The Wastelanders

by K. S. Merbeth

  We catch up to the others, and nobody breathes a word to either of us.

  It takes a while for it to sink in, but eventually I realize I’m going to die. I mean, I always knew it would happen, and probably sooner than later, but it feels too soon. Maybe it always does. I never thought it would be like this, though. All the rules my papa taught me about survival keep running through my mind. Trust no one. Eat anything edible, even if it’s gross. And always bring enough water to get there and back again.

  I force myself to keep pressing on, but I feel myself growing weaker. Every step is a little harder, comes a little slower than the one before it. My vision blurs. I do my best to focus on Pretty Boy’s back in front of me. I cough, and my breath comes out as dry as sand.

  Pretty Boy’s silhouette warps. I can’t tell if it’s a trick of the sunlight or my own hazy vision.

  “Guys, I—” I stop to cough again. My voice lowers to a raspy whisper. “I don’t know if I can …”

  I trail off. Nobody answers or even looks at me, or maybe I didn’t even really speak aloud. Maybe my brain is boiling in my head. Maybe this is how people become crazies. Even as my thoughts melt, some survival instinct keeps me plowing forward. Carry on, I tell myself. Keep moving. Always.

  It’s not enough. Whiteness creeps up on the edges of my vision. I feel distant, as if I’m watching everything through a screen that is beginning to blur with static. My head feels hot and heavy.

  “I don’t feel good,” I murmur, or maybe I don’t. Everything goes white.

  I don’t realize I’m on the ground until I hear voices above me. The sand must be hot, but I can’t feel it. I can’t open my eyes, either.

  “Is she dead?” Dolly’s soft voice.

  “As good as,” Wolf says. “Dolly, no, don’t poke her. She’s out.”

  “Get up, kiddo.” There’s Tank’s voice, closer than the rest. A hand shakes me and I will myself to move, but I can’t.

  “It’s no use. Come on, Tank,” Pretty Boy says. “We should be close now. You can probably make it.”

  “Then I’ll wait for Kid to wake up.”

  “It’s her own fault.” Pretty Boy sounds irritated. “You’ll both die if you stay.”

  “We need to get moving,” Wolf says, “or we’re all dead.” A brief pause; a shuffle of feet. Footsteps fade away.

  “Don’t be stupid, Tank!”

  “Tank?” Dolly again, even quieter than before. “They’re both staying?”

  “Looks like it. Let’s go.”

  “Seriously, man? Seriously? I can’t believe this shit.” Pretty Boy’s voice wanes, farther away. “You’re an idiot, you know that? She ain’t worth it.”

  Then there’s silence, and a hand on my arm again.

  “Get up, Kid,” Tank says. “We have to find some shade, at least.”

  “I’m so tired,” I say, the words barely audible. So? My papa’s voice whispers on the edge of my mind.

  “You have to get up,” says Papa—no, Tank. But I can’t.

  I shake my head, and feel my grasp on the world slipping. I find relief in the stillness.

  X

  Wastelands

  I dream of water, and wish I could dream forever, but I don’t.

  When I wake up again, my thoughts go immediately to the raw, dry pain in my throat, and then to the realization I’m moving. I peel my eyes open. The sunlight hurts. I see only the sky at first, and then, as I move my head, Tank’s face. He’s carrying me.

  “Are we dead?” I ask, voice cracking.

  “Don’t think so, Kid,” he says wearily. “Too thirsty to be dead.”

  “Makes sense,” I say. I cough and run a dry tongue over my cracked lips. “Where are we going?”

  “Blackfort.”

  “We won’t make it, they said.”

  “We’re gonna try.”

  I don’t know what to say, and speaking hurts my throat anyway, so I shut up. Tank manages to continue for only a few minutes more before he stops. He carries me into the shade behind a boulder, where the sand isn’t quite so hot. He sets me down and sinks to the ground.

  “Just a little break,” he says, leaning back against the rock and closing his eyes. His breath comes in shallow wheezes. “Wake me up in ten minutes.”

  I’m ready to pass out again myself, but my instinct screams no. If I let myself go here, I won’t wake up again. I force myself to stand and take a few shaky steps away from the resting spot. It’s not like I haven’t been here before, this awful dehydration and exhaustion. One of the last days with my papa, I asked for a drink and he told me there was nothing left. I remember that sinking feeling, that fear, that certainty I couldn’t go on. And yet, I survived. It’s kind of what I do.

  I shield my eyes with a hand and survey the wastelands around us. Off in the distance I see the remnants of a building. There isn’t anything more promising, so I force myself to stagger in that direction. Wind whistles around me, and I cover my eyes to shield them from the dust.

  In the ruins there are a few metal cans lying around. I snatch them up eagerly, but only end up burning my hands on the hot metal to find them empty. I kick the cans aside and continue searching, opening ruined cabinets and drawers. I’m too weak to open some of them myself, and the effort saps my breath. Everything is empty. The place has been ransacked already.

  I see movement out of the corner of my eye. The sight makes me gasp and whirl around, nearly falling over in the process. And there it is, sitting on the table: a lizard.

  “What the hell?” I mutter, placing a hand on my chest to steady my racing heart. Of course there are still animals running around, but they’re rare, like humans. We just have more of a tendency to clump together. I can’t remember the last time I saw a little creature like this. My first thought is it’s cute enough to keep as a pet. The second is wondering if I could stay alive by drinking its blood. I almost laugh … and quickly become somber, thinking harder about it. It seems worth a shot.

  I inch toward the tiny creature, slowly raising my hands.

  “Hey, little guy,” I attempt to coo, but it comes out raspy and disturbing. I sound like a creepy old man. “Come here, buddy.”

  I lurch forward and grab for it. My hands clamp down on empty air. The lizard is gone in a flash, nimbly skittering away before I’m even close. I stay frozen, and despair flows over me like a wave. I would probably cry if my eyes weren’t as dried out as the rest of me.

  “Well, this is it,” I say aloud. “I’m gonna die.”

  I sink to the ground and flop onto my back, accepting my fate. My head hits harder than expected. The action is accompanied by a strange clanging noise. I slowly raise my head and bring it down again. Clang. It’s a hollow, metallic sound, definitely not the kind usually produced by either my head or the sand.

  I sit up, feeling only dull curiosity at first but soon filled with realization. Almost afraid of feeling too hopeful, I wipe the sand away and dig down to what’s hidden beneath: metal. I recognize this kind of hatch in the floor instantly. It’s exactly the kind my own home had. It’s a bomb shelter, just like the one I grew up in.

  Once I reveal the edges of the hatch I try to pull it open, but it refuses to budge. I uncover more and more, fingers searching for a weakness or opening. Finally I find the latch, and the lock that goes with it. The lock is heavily rusted, but not weak enough to break with my bare hands. I take off my backpack and grab my gun, pointing it toward the lock.

  I’m stopped by a vivid mental picture of the bullet ricocheting and killing me. It seems far too much like an appropriate ending for my mess of a life, and I lower the gun again. I take the safer option of using the butt of it. I beat at the lock, smashing the gun into the rusty metal as hard as I can. When nothing happens, I hit it again, and again, and again. I carry on until the dry skin on my knuckles cracks and bleeds, and keep going.

  “One more time,” I mutter to myself when my arms feel too weak to continue. I raise the gun and bring it down again
, hard, the contact vibrating up my arms. Nothing. I suck in a breath through my teeth. “One more …” My hands bloodied and stinging, I strike again.

  The lock breaks. Panting, I move the broken metal aside. I dig my hands underneath the hatch and pull, struggling to lift the heavy metal. It swings open to reveal a staircase. Only hints of sunlight pierce the depths below, but I don’t have time to waste on being scared of the dark. I plunge downward. An awful smell is drifting out, bad enough to make me light-headed, but I hold my sleeve over my mouth and nose and continue downward.

  The shelter is small and cramped and dark. I fumble along the wall, unable to see anything but fuzzy silhouettes. My hand catches a switch, and dim fluorescent bulbs flicker to life.

  “Oh, wow,” I whisper. The place looks a lot like the one I grew up in. If not for the stink, it might feel like home. Better yet, the walls are lined with shelves full of supplies. I see cans of food, bottles of medicine, bandages, soap, and, best of all, water. One shelf is full of dusty bottles of it. I rush forward and grab one, hands shaking as I struggle to remove the cap.

  I’ve never tasted anything so good. The water is lukewarm, but still refreshing after the heat. As soon as I’ve had a taste my body screams for more, and I can’t stop. I down an entire bottle in less than a minute, and am reaching for another when I remember Tank. I shove several bottles into my pack and turn to clamber up the stairs.

  Then I notice the body.

  It’s off in a dim corner of the room, sprawled across a cot on the floor and mostly decayed. I’ve seen corpses rot incredibly fast in the heat, but underground it’s cooler, so it’s hard to judge how long he’s been dead.

  I take a few tentative steps toward it, noting the stain of blood on the mattress and the gun hanging limply in the body’s hand. Locked up alone down here, it must have been suicide. So many supplies, and he killed himself.

  I don’t want to admit it to myself, but I can think of plenty of reasons why. My gaze shifts to another cot next to the body. This one is empty. My brain churns out possibilities. The shelter was locked from the outside, so maybe his companion left intending to return, and never did. And this man could have waited, and waited, and finally got tired of waiting. My stomach twists as I remember long days and nights of wandering alone. Living in town was just as lonely.

  I bend down and touch the corpse’s hand. The others would probably strip his body for loot, but I can’t bring myself to.

  “Sorry, friend,” I say quietly. “Sorry you got left behind.” The loneliness reminds me I have a living friend to get back to. I shake off the sadness and half-run up the stairs.

  I find him resting against the boulder with his eyes closed, completely still.

  “Tank!”

  His eyes open slowly. He smiles, looking tired and half-dead.

  “Hey, buddy, we’re gonna be okay!” I say. I drop to my knees and let my backpack fall to the ground, bottles of water spilling out. I see disbelief cross Tank’s broad face, followed by joy, and he grabs and uncaps a bottle. The water spills across his face and down the front of his body in his eagerness.

  “Holy shit,” he says once he’s finished the bottle, life seeping back into him. “How did you find this?”

  “I was trying to catch a lizard,” I say. “I found a bomb shelter full of stuff. There’s first aid kits and food, too. Oh, and a dead body.”

  “Damn,” he says, shaking his head. “I can’t believe … Where the hell did you come from, anyway, you crazy kid?”

  “Oh, you know … around. Same as everyone.” I shove the rest of the water bottles into my pack, smile brightly, and stand up. “So, are we going to Blackfort?”

  “You still want to meet up with the others?” he asks. He drags his bulky body up with visible effort.

  “Of course!”

  “They left us to die, you know.”

  I shrug.

  “It’s just the way things are, ain’t it?”

  “But you wouldn’t leave me.”

  “Well …” I kick at the dirt and shrug. “Maybe I’m not as smart as the others, I guess?”

  Tank laughs, a great booming laugh that makes me smile.

  “Well I like you just the way you are, Kid.” He ruffles my hair and grins. “Let’s stock up at this bomb shelter of yours, and then we can go find the others.”

  We spot Blackfort from a distance, and my dread of the place only grows as we approach. It becomes more and more clear this town is no Steelforge, and a far stretch from Bramble or anywhere else I’ve been. A fence runs along the perimeter, sharp metal spikes reaching toward the sky. Inside it is the usual shamble of poorly made shelters amid a mess of crumbling buildings, but even so, it’s off-putting. It looks bigger than other towns, the ragged edges of ruined buildings making intimidating silhouettes against the horizon. I’m not sure if it’s the memory of the last town or the one I came from, but the sight makes me uneasy.

  “You think we’ll find the others here?” I ask Tank, trying to shake my nerves.

  “Hope so. ’Course, they could have taken off already.”

  “And then how will we find them?”

  “We won’t,” he says bluntly.

  The town looms closer. The sun is setting, and its dying rays make the fence shine like knives. The wastelands are deceptively friendly at sunset, when the heat is dissipating and the chill of night hasn’t set in yet. It almost seems more appealing to stay out in the wastes rather than venture into the unknowable town. I remember what Pretty Boy said about the place: not very friendly.

  Flickers of light appear within the gated town, fires starting to ward off the night. They grow larger as we approach, until finally we find ourselves at the entrance. There are two armed guards standing outside. My heart starts to pound.

  “What if they won’t let us in?”

  “They’ll let us in. Relax.”

  “What if they only let me in and make you leave?”

  “What? Why would they do that?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, even though I definitely do. My chest feels painfully tight. I don’t want to be alone again, especially not now, when I’ve finally found real friends.

  “Relax. And just in case,” Tank mutters as we approach, “if we see the others, pretend we don’t know them.”

  “Why?” I ask, but by then the guards have noticed us. We stop in front of the guards and I resist the instinct to run when one of them points a gun at me.

  “What’s your business here?” The guard sounds like he’s deliberately trying to make his voice deeper. He leans close to me and puffs out his chest, but Tank stands bigger and broader than the two guards combined. I scoot closer to him.

  “Trading,” Tank says, his voice a growl. It’s far from the jovial tone he uses with me. I almost forgot how intimidating he can be. I put my hands on my hips and plaster on a solemn face, trying to be as frightening as I can be at just over five feet tall. The guards smirk, deflating my posturing and my pride.

  “And what would two ragged waste-rats have to trade with us?” one of them asks, mocking.

  I look at Tank. He nods. I remove my backpack and show them the inside, filled to the brim with clean bottles of water. The guards each take a turn peering in, their hard faces revealing nothing, and mutter to each other.

  “Might be that there’s more where this came from,” I say, “if we can work something out.”

  They confer again, and one of them gives us a sharp nod.

  “All right. Are you two armed?”

  I look at Tank again.

  “Of course we are,” he rumbles. “And we’re going to stay that way.”

  “Then keep ’em put away. Act like a threat and you’ll be treated like a threat, you hear?”

  We both nod.

  “In with you, then.”

  They unlock the gate and allow us in. One of the guards accompanies us. As they shut the gate I nervously realize this is the only way in or out. The gate has closed around us lik
e a bear trap. I swallow hard and stay behind Tank as we follow the guard into the depths of the town.

  On the inside, Blackfort looks much like any other town. It’s the same collection of ramshackle buildings with their crumbly parts patched up. But torches light our path, and the streets are empty. Not only does the town have a fence, but guards patrol the perimeter and stand watch at the entrances of the bigger buildings. As we pass through the center of town, I see something that strikes dread deep within me: a wooden post with a noose hanging from it.

  “We hang troublemakers here,” the guard says proudly, noticing my interest. “Ain’t worth the ammo of a proper shooting. Matter of fact, we’ve got a few lined up for an execution tomorrow.”

  “That so?” I ask, my voice squeaking. I risk a peek at Tank.

  “What are they in for?” Tank asks, with considerably more composure than I can muster up.

  “Cannibalism,” the guard spits out with disgust. “Damn sharks wandered into town earlier today, but we were ready for them. Matter of fact, we were warned specifically about ’em.” He looks over his shoulder at us and grins. “Maybe you can come watch the hanging at sunrise.”

  Oh, shit.

  XI

  The Rescue

  I stay as calm as possible while the guard escorts us to a room for the night. It’s tiny and outfitted only with two sleeping cots. He promises we can speak with the mayor in the morning, and informs us that there’s a guard right outside. Just to be safe, he assures us. Normally I would be giddy over such safety, but not now. The guards, the fence, the capacity to take in strangers: All of it says a lot about Blackfort, and it isn’t good news for us. Whoever is in charge has total control over everyone here, visitors included. The idea is terrifying to me. Somehow I imagine the fence isn’t only for keeping people out.

  Once the door is closed I allow my panic to set in. I sit on one of the hard cots and put my face in my hands.

  Tank paces the length of the cramped room, stirring up dust.

  “He said they were warned about them,” I say, recalling the guard’s words. “What does that mean?”