Henry Olsen - The Northland Chronicles - A Stranger North

“Alright kid,” he finally said. “I’ll consider it.”

“Really?” Nathan’s eyes lit up like two spotlights, cutting through the poorly lit tavern. “Pierre, you’ll look out for Emiko?”

“Of course,” Pierre said with a nod.

“Hey now, you can’t pull the trigger before the hammer’s cocked,” warned John. “I said I’d think about it — nothing more.”

“Thanks John,” Nathan said with a big grin, before turning to go talk with another group of friends that had formed near the bartender’s counter.

John shook his head. What had he gotten himself into?

“You’ll appreciate having him along — I’m sure of it,” Pierre said, patting John on the shoulder. “And I appreciate it too. Nathan needs to see that there’s more to this world than just our little village.”

“You’re not worried about him?” John asked.

Pierre looked across the tavern at Nathan, then raised the glass of beer to his lips and took a hearty sip. “I feel the winds of change coming,” he said, “and I know they’ll blow into Frontier View sooner or later, no matter how much we try to keep them at bay.”

“Are you talking about Ramses?” John asked.

Pierre didn’t reply immediately. He took a final sip of his beer then set the glass down on a nearby table.

“No,” he said. “I’m not afraid of Ramses. But I am afraid of whoever emboldened him. Nathan said Ramses was espousing the virtues of law and order. Those certainly aren’t ideals he discovered on his own in the wilderness.”

John shrugged. “What’s wrong with a little order?”

“Nothing,” Pierre said, looking John straight in the eye, “unless you’re the one being ordered around.”

John nodded gently in agreement with the old man. Still, what I wanna know is: how did that punk kid know about my arm? He hoped Mallard Island would provide the answer.

A Message from Henry J. Olsen

You've almost finished A Stranger North . Considering you've made it this far, I'd like to thank you for taking a chance on this unproven author. I hope you've enjoyed the journey.

I'm here to tell you that this is the free version of the book. (Don't worry — aside from the inclusion of this message it's identical to the retail version in every way.) By free, I mean not only free of charge, but also that I want it to travel across the internet freely. And to that end, I'd appreciate if you could help me in one of two ways (or better yet, both!):

Write a review of A Stranger North. Post it on Amazon, Goodreads, your blog, or wherever else you'd like.

Share this book. Pass it on to your friends, your grandma, your babysitter, or hell, give copies to your entire book club. Sharing it with one friend is great; sharing it with five thousand is even better.

Why am I asking this favor of you? I ask because your support is more valuable to me than any royalties I would have received had you purchased this copy of A Stranger North . For while I'll admit that, yes, I'd like to profit from my work, I see this copy not as a sale lost but rather as a reader gained. (Also, I honestly just love reading reader reviews of my books- if you post one on Amazon or Goodreads, I guarantee I will read it, be it the tenth review or the thousandth one.)

So, after you finish, please take a moment and help me out. I'm just a small fry in this big, big industry, and thus every recommendation really does make a difference.

Finally, don't be afraid to get in touch. Hit me up via my blog (simplyunbound.com) or via e-mail (henry@simplyunbound.com). I'd love to hear from you.

Now, how about we see what our friend Ramses is up to …

For two days Ramses had run north, seeking a place to regroup after losing everything at Sawbill Lake. Though he’d been waiting inside the outpost during the battle outside, he’d seen much of the action through a window. He’d witnessed Dwayne taking a bullet through the eyes and Barry’s hopeless attempt to fend off the black bear. He didn’t visually confirm Jeremiah’s death, yet he saw no reason to doubt Osborne’s word. The bearded man was like a machine, whose gears churned out death with the force of inevitability.

And so he’d delivered his message and ran. His feet had carried him here, to the General’s Gunflint Lake outpost — less than a mile south of the former Minnesota-Canadian border. The day was nearly gone and the sun slowly drifted toward the western skyline, casting brilliant hues of magenta and crimson against the peaks of the trees.

Ramses wrapped his fingers around the handle of the front door. The Gunflint Lake outpost was rather expansive. It stood two stories tall, had solar panels on its roof to provide electricity, and if Ramses’ memory served correctly, it contained an expansive cache of weapons and other supplies. In the rush to escape Osborne and Nathan, he’d left his radio behind; the General would be waiting for a report.

Swinging the door open, he scanned the interior. The main room looked like a large one-room office. A handful of windows allowed the waning sunlight to illuminate the room and a half dozen desks lined the floor — makeshift workstations, with radios, pens, paper, and other office supplies strewn across their wooden surfaces. On the far side of the office was a staircase that led upstairs. This outpost was far more luxurious than the threadbare shack at Sawbill Lake.

Ramses flipped the light switch near the door. After some flickering false starts, fluorescent lamps flooded the room with artificial white light. He walked to the nearest desk. A hand drawn June calendar sat on the back corner of the desk, suggesting that the soldiers stationed at this outpost must have left last month. That would explain the fine dust covering the floor and desktops.

A faint pattering noise came from above. Ramses froze and listened carefully. The sound didn’t repeat. Probably just a squirrel running across the roof, he thought, noting to look into it when he went upstairs. He spotted a radio on one of the other desks and stepped over to pick it up. As he began tuning it to the General’s frequency, he noticed a mirror on the wall.

I look like I faced the Desolation itself, he thought as he gazed into the mirror. Streaks of brown mud marked his face, and his short hair was missing its usual luster. His ragged fatigues needed repair as well. He lifted one of the dark green sleeves and took a whiff of his underarm, immediately recoiling in disgust. Unfortunately, a bath would have to wait. He turned on the radio and relayed his message.

“This is Private Brushnell, reporting from Gunflint Lake outpost.”

A faint voice replied through the speaker. Ramses held the radio close to his ear — the volume control wasn’t functioning properly.

“Could you repeat that?” Ramses said.

“Hello, Private Brushnell — the General has been waiting for your report. I’ll patch you through to him.”

“Thank you.”

Ramses waited a moment.

“This is the General.”

“Private Brushnell speaking, sir. Reporting from Gunflint Lake outpost.”

“I was worried we’d lost you, son.”

“We suffered three casualties, sir. I’m the only survivor.”

The General paused, as though observing a moment of silence.

“I’m sorry to hear that, son. What of the mission?”

“I communicated the information to Osborne, sir. He sounded very interested — I imagine he’ll head to Mallard Island soon.”

“And you didn’t mention me?”

“That’s correct, sir.”

“You’ve done well, son. To stand against John Osborne and survive is no small feat. I want you to report back to HQ as soon as possible for a full debriefing. From there, we can determine what our next step will be.”