by J. L. Harden
“Fair enough.”
“You ever had that meat they grow in the lab?” I ask, genuinely interested. “It’s getting pretty good.”
“Can’t say that I have.”
“I know it’s expensive, and I know it’s really hard to get your hands on it, but if you ever get the chance, you should definitely try it out. It’s amazing what they can cook up in a test tube and a petri dish these days.”
I see his hand rest on the hilt of his knife. Wait. It’s not a knife. It’s a machete. “Look, you’ve got two options,” he says. “You can come quietly. Or you can come in pieces. It’s up to you.”
“In a bit of a hurry, are we? What’s the rush?”
He shifts his weight onto the balls of his feet. He’s done talking. He’s ready for the fight.
And so am I.
I’m so ready.
I’m itching to fight, chomping at the bit.
Because raising hell at the Casino, busting Zoe out of that fucked up torture chamber, all of that was just the warm up, it was just the pre-show.
Now it’s time for the main event.
I weigh up my options in a heartbeat. I’m too close to this guy to pull out my gun. He’ll be on top of me before I get the chance to fire off a single round. And there’s always the chance he could be wearing a bulletproof vest. There’s always the chance his jacket is bulletproof.
The nameless Raider smiles at me. Shows me his machete. “We’re gonna cook you slow.”
“I wouldn’t want to be cooked any other way.”
I say this not actually thinking about being cooked and what that actually entails. Because, I mean… fuck that. What I do instead is, I take out my knife and I throw it at his neck.
The knife pierces his throat and his windpipe and he immediately stumbles back against the wall. He falls to his ass. I kick the machete out of his hand as he tries to claw and grab at the knife in his throat with his other hand. I kick that hand away as well. And then I stomp on it, breaking his fingers.
And then I take my knife back, sliding it out of his throat. And he bleeds to death immediately.
Wasteland Raiders are tough.
But so am I.
And I’m just getting warmed up.
Chapter 5
The Farm is a whole section of the Buried City that used to be a multi-level shopping center and a multi-level car park all connected to an exhibition center.
Once upon a time.
Now, entire floors have been covered in soil they dug up from somewhere. Down deep most probably. The rest of the space has been converted into a hydroponic farm. This is where they grow plants without soil. This technique of growing plants is advantageous because most of the soil on Earth is toxic and irradiated. I cringe to think about what the farmers had to go through to get the soil they have now.
But fertile soil and clean water is only half the battle. Growing crops underground has one huge problem. That problem being sunlight and the complete and utter lack of it. So, to remedy this problem, there are powerful ultraviolent sun lights hanging from every inch of the ceiling. These lights are powered in small part by the hydroelectricity of the water plant. But most of the power comes from the massive Solar Panel Farm on the edge of the Ruined City, out in the Wasteland.
And even though the Farm is crucial for the survival of the Buried City, for feeding five million people, this place gives me the creeps. I’m sure it gives a lot of people an uneasy feeling in the pit of their stomachs and in the depths of their hearts. This is because a lot of weird stuff goes on at the Farm. There’s a lot of unusual ways to fertilize the soil and it also doubles as a graveyard for a lot of people. Basically, when you die, your family has three options for burial. Firstly, there’s the ever popular method of incineration. No money for incineration? That’s okay. You can always choose the DIY method. This involves making a trip to the surface and discarding the corpse of your recently deceased loved one out in the Wasteland. And finally, for the lucky few, for those of us who wish to spare no expense, for which money is no concern, they can buy a burial site here. That’s right, they can bury their loved ones here, in the Farm, under the orchard trees.
As a result, most of the time, if people don’t need to be here, people stay the hell away.
Sally is smart, hiding the girls here.
No one would even think to look in a place like this. Well, almost no one.
I just hope whoever Sally entrusted with this secret, with the job of hiding the girls away, is one of the good ones. I just hope they are on our side.
I’m pretty sure Sally would have a good idea of who she can and can’t trust. This is because both sections of the Farm use huge amounts of water. And back in the day, years and years ago, Sally helped set up and refine the irrigation system.
She knows the farmers and the fruit pickers.
She knows the horticulturalists and the gravediggers.
She knows who can be trusted to stand up to Wonderland.
As I make my way to the Farm I get lost in my own thoughts and I’m finding it hard to believe that my life has come full circle. Because not too long ago it was my job to deliver people to Wonderland.
But now?
Now I’m taking them away, hiding them away from Wonderland. Now I’m running as fast as I can in the opposite direction. It took me longer to join this fight than I’m proud to admit. Up until a few days ago, I was convinced that Wonderland was offering me a new job. I was convinced the Shuttles were coming back for us. For everyone. They said, “We need a transporter. And you’re the best damn transporter there is. We will guarantee your salvation.”
It was a lie of course. They were paying me, bribing me to shut up, to not make any noise and to not make any waves.
Hector was right to be suspicious of the timing. I don’t know why I didn’t see it. I don’t know why I couldn’t smell the deception.
Why was I so blinded?
I don’t know.
But I can’t think about that now.
Because right now, I need to calm my nerves and slow my heart rate. I need to get in the frame of mind you need to be in to hunt and stalk another human being. A human who himself is a hunter.
A Wasteland Raider.
A crazy, insane son of a bitch.
The smell of wet soil hits me. Strange and alien.
This whole place is alien.
This whole place is a time capsule.
A museum.
A vestige of how things used to be. Of how Earth used to be.
Rumor has it that Wonderland Enforcers came for whole sections of the Farm, for truckload after truckload of specimens and seeds to put onboard the Shuttles so they could be delivered to the Arks. Years ago. Decades ago.
I hope this means there is some greenery up there.
A little piece of Earth.
A piece of home.
The first thing to greet outsiders is the garden. A large greenhouse full of plants and flowers that exist nowhere else on Earth, nowhere else in this part of the solar system. The color of the flowers, the greenery of the plants and the leaves, the thickness of the air… it is amazing.
Breathtaking.
The Farm is a valuable piece of real estate for obvious reasons. And even though it is isolated from the rest of the city, it is still heavily guarded. Farmers have strong backs, strong arms and hands. This allows them to employ their own enforcers. Enforcers who all know how to swing an axe and a scythe and how to use a shovel.
I make my way through the greenhouse and move out into the open of what appears to be an orchard of some kind. Peaches? Apples? It’s hard to tell. Could be avocados for all I know. The branches don’t appear to be bearing any fruit. Picked clean already. Sold to market. Fed to the people of the Buried City.
Usually the place is full of farmers and fruit pickers. But the place appears to be relatively empty.
Off in the distance, between the trees, I see them.
I see Frank.
H
is three companions.
Four Wasteland Raiders up to no good.
They approach a lone farmer. He appears to be doing some pruning, cutting down old branches.
Frank approaches him, quietly, casually. “Evening, sir.”
The farmer is startled. I don’t think he was expecting company. In his hands is a small saw. Leaning up against the trunk of an orchard tree is his axe and his shovel.
The farmer, while initially spooked, plays it cool. “Evening, fellas. What brings you all the way out here?”
“Orders.”
“Orders? What kind of orders?”
“Well, they’re really none of your business.”
“I see. But if you don’t tell me what your orders are, then how the hell am I supposed to help you?”
“Hey, relax. Take it easy, brother. You’re a bit jumpy today.”
“I apologize. We don’t usually get many visitors around here.”
“No apology necessary. All we need you to do is answer some questions. Sound fair enough?”
“Sure does. Say, before we get started, mind telling me who you are?”
“Of course. Where are my manners? My name is Franklin Kilgore. I’m deputy to the Sheriff of the Buried City. And these are my associates.”
“Sheriff? I thought Zoe Harrison was the Sheriff? And I thought she’d been incarcerated for doing some not very nice things.”
“You are correct on all counts, my good man. I’m deputy to the new Sherriff. Sheriff Mike Malone.”
“And these are your associates?”
“Correct again. They hail from the Deep Canyon. They arrived here last week hoping to make a living and score a job. They are shadowing me, learning the trade. Can’t make them deputies just yet. They’re still on a probationary contract. I’m sure you understand.”
“I understand perfectly, Mister Kilgore.”
“Excellent.”
“So what may I do for you?” the farmer asks.
“We are tracking some thieves. We have good solid intel that says they are hiding right here, in this strange and isolated place.”
“Thieves? What have they stolen?”
“I’m sorry. I can’t answer that question. It’s classified.”
“Classified? Right. Well, the only thieves we usually get in here are the fruit pickers. Newbies tend to try and pocket a few pieces of fruit. Sometimes they steal seeds. We usually catch them pretty quick. Once we catch them, scare them a little, they never do it again. An axe is a handy tool, but it’s also a devastating weapon and inflictor of pain, if you catch my meaning. I’m not saying that we actually spill any blood, but the threat of pain and violence is enough to scare first time thieves good and proper. It’s enough to scare them straight.”
“We’re not interested in fruit pickers.”
I figure this poor farmer is about five seconds away from dying a painful death. Three seconds if he doesn’t get a chance to pick up that axe of his. So I better make my move. Time to get rid of these guys for good. I can worry about finding the girls once I deal with these bastards.
I’m about to stand up but then I feel the blade of an axe on my shoulder, against my neck.
A woman whispers in my ear, “Don’t move, hot shot.”
I feel cold steel against my throat. And then I feel the blade of the axe against my jugular, slightly warmer, like she’s just recently been sharpening the cutting edge. I raise my hands slowly and I let the gun dangle on my index finger. In my mind, I am cursing myself for letting myself get distracted, letting my emotions get the better of me and ignoring my surroundings.
For fuck’s sake, Ed. Get your shit together.
I’m too distracted.
Distracted by the rumors of an Extermination Event, of a Final Exodus.
Distracted by my run in with the Overseer.
Distracted by all the goddamn lies.
Distracted by Hector’s vital signs, by the strong and steady rhythm of his heart.
All these things have got me distracted.
The woman grabs me by the collar of my jacket and drags me away, further and deeper into the orchard, but still in view and still in ear shot of Frank and his men. “Just relax there, Edgar,” she says. “We’ve been expecting these bastards for a while now. I’m actually surprised it took them this long to get here.”
A million questions run through my head.
How do you know my name?
How do you know who they are?
The woman sees the look on my face. “Sally tipped us off. Told us to expect a whole lot of trouble.”
“How do you know my name?”
“Just a guess. Figured these girls needed a transporter. Figured there was only one transporter in the Buried City who could actually pull this off.”
Smart woman.
“And you don’t look like a Merc,” she continues. “Or any of the crooked cops we see around here from time to time. Bastards always wanting a hand out, always wanting more. And you sure as shit ain’t an Enforcer from Wonderland.”
“Who’s the guy you’ve got acting as bait over there?” I ask.
“Relax. Like I said, we’ve been expecting these guys for a while now. And the guy acting as bait, well, he’s not really bait at all. Because that man right there, is Alphonse the Axeman. And as the name suggests, he’s quite handy with an axe. He’s also handy with a shovel if you know what I mean.”
I realize now why the place is so empty. They were expecting these guys. They were expecting trouble. So they funneled them in here, trapped them in here. Led them to Alphonse the Axeman. And if these guys, these Raiders, if they get out of line, which is a sure bet they will, the Axeman is going to cut them down to size and bury them right here under the fucking orchard.
Things are about to get real bloody.
Chapter 6
The woman next to me is smiling with the excitement and anticipation of it all. She tells me not to move. As long as we don’t move, they won’t see us. We’ll blend in with the trees.
I do exactly as she says. I don’t move a muscle.
I blend in.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” she says softly.
“Excuse me?”
“I said, you don’t remember me…”
“No. Should I?”
“It was a while ago now. One of the last trips to Wonderland. If not, the last. You were the transporter. You and your brother. Me and a few others were the cargo.”
“You were there? You were on that trip?
“Uh huh. Was lucky enough to have won a spot in the lottery. You and your brother picked us up from the Deep Canyon.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. A lot of people died on that trip. I didn’t. You and your brother saved my life. Brought me here. I could’ve done worse. And it could’ve been worse.”
I shake my head.
That trip. Damn. Absolutely nothing went right on that trip. And absolutely everything went wrong.
The weather…
Biggest sandstorm I’ve ever seen.
The Raiders…
More Raiders than I’ve ever seen.
The mutants…
More mutants than I’ve ever seen.
Everything conspired against us. And we never made it to the drop off point, to the walls of Wonderland.
It was the last trip we ever made.
Been waiting ever since for Wonderland to reopen their gates, to start accepting refugees again. To give us a call. To give us the greenlight. Got a feeling we’re going to be waiting for a hell of a lot longer. Maybe the job they offered me was another attempt to get me and my brother out in the open, out into the Wasteland. Because if they want us dead, that’d be the way to do it.
They’d make it look like an accident.
They’d send us out, force us out into a sandstorm.
They’d tip the Raiders off to our whereabouts.
They’d unleash a pack of mutants.
Hell,
they could send a fucking Spider Tank or a Gunship to finish us off if they really wanted to.
Got a feeling maybe Wonderland had a hand in tipping off the Raiders and unleashing the Mutants on us five years ago, of doing everything in their power to stop us from getting to Wonderland.
But I can’t think about that now. Because again, I need to stay focused.
I need to kill these bastards.
Get the girls.
Get to the Deep Canyon.
Three things on my to-do list.
Three things in that order.
Kill men.
Save girls.
Escape city.
“What’s your name?” I ask, slightly embarrassed that I don’t remember her from all those years ago.
“Mia.”
“So what’s the plan here, Mia?”
“The plan is to sit back and enjoy the show. The Axeman is about to go to work.”
“I need them alive,” I say. “I need to know who sent them and who they’re working for. I need to know who that fucker is, and I need to know what they know.”
I need answers.
“Can’t make any promises,” Mia says.
And then the Axeman does his thing.
His thing being…
As Frank reaches inside his coat for a gun or a knife or a machete, the Axeman grabs his axe. And Frank doesn’t realize it yet, but he’s just made a big, big mistake. He’s sealed his fate and the fate of his men. He’s guaranteed them a bloody and painful death with the only positive thing to come from this situation is that their corpses will be buried right here under the orchard trees.
This is a privilege that only a lucky few can afford.
Alphonse moves fast for a man of his size. And the axe appears to be lighter than air in his hands, nothing more than a cane whip.
But it’s not a whip.
It’s an axe.
It’s big.
It’s heavy.
It is absolutely devastating.
Frank’s hand is no longer attached to his body. It has been neatly and easily severed. He falls to his knees and scrambles after it. And in doing so, he practically prostrates himself in front of the Axeman, begging to be decapitated, begging for Alphonse to finish the job.
