help her," he said once more, his tone of voice different than before. "She said she would take her own life if she was ever captured again. She never wanted to be their sex bitch again."
Patrick said nothing, but rested a hand on Derek's shoulder. The young man, after a lifetime of brutality, survival and struggle, doing everything he could to remain strong, broke down and began to cry into Patrick's shoulder.
Pip-Boy 3000 InfoTracker Note #983
Guide for Settling in Assiniboia
Prepared by the Department of Outposts, Settlement and Repopulation, 2186
So you want to start a new settlement in Assiniboia under the guidelines of the Settlement Act of 2124? Congratulations! The Dominion Government is pleased to send you two Brahmin wagons of food, building materials, a monthly Dominion Settlement Payment of 100 Assiniboian Pounds, and this handy, five step program to help you on your way to building the next boom town!
1. Make sure you are close to transportation. It is important that you know where the closest river, train or Old World Highway is located so that you can easily reach the rest of the country, as well as ensure supplies, caravans and more people can make their way to your new humble village, because the Dominion government cannot build roads to every single little settlement and town, especially the newer ones. If you aren't sure where would be a good place, contact the local District Office in the area you are looking at settling for help.
2. Ensure there are resources nearby that can be used or sold. Many towns that are set up do not have a decent resource base, arable land, or some other means to allow them to thrive for very long will die quickly. Without a source of income after the Dominion Settlement Payments end, your town will fail. Keep that in mind!
3. Build houses and stores as quickly as possible. Many settlements fail when they are more focused on building hospitals, tourist attractions and schools before sheltering themselves. Don't neglect the basic essentials like a place to keep warm or a place to buy food that you are presumably selling. Remember that we don't want economic freeloaders in our nation! Follow the instructions in Attachment A (for sale at any District Office for £99) to learn how to build simple houses that have been tested to survive Assiniboia's climate.
4. Plant food crops. Many towns believe they can survive on other businesses besides farming. However, this is a risky choice, and if your little tourist attraction fails or the mine that you have dug fails, where will you be? Starving, that's what! So plant some corn, carrots and wheat, and ration the food and don't eat it all at once.
5. Have fun! Remember, as the Mayor of your new town, it's not all work and no play. Build a baseball park or something to insure that your people won't get angry, especially if the crops fail, bandits attack, or the town was actually built on an old world nuclear waste site. Though, at that point it will be a good idea to build that hospital too!
Remember that Assiniboia is looking out and beyond, filling in the many empty spaces on our maps. So get out there, and start building a town today!