Here we go, Chapter One, edited for the forum! If you have any questions, I will answer (unless it's plot related, then you will have to wait)
Chapter One
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It was tough to be a farmer, Patrick Morrison knew all to well. Weather, insects, rodents, and sheer luck was necessary to even carve a sustenance living from the land, though the land in what was once known as South-West Manitoba was rich and fertile. It meant that even in years of bad weather, he was still able to make more than enough for him, his grandparents and brother with enough to sell for a decent profit to feed the towns nearby.
Patrick nodded at the green shoots of the corn and wheat he was growing, and turned around his Sleipnir, an eight-legged horse named after the ancient Norse mythological creature. The corn was specially designed at the University of Manitoba, one of the only centers of higher learning that survived the War of 2077. Their plant modifications feed a nation, and they are rightly considered one of the best reasons Assiniboia is what it is today.
“Alright Demon,” he said, as the beast snorted. “Let’s head back home.”
The mutated creature snorted again, and began a fast walk to the farmstead where the Morrison clan lived, only three miles north from the small town of Melita, built and rebuilt over the original town built almost over 230 years before.
A few minutes away from where they started, Demon stopped, sniffing the air, and shuffling to the side.
“What is it boy?” Patrick asked, finally managing to get the Sleipnir to hold still. The equine held his head straight ahead, his ears rapidly flicking both forward and back to catch the sound of anything nearby.
The farmer followed where his mount was looking, and saw a large black creature move around.
Patrick grimaced. “Damn radgophers,” he muttered. The War of 2077, or as some called it, the “Great War,” had resulted in the mutation of almost all of the animal species in the world that didn’t die out to some degree or another, his Sleipnir being a good example, as where the two headed Brahmin that were ranched in the area. The radgopher, which was about the size of a small dog and with a voracious appetite to match, was a not so good example. Three or four of them could eat entire fields of crop in a day, and the holes and underground passages they made could shift entire houses. Fortunately, if the old books were true, they seemed to be slower than their ancient predecessors, and easily frightened. However, they also gained a taste of meat, and when a pack of them was starving, they would kill anything, no matter the danger, to feed.
The farmer wasn’t going to let the fact that they would as soon eat him as his crops get in the way of removing them from this life. It was about 75 meters away, far enough away that they wouldn’t notice anything dangerous to them. He pulled his hunting rifle off his back, and, aiming carefully, fired.
The bullet flew straight and true, and impacted the radgopher in the side, and killing it instantly. With a grin, Patrick dismounted and walked over, pulling out a knife to cut off the tail. Every tail was worth an Assiniboian Pound, and he sure wasn’t going to give up free money.
The rest of the trip back home was uneventful, which was nice for once. There were times when the Wasteland would throw almost everything at you, from radgophers to mutated coyotes and once even a yaou gui that meandered it’s way from the north-east. He checked the crops, the corn, wheat and barley that had been breed and designed to survive the harsh climate of Assiniboia. Further south in old America, it was almost perpetual summer and desert. Up here, with a glacier two or three kilometers thick covering a massive area, the weather was more temperate, if not cool all the time. There were times when water would freeze in July, but by the same token, there were days when it got to 20 Celsius in December. Perpetual spring, more or less.
Patrick brought Demon to a halt near the old house that his great-great-grandfather Morrison had managed to hold after the Great War, and the wave of radiation sickness, death and the brutal nuclear winter that followed. By now, this land had been the hands of the same family for nearly 400 years, and had been productive for almost the full time. Sure, some Morrison’s came and went, but there was always a child or two that wished to work the land. Farming only worked if that was the case.
Dismounting Demon and locking him in his pen, Patrick returned back to the house. He stepped through the door to see May Morrison, his paternal grandmother, cooking.
“Hey Grandma, what’s for supper?”
May Morrison, the epitome of kindly old women, her face brown and wrinkled from a lifetime of work and farming to help her family survive, looked over to her grandson. “Bighorner stew tonight. Got some fresh cuts from a merchant going by on the 83 to Virden,” she finished.
Patrick shook his head. “Bighorner meat is expensive Grandma, it only comes along the Rocky Mountain Trail. Can’t afford to buy it all the time.”
She chuckled and laughed. “At this rate, you’re going to take after your grandfather, haggling and penny pinching.”
Patrick shrugged. “Just so you know. And where is grandpa?”
“By the radio, playing with it as always.”
Patrick nodded, and walked into the living room where Harold Morrison fiddled with the radio in the corner. He was just as tanned and wrinkled as his wife, but still had a lively, energetic and brash energy about him, different from the restrained Patrick. He must of got it from his mothers side…
“What’s going on Grandpa?” Patrick asked, taking off his Brahmin skin hat and kicking the dust off his boots.
The 87-year-old man didn’t respond, instead continuing to grumble as he fiddled with the ancient electronics. His hearing was starting go, which meant he spent most of his days around the homestead due to his lack of perception around him.
Patrick cleared his throat. “I said, what’s going on!” he nearly yelled. At last, the old man turned around at the loud noise.
“No need to yell, Patty,” he replied, before turning back to the radio. “The ABC is coming in weak, and all I can get is Brandon General Radio right now, all that crap music and propaganda they play. But I want the darn news!”
Patrick shrugged his shoulders, walking over to his grandfather. He flipped a switch on the back, the one that turned on the long-range receiver. Like that, the radio went from static to clear broadcast, the tail end of a song from 2054 blaring through.
“I was going to figure that out,” the old man grumbled, but his mood lightened as he sat in his old rocking chair and prepared to listen to the news.
“From the Assiniboia Broadcasting Corporation in Winnipeg, this is the Six O’Clock news for May 8, 2218. Good evening, I’m Brad Horshaw.
“The leader of the Independent State of Brandon and the Syndicate Crime ring made a radio broadcast today denouncing the most recent assassination attempt on him. The man known only as ‘The Boss’ blamed dissident groups in the city-state, aided by Assiniboia in the attempt, the fifty-third, on his life. The Dominion has yet to confirm or deny the rumours.
“Merchants traveling on the TransCan Trail between PorLaPra and Carberry are being advised to maintain vigilance, as an unknown group is engaging and attacking any travelers they can. The first reports of this band of raiders came in three weeks ago, when the only survivor of a Winnipeg Trading Company caravan arrived in PorLaPra, having gone mad and muttering something about ‘half people.’ The Royal Assiniboian Mounted Police continues to investigate.
“The Rediboine Trading Company once again is denying rumors that they are engaging in price-rigging schemes and violent attacks on their competition to compete for the lucrative Fargo Supply Run. A spokeswoman of the Rediboine Trading Company says that they ‘have turned a new leaf’ and welcome ‘open and fair competition in the caravan business.’ The Assiniboian Department of Agriculture, Industry and Trade declined to comment if they were opening an investigation.
“And that is it for the news this evening. Stay tuned for the weather, and the continuing adventures of ‘Captain Mark of the Mounties,’ as he faces one of his greatest threats yet: General Buzz Babcock of the American Annexation Force! This is Brad Horshaw, for the Assiniboia Broadcasting Corporation.”
Patrick turned down the volume of the radio as the familiar ditty of the ABC played, followed by the numbers and forecasts of the weather, which, like usual, was sunny, cool, and no rain predicted. “Do you want to listen to Captain Mark?”
“I do!” a twelve year old boy shouted, running into the room from upstairs, skidding to a stop as he charged into the living room. Patrick smiled as his younger brother excitedly jumped up and down.
“Alright, I’m leaving it on Zach. But right after, we have to turn off the radio to save batteries.”
The young boy nodded his head, and sat in front of the radio to listen to his favorite radio show, the pre-war police officer turned into a resistance fighter. While the story was lacking, in Patrick’s opinion, it was enough to entertain those that enjoyed the occasional violence that ABC was allowed to broadcast.
Patrick returned to the kitchen, where Grandma May was dishing out the stew for four. “You sure do like your brother, don’t you?”
Patrick nodded, sitting at the table. “Dad told me to look after him, so I do.”
May shook her head. “I wouldn’t be too concerned, you know. It’s fairly safe here, and, so long as he works hard and stay’s out of trouble, he should be fine.”
There was a long silence in the kitchen, interrupted by the snoring from the elder male Morrison, and the excited gasps and cheers of the younger one as he listened to the brave Canadian hero defeat yet another evil villain, and the bubbling pot of food on the wood stove that was slowly stirred and sampled.
Patrick went over to his hunting rifle, and set to work cleaning the weapon. There was one rule for surviving in the modern world: a working weapon was the only thing that could save you. Sure, radiation may slowly kill you or accident may happen, but more often than not, death came because of a desperate raider or starving animal.
The familiar strains of “O’ Assiniboia,” the anthem of the Dominion, began to play on the radio, announcing that national programming of the ABC was complete for the day, and now local stations would take over. Zach groaned now that his favorite show was over, but he was running outside before anyone could say anything.
Patrick was about to say something about the radio being left on when it suddenly began making a loud racket.
“BEEEEEZZZZTTTT!!!! BEEEEEZZZZTTTT!!!! BEEEEEZZZZTTTT!!!!” It screamed, sending chills down Patrick and May Morrison’s spine, and freezing Zach as he opened the front door.
“Oh crap,” Patrick exclaimed, standing up and going over the radio. Grandpa Harold was suddenly awake, his grouchiness at being rudely awakened replaced by terror at the Emergency alert.
“This is a Raider attack alert! This is a Raider attack alert!” a panicked voice shouted. “Melita and Area is under hostile attack from raiders from the south and east. All Militiamen are hereby called up by order of Mayor Jamison and the RAMP detachment, and ordered to the town office as soon as possible with all weapons they can muster. All those not in the militia are advised to find a safe, secure location and wait for the all clear!”
As the message began to repeat, the siren established in the middle of Melita 200 years before began blaring out. Though it can barely be heard most days, today he wind was right to make it was a muffled roar, enough for everyone to hear it. Patrick was already almost out the door, firmly pulling Zach back inside, and grabbing the service rifle that was only to be used on Militia business, along with the leather armour that could deflect sphere and knives, and maybe slow down bullets.
“Patrick! Please be careful!” Grandma May called out, standing on the step.
“I will,” Patrick replied, grabbing an excited Demon from his pen. He knew that the siren meant danger, and was prepared to race his owner to the rescue. “Everyone else better get to the cellar and wait! Take the radio!” With that the young man was up on his Sleipnir and galloping south on 83 Highway to Melita.
The siren continued to blare over the long distance, and as the miles closed between his farm and the town, the sounds of gunshots, screams of terror and whoops of joy became quite clear. Patrick grimaced, and urged his eight-legged beast faster.
In fifteen minutes he was at the gate that was erected on the north end of Melita in case of such an emergency. Already several men, holding their weapons at the ready, where guarding it.
“Militia!” Patrick called out to them. Though they were prepared to shoot, they saw that he was alone, and someone they recognized from their monthly drills, and it was easy to see no one was following, so the guards opened the gate in time for Patrick to keep racing right through. Soon after, charging down the Highway, and taking a turn onto Front Street at the edge of the hill that lead to the Souris River valley, he was at the Town Hall and swinging off his steed, pulling the panting beast behind him. Around him was the large market place, where traders from Winnipeg, old Dakota, and as far away as the Alberta city-states and south to Colorado came to trade. Melita, while tiny, was a major trading route to the rest of North America, and deserved the protection it did.
He could see a crowd of thirty five to forty men, half with their own Sleipnir’s, half without, crowded around the Mayor and the town’s Christian Minister, Reverend Lloyd Jamison, and two RAMP officers, one mounted and one not, who were organizing the hastily called up defenders.
“They snuck in on us!” one man shouted. “Took the river up!”
“They will pay, them bastards!” another man replied.
The mayor tried to shout over the mob, but when it became clear that he couldn’t, he put two fingers in his mouth and gave a piercing whistle, getting everyone’s attention.
“Alright Militia, they are just trying to get over the dyke and the highway gates on the river. The RAMP officers are already down there holding them off, so I want half of you, the ones under Lieutenant Xavier, to head down there. All the Calvary men, the ones under Lieutenant Joseph, are to be ready to move out to reinforce or defend another part of town when need be. Alright, move out! And may God protect you, and deliver us a victory!”
Everyone cheered, while the men without horses began to jog away, following the RAMP officer Xavier down to the river. The rest, Patrick included, formed up near their Sleipnir’s, and began to wait.
Reverend Jamison - he preferred to be known by his religious, not his political title - walked up to Patrick. “I thought you would be back at your farm, Morrison,” Melita’s leader exclaimed.
“If they were coming from the North, then I would have stayed. The radio said from the South, so I thought I could leave Grandma and Grandpa alone,” Patrick replied.
The Mayor nodded. “Fair enough. And I know Harold was a crack shot back when he was in the Militia, I’m sure he could plug a few of them. I am happy that you have joined us, and that God will aid us.”
Patrick nodded, and the Reverend-Mayor walked away to talk to another man of the group. After the War of 2077, the different Christian faiths were brought together by the Assiniboian government, to provide faith, healing and other social works that the government couldn’t or wouldn’t do. Hospitals, schools, free hostels, soup kitchens and a dozen other good works are all done by the Christian ministers sent out after years of being trained in Winnipeg, and are seen as the best doctors and teachers in Assiniboia. With each town having one or two, and they would quickly become prominent leaders, as the mayor of Melita, who didn’t grow up here, showed.
Patrick sighed as he listened to the muffled gunshots, and cries and cheers coming from the south. It was good enough that he was here to defend the town, but it was better to not actually have to fight.
For a long ten minutes, marred only by the grumbling equines and the hushed whispers of militiamen nearby and the gunshots further on, a silence came over the town. Lieutenant Joseph reached down for his beeping radio on this hip. He lifted it to his ear, listening and replying.
“Looks like the raiders are pulling back to the east,” the RAMP officer said. “It was only a small band, 15 or so. The arrival of the militia men must have scared them away.”
The crowd around Patrick began to cheer, and he joined in. At least today they were fighting smart raiders, the ones that didn’t fill themselves full of chems before attacking or pillaging. Those raiders wouldn’t stop until either they were dead or the chems ran out.
Of course, if you were a smart raider, you wouldn’t attack a town with only a handful of guys. Patrick began to think that was odd, why it was such a small group.
The cheering died away, and soon the men sent away to help the RAMP officers were marching back. Most of them were pleased, while a few, the hot heads, were disappointed that they didn’t get to kill another human being this time.
“Stupid bastards, thought they could attack us,” one militia man muttered next to Patrick.
“But why did they? If they ran the moment they saw the militia, then they clearly didn’t have a goal for Melita. What were they doing?” Patrick wondered aloud.
“Not a clue, but once they started leaving, another group of raiders were coming from the north, and another from the south, and they seemed to have wagons and Sleipnirs with them.”
“The north?” Patrick repeated, to which the man nodded. “That’s where I’m from!” he exclaimed, making some of the men turn from their conversations to the other man.
“Oh God, oh God, oh God…” Before anyone could say anything, Patrick was back on Demon, and turning his mount around. The Sleipnir grunted and whinnied, before Patrick kicked the beast on. The guards opened the gate as the lone rider came barreling through, though they were surprised to see the same man they saw twenty minutes ago racing into town now racing out.
Once Patrick was on the Highway, he looked in the direction of the Morrison farm, and his heart sank. Thick smoke filled the sky, all coming from the house and barn that he lived and worked in. Patrick urged Demon on, and the Sleipnir, though snorting disproval at more running, went full out.
Patrick reached the farm, and pulled Demon to a stop. Flames licked up the side of the old house and barn, and the sounds of Bhramin bellowing in panic made a shiver run down his back.
The young Morrison walked up to the house, and to the cellar door. The cellar was a completely concrete encased structure, so the flames wouldn’t reach it and it kept the inside cool. The door was already opened and only thin wisps of smoke curled out, and Patrick walked up to it.
“Grandma? Grandpa? Zach?” Patrick called, his voice getting hoarse from the smoke.
“Patrick…” a weak voiced called from inside, and Patrick dashed in. He saw his grandmother, bleeding from the leg and from a gash on her head, propped up in the corner. Beside her Harold Morrison lay unmoving, a gun still clutched in his hands, and a few shells littered on the floor. Two bodies of partially clad raiders, though stripped of armour and weapons, were next to the door, and a trail of blood up the stairs showed that someone else was wounded.
“Grandma!” Patrick called, rushing over to her. “Grandma!”
“Patrick… the raiders… they attacked right… after… you left…” she gasped, shaking from the pain and shock at what just happened.
“Where’s Zach?” Patrick asked, tears coming to his eyes.
Grandma May tried to say something, but instead began coughing. “Oh Patrick… it hurts…”
Patrick snapped out of his grief, and tended to his grandmother. He ripped off a piece of her dress and tied it around her wound, while he reached for a stimpack on the shelf…
“They… took it… all…” May weakly explained. “Medicine, food, bullets…”
Patrick reached back to a secret shelf he had dug out of the concrete, where a few spare stimpacks were kept. He picked one up, and injected it into his grandmother. She gasped at the sudden [censored], but calmed down, her breathing getting steadier and the blood clotting up as the chemicals in the medicine quickly worked to stabilize the patient.
“Patrick!” a voice called outside. “Patrick!”
The young man turned around as three men, all with service rifles, ran into the cellar. “Patrick! What happened?”
“The [censored] raiders attacked! What do you think?” he screamed out, to the faces of Lieutenant Joseph and two other militia men.
One of the men, the towns medical expert Dr. Burnbank, went over to May Morrison, and hastily checked on her condition. “Pulse… 98, breathing normal… I think she will be okay.” He then looked over to Harold, and felt for his vitals and shook his head. “He has passed on, unfortunately.”
“What about Zach? Did anyone find him?” Patrick asked, hoping that there was a positive answer.
“We haven’t seen him,” the RAMP officer said. “The barn and house are still too dangerous to investigate though.”
“The raiders took him,” May replied. “They took him… oh my God… they took him!” The doctor turned back to May, and injected some Med-X, to keep her from panicking, which could only result in more medical problems.
Patrick’s blood went cold. “Those raiders… what will they do with him?
Lieutenant Joseph reached for his radio. “Whatever it is, it won’t be good. I’m putting out a missing persons call, and I hope the Mounties we sent to follow the raiders will find out what happened.” The RAMP man left the cellar, and made his call.
The doctor and the other militiaman helped May up, and walked her out. “I’m taking her back to the hospital to ensure her health,” the doctor told Patrick, and carefully the two men lifted May out of the concrete bunker.
Patrick fell onto the floor, alone as the muffled sounds of the flames above, and the murmur of men outside, were nothing to him. Even when the clanging bell of the fire wagon arrived, Patrick didn’t move. Tears escaped from his eyes, and quiet sobs filled the empty room, as the crushing burden of what just happened fell on him.
“I shouldn’t have left…” Patrick moaned to himself, in between sobs. “Why did I leave?”
“Because you thought you had to,” a gruff voice replied, making Patrick turn around. Reverend Jamison stood inside the cellar, arms crossed. “You wouldn’t have known that the attack on Melita was a diversion, as the raiders and God kept it from us.”
“What?” Patrick replied.
“We caught one raider, and they told us all what happened. Melita was a diversion, and other groups were going to raid the farms. Said they were looking for young boys and girls, but he died before he would tell us why.” The mayor stepped forward, anger on his face. “Five other farms around the town were hit, and the parents were killed, and the kids are gone.”
Patrick shuddered. “But I should still have been here, and stopped them.”
“You would have died as well.”
“But it’s better than letting my family get destroyed without me!”
The mayor shook his head. “No. God has willed it that you survive, for He has a mission for you to do. This town has a mission for you. We know that you are one of the bravest and cleverest men in Melita, and I think it is safe to say that you are the best hope we have to find our children again. This town needs your help.”
Patrick looked down, over to where the lifeless body of his grandfather lay, and back up to Reverend Jamison. “Why not one of the RAMP men?”
Jamison shook his head. “They are unable to, as they are here for our protection. They would need approval from Winnipeg before they could, and it could take weeks for the approval to come. By then, it will be too late.” He grimaced. “Anyway, RAMP officer’s are stretched thin all over Assiniboia. We’re lucky to have two full time officers here in Melita as it is.”
Patrick sighed. “Well, I have nothing else to live for…”
“You have your brother, and your Grandmother. I spoke with the doctor, and he said she will be fine, though maybe with a bad leg. Do it for them. If for no one else, do it for your family.”
Patrick rose up, and wiped his eyes and nose. “Alright, I will do it.”
Reverend Jamison smiled. “And I have something for you.” He reached into the Brahmin skin bag, and pulled out a large object. “The Pip-Boy 3000A. A personal computer for your wrist, one issued to everyone in the standard Vault-Tec vault. I want you to take it.”
Patrick carefully took it. “How did you get it?”
“My family was in Vault H, just south of Winnipeg. It was passed down to the eldest for many years, but I have no children, and I can’t think of anyone else better to use it.”
Patrick nodded, and slipped the surprisingly light device over his left arm. It fastened itself shut, and turned on, giving a cheerful chime as a classic Vault-Boy appeared on screen, waving to Patrick.
“Unfortunately, the map data our family had been collecting for years on it was lost when a memory device went on it. All that is left is the topographical map. You will have to enter towns and locations in it manually when you arrive in a new place. I did put in the location of a possible place to start looking, Waskada. Raiders overran the town a few months ago, though the RAMP or Army has yet to get rid of it. Most likely the best place to look.”
Patrick nodded, but suddenly the Pip-Boy began to beep. Patrick and the Reverand looked at it, before he chuckled. “Oh right. Occasionally the thing will detect a wireless network and try to download all available information. Usually the news, some government stuff, and advertisemants sometimes. Can’t edit them, and I can’t figure out how to turn it off. Should give you some reading material though.”
Patrick nodded, and shook the Reverend’s hand. “I just need some supplies and weapons, and I will be on my way.” he began climbing out of the hole, and was getting Demon ready to ride.
“Then God Speed, Patrick. God Speed.”
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Pip-Boy InfoTracker Note #1
RobCo/Vault-Tec North InfoTracker System Version 1.3
Greetings, resident of Vault [INSERT VALUE HERE]! If you are reading this message, you have just been selected into the Canadian Preservation Project (CPP), and are now living in the relative comfort of the best mass preservation project in the Western World. You may have all heard of Project Safehouse in the United States, and the CPP sets out to do the same thing; protect the best and brightest in Canada to repopulate our great nation, but to do it better!
To make your life here underground and away from whatever chaos and anarchy reigns in the post-[INSERT DISASTER HERE] world, Vault-Tec North, along with our partner’s RobCo Industries, provide you with this Pip-Boy 3000. You can find the full 17-volume manual for use and maintenance in your Vault’s library system, but this notice only contains the information needed for use of the InfoTracker System by ElectroArtists.
InfoTracker is to be used to keep important information for the user in a safe, secure and accessible place, while allowing Vault leaders to provide important notices and news in a timely and efficient manner, while also protecting you, your family, and your friends from the threats of subversion and sedition. You will never have to worry about losing information, notes, dates or patriotism with this handy program ever again!
When interfaced with a RobCo Unified Operating System equipped computer through the InfoTracker Cable (not included) or wirelessly, your Pip-Boy will be linked to all notes and files present on the computer and any articles that NewsNet, RobCo’s computer news network for the Vault System, has for you. Other notes, thanks to the integrated microphone and speaker in your Pip-Boy, can also record and preserve messages with surprising clarity. In addition, InfoTracker can keep track of thousands of messages, so you should never have to worry about forgetting or losing anything ever again!
ElectroArtists guarantees that you will be safe, secure and well informed with InfoTracker, only on the Pip-Boy 3000 by RobCo. Industries.
Version 1.1 Update (9/18/2075): Fixed issue/Removed translation from Chinese to English. Removed seditious words such as “Communist,” “Marx” and “Revolution;” To see full list, consult Read-me file #139 and your local authorities for wanting to know what that list is. Removed capabilities to interlink with non-UOS equipped computers. Fixed issue where program would be corrupted when accessing Vault-Tec Assisted Targeting System (V.A.T.S.)
Version 1.2 Update (2/4/2076): Fixed issue with losing data when Pip-Boy shuts off. Replaced all seditious words removed before with suitable American replacements.
Version 1.3 Update (8/29/2076): Fixed issue with random shut offs while in use. Added Dirty-Filthy Commie Propaganda-B-Gone program
» Tue Aug 12, 2014 8:45 pm 
