Badlands: A Post-Apocalyptic Journey

by Nathan Jones

  Badlands

  A Post-Apocalyptic Journey

  by

  Nathan Jones

  Copyright © 2018 Nathan Jones

  All rights reserved.

  The events depicted in this novel are fictional. The characters in this story are also fictional, and any resemblance to anyone living or dead is entirely unintentional. While most locations are real some creative license has been taken in describing them, and a few locations are entirely fictional.

  by Nathan Jones

  POST-APOCALYPTIC

  BEST LAID PLANS

  Fuel

  Shortage

  Invasion

  Reclamation

  Determination

  NUCLEAR WINTER

  First Winter

  First Spring

  Chain Breakers

  Going Home

  Fallen City

  Badlands

  YOUNG ADULT FANTASY

  THE PROTECTORATE

  Corsairs

  Revenants

  Invaders

  Shipwrights

  THE WATCHERS

  Undying Heights

  Ithel's Library

  Deep Dwelling

  Firefly Girl: A Fairy Tale

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  Trade Run

  The terrain seemed to get more desolate by the mile the farther Tom traveled from the mountains.

  Not surprising considering he was leaving the Manti-La Sal range heading southeast, in that vague area where Central Utah blended into Southern Utah in a rugged stretch of land that, following the trend from the mountains, got more desolate by the mile.

  Not that he minded, since over the last decade or so he'd ranged all over the southwestern United States, from the Utah and Colorado Rockies to the badlands of New Mexico, Arizona, Nevada, and southeastern California. He'd even ventured as far as Texas.

  The only places he hadn't gone were the fallout zones, for obvious reasons.

  But no matter how far he went, somehow he always found himself back in the Manti-La Sal mountains. It was the closest thing he had to a home. And while he'd had dealings with a lot of scattered settlements struggling to survive in the most desolate places in the US, and had talked to, worked for, and traded with people in seven states, the place he mostly found himself dragging his fur and other trade goods to was the rundown little town below him.

  Emery.

  Never a large town even before the world went up in a nuclear firestorm, afterwards it had been basically cut off from the rest of the world, its inhabitants struggling to stay self reliant and scrape out a living on the barren soil. Not an easy life by any standards, and while Tom faced his own fair share of hardship he had to respect their determination to survive.

  And miserable as Emery looked there was a lot to admire about the place. It was actually one of the more prosperous towns in the area, mostly thanks to trade coming in from Colorado. And insane as it seemed the dry, desolate regions of central and southern Utah were some of the more populous in what had been the United States.

  It wasn't exactly hard to guess why. All the nation's population centers had been nuked during the Ultimatum, what people had taken to calling the global thermonuclear war that had obliterated civilization a decade ago. And population centers tended to be found in the greenest, most hospitable places.

  Those places were all now blasted ruins and fallout zones. Everyone there had either died or been forced to flee to unpopulated areas that hadn't been hit by nukes or affected by fallout. Usually the reason those areas were unpopulated, especially in the southwest, was because they were too inhospitable to sustain a large number of people.

  So not only had the Ultimatum outright killed billions of people, and the resultant EMP bursts had flung the entire world back into the Dark Ages and caused the starvation or death by medical issues that could no longer be treated of billions more, but it had driven the survivors into deserts, swamps, mountains, and other desolate places where life was a constant miserable battle to survive.

  So yeah, all things considered Emery was doing pretty good. There was even a convoy setting up camp just north of the town at that very moment, bringing much needed trade.

  Tom shifted his backpack, heavier than usual since it had a large bundle of trade goods strapped to the back of it, and contemplated taking a rest before finishing the trip down. It was only another mile or so, no distance at all to a man used to eating up the miles beneath his feet as he walked across entire states or traversed mountain ranges as a daily routine, and he was in no hurry. But at the same time if he just kept going he could finish his business in town that much sooner.

  Times like these reminded him how much he missed his horse.

  He made his way down the slope and approached the town from the north, circling the convoy's camp but nodding to the people there busy setting up tents, caring for animals, and cooking over small brushwood fires.

  Tom soon reached the pitted road leading into Emery, in such rough shape after over a decade without repairs that it probably gave the wagons and handcarts of the convoy almost as much trouble as not using it at all. With his moccasin shod feet on old pavement he entered the town, the road becoming a rundown Main Street with most of Emery's businesses clustered along a hundred yard stretch.

  He'd barely passed the first buildings before a familiar face appeared and sauntered forward to meet him. Mitchells, Emery's sheriff, wearing his beat up old hat and cracked leather duster. Tom wasn't sure how the man could stand to wear that in the heat of a late spring afternoon, but the getup was practically his uniform and he was rarely seen dressed differently.

  “Bit early this year, Trapper?” he called.

  Tom kept his expression neutral as he tipped his own wide-brimmed leather hat in greeting. The people of Emery had known him for years and they all knew his name, but that nickname had stuck anyway. He suspected they were aware it irritated him even though he'd never let it show. “Had a full load so I didn't see any point in waiting.”

  Mitchells took in the bundle tied to his pack. “So I see. Where's Horse?” He squinted past Tom as if expecting the gelding to come trotting over the nearest hill.

  Tom scowled and spat off to one side. “Came down with colic over the winter. If there was anything to be done it was more than I knew to do.”

  “Shame.” The sheriff shook his head sadly. “Handsome animal, that, and I know losing him's got to be a blow. Even if you gave him the dumbest name ever.”

  “Yeah.” Tom had originally meant it to be tongue in cheek, a horse named Horse. But given his reputation for a taciturn and pragmatic nature people had just assumed he didn't have the imagination for anything better.

  Mitchells shook his head again and waved at the bundle. “This is all you're bringing this visit, then?”

  “Yeah, it's a light load. Spent a bit of extra time over the winter making moccasins and gloves, even a few buckskin shirts and pants. Figure if I can't carry much I should try to carry more value. Got a couple nice doeskins there too, and
a couple sets of dice I carved and polished.”

  “Well I hope it's enough to buy you the necessities.”

  “Fingers crossed.” Tom settled back on his heels, not in any particular hurry to part ways. Since he spent most of his time up in the mountains hunting, fishing, and trapping, chances at conversation didn't come often. It was embarrassing to admit it, but Mitchells was probably the closest thing he had to a friend.

  An almost comfortable silence settled. “Harmon's convoy come in yet?” Tom finally asked.

  “Nah, they're over a month late and we've had no news. Either something went way wrong on the way from Colorado or they didn't leave at all.”

  Tom frowned. “Where's that convoy just outside town coming from, then?”

  It was the sheriff's turn to frown, taking off his old hat and holding it at his side as he squinted at the convoy up the road. “Farther north, near the Utah Valley fallout zone.”

  “Heading this far south?” Tom snorted in amusement. “What's got them so desperate?”

  Mitchells didn't share his amusement, and Tom felt a bit guilty when he realized that probably meant the convoy was in bad shape. “They say the fallout zone's bigger than anyone thought. Folk on the fringes are falling sick, scaring everyone within ten miles of the old border into evacuating.”

  Ah. That was the sort of news no one ever wanted to hear. “Well I hope they don't stick around,” Tom said solemnly. “We're already pushing the limits of what the land around here can sustain.”

  The sheriff finally cracked a wry smile. “Funny that the guy who spends all his time sequestered up in the mountains, and has been there through every nuclear winter as far as I can remember, still counts himself as part of Emery's “we.”

  Tom supposed that was fair, although it stung a bit to be thought of as an outsider. But then again dropping in two or three times a year for a day, two at most, didn't really make him a resident. “Well the town's just been so welcoming,” he replied.

  Mitchells snorted but didn't respond. After a slightly uncomfortable silence Tom grunted and shifted the weight of the pack on his shoulders. “Well, hope Brady will still be interested in my stuff with no convoys coming out of Colorado.”

  “I imagine he will. Folks around here need clothes too.” Mitchells slapped his hat against his knee and put it back on. “Best of luck in your trading.”

  Tom nodded and kept on down the road, leaving the sheriff to saunter back to his seat on a nearby porch. Brady's trading post was near the center of Main Street, in the prime location to greet convoys heading into town on Highway 10 from the northeast or the southwest. It wasn't a far walk in either direction.

  The store was modestly large, a building with a storefront, storeroom, and upstairs apartment for Brady and his family. Most of the buildings in Emery were still kicking on from long before the Ultimatum, just growing more rundown by the year without any real materials for repairs. The few new buildings were small, generally crudely constructed, and stuck out like a sore thumb compared to the older architecture.

  One newer bit of construction on the trading post was the hitching rail out front. Tom felt a pang at the sight of it, thinking of all the times Horse had waited patiently there while he conducted his business. He sped up a bit to put it behind him and pushed open the old but well oiled door leading into the trading post.

  The familiar bell rang as he entered, and within moments Brady Everett appeared through the door leading from the backroom, brushing his hands off as he took his place behind the counter. “Well look who it is!” he said jovially. “Tom Miller! Good to see you!”

  To be fair, the man treated everyone who walked through his door with the same warmth and friendliness. As the owner of the only real store in town he had a vested interest in staying on a customer's good side.

  Still, it was hard not to appreciate that he was pretty much the only man in Emery who called Tom by his real name. He nodded in greeting. “Brady. How'd the winter treat you?”

  “Oh about like you'd expect.” The trader glanced out the door at the empty hitching rail as Tom shut it. “No Horse?”

  Tom shook his head. “Fell sick a couple months back. Couldn't save him.”

  The man winced sympathetically. “Sounds like the winter was a rough one for you. Sorry to hear it . . . I know you were fond of that animal.”

  That was putting it mildly. Horse had been a faithful companion and indispensable help for almost six years now. Tom would've preferred to lose anything else, even his rifle, although that would also be a crippling loss.

  But if there was one thing this harsh world since the Ultimatum had taught him, it was that you either learned to deal with reality or you got crushed under it. Tom had seen it happen more times than he could count.

  He unbuckled his pack and set it down near the counter, groaning slightly in relief. Brady gave him an impressed look. “Quite a load to pack all the way down the mountain, even if it's light compared to what you usually bring. I'm guessing this is all?”

  “For this trip. I might pack another load down in a bit.” Tom grimaced. “I need to find a way to buy another horse.”

  “Good luck,” the trader said, more in sympathetic disbelief than well wishing; during the shortages and especially after the Ultimatum a lot of desperate, starving people had resorted to eating any available livestock, even horses and pets. Thanks to that horses were hard to come by, and even an old or sickly one cost a fortune these days.

  Tom had been unbelievably lucky to find Horse running wild, no owner in sight and nobody looking for him. He might save up for another ten years and still not be able to afford to replace him.

  Brady took another sad look at the bundle. “Well it's not the worst timing for bringing in less, what with Harmon's convoy never showing up. That's going to be murder for trade.”

  He'd been worried about that. “You'll still buy everything though, right?”

  “I suppose that depends on what you've got.” Settling down to business, the trader briskly motioned at the bundle. Tom loosened the straps fastening it to his pack and hauled it up onto the counter, where Brady wasted no time untying the strings and unrolling the doeskins, revealing the handcrafted clothes and carved items within.

  After a minute or so of solemn appraisal he straightened. “Pound for pound it's some of the highest quality stuff you've brought me,” he admitted. “I can give you three ounces.”

  Tom frowned as he mulled the amount over. These days most trade was barter, and the only coin anyone was willing to accept was silver or, less common, gold. Although most things weren't worth even an ounce of silver, and he'd seen his fair share of one-ounce coins hacked in half, in quarters, and even in eighths.

  Brady mostly did barter in his store, but for ease of trade he put costs in ounces of silver to all his items, and appraised purchases by value in silver as well. He had a bit of precious metal set aside in case customers weren't interested in trade, but he didn't need to spend it much. Although he was always happy to receive it in payment.

  Since Tom was saving up for a new horse now he was going to have to start doing with less from the trading post. He'd also have to barter even more aggressively, try to bring as much silver home with him each trip as possible.

  Judging by the trader's meager offer he was off to a bad start. “Five,” he countered.

  Brady sighed, looking more wounded than angry. “Now don't be like that, Tom. I make reasonable offers just so we can avoid the unpleasantness of haggling. And you know three is reasonable, with no guarantee of convoys from Colorado to sell your things along to.”

  Tom shook his head. “Just because you might have trouble finding buyers that doesn't change the value of my goods.”

  “No, just what I can afford to offer.” After a few seconds of locking stares the trader sighed. “Three and a half. You know Betty would roast me alive if I went any higher.”

  Knowing Brady's pleasant, soft-spoken wife that seemed hard to imagine. Bu
t it served as a reminder that the man had his family to look out for, and a bad deal for him meant Betty and their two children would also suffer from it.

  Tom sighed. “Take ten percent off the bullets I buy today and I'll shake on it.”

  That was a tough counteroffer, since bullets were becoming more and more rare as people used them up, with almost no one reloading and as far as Tom new nobody at all making new ones. In their own way bullets were a more stable and desirable currency than precious metals, one that was almost guaranteed to increase in value as time went on.

  Brady grimaced as if he'd been punched in the gut, then sighed and offered his hand. “I can't kick a man when he's down, what with you losing Horse and all.” But as Tom shook on it the trader held his grip for an extra second and his voice became firm. “Fair warning, though . . . if the convoys from Colorado don't start coming through soon your next trip to town might be a waste of time.”

  That would be a huge setback. Tom had adjusted to worse trials than that in the last decade, sure, and if need be he could spend a year or so building up a store of trade goods and join up with a convoy himself, take them somewhere else and personally sell them. That had been an incredibly lucrative venture when he'd done it in the past, and with trade from Colorado drying up it should be even better now.

  What a time for Horse to kick the bucket! With him hauling goods Tom could've just struck off for Colorado on his own and not had to worry about any of this.

  As they both straightened from the handshake, deal concluded, Tom looked around the store. “Okay then, let's see how much of that silver you'll be getting back in purchases. Any new stock worth looking at?”

  There were a few things, including a battered old .22 rifle with a ludicrous price tag. But in the end Tom settled on his usual purchases: candles, potatoes, onions, flour, cornmeal, beans, salt, and a bag of the small dried chili peppers Betty grew in their garden. He also bought twenty rounds for his .308 bolt action rifle, more expensive than everything else put together.