Chapter Sixteen
Colonel Januet was awake when Patrick returned, while Jenkins had already finished worked on fixing up the leg. Or, rather, having amputated the limb and casually tossed to the side of the hole. The RAMP man's pants had been carefully sewn up as well, and the blood was only at a minimum.
"Welcome back Auxiliary," Colonel Januet said, though his voice was still a bit quiet from the after effects of the anesthesia.
"Ah, Master Patrick," Jenkins said, turning one of his three eyes to view Patrick. "The operation went swimmingly well, and the patient will be perfectly fine. How was your expedition into the base?"
Patrick shuddered when he thought of what he saw. "It was… well… Did you know of what happened, with all the fighting?"
"I didn't understand the specifics, but it wasn't a pretty sight, I will tell you; vicious and brutal. However I was only used as a medical practitioner, and I healed whoever came up to me."
Patrick nodded. "What happened to the people that survived the fighting? The computer I looked at said that everyone was trapped."
"Yes, that was the case. They made the best of it, but eventually the isolation and the feuding must have got to them." The robot, despite its cheery voice, seemed almost mournful. "It's a shame that the last man that put me on standby most likely took his own life at the end."
Colonel Januet cleared his throat. "Well now that he's back, we can go now, right?"
"Indubitably!" Jenkins exclaimed. "I'm just unsure how to get you out of here. Also, I think you need some crutches. Let me go back and find some." The robot buzzed away.
Patrick spent the next half an hour trying to figure out a way to climb out of the hole, and do so with a large man short a leg and most likely still drowsy from anesthesia. Looking through the saddlebag of the deceased sleipnir, Patrick was glad to find a long rope, long enough to not only tie around Colonel Januet, but also to possibly tie to Demon and carefully pull him out.
"Alright," Colonel Januet said as Patrick explained the idea. "I can at least use my hands, but your sleipnir will help." He was starting to come around now, but still sounded spaced out, like a drugged up character in a radio play.
Next, scrambling out the hole, Patrick was glad (but not totally surprised) to find that Demon was still hanging around nearby, munching on some stubborn grass in the area, but purposefully avoiding the hole. Domesticated Sleipnir's, even ill-tempered ones like Demon, were famous for staying close to their owners when not tied up.
"Here Demon," Patrick said after tying that rope to Demon's halter, carefully leading the sleipnir to the large hole. Patrick tossed the rope down the hole, and scrambled down again.
By now Jenkins was back with two crutches, both made out of some un-oxidized metal.
"These are the strongest that I have, good enough to help the Colonel walk," Jenkins said.
"Very well then, let's get this show on the road," Patrick said, making sure the rope tied around Colonel Januet and snug under his arms was properly knotted. Patrick climbed out of the hole again, where Demon still shuffled nervously, the smell of the dead Sleipnir down below most likely not helping much.
Patrick grabbed the reins and swung up on Demon, and began to carefully make the stallion back up. The rope tightened up, and with a creak began to pull Colonel Januet up.
"Easy Demon," Patrick whispered as the sleipnir pulled the heavy weight up. Colonel Januet cursed from the pain a few times, but he was able to get enough of a grip on the side of the hole to pull himself up.
One large hand reached up, grabbing hold of the dead grass and dirt, followed a moment later by the other hand. With a loud grunt, Colonel Januet heaved himself up, and landed belly first on the ground.
Patrick jumped off Demon and ran to the Colonel, pulling him onto the ground.
"Well, that was an adventure," Colonel Januet said with a weak smile, sitting up with Patrick's help as he untied the rope.
Patrick smiled, then looked back down the hole to the Mister Handy. "Jenkins, can you get out of there?"
"Of course! Just stand back, as I can't guarantee my 'jump' won't kill you!" Patrick was just trying to figure out what that meant when the Mister Handy's nuclear powered engines simply exploded, launching the robot out the hole and into the sky. Patrick and Colonel Januet both cried out as the sudden flash of bright light from a sudden flash nearly blinded both. Patrick stumbled as he tried to back away from the hole, landing with a thud on his rear.
Demon whinnied out loud in shock and turn and booked it a few hundred feet, before he turned around, pensive and nervous. Jenkins, however, gently floated downwards, hovering with his self contained nuclear reactor.
"What the hell was that? You could have killed us!" Patrick shouted, blinking as his eyesight began to return to normal.
"I'm sorry Master Patrick," the robot said, though the cheery voice made the apology less sincere than it could have been. "I had no other way to evacuate myself from the hole. It was just a blast of nuclear power to launch myself, similar to a miniature nuclear weapon. And I did warn you!"
Patrick looked down at his Pip-Boy, to see the little Geiger counter clicking, but for only a few rads.
"Don't worry, it shouldn't cause any lasting damage," Jenkins said. "And I have spare Rad-Away to help you!
Colonel Januet sighed and gave a mirthful chuckle. "Robots."
Getting Colonel Januet up on Demon was the next challenge. Demon was still spooked from the robot rocketing out of the hole, which most likely didn't do a lot to help against the equine's fear of robots. The Dragoon's left leg, the one the Colonel normally would use to swing up on a mount was the one that was now left to rot at the bottom of the irradiated hole. But after a few minutes of finagling, and a couple close calls, Colonel Januet was up on Demon, and tied in to make sure he wouldn't slip away.
Patrick wiped the sweat from his brow. "Alright, now that we got that done, we should head back to Carberry…"
"Carberry?" Colonel Januet asked. "No, we got to get to Brandon and get that message sent to those Syndie Bastards."
"Colonel, you really aren't in shape for this, you know?" Patrick pointed to the Mister Handy. "Would you really trust your life to a robot?"
"Master! Do you question me?" Jenkins asked.
The Dragoon waved his hand. "It's fine. I can handle myself. Hell, I don't even have to go into the city. Besides, I can't due to some treaty signed awhile ago. But you need to get there and deliver that message."
Patrick sighed. "Alright, if you say so."
The ragtag group ended up camping a few miles west of the remains of Camp Shilo due to the sudden crash of adrenaline Patrick had after only about an hour of walking. Colonel Januet was eager to go all night as Brandon was in the distance, and well lit up. However, Patrick, tired from walking, fell asleep soon after a dinner prepared by Jenkins, leaving Colonel Januet, the anesthesia nearly wore off, no choice but to camp out in the wasteland overnight.
The next morning, the Auxiliary, the legless Dragoon and the Mister Handy continued to Brandon, which was easily getting closer and closer. However, stuck to walking speed because of Patrick, it took until the late afternoon when they finally arrived.
A wall, mostly made out of scrap metal, old chain link, barbed wire, old cars and even train cars with old world railways like the CPR and CN Rail painted on and barely legible amongst the red rust, encircled the entire city of Brandon. Towers built out of scrap wood and metal, with spotlights and machine guns positioned in such a way that they could point out of the fortress or into the besieged town as the operator desired convinced Patrick to keep walking away toward the nearest entrance, which was a major checkpoint built across the old Trans Canada highway to the north.
Four big burly men and a couple equally intimidating women in black suits and carrying submachine guns scowled at Patrick, Colonel Januet and Jenkins as they walked up.
"What's yer bis-e-ness here?" one of them spat at the group.
"I have a message for The Boss from the Dominion of Assiniboia," Patrick said in the calmest, firmest voice he could muster, even though right now he wasn't sure if the thugs here could be intimidated. After all, these guys, or more likely their ancestors, had beat Assiniboia in big fights. Not once but twice.
"Give er here," the man said.
"My orders are to deliver it directly," Patrick said.
The man scowled deeper than before. He could hear cloth rustling behind him, most likely Colonel Januet reaching for his weapon, while a couple of the gangsters nearby audibly clicked the safeties off their weapons.
The one man turned to the radio in the shed, and radioed a mumbled message, most likely to someone else in Brandon. After an equally inaudible reply, the man turned around, his frown turned even lower than Patrick thought humanly possible.
"Fine. You come on. The bucket o' bolts and de Rampie have to stay out here," the man said, before barking to one of the men and a woman to lead Patrick into the city.
The two "guides" were well over a head taller than Patrick, and held their weapons in a way to make sure that no one would mess with them. They followed the highway that was still lined with the ruins of gas stations, motels and restaurants until it got to another road marked with a rusty sign saying 1st Street, and the two gangsters turned down it, and Patrick followed behind.
To the right was a small suburb of Brandon, a bunch of pre-war homes though most were in a state of repair that looked like a nuke had been dropped on it. However, Brandon didn't get bombed in 2077, much like Winnipeg. However, the long distance and rivalry between the two cities, once both part of the province of Manitoba, ensured that they would be split apart after the war, and seemingly never reunited again.
Off to the left, around another barbed wire fence and car wall, was a massive four-story red brick building.
"What's that?" Patrick asked, before realizing he had done so."
"The Asylum," the woman said. "All the trouble makers go there to be re-educated."
"Or we just shoot them. It's a fun sport," the man said, making both of them laugh and Patrick shudder.
"Just keep your nose clean, don't piss us off, and don't even think about talking back to The Boss, and you should be fine," the woman continued. But Patrick was sure she was only saying that because she had to. The tone of her voice screamed 'I just want to hurt you with any excuse I can find.'
They walked down the hill to the Assiniboine River valley. Down around the river flats was a massive train yard. Most of the old grain and box cars had long since been removed, most repurposed for the walls that now surrounded Brandon. The UAR was allowed to run one or two trains a week to Brandon from Winnipeg, most full of gamblers and people that thought Brandon was better than the capital of Assiniboia (which said a lot about them, Patrick thought), though no trains were allowed to go through, like to Melita.
Melita… Patrick just realized how long it had been since he was at home, or even thought of it, and a sudden pang of homesickness washed over him. Maybe after he was done here, he should go back, see how May Morrison was doing…
The guards turned again, this time onto Rosser Avenue, just south of the train tracks. Brandon was built straddling both sides of the valley, but the southern half was were Brandon earned it's reputation. Casino's, bars and hotels along 18th Street to cater to wealthier individuals, with seedier dives, chem dealers and prostitutes not even a block away to entice those that had money but wanted more bang for their buck. Of course, if you got sucked in deep enough; got you addicted to Jet or whiskey or were way past your ability to pay after your last dice roll failed in the casino, then nothing but bad things would happen.
If you were lucky, the Syndie gangsters that came in would just beat you up then kick you out of town. A bullet to the knee if they felt malicious one day; a bullet to the head if they were in a foul mood. But most likely, they would offer a deal that would seem too good to be true: You can work off your debt to the city.
The two gangsters stopped as a column of thin, disheveled and downtrodden souls were marched by, heading west. These were some of the men and women who were given that deal, and were regretting it to this day. They were past hoping to ever get out of their debts, which the bastards that ran the city made sure would keep growing, with interest, for as long as they felt like torturing or making use of their slaves.
One way to pay off that massively increased debt was in The Keystone Center, the pre-war hockey arena and convention center that was now used for less productive and more violent means. Patrick had heard the stories of what happened inside the building, which The Syndicate generously described as "The Lottery," but was really a bloody fight to the death between starving, drug addicted, desperate gladiators. Win enough battles, and you would be free to go.
They walked past the old arena, and from inside Patrick could hear loud screams for blood, most likely drowning out any cries of pain and agony. Patrick shuddered, his mind unable to comprehend why anyone would think such fights were fun to watch.
Maybe it required a dog-eat-dog mentality that Brandon so seamlessly provided. Patrick was so glad to have never been born this far north.
"Alright, Assie," the woman barked, snapping Patrick out of his morose thoughts. "Almost there."
"There" was an old shopping mall just a few short blocks from the Keystone Center, a long building that had been turned into the headquarters of the Syndicate. Most of the old signs that advertised the wares that had been sold had fallen or been torn down over the years. In their place, a massive sign that dominated most of the skyline of southern Brandon screamed a simple, chilling slogan: "Work Will Set You Free." Patrick thought he heard that used somewhere else, but he couldn't think of it right now.
Entering the main base of the Syndicate was like stepping into a completely different world. The floors were clean, the walls recently painted, everything appeared organized and tidy. Patrick had to blink, thinking that he had just stepped into a portal and transported somewhere entirely, maybe to October 22, 2077. The only way Patrick realized he was still in the same place was that armed guards, all in black suits and with guns pulled and ready to use at a moment's notice walked down the halls of the shopping mall.
Patrick followed the two guides down one hallway, then down another. Somewhere around here, Brandon General Radio had its station, playing "pop" music and soap opera's and anti-Assiniboian propaganda.
Most of the storefronts were long since cleared out of anything useful, and most were now apartments for the leadership of the Syndicate, with some of the larger ones turned into art galleries and comfortable living rooms. A few did have some Syndicate members drinking, gambling and shooting up, and otherwise enjoying themselves. A fight even broke out in one of the bars, but it was pretty quickly stopped with a few gunshots from a submachine gun.
"Here," the female guard said as they stopped outside one of those larger rooms, the mannequins and the clothes that they were wearing confirming that this had been a woman's clothing store before the War of 2077.
Before the guard could open the door that went in, it opened itself. A man with a closely cropped beard and hair wearing a simple robe made out of Brahmin leather walked out of the room, flanked by two other black Syndicate gangsters. He smiled to Patrick as he walked by, nodding respectfully to him. Patrick returned the gesture, though he thought he knew that style of clothing, one that he saw a while ago. He just couldn't remember where and who it was now, much to his disappointment.
The male guard shoved the butt of his gun into Patrick's side after the man and his escorts had walked away, making the Auxiliary jump. "Go in."
Patrick swallowed, and straightened his back, before marching into the door. He was scared. No, terrified. But he wasn't going to let these brutes see it. At least that's what he promised himself. If it worked or not, he didn't know.
The room was quiet when Patrick entered, without a single person standing nearby. Patrick glanced around, hoping to find somebody, but his eyes caught the many objects that filled the room. The shelves and tables that would have held the latest fashions a hundred and forty years previously were now full of mementoes and relics of a power hungry dictator: intricate sculptures, bright paintings, and old electronics that may or may not work, all symbols of wealth, power and prestige even after the War of 2077. The weapons that were polished and carefully displayed, ranging from simple pistols and rifles to mini-guns, flamethrowers and a Fat Man mini-nuke launcher seemed more than just a simple collection, maybe more for intimidation that usefulness.
A large map on the wall behind a massive wooden desk was the most curious item to Patrick, and it drew him to look at it closely. It was huge, as was the area it covered, and looked, maybe not new, but more modern than the old maps made before the war. It stretched from the middle of Saskatchewan in the west to the toxic waste dump that was the North-West Angle in the east, North to the glacier that covered the most northern reaches of North America, and south to the ruins Minneapolis, Minnesota. Light lines showed each district and territory of Assiniboia, while multicolored pins, arranged in a color coded pattern, filled the map, ranging from Assiniboian troop movements to agents of the Syndicate all through the world contained on the paper. This map showed the full extent of the Syndicates power, and it was massive. Seeing those pins stuck in places like Winnipeg, PorLaPra, Vault H made sense, but the ones in Mord-Wink, Turtletown, and even Melita made Patrick shudder. He knew the Syndicate was a threat. Just not that it was this much. Who was the spy in Melita? Did he know them? Did they know him?
"Ah, you must be the Auxiliary," a soft female said, making Patrick spin around. She wasn't very tall, and was very thin, the black suit she wore tailored to accent her figure even further. She might not have been called beautiful, her blonde hair cut in a very short, utilitarian style and she wore no makeup, but she had an air about her that screamed ruthless determination and power, and Patrick could feel himself shrinking under her cold, grey eyes. "I've heard a lot about your work in Assiniboia, though my agents say that the DBS doesn't embellish your record much. And all over your brother!" she chuckled. "Family is important. I must say that The Syndicate could always use someone like you."
"Yes, I'm the Auxiliary," Patrick said, instinctively removing his hat and holding it in his hands. "Are you the Boss?"
She raised an eyebrow, though that did little to hide the fierce glare that still bored into Patrick. "You sound surprised."
"I just didn't realize you were… a… lady," Patrick replied, his attempts at remaining at least stoic faltering him now.
"What does it matter what I have between my legs?" The Boss said, making her way to the desk. "I have enough testosterone addicted idiots outside to do my dirty work. The Syndicate doesn't need to be run by it."
"You said you knew about my brother?" Patrick asked.
"Only that you are looking for him." The Boss walked to her desk, and pulled out a piece of paper. "This is a list of all the kids that ended up here after that attack down south at the beginning of the month." She handed it to Patrick, sat down and read it. "If he's here, I may consider letting him go."
Patrick sat up straight, and used his finger to go down the list. He gave a squawk of surprise. There was a Zach on the list! But the last name was Harvey, and it sounded like he was from a farm near Souris, which immediately deflated all his hopes.
"He's not here," Patrick said, handing the list back with a resigned sigh. Twenty seven kids were on the list, but though he didn't know them, he was sad to see that many families had been torn apart.
"What would it take to free all the kids here?" he asked.
The Boss snorted. "All the gold in the Royal Assiniboian Mint," she said. "I'm not returning valuable property like that."
Patrick stared at her. "Property?"
She groaned, rolled her eyes. "You really are some farmer bumpkin that got dragged into all this like the DBS said, aren't you?" She leaned over the desk. "The world after the apocalypse is a lot more complicated than it seems. Sure, someone with a gun can force and steal from people without one. But once you start talking about groups of people; tribes, towns, cities, then you have a whole new level. You need to protect them, provide them work and entertainment. I won't deny that The Syndicate is a bit brutal, using brute force when need be to get our way. But we built a town that offers an alternative to Assiniboia. One where if you are strong enough, you can make your own way. And the people that come here, thinking that they can gamble their pounds to make even more, dabble in chems and hookers and booze for a good time, well, it was their choice. But if they run up their tab too much and can't pay up, and aren't strong enough to make us see otherwise, then they have forfeited their rights, and deserve what happens to them.
"And here's the thing: Assiniboian's still come here, even after the DBS and the government rants about all that we do. Some are escaping your 'law and order,' some for a good time they can't find in Winnipeg or whatever small town is licking the boots of their oppressors. Hell, some of the best men and women I have left their impoverished lives in Winnipeg, the one that wasn't their fault, but because of some bastard in the government or a big business forced them out of work."
"But the people here don't get a chance to get out of that debt hole they made," Patrick said.
"Of course they do! They just need to be smart and strong enough to do it." The Boss sat in her chair, crossing her arms. "You have the strong ones go and fight in the Keystone Centre, and you have the smart ones skim a bit of money here and there when they work. I know some do it, but if they don't get caught, well they deserve it. But the ones that just accept their fate, the ones that don't even try to improve their standing, they deserve every bit of abuse and hatred The Syndicate directs on them."
Patrick listened to all this with a mixture of shock, resignation, and, much to his horror, approval. In some demented way, it kind of made sense. He heard stories of farmers who had to sell their land and leave because of one bad harvest and loan they couldn't repay. And what could they do about it? Well, unless they wanted to go to jail for the rest of their lives, nothing. They just packed up everything on a cart, and headed in whatever direction gave a chance at restarting their lives. And he remembered Atwood, and Vault H, and Turtle Town, and the injustice that reared its head over and over...
"So, Auxiliary," The Boss said, leaning forward in her chair again. "I'll make an offer for you. You can decline it if you wish, but why not join The Syndicate? Help make the wasteland and Assiniboia a better place, allow strength and smarts to overcome decadent and corrupt sleazebags that run the government and the greedy bastards that control the economy."
Patrick may have hesitated a moment, but only a moment. "No."
"No?"
"No."
"Why?" The Boss asked. "I'm curious."
"I know Assiniboia isn't the best thing in the world," he said. "I would be lying if I did. And you make a lot of good points about how you run Brandon. But Assiniboia is still my country, and I would rather fix it from the inside than force change unwillingly on the outside."
The Boss just stared at Patrick for a long time. A guard coughed outside. The faint hum of vacuum tubes powering a radio that played music at a reduced volume added to the silence.
"I can respect that," The Boss said. "I don't agree with you, but I can respect that." She smiled. "Here's hoping someday, maybe Assiniboia and The Syndicate could get along. Anyway, would you like a drink?"
Patrick shrugged his shoulders as The Boss reached into a mini-fridge behind her desk and pulled out a couple Nuka-Cola's, setting one in front of Patrick, before twisting the bottle cap off and tipping it to her lips, drinking half the bottle before coming back for air.
Patrick opened up his bottle and drank it. Though it was flat, and there was a faint tingle that Patrick was told was radiation, the ice cold Nuka Cola was still the best thing you could get in the wasteland. Patrick pocketed the bottle cap. He heard stories that bottle caps were used as money in parts of the Wasteland. It seemed silly when he thought about it, but he still kept the piece of pressed metal.
"I'm surprised you don't have anyone in here with you," Patrick said after he took a breath from drinking.
She glared at Patrick. "You don't think I can't handle myself?"
"No, no," Patrick said, quickly backtracking. "I meant that just… extra security for someone of your stature."
The Boss continued glaring at Patrick, before she gave a small "humph." "Well, I still have two associates just standing outside, and two dozen other men and women in this building along that will come at my beck and call. I think I can handle myself in my own office. So don't get any smart ideas."
She drank the rest of the Nuka Cola, before tossing it into a garbage can on the other side of the room, the glass bottle rattling against the other glass bottles in there.
"So, what brings you here to the Independent State of Brandon?" she asked, turning back to Patrick.
Patrick took a deep breath, swung his backpack of his back, and grabbed the letter inside it. It was bent now, and the edges of the letter were crumpled up, but it still clearly stated it was from Assiniboia, with the bison stamping down on the eagle in the corner, and to be hand-delivered to The Boss. Patrick handed it over to her, before slinging his backpack over his shoulder. He had it on so long at this point, he felt naked when he wasn't wearing it.
"So, Assiniboia wants to talk, huh?" she said, taking the letter from Patrick's hand. She grabbed a fierce looking combat knife on her desk, using it to open the envelope. "I had a feeling Winnipeg would be talking to me sooner or later."
"Why's that?" Patrick asked.
The Boss snorted. "Because you Assies are more worried about the Brotherhood of Steel than some 'gangsters' 200 kilometers straight west of your capital." She pulled the folded letter from the envelope, and started reading. "This is most likely your yellow livered Prime Minister begging me to…"
The silence in the room was deafening. "What?" Patrick asked.
The Boss blinked, using the knife still in her hand to trace the words on the letter to make sure she read them correctly. "You are shitting me."
"What?" Patrick asked. "What did it say?"
"Assiniboia is threatening me? How the fuck do they dare do that!" the Boss snapped, before driving the knife through the piece of paper, impaling it on her desk with a thud. "Turn over all Assiniboian citizens currently under our control and allow military units to secure the railway through the city? Not fucking likely!"
Patrick blinked. That was rather aggressive for the Dominion, after years of violence between Brandon and Assiniboia, many diplomatic crisis and two failed wars. What was happening now?
She turned to Patrick, taking a deep breath. "Well, I must say I'm surprised that Assiniboia is acting the way it does. Not going to do them any good. I'm not letting any RAMP or Army soldier from your precious Dominion so much as look at this city. And I sure as hell am not letting a single person who came to this city, lost the shirt off their back, and then agreed to sign a contract to stay here until they repay their debt just get up and go back without paying us back!"
"Okay," Patrick said after a moment of letting The Boss collect herself. He stood up and replaced his brahmin leather hat on his head. "My instructions are to return to Winnipeg and…"
"I don't think you heard me," The Boss said.
"What?"
"I'm not letting any RAMP member look at this city, Auxiliary." She glared, the ferocious predatory snarl making Patrick freeze. "Guards!"
The two Syndicate gangsters that brought Patrick to The Boss came barreling in, submachine guns at the ready.
"Take the Auxiliary here to experience the full breadth of our hospitality," she said, ice and venom dripping from her voice. "And make sure to take care of the Dragoon that came here with him."
"Yes Boss!" they both shouted at once, before quickly grabbing hold of Patrick, and dragged him out of the office, and most likely to a more uncomfortable place.
Patrick kicked and struggled as he was forcefully manhandled out the door and down the halls to the closest exit. The male Syndicate gangster let go of Patrick to grab the door, which was all the opportunity he needed.
He reached for the 10 mm pistol on his hip, pulled it up and shot the gangster in the back that was opening the door. He gave a startled cry, before falling down.
The female gangster let go of Patrick and pulled up her submachine gun, but before she could fire, Patrick had spun around and pulled the trigger twice. The two shots missed, but it made her duck, squeeze her trigger, and her submachine gun went off, but all the bullets harmlessly crashed into the floor.
Patrick pulled his 10 mm up again and fired twice more into the Syndicate gangster's chest. A gurgling gasp escaped her lips, followed by blood pouring out of her mouth, and she fell to the ground.
Patrick quickly grabbed both ownerless submachine guns, and crashed through the door out into the abandoned parking lot, and he sprinted east toward 18th Street.
"Hey!" a gruff voice shouted, but Patrick didn't stop. The Syndicate gangster lifted his submachine gun and fired. The bullet's cracked past Patrick's head, but the long range and Patrick's zigzag footwork ensured that none actually hit him.
Patrick ran up the embankment that lifted 18th Street up to meet Number 10 Highway that ran straight south of Brandon, sprinted across the empty pavement and slid down the dried dirt slope to the other side of the street.
To the south was the old Brandon Cemetery. The trees were mostly dead, and most of the headstone had long since crumbled or fallen over, which convinced Patrick that it would be a terrible place to hide. There was another large shopping center, the sign above it proclaiming it as a long vanished Dominion Hardware and Auto, was just to the other side. But instead of running into the front door, and who knew what would have been inside, Patrick quickly dodged around the back of the store, through dead bushes and detritus that had been there for decades. Old wooden pallets and crates were littered around the back, as well as old car parts that couldn't be salvaged and a few barrels in stagnant pools of brackish water that Patrick was sure wouldn't be healthy to even step within 100 feet.
Patrick slipped into a dark space behind a dumpster and beside an old ventilation unit, and stopped to catch his breath. He could hear some people shout and run past; the crack of bullets being fired echoing past the old, abandoned buildings, adding a chilling and terrifying atmosphere to the very deadly game of hide and seek Patrick had just started.
After fifteen minutes, when the sound of gunfire had died down and Patrick couldn't hear any more people shouting nearby, he let go of his breath, and leaned up against the old concrete wall.
He finally had a chance to look at the submachine guns that he had picked up. It was the standard 10mm variety that could be found anywhere in the Wasteland, but was still reliable and powerful. Patrick grinned, pulling out his 10mm pistol and slipping it into his backpack. While he had a decent amount of 10mm ammo at this point, he didn't have any extra magazines for the submachine gun.
"All well," he whispered to himself. "I'm sure I'll end up with more in the near future."
He slid down the wall, and stretched with a yawn. Now, to wait for night.
Pip-Boy 3000 Info-Tracker Note #849
Brandon, the Syndicate, and Assiniboia
Written May 3, 2109 by Former Mayor Joshua Lee
Way back in the times even just after the War of 2077, Brandon was actually a nice place. You wouldn't know it now, considering the people who are running it, but Brandon was, for a time, the best place in what was once known as Manitoba.
During the Annexation, the US Army had a presence in the city, but the commander of the garrison, Captain Jack Huerta, was a decent man, who tolerated no abuse or insults by his soldiers on the Canadians that they were nominally occupying, demanding that his men treat Brandonites and others in the region as if they were normal American citizens. This included paying full cost for anything they may buy and investigating any complaint made by those in Brandon against his troops, once even sending men to be court martialled for raping a young Brandon girl.
When the War of 2077 happened, Captain Huerta remained in Brandon to help the people, and with his soldiers, they protected the city and helped prevent it from falling into anarchy, and making sure everyone had food. His death from a raider in 2085 was a great tragedy, but his example made Brandon look more favorably to the Americans than those in what would be Assiniboia, and some inhabitants of the city can be traced back to the US Army soldiers that married into the community after the US collapsed. My family was one of them.
The divide between Assiniboia and Brandon would continue to grow over the years. Brandon, over 200 kilometers from Winnipeg, was always a very independent city, chafing that Winnipeg always received preferential treatment in the provincial government. They bounced back quickly after the immediate chaos of war, radiation, disease, and starvation, taking in refugees and providing a safe haven for many that came. In 2112, the Independent City of Brandon was declared to much rejoicing, and Brandon became a libertarian paradise: People prospered based on their smarts and skills, but all was welcome to do what they pleased: gambling, drugs and prostitution were allowed, and homosexual and transgender relationships were allowed, even welcomed.
But all was not well. Many small time criminals that were fleeing the RAMP in Winnipeg made their way to Brandon, and began to work together. In a year, they were soon controlling the entire drug, prostitution, and gambling operation in Brandon, and were growing more powerful. It was at this time that the talk of "The Syndicate" began to rumble through Brandon.
Several times in the past hundred years, Assiniboia asked Brandon to join them, but Brandon always refused. Brandon was not interested in claiming land or building their own nation like Assiniboia. The people were content with their simple way of life. But in 2177, after several failed crops and concern of violence with the Syndicate, the leaders of Brandon were more willing to join Assiniboia.
But before Brandon's leaders could do so, The Syndicate struck, killing hundreds and taking over the city. I was able to escape with my life and fled to Winnipeg. But the Syndicate was well armed, and two attempts by Assiniboia to destroy the Syndicate failed. The Syndicate turned Brandon into a hive of misery and hate, corrupting the ideals that Brandon held onto for so long to serve themselves: where smarts and strength could help you improve your life before, now brutality and cunning is a matter of life and death. Slavery is now a major part of the city, an evil that old Brandon would never allow before, along with blood sports, child labour, and many other evils that I can't bring myself to place on this page.
I'm now an old man, having lived over half my life in Winnipeg waiting to see Brandon free again. But now I know I will never see it again. I hope someday Brandon can be freed. I would love to see it become an independent city, but even part of Assiniboia would be better than nothing.
But I don't see that happening any time soon.