I’ve always been kind of fascinated by what people do when pressed out of their sense of normalcy. Pushed to do what they cannot do. Some seek out the skills necessary, practice those skills, then do what they must. Some know what they can do better than anyone else, and use those skills, morph the problem to their limits. Some can manage to struggle through without change. Some break in their attempts. This whole ordeal would have been the ultimately fascinating thing to observe, if it hadn’t been our job to fix it. Instead of watching people find ways to survive through the end, I had to focus on saving the world. And we failed, at first. Then, eventually, we succeeded. Though only by breaking things further, debatably worse than before. I’m sure if they were still about, Jim and Jean-Paul would debate that for days. I’m not sure what happened to the other Wanderers, though. I made it out before we erased the city. The whole trick Jim pulled was smart, but I saw it coming. And if I saw it coming, so did the Knight-Regent. Which leaves it up to me to end the war, once and for all.
If I were Ismael, I would be tracking him, following his trail like a hound. If I were Jean-Paul, I would walk and end up going where he was going. If I were Jim, he probably would never have escaped New Orleans in the first place. But I’m not them. I’m not a hunter, not a demigod, and certainly not the Triangle. With time, I could probably learn some of those skills, but giving the Knight-Regent time would only serve to cede the advantage to his side. So instead I use my own skills to hunt him down.
I’m a mystic, sure. All Wanderers must be. But before I was a Wanderer, I was a researcher and archivist. And that is a far more useful skill for most practical matters. Instead of trying to track him, I chose to travel out to our Light field office in Mobile, Alabama. The Light’s system kept detailed records on all the known and suspected properties of the Triad organizations. While the network may have been shut down, it should all still be backed up. And the Mobile office should not have been occupied when the rising began, so it should still have all the data. The office is covered in dust when I enter it. I’m guessing no one’s been by throughout these two apocalyptic years to turn on the generator a single time, since its tank’s still full. Ripping the cord once, I watch as the small place comes to life once again. I came here once, back in the day. Before I even began Wandering. And yet, in all that time, it has not changed a bit. As the sickly white lights come on, one by one, it looks essentially the same. Filing cabinets and microfiche readers. Somehow, it’s comforting that, even after everything that’s happened, everything we did and failed to do, this old place is still the same.
The cabinets are organized by group, then zone, then date. The Knight-Regent is on the retreat. He’ll be heading towards a place that he’s comfortable with. He’s sixty-four, and the Knights usually begin their initiation around the age of twenty-two. That puts his initiation around forty-two years ago, give or take a year. He’d want to use a building he is comfortable with, but not one he thinks of as historic. So something the organization started using in his first three years. That means I only have to look between forty-three and thirty-eight years ago. Six years is a much more reasonable amount to search, but he has more.
I have a rough time-period and the group, which brings me to zone. Regionally speaking, he was in New Orleans and he left westward on foot. Assuming the man’s transport was in the middle of the city, where the battle raged the hardest, he likely remained on foot. So he’d head to a place within reasonable walking distance. Beyond that, he’s not as young as he once was and he’s just finished an exhausting war. That leaves essentially southern Louisiana and the coast of Mississippi. Which narrows it down from all the files to what should just be twelve folders from two boxes of fiche.
I pull out the local Gulf Coast and Louisiana(sans New Orleans) boxes from the Knights’ shelves. Riffling back, I pull out the folders for the six years of possible relevance from each of the two boxes and bring all twelve folders to one of the readers. The folders are all very light. I should have a location in no time. Speeding through the first folder of the local box, there are no properties west of Mobile along the Gulf Coast. I move on to the next file. And the next. Still no properties. In the fourth year, there’s couple of interesting transactions from a bank in Pensacola, but that is a matter for another time. On to the next, though.
It takes me another hour and a half to go through the remaining eight folders. Three properties fit the bill. None on this side of what used to be New Orleans. Two near Baton Rouge, a small mansion in the suburbs and an office building near the city center. Both in the right date range and walking distance. But the third property is an old historic church just outside Lafayette. Not as big as the office or as nice as the mansion, but after what happened in New Orleans, the old Knight-Regent is likely having a crisis of faith, of some sort. Taking note of the other two, on the unlikely off-chance that my gut feeling is wrong, I put the folders back into their places in the boxes, and return the boxes back into their proper places on the shelves. Heading back to the generator, I shut the power off once again. No use wasting the gas, in case I ever have need of the files again. As the lights shut off and the room goes dark, I take a deep breath and ready myself for the trip ahead.
Highways might as well be deathtraps. On the other hand, I’m heading into a completely unknown and likely trapped building. Having extra time would be nice. It’s probably about a two day hike for the old man. A day should be enough time to scout out the area and maybe even set some traps of my own. If I drive fast enough, I may even have time to sleep some. First time in a week. Might be nice. I climb into my jeep, which I let Jim’s crew tinker with back in the day. Turning the key in the ignition, I feel the warm hum of the terrifying batteries beginning to power up. Then, shifting into drive, I speed off the instant I put foot to metal.
As much as it terrifies me now that I know what problems these batteries have, in this world, I must admit there are many advantages. For one, fewer stops, and none at gas stations. I expect tankers and stations are still infested dens of murderous thieves. But also, with the lights off, the car is almost entirely unnoticeable when driving along at night. And even in the daytime, the quiet means people don’t hear it coming. Which is good when fifty percent of the populace wants what you have and are willing to go to many if not all lengths to get it. Add to that another five percent that wants you dead for various and sundry reasons, and all together you generally want to avoid people, especially those you aren’t expecting. So speeding along through the darkness and dawn silently is preferable to most alternatives. Even if I am driving around atop what might as well be a mostly-stabilized reality-breaking bomb.
As I arrive in the suburb of Lafayette, I pull into a post office parking lot a block and change down. I can tell driving through town that I’m not the only person here, but people are still afraid. When the dead walk and friends begin to lose their minds, people tend to get more nervous about outsiders. I should be fine, but just in case, I slit my finger and draw a quick sigil of sealing on the underside of the jeep. Unless the sigil is broken with intent first, the next person to open one of my doors will burst into flames. I add a note saying, ‘Do Not Open’ to the window, then lock the car and leave the lot. Heading over to the church grounds itself, I enter the church, as though a lost soul seeking council of something greater. No one is inside. Consecrated grounds were generally their first targets during the apocalypse. Taking out from my pack a rag soaked thoroughly in a minor god’s blood, I blindfold myself and tie it tightly, so no light can enter but through the rag itself. As the blood that isn’t blood starts to slowly ooze onto and down my face, I mutter the words and the ley of the land reveals itself to me. The cultists were lazy. While they deconsecrated the land, probably dragging some poor soul from the office of the local bishop out here, they didn’t remember to deconsecrate the altar itself. Probably thought they were under the same ritual, but older churches generally went through a less streamlined dedication and consecration process. Deconsecration would be impossible, as there isn’t anyone left to do it. Proper desecration would take more than a day. Which leaves a simple walling off the flows of energy and hoping the dam doesn’t break. First I draw a circle around the altar in gunpowder. Stepping into the circle, careful not to disturb it, I lay down a small idol from the black box Jean-Paul gave us all. Around the idol, I draw a sigil of protection inverted. It should keep things in. Saying a quiet prayer, I light the small sigil alight. The gunpowder burns quickly. I rush out, in case the effect is stronger than I intend, but am careful not to disturb the circle. As soon as the sigil finishes burning, the circle bursts alight from six equidistant points, each burning outward a different color. Then, as quickly as it began, it was finished. No more gunpowder. Just a small carved statue sitting atop the altar.
I go around the interior of the church, checking for traps. But it is a public place, so the only traps are those leading deeper than people are supposed to travel. That is fine, I do not intend to delve deeper here. I suspect it is mostly training areas and rest areas, for the most part. I also suspend a net and set up some smoke traps, in case he brings friends. Then, lying on the pew, I take off my blindfold and try to get some much needed rest.
The light around the nave meant my sleep probably wasn’t the best sleep of my life. But, since I hadn’t slept in days, I still wake up feeling refreshed. Checking my watch, it appears I have another one to three hours to wait. Depending on how long he rested last night. Lying down on the bench, so I am not visible from the doorway, I begin to make a list of everyone I remember at the battle, as well as numbers and positions when we ended it. After all, perhaps my wandering isn’t over quite yet.
After an hour and a half of waiting and remembering, the Knight-Regent burst into the church alone. “God,” he began to entreat as he broke my tripwire. The smoke starts to rise up and fill the room more quickly than expected.
“Not quite,” I reply before he continues his question, as the weighted net falls down around him. Rising from the pew, as though out from the smoke itself, I add, “Do you have another guess, Knight-Regent?”
“Wanderer?” he mutters, his tone, “But you’re dead.”
I smile as I approach the older man. “I tried that,” I say calmly, “It didn’t take.” Cocking my head, I add, “Why don’t you have a go?”
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