The Wastelanders

by K. S. Merbeth

  “Incoming,” I say. “Jedediah Johnson’s men.”

  II

  The Reign of Jedediah Johnson

  Once, Jedediah Johnson was just the leader of another crew of raiders carving their bloody way across the wastes. They were known as the toughest and the meanest raiders around, the scum among scum, but the scariest thing about them was their leader. People said he was some kind of mad genius, more wily than any raider before him; he was the reason why nobody saw them coming, and why no town stood a chance against them.

  Of course, people also said that he could hear his name every time someone spoke it, that he could change his face every day, and that he gained the knowledge of every man he killed and ate. Rumors still run wild; nobody knows what the guy looks like, even now. But the genius part I believe. He and his men cut through the wastes in a way that had never been seen before.

  One day, that infamous leader decided he’d rather be a dictator than a raider. He settled down in an old mansion in the town of Wormwood, told everyone he was in charge now, and started calling his raiding “collecting taxes.”

  At first, people laughed at him. When he actually showed up to collect, they fought him. Soon, those who laughed and those who fought were all dead. Everybody left didn’t dare do anything but obey the self-declared king.

  Even I know better than to fuck with Jedediah and his men. I’ll pick off a stray if he’s off on his own with a good price on his head, like the man I just killed, but that’s risky enough, and it’s as far as I dare to go. I’ve been killing raiders my whole life, but Jedediah’s crew are a breed of their own. Better fed, better equipped, better organized. There’s a reason they’ve been able to hold down this corner of the wastes for years, keeping townies under their thumb and fending off wandering raider crews as well. Jedediah holds all the power here.

  So predictably, the townies lose their shit at my announcement. Most of them panic and flee to their houses. A few of the smarter ones remember the dead man lying in the middle of their town square—a dead man who worked for the very same dictator they’re so afraid of. If Jedediah’s men find that body here, they’ll massacre these townies and burn their town to the ground.

  “Just tax collectors,” the sheriff shouts, struggling to be heard above the general clamor. “They don’t know nothin’, they’re just here for the tax. Get what we owe, and hide the damn body.”

  Two townies go to move the corpse, but I shoulder one of them out of the way and grab its feet myself. The sheriff hesitates, as if ready to tell me to leave, but thinks better of it.

  “Get it inside and cover it up,” she says. We drag it to one of the nearby ramshackle homes, throw it onto the cot in the corner, pull a blanket over him—all the way over the head, since the multiple bullet holes in the face aren’t exactly subtle.

  A small collection of townies stays in the town square, including the sheriff and a handful of the bigger men. They surround her, which mostly just makes their leader look dwarfed and nervous. The rest of them cower inside their homes. They shut doors if they have them, cover windows with boards and blankets, and stay out of sight. When the townies move to cover the window of the house I’m in, I wave them off before they can finish, keeping a corner of it uncovered. None of them question me; they’re too busy running to find their hiding spots. I crouch down next to the open spot, staying between the window and closed door, my gun in my hand.

  I force myself to breathe deeply, trying to keep the wild beating of my heart under control. I’ve always heard about Jedediah’s tax collectors, and seen the aftermath of their visits, but I’ve never been present for one.

  Living out of my truck and never spending a night in any town means that I never get surprised. I engage with Jedediah’s men on my terms only, like I do everyone else. But this … this is unexpected, and I’m unprepared. I could take out one of Jedediah’s men with the element of surprise, maybe two if I’m lucky, but any more than that and I’m fucked. And even if I can handle them, killing them here when they’re out collecting taxes would make it far too easy to trace them to Sunrise, and then to me.

  I need to lay low. Now is not the time to fight Jedediah’s men, though it’s hard to hold myself back. After all, killing raiders is what I’m best at. I’ve been doing it since I was eight years old.

  The first was a huge brute of a man with a squashed face and a hissing voice. He was alone, but our town was young, many of us barely out of our bomb shelters, and we weren’t prepared. One armed raider was enough to send everyone cowering. Ours was the third house he broke into, and nobody had dared raise a hand to stop him. Even at eight, I knew what would happen: He’d take everything we had, and probably kill us too. I was stupefied to see my parents cowering on the floor in front of this man. They looked at him and their brains told them Cower, hide, let him take it, just let us live. Behind his back, I looked at him, and I looked at the gun he had seemingly forgotten on the table, and my brain said: Kill.

  I was proud that night, and so was everyone else. Afterward, the sheriff started giving me shooting lessons, and my pa gave me first pick of weapons whenever we found a new haul. I would strut around town with a pistol on my hip and people would smile at me when I passed by. “The little hero,” they called me. But, as I eventually learned the hard way, there’s a time and place to be a hero.

  Right now, right here, is not it.

  Outside, the town is dead silent. I lift myself up to steal a glance out of the peephole just in time to see Jedediah’s men arrive. They’re unmistakable, with their heavy black clothes and huge guns. One of them is a massive man, six foot four at least, and made of muscle. He’s middle-aged, with a bushy beard and hard eyes that are constantly roaming the area around him. The top of his companion’s head barely reaches his shoulder, but he’s solidly built as well, with a mess of wavy blond hair and a shaggy beard. His face is nearly covered by hair, his eyes barely visible, and the skin that pokes out is ruddy and sunburnt. They approach the town square and stop a few feet in front of the sheriff. The men around her draw back as Jedediah’s men get close. The sheriff stands alone, straight-backed, her chin raised.

  “We’ve got your tax,” she says. “Don’t want no trouble.”

  The two men study the sheriff and the pile of goods at her feet. It’s easily three times what the townies paid me for the job, and I feel a stab of resentment at them for trying to hold back the extra goods they owed me.

  “You’re not the sheriff of Sunrise,” the shaggy raider says. He brushes his hair out of his eyes and squints at her. “Where’s what’s-his-name? With the goatee?”

  The big man mumbles something in a surprisingly soft voice, so quiet I can’t make out the words.

  “Yeah,” the shaggy one says. “Sheriff Daniels.”

  The new sheriff hesitates, considering how to answer. Don’t mention Beau, I think. Whatever you say to them—

  “He was killed last week by one of your men,” she says. “Called himself the Butcher.”

  Damn stupid townies.

  “Oh,” the shaggy man says, letting his hair fall back into his face. “Alrighty then.” Without further ado, he crouches down and starts counting the goods for Jedediah’s tax.

  The townie woman’s face turns red, and then purple, while Jedediah’s men pay no attention whatsoever to her. I grit my teeth, willing her to keep her mouth shut. She may have already fucked her people over by mentioning Beau. When he shows up missing, Jedediah’s men are likely to remember this conversation.

  “He killed him over a card game,” she bursts out finally. “Beau hacked his head off. It took him five hits.” The words pour out of her, like she can’t help herself. “There was no reason for it. Just cruelty.”

  “Well, there’s your reason,” the shaggy raider says, still counting. “I don’t need the details. Was just curious.”

  “Aren’t you going to do something about it?” the sheriff asks, her voice rising to a near shout. I wince, tightening my grip on my g
un. Jedediah’s men have killed people for less than raising their voice.

  The shaggy raider pauses, then shrugs and keeps counting.

  “Not my job,” he says. “My job is collecting taxes … which you’re short on. Need four more bottles of water and three food.”

  The sheriff, still red in the face, looks ready to argue more, but the massive, quiet raider shifts his grip on his gun. She looks at him, and her shoulders slump.

  “This is the amount it’s always been,” she says, sounding more tired than argumentative.

  “We need more this month.”

  The townie woman says nothing, but doesn’t move to collect the extra goods either. The rest of the townspeople shuffle their feet behind her, none of them looking at either her or the raiders. After a moment, the shaggy man sighs, straightens up, and raises his gun. He steps forward until the barrel rests against the side of the sheriff’s nose, and taps it against her face.

  “All right, I’ve had about enough of this shit,” he says. “Get what you owe us. Now.”

  The sheriff doesn’t move or speak, just stares down the barrel of the gun at the raider. But the men behind her immediately scramble to do his bidding, disappearing into a nearby building for a minute before rushing back with the extra cans and bottles. They dump them hurriedly in front of the tax collectors and retreat, none of them daring to help their leader.

  The shaggy raider is still staring at the sheriff’s defiant face, his own expression impossible to read with his hair in front of his eyes. After a long few seconds, he lowers the gun.

  “See? Not so hard,” he says, and gestures to his big companion. The huge man bends down and scoops up the goods. The pile looks small and paltry in his arms, but I can tell by the stricken look of the townies that it’s a fortune to them. Still, they don’t make so much as a whisper of protest as the men turn to go. I sink down, resting my back against the wall, and sigh out a long breath.

  I wait until I hear the sounds of their vehicles starting up, and then wait a few minutes more, staying inside even after the townies have trickled out of their houses to gather in the square. Finally, when I’m sure that Jedediah’s men are gone, I stand up, holster my gun, and head outside with the others.

  The townies stand in a tight, worried knot in the middle of the square, speaking in lowered voices. They turn to stare at me as I emerge, and I pause. I can feel their eyes on the bag I carry, their minds no doubt on the food and water they handed over before the tax collectors came. I pull the bag tighter against my body and rest my hand on my gun.

  “Thanks for the business,” I say. The townies say nothing, but continue to stare at me, hollow eyed, like I’m the one who did this to them. After a few moments, I turn my back on them and head for my truck.

  Truth be told, if they asked nicely, I might hand over what they paid me. If they showed an ounce of compassion or understanding or trust in me, I might help them out. But they won’t ask, and I won’t give, because this place and these people aren’t right. I need to save my supplies for when I do find my new home, or at least for the journey there.

  Still, I pause for just a moment on the edge of town, as if I’m waiting for something. Gratitude is a long shot, but they could show some recognition for what I’ve done for them. At the very least, they could stop looking at me like I’m a goddamn monster just for taking what they owed me.

  But it’s been a long time since anyone looked at me like anything else, and I should know better by now.

  III

  The Collector

  I drive until my truck is long out of sight of Sunrise or any other town. Once I’m secluded enough, I pull over and dig a can of food out of my bag, prying it open with my knife and slurping it down in a matter of seconds. I almost open up a second one, but stop myself.

  Pickings have been slim lately. The more Jedediah solidifies his hold on the east, the more dangerous it gets to take out one of his men, and the stray raiders and thieves are few and far between out here. It’s been harder and harder to find work bounty hunting. It took me a week to catch Beau somewhere secluded enough to take him down. I had to ration the last of my food, and even now that I’ve gotten paid, I doubt it’ll last me until the next cash-out. Maybe I’ll get lucky, but I know better than to count on that. For now, though, I’ll allow myself a moment to relax.

  Back when I started, when I was just a sixteen-year-old townie girl with a pistol, cashing in a bounty was always a grand affair. I’d claim my reward, head home and hand it over to the sheriff, and we’d all celebrate. There’d be claps on the back and smiles and thanks. Our little hero.

  Now, I look forward to eating in my truck alone. It is what it is. Being alone isn’t so bad, especially when I’m all wound up from talking with those townies. Dealing with people always proves to be more frustrating and more disappointing than I expect. They don’t understand me, I don’t understand them, and altogether it’s never a good experience for anyone involved. After I lost my hometown, I quickly realized that all strangers see is a tall woman with a burnt face, a gun, and some rather unsavory skills. I soon learned it was better for me to keep my distance, spending nights in my truck and staying focused on my job.

  I thought maybe my job was the key, and that building up a reputation for myself would help people see the real me. I’ve built up respect, to be sure—but it’s respect out of fear, not out of liking. Still, the only thing to do is keep trying, and keep saving. Maybe one day I’ll have a chance to prove myself; a town in need of supplies or protection, a person who asks me for help, an opportunity to show that I can be more than just a killer … or maybe I’ll just have to wait until I save up enough supplies to go somewhere new and get a fresh start.

  But there’s no time to dwell on that. There’s still work to do. I left Beau’s body with the townies, not wanting to lug it around after a near brush with Jedediah’s men, but I still have his knife. So after a few minutes of soaking up the silence, I start my truck.

  There are several bounty collectors in the area, all of whom have a price set for any member of Jedediah’s crew, especially one as blatantly vicious as Beau the Butcher. But Alex the Collector is the closest, and one of my favorites, so I head to him.

  His place is small but sturdy, a lone, stout building in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by a wire fence. It looks like another abandoned ruin to someone who doesn’t know better, but I’ve been here many times before. The guard at the fence barely glances at me before waving me through. But Alex himself squints out from a barely cracked door, scrutinizing me thoroughly as if there’s some trick involved. I bite my cheek and wait as he finishes his inspection and checks behind me twice before letting me inside.

  With all the windows covered, the room is dim even with the sun still up. The place reeks of some kind of chemical—or maybe that’s just Alex. The Collector is a squat, jiggly, nervous man with thinning hair. He’s deathly afraid of the outside world, and I suspect it’s been a long, long time since he’s set foot out there. But once the door is shut and locked and it’s just the two of us, his nerves give way to barely contained excitement. He trembles with it, barely able to restrain himself from immediately demanding to see what I’ve brought. I make him wait, taking my time looking around.

  His center of operations is, if possible, weirder than the man himself. Alex is a collector not just of bounties, but of souvenirs. The walls are lined with dusty wooden shelves, the shelves lined with his mementos. I don’t mind the weirdness; I appreciate the fact that Alex is a freak, because it means he doesn’t look at me like I’m one. Dealing with him is much better than dealing with townies.

  Still, staring at his souvenirs too long makes me uncomfortable. Some are fairly normal, like a boot sitting on a low shelf, or a sniper rifle hung high on the wall. But most venture far past the limit of the reasonable and into the land of the grotesque. A scorched femur, a skull split down the middle, an eyeball floating in a vat of murky liquid. Each one has a wanted poster fram
ed next to it, announcing who the item once belonged to. Several of them came from my own collected marks.

  “So,” Alex says, rubbing his hands together, his eyes bright. “What’ve you got for me today?”

  I dig the knife out of my bag, hold it up until I see recognition light his face, and deliver it hilt-first into his waiting hands. He turns the weapon slowly, admiring the rusty and bloodstained blade. His fingers find the small initials B. B. carved into the hilt and tap against them.

  “Beau the Butcher,” he says, a smile splitting his face. I allow myself to smile back. He’s one of the few people who appreciates my line of work, unlike the damn townies who treat me like I’m barely better than a raider. “But no body?”

  “You think I’m going to lug around one of Jedediah’s men?” I ask, rolling my eyes. “You recognize the knife. That’s enough.”

  “But how do I know that he’s dead?” Alex asks, still admiring the knife. I stare at him until he glances up. As soon as he sees the look on my face, he blanches and lets out a nervous laugh. “Right,” he says. “Never mind. Will be a reduced payment, though, and I can’t help that.”

  “Fine,” I say. It’s not worth the effort of arguing, especially when I’m already double-dipping for the reward—first the townies and now a collector. “How much, then?”

  “Hmm,” he says. “Well, considering it’s just the knife …” His eyes flick upward as he no doubt considers how much of the bounty he can weasel out of paying. After a moment, his eyes flick back to me. “Four and six.”

  I frown, digging the crumpled wanted poster out of my pocket to double-check the listed reward. I hold it up for him to see.

  “That’s less than half.”

  “Well, there’s no body.”

  I glare at him, and he takes a step back.

  “Five and seven,” I say.

  “Fine,” he says, so quickly I mentally kick myself for not asking for more. Before I can say anything he’s already scrambling to the back room, the knife clutched in his greedy hands. He returns soon after with the goods wrapped in a plastic bag. I take them out to count.