The Wastelanders

by K. S. Merbeth

  I let out a long, slow breath as the roar of the vehicle recedes. Once the sound is completely gone I sit up, releasing my gun.

  “Phew,” Jedediah says, struggling to sit up himself. “That was a close one, huh? Who do you think it was?”

  Ignoring him, I drum my fingers on the wheel. I could keep driving, but I’d run the risk of encountering whomever that was again, and it’s definitely not worth the risk of using headlights in the dark now that I know we’re not alone out here. Better to stop now, catch a few hours of sleep. Hopefully, by then, that car will be long gone.

  Sleeping with a prisoner in tow is a new experience for me. I never hang on to a mark longer than necessary. Usually I’d keep working right through the night, but the journey ahead is too long for that. Which brings up a new issue: what to do with Jedediah overnight.

  I could leave him in the passenger seat, but that would run the risk of him escaping his binds and killing me in my sleep. I could throw him outside, but he might try to run. We’re in the awkward no-man’s-land between the eastern and western towns, so there’s nothing but empty wastes for miles all around, but he hasn’t shown much of a sense of self-preservation so far. So, I can’t let him kill me or get himself killed. That leaves only one option.

  After a lot of squirming and pleading, Jedediah is safely tied, gagged, blindfolded, and stuffed into the trunk. I made sure to tie him up even more tightly than before, wrists and arms and ankles, just to make sure he doesn’t get any bright ideas. I move my gun bag from the trunk to the backseat to make doubly sure. After I lock him in, there’s some jostling and bumping for about ten minutes, but finally he quiets down. I curl up in the backseat, taking my gun out of its holster and cradling it against my chest.

  It’s unsettling, knowing that an infamous killer will be just a few yards away while I sleep. But it doesn’t matter. I’m not afraid, I tell myself. Jedediah Johnson may be a different breed, but he’s still a raider, and I’m not afraid of raiders.

  VIII

  Poachers

  A sound wakes me before dawn. My gun is in my hand before I even open my eyes. I swing it one way and then the other, searching for the source of the mysterious thumping, and then realize it’s coming from the trunk. Right—Jedediah. Not danger, just an inconvenience. I sigh, placing my gun back in its holster, and rub my eyes. I could’ve used another hour of sleep, but I’m awake now, so I might as well get an early start.

  It’s tempting to leave Jedediah in the trunk, where I don’t have to deal with the constant stream of shit coming out of his mouth, but I’m sure he’ll find some way to get free or injure himself if I continue to leave him unsupervised. In fact, it’s possible that he’s already done so, so I take out my gun again as I head to the trunk. But Jedediah is still tied up neatly, and looking very unhappy about having spent the night crammed into the small space. I check to make sure the ropes on his wrists haven’t loosened, and drag him up to the front seat. I remove the gag to give him a quick drink of water, and put it back again despite his protests.

  “Give me an hour to wake up,” I say. “If you behave yourself, I’ll take the gag out then.”

  He nods—surprisingly agreeable, but given the dark rings under his eyes, he’s probably just too tired to put up much resistance. Pleased with that, I get into my seat and start driving. Jedediah soon nods off, his head lolling against the back of the seat. I resist the petty urge to make him less comfortable, reminding myself that him sleeping means I get peace and quiet.

  The road is still dark, but not too dark to see, the wastes tinged with the bluish light of almost-dawn. I relax as I drive, expecting a good few hours of nothingness before we hit the western towns and the day really begins.

  That peace is quickly ruined as I see something on the horizon. I slow down, squinting at the column of smoke. My stomach clenches at the thought of fire, but I force myself to move closer. It soon becomes clear that it’s not a wildfire, or a burning town, but a small, personal blaze. A campfire. No one in their right mind sets a campfire, unless they’re fully confident that they can kill anyone who sees it, so I’m wary as I approach. I kill the engine and roll to a stop a good distance away, make sure Jedediah is still asleep, and rustle through my bag in the backseat. I fish out a pair of binoculars and study the camp.

  There are two figures by the fire. One is stretched out on the ground, likely sleeping. The other is sitting upright, but looks relaxed, not fully alert. I watch them for several long moments, trying to gauge who they are and what they want—and then I spot their vehicle parked nearby. A rusty old truck, that was once green from the look of it. Not black, like the ones Jedediah’s raiders drive.

  This must be the vehicle that was following me. Very few people have reason to travel on these open roads, the stretch of nothingness between Jedediah’s lands and the wild towns in the west. It’s rare that anyone has the means or a strong enough reason to travel from one to the other, and there’s absolutely nothing of interest in between. The only reason for somebody to be out here is if they’re on the run, or looking for someone … and I have a sneaking suspicion that these people are looking for me. But if they’re not working for Jedediah, why are they after me?

  Now is a good opportunity to find out.

  I check on Jedediah again—still sleeping—and gather my weapons. My brain is already forming a plan of attack, the old instinct bubbling up: Kill. The thought rises to a clamor as I load my guns, making sure my trusty pistol is full of ammo, slinging a rifle over my back, and grabbing an extra pistol just in case.

  There are only two of them, not expecting trouble. They must still think they’re following me, and won’t expect me to come from behind. It would be easy to kill them both, no matter how prepared they think they are. But it’s not that simple. I have rules, rules that set me apart from the people I hunt.

  My ma and I made them together when I was ten. I had killed five and a half people by that time, and the “half” was the reason the rules came to be. He was a man who came to town half-dead, begging for water. I couldn’t decide if he looked like a raider or not in the sorry state he was in, but he was a stranger looking to take what was ours, so I opted for caution. I beat his head in with a cast-iron pot we used to make stew. When my ma asked why I did that, I said, “I didn’t have my gun on me.”

  That night, when they thought I was asleep, I overheard her talking with the sheriff when he stopped by to visit.

  “She’s a little girl,” my mom said.

  “She’s not just a little girl,” the sheriff said. “She’s a weapon. We’ve just got to make sure she’s pointed in the right direction.”

  That miffed me more than anything—the idea that I didn’t know who to kill and who not to kill. Of course I knew. I didn’t kill the sheriff when he shouted at me for eating too much, or old lady Brenda when she pinched my cheeks, though I couldn’t say the idea hadn’t occurred to me once or twice. I only killed the bad people. Raiders. Men and women who made a living preying on townies like us, who would come into town waving big guns and take whatever food and water they could find. That’s what made me a hero. Everyone in town said so.

  The next day, my ma sat me down with a pencil and dirty scrap of napkin and said, “Let’s make a list.”

  I was never much good at reading and writing, but I was excited to practice back then, so it seemed like a good exercise. I asked what kind of list it would be, and my ma said it was a “No-Kill List.” A list of people I would never kill, she explained. Even though I was good at killing people, and I never seemed to feel too bad about it, there had to be some people I didn’t want to kill ever, right?

  Right. I wrote “Ma” immediately. Under it I wrote “Pa.” But, after a moment’s thought, I erased that one.

  “What’d you do that for?” Ma asked, her smile growing strained.

  “Well,” I said. “I’d never want to kill Pa, but I think I might, if I had to. If it was you or him, or me or him, I’d probably have to do
it.”

  It seemed reasonable to me, so I smiled and handed back the paper with only one name, but my ma seemed concerned. So, she tore up the list and proposed a new plan: We would make rules about killing, just to make sure I didn’t kill the wrong people by accident. I would only kill for necessity, and for profit.

  It took me a lot of time, and one very big mistake, to realize why the rules were so important. After that, I vowed to never break them again.

  Which is why, despite all my instincts screaming at me to do so, I don’t ram my car into the camp, or snipe them from a distance, or charge in with my guns blazing. Instead, I approach the camp with the intention to talk.

  Of course, I approach it as quietly and stealthily as possible, because getting shot on sight isn’t conducive to having a decent conversation. And I’m not a goddamn idiot, so I still pull out my two pistols as I approach, keeping one leveled at each of their heads. By the time they notice me, I have them at my mercy.

  And I realize, upon getting a better look, that I know exactly who these people are.

  There are a lot of off folks in my line of work. Loners, weirdos, probably even a few psychopaths. I have no delusions about it, I know I’m definitely at home among them. But these two … these two are top-of-the-line freaks.

  Cat and Bird. I’m sure at one point they must’ve had real names, but that’s all anyone calls them anymore. Cat is tall and willowy, her skin so dark it’s nearly black, her hair twisted into tight braids. She has stiff-as-a-board posture, a proud tilt to her chin. Despite a slender build, there’s nothing delicate about her; she’s all hard angles and lean muscle. Even in the act of standing up when she notices me, each movement is precise and controlled and deliberate, no energy or time wasted. She seems almost normal at first glance—pretty, even—until she smiles, displaying a pair of canines sharpened into points. From what I’ve heard, she likes to use them.

  Bird, on the other hand, does some ungainly flailing and scrambling in the dust before climbing to her feet. She stands stone-still, except for a twitch every few seconds—first a tremble up her arm, then an odd jolt of her head, then a shift in her foot, like a bug is jumping around beneath her skin. Her body is wrapped in cloth, layers and layers of it stacked on top of one another and sewn together haphazardly, with flaps and scraps of fabric hanging off and fluttering around her. The top layer is a tattered, hooded brown cloak. Her patched-together outfit is all in shades of gray and brown, with an occasional deep red stain. She never seems to take off a layer, even when it’s filthy or torn. Instead, she just sews up the tears and throws on more clothes to cover it. She wears dirty gloves, at least two scarves wrapped tightly around her neck, and a pair of oversized, bright red rain boots.

  But the truly strange thing about her outfit is the mask. It’s a gas mask, black and too big for her body. She peers at me now through the darkly tinted goggles, her head jerking one way and then the other.

  Of all the people for me to run into, it had to be these creepy motherfuckers. Not only are the two unsettling, but their reputation is questionable at best … even among bounty hunters, which says a lot. Worse than that, we have history.

  “Don’t touch those guns,” I say.

  Cat meets my gaze steadily.

  “Hi, Clementine,” she says, staying very still. Out of the corner of my eye I see Bird shift. I turn to her, and she freezes, one hand halfway to a knife strapped to her leg. She jerks her head toward Cat, as if seeking guidance, jerks it back toward me, and flutters a hand at me in an awkward wave.

  “Hands up,” I say, and she immediately throws them skyward, her fingers twitching one by one. I keep my eye on her for a few seconds before slowly turning back to Cat. She meets my eyes and runs a tongue across her sharpened teeth.

  “What are you doing out here?” I ask. Normally, seeing two fellow bounty hunters wouldn’t be such a terrible thing. “Friendly” would be a stretch, but it’s not like we’re trying to kill each other … without reason.

  “Nice to see you too,” Cat says. “You’re not still mad, are you?”

  “No,” I say flatly. If I was still mad, I would’ve gunned them down the moment I recognized them.

  “Good,” Cat says. “Because that was all a terribly unfortunate accident.”

  “Accident,” Bird repeats in her muffled, high-pitched voice, mask bobbing up and down in a nod.

  “Uh-huh.” A terribly unfortunate accident where they stole a mark I had spent three weeks hunting down. While I was cutting through the bounty’s men, they yanked her away and claimed the reward for themselves, later arguing that they just happened to be after the same person. “Now tell me what the fuck you’re doing here.”

  Silence answers me. I lower my gun to point at Cat’s leg.

  “We’re hunting,” she says quickly. “Just like you, right? We’re on the same side.” She grins at me; it’s a grin I don’t like, too wide and toothy, made threatening by her sharpened teeth.

  “Why are you following me?” I ask, not buying the bullshit excuse. There’s no reason for them to be hunting this far out. I guess if anyone would be willing to chase bounties west it’d be these two assholes, but my gut tells me there’s something else going on here. Or maybe I am still a little resentful about the last time they stole from me.

  “Following you? Like I said, we’re chasing a bounty,” Cat says, with a casual shrug. “He fled this way.”

  I eye her, mentally chewing that answer. It’s not completely unreasonable. Sometimes a bounty will run west if they know there’s a price on their head and hunters on their heels. But still …

  “Whose bounty?”

  “Why should I tell you?” she asks, her eyes narrowing. “You’ll just try to steal him.”

  “I’d say you’ve got bigger things to worry about right now,” I say, gesturing with my gun. Cat exchanges a long look with Bird, who stares at her silently.

  “Fine,” she says. “We’re after Left-Hand. Heard he fled this way.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Left-Hand.” I relax, rolling my shoulders back. “Well, that’s a relief. I was almost worried you were going to say something feasible, and I’d have to think a little harder about what to do with you.”

  Too bad for her. I saw that name recently—right next to his famous, freshly severed hand on Alex’s shelf. So I know it’s a lie, and I know what a lie means: The only bounty she’s after is the one I’m trying to claim. These two are damn poachers, trying to take my hard-earned reward for Jedediah. I don’t know why Alex told them, or why they thought they could get the best of me, but none of that matters right now.

  Cat’s eyes widen, her mouth opening. I shoot before she gets a word out.

  The bullet sinks into her leg, and she goes down with a shout. Bird flings herself at me. She slams into me with a surprising amount of force for her small size, and we both hit the dirt, my back slamming against the ground. I lose my hold on one of my guns, and quickly raise the other, but she pins my arm beneath her knee and renders it useless. I grab at her with my free hand, but my fingers come away with a scrap of filthy fabric. I can’t get a good grip, or a good hit, with every inch of her protected by cloth or mask.

  Bird grabs the knife off her leg and raises it. She brings it down, and I jerk aside. The blade sinks into the dirt just an inch from my head. She yanks it out and raises it again, and I grab her wrist with my free hand, grappling with her, my hand slipping on rotting cloth. I dig my nails in, trying desperately to get a hold—and when she jerks her hand away, her glove rips.

  Bird freezes. She stares down at her hand, at the torn glove and the slivers of pale flesh showing through, as if she can’t believe what she’s seeing. Then she screams. She leaps off me, clutching her wrist like her hand has been severed. She runs across the camp, emitting a loud, high-pitched wail like a siren.

  I climb to my feet, pointing my gun at Cat again. She has a gun in hand, but lowers it when she sees me aiming at her. She’s swaying on her injured leg, a sh
een of sweat on her forehead.

  “Stop,” I say, trying to hide my own shortness of breath. I wait for her to move her hand away from her gun, then turn to Bird. The masked woman is kneeling in the dirt and has produced a roll of duct tape from her bag. As I watch, she wraps the tape around her hand, again and again and again. She continues until her skin is thoroughly hidden, and keeps going, rocking back and forth as she does it.

  I return my aim to Cat, keeping my gun trained on her as I move to retrieve my other pistol from the ground. I keep that one pointed at Bird, though she doesn’t even glance up. “In the spirit of respect among bounty hunters, I’m not going to kill you,” I say. “But if you keep following me, you’ll force my hand. Got it?” I look from one to the other. “Got it?” I prompt again, gesturing with both guns. Cat, her teeth bared, nods. Bird clutches her freshly taped-up hand to her chest and trembles.

  Guess that’s as good an answer as I’m going to get. I back away from the two poachers, keeping my eyes trained on them. Once I’m far enough away, I turn and walk briskly back to my car. I hop in, shut the door, and sigh with satisfaction. Letting people live always makes me feel so benevolent. I pause for a moment, basking in the feeling and listening to Jedediah snore, before starting up the car again.

  IX

  The Western Wastes

  There’s not much to see on the ride, just empty wastelands and a seemingly endless road, the monotony occasionally broken by a broken-down building or car. There are no signs of life in any of them, nor do I see anyone traveling by foot. Jedediah dozes in the passenger seat, still recovering from his night in the trunk. By the end of the day we’re far from Jedediah’s towns, and we should arrive at Saint’s tower sometime tomorrow. Just one more day having to deal with this piece of shit.

  Just when I’m starting to get excited about how close we are, we hit a roadblock. I slow as we approach. The road is covered by junk, heaps of trash and twisted metal covering the entire width of it, forming an almost-solid barrier about six feet high. I roll to a stop. These kinds of blocks can easily be traps. With my truck I would ram right through, and hopefully take out a couple waiting raiders in the process, but there’s no way this shitty little car can handle it.