Shorty's was like any other watering hole that Vic had encountered in his travels up and down the caravan trails of northern California. It was sparsely populated with the typical mix of alcoholics, the unemployed, and to a lesser degree, socializers.

It was the socializers that shot distrustful looks in Vic's direction as he seated himself. But he did not let it bother him. Just about everyone in this world was suspicious of strangers-and with good reason. Anarchy was rampant across the long stretches of the wasteland. Struggling little communities of farmers and traders like Broken Pass---oases of civilization that had somehow escaped the forces of tyranny in the decades following the great Cataclysm---were few and far between Vic could easily have joined the ranks of any number of the unsavory gangs, clans, tribes, or militias that were the scourge of the wasteland. He allowed himself small, amused smile at the tempting thought. But it was not for him.

Ever since he had first traded for the ancient, dog-eared historical textbook, Vic's passion for the past had grown into an obsession that drove him along his path through life. His trading business was merely a means for him to support his true life's purpose: to become the first historian for this new era of human history. It was a task that filled him full of pride and purpose. His still carried that first, tattered text book, and over the years had added many more to his collection.

Vic placed his cowhide bag carefully upon a lopsided corner table and delicately peeled back its worn cover-flap. He began to carefully remove the items held within: a leather-bound ledger, a silver stylus, and a final item that he held for a moment in an appreciating embrace. It was a calculator. A thin crack running diagonally across its solar panel, but otherwise it was in perfect operating condition. This was one of Vic's most valued possessions. Not only did it facilitate the handling all of his business transactions as he wandered from settlement to settlement, but it served as a testament to his own prowess in the mercantile arts. He had procured it from the hands of a technology-worshipping tribe he had the good fortune to stumble across years before.

He roused himself from his trance and set himself to work, meticulously scratching figures into his ledger. His stylus danced across the brittle pages ritualistically, and immediately a feeling of relaxation began to seep into his muscles which were tired and sore with the hardships of the long journey into Broken Pass. Some men found comfort in making life grow from the barren soil of the land; others in combat-Vic found his solace in numbers. And while it did not make for impressive tales in bars like this one, it did provide him with a certain degree of satisfaction. Being one of the few educated men in the world was a nothing to sneeze at, in Vic's humble assessment. Just as he was finishing the last of his calculations, a gravelly voice called out to him from across the room. "Hey, you."

Vic looked up, placed his stylus against the splintered tabletop, adjusted his spectacles, and focused his eyes in the direction of the accosting voice. "Yes?" he responded tentatively, drawing in the details of the man from the relative safety of his darkened corner. The proprietor of the establishment, Shorty himself as his named tag indicated, lived up to his name, albeit in an unorthodox fashion. While he might have been of an average height in normal circumstances, his atrociously bent posture had endowed him with an unimpressive stature as well as an unflattering nickname. Hanging from his right hip like a firearm was a holstered label-maker, apparently the source of the "Shorty" nametag pinned slightly ajar to the breast of his dingy gray shirt. As Vic eyed Shorty's label-maker with a pang of envy, the old man replied, "Gonna buy a drink, or just sit thar?"

Vic blinked and forced himself to peel his eyes away from label-maker. "Oh, I'm sorry," he murmured, getting to his feet and making his way to the bar, which Shorty impatiently polished with a dirty rag. Vic passed a scratched silver coin to Shorty, who promptly delivered into his hands. It was filled with a pale, unappetizing brew and adorned with a label reading: "MUG." As Vic hesitantly brought the glass to his lips, Shorty remarked casually, "The Mayor says he wants to see ya."

Vic downed the brown liquid with a shudder, let out a stifled gasp, and nodded to the bartender thankfully. Vic was carefully not to betray the surprise that Shorty seemed to expect from such an announcement. Vic gathered his belongings and placed them back into his bag in the same orderly fashion in which he removed them. He tipped his fedora to Shorty, gave the label-maker a longing, farewell glance, and exited out into the cracked asphalt street which ran the length of Broken Pass.

The City Hall, located just a few abandoned buildings away from the bar, was an impressive building, serving not only as the center of the "government" of Broken Pass, but also as the police department, weapons depot, militia house, and just about every other vital function relegated to the administration of the trading community. Lurking in the shattered remains of a concrete fountain in front of the building was a sinister looking sentry bunker. Composed of the salvaged remains of a six-barreled anti-aircraft gun, it was more likely erected as a symbol of the Mayor's power, than as a defensive emplacement. The operator of the weapon dozed peacefully at the controls, clutching an empty bottle of whiskey in one sweat-drenched hand. Vic scaled the flight of steps to the entrance of the massive building and dabbed at the sweat forming on his brow from the exertion of the climb, coupled with the unrelenting heat of the scorching mid-day sun. As he paused to rest, he thought of his last encounter with the Mayor of Broken Pass. The man, a former merchant and mercenary, was certainly fearsome in appearance and brutal by reputation. But despite this, he had been quite a jovial host when Vic had first made his acquaintance during last season's harvest.

Vic let a chuckle escape from his parched lips at the memory. Indeed, the Mayor had even heartily congratulated him upon a game well played when Vic had procured a sum from the Mayor, hefty enough to start his own caravan group with, at a cordial poker game. Vic shook his head and entered the building; the Mayor's "merciless lust for revenge" had merely manifested itself in a free round of drinks for the entire group of merchants playing in the game. Mayor Bardinko proved that rumors were indeed just that.

The Mayor's office was just as Vic remembered it: a cozy, cluttered room with a rather well-kept oak desk, preceded by an array of mismatched chairs. Hanging on the wall opposite the entrance was a pair of immaculate black Colt carbines, crossed over a plaque in the manner of a coat of arms. Bardinko himself had changed little since the last season; a salt and pepper beard now adorned his meaty chin, his sharp gray eyes still glared from beneath a sinister, graying widow's peak.

Seated behind the Mayor was a mysterious figure. Clad in torn, faded military fatigues, its head was entirely swabbed in a coarse brown swath of cloth and a pair of mirrored goggles shielded its eyes from the world. Vic wanted a better look at the figure but was forced to divert attention as Bardinko's bulk rose from its seat and embraced him in a tight bear hug. "Victor!" the Mayor exclaimed loudly, in a warm baritone voice. "How good it is to see you, my friend! How long has it been? Three seasons? Four?"

Vic smiled wanly, not accustomed to such a display of physical affection. He freed himself politely from the Mayor's embrace and offered him a firm handshake. "Only one season, Mayor."

"Titles, titles, titles! Call me Vladimir," bellowed the Mayor good-naturedly.

Vic laughed politely along with the him, nodding as he was forcibly seated by one powerful shove of the Mayor's paw. "Alright Vladimir..." The Mayor returned to his own massive swivel chair, reached under his desk and retrieved a bottle and two glasses. "Something to drink, friend Victor?" he asked, a glint in his large black eyes. Victor raised a hand in polite refusal, shaking his head. "I'm afraid not, Vladimir. I've already had my fill for today."

Bardinko looked sorely disappointed, and Vic could sense that he seriously pondered forcing the issue, but the solemn determination of the young merchant caused the hefty Mayor to put away one glass with a frown, followed by another guffaw. "Whatever suits you friend." He proceeded to pour himself a glass of the clear liquid, which he consumed in one quick draught. Wiping his mouth with the back of one large hand, he inquired of Vic, "So, Victor, what brings you back to Broken Pass?"

Victor reclined slightly in his chair, a befuddled look forming on his features. "A man claiming to be a courier of yours approached me back in Rusted Springs. He said you had a business proposition for me?" Vic punctuated his question with the slight inclination of an eyebrow. The Mayor stared blankly at Vic for a moment. The air in the office pulsated with the uncomfortable silence, until finally it was shattered with a vibrating guffaw deep from the Mayor's gut. "Of course, of course! That was perhaps three weeks ago, yes? How could I have forgotten?" He slapped the surface of his desk with both hands. "I take it you are still interested, yes?" Vic nodded slowly, "I'm here, aren't I?"

Bardinko frowned slightly at Vic's sarcasm, but did not allow the mirth to drain from his countenance. "Well then, friend Victor, allow me to inform you of my proposition. You see, roughly half a year ago I-" the Mayor struggled dubiously for the next word, "... received the location of a rather interesting cache out in the desert, roughly a week's worth of travel to the east. While my source was... questionable at best, I did learn that there was a definite possibility of it being a pre-war military depot. Not your standard National Guard cache, but a very, very high-tech base. A weapons research and development facility. Supposedly it still stands, more or less preserved by its automated maintenance systems. Interesting, yes?" The Mayor's eyes gleamed with delight and an undertone of greed. "Yes, very interesting. But I still don't see how I factor into this." Vic eyed the man in front of him with muted suspicion.

Mayor Bardinko raised an admonishing finger, waggling it back and forth with a sly grin. "Have patience, my friend. You see, I vaguely recall you mentioning you were a historian, yes?" The Mayor had said the right thing. Vic leaned forward, his eyes widened. "Yes, yes, I did say that I have a passion for history." He leaned forward on the edge of his seat, waiting for Bardinko to continue. The Mayor's toothy grin widened by several degrees. "My source also reports, that in addition to weapons, the depot's computer system appears to also be functioning, which would mean an incalculable amount of useful data for a person with interests such as yourself." He nodded with a sly smile. "I need someone as able-minded and resourceful as yourself to go and investigate this claim for me. Should it prove to be false, it will merely be a week of your time, for which I shall handsomely compensate you and any losses your business might experience. Should it prove to be accurate, however, it would be quite beneficial for the both of us." Vic nodded emphatically, "Very, very beneficial... When can I depart?"

The Mayor leaned back in his chair slowly, pleased with Vic's acceptance of the proposition. "As soon as I give you the map. And just as soon as I introduce you to one of my most trusted men, whom will accompany you on your journey. Victor, I would like you to meet Private Nixon." Bardinko made a motion towards the mysterious figure in the corner who had, until this point, neither spoken nor moved.

Victor, in his enthusiasm, had nearly forgotten the unsettling presence of the fatigues-clad figure, which now rose and walked towards him with a noticeable limp in its gait. With one gloved hand, it slowly unraveled the brown cloth shrouding its features. What was revealed left Victor in shock. Ragged, green-gray flesh clung loosely to the creature's misshapen skull, like the living depiction of some tortured soul in Hell. Its eyes, bulbous, sunken and yellow, had barely enough tissue to support them in their sockets. Beneath it all, a system of clearly exposed veins pulsated almost with no rhythm, in a sickening tempo. Vic was nearly overwhelmed by a wave of nausea. Cordially the creature stretched its gloved hand in Vic's direction, betraying the otherwise monstrous appearance of the thing. The Mayor let out another mighty round of laughter. "Not much to look at, is he? But don't let his looks fool you, friend -he's the best shot I've ever seen, and the most loyal man you could ask for."

"Pleased ta meet ya," rasped Nixon, his blackened gums twisting into some semblance of a smile, revealing a two crooked, yellow teeth in otherwise empty and rotting gums. Vic mustered the courage to take the creature's hand, despite the intense voice deep within him screaming at him to flee as quickly as his mortal abilities would permit. "A pleasure," Vic said in a shaky voice. Both Nixon and the Mayor let off a barrage of cacophonous laughter; the raspy, staccato chortle of the mutant forming the most imperfect partner to Bardinko's deep bass tones of merriment.

When the laughter subsided, the Mayor turned to Victor, clearly reading the deep sense of dread on the young man's face. "You might be interested to know that Nixon claims to have been around before the Great Cataclysm. From his looks, I don't doubt it, either. You could probably glean some useful information off him, as well, though you might find his memory to be a bit imperfect." Vic's shock faded into curiosity; suddenly the features of Nixon took on a whole new light in his eyes. No longer were they those of a monster, but those of a potential opportunity for intellectual gain. He leaned forward closely, examining the twisted visage of something that at one time must have been a human being. "But the Cataclysm happened over one hundred years ago... How is that possible?" he asked.

This time it was Nixon who answered, a raspy sound that somehow managed to convey the message of laughter, escaped his tattered lips. "Boy, the Bomb changed me in more ways than you can imagine," he lisped. The yellow orbs inhabiting his eye sockets flicked in Bardinko's direction for a lingering moment as he spoke. The Mayor returned the mutant's gaze with narrowed eyes, clearly disapproving of his subordinate's comment. But the moment passed quickly, and Bardinko's overbearing joviality returned.

"Well then, I hate to delay you two any further from your expedition. I'm sure that you'll have plenty of time to get acquainted on your way out there." He nodded to Vic, and extended his palm forward once again and rising from his chair. "Victor, it was a pleasure seeing you again. Hopefully you will return and bring me good news, yes?" Vic smiled at his new employer, giving him a nod full of enthusiasm and youthful energy. "I hope so, Vladimir. Until we meet again," he pumped the other man's hand vigorously.

Bardinko's farewell to Nixon was much less cordial; merely a gruff nod exchanged as if from a master passing on orders to his subordinate. Nixon returned the nod with a lipless smile and expertly covered his deformed features with the brown shroud and mirrored goggles. Then he followed Vic out the door of the Mayor's office, and the two set off to finish up the final loose ends of Vic's business in town. As Vic descended the steps leading from the City Hall's massive entrance, a feeling of excitement coursed through his veins. Not only would he have the opportunity to gather historical data from the research depot, but he also had a first-hand witness to the End of the World. He glanced over his shoulder at the shrouded figure beside him, who merely followed along behind him, silently. Standing under the menacing chrome barrels of City Hall's anti-aircraft gun stood Currin, one of Vic's most trusted caravan boys. Vic had left Currin in charge of taking care of the caravan's animals, as well as managing the inventory. Victor was a bit perplexed as to the youth's presence outside, as by this time of the day he was usually busy getting intoxicated in a local canteen. But he let it pass. "Currin! I was looking for you," Vic called with unusual happiness in his voice.

Currin nodded sagely, "I know. I've already spoken with the Mayor. I've made preparations for the caravan to hold down here for a week until you return." "Oh?" Victor mouthed silently in surprise. "Well, wish me luck. I'll see you and everyone else in a week. Let all the hands know that there will be a big bonus in store if I manage to pull this off." He winked at Currin conspiratorially. Currin did not appear to be amused, and in fact seemed a bit impatient. "Yeah, well, good luck, boss." The caravan boy ran off with the end of that sentence, leaving Vic to glance questioningly at the imposing form of Nixon, behind him. Finding no help there, Vic shrugged it off and mounted his horse. He watched, amazed, as Nixon managed to mount his, despite his abnormal physiology. Then the two galloped off eastward, out of Broken Pass. Victor was optimistic of what the future held for him.

Nixon entered the Mayor's office after a quick knock, his shroud already removed and resting on the padded shoulder of his fatigue jacket. Vladimir Bardinko swiveled away from the dingy office window at the sound of the knock, and regarded the arrival with a questioning look. He took a sip from the bottle in his hand. The mutant's expression nearly impossible to read. "What do you have to report?" the Mayor asked in an uncertain voice, after a moment of awkward silence. Nixon laughed hoarsely at the question, and gave the Mayor a short nod. "I took care of 'im. He only managed to put one slug in me before I finished 'im off." The mutant poked at a hole in his abdomen, which oozed viscous black fluid. The Mayor nodded thoughtfully, and took a long swig from the mouth of his bottle. "What about the caravan boy?"

"I managed to barter the whole caravan away from 'im for a case of Shorty's cheapest liquor," Nixon stated, hooking his gloved thumb through a belt-loop triumphantly. "An' we shot any of the other hands who protested." Bardinko smiled gleefully at his pet mutant, "I have to commend you on your work, Nixon. You make my job almost easy." He swiveled in his chair to face the window once again. "What about my reward?" inquired Nixon, still lingering in the doorway to the office.

"You may do with the bodies what you wish," instructed the Mayor, waving his hand behind him dismissively. "Now get out of my sight." The mutant cackled with glee and turned to leave, mumbling to himself, "The smart ones are always the tastiest..." The door closed behind him blocking the twisted cacophony of his giggles from reaching the ears of the Mayor. Mayor Vladimir Bardinko ran a hand through his graying beard, his other paw now examining a deck of cards with an air of anger-tinted nostalgia. "No one ever, ever, beats me at poker," he whispered to himself.

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