The Wastelanders

by K. S. Merbeth

  The other soldiers cut off my exit. The woman blocks the doorway, waiting with a cleaver in hand. The other heads right for me, wielding an iron pipe. He shoves one of the desks, sending it clattering to the floor right in my path. I freeze, trapped against the wall. Fear almost drives me into a panic, but I hold my ground and draw out the knife again. The man steps over the fallen desk and advances toward me. I glance around and find the guard I felled earlier isn’t getting up. Good for me.

  While I’m distracted, the closer man swings at me with his pipe. I narrowly dodge, feeling the air from its passage, and lunge forward with my knife. The blade sinks into his thigh, deeper than I expected—seconds later I realize I could’ve easily hit someplace more vital, but it’s too late for that. The man howls with pain and stumbles back. My hands still wrapped around the knife’s handle, I stumble with him, and attempt to yank the blade out. It’s sunk too deep. I’m not strong enough, and the gushing blood makes the handle too slippery for me to grip properly. I let go and he falls backward over the fallen desk.

  That leaves me and the woman with the cleaver. She’s still standing in the doorway, and grins at me when she sees me looking. She has a dyed-red Mohawk and a face like a pig, broad and mean and ugly. I stand a few yards away from her, eye her, and pull out my gun from the back of my pants. I aim at her and she stands there, unblinking—then charges at me with a yell. Caught by surprise, I fire wildly and catch her in the shoulder right before she barrels into me. The impact sends me flying backward to slam into a desk. The air leaves my lungs. I lean against the desk for support, panting, but I only have a second to recover before she swings wildly with the cleaver. I drop to the floor and it hits the desk with a heavy thunk. Before she can swing again, I tackle her at the knees. She crashes down. Her head slams into the floor.

  I leap to my feet, dash for the door again—and trip on a computer cord. I twist and try to right myself, but land awkwardly with my arm crushed beneath me. A jolt of pain shoots up from my wrist. Behind me, I hear the scrape of the cleaver against the ground as the woman gets on her feet. I crawl for the door on my hands and knees and force myself not to look back as heavy footsteps follow me. My heartbeat pounds in my ears. I tune out everything else, ignoring the swiftly approaching footsteps and the cries of the injured men. The door is the only thing that matters. I’m so close to escape, so close—

  And I’m out the door. I scramble to my feet, turn to run, and slam into someone a lot bigger than me.

  I stumble backward and into the woman who was pursuing me. She grabs my arm before I can escape, and when I look up at the other person I ran into, I find a gun in my face.

  To my surprise, the soldier doesn’t shoot. I stay there, trembling, waiting to die … but nothing happens.

  “I’ll kill the bitch,” the woman growls. She shoves me against the wall and grabs my throat, pinning me there. “Fucking pain in my ass. I’ll chop her into little bits.”

  “Not yet,” the man with the gun says. He’s a tall, lean guy with a face full of piercings and an arm covered in crude tattoos. I look at him desperately, choking. “Saint wants her.”

  “You sure? This one?” Her hold loosens slightly and I can breathe again.

  “He wants ’em all. Been trying to grab ’em for a while now.” He licks his thin lips and shrugs.

  “And they was dumb enough to show up for us. Heh.”

  The pressure eases up as the woman backs off. I try to run, but she yanks me back and throws me to the ground. I fall on my ass and stay there, subdued. I let out a long, slow breath that makes it feel like I’m deflating. My heart slows as if accepting its fate, and I become aware of the distant shouting and gunshots elsewhere in the building. It sounds like the rest of the crew is giving them a hell of a time, which makes me smile despite my own predicament. I did what I could. It wasn’t like anyone expected much of me, anyway.

  A realization comes to me. The piercings, the tattoos, the scars … these soldiers don’t seem like townies. They’re too big, too dangerous, too obviously familiar with their weapons. Everything about them reeks of brutal efficiency. It reeks of raiders. But why would Saint have raiders as his guards?

  Instinct tells me something is wrong here. Mostly, though, I’m relieved I’m not dead yet.

  “What do we do with her?”

  “Take her up, I guess.”

  “Take me up where?” I look from one to the other, but neither of them spares me so much as a glance.

  “Knock her out, Ben,” the woman says.

  “Wait wait wait—”

  A sharp pain, followed by darkness.

  I wake up groggy and confused. I look around blearily and my confused thoughts thicken as I find only unfamiliar surroundings. I’m in a dimly lit room, sitting on a rather dilapidated couch that sags beneath my weight. The walls are bare except for the off-white, peeling wallpaper. I’m alone.

  Something moves behind me. Scratch the alone part. I whip around and somehow manage to fall off the couch. The tile hurts my knees, but I ignore it and crawl to hide next to the couch, as if it were all a part of the plan.

  Hiding there, I can’t see who or what is moving.

  “She’s awake,” a deep voice says. I stay where I am, heart racing as my memories catch up with me. Where did the guards take me? Where are my friends? I peek around the couch to see a rather rotund soldier opening the door. I scramble toward it and slip between his legs. He grunts in surprise and tries to grab me, but I slide under him and take off running. The hallway is unfamiliar and lined with closed doors. I try a few of them, but they’re all locked. The fat soldier runs after me, huffing and puffing along as he tries to catch up. I spot the stairwell and run for it. I open the door and run into the biggest man I’ve ever seen in my life.

  My mouth hangs open. I take a step back.

  He’s a monster of a man, even bigger than Tank, and made of solid muscle. Each of his arms looks as wide around as my waist, his legs thicker than tree trunks. Unlike Tank he doesn’t have a big belly. In fact, it doesn’t seem like he has an ounce of fat on his body. He doesn’t have much of a neck, either, just a strong jaw meeting ridiculously muscular shoulders. His face is unremarkable aside from a thick scar that runs from his temple down to the corner of his mouth. His head is shaved except for a thin strip down the middle. There’s a huge ring through the front of his nose, like bulls I’ve seen in picture books.

  I stare at him, meanwhile noting the soldiers on either side. They flood out of the stairwell after him, surrounding me and cutting off my escape. The huge man folds his arms over his chest and grins, showing yellowed teeth.

  “You must be the Kid,” he says, his voice a slow and pleasant rumble. The kind of voice people would trust. The kind of voice they’d listen to.

  “Um. Just Kid,” I squeak, not sure how else to respond. The man laughs, a sound that echoes through the empty hall.

  “Nice to meet you, Kid,” he says. “I’m Saint.”

  XXIX

  Saints and Sinners

  I gape at the proffered hand and back up at his face.

  “You’re Saint?” I ask, terrified. “You’re the guy we’re trying to kill? Aw, hell!” If I ever had a slim hope of taking this guy down, it’s gone now. This guy is huge. I kind of pictured him as a nice old man in a suit or something, not this. If I ever ran into him in the wastes, I’d think he was a mercenary, the kind of guy who would crack some skulls and eat townies for breakfast.

  “That’s what they call me,” he says, with a rumble of laughter at the look on my face. He lays a hand on my shoulder, turns me around, and marches me back to the room I just escaped from. I don’t even try to struggle. There’s no point; he’s at least ten times bigger than I am. I remain helpless as he not so gently pushes me back onto the couch. He takes a chair across from it, an armchair that would be big for me but looks ludicrously small for him.

  “Leave us,” he says to the soldiers behind me. I hear receding footsteps and the click of
the door shutting, and gulp. I’m alone with Saint, the guy I came here to kill, the guy who looks like he could crush my skull between two fingers. He studies me and I avert my gaze, my eyes skittering around the room.

  “So, Kid. Why do you think you’re here?” he asks.

  “Umm, because we drove a truck into the building?” My answer comes out like a question.

  “No, I mean here, in this room.”

  “Because your guards brought me here,” I say slowly.

  He sighs. I blink at him.

  “And why did they do that instead of killing you?”

  “I don’t know. You tell me. You’re the guy in charge.” I force a smile. He looks utterly unamused.

  He cracks his fingers and I’m reminded again of the power those hands hold.

  “Well, umm, I guess you bring people here so you can have a trial and shit before you kill them,” I say uncertainly, and then realize “kill” doesn’t sound quite right. “Execute them? Is that the word?”

  “That’s why everyone outside thinks you’re here. What do you think?”

  “I’m not really the thinking sort of person,” I say. “Usually I kind of dive headfirst into things and hope it works out for the best. It, uh, doesn’t seem to be going so well right now.” He waits silently. I keep looking around the room, eyes flicking back to his face every few seconds. His expression doesn’t change.

  What do I think? I haven’t exactly figured it out myself. Something is pulling on the edges of my mind, some realization I have yet to uncover. The radio tower, the soldiers who look so much like raiders, Saint himself … it doesn’t fit with the mental image I had of the man trying to unite and protect the wastelands.

  “You’re not who everyone thinks you are,” I say.

  “What makes you say that?” He leans forward, placing his hands on his knees.

  “Your men are all raiders,” I say. “Or were.” I study his face. “You look like a raider, too.”

  He smiles.

  “There we go.”

  “But why would you have raiders?” I ask. “I thought you were wiping out the bad guys.”

  “Now that would be noble.” He laughs, the sound filling the room to the brim.

  “So … you’re not going to kill us?” I ask hopefully.

  “No, Kid. I’m trying to recruit you.”

  “Recruit us?” I repeat, not understanding at first. Something finally clicks in my mind. “All the raiders the townies bring you …”

  “Exactly. I’m building an army, and the townies are helping me do it.” His smile oozes smugness. “By the time they realize it, I’ll be too strong for them to stop me.”

  “That’s …” Pretty smart, actually. “What’s in it for the raiders?”

  “Safety in numbers,” he says. “All the reward without the risk. All the power. The only thing I ask for is loyalty, and a cut of their loot.”

  My head is spinning with the idea. This is huge—and no one outside of here has any clue what he’s doing. All of the towns we’ve been to have trusted him, listened to him, delivered him raiders like he asked them to. Everyone knows Saint’s plan is to change the wastes, but it’s definitely not in the way they think. I’m not sure how to feel about it.

  “So what are you talking to me for?” I ask.

  “Well, Kid, you pose an interesting problem for me.” Saint leans back in the chair and folds his arms over his chest, looking down at me. I shift in my seat and find my back sticky with sweat. “I’ve been tracking Wolf and his crew for a while now. They’re infamous. Wolf has been wreaking havoc since he emerged from whatever hellhole he came from. Tank was one of the best mercs in the business before he went raider. Some of the fringe towns still tell ghost stories about a blue-haired woman called ‘the man killer.’ And Pretty Boy has been with various crews since he was a child.” He scrutinizes me. “Where exactly is Pretty Boy?”

  If Saint doesn’t know he’s dead, he might think we still have some trick up our sleeve. I stare back at him silently, putting on my best poker face. After a few moments he sighs.

  “So he’s dead, then. That’s a pity. He would have been useful.”

  He would have been useful. He says it so crisply, without a scrap of emotion in his voice. It makes my blood boil to hear him talk about a dead friend in such a calculated way. That’s how he sees all of us; we’re nothing more than assets to him.

  “So,” he continues, “then you show up out of nowhere. Who are you? Where do you come from? Nobody knows.” He scrutinizes me. “And yet you survive, so clearly you’re not as useless as you appear.”

  Obviously, he hasn’t spoken to the rest of the crew yet. I may not be the brightest girl in the wastes, but I’m smart enough to know he’s measuring my value right now. I sure as hell better trick him into thinking I’m worth recruiting.

  “Well, obviously,” I say, puffing out my chest and trying to act confident. “It’s not like I could’ve made it this far without offing a few people.” Despite my attempt at bravado, my hands are starting to sweat. I clench them into fists to stop them from shaking.

  “How did you end up with Wolf’s crew?”

  I pause, unsuccessfully trying to come up with a good reason.

  “Why should I tell you?” I retort. He lets out a snort of laughter, the corner of his lips curling upward.

  “Let’s not play games, little girl.” He leans forward in his chair, and I sink down in mine. “I’ll be frank with you: If I decide not to recruit you, I’ll kill you. And right now, you don’t seem very useful to me. So, go on. Change my mind.”

  I swallow hard. My tongue feels thick and clumsy in my mouth, and the words won’t come to me. I’ve never been very good at lying.

  But then again, I’m not the person I used to be.

  I’m not some helpless little girl missing her papa. I’m not the kind of girl who throws a grenade out the window without pulling the pin—I mean, not anymore. I’m a part of the crew. A raider. A killer. I’ve made it through a lot of shit, and like hell am I going to die like this.

  “Well that’s the thing, isn’t it?” I start, speaking slowly. I think of my friends: Wolf’s swagger, Tank’s strength, Dolly’s quiet badassery, Pretty Boy’s silver tongue. “I don’t seem very useful. I don’t look big or tough or strong. And yet here I am, in the middle of your fancy base.” I gesture to the room around me, and feel the shaking in my hands subside. “Before I even met these guys, I was wandering the wastes alone. Completely alone. Do you even know what that’s like?”

  Saint is silent, studying my face. I swallow and continue. “Not a lot of people do. ’Cause most people who end up alone just die, and that’s the end of that. But not me. I joined a crew of goddamn sharks. I ate human flesh to survive. I learned to shoot. To kill. I blew the Queen’s head off. I watched a friend die yesterday and I still came here to kick some ass.” I take a deep breath, feel my chest rise and fall, the words nearly tumbling out of my mouth now. “And you think I’m not good enough for your mess of an army? Just ’cause I’m a little girl? Well fuck you. I’m worth two of your guards, and tomorrow I’ll be worth four of ’em, and eventually the whole lot. Because that’s who I am, and that’s what I do. I survive.”

  I feel the silence, tense and thick, like a noose around my neck.

  “Are you done?” he asks eventually.

  “Yeah, I think so.” The bravado seeps out of me, and I self-consciously raise a hand to scratch at the back of my head. “Was that, uh, too much?”

  Saint sighs deeply and shifts in his seat. He looks down on me with thoughtful eyes.

  “Well, Kid—”

  He cuts off. I look around, confused, before I hear what he hears: gunshots outside. Saint stands, gesturing at me to stay seated.

  “Wait here,” he says, moving to the door.

  I jump to my feet the second the door shuts. If I’m lucky, my friends are here to kill Saint and rescue me. But I’m rarely lucky, so I need to be ready when he gets back.


  I walk along the edges of the room, searching for anything that could possibly be used as a weapon or escape route. The room is bare but for the furniture and an excessive amount of cobwebs. Still, I stubbornly circle the perimeter of the room, checking every inch. I pause by the window and look down. I’m on the third floor, so that’s no good. Most of the windowpane is gone, but ragged shards of glass still cling to the edges like broken teeth. I lightly touch the edge of one. It’s not as sharp as I would’ve hoped, but it’s still the closest thing to a weapon in the room. I grab a long, thin sliver and determinedly wiggle it around, careful not to let the edges touch my skin. It’s already weakened by age and abuse, and soon cracks start to form. I’m as careful as possible; I already have one injured hand, it would just be embarrassing to mess them both up.

  But, hearing a scuffle outside, I wiggle more frantically. In my haste I slip, and an edge digs into my palm. It draws a line of blood and stings something fierce, but beyond the pain I feel triumphant—if it’s good enough to cut me, it’s good enough to cut someone else. I grit my teeth and give a final wrench to jerk it free. Flipping it in my hand so the sharpest edge is facing out, I rush to the door and press myself against the wall beside it.

  Outside, the sound of a fight continues. A gunshot rings through the air. Silence follows. I wait, holding my breath as the door slowly opens. Someone steps inside.