Derek stifled a sob. He stood up, eyes bleary, and stumbled away from the fire. “Gotta piss,” he mumbled, and fled into the darkness.
Chapter Eight
The next morning Derek took a turn at the reins, sending Raina and her son into the wagon. The woman was too easy on the beast, and Derek aimed to remedy that. He’d fashioned a switch from the peeling husk of a Joshua tree and applied it liberally to the back of the donkey, forcing it slowly closer to Moses Spring, one haggard step at a time.
And so the day passed, with no sound other than the swish and thwack of Derek’s goad—that is until near dusk, when Leggy called for quiet.
“Hold off,” said the old man, pulling on the rein. The wagon rolled to a halt. The donkey stood dumbly in the road. Its eyes had long since taken on a glassy, myopic stare, and its breath came in struggled gasps and foamy heaves.
“What is it?” demanded Derek.
“Listen,” said Leggy.
Derek reached back into the wagon for his spyglass and raised it to his eyes. By now they could all hear the sound—a low rumble like distant thunder, continual, and marked with higher-pitched whines that reminded Derek of the constantly overheating generator that had been Leggy’s charge back in San Muyamo, before the fuel had run out.
“What do you see?” Leggy asked, but Derek only shook his head.
“It’s like…I can’t tell,” he frowned. “Horses? A caravan?” He lowered the spyglass and handed it to the old man. “Whatever it is, it’s kicking up a lot of dust.”
“Not horses,” said Leggy, who had taken the spyglass. His jaw dropped, and his face went white. “Not horses,” he repeated, “Motorcycles. At least two of ’em, maybe more. Fuck!”
John poked his head from the tent. “Motorcycles? Really? Can I see?”
“No time,” snapped Leggy. “We’ve got to move before they spot us. If they haven’t already. Damn!”
They scrambled out of the caravan and off the side of the road. Teddy pushed Leggy’s chair with such speed that the two front wheels lifted from the ground and the old man’s hair blew back in the breeze. They ran toward a collection of large, dung-colored rocks about thirty yards from the road.
When they reached the rocks they dropped to the ground and did their best to remain out of sight.
“What about the caravan?” asked John. “They’ll see it.”
“Too late for that now,” hissed Leggy. “With any luck they’ll just take it with them and not bother to look around for whoever might’ve been in it.”
“Who are they?” asked John. “And where’d they get motorcycles?”
“I don’t know and shut the fuck up!” said Leggy.
***
John lowered his head just as the motorcycles hove into view. There were two of them—Leggy’s ears had been correct. John’s jaw dropped. He’d seen rusted, stripped motorcycles in the salvage yard at The Heap, but never working specimens.
And the riders.
John could not tell where the machines ended and the riders began. They were dressed entirely in black leather, with shiny patches of metal and mesh adorning their shoulders and chests. Their faces were covered in black masks with thin slits for eyes. Large round bulbs of scuffed and dented steel covered their heads and came down low over their brows and the backs of their necks. On the left shoulder, each rider wore the only bit of color on them—three small ribbons, one blue, one red, and one white that dangled nearly to elbow length. Holding the ribbons to the shoulder, and pointing dangerously up into the air was a long, shining metal spike. The ribbons billowed in the wind behind them as they cruised to a halt a few yards from the caravan. The donkey raised its tired head and regarded the men with rheumy eyes.
The riders dismounted, and John was relieved to see that they were indeed men, after all. They wore high leather riding boots and—John could not believe it—each had, not one but two rifles strapped to his back. John’s heart skipped a beat as one of the men climbed into the caravan and the other shielded his eyes to the sun and peered off into the desert, directly where the group lay huddled.
The first man emerged from the caravan shaking his head. His friend pointed to the ground, and then moved his finger up to point directly toward the hiding group. With a shock, John realized they had left tracks in the dust as they hurried off the side of the road—that the wheelchair’s rusty rims had dug ruts in the earth as Teddy had forced it forward. With desperate fear, John turned to look at Leggy, and was amazed to see that the old man was smiling.
Not only was he smiling, but his arms were actually maneuvering his chair out from behind the rocks.
“Hey there!” he called, cupping his hands to his mouth. The men drew rifles and pointed them at Leggy. He raised his hands and shouted, “Ukmuk, Uk-hey!” Leggy waved his arms side to side.
John was certain that the old man had gone mad or suffered a heatstroke.
“Ugloooooo. Mooka-mooka, deeeeka, moooka,” Leggy said.
“Nick?” said the man pointing his finger at their hiding place. “Nicodemus? Holy Christ on a half-shell, is that you? We thought you, we thought….” The man stopped hollering and sprinted over the baked ground toward Leggy. The rider was surprisingly fast for all the armor and leather he wore, and did not appear even to break a sweat. Muscles rippled beneath leather, and his strong legs, as big around as timber, propelled him forward in leaps and bounds. He was tall and broad-shouldered, the biggest man—other than Teddy—that John had ever seen.
The man reached Leggy and stopped, while his friend remained back by the caravan watching. He looked at the old man’s stumps, and his face grew pale. He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out. Then he shook his head and scooped Leggy up out of the chair, embraced him in a bear hug and began spinning around and around in circles.
“We thought you was…we thought we lost you, old man!”
“Easy there, Silas, easy,” said Leggy. He patted the huge man on the back. “Now you put me down and introduce me to your friend.”
Silas gripped the old man in one more bear hug and held him for a moment before placing him carefully back into his chair. The he wheeled him toward the caravan.
Leggy turned back and regarded Derek and John. “You boys stay put.”
“What’s going on here?” demanded Derek. He stopped short as the ominous chock of a rifle being cocked carried across the still air.
Silas’s companion sighted down the barrel of his weapon. Derek’s cheeks burned red with a blush of anger, but he stayed put.
***
Leggy spoke with the two men for nearly an hour, laughing and hooting and hollering. Eventually, one of the men untied the donkey, while the other fixed the caravan’s reigns to the motorcycles. Finally, Leggy waved for the group to come and join them.
As they approached the caravan, Silas looked over at them. “You’re mighty lucky to have Nicodemus for a leader,” he said.
Leader? Derek opened his mouth to correct him, but was cut off by Leggy—the old man spoke in a commanding tone that Derek would not have thought him capable of. “Don’t speak to them,” he said. “Get in the wagon.”
Silas grinned at Derek and winked. Derek bit his tongue and climbed into the wagon.
Silas’s friend, who had not introduced himself, shooed the donkey off the side of the road, and tossed a bacon rind into the desert after letting the animal sniff it. After a moment, the tired, stubborn animal got the idea and followed. Then the two climbed onto their motorcycles, started them up, and they were off.
At first the sound of the motorcycles was deafening, but once they began to move and the reigns had stretched out giving them some distance, they were able to speak.
Leggy spoke first, cutting off the questions that rose to everyone’s lips. “They’re friends of mine,” he said, “at leas
t Silas is. Never met Corrin, but he seems able-bodied. They’re good people, friends, but they’re serious and don’t take kindly to tribals. You boys would do well to mind your Ps and Qs around them.”
“Tribals?” screeched Derek. “Who the Hell do they think—”
“I’m not joking,” Leggy said. “You got a beef about it, go ahead, take it up with them. See if I didn’t warn you.”
“But who are they?” asked John, without taking his eyes from the motorcycles.
“And how the Hell do you know them?” added Derek.
“Well, used to be they called themselves Paladins. But that was a long time ago. I didn’t think they were around any more these days. They were heading out this way to take care of that bug nest. Seems folks in Moses Springs already knew about it.”
“But how do they know you?” John pressed.
“It’s getting late,” Leggy said quietly, and yawned. We’ll talk more about it tomorrow.” The others protested, but the old man would divulge no more on the topic. “Tomorrow,” he said and closed his eyes. “I’ve gotta think this thing through.” Waving off any further questions, he made himself comfortable beneath a blanket and closed his eyes.
Teddy, John, and Tariq moved to the front of the wagon to watch the Paladins. Derek stayed in the rear of the caravan, sulking as the sun dipped beneath the horizon. The intoxicating smell of exhaust drifted back to them from the powerful engines of the bikes.
The Paladins drove all night, pulling the caravan behind them, and didn’t stop until the sun peeked above the eastern hills.
Chapter Nine
They stopped for breakfast at sunrise, but the motorcycle men sat apart from the others and ate alone. Leggy refused to speak and ate his breakfast in silence, hushing the others when they tried to provoke a conversation.
The next day was uneventful. The wagon, hitched behind the motorcycles, rolled forward, and the landscape zipped past more quickly than John had thought possible. The hard-packed desert was littered with twisted foliage and the occasional crumbling remains of some long-forgotten Afore-the-War structure. The road seemed to be making for some distant low foothills. Derek spied a small band of scavengers with his glass, but when they heard the motorcycles they backed off and let the wagon pass unmolested.
***
The foothills grew closer as they traveled, and that night they camped at the base of a small hill. After the evening meal, John urged Leggy to talk more about the Wasteland—how long ago he’d traveled there, and why. He hoped eventually to steer the conversation back to the Paladins. The two men had made their own small fire on the other side of the road and sat astride their motorcycles, eating and smoking.
Raina and Tariq, who’d spent much of their time in the wagon, came and sat near Leggy, drawn by the sound of his voice. John suspected it was Tariq’s idea—the boy had taken to Teddy, and regarded the rest of the crew as irresistible curiosities, wild and strange and dangerous. The boy crept closer to the fire and Teddy, but a sharp word from Raina brought him back to her side, where she wrapped him in a fold of her robe.
Leggy took a nip from his flask, lit a pipe he’d purchased in Sanger, and settled into the work of storytelling.
“Back in the day, when I weren’t much older than you all, I took work with Rasham’s Recovery. Old Rasham was big, fat, and as rich as Midas. He ran salvage operations all over the place, from up and down the coast to deep into the Wasteland.”
“Recovery of what?” asked John.
“Just about anything we could get our hands on,” said Leggy. “Food, water, fuel, mechanical parts, ’lectronics. And weapons. In those days gas was somewhat easier to come by and Rasham had a small fleet of vehicles. That’s where I learned about motors and such. You could count on at least one break-down on your route.
“I got my start on the Santa Cruz-Kettleman City line. See, Santa Cruz hadn’t been hit as bad as some of the other cities. Rasham said San Diego, San Fran and Los Angeles got the nukes but not Santa Cruz. Just the tox clouds for ole SC, and the half-life on that shit ain’t too bad.
“A crew would drive in, search around for stuff, load up whatever we could, and drive back out again.”
Leggy paused, lost in a memory.
“Boys, you wouldn’t believe how they lived in the Before Times. Had these places—buildings—so big you could fit a thousand double-wides inside and still have room to spare. These places had shelves fifteen, twenty feet high stocked with stuff. More stuff than you could imagine.”
“What kind of stuff?” asked Derek.
“Food. Clothes. Books. Mechanical items.”
“It was all still there?” asked John.
“Well, no,” said Leggy. “Most places had been picked over pretty good by survivors, scavengers, other recovery crews. Now and then you’d find a cache someone missed. But damn, boys, those places used to make my head spin. It didn’t seem possible that the world could make so many things. They must’ve lived life fat in the old days.”
“What was your job?” asked John.
“Job? I was a guard, son. If any bandits rode up to steal the haulage, I was supposed to chase ’em off. I had me a big old sawed-off shotgun. I rode right up front with the driver.”
“A shotgun.” Derek whistled. “Did it work?”
“Sure did,” said Leggy. “Muties tried to jump our rig once. I let fly, and it sounded like thunder. Mutie practically disintegrated, and the rest took off like hens in a rainstorm. Guns are rarer now than they used to be, bullets even more so. Wish the same could be said for muties. But even then, a good firearm was hard to come by. Rasham had hisself a pretty fair arsenal—shotguns, rifles, pistols, grenades, even shoulder-fired rockets. Took me a while to figure out where he was getting ’em from…but, hey, I’m getting ahead of myself.
“See boys, I was young. Full of ambition, and bein’ a gunner ain’t no job for a man of ambition. After a couple of Santa Cruz-to-KC, runs I asked the road boss for a new assignment. I was possessed of pretty good eyesight, so he apprenticed me to a couple of scouts. That was more to my liking. Scouts rode out ahead of the caravan to check for danger—bug nests, ambushes, road blocks, downed bridges, things like that. That’s where I learned the art of spyglassin’. Well, pretty soon I was scoutin’ up and down and all over. Sacramento, Reno, San Bernardino, and a hundred towns in between. Most them towns’re now either dried up, disappeared or blown away.
“The scouts taught me a heap of things, like how to find food and water, how to read a landscape, how to follow a track, how to kill a man quick. How to find trouble afore it finds you. I took to scoutin’ pretty good—good enough that I started running the Wasteland. Rasham only put his best boys on Wasteland runs.”
“But what would anybody want with the Wasteland?” asked John. “There’s nobody there to trade with ’cept muties and bugs, and they don’t trade. They just eat you.”
“Clever boy,” said Leggy. “Most scavengers don’t bother with the Wasteland for just those reasons. But Rasham didn’t go to there to trade. He went there to recover.”
Derek frowned. “You mean like recuperate?”
“Hell no.” Leggy laughed. “You think a fat cat like Rasham’s gonna vacation in the desert? They say he had a castle by the seaside—used to belong to some old guy named Hearst from Before.”
“Then what did he want in the Wasteland?” demanded Derek.
Leggy smoked his pipe thoughtfully for a few moments, pleased to have a captive audience.
“The Wasteland has always been a desert,” he said, “even in the Before Times, or so they told me. But the people who lived in the Before Times were clever enough to make the desert livable. I’ve seen the ruins of whole cities out there, smack dab in what must’ve been the harshest, hottest, driest places you could think of.”
“Was that what
Rasham was after?” asked John. “Goin’ to the cities to scavenge?”
“Sometimes for salvage, yes,” said Leggy, “but them places are overrun with bugs and muties. The haul you get usually ain’t worth all the trouble gettin’ it. The bigger prize was somethin’ else.”
“What’s that?” asked Derek. “Sand to pound up his ass?”
Teddy giggled at the profanity.
“Weapons,” said Leggy. “Seems that in the Before Times, the desert was a popular place for army bases. And private compounds. And personal bunkers. Afore-the-War, many folks had a sense that bad times were coming and took to fortifying themselves away, usually underground, or in caves, mountains and valleys.
“I don’t know how Rasham found these places, but he did. Had a sixth sense for it. Some people said he could sniff ’em out. Those army bases were something. Built deep down into the ground. And not just like a root cellar, but sometimes as much as like a small town, with streets and passages and living quarters and warehouses.”
“That’s where you got the guns,” said Derek. He’d only seen a gun once before the Paladins had arrived, when a dangerous-looking man had passed through San Muyamo with a pair of pearl-handled pistols laced across his hips. Derek had longed to hold one of them, feel it, maybe even shoot it, but he didn’t dare speak to the stranger, who didn’t say a word and didn’t stay in San Muyamo long.
Wasteland Blues Page 7
