Badlands: A Post-Apocalyptic Journey

by Nathan Jones

  “No .357 this time?” Brady asked.

  Tom shook his head. “Haven't needed to use the last ones I bought yet.” He always wore his SP101 revolver at his hip, but it was only for self defense where his rifle wasn't suitable for some reason. He'd had the revolver since before the Ultimatum and could count the number of times he'd used it on both hands. Mostly it just served to intimidate unfriendly sorts when he was in a town or traveling with a convoy.

  Which suited Tom just fine since bullets were expensive. He only fought when he couldn't avoid it, and he'd gotten very good at staying out of trouble.

  In the end, after some intense haggling Tom packed up his purchases and pocketed an ounce of silver. Not great, but better than he'd expected. After saying his farewells he lifted his pack back onto his shoulders and headed outside.

  Being pragmatic, if he wanted to buy a new horse sometime in the next decade he should probably pocket his earnings and head back into the mountains right now. But Tom had a routine when he came into town, and part of that was celebrating the fruits of his hard work with a well deserved drink.

  So instead of heading east on the road out of town he turned west towards the bar.

  * * * * *

  Neal's place was a bit of everything: one of the few spots in town that served meals, pretty much the only bar, and even a hotel if you didn't mind dingy rooms that were usually rented by the hour for a different, more unsavory purpose. And then there were his girls, who cooked and served meals and were willing to . . . negotiate for other services.

  It was unexpectedly crowded this time of day, mostly patrons eating dinner, although a few people were getting an early start on the night's drinking. That included three men at a table near the bar, the biggest of whom straightened the moment Tom stepped through the door.

  “Old man!” he called harshly.

  Tom ran his hand through his long salt and pepper beard; “old” wasn't a very accurate description given he'd just recently celebrated his 36th birthday, or at least acknowledged it on his homemade calendar in passing. But there was little question who Rich Bradshaw was talking to.

  He tried to ignore the shout as he started for the bar, but Bradshaw and his buddies were already out of their seats and moving to intercept him. “I'm talking to you, Trapper!” the man said, planting himself squarely in his path. “I told you to stay out of here! I don't want you stinking up the place when I'm trying to drink.”

  Tom glanced over at the bar, where Neal raised his hands in a “I'm staying out of this” gesture. He turned back and gave Bradshaw a level look. “Last I checked you don't own this place.” He started to sidestep him.

  The burly man scowled and grabbed his elbow. It trapped his right hand, the one he'd use to draw his revolver, and Bradshaw probably thought that rendered him helpless. “You think I'm joking?” he growled. “I'm giving you one last chance to leave peacefully before this gets ugly.”

  Tom looked around at the other patrons, some of whom were watching curiously while the rest studied their plates. Honestly it wasn't worth a fight, especially since he would be just as happy buying his drinks and enjoying them elsewhere anyway.

  But he had a thing about people laying hands on him. Not to mention that in his experience, once someone went that far they were spoiling for a fight anyway, and just walking away probably wasn't an option anymore.

  He kept his tone mild as he held the man's gaze. “You ever seen a cougar, Bradshaw?”

  That drew a suspicious frown. “Couple times, up in the hills. From far away.”

  Tom nodded. “Yeah, you don't want to get too close to them. Had a run-in with one once.” He reached for the arm Bradshaw held, ignoring the way the man tensed and tightened his grip, and got to work unlacing the ties at the wrist of his buckskin shirt.

  In spite of themselves the three men watched with interest as he pulled the sleeve up to reveal his forearm, which was heavily scarred from obvious bite wounds top and bottom. One of Bradshaw's buddies winced at the sight. “Believe me, there's no worse feeling than being pinned under a big cat as it gnaws on your arm,” Tom continued in a conversational tone.

  “How did-” the sympathetic townsperson began, but Bradshaw roughly cut him off.

  “You can't distract me with some story, Trapper,” he snapped. “I told you to get lost!”

  Tom shrugged. “Not even a little curious about what happened? I'm almost done.”

  There were a few murmurs from nearby tables, curious patrons drawn into the conversation in spite of the tension in the air. Bradshaw scowled and motioned curtly. “Fine. How'd you survive a cougar attack?”

  In an eyeblink Tom snapped his free hand up, pressing his index and middle fingers hard into the side of his antagonist's neck. Bradshaw stiffened with shock as he answered quietly. “I tore out its throat with my knife while it was busy holding my arm.”

  Dead silence settled over the bar as the big man let go of his elbow and took a hasty step back, eyes dropping to the skinning knife in its sheath on Tom's left hip. It wasn't lost on any of them that he could've just as easily drawn the blade and driven it home instead of poking Bradshaw's throat with his fingers.

  “Nice story, Trapper,” the sympathetic man said, grabbing his friend's shoulder and tugging him back towards their table. “Enjoy your drinks.”

  Tom shrugged and continued on to the bar, nodding to Neal. “Quite the entrance,” the barkeep observed.

  “This place would be more hospitable if you kept the peace once in a while,” he replied.

  A small frown briefly crossed the man's easygoing expression. “Can't police every Tom, Dick, and Harry that walks through my door, especially not my regulars. As long as they're not breaking anything or hassling my girls and no weapons are involved I stay out of it.”

  Tom wasn't letting it go at that; the bar was one of his few stops in town, and he didn't want to get chased out by some tool looking to pick a fight. “You could at least try policing the Dicks.”

  Neal just snorted. “Your usual?” he asked, already reaching for a glass. Tom nodded, and the man grabbed a bottle of whiskey and filled it. To Tom's surprise the man kept going after pouring a double, adding almost another full shot's worth.

  “I can only pay for the double,” he said.

  The barkeep shrugged. “Consider it an apology for that unpleasantness.”

  Well, that wasn't the worst apology. Tom took the nearly full glass and raised it in toast, taking a sip, then carried it over to a table on the other side of the room from Bradshaw and his cronies.

  He drank in slow sips, savoring the mellow taste and in no hurry to finish. A few minutes later one of Neal's girls wove her way through the maze of tables carrying a plate loaded with fried chicken, a salad with oil and vinegar dressing, and sauteed green beans.

  Tom bit back a sigh when he saw who it was. He honestly couldn't tell if she did this because she got some kick out of heckling him, or if she thought he'd actually say yes when she eventually tried to make the sale even though he'd refused her dozens of times.

  Either way, she never missed an opportunity to come over to his table and shoot the breeze.

  She was in her early thirties, wearing heavy makeup and dressed in a fashion that could only be described as “garish”. Not unattractive, but the years were definitely catching up with her and hard living had taken its toll. After sliding the plate in front of him she leaned on her elbows across the table, giving him a good view of her cleavage.

  He did his best to avoid it, keeping his eyes focused on hers. “Reina,” he said as politely as he could.

  “Down from the mountains early, eh?” she asked, smirking. “Going to have some fun while you're in town?”

  “Not counting that pleasant chat with Bradshaw?” Tom flicked his fingernail against his glass. “Way ahead of you.”

  Her smirk widened and she shrugged, which did interesting things to her neckline. “I was talking about my particular brand of fun.”

&n
bsp; Tom shook his head wryly. “Which you'd try to charge me double for?”

  “For you, always.” Reina gave him a distasteful once-over. “You know you smell, old man? And you look like a filthy, deranged homeless person.”

  He just shrugged. It was hard to care what people thought when he'd be around them for less than a day, certainly not worth the trouble of doing something about it. But he did have a certain amount of pride in the care he took of himself, even if his appearance didn't necessarily show it.

  “Cured hides have a certain odor, can't help if that's not to your liking,” he replied. “As for filthy, I'll have you know I wash myself and my clothes frequently. I probably have better hygiene than you.” He gave her a pointed once-over of his own. “Make that definitely.”

  The garishly dressed woman did her best not to scowl, which would've been as much as an admission he'd scored a point. “Must be the hair and beard, then. If I dug around in that tangle and found a nest complete with newly hatched chicks I wouldn't be surprised.”

  Tom shrugged again. “Trimming the hair and beard is a hassle. I only do it when they get long enough that not doing it is even more of a hassle.”

  “Hmm.” With effort Reina regained her composure, leaning down even more to give him a better view which he didn't take. She soldiered on in spite of his stoicism, waggling her eyebrows invitingly. “Okay, you've convinced me . . . I'll go from double to time and a half. You know you could use the company.”

  And that was where these delightful conversations always ended. “Like I've told you every time you've offered,” he said wearily, reaching for his glass, “even if I get tired of being alone sometimes, there's some things I don't believe in paying for.” He started to take a sip, adding under his breath just loud enough for her to hear. “Even if the prices were reasonable.”

  Reina straightened with a final smirk, not looking very disappointed at his rejection. “Well me and the other girls figured at least one of us should ask, just so we don't hurt your feelings.”

  “Considerate of you.” Tom took another sip, leaning back in his chair. “On your way past the bar could you tell Neal I'll take another shot of the same?”

  She blinked, looking more surprised at that than he'd expected. Not to mention finally showing a little disappointment. “Just a shot, not your usual double?”

  He lifted his still nearly full glass. “He was nice enough to give me extra with this one.”

  “That means you can afford another double, right?” she demanded, oddly insistent.

  Tom squinted at her. “What do you care?”

  “I don't!” She stormed off.

  Tom got to work on his meal, starting with the chicken while it was still hot and savoring the rich flavors. A minute or so later Neal came around and dropped a full shot glass next to the larger one.

  “You giving your girls a commission on drink sales now?” Tom asked him.

  Neal snorted. “Nah. We just have a wager, me and Reina. She thinks you only order two double whiskeys each time you're in town because you're too broke or cheap to buy more.”

  “Yeah?” Tom asked, picking up the shot glass and taking a sip.

  The barkeeper leaned forward, grinning. “That's why I deliberately gave you three shots and charged you for a double earlier. And sure enough, your next order was for a single shot.” He slapped the table. “Makes sense, right? Whether you come in with Horse loaded down with furs and antlers, or you come in on foot lugging as much as you can on your back, you always order the same. And even when I gave you extra you just changed your next order to compensate.”

  “Good to know my bartender pays attention to my drinking habits,” Tom said dryly as he got back to his meal.

  Neal snorted. “You're just a cautious and suspicious SOB aren't you, Trapper? You've been trading in this town for more than eight years and you still won't let your guard down and get properly drunk around us.”

  “Or maybe I just don't like blacking out and waking up with the mother of all hangovers. But thanks for acting like you can read my mind and pinning motives on me.” Tom motioned to his original glass, still almost full. “Although I suppose I still appreciate you giving me the free shot, even if it was to settle a bet and not an apology for that mess with Bradshaw.”

  The man shook his head wryly and headed back behind his bar.

  Chapter One

  Convoy

  Kristy gently ran her fingers through her son's sandy hair, listening to his quiet breaths and watching the even rise and fall of his little chest.

  Then, unable to stop herself, she grabbed a lock of his hair and tugged a bit harder, checking to see if it fell out. It didn't, although he murmured in sleepy annoyance and rolled over. She let him go, feeling guilty at bothering him but relieved at the same time.

  She'd checked Skyler obsessively for signs of radiation poisoning ever since his father had fallen ill, and fought down panic every time her son complained his tummy hurt. When he'd played too rough and nearly torn a fingernail off, running crying to her at the injury, she'd nearly screamed in horror and was sure it was a sign her son had been exposed to fallout.

  Miles, barely able to walk and looking like some ghastly corpse with his hair and skin sloughing off, had been forced to hobble out of bed and lead her away before her panicking could frighten their son. Once she calmed down and learned Skyler's torn fingernail had a more mundane, and much less horrific, explanation, she'd felt embarrassed by her overreaction.

  But that didn't stop her from constantly checking her son.

  Her own false alarms about radiation sickness she handled more quietly, stewing over them in sick dread. Every time she brushed her hair and saw a strand or two caught in the bristles, perfectly normal but no less terrifying. Every time she saw the beginnings of a sunburn on her skin and thought it was going to start falling off like her husband's. And the churning in her gut from her constant fear often seemed like its own symptom of radiation poisoning.

  That gnawing worry stayed with her until she was either sure the event hadn't been a sign of radiation after all, or it gradually slipped her mind as she focused on surviving day to day.

  She didn't know what frightened her worse, dying a horrible death like Miles had or leaving Skyler alone in this brutal world where everyone was too busy looking after their own survival to extend a helping hand. So even though her family's house was still outside the newly expanded border of the fallout zone, and even though there was a good reason why her husband had been one of the first and worst cases of radiation sickness, she'd still packed up as much as she could carry and joined the group of refugees fleeing south.

  Kristy felt the familiar grief and anger rising when she thought of those painful recent events. To avoid disturbing her son she carefully eased out of her blankets and pulled on her shoes, then ducked out of the tent she shared with him. Only after zipping it closed behind her did she begin pacing with fists clenched.

  Miles!

  In her more generous moments she told herself it was desperation after years of barely managing to feed his family. That it was concern for their future, not greed, that had driven her husband's actions. That stupid as it was at least his motives had been pure.

  And she tried to tell herself that she shared at least a little of the blame, since she'd turned a blind eye when he always seemed to be headed towards the fallout zone when he went hunting or foraging. She'd asked him about it once near the beginning, and he'd assured her he wasn't getting too close, but since fear of the fallout zone kept other hunters away from prime grounds that gave him a better chance of finding game.

  And she'd asked him again when he brought home that game, expressing fear that deer and rabbits didn't know about fallout or clearly marked boundaries. That the meat and hides he provided might be irradiated. But he always took pains to reassure her that he checked for signs of mangy coats or other indicators of radiation poisoning in the animals, and hadn't found any.

  So Kris
ty had let it be. Never asking why his skin and clothes were always so clean when he came back, later and later at night each time it seemed. Never asking why some days he came home empty handed but grinning like a prospector who'd struck gold.

  She'd harbored some suspicions he might be cheating on her and had listened carefully to neighbors' gossip and tried to read their reactions when she visited them. She'd spent weeks looking at some of her closest friends askance, wondering if they were secretly betraying her.

  But after Miles fell sick she learned the truth was much, much worse; on his deathbed her husband confessed that he'd been scavenging inside the fallout zone.

  Kristy still couldn't believe he'd been so reckless. They'd both seen their own parents sicken and die from radiation poisoning, and the horror of it should've kept him far away from the border with its clearly marked warning signs. No reward was worth what he risked by setting foot in that place, as reality had so harshly proven.

  And it wasn't just him he'd endangered! Miles had insisted he'd been careful. That he'd worn a thick suit of outer clothes over his own, including gloves, hat, and mask. Clothes he always washed thoroughly after each trip, along with his own body. He was also careful to bring nothing home from the fallout zone, burying all the various valuables and other loot he found in a secluded spot. He'd been planning on trying to find a Geiger counter to rent so he could test the valuables for radioactive contamination.

  Unfortunately he'd died of radiation poisoning before he could, the stupid idiot.

  Kristy sucked in a sharp breath and slowed her frantic pacing. Her hands were in such tight fists that her fingernails had dug into the skin, and she forced them open and massaged her palms as she paused to look at the tent where her son slept quietly.

  She felt guilty thinking of Miles like that. She'd loved him fiercely, and still did even after learning what he'd done. But in spite of the care he'd taken he could've tracked radioactive dust right into their house, or carried it on his clothes, and she couldn't forgive him for putting her and Skyler in such danger.