Badlands: A Post-Apocalyptic Journey

by Nathan Jones

  And for what? According to him he'd found a fortune in jewelry, gold and silver coins, guns and ammunition, gardening and woodworking tools, and other useful and valuable items just sitting there unclaimed in the fallout zone. He'd carefully washed it all in a stream that was flowing into the fallout zone so he wouldn't inadvertently spread radiation, then buried everything in tarps in a safe spot.

  With his dying breath he'd insisted that everything was perfectly harmless now that he'd decontaminated it. The Geiger counter had just been a last precaution to make sure.

  Kristy knew where it was buried. She'd even visited the spot, feeling like she was intruding on some ancient burial ground. Miles hadn't robbed graves to get that stuff, but taking it from people who'd died in the fallout, or at least left it behind when they fled, felt an awful lot like that.

  She'd left it all hidden there, turning her back on it for good when she joined the settler convoy headed for a new life in Newpost, Texas. She wasn't sure if it really was safe or not, but there was no way she'd ever take that chance when it could endanger Skyler. She already had enough nightmares that her son might've been exposed to radiation, which was why she'd sent him to live with their friends the Hendricksons while she stayed at Miles's bedside and watched him slowly and painfully die, taking a huge chunk of her heart with him.

  Not to mention leaving her in this mess, facing a brutal and dangerous trek across a barren wasteland.

  Kristy took a shuddering breath and turned to face southeast, looking at the desolate landscape stretching out in front of her. But even this would seem lush by the time they reached southern Utah, and it would only get more barren the farther they went until they were nearly to Texas.

  It was enough to fill her with despair, if not for the prospect of what lay at their destination.

  News crawled across the country at a snail's pace. The few radios that had survived the electromagnetic pulses that swept the globe in the wake of total nuclear war were few and far between, difficult to power. And once anyone managed to get one working they mostly just found static, few others with radios out there for them to talk to.

  Thanks to that most word from distant parts was carried by trade convoys and travelers, leapfrogging from one settlement to the next. There was no guarantee any of it was accurate by the time it reached your ears, or that it wasn't outdated by more recent events.

  Even so, for the past year or so word had been trickling into the region around the Utah Valley fallout zone that Texas was experiencing a new surge of growth and prosperity. Apparently surviving communities in Central America had begun sending trade convoys north, laden with food and offering reasonable prices. It seemed too good to be true, but multiple sources had confirmed that Texas was swiftly becoming the place to build a new life. Some even said it was the start of the rebirth of the United States.

  So now that their life in Utah was over that's where Kristy intended to take Skyler. If there was anything she could do to secure her son's future she'd do it, no matter how daunting or difficult.

  Maybe that's what Miles had thought as he poisoned himself with radiation looting abandoned buildings in the fallout zone. Misguided, but heartfelt.

  “I hope my decision turns out better than yours,” she whispered as she made her way back to her tent.

  She and her son had a big day tomorrow. Kristy wasn't sure if the convoy would be ready to depart by then, but they'd certainly be busy with preparations. It seemed like a such a huge job she didn't know how they'd ever get it done, but luckily she wasn't the one in charge who had to make those arrangements.

  She just had to look out for herself and Skyler, no matter what happened.

  * * * * *

  It was past sundown by the time Tom finished his leisurely meal and drinks and headed out of the bar.

  It was a relief to leave, honestly. The place had gotten more depressing by the hour, most of the drunks in the mood to seek oblivion rather than enjoy themselves, and Reina and the other girls becoming more and more aggressive with their solicitations. With everyone but Tom, that is.

  Even the few patrons who'd wandered in from the newly arrived convoy were grim and miserable, decrying the destruction of their old lives by the unanticipated spread of the fallout zone, the hard journey behind them, and the even harder one that waited ahead. Tom couldn't blame them; he'd been where they were going, and unless they were tougher than they looked it was going to be brutal for them.

  Adjusting the straps of his pack so it sat more comfortably on his shoulders, he headed directly west rather than following Main Street, in the mood to get out of town and make for his usual camping spot before it got too dark. His thoughts were a pleasant buzz, enough to be enjoyable but not enough to dull his caution.

  Neal had been pretty close to the mark with his wager, because Tom didn't want to get drunk while in Emery. Not so much because he didn't trust any particular person, even Bradshaw and his cronies, but because the last eleven years had drilled wariness into him so deeply he didn't think he'd ever fully let down his guard.

  “Trapper?”

  Tom bit back a blistering oath and whirled towards the man behind him who'd spoken, hand on his revolver ready to draw and fire in an instant.

  The man quickly held up his own hands to show he meant no threat. He was tall and solidly built, probably in his mid to late 30s, so around Tom's age or a bit older. Although he looked more youthful with red hair so dark it was almost brown, cut short and spiky with dried sweat, and a clean shaven face.

  “I'm Tom Miller,” Tom said warily. At the man's blank look he continued curtly. “Folks around here call me Trapper, not by my choosing.”

  “Oh. Well I'm Simon Randall, leader of the convoy camped outside of town,” the man said, offering his hand. “The sheriff pointed me your way. I understand you've crossed the badlands to Texas?”

  Tom shook, noting Simon's strong grip. He could see the man as leader of those refugees; he had that droop to his shoulders that came from the burden of responsibility felt by a man in charge of a group engaged in a hard, perhaps hopeless cause.

  “And to California,” he agreed, “among other places. I spend a fair amount of time wandering when the urge takes me.”

  “Good to hear.” The convoy's leader motioned back towards the bar. “Can I buy you a drink, pick your brain about the trail?”

  Well, the guy may be suicidal trying to lead an unprepared convoy south, but at least he was doing his due diligence. “If you're taking a convoy to Texas you want to make your way down to the Interstate and follow it.”

  Simon looked surprised for a moment, then concerned. “We want to avoid bandits, and we're likely to run into those even in the middle of the badlands if we take such a major road.”

  Tom met his eye flatly. “If you're taking a convoy to Texas, you want to follow the Interstate,” he repeated.

  The man sighed, shoulders sagging. “I don't want to argue against your experience, Mr. Miller. I was just hoping you might know a safer, alternate route.”

  “There are no safe routes through the badlands. And even if I knew one I couldn't draw you a map that would keep you on track.”

  That obviously wasn't what Simon wanted to hear. Tom caught a core of desperation in the man that the grimly realistic news about the journey ahead had exposed, and wondered if the convoy was even worse off than he'd thought.

  “Can I buy you that drink?” Simon asked, trying to usher Tom towards the bar again.

  Tom allowed himself to be herded that way, although he shook his head. “I'm done drinking for the night.”

  The man frowned. “Dinner, then?”

  “Already ate.” At Simon's crestfallen look he added. “But I won't say no to dessert if you're offering. Neal's bar has good pies.”

  The convoy's leader smiled eagerly at the prospect of having him a captive audience as he ate. “Absolutely.”

  It didn't taken a genius to see where this was going. Simon would start off asking
questions about conditions in the badlands, what sort of preparations would be needed, and specifics about the possible routes. Then about the time Tom had finished cleaning his plate the guy would offer to buy him another slice of pie and work up the courage to ask him to personally guide the convoy.

  The prospect of trying to lead a bunch of poorly equipped refugees by some out of the way route to avoid the inevitable bandits sounded like a nightmare; Tom was about as likely to accept that job as he was to find the nearest cave with a hibernating bear and start using it as a trampoline, but he supposed it depended on what the convoy's leader was offering.

  He had a horse to replace, and if the guy was willing to pay real coin for a simple guide job he might be tempted.

  The bigger question was why these poor suckers wanted to go south in the first place. Tom really had been around most of the southwest in the last ten years, and if there was one thing he'd found it was that every place was about as bad as here: fallout zones, bandits, small communities scraping to get by as their numbers steadily dwindled.

  There was no hidden paradise out there, no undiscovered place where society had survived the Ultimatum unscathed. What the nukes hadn't destroyed the EMP that came with them had taken care of, and everyone was back to living like people had two hundred years ago.

  If they were lucky.

  These folks would have just as good a chance of finding a place to settle around here, slim as that was. Heck, if they wanted to brave harsh winters they could settle up in the mountains, which were mostly unsettled aside from hunters, trappers, ranchers grazing livestock, and the occasional camp of loggers. All of whom headed down to the valleys before winter set in.

  If the settlers were willing to brave harsh conditions here then they wouldn't have to go on a brutal journey through the badlands. A trek that might kill half of them before they reached the far side.

  If they were lucky.

  Neal looked surprised to see Tom walk into his bar again, especially in someone else's company. But he took Simon's order of a slice of pie and glass of water without comment.

  Tom led the convoy's leader to the table he'd sat at earlier and settled into the same chair. “Just water for you?”

  Simon shrugged. “Already ate, and not really in the mood for a drink.”

  More likely the man couldn't afford one, which didn't say much for how well he'd be able to pay Tom. Or for his convoy's chances, for that matter. But Tom just shrugged and settled back. “Okay, so you want to go to Texas. Why?”

  The man gave him a surprised look. “You haven't heard? Word is Newpost is getting trade up from Mexico and Central America. People are flocking there for a new start.”

  Tom hadn't heard that, although last year before heading up to his winter hideout he'd heard rumors of trade convoys from Mexico bringing food into Texas. Apparently half a year was all it took for that source of trade to turn the place into some kind of settler's paradise.

  That, or since news carried by convoys tended to lag well behind actual events this trade could've been going on for years now.

  It was worth investigating. Tom had people in Newpost he'd already done some trading with, back when Horse had been able to carry a decent enough load to make the trip worth it. And if trade might be drying up in Emery that was even more reason to search for an alternative, especially since he still had all the stuff he hadn't been able to bring down on this trip.

  Speaking of alternatives, was it possible Harmon's convoy had gone to Texas this year and that's why they'd never showed?

  Either way, that was all just pointless musing unless Simon could give him a good offer. Tom leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Okay, let's say I have a route and I can guide you to Texas. Can you make it worth my while?”

  In response Simon slipped a hand into an inside pocket of his patched coat. When it emerged he held a wedge of gold between his fingers which he silently pressed onto the table.

  Tom gave it a close look. He didn't see gold as often as silver, but that looked like a sixth of a one-ounce coin. Most gold coins got hacked into halves, quarters, sixths, or even eighths to make them more convenient for day to day trading, since few purchases warranted a full ounce and most people couldn't afford those anyway.

  A sixth of an ounce of gold was a reasonable sum, more than twice what Tom usually got from selling his haul of furs, smoked meat, and handcrafted goods on a trade run to Emery back when he'd still had Horse to carry everything. It was almost three times what he'd gotten from Brady this time around.

  It took him months of hard work to gather and prepare those trade goods, which was the main reason he came to Emery so rarely, so that sort of pay for a simple guide job was pretty tempting. But at the same time leading a convoy of settlers through the badlands was going to be tough, not without risk.

  Besides, Tom wasn't sure he wanted to do it in the first place. “I'll consider it for twice that.”

  Simon grit his teeth at the outrageous counteroffer as he pocketed the wedge again. “The offer's more than fair,” he snapped. “I could drag anyone in town to this table and they'd shake my hand on the spot for that.”

  “I can only think of a handful of people here who could even guide you if you decided to travel off the Interstate, and most of them wouldn't be able to get you much farther than Grand Junction on their own experience. Past that they'd all be following maps and relying on their own scouting and general knowledge of conditions in the Southwest to get you through. I'm the only one who actually knows the regions you'll be traveling through all the way to Texas, and has made multiple trips there along various routes.”

  “I can go as high as a quarter ounce,” Simon hedged, looking unhappy at even that.

  “Then you can start scouring Emery for another guide.” Tom leaned back. “A third of an ounce, half now and half when we reach Newpost. And I'll want space on one of your wagons for my pack and a bundle of trade goods. Don't need much.”

  The convoy's leader scowled at him for almost a minute, obviously thinking it over. Then his shoulders sagged. “I'll agree to all of that, except you'll get payment in full when we reach Newpost.” When Tom started to scowl he quickly raised one hand. “If you need an advance on the payment to purchase supplies we can work it out, but I won't give you a fortune in gold before we've even left Emery. What's to stop you from just walking off with it?”

  “And what's to stop you from waiting until I've spent months leading you to Newpost and then refusing to pay me?” Tom shot back. “That's why the half now and half when the job is done arrangement exists in the first place, because it gives both sides incentive to make good on the agreement, and if one side does decide to cheat the other they can only half cheat them.”

  Simon stared at him for an uncomfortable minute, thinking it through. “We need the coin we have for supplies,” he finally declared. “But when we reach Texas I intend to sell some of the livestock. I'll give you my solemn word, as well as providing you with a signed agreement in front of witnesses before we set out, that you'll get your pay from that sale. That, or if I can't then you'll be entitled to claim one of the animals as compensation.”

  That was . . . quite the offer. Worst case scenario Tom got a good payday, best case he'd get a new horse without even needing to save up for years to buy it. And to be fair, he supposed it really didn't matter if he got paid half now or all of it at the end, since he would just be saving it for that new horse anyway.

  Assuming Simon didn't try to screw him over when they reached Texas. But the man seemed honest enough. “I can live with that,” he said grudgingly.

  “Then I suppose I can too. Although you'd better be the best dang guide this side of the mountains.” The convoy's leader leaned across the table with his hand outstretched.

  Tom didn't immediately take it, looking the man in the eye. “One more thing. If I agree to this my job will be to guide you to Newpost and do my best to make sure you all survive the trip. But I want to be
very clear about what you can expect from me.”

  Simon frowned, leaning back cautiously. “What does that mean?”

  “That's what I'm about to tell you, very specifically.” It was Tom's turn to lean forward, planting his elbows on the table again. “I will pick the route. I will scout for you. I will instruct you on the dangers of the badlands and do my best to guide you through them. I'll do my best to lead you from one source of water to another so you never have to worry about running low. I'll point you to any edibles we come across, and after I take my share of any game I manage to bring down you can share out the rest.”

  “Sounds good so far.”

  Tom hardened his voice. “I'll take my turns on the nightly watch roster, and scare off or bring down any predators that threaten members of the convoy. But this is where I need to be very clear: I'm not a mercenary. You're hiring me as a guide, and that's what you're getting.”

  The redheaded man was clearly displeased by that. “Are you saying you won't fight to protect the convoy?”

  “I'm saying that if I do it'll be my decision, and I accept no obligation to.”

  For a moment Tom was sure Simon would storm away from the table. Then the man drew a deep breath, unclenching his fists. “And if we were somehow able to offer you more?”

  “This condition isn't one I'm willing to negotiate on,” Tom replied firmly. “If I feel it's necessary to fight or I can join in with acceptable risk to myself I will, but don't be surprised if I decide to disappear until the fight's over. One way or another.”

  “I see.” Simon gave him a thoughtful look. “Then let's say, for instance, that it was a choice of either fighting or being killed by our attackers. Could I at least depend on you then?”

  “If I couldn't find a way to escape? Absolutely.” Tom shrugged. “I realize most attacks out there will be like that. I just want to make it clear that I won't die for the convoy if I can see a way to get away.”