Chapter Nineteen
Within minutes of The Boss's death, the news had spread through Brandon like wildfire. The liberators were heartened and fought even harder, while the oppressors were starting to stumble and crumble. Lieutenants that were still alive tried to organize their groups to resist the now growing strength of those from The Rez, bolstered by the freed slaves from the Keystone Centre, but more already began to bicker about who was going to become the new Boss. Patrick chuckled as he remembered the same thing happening in Waskada, almost a month ago now, and the result was no less devastating. Well, to the people that he was fighting.
Far to the north, a different, more familiar sound of gunfire echoed across the valley to the southern part of Brandon. Patrick recognized it as service rifles and revolvers similar to the one he got, which must mean that the Assiniboian troops must be in the city as well. It was impossible to tell though.
With the Syndicate broken and some even fighting each other, Deer Wing and the liberation movement surged forward, reaching 18th Street in a few hours of stiff fighting. The Asylum was set on fire by a mob of enraged Rez fighters, ending one symbol of The Syndicate's hold on Brandon. Someone decided to selectively destroy parts of the sign over the HQ of the Syndicate. With a few sledgehammers and TNT, only "Set Free" remained standing of the slogan that the Syndicate used to keep the people in line.
Patrick was present at the opening of the Keystone Centre, and the freeing of the slaves that were on sale there. The gladiators that fought in the old arena, at least the ones that didn't swear support to the new order quick enough found themselves dead as well.
"Auxiliary!" Deer Wing shouted, making Patrick turnaround from the crowd that watched the hotel next to the Keystone Centre go up in flames. "We did it!"
Patrick was surprised when she wrapped her arms around Patrick, holding him tight in a bear hug that was surprisingly strong for her small body. Patrick, recovering from his surprise, hugged back. It had been a long time since he had actually had a woman this close, and it was a strange, almost foreign feeling to him.
After a moment Deer Wing looked at Patrick's confused face pulled back, clearing her throat and nervously smiling. "I… I didn't mean to do that. Sorry."
"No, no," Patrick said, licking his lips. "No… no worries."
They stood there for a moment. "So, what are you going to do now?" Patrick finally asked.
Deer Wing looked around at the city that now lay before her. "I… I really don't know. I've been fighting for this so long, trying to figure out how to even stay alive under The Syndicate. I never thought about what would happen when we actually won."
Patrick nodded, but before he could say anything, a loud whiney echoed amongst the crowd. Patrick spun around to see Colonel Januet astride Demon, Jenkins still floating a few feet behind. One other RAMP man was on a sleipnir, and three men in a grey-green uniform with a helmet from the Army, the one with the cleanest uniform had stripes and stars on his sleeve marking him as a major.
"Wow, I never expected you guys to get back here!" Patrick exclaimed with a smile. "And you brought some friends, I see?"
Colonel Januet smirked. "It takes more than some Syndie punks to take down a Dragoon, even if he just lost a leg."
"And don't forget me!" Jenkins exclaimed.
Colonel Januet rolled his eyes. "Yeah, the bucket of bolts helped. The arrival of a train full of RAMP officers and army blokes helped as well up north."
Patrick just chuckled, patting his sleipnir's head. "Are they telling the truth Demon?"
The eight-legged equine just snorted, two of its hooves pawing at the broken pavement.
"Who is this man?" Deer Wing asked, looking up at the disheveled, dirty man in the Red Serge.
"Colonel Mortimer Januet of the Royal Assiniboian Mounted Police," he said, taking off his Stetson and bowing.
"Deer Wing," she said, her voice emotionless.
"She is the leader of the movement that did all this," Patrick said.
"Oh really now?" Colonel Januet said, replacing his hat. "Well I have to say you did a pretty good job at it."
Deer Wing shook her head. "I just guide the men and women who sought their freedom, remind them what we could do. And the Auxiliary here did a lot as well in the fighting."
Colonel Januet looked at Patrick and nodded. "Well good job there Patrick."
Patrick turned back to Deer Wing. "What would Brandon's relations with Assiniboia be?"
Deer Wing waved her hands. "No, I'm not making that decision. The people of this town will decide."
"Good ol' fashioned democracy then, huh?" Colonel Januet said. "Well just know that we can march in and take this town if we want to now." The way he said it made it sound like that was the order he had been given.
"And we just overthrew the people that kept you out in two different wars," Deer Wing snapped back. "I think we could handle a few of you red coats." The two started glaring at each other.
"Oh for fuck's sake," Patrick exclaimed, glaring at Colonel Januet. "Do you seriously have to piss off everyone you meet?"
The Dragoon jolted up, blinking at Patrick in surprise. He quickly regained his composure, and shook his head. "I only want what's best for Assiniboia."
"And I want what's best for the people of Brandon," Deer Wing replied.
Patrick stepped in between both of them, raising his hand to silence both of them. "Look, why can't we make a deal for both?"
Deer Wing and Colonel Januet looked at Patrick. "What do you suggest?" Deer Wing asked.
Patrick looked between both of them, chewing on his lip and thinking of what to say. "Well… what if Assiniboia provides aid: construction materials, food and technology, to help Brandon recover from this battle and Syndicate oppression. Brandon allows Assiniboia to establish a base for soldiers to protect the town and fix the railroads so the trains can run to the west. And then in three or four years, a referendum is held to see if Brandon will join Assiniboia." Patrick looked over Colonel Januet, then back to Deer Wing. "How does that sound?"
Colonel Januet frowned. "What gives you the right to propose such a deal? And are you seriously suggesting that your nation isn't capable of controlling Brandon?"
"Control?" Deer Wing said. "You think you can just control us like The Syndicate did?"
Colonel Januet stiffened in the saddle. "I… uhh… no! Of course not! We don't…"
"Exploit the poor and weak for the gain of the rich? A government that is so far away, so corrupt, so devoted to greed that they don't care about anything outside of the borders of Winnipeg?"
"Both of you stop it!" Patrick shouted. "I only made that offer because no one else was suggesting anything else. Get the men in the suits from Winnipeg to come and pick over the fine details, but don't you think that's at least fair? That Assiniboia and Brandon help each other?"
Everyone stood quietly for a moment, before at least Colonel Januet grumbled. "Yeah, fine."
"I'm in agreement with this idea," Deer Wing said, before turning to the RAMP men and soldiers. "Maybe if you were smart enough to bring more than just guns and brawn, we could have settled this, no?"
Colonel Januet grumbled. "Well, fine. I guess we can get back in contact with Winnipeg and figure this out. Do you know if there is a radio-telegram station here?" When Deer Wing shrugged, the Colonel turned away and began barking orders at the other RAMP officers and Assiniboian army soldiers following him.
"Also, will I get my sleipnir back?" Patrick shouted to Colonel Januet.
"Yeah, of course," Januet replied. "This beast will barely do as I tell him to. He's… something else, that's for certain."
Patrick watched as the group of Assiniboian soldiers and policemen walked away, through the throngs of celebrating people and back north to the hastily established camp they had built. Jenkins the Mister Handy robot stayed behind with Patrick. As the group of sleipnir riders left, the hotel that had been burning came crashing down, raising more cheers amongst the masses.
"That was very nice of you," Deer Wing said, standing beside Patrick. "Did you really think that we deserve our freedom?"
"I think Brandon deserves a chance to decide. This town needs to be rebuilt and stabilized," Patrick said, kicking at the broken pavement beneath him. "But Assiniboia isn't going to go away. Eventually, some day, Assiniboia would have taken over Brandon. I don't know if it would have been in a decade or a century, but eventually Assiniboia would get Brandon."
"You make it sound like Assiniboia will last forever," Deer Wing remarked, crossing her arms. "Nothing lasts forever. You helped prove that today."
"I don't know if my country will last forever. But what I do know is that Brandon deserves the chance to join Assiniboia on Brandon's terms, not Assiniboia's."
Deer Wing nodded. "That's… fair. I won't say that I don't want to join Assiniboia, but I can't say that I'm happy about doing it." She turned and smiled at Deer Wing. "If even a few of the people who are in charge of Assiniboia are like you, then I think I can be persuaded."
Patrick eventually got Demon back, though by the glare Colonel Januet gave Patrick, the Dragoon would have more liked to shoot the Auxiliary for some reason, most likely insubordination or something. Patrick did his best not to let it show, but he was glad when he finally got out of the old store, a massive shopping mall turned into a barracks and supply storage, that the Assiniboian-Brandon Peacekeeping Force claimed as their own.
"Where are we off to master?" Jenkins asked, coming up to Patrick as he mounted Demon.
"Well, I'm close to home, so maybe down to Melita," Patrick said. "I haven't heard about my grandmother in a long time."
"Wherever you go sir, I will be right with you!" Jenkins exclaimed, making Patrick chuckle.
"Well I can't really stop you now, can I?"
"You could sell me, tell me to go away, give me to someone else, blow me up with an explosion," Jenkins said in his matter of fact British accent. "Lots of ways!"
Patrick chuckled and shook his head. "No, I wouldn't do that."
"Then let's be off! Tally-ho and all those things," Jenkins cheerfully exclaimed.
Patrick, Demon and Jenkins left soon after supper time, and headed on a general south-western direction. They stopped after the sun set near the town of Souris, setting up camp near an old farmstead that hadn't seen a plow in over a hundred years. That night gunfire and explosions ripped through Souris, carried over the distance of the quiet night to reach Patrick. He had no idea what it was, but due to the proximity to Brandon, Patrick had a feeling it had to do with The Syndicate.
Patrick avoided Souris as much as possible, instead fording the river that had the same name as the town a few miles to the west. The spot wasn't too deep, and the trails that lead to and from the ford looked well used, either by wild game or travelers that preferred to not stay on the highways and roads.
Patrick ended up following the Souris River, as it lead directly to Melita. A few river boats, some going south to Melita, some north to Souris, passed by Patrick. Most carried cargo, most of it likely heading to or from the Rocky Mountain Trail. Patrick waved to a couple of the boats, but the armed guards on them immediately noticed Patrick and pointed their guns at him. Patrick stopped waving to the boats soon after.
The little excursion along the river also allowed Patrick a chance to see the wildlife. Above, the haunting screams of the radgeese mutated Canadian Geese that would, and often did, attack anything on the ground if they were pissed off that day. And they usually were. Radbeavers were also busy building dams along the river and creeks. They would have been strong enough to allow Demon and Patrick to walk over them - it would take a lot of TNT to actually destroy a complete radbeaver dam - but the fierce teeth and territorialism of the mutated rodents made it more foolhardy to do so. Wolves, coyotes, rabbits, radstags, other birds, and the ever present radgophers scampered along as Patrick passed by, keeping a respectable distance.
The little party camped along the river that night.
"Sir, if I must say, you don't seem to be very comfortable," Jenkins said after helping cook the supper.
Patrick had been scratching at the beard on his cheek. "Well, it has been a few weeks since I shaved." The constant itching was starting to get to him, mostly because it had been almost as long since he had a decent shower as well.
"Well, I can fix that up for you!" Jenkins said, one of the arms under his body lifting up, showing the rather sharp saw blade, which began to spin, grind and roar. Demon began to back away from the loud noise.
"Uhhh… I'll wait, thanks," Patrick said, after gulping.
After a decent nights sleep under twisted, mutated trees along the river, Patrick and company left bright and early the next morning. They continued southwest, following every bend and turn of the river. The Souris River, like most rivers in Assiniboia, was a blessing and a curse. While it was used to transport goods and people, it also had dangers like flooding, bandits with boats and even some mutated, hostile creatures that come from other places. Patrick could still remember the big hoopla when he was younger when a massive crab like creature showed near Winnipeg, most likely from somewhere further east. A mirelurk, Patrick thought they were called. A huge uproar about invasive species happened, and soon they didn't appear anymore.
After another day of traveling, stopping only to eat and let Demon graze and drink some water and hunting the occasional radgopher, Patrick finally reached the outskirts of his hometown. Melita was almost like he left it, except with the farms around Melita that were still in ruins since the bandit raid almost a month before.
There were now armed guards at the gates to Melita on the old 83 Highway, wielding service rifles and they pointed it at the figure on a black sleipnir with a robot hovering behind him.
"Halt!" shouted one of the guards, making Patrick and Demon stop. "Who are you, and what are you doing?" Patrick recognized the militiaman as a local farmer, but Patrick couldn't for the life of him remember what his name was.
"Patrick Morrison, and I'm here to see my grandma."
"Patrick?" the other guard said, turning around. "Good god! I can't believe you're still alive!"
Patrick blinked. "Coby? You finally joined the militia, huh?"
Coby chuckled, though it wasn't out of anything really funny, it sounded like. "Joined isn't the right word. Try something like 'forced.'"
"What do you mean?"
"All able bodied men had been ordered into the militia of every town in the area," the first farmer said. "Well, almost every town. Assiniboia is under threat, don't you know?"
"Oh lay off. The Brotherhood is Fargo's and Winnipeg's problem, not ours," Coby said. "Like they would ever attack us up here."
Patrick knew all too well that the Brotherhood had infiltrated Assiniboia. He'd dealt with one such group, the RAMP had to have more people under suspicion. But, you know, why bother people?
"Well they aren't that far away," the farmer said, before spitting into the dust. "And if half of what is said about them is true…"
"Oh, you really believe DBS propaganda? Please!"
Patrick cleared his throat. "Anyway, can we please go in?"
"Of course," Coby said, glaring at the farmer, working the hand crank to open the gate that had been thrown over the highway. Patrick smiled, and urged Demon into town, Jenkins floating behind.
Grandma May Morrison had been in the Melita Hospital since the attack on the farm that killed her husband and kidnapped her grandson. Doctor Burnbank, who had first looked after May when she was shot, stood beside her bed in his white coat when Patrick finally came in, scrawling on a clipboard with a pencil. Patrick finally found the room, after glancing into the other wards in the small hospital, and not finding any one else in them.
"Your leg is in a lot better shape now than it has been," Patrick heard the doctor say. "You are getting feeling in it again, right?"
"Yes, I can feel things now," May said, but her speech drawled, almost slurred. Patrick's heart sank, wondering how far down the hole she had gone while he was away.
"I'm going to order a wheelchair for you though. But it could be a few weeks before any are shipped out here, due to the current crisis," the doctor said, placing the pencil in his pocket, and slipping the clipboard under his arm. "But I will see what I can do…" he said, turning around, and coming face to face with Patrick.
"Patrick!" he exclaimed.
"Patrick?" May asked, trying to look beyond Dr. Burnbank who blocked her view of the door.
Patrick looked around the doctor, and smiled. "Hello grandma."
May Morrison blinked several times, a smile crossing her face, slowly lifting her arms to her grandson. "Oh, Patrick! Patrick, Patrick Patrick…"
Patrick walked around the doctor, and wrapped his arms around his bedridden grandmother. She felt so weak, so tired; her arms merely rested on Patrick's shoulders, and Patrick did his best not to crush the fail figure. She felt so much smaller, so much weaker than he'd ever remember. Patrick could feel his heart drop through his chest into his stomach.
"I'm here," he said, tears in his eyes. "I thought I should say hi."
Carefully Patrick pulled away from the hug, before finding a chair and sitting with her. "So how are you feeling grandma?"
"Okay," she replied. "Very tired though. What about you? Have you found Zach yet?"
Patrick looked down at his dusty boots, the brahmin leather starting to wear from the wear and tear. "No. I've had to go all over Assiniboia, but so far nothing yet."
May Morrison closed her eyes for a moment, before opening them again. The vibrant color of life was gone. Just a tiny little flicker remained. "You'll find him. You have to."
Patrick nodded. They sat quietly for a long time, before Patrick spoke up again. "The doctor said your leg is getting better."
"He's been saying that for a while now," she said. "I'm sure he's just saying that to assure me. I've only been out of bed when they have an entire team to help me. I don't know if I will ever leave this hospital alive."
"Grandma," Patrick said, grabbing her hand. "Don't say that. You'll pull through."
She smiled, before coughing. "Oh Patrick," she started, after her bout, gasping for air. "You were always like that. Your first dog, Marley… you lay beside her the day she couldn't get up, begging her not to go."
Patrick could feel tears welling up in his eyes. "Grandma..."
May continued smiling, rolling over on her bed to face Patrick. "I've had a long life. Married the man I love, had three wonderful children, got to see my grandchildren grow up, made not only a living but a life in a world that seemed so determined to make sure that surviving is hard enough." May took a deep breath, and rolled back to her lying position.
"Patrick," she started again, her voice weak from exhaustion and sickness, "I just want you to know that I'm proud of you. Harold would never have said it directly, but he was as well." May sighed, and closed her eyes. "And you will find Zach. I know it."
Patrick continued to hold May's hand, but it grew colder in his grip. May's breathing slowed, her chest barely moving with each breath, the last one shallower than the one before. Calm came to her face, lined with decades of long work, joy and determination, before she breathed no more.
Patrick sat there, holding on to her hand, for a long time. Tears welled up in his eyes, quiet sobs escaping his lips as May Morrison, on June 4, 2218, at the age of 72 years of age, peacefully passed away.
Assiniboian funerals took place usually within a day or two after death. It was a bit of a hold over from after the War of 2077, when morgues, crematoriums and cemeteries were unable to handle the sheer number of bodies of those that died of cancer, radiation, starvation, and a myriad of other health reasons. The mass graves where hundreds, thousands of people were buried when they were no time, energy or will to dig individual plots in the aftermath had been phased out, but coffins and the fancy funeral services had long since passed to a more simple, quiet affair.
May was buried beside Harold on the family farm, in the small area near the burnt out husk of the family home that had been set aside as the final resting place of the Morrison clan since after the War. Simple wooden crosses were used until a more permanent stone monument could be erected.
Well-wishers, family and friends all came out to the farm to pay their last respects, and to help comfort Patrick. But after the fifteenth, "she was a great woman" and twenty-second "She's in a better place," Patrick had to leave. He couldn't stand it anymore.
He saddled Demon, temporarily housed in his old stable, and headed south to Melita. No one stopped him at the gate this time, recognizing him as Patrick Morrison, the Auxiliary, Melita's hometown hero. Patrick rode through the gate, followed behind by Jenkins (the Mister Handy had become a bit of a sensation in the small, backwater town that rarely got such "modern" conveniences). Patrick turned down one street, then another, before he finally reached his destination, Melita's Central Park.
The grass was long dead, the trees cut down within a few years of the bombs, the old museum that was an even older two story school house had collapsed from extreme age, the playground no longer existed. But a couple things did remain, a stone cenotaph that marked Melita's dead from the First and Second World Wars, and then when Assiniboia finally reached the area, a new bronze plaque was created to honor those men and women that were killed in the American Occupation and later the War of 2077.
It was the quietest outdoor space in Melita: far from the hustle and bustle of Main Street where trade and commerce took place, a short walk from the homes both north and south of the park that few people walked or rode by.
"May I enquire, Sir, as to the reason we are here?" Jenkins asked as Patrick pulled Demon to a stop, and then swung off his Sleipnir.
"I… I don't know." Patrick replied as he pulled Demon to the side. "But please stay right here for now."
"Of course sir!" Jenkins replied in his permanently cheery voice. "I shall be here if you need me."
Patrick could never explain in words why he enjoyed this place. When he was going to school and wanted to get away from the other kids, he always found his way over here. Was it the quiet, the tranquility, the reverence of a place like this? He could never explain why he liked it back then, and now, as he went back, he still had no idea.
Patrick tied Demon to an old fence post, and walked over to the Cenotaph. The stone was cracked and missing in places, the cast iron plaques were rusted, some of the words having worn off thanks to over 200 years of harsh weather. But most of the names remained. Patrick could recognize a few of the last names, names that were still in Melita even after all this time.
Patrick sat on a bench that was positioned to face the monument, and tilted his head back and closed his eyes.
It would have been twelve years ago now. The Assiniboian-Brotherhood War was in its sixth year of attritional, on-and-off warfare, and Assiniboia was barely holding onto the ruins of Fargo, the town the Brotherhood wiped out that started the war. It was just a few minutes before lunch. Mr. Dennis, the principal of Melita School, knocked on the door to the class of fifteen students, lead by the sixth Grade teacher Mrs. Henderson. Even after all this time, long after he graduated and knew the full names of his teachers, he still addressed them as he did as a student.
Mrs. Henderson, in a faded but still pretty blue dress, walked over to the door, her dress swishing and swaying, where Mr. Dennis, his face usually in a permanent state of smiling and happiness, was no longer smiling. That was the first warning sign.
"Patrick, could you come with me please?" Mr. Dennis said into the classroom after briefly talking with Mrs. Henderson.
Am I in trouble? The first thought that goes through any kids mind when the principal of the school calls you. Patrick had beat up Jimmy Striker a few days before, only because Jimmy and his "gang" would not stop bullying Patrick and the other kids. Jimmy despised Patrick, but knew telling the teachers about that incident would mean that he would get ratted out as well. Maybe Jimmy hated Patrick more than the fear of having to deal with the Principal now?
Mr. Dennis lead Patrick into the hallway, and they walked all the way up into the Principal's Office, up in the front of the school.
"Patrick," he finally started, adjusting the tie under his collar. "I'm sorry to tell you that your father was killed yesterday while fighting near Fargo."
If Mr. Dennis said something after that, Patrick couldn't remember it. He sat in the office, staring at Mr. Dennis for who knew how long, before he was at last allowed to leave the office.
But Patrick didn't go back to class. No one knew where the young Morrison boy had gone.
May Morrison rushed into town with her husband after hearing that her grandson disappeared, so soon after finding out herself that her son had been killed in the line of duty down south and her pregnant daughter-in-law had collapsed at the news, and was rushed into the hospital. Fortunately they found Patrick before sundown, curled up next to the Cenotaph, his cheeks stained with tears even though he had finally fallen asleep. Harold came a moment later, and they took the boy, any punishment or anger at his disappearance forgotten.
Gracie Morrison rapidly declined in the weeks that followed, but at least Doctor Burnbank had been able to save her child, Zach, before she finally passed on. That time Patrick and May went together to the Cenotaph, where the freshly engraved name of Sergeant Albert Morrison had been added to the old rock.
"Why is this happening?" Patrick whimpered, May's arms still around him.
"It's a test. I don't know if it's a God like Reverend Jamison preaches about, or another force, or what. But it is a test." Grandma Morrison's arms were comforting around Patrick, making him feel like he was not alone, safe.
"This test is one that you will face your entire life, Patrick," she continued. "It's a test of morals, of strength, of family, of love and loss. But it's not like in school. You aren't graded on it. At least, not that you know. But what you learn about yourself and the world when things like this happen make you a better person."
Sitting at the Cenotaph twelve years later, Patrick could still feel May Morrison's arms around him as he sat looking at the monument.
And he always would.
PipBoy InfoTracker Note #9834
Ode to the Radgoose
By Emily W. Poe,
Winner of the Governor-General's Poetry Award 17 years running
The majestic radgoose! Flying high above us all
Large wings, fierce claws, no bodypart small.
The shriek of victory, of anger, incoming pain
Warn all that attacking them will have no gain.
Hats, helmets, power armor, none can stand
To the monster's power and strength in this land.
So hide the children, the small dogs and the cat
The only way to stop it is to make it grow fat
Then club it on the head after it had it's fill
And then shoot, defeather, and put it on the grill
With some potatoes, some carrots, for hours five
It goes well with 2056 Red Wine, and some chive
And the meat will taste most delicious, I'm glad
Because the motherfucker killed my dad!