Badlands: A Post-Apocalyptic Journey

by Nathan Jones

  Tom once again pointed and whispered quiet directions, and once again the convoy's leader took longer than expected to spot it. But finally the man gave a satisfied grunt and backed up to where the rest of his men waited, pointing them to the two locations and making sure everyone had at least a general idea of where they were.

  “Spread out along this slope,” he finished quietly, pointing to various people and then at angles to their position. “Move in a line, no one get ahead of us. We'll surround the camp in an arc from below and see if they're there. If not they'll be on the ridge, and we'll keep sweeping up the hill to catch them there.”

  There were a few murmurs of assent. Simon started to turn away, rifle ready, but Tom caught his arm and spoke, pitching his voice just enough so everyone could hear and once again either avoiding or lisping his sibilants.

  “Move careful, keep your weapon trained on the target. If you think they might know you're there stop so they can't track your movement. Call for them to put their hands up, freeze, whatever. If they ignore you fire a warning shot to get their attention.” He lowered his voice meaningfully. “If they have a weapon ready and they point it anywhere near you don't bother with the warning.”

  Some of the men looked a uncomfortable at that. Between the chaos of the shortages and the devastation of the Ultimatum Tom had to assume they'd all been through their share of violence, but as farmers along a fallout zone that might've been years in their past. The reality that they might get shot if things went wrong might've just been sinking in.

  Hopefully it wouldn't lead to any screwups.

  As Simon and his men started cautiously up the slope, gliding from cover to cover with the familiarity of people who'd spent at least some time hunting, Tom circled around and moved up a bit quicker, hoping to get up to the ridge before things went south. He'd be able to do more from there, hopefully.

  As it turned out the bandit camp was empty, the fire burned down to embers and the horses still browsing placidly. Tom found the bandits up in their observation post, as expected watching the convoy approaching in the distance.

  And, probably unsurprisingly, still bickering about whether or not to chance hitting it. It looked as if now that Corey was with them the cousins were once again pressing their case, while their buddy was still adamant about walking away if they tried anything.

  In fact they were so busy flapping their mouths that Simon and his posse practically walked right up to them, climbing up onto the ridge and stopping about twenty feet away with weapons trained. The convoy's leader nodded to his men, then raised his voice in a sharp bark. “Hands up, turn slowly!”

  The three bandits practically soiled themselves from shock, whirling in terror. Corey started to reach for his gun, but the sight of half a dozen men made him freeze. Tom, who'd been standing in the trees a hundred feet off with his finger on the trigger, relaxed as the grungy men raised their hands in surrender.

  Simon sent his friend Brad and Brandon Gerry, a kid in his late teens who was usually assigned to drive the oxen wagon, forward to disarm and search the bandits. As the two men did that the rest of the posse came forward and got to work with ropes to bind their prisoners.

  By the time Tom joined them they had the situation completely under control. Which led to the inevitable question of what came next.

  “So what do we do with them now?” Brad asked nervously, motioning to the bound men. “You aren't thinking of killing them or anything, right?”

  Tom felt something between amusement and commiseration at the question. Just about everywhere in the Southwest the punishment for banditry was hanging, and he'd been part of a few convoys whose leaders had simply executed bandit prisoners after a fight and continued on without a second thought.

  Bandits were not as a rule pleasant people. They had a tendency to murder their victims to leave no witnesses, and more often than not raped any women they captured first. Even when they did leave travelers alive and unharmed they left them with nothing, which in many cases was as good as a death sentence, or at best condemnation to a short, miserable life of abject poverty.

  Even so, for most people taking a life wasn't an easy thing, and when it came to situations like this there always seemed to be the teetering balance between pragmatism and human decency. Some just didn't have it in them to kill, even when it might be justified. At best they might kill to defend themselves in the moment, but faced with situations like this they found themselves in a crisis of conscience they'd probably never expected to be in.

  Tom had been forced to kill to defend himself before, and at one point he'd thrown a rope over a tree to hang a condemned man as part of a sheriff's posse. Those deaths still haunted him sometimes, but he'd never had to give the order and he didn't envy Simon that responsibility.

  The convoy's leader obviously wasn't happy to be facing the dilemma, either. He hesitated, looking uncomfortable.

  Which gave the bandits an opening to plead their case. “Hey hold on!” one of them protested. “We haven't done anything worth killing for. Just held up a few settlers and took their valuables and some food, that's all. We didn't hurt them or anything.”

  Brad ignored the man, and so did everyone else. They were all staring at Simon, waiting for his reply. The redheaded man finally shook his head. “Even if I thought that was what they deserved, it's beyond our authority. If they've got nooses waiting for them it would be in Grand Junction, held by Sheriff Tucker.”

  There were a few dismayed murmurs. “That's days back, even on foot traveling light,” the owner of one of the horse-drawn wagons protested. “Jumping them in their camp to make sure they don't come after our families as we pass is one thing, but I don't want to waste a week and leave my family behind while I escort some lowlifes back to face justice.”

  A rumble of assent passed through the group of men, which didn't really surprise Tom. Justice was all well and good, but unless someone had actually been injured by the party in question most were reluctant to go out of their way to see it carried out.

  “I suppose we could leave them tied up on the road for someone to find,” Brad suggested. “Grand Junction's deputies might patrol out this far.”

  Simon immediately shook his head. “There's too many ways that could end up a death sentence.” He sighed. “I suppose if no one wants to take them back to the city, there's not much choice but to let them go.”

  “Take their weapons and horses,” Tom advised. “They won't be causing any trouble without those, and they probably stole them in the first place. While you're at it you could confiscate the valuables they've stolen from others.”

  His suggestion caused an immediate storm of protests from the bound bandits, at least until Brad cuffed one. But the other members of the impromptu posse were nodding in agreement at the idea.

  Aside from Simon. “So you want us to steal from them in turn?” he demanded, voice thick with contempt. Tom just shrugged. “You made it pretty clear you weren't part of this, Trapper. A bit late to be butting in with your opinion now.”

  Tom held up his hands in mock defeat. “Well you could've let them be and continued on, which you'll recall is what I suggested. But now that you've held them up at gunpoint what are your options? Tip your hat, bid them a good day, and hope they don't come after us or anyone else traveling along this road? Which, again, is why you went after them in the first place?”

  The convoy's leader scowled at him, but he didn't seem to have a response.

  “You can never have too many guns or too much gold and silver, man,” Brad said after a few tense seconds. “And we can always use more horses for the wagon teams or to serve as pack animals. Our reward for risking our necks here.”

  It was obvious Simon didn't like hearing them talk about the confiscated items benefitting the convoy, which would just make taking them feel even more like banditry. But after a few minutes staring between the bandits and his men he finally looked over at Tom.

  “That was what you said earlier, was
n't it?” he finally asked. “About it being a fate they brought on themselves. I suppose if we can't bring them to justice and have no justifiable reason to kill them the best option is to make them as harmless as possible.”

  “You can't just take our stuff!” Corey protested. “Our guns, okay, I can see how you don't want us to have them. But we still need the horses and money to survive!”

  “So did the people you took them from, I'd guess,” Tom said dryly.

  Simon shot him another disgusted look, although he didn't look particularly sympathetic himself. “It's only a few days to Grand Junction on foot, if you think you'll find a warm reception there. And if you've survived this long I'm sure you'll get through losing some ill-got possessions, too. Better they go to good folks in need.”

  “Our knives, then,” the bandit's cousin said. “It's hard to survive in the wild without those.”

  “Hard to sneak into someone's camp and slit their throat without them, too,” Tom observed.

  The convoy's leader shot him another irritated look. “Take the horses,” he told his men, “and any weapons, ammo, and stolen coin you find. Leave the rest.” He started down the slope towards the dingy camp.

  “You're no better than thieves yourselves!” one of the incensed bandits shouted at his back. “You think this'll stop us?”

  “Dale, shut up!” Corey's cousin hissed.

  Most of the men from the posse followed their leader to get to work looting, leaving only Brandon to guard the bandits. Tom hung back too, stepping forward to crouch in front of the three men, who all glared murder at him. “You should probably find a new line of work, gentlemen. Unarmed bandits don't last long out here.”

  The three men responded with some colorful curses and insults. Tom smiled humorlessly as he straightened. “At least consider it. I'm going to be heading back through Grand Junction in a few months, and I'll be sure to remember your faces and pass them along to Sheriff Tucker. I'll also give your descriptions to any convoys heading this way as we travel, warn them you're around. Pretty soon everyone will know about you, and instead of preying on others you'll find yourselves being hunted down with a noose in your future.”

  * * * * *

  Simon kept the prisoners tied up for the rest of the day as the convoy passed, leaving a man behind to guard them while the rest got back to helping move the carts and wagons. The extra horses were immediately hitched to a team or burdened with a packsaddle, although if they felt any alarm or confusion about their change of circumstances they didn't show it.

  Meanwhile Tom got back to scouting ahead. He had to admit it would've been nice to be given one of the horses, which would've solved a lot of his problems, but he wasn't surprised the offer wasn't forthcoming. He didn't really expect it since he hadn't participated in the fight, and honestly claiming a horse confiscated from bandits he'd been opposed to going after would've been hypocritical anyway.

  Still, it would've been nice to have a horse.

  By the time the convoy stopped for the night they were well past the bandit camp, and Simon and Brad had returned from turning them loose. But in spite of the fact that the three men were probably no longer a threat, the convoy's leader still organized double the guard shifts for that night.

  Tom got back from scouting to eat his usual dinner cooked over Simon's fire, tonight corn cakes and dried meat from his stores since he hadn't really made hunting a focus that day. Once he was finished with that it was still too early to head to bed, so he settled down near the fire.

  There were more hours of dark than there were hours of sleep needed in a night, and in spite of their exhaustion a lot of people in the convoy spent an hour or two at night lounging around fires chatting, mending clothes, and doing other low energy chores. That or they got up early in the morning and sat around dead fires in contented solitude.

  Tom preferred the latter, but since leaving Grand Junction he'd been spending the early mornings before the convoy headed out ranging the mountains, both searching for game and for potential threats. It had got to where his feet began itching to be up on the slopes the moment he'd packed up his tent and other things and was ready to go, and unless he wanted to exhaust himself hiking from dawn til dusk he'd decided to stay up later and wake up with everyone else.

  It wasn't that he minded relaxing by Simon's fire. He'd used his hatchet to hack a knot that looked like a coiled snake off a freshly fallen spruce, and spent his downtime whittling the soft wood into the shape of a rattler ready to strike. On top of being an enjoyable pastime it was something to keep him looking busy so the others around the fire wouldn't try to strike up a conversation.

  Which to be fair wasn't usually an issue; oddly enough people didn't go out of their way to talk to the unkempt, taciturn, grizzled mountain man.

  In truth Tom was just fine being around the other members of the convoy, and it was nice to hear people's voices talking quietly not far away. But a lifetime of solitude had left its imprint on him, and unless he had something that needed discussing he wasn't much for small talk.

  Unfortunately his pretense at being occupied wasn't enough that evening, since Brandon decided to strike up a conversation; the wagon driver tossed a ratty old camp chair down next to the log Tom was sitting on and plopped down on it, eyeing his carving. “Looks good, old man.”

  Tom just grunted in reply, hoping that idle comment would be enough to satisfy the guy's urge for conversation. It wasn't. Brandon leaned forward, which had the unfortunate effect of making his patchy growth of beard more visible in the firelight as he offered his hand. “I'm Brandon Gerry.”

  “Yeah, I've heard your name tossed around a few times,” Tom replied. He was sure the man already knew his name as well, but he introduced himself anyway as he grudgingly accepted the handshake. It was only polite.

  Brandon leaned back, fingers tapping on the rotted canvas armrests of his chair. “I've got a wager with some of my buddies. I'm thinking you were always a survivalist, the type to hunt and fish and camp and go on long hiking trips even before the world went crazy. But my buddies think it's more likely you picked that stuff up out of necessity during the shortages, or at least after the Ultimatum, just like most of the rest of us.” He sobered slightly. “Those who survived, at least.”

  Fantastic. Not just unwanted conversation but of the time when society went down the toilet. Tom hated thinking about back then, let alone talking about it. It always flashed his mind back to the worst of it: a mob of enraged people storming through the darkness, converging on the center of town from all directions. Flames flickering from a dozen spots as houses burned. A besieged city hall ringed by flashes of gunfire as it, too, went up in flames.

  Watching it all from a nearby hilltop after fleeing like a coward.

  Tom tore his gaze from the flames and the unwanted memories and met the young man's eyes. “You should know better than to make that kind of bet. Almost nobody had the knowledge or skills they needed to survive before it all fell apart, and I was no exception.” He snorted wryly. “Actually I was probably more ill prepared than most.”

  Brandon gave him a look of open disbelief. “I saw you disappear halfway up the mountainside this morning and spent the next five minutes trying to spot you again. Never did. Then you ghosted back to where we were waiting and nobody even realized it until you started talking to Simon. You telling me you picked up all those skills in the last decade or so?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “How?”

  Tom shrugged. “Freezing and starving through a few winters, fighting tooth and nail to survive. Being violently sick after eating plants that turned out to be inedible, or badly preserved meat. Missing the first few dozen shots I took at game, going through hundreds and hundreds of rounds before I became anything close to a marksman. Failing to catch anything in improvised traps and snares for months until I learned how to properly build them and where to place them. Same with fishing, and preserving meat, and curing hides, and everything else I had
to do. Just generally struggling and learning and relying on wits and luck until I was able to improve my situation. Like most people, I'm guessing.”

  “Maybe,” the young man said dubiously. “Most people didn't do it on their own, though.”

  “Yeah, and for most I wouldn't recommend it.” Tom leaned forward to bring the carving a bit closer to the flames, frowning in concentration as he got to work on its head.

  Thankfully Brandon left him alone after that. He spent another half hour or so carving, finishing most of the fine details, then called it a night.

  * * * * *

  Kristy loved the mountains.

  She always had. Especially as a kid before the shortages began when her parents would take her on drives through mountain valleys in the autumn, taking in the scenic view of entire mountain slopes turning vivid fall colors. And in the winter, with the ranks of evergreen trees clad in white and the pristine snowy meadows. And in the spring, with new grass a brilliant green and wildflowers dotting the landscape.

  She hadn't had many chances to go up in the mountains while living on the fringes of the Utah Valley fallout zone, even though they weren't too far a hike away. A few times Miles had taken her and Skyler up there on extended hunting trips, leaving their farm in the watchful care of neighbors for a few days. She had fond memories of those times.

  And she'd been just as happy to climb up out of the badlands. To escape the blistering heat and bone dry air and go where it was cooler and it actually rained once in a while. Where it was green and she saw living things that weren't poisonous snakes or lizards or shy, wary jackrabbits.

  Admittedly, hauling the handcart up steep inclines was murder, and going down was almost as difficult as the cart threatened to escape their grip and roll away into a ruinous crash. Even the wagons slowed down, and Simon had been forced to assign men to help the handcarts if they hoped to make any distance. In spite of that the convoy rarely made it 8 miles a day, let alone the usual 10 or 12.