The Wasteland: Their Champion Book One

by K. A Knight

  The Wasteland

  Their Champion Book One

  K.A Knight

  The Wasteland (Their Champion Book One)

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to places, events or real people are entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 K.A Knight, all rights reserved.

  Written by K.A Knight

  To the woman who always said just one more chapter. Reading and writing became my escape, to worlds where I didn’t know the pain of watching you suffer and fight. To my best friend, my cheerleader and the woman who taught me fear is OK as long as you don’t let it stop you. You will never see me walk down the aisle, you will never meet my children or see me publish my first book, but this is for you. I love you and miss you every day. Thank you for believing in me.

  P.S Sorry for the dirty parts, I know you would be scandalised, but would keep on secretly reading…

  To my amazing beta readers, thank you. Without you, this would not have been possible.

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One - Kill or be Killed

  Chapter Two - Nan’s Place

  Chapter Three - Town of Spring

  Chapter Four - No Means No

  Chapter Five - Russian Roulette

  Chapter Six - Mad Max Love Child

  Chapter Seven - His Protector

  Chapter Eight - My Weakness

  Chapter Nine - Pain or Pleasure

  Chapter Ten - The New Me

  Chapter Eleven - Play Time

  Chapter Twelve - Blue Balls and Bombshells

  Chapter Thirteen - The Hard Truth

  Chapter Fourteen - Stripped Bare

  Chapter Fifteen - Fighting & Forgiveness

  Chapter Sixteen - Honesty Train

  Chapter Seventeen - Close Call

  Chapter Eighteen - Heartache and Mistakes

  Chapter Nineteen - Priest

  Chapter Twenty - Bittersweet

  Connect with K.A Knight

  Book List

  Chapter One of Voyage To Ayama

  “I have learnt things in the dark that I could never have learned in the light, things that saved my life over and over again, so that there is really only one logical conclusion. I need darkness as much as I need light.”

  - Barbara Brown Taylor

  CHAPTER ONE

  Kill Or Be Killed

  I'm pretty sure he's dead, stupid fucking roadie. Kicking the body of the dust-covered man in front of me, I wait. When he doesn’t move I grab his bag, spilling all the contents on the ground next to him. Pillaging through I find a bottle of whiskey, a machete and some odd bits and bobs. Popping the top of the whiskey, I down half the bottle, fully aware that it’s not a good idea. Wiping my mouth on my fingerless leather gloves I glance back down at the body. He's face down in the dirt, his pants around his ankles. Classy way to die, though I know better than anyone that they don’t care when they are dead.

  The idiot thought I was easy prey, some meek little girl who would bend over and take it. The look of shock on his face when I stuck my knife in him was hilarious. Leaning down I wipe my knife on his pants, making sure to get rid of all the blood. When you don’t have much in the way of outfits, stains are an annoyance you try to avoid, and blood is a bitch to get out. I haul my finds to my shoulder bag and hoist it back up grunting at the weight of it. I shouldn’t have pushed my scouting so long, a week in this dust-covered hellhole was a week too much.

  You see, the world is dying and it's taking us with it. We weren’t prepared when it happened. Back then everyone was self-entitled and had too much of everything. Over 40 percent of the population was wiped out by the floods, another 20 percent by the carnage that came after, and then came the heat. The sun scorched the earth and everything became a desert. Those who survived adapted and it's easy to understand why those who adapted well were the darkest of us. Those already willing to kill and steal, like my dead friend here, or me.

  Shielding my eyes from the glaring sun, I know I had better get going if I want to sell this stuff in time. Gorky gets cranky if I bang on his shop when he's asleep and I like my head attached to my shoulders, thank you very much. Keeping hold of the whiskey, occasionally taking a swig, I set off to the city in the distance. The peaks of its destroyed buildings and huge gate are barely visible over the dunes. The sand kicks up as I walk making me grimace at the feel of it on my skin. Have I mentioned how much I hate sand and dust? It gets everywhere, and I mean everywhere. The last time I was out for a week scouting, I had to burn my pants when I got back, sending the tiny particles of Satan straight to a fiery death.

  It doesn’t take me long to reach the city limits, but long enough that I’ve finished the whiskey, shame. Sighing, I chuck the bottle to the side as I saunter up to the guards stationed at the gate. The sign next to it proudly declaring The Rim, with ‘Last Stop to Hell’ spray-painted underneath. The shade provided by the huge steel gate nearly has me moaning in ecstasy, I forgot how tiring it is working in the day. Usually, I’m passed out by now, or on my way to it. The guard on the left steps towards me, he’s a scrawny thing, still taller than me but skinny. I catalogue all three weapons he holds in a blink and I force myself to stand still as he licks his chapped lips while running his eyes up and down me.

  He starts his pat down, leering at me the whole time. He's new, if he wasn’t he wouldn't dare look at me like that, considering the last guy that did ended up pissing himself in fear at the feel of my steel blade against his manhood as I calmly told him it would make good feral bait. The newbie, or greenhorn as the roadies call them, will learn soon enough. The thought brings a smile to my lips which promptly dies when he tries to cop a feel of my breast. Before his partner can warn him, although looking in his eyes I don't think he will, I snap my head forward connecting with him before he can react. It’s not the smartest move but it is effective, it's good that my head is as solid as my liver. He howls in pain holding his nose that is now gushing blood. I watch in morbid fascination as he tries to talk around his broken nose only to go back to wordlessly screaming.

  When it’s clear he’s not going to do anything more than letting out ear piercing noises, I look to his partner. I think his name is Todd or some shit. Hell, it could be Tim for all I care. He just shakes his head and lets me pass, knowing better than to try and stop me. The greenhorn got lucky, I always have at least four knives on me and you never know when I'm going to use them. A girl has to protect herself, it doesn’t help that I have serious anger issues and know how to fight dirty. I wave cheerily at the dickhead still clutching his nose while passing through the gate and then the barbed wired fence. The smells and music of the quarter hit me, immediately loosening my tired muscles and putting a genuine smile on my face.

  The Rim they call it, the haven for the lost and the damned. It’s filled with whores, roadies and scavengers or scavs as I call them. It sits on the very edge of the boundary between the other cities and the waste. The last stop of civilisation and humanity before you enter no man's land. There are only three reasons people come here; they have nowhere else to go, they’re running from something or they’re outlaws. Guess which one I am?

  The streets are tiny and the city is basically a giant circle. The outer streets are houses for the people who want to stay, a mix of old broken buildings merged with shitty handmade wood and scrap metal structures. The closer you get into the circle the more it opens up, with the very centre being the market where you trade, fuck, fight, or drink.

  The wooden bridges hanging in the air from the higher areas sway in the wind above my head, the creaking familiar and reassuring. The red and white lights st
rung from each building only add to the atmosphere that is The Rim. The ground is a mixture of dirt, sand, and discarded debris. Men are passed out along shack walls as kids pick their pockets. Shaking my head I leave them to it, if they are stupid enough to pass out they are stupid enough to deal with their mistakes.

  I duck under a sign for the blacksmith and feel a brush against me. I grab the hand before it can pull away. My eyes following the arm to the dirty tattered kid’s face who’s trying to rob me.

  “Too slow kid, you’ve got to be fast or you’re going to get yourself killed.” With that I gently push him away. He runs off without a word probably looking for his next target. A drunk stumbles across my path and then passes out on the ground, without missing a beat I step over his unconscious body. Sands below, I love this place.

  The music gets louder as I get closer to the bazaar, the centre of the city. Whores line the doorways shouting at the men and flashing their tits. Anything to grab attention, a lot of idiots lose their money to them. They don’t rob locals or anyone they know, but greenhorns and out of towners are fair game. Once they’ve fucked them they don’t tend to watch where their wandering hands are going. Idiots. I eye their dirty outfits. You’d think with their earnings they would buy new clothes but no, they are old and dirty, mismatched from whatever they can find. I look down at myself, noticing that I'm not much better. Dirty black ripped jeans. A top which didn't used to be cropped now torn into one, black with only a few blood stains on it. My ever present black fingerless gloves, black leather jacket and the only thing I give a fuck about keeping clean, my army boots.

  “Hey Worth, I thought you’d finally decided to blow this joint.” The redhead at the front of the shack laughs as I blink, coming out of my inspection, and offer her a flirty smile.

  “Aww, but then I wouldn’t get to see your beautiful face,” I wink as I walk past earning a few chuckles from the others.

  “It’s free for you anytime baby!” The redhead shouts after me. I shake my head and carry on, my focus narrowed to getting a drink and into the shade.

  I make my way through the crowd, the shouting of the roadies taking a break overpowering the music. I approach Gorky’s shack and slam my findings down on the cracked wood counter. I don't say a word just look at the man; I struggle to hide my frown as his dirty crooked teeth play with a toothpick. His hair is slowly falling out, not that anyone will ever say anything to him. Fat covers every inch of his body, which is a feat in itself the way the world is now. His clothes are more stained than mine, put it all together and you have Gorky, the biggest and meanest trader in The Rim. Not even the gangs try to haggle or mess with him and for good reason. The last guy to short change him ended up strung outside his shack by his feet with his intestines falling out. The smell was horrible but no one dared tried telling him to take his warning down. That’s what it was after all - a warning. He doesn't question me, just looks through my finds and then slides me my money. I turn back to the bazaar and make my way to a free table without bothering to say anything.

  Rickety tables and mismatched chairs are scattered throughout. Material drapes across the circle from the buildings, shielding it from the burning sun. Throwing my shit down, I slump into the shaky chair and I snap my fingers at the barmaid, who is currently on a scavs knee, as he regales his table with a story of some poor idiots he found on the road. She looks up apparently to give me a mouth full for my summons. When she realises it's me, she jumps up and grabs a bottle from her tray.

  She sways her hips as she walks over to me. I manage to hide my eye roll, I really want to tell her it isn’t going to happen but I still want to be served so I watch the show she’s putting on. She pops the bottle down in front of me making sure I get a clear view of her ample chest. I grab the bottle and uncork it with my teeth, spitting it into the crowd. I take a swig and look around, cataloguing who's here.

  “Ain't seen you in a couple of day’s baby,” she purrs. I don't look at her, knowing she's giving me her best flirty face. What was her name…Candy? The girls move on fast here. They come running from fuck knows what or are found on the road. They think it's a haven, sands are they wrong. Only the strong survive in this world, and this city is the motherfucking gutter. The proverbial shit on a shoe, it’s not as bad as back home though. In fact, my old home makes this place look like a paradise. Her hand lands on my crotch over my pants making me glance down with my eyebrow raised. I like her boldness, but I want to be alone tonight and she is way too needy.

  “I missed you. Do you want to wait for my shift to be over?” I take another drink and lean back looking at her, not bothering to move her hand as it starts to circle around.

  She’s good looking I guess. Her hair is dirty and tangled, what once was blonde now is brown. Her face only has a little dirt on it and her top is whole and her little shorts only have two rips. Her stupid ass heels make her teeter, which I try not to smirk at. How in the world does she run in those if she needs to? Overall, not a bad looking woman for the wastes. I don’t mind whom I fuck but I don’t tend to do them twice. After all everyone's looking for someone to ride this out with, or protect them, and with my rep, they flock to me. Men wanting to prove their dick size and women wanting protection from everything. I offer them neither, I fuck them and then leave them.

  “Sorry love, not tonight.”

  She sticks her lip out, probably trying to be cute. “Next time,” she says with a pout.

  Some meathead shouts at her and she flounces away. She is grabbed before she gets two feet away, poor kid is going to get eaten alive. I grin as I watch her be pulled around like a prized cow. I can't remember how long ago the world went to shit. It's become our way of life now. You scavenge and fight to survive. Those who are weak are kept as entertainment or die. I was stolen from my family weeks after everything hit the fan. I was twelve at the time. The next couple of years were hell, but now they are the only reason I'm alive.

  I slip my jacket off revealing my tattoos, which twist around the top half of my left arm, up my collarbone and then down my spine. Not that you can see that. They aren’t tattoos in the traditional sense; each one has a meaning and a purpose and they were painstakingly carved into my skin, not all by my choice. The underside of my left arm boasts old and new scars which have lightened, so unless you look closely they blend into my skin. Scars, white and faded from age also litter the rest of my body, all apart from my face. A hush falls over the nearby tables when they realise who I am.

  Only one woman in this dead world has my warrior scars, dark long brown hair with braids running through it, a massive sword strapped to her back and a no fucks attitude. I’m Tazanna Worth or as they know me, ‘The Champion’ but you can call me Worth.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Nan’s Place

  Sipping my bottle I wait for the inevitable, and it doesn’t take long. Some meathead in dirty jeans and no shirt saunters up and sits backwards on the chair opposite me. The bar through his nipple glints under the lights as does his bald head. His wide face breaks into a dirty sneer as he waggles his one dark eyebrow at me. As my dad would have said, he has a face made for radio.

  “I’ve heard of you.” His eyes drop to my chest and then flick back up to mine. I watch his movements, ready to strike if need be. When I don’t speak he glances back at his friends before turning to me with renewed determination.

  “You a mute? Don’t worry it doesn’t bother me, I can think of other things your mouth could do.” Sighing, I take a drink.

  “I will only give you one warning. Leave and I won’t have to hurt you.” My voice is as impassive as my face but it only eggs him on.

  “You’re not that tough, you just need a good fucking.” He grabs his dick as if I could misinterpret his meaning.

  I flick my eyes over him, he’s big—I bet one of his hands could cover my whole face. That means he’s slow and by the one lonely machete strapped to him, I’m betting he relies on brute strength. This is where my speed will come in
handy, you strike fast and move out of hitting range before they even realise you were there. If I wasn’t so tired I might even enjoy teaching this fuck trumpet a lesson. I down the rest of the bottle and calmly place it back down on the table. It's silent now. The vultures are waiting for a show, and any weakness means my death. The bar girls have gone to hide knowing it's going down. Everyone waits and I let them. When he leans forward his odour hits me, I have to fight the need to gag. Just because it’s the end of the fucking world doesn’t mean you can’t wash yourself. Although looking down at myself quickly, I could probably do with one after a week out in the wastes.

  “You hear me girlie?” his voice is as damaged as his teeth. Lovely. It makes me glad toothpaste is one of the things I found on my scouting. “Fuck it, I’ll just bend you over like the whore you are.”

  Before he can move, I grab the knife hidden at my waist and lean forward. As quick as a snake bite I've grabbed his thick head and sliced. He screams as he falls back, it echoing around the now silent bazaar. Blood runs through his hands as he cups the wound. I casually fling his now missing ear on the table and put my blade away with a reminder to myself to clean it later. After all, I don’t know where he’s been.

  “I did warn you.”