The Wasteland Saga

by Nick Cole

  The Boy raised the rifle, knowing there would be just this one shot before she disappeared.

  But he could already feel his withered hand, shaking and weak, refusing to be used, refusing to steady the rifle.

  Sweat poured into his eyes as drifting black smoke stung his nose.

  He aimed for the back of the man as he dragged Jin into the darkness of the lobby.

  The Boy fired, knowing he missed.

  And Shaven-head and Jin disappeared into the darkness.

  Only their leader, the tall, thin Chinese with the mustache, remained. He smiled at the Boy, then darted after Jin and the other hunters.

  Black smoke was coming through cracks and rents in the roof. The Boy smelled melting plastic and acrid smoke. Heat came up at him in waves.

  He searched the sides of the building for a way down, but already the flames were crawling up through most of the roof and out the windows below.

  Think!

  I am thinking!

  He loped toward the far end of the roof, closest to the cliff’s edge and the sea below. Below the roof, a balcony hung out over the cliff. The Boy lowered himself down onto the balcony and saw thick sheets of flame racing across the ceiling of the room connected to the balcony.

  Below, the sea pounded the rocky coast. The water was a deep blue in places and in others it churned a foamy green. A stunted tree hanging off the cliff’s edge swayed in gusty blasts of heat from the fire.

  The Boy slung the rifle over his back. He climbed on top of the railing and leapt for the tree. Flailing with his good arm, he crashed into its branches and a moment later was sliding down the cliff toward the water below. He clawed for purchase and his good arm found a rock to grab onto.

  He hung halfway down the cliff, breathing hard.

  Above, black smoke rose into the sky.

  It would be a steep climb back to the top. Almost impossible.

  He was exhausted.

  Below, he could hear the sea washing itself against the black rocks of the cliff.

  If they come to look for me, there’s not much I can do, and I’ll be smashed to bits against the side of the rocks if I drop down into the ocean.

  Above, the burning roof collapsed into the main structure with a groaning crash. Black, oily smoke billowed high into the sky and the flames seemed to roar above the ocean’s strike against the coast.

  The Boy hung there, waiting.

  He heard nothing.

  No voice.

  I need you now, Sergeant.

  I’m dead, Boy. Sorry about that. I tried my best.

  IN TIME, HE worked his way down to the rocks below and followed them along the water’s edge as the surf threated to drag him into its turmoil. The sun was sinking into the ocean and all was purple and red fire.

  When he made the beach, he was limping and no matter how strongly he told his withered side to move, it wouldn’t. It was a lock that would not open. He found Horse and dropped the rifle, his fingers trembling as he drank what little water Horse left him.

  When the dregs were finished, he mounted Horse and rode back to the fire.

  The building from Before was little more than smoking timber. The Chinese were gone and there was no sign of Jin.

  He searched for their trail but it takes time. There had been too much confusion in the dirt and the dust of their tracks.

  When he found their trail he saw they were riding north, back toward the Village of Happy People.

  Chapter 51

  He rode through the night but the going was slow. It took all his skill to stay on their trail. They did not stop as he hoped they would.

  How many hours ahead of me are they?

  Tall coastal pines rose up in thick stands as he crossed a small ridge, their scent heavy in the dew-laden cold.

  He thought of the amount of time he was trapped on the cliff.

  It was almost evening when he’d made it back onto the beach.

  When did it start?

  The fog crossed the beaches and marshes as he rode, following their trail through the night and the sand.

  The battle at the old place had started in the morning.

  He continued on through the night, even when the fog was thick and cold about him. The bearskin had gone in the fire and only Horse’s heaving body kept him warm.

  I have been cold before.

  He passed the shadowy remains of ancient palaces and almost lost their trail.

  He found the tracks of their horses in the ash of some long-gone fire.

  His eyelids were heavy.

  ‘Fatigue settles over me like the bearskin would,’ he thought.

  He sucked the night wind into his nostrils, feeling the cold flood his brain as he rode out onto the coastal plain following tracks through the ether of fog and saw grass.

  I have been tired before.

  I have been here before.

  You were with me, Sergeant.

  He thought of Jin and rode through the swirling salt-laden mist as nightmares of what might happen to her tormented him.

  At dawn, he saw the Village of Happy People lying across the still, black water of the channel. It was quiet. The trail of the hunters led the Boy here.

  They had ridden hard and they were tired. They would have stopped to rest.

  He rode across the old bridge.

  There was no one out.

  Mist shrouded the sunken boats lying in the dark water, and the beach beyond was lost to nothingness.

  The Boy heard the creak of the wrecked boats shifting in their graves at the pull of the invisible tide.

  The Boy heard the gentle groan of rope.

  He rode forward.

  Halfway down the street, she hung from the ancient cargo hook above the main dock.

  Her arms at her sides.

  Her long dark hair hiding her face.

  She swung gently at the end of a rope in the shifting mists of dawn.

  Chapter 52

  He remembered later.

  Later that afternoon. He remembered screaming. Running toward… and screaming.

  Why wasn’t I on Horse?

  He couldn’t imagine himself running.

  He sat in the shadow of a dune. Dense fog had run across the bay and into the dunes. The dunes just like where they stayed that night after the village…

  He remembered the sound of the rope. He remembered the villagers coming out. They were crying too. He screamed at them… like an animal. Like the bear. Like the lion.

  They were crying like children.

  They lay down in the street and wept, begging him for forgiveness in a language he didn’t understand. Begging him to let them grieve for this horrible thing that had been done.

  How can I ever sleep again?

  It wasn’t her anymore.

  She was stiff and cold.

  He held her, hearing the sound of his pain as if from far away.

  Knowing it was he who made that sound.

  Knowing that Sergeant Presley could not help him anymore.

  Knowing that the world was cruel and made of stone.

  Her grave was beneath the sand and the sea grass.

  He watched the grave, and what was once the cold of a foggy afternoon and wan sunlight became night and fog.

  He watched.

  He watched.

  He watched.

  Who am I now?

  HE DIDN’T SLEEP.

  Revenge.

  He saddled Horse and thought of his revenge.

  Don’t do this, Boy!

  Why?

  He hears the creak of the rope that…

  That…

  The “who” of his revenge was easier to think about than the “why.” The “why” was too painful. Much too painful.

  He saw the face of the leader who came to take her. He was the “who” of his revenge. The object of his revenge.

  And in fact…

  He saw Sausalito. Their little walled city. Their wall.

  All of them behind that w
all, they were the “who”…

  Of his revenge.

  This is how everything went wrong, Boy. Don’t you see? Revenge. Hatred. Fire. Boy, there is no good end to this.

  Revenge.

  He left the fire burning near her grave.

  HE RODE UP through the sea grass to the old western road. The One.

  He could see her fire burning in the fog.

  Let it burn forever.

  In the east the sky was light and the fog was turning white.

  This ain’t a way to go, Boy. Forget this and live. Live. That’s all you got to do in this world now. Keep on livin’ until humanity gets a chance to start again. You do this and you’ll set it back. Hell, you might even break it altogether. The world can’t take much more.

  Revenge.

  He turned and the fire near her grave was gone, swallowed. Lost to the fog.

  Who am I now?

  Revenge.

  Chapter 53

  It was night when he moved down among them and their camps at the southern end of the bay.

  The Psychos and their bare chests. Their war paint and muddy hair. Blood and Mohawks.

  The Boy had watched them from the low hills all day, their boats and rafts taking shape, wood and oil drums dragged in from the ruins.

  They would attack tonight.

  He had watched them for three days. The mood—their mood was grim, and in the last hours before night the fires started and the dances began.

  They’re working themselves up to attack, Sergeant.

  Don’t do this thing, Boy.

  I have to.

  No. You don’t. You want to, but you don’t have to, Boy. There’s a difference.

  He patted Horse.

  There’s enough grass and water from this stream. If I’m not back tomorrow you’ll pull that stake up and go. Take yourself off somewhere high into the mountains. Find wild mustangs.

  In the dark he walks down among them.

  He was painted in blood. His own.

  The long hair that once hung straight down over his left eye, the weak side, was gone, shaved. Only the wild strip of the Mohawk stiff with mud rose from his scalp. Among the tangled hair, a broken feather.

  They drank and rioted in their twirling, bumping dance. There were drums all along the shore.

  Hot liquid gushed from a skin and burned his throat. The stuff was raw and as he coughed, he couldn’t catch his breath. When he did he screamed at the world because he was still alive. The wild-eyed Psychos, leering and toothless, gaped happily at the Boy’s reaction.

  The men feasted on torn game, greasy and dripping on spits. Women laughed wickedly as they drank and worked the Mohawks of their men into spikes hardened by mud and shining with the fat of slaughtered animals roasting nearby. Their babble was little more than cackles and grunts. Occasionally the Boy detected a stray once-word. A “gunna” or a “sump’in’ killah.”

  Amid the pressing throng, wild with delirium, he asked, “Where are you now, Jin?”

  I feel more alone than all those winter nights in the bear cave or cold days on the road.

  Or when the lions chased me.

  Where are you now?

  At midnight the moon was gone and the wind was warm.

  A blacksmith worked near a hot fire putting edges to their weapons. The Boy found a saw and set to work cutting down the long barrel of the breech loader.

  I won’t trust you anymore, he said to his withered hand. You failed me when I needed you most and I won’t trust you anymore.

  A chieftain howled and the savages fell silent. The babble that passed from the chief’s swollen and split lips erupted up from a barrel belly and massive chest, sending the warriors to their boats.

  The Boy found himself paddling a canoe loaded with other paddling warriors as they crossed the bay. The flotilla kept a tight formation as it passed the pile of the once-city of San Francisco. Ahead, the lights of Sausalito were thin and few. To the east of the Chinese outpost—at its very gates, in fact—MacRaven’s armies gathered around campfires that rose along the hills of the little bay.

  You don’t need to do this, Boy. They’ll take your revenge for you. They’ll pay them back, if that means anything to you.

  ‘How could they take… her life?’ he thought between paddle strokes. The other men grunted and sweated. The Boy could smell the liquor oozing out of their skin.

  I don’t know, Boy. Maybe I thought I did. But now I don’t know anymore. I know that there’s good in the world. Good as long as it still exists in people like you. But if you do this… if you get to that place you’ll need to go to do this… then maybe all the good that’s left will have gone out of the world.

  You don’t exist, Sergeant.

  I did, Boy. I did.

  I have to know why. Why did they do this to her?

  You’ll never know.

  You don’t know that.

  I do, Boy. I do. ’Cause there won’t be a reason that ever makes enough sense to you.

  The oars and paddles, even the hands that strike at the bay, were stopped. The flotilla laid drifting in the water near a small island just off the coast of Sausalito.

  It was cold and quiet. The long night wound toward morning, and even though there was no light to betray the coming dawn, the Boy knew it was close, and so did the Psychos. Arms were flexed, spears laid across knees. The Boy felt his tomahawk at his side. The cut-down rifle was now a long pistol in his belt.

  “Ancha!” roared a voice in the dark. The flotilla surged forward as oars and hands struck the water. Every Psycho was pulling hard for the few lights rising above the seawall of Sausalito.

  On land, beyond the eastern gate, on the far side of the little city, torches from the camps of MacRaven’s Army surged toward the walls. It was still too dark for targeted gunfire as the torches gathered beneath the defenses.

  The Boy’s canoe pulled forward, cutting through the still water and low-lying fog. The men about him said nothing. They wanted their surprise to be total. Ahead, the low-lying seawall shielded their advance from any view along the street that led to the gate.

  The gate where I first saw Jin. The first time Jin saw me.

  And.

  Where we began.

  The canoe slammed into the rocks and the savages were wading through the water, spears upraised. Someone whooped and they were over the walls.

  And what happened next was not the Boy.

  A Chinese guard running for the gate fell to the tomahawk as it slammed into his back.

  Broken glass.

  Screams.

  A whistle.

  The Chinese gathered about the gate to the inner city. The guards were waiting for orders. They raised their rifles as a pack of screaming Psychos raced into the streets. The guards opened fire. A few Psychos went down but the bloodthirsty tribesmen were on them, hacking and screaming above pleas for mercy.

  The Boy wiped the blood from his axe and slipped up through the winding alleyways of the inner city.

  He found gardens colored like dull jade in the steaming morning light. Mansions rose up into the fog. Birds sang above the far din of battle on the other side of the gate, on the far side of the wall.

  He heard the distant high note of the Space Crossbow. MacRaven’s Space Crossbow.

  He smelled smoke and heard crashing wood, once delicate, splintering into shards.

  He heard the gunfire beyond the walls.

  The cannon roared in distant cracks.

  He saw the shaven-headed man break from a stand of collapsing defenders as Psychos leapt the hasty barricade, spearing and cutting.

  Shaven-head raced farther up the street and disappeared into the drifting blue gun smoke of the falling defenders. The Boy loped after him knowing the man would lead him to the rest; to all the killers, the slayers of Jin. And finally to their tall leader who smiled at him as the roof burned and Jin was dragged away and into the darkness.

  Shaven-head raced up and into the quiet neighborhood
of stately mansions that rise along the hill above the little city. Servants and the occasional woman peer out into the streets, their questions evident. He darted into a heady garden, crossed a delicate and ornate bridge made of teak. He pulled urgently at a paper door that led into a house, his voice shouting at someone within.

  When the man, sweating, turns to cast a worried eye back at the falling defenders, he sees the Boy running hard up through the garden that surrounds the house.

  Shaven-head pulls the screen aside and enters, disappearing.

  The Boy takes the curving wooden stairs that lead through the garden and hacks the paper screen door to pieces. Inside he smells jasmine and his mind roars red with anger. Anger at Shao Fan, anger that he has carried her scent from the place of her hanging to here.

  As if it were his to keep.

  As if she were his.

  A gunshot cracked sharply across the interior of the house.

  In the central court within the house he found Shao Fan, whose pupils are wide above the barrel of a smoking rifle. He seemed not to recognize the Boy.

  Shaven-head was dead, flung away like a forgotten rag doll, his arms covering his face.

  Shao Fan retreated, running to a far door and throwing himself beyond it.

  The Boy pulled his pistol, the cut-down rifle, from his belt and advanced through the courtyard.

  The Boy heard his own feet, hard thumps on the soft wood of the walkway that led to the door. In the instant before he heard the gunfire that came from the far side of the door, he heard the metallic sound of a rifle breech being snapped back into place. The Boy threw himself sideways as the paper door erupted in splinters and acrid smoke.

  The Boy charged through the screen, breaking what was left of it open with the tomahawk.

  Shao Fan, eyes wild and wide, broke the breech of his rifle and slipped another long bullet into the barrel. The assassin snapped the breech back into place. In the space of the moment in which the assassin nodded to himself, assured that the rifle was ready to fire, and before he raised it to fire, the dull silver tomahawk appeared buried in his chest. He stared at the axe in stunned and wide-eyed silence, stared as if in the moment before, it had not been there, and in the moment after, it had always been there.