The Wastelanders

by K. S. Merbeth

  “We’ll be off to our rooms, then,” Pretty Boy says. “No need to bother you any further.”

  He stands up and pushes his chair in, and the others hastily follow suit. I scarf down a few more mouthfuls of food and scamper after them. As we leave the room I cast one last glance back at the Queen. She’s still seated at the table, hands folded in front of her, head bowed so her face is obscured.

  When the door shuts, we stop and look at each other.

  “Well,” Tank says, “let’s hope Wolf is in a good enough mood to buy us some liquor.”

  XV

  Alcohol

  Wolf is in a decent enough mood by the time we find him. He has plans to meet with the Queen soon, but tells us we’re welcome to help ourselves to some booze in the meantime. The cost will be subtracted from whatever deal he works out with the Queen.

  “None of the girls, though,” Wolf says, pointing a finger at Pretty Boy. “They’re expensive as shit, and we can’t afford it right now.”

  “Seriously?” Pretty Boy asks, looking pained.

  “I mean it. We need the credit for big-ass explosives.”

  Pretty Boy lets out a long sigh. Tank, I can’t help but notice, looks similarly disappointed. I look away from both of them and try to push back my discomfort. I really don’t want to think about either of them with the Queen’s ladies … though for very different reasons.

  Everyone cheers up soon enough when we get our hands on the booze. It’s a big, plastic container with no label. The liquid inside is a deep red-brown.

  “Ahh, cheap-as-shit whiskey, just the way I like it,” Tank says. He takes a hearty drink and passes it to me. Just a whiff of it is enough to make my eyes water, so I pass it on to Pretty Boy, who plugs his nose and takes a swig. As soon as he swallows he starts coughing.

  “Holy shit, worse than I remember,” he chokes out, and hands the bottle to Wolf with a grimace.

  “As tempting as that is,” Wolf says, giving the bottle a sniff, “I’m about to meet with the Queen, so …”

  “Sounds like a good excuse to drink,” Tank says.

  “Yeah, actually.” Wolf grins, raises the bottle in a cheers, and takes a long gulp. “That’s fucking disgusting,” he says, still grinning, and hands it back to Tank.

  “You drinking, Kid?” Tank asks.

  “Um, I don’t think so.” From what I’ve seen, drunkenness never leads to anything good.

  “Aw, why not?” Wolf asks. “Loosen up.”

  “I’ve never really drank before.” The bottle ends up in my hands again, and I stare into it uneasily.

  “I bet you’d never hung around sharks or shot someone before, either,” says Wolf. “And look how far you’ve come!”

  “Well, if you put it like that …” It still doesn’t sound appealing at all. But everyone is staring at me, so I figure it’s worth a try. I raise the bottle and take a tiny sip.

  The taste hits me like a truck. It’s god-awful, and the burn in my throat is worse. I start choking as soon as it goes down and nearly drop the bottle. Pretty Boy grabs it out of my hand while Wolf slaps me on the back.

  “Good girl, taking it like a champ,” Wolf says. I’m coughing too hard to answer. Eyes tearing up and throat burning, I wonder why the hell anyone would put themselves through this torture. Even when the burning recedes, I’m left with a nasty aftertaste. The heat in my belly is nice, though.

  “Well, I better be off,” Wolf says. He snatches the bottle out of Pretty Boy’s hands, takes another long swig, and lightly punches me on the shoulder. “Have fun, guys. But not too much fun.” He pauses to whisper something in Dolly’s ear, and he’s gone.

  “So now what?” Pretty Boy asks. He holds on to the bottle, taking small but frequent sips.

  “Now we have fun,” Tank says, putting an arm around his shoulders and stealing the bottle from his hand.

  We wander the Queen’s mansion until we find a promising room. It’s a big dining hall, but not as stiflingly luxurious as the one where we dined with the Queen. This room is more understated, with wooden tables and chairs adorned with crude carvings and stains. It’s full of traders and raiders and other wasteland wanderers, many carrying bottles of liquor like us. It seems like this is the place to mingle. Some sit in small groups and speak in lowered voices, having the kind of conversations that stop whenever someone draws too close. Others seem much more relaxed. Cards and dice are strewn over the tables, with rowdy groups playing games and shouting at each other. Often it’s hard to tell if they’re having fun or about to break into a fight, but since there are no weapons out I assume the former.

  We attach ourselves to one of the groups, which is playing some sort of card game. The guys play while I watch and try my best to follow. Dolly stands behind my chair and dutifully watches our surroundings. One man attempts to speak with her, and she responds with utter silence and a devastatingly cold glare. No one else tries to be friendly to her.

  A whirl of noise surrounds me. I watch the game go by without understanding it, and listen to Pretty Boy chat with traders. He has a gift for striking up conversations, talking with strangers as if they’re old friends.

  “Hey, weren’t you one of Big Ben’s crew?” he asks the man to his left, a thick-necked, red-faced guy with a shaved head and facial piercings. “Whatever happened to him?”

  “Saint,” he says, spitting the word like a curse. “Got a hold of him and most of the others a few weeks back.”

  “Really? Damn.”

  “Radio said they were all executed a few days later,” the man says, shaking his head. “Fuckin’ Saint. We can’t touch anything as far up as Sniper’s Gorge.”

  “Well, shit. It’s the same out in Blackfort,” Pretty Boy says. He pauses, looking thoughtful, and then lowers his voice. “He’s expanding fast. The Queen isn’t threatened by it?”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” the raider says. “But between you and me, she ain’t really in a position to do anything about it. Old bitch isn’t doing so well. Especially with that cough she’s got, and the way she’s been acting … she’s pretty fucked.”

  Pretty Boy looks suddenly nervous, glancing around the room.

  “Few months ago, one of her men might’ve shot you for saying shit like that,” he says finally, relaxing when it’s clear nothing is going to happen.

  “Heh, yeah. Few months is a long time.”

  I hang on to the conversation, but when their talk turns to the game they’re playing, I lose interest. With nothing else to do, I take small drinks from the bottle whenever it’s passed my way. It never tastes good, exactly, but it seems a little less awful with each sip. Maybe I’m getting used to it, or maybe it’s slowly killing my taste buds. Either way, I keep drinking and keep to myself.

  It’s interesting to observe what’s happening around me when there’s such a strange variety of people in the room. There are traders trying to sell their goods, men and women selling their services as bodyguards or bounty hunters, raiders like us enjoying a danger-free day. The Queen’s women slip among them selling their wares, and from what I see, they’re a hot commodity. I’m in no place to judge; everyone is trying to get by.

  It feels so nice not to have to worry about danger or dehydration or where I’m going to sleep. The Queen’s palace really does feel like a safe haven. I’m happy to sit and drink and let sleepy contentment wash over me.

  I’m startled out of my little bubble when one of the men playing slams his fists down on the table. The illusion of peace shatters like glass. Conversation ceases as he rises from his chair. It’s the man Pretty Boy was talking to earlier, and he’s even more intimidating standing up, towering over everyone at the table.

  He points a beefy and accusatory finger at Pretty Boy.

  “You goddamn cheat!” he shouts, causing heads all around the room to turn. The circle of card players is tense and motionless aside from him.

  “What are you talking about?” Pretty Boy asks. He doesn’t cower away like I’d expect, i
nstead staying in his chair and tilting his chin up to look the man in the eye. Maybe the liquor lent him some courage. The raider stares down at him, scowling, his face turning nearly purple with anger.

  Behind us, I notice Dolly is holding a knife that I’m sure wasn’t in her hand until a few seconds ago. She doesn’t even raise her eyes to the standing man, but casually twirls it in her hand, a clear threat. He notices, and begins to sink back into his seat.

  And then there’s a gun in his hand. I can’t even tell where he pulled it from. As my head jerks toward him, the world takes a few seconds to catch up. I may have had a bit more to drink than I thought. Maybe for that reason, it’s hard to keep up with what’s happening. All I know is within a few seconds, literally everyone has a gun in hand … except me.

  I clutch my bottle tightly and shrink down in my seat, wondering if I should slip under the table and hide.

  “I didn’t cheat,” Pretty Boy insists. Though he has a gun in hand, he’s halfway out of his chair, as if he has yet to decide whether he wants to fight or run. He teeters, eyes flicking around the circle. “And even if I did, what would it matter? We’re just playing for fun, aren’t we?”

  Even with alcohol slurring his words, his go-to reaction is to try to talk himself out of trouble. I glance around to see if anyone is convinced, and find only unreadable faces. Aside from my friends, the other four men playing cards don’t even seem to be together, and nobody is sure where to point their guns. One of them, looking absolutely baffled by the situation, rapidly switches the barrel of his gun between Pretty Boy and the other man.

  The humor in the situation strikes me and, to my horror, I feel laughter bubble up within me. I can’t fight it; no matter how serious the situation may be, it looks pretty ridiculous. I let out a loud laugh before I can stop myself, and slap a hand over my mouth.

  Everyone’s eyes move to me. Again I wish I could disappear.

  The pierced man who started it all starts to grin, and then to guffaw. He slides his gun into the back of his pants and sits, gesturing for the game to continue. Everybody relaxes and the weapons disappear. The game resumes. In the aftermath I notice Pretty Boy surreptitiously slide a card into his sleeve. Tank reaches over and ruffles my hair, giving me his big, good-natured grin as he takes the bottle from my hands.

  “Well, this feels lighter … how much you been drinking, Kid?”

  “Enough,” I say with a smile, and he laughs.

  Soon I start to think perhaps it was more than enough. I grow more and more nauseous as the alcohol hits me. It’s hard to focus on anything or talk to anyone. My vision blurs and spins, and everything looks hazy.

  “I think I’m gonna go to bed,” I say eventually, not even sure who I’m telling. If I’m going to be sick, I don’t want it to be here.

  I push out my chair and stand, only to immediately stagger as the world tries to slide out from beneath my feet.

  “Whoa.” I grab on to the nearest solid object for support. It turns out to be Dolly, who shoots me a confused look. “Ah, sorry.”

  “You all right, Kid?” Tank asks. He grabs my arm and steadies me.

  “I’m fine. Just, uh …”

  “Drunk,” Tank says.

  “Yeah, maybe that.”

  “How many fingers am I holding up?” he asks, raising a hand. I squint as my vision blurs.

  “Is that a trick question?”

  Tank chuckles.

  “Really though, Kid, you can’t just wander around here alone. It’s not safe.”

  I wave him away, shaking my head.

  “I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine.” My nausea hasn’t receded, and upchucking seems like a serious threat. “I really gotta go.” I shake off his grip and slip away, making my unsteady way through the crowd. I accidentally bump into several people. Unfamiliar faces swim in the air around me, some angry and some amused. I wander through a cloud of sweet-smelling smoke that almost makes me gag. It feels like I’ll never find the door with the whole room tilting and spinning. I can’t even remember which direction I’m heading and where I came from.

  Finally I find the door. I fumble with the knob before bursting into the open hallway outside.

  As the door shuts behind me, it’s like turning off all the sound with a switch. The quiet is instantly relieving. I pause to take a few deep breaths of air that isn’t laden with the smell of sweat and alcohol and smoke. I want to curl up on the floor here, but the thought of a bed keeps me going. I only make it halfway down the hall.

  “Hey, Kid, wait up!”

  I turn toward the voice sluggishly, trying to find its source as the hallway lurches in my vision. It’s a struggle just to stay on my feet. To my surprise, it’s Pretty Boy coming toward me. His feet are almost as unsteady as mine.

  “Hi?”

  “Hi,” he replies with a crooked smile. He stands strangely close to me, his hand resting on my lower back. I don’t understand. My mouth opens and shuts uncertainly.

  I don’t realize I’m moving backward until I hit the wall. I think maybe I stumbled, but then understand he must have pushed me there. His hands are on my hips all of a sudden, bunching up the fabric of my dress and exposing more of my legs. His face is very close to mine, his breath warm and heavy with liquor.

  “What—” I start to say, and his mouth covers mine.

  Getting kissed by him is not at all like I thought it would be. I’ve never been much for romance, but I know this is wrong. It feels wrong. It’s too much, his tongue in my mouth and his hands all over me, his touch sloppy and rough. He tastes like that awful booze and it makes me nauseous all over again. His body presses hard against mine, but it doesn’t make me excited like I’d expect. I feel like throwing up.

  I stand there stiffly for a few seconds, not sure how to react, before placing my hands on his chest and pushing him away.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks, hands catching my wrists.

  “Umm,” I say. I try to form an answer, but it’s hard to even form thoughts. My brain feels hazy and my tongue clumsier than normal.

  “I’ve seen the way you look at me,” he says, slurring his words. “I know you want this.” He smiles, his eyes crawling down my body.

  “I don’t feel good.” I try to turn away, but his hold on my wrists prevents me from escaping. Nausea bubbles up through my stomach and into my throat. He leans close, letting go of my wrists and putting his hands on my body again.

  I vomit all over him.

  He releases me instantly, taking a step back and looking down in horror at the chunky mess.

  “Holy fucking shit,” he says, his voice filled with disgust.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. I just want to sit down and maybe cry. I turn away from him and walk in the direction I hope my room is in, but Pretty Boy grabs my shoulder and spins me around. I nearly fall over.

  “I just want to go to bed,” I say, struggling to break free of his grip. “Please, I don’t—”

  He shoves me back against the wall with a frightening force, knocking the wind out of me.

  “S-Stop it!” I yell.

  “You little bitch, you think you can—”

  He stops. There’s a knife at his throat. Moving very slowly, he takes his hands off me. He raises them in the air and the knife retracts.

  It’s Dolly. I’m not even sure when she got here, but I’m relieved she did.

  “Don’t touch her again,” Dolly says, giving Pretty Boy an icy look.

  “I wasn’t—” He gestures wildly, taking a step back. “She was coming on to me—”

  “Don’t. Touch. Her.”

  Dolly slashes near him with the knife. He stumbles and falls on his ass.

  “This is bullshit,” he says. “I didn’t do anything.”

  Dolly takes a step toward him and he scrambles backward on the floor. She turns to me next, and I try not to flinch under the coldness of her gaze even though it’s not meant for me.

  “Thanks,” I say, my voice shaky. “I’m … going
to go to bed now.” I resume walking. After a moment Dolly falls in step beside me and taps me on the shoulder. She jerks a thumb in the opposite direction. I nod and turn. Dolly follows, and neither of us looks back at Pretty Boy as we head to our room.

  As soon as we arrive, I go for my backpack and pull out my papa’s blanket. Clutching it tightly and inhaling the familiar smell, I flop onto the bed face-first. I still feel sick and confused and upset, but I try to stifle it. When I look up, I find Dolly staring at me.

  “Are you okay?” she asks.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Better since throwing up.” It’s true, the world isn’t spinning so much.

  “That’s not what I meant,” she says quietly.

  “I’m fine.”

  She blinks at me.

  “Okay.”

  “Okay,” I repeat, and turn away from her. Exhaustion swallows my whirring thoughts, and I fall asleep with my face pressed into my blanket.

  XVI

  Betrayal

  When I wake up, my head is pounding and my whole body hurts. I taste old vomit in the back of my throat. A groan escapes me and I raise my blanket over my head, trying to will myself back to sleep. It takes me a while to realize the pounding sound isn’t coming from inside my skull. Someone’s knocking at the door.

  Bleary-eyed, I lower the blanket and look around. The sunlight coming through the room’s sole window is nearly blinding. I can barely see Dolly standing beside the doorway, a knife in her hand. I stare at her.

  “What are you doing?” I ask croakily. It is way too early for her to have a knife already.

  “Trouble,” she says.

  “What? Why?” I sit up, wincing as my stomach rolls. “Already?”

  “Wolf isn’t here. That means trouble.”

  “How do you know he’s not with—”

  “He said he’d be here,” Dolly says, cutting me off. “And he’s not. Trouble.”

  I’m really not in the mood to deal with trouble right now, but the knocking is insistent and Dolly seems pretty confident that some bad shit is about to go down. I drag myself out of bed, roll up my blanket, and grab my pack. I fumble around until I find my gun, and place the blanket inside.