My name is Jonathan Page, and I scavenge for words.
Books never lost their value entirely, though there was something of a depression in paperback sales after the Great Dying. With the internet gone overnight, the preservation of history, science, and accumulated millennia of human experience depended on people like us convincing our neighbors not to use those piles of moldy books as kindling or outhouse paper. It didn't help that only one in five children born in the first fifty years after the bombs became functionally literate - and fewer still progressed in their education beyond the elementary level. Still, there was some value to a useful book - one that taught machining, horticulture, or medicine. Bibles, too, have been worth nearly their weight in gold as bartering items.
My father ran the only printing press in Westhaven for nearly twenty years. It was a state-owned setup, and most of his time was spent printing notices, pamphlets, law books, ledgers, and wanted posters. At least, most of the daytime hours were spent like this. Once in a while, a rare book would make its way into my father's hands, usually sent by a wealthy nobleman who wanted it reproduced. My father printed runs of dozens of literary classics, and I devoured every word that came off that press.
Our little side business was eventually discovered, and my father was shipped off to labor in the fields as punishment for his misuse of state property. I was spared, being a juvenile. I enlisted in the Westhaven Free State Militia, serving first as a field scout and later, after my ability to write was discovered, as a clerk. I mustered out after six years.
During my time as a clerk in the Militia, I met several officers who expressed willingness to pay handsomely for new books. It wasn't too difficult to find a book, if you weren't particular, but a GOOD book was rare. These officers were sick of dealing with illiterate peddlers trying to foist off trashy, moldy novels as worthy reads.
I decided to find my fortune as a book prospector. For a year now, I've been traveling between settlements from Westhaven to Northfell, bartering and hunting for books that wealthy clientele will pay handsomely for. I've had good luck - another few runs and I may have enough capital to fund my own printing press.
It's a dangerous road, across the sage plains and bluffs, along the Black River and past the blasted plains. I've had to defend myself from both animals and men. Often, I travel by night to avoid unpleasant entanglements.
I carry my militia-issue long bowie, with a detachable steel knuckleguard. I'm not the world's best swordsman, but it is a simple and effective weapon.
I have nylon-cord bullwhip with a steel-weighted handle. Its cracks are loud enough to scare off the odd coy-dog or wolf that sniffs too close. It can cut a poisonous snake in half or flay a man to the bone. The handle is heavy enough to use as a long-range flail.
I carry a tomahawk and my soldier's spade as scavenging tools, as well as weapons. Both can be thrown with lethal results out to about ten or fifteen yards. I had to replace my tomahawk's wooden handle recently with a scrap of wood.
I use a cloth-and-rope sling as a ranged weapon. With it I can pick off a jackrabbit at fifty feet. Every kid out in Westhaven is an ace with his sling.
But enough about me! You're here to hear about my travels, and the strange people I've met. Next, I'll tell you about the Dust Pirates, the Disciple of John, and the fearsome Golgothan...
I
My very first journey past the borders of Westhaven met with immediate peril. I was ambushed by Dust Pirates! It was early morning on the Gorge Highway, about ten miles past the last militia waypost marking our official sphere of influence. I heard strange mechanical sounds coming from the other side of a ridge that morning, and decided to lay low as long as I could. Unfortunately, these two stragglers were apparently following behind the mechanized slaver caravan.
The pirates are unscrupulous human traffickers and robbers, taking any opportunity to waylay unsuspecting refugees from the North and ship them off to labor in the terrible potato fields of Idaho...
Goggle-eyes met me first, looking nearly as surprised as I was. He brandished a two-handed cleaving sword with some unsettling familiarity and screamed a hoarse curse at me to alert his companion.
He was soon joined by mask-face, who had a fearsome scrap scimitar in one hand and a wicked bearded axe in the other!
*****
The two were closing in rapidly when I pulled my coiled bullwhip off my shoulder and launched a vicious crack towards their faces. They pulled back, and goggle-eyes shouted that I would live if I surrendered. I didn't doubt his word, but I had no intention of spending the rest of my life harvesting potatoes for some regional warlord - or rowing a Dust Pirate mecha-galley.
We danced for a moment. I flicked my bullwhip in a series of cracks towards them and drew my tomahawk with my left hand. It was about that moment that mask-head decided his protection outweighed the risk of being cut and started charging me, working his two longer weapons in a series of figure-eight cuts. I knew I was outmatched and suddenly feared death.
It was at that moment that a hooded figure rose from the sage...
I hardly registered him at first, thinking he was another pirate. But as I backpedaled from mask-face and did my best to fend off his sword and axe, this shadowy interloper lowered his spear, charged, and ran mask-face right through the back!
All three of us were quite surprised. I recovered first and threw my tomahawk at goggle-eyes, but only clipped him with the handle. He turned to run, and was nearly hidden in the sage when I felled him with a stone from my sling.
I turned to the hooded spearman, unsure whether he was a friend to me or merely an enemy of my two attackers. He had already delivered the coup-de-grace to mask-face and was withdrawing his spear slowly from the downed body. He glanced sideways at me, planted the spear, and drew a naked arming sword thrust through his belt sash.
I stepped back and stiffened, my hand going to my long bowie, but he merely flipped it up against his chest, grasping the blade, and extended an open hand.
I shook it.
He spoke to me, introducing himself as "Thomas, brother of John". I resisted the urge to introduce myself as "Jonathan, only child". He bade me leave the site of our skirmish, saying more pirates could be on their way. I followed him into the ravines, pausing only to look at the weapons of the fallen Dust Pirates:
I was most interested in the scimitar, which appeared to be crudely fabricated from a cross-cut sawblade and a planer blade. It was very light and flexible, with the thick planer blade welded to the spine of the forte to stiffen and weight the sword to a usable degree. The ingenuity of scavengers never fails to impress.
My new friend and I eventually camped in a ravine to rest and tend to our equipment. He introduced himself further as a member of a monastic order dedicated to the protection of travelers and to persuade all the Earth's survivors to reconcile with God. The Brotherhood of John had been founded less than twenty years after the great fall, when a mysterious traveler had arrived in an oppressed city east of the Rockies and led a group of downtrodden farmers to victory against a fierce warlord. The traveler had called himself only John, and after establishing a peaceful and secure new community, left suddenly. He was thought by his followers to be John the Beloved, that disciple Jesus had apparently endowed with immortality to do God's work on earth until the end of days.
The Brothers of John stressed piety and humility above all, citing pride and materialistic disparity as the principle sins leading to the downfall of civilization. They wore hoods and tabards of simple sackcloth, after the example of another John, and like him they wandered the desert and subsisted on locusts. I saw that my new friend carried little other than his two weapons and a cloth satchel, from which I saw him draw only simple food and a waterskin. I asked where he stayed at night, and he told me that the Brothers had secret places amongst the rocks, wells that provided water and shelter at night. I asked if I could see the closest one. He replied that I may, but only if I were led blindfolded. I agreed.
My natural sense of direction is largely dependent on my vision, so I could never find my way there again, but Thomas led me to a rough cave somewhere between miles 26 and 30 on the road to Northfell. I am shocked it could be kept secret from travelers and highwaymen alike, but Thomas told me none other than Brothers of John had ever entered that cave unguided. Inside we found simple beds, a water cistern, and supplies of flour and olive oil. Thomas made simple cakes of flour for me as we spoke of my mission to preserve books. Thomas approved of my desire to preserve history and literature but warned me not to waste my efforts on unworthy stories. The truth, he said, was largely in the scriptures, and my efforts should be directed to preserving them. Thomas suggested I may have a purpose I had not yet considered in these journeys.
As a whole, I found him to be an overly sober and serious man, though I was very grateful to him for aid and shelter, I felt somewhat unsettled by the intensity surrounding him. I spent a night in the shelter of the Brothers of John and moved on, being led blindfolded back to the main highway.
Thomas left me with an admonition: beware the Golgothans.
He told me that Golgotha, or "Skull", "Place of the Skull", was a death cult, not a place. The Golgothans were nomadic horsemen who had been moving west across the plains, pillaging and headhunting any community that would not give in to their taxation and ostensible authority. They were known for dressing in black, with shrouded faces, and were skilled horseback archers. They carried two-handed cleaving scimitars that were light enough for single-handed use from horseback and stout enough to take the heads of their enemies.
Thomas suggested they used the skulls of their enemies as a form of currency, presenting them to their leaders to curry favor. He who took the most heads would receive lavish gifts, and their cruelty was unmatched. They plowed no fields and built no cities, preferring to live like a swarm of locusts. One sole benefit of their presence in your land was their quick eradication of Dust Pirates, but this was little consolation in the face of their barbarity.
It was only two weeks later that, as I pressed east from the river gorge, I stumbled across what I could only assume was the terrifying fiend Thomas had spoken of...
I quickly hid myself. I saw no others, but as it was early morning I suspect this Golgothan had made camp with his companions down the ravine and was merely taking a moment to himself before pressing on for the day. To my relief, he never noticed me. Thomas had made it clear that to be spotted on the road by Golgothans was almost certain death, and I had little chance of outrunning them if spotted.
He drew his fearsome two-handed sword, a small horseman's axe, and a short-sword quite similar to my own long bowie. I saw the weapons were pockmarked and greyed with age and use. My first thought when he drew his weapons was that he had seen me, but he gave no indication of this. Instead, he set his weapons down and unwrapped his face.
My impression was that Thomas was entirely correct. This was a merciless killer, and I had no doubt I would not survive an open encounter with him. I saw no humor or mercy in his gaze. I left as quietly as a mouse, before this skull-headed swordsman could add my own head to his saddlebags...