The raiders at the mouth of the alleyway didn’t fare as well as us. The scene is almost hilariously reminiscent of the one we found earlier. With all of them packed so tightly around the entrance to the alleyway, not one of them managed to escape unscathed, all four raiders downed and bloody. I climb to my feet, helping Jed up, and we make our way out of the alleyway. Only once we’re out do I realize how many eyes have watched this go down—at least a half dozen raider crews are all staring at us from different directions.
“It wasn’t us!” Jed shouts immediately. He throws up his hands in surrender, looking from one group of raiders to another. “I don’t know what happened, but it was not us!”
I can tell from the muttering that not a single one of them believes that. And why should they? There’s been no sign of anyone but raiders here, and they’ve thoroughly combed the town by now.
And yet … someone did throw a grenade. Someone who definitely wasn’t us.
Remembering the image of the grenade falling from above, I raise my eyes to the open sky. I sweep them left, and sweep them right, and catch just the slightest hint of movement … something that could be a pale face disappearing over the edge of a rooftop. My head snaps in that direction, and I stare hard at the building. Nothing now, and I can’t be certain what I saw.
But somehow I am certain, and I think I’m finally catching on to what my instincts have been trying to tell me this whole time.
“Townies,” I say, my voice coming out quiet and dry, choked with dust. I cough to clear my throat, and raise my voice. “Townies! On the rooftops!”
The eyes of all the raiders, formerly on us, rise upward. There’s a moment of silence—a moment when I’m sure all of them are trying to decide whether I’m telling the truth, or just trying to shake off suspicion.
Then dozens of faces appear at the edges of the rooftops. A moment later, they begin to pelt us. A fork dings off a building to my left, a pot crashes into a raider in front of me, and an empty tin can smacks into the side of my head. I jerk back, my head ringing, and raise my arms to cover myself. The rain of various everyday objects continues, and I retreat back into the alleyway and press against the wall. Jed, caught out in the open, staggers left and right in an effort to avoid falling objects, and finally stumbles after me, yelping as a broken chair leg catches him on his way over.
Most of the other raiders are still caught out in the open streets. They seem baffled about how to handle this situation, some stumbling around in an attempt to dodge, others ducking into buildings, still more holding their ground and trying to shoot at the townies up above. None of it seems very effective. With the raiders too confused to fight back, the steady fall of objects only grows heavier. When one group of raiders clusters together back-to-back, trying to cover one another, one of the townies hurls another grenade.
Boom. Another bloody mess on the dusty streets.
“Spread out!” Jed yells, struggling to be heard above the constant clatters and thuds and dings of various things hitting the ground, and townies shouting in triumph, and raiders screaming in frustration and pain. With chaos all around us, Jed is staring out at the mess of a fight like it’s a puzzle he’s trying to solve. “Spread out and find shelter!”
Clearly at a loss for what else to do, the raiders listen to him. The streets empty as raiders hide in buildings and other shelters, leaving only the dead and dying out in the open streets. The rain of objects from above gradually dies down, and the streets become silent and dead once again. I, along with the others, wait to see what will come next—and what Jed will tell us to do. My head is still spinning from that blow from the can.
So what else do the townies have up their sleeves? If we’re lucky, maybe it’s nothing. Townies are simple things, after all. Maybe they didn’t think any further than this clever little ploy. Maybe they thought they’d be able to pick off more of us before we realized what was happening. Though, judging from an explosion on the other side of town, some of the other crews haven’t caught on yet. If we’re lucky, maybe the townies will just focus their attentions elsewhere.
But luck is rarely on my side lately.
Before I can even catch my breath, the door to a nearby building bursts open, and townies pour out. There are more than I would’ve expected. Few of them are armed properly, but those that aren’t still carry things like wooden boards and broken chair legs and metal pots. There’s no fear, no hesitation—they flood out and run, yelling, at the closest raiders. A pack of them swarms Jed and me.
I thought it would be hard to kill townies. I thought—perhaps hoped—that some shred of my conscience would awaken and make me hesitate about pulling the trigger on people who are just trying to defend their homes. But, as it turns out, there isn’t much time for conscience when the townies are running at me with weapons in hand. It’s not even a matter of right or wrong. It’s a matter of staying alive. A choice between them and me. A matter of necessity.
Without conscience hindering me, the raid becomes nothing more than a very easy fight. See target, pull trigger, body hits ground. Most of the townies don’t have guns, and those who do hardly know how to use them. To a professional like me, they might as well not have any weapons at all. I shoot them down, one by one, before they’re even close enough to endanger me. Quick and easy. Almost too easy, actually, and I start to get bored after a while. I put my gun away and grab my knife from its sheath on my leg, using that to take care of the next man who comes at me.
I laugh—and immediately sober as I catch myself doing it. I’m enjoying this, I realize; I’m enjoying slaughtering these mostly defenseless townies in their own home. I look around me, at the town swiftly being overrun by raiders. I see raiders killing people, torturing people, looting bodies and buildings, lighting fires and destroying things for the fun of it. Some of them are laughing, just like I was a moment ago. I lower my knife to my side, guilt creeping up on me as I look around at the chaos being wrought.
I search for Jed in the fight, and find him gleefully wrapped up in it, wielding two pistols he must have looted from someone. I try to catch his eye, but the sight of him taking out two townies at once and whooping excitedly stops me in my tracks. For him, this is just the same as killing raiders in the Nameless Town. I can’t let that be the case for me; I have to keep myself under control. I turn away from Jed and head deeper into town, away from the worst of the fighting.
I can’t handle being deep in the fray anymore, but I know that the raiders will be suspicious if I’m not doing something helpful. So I decide to search for loot, heading up to the rooftops where I suspect the townies have hidden their goods.
There isn’t much to find; most of it was thrown down at the raiders, and what’s left isn’t useful. I pick my way among smashed furniture and tattered blankets. Some children hide among the wreckage, staying out of the fight below, but I ignore them and keep looking. Even though I’ve escaped the fight, the sound of gunfire and shouting is constantly on the edge of my consciousness, and it’s almost physically painful to keep myself away. The outcome is obvious; these townies took out an impressive number of raiders, maybe enough to save the next town the army hits, but they’re severely outmatched.
I walk to the edge of the building and look down on the town below. The ground is strewn with the remains of the townies’ hail of junk, along with bodies from both sides. The fight rages on atop the wreckage. I search for Jed, but I can’t find him in the midst of everything, not from this distance.
Instead, I see something else—and my body goes rigid, a sharp breath hissing through my teeth.
Vehicles are approaching. Five of them altogether, and they’re not the shoddy, pieced-together scrap metal that people call cars out here in the west. They’re big, intimidating trucks, all shiny and painted black. My heart sinks down into my stomach as I get a better look at them. I’ve seen these kinds of cars before. Everyone in the east has, and everyone knows that they can only mean one thing.
And evidentl
y, people here are learning it too. Before long, people notice them coming, and a whisper starts up. It ripples through the town, even through the chaos, and the fighting comes to a pause. It stops townies and raiders alike, the eyes of both turning toward the east. The vehicles pull up to the front of town and stop there, engines growling loudly, the town quiet in their presence. One by one, the engines shut off, and silence falls. The whole town is hushed.
Then someone shouts it.
“Jedediah Johnson is here!”
XXII
The Raid Gone Wrong
Some of the raiders turn tail and run, while others rush toward the vehicles, shouting and brandishing their weapons. Townies flee, or fight with renewed vigor. Just moments ago there were two sides to this fight, but it soon dissolves into one very confused mess.
On the rooftop, I stand completely still. My hand is on my gun, my face turned toward the black vehicles that I’ve always known as a portent of death and loss. These are the cars that come when things are about to go terribly wrong. They show up to steal your supplies, to punish your resistance. They show up to drag people away kicking and screaming, people who will never be seen again. Now they’ve come so far from home, and they’ve come all this way for me, and for Jed.
Jed. I need to find him. We need to run. Not only is this town about to turn into a massacre of townies and western raiders alike, but if they see Jed, it’s all over. Our only hope is that with everything happening around us, we can escape without his father’s crew noticing us. They can’t know for sure that we’re here, so if we manage to disappear quickly enough, maybe we’ll have a shot.
I force away the childish fear that the sight of those vehicles ignited in me, and finally break my paralysis. I run for the rusty staircase I climbed to reach the rooftop, clamber down to the street, and keep running. I’m not even sure where I’m running, other than away, desperately hoping that Jed will have the same idea and head in the same direction … and desperately hoping that he was telling the truth when he said he didn’t want to go back to his father.
But I don’t see him anywhere as I run through town, searching every corner and hiding place. I find an elderly couple hidden away in a building on the edge of town, an injured raider dragging himself into an alleyway, a dying townie holding her hands to the sky and begging for Jedediah Johnson to save her. Jed isn’t with them, or the mob of raiders racing to meet the eastern crew, or the stragglers fleeing town.
Among those stragglers I find Wolf’s crew. The leader seems seriously displeased about leaving the fight, with Tank at one elbow prodding him forward and Dolly at the other, keeping an eye out for trouble. Kid, lagging behind the others, is the one who spots me. She slows down, raising a hand.
“We’re getting out of here. You coming?” she asks. I hesitate, and shake my head. She looks over my shoulder at the town. “He was right in the thick of the fight when they got here,” she says. “Didn’t see where he went afterward.” I nod again, a silent thanks. She bites her lip, hesitating for a moment before blurting out, “I don’t trust the guy. Talks too pretty.”
I’m not surprised. I remember the way Kid distrusted him from the beginning. And maybe she’s right; Jed has lied before, after all, and he’s pretty damn good at it. But still …
“I know,” I say. “But I can’t leave him.”
She sighs to herself, but doesn’t argue.
“Good luck,” she says.
“You too.”
I stay on the edge of town, watching the crew disappearing into the vast expanse of the wastes before turning back to the town consumed by chaos. This could be my only chance to run. I glance at the wastes again, imagining myself shouting for Wolf and his crew to wait, imagining myself fleeing with them and leaving Jed behind. I imagine a life for myself with them as my family, my home. Then I curse and run back into the heart of town.
Jed could have turned against me the moment his father showed up … or he could be injured, or trapped, or captured. He could need me. And if there’s a chance of that, I can’t leave him behind. So I ignore my pounding heart and all my instincts screaming at me to run, and head right toward Jedediah Johnson’s crew.
The infamous raiders are cutting their way through town, mowing down townies and western raiders alike. Some try to fight, but they don’t stand a chance. Jedediah’s crew is no unruly band of outlaws; they’re professionals, better fed and better trained and much better armed than anyone around here. These western wastelands must be a joke to them. Even for me, a bounty hunter used to dealing with them, Jedediah’s crew is a challenge. I might be able to take down a few of them, but I don’t like my chances against the whole lot, especially when I’m alone.
Though I know that logically I don’t stand a chance, hatred bubbles through my veins at the mere thought of Jedediah’s crew, and having them so close at hand nearly makes me forget my goal. I know almost every one of them, by name and by face—and every crime they’ve committed, every town they’ve wronged. Some of them are faces that have haunted my nightmares for years; others are newer, but no less awful. I’d gladly kill each and every one of them, and do it slowly and with relish, without a shred of moral uncertainty to weigh on my conscience.
I try to push aside anger and fear alike, to not think, to let my body move mechanically. All that matters right now is finding Jed. But he’s nowhere to be found. It’s like he vanished as soon as his father’s crew appeared. But did he go toward them, or away? Impossible to tell.
I scour streets and buildings. I find raiders, and townies, and plenty of bodies belonging to both sides, but not Jed. I carry on, my search growing more frantic. Then I round the corner and run into a familiar face.
Not a face I know personally, but one I’ve seen on wanted posters all over the eastern wastes. One of Jedediah Johnson’s crew members—Maria Heartless, they call her. A revolver is in her hand and pointed at me; I can tell she knows my face as well. We end up at a standstill, each staring down the barrel of the other’s gun.
“Well, well, what a surprise,” she says. Then, she raises her voice to a shout, turning her head so the sound carries behind her. “I found the bounty hunter! He’s here somewhere!”
The moment her attention shifts, I slam into her. She fires her gun, but the shot goes wild. I slam her back against the closest building. She grunts as she hits crumbling brick, but it doesn’t faze her. She slams the butt of her pistol up against my chin, and then into my face as I jerk back. I gasp, blood gushing from my likely broken nose, and keep grappling with her. A close-quarters fight is my best bet, but she’s not easy prey. She’s lean with muscle and full of fire, matching me blow for blow.
We fight hard and dirty. She yanks my hair, and I spit blood in her face; I knee her in the stomach, and she hits me in my broken nose again, sending a jolt of agony all the way down my spine. I pull a brick free from the wall behind her, and send it crashing toward her face—but she’s quick, too quick, and ducks her head to the side just in time to avoid the blow. The contact with the wall sends pain up my arm, my knuckles scraping excruciatingly against the brick and my own momentum throwing me off balance. She slips from my grasp, and I whirl around to find her with her gun aimed at my head.
She laughs, clucking her tongue at me like I’m a disobedient child. Fury threatens to make me do something stupid, but I force it down. My body is already shaking from the brief struggle. The days with scarce food and water have not been kind to me, and I’m at a disadvantage with that gun in her hands. I know when I’ve lost.
I lower my hands to my sides, ready to admit defeat and let her drag me off to who-knows-where. At least this way, I can buy Jed some time to escape.
She laughs and smashes the butt of the gun right into my nose once more. I stumble back, and before I can recover she hits me again in the forehead, this time causing my head to smack back against the bricks. I drop to my knees, my head spinning, the taste of blood in my mouth.
The woman grabs a fistful of my ha
ir and drags me down the street. I struggle and fight and claw at her hand, but I’m weak and hazy minded, my vision obscured by blood running down my face, my feet scrabbling against the ground. I find myself helpless as she drags me, past fleeing raiders and townies and straight into the arms of her crew.
She throws me on the ground, and I land heavily on my hands and knees. I turn my face upwards to see a huge man towering above me. He’s broad shouldered, arms knotted with muscle, with a shaggy beard and hard eyes.
I realize, with a jolt, that I recognize him. He was one of the tax collectors I saw in Sunrise, the giant one who hardly spoke. I wouldn’t have guessed that Jedediah Johnson would have the guts to go collect taxes himself, but I suppose it makes sense. And he’s exactly what I expected Jedediah Johnson to be: tough, intimidating, emotionless. This is the face of my real enemy, and now I’m at his mercy.
He raises a gun to my forehead, cold steel pressing against my skin. I swallow my fear and meet his eyes.
“Where is he?” he asks. His voice is gravelly and quiet, barely audible above the sounds of the fight.
“He’s dead,” I say calmly. “Died in the fire at Fort Cain.”
His face betrays nothing, but one booted foot shoves me so I land on my back in the dirt. He places the boot on my chest, squeezing the breath out of me, gun still aimed at my head.
“Last chance,” he says, his voice as soft and stoic as before. “Where is he?”
“Like I said.” I turn my head to the side, spit blood, and turn back to him. “Jed’s dead.”
His finger tightens on the trigger.
“Stop.”
Both of our heads whip toward the familiar voice. I’m not sure which of us is more surprised to see Jed standing there, pointing a gun at the man above me. My heart sinks. The rest of the crew—those who aren’t immersed in the fighting, at least—all turn to Jed as well, gasps and murmurs running through their ranks.
The Wastelanders Page 47
