Badlands: A Post-Apocalyptic Journey

by Nathan Jones

  But maybe on easier stretches they could get away with just two people pushing if one of them was Bob, or everyone but the man when he rested. Although likely the poor man wouldn't get many breaks since his strength was desperately needed if they hoped to keep up with the convoy.

  Her heart went out to her friend's husband considering the ordeal they faced. He was one man doing the lion's share of hauling the necessities of five people. She wished they could find someone else to help him, but the sad fact was that the convoy had more women and children than men by a fair margin, almost two to one, and everyone had their own carts or wagons to manage.

  Bob had already been breaking his back since leaving Utah Valley, and it would only be harder now, and harder again still once they were forced to take on more water. Of course it wouldn't be any easier for her, Vicky, Skyler, and Lisa, since they'd have to work just as hard without the benefit of his strength.

  Well, almost as hard.

  And that wasn't the only downside of the added weight. Kristy looked over at the small pile of goods they'd taken out of the cart yesterday, mostly the Hendricksons' possessions that they'd brought all the way from Utah Valley, only to find that they couldn't realistically take them any farther.

  All useful things, but unfortunately it turned out they didn't have much value. Or at least not much value when the traders in Emery were well aware they'd have to leave them behind anyway, and so had offered almost insultingly low prices.

  But in spite of that Bob had reluctantly shaken hands with Mr. Everett, owner of the town's trading post, and accepted a pathetically small handful of silver for his family's prized possessions. Many of which had sentimental value. The trader would be by to pick them up before they left, although Kristy hoped he got a hernia moving them.

  She immediately felt bad for thinking it; for all his ruthless trading Everett wasn't as bad as others they'd spoken to, some of whom had ended bargaining by shrugging and saying they'd just come scavenge the stuff left behind by the convoy after it moved on.

  In fact the man was probably more softhearted than he should've been; he'd seen Vicky, Kristy, and their children huddled near the cart, listening despondently as he devalued things they'd desperately need to start their new life. He'd probably tossed in a couple extra quarter-ounce silver wedges out of the goodness of his heart.

  In fact she should probably thank him when he came to pick up his purchases, since he'd been halfhearted at best in his haggling yesterday when she and Vicky came to his store to purchase supplies. At his wife's insistence he'd even tossed in a free bag of dried chili peppers from their small garden.

  Speaking of which, if she had time before they left she'd have to go and say her goodbyes to Betty Everett. Tall and long of face, the woman was possibly one of the sweetest people she'd ever met. She'd immediately taken Kristy and Vicky and their children under her wing when they entered the store, offering them cool water and commiserating about being forced to flee Utah Valley.

  She'd also invited Skyler and Lisa to play with her two children while their mothers took care of business, even bringing out toys for them. And it was mostly her silent glares that had prompted her husband to accept less than optimal prices for their purchases.

  In fact, forget wishing hernia on the owner of the trading post. After his and his wife's kindness and generosity Kristy hoped they both enjoyed nothing but peace and prosperity. There were too few people like them in the world these days.

  “Do you see the mountain man, Mom?” Skyler asked as she got to work cooking breakfast.

  She looked up from the fire to see Tom . . . she hadn't caught his last name . . . stumble by with his long salt and pepper hair and beard a wild tangle, mouth open in a jaw-cracking yawn. He didn't look any better by predawn glow, but then she supposed he didn't have to be presentable to lead them safely to Texas.

  It probably wasn't fair to judge him by his appearance, but it was kind of hard not to. “I spoke to him, yesterday, remember?” she reminded her son gently.

  “Oh, right.” Skyler perched on a nearby rock. “Brett told me he's been all over the badlands, that if he's not in the mountains he's out wandering them.”

  Kristy tore her gaze from the mountain man and looked at her son. “Brett?”

  “From the store. We played for a bit yesterday while you and Aunt Vicky were shopping.” Skyler brightened a bit, then looked crestfallen. “I wish I had a truck like that. That stuff made before the Ultimatum is so much cooler than what people make now.”

  She thought of the little wooden car Miles had carved for their son, with the wheels that kept sticking no matter how many times he shaved down and sanded the axles. He'd worked hard on it and Skyler had liked it even if it didn't roll properly, but she supposed it was hard to compete with plastic and metal toys made in factories.

  Of course, things from before the Ultimatum were only going to get more and more rare as stuff broke down and wasn't replaced. Unless they managed to build back up to what they'd had before the world went crazy it wouldn't be long before every kid was playing with wooden toys.

  Simon came around as they were eating breakfast. “How are the Grahams and Hendricksons doing this morning?” he asked. “Ready to move out?”

  “As ready as we know how to be, I suppose,” Bob said, standing to shake his hand. “What's the timetable for when we'll be leaving?”

  “I figure it'll be another hour or so, time for breakfast and some last minute preparations. Let me know if you need anything.” The convoy's leader gave them all a parting nod, sparing a wink and a smile for the kids and a lingering glance at Kristy, then turned and strode off.

  Vicky sidled over to her, staring after the redheaded man. “Have you noticed he seems to take a special interest in our welfare?”

  Kristy blinked. “What?”

  Her friend rolled her eyes. “Oh come on. You don't think he might be looking for an excuse to talk to the cute blond in his convoy?”

  She felt herself blushing. “Shut up,” she said, more annoyed than playful. “I just buried my husband, I'm not looking for a replacement.”

  The petite woman held up her hands. “I'm not saying anything like that,” she said, then grinned impishly. “Still, he's not bad looking. I know you miss Miles, we all do, but it doesn't make sense to stay single forever. Skyler deserves to have a good father, and you deserve a good man.”

  Kristy set down her plate and stood. “I don't want to talk about this.” Without waiting for a response she strode away. Skyler started to follow, but Vicky was at least thoughtful enough to hold him back and give her space.

  Which was fine with her. She wanted to say goodbye to Betty anyway, and if they were leaving soon she might not get another chance. It was also a good excuse to think about anything besides the conversation she'd just had with her friend.

  She wasn't sure which made her feel worse, the fresh grief at the reminder of losing Miles or the fact that she had noticed that Simon Randall was a handsome man. She felt like she was betraying her husband even looking at him, especially since Vicky wasn't suggesting anything she hadn't thought herself.

  And the man had been checking her out, so it wasn't as if there was nothing there.

  With a growl of frustration Kristy forced those thoughts from her mind. She'd never planned to stay single forever, and Miles had even discussed it with her once it was clear he was dying. At some point she'd have to remarry, for her own sake as much as for Skyler's.

  It was just too soon to think about it.

  * * * * *

  Simon had kept Tom up for hours making final preparations and inspections. To make matters worse Tom's habitual sleeping schedule had him waking up a bit before first light, and in spite of the late night he'd kept to that pattern and got up early.

  Only to find, to his annoyance, that Simon was somehow already up. Had the guy slept at all?

  He could admire that sort of drive, especially in a leader, but Tom wasn't about to work himself t
o the point of exhaustion and sleep deprived madness just because Simon did. He was willing to make an exception since this was the first day of the trip and there were things that needed to be done, extra demands on everyone until they could settle into a routine.

  But good pay or no, he wasn't going to push his limits like this the entire trip. It was unnecessary, realistically impossible, and just not worth it.

  When he found Simon the man seemed glad he was already up, especially when Tom informed him that he'd be scouting ahead starting immediately. “Will we be taking Highway 10 down to I-70?” he asked.

  The convoy's leader had suggested that yesterday, and Tom had told him to keep his plans open. It was partly caution, and partly caution of a different sort; most folks in Emery might be trustworthy, but if anyone there had thoughts of banditry or were working with bandits Tom didn't want them knowing which way the convoy was going. And by that same reasoning he didn't intend to take them on a more predicable path.

  “We'll take 916 down a ways, then cut over to 912 and follow it down to the Interstate, which we should reach sometime in the mid to late afternoon.”

  The convoy's leader gave him a surprised look. “I'm not familiar with those roads.”

  “No reason you would be. They're small, and they're not in the best shape.” Tom nodded southward. “But 10 takes us a long way southwest before we hit the Interstate, and this'll take us more directly south, shaving miles off our route. It also runs along Muddy Creek part of the way so we'll have water for ourselves and the animals. Last of all it's not a well known or well used route, which means we'll be less likely to run into ambushes.”

  “And you'll be scouting ahead,” Simon stated more than asked.

  “That's the plan.” Tom walked over to the wagon with his stuff and grabbed his pack. “Let me fill you in on where to go, then I'll go check and make sure you want to go that way.”

  “You can leave your backpack with your other stuff,” the convoy's leader offered. “Save some weight so you can scout farther. You had a rough day yesterday and today's not going to be a picnic either.”

  That was probably a rational idea, but Tom shook his head. “I don't go anywhere without my pack if I can help it.” It contained his most basic needs for survival, and losing it would be disastrous. So no matter how safe it might be in the convoy wagon he wouldn't take the chance.

  The man frowned. “You left it with me when you went to grab your other stuff.”

  “Yeah, and I worried about it every minute until I got back.” Tom put it on and started fiddling with belts and straps, giving Simon directions to get on 916 as he did. It didn't take long, and by the time he finished adjusting one of the shoulder straps he was ready to head out.

  Simon saw it and waved a casual farewell. “Suit yourself. Don't push yourself too hard.”

  “Hold up,” Tom said. The man gave him a curious look. “Half of scouting is being able to alert the group to danger. I want to get everyone together and go through a system of signals so they know what to expect when they hear them.”

  The convoy's leader seemed to approve of the idea and immediately began gathering the various families and newcomers. Of course that was easier said than done with people reluctant to leave their preparations, and it was almost fifteen minutes of impatient waiting before Tom had a crowd assembled around him.

  He was as eager to not waste time as anyone so he kept it simple. “I'm Tom Miller, I'll be your guide and I'll be scouting ahead as we travel. Obviously I can't cover all directions so Simon will have to assign other scouts as well, but I want a clear system of signals we'll all use.”

  They were all still listening, that was a plus. Tom put his fingers to his lips and blew a piercing blast, as only few had the skill for. The people closest to him winced and a few covered their ears, but Tom didn't repeat the noise. “That's what I'll be using. The number of times you hear it will determine the message.”

  He went on to describe a system of signals that detailed things like direction and severity of threats and what to do about them, suggestions for the convoy to change course and in what direction, indications that they were getting close to water or a good site to rest at, and a few others. He kept the signals few and well ordered by grouping so they wouldn't be forgotten and could be clearly understood, and drilled the most important ones, regarding threats, a few times to make sure they were well understood.

  Once he finished Simon had a few words about their travel route and how far he expected to get that day. He also gave clear warning that they'd be setting off soon and holding a steady pace, and those who fell behind would have to go longer to catch up. Even into the night if they were really struggling to make the day's distance.

  Tom left the man to it and headed out, leaving the line of wagons, carts, and pack animals behind. All he could say was that he was glad it was his job to scout rather than having to stick with the convoy, because otherwise its agonizing slowness would probably drive him crazy. At least when he was scoping out the path ahead and the surrounding landscape he could set his own pace, which was usually enough to take him twice the distance everyone else would travel by the time the day was done.

  On flat ground that wasn't too hard a day for him at all.

  There was a certain peace that came from walking alone through the rugged majesty of this country, in spite of the fact that they weren't properly in the badlands yet. Even this far north where there was still some green to be seen the vistas were broad and breathtaking. The wind blew warm and in infrequent gusts, unlike in the badlands proper where it blew nearly constant over flat land with few obstacles, its endless rustle in his ears requiring concentration to stay alert to his surroundings. But even here he had to listen around the wind to hear potential threats.

  Tom thought of the countless hours he'd spent eating away the miles through terrain like this, Horse a patient and faithful presence on his lead behind him. Hard days of exhausting hiking, but straightforward and in their own way ones he looked back at with fondness. A fierce battle against the heat, the harsh terrain, and the limits of his own body, teetering on a narrow path where something going wrong could mean his death.

  He rarely felt more alive.

  His muscles ached slightly from yesterday's tough climb up and down the mountains, and he felt exhausted and a bit sluggish after his poor night's sleep. But most of those discomforts eased as he walked along, his pack a familiar weight on his back and his stride long and even.

  He took 916 south at a steady clip, following the highest terrain available so he could scout the surrounding area, sharp eyes searching potential hiding spots and ambush points from under the brim of his hat. His old but well maintained, high power binoculars hung from their strap around his neck, and he occasionally paused to take a closer look at anything that caught his attention.

  Although Tom didn't expect to see any threats so close to town he didn't discount the possibility, and he certainly didn't let his guard down. Banditry was an unfortunate fact of traveling anywhere these days, and even in Emery it wasn't unheard of to find those who acted like perfectly honest and upright citizens, but if the opportunity presented itself would hit vulnerable targets in the anonymity of some isolated spot far from town. They'd take their haul, sometimes go so far as to murder their poor victims so no fingers could be pointed back their way, then return home and continue on with life as if nothing had happened.

  Tom had left two such men, brothers, in a shallow grave in the foothills about eight years back. They must've assumed that the at that time unfamiliar mountain man who'd come in to trade was an easy target.

  They'd been wrong. Tom went back and reported their deaths to Mitchells, even though common sense told him he'd be better off just leaving the incident a mystery, like his attackers certainly would've.

  But it just didn't seem right, especially if they had loved ones who might miss them. Granted, finding out someone you cared about had died as a filthy murdering bandit wouldn
't be the happiest day of your life, but at least it would give any friends and family some closure. And it had worked out all right in the end, although his next few visits to town had been a bit strained.

  Come to think of it, that was probably what had gotten stuck in Rich Bradshaw's craw and made the man dislike him so much. Long time to hold a grudge, but that was the way of grudges he supposed.

  He went with a familiar pattern of scouting ahead for a half hour then returning to the convoy to check in and suggest direction changes. That obviously wasn't an issue while they were following roads, but as they got closer to I-70 he'd begin searching for good routes out of view of the interstate for them to follow. He'd also need to scout even more carefully for potential bandits drawn to the more heavily traveled highway.

  After the convoy had been traveling for almost an hour and a half he led them onto the road that cut across to 912. Three hours later following 912 they wound down into Miller Canyon, no relation he was aware of, and began traveling alongside Muddy Creek. They paused for a slightly early lunch there, and Tom told Simon they had maybe another three and a half to four hours to reach the Interstate.

  The convoy's leader looked tired; during Tom's brief returns checking in with the convoy he'd often seen the man helping various families by pushing handcarts or carrying bundles for old women or young mothers, when he wasn't busy making sure the wagon he shared with a couple other families was keeping pace. In spite of his own late night the man showed the sort of tireless determination one would hope for in a leader.

  Tom just hoped he didn't collapse from exhaustion or come down sick after a few days of that.

  After a brief pause to refill water bottles in the creek Tom was on his way again. He could always eat jerky as he walked, and he planned to scout farther during the time the convoy rested, maybe even all the way to the Interstate before turning back. That, or if he got lucky and spotted game he might pause to hunt, maybe even head back to the convoy to cook it for lunch.