Chapter Seventeen
Patrick did his best to sneak past Syndicate guards and anyone else that might give him away, sticking to shadows and hiding in buildings ruined by time and the occasional bout of violence over the decades. As he slowly moved his way further east, the buildings became worse and worse for wear, entire blocks with nothing but rubble and dried grass. This wasn't just because it had been almost a century and a half since anything new had been built here, but even the few buildings that still stood had holes in the roof, missing doors, windows and even entire walls, just leaving small skeletal husks fit only for dogs, cats and birds.
By now Patrick was far enough to the east of The Syndicates HQ and the old stores and malls that lined 18th Street that he was in the infamous Rez. The majority of the residents of Brandon lived in squalor and a miserable existence in this area of the city. The few houses that still stood in this area were now home to a couple dozen people each, while tents and shanties made out of whatever scrap could be found to house more, though it was clear that not everyone that lived here could be housed.
Dirty men and women, most wearing little more than rags and whatever scraps of fabric they could find to stitch together, huddled together around fires or in small groups. Babies cried all around Patrick, and everyone looked at Patrick with blank eyes. Some tried to mutter a plea for help, some just looked away, but most just stared at the man in decent, if dirty clothes, and with only a thin unshaven beard and dust from traveling and not a wretched existence.
Patrick couldn't look around him. He had heard the stories of Brandon, and how the people lived here, the horrors and trials everyone went through, but even those stories seemed to have been censored, polished to not show the true horror of what actually happened in The Rez.
A young man wearing the battered but mostly intact black suit that at one point would have belonged to a Syndicate gangster with a red armband approached Patrick. His hair was dirty black, with high cheekbones and a brown skin that wasn't simply from a lifetime in the sun. His eyes were weary, but seemed to flash with anger and righteousness, and those eyes were what made Patrick stop, more than the gun or the way he held himself amongst the masses.
"You aren't from around here," he said.
"You could say that, yes," Patrick said. "What's your name?"
"The people here call me Running Eagle," he said, waving a hand over the town around him.
"That's an interesting name," Patrick said, after he gave his own.
"My ancestors would have used their own language back in the Old Times. But in your White Language, that is what I would be. But even I don't know the old words anymore."
"So you are an Indian?"
The man didn't flinch, but Patrick could tell that struck a chord, and regretted it. "We call ourselves First Nations in your language, though we have many names to classify ourselves," he said.
"So… you're with Riel's Army then?" Patrick asked, suspicious. "What are they doing down here?"
"So what if I am? Are you just trying to get yourself shot?" Running Eagle barked, neither confirming nor denying that he was, but answering the question either way. "Besides, at least they have always stood up to the Syndicate, unlike fucking Asiniboia."
"Alright, I'm sorry," Patrick replied, raising his hands.. He had heard stories of Indians fighting the cowboys, and thought they were borderline savages back then. But he never met one face to face, as few lived down in the Melita area. But the news stories of the actions Riel's Army, with the hideaway up north close to the Glacier, always got news coverage whenever something blew up or a soldier up north was killed. Today was just one surprise after another it seemed…
"But you are from Assiniboia, right?" he said. "And you aren't one of the Luckless, are you?"
Patrick thought about it. "I was nearly killed by The Syndicate, so does that count?"
"You must have made them angry." Running Eagle smiled. "Good."
"Good?"
"Yes. Because myself and many other of my people and some of the Luckless whites that lost it all here in Brandon want to fight back and overthrow The Syndicate."
"And join Assiniboia?" Patrick asked. "I had heard there was a resistance movement that wanted to join the Dominion."
Running Eagle shrugged. "Maybe. I personally say no, because of what Assiniboia has done to my people, way back when it was called Canada. But most of the people here are from Assiniboia, or have relatives in your country, so maybe they will want to join. I can't say right now which will work or not."
Patrick nodded. "Fair enough. But how do you plan to do that?"
"I don't know. I'm not a planner; I'm a warrior. But if you come with me, I can take you to some people that organize us all."
Running Eagle turned around and began walking through the makeshift town, and Patrick followed. The smells, the human suffering and the agony that was all around him made Patrick want to pull The Boss out and show her the agony her ideology was causing. Or, maybe, just shoot her. Of course she would say these poor souls deserved it, then shoot a couple and said they deserved that to.
He might have partially agreed with her before, but now, seeing the full extent of the pain The Boss caused, made Patrick hate that he even considered, if just for a moment, about joining her.
They walked into an old school, which seemed to have been built from similar blueprints from the Waskada School, only upsized for a larger population. It was even built from the same red bricks and concrete stucco as the old building in Waskada, complete with the two-story gymnasium.
Inside, the building was just as ill kept as the one he fought through in Waskada only this time there wouldn't be booby traps or armed raiders camping inside. It functioned as a community center of sorts. In a couple classrooms, women taught little kids how to read and write, while one burly man with a limp overlooked a class of boys and girls working out with makeshift equipment. In a cafeteria, food was still being served, only that it wasn't exactly filling or as healthy as it would have been when this served hundreds of kids.
"Doesn't The Syndicate prevent you guys from doing this?" Patrick asked Running Eagle.
"They rarely come here, so as far as we know, they don't care. If they do come here, they come in large groups, because even they know desperate, unarmed people will mob and kill them any chance they get."
Patrick had a feeling something like that was how Running Eagle was wearing the clothes he was now, even if it hung off his frame like a flag.
They tuned down another hallway, which lead to a staircase. Running Eagle took the flight of stairs down, and Patrick followed. The stairs were narrow and the concrete was crumbling, but it was still structurally intact. At least, Patrick hoped so.
The basement of the school had an old furnace and stacks of old boxes, broken desks and tools that a custodian would have made use of over a century ago. The tools were still used today, but more to keep the building from falling down, and repairing and making items that the folks here would be otherwise unable to get ahold of.
There was only one other man at the time, sleeping on a cot on the far side of the room. A table full of dirty dishes, crumpled papers, half full bottles of whiskey and vodka, and an old road map of Brandon with pencil and pen marks to point out where The Syndicate maintained its control.
"Reverend!" Running Eagle shouted, startling the sleeping man awake.
"What? Who? Where?" the man sprung up, a pistol in hand and pointing at Patrick and Running Eagle. Patrick took a leap back in surprise, but Running Eagle maintained his composure. The man was skinny, and the leather jacket he wore hung loose all over him. His wrinkles and thinning dark hair with streaks of gray showed he had to be in the late 50s or early 60s. But the speed that he moved, and the alertness of his body, showed that he still had some fight in him.
"Damnit," the man named Reverend muttered, pushing himself out of the cot. "You know I can't sleep worth a fuck."
"I'm sorry," Running Eagle said, though Patrick was sure there wasn't much sympathy in his voice. "But I have a guy from Assiniboia who's on the run from The Syndicate."
"Well that's nice," Reverend said, shaking his head and reaching for a bottle of vodka and swilling it. "You know we have people like that all the time."
"But…" Running Eagle started, but Reverend just held up his hand as he upended the bottle, his Adam's apple pumping up and down before the entire bottle was empty.
"What's your name?" Reverend asked, pointing at Patrick.
"Patrick Morrison."
"That's nice," Reverend said. "But unless you came down from God, we don't…"
"Also known as The Auxiliary," Patrick interrupted. He had to admit, the name was growing on him now.
Running Eagle blinked in surprise, and Reverend stopped mid sentence, his eye going wide. "You're shitting me."
Patrick reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his RAMP Auxiliary badge, and flashed it at Reverend.
"Well shit," the old man said. "Well, maybe not from heaven, but the Royal Assiniboian Mounted Police has got to be the next best place."
"I was assigned to deliver a letter to The Boss. And let's say she didn't take the content of it too well," Patrick said, before explaining what was in the letter.
Reverend grunted. "So Assiniboia finally got some backbone, eh? To bad they didn't just steamroll through this place. I honestly have no idea why they don't just come here."
"Because they underestimate The Syndicate," Running Eagle said. "The last war, they sent like a thousand soldiers, under a general that didn't know what the hell he was doing. From what I heard, he was court martialed and sent out into Ontario..." Running Eagle let those words hang in the air.
"And now they are scared," Reverend said. "But whatever, that's the past." He climbed up from his bunk, and walked over to a table at the edge of the room and turned to Patrick. "So what now?"
"I honestly have no idea. I was just sent here alone, and no one told me if there was an army or anything."
"Well shit," Reverend sighed, before looking down on the map. "But whatever. And since you are here, and since I know your reputation, I have a job for you."
"What?" Patrick asked.
"You can take it if you want, because, well, it's fucking dangerous."
"What?" Patrick asked again.
"But if you could, that would be great…"
"What the hell is it?" Patrick shouted.
Reverend blinked. "Well, the leader of our little band of merry men, Deer Wing, is currently locked up in The Asylum. If we could break her out, that would give the fighters a boost of morale. Hell, we could use it. After that, we'll figure out where to go from there."
Patrick thought about it, looking down at the map and seeing the red circle and the scrawled words 'The Asylum' under it. "How heavily fortified is the place?"
"It's got it's own wall around the place. Dozens of guards, all of them heavily armed. But once you get inside, you shouldn't have a problem. It's getting out again that will be a pain in the ass, since by that time the entire city could be alerted."
"Is there a way to prevent that from happening?" Patrick asked.
"Could create a diversion," Running Eagle said. "If it's to free Deer Wing, I'm sure I will have all the volunteer's I need."
Reverend grunted. "Well… I don't want to just throw lives away like that," he said. "We don't have the firepower to stand up to The Syndicate, and we will need everyone we can for the big fight in the future. But freeing Deer Wing will be a huge boost, so anything we can do to help you free her, we will do."
Patrick nodded. "Then you better. And I will do my best to get her out."
"That's all we need." Running Eagle said. The Reverend grabbed another liquor bottle and began to drink some more.
The Asylum was not a good place.
If ever Patrick was ever going to get an award for the biggest understatement ever, then that would have won hands down.
The four story red brick building had been a mental hospital at one point, hence the name that The Syndicate still used. However, instead of curing those with mental illness, now The Asylum was a prison, and one that made the conditions that the residents of the Rez would have found utterly abhorrent. The front courtyard, which before the War of 2077 would have been nicely maintained grass, flowerbeds and dirt paths, was now all dried and cracked ground, used by The Syndicate as an exercise court. Off to one side, however, was a wooden platform with a rope and a trap door, making Patrick shudder. All around the building was a wall of Old World cars, stacked three or four high in spots. Patrick was impressed, because it wasn't like they would have been able to drive them up over each other to make the wall. Must have been a lot of work.
Patrick had managed to get his hands on a hunting rifle with a telescopic sight from a poor sod in The Rez that had nothing else but the gun. He had practiced with his old rifle way back when he was in the Militia and on the farm, so he knew how it worked. However, he had never been a good shot, and was even rustier now, so he hoped whatever he might have to shoot would be considerate enough to just wander around in a set path, and stop occasionally to look at some random spot so he could take a potshot or two.
Patrick had climbed his way up on top of the car wall, hiding in whatever nook and cranny he could find, careful to not make any sounds, which wasn't that easy in the moonless night. This was the third car stacked up on each other, and Patrick had snuck into the cab through the long gone glass window. The seat cushions had not fully rotted away, and there was only a few springs that poked out, giving him a somewhat comfortable and hidden place to work from. He peaked over the edge of the door slowly, making sure that no one could see him. There were only a two guards as far as he could tell, unless there were more inside or around the other side of the building. But if he could take these two out quickly, then they wouldn't have time to warn anyone else, and he might be able to sneak into The Asylum with a minimum of fuss.
He rested the barrel of the gun on the car door of the Highwayman that was his sniper point. He carefully lined up the sights, the cross hair pointed right at the head of the guard leaning up against the brick wall. Patrick took a deep breath; let his heart rate slow, before he pulled the trigger.
The blast of gunpowder and fire was a shock in the quiet night, and it made Patrick cringe slightly. He looked down the sights again, to see that the target of his was on the ground. Patrick smiled to himself, before he saw the man twitch and get up on his knee, his submachine gun in hand.
"Damnit," Patrick muttered, quickly pulling the bolt back and then forward again to put another bullet into the chamber. He lined up again and fired. This time the Syndicate gangster ducked when he heard the shot, and the bullet landed in the ground with a small thud.
"Shit!" Patrick swore, working the bolt again. Third time's a charm?
He aimed and fired again, but this time the gangster was ready, and he ducked around a corner, yelling something to his comrades.
"Fuck!" Patrick cursed himself, but by the time he had another round chambered, there were now four more guards, all of them looking for the mysterious sniper.
"Well, time for Plan B," he muttered, and reached into the pocket of his jacket. The other present he got from the resistance fighters was a couple grenades. This should get at least one of them!
He pulled the pin, and tossed it in the general direction of three Syndicate gangsters milling around. The bomb hit the ground a few feet short of where Patrick had intended, and exploded. The man closest to the grenade went down with a shriek, but by now the three others had figured out where Patrick was, and began to unload their submachine guns in his general direction, making their way to the Highwayman that Patrick was using.
He could hear the bullets tink and clatter off the steel, the 10mm rounds harmlessly bouncing off the sides of the car. Patrick thought that he would be safe here for a while.
Then he heard a bullet hit something that didn't sound quite like metal. He looked to the front of the car, to see a couple flames licking up from the dash.
"Oh crap!" Patrick exclaimed, sliding his way out of the front seat of the car, before sitting up and grabbing the door handle for the door facing away from The Asylum. He yanked it, but the door was rusted shut. More and more flames came out of the dash, smoke pouring out of the hood.
"Fuck!" Patrick said, leaping out of the window he had snuck in before. He was well over ten feet in the air, and didn't have time to roll himself into a ball or brace himself for the landing on the ground.
"Oomf!" he cried out as he belly-flopped on the hard ground, knocking the wind out of him. He rolled over, seeing that the car was on fire. He crawled away with a groan.
KABOOM! The car he was in exploded in a ball of white light, making the night turn into day, and then turned up the sunlight a few thousand points higher. Patrick ducked down, closing his eyes tight, but even that wasn't enough to make his vision turn bright white. He carefully looked over his shoulder to see that the Highwayman he had been in was gone. There was barely any scrap metal from the explosion of the dormant nuclear engine that powered the beast of a car. Patrick could see the cars around the Highwayman were also on fire. Patrick gasped, before groaning in pain as his chest complained. He scurried further down the hill.
KABOOM! KABOOM! KABOOM! Explosion after explosion, a deadly irradiated domino effect of nuclear powered cars, continued for what felt like forever. Patrick thought it was the end of the world again, though he knew the actual nuclear weapons were much more powerful than what he was experiencing right now.
After a time, when his hearing returned enough that all he could here was the crackle of flames and the clatter of metal pieces that somehow survived the chain reaction of explosions falling on the ground, Patrick finally stood up and walked to the scene of devastation.
For one thing, there was no wall anymore. There were the hulks of a few tough steel frames and chassis around, but they were not in any semblance of order anymore.
The three guards that had tried to shoot at Patrick were also there, though the flash burns on their skin, the lack of clothing on the side of body that faced the explosion, and the fire that consumed the rest of them, was more than enough indication that they were no longer among the living.
The Geiger counter on Patrick's Pip-Boy crackled to life at all the radiation that was now around Patrick. He knew he shouldn't go through where the fires had been, but there wasn't any other way to get to The Asylum. Patrick sprinted straight through the hellhole he was partially responsible for creating, his boots crunching on the ground like he was walking over glass. He didn't take time to stop and look at the dead Syndicate guards. Even if their weapons were still useful, they would be so irradiated by now that just looking at them might give Patrick cancer, if not acute radiation poisoning.
After the Pip-Boy stopped ticking, Patrick didn't slow down, this time racing for the brick building. He reached the door, and leaned against the wall, taking a moment to catch his breath. He had never been a sprinter, and he was surprised he made ran the 200 yards from the other side of where the wall was to here as fast as he did. Adrenaline will do that to you.
Patrick pulled out his submachine gun, slinging the hunting rifle over his back where he could reach it again if necessary, and walked through the door into the building.
Inside, it looked like a hospital, one that hadn't been used for a very long time. A few lights shone cones of light on the ground, but they were prone to flickering, and not all of them were on. The area's it did illuminate was broken linoleum tiles, peeling light green and white paint, and the twisted, ruined apparatus of steel beds, wheelchairs, iron lungs, trolleys and who knew what else.
Patrick could feel ice running down his back, the other-world feeling of a run down hospital with moaning and clanging somewhere within the dimly lit and haunting building.
He could hear footsteps all around, most moving quickly, and muffled shouts of distraught and anger reaching his ears. It wouldn't have been easy to miss the bright lights outside a few moments before, so everyone must be wondering what just happened.
Patrick walked down one wing, glancing into the rooms. All these rooms were empty, mostly used as storage. One floor had collapsed down before Patrick reached the end of the hallway, forcing him to turn around go back the way he came. Patrick found some stairs, and he carefully went up. He could still hear the footsteps, but he couldn't detect a pattern to any that he heard.
He crouch walked to the next hallway from the stairwell, and looked around. It was a T intersection of a hallway, and he could see the backside of a rather small and skinny Syndicate gangster, looking back and forth in the opposite direction from Patrick, which was just the way he wanted. He snuck up to the gangster, pulling out his .44 Magnum.
He got as close behind the nervously shuffling guard, and jumped up, his free hand clasping the mouth of the gangster, the revolver pointed at his head. Patrick carefully backed up, dragging the surprised and startled smaller man with him.
"Now listen closely. Don't you dare scream, or your brains are splattered over that wall. Got it?" Patrick whispered into the gangster's ear. He nodded slowly.
"Good. Now, do you know where is Deer Wing?" Patrick asked. The gangster nodded again.
"Alright. Now, I will uncover your mouth so you can tell me. If you scream, it's over. Got it?" The Syndicate member nodded again.
Patrick removed his hand. "Fourth floor, down the left hall from the stairs," the gangster said. "Always two guards next to her door."
Patrick smiled, covering the man's mouth again. "Your help is much appreciated." Patrick quietly spun the revolver on his finger until he had hold of the barrel of the gun, and he brought it up like a club. "Good night."
Patrick brought the butt of his .44 Magnum down on the gangster's head. The man jerked, then went lip, knocked unconscious.
Patrick carefully laid the body of the gangster down, pulling out a handkerchief and the rope from when he pulled out Colonel Januet from the hole at Camp Shilo, and quickly tied up the man's hands behind his back and gagged the unconscious gangster. Even if he woke up, he couldn't easily call any help. He also took the man's submachine gun and all the extra ammo he had in his pockets, and put them into his own.
Patrick cut off the rope that he didn't use and put it back in his backpack, and then dashed back to the stairs.
Patrick crept up the two flights of stairs, remaining as quiet as he could. He got to the fourth floor, and peeked around the corner. One gangster stood outside a door on the far end, which must have been the one with Deer Wing. Patrick grinned, and brought up his .44 Magnum, aiming it at the Syndicate man about twenty feet away.
"Hey!" a man shouted behind Patrick, making him spin around. The other Syndie that was supposed to be guarding Deer Wing had walked to the end of the hall to the nearest window to see what all the bright flashes outside had been. He brought up his submachine gun, and let loose a burst of fire.
One bullet bit into Patrick's left shoulder, but the other bullet's missed. Patrick cried out in pain, but growled and brought up his own weapon, and unloaded all six shots of his revolver in the gangster's chest and stomach. The gangster shook and fell over from the hits, and fell into a pool of his own blood on the floor.
Patrick slumped against the wall, the pain from the bullet that hit now pushing against the adrenaline in his system. He clenched and unclenched his left hand, and was glad to see that all his fingers worked.
By now the other gangster had run down the hall, shooting where Patrick was. Patrick didn't have time to reload his .44, so holstered it and pulled out the submachine gun he had picked up a few minutes ago, and sprayed bullets down the hall, making the gangster's duck and flatten himself against the wall. Patrick peeked around, but this time the gangster fired full auto, emptying his clip in seconds. Not a single bullet hit Patrick.
As the gangster swore and reloaded, Patrick pushed himself up the wall, and spun around, firing at the gangster. However the man was a bit too spry, and ducked down, and all the bullets from Patrick missed as well.
"Stay still!" Patrick cried out, hiding behind the wall again. The gangster had got the next clip from his submachine gun in, and pulled the trigger. A three bullet burst came, but then the gun went silent.
Patrick peeked around the corner again, this time to see the gangster still standing, but this time with a triangular shaped piece of metal on a wooden stick poking out the front of his chest. He looked down at it, brought a finger to poke at the red colored metal, before falling over dead.
Behind him, with a cocked bow and arrow, stood a lean young woman. Her skin color was a bit lighter than Running Eagle, but the long braided black hair, high cheekbones and fiery eyes otherwise made them look like twins. She was wearing a homemade Brahmin leather jacket and skirt with dull colored beads to decorate it, forming patterns and designs Patrick couldn't quite make out in the dark.
"Are you Deer Wing?" Patrick asked, holding his hands up.
"What's it to you?" the young woman spat back.
"Well, I was here to break you out."
Deer Wing looked up and over Patrick, before lowering her bow and arrow. "Did you make the cars explode outside?"
"Indirectly, yeah," Patrick admitted. "Didn't mean to, but it worked out in the end, right?"
"Except that every Syndicate bastard in the city will be heading here right now!" she exclaimed. "Let's get out of here." She paused only long enough to pull the arrow from the dead gangster and placed it back in her quiver, before she sprinted ahead of Patrick and down the stairs. Patrick just sighed and followed after. There would be time for explanations later, Patrick hoped.
Pip-Boy 3000 Info-Tracker Note #398
Riel's Army Claims Responsibility for UAR Train Attack That Killed 25 (DBS, March 8, 2201)
The terrorist group calling themselves Riel's Army has taken responsibility for the attack on the PorLaPra-Winnipeg train that exploded and derailed a week ago, which resulted in the deaths of 25 people, including 13 children that were on a school trip to the capital.
RAMP spokesperson Sergeant Kelly McBrant said that the RAMP Anti-Terrorism Unit was still investigating.
"At this point, we are still investigating the leads that we can find. These terrorists that killed innocent children will be brought to justice," Sergeant McBrant said.
Riel's Army, a group of dissatisfied Indians who claim that they are trying to undo the centuries of discrimination of the white man to the Indian, often targets the Unified Assiniboian Railway, due to the trains historical importance for the expansion of European settlers into western Canada. However, they normally avoid civilian casualties, so this attack can be seen as an escalation.
This most recent attack has lead to renewed calls to remove the bronze statue of Louis Riel at the Legislative Building. The Metis leader who helped bring Manitoba into Canadian Confederation in 1870 but also lead the 1869-70 Red River Rebellion and the 1885 Northwest Rebellion against the old Dominion of Canada has been a divisive figure in the past few decades in Assiniboia, but the Dominion government has refused to take it down so far.