*M o u n t a i n H o l d*

[Sir Hawkwood]

This is my post-apocalyptic story epic I wrote back in 2012-2013. It's had some exposure on the net and I am posting it here for anyone who may be interested.

Enjoy

Tyler D.

Mountain Hold - Chapter 1

*M o u n t a i n H o l d* P r o l o g u e A s t r a n g e blue light in the skies heralded what became known as The Collapse or The Fall. It mysteriously rose up in the northern hemisphere of Terra and, after rising by day and falling again at night, the dismantling effects to the worlds civilizations had begun. Complex microprocessors, circuits and satellites were rendered useless. The blackouts descended as nearly everything from power stations downwards went haywire amid a cascade of internal failures and overloads. In previous times, there had been great caches of food and supplies for months on end. Yet the strange wisdom of more recent governments put paid to that safeguard as a more lucrative, mercantile mentality took hold. Shipping, aviation and modern trucking ground to a halt thus exposing the great flaw to the 'just-in-time-delivery' model now relied upon by all major cities of the world. As the money-machines went blank and the lights went out the horror show was unleashed. Each night had seen the blue light fade away only to return again the next morning. Only the wisest, most prepared, luckiest and those utterly ruthless enough could survive each new day. Within a few weeks the Blue Sun vanished but the world below had shifted and changed. Old governments were eclipsed by fresher, younger, more defiant and independent factions in their wake. Nevertheless there were dark forces now awakened and keen to press on with their agenda regardless. Chapter 1 G e l s t o w n M i k e Oakley stood over six feet tall with beaming hazel-green eyes. In his early fifties and resembling that of the pioneer, he was akin to that of a mountain man. His face was worn with time and hard adventuring in his youth. Despite this, even in middle age he had the charisma to light up a room with his own brand of appeal and charm. Mousy-colored hair that was cropped short contrasted his full red beard. So far his zeal had been blunted and eroded from the time spent at Gelstown. It was fair to say that he and his fifty or so companions were on the verge of either going down the broad, easy path of servitude or a new way entirely. This day in the town did not see him take up a despondent manner brooding at the gun ports. Instead, as evening moved to night time, he had the people loyal to him gather around. For too long now the place of Gelstown had changed. It had gone from comfortable confines, to smothering regulations and finally to a walled prison. Like a shepherd guiding his flock Oakley laid out his plan—a breakout. “We've been treated like cattle and you all know it's going to get worse. These meddling covenants of the magistrates are just the start,” he said and no one could disagree. The friendly welcome they'd received as refugees from their broken-down convoy did not last long before the regulations came out against them. The leader continued. “I didn't lead you from the lost cities and towns to be treated in this way. I thought it would get better while we rested but they wish us all to be slaves in their warped and caring way. A safe place in the mountains is what I promised all of you before this mess started. Well now's the time we honor that oath!” he spoke to them lustily. “But what is this place you had us follow you for then Mike?” a father of two spoke with a hiss. “By going with you we ended up being stranded in the convoy. Then you led us here where we are disarmed and practically slaves! How can going up into your mountains be safer?” “It is more than mere mountains!” Oakley responded with gritty passion. “The Mountain Hold I speak of is an ideal as well as a new home, a place safe from anything the world can throw at us. We can settle it, we keep it, we can own land without taxes and most of all...” Oakley paused to gesture to them. “We never again let corrupt leaders control us with their slavish ways like here! Tomorrow night is when it happens. All I ask of you is to follow my lead and we can break out of this prison, then head to sanctuary and freedom.” Oakley paused again to look upon faces of relief and anticipation. He continued on what they had to do next. “The armory and the main gate are the two key areas. Elias, you must overpower the guard at the armory and retrieve the weapons there that were seized from us. Jerome is standing sentry—he gets on with you, lower his guard then do what needs to be done.” Oakley held his gaze on the burly Elias McKaiser for a few moments. McKaiser nodded understanding what he had to do. The main gate though was something of a serious obstacle. With no real cover it would be risky to attempt subterfuge. Killing anyone in the town was not what Oakley wanted. Not only would the death of a Gelstown citizen mean a harsh pursuit once they were on the road to freedom, but any noisy gunfire would have the whole town up in arms. He looked upon his decoy—May Wilkinson. She was often called 'Young May' due to her alluring youthful looks. As one of the unmarried blonde beauties recently turned twenty-one; she had no shortage of suitors. May was a bit young for Oakley's bones, but the young gate sentry would be more than easily bewildered and 'appropriate' for her wiles. When Oakley's gaze fell on her a few of the wise ones chuckled inwardly, realizing what was meant for her. Oakley continued. “For the main gate I need you Young May to distract that sentry, I've noticed him looking at you with the lust in his eye. Distract him while Athias waits to strike and you'll be our key for getting out of here.” Oakley winked with a smile, making May Wilkinson blush, for she secretly liked Oakley a little but let no other know it. At the allotted hour Oakley's Folk gathered in the shadows. Apart from Oakley no one had been allowed to own firearms since the confiscations. Oakley buckled on his leadership 'privilege' of a revolver sidearm and loaded up the custom Ruger double-action to capacity. He had nine shots of .22LR subsonic if he had to kill. He wasn't hoping on late-night killing but the sentries were armed and they'd only get one chance at escape. If the ruse failed then storming the armory and gateway by force was the only alternative. He put a spare revolver cylinder with magnum loads into his ancient combat jackets pocket. Although the night was balmy and calm Oakley had warm clothing packed for the high ground. He hefted his backpack and tugged at the straps until it was comfortable. It contained enough MRE rations for three days. A canteen of water, gold and silver coins for trading along other survival gear. With his muted combat jacket and a broad brimmed hat he cut quite the appearance. The others wore attire of a civilian nature for the most part; jeans, sweaters and shirts of sober colors. “Does everyone have enough food? At least three days’ worth?” Oakley asked them all. They nodded. The gathered folk of Oakley then waited as May Wilkinson moved up towards the gateway. The walls adjacent there were not true ramparts but instead had firing ports and ladders here and there. There were no guards either apart from the one nearby. Most were concentrated at the magistrates’ town hall area. Without fear May began to charm the gate sentry with seemingly innocent airs and graces that came about her. Around the beguiled man’s neck was a whistle, but any thoughts of using it were far indeed as she had the young man totally captivated. Meanwhile stealthy movements came from the right of the pair. With determined movements Athias Drennan advanced on the guard, hugging the wall silently and totally flattened against it as he went closer. Drennan swung at the sentry with a wooden stave of two by four. The first blow was almost a glancing one as it cracked off his skull but he swung again once more with a backhand strike across the man's temple and he went down in a slumping manner. “Sorry about that May,” he mumbled as she recoiled at the suddenness of it all. Drennan checked the guard for a pulse and found it slowly throbbing. “He's alive May,” he said with a low voice. “Come on, it's done now, we're free! Go to your shelter and retrieve all what you need, move quickly now!” Oakley watched her move away and he gestured to the others that the way was clear. They all came hastily out with what belongings they had. Now only the armory remained and it was up to Barber and McKaiser to take care of business. “How'd you manage to keep this from being fried?” Jerome asked McKaiser with a lurid look in his eye. McKaiser tapped at his small touchscreen device showing Jerome that it still functioned properly. Most were useless paperweights and coasters after the Blue Sun had done its work. Yet here was one showing all sorts of stuff; women, blueprints and landscapes. “You've heard of a Faraday Cage haven't you?” McKaiser said trying to angle the man away from Barber's position. “I think so, isn't that something those crazy survivalists used to talk about?” Jerome gawped as more lurid images came on the screen. “It sure is,” McKaiser chuckled at the irony. Barber now snuck in fully behind Jerome with a speed and fluidity that even surprised his accomplice. Barber's chokehold took violent effect as Jerome's eyes bulged first with shock then faded to unconsciousness. The guard slumped down. “I can see why Oakley made you his champion,” McKaiser said with Germanic humor. Like the first man at the gate, Jerome was quickly gagged and hog-tied. His keys were seized and they waved to the shadows where ten more of their number came out and moved in to the doorway, there they waited while McKaiser and Barber headed inside. Both had working torches and found their way about gingerly and discretely. The armory was split into two areas. Weapons were in the main room on three shelves that ran around the walls in full view. The only separate room in the concrete building was labeled up as the ammunition store. Focusing on the weapons first they sought out their captured arms. A majority of their weapons were tried and true bolt-action rifles and revolvers. Yet folks like Barber, McKaiser plus a few others had the black rifle and less common types. Barber went to the ammunition room while McKaiser analyzed the long gun weapons. “Alright, the bolt-guns are all here near enough but...” McKaiser said, his words trailing off as he made a double check of his weapons list against what he could find. “My Beretta ARX is gone, as is Danley's Mini-14 along with Athias's Benelli. Plus three AKs, two AR-15s, and Drennan’s SKS.” Barber swore. “Those s sure like to make out they're the more equal in the equality scam.” He swallowed his anger and found the right key to unlock the armory's ammunition room. Inside was a trove of ammunition for the weapons. He went back to the weapons area and chose the side containing mostly pistols to search through. “No doubt some of our weapons are in the magistrate’s compound,” McKaiser said. “Well let's make up with what else we find here then.” “I hear that. But let's not empty the place too much though Barb. There's plenty of other firearms and ammo cached at the Hold. As much as I despise this town it wouldn't be right to leave it defenseless,” McKaiser said sagely. Barber said nothing but seethed morosely. His prized sidearm — a high-grade HK Mk23 was gone also, fouling his mood further. Thirty seconds of checking the racks saw him source an exotic trio of sidearms with spare magazines. A CZ-85, a Calico Liberty and a Walther PPK now sated his earlier loss. “That lot should help make up for it,” he stoically muttered. “Hey, I've found your FAL,” McKaiser said. It was half-hidden in a corner and as he lifted it out he noticed Oakley's trusty .30-06 rifle. “Oakley's Remington is here too.” He passed out the battle rifle and hunting rifle to Barber. Like most of the long guns in the armory the slings were thankfully still in place making their carriage easier. The rest of their weapons were grouped then wrapped together speeding the job up. McKaiser glanced at his mechanical wristwatch. “Three more minutes,” He called to Barber. “We don't want everyone weighed down too much. Two more loads and that's it.” Next was the ammo. Several more bags were filled with ammo boxes, pouches and magazines were sorted together before they too were ferried out. McKaiser saw about a third of the Gelstown arsenal back into rightful hands and soon the arsenal was distributed to those waiting at the gateway. Then they were away, a bold one of their number managed to retrieve some luxury goods from an adjoining warehouse to the armory before he too ran pell-mell into the night with them. Gelstown had a lone vehicle that still worked but stealing it was no option for them. There were far too many of them to escape on it and it was jealously guarded next to the magistrates’ quarters at the town hall. Yet by the same token the magistrates would not be able to hunt them down with it, for an armed group of over fifty was a fearsome prospect for one pickup carrying less than ten. By the morning’s light when the sentries were discovered the tyrannical magistrates found Oakley and all his people had fled. With little bloodshed aside from the two guards and most of their arms remaining they did not feel compelled to chase after them. Besides which, the magistrates inwardly knew that their people were not the fighters that Oakley’s Folk were. “Let them be gone then,” the Master Magistrate proclaimed loudly with pompous outrage to the assembled townspeople. The blue-garbed magistrates looked hard for signs of dissent from the unarmed people. “It’s much safer here and they’ll return, begging to be let back in. And when they do they'll find things much different for them!” he sneered. The docile, nodding heads of acceptance agreed wearily but Oakley and his folk did not turn back. The town's greedy rulers continued their suicidal intentions to those that remained and their subtle agenda of chattel slavery progressively continued. For Oakley and his folk there was a long journey ahead of them, yet there was still hope waiting for them there. For an advanced element had been sent on ahead to the Mountain Hold several weeks before the Blue Sun arrived just as the spring snows were melting. Before Oakley’s Folk could even reach the Hold they had nearly twenty miles of undulating flatland before the Rocky Hills started. Then after the hills they had another sixty miles of travel along the high plains before reaching the local town of Tonswater. Finally only twelve more miles after the town would see them into the citadel-like White Mountains and at the Mountain Hold itself. Even then they had to establish a mountain settlement before winter. This at least could be formed easily from the winter quarters hopefully pre-built or started on by the scouting force. After they'd spent another two days and nights of travel on the road north, the real tiredness was setting in. Nobody looked back to Gelstown.

[Shankbot de Bodemloze]

Thanks for sharing.

Looking forward to reading.

[Sir Hawkwood]

Chapter 2

Chapter 2 O a k l e y ’ s R o a d Mike Oakley was once a soldier and even though his aging bones were beginning to bother him he still had ‘The Old Fire’ as he called his tireless spirit pushing him on. He had a close brotherhood of companions within his followers as a whole and they stuck to him like a lodestone. As long as he was well, so were they. They weren't just from one town or city either for he'd traveled across many areas of the country and beyond before the collapse. Known as Oakley's Rangers they were ex-military or survivalists for the most part. The Scout-Rangers within them were more self-sufficient, independent-minded and deadly marksmen. The other sub-faction within the Rangers were the Range Warriors who preferred more general, close-quarter fighting. They both typified the essence of the volunteer warrior more than the state-driven soldier and kept raiders at bay whenever it looked like they threatened. The other armed fighters of the group tended to be the general-purpose Armsmen—those that were prepared and willing enough to survive the coming trials and hardships. Then there were the newest and most vulnerable followers called The Crafters; tradesman and artisan-types that were perhaps the most vital of all for the long-term. Merit was rewarded with more trust from the group as a whole and it was Oakley's intention that their community would thrive as a meritocracy. Such a thing was the cornerstone of any European civilization or at least it was until the rotten ways of more recent times had set in. It was the Rangers and Armsmen who helped hold his followers together through thick and thin. During their 'sojourn' in Gelstown they made up the core of those who kept the bullying magistrates from intruding too much into their lives. Oakley looked over to some of them now reminding him of their ways. William Danley, an Armsman, was the short and tough Colorado ranch-hand who’d seen the writing on the wall like Oakley had. His everyman approach and general charisma ensured a good cohesive way permuted through them. Danley had contributed richly to the distant Mountain Hold area before the fall. His skill did not stop at being wealthy either for he was a jack-of-all-trades. Elias McKaiser was the artisan, mechanic and all-round fix-it man. His rigid, Germanic ways often grated against Oakley’s more intuitive and libertarian basis yet they tolerated each other. Sometimes they could have entertaining exchanges which developed into a clash of ideas and even into a new way of looking at something. Alexander Barber was an enigma for he didn't talk that much. Oakley was glad to have him on their side though. Fair of hair and with eyes of blue and green he was a true Range Warrior who once served with a long forgotten army unit. He was the best fighter, having a natural skill-at-arms that was uncannily lethal. Barber's personality was more of a brooding predator though, indeed that of a lone wolf at heart. Born and raised in the mountains of Nevada he was Heathen to the bone, keeping true to the old ways. The Rangers were an inner circle in the loosest way though; Oakley held no love of cliques or elitism beyond surviving and thriving the post-apocalypse. There were others at the Hold waiting for them, yet he could not be bothered to think of them now being so far away The Rangers and Armsmen were mostly single aside from Danley whose wife traveled at his side with the main group. Most of the rest were with family and friends among the Crafting peoples. Their age ranged from the youngest teenager to folks Oakley's age and beyond. Indeed the latter of the three groups were a good counterbalance to the more aggressive and survivalist ways of the Rangers. Now they walked in a long column that steadily pushed on with him leading at the forefront of it. Nearby to his side were the most experienced Armsmen, away from them were the Rangers who looked outward with heads watching the formless horizon and mid-ground. They moved in small groups loosely spread out ahead and to the flanks acting as an outer perimeter to the vulnerable column. As the terrain became more arduous and rugged Oakley drew them in closer. He did not want them becoming too isolated and exposed upon the treacherous landscape. As the elevation increased it became much harder for them to keep pace with the main group. Overall their fortune seemed to be shining down, as either no raiders were on their path or they presented too strong a force to be tangled with. Several times distant figures appeared some way off, in groups of about six to a dozen or more. Each time, on seeing the defending Rangers watching them like hawks and ready to respond the danger passed safely. Yet fatigue, strict food rationing and the aches of travel were their companions now. Over every hill seemed to be another stretch of road into the distance and beyond that stretch of road seemed to be another hill. Most of them had blistered feet by now and Danley’s trephining method of draining the liquid from the blister sores provided an effective, if painful remedy. They were edging closer to Tonswater little by little. When their food supplies turned scarce any farm-buildings within sight became a source of supply. The abandoned ones were carefully scavenged and those with occupants cautiously bartered with. Some had signs posted warning that none should go beyond the fence-line boundary and would be met with armed families keen to do trade. Others were not even neutral and at two separate farm compounds the approaching Rangers were fired at with warning shots. No trading was done there and Oakley’s Folk marched on. About half of his followers knew the basics of fending for themselves in the wilderness though. Only a few were pure city dwellers and for them they'd either learn the hard way or be swept aside by the experience. Already one family refused to continue on the fourth day of their flight from Gelstown. A friendly farming community took them in instead. Another day passed and another family departed. This time heading west and preferring to take their chances in the direction of the setting sun. Oakley wished them luck and didn't look back at them. The worst ‘departure’ from the group was the pact suicide of a family which occurred on the night of the fifth day. Poison pills were their choice, but a handgun from the father finished the job quickly. By the time the two sentries appeared it was too late. Oakley inwardly knew them to be too delicate for the ardors of post-apocalyptic America. He said nothing out of respect though as their friends grieved and dug shallow graves. Gelstown would have been the slow death compared to the quicker one of suicide he grimly surmised. While in Gelstown they'd heard suicides were common elsewhere. The magistrates of course would make an agenda of it, saying that in Gelstown they were secure and safe, no need for misery or strife. Oakley often wondered if perhaps it was better that some people were better off in other worlds. For as the world of Terra now turned with the ages so too must others turn with it. The next day would mark their entry into Wyoming, a spiritual homeland for Oakley and one that would help decide the destiny of thousands. People had called Oakley an eccentric, a crazy oddball and worse when he'd bought and prepared the mountain land. This was several decades before any actual collapse had occurred. Yet the decline was ever present for all the while the same critics were themselves wallowing in the crazed, exciting decadence consuming the nations. Materialism and mass consumerism may have had a place somewhere, but not from where Oakley saw the world taking them. “They were a bunch of damned hypocrites back in those times!” shouted Oakley during what some called his 'night rages.' They were necessary outbursts made against the ills of the pre-collapse world. “As long as their minds were d well enough with lies and filth they couldn't care less about this land and liberty.” His folk were not alarmed by this as they could see that he was channeling the suppressed and hidden frustrations of them all and giving it a voice to truly get things into the open. It was also a way of cautioning them for future times so hopefully the same mistakes would not happen again, or at least not in such a damaging way. In those early times Mike Oakley had done what most survivalists and preppers would have considered unthinkable. He’d welcomed more than a few of the ‘unprepared’ or 'sheeple' into his world and given them a chance to start anew. It was this decision which initially vexed a few of his Rangers and Armsmen who grumbled about it for a time. Yet as their numbers grew and the Crafter's skill showed they proved their worth in many ways and the complaints gave way to respect. Over the next few days the periodic milestones told them to be half-way to Tonswater, lending extra reserves of energy to their strained limbs. What filtered through from the few travelers they encountered was that the chaos enveloping the land had begun to settle into equilibrium. The independent states of the nation were now shifting more to geological and territorial boundaries. Some, especially in the north-east were ruled by what was left of a paramilitary government force and a loose city coalition. At the southern border though nearly all the land had been invaded by hordes of Mestizo folk supported by hardcore La Raza-types along with other mixtures swept along by the chaos. Many cities collapsed entirely as rampant gang conflicts, a lack of drinking water from broken treatment plants saw a misery of death. Other areas like the non-coastal, Pacific Northwest fared better. Idaho, parts of Oregon and Montana becoming both respected and feared with their fiercely independent militias. To a smaller extent this trended out into Wyoming and eastern Washington. For Oakley the Mountain Hold was itself likely to become a quasi-militia settlement of sorts, albeit steered more towards thriving self-sufficiency than that of the militarism he so despised. They were just entering the Wyoming plains when a meaningful exchange took place. It was just before midday and a strange old woman was waiting for them at the side of the road off to the left. She'd come out from a ramshackle cabin built against a hillside and nearby a few hardy crops were recently harvested. Further ahead about a mile away was a ranch with deer grazing in it. “Oakley!” she hailed him several times, making a sign to the head with his name. Oakley responded with an outstretched hand in the air showing who he was. “Ho' to you there woman!” he answered boldly. The old one once had fair hair that had now gone gray and her glazed eye’s shone with a divine madness Oakley recognized. He went forward to her alone, waving back a curious Drennan and Barber. Once he got close enough she spoke her wisdom to him. “Strange times you come into Oakley. The light has risen and fallen many score 'o times,” she spoke with a faint rasping to her voice. “What do you know of this strange blue light that changes a thing from what once was?” he questioned evenly, wondering if this woman knew more than she let on. “It came out of Terra’s pole to the far north and takes us on into a new age,” she said low enough so only he could hear. “It is a turning of the wheel, a Time of the Wolf. You and your kinsmen must be ready for any confrontation that it brings.” “Old one, I go to the mountains over beyond with my folk to weather out the storm, not to wage any kind of war or strife. I've prepared for survival all my life not to lose it carelessly,” he said, being careful not to give away exact details. “There is much even you do not know of. Many of the vile ones in power that could not take the change have ended their miserable lives or rot in the dark tombs.” “Good riddance to them, I've fought in their wars and now the fair folk of this world can get on with their lives again without intrusion. As will I also to live out my days in peaceful seclusion. Let the wolf run free,” Oakley said stating his purpose. He was eager to resume his march. What more could this woman, however wise, know that he did not know already? She sensed this and gripped his arm. The move alarmed Barber who almost raised his rifle like it was a wand, then paused when she froze and looked at him for a moment then spoke again. “Your faction is the wolf and it is ready, but are you Oakley?” “What must we face?” he questioned tensely. “Dark forces beyond that of the surface powers remain. They hate all what you and your people stand for and are determined to conquer the world by force. You must be ready to fight.” “I know of them. This is the true way of things, there must always be an opponent or else risk one being created from within. By fighting the external foe we become stronger and by it not defeating us we can go on to greater things,” Oakley responded with hard wisdom. Hearing the words from him the woman relaxed her grip. “There are those with you that will be a great force for good in the world. Seeing you coming along this road gives me hope that perhaps all is not lost. Perhaps there can be a new Atlantis or Agartha in this land Oakley?” “You know much that is hidden wise woman, can you walk with us? We are halfway to my Mountain Hold and I can carry you if need be?” Oakley offered generously. His distant domain would no doubt benefit from such a gifted psyche. “Hah!” she laughed. “My time is already past. Besides which too many cooks there can spoil the broth,” she added cryptically. Oakley frowned at the response and fell silent. “Fare thee well Oakley,” she turned and went back to her dwelling. “And unto you wise one,” he spoke looking back to the others. Danley and Drennan now approached Oakley along with Barber who glassed the distant ranch compound with binoculars. To do so with his rifle scope could risk being shot. The place was more like a farming ranch with harvested crops in a field off to the northwest. “What was that all about Mike? She a witch?” Danley said warily touching his cross. “Possibly of that craft,” Oakley responded neutrally. Barber took some umbrage to Danley's words and lowered his field-glasses. “She is a Vyla, a wise empath,” Barber spoke sharply with a knowing look in his eye. “Before the Burning Times of my ancestors such women were quite common in the world and often advised elder folk and layperson alike. They cast runes, vision wandered and much more to give us wisdom. Then came the times of the Testifier and his people's distorted ways...” Barber gave a gloomy look back at Danley. Danley swore and was about to argue with pointed finger but their leader stepped between them. “William! Alexander! Peace the two of you!” Oakley said boldly, giving a rare command. “Your division is our strength but not at the cost of us fighting each other!” Danley had been brought up in a religious family and himself had once been a pastor, strongly moving to the ways of humility, monolithic unity and cohesion. Barber was that of another way, being that of an orphan who, through a journey of harsh self-discovery, had found his own path with that of the rugged deist. With the polytheistic Heathen deities of the Aesir, Vanir and All-Father guiding him he was no man to cross. Nearly a third of Oakley’s Folk followed the Heathen ways, the rest were either that of the monolithic Testifier God or were Dualistic and undecided. Yet Danley and Barber respected one another, despite their occasional clashes on the ways of The Beyond and especially the 'Burning Times.' For many Heathen people in Europa were forcibly converted, for better or worse, often at torch, torture and sword point back in those ancient days. The strange female had completely vanished now into her hovel shack and there was nothing else to do but move on. Danley and Barber shook hands first and then they went over to the nearby farm-ranch. A friendly sign on a placard was nearby. The sign offered trade and barter raising their spirits and empty stomachs. With hands raised and friendly shouts they hailed the occupiers there. Three families emerged from the farm's inner-compound gateway—the men of the house being well armed and wearing body armor. From the looks on their faces a way of careful respect radiated. The night was a fair one and the farm folk allowed them space and sanctuary to pitch camp. They traded and refilled their bags with what provisions could be spared. The main family that lived there the longest shared what news they'd learned. From their shielded radio and journal the man of the house had made diligent recordings of all he'd heard. Oakley and his survivors were the first he'd seen on the road since the Blue Sun and he was keen to share all he knew. As he spoke and rambled Oakley perused and poured over the journal learning all he could from it. The early troubles in the cities were initially ignored and brushed over by the authorities like wallpaper over rotten cracks. Then as it got worse there was a kind of madness, one that saw a warped sense of order hold sway. Burned-out cars were given parking tickets, dead bodies left out for ambulances that never came and the failing of the police to contain the lawlessness saw them form enclaves around their own neighborhoods and precincts. As the video feed from the internet began to fail a feral wave of violence looked to be taking hold in several of the coastal megalopolises. Strange, violent beasts were reported to be ravaging areas near to the Great Lakes and across the Great Plains. According to the terrified news anchors they were altogether different from the ones nature produced. Oakley paused with a feeling of dread for unknown reasons. He was no animal hater, but if the tales were true he vowed to keep such things away from the Hold. Rumors and theories on the Blue Sun ranged from some unknown force unleashing apocalyptic forces to it being a subtle bioweapon by a hostile power. City folks in the congested coastal zones had progressively turned rabid and, like an overflowing dish of bacteria, now consumed itself. They turned on each other like dogs, some even said to be consuming flesh such was the lack of sustenance after mere days of the collapse. Or perhaps they ate each other anyway due to a wild nature from within being aroused fully? With the lack of fuel trucks and food wagons it only took two days of panic buying and then looting to strip most of a city dry. Oakley had heard from some farms they passed that the medium-sized cities had become practically no-go areas ruled by savage warlords who’d stripped their own city’s bare then, like sucking parasites, sent out raiding army’s to fuel their base needs. The journal continued on more specific details closer to the area. A town far to the east had made a living on ‘Time-Bonding’ or indenturing folk unfortunate enough to be captured by them. Another to the west had gone the other way of simply plundering all from the countryside in one direction and then selling on the booty to nearby towns and villages allied to them. Greater occurrences were manifesting outside of the American continent. England had now become a three-tier society with a police state providing a bulwark of ruthless control during the breakdown. In the countryside military families and Yeomanry took control there as best they could. Some, closer to London than others, paid furtive lip service allegiance to the reclusive monarchy fortified in Windsor Castle. The ageing king was rumored to have fled the country by some, making it a distant oath indeed. The land was being increasingly referred to as Albion; its former ancestral name. Mainland Europe was more of a madhouse, with cities teeming with immigrants running rampant in capital cities and spilling out into the countryside. Some nations were affected more than others but in general it was serious strife followed by a sporadic breakdown. Oakley usually cared little of what took place outside his own landmass. What became of Europa’s now fractioning nations concerned Oakley though. As the birthplace of his bloodline it irked him that the mistakes they made were later repeated by his own elected rulers. Oakley closed the journal and let sleep claim him for a few hours. The next morning they were up early and packed their things away to a clear sunrise with a chilly wind. Before leaving Oakley handed four silver coins in thanks to the families there. He felt a distant kinship to them. In their own way, they were prepared survivalists still willing to honor the ancient ways of hospitality to strangers. He warned them though that tyrannical magistrates from Gelstown could appear one day and not to let on knowledge of their passing. To his relief the families agreed, understanding well of such matters. By the end of that day they'd rejoined the main highway road that led to Redmond in the south-east and Tonswater in the north-west. The signature White Mountain range loomed on the horizon—before they could reach it though they had the plains to cross and then the rolling foothills. These ran along the highway a-ways making a curving, ultra-wide valley, only then then would they finally reach the eastern approaches to Tonswater.

[Sir Hawkwood]

Chapter 3 - Passage

Passage After three more days of travel they were among the valley plains facing west. Lush green trees marked the river Tonswater and they bloomed up in the distance, partially shrouding the town from view. Drennan and two other scouts were already out taking a look ahead of them. Drennan reported back with news. “No raiders Oak. But there’s a militia garrison protecting the town,” Drennan told him. “Also, just at the bridge’s tree line, they've got a checkpoint.” Another scout showed up to ramble. “The guards at the checkpoint want a fee before we can pass, a toll they're callin' it!” All now looked to Oakley on the next move they should make. “All right then, let’s go speak to them about getting us on home,” Oakley said grimly. He took out his revolver and removed the cylinder of .22LR subsonic and replaced it with his spare one of more potent .22WMR. The magnum caliber was capable of chewing through standard body armor. He holstered it again and led his people towards the toll booth. It was a simple wooden barrier affair with a counter tilt to raise it up. About two hundred and fifty yards away, over the River Tonswater and bridge was another gateway that led into the town itself. There was a low wall nearing completion would soon make a defensive ring around the town. Laborers were hammering and digging footings in various places as the look of a stronghold took form. The nearby trees that ran along the river gave the semblance of a secondary wooden wall. Three guards were gathered there at the checkpoint and faced them apprehensively. Some of his own rangers waited for him on the wilderness side. “What’s the toll to pass through?” Oakley said flatly taking in their measure. The guard he addressed carried a Mosin-Nagant rifle with telescopic sights. The other two had AR Rifles. One with an AR-15 and the third he couldn't be sure of, possibly an AR-180. “Welcome to Tonswater. Five bullets or half a pound of food from each of you please,” the first guard rattled off like he'd said it more than a hundred times. On his jacket was the name 'Sercout' and his accent and features were Portuguese. All of them wore a patch with the letters 'WM' crudely stitched onto the left breast. “And if we can't or won't do this?” Oakley challenged defiantly. Sercout was taken aback and hesitated. “Either give the toll or get back south,” the third guard said with a hostile manner. He stepped forward and nudged the first guard aside. He was a fair-haired man with hard eyes, a sardonic manner and an above average build. He had the belligerence of a boxer. Unlike the other two he carried a black sidearm in a beige leather holster. “Your call,” he declared to them. Oakley knew they were likely to be part of the militia force—more aggressive than humble homesteaders but usually without the vile predations of a raider. They filled a vital niche offering their defensive services to towns and villages, especially those without any fighting force to defend it. Oakley admired the militia concept but the devil was in the details, extortion and advantages were often never far away under a roguish leader. Oakley nodded and pulled out from his own pack a small bundle of dried jerky. He passed it to the guard who took it and dropped it into a large haversack hung up on a peg. “Now let all of us pass and enough of this tolling.” Oakley smiled trying to get inside the man's personal space, hoping to sway him with force of will alone. Wary of Oakley the man stepped back and raised his hand in a warding way. “This ain't enough for all of you and don't play games with me!” the guard sneered shaking his head. “We've already had to turn away dozens of refugees from Redmond two weeks ago. They'd have bled us dry and worse if we'd of let 'em in.” A feeling of tension was arising in the air. One of the Rangers, off to one side was going to say something but Oakley raised his hand, almost with a strange kind of prescience. Then he spoke on, trying a different tack. “What's your name son?” Oakley asked. The man hesitated for a moment but not wanting to show weakness answered. “Captain Stuart Webb. I command the militia in Tonswater! Sheriff Connarsby is in overall command with the mayor. I handle things here at the entrances,” Webb stated evenly. His intention was to intimidate but Oakley wasn't shaken at all. “Well Stu' we're no refugee column,” Oakley said amiably, unfazed by his rank. “We know where we're going and it ain't this town either. We just want to pass through and be on our way.” “Then pay your fuc—” Webb began to say when Oakley cut him off with a raised voice like thunder. “NO! I am Mike Oakley of the White Mountains over west! I’ve spent over twenty years coming through this town, spending coin on whatever I needed which was oftentimes. That is your toll that covers every man, woman and child with me right now!” Oakley now spoke with a loud iron to his voice that shocked the guards—even Webb was rattled. The militia captain wasn't expecting that. He figured him for a meek old fatherly man the others looked to for advice but not leadership. Oakley began to focus on the man with his piercing vision. The effect rattled Webb's two men and the Rangers were tensed for deadly gunplay. Oakley spoke on. “Now if this here bag ‘o jerky can’t do for me and my folks then we’ve got a tangle boy, ‘cause we’ve no more food to give but the dust in our packs an’ we'll need our bullets where we’re headed.” Oakley let his hand fall to his trusty Ruger. On his shoulder slung his faithful Remington rifle which he adjusted somewhat with his other hand. As he did so, he gave the bolt a quirky set of three taps with the blade of his hand. The militia guards noticed this vague ritual and a barbed insult nearly passed from Webb's lips, but he held his tongue, knowing it would be wiser not needle the strange old man with deadly eyes. Oakley gave a gruff sigh. It would be revolver work that would see him through any trouble from the guards. He could confidently take Webb and the second guard quite easily, but his scouts would have to slay the third. He sincerely wished avoidance of any bloodshed though; it was easier to go around by fording the river further northwards than ruining relations with the town. Trade and aid might well be needed in future times, on the other hand he didn't like to back down during confrontations and neither did Webb. There was a silence from the Tollway guards as Oakley and Webb faced down one another. Oakley's iron will against Webb's firm conviction. A short little townsman curiously wandered over from the construction works to see what the story was. Webb turned to him. “Go get Randy will ya?” Webb gestured. The short one scurried away through the main gate and up to the town trading post. Oakley's spirits rose slightly at the new development. That 'Randy' would no doubt be Randy Holzer who was well-known to him from the days prior to The Collapse. He and a few others in his group had often bought groceries and other supplies from the general store before collapse. About two minutes later Holzer alone came through the gateway of the town and walked over the bridge to them. He was slightly shorter than Oakley with darker hair and broadly overweight, like a football player past his prime. Holzer saw who it was and nodded with a grin. “You going up to your place?” Holzer said. Oakley nodded. “It's ok 'Stu you can raise the barrier. I know this man from before the -hit-the-fan,” Holzer spoke to the guard loudly. Oakley's eyes flashed over to the Captain to see what his move would be. Sercout slowly leaned down on the counterweight and the gray bar slowly began to rise. “Wait a second,” Webb said, still keen to have his way. He put a hand down on the bar. “Just him Randy?” Randy Holzer hesitated for a moment, seeing the long trail of people behind Oakley. Oakley, seeing the decision in Randy spinning on the balance now spoke hard to the man. “We've just slogged in from the back of beyond Randy, our vehicles failed on the road near Gelstown with that Blue Sun. Now we've nothing to give but what'll keep us alive on my mountain! If they can't pass, I won't pass,” Oakley called to him, playing his last hand. Oakley was looking at the river and how it flowed. They'd have to find a crossing point fast or it would be a night trek in getting up to the Hold and at nightfall the White Mountains were no place for newcomers to be blundering about. The commotion had by now gotten the attention of various town guards and from them the lawman of the town. Sheriff Connarsby stepped out from the spartan police building, put on his hat and went outside town to the crowd at the Toll Booth. “What's going on here, who are these people?” he asked curiously, not noticing Mike Oakley at first. Webb and Holzer filled him in on the situation as Oakley waited for the final say. Oakley explained he was taking his folk up to the mountain. Connarsby vaguely recognized Oakley from before The Collapse and mulled on the options to take. Seeing his pause Oakley seized on the sheriff's indecision. “Sheriff we can barter with Tonswater in weeks to come if you must insist. Yet right now I've got people up there waiting on me and I'm keen to see what's what.” Connarsby was a mostly fair man and knew an honest man when he saw one and nodded to Oakley. He turned to Webb. “Alright, they can all pass Stu'. The White Mountains are a close neighbor to us. No toll fee for them,” he shouted so all could hear. “Make sure you unload all those weapons though, I don't want any accidental shooting.” As Oakley’s Folk did so Webb nodded to Sercout who pushed down fully on the counterweight and the way in to the town was opened. Oakley smiled his best grizzled looks at the lawman and the militia force, just to let them know he wasn't harboring any grudges, then gave a gesture and his folk marched on into the town. Captain Webb would not meet their gaze though; he'd lost some face holding to his ways. The lawman walked alongside Oakley as they went into town. “Thanks for that sheriff, I was about to consider going the long way around.” “I figured you might,” the sheriff laughed, and then they began to palaver. They spoke curtly to one another at first but the flow of news from afar was more important and soon a rapport of sorts was established. Raider activity was light and soon, Connarsby told him, the walls would be fully built and with the overlooking watchtower, Tonswater would have superior defenses. Especially when compared to most other towns. Horses and cattle were kept safe in the southern valley basin and timber was back in fashion, making them a trade source with nearby areas. Plus they had a working powerhouse for electricity. Oakley kept the details of their recent experiences vague. There was no reason to tell Connarsby everything, besides which he didn't entirely trust the law at the best of times. He knew well the times when government police had committed their outrages in earlier times spoiling his attitude to the police as a whole. Perhaps another time he'd let Connarsby know of Gelstown's ways. Connarsby spoke on briefly. “The town radio systems aren't too badly affected now with the stuff that we've got working again. Seems that there's been a big change with things in Europe—they're forming into family factions. Kinda like the militia have done here with town affiliations, but more along the lines of elite families having their own areas of land to look after. Speaking of affiliations Webb's Militia is our guard force. Just over a hundred men and a few women are under his command. But I run the show in Tonswater with Randy Holzer as the town mayor and co-leader. Most of the town is armed, so I know Webby won't try anything.” Oakley listened calmly but felt a sting of rivalry. The Mountain Hold was only twelve miles away, and the tingling possibility of a future clash somewhere or somehow rang faintly in him. “I thought most of the militias were active further west and north of here,” he asked Connarsby. “No offense sheriff but Tonswater doesn't seem to have the appeal that larger and richer towns generate.” “None taken. We got lucky with Webb and his men. They rolled-in from out northwest to do a spell of hunting and trapping, plus some readiness training down in Arizona. Then the Blue Sun hit and they've been stuck here ever since. We've got a few of them helping train the townspeople on weapons, patrolling and guarding the place. They ain't special forces or anything but they're a lot better than nothing.” Oakley nodded and offered to help. “If I can get things ready up at my place I might be able to send you some folk down, especially if they can't handle the winter. It shouldn't come to that though,” he suggested amicably. “Alright, sounds fair as long as they can pull their weight. In seriousness though Oakley we hope to see bartering done sometime. Times are tight, I have a handful of trappers and hunters out gathering food and furs but this is barely enough. Anyway I'll leave you to carry on,” the sheriff said heading back to his station. Oakley's heart shuddered at the thought of the game animals on the White Mountains being thinned, especially in the autumn months. For now though, that was something for another day. A strange zeal seemed to be running through them like a counter-current, giving extra energy to tired and weary bodies. Perhaps, Oakley wondered, it was from the White Mountains—her strange energy pulling them home at last. He looked behind at the weary people following him. Could they take it he wondered? In the summer it was a fine place but the winter could test a man’s nerves and temperament to breaking point. If someone was, as Oakley liked to label someone weak, a 'cissyman' the likelihood was even greater. After a brief rest stop for more supplies with barter-trading they left the western gateway of Tonswater behind them. The mountain highway that climbed upwards steadily was deserted and all being well with a brisk pace they'd get to the Mountain Hold just after nightfall.

[Shankbot de Bodemloze]

I'm really enjoying this, the bridge-toll scene was well done and for a moment I did wonder if Oakley was going to go all Rambo on them. I liked how you've slipped in pieces of information about other countries post-Collapse, interesting to see Europe go back to pretty much the feudal system.

They are nearing the Mountain Hold... but I wonder what they will find there? It all seems to have been too easy...

+rep

[Sir Hawkwood]

The story is only just beginning mate. The real story is just around the corner.

I'm really busy right now, too many things going around at once in my head, but here's the next part.

Chapter 4

Chapter 4 Beforetimes Nightfall at the sentry position came quickly and with it the creeping cold of early autumn. Scout-Ranger Adwin Leyson gripped his .303 Enfield that little bit harder as a biting wind whirled past. He was a high plains man, somewhat unused to such a mountain climate. All the same there was an adapting quality to him. An even pair of blue eyes emitted an intensity of thought and his medium-high forehead radiated sublime intelligence. While he was not that broad, he was fairly tall at five foot ten and a decent fellow. Hair that was a rare color between blond and auburn showed thickness and a bristling beard hid his rugged, lantern jawline. Leyson felt it was both awesome and testing living atop the White Mountains but he and the others had come well equipped and prepared to what would become the Mountain Hold. To the untrained eye it appeared like a sheer and sloping mountain valley or gulch, but it was much more than that. They had waited and waited for Oakley and the others to arrive now for what seemed like ages. Here and there some snippets of information could be snatched from the ether. It was enough to indicate, as Oakley had predicted, one age had ended and another had dawned. It was Oakley, in his weird precognitive way that had sent them on ahead to the White Mountains. While he completed his work to the south Leyson and his companions had arrived at the Hold in a trio of vehicles. They were loaded to the gills with supplies; food being the primary bulk of their goods. It wasn't much to get the Hold started but it was better than nothing. After crossing the shallow river-moat they drove up the wooded hillock track to begin the transformation of mountain wilderness into Oakley's vision of a Mountain Hold. What a sight the wilderness was in the White Mountains! Here and there in the shady areas were patches of thawing snow that lingered. Away all around them were great stretches and swathes of mountain valleys that rose and fell in all directions. Trees were everywhere with vast chunks of dense brown and green as far as the eye could see. Like the coming winter snow, it was certain that they'd never run out of wood such was its unending resource. Of the wood available there were three types—Englewood Spruce, Subalpine Fir and Ponderosa Pine. The pine tended to be more susceptible to beetle-kill and many were waiting for the winter to claim them though. Apart from himself and Joey Konrad the other four scouts had never been to the White Mountain range before, nor had they been so high up in the world. The elevation of the Mountain Hold was at the cusp of human capacity for long-term living. Any higher and most men would struggle to cope with the lack of oxygen content. As it was the altitude was about nine thousand feet above sea level which was pushing it. Up in the mountain there was less noise and distraction from the urban roar of below. His mind and thoughts were at a well-tuned clarity. He didn't know if the other scouts felt any such vibes, but none had complained greatly at the challenges thus far. Ranger Leyson was not perturbed by their new world, he was from a people who'd endured great setbacks and great achievements time and time again before prospering anew over the centuries and millennia. Saxon, Norse and even Celtic blood flowed through him and although he certainly felt American, it was an Occidental Way that burned in his soul. His right-hand man, Konrad, was a wily Slavic-Russian man who was with a roguish fire to Leyson's mature élan. One complimented the other; in fact all of them did as the Mountain Hold was given a thorough appraisal for the work ahead. Food, water and shelter were already in ample supply here and were scattered around. The food and fuel were in fifty-five gallon drums, the latter buried and lined in various areas. Water flowed constantly from freshwater springs, satisfying their hydration needs, both for man and plant. A pair of completed cabins already protruded up out of the ground, these being constructed over the past five years by Oakley, Barber and McKaiser. The structures themselves were somewhat crude by urban people's standards, but they did the job with wood-burning stove and stores a-plenty. They also were partially underground, being built into the mountainside for concealment and insulation. Several supply sheds held a bounty of equipment and other materials needed for working the land. The crowning, submerged jewel of the Hold was Oakley's pet project; a covert mountain bunker. Internally it had brick, rock and thick logs supporting the walls and roof. Over the top of the structure was earth and concrete, landscaped so that it would be difficult to see and a tough nut to crack, even by a determined attacker. It had defensive qualities with an internal gun port that looked out onto commanding views of the approach road below. A triple-stacked armory rack for rifles was setup beside the gun port along with a large ammunition cache. It was even connected to Oakley's nearby cabin via a tunnel network and had more than one entrance. The bunker was livable. Two bunks were set up in the core section along with a wood-burning stove near the gun port and another between the bunks in the next room. A larder of dried food and water was kept in the coolest area and an escape ladder led up to the surface at the far end. It was also here that the far tunnel branched off towards Mike Oakley's cabin, where another ladder ascended. Konrad and one of the scouts were using the bunker for lodgings while Leyson and the others took to the existing cabins. A shower tent was set up affording them a reasonable state of cleanliness, along with a smoke shack for the autumn game they'd be hunting. They'd improve on this and many other things, but for now it was just getting underway. Another blast of freezing wind caused Leyson to shiver at his sentry position as his memories were interrupted. He looked hard to the tree barricade they'd cut down all those months before. Nothing moved apart from the trees and greenery. They'd been living at the Mountain Hold for several months now and a light dusting of snow was setting in. Perhaps the sun would melt it before more came, perhaps not. His mind wandered back and away on the memory train again. Unloading the supplies, getting tents set up and generally fitting into the place tested their fitness. Although Leyson and Konrad had visited the mountain previously the high elevation took some getting used to. The heavy snowmelt ran nicely into the stream moat, keeping the water level knee-deep. Beyond the stream were a set of newly-built gates with a partially built second gateway off to the left. One gateway led up a steep slope to storage sheds, while the main gateway facing the road ran directly into the heart of the Mountain Hold. A stout fence partially projected from the gateways, both of which were made from cut logs and sheet metal. A complete section of the latter only went several feet along the river for later completion. The sections were made up of a series of 'A' frame of logs with a duo of horizontal log sections running between each 'A' frame. The structure was strongly built, with sheets of dark green aluminum metal nailed into the horizontal pieces. Not only did they blend in more with the terrain but it ensured that there was no gap for a creature or intruder to slip through. It was incomplete though, making security a concern to all but the blindest of optimists. The group fell into a routine with Leyson focusing on the fence construction with a few others. Each night before sleeping Leyson made sure to tune into the nearest radio station for the jumble of weather updates, folksy music and relentless news broadcasts. As long as he heard such things, the machine of civilization was still juddering along. Konrad's method was much simpler; he'd glance up into the sky during the daytime to check that commercial airliners still passed overhead. The White Mountains extended for many miles with the Mountain Hold being only a part of it; taking up just under nine acres. Outside of the Hold there were at least ten summer cabins which were scattered about the White Mountains, most of them within three miles or so. Leyson sent out another scout called Jed Nuge to search out the area and cabins properly. Oakley had instructed unoccupied cabins to be salvaged in the event of a country-collapse. Most of them were barely occupied during the week and only at the weekends did people show up to stay a day or two. Regular summer occupancy was unusual, especially with the Great Recession taking full effect across the world's economies. Konrad and his team made work building a dormitory cabin from an existing camp trailer. Most of the materials they needed were already on the land. A partially collapsed trailer cabin made a great thing to repair and build around. Pages and pages of notes, guides and ideas were referred to for reference as none of them were professional tradesman. The more proficient artisans of the group; Danley and McKaiser were with Oakley who was still gathering more people to come north. As it was Leyson and the others had to feel their way through the ways of construction. Overall though, while Oakley's plans were not exact in details the general gist of it they took on aptly enough. Dead trees of pine were cut down and prepared while ground was leveled off. Not only would the trees be vital for building cabins but in the event of blocking off the private road the logs would be essential. Oakley had been specific on this being done if a collapse occurred, even if it meant cutting him off in the process. In the event of access being blocked off there was another way to enter, but it was a treacherous route that even a quad bike would struggle with. Jed Nuge, the amiable if somewhat feral Scoutman, returned from exploring the area with a report on the other cabin peoples. The detailed report impressed Leyson. Nuge had been brazen yet also clandestine in his ways; whenever Nuge had encountered an occupied cabin, he'd introduce himself to gain their confidence. Having done this he'd build up enough rapport to learn all he could of them, their supplies, their ideology and where their sympathies lay. To satisfy any curiosity he’d worked out a cover story of being an out-of-state hiker camping in the area. After a few days of this he'd wander back to Leyson and give him updates, map markings and the like. Then the next day Nuge headed in the opposite direction back into the depths of the wilderness for more intel gathering. He didn't travel with much weaponry, just a pocket pistol with grimy rubber handgrips. Most of them at the Hold preferred shoulder rifles or shotguns with pistols as a reserve weapon. What they had on hand as they worked about here and there was enough to theoretically fight their way back to the bunker, and then rearm and reload. Nuge had a radically different mindset. He could sprint down mountain trails and break-leg terrain like a mountain goat and easily slip away from determined attackers after snapping off a few shots from his handgun. He was arguably the best scout and spy among them, with an almost feral aspect to his skulking ways. The third week arrived and a relentless drive from Leyson saw them nearly finish the fence line. They'd start at the shiver of first light, endure the periodic biting insects that flourished for a few weeks of the year and then push on until the fade of evening. As the last fence post was being nailed into place a silver pickup truck rumbled into view. It slowed to a halt just at the verge of the stream barrier before the open gates. Their own vehicles would be visible so it would be clear that people were on Mike Oakley's land. All of them stopped what they were. Leyson looked over a bush, just under two hundred yards distant. It was just possible to discern occupants behind a partly tinted windshield. No sentries had been posted at the Hold, for things were still 'normal', but Leyson knew that nosey neighbors, if that's what they were, could be trouble later on. Gossiping was not unusual and almost a pastime for some of the mountain folk. It wasn't Oakley, for he was still gathering people in the lowlands and would have called ahead prior to a convoy of vehicles arriving in his wake. Leyson looked down from the sloping land onto the private dirt and saw Konrad had already taken it upon himself to go down alone and speak to the visitors. Malcolm Spencer, the only Crafter at the Hold, moved up to Leyson, keeping low. Spencer was a brilliant technician if a little slow to grasp things. Meanwhile Leyson unslung his rifle and laid it down on the ground next to where he kneeled. “You think we could be in trouble?” Spencer said slowly. He was the youngest, in his mid-twenties. A good enough scout, although somewhat nervous and skittish. “Trouble? What for?” Leyson countered. “We've got Mike's permission to be here, it's not like we're planning the apocalypse, only preparing for it.” “I know but with the laws they passed about remote living and food storage. Could be them making checks...” Spencer chirped, referencing the latest new restrictions being passed by the third-term president. “Don't be a goose Malcolm. I can tell their mind games are getting to you. If they are Feds they'd not be softly rolling up to say howdy-doody,” Leyson said. Konrad was still talking now to the driver, but Leyson could tell that from his relaxed demeanor that he was in full charm mode. “One of them's a woman,” Leyson smiled briefly. Spencer's deep green eyes peered through an ocular lens and surveyed the pickup. That was one of Spencer's traits — he always kept his gear on him, even when on fatigue work like the fenceway. Leyson on the other hand had gotten a bit lax and had taken to leaving his nearby in the upper cabin. “She's nice,” Spencer gleamed, perking up instantly from his neurotic moment. “Blonde, in her early thirties maybe. Has a family with her in the back. Two boys…” Spencer lowered the lens and passed them to Leyson who took a peek. Indeed the lady driver speaking to Konrad was fine. She was easy on the eye with a firm but pleasant manner. Leyson lowered the lens as a 'zoning' presence seemed to come over him; drowning out the background noise. He relaxed and focused on the unfolding scene, seeing it move closer in his mind’s eye. Konrad stood there, leaning into the window slightly. The distant sight of them corresponded to the flow of his zoomed-in vision. His mental view moved in further while he stayed motionless. “Joey's charming her and she him,” Leyson spoke on, barely hearing Spencer's words. “Most hitched women don't respond to that in the wilderness. She's not got a man and she'll be open to our way and the Hold.” Leyson’s mind and psyche were almost speaking through him. The technician said nothing. It was loosely rumored that Leyson had a kind of intuition bordering on the esoteric. Oakley was said to have 'The Touch' on matters of the big picture, future foresight and vision but Leyson was more of a focused observer, able to see between the visions, between the pictures. Being an open-minded skeptic Spencer fought the urge to say something. Leyson went on muttering. “The kids are grown up nearly, but no father is around. He's gone now I think, killed fighting the desert folks.” The 'zone' was at a peak now in him as it flooded his mind with sprinkled gnosis. Spencer heard some footsteps from behind him. It was one of the other Rangers. He turned and pressed his finger to his lips and making a sign that Leyson was 'in a zone'. The scout looked puzzled at first, at least until Leyson spoke on then he too realized and listened. “Yes, fathers not here anymore...” Leyson went on, his words meaning more to him than the listeners. “But that's ok, because now he can be a father to them,” Leyson said. A buzz of emotion surged from his mid-torso up to his crown. At the stream barrier Konrad now finished talking with the driver and the pickup took off down the side track where it followed the right-hand bend, then disappeared into the dust. Konrad came back up the slope and was pleased. “What a woman!” Konrad said a-fire with energy. He couldn't stand still and went on about the blonde. “She's totally cool with what we're doing here! If I had known she had a cabin up here before...” “What did you find out about her?” Leyson spoke with a smile. “Her name's Sophie Morriene from Nevada. She's in that cabin around the next hill. You know the one Nuge couldn't get into. I said it'd be ok for her kids to come down and give us a hand. No harm in that right Adwin?” “No harm at all man.” Leyson smiled in response. “How long's she up here for?” “She said about a week or so.” Spencer now spoke. “Does she have a man?” He glanced over to Leyson after he'd said this, as if in test of his clairvoyance. “I didn't ask, but I saw no rings on her fingers. Used to live on an army base she told me, cool with hunting and shooting. I've got an invitation to the Cabin tonight for dinner, too bad you guys weren't with me eh?” Konrad chuckled with glee. He was like the cat that’d got the cream. “Yeah maybe, but we'd probably crowd your style anyway if we all showed up,” Leyson said. They palavered some more about things then Konrad skipped over to the partial cabin he was working on and got stuck back in. “The start of the love story for him I think.” Leyson chuckled. He went over to the fence again, checking the stability of the logs. Spencer joined him with wide goggle-eyes of amazement. “You really believe in what you just said. Just by watching her?” he asked incredulously. “Not saying I swear by it, just saying it as it comes.” “It's profiling right? Like what the Feds and Internal Security do?” Spencer asked, still partly skeptical, always searching for scientific answers. “Yeah, something like that Malcolm, something like that.” Leyson grinned, shaking his head. A romance indeed blossomed between Konrad and Morriene, one that seemed to strengthen them and gave purpose as he worked even harder and more relentlessly than before. Her children loved the work they were doing and seemed to give the place a youthful vitality. At the same time Morriene's cabin had some luxuries they were not quick to refuse; a hot water shower and a flush toilet being among them. They'd grown used to the mountain fatigue that plagued them, not quite completely but well enough. While complete equilibrium to the elevation they were at would take years, they were more than adjusted by now. The fence was now completed, allowing them to concentrate and focus on the cabins and the garden began to show signs of growth. The carrots took many weeks to bear a crop while the radishes sprouted much sooner, although for Leyson they tended to be of an acquired taste. Deer, elk, grouse and fish were the bulk of their meat diet which complimented the stored food and their caches nicely. On the day before The Fall came good news on Spencer’s commlink with the outside world. It was from Mike Oakley and he was almost ready to depart the plains. He'd gathered enough people to start the mountain settlement with nearly sixty folk in total. Leyson and the others had been concerned at the lack of communication but now their morale soared on hearing from him. “He's coming now!” one said. “Finally the man cometh,” spoke another. “He departs in the morning and should be here by nightfall,” Spencer confirmed, checking over his transcripts. Oakley had not spoken using vocal comms, but instead had sent the message coded via the transcrypt function common to the interweb. That night they'd celebrated in cheerful fashion and awaited the morning of the day Oakley and his folk would arrive. Oakley never came that day. For the dawning of the Blue Sun came instead; a bright-blue orb which blazed energy in all directions. Leyson saw it first from his lookout position on the mountain. It appeared in the northern sky, as bright as the sun, almost like it had risen prior to him noticing it. “What are you?” Leyson declared softly at the thing with a kind of knowing. “And what is it you bring to Terra?” The other dwellers of the gulch emerged from their sleeping places and joined him at the observation area. Awed by the sight of it at first, then later when they learned of its effects they saw it as a terrible beauty—the harbinger of a deadly new age. Mike Oakley wasn't going to make it on time after all. Communications were almost blocked out as waves of rippling static now filled the airwaves. Electrical components across the northern hemisphere were nullified, paralyzed and rendered useless. For reasons of location and elevation the effects seemed milder at the Hold but no less challenging. When the solar sun descended the Blue Sun remained, lighting the valley in a dull blue fire. When the moons light emerged the mix in lights seemed to set the orb on fire like there was a celestial duel taking place of some kind, creating a display of dancing, moving and shimmering crescents on the surface. As the moon rose further, the orb descended out of sight, its power seemingly spent. Spencer was able to fine-tune the radio equipment. This along with the interference reducing at nightfall meant details from the outside world were apparent. “It's chaos out there Leyson. Everything's ground to a halt, satellites are down and anarchy's taken over!” Spencer declared boldly. “The States are breaking up and it's every man for himself!” “It's a new beginning then,” Leyson said surmising things. “I think deep down we all expected something was gonna happen, it's just a bit sooner than we'd have liked.” “The world deserved this, given how rotten it is,” Konrad scorned with more than a few noises in agreement. “Maybe, but what of Mike and the others, have you received word?” Leyson said, concerned for their patron. “He's out of range on the radio comms. If he's been exposed on the road in the convoy…” Spencer said regrettably, not wanting to say what he felt. “I just hope he's not caught in it too bad.” “What about the web can you get on that?” Leyson asked changing the subject. “Well cyberspace is down on all servers, I tested a cheap minicomputer I had stashed outside and it was totally dead. Even under the cage it wouldn't restart. All our other stuff is ok though. At nightfall, even with reduced power from that orb-thing it's still not quite safe for electronics. There's still interference but not as bad.” Leyson nodded. One thing he'd been diligent about was keeping the computer systems under a faraday cage. All their vehicles were pre-microchipped diesel engines and thankfully unaffected. “Imagine the damage on unsuspecting areas like cities! The massive server farms, the world’s mainframe servers and all sorts of other things will be scrambled. Possibly even the hardened and shielded government ones!” Spencer said conclusively before carrying on. “I heard this weird transmission from somewhere in the night, maybe from a military frequency, I couldn't be sure. It was saying 'Terra's Edge' over and over before it shut off.” “Terra's Edge?” Leyson repeated to himself before turning to Konrad. “Any planes Joey?” “None, nothing's passed over.” “This is the real thing and we all know Oakley's orders,” Leyson said then spoke directly to Konrad. “The Mountain Hold has to be sealed off. You'd better let Sophie know before we do it. That way it can be her choice to leave the easy way than through the ATV trail.” “Will do man. I think she's staying so it should be good.” “Oh and Joey…” Leyson spoke on what needed to be said. “In the morning we elect a caretaker leader.” Leyson looked briefly at the notes Oakley had left for him, he held them up to emphasize what he meant. Konrad nodded. “I’ll let the others know.” The next morning all of the people came to the gathering, including Morriene and her children. She was more worried than the others, but with Konrad’s help was holding it together. Behind them, like a strange heavenly presence was the Blue Sun, it had returned with the sun’s approach. The strange orb seemed to have risen a few hours earlier for the blue rays had mingled with the fading moonlight and solar dawn. The effect was a unique and strange color contrast that lingered in the sky for about three hours or so. Under that light of the apocalypse Leyson read out the instructions left by Oakley. “Should I not return and a collapse occurs you must elect a Caretaker leader and seal off the way in. We can't risk the hordes from the outside world swamping the place, looting and killing, so cut down trees and block off access. Hopefully I will make it through and hold the line with you, but if I cannot you must complete my work transforming this once mountain gulch and valley into a Mountain Hold...” The notes went on detailing how they'd elect a leader. After some banter and palaver votes were cast and Leyson, by a comfortable margin was made Caretaker of the Mountain Hold. Some were not happy about sealing the land off so soon though, not least Spencer and Konrad. Leyson agreed to a compromise of waiting until after the Blue Sun descended. When there was still no sign of their leader it was time to lockdown the Hold. They dragged three of the biggest trees they'd felled all the way out to the edge of the private road that led to the highway. The orb descended from the northern horizon as it had the previous night. It moved in a lazy way taking its time to ascend and descend for each cycle it made. Some speculated it was some kind of a strange craft which lurked in the icy polar wilderness. Others felt that it emerged like an entity of the earth, perhaps sent by forces beyond comprehension to bring about change. Whatever the orb was it repeated the slow pattern of rise and fall for nearly a month. “I think the Blue Sun is interfacing with Terra's geomagnetic field somehow,” Spencer explained keenly. “Maybe even realigning it, and just as the wave of interference begins to fade after midnight, it returns at daybreak to resume what it's been doing.” “Maybe, or it could have been sent to bring about a shift to a new age,” Morriene said with an etheric vibe. “That could have been the meaning behind that mystery message you heard. 'Terra's Edge' could mean that the world of Terra is at the edge of a new paradigm and this Blue Sun is the way into it.” She looked at them all for a response. “I never looked at it that way Sophie,” Konrad said. “It could well be the thing that allows us to find a better balance…” Leyson spoke like another was telling him from beyond. “But when an age passes and a new one takes over there is often great violence and conflict as one side fights against the other.” “Yeah, like when Atlantis was supposed to have fallen beneath the waves. Only this time it’s not liquid but maybe something on a different level…” Spencer said as his mind wandered off. He indeed wondered if the electrical collapse and breakdown was just another cyclical pattern in Terra's turbulent history. By day twenty-five only routine survivalist frequencies of varying cordiality made for tentative communications. Spencer kept detailed logs of the chaotic happenings and changes, only a few military communications were still operating for the most part. They would have been worth listening to had they not been so far from the Mountain Hold and vague. Spencer once heard a far-off, transmission from an 'Outpost 109' though. “Outpost 109 this is Mountain Hold,” Spencer called out. “Just reading you Mountain Hold,” a voice distantly answered. Then the transmission faded and all he could do was make a log of it along with the other entries. Perhaps Outpost 109 was another place in the high places like them, but then he began picking up signals from elsewhere. In the cities a form of borderline anarchy reigned. Some of the transmissions made for morbid entertainment. A functioning radio station in St Louis had been taken over by a charismatic gang speaker called Jangleweed. For a week he raved and bopped about this and that, justifying their many 'erotic' incidents, battles and tribulations with a barrage of ebonic-like euphemisms complete with 'guest speakers'. Then Jangleweed stopped transmitting and a more militant Nation of Rabia man took his place. He warned all who listened that the city was theirs and the 'Edomites,' as he called European folk, were outlaws and to be shot on sight. Following that the station stopped transmitting. By Spencer's reckoning the death toll from all manner of causes was beyond reason, many millions across the western world, more so in the second and third world. That number was bound to rise. Complicated infrastructures and utilities that had seen no maintenance were now systematically failing. With few technicians and workers able to fix the issues, the delicate strands of technology and capitalist-driven civilization soon fell to pieces. Warlords, gangs and rogue enforcers now ruled what was left of nearly all the cities in the USA. Europe was more factional with wealthy families, upper-class elites and high-ranking generals taking great slices of territory and resources. The cyberspace world returned, albeit in a slow-to-restore fashion and one that was much more restrictive to geographical landmasses. Vehicles that were old enough not to rely on delicate computer hardware were returned to a semblance of order. The hydrocarbons they relied on were scarce though, with the remaining sources and refineries being jealously guarded. At the Hold their ancient pickups were like precious relics and only Morriene’s ATV would start at her cabin, compared to her now lifeless pickup. Spencer put that down to her cabin having no trees for her pickup to shelter underneath. It went against his logic but it seemed that organic compounds like trees, along with high altitude, dampened the effects of the Blue Sun. Overall the Hold was one of the few areas best placed to take on the challenges of the New World. The next few months saw the Mountain Hold develop and attain a look of permanence. The animals on the mountain, despite the strange radio reports elsewhere were unharmed. Wild game was hunted, carefully stored, cabin's known to be abandoned were scavenged. Notes were left in the unlikely case of the occupants returning to their abode. These explained why and where their items were to be found. No one showed up to claim their supplies though and the once valuable and wealthy holiday cabins were now useless to their former owners. Many of which were now dead or in positions disagreeable to travel. Then, just as they were getting used to it, the Blue Sun set one night with the waning of the moon to never emerge from the northern lands again. It had been like a third power in the sky, fighting against moon and sun but now it was as if its work was done and the powers of the world resumed their purpose in a new Terra. Leyson was almost lost in the memory train and his head rested against the tree trunk. A quiet voice in him seemed to speak and he emerged from his snooze and saw it was well after nightfall. Leyson's eyes struggled to focus on the fallen trees south of the observation point. He saw movement and readied his rifle – then there was a great flash of light from the fallen barricade. A flare burst up into the sky giving off a reddish-glow. It revealed figures more than faces but Leyson took a moment to realize the flares significance. It was a signal flare meant to let him know they had arrived. He dropped his rifle and took up his torch and signaled back with it. After a few seconds pause another flare erupted. This was not a sky flare but a hand-held one which lit up the bearer like an otherworldly beacon. There standing with figures to his side and behind him was Mike Oakley. Looking like a mountain prophet who had returned with knowledge to spread and tales to tell. Leyson had almost given up on ever seeing the man again and had been mulling the thought of assuming leadership fully of the Mountain Hold. Now though Oakley strode forwards grinning at last. He had finally returned to his beloved Mountain Hold and with the fiery wand still blazing in his hand he and dozens more clambered over the trees and branches. As they stepped onto their promised land Oakley’s Folk had finally been brought home.

[Shankbot de Bodemloze]

Nice to read a bit about the background of events leading up to the collapse, has raised a few more questions though... how did Mike know to prepare? And what caused this 3rd power to appear and then disappear as well. Good job.

[Sir Hawkwood]

Chapter 5

Chapter 5 The Hold Prospers Aspen leaves began to gather as autumn crept into the cusp of winter. The first truly cold winds began to blow through the distant valleys with gathering howls, even the plains below grew chilly in the silent hours. In the month that had passed since Oakley's return the remaining crude shelters had slowly grown into fledgling cabins. There was a good mix of people at the Hold. The ones that Oakley had brought with him tended to be hardy, and able to stand up to the rigors of the climate and settle the mountain. An unerring instinct had carried him to choose those with the right stuff to enter his new world and this had paid off dividends. People got on with their work and did not shirk or shy away from the hardship. The Crafting folk had seen to setting up a greenhouse cabin. Its many glass panels were set up with wooden shuttering that would later protect against the winter snow. Yet for the time being it was helping to produce the last vegetables of the growing season. Augmenting the cottage industry were furs and skins from the hunting that would be bartered with in Tonswater. The Crafters and Armsmen worked on the workshops along with a forge that was half-finished. An abandoned gold mine was explored fully just outside of the Hold. It was mostly mined-out at an industrial level but some gold could still be panned for in the rivers that ran down by it. Some weeks passed and they slowly became more savvy and skilled in the ways of their ancestors. Across the nation that was once America the changes continued. It now became ruggedly individualistic from the Midwest along to the Pacific Northwest. Those states were now fully independent, yet now formed the principles of a republic. From what was left of the towns and cities tentative bonds of alliance were formed. These would become essential for long-term trade and friendship, while keeping out of each other's business as was the natural way. For the Hold it was through contact with Tonswater that they themselves would sluggishly keep up to speed on the developments taking place elsewhere in the world. The fragmented, tatters of the union still lingered—in some places far to the east like New England a degree of greater co-operation now existed with city coalitions and alliances. Much of the southern states were a loss for the most part—savage behavior and animosity rampaged throughout the cities there. Much of Texas and Arizona were made up of homestead and town enclaves; islands of civilization against the seas of hostility. Further north along the west coast brutish warlords and enforcer gangs imposed their rule on the surviving populace. A rudimentary rule of law was now battered into the minds of their denizen subjects there. In Canada the flicker of what once was remained but only just and in the cities, much like other areas, it was a mish-mash of multicultural chaos. Across the former Plains States though, the way of the homestead farmer, ranchman and rural townie prospered in comparison. It was still a challenge as half of them suffered grief from gasoline shortages for the farming machinery still operating, along with the working transportation. Those who were wise enough to stockpile supplies stood a better chance though, as did those who could farm with raw animal power. What was left of the internet now completely shifted into a geographically-restricted Nexus or Nex for short. For the name 'internet' was mostly put aside as the more landmass-centric Nexus took precedent. The Nexus was somewhat slower than before but it still allowed much of what was on the old systems to be transferred. Thanks to the surviving technicians and other wise folk the foundation framework and basic protocols were established, allowing the Nexus to take form. Nevertheless it was an ongoing mammoth task and one that would take years to complete fully. Oakley and his people heard from Tonswater that television was now nearly obsolete. The broadcasting stations that were key to relaying the signals fell silent. Like water washing away the sticky dregs of a container its way of life passed on also. Most were now burnt out, gutted or abandoned; those that remained were relegated to automated short-range broadcasts. New terms describing the changed America became spoken of more and more. First it was The Independent States of America or ISA. Another was the Isolationists or Isols. While this had some popularity it was far from general acceptance. Then a new term was used that seemed to encompass the zeitgeist now enveloping the land. The Independent States And Republics were declared by a majority of the Plains and Pacific Northwest territories. In its shortened form 'ISTAR' or even 'ISAR' became the colloquial term used instead of the long-winded version. To those outside the ISTAR strongholds, the name generated emotions ranging from jealous hatred to a beacon of freedom. Fuel was one of the new forms of currency. Certain areas of the land had vast hydrocarbon reserves untapped like Wyoming, Texas, North Dakota and Montana. Refineries were jealously guarded along with the drilling zones. Bullets, goods, food and to a lesser extent gold and silver were other acceptable mediums of exchange. What was left of the police force became enforcers and lingered on in cities that had survived The Fall. They did little more than posture and enforce the laws of the local ruler though typically. Outside in the wilderness zones a man made his own law. Any sporadic presence of the enforcers was tolerated for only so long, before it was unwelcome. Once any patrolling enforcer squad departed an outlying area, the true natural law of the land returned. For the Mountain Hold territory Oakley's Law was very simple: Do not murder. Do not injure. Do not steal from another. Any who did such a thing would be put on trial by the entire community. At the Hold there was little to no strife in this regard though; their numbers were small and they all strived to make their lot in life better. Including the new arrivals the Mountain Hold's numbers had swelled to just under sixty men, women and children. Sentries kept a vigilant watch at the outreaches. With their rifles ready and eyes sharp for movement the very mood of man had assumed the way of the warrior from that of the menial worker. They had seen that while the good folk stayed mostly good, the evil and dark ones seemingly plunged into greater evil and savagery. During the evening hours a fire would be lit for them all to gather around and wind-down from the chores of the day. Oakley sometimes secretly watched from the trees and high vantage points as the Mountain Hold took shape. Each new section of fencing and cabin was like a force of nature expanding from a former self. At the midnight hour through to the early hours of dawn Oakley would glimpse the unseen worlds and forces of The Beyond. Amidst that symphonic cyclic ballet of the outer realms he would learn and make his way. As far as he could tell the world of Terra was indeed a crucible where two forces were in eternal contention. Either one side or the other would survive and reign dominant. Those in the middle would lean one way or another as their fate dictated. The strange new orb seemed like an impartial divine force that brought about the sides into their respective factions. Degrading chaos on the one side, burning ways of the light on the other; together they made the truth that two opposites could never truly co-exist. Oakley saw neither as 'evil', but he also knew that from the dawn of time both were destined to clash or fight it out. For better or worse one would have to become dominant in some form or another. Caught between it all was Terra—a middle ground for these eternal powers fighting it out in an orchestral wave of magnitudes. Oakley muttered and rambled a bit as he recovered from his outer-trance and recomposed himself. The others knew better than to disturb him for he could become like a gruff and unfriendly bear if he desired his own company. For now though his spirit wandering was at an end and he moved to be more among the others. A few brief flurries of snow were starting to set in more often now. The coming winter would be a test, but then so would there be a test for all others in Terra, in one form or another. A set of three flickering fires caught his eye; the settlers often gathered at them in the evening, once the work was done it was time to relax before retiring to their cabins. He too needed to relax and perhaps mix with them some more, but for the Oakley he was not one to relax easily even when he felt it was necessary. There was always something pushing him on. Perhaps once a watchtower was built overlooking the distant state highway he would relax more. For now though the burden of the Mountain Hold rested on him, and Oakley could not drop into easy-living or complacency while things elsewhere were in a state of flux. Several of the mountain-dwellers gathered at the fire as they always did in the evening. The three gathering fires flickered and blazed in the Hold. One at the spring-source, another at the gateway but it was at the middle one where many gathered. “So where did he come from then?” Morriene asked curiously. “This Mike Oakley seems so mysterious.” “Years back Mike told me he’s from north-east of here,” Danley said. “He said once he knew the world was goin’ all to hell he might as well do something about it.” “But it's so high up and remote here. Cabins like mine are ok for summer but in winter?” she said in disbelief. “High mountains have always been a rock and a sanctuary for our people if you find the right ones,” Danley said. “Here is one of those places—it has a micro-climate extending the growing season slightly, plentiful game returning each spring and the shelters will keep us warm and safe. We’ve got plenty of wood and dead trees too for firewood.” “He gathered so many people up here, it's just amazing with what's going on elsewhere,” Morriene exclaimed. “That's Oakley; he carries a kind of 'force' or 'power' with him. It's hard to explain,” Leyson spoke. “It's like he knows how to find and get something to happen when it has to happen. Now he's succeeded in getting the Mountain Hold going he is resting and waiting for the spring to come.” “What then?” the woman asked curiously. “Hopefully we can complete the Mountain Hold's defenses for the coming year. As you know the winter snow will isolate us completely then from what's left of the outside world. Vehicles will be paralyzed in these mountains, even tracked vehicles would struggle. Those on foot would flounder to an uncertain fate, unless they're prepared with snow-shoes and skis,” Leyson explained. “What about the long-term though? Does Mike want us to live here until the end of our days?” Morriene wondered. “No one is a prisoner here,” Danley now said in an upbeat manner. “We've already discussed this very thing. Anyone wishing to go down to Tonswater and elsewhere is free to do so. But don't expect an easy time of it.” “What do you mean? Things are getting back together again aren't they? It'll surely be going back to how it was?” Morriene was a decent, if somewhat naive woman. Her optimism hadn't been crushed, despite her husband being killed in the desert conflicts. Indeed she still had some of the lingering 'American Dream' that cushioned her mind from the hard realities of post-apocalyptic life elsewhere. “There's no going back now,” Leyson said firmly. “The previous age is done for and finished. Raiders, bandits and every other kind of vermin roam the land. Once the Hold is firmly established and trade links are formed things will be more clear and stable. Expeditions to other places, even towns that are friendly can take place. Oakley has long-term plans for future Lowland Holds where we can raise livestock and farm, areas that are better suited to craft and trade with others. Perhaps one day we'll be able to take over a town or even a city from raiders and use it for our own people. Then we can look to reaching out to other areas. Yet that is over-the-horizon talk right at the moment,” he concluded. Barber picked up the tune of the conversation and now spoke. “We're sending one last supply convoy down to Tonswater tomorrow. We can pick up any extras we might need then we'll be on our own,” the Ranger said. “I thought the way in and out of the Hold was blocked off now?” Morriene said curiously. “It is, but there's a narrow off-road trail that we can use to cut through the forests and reach the state highway,” Barber explained. “Unless someone has a detailed knowledge of the area you'd never know there was another way up here. The trail doesn't even show up on archived maps we have of the area but when it snows deep even that’s impassable.” A silence had begun to set in when Oakley approached the gathering fire with McKaiser who carried some papers he was showing to him. Their coming brought a silence to the conversation and palaver. “Why are you all so quiet, do I seem like the mountain king?” Oakley jested lightening the mood somewhat with laughter. They sat and discussed the supply run along with the logistics. Previously a stored bicycle on the mountain meant one of the scouts was able to make a trial run to Tonswater the previous week. He brought back a list of desired goods they'd be willing to trade with the Hold. “To Tonswater tomorrow then,” Oakley spoke decisively. “Then we settle in for the winter season.”

[Sir Hawkwood]

The next stage unfolds, fasted your 'seatbelt'

Chapter 6

Chapter 6 Farsigns The next morning the three vehicles headed away early and the morning frost still clung to the ground bitterly. Exiting the mountains was a slow process but none of the convoy ended up stuck or in turmoil. They made numerous turns and descents down steep dips and twists. After twenty minutes of this the trail joined onto a broader dirt road. Following the road for a couple of miles saw them finally reach the state highway. Then it was a left-turn from there to take them on their way to Tonswater. In the leading vehicle Barber accompanied Oakley. Leyson drove the second with McKaiser, while in the third was Konrad and his wife Morriene. Oakley did not drive but was a passenger while the silent Range Warrior Barber drove him. Mike Oakley was on edge, not for the descent and travel to Tonswater. It was much more profound than a mere supply run. The previous visions in the night had been bothersome. Even now his mind went over them as a diligent scholar goes over and interprets papers scrawled by frenzied soothsayers. Great signs and doings were afoot on Terra. Powerful beings were now taking shape and intruding. The way of subterfuge and insidious methods were now becoming auxiliary to naked force and aggression. He was going over his minds memory when he felt a gentle tugging at his being from within, like something wished to guide him away from his body. He inwardly focused then his spirit was whisked far to the east so fast he was near-overwhelmed. He was like a high bird looking down at the green and beige terrain of Wyoming. Next he left behind the Rocky Mountains, the Mid-West and the landmass of America as the strange force took him over the ocean. By the time he’d reached Europa it was a blur and it kept on going. Finally the force slowed and stopped. Below him plains and the sliver of a mountain range were visible. It was Eurasia but exactly where was uncertain given the formless nature of the place. 'Why am I being shown this grassy steppe of nothing?' He wondered. The force that carried him now took him lower and towards the tiny mountain range. These barely formed one side of a valley and were almost swallowed up by the vastness of the Eurasian Steppe. He was taken down to bird height now and heard the wind whooshing by, yet felt no chill or buffeting as he moved lower. Apart from a few foothills to the west the terrain was depressingly flat between him and the mountains he faced. 'Not much character here compared to the Hold.' Oakley thought consciously. Indeed he was about to make efforts to return to his body when a flash of bright light surged out from the south face of the mountain. Smoke poured forth and he moved in closer. Here he saw an emerging army move out like large black grains of rice. His vision knowledge told him this was one of the opposing forces, or at least a representation or element of it. Oakley was taken lower until he was roughly the height of a tall tree. At this point he was more freely hovering under his own power—the force that had brought him now seemingly departed. He consciously moved forwards seeing the mass of movement up close. There were three figures that moved ahead of the strong force. He saw the biggest one leading them was a giant creature nearly eight-feet tall and it resembled an abomination of creature fused with man. He could look only for a few seconds such was the jutting, beak-like face of the swarthy creature. A dark carapace of body, arms and legs seemed to make up the bulk of it. This was no leader though, no doubt a fighting beast for slaying and guarding those that flanked it. More machine than organic or was it more organic than machine? The second one next to it was the real holder of power, one who commanded such things. It also was a giant, albeit shorter than the first creature and there was a more human-esque way about its looks. Yet even these appeared an exaggeration, almost a mockery to what normal folk resemble. The figure was clad with robes hiding a powerful frame, with cybernetic arms and a swarthy face which radiated evil. Inclined eye sockets bulged out slightly as beady reddish-black eyes emanated a peculiar glare. A plate of black metal seemed to be melded over one cheek and a chunk of skull above the eyes had a section missing. In its place a cage glistened as an expanded, pulsating, brain-organ pumped within. The helmet it wore hid any hair so Oakley could not guess the color, but he suspected it was hairless. It wore a bulky backpack and carried holstered weaponry. It hefted a huge standard with a great array of shapes and circles upon it. It spoke to the other two in a bold, guttural and whining way, as alien as it was unsettling. He drifted closer and closer to see them before their people. The ruler now gave an erupting howl no human could fathom and planted the great metal standard into the lush green earth. As the shrieking echo faded his army before him hailed him over and over. This went on for a few minutes. Then came more doings from the enemy before him. The machine-like one now raised its metallic arms wide. It pointed in both directions to the east and west before giving another weird shriek. The third was a more European looking man who grinned with a fair face and lucid blue eyes. Charisma and the mark of a politician were about this one. He now spoke, much in the same tongue as the leader had, yet in a vaguely familiar accent. This speaker had more a beguiling way and led on a passionate exclaim about something. With shifty, slight gestures, hand-shaping and head tilting the rowdy soldiers now settled down, seemingly transfixed by the man's ways. Oakley had seen enough of the leader trio and looked at the rank and file, wondering what their measure was. All were armed with long guns; bolt-action and semi-auto types he was not fully familiar with. It was as if they'd developed weaponry from areas of their own making but in a crude copy or imitation of the surface world’s technologies. He could tell that they lacked the precision for more finely crafted things. The small army all wore armor though, but it was one that dehumanized the warrior to a brutish form of an armored soldier. Even by Oakley's own disdain for state armies they were a foul-natured lot. The multitude of faces that stared at the speaker was of an infinite admixture of racial types and blends. Their swarthy brown and black faces peered out from raised helm visors. Occasionally he'd glimpse a fairer, more European face amid the horde below. Yet even that seemed feral and hostile; like it was recalcitrant and at war with whatever the group as a whole dictated. Sneering ways with a cruel aspect seemed a commonplace trait. Reassuringly they were of average height and build for the most part. He saw though that the rear most ranks were a foot or so taller with an even tougher emphasis. These ones seemed the elite or veterans of the formation, silent and somber with a brooding edge, there was a way of contrast from the others. They were totally encased in helmets so there was no telling what they looked like. Truly though these were a detestable brood as a whole. The chanting resumed and he could make out a word being shouted again and again now. “Saken! Saken! Saken!” It went on without end and Oakley had seen and heard enough. He made moves to flee and pulled with his spirit to soar up and away, but a force had anchored to him from behind and was somehow restricting him. He'd drifted much closer than he dared now, almost over the top of them by about thirty feet or so. He became unsettled and anxious. Oakley suddenly heard a bellow from behind him and then the force which had guided him returned and pushed him forward. Like a rocket he rushed deeper into the mountain opening. Barber drove over the cattle grid gateway, his military mind kept his ever-flickering eyes this way and that. Looking like a hawk does for movement and prey as the convoy rumbled on ahead. A movement off to his right disturbed his train of focus. It was Oakley's gnarled hand reaching forward and it gripped the plastic of the upper glovebox. Barber was about to say something when Oakley slumped forward and he stared into space with eyes that were glassy; seeing yet unseeing. It was one of his 'seizures' or 'knowings' as Oakley called them. He'd confided in few but his trusted inner circle of this; Barber being one of them. Without his 'knowings' over the course of many years the Mountain Hold would have been a distant dream. Leyson was another they knew to have a strange kind of insight, but Oakley's was the real deal and as long as he had it they all had a fighting chance at what this brave new world they'd entered. 'What do you see in that strange world of yours?' Barber wondered. Then took his mind back to doing what he was best at and looked ahead for more potential danger. As if in answer Oakley made some loud mutterings. “Passages...passages...all over the place...all over Terra perhaps?” he said from an absent body. Barber reckoned he was about wake-up into this world again, but then Oakley lapsed back into the strange trance. Barber knew better than to halt the vehicle or wake him up. Oakley had given them strict instructions that if he was to have a 'knowing' come over him no one was to interfere or rouse him in anyway. The convoy now exited the national forest area. They were three quarters of the way to Tonswater, and only the bare hills of Wyoming now lay before them. Barber hoped Oakley was through with his trance-like business then, otherwise it might look odd to the townsfolk. “I'll have to wake him before then, no matter what happens,” Barber said quietly as he drove them onwards. Oakley's glazed eyes looked forward blindly from his body as his spiritual essence plunged deep into the mountain. With the strange force pushing him from behind it was all that he could do to keep looking ahead and to the sides somewhat. The passageways were roughly hewn at the entrance he'd rushed through and were as wide as a highway. Dim blue lights set into the walls let him see well ahead as the charged force of energy drove him onwards. Several bends in the tunnel caused him to lose his sense of direction as the jagged tunnel slowly changed into smoother formed passageway. He stopped trying to memorize a route back to the entrance and relaxed to let whatever it was bear him onwards. High ceilings of arched rock were seemingly fused to the sides like a melded join and they loomed above him. All the while below him were great lengths of metallic track disappearing into the distance. Ahead of Oakley the passageway broadened out further as squat gray buildings came into sight. They were ugly and harsh on the eye, built for the sole purpose of a utilitarian nature. The railway lines carried on through the building settlement where there were strange-looking trains with small vehicles of metal sat upon them. Milling around these were more figures like those he'd seen outside. Off to one side an area of twenty or so prostrate creatures lay on slabs. At first he thought them to be dead bodies but several were moving and struggling. Oakley wondered if they were prisoners. Then he noticed their split limbs and ragged wounds showing signs of torture. Some shoddy, shambling figures were walking from the wall towards them with a crowd following behind. Not soldiers so much as onlookers he guessed. He just made out an opening in the wall they'd exited from. 'They aren't just passing through these underground places, they live among them!' Oakley realized in amazement. He looked away from the misery of the scene as the way station passed underneath. Machine-like was the best way his psyche could interpret the place. He took one good look at a central building that hummed with noise—great tubes flowed out of it, along the ground, the walls, and up through the ceiling. Then the strange energy behind him accelerated forward and they were gone from the place. The force behind him slowed down as far ahead the tunnel opened into various sweeping junctions. The first one on the right he was carried through, the blue tunnel lights changed to white ones here. Then the speed of the thing behind him increased until his vision could barely cope. The rushing lights gave him a throbbing pain which soon became a splitting one as the duration of this rapid flight lasted for nearly a minute. The speeding thing behind him now slowed again. Oakley tried to turn to look but found he was still anchored into seeing forwards, downwards and to the sides only. As the waves of pain in him subsided he saw the rail line ended and the ground beyond that was uneven and rocky. Crude shelters and small rail-aligned machines were parked to one side of the tunnel and some headed back the way he'd traveled. Countless beings below labored and worked at the area. 'They mean to extend the line.' Oakley surmised. Then he was past them and heading towards a cluster of heavy rocks the size of buildings which blocked the way ahead. Now the force behind him hesitated and slowed to a walking pace. Feeling the force slacken behind him Oakley risked a look behind him. Dazzling red, white and yellow light almost blinded him and he looked forward again. 'Hold still Oakley of the Mountain!' The voice in his head spoke that was not his own and as it echoed through him more words followed. 'Struggle free from my grip and you'll be exposed to them and risk pursuit! I need to find us a way through the rocks.' It cautioned. Oakley relented, somewhat reassured the force had some communication with him, he did not know why, but he inherently trusted in it now. He imagined that it was as much an intruder as he was in the strange world they passed through. 'There! I have it!' The thoughts passed into him again. 'Patience Oakley, we are nearly there now!' Oakley could not quite fathom the words that had come into him. It was as though it were an intention emitted and then translated by his spirit’s understanding. Along the smooth tunnel wall, about halfway up a large gap presented itself. Then the force behind him surged them through it and after a hundred yards or so they'd passed to the other side. Here the tunnel resumed its progress; there was no rail track now just bare and uneven rock. Yellowish-red lights blazed with an ethereal fire at the walls that denoted a change, possibly in location. Oakley wondered what fueled the fluttering flames. Then they accelerated again but not like the crazy speeds of before. He asked a few direct questions to the force, but there came no answer. No doubt it was too focused on its business of movement he surmised. There were more junctions like before and Oakley was taken via a right-hand curve which went back on itself a touch, then straightened again. This one was narrow, barely wide enough to accept a scout truck. After nearly five minutes the travel slowed completely as the tunnel ended and an ancient staircase led up to the surface. Now the guiding force spoke. 'This is your part of Terra mountain man. Now you’ve seen that the ills that afflict Eurasia will soon come to all parts of Terra!’ The thought translation sounded sad and desperate but then spoke on. ‘You must be ready!' 'I know this, but what does it mean?' Oakley asked broadly. 'What has failed to take over Terra in peace, must now attempt to do so in war. It must not succeed, for this is the Time of the Wolf!' It spoke this to him with a stronger force that buffeted his mind and spirit somewhat. Oakley felt his full range of movement return as he normally could when vision questing. He turned around and saw the entity light vanishing back the way they had traveled, faintly illuminating the way as it did so. Oakley resisted the urge to follow it, knowing it was time to move on. Coaxing his entity around to the staircase he moved up to it. The ascent was narrow with ancient steps that were somewhat worn and they led higher until the flaming lights from below faded and it was near-darkness. He went further up until after turning right, then left he emerged through a partially caved in opening. The frame that spanned the entrance was formidable and it was only forward from it that the cave-in was evident he noted. Oakley exited through it into the light. “Mike! Mike! We're at the Tonswater checkpoint!” a voice shouted through to him followed by a rough shake. Oakley felt like he was being stuffed into himself like a wave of buckshot. He shouted and screamed briefly, his arms flurried with suddenness. His follower expected a violent reaction though and coolly raised his arm as a few stray blows were blocked by it. When Oakley had calmed down he composed himself with some deep breathing and took in the view in front of him. Tonswater was before him with a closed gate and guards that looked in from a few dozen yards away. Barber turned the truck's music-player on and pretended to listen to its steady synth melody. From the gateway a militiaman bearing an AR-10 rifle came over to them with a look in his eye. Barber lowered the window. “You alright in there?” he quizzed carefully. The sentry had a strong kind of perception and saw something was amiss. “Yeah I just woke my buddy up with some of my music. It kinda jolted him around if you know what I mean,” Barber said with a laugh. “Oh right, I thought he was about to go crazy or something.” Oakley understood the subterfuge and made a sheepish grin and raised a hand in a throwaway gesture, all the while still processing all what he'd just been through. “Naah, just crazy from the Blue Sun like the rest of the world,” Barber jested before declaring their business. “We've got trade and supply business to do here, one of our guys came down last week about it.” The guard relaxed instantly. “Oh yeah, one of the others mentioned something about that.” The sentry half-gestured with the butt of his AR at them. “Are the other two vehicles behind you here for that as well?” “Yep,” Barber said casually, the guard went back to the metal paneled gateway for a minute or so. As soon as he was out of hearing range Barber dropped his pretense and turned to Oakley. “Mike you ok? I had to wake you, what's going on?” Barber hissed. “It's alright, you had to do what you had to do. I went in really deep that time though,” Oakley said. “You were talking all sorts of stuff, I couldn't help but hear you say a bunch about passages, tunnels and creatures. Then something about the Mountain Hold being right on top of—” Barber said before being cut off by Oakley. “I'll tell you later, right now it would be too much. Let's just get this trade out of the way and we can be back to the Hold.” Oakley nodded at the approaching guard who was returning from the side gate area. “Ok, you can come on through,” said the guardsman calling over to them. Barber eased the vehicle forward. Oakley knew that his vision was only the beginning of what awaited them. Like a dark cloud looming in his mind he now knew a very deadly force was being amassed, the only question was where would it be directed and what form it would take.

[Sir Hawkwood]

Factions of Terra's Edge - USA

[Sir Hawkwood]

Nice to read a bit about the background of events leading up to the collapse, has raised a few more questions though... how did Mike know to prepare? And what caused this 3rd power to appear and then disappear as well. Good job.

Thanks, Mike's a survivalist, fearing dark days of disaster will arrive in his lifetime and has had his remote survival retreat for many years...

As to the 3rd power? That will be revealed further down the saga's tale in book 3 or book 4.

[Sir Hawkwood]

Chapter 7

Chapter 7 Tonswater Lewis Connarsby, the Sheriff of Tonswater watched the convoy slowly enter Tonswater. With owl-like green eyes that had a frozen manner he gazed down from the tall sawmill watchtower. Formerly a kiln tower, now it had a wooden sheltered platform that ran completely around it. As Tonswater's highest point (the town hall's bell tower was a close second) it was the ideal place for overwatch. The watchtower was centrally positioned, albeit with a northern offset, around the main town buildings and was ideal for seeing that which approached from afar. To the north, nearly fifty miles away was the large trading town of Stellfeld. Distant hills which the northern highway curled around lay between them. East and west it was similar, although the west had the lion’s share of hills then steep mountains. He was secretly glad of Oakley and his folk being up there, as any advancing enemy from the west would surely be slowed up by them, giving Tonswater time to prepare at least. Having the tower meant they were master of all they surveyed—it was a fact not lost on the 'two-legged animals' they sometimes noticed skirting around from the south or east. Admittance to the town was carefully done with himself and Holzer both being excellent judges of a person's character. The guards at the western, northern and eastern gateways securely held the entranceways. They knew with the tower behind them someone was always watching their backs and at full capacity it could hold about eight men comfortably. The town walls themselves were not capable of being manned as battlements, however from the watchtower reinforcements could be directed to areas of the wall under threat. Their defenses hadn't really been tested yet, with luck and prayers he hoped they wouldn't be. The sheriff ran a hand through his thick reddish-brown hair. Connarsby felt like a lord looking down from a castle-town of old. He often reckoned this is how it was in the olden times for the most part—trade you could see, the people of the place more drawn in to an area and becoming in-tune with it. Tonswater had wells that still drew clean water inside the town and there was a river further to the east as well. Things were a lot simpler, yet instead of sword, halberd and bow they wielded pistol, shotgun and rifle. Horses were slowly returning as a more handy form of transport, especially where gasoline was scarcer. A rifleman called Riley Swenson was next to him watching the surroundings. He wore plainclothes and a brown cap in comparison to the sheriff's somewhat neater and smarter clothing which was his old uniform. There was a contrast but in the past day or so they'd grown used to each other. Swenson glassed the area with his binoculars; watching the distant hills to the north and the eastern highway occasionally. Normally there'd be at least three riflemen up on the tower, but several of them were out foraging for supplies. They'd been gone for a couple of days and were due back any day now. Connarsby had taken a place in their stead on the tower. It wasn't often a leader could ease off the burden of command, but a temporary break wasn't going to hurt anyone. His deputy Joe Martin could cope while he was holding high in the tower. Swenson was younger than Connarsby and like a keen predator in some ways. He had focused fair eyes that were never still; like they were always locking onto new potential targets. He was good with a rifle, quick off the mark and had one of the best long-gun weapons in town—an auto-loading battle rifle. It could lay down a hail of accurate fire from a twenty or even a thirty-round box magazine. Black and lengthy, some thought it a bit cumbersome and heavy compared to a bolt gun. Yet with the ocular scope mounted onto the twin-rail receiver it could hit a standing coyote at three hundred yards each and every time. The exact make Connarsby wasn't sure of, one of the gunsmiths in town referred to it as a 'PTR-91' or a 'G3 variant' in .308 Winchester. He himself was more of a traditionalist. He wore his .357 six shooter at the hip and relied upon his family heirloom, a Weatherby hunting rifle for long gun work. The latter weapon was chambered in plentiful .30-06 caliber. It was no lightweight caliber either, ideal for big game and raiders. Connarsby, was once a man with an authoritarian mindset, yet since the Blue Sun had been and gone was moving towards a 'do-what-you-gotta-do' attitude. For him though it was all about the town. Elsewhere he knew there were those that had changed to be much worse such as the gangbanger-scum, raiders and other troublesome evildoers. A report from Stellfeld told of a few deaths from an unknown attacker, not slain by firearms or archaic weaponry, but with tooth and claw. Connarsby knew only a glimmering of such doings, nothing of the sort had been suffered at Tonswater yet and he intended to keep it that way. He took a deep intake from the cigarette he lit up. The tobacco was the cheap stuff brought in from Stellfeld a couple of weeks ago. It tasted a bit rough and foul once the filter was saturated but was better than nothing. With a little luck the scavenger team would find some decent smokes this time. The past few months had been a helluva time for the world but Tonswater was doing alright. There'd been a few standoffs but no direct attacks, places to the south of them in Colorado were much worse in the eastern side. Denver was a hellhole, a no-go area with Redmond not being much better, they'd not heard much from Gelstown. That place was practically on lockdown he'd heard. To the north small amounts of refined gasoline were getting through weekly from Stellfeld which they traded for livestock and crafted goods. Stellfeld was a handy way station of a town with fuel services going out through it after they rested and recuperated on their way from the refinery. Merchant trading was the town’s specialty albeit with enough defenses to deter only the most determined of attackers. They were even rumored to have tracked armored vehicles. Connarsby knew for sure that they had about four armored pickup trucks that would escort the fuel tanker to and from the nearest oil refinery in Peterlee along the interstate. Connarsby hadn't traveled to the Peterlee refinery but Holzer had. He'd told of it being heavily guarded with not one but two mighty battle tanks guarding both entrances and a ring of outer defenses funneling any would-be attackers into a veritable killing ground. As if that were not ample defense he'd glimpsed a grounded helicopter and it looked air-capable. Although some of the naysayers reckoned it may have been affected by the Blue Sun. Sometimes Connarsby wished that Tonswater had an edge like the Peterlee refinery had or even Stellfeld. The owners and operators of the refinery were wealthy men and Stellfeld had always been a place whose coffers were swollen. First it had been the tourist trade, and then, in the aftermath of the collapse, an enterprising tanker service. The town even maintained its cottage industry of crafted luxury goods albeit in a smaller fashion. Yet Tonswater had its own merits that Stellfeld lacked, for his town had ample resources of timber and herd animals. With good Wyoming folk of ranching, farming and hunting stock there was liveliness to the place. They had a tough, small-town spirit—a legacy from the freedom ships that set sail from the Old World and the later armed uprising. In places like Tonswater it lived on. Although Stellfeld folk were often known to brag of their prosperity the sheriff knew them to be unrugged shopkeepers and traders for the most part. Additionally, unlike Tonswater, they lacked any semblance of a cohesive, fighting militia, save for a handful of merchant families rumored to own expensive and exotic arsenals secreted away in warehouses. He put aside the differences and thought of more immediate matters, the town's toll levy was mostly working now. They operated a policy of allowing those within a twelve mile radius to come and go as they pleased, those outside that distance had to pay or trade. It wasn't perfect but it allowed them to keep their heads above water. Neither Connarsby nor Holzer acted as absolute rulers—that wasn't their way of doing things, although they’d heard from of it being commonplace elsewhere. With Randy Holzer taking care of the day-to-day running of the town, the defense of Tonswater was firmly in Connarsby's hands along with Webb's Militia. So far things were going ok. Farming wasn't the area's strong point, but cattle and horse livestock were, along with the sawmill that kept on going. Electricity was still flowing also, but only during the daytime. After nightfall the generator station shut down, and smaller gasoline machines took over. That kept the flood lights blazing out into the night around the walls. For the houses themselves they had to make do with candlelight or their own independent systems of stored power for the silent hours. How the generator station had withstood the Blue Sun was unclear. The town's technicians reckoned it was because the place was so ancient and the machinery considered obsolete by 'modern' standards its very ruggedness was its safeguard. Indeed the ancient power generator had had the last laugh as most of the big power stations elsewhere had more delicate systems and components. These were fried and abandoned for the most part now. Those places that still worked were worth their weight in gold and jealously guarded, although not to the extent that the oil refineries were. The gateways of Tonswater weren't perfect—a set of eight foot, double-skinned sheet metal gateways that swung back and forth on hinges. They were timber-framed and enough to prevent livestock and predators slipping inside. For added protection each set of gateways had a pair of inoperable pickup trucks sitting adjacent on either side. They would be pushed into place should the gates require reinforcing. At nightfall Connarsby or one of his deputies often checked to ensure this was done as a routine. As an added bonus the guards behind the closed gates could use the pickup's truck bed to stand on for added defensive firepower against attackers. Then there were sandbags, 3/8 steel sheets and other materials which were emplaced behind the walls for additional protection. The walls themselves that ringed Tonswater had a height of around eight feet and were a considerable point of discussion. Initially a perimeter made up of several berms of compacted earthworks were thrown up, that way the townsfolk living in that region of the town would man them in case of attack. Behind that was the more substantial, recently completed fence-wall. Wooden ladders were used in the case of the walls being too far from the gateway areas so the earthworks could be manned promptly. In recent weeks another perimeter wall of wooden uprights and wire mesh sections on the interior was proposed. This along with inner gateway sections and patrolways was a bridge too far. The workers, having already labored on the many berms, earthworks and walls, said enough was enough. Besides the effort required some reckoned it would make the town look too much like a prison camp and Connarsby backed down. His good-hearted encouragements did see some folk reinforce their areas of the wall with a variety of bullet-stopping materials though. Finally a brainy young man called Eddy 'Salty' Solt came up with the plan of electrifying the fence. Connarsby and Holzer gave him the go-ahead. Within three weeks he and a few other technicians had it rigged up to the main generator plant. Isolation switches were put in place on the inside so townsfolk could safely man the earthworks. Anytime it rained the power had to be shut it off though and with the coming winter its effectiveness was questionable. By day though, with optimal conditions, they had enough current flowing through the thing to knock out an elephant. While at night, during the cool down of the primary power station, they had smaller ones plugged in to take up the electric duty, these being maintained by those who lived closest to the walls. They had a vested interest in keeping their generator working as the quiet hum would reassure sleeping Tonswater that the walls buzzed with violent energy. There was less juice going through it then but still enough to easily jolt a man about into unconsciousness. They'd had a bar brawl in town turn nasty only two weeks ago and it led to a militiaman nearly being killed and another badly cut. Connarsby and his deputy's swarmed the place and seized the guilty party, a town drunk called Rory Toobe who was known for a surly temper that turned violent when drunk. The sheriff struck on the idea that instead of a speedy trial followed by exile and forfeiture of possessions, a more 'energizing' crime deterrent was needed. The method he opted for being a punishment on the electric wall. Holzer reluctantly agreed to Connarsby's rough justice, with the condition of it being at nightfall and fast-counting the duration of five seconds being electrocuted. If he survived he could stay in town paying 'bondsman-service' to the injured man's family. Although he was a newcomer Toobe he'd won over a local woman and she was already pregnant with his child. After an hour of thinking about it Toobe consented. Connarsby remembered the moment like it was yesterday. The curious scene took place outside the walls so that if the malefactor lost heart it was plain he would be forever exiled. The sheriff personally threw the miscreant against the electric wall at nightfall. Two deputies flanking the man held him in place with wooden paddles as Holzer counted to five. There was a juddering shudder and frantic jerkings from the malefactor. At the fifth second two deputies on the inside of the wall, stood on ladders, pushed him off it with their staves. Toobe had suffered burns over his hands and face but nothing horrific, the shock of it had nearly sent him into cardiac arrest, but he soon came to with few buckets of water. He grumbled about it from time to time afterward, but he was not exiled as a man normally would be and agreed to the bondsman service for the man’s family for a year in recompense. Petty fighting has been quiet since the ‘wall of justice' went into action. Connarsby smiled to himself in an upbeat manner. He was about to daydream some more about past doings in the town when Swenson's voice shook him fully awake. “That Oakley's got a lot of secrets up in them mountains sheriff. Some of the boys are wantin' to follow-on up and see what he's got goin' on,” Swenson said. He regarded the small line of vehicles now parked outside the Trading Post. “Don't be gettin' any ideas now boy!” Connarsby snapped. “This ain't the easy times anymore for prankin' around. You go sniffin' up there and you'll likely get yourself taken care of and buried by his boys. Mountain folks aren't for tangling with, I've seen some of them and they ain't for messin'. As long as he minds his ways in town and causes us no bother I'm fine with him and so is Randy.” “I know that Lewis, but what does he and them folks do up there? Everyone else from around here is either here, out at the ranchlands, in Stellfeld or gone northwest. Every time one of them is in town it gets everyone talking.” “I've been sheriff in this town for over ten years and Oakley was already up there. I asked the previous sheriff and he told me that Oakley was there even when he'd just taken over. Now just as he's built up his world in the mountain we've got our world down here. They're far enough to be out of my crosshairs and near enough to be useful. Anyone that can lead fifty people up there from the hellzones of Colorado and thrive has my respect,” the sheriff said. “I get that Lewis but you must wonder how they're gonna survive the winter?” Swenson spoke in a reasoning manner now. “I wonder a lot of things. Must be they got a cozy thing going I guess,” he thought about it some more. “After the spring thaw, maybe I'll take a look, just to see all is well up there. I don't want him thinkin' we're out to squeeze in with him. In the meantime you keep yourself to the ten mile range when out on patrol. Those mountains can kill ya if they don't like your attitude,” he said sternly and Swenson nodded. Oakley had exited the lead vehicle now and was outside the trading post waiting for his co-driver to join him. Randy Holzer would either be inside already or away checking on his other stores. Trading time with Oakley was something Holzer looked forward to, he had an easy charm lacking compared to Connarsby's often blunt manner. Swenson's attention shifted to the eastern parts of the town. There he saw Beth, the girl with the angel eyes. She was another they knew so little about. She was walking from the woman's dorm building along towards the Trading Post. “There's angel eyes boss,” Swenson now perked-up seeing her move along. “You go on about her enough times Riley, has no one made sweet talk on her yet.” “A few of the boys have tried but she's cool-hearted. That an' she's kept away from the bar, won't join Dolly's gals working the cathouse and only comes to the grillhouse with the other women from the dorm. I don't think she drinks, or even smokes for that matter!” Swen said. “If I was twenty years younger I'd of had an answer by now from that lady. You boys need some coaching from us older folks on that I think.” The sheriff chuckled at this, stubbing out another cigarette. “When she arrived she might have been in some trouble elsewhere, maybe raiders got her and…” Swenson's voice trailed at this and Connarsby cut-in the silence. “I doubt it, she showed up armed with some antique pistol and handed over five rounds of nine mil. I figure she must have seen some stuff out east though, maybe run out of a town. With her looks one of the top dogs out there maybe made a rough move on her and so she had to scurry off a-wanderin'. She wouldn't be armed with a weapon like that if she'd been jumped.” “She told you all that?” Swenson said in wonder. He wasn't the brightest of sparks in some ways. “Nope, just something I figured from the kinda woman she is. She's not a country gal; too soft and refined. Not a big city gal either; there's no snooty-tooty bitchiness typical to them. Don't forget I happened to be at the gate when she showed up,” he answered, recalling the moment he'd first met Beth at the northern gate. His profiling mind took her in when she'd arrived in town looking for sanctuary. Connarsby had a good mind for faces and areas and she was definitely out-of-state stock with a distinct look. Fine, straight brown hair that reached to her shoulders and beautiful blue eyes that seemed in a poignant melancholy of knowing something. Beth’s face was proud, with a high forehead, serene features along with a classically European nose that framed a pleasantly-rounded chin. She was quite tall, at about six foot with a proportioned body and a fine prominent chest. Like nearly all of Tonswater she was undoubtedly of solid European ancestry but with an olde-worlde polish somehow. She was wearing some battered shoes, faded jeans and a dark green turtle top with a brown jacket. Half-starved, only carrying a daypack and walking in from the northern road she'd almost run out of food. When asked on her origin she was vague, only saying that she'd come in from the northeast, skirting past Stellfeld and rejoining the northern highway before heading south to find Tonswater. They'd almost turned her away at first and with good reason. The town was full, already they'd had to turn away a group of five fleeing trouble from the west a week ago. Those folks were armed and well equipped though, this woman was different, she was more vulnerable-looking and he had a moment of fear-guilt that if Tonswater turned her away, she'd not even make it west or back north to Stellfeld. Letting strays in with Tonswater being so full wasn't the best thing to do he knew. Yet seeing those sad pretty eyes imploring for shelter, even Connarsby's hardened heart was softened. The right thing to do prevailed and now she was safe; living at the ladies dorm where single women resided. Being single meant she was already a goal for many of the town suitors, but so far she'd remained aloof. The sheriff himself was already married as was Randy Holzer. Yet his wife had grown into a yowling battleaxe of a woman most days. He preferred to be out busy and getting stuff done in town without, than the home within. Beth never indicated where her next place would have been had he turned her away. Now seeing her going into the store made him think the woman was up to something.

[Scottish King]

Nice story u have here! I'm interested in what Oakley's visions mean and who is communicating with him! Eagerly awaiting the next update.

[Sir Hawkwood]

You got it SK!

Some music to set the scene

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-YoDY4muduA

Chapter 8

Chapter 8 The Coming Storm On entering the store Oakley found Holzer was not present and a wizened old woman was sitting in his usual stool instead. The rest of them followed behind him inside the building. The second ranger almost tripped on the wooden door stop causing Oakley to turn suddenly. As the heavy timber door swung shut they could hear the noises from the vehicle as items for trade were being removed and hefted about. These would be taken around the back of the building to the small warehouse entrance. He would usually oversee this but his mind was still unsettled and he inwardly knew that until he was back at the Mountain Hold he'd be somewhat on edge. He asked the old woman on Holzer's whereabouts and was told it would be a while before his return. Resigned to waiting he browsed the store like the old days and idly picked up some shotgun shells to check their type. They looked to be the new ones just in from Stellfeld judging by the markings. He had plenty of the same type up at the Hold though and looked over the general goods only briefly. The great junk ships from China and elsewhere in the east were a distant memory now as their vast bounty notorious for questionable quality degraded. Already the wear and tear on existing products was showing. Both Oakley and Holzer agreed that rugged and long-lasting clothing would be a form of new currency in the new age they were entering. Walking deeper inside to the cozy gloom he glanced up at the clothing racks. From the raw furs they'd bring down from the Mountain Hold the townsfolk would make them into wearable garments with buttons and sleeves, even fur-lined boots. Then the finished goods would make their way back up to the Mountain Hold. A prior agreement with Randy Holzer saw a portion of the finished garments be given back freely, with a barter reduction for the next five fur loads as compensation. Before Oakley hung the first fur garments ready for the coming winter. They were pleasing to the eye and touch—rabbit, coyote, fox and wolf made up the selection, with the latter two being the most desirable. A weapons rack to one side held an array of hunting rifles in various states of wear. Apart from one .308 scout-sniper model none matched the trusty Remington 700 he relied on. This day though saw him carrying his Savage Arms pump-action shotgun and his usual revolver sidearm. While some of his Rangers did tend to wear tactical attire, he was more comfortable with his camouflage shells in one pocket and rounds in one pocked with a spare cylinder of revolver ammo in another. Oakley was just about to move on when the door opened suddenly. It was a young woman who came striding in. Barber noticed her first and initially was taken aback by her fine appearance for the woman was eye-catching. Even in the worn garments hanging off her slender frame there was no look of the hollow refugee about her. She moved with purpose and deliberation that triggered his sense of protection for Oakley, who was like a father to them all. “Mr Oakley, I must speak with you,” her words carried and were in a strange accent. She'd almost crossed the full distance to the end of the store when Barber stepped into her, blocking her passage. He held her back with a left forearm outstretched and a right hand resting on his holstered pistol. “Who are you?” Barber asked softly, discretely looking her over for weaponry. It was unlikely there were any enemies in the town but Barber had a rare gift for staying sharp even when all seemed safe for them. The woman, in her twenties, was a radiant-looking lady. Tall, slender and fair, her long brown hair contrasted her face entirely. Hers was not a face marred by blemishes, bruises or cuts, nor broken or humbled by harsh abuses common elsewhere. It was her wide, deep-set blue eyes that had Barber shocked. They had an exquisite symmetry, and radiated a sweet and haunting beauty. So much so that it was hard for him to hold her gaze as close as they were. He looked aside and back again then remembered what he was about. 'Best frisk her to be sure,' he mused gruffly, not wanting to take chances. As he reached out a hand to check her body she recoiled from him like a startled deer. The movement saw her put distance between him and he feared for a moment she was about to start a fight or even draw a weapon. He tensed as her seemingly soft hands flinched to her belted side then went still. He almost drew and raised his sidearm but held his caution as the woman addressed him boldly. “Less clean hands than yours have tried to touch me warrior. All have failed!” she said with a blazing defiance in those shining eyes of hers. “I hear that, yet there are those who've tried to kill my leader lady. They failed partly because of people like me that are ready to cut them down without question. Now who are you?” he retorted with a cold fire driving his words. Yet Barber was impressed deep down, for he'd not expected such a warrior-esque response from one looking so soft and attractive. “I'm Beth, a refugee from elsewhere and I've traveled from beyond to come this far. I must speak with him, in private,” she implored. A pause and then Barber began to shake his head at her audacity and the extraordinary question. He knew Oakley was hardly a celebrity before the collapse, only in outdoor survival circles was he more well-known. Oakley often said he had a feeling for the dangerous and evil ones of the world. Many months ago they'd agreed on a 'sign' system to work out who was to be trusted wordlessly. Oakley made a sign of safety and Barber relaxed somewhat, raising his hands and stepping aside so the woman could pass the distance over to Oakley. “Alright Beth, let's hear what you've gotta say then,” Oakley said, his mind still brooding on the earlier visions. He gestured and they sat at a table there. Oakley listened as she spoke in hushed tones and whispers. Barber wanted to move closer but when he moved forward she made a startled face at him and stopped speaking, then curiously she asked him not to look at her directly and to give her some privacy. Oakley nodded in agreement and the Range Warrior reluctantly obeyed, he turned to browse idly while discretely remaining within range and making subtle looks now and again. It was quiet and private in the place as no other town people had entered the store so far. For at the hour they'd arrived the townsfolk tended to be busy with other things. Only at later hours from the midday onwards Holzer's general store became a focus of traffic. McKaiser and a few more came inside though and on seeing the woman they too wondered who she was. Barber went over to them and explained things, still hardly believing the woman’s interlude was happening. She looked over to them a few times but carried on her deep conversation with Oakley. Her voice and accent were indeed strange, soft and pleasing to the ear, yet otherworldly to those not used to it. The watchers kept a respectable distance as for a couple more minutes as the meeting of minds went on before concluding. Lesser folk than Oakley would have been overwhelmed and bewildered but not him, not with his foreknowledge of such matters. When she had finished talking Oakley nodded and tugged a few times on his beard, his eyes glimmered as they looked at her. “Beth, I've listened to you well. But now I need you to tell them what you have told me,” He declared with a solemn note, gesturing at the waiting watchers. Her face recoiled at this somewhat, then made eloquent and passionate words. “Michael, I have shared such secrets with you that are extraordinary and of delicate matters, only for the ears of a wise leader. To be passed down in time to those he leads,” she said with glances to the listeners. Barber and McKaiser caught the gist of it and looked warily at Beth in disagreement. Beth continued with an emphasis to them both. “With respect to your men, they won't believe my words.” Oakley shook his head. “These men before you are a band of brothers, my children of the Mountain Hold. I am their leader as a father only, not as a king or overlord,” he responded with deliberation and gravitas. “On what you speak I will not have secrets like this kept from my folk. You are speaking with free-thinking warriors not bonded soldiers or servants. If you can palaver with me, you can palaver with them.” Oakley spoke seldom like this and when he did it carried weight. “Before she speaks to you now, you know me well enough to trust my insight. I will say I've envisioned some of what Beth speaks of, so do not dismiss her out of hand. Now it's your turn Beth,” he said firmly to her, like a wise soothsayer presiding over the gathering. “Such are The Ways, very well Mike.” She relented her objection and took a deep breath. Beth started her ramble somewhat falteringly but soon found her voice. “The stories and news you are getting about strange beasts and forces arising elsewhere are only a fraction of the danger. There is an evil entering into this world—a deadly, vile and evil force that desires to control and enslave.” Beth was not a gifted speaker; her esoteric background was one for secrecy and hidden wisdom. Open displays of oratory were like distant lands in her mind. As it was her lofty, aloof words lacked impact and McKaiser bit back a sarcastic laugh. “There's always been evil here lady, right now I prefer whatever it is you speak about, before The Changing we had an out of control government, a police state and the whole country bankrupt. Maybe even on the verge of civil war,” McKaiser remarked despondently. “I know that!” she said with blue eyes flashing. “The dark forces of oppression both myself and my people hold no love for. Yet with this new age we have entered an even greater foe has taken its place. It wishes to finish what was started, but with a relentless scourge, an onslaught compared to that which you once hated.” Beth's mind blazed with yet more revelations but she held back. They were not quite ready for the full truth. “Well darlin' raiders, gangs and marauders are nothing new to the world and we're well prepared for that. Hell some of us even welcome it,” McKaiser said, chuckling a little at the thought. He was the great skeptic of the group; ever keen to have a scientific explanation for things. Mac took her for some runaway member of a highly-religious family trying to make sense of the world with wild ramblings and religious fervor. “They are nothing like these ones that are to come Teuton. Especially not when there is a passage leading right into your mountains,” she hissed the last three words quietly. McKaiser was taken aback, not only by the last part but by the fact that only a few of his brother rangers knew of his ancestry, for it did not show too greatly on his face, being of Scots-German descent mostly. He was about to remonstrate with Beth when Oakley held up his hand. “That's enough arguing now Mac, I have seen the passage just this morning before we reached town, how the Gods alone know but I've seen it. Beth, tell them something about your folk; those who've sent you,” Oakley said softly. Concern began to creep onto the listeners as Beth spoke on. “I and others represent the vanguard of a faction, one that is opposed to that which desires to destroy and enslave humanity. Though few in number we will side with good folks like you in the fight were we can.” She spoke high and mighty when she said it, with the gleam of alluring nobility. “Fair words lady,” Konrad spoke now. “But what does our Mountain Hold have to do with all this? We're in a remote area compared to most places in the world; we reject organized systems like most governments, armies and police enforcement. We're just wantin' to be left alone with our folk to see in whatever's coming. If what you say is true maybe you should try a bigger dog to fight for you?” “It doesn't work that way. There are certain, sacred areas of Terra. The place you call the Mountain Hold is one of them. Even this town has some signif—” A gunshot rang out from above, piercing her explanation. Beth stopped with a worried look on her face. “Brothers, to arms!” Oakley said now standing to raise his shotgun and chamber a shell. His warriors spread out in the store to take up positions at the windows. As he decided on things his men peered out into the daylight. The old lady at the far end of the store did calm their minds somewhat by saying that the tower guards would have rung the bell if raiders were sighted. They relaxed somewhat seeing no panic in the street and told Oakley. He still felt wary though. His earlier spirit-quest during the journey to Tonswater tied in with what Beth had told him. Only he and Beth remained at the table area and as she moved to see what the others were doing he brought the shotgun across her chest, blocking her from moving forward. With his other hand he rested it on the magnum revolver. “Oakley what—” She began to say in a pleading way but he spoke over her. “I'll ask you this once and once only Beth, if you mean my folk or mountain any harm you'd best say it now woman. You only get one chance with traitors and that's before they can do the deed,” he spoke with a hard heart. Yet he knew if he didn't act out his suspicions now there'd be no going back once they took her up to the Mountain Hold. She resisted briefly but Oakley held the shotgun in an iron grip, preventing her moving forward to the others. She answered him with a surreal élan. “I'm no traitor to you or your people, if I was I'd be playing the lost maiden and charming your men from within, not approaching their leader.” The Mountain Man looked with cool dispassion into her cobalt blue eyes—he was impressed by her astute intelligence under pressure. There wasn't any malice or lie in her words or eyes, but Oakley was still wary. She was certainly an outsider, by looks, speech and manner. Even by his survivalist standards she was an odd one and behind her ways could she be plotting or weaving an agenda against them? “What about your people? Are they out to play kingmaker with this place? I know well the games of power played by the elites and you are of their cloth. In one way or another,” he said lowering the 12 gauge from her body. “Your paranoia is wisdom Oakley, but my folk are not malevolent like the ones so prevalent in this world. There are gangs, marauders and filth aplenty that would raise an army to follow my faction on promises of power. Not for me and not for my faction such a path,” she said pushing past his relaxing grip. More gunfire sounded and they all knelt down or lowered to the ground. “Relax, relax. It's just the tower guard letting off some shots,” the old lady said with a gruff laugh. “It's what they are firing at that concerns me ma’am,” McKaiser replied peering into the distance outside. The metal fence blocked his eyesight with the outside world, above that were the hills leading up the north-western forest and beyond that, somewhere way beyond sight was the Mountain Hold. All they could do was wait to see what came next. As the waiting went on the tense atmosphere grew and grew. “I think if we got this place enough wood they'd be able to build some platforms along the walls. Maybe a new tower for the western part of town Mike?” McKaiser rambled, trying to keep a positive aspect. Oakley acknowledged him. “Maybe someday we can do it, right now let's keep sharp and be ready to bug-out if it gets hot.” It was only a few minutes after Beth had entered the Trading Post that developments took place in the watchtower. “Movement Lewis!” Swenson said suddenly, his neck prickling at the strange sight in the distance. “Where at?” Connarsby picked up his targeting telescope and rested it on the wooden shelf rail which surrounded the walkway. Not only did it prevent a careless sentry from falling off but it was perfect for resting weapons and other equipment on. “Speak to me Riley?” “At the abandoned house about four hundred yards out,” Swenson said. He peered with his binocular lenses, moving them from side-to-side of the stained structure. “Something moved from the outside then went behind it.” The house was to the north-west and set close by forested hills; the trees of which came to within a few hundred yards of the structure. Connarsby was about to question Swenson as to what he saw when a menacing four-legged creature came skulking around a corner. His targeting-telescope magnified it, going from a pea-sized speck to a fist-sized target. The creature was a grim-looking beast, a predator by its fashion and appearance. The skin or fur was mottled with dark gray and beige; partially matching the dried out ground. It was hard to tell its size—being roughly between that of a coyote and that of an elk. It had thick, muscled legs with a long tail like that of a cat which swished a few times. “Looks like...I dunno, maybe a half-breed animal? Like the ones that go sterile if they survive birth?” Swenson said with uncertainty. The head of the beast was its most discerning aspect. Long, big and with a protruding jaw as powerful as a hyena and with fang-like daggers for teeth. Nothing like he'd seen before and not unlike some primeval horror. It was looking at them and the town now like a hungering thing views lingering prey. “Riley get your battle rifle, take the shot.” The creature started moving again, leaping up onto the porch it turned in profile and maintained a steady gait moving westwards away from Tonswater. As it loped further and further away the sheriff's desire to see the thing dead intensified. Knowing it was out there to prowl and stalk worried him much more than any bear or wolf. Swenson had the rifle's bipod deployed and rested it on the watchtower's window frame. “Gonna be a tough shot now Lewis,” The rifleman said glassing in for a target. He found it and tracked the moving creature through the mid-power scope. He flicked off the thumb safety. Swenson was about two seconds from pulling the trigger when it turned north and disappeared down a running depression in the hillside. Out of sight now they both waited to see if it would reappear. “Are the scavenger party out north?” Swenson asked curiously, wary of them being in its path and potential gunfire. “You're alright, they're away to the south,” Connarsby said with some relief. “What the hell is it? Could it be what the Stellfeld folk mentioned on the radionet?” Swen wondered aloud, a few deaths and injuries had been mentioned from them, until now they'd considered it a bear attack. “Maybe, whatever it is it's deadly, both to us and the livestock in the area. I trust my gut on this.” Connarsby said. He scanned the area where the sunken terrain was. His telescope was perfect for observation, with a rest allowing it to be near rock steady. “It looks intel...there it is! Take it Swen.” He said as it emerged from the side of the house. It moved out slowly taking its time moving over the final leg of ground to the forest. The beast was about halfway across the bare terrain, ambling in profile to their position. There was little to no wind but he'd no time to 'load the scope' from its default-zero of three-hundred yards. Aiming nearly a mill-dot high Swenson made his first shot. The PTR's recoil was a sweet push as the brass case spat out, dinging off Connarsby's jacket. As the shot rang-out it echoed around Tonswater in all directions. As the bullet surged across the vast distance Swenson's observer watched for fall of shot. After just under a second's flight time the heavy grain bullet struck dirt four yards to the right but dead level with the center of mass. The puff of dust clear to his eye now seemed to galvanize the creature somewhat and its pace quickened slightly. “Fall of shot to the right. Come left a touch,” the sheriff advised watching the unfolding drama. It was the finely machined weapon of man versus the raw savagery of the creature. Only the killing-skill of the user was the hinge factor in the equation. Now it knew death sought it out and its speed now increased further still. Swenson saw this and compensated, trusting his instincts on how much offset to make. With variables and figures whirling in his mind the scope's mil-dots offered little answer. He was no sniper, but experienced at ranged target shooting. The loping creature was only thirty yards from the tree line and quartering away slightly—he'd only get one chance now. He squeezed off a second round followed by a succession of three more which he sent on a tight, left-hand bracketing pattern hoping to catch it with staggered deflection shooting. He exhaled as the deciding outcome unfolded. The second shot sliced its way across the distance almost nipping at its tail. The third was true, striking hard as it slammed into the hindquarters. The full metal jacket bullet buried into it the dense tissues being cut and then pushed aside as the impact trauma skewed its momentum off-kilter. The projectile emerged from its right-side, the diagonal descent of its path of travel missed vital organs. The fourth and fifth shots were less true, one grazing its ribs and another passing under its belly. A faint pain-like grunt came out as a surge of desperate power went rushing through it causing it to surge across the final few yards to safety. “Finish it Swenson! Finish it!” said the sheriff with a keen verve. Their ears were ringing from the gunfire as neither wore earplugs. It now made the tree line. Desperately Swenson fired a flurry of more shots at the area it vanished into. He saw a glimpse of moving darkness and fired three more times. Then it was gone. “I hit it, I'm sure I hit it!” he said, taking some pride in at least making one round count. “I know you did son, but you didn't bring it down and that's what counts at the end of the day. You did well getting anywhere near that close the way things stood,” Connarsby said, patting the lad on the shoulder. Swen pushed back the PTR's cocking handle, locked it off and released the magazine from the weapon. Then he routinely began topping it off with spare ammo from a pocket. His hands gave away the shock of it all though as they shook enough to make an easy task troublesome. “You think it's done for?” he asked trying to dissuade the obvious sign. “Maybe, kid, maybe. It's a tough-lookin' thing so who knows?” the sheriff said, knowing in his heart that whatever it was it would be a tough thing to kill. He saw the rounds in the magazine were hollow points alternated with full metal jacket rounds; in a one-for-one ratio. With the amount of rounds fired it would be a tricky proposition to work out which type had hit the thing. He was about to ask Swenson what he thought on that when concerned voices began calling up to the tower. “Ahh, shoot! I gotta go downstairs, make sure they're not ready to have a heart attack,” Connarsby said with a forced grin. “Hold the fort up here for me Riley.” He climbed down the ladder and facing him were several armed townsfolk wondering what was going on. He'd not rung the attack bell so they weren't quite at action stations but seemed edgy though. He had a mind to lie and say the shooting was a targeting challenge he'd set out for young Swenson. Connarsby was no city-minded 'I know best and you obey' type though. He truthfully called out there wasn't any danger, but a stray predator had been spotted near the old abandoned house. Oakley and several of his people were now outside the Trading Post. They waited as curious as the others were in what the flurry of gun play was all about. At the bottom of the ladder the sheriff went on about what had happened with more detail. “Just had a big coyote-wolf prowlin' around out there. It's gone now, nothing to worry about folks,” Connarsby said. He went on to give a sketchy description of what took place. He'd just about dispersed the folk when Oakley walked down from the Trading Post steps with a look of knowing about himself. Beth was stood near him as he did so, those eyes of her's now looking curiously at him. Only a few remained around now, most were getting back to their town routine. “Strange times sheriff?” Oakley said calmly and with enigmatic aloofness. “That's for damned sure. How you been up in that gulch?” he asked openly. “Never better. This'll be the last time we come into town before winter sets in. Just got a few things to fetch and trade. Some raw furs and the like, Randy's stuff is always a good barter.” “Not been cheating you then?” the sheriff jested. “Not too much,” Oakley joked back with a smile. “You gonna be alright up there Mike? Salty reckons that this winter's gonna be a brutal one.” “We'll be ok, got plenty of wood along with shelters and refuge,” he responded amiably. There was a certain wariness Oakley showed though, especially in front of those he did not fully trust. “The beast, did you kill it?” Beth said abruptly, her manner and demeanor quite different to when he'd first met Beth at the northern gate. He shook his head. “Swen hit it once for sure just shy of the tree line, but it had enough fight in it to keep on goin'.” She nodded slowly. Her choice of words and manner had intrigued Connarsby from the moment he'd first met her. She had a natural upper-class way about her, an olde-worlde charm that had long since vanished from much of the world. Fair resilience and health radiated from the face that had been like that of a wastrel only days before. Beth was a world away from the vulnerable starveling he'd seen at the gate. Her accent seemed transatlantic but with shades of icy-warmth in her voice. Was she from some private aristocracy of some kind? Connarsby wasn't one for prying too deep into a person unless he had to get answers and so he let his authoritarian curiosity pass. He noticed Leyson moving over from the grillhouse, carrying that Enfield rifle of his along with a belted pistol at his side. Connarsby was normally a bit finicky when it came to open-carrying by non-towners, but for Oakley and his folk he held the exception and turned a blind eye. “Hey sheriff, has the datalink been hooked up yet?” Leyson asked with an upbeat manner, hoping to learn of what was going on in the world. “Salty's still workin' on it son. He got it partially going last night but his damn generator shorted out again.” “Alright, I'll go give him a hand,” Leyson said jauntily, going in the direction of Salty’s house. “Don't go too far, we all leave in an hour!” Oakley now shouted for all to hear. He wasn't keen on staying too long in the town, there was still much to do up at the Hold. “I'll go get my things,” Beth said moving in the direction of her dormitory building, trailing the ranger somewhat. Connarsby chuckled as the beauty departed. “You got some charm to that grizzled way of yours Oak. I figured Beth'd want to stay in this place, but I guess she has to move on,” The sheriff said. In some ways he was keen to see her go. He'd heard quarrels and rivalry had already set in at who'd be first to bed her—there was even a rumor that huge bets were also looming. Oakley shrugged amicably. “What can I say? The mountain ways are strong with her.” Holzer now returned and helped finish off the unloading of the merchandise, then took out some crafted and finished furs in exchange. This was along with some luxury items like shampoo, toothpaste and other suchlike amenities, making it a fair trade. Beth and Leyson's path crossed as both walked back from their respective destinations. Leyson would have missed seeing her but for Salty holding him back with some new gear he'd got working on. That was all it took for their destinies to collide. At the crossing to Main Street, a vibrant magnetism drew her to him and him to her. She had already retrieved her backpack of gear and changed into amazingly different clothing. For it was like something beyond the flashy or trashy fashions from before the Collapse. She wore hiking shoes, gray clinging trousers which accentuated her slender curves and the garment had fine tubing showing vaguely at the sides of each leg. A padded brown leather jacket that he first took to be armored in some way was open revealing a buttoned gray shirt that matched her leggings. He felt a buzz of arousal seeing it showing off her comely form. Any impressions he got of her being some city-liberal girl were tempered by her combat weaponry. A belted leather holster held a C96 Mauser pistol enclosed snugly in a tight embrace. She carried it in a confident fashion and was obviously comfortable using it. An aristocratic allure with a femme-fatale counterweight existed in this one and it was a way he found was to his liking. From the moment their eyes connected it was like a knowing passed between them. Something she was of aware of, but he was only vaguely familiar. He was handsome to her, neither a grizzled veteran like Oakley or McKaiser nor a fresh-faced townsman still learning and mentally immature. Leyson had that spark about him that glimmered behind his dawn blue eyes. Beth, like a radar operator who sees a blip on the screen, began to vector in her feminine charms and wiles. She hadn't been with another for a long while. If he was the sort she thought he was, her decision to join Oakley was indeed turning into auspicious beginnings. Hoping to forget her previous ordeals and the hardships of eluding enemies Beth felt positivity well up inside. The web of destiny indeed was spinning new threads. Yet before either could comprehend any more of this an alarm bell from the watchtower began ringing. It cut through the moment like a knife and her face changed to that of concern. “Raiders! Raiders!” came the shout from Swenson in the tower. He pointed to the east. “We must leave this place, quickly!” Beth said urgently. “Let's go then, my vehicle is that one there!” Leyson pointed up ahead to his vehicle in the line of cars. As one they both ran to the waiting convoy, two trucks had their engines started already. For a reason he wasn't sure of, his usual co-driver McKaiser saw Beth coming at his side and got into Konrad's vehicle instead. He alone would be the one driving her away as a hostile force now loomed on the horizon.

[Sir Hawkwood]

Action time!

Things get heavy now, bring your flak jacket!

Chapter 9

Chapter 9 Spearhead Swenson's disbelief at the sight grew and grew. The coming horror approached from around the distant highway, and it was a sight that sent waves of apprehension and a hardening of fear in his gut. He was almost mesmerized by the sight at first—the enemy had appeared around the crest of the south eastern hills over a mile away. First one vehicle had appeared moving slowly like a relentless mass of metal, then another appeared and another. At their sides marched dozens and dozens of slow-moving infantry. Not looking like desperate gangbangers or ragged marauders but a disciplined raider force of some kind. Swenson's hawk-like gaze had spotted the subtle movement the moment they first appeared, he'd been looking at the right spot at the right time. Otherwise they might have rolled up halfway up to the checkpoint before being noticed. The light conditions were good for horizon viewing, with little sun glare and a good overcast of cloud. It was the shimmer-like movement he took in the view through the targeting scope. Like an endless convoy the vehicles were followed by smaller motorbikes and alongside them all were footsloggers, not much bigger than specks in the reticules the vehicles being only three times the size. Then he tore himself away from the scope and rang the bell like a fury for twenty seconds. He shouted, pointed and hollered then picked up his battle rifle and aimed it towards the eastern road they moved in on. He estimated to even hit the first vehicle would require luck as well as a lot of elevation and exceptional skill. The first set of motorbikes had just made the distant left-hand bend in the highway now, bringing them straight in line towards the bridge. Connarsby came up the ladder shouting as he did so. “Is it more of those things?” he queried. “Worse! It's raiders I think. An army of them and they're heading this way!” he said anxiously. Up at the tower platform the sheriff took in the distant formation. “Should I open fire?” Swen asked urgently passing him the scope. “Are they friendly?” “Approaching the town with an army like that?!” the sheriff growled. “I'm not about to find out the hard way!” He too felt some fear at the sight closing in from the east. Then he remembered who he was and took up the air horn that signaled a call to arms. Depressing the action a harsh and loud note pierced through the air. For the first time since the Blue Sun Tonswater now saw its defenses fully activated. Citizen-warrior, militiaman and deputy alike dropped what they were doing as the realization of coming danger plunged them into an ocean of activity. Arms and ammunition packs were ripped down from armory walls, under beds and at the doorways. A couple of wealthy families had body armor with ceramic plate-inserts; some others had flak jackets but most had none at all. The defenders began to swarm out through gateways. Elsewhere they climbed up and leapt over the electric wall via ladders shrouded in insulation. Like a guardian in his tower Connarsby looked down as the townsfolk ringed the walls like a defensive entity. As the first of them began settling down into firing positions, an element of the distant raiders moved ahead from the main enemy force. It was not the main body of vehicles but several bikers with a trailing infantry contingent. “Targets to the East!” Connarsby screamed into the radio. “Engage! Open Fire if you have a clear shot.” Overlooking the bridge checkpoint the watchtower had a fairly clear view to the east, through to the south. Just before the checkpoint a few trees were dotted around, following the river. It was nearly open terrain with a few meadow fence lines and some bushes beyond that. Hefting his ancient Weatherby he reckoned now it was time to let the .30-06 do its work. The sounds of vehicles rattling to life echoed faintly in the chaos and hurly-burly as Oakley and his crowd now prepared to take flight. The vehicles were making wide turns to get facing westwards before the gates closed. Over at the other gateways they had already zealously secured their gates and rolled the barrier trucks into place; totally locking down any way in or out. Glyndon pushed one iron slidebar home and locked it shut. Then he stepped forward to grab onto the second one as two townsmen began to push at the barrier truck. If that went into place the town would be fully locked down. Barber made deeds his maxim and pulled forward with a stomp on the gas pedal. The Cummins diesel engine roared as he surged the vehicle forward then slammed on the brakes almost immediately. The heavy truck halted to nudge slightly against the gates; preventing the remaining slide-beams from aligning but not smashing apart and ruining the gateway mechanism. The gate commander Glyndon began waving his Mini-14 around at Barbers head and screamed for him to reverse. There was a mixture of panic and wild anxiety on his face, contrasting with Barbers icy calm. Glyndon had a frustrated way about him though and felt his lockdown plan had been upstaged by Barber's move. The convoy behind Barber was lined up in waiting vehicles; some of the passengers were clearly aiming their weapons at Glyndon. The two townspeople stopped pushing the truck and it rolled short, now they watched the stand-off commence. Neither of them tried to reach for their weapons; both knowing to do so would be unwise. Glyndon looked nervously and saw the other weapons now aimed at him cooling his heels a touch. “Easy now son. If we really had it in for your town we'd have smashed through and you know it,” Oakley spoke firmly. Eyes like a cold shark burned into Glyndon. “You pull that trigger and you follow Alex into the next world.” Barbers window was down making his words carry easily. The old leader was not aiming his drawn revolver in plain sight of Glyndon, but held it low at his waist, ready to fire across Barber and through the doorway if need be. He staged the trigger, ready for whatever came next. Glyndon hesitated and Oakley spoke on. “Now you're gonna slide that bar out, then we're gonna push your gates open real nice without damaging them, then you can lock this place down!” Oakley spoke louder as more gunshots could be heard coming from the other side of town. “You're cowards. Leaving us during an attack,” Glyndon muttered, starting to see reason all the same. “Not cowards! Free men not wanting to be trapped like rats,” Oakley chided. “We've already been prisoners once in a town and I won't let that happen again!” “We're in trouble right now can't you see that?” Glyndon whined. “If you're in real trouble I give you my word we'll come back to help. NOW LOWER THAT ING GUN!” Oakley shouted as more echoing gunfire blasted from the tower. It wasn't often Oakley swore and even Barber was momentarily stunned to hear the cuss. Glyndon nodded grimly and did the right thing, as his carbine was lowered Barber moved the pickup back by a foot, allowing the commander to kick the slide-bar clear. He stepped clear allowing Barber to slowly push the metal and timber gate open the rest of the way. Once it was clear he floored the accelerator, powering up towards the hills that led into the mountains. The other vehicles followed clear behind them. “Should we circle back and help them from here Oak?” Barber quizzed at Oakley. “Let's halt and looksee,” he answered and Barber did so. Oakley removed his telescope from a cargo pocket and leaned out the door. From their raised position on the western rise he beheld the sight of Tonswater surging to arms. In the far distance a dark mass of raiders loomed like a predatory swarm. The enemy force was over a mile away from their position and he could just make out an element of them pulling forward of the main force. To the convoy’s left and right flank was a tree line border of the hills and they had the advantage of elevation. Yet there was the distance that was against them and the vastness of the enemy. “There's too many Alex,” Oakley said with a grimace. “If we had the cannon rifles on us we could maybe lay down some sniper support, as it is I want us back on the Hold, see what's going on there with these tunnels and what this Beth woman is all about.” Barber nodded with a hard face. The bunker arsenal at the Hold held a pair of Cheytac .408 rifles plus a monster of an anti-tank rifle. He regretted not throwing one of them in the back when they'd set off in the morning. Oakley slammed the door. “Come on let's go, I don't feel good leavin' 'em like this, I want you and the others to know that. But we aren't townsfolk, we gotta see to our Hold first. We might have ended up stuck in that place like rats in a trap.” They started moving again but Barber was uneasy. “Tonswater isn’t Gelstown Mike; I wouldn't mind taking a Cheytac and some ammo from the bunker. Come on back tonight with a few of the others and take a looksee at what's going on from the tree line over there. Have some fun with the raiders in the morning maybe?” “I hear that, but what I saw in my vision takes priority Alex. We look into that first, then we’ll see what we can do for Tonswater. Don't fret on the town now. Connarsby’s no girly man; he's not gonna see it fall easily.” Oakley rapport-punched Barber on the arm and the convoy rolled northwards. At Tonswater's eastern fringes the attack unfolded. Six outriders led the attack; following them dismounted at a run was a platoon of violent rabble. They were at a pinch foot soldiers but most were fueled with looted liquor and narcotics liberally given by their leader. They sprinted behind the leading six riders and together they made up what was a bold surprise attack, hoping to catch the defenders unawares. Thanks to the zeal from the bikers the dismounted ones could not hope to follow the pace set by them and a wide gap opened up. The motor bikers were nearly at the fringes of the bridge-checkpoint. They rode like it was their last gasp, hoping to breach the gates of Tonswater and cause havoc while the main force waited behind them for an opening. Those in the town unable to fight looked on from windows and doorways, holding their heart's in their mouths at the hostile hordes. At least one had a functioning video camera that was set up from a window ledge recording the unfolding scene. The gamble for success or failure was on the two guardsmen manning the bridge-checkpoint, along with the speed of deployment from Tonswater itself. Webb's militia and the citizenry were hardly assembled as the bridge became a conflict zone. The two guards there were townsmen and hesitated when the alarm and rally-horn started going off. Yet as the bikers closed the distance they did their duty and knelt down to engage the enemy with their bolt-actions. Their first shots went wide as the first bikers began swaying and swerving. Both fired again. One biker was struck center of mass and went down like a stone; his heavy cruiser-bike clashing against an adjacent rider sending him whirling off and through a meadow fence. The sight of this filled up the defenders with glee but they could not yet unleash a torrent of lead with the checkpoint guards still garrisoned there. Swenson and Connarsby, elevated at the watchtower focused their fire at the bikers. Both aimed high and fired. The former with brief adjusting pauses, the latter with a greater hesitation from the bolt-action nature of the weapon. They came painfully close but neither hit a target. About a hundred yards from the checkpoint a thick canopy of trees blocked their view as the bikers passed under it. Switching to the fifty or sixty infantry trailing behind they fired off at them instead, hoping to thin their ranks. Here and there they began dropping targets. Two of the four remaining bikers closed the distance at nearly full speed. At the eastern wall of Tonswater nearly thirty defenders were already in place and another thirty on the way. They lay down ready to fire over at the toll bridge but frustratingly held off their shots due to their comrades there. As the riders closed the distance two of the remaining bikers slowed down and stopped. They lay down their metal machines and then dived to cover behind them. By resting their weapons on scorching engine metal they began to fire the first shots at Tonswater. One welded a brutish AKM assault rifle. It was a crude, effective weapon with heavy machine parts internally churning out death. It was as thuggish as the users who now charged like maddened dogs. Like most raiders that wielded them it was crudely converted to fully automatic via filing the sear disconnect. However this being done made it susceptible to runaway full-auto during firing, making controlled bursts useless. What it made up for in simplicity it lacked in any accuracy over a hundred and fifty yards distance. The checkpoint was only a hundred yards distant and they both now raked the area with fire. The other raider fired with his MAC-10 submachine gun; a generic machine-pistol weapon that was notoriously inaccurate but light and handy to wield. With a helmet being worn aiming such a thing was not needed, volume of fire was its way, not precision. As they did this the defenders at the checkpoint got off another couple of rounds at the riding menace, one of which struck the nearest devil-may-care rider. The heavy hunting round nearly ripped him off the saddle. Perhaps it was the copious amounts of booze he'd drank for courage or raw nerves of steel but somehow the rider grimly clung on as the impact pounded into him, he kept on aiming his machine straight for one of the two bridge defenders; the one who'd shot him. The youth barely had time to consider moving when man, machine and rider collided. The trauma knocked the life out of the man, knocking him aside thirty feet into a grassy tree while the mortally wounded biker plunged onwards from the road, through the gap between barrier and trees and down into the River Tonswater. All shooting from the tower stopped momentarily at this awesome spectacle. Then as the lifeless rider was swept away by the river, the remaining rider zoomed past the reloading rifleman, on around the barrier and over the bridge. The biker clad in black and brown leathers raced onwards to the eastern gate and would have possibly made it had the tower guard not focused their attention his way. The rider had just removed an unlit pipe bomb when several rounds ripped him from the saddle in death. His heavy cruiser leaned then fell smashing and sliding into an earthworks barrier to the side of the gateway. Over at the bridge, the remaining defender there had time for one last aimed shot at the attackers in cover. It zinged off a biker’s machine. Then the running raiders sent a series of rounds whizzing back, one tearing into his collarbone ending his fight; but not his life. Gritting his teeth he scrambled away; keeping low and almost passing out with the effort and pain. Abandoning the hunting rifle he slid down the riverbank. Every movement was an agony but at least it was life. “It's clear!” one of the bikers shouted from cover. “The bridge is clear!” As the rushing horde of raiders swept past the biker he joined them on foot giving a blaze of ineffective fire as he ran onwards. Now the watchtower fired on the horde along with the wall riflemen. A few extra defenders rushed up the tower to fully garrison it. Elsewhere town defenders made their way to buildings and knelt at windows. The richest trader in town from Stellfeld appeared at one, deploying his select-fire FN-FAL. It added its own deadly fire to the onslaught. Others did the same with their slower-firing rifles from other buildings and outside the walls. The combined gunfire took the booze-fueled attackers apart like a scourge; they'd counted on a token resistance to be swept aside but a hail of deadly lead filled the air and met them instead. The lethal projectiles smacked into and through bodies, arms and occasionally heads. Some carried on with terrible injuries of broken bones, pouring blood and as they went, others fell instantly to die shortly thereafter. Upon the black road the color of death contrasted brightly to the dying and wounded. Twenty or so of the sixty made it to the bridge and the initial barrage of bullets faltered as many magazines were emptied. Fumbling hands fought to reload and deliver a decisive end to the rush attack. From afar Joel Charrak, the raider’s leader, peered through his binoculars at the unfolding attack. He was nearly a mile back with the main force at his armored Bearcat vehicle; standing upright with his head and shoulders clear of the turret-hatch. The surprise attack had been a punitive one launched on the initiative of a few emboldened Wolfhound officers and their lower ranking Dogsoldiers. They were also subtly encouraged by Charrak who had acquiesced that the survivors would be rewarded with riches and status; even the dead attackers would have family ones looked after. Now he waited to see if the gates would be breached. The assault reached its climax. The smarter ones knelt or lay down in partial cover. They gave a sporadic covering fire against the looming watchtower and other buildings where more guns appeared at windows. The remaining fifteen or so now fired from the hip, intent on charging and overwhelming the rifleman. The raider's AK and sub-gun weapons blazed as bullets smashed through thin sheet metal walls and thudded into earthwork barriers. The riflemen who lay prone kept their hearts steady, working the bolts, aiming and firing again and again. At the very least those who were not natural riflemen or militia had been taught at boyhood to hunt small game. Only now their opponents were prey that could shoot back. Several attackers made it through the gauntlet of gunfire and now the rifleman started suffering their own attraction of lead. A running militiaman slipping over the wall had nearly made it to his earthwork when a burst of auto-fire swept him against the wall in shocked death. One lad, reloading his rifle one bullet at a time, took a round through the jaw. His fanatical zeal partially numbed the pain and kept him going as he rammed the bolt forward to give fire in return, bringing down the savage. Then his wound flared and he passed out from pain. Another lying defender shook and shuddered as he was shattered by a flurry of angry lead. Others more fortunate suffered nasty gashes and flesh wounds as exposed limbs were winged and clipped. Elsewhere incoming fire pounded against the protective barriers they'd labored at making weeks before, were it not for that their suffering would have been much greater. The watchtower was an organ of killing as the instruments of death and injury spat out relentlessly. The semi-auto battle rifle blasted like an automatonic bludgeon with its thud-like noise contrasting the intermittent crack of bolt-action weaponry. Almost every time Swenson's eye found a raider to slay in the scope. He lined-up a target and fired, and then another and another as the finely engineered weapon did its work. Intuitively, or perhaps with ice in his veins, Swenson walked a line of gunfire up two attackers and their crashing bodies collided with three others. In the mess and blood he fired another ten times ensuring nothing moved from carnage of struggling limbs and ruined frames. Pulling back into cover fully he rocked-in a fresh twenty-round magazine with its distinct backwards-tilt motion. Then thumbing the bolt release the working parts cycled a new round into the breech and he was ready to kill again. An aimed set of shots smacked into the tower now, one drilled through the wooden frame next to him, sending splinters spraying everywhere. He heard a yowling scream and curses to his left as one of his comrade’s fell and later would be in agony as a surgeon clumsily removed the tightly lodged bullet. The remaining shock-troops had scrambled forward within about thirty-five yards distance from the gates and two had pipe bombs almost lit. Swenson re-aimed and didn't even flinch as he sent a cascade of bullets into both, cutting them down mercilessly. “You should’ve spread out more,” the marksman whispered as he finished off their writhing bodies. With that all of the attackers were either dead or scrambling away, back to their distant force. “That's it, we have them!” shouted one defender leaping up from his earthwork He fired a shot that missed then ran in pursuit of the fleeing raiders, two more followed him. Connarsby and Webb called out in warning, for they could clearly see the true number of raiders massing was no small force, but the trio ran on. Once over the bridge they realized their folly, slowing down to take in the distant army. Swenson's scope roved this way and that, hoping to cover the exposed threesome but the flanking trees and bush were thick. The trees mostly sheltering any there from even the towers line of sight. One of the biker-raiders that had held back still lay prone behind his dropped machine. The raider saw them and waited. As they slowed down and paused he aimed carefully then fired. One man had the very rifle he clutched shot out from his grip; breaking a trigger finger. Another went down in riddled-death but a third instead of running back took an aimed shot, tearing a chunk off the man’s skull. As his screams joined the others the original survivor from the checkpoint emerged from the river, having waiting until the firing had died down. Some folk got up and helped the men back inside to the safety of Tonswater. The punitive raid had been defeated, at least for the time being. Connarsby was faintly relieved but still greatly concerned, the whole time they'd been defending against the few score of attackers, the bulk of the raider army had stayed out of range. It was like they'd been probed by an enemy more interested in watching the spectacle than joining in as a decisive force. “We sure showed 'em!” Swen gleamed, his face showing the killing fever. “We did that son,” Connarsby replied, peering through the observation telescope to focus on the main battle group. “Look though! Their main force is just sitting there waiting. It's not over.” He gestured to the massed numbers near the horizon reminding of what they truly faced. The brief buzz of victory in the skirmish saw the defenders take stock of their dead and care of their injured. The wounded or dying raiders were shown no mercy. Tonswater people were good folk and true Wyomingites. When it came down to it they were as merciless over their town's survival and justice as the raiders were in many ways. Connarsby went down to ground-level and over to the eastern gateway. He watched impassively as the killings occurred. Glyndon came running over from the western part of town. He told him of Oakley's breakout. “They were going to shoot me if I didn't let 'em go!” Glyndon exclaimed. He went on to rattle out a fairly truthful story of what took place at the gateway. Some were ok about it; others like Connarsby were more disgruntled, in a way it was like a siege mentality was clouding their judgment. As they pieced together what was happening Tonswater now had to shift from a semi-peaceful frontier town to that of a besieged fort. It was approaching afternoon when Connarsby and Holzer agreed to maintain the defenses facing the enemy. With half of the town standing-to around the clock the other half could try and go about keeping the town running as best as possible. As they deliberated over various things like shift patterns and rosters a shout came out from the watchtower. A rider with a pillion passenger was approaching the town bearing white flags. The sheriff quickly ordered everyone not to open fire. The raiders arrived and waited just shy of the trees before the river and bridge. Lewis Connarsby waved at them distantly and the enemy moved forward towards them again and before stopping at the bridge crossing on the raider’s side. The pillion rider got off and planted one of the flags into the ground, then they both waited with the second flag facing them and Connarsby realized that they wanted to talk. Both looked to be unarmed, or at least without long guns. He and Holzer looked at one another and nodded. Then both town leaders took the long walk over from the gates, past the earthworks and towards the bridge to parlay. The sheriff left his Weatherby at the gate taking only his belted .357 revolver. Holzer kept onto his Sig-552 rifle but slung it over his shoulder. As they closed the distance many wary weapons were kept trained on the pair of bikers. The townsfolk felt in good spirits but a sense of unease grew as their town leaders carefully crossed the bridge. Connarsby's mean-faced wife looked on from a window as did Holzer's more precocious spouse. The former was a fierce matriarchal type, the latter more of a feminine slant. Both said nothing but their inward emotions were churning as they waited for the outcome. Where both ruled the home, their men had to rule the territory. The pair of leaders stopped about forty yards from the now-raised checkpoint barrier. The raider's motorbike was a sleek machine; a sports-tourer that was a hybrid of raw speed and long range comfort. A former police cruiser by the look of it, all white with black additions. The lettering 'CT' was noticeable in a stenciled manner. The rider kept the engine running, with the bike orientated back towards the raider army off to the south-east. Both men knew they could make a quick getaway back to their lines if they needed to. Unlike most of the attackers, both wore olive drab, high grade body armor over blue-black uniforms. Connarsby recognized immediately they'd been looted from a SWAT team armory; making both associated with cop killers. Plate inserts on both sides made them difficult to kill outright and their visored helmets lent a dehumanizing aspect. Whoever they were it was no doubt they were of an upper rank compared to their dead brethren. The passenger on the bike, now satisfied of their intentions turned to face them and raised his visor, showing a pale Caucasian aspect. “We've come to parley, just parley and nothing else,” the man said. Connarsby nodded indicating with open hands away from his gun that he would not attack, Holzer made a similar move and the speaker now removed his helmet. He was a red haired lad no more than thirty years of age and with a soft but sneering aspect. Along with his carrot top hair, a protruding chin gave him a distinct appearance. Green eyes that showed shrewd intelligence regarded them both now, compared to the rough and dark faces on most of the attackers they'd passed he was an unexpected one. The main pilot of the bike did not turn to them and kept looking back to his raider army. He adjusted his handlebar mirror to watch them though. “Alright red-top, you and your raider friend here can collect your dead and wounded. Then take your army back south and never set foot here again,” the sheriff said with charismatic gruffness. He pointed first at the speaker, then at the distant force that waited. His opponent answered. “Firstly, we are not raiders but a standing army of Charrak's Tribe.” The arrogant words flowed from the slender man's face like water as he ignored the demand. “Lord Charrak commands us and I am Simon his envoy.” That explained the 'CT' emblem but the sheriff and mayor showed their own brand of resolute arrogance. “I've never heard of Charrak or your tribe and in these parts we're beholden to nobody, not your lord or any other that wants to be king.” Connarsby spoke the words boldly and fiercely. Even Simon had to admit inwardly that the man was not the cowering town dweller they all expected. Yet the raider was not familiar with Wyoming defiance and spoke on trying to reason with him. “You're outnumbered and stand in our way. This can be a peaceful occupation though that benefits both our peoples. We've seen you fight well and this is to be respected. But we are just a cohort of our faction. It is better that you surrender your town to us now, than make this any worse. Now is the time to make terms gentlemen,” the youth flowed with polished attitude and flowery speech. Whoever this Charrak was, he was no casual raider leader and meant business. His speaker was obviously what passed for a diplomat or herald from The Tribe. Connarsby was about to give the little brat some harsh words but Holzer spoke first. “This is Tonswater land raider. I'm the mayor, this is the sheriff and we're part of the ISTAR Alliance. Our terms are you tell Charrak to go home as this is an act of war.” “We've heard of the ISTAR, but that name means nothing. Especially not this far away from the northwest. Becoming one with The Tribe is the best offer for you and it would be better to be as a favored town than one pillaged and torn down.” He extended his hand with a wicked smile of duplicity. “Son, your men just tried to storm the gates—they didn't even get a pipe bomb thrown.” Connarsby gestured at the dead bodies around them — nearly all were Charrak's men. Simon smiled, shaking his head as if ready for such a question. “They were a test of your defenses, a sacrifice for the greater good; they stood little chance of success. You've impressed my master but nothing more than that. He can see you are not impregnable, not enough to resist a full-scale attack with this test of your defenses.” “Go back to your master, tell him we don't respect tyrants and if he truly wishes to speak then let him come and face us instead of sending his lackeys!” Holzer shouted, causing the rider to make a start and almost twist the throttle. “I'll tell him, we've had this kind of defiance before, from other areas to the south. You can see we've armored battle cars. It won't be pretty when we storm your town, especially not for the women,” Simon said coldly before pressing on. “For now though we'll give you time to speak to your townspeople so you can make up your mind. Then in one hour we'll come back for our fallen men. We expect your final answer then. Do we have your word of honor not to fire on us while the white flag is planted?” “We won't fire but once you're done take the white flag with you 'cause this is gonna get real ugly,” Connarsby said grimly. “The answer is no Simon. No surrender! You're up against Wyoming folks now. You'd best keep that in mind,” Holzer added. Simon donned his helmet then patted his rider on the arm twice and they headed away at high speed. Connarsby turned to the dead bodies littered around. “Randy, gather up as many of their rifles and sub-guns as you can,” Connarsby said. He scooped up an AK, clicked on the safety and checked for spare ammunition on the corpses. “They'll be coming back for the bodies...” Holzer said, worried about looting them. “They can have 'em, it's the rapid-fire weapons we're short of. I'm sure Charrak won't miss 'em! If he does he can whistle for more wherever he steals them from,” the Sheriff replied stoically.

[Sir Hawkwood]

The book returns after its sabbatical...

Warning! Violent and gruesome content!

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Chapter 10



Rise of the Tribe

Lord Charrak's gunner trained his ancient Bren gun at Tonswater noticing the trees and lush greenery enveloping the eastern fringes at the bridge. It looked very different to the arid browns and beige they were used to seeing further south.

Charrak’s armored vehicle, once a Bearcat police SUV, had led the way towards the town earlier. A second armored car followed on behind which was of a similar type albeit slightly longer. Three more pickup vehicles and a trail of motor bikers augmented the vanguard. Further back from them were the half a dozen supply wagons. Marching like an ancient army on the flanks and trailing back to the distant rear were two hundred Dogsoldiers, they were formed up in two columns and more were on their way from the south. The drive to the town had been a slow one, crossing the now defunct state line. As far as Charrak was concerned state borders were meaningless, something to be remade in the image of warlords such as he. As if in emphasis he ordered the state sign marker of ‘Wyoming’ be torn down. A new sign marking it out as 'Greater Redmond' was hastily erected.

Charrak felt like a god. He commanded and ruled a well-equipped army compared to the ragged gangs that once dotted his city. Now they were either suppressed or recruited into his army he was strong enough to move northwards. Tonswater was the first major obstacle he would sweep aside. From there the larger town of Stellfeld was next. With its oil trade his faction could truly flourish. Who knew what was next?

Further north or westwards?

He was eager to see the town fall first though. It was barely deserving of the title, being more like a village in his eyes.

First though he had to crack open Tonswater. With the failure of the probing attack Simon had been sent out to make surrender terms.

Charrak's command tent had just been setup alongside the protective screen of The Battlehound wagon. His mistress of the day, keen to depart the cramped interior, now disappeared inside the tent. It had had an internal sleeping chamber. Later on he'd move inside there to have her see to his lusts.

Before he could do anything of the sort he watched and waited as Simon and his motor rider halted near the bridge. He eased back in the commander’s seat and momentarily let the recent memories of past months wash over him.


Joel Charrak stood at six feet tall, with thick beetling brows and distinct orange-brown hooded eyes. Dark mousy hair that wasn't quite straight and a Roman nose lent an aspect of ruthless ambition to his demeanor. Like most folk, he'd not bothered shaving and had grown a nest-beard that he trimmed from time to time. He was in his late twenties and while his frame lacked definition it was broad enough to intimidate the lowly.

He'd not started as most gangs and raiders had when the Blue Sun collapsed the world order. Charrak was the son of a corporate mogul in financial banking. His father had sent him to Colorado to build an empire of his own. Only a few short years later he'd been on the cusp of achieving a business breakthrough when the collapse of the world descended. All his money from the banking institutions was now worthless and his fancy gadgets and cars lifeless junk; nothing now but attractive metal and plastic shapes. What he'd built up in the city of Redmond had been swept away in hours as the city tore itself apart.

For the first time in his life Charrak experienced the life of a commoner. As society collapsed around him he had considered fleeing east and almost did so, but any travel was suicidal and with scarcely anything electronic even working he and everyone else was trapped. Choosing the seemingly 'easy' option he walked freely into the government FEMA camp set up for refugees. The round-ups began a few days later and the trickle became an influx, then a deluge.

Fresh food was depleted immediately along with the stored rations. With no resupply trucks the outcome looked grim as starvation loomed. Then, as the treatment plant failed, the water supply turned foul. With utilities down and the generators running short of fuel the lighting failed, then darkness and danger came in the night. A thousand desperate people were crammed into the place as the stench of humanity and lack of personal space drove many to their wits end. Many learned to hate the pulsating Blue Sun that hung like an orb in the sky by day, dropping away slowly at nightfall. As the days grinded into a drawn out prison sentence they languished like caged animals.

The internment camps progressively buckled and collapsed as the ongoing enormity of the situation worsened. With the toilets overflowing, casual attacks and killing becoming commonplace and the misery intensified. Yet for all that Charrak had some adamantine element in his soul that emerged to endure the apocalypse.

A dysentery outbreak swept across the camp like wildfire and his only friend, Peter Coleman, fell afoul of it. It was characterized by intense stomach cramps and a savage form of diarrhea. Weakened and in a pitiful state his friend died after suffering for nearly a week from the affliction. Just after this, the federal soldiers meant to protect them had finally had enough. The sporadic desertions grew and grew as finally even the most dutiful could take it no longer. They fled to protect their own family and friends; taking with them the few remaining military vehicles parked outside.

Suicidal feelings swam around Charrak—he almost seized broken glass to end his days there and then. Instead though he made a pact to become strong and lead a crusade no matter what the cost to forge a new world for himself. A shout rang out that the guards had fled and the next instant he was swept along and running with the mob instead. The Joel Charrak that entered the Redmond stadium was now that of a changed man. He was wracked by recurring, throbbing headaches for a time along his left hemisphere. That, along with dizzy spells now afflicted him also and was like a counterpart to his new mental survival. It went hand in hand to what was about to drive him forward—a subtle sadism, beyond the typical killer instinct common to the warrior now crept in. The mystery force would flourish and influence him and others across the globe as Terra's new age now began. His desire to see suffering and inflict horrors upon others crystallized. Charrak cunningly directed it in an outward fashion, so as not to harm those close to him.

His greatest asset was intelligence; a gift from his wise mother while from his more distant and Waspish father came a rugged and tough ambition, one that encouraged him to make a mark on the world. Yet Joel Charrak was not a manly man but such traits he would soon learn or find others that would fill such a void.

Perhaps it was the conditions or the experience of being in that place, it could have even been the mysterious shadow he saw occasionally envelope him in his clouded dreams.
Yet whatever it was, a guiding entity had sprouted within him; it witnessed the thrill of anarchy, the looting and pillaging along with darker indulgences. It was like something of a new path he embraced to both survive and prosper. As the mob split into gangs, the gangs clashed with other gangs and the strongest, luckiest and wisest lived to see another day in the city dawn.

The former city executive once used to such luxury now adapted. He discarded his expensive suit for jeans, t-shirt and sweater. A pair of trainers in place of the once-shiny shoes meant he could at least move quickly on his feet. His fierce intelligence blazed as he reconfigured to surviving amid the wretched humanity. Hunger was a constant companion and he once caught water poisoning which saw him puking and nearly filling his pants.

He endured the fever and illness for days on end as the coming weeks saw in a storm of mindless chaos. Gunfire was constant. Screaming, howling and crying filled the air. Dead bodies built up and great pyres of them were burned as the summer stink of the city now shifted to a vile stench.

The majority of gangs seemed to be growing more feral by the day and tended to be increasingly savage at nightfall making it a rocky, twisted road for Charrak to follow. Despite this he fell in with Mendez’ Mongrels; a gang of twenty-men led by a strong but stupid brute of a man called Julos Mendez. Most of the gang, like many cities in the land, was non-Caucasian. The Mongrels were predominately Hispanic or a mixture, Charrak and a trio of others being of the paler race.

The leader treated Charrak with contempt. When he'd asked Mendez for a sidearm to augment his paltry hand-blade, an SKS rifle-butt to the face was his answer. Charrak, with a broken nose bloodily bowed and nodded to Mendez. As bellowing Hispanic curses filled the air he feigned compliance and backed away in submission. He took his place as a lowly gang member and had to endure the rough humiliation and violation of being ‘broken-in’ by Mendez’ carnal urges.

Charrak endured it.

He endured the insults against his heritage and features so as to channel the humiliation and pain into a slow-burning catalyst of change.

A month passed in the city and The Mongrels roved and pillaged the eastern quarter. Mendez soon appreciated Charrak's intelligence when, with a stroke of brilliance, they secured a megamart from an existing gang in the southern quarter of the city.

Charrak and Diego Zane, a stocky Hispanic-Caucasian fellow, had brilliantly masterminded the operation with a daring night attack through the roof. Surprised and outmaneuvered those occupants not killed in the first few minutes soon scattered after the first shots were fired.

Then they had a base and Charrak put his all-or-nothing gambit to work.

After fully winning the confidence of Zane, the two became firm friends. Charrak had raw intelligence and ambition on his side, while Zane was the muscle, weapons expert and advisor. Zane himself was tired of his leader’s directionless, base and brutish ways and soon the pairing crystallized into a conspiracy. Charrak and Zane intrigued, beguiled and bewildered Mendez’ men for a few days. The conspiracy dovetailed into a cabal then finally to a well-steered coup. Nearly all the rank-and-file either agreed wholeheartedly or would keep well clear altogether.

At dawn's light a dozen of them rushed across to where Mendez slept; surprising his few remaining bodyguards. As an astounded Mendez bellowed and roared Charrak embraced his dark side as the sadist in him came out like a fury.

First he dealt with the two remaining bodyguards. The notion of honor in Charrak reasoning that those that stand by their master to the last, could at least be rewarded with mercy. He showed this by casting them out of the megamall with empty handguns and a morsel of food for their journey elsewhere. He didn't call it an exile from Redmond but they both knew it was dangerous to remain on Charrak's new turf. For a time the two guards lingered at the outer entrance, wondering on what might have been. Yet as the screams from Mendez began they looked at one another with Hispanic dread in their eyes and made themselves scarce.

Back in the megamart Charrak unleashed the horror show on Mendez.

The former leader was suspended with rope from the thick lighting arrays with his arms reverse-bound behind his back. The popping sounds of shoulders dislocating turned-on the usurpers' pleasures. Mendez was a foul creature though; a rapist and a murderer of innocents. Charrak mockingly declared this very fact to his new followers as a judge would during a trial before sentencing. While this was true, Charrak had also been keen to indulge in the 'gang pleasures' as they rampaged across Redmond in earlier days.

Considering himself as an instrument of vengeance, Charrak’s darker side took over. The thrill of seeing Mendez’ naked limbs stuck and cut with crowbar and pitchfork aroused Charrak. Mendez’ screams drew in the rest of the gang like moths. One took up a baseball bat, another a sledgehammer and they too joined in the brutality. After a few minutes of meaty bangs and clouts to limbs they soon relented. They'd already learned from previous experiences that excess violence resulted in the victim passing out prematurely.

Mendez was defiant at first, perhaps expecting his men to come to his aid. Charrak was no opportunist and had carefully prepared for his moment of takeover. He listened to the empty threats with great amusement and waited for Mendez to realize that no one was coming to his rescue or aid. Mendez had fatally underestimated Charrak and now experienced his downfall.

Perhaps if he'd been kinder to Charrak or more even-handed in his ways things wouldn't have turned out as they did. Mendez would never know now and screamed as the one he'd once abused sent a wooden length of two-by-four crashing into his nose. With a crunching impact his tormentor repeated the blow again and again until his nasal area was in ruins.

“I feel better now!” Charrak pumped his arms and exulted at the visceral results. He felt an invigoration sweep through him then took up a baseball bat to continue his work. This went on for a short time before Charrak stopped and thought of something more efficient and effective.

As the ruined former leader, his mangled face a mess, gasped out shouts, useless threats and pleas, a petro-generator rumbled to life.

A working music machine was plugged in and Charrak found some of his favorite music to play. As the tunes of the song 'Swirlin' Groove' by 'Big Joe Bieder' began flowing Charrak donned a set of disposable paper overalls, then took up a brand new slashersword that was passed to him. It was one of the cheap imports from overseas in the China, Charrak idly wondered if their drone factories had been affected and were still churning out mountains of junk for the west. Then the gleam of the steel caught his eye and he tore it from the scabbard completely.

He hopped, swayed and spun to the jazzy tunes as they buzzed in his ears. Some of the gang found it most amusing but hid such notions behind hands and raised eyebrows, not sure what madness he had planned next. They were more used to the 'pump-and-drum', 'whine-and-drone' urban rap genre of music yet more than one nodded along to the warbling melody.

“We have a new leader but where will lead us?” a dark tanned man muttered, one with the eyes of a child. The bizarre and strange spectacle continued as Charrak squawked and swayed to the music; further indulging his altered mental state.

“Do you enjoy these pleasures Mendez? Because I tell you this is like nirvana for me!” Charrak whooped.

He made more glancing cuts, passes and thrusts here and there. Mendez sobbed in woe as blood poured from countless cuts. Even in his vilest moments he felt the punishment being inflicted was beyond his reason. Charrak shouted and screamed with pleasure and abandoned his earlier finesse. He snarled; chopping and thrusting at the bloated stomach area and watched in peculiar awe as snakish entrails spilled out. Zane was astounded and he too now felt affected with a peculiar hysteria. He rushed forward to scoop up a handful and pull them all out like a stream of thin sausages. Many of the others followed; caught up in the hysteria with shouts and laughter. They began jumping about like maddened hyenas. Only one raider slipped away with his things to desert the unspeakable revenge against the unbearable monster of Mendez.

With a screaming howl Charrak struck again and again chopping down with savagery. Thick chunks of scalp ripped off here and there and Mendez’ upper skull split apart. One eye was detached to hang from bloody optic nerves and it shook with each blow. Stubbornly the man refused to die. Labored breathing showed on the heaving, blood-drenched torso and a spluttering burst of blood came wheezing from his slack lips. The music began to trail off as Joel Charrak regained some control.

It was time for the finale.

“Now you can die Mendez!” the madman said with a charismatic gleam.

With a two-handed swing he gave the coup-de-grace across Mendez’ bulbous throat and the cheap blade brutally sliced the artery apart.

The erupting fountain of gore showered everywhere as his new followers looked at the blood-drenched man before them. The strange glazed look he had now faded as his throbbing headache now cleared to leave a clarity once more in his mind; one that left him almost like a person apart.

He tore off his once-white, now crimson-shaded overalls and they fell to the ground like a bloody second skin. Charrak addressed The Mongrels.

“I lead you now men, Joel the banker-boy is dead and a Lord has risen! I am your Master, Lord Charrak. Diego! I name you as my second-in-command.” He shook the sword as he gestured. Bloody drops flicked to the ground. Then he pointed with it to the dead corpse hanging to his right. “This creature earned his death like this, and it is the fate of any who betray me. You'll endure an even greater suffering if I've a mind to play the music. Diego, translate for the men,” he commanded. Zane began translating the words into Hispanic so they understood.

Now his eastern city accent was not something to be scorned at, he was projecting it like a leader should. Like there was something behind the voice now.

Charrak went on.

“If you follow my way though, I'll see us rule this city like kings. Then after that we'll find new cities, new lands and rule them too.”

“Under this carcass of a dumb beast,” he continued –sword gesturing at the corpse of Mendez. “We'd have ended up slow and lazy in this place. Just like those we took it from.” He paused allowing the realization to sink into their minds.

“Under my way, we'll never end up slow or lazy, never be on the defensive. Some of you might think what I did to Mendez was cruel,” he said looking into their faces for a moment before continuing. “He'd have been our downfall though. Like the dumb beast who leads the herd to disaster, he earned this fate.” Now Charrak fell silent and watched their faces. No defiance or derision from them now. The earlier times when they'd made insulting remarks about his soft looks and monied origins were a world away.

“You doubted me when I joined this gang as some lightweight, as did this fool Mendez. But the sleeper has awoken, and the blanket from my bed is on the floor.” He gestured to the bloody paper suit with a laugh.

“Food will not be short. For when the supplies of this city run out we'll have already secured future sources from outlaying farms and homesteads. There, food can be grown for us and will never be exhausted. We'll have followers who we defend and in return they'll be our servants, can grow our supplies while we become the future rulers of this new world!” he shouted with a flourish.

His speech was a bold one and had them in a kind of awe. Zane nodded, if any was to attempt such a thing, Charrak might just be the one.

The original gang members soon grew to a hundred plus supporting elements from other gangs that aligned themselves them.

Zane was ex-military with overseas experience and while not the best of soldiers, he could instruct the basic skills to the gang giving them an edge over the shoddy ways from those they faced. Their weaponry soon progressed from revolvers and looted hunting rifles and lever guns to submachine guns and finally to auto-loading rifles. The most common being the AK-47 variants. Zane soon made many of these into full-auto weaponry and before long they'd earned a fearsome reputation.


Charrak looked down from the police station at those who would forge his new world. His growing army nicknamed Dogsoldiers or 'Dogs' for short assembled before him on the grassy verge of the parking area. Like an overlord he would look down at them as Zane, his bullish Captain, would give them their various tasks of the day. Behind Charrak stood his elite bodyguard; the best and toughest with a high level of loyalty to him. They would be his personal and trusted brotherhood.

They'd taken the police building over less than three weeks ago; it previously was garrisoned by four city cops who'd maintained a veneer of law enforcement. A once-daily, ten minute foot patrol around a few blocks nearby was as good as they’d dare.

Charrak's masterful deception method saw Elisha Garcia, a raven-haired beauty of seductive skill and vision become nested into the place seeking refuge.

The rogue police chief was infatuated and before long she'd infiltrated deep enough to bring about their downfall. All it had taken was a detailed map of the place thrown outside to them at nightfall. The following night they'd gained entry through a window she'd unlocked. Then with Zane leading the attack all of the inhabitants were slain, with only one managing a brief defense in the surprise assault. One of his lieutenants and two of his foot soldiers lay dead before the defender himself fell to Charrak's blaze of gunfire.

Command of the Police Enforcement Station made Charrak the de facto ruler of Redmond. The city that he strived for as a law abiding citizen he now ruled over as warlord.

By now the remaining survivors of the random abuses and fighting were becoming conditioned to the ways of the new world. They were more hardened, quick to adapt and improvise to the new paradigm. The Union was now dead for the most part, but its future would live on in a more decentralized form of factions going at it alone. Redmond was just one of many lesser ones emerging from the embers. Nearly all were run with tyranny or with that of a patriarchal citizenry. The latter being quite rare indeed, for they were more common in the towns than the cities.

Charrak was a man wholly gripped by evil that was new to him, but also one of peculiar ambition and vision, looking ahead to what he saw the future to predictably be. It was this that set him apart from nearly all the other gangs in the region.

No longer was the adage of ‘He who has the gold maketh the rules’ fully true. It was he who had the weapons and army to seize or keep hold of that which was his. Gold was at best a merchant trade item for large goods exchanges, often with a heavy bodyguard. Charrak knew that in time gold would inevitably return as a nation changer but for now it was force of arms that held sway in the land, along with food and gasoline.

Working vehicles were a precious commodity and Charrak's underground parking garage not only had four working police cruisers but two imposing Bearcat-class armored cars as well. Zane was confident it could stand up to anything. The truck-framed chassis, inch-thick armor and thick laminated glass stood it apart from most functioning vehicles.

With a streak of vanity Charrak named them The Battlehound and The Fist. At least once a week he'd have his men drive one around Redmond, reminding the populace who was lord and who was serf. Ten armed men could ride in a Bearcat, along with a driver and co-driver in the front. A top hatch allowed a gunner to engage enemies along with four gun ports in the sides for armed-passengers.

A dozen pickups and several motorbikes completed Charrak's fleet of vehicles but for what he had in mind the armored ones would be the spearhead of his future schemes.

A fuel pit in the police station held hundreds of gallons in spare gasoline, enough juice to keep his fleet of vehicles going relentlessly. Any spare fuel they found would be funneled into this store. Charrak learned of a small refinery further east which took in raw crude from down south. Heavily armed convoys ferried the stuff around and Charrak secretly hungered for control of that as well. For now though he satisfied himself with barter trade from the mountain of items they'd acquired already, that way their fuel needs could be met easily.

The Tribe's arsenal of weapons now included the police firearms of nearly a hundred pistols, full-auto carbines, fifty combat shotguns, and a vast surplus of ammunition for all of them. The enforcers they'd taken the place from had indeed been sitting on a gold mine.

Dozens of black uniforms, polymid armored vests with removable trauma-plates and helmets gave them a force multiplier effect. For the strongest and biggest of his men they were even harder to kill and overall they now looked like a fighting force instead of a ragged band of thugs. Charrak himself always wore the body armor, over time his thick frame adjusted to the extra weight which he bore like a cloak.

He now wore beige pants, cross running shoes and a red shirt with black-garbed body armor. The Class II level Kevlar protected his torso, while the smaller ceramic plates augmented the Kevlar; capable of resisting even high-velocity ammunition. Across his chest was a chest-webbing rig containing magazines and twin pistol holsters. Into the latter was a pair of Skorpion machine-pistols while at his side a .32 Beretta Tomcat back-up pistol nestled down into the small of his back.

He was no rifleman or assault trooper for his accuracy was average at best, no matter how much coaching Zane gave him. In the early days when his faction went on a raid in the city, he'd often unleash both weapons at once before drawing his pistol to charge in with the others. He still recalled that moment with relish as bullets decimated in and around his helpless enemies; keeping them pinned down. He usually backed off to let Zane do the real fighting though, while he led from the rear, directing reinforcements where needed. Zane knew it different though; Charrak's accuracy was woeful at any range over fifteen yards.


The disappearance of the Blue Sun along with late autumn now seemed to be a sign to Charrak. Most of the remaining independent settlements and towns would be unsuspecting of an attack in winter. A moderate student of history Charrak often recalled how the Roman Empire surprised its enemies by going on campaign prior to winter. Unlike most gangs with a rudimentary command structure of leader, bodyguard and soldier, he included an elite force as well. This could act as a spearhead that could unleash overwhelming attacks and drive all before them in defeat. The man dreamed he was a Caesar, with Redmond as Rome and The Tribe as his legion.

He smiled as he watched a group of his gathered brigands stirring in the morning light. He looked upon them with a combination of admiration and cold dependency. These were his Wolfhounds; the elite troopers and the best of which augmented his bodyguard.

The black and brown attire was augmented by body armor of olive drab and tactical black. The supplemented weaponry along with additional kit bags gave them the look of quasi-professional fighters.

Where the majority of biker gangs, roving killers for hire and bandits had been without rules and discipline; Charrak plotted to be ahead of the game.

He foresaw that the faction with the greatest fighters and leadership would arise in triumph. The lesser-outlaws, the clueless marauders and devil-may-care raiders were either dead, killed or in the superior, surviving gangs. His Wolfhounds were the worst of the lawless ones now rampant in the land; the casual abusers, rapists and murderers. They would kill those outside their gang as they saw fit. Here and there were diamonds that shone brighter than the muck that surrounded them but such types Charrak knew to be a rarity, ones that would do well to keep quiet and let the Wolfhounds be the Wolfhounds. Ugly sneers, soulless eyes and demeaning ways went with them as a small crude army began to form. A handful were Caucasian often riddled with tattoos, the rest were either of a mixed disposition or pure Hispanic. To an experienced warrior they were fighting dogs dressed up as wolves. The collapse of organized federal militaries and police enforcement meant that even a dog could potentially slay a nobler beast. With ease in some cases as Zane had already shown.

Preppers and survivalists were their hated adversaries; already a few had given them bloody noses. Bugged-in, fortified houses with small groups of them made their job of subjugating Redmond's outskirts a painful experience. Some continued to holdout but would soon see their defiant end as a new order emerged in the city.

Charrak's Wolfhounds became the upper rank tier of the fighters, often a handful of them would lead the lower-ranking Dogsoldiers around. Zane personally commanded the Wolfhounds and they were among some of the deadliest fighters of Redmond. They spread out when on foot and kept low when advancing and fighting. There was little in-fighting between the city gangs. Especially as Charrak's gang was fast becoming a faction in its own right.

Those surviving gangs of the city now had either fled or agreed to support him with extra troops or supplies like the vassal barons of olden times. Water shortages were now eliminated with the restarting of the pumping station. It was this alone that fully won the survivor-population to his side. As support for him grew survivalists and preppers became isolated and betrayed as Charrak crushed each and every one he could find.

Charrak had no love lost for survivalists. They were armed, independent, opposed to his ways and he couldn't have that. It was reason enough to persecute any that would not surrender to him in Redmond. Only one redoubt eluded his wrath by boldly staging a breakout. They used wagons with home-made armor plating to burst out from a fortified compound guns blazing. It was a surprising and daring counter-assault that cost him over twenty-five of his men, including six Wolfhounds. They escaped onto the northeastern highway eluding their pursuers. The rest fell stubbornly to Charrak's forces though. This convinced him that no matter how well-fortified something was, it would ultimately cave-in to his will.

Now fully master of the city Charrak had reinvented himself as a semi-benevolent warlord winning over a majority of the city survivors. Enjoying the rewards of power his sadistic urges were somewhat satiated by a harem of five mistresses. Occasionally though, the sadistic need within him took hold, and he would don his black leather mask, put on the leather overalls and descend to the holding cells.

Sodomy; that peculiar, revulsive practice despised by decent folk, was an ignoble passion of Lord Charrak. He used it for both his pleasure and as a tool to break down the will of another. If there were any of The Tribe that knew and opposed such ways, none dared to question it.

Charrak shrewdly chose to have specially selected, masked men for working the holding cells where he would prowl. These ones would look on in voyeuristic awe as the madman took over, sometimes even joining in at Charrak's behest. Those being kept in the adjacent cells could only listen in abject terror, hoping they would not be next. For the truly less fortunate Charrak would occasionally bring his music-player along with his now-ceremonial slasher sword. There the detainee suffered the ordeal of 'listening to the music' and for that fate, it truly was the horror show. The ones that were spared the music, but not his lusts were occasionally released as servants; all pride was gone from their eyes as they served their new master.

For the lucky ones that were spared Charrak's pleasures altogether they'd be sent out as refugee scouts while Charrak would keep the family of the man or woman as insurance for their return. One such man returned with news of fortified towns away to the north. He'd been turned away because there was no room and this aroused Charrak. The Lord of The Tribe looked at sketch paper giving a basic layout and overview of the town. Its name 'Tonswater' drew Charrak's greedy mind like a shark scenting blood. Dreams and visions were common to him since becoming leader and somehow, this town shone out from them all. He couldn't explain it by words fully, but he examined the terrain, cross-referenced it with maps of the area. Then saw how it fitted in with his long-term prospects for expansion.

He called in Zane to tell him then leaned out the window to address his waiting Wolfhounds.

“New lands await us to the north,” Charrak shouted, his voice affecting all who heard the words. “Gathertwo companies and be ready to leave at first light in the morning!”

The city became a greater hive of activity now as his army prepared. The night bars and brothels would do a roaring trade along with traders now operating between Denver and the nearby cities.


The past memories departed as the sound of Simon and his motor-rider brought Charrak back to the present. Climbing out of the Bearcat he faced them.

“Surrender?” Charrak asked bluntly. Simon shook his head throwing the white flag to a Dogsoldier who caught it.

“No, they will resist my Lord,” Simon answered making a brief bow of the head in respect. “A sheriff leads the town along with a civilian mayor. They claim to be part of the ISTAR. I could not sway them to surrender.” He went into further details about the exchange.

The Lord of the Tribe listened then focused his grim stare at the distant trees, walls and watchtower of Tonswater.

“It matters not what they think they are. I'll have their town no matter what, send out the body-truck when ready,” he ordered Simon. As the siege began he looked lustily at the distant town that defied him.

Tonswater was nearly two hundred miles distant but what resources and other doings that lay there and beyond gave him chills of excitement. In his dark dreams that night strange beings of power showed him visions, images of wealth and wonders.

That town was the key to finding them.

[Sir Hawkwood]

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[Alwyn]

Thus is an impressively dark and apocalyptic world. Charrack seems to be an effective warlord - but will surprises be waiting for him in Tonswater? I look forward to finding out.