The Wastelanders

by K. S. Merbeth

  “No!” I struggle to break free, but the woman lifts me up off my feet. I cast a frantic glance toward where the others are hiding. No one emerges. “Don’t do that! I’m not loot!” I raise my voice pointedly. “It would be really nice to not become loot!”

  The woman looks down at me, raising her eyebrows and pursing her lips.

  “Help! Somebody! Please! Help now!”

  “Crazy little girl. Ain’t nobody that’s gonna help you,” she says with a chuckle.

  “Hold up. Why’s she keep looking over there?” the driver asks. I avert my eyes, feeling my cheeks redden. “Something ain’t right about this.” He reaches over and nudges the passenger. “Go check it out, Freddie.”

  The man nods silently and gets out, gun in his hands. He stalks past the woman and me, heading straight for the wall the others are hiding behind. I freeze, not even remembering to struggle. Shit. Oh man, Wolf is going to kill me for blowing their cover like this. But they should be fine. Just three of them here, and … my heart sinks as I remember there was another truck behind them. I can’t even see how many guys are in that one, since it’s hidden behind the supply truck. Shit, shit. My stomach sinks. I really screwed up this time.

  I watch as Freddie approaches the wall, gun held ready, walking slowly and steadily. He pauses for a moment.

  He jumps behind the wall and lets loose a spray of gunfire in one smooth motion. I squeak and renew my struggling. There’s no way they could have avoided those shots! And there’s no sound of return fire. The others …

  Freddie stops, looking perplexed. He looks from the wall to me.

  “Nobody here,” he calls out.

  “What?” I ask, dumbfounded.

  The woman lets out a snort of laughter.

  “Guess she really is just slow in the head,” she says. “Now, be a good girl and keep still.”

  She walks toward the back of the truck, humming to herself as she carries me. I thrash around, starting to get seriously worried. Where the hell could they be?

  “This isn’t fair! I’m not loot! Definitely not loot!”

  “You are now,” she says, cackling. “And you are gonna fetch me a pretty penny, oh yes you are. A bit too scrawny and ugly, but so long as you got the right parts I’m sure someone can put you to good use—”

  She rounds the back of the truck and stops when she sees the pickup truck.

  The former driver is slumped in the seat, her head utterly pulverized by some blunt object. The two others aren’t in much better shape. One is already lying on the side of the road, his seat stolen by a grinning Tank with a crowbar. The other is in the truck bed, and is currently having his throat slit by Dolly while Pretty Boy keeps his mouth covered.

  Wolf stands triumphantly on the truck’s hood, an assault rifle pointed at us.

  “Hey there,” he says. “These are some nice guns. Thanks.”

  He opens fire.

  The woman shrieks and drops me. I fall to the ground and roll away, wincing at the too-close gunfire, which thankfully only hit the woman’s legs.

  “You could’ve shot me!” I yell at him, climbing to my feet.

  “Well, I didn’t,” he says.

  “And you didn’t kill her, either,” I point out. The woman is still rolling around on the cracked asphalt, howling, her legs full of bullet holes and leaking everywhere. As I watch, she reaches down to a sheath on her waist and whips out a knife. She waves it wildly in the air. Wolf and I merely stare at her.

  “You can do the honors.” Wolf reaches into the back of his pants, pulls out a pistol, and tosses it to me. I fumble, and it hits me in the chest with a painful thud and clatters to the ground. I retrieve it, rubbing at my sore chest, and only then do I realize what he said.

  “Oh,” I say. “You want … me to …?”

  “Yeah, yeah.” He gestures impatiently to the still-shrieking woman. I look from the gun to her face, with her mouth wide open and tears streaming down her round cheeks.

  “I don’t know—”

  “She was gonna sell you, Kid,” he says. “Probably to some pervy old man.”

  I chew my bottom lip and nod. He’s right. She deserves it. Back when I was alone, if I had gotten picked up by these people instead of Wolf, I would be dead or worse by now.

  I point the gun at her head, remembering to pull back the safety. I carefully aim the sights at the center of her forehead.

  “Umm.” I hesitate, trying to think of something witty to say like Wolf always does. “… I’m not loot.”

  Close enough.

  And I blow her brains out.

  It’s easier than I thought. One shot, no recoil from a tiny gun like this. One shot, and her screaming stops. She stops flailing and lies very still. I can see the light go out of her wide-set eyes.

  I stare at the body. My stomach churns, and I swallow back bile. My hands are shaking, the gun suddenly heavy in my hands. It shook up something in my core, seeing someone die like that. And yet, I don’t feel guilty. Not at all. She deserved to die, and I killed her.

  “Not bad,” Wolf says. I turn to him, a smile growing on my face. It’s silly to think about at a time like this, but I’m pretty sure this is the first time Wolf has ever praised me.

  “Gee, Wolf, tha—” I cut off with a shrill scream as a bullet whizzes past my head. I drop to the ground and crawl on my hands and knees to the pickup truck, seeking shelter behind one of its big tires. The sound of gunfire explodes from multiple places around me, thankfully no longer aimed at me.

  Once I’m safely behind a tire I peek out. The two guys from the jeep, Frankie and Freddie, are exchanging fire with Wolf. Their bullets ping against the hood of the truck. Wolf topples off. He hits the asphalt hard, and the gun clatters out of his hand.

  As the two men aim at him, I point my pistol in their direction and unload. A bullet hits one in the shoulder, and the rest of my shots miss. At least I’ve captured their attention. They turn their guns on me instead of Wolf. I duck behind the tire just in time as they both open fire.

  The tire bursts, and the truck groans as it leans off-balance. I scramble farther underneath the now-slanted truck, clutching my now-empty gun. I frantically try to think up some way to help—but, thankfully, I don’t have to. Gunfire erupts above me, coming from the bed of the truck. I wait for it to stop and crawl out from my hiding spot.

  Frankie and Freddie are down. I can tell at a glance they won’t be getting up again. Wolf is still lying on the asphalt.

  I stand up and walk toward him, peering from side to side to make sure no other armed men are approaching us. Once I’m satisfied we’re safe, I focus on Wolf and notice the blood soaking his shirt. My heart leaps into my throat and I rush over to his side. His eyes are closed.

  “Oh, shit,” I breathe. The red stain is spreading from his shoulder. “Guys, Wolf is bleeding! It looks like he got shot! Somebody hel—”

  A hand pulls on my leg and sends me tumbling to the ground. I fall on my ass with a surprised squeak.

  Wolf glares at me from where he’s lying, and releases my leg to press a hand to his wound.

  “Shut the fuck up, Kid. I’m fine.”

  “You got shot!”

  “Nothing vital.” He sits up with a grunt and a grimace, and looks down at the wound. “It’s hardly even bleeding. Jeez, don’t be so dramatic.”

  “Well, excuse me for being concerned!” I snap, the words jumping out before I even think about them. Wolf gives me a taken-aback look, and I feel my cheeks flush, but bite back an apology.

  He stares at me for a second longer, and then looks around at the messy scene we’ve created. There are bodies strewn all around us, along with blood and brains and bullets. He stands up, hand pressed to his shoulder, and heaves a sigh.

  “Well, time to get back on the road,” he says. “But first, let’s eat.”

  XX

  Disguises

  We build a small fire using wooden crates from the traders’ truck. There are a lot of goods in t
here, food and medical supplies and such, but Wolf insists we have to save most of it to trade. Still, he lets Pretty Boy find some canned fruit as a treat. We pass the cans around the circle, eating with our hands, while Tank roasts the meat on spits of splintered wood. The reek of fresh blood makes me nauseous, but the smell of cooking meat chases that away. I watch one of the pieces slowly turning, dripping grease into the fire. My mouth waters. I swallow hard, trying to stifle the thought of meat, and resign myself to beans again.

  “Mmm-mmm,” Tank says. “Nice and fatty.”

  “Which is why we’d eat you first if it ever came down to it,” Pretty Boy says. He tosses a slice of canned peach to Tank, who catches it in his mouth.

  “You could try,” he says, grinning as he chews. “Who’s gonna take me down, huh? I’ll take all of ya.”

  “No way, you’re too slow,” Pretty Boy says. Wolf, sitting between him and myself, pretends to fire a shotgun at Tank with sound effects included. He hasn’t let us clean his wound yet, but it hasn’t put a damper on his mood.

  “All I’m saying is it would be easier to kill someone else,” Tank says, and nods not so subtly in Pretty Boy’s direction.

  “Well, Kid would be the easiest to kill,” Wolf says, “but she ain’t got no meat on her.”

  I glance down at my skinny legs and shrug. He reaches over and grabs my face with one hand, pulling on my cheek to stretch it out.

  “We-ell, maybe a bit here …”

  I slap his hand away and stick my tongue out at him.

  “She’d taste terrible,” Pretty Boy says matter-of-factly.

  “Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?” I ask. Somehow I find it genuinely offensive.

  “Shame we couldn’t find that finger she lost, could’ve had a taste,” Tank says.

  “Oh, jeez, no!” I say, horrified but laughing despite myself. “Wouldn’t want to tempt you or anything!”

  “Y’know, good point,” Wolf says. “The real question is who would taste the best.” He squints thoughtfully around the circle.

  “Dolly,” Pretty Boy says without missing a beat. She stares at him, unamused.

  “Whoa, that was quick,” Wolf says. “You’ve already thought about this, haven’t you, ya sick fuck?”

  “I’m the sick fuck? You brought it up!”

  Wolf ignores him, and continues staring at each of us in turn.

  “Yep,” he says eventually. “It’s gotta be Pretty Boy.”

  “Why me?”

  “Trader raised. Always taste best.”

  “What?” I say, looking back and forth between them. “Pretty Boy was a trader?” I address Wolf instead of talking directly to him.

  “’Course he was, look at him. He can read and he can lie, certainly ain’t no dumb townie.”

  Curiosity overcomes my desire to avoid him. I swallow a lump in my throat and lean forward to meet Pretty Boy’s eyes.

  “So you were raised in a caravan?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “Trader’s son. I was only there until I was about ten years old.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh, here we go,” Wolf groans.

  “Don’t encourage him, Kid, he loves to talk about himself,” Tank says.

  Heedless, I climb over Wolf’s lap and squeeze in between them so I’m next to Pretty Boy. It makes me uncomfortable to be so close to him, but I try to push it away. It can’t be all awkward glances and ignoring each other forever. I raise my eyes to his face, and resist the impulse to look away. When I swallow, it feels like there’s a lump of dust in my throat.

  Pretty Boy looks down at me, eyes partially closed so his long eyelashes stand out more than ever. Seeing him close up, with his beautifully crafted cheekbones and jawline, makes the old swooning instinct swell up again. I fight it down. No, no, no, I’m not going to forgive him just because he’s pretty on the outside. He hurt me. He probably would’ve hurt me worse if Dolly hadn’t shown up. I set my jaw, hold his gaze, and don’t smile.

  “Well, my mother owned a store before this place was a wasteland,” he begins. He says it like he’s already told the story a thousand times. Judging by the groans from Tank and Wolf, he probably has. He ignores them. “So, post-bombs, our family went on the road as a trader caravan with the goods she saved. My mom taught me to read so I could help with inventories, to use maps so I could navigate, to talk to people and make them listen, to barter and lie if I needed to …” He shrugs. “She was grooming me to be head of the caravan.”

  “And then what?” I ask, enthralled despite myself.

  “And then—”

  “Watch out, guys, this is the tearjerker part,” Wolf interjects. I glance around to notice all the others are watching us. Pretty Boy glares at Wolf before continuing.

  “And then, raiders,” he says simply. “This was back before the wastes got real crazy, before it had really sunk in that there was no more government or law or order, so we weren’t ready. The raiders killed everyone, my mom included.” His voice is tinged with sadness, as if the incident is still raw and painful for him. I stare, wide-eyed, my resentment toward him melting.

  “Except for you?” I ask, my voice softening. He smirks, and the sadness is gone in an instant. He’s pretending, I tell myself, frustrated at being hooked in so easily.

  “Except for me. I was just a kid.”

  “Why didn’t they kill you?”

  “Because I was useful.” I try to rack my brains for ways a ten-year-old could be useful to a band of raiders, and come up with nothing. He continues before I have to ask. “I was bait. It’d usually be something like what you just did. Stand on the side of the road and wait for someone to stop. Then we’d jump ’em. I was cleanup crew, too.”

  “Right,” I say. “You didn’t run away?”

  “Nowhere to go,” he says. “Anyway, I wasn’t with the ones who killed my family for long. They got killed off by another crew of raiders. They kept me around when I explained what I could do. It happened like that a few times, just getting passed around over the years.”

  “And that’s how you got with Wolf, too?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Actually his crew captured us. We cut a deal with him while he was on watch duty, and he let us slit their throats in their sleep,” Wolf says cheerfully.

  “They were a bunch of assholes anyway,” Pretty Boy says without a hint of remorse. I never questioned the fact the crew didn’t trust him, especially considering his cowardice, but now it makes even more sense.

  “And now he’s our resident scapegoat and navigator-slave,” Wolf says. “Touching story, right?”

  “Does it bother you?” I ask. Pretty Boy turns away from Wolf and looks down at me, brow creasing.

  “What?”

  “To kill people like your family was killed.”

  The question strikes him off guard. I see the way his eyes widen before he controls them again. He purses his lips and studies my face.

  “I don’t need you judging me, Kid,” he says, his voice suddenly soft and dangerous.

  “I’m not!” Face heating up, I backpedal. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “Does it bother you to kill townies?”

  “What makes you think I’m a townie?”

  “You’re far too stupid to be a trader, for one.”

  “We-e-ell, time to eat!” Tank says overly loudly, in a painfully obvious attempt to break the tension. I stare at Pretty Boy for a moment longer, refusing to show that his comment hurt me, before turning to Tank and smiling. “Kill was yours, so first serving goes to you, Kid,” Tank says, “if you want it.”

  My stomach flips at the thought, and I’m not sure it’s a strictly unpleasant flip. Tank holds out a stick of skewered meat. I stare at it, observing how glistening fat clings to muscle and grease drips from the end. It doesn’t look human; it just looks like meat. Juicy, rich, tantalizing meat that sure sounds a lot better than beans right now.

  “Okay,” I say, the word practically spilling out
of my mouth before I have time to consider. I reach out and take the skewer from him, twirling it in my hands and trying to pretend I can’t feel everyone’s eyes watching me.

  Agreeing was easy, but now that it’s actually in my hands I find myself hesitating. Am I really going to cross this line? Take the final step to join the rest of the crew? After the first bite, there’s no turning back. Even if this is the one and only time, it’ll change me forever. Brand me. I’ll be a shark—the most hated thing in the wastes. Most wastelanders don’t even believe in good, but they’d agree that this is evil.

  I slowly raise the skewer to my mouth, inhaling the smell of warm meat. An image of the woman in her floppy hat springs to mind for a moment.

  I take a bite.

  Though juicy as expected, the meat is still tougher than anything else I’ve eaten in a while. I tear off a chunk with my teeth and chew for a full five seconds before I can swallow it. The lump feels thick as it worms its way down my throat. I suck in a deep breath.

  And I take another bite. And another.

  It may be chewy and thick and wrong, but holy shit does it taste good. Once I start I can’t stop, eating with a relish that surprises me. It feels warm and satisfying in my belly. It’s not just taking the edge off my hunger but making me actually feel full, something I haven’t had in forever.

  Only when it’s halfway gone do I remember everyone is watching me. I look up, juices running down my chin, and smile.

  “I cannot believe,” I say, “I spent so long eating goddamn beans.”

  Tank laughs, Dolly smiles, and Wolf shoots me a thumbs-up and his usual fierce grin.

  “You really are one of us, Kid,” he says. My smile widens. “Now, stop hogging all the damn meat.” He leans over and steals a bite before I can stop him.

  “Hey!” I yank it away, laughing. Tank chuckles, reaching to grab another skewer off the fire.

  “Plenty to go around, guys.”

  And there is. By the time we’re done everyone is full and content—except for Pretty Boy, who remains unsmiling the whole time.

  Dolly ends up driving the supply truck while the rest of us pile into the jeep. We leave the truck with its blown-out tire and hood full of holes. Tank drives the jeep and the rest of us sit in the back. Pretty Boy and I are given the job of patching up Wolf’s wound. Or, rather, Pretty Boy is supposed to patch him up while I hold him down, but it doesn’t prove so easy.