by J. C. Staudt
Merrick healed them two at a time, until he was so tired and disoriented he’d need to get high again to stop himself falling asleep. Before leaving the crowds behind, he told the unhealed citizens to come back in a couple of days when he returned from his trip.
After escaping the throng, Merrick told his bodyguards to wait around the side of a building while he went into the alley to take a shit. Instead he hid behind a dumpster, lit his pipe and went purple until he was cross-eyed.
He was soaring by the time they arrived at the barracks gate.
“Commissar to take command of First and Second Mobile Operations,” announced one of his bodyguards.
The guards opened the gate. One broke away from his fellows and came toward Merrick as he was passing through. “Merrick? Merrick Bouchard? Is that really you? I can’t believe you’re the new Commissar.” Goose-necked Keller Henderthwaite fell into lockstep with him, a look of astonishment plastered across his face.
Where was this dway when Wax was announcing my inauguration? Merrick wondered. Or when I decapitated him? Probably guarding the gate. It was odd to think there were still people who didn’t know he was the Commissar. Some people don’t pay attention to politics, I guess. “Hey, Keller. Yeah, it’s me. How you been?”
“Good. I’m really happy for you. This is so… unexpected.”
“Can’t complain,” Merrick said with a shrug. He tried not to notice the way Keller winced when he caught sight of his scarred, disfigured face. Wax’s bullet had only mangled his appearance further. He was hideous now; he hardly looked like the same person as a long year ago. The cheekbone had healed well enough, but there was no telling how sound the brain matter behind it might be.
“What brings you to us today?” Keller asked, affecting his best flattered sycophant impression.
“Unfinished business.”
Keller nodded, as if Merrick had just given him a dissertation in a single breath. “Let us know at the gatehouse if there’s anything you need.”
What could the gatehouse possibly have that I need? Merrick almost said. “Okay.”
Keller fell out of step with him and locked his heels in a rigid salute.
Merrick gave him a half-hearted, two-fingered flick in response.
The First and Second Mobile Ops were two perfect rectangles of neutral color lined up across the south yard, sweating beneath their caps. Merrick wiped his own brow as he walked the line, surveying his troops. His troops. It felt good to say that to himself, though the majority of the Second Platoon were his former cohorts, men he had trained with and run missions beside.
Merrick picked out Coker Reed and Jettle Trimbold, two of the close friends who had helped him home the night he’d first encountered the shepherd. They had no idea what fate had befallen Admison Kugh in the city south, he realized. He thought of Kugh drowning in that barrel, a sacrifice to the followers who had propelled him toward the place he was today. Now those followers were criminals in this promised land, fated to be rounded up and exiled.
Several men in the Second appeared to recognize Merrick despite his disfigurement. They were too well-trained to break formation or smile, but he could see it in their eyes, a sort of who-does-this-dway-think-he-is glint coming through their stoic expressions. Merrick ignored that, inspecting the men as if for the first time.
An aide handed him his fatigues. They were the wrong size. He should’ve expected it; a man doesn’t acquire a nickname like “Natter” by being the standout intellectual among his peers.
“Take these back and get me some size forty-three pants and a large jacket,” he told the aide.
“Sir.” Dust chased the man’s footsteps to the armory.
Merrick turned back to the platoons. Something didn’t feel right. He took a quick head count. The Second was lined up by squad; four rows, but only nine men to a row instead of ten. “Why are we four men short in the Second?” he asked no one in particular.
The Second Platoon’s first squad leader stepped forward, spoke, and stepped back. “Wartime losses, sir.”
“What losses? We’re not at war.”
The squad leader was silent.
“What are you talking about?” Merrick said. After another moment: “Okay, at ease. What’s this all about?”
“Prefer to speak privately, sir.”
Merrick gave an exasperated sigh. “Alright, get over here.”
“There was a mission, sir,” the squad leader whispered when they were out of earshot. “A mission to take you out.”
Merrick feigned surprise. “Oh there was, was there?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And?”
“They never came back.”
“Wax sent some dways to kill me, and you never heard from them again?”
“That’s right, sir.”
Merrick stared the sergeant in the eye. “We’re going to be in close quarters for the next few days. You, me, and all your men. Any of you gets the idea he doesn’t like the new dway in charge, you just remember the ones who never came back. We understand each other?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re in command, Sergeant. Get your dways ready to march. I want four-by-tens—or… nines, in your case.”
“No briefing, sir?”
“I’ll brief the men when we’re closer. We’re headed south toward Olney Street. That’s all you need to know.”
Epilogue
The stranger came to town on a shimmering tide, the hottest weather the people of Bradsleigh had seen since the start of the short year. It was supposed to cool down over these months; new things that hadn’t sprouted since last year were supposed to grow in the scrublands and in backyard gardens all across town. When the stranger came, the long year seemed to dwindle on the air like the last vestiges of pink on lightburned skin.
For days now, Savannah Glaive had seen the stranger every day when she went riding. She found him standing in a different spot each day, though he never came within half a horizon of the town proper. He was wrapped in heavy cloth that covered everything but a few inches of his face. He never moved, as if willing Bradsleigh to come closer to him instead of the other way around.
And always, there were the dogs.
Every mutt and mongrel in town had been going nuts since the stranger showed up, howling and baying and barking at all hours of the day and night. Probably it was the stranger’s canines that had them going, little wasteland critters which looked half-fox and half-coyote. Jackals, she thought they were called. While the stranger stood still, the jackals never stopped moving. They were like a whirlwind around him, a tornado of fur, red and gray and brown.
Savannah was convinced something needed to be done about the stranger. She told Arnie about him, but Arnie said unless the stranger came in past the town line there was nothing he could do. Bullshit, there’s nothing you can do, she thought. You can be a coffing man and ride out to ask the dway what he wants. But Arnie wouldn’t budge.
With the Decylumites gone and this stranger watching the town day and night, Savannah began to regret her harshness toward Raith and his friends. She was alone again, and that made her sad. Her sadness had pulled her into a miry depression she couldn’t seem to shake. She felt less safe than ever, though feeling unsafe didn’t strike her as such a big deal anymore. There was no color in the world. Nothing interested her; nothing excited her. Her depression began to weigh more heavily each day, and none of her chores or responsibilities around the estate took her mind off it.
Savannah was used to running the estate on her own, but it felt worlds different with both her parents gone. Since the day Lethari Prokin brought her father home in a casket, she’d become increasingly aware of how alone she was. Never again would she hear Daddy coming in the front door after a long trip abroad, stomping the dust off his boots, smelling of daylight and sweat, to wrap her in a big hug that was gross and stinky and made her laugh all at once. No one would ever come back—except maybe Uncle Toler. If he showed up, it would o
nly be to take the shipping crates and leave for Unterberg again.
Those shipping crates, and the old office building in the shipping yard, had been a constant source of worry for her lately. She often had nightmares about windy nights where the gusts came so strong they sucked open the doors and windows, letting tachylids scuttle out through the darkness to devour the town and its livestock like locusts. That dream wasn’t far-removed from reality, she knew. The high fence and the shipping crates might keep the tachies contained for a time, but she was fairly sure the creatures could vault over those obstacles with little effort.
There soon came a day when Savannah found herself believing she should solve this problem with the stranger herself. She tried to be afraid, but she wasn’t. She tried to care about her well-being, but she couldn’t. Her livestock were important to the people of Bradsleigh, but someone would take over the estate if anything happened to her. She didn’t matter. Her life wasn’t worth worrying over. She was alone, and there was no one in the world who cared whether she lived or died. Everything was gray.
Savannah stopped to say hello to Jerichai on her way to the stables for her morning ride. “Is that stranger still out there?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” said Jerichai. “Hasn’t moved all morning.”
“I’m going out to talk to him.”
“You sure you want to do that, ma’am?”
“Yeah.”
“Maybe I could come with you.”
“Sure, if you like.”
Jerichai, though already mounted on his own horse, accompanied her to the stables. He was nearly ten years older than her, but he was still one of the closest people to her age in Bradsleigh. There weren’t many of those anymore. There never had been, really, except when she was very young. All the older men who came around to woo her were close to her father’s age.
She found it a wonder that none of the hired hands had ever made a pass at her. Jerichai and the others came to work every day when they were supposed to, reported in, and took shifts to watch at the pastures by night. Maybe they weren’t as interested in her as the other men because they knew how small the Glaive fortune really was. All she had left to pay them with was fresh slaughter from the herds. The meat of the Glaive cattle was the best around, but it was far from a boudoir overflowing with gold and Savannah’s fertility, as was the rumor.
Her grulla cob, whom she called Johnny Strong, got a whiff of the stranger and his dogs as soon as she led him from the stables. The horse shook his mane and sidled off a few steps.
“It’s alright. Hey, it’s alright, kid,” she said, giving his forehead a good rubdown. Savannah had always liked the way Toler called his horses kid, like they were his children instead of animals. Her dad had always treated them like commodities, useful only for riding and eating and working the fields.
Johnny Strong did okay with being ridden, but he was still learning. Savannah mounted and came alongside Jerichai, whose mare Koba was well broken-in. Jerichai was good on horseback and could handle a carbine. She was glad to have him with her, though she would’ve gone without him just as easily.
They rode out into the scrubs together until they could see the stranger through the mirari, a watery black streak in a sea of golden brown. The jackals were circling him like children waiting to be set free. Savannah had never seen anyone take jackals as pets before. She’d never seen a pack of wild desert dogs acting so tame and docile either. They were slender and scrappy, with long perked ears and a wolf’s coat and jowls. The thing she noticed most of all was that they looked hungry.
Johnny Strong protested as they came close, giving her a snort and a shake as she urged him forward. “There, there, now,” she said, stroking his mane. “Anything goes wrong, we’ll take off in a hurry, you and me. Don’t you trouble yourself about that.”
“I’ve got you, ma’am,” Jerichai added, tapping the butt of his carbine, holstered beside his saddle. The poor hands were there to chase away predators and scare thieves, but they rarely saw any action aside from the occasional prowling wolf or wandering brengen. Savannah was sure Jerichai’s trigger finger must be itchy by now.
Infernal was high and sweltering, though she could feel the short year through the heat and was all the more relieved for it. She’d be outside more often when the winter growth came in—if it did come in this year—storing up for another long summer. This long year had seemed the longest yet, often driving her to the basement to escape the midday temperatures.
“Excuse me, sir,” Savannah shouted, hailing the stranger with a wave as she approached. When he failed to move or reply, she reined up several yards off. “Is there something I can help you with, sir?”
Johnny Strong was truly frightened now, breathing fast and swinging his head side to side. The stranger was clad head to toe in a formless shroud. He wore black leather boots and a dark cloth hood, which joined with the thick brown-gray hair on his face to conceal his features. He made so little movement that for a moment Savannah could’ve sworn he was a statue. The jackals paced, circling him while they stared at her through pale yellow eyes. There were dogs of all sizes, from pups to full-grown adults—at least a dozen of them, by her count.
“We’ve noticed you up here for a few days in a row now,” she said. “Are you hungry? Do your dogs want something to drink? I’ve got water and food back in the stables.” She hiked a thumb over her shoulder.
The stranger shifted his head ever so slightly to look at her. Peering out from beneath that hood and the snarls of beard within were the most unsettling golden-yellow eyes she had ever seen. Eyes to match those of the wild dogs at his heels, almost as if he were one himself.
“Do you need help?” she repeated.
Jerichai cleared his throat. “Hey. Mister. The lady asked you a question.”
The stranger made no move to answer. His dogs were intent on her now, watching her and Johnny and Jerichai and Koba, tongues lolling in the heat. Savannah got the distinct sensation that they were on some sort of invisible leash, barely able to restrain themselves but for the influence of their master.
The daylight blazed. The dogs circled, the horses stamped, and the stranger remained still. Savannah was so hot and tired and irritated that what would normally have struck her as an insane idea seemed a viable one. She didn’t care why he wasn’t responding—whether he was doing it to scare her, or because he couldn’t talk, or because, for some reason, he was afraid of her. All she wanted was to get some sort of communication out of him—that, or get him to leave Bradsleigh alone.
She dismounted, putting herself between her horse and the stranger. She drew her father’s long-barreled revolver—the one whose twin Toler had taken with him when he’d gone off to work for Nichel Vantanible—and raised it toward the black-cloaked man.
“Savvy—ma’am,” Jerichai said. “Careful now. I wouldn’t, uh…”
When even this blatant display of aggression didn’t garner a reaction from the stranger, Savannah began to shout at him. “Hey. I’m going to have to do something if you don’t clear out of here. Your dogs are scaring my livestock, and unless you want my help, you’d best be moving on. This is Glaive land you’re standing on, and we don’t take kindly to squatters.”
It was the bravest she’d ever felt. She knew she should’ve been more afraid than she was. She wanted to be more afraid. That would’ve made her feel normal. She knew her fearlessness was rooted in her despair; she knew her depression was the reason she didn’t care more for her own safety. It was liberating, in a way. Bringing herself to the brink of danger felt more to her like living than anything she’d done in a long time.
“Hey. I’m talking to you,” she said, taking an exaggerated step forward, trying to make it feel quick and sudden. She was still pointing the revolver at the stranger. “What do you want? How come you’re here?”
One of the little wolf-dogs stopped in its tracks to growl at her. The stranger didn’t move.
Even with a gun in his face, h
e won’t budge? Savannah thought with disbelief. This man was made of braver stuff than she. That was the thought which shook her confidence. Had he drawn a weapon on her, she would’ve run home and locked herself inside the house. Yet he was nowhere near hostility; he was altogether calm and collected.
Now that Savannah was close, she could see the rising and falling of the stranger’s chest as he breathed. A subtle thing, but a sign of life nonetheless. He wasn’t a statue after all. She was within a few fathoms of him now, the jackals running shallow gouges into the ground so close to her that the sand was drifting over the toes of her riding boots.
She glanced back at Jerichai, who was still seated on Koba, one hand on the butt of his carbine. She turned back to the stranger. A long moment passed, jackals in motion, stranger motionless. Savannah’s heart was pounding so loud she could hear it in her ears. “Hey,” she shouted, looking straight into those golden-yellow eyes. “Hey, mister. What do you want?”
The stranger spoke. A word; just one. It crackled from his throat like a dry leaf, violent as a hurricane.
Then he moved.
Afterword
I hope you’ve enjoyed Children of the Wastes. Remember to leave a review at your favorite online retailer to let me and others know what you thought of the book, then sign up for my Readers’ Group to receive updates on new releases and advance copies of future works. Thanks for reading!
Appendix: Dramatis Personae
THE GLAIVE FAMILY
WEILAN and NEOMA GLAIVE, deceased,
LYLE and PRIELLA GLAIVE, their son and his wife, deceased,
JEREVISH GLAIVE, their son, died in infancy,
DAXIN GLAIVE, their son, deceased,
his wife, VICTARIA GLAIVE, missing,
SAVANNAH GLAIVE, their daughter,
