G
Guest
Guest
FOREWORD:
"Spears of nuclear fire rained from the skies..
And the continents sank beneath boiling oceans.."
This is the post-apocalyptic world. We find ourselves in a world
completely hostile, a world that we doomed through our own blind
foolishness. This is the world of Fallout. This is the unfamiliar world
where both peril and opportunity about in equal measure. This is the
world which we so find fascinating..
We like the post-nuclear world for it shows us, of how even in the
deepest instance of defeat and regret, the human spirit can find a way
to fight on. Hope will never be killed, though our bones turn to ashes
and our dreams melt into darkness.. there will always be hope, and
prayer.. and opportunity.
WASTELAND:UNFOUND, the title, means that you should throw away
certain pre-concieved notions about the post-nuclear world. After all..
remember..it's -me- you're talking to.. I just can't resist but to
muddle around and switch over to the fanfic genre that we at the
Illuminati have been trying to carve.
The Post-Apocalyptic Fantasy.
But.. ease down. Relax. You won't see knights, wizards, and magic..
save in allegory. Just try to keep an open mind at whatever I might
decide to throw at your skull.. *grin* Oh, and this so happens to base
heavily on the "Hypothetical Study of the Wastelands", the possible
Fallout 3(?) plotline which I wrote some time ago.
I've completely scrapped the old Wasteland:Unfound that I wrote a week
ago. If you've seen it, forget that it ever existed, please.
*argh*
And..
....Now..
............Here..
...................We..
................................GO!!
.
.
------------------------
WASTELAND:UNFOUND
by bluepencil
------------------------
.
.
An Anthology:
The story takes place sixty years after the Chosen One.
And seventeen years after Fenris Bluhart wrote the “A Probable Study of
The Wastelands”, a letter which he sent as a response to a request from
the new library in San Francisco.
And two years after making that, he realized that the reclusiveness of
his Brotherhood of Steel is not born of a desire to stay neutral. This
came the day that Maxson IX was murdered… he immediately cut off his ties
with his Brethren, and talked of the living Enclave that corrupted them.
He took root in New Arroyo, and began to develop something he called
The Pregenition Theorem.
One year later, Fenris Bluhart, the post-nuclear philosopher, was nowhere
to be found..
He was never seen again, and his disappearance was a mystery still unsolved.
The Brotherhood denied blame, saying that while Fenris had denounced
them, he was still very much someone they respected.
The Husia Society only had this to say. “He was a but part in larger machine,
a machine called Fate, which continues to be in motion.”
And two years before this account, the Brotherhood met its prodigal sons, and
the Wasteland found itself engulfed in war, again..
Book One: GRAVEYARDS OF GLASS
"For your heart is purest crystal dear
And all I see, are graveyards of glass"
-Petraius
.
.
PROLOUGE-
"The blood of the land flows in veins carved by hooves of brahmin."
-Fenris Bluhart, "The Toils of Commerce"
.
.
.
.
There was a scarlet darkness, and a song that hummed at the very core
of being. "Happy birthday to me.. happy birthday to me...", the caravan
guard mumbled. He was pretending to be someplace other than this.. he
tried to imagine he wasn't sitting on a cartload of trader crap.. he
tried to feel a bottle of cold beer in his hand, not the metal barrel
of a sawed-off shotgun.
There are purists, in a sense, in this stark new world. Ever since the
day the bombs fell, and all of civilization was wiped out.. ever since
the long radioactive silence passed, and people came from the Vaults to
live their life anew.. they had to scrounge and life on the remains of
what had been man's greatest works. Towering structures, fallen,
crumbling.. the insides held broken treasures. And there are the people
who live and prey upon the weak and scavenging.. civilization and morality
were old relics. It was live or die.. kill or be killed. This was the rule of
life, and nothing can change that law.
A man's guns were his most prized possessions. And as a caravan guard,
his rifle was his best friend in this cursed world. Benny Latherman
propped himself up with his mutilated gun.. and wished he'd cut a
little lower. But even an inch made a difference.. which did he
prefer, a comfortable leaning post, or a comfortable grave?
He wore a fine suit of Leather Armor Mark II... if you can say that in
the crisp military way that the Caravan Master did when he issued it to
his guards, and not laugh afterwards.. chances are, you've already gone
a little dead inside. Caravanning is a rather hazardous job.. though
the world has recuperated, and there are established cities, they are
still the only feasible way of mechantile distribution all over the
Wastes. It was filled with deadly monotony.. from point A to point
B.. and along the way, meet randomly encounter desperate people, who
are willing to kill and die, all for the riches they carry. The
caravaneers had their own brand of rough humor, which no else can
understand.
It's a hard life, for everyone. It's all the least they can do, to
just keep sane, to stay alive, for they hold the power to change
circumstances.
Caravans carry goods, guns.. medicine, food, and various other
valuable junk to people all over the remains of what used to be the
Western front of the United States of America. Towns live or die by the
chances of caravan routes.. they hold riches that give hostage to
entire cities... they hold precious resources that can turn the tide
of this war.
Benny opened his eyes, recognizing the futility of trying to craft images
in his brain. That had always been his brother's forte. Ah, Tobie...
little bro.. it's my birthday. I know I promised to get there today..
but you'll wait, won't you? You've been waiting for months since, when
I told my girl and you to evacuate out of NCR and its warzone. Wait a
day.. I'll get there. Keep my beer cool.. and sorry for the delay.
He looked out at the endless silver sands. "Can't you hurry this?!", he
asked the caravan driver.
She looked at him with undisguised hatred."No, dammit!! NO!! This is as
fast as the brahmins can go.. and you asked me that question TWENTY
FUCKING TIMES ALREADY!! Say it again, and I'll stick your iron up
your fussy ass!!!", she shouted.
"Hey, what's going on ever there?", the Caravan Master queried from the
front of the caravan line.
"Nothing, boss!", replied the woman. "Shut up, you little piece of
shit..", she hissed at Benny. "We'll get there soon enough."
Benny sighed, and leaned back into the load. She patted the brahmin
pulling the cart, the strange two headed creature that gave the
Wastelanders such usefulness. Its tough hide, layered together, formed
the resilient body armor that they wore. It was good against most forms
of low-impact bullets.. like buckshot and the 10mm hollow
point.. the kind of ammo used in old hand sub-machine guns. Raiders
liked using burst weapons, it gave great damage without needing a lot
of skill. Benny scoffed, remembering the many times they've been set by
such inexperienced bandits. Yes, he could understand why they attack..
life is hard enough as it is.. and it's not getting better, what with
this War going on and all..
But he couldn't understand why they got into this line of work.. lazy
bastards. If they want food and guns.. go join the freakin' army!
They'll get killed either way... most caravans are fairly well-armed
nowadays.
"This is my last..", he thought. "My last run.."
The concept filled him with the deepest excitement... and the a great
pressing block of fear. He's lived under the stars for so long... would it
feel just.. wrong.. to have a roof over his head, and not have to wake
right before dawn?
He fell asleep after a while, though he tried to fight it, but with the wind
singing a faint familiar tune, and the mooing of the brahmin, a freakish
parody, served as contrabass...
.
.
moo!
.
.
....while the caravan went on slowly but steadily, the beasts of burden
pulled uncomplainingly.. and the guards were in that state of being
half-asleep, born of the crisp night air and the monotony of the sights.
All but one..
He stood straight, his eyes keen and like daggers, flicking from one
angle of view to another. It was boring flat country all around, no
place for any raider to hide.. or so it seemed.
He was the Caravan Master.. he was responsible for this load, the well-
being of people that accompanied it, and the hope it gave the
recipients. He was an experienced, hardened man.. a true Wastelander.
He didn't care a whit for the War, or the politics behind it. Let them
fight.. what's important is that they arrived on time.
Heaven help anyone who dared to slow the progress of HIS caravan.
He sat at the very lead haul of the caravan. His driver was a young
man, but he handled the direction of the beasts well. He kept a nice
even pace, eating up the miles without getting the brahmin tired. Now
and then, he would pat the beasts, in quiet encouragement. The
caravan master gave the young man's back an approving gaze.
He looked back, at his men.. and shook his head at the laxness they
allowed themselves to fall into. "Wake up!", he yelled. Soon, they
would reach the most dangerous part of their trip.
They just came from Tabernacle Flats, in Independent Utah. And the
dividing line between that region and New California was a stretch of
what used to be a river. It has long since drained away, forming a
deep gorge. They had to go down through a pass and through that valley
a while.. the perfect spot for an ambush.
He gripped the butt of his well-trusted weapon. The grandaddy of all
shotguns.. the Pancor Jackhammer. It was the weapon reserved for the
eilte police forces of New California Republic, but the Green Line
Caravan's owners bartered and awarded him this, for his long faithful
years of service.
They knew better than to hope he'd just take a desk job, or spend his
time showing young fools who never held a gun before, that there's more
to surviving than to just pointing the barrel and pulling the trigger.
Over time, he'd developed a casual, but thorough philosophy of life,
based entirely on caravanning.
The first rule was: Be prepared to die anytime. Behind a hill, so much
the same as many hills you've seen before, may hide a swarm of raiders.
And not your average trash, either.. these ones just so happened to
grab ahold of some high tech or big-caliber guns...
Be ready to die. Second rule: Take as many of the bastards down with
you.
"Be on guard!!", he shouted, rousing his sleepy men. He looked around,
and saw nothing that seemed out of place. But raiders can be smart, when
driven by hunger and greed.. he'd once lost half an equipage to a wily
bunch that used camouflage, and the bright noontime to their advantage.
They stood on a hill, and fired down.. the blinding sun behind their
backs made accurate return fire difficult.
He was a little drunk, that time.. he wore a flashy pair of sunglasses
to hide his bloodshot eyes.
And when he managed to survive that, the caravans began supplying their
guards with the small things necessary to turn aside raider trickery.
He's lived long, killed many, and learned slowly.. and he takes comfort
in the fact that he's probably saved as many lives as he had taken.
He gestured high with his fist, telling the people at the back to ready
their beast for a perilous descent.
The brahmin mooed and slowly slunk down the pass. The sandstone cliff
pooled umbra into the bottom of the ravine.
"The black river flows..", the young driver muttered.
The Caravan Master frowned at his driver, and gave the shadows beyond a
bare glance. Yes.. in this kind of light, it seemed as if the darkness
was solid somehow, as if the ghost of brackish waters were still flowing..
And the caravan trudged on..
.
.
moo!
.
.
and the sudden cold woke Benny up. He shivered as the biting cold winds
wafted through the gorge. "We're below ground..", he said. "Where is this
wind coming from?"
"I don't know..", the driver replied off-hand. "Air should be weightless,
right? So it should be going up, right? Nah.. I heard something about
this.. something about pressure or like that..?!"
She waved her gloved hand in front of her face, feeling the
nothingness there.. and shrugged. "Air has weight.. we just don't feel
it 'cause we got that same air inside us pushing up."
"Where did you learn that?", he exclaimed. He had traveled with her
for twelve straight runs, and in that span of time, he's come into a
position of grudging tolerance of his partner's perennial black mood.
They were both "bonded".. they had signed contracts that promised their
services to the Company for a set length of time. People could get to
know each other, in such a span.
Benny knew almost nothing. Hell, he even forgot her name from time to
time..! For weeks there would be no conversation whatsoever, then there
would be small, enlightening snippets. Mostly it came, when they were
both drunk.. she had an iron stomach, but you can see the influence of
alcohol in how she was a little bit more talkative. She smiled a little
bit more, too. She was devastating when she smiled... and he had to
remember, there was someone waiting for him... "I didn't know you
studied physics."
"I didn't know you even knew the word "physics"..", she snorted. Ignorant
little fool.., she thought. Go back to your girlfriend, back
to your perfect little slice of the world. She looked at him, from the
corner of her slitted eyes. Damn, this wind could dry your eyeballs..!
She closed her eyes, but she could still see him, his left eyebrow
raised in a question, his face a mixture of wonder and interest.
As if he's found something newn, unfound in his perfect little world.
You've no place in mine.. damn it! I could make room for you... but it
would ruin your fragile view of the world in general...
It wasn't unusual for partners to bed each other. Their position required
a state of absolute trust.. and is not the joining of two souls a natural
step from the marriage of mind and chance? In times of stress, right when
everything hinges on a critical second, people will change, and show the
character under the skin.
He was a sallow thing, unpretentious... the first thing he said to her
was an apology. He won't probably be as good as the other.. he said. But
he'll do his best, he promised it.
Her brahmins plodded forward, unminding. Like her, thay had fallen
asleep with their eyes open. What dreams do cow-like creatures dream?
The brahmin bumped gently into the back fender of the caravan in front,
and came awake.. four heads mooed plaintively.
"Shit!", she spat, and pulled on the reins. The brahmin did their best
to turn around.. the people behind her, and the guard in front looked
at her with annoyance. "Blanked out, did ya, girlie? Don't do that
again..", the Caravan Master had spoken during a training run. "All it
takes is one second.. a blink.. and it's all over. You can dream all you
want, as ya won't be wakin' up."
At first it was a game.. caravan women had a reputation for being 'easy'. Yet
why should they be denied the fantasy of a soulmate? She has
seen many men.. big, strong, full of bravado.
They were the first to lose it, to break down, to die with a surprised
look on their faces. She was all of twenty-eight.. but she felt thrice
that.
He wasn't the perfect man.. but close enough to suit her. She hadn't met
anyone like him before. Gentle, cheerful, and intensely loyal. A man of
solid principle. He was the type who would die first, afore rather than
break his word.
Damn him and his promises..!
"Hey, why'd we stop?", Benny asked.
Questions! Questions! Away with you and your questions!! I don't need
you around.. no. No, I don't! I don't! I won't!
I won't let anything near my heart again..
She shook her head violently, to clear it of stray thoughts. But yes,
the entire caravan was stalled, here in this lightless valley.
"Hey, Mort!", she shouted to the driver in front. "What's with the
hold-down?!"
The driver raised his hand. No, they weren't under attack. And also, no..
he didn't know why they stopped. "It's all up to the front.", his
guard said. "The lead cart's stopped."
"Benny,", she said tonelessly. "Go see what the old fart's up to.."
He rolled his eyes and sighed. "Yeah.. yeah.. sure."
He hopped off the cart, and shivered as another waft of biting cold air
hit him smack as his boots met the ground. He almost toppled, but she
caught his limb and helped him steady himself.
"Thanks..", he grinned, but she only punched him lightly in the arm for
a reply.
Sourly, he walked forward, to where the head of this serpentine train
of men, women and beasts, vanished into the gloom...
.
.
moo!
.
.
and the wind was really starting to become more than just a nuisance
to all of them. It lashed out, and along the caravan line, annoyed
curses began to mix with the screeching hum. The Wastelands was a cruel
place.. at daytime it wore the face of fire... the burning glow from
above, and the searing heat trapped by the golden gravel below your feet.
It was midnight, and the Wastelands held a dagger of invisible ice. At
the lead haul, the caravan driver huddled into his travelers's cloak. It
was just a sheet of rough tent fabric, crudely sewn and lashed together
with strips of leather... and it served as a shield against the hot
rays, and the freezing blasts.
And as far as protective clothing went, it wasn't particularly effective
in its purpose. The cold still seeped through.. he was the only one that
took out this shroud, should any raider choose this moment to charge, he
would be a helpless target for a full half-minute as he tried to
disentangle himself.
The biting cold couldn't numb old paranoia.
He shivered, and let the black stream strike him full-face. He had been
in the Company for merely three months, but he's proven himself a good
and dependable hand. He had a way with his mounts, and now, they were
more distressed by the aura of distress around their rider than the
harsh wind engulfing them.
"This bites..", he mumbled. The caravan haul was lashed together, a
triumph of faith, hope, and gratuitous use of rope. He looked back at
it, he knew that someone had sent with them a fine coat made of the
finest mole fur.
But much as he wanted to rip into the load, and shield himself from
this wind, he had to keep up appearances.
"Oy! Where's the wasteland dog?!", he heard a voice shout from behind
him. He turned, and saw a caravan guard. He gasped and leaned back in
an effort to hide his face.
And took a deep breath... It was fine.. the guard wasn't even trying to
look, the wind was too much for that. Thank God for small coincidences.
"Oh, he's taking a crap, sir..", he said.
"What?!", the guard had to shout over the wind.
The driver raised his voice. ""He's taking a piss, walking the dog,
showing the rattlesnake.. and uh, many other slang terms which I've
forgotten..!! Hey?! Can you hear me?!"
The man man laughed faintly. "Yeah.. I heard you." He was shielding his
face with his hand, the wind was starting to gust harder. "Now, when can
we get moving..?"
"Soon. We will all move on.. the world turns, and people must learn
to move along as changes come, changes which they cannot understand, come
to pass.." He looked forward, and the black wind was like wall hammering
into his face.
Benny blinked, confused. "What are you talking about?" He knew he
wasn't the sharpest knife on the block, but he was still pretty smart in
the standard range of the word.
"Do you consider yourself a righteous man, sir?"
Great. Another religious freak.. this war was bringing out all sorts in
folks. Dammit, he was freezing, and he wanted to get going! This was no
time nor place for any sort of sermon!
The driver saw the irritation in his face. "Don’t worry… I’m not one to
preach my views. I just want another man’s opinion on a moral problem… “
“Okay,”, Benny relented. He thought about going back to his post, but
what the heck… a caravan looks out for itself. It’s important to see that
everyone functions well, and the people guard each other’s back, even
when not in a firefight. “What’s on your mind?”
And suddenly, there was a bang!, and suddenly the moon that failed to
luminate the area was eclipsed by a new, ground-level sun.
The caravan guard started to speak, uminding. “Let me tell you of a concept
first.. I believe it’s the reason why we have a senseless war going over our
heads at the moment. We suffer from a lack.. of Unity.”
And Benny saw the caravan master, he was kneeling, his face to the wall, and
his throat was a gaping slash.. his blood spattered the walls, bright and healthy
against the black rocky wall, like a child’s scrawled mural.
And the light moved closer, and behind it he heard the grunt of machinery.
-End Prolouge-
-----------------------------------------------------------------
There. Now skag me!http://www.theilluminati.f2s.com/phpBB/images/smiles/icon_biggrin.gif What do you think? I really need your nitpicking, my friend..
"Spears of nuclear fire rained from the skies..
And the continents sank beneath boiling oceans.."
This is the post-apocalyptic world. We find ourselves in a world
completely hostile, a world that we doomed through our own blind
foolishness. This is the world of Fallout. This is the unfamiliar world
where both peril and opportunity about in equal measure. This is the
world which we so find fascinating..
We like the post-nuclear world for it shows us, of how even in the
deepest instance of defeat and regret, the human spirit can find a way
to fight on. Hope will never be killed, though our bones turn to ashes
and our dreams melt into darkness.. there will always be hope, and
prayer.. and opportunity.
WASTELAND:UNFOUND, the title, means that you should throw away
certain pre-concieved notions about the post-nuclear world. After all..
remember..it's -me- you're talking to.. I just can't resist but to
muddle around and switch over to the fanfic genre that we at the
Illuminati have been trying to carve.
The Post-Apocalyptic Fantasy.
But.. ease down. Relax. You won't see knights, wizards, and magic..
save in allegory. Just try to keep an open mind at whatever I might
decide to throw at your skull.. *grin* Oh, and this so happens to base
heavily on the "Hypothetical Study of the Wastelands", the possible
Fallout 3(?) plotline which I wrote some time ago.
I've completely scrapped the old Wasteland:Unfound that I wrote a week
ago. If you've seen it, forget that it ever existed, please.
*argh*
And..
....Now..
............Here..
...................We..
................................GO!!
.
.
------------------------
WASTELAND:UNFOUND
by bluepencil
------------------------
.
.
An Anthology:
The story takes place sixty years after the Chosen One.
And seventeen years after Fenris Bluhart wrote the “A Probable Study of
The Wastelands”, a letter which he sent as a response to a request from
the new library in San Francisco.
And two years after making that, he realized that the reclusiveness of
his Brotherhood of Steel is not born of a desire to stay neutral. This
came the day that Maxson IX was murdered… he immediately cut off his ties
with his Brethren, and talked of the living Enclave that corrupted them.
He took root in New Arroyo, and began to develop something he called
The Pregenition Theorem.
One year later, Fenris Bluhart, the post-nuclear philosopher, was nowhere
to be found..
He was never seen again, and his disappearance was a mystery still unsolved.
The Brotherhood denied blame, saying that while Fenris had denounced
them, he was still very much someone they respected.
The Husia Society only had this to say. “He was a but part in larger machine,
a machine called Fate, which continues to be in motion.”
And two years before this account, the Brotherhood met its prodigal sons, and
the Wasteland found itself engulfed in war, again..
Book One: GRAVEYARDS OF GLASS
"For your heart is purest crystal dear
And all I see, are graveyards of glass"
-Petraius
.
.
PROLOUGE-
"The blood of the land flows in veins carved by hooves of brahmin."
-Fenris Bluhart, "The Toils of Commerce"
.
.
.
.
There was a scarlet darkness, and a song that hummed at the very core
of being. "Happy birthday to me.. happy birthday to me...", the caravan
guard mumbled. He was pretending to be someplace other than this.. he
tried to imagine he wasn't sitting on a cartload of trader crap.. he
tried to feel a bottle of cold beer in his hand, not the metal barrel
of a sawed-off shotgun.
There are purists, in a sense, in this stark new world. Ever since the
day the bombs fell, and all of civilization was wiped out.. ever since
the long radioactive silence passed, and people came from the Vaults to
live their life anew.. they had to scrounge and life on the remains of
what had been man's greatest works. Towering structures, fallen,
crumbling.. the insides held broken treasures. And there are the people
who live and prey upon the weak and scavenging.. civilization and morality
were old relics. It was live or die.. kill or be killed. This was the rule of
life, and nothing can change that law.
A man's guns were his most prized possessions. And as a caravan guard,
his rifle was his best friend in this cursed world. Benny Latherman
propped himself up with his mutilated gun.. and wished he'd cut a
little lower. But even an inch made a difference.. which did he
prefer, a comfortable leaning post, or a comfortable grave?
He wore a fine suit of Leather Armor Mark II... if you can say that in
the crisp military way that the Caravan Master did when he issued it to
his guards, and not laugh afterwards.. chances are, you've already gone
a little dead inside. Caravanning is a rather hazardous job.. though
the world has recuperated, and there are established cities, they are
still the only feasible way of mechantile distribution all over the
Wastes. It was filled with deadly monotony.. from point A to point
B.. and along the way, meet randomly encounter desperate people, who
are willing to kill and die, all for the riches they carry. The
caravaneers had their own brand of rough humor, which no else can
understand.
It's a hard life, for everyone. It's all the least they can do, to
just keep sane, to stay alive, for they hold the power to change
circumstances.
Caravans carry goods, guns.. medicine, food, and various other
valuable junk to people all over the remains of what used to be the
Western front of the United States of America. Towns live or die by the
chances of caravan routes.. they hold riches that give hostage to
entire cities... they hold precious resources that can turn the tide
of this war.
Benny opened his eyes, recognizing the futility of trying to craft images
in his brain. That had always been his brother's forte. Ah, Tobie...
little bro.. it's my birthday. I know I promised to get there today..
but you'll wait, won't you? You've been waiting for months since, when
I told my girl and you to evacuate out of NCR and its warzone. Wait a
day.. I'll get there. Keep my beer cool.. and sorry for the delay.
He looked out at the endless silver sands. "Can't you hurry this?!", he
asked the caravan driver.
She looked at him with undisguised hatred."No, dammit!! NO!! This is as
fast as the brahmins can go.. and you asked me that question TWENTY
FUCKING TIMES ALREADY!! Say it again, and I'll stick your iron up
your fussy ass!!!", she shouted.
"Hey, what's going on ever there?", the Caravan Master queried from the
front of the caravan line.
"Nothing, boss!", replied the woman. "Shut up, you little piece of
shit..", she hissed at Benny. "We'll get there soon enough."
Benny sighed, and leaned back into the load. She patted the brahmin
pulling the cart, the strange two headed creature that gave the
Wastelanders such usefulness. Its tough hide, layered together, formed
the resilient body armor that they wore. It was good against most forms
of low-impact bullets.. like buckshot and the 10mm hollow
point.. the kind of ammo used in old hand sub-machine guns. Raiders
liked using burst weapons, it gave great damage without needing a lot
of skill. Benny scoffed, remembering the many times they've been set by
such inexperienced bandits. Yes, he could understand why they attack..
life is hard enough as it is.. and it's not getting better, what with
this War going on and all..
But he couldn't understand why they got into this line of work.. lazy
bastards. If they want food and guns.. go join the freakin' army!
They'll get killed either way... most caravans are fairly well-armed
nowadays.
"This is my last..", he thought. "My last run.."
The concept filled him with the deepest excitement... and the a great
pressing block of fear. He's lived under the stars for so long... would it
feel just.. wrong.. to have a roof over his head, and not have to wake
right before dawn?
He fell asleep after a while, though he tried to fight it, but with the wind
singing a faint familiar tune, and the mooing of the brahmin, a freakish
parody, served as contrabass...
.
.
moo!
.
.
....while the caravan went on slowly but steadily, the beasts of burden
pulled uncomplainingly.. and the guards were in that state of being
half-asleep, born of the crisp night air and the monotony of the sights.
All but one..
He stood straight, his eyes keen and like daggers, flicking from one
angle of view to another. It was boring flat country all around, no
place for any raider to hide.. or so it seemed.
He was the Caravan Master.. he was responsible for this load, the well-
being of people that accompanied it, and the hope it gave the
recipients. He was an experienced, hardened man.. a true Wastelander.
He didn't care a whit for the War, or the politics behind it. Let them
fight.. what's important is that they arrived on time.
Heaven help anyone who dared to slow the progress of HIS caravan.
He sat at the very lead haul of the caravan. His driver was a young
man, but he handled the direction of the beasts well. He kept a nice
even pace, eating up the miles without getting the brahmin tired. Now
and then, he would pat the beasts, in quiet encouragement. The
caravan master gave the young man's back an approving gaze.
He looked back, at his men.. and shook his head at the laxness they
allowed themselves to fall into. "Wake up!", he yelled. Soon, they
would reach the most dangerous part of their trip.
They just came from Tabernacle Flats, in Independent Utah. And the
dividing line between that region and New California was a stretch of
what used to be a river. It has long since drained away, forming a
deep gorge. They had to go down through a pass and through that valley
a while.. the perfect spot for an ambush.
He gripped the butt of his well-trusted weapon. The grandaddy of all
shotguns.. the Pancor Jackhammer. It was the weapon reserved for the
eilte police forces of New California Republic, but the Green Line
Caravan's owners bartered and awarded him this, for his long faithful
years of service.
They knew better than to hope he'd just take a desk job, or spend his
time showing young fools who never held a gun before, that there's more
to surviving than to just pointing the barrel and pulling the trigger.
Over time, he'd developed a casual, but thorough philosophy of life,
based entirely on caravanning.
The first rule was: Be prepared to die anytime. Behind a hill, so much
the same as many hills you've seen before, may hide a swarm of raiders.
And not your average trash, either.. these ones just so happened to
grab ahold of some high tech or big-caliber guns...
Be ready to die. Second rule: Take as many of the bastards down with
you.
"Be on guard!!", he shouted, rousing his sleepy men. He looked around,
and saw nothing that seemed out of place. But raiders can be smart, when
driven by hunger and greed.. he'd once lost half an equipage to a wily
bunch that used camouflage, and the bright noontime to their advantage.
They stood on a hill, and fired down.. the blinding sun behind their
backs made accurate return fire difficult.
He was a little drunk, that time.. he wore a flashy pair of sunglasses
to hide his bloodshot eyes.
And when he managed to survive that, the caravans began supplying their
guards with the small things necessary to turn aside raider trickery.
He's lived long, killed many, and learned slowly.. and he takes comfort
in the fact that he's probably saved as many lives as he had taken.
He gestured high with his fist, telling the people at the back to ready
their beast for a perilous descent.
The brahmin mooed and slowly slunk down the pass. The sandstone cliff
pooled umbra into the bottom of the ravine.
"The black river flows..", the young driver muttered.
The Caravan Master frowned at his driver, and gave the shadows beyond a
bare glance. Yes.. in this kind of light, it seemed as if the darkness
was solid somehow, as if the ghost of brackish waters were still flowing..
And the caravan trudged on..
.
.
moo!
.
.
and the sudden cold woke Benny up. He shivered as the biting cold winds
wafted through the gorge. "We're below ground..", he said. "Where is this
wind coming from?"
"I don't know..", the driver replied off-hand. "Air should be weightless,
right? So it should be going up, right? Nah.. I heard something about
this.. something about pressure or like that..?!"
She waved her gloved hand in front of her face, feeling the
nothingness there.. and shrugged. "Air has weight.. we just don't feel
it 'cause we got that same air inside us pushing up."
"Where did you learn that?", he exclaimed. He had traveled with her
for twelve straight runs, and in that span of time, he's come into a
position of grudging tolerance of his partner's perennial black mood.
They were both "bonded".. they had signed contracts that promised their
services to the Company for a set length of time. People could get to
know each other, in such a span.
Benny knew almost nothing. Hell, he even forgot her name from time to
time..! For weeks there would be no conversation whatsoever, then there
would be small, enlightening snippets. Mostly it came, when they were
both drunk.. she had an iron stomach, but you can see the influence of
alcohol in how she was a little bit more talkative. She smiled a little
bit more, too. She was devastating when she smiled... and he had to
remember, there was someone waiting for him... "I didn't know you
studied physics."
"I didn't know you even knew the word "physics"..", she snorted. Ignorant
little fool.., she thought. Go back to your girlfriend, back
to your perfect little slice of the world. She looked at him, from the
corner of her slitted eyes. Damn, this wind could dry your eyeballs..!
She closed her eyes, but she could still see him, his left eyebrow
raised in a question, his face a mixture of wonder and interest.
As if he's found something newn, unfound in his perfect little world.
You've no place in mine.. damn it! I could make room for you... but it
would ruin your fragile view of the world in general...
It wasn't unusual for partners to bed each other. Their position required
a state of absolute trust.. and is not the joining of two souls a natural
step from the marriage of mind and chance? In times of stress, right when
everything hinges on a critical second, people will change, and show the
character under the skin.
He was a sallow thing, unpretentious... the first thing he said to her
was an apology. He won't probably be as good as the other.. he said. But
he'll do his best, he promised it.
Her brahmins plodded forward, unminding. Like her, thay had fallen
asleep with their eyes open. What dreams do cow-like creatures dream?
The brahmin bumped gently into the back fender of the caravan in front,
and came awake.. four heads mooed plaintively.
"Shit!", she spat, and pulled on the reins. The brahmin did their best
to turn around.. the people behind her, and the guard in front looked
at her with annoyance. "Blanked out, did ya, girlie? Don't do that
again..", the Caravan Master had spoken during a training run. "All it
takes is one second.. a blink.. and it's all over. You can dream all you
want, as ya won't be wakin' up."
At first it was a game.. caravan women had a reputation for being 'easy'. Yet
why should they be denied the fantasy of a soulmate? She has
seen many men.. big, strong, full of bravado.
They were the first to lose it, to break down, to die with a surprised
look on their faces. She was all of twenty-eight.. but she felt thrice
that.
He wasn't the perfect man.. but close enough to suit her. She hadn't met
anyone like him before. Gentle, cheerful, and intensely loyal. A man of
solid principle. He was the type who would die first, afore rather than
break his word.
Damn him and his promises..!
"Hey, why'd we stop?", Benny asked.
Questions! Questions! Away with you and your questions!! I don't need
you around.. no. No, I don't! I don't! I won't!
I won't let anything near my heart again..
She shook her head violently, to clear it of stray thoughts. But yes,
the entire caravan was stalled, here in this lightless valley.
"Hey, Mort!", she shouted to the driver in front. "What's with the
hold-down?!"
The driver raised his hand. No, they weren't under attack. And also, no..
he didn't know why they stopped. "It's all up to the front.", his
guard said. "The lead cart's stopped."
"Benny,", she said tonelessly. "Go see what the old fart's up to.."
He rolled his eyes and sighed. "Yeah.. yeah.. sure."
He hopped off the cart, and shivered as another waft of biting cold air
hit him smack as his boots met the ground. He almost toppled, but she
caught his limb and helped him steady himself.
"Thanks..", he grinned, but she only punched him lightly in the arm for
a reply.
Sourly, he walked forward, to where the head of this serpentine train
of men, women and beasts, vanished into the gloom...
.
.
moo!
.
.
and the wind was really starting to become more than just a nuisance
to all of them. It lashed out, and along the caravan line, annoyed
curses began to mix with the screeching hum. The Wastelands was a cruel
place.. at daytime it wore the face of fire... the burning glow from
above, and the searing heat trapped by the golden gravel below your feet.
It was midnight, and the Wastelands held a dagger of invisible ice. At
the lead haul, the caravan driver huddled into his travelers's cloak. It
was just a sheet of rough tent fabric, crudely sewn and lashed together
with strips of leather... and it served as a shield against the hot
rays, and the freezing blasts.
And as far as protective clothing went, it wasn't particularly effective
in its purpose. The cold still seeped through.. he was the only one that
took out this shroud, should any raider choose this moment to charge, he
would be a helpless target for a full half-minute as he tried to
disentangle himself.
The biting cold couldn't numb old paranoia.
He shivered, and let the black stream strike him full-face. He had been
in the Company for merely three months, but he's proven himself a good
and dependable hand. He had a way with his mounts, and now, they were
more distressed by the aura of distress around their rider than the
harsh wind engulfing them.
"This bites..", he mumbled. The caravan haul was lashed together, a
triumph of faith, hope, and gratuitous use of rope. He looked back at
it, he knew that someone had sent with them a fine coat made of the
finest mole fur.
But much as he wanted to rip into the load, and shield himself from
this wind, he had to keep up appearances.
"Oy! Where's the wasteland dog?!", he heard a voice shout from behind
him. He turned, and saw a caravan guard. He gasped and leaned back in
an effort to hide his face.
And took a deep breath... It was fine.. the guard wasn't even trying to
look, the wind was too much for that. Thank God for small coincidences.
"Oh, he's taking a crap, sir..", he said.
"What?!", the guard had to shout over the wind.
The driver raised his voice. ""He's taking a piss, walking the dog,
showing the rattlesnake.. and uh, many other slang terms which I've
forgotten..!! Hey?! Can you hear me?!"
The man man laughed faintly. "Yeah.. I heard you." He was shielding his
face with his hand, the wind was starting to gust harder. "Now, when can
we get moving..?"
"Soon. We will all move on.. the world turns, and people must learn
to move along as changes come, changes which they cannot understand, come
to pass.." He looked forward, and the black wind was like wall hammering
into his face.
Benny blinked, confused. "What are you talking about?" He knew he
wasn't the sharpest knife on the block, but he was still pretty smart in
the standard range of the word.
"Do you consider yourself a righteous man, sir?"
Great. Another religious freak.. this war was bringing out all sorts in
folks. Dammit, he was freezing, and he wanted to get going! This was no
time nor place for any sort of sermon!
The driver saw the irritation in his face. "Don’t worry… I’m not one to
preach my views. I just want another man’s opinion on a moral problem… “
“Okay,”, Benny relented. He thought about going back to his post, but
what the heck… a caravan looks out for itself. It’s important to see that
everyone functions well, and the people guard each other’s back, even
when not in a firefight. “What’s on your mind?”
And suddenly, there was a bang!, and suddenly the moon that failed to
luminate the area was eclipsed by a new, ground-level sun.
The caravan guard started to speak, uminding. “Let me tell you of a concept
first.. I believe it’s the reason why we have a senseless war going over our
heads at the moment. We suffer from a lack.. of Unity.”
And Benny saw the caravan master, he was kneeling, his face to the wall, and
his throat was a gaping slash.. his blood spattered the walls, bright and healthy
against the black rocky wall, like a child’s scrawled mural.
And the light moved closer, and behind it he heard the grunt of machinery.
-End Prolouge-
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There. Now skag me!http://www.theilluminati.f2s.com/phpBB/images/smiles/icon_biggrin.gif What do you think? I really need your nitpicking, my friend..
