The Wastelanders

by K. S. Merbeth

  “You idiot,” I say, struggling for breath with a boot crushing my chest. I try to shove it off, but the huge man doesn’t budge. “You’re supposed to run!”

  Jed doesn’t even look at me. His eyes stay locked on the man above me—on his father. Jedediah Johnson.

  “Back up,” Jed says, his gun hand steady.

  You idiot, I think again, though I don’t have the breath to speak anymore. This will only get both of us killed. Does he really think he can help me? That his word will sway his father not to kill the bounty hunter who kidnapped his son?

  And yet, Jedediah Johnson steps away from me and lowers his gun to his side without a hint of hesitation. I scramble away in the dust, panting for breath and trying to process what’s happening. Did he just take an order from Jed? I stare at the man, trying to understand. After a moment, he smiles, an expression that looks strange and foreign on his formerly serious face.

  “Hey, boss,” he says.

  XXIII

  A Snake by Any Other Name

  At first, I don’t understand. The word “boss,” the way the raiders snap to attention, the utter adoration in their expressions. To say the crew is happy to see Jed would be a massive understatement. They look at him like a god descended from heaven in front of them. They seem to have forgotten about me entirely. I slowly get to my knees, but my legs give out when I try to rise any farther than that. So I stay down, my eyes locked on the man I thought I knew. The blow to my head is still making things murky for me, and this feels surreal, dreamlike.

  “Ah, hello, boys,” Jed says, in a voice that’s unfamiliar—odd and lilting, smooth on the surface with something dangerous lurking just beneath. He walks into the midst of the crew. The raiders eagerly gather around, but keep a respectful distance. He smiles at them, making eye contact with each and every one of them—and completely ignoring me. My whole body is numb, my brain full of static.

  “It’s so good to be back together,” Jed says. More of the crew members are breaking off from the fight in the town, drawn to him like a magnet. They form a loose circle, all eyes on him. He pauses briefly, stepping up to the big man who nearly shot me. He bumps knuckles with him amiably before continuing. “And wow, jeez guys, I am so touched that you all followed me across the wastes to this hellhole.”

  “As if we had a choice, Jedediah,” a woman says with a half smile.

  Jedediah. And there it is, finally, making its way into my shell-shocked brain. Not Jed, but Jedediah. Not the son of a ruthless dictator, but …

  “No,” I breathe. It isn’t possible. There’s no way it was really him the whole time, no way I fell for a stupid trick and became friendly with the man who burned down my home. No way I saved the life of the man who murdered my family.

  But the evidence is right in front of me. “Jed” was a lie. He never existed. All along, there’s only ever been Jedediah Johnson.

  The one and only, as he said himself not too long ago. All of his long-winded stories, stories I thought he was telling about his father … He’s been rubbing the truth in my face this whole time.

  He drops his old identity like a snake shedding its skin. His posture straightens, his eyes sharpen, his smile becomes unfamiliar. He rolls his shoulders back and cracks his neck and, in the time it takes me to blink twice, he has become a stranger. I saw glimpses of this man at times. I saw him when I first put a gun in his hands, and when he looked at the fire at Fort Cain—a fire, I finally realize with a growing horror, he must have started himself. He orchestrated the fall of Fort Cain, leading us to the raiders, and eventually … right here.

  And I helped him. How many times did I save his life? Risk my life for his? How many times did I propel him toward this very moment?

  Jedediah frowns at the woman who interrupted him.

  “Sh, I’m talking right now,” he says in a hushed whisper, waving his hand to silence her, and then grins again. “Anyway, welcome to the western wastes, I guess. What a shitfest, right?” He spreads his hands wide, inviting commentary now, and earns a few chuckles from his crew.

  It’s ridiculous, how they pander to him. I don’t understand. What power does this small, ridiculous man have over a crew of the best raiders in the wastes? I’m barely aware of the next couple minutes of Jedediah’s speech; I spend it watching him, studying his face and the faces of his crew. By the time he finishes, and his crew cheers for him, I feel like I’m even further from understanding him than when I started out.

  “So,” Jedediah says in a conversational tone, turning in a circle and looking at his crew. “We’re all reunited, then. Good. I think there’s just one more thing to address before we all have a well-earned rest.” He un-holsters his gun and spins it around his hand. “Which one of you had the bright idea of pretending to be me?”

  Silence falls. Jedediah looks from one face to another, and everyone avoids his gaze. He frowns at the lack of an answer, and raises his hands wide open, gun dangling haphazardly from his fingers like he’s forgotten he’s still holding it. Everyone’s eyes are trained on that weapon, my own included.

  “C’mon guys, it’s a simple question,” he says. “All the towns said Jedediah Johnson was coming through with his crew. Clearly, one of you was claiming to be me.” No one responds. Jedediah sighs, lowering his hands to his sides. He twirls his gun around one finger, looking down at his shoes. He stays like that for a long few moments, his expression pensive, and then his head jerks up. “Oh, I see. You guys think I’m going to be mad, is that it?” He laughs, a little too loudly, and shrugs his shoulders. “I’m not mad, guys. I mean, I get it. You couldn’t exactly admit that I was missing, right? Would really fuck up our reputation. So instead someone had to step up, make it look like we had everything under control, right? And it worked! It totally worked.”

  I stay quiet as I watch the scene unfold, moving only my eyes to take in the lowered heads and overly stiff statures of Jedediah’s crew, so at odds with their leader’s smooth and casual movements. I have the distinct impression that everyone knows something I don’t.

  Finally, someone steps forward, separating himself from the rest of the crew. He’s a thick-necked man with his face almost entirely concealed by his hair. I’ve seen him before, I realize. He’s the other tax collector I saw, way back in Sunrise.

  “Er, boss,” he says, brushing hair out of his eyes, only to have it fall back into place the moment he lowers his hand.

  “Yes, Mop?”

  The man cocks his head to one side.

  “Boss?” he says uncertainly. “My name is—”

  “I know, I know,” Jedediah says, waving his words aside. “We’re doing nicknames now. That’s what they do out here in the west. Isn’t it cool?”

  “Oh,” the newly deemed Mop says, brushing hair out of his eyes and frowning. “Do I have to be Mop?”

  “What’s wrong with Mop?”

  “Well, it’s just—” he starts, and then halts abruptly as Jedediah stops spinning his gun. The weapon falls perfectly into place in his palm, and he taps it against the side of his leg. Mop swallows. “Never mind,” he says.

  “Anyway, what were you saying?” Jedediah asks, smiling.

  “It was Frank that did it.” He pauses and licks his lip. “We thought no one would take us seriously if they knew our leader got ’imself kidnapped an’ such. So, uh, Frank decided to say he was you.”

  “Oh? Frank?” Jedediah turns, scans his gathered crew, and points with his gun. A few people step aside to avoid the end of the barrel, but one steps forward. It’s the huge, quiet-voiced man from before, the one who I initially mistook for Jedediah. He’s as stoic as before, his shoulders braced and his face stone-like. “Is this true?” Jedediah asks, leaning his head back and squinting up at the big man. Frank lets out a long sigh, and slowly nods. Jedediah scratches his head, frowns, and glances at Mop.

  “But Frank hardly talks.”

  “Yeah, well, he only really said ‘I’m Jedediah Johnson’ a couple times, and that
seemed to convince people.”

  Jedediah looks at Frank.

  Frank clears his throat. “I’m Jedediah Johnson,” he says in his quiet, gravelly voice, staring straight ahead.

  “That is pretty convincing,” Jedediah says, nodding to himself. He puts his hands on his hips and chews his bottom lip thoughtfully. “Well, if anyone was gonna step up and pretend to be me, I’m glad it was a big, handsome guy like you.” He reaches up to clap Frank on the shoulder, and then gasps with sudden excitement. “Oh, I’ve got it! Tiny! I’ll call you Tiny. It’s ironic, see? What do you think?”

  Frank grunts and shrugs, which Jedediah apparently takes as a sign of agreement, because he gives the man another excited fist-bump, his hand tiny next to the raider’s giant fist. Mop, meanwhile, seems progressively more bewildered.

  “You’re really not mad? ’Cause usually, when you say ‘I’m not mad, guys’”—he does a rather poor and high-pitched imitation of Jedediah’s voice—“it actually means you’re really mad …”

  “Oh? So you thought I was going to punish Tiny?” Jedediah asks, raising an eyebrow.

  “Well,” Mop says, trying again in vain to push hair out of his face. “I thought for sure you would punish somebody …”

  “Quite right,” Jedediah says, and shoots Mop in the head.

  His body teeters for a moment, topples backward, and lands in the dust with a heavy thud.

  The rest of the crew step aside to avoid the fallen body, but otherwise show no reaction—no anger, no horror, not even the barest hint of surprise. Aside from my sharp intake of breath, there’s total silence. Jedediah sweeps his eyes over his crew, nods to himself, and resumes twirling his gun.

  “Sorry about that,” he says, “but, well, you know how it is. Gotta punish somebody, y’know, and it can’t be Tiny. He’s my biggest and most favorite crew member. Everyone on board with this?” When Jedediah looks around, his crew mumbles quiet assent. Apparently deciding that’s not good enough, he whirls abruptly and points his gun at one particular man. “Yes, Eyepatch?”

  At the end of his gun is a scrawny man donning—surprise, surprise—an eyepatch over his left eye. The man gulps and stands up straighter, his visible eye bulging.

  “Right, boss!” he shouts in Jedediah’s face. Jedediah blinks rapidly.

  “Woah, ’Patch,” he says. “Relax, buddy.” He chuckles, and then turns back around. When his back turns, Eyepatch lets his shoulders slump, releasing a gust of breath like a balloon deflating.

  “Well, I’m glad we’re all on the same page,” Jedediah says. “And now …” He splits into a broad grin, putting his gun away and holding his hands up. “Let’s celebrate!”

  While the raiders celebrate, I sit locked in a basement.

  The room is dark and musty, with no windows and a single door, at the top of a set of stairs in the corner. There’s no furniture, nothing at all except dust and cobwebs. I already spent a solid thirty minutes shouting and hammering at the door with my fists. Now I sit winded and defeated in the corner, listening to the sounds of revelry above. Despite the bumpy initial reunion, the crew does seem genuinely happy to have their leader back—or else they’ve grown exceptionally good at faking it for him. And Jed seems happy to be back with them as well. I hear his voice occasionally, cheering and celebrating, cutting through the other noise to reach my ears.

  But “Jed” is wrong, I remind myself. It’s Jedediah. Jedediah Johnson. The infamous shark, the ruthless dictator. The stranger.

  The deception sits heavily in the pit of my stomach. I can’t believe I was stupid enough to believe everything he told me, to grow to trust him, maybe even like him. I traveled with him. I put a gun in his hand and expected him to watch my back. I spent a cold night pressed against him. I imagined a future with us together; I let myself believe that he could be the home I was looking for.

  The all-encompassing shock has finally left my body, and in its wake, my emotions roil and churn every time I think about it. Anger. Disgust. Disappointment.

  Hurt.

  It’s been a long time since I felt that one. A long time since I let anyone get close enough to hurt me.

  I curl my hands into fists and dig my nails into my palms. I force myself to take long, slow breaths, and focus on the rise and fall of my chest until I have myself under control again.

  I can’t believe I was this fucking stupid. I thought my situation was bad before, stranded out in these hellish western lands, surrounded by raiders. Now I’ve ended up in an even worse one: held hostage by a crazy dictator who I had almost started to believe was my friend.

  I know I should be spending my time productively, trying to think of a plan, a way to escape, but it’s too hard. I’m too exhausted, body and mind. It’s hard enough to keep my thoughts from spiraling into despair. I don’t even raise my head as I hear the door open. Only when footsteps reach the bottom of the stairs do I look up and see Jedediah.

  He drops to a crouch a few feet in front of me, and places a folded blanket and a metal canteen on the floor.

  “Got you some water,” he says, pushing it toward me.

  I kick the canteen, sending it skidding back across the floor to hit his foot. He slowly slides it back toward me.

  “I know you’re upset, but you do need to drink,” he says. When I still don’t move to touch it, he shrugs. “Well. I’ll leave it here. And the blanket, in case it gets cold down here.” He scrutinizes me, and when he speaks again, his voice is soft. “I thought about keeping you in a car, but I know places like this make you feel safe.”

  The memory of that conversation, of the personal things I shared with him, sends a fresh burst of humiliation and hatred through me. I kick the canteen again, this time sending it flying across the room with a clang of metal. Jedediah rocks back on his heels, looking at the fallen canteen for a long few moments before turning back to me.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “I really do mean it. Things got out of hand.”

  “Out of hand,” I repeat.

  “Well, yeah,” he says, gesturing vaguely. “I mean, coming out here was part of the plan, but I didn’t expect things with Saint to happen quite like they did, and Tiny pretending to be me required some serious improvising, and … well. You know how these things are. Or maybe you don’t. I suppose you’ll have to take my word for it.”

  I stay quiet for a few moments, my anger stewing, until what he said hits me.

  “What do you mean, part of the plan?”

  “Surely you didn’t think I’d end up all the way out here by accident,” he says, half-smiling. “Give me some credit, Clem. Haven’t you heard I’m a genius?”

  I say nothing, too busy fighting back an urge to punch him. I may have hit him several times, but that was before; before I was at his mercy, before I saw him murder one of his own men for no good reason. Now I really have no clue who the man is front of me is, or what he’s capable of doing. Jedediah glances at my clenched fists, one eyebrow rising as if he’s curious to see whether I’ll do it. After a few moments pass, he stands up, brushing himself off.

  “Well,” he says. “We’ll have plenty of time to talk about it later. I have to get back to my party.” He walks backward toward the stairs, still keeping his eyes on me. “I would invite you, but I’m afraid that might be a little awkward for everyone involved. I’m sure you understand. Don’t worry. They’ll come around eventually.” Before I can even begin to decipher what that means, he waves at me, turns, and climbs the stairs. Without looking back again, he’s gone, leaving me even more confused than before.

  XXIV

  The Grand Plan

  I wake to the sound of the door slamming. I scramble up, pressing my back against the wall and facing the stairs. I was on the verge of giving up yesterday, but now, after a night’s rest—albeit a shitty one spent on a cold floor—I’m feeling a little differently about the situation. I’m more than ready to launch myself at Jedediah the moment he reaches the bottom of the stairs.

&nbs
p; But the man coming toward me isn’t Jedediah. It’s Frank—or Tiny, or whatever his name is now. He pauses as he reaches the bottom of the stairs, regarding me warily. I stare back at him. After a moment, he swings his gaze to the blanket Jedediah gave me, sitting folded and unused in the middle of the floor. His eyebrows rise slightly, though his face remains otherwise expressionless. He walks over to the canteen, lifts it up, and shakes it to judge the amount of water inside. Finding it full, he shakes his head and mutters under his breath.

  He gives me another long, searching look, picks up both the blanket and canteen, and walks over to me. I stay perfectly still as he draws near, my fists clenched. Unlike Jedediah, this man would have no problem beating me down in a fight. But he makes no aggressive moves toward me. Instead, he sets down both blanket and canteen in a slow and almost gentle way, then turns and leaves.

  When the door shuts again, I grab the canteen and pull it toward me. I open it, take a good sniff, swirl it around and sniff it again. It smells like water, and a quick taste reveals nothing out of the ordinary. It tastes like nice, clean, bottled water.

  As much as I want to reject Jedediah’s hospitality, I can’t take revenge if I end up dead of dehydration. I swallow my pride along with the water.

  As I rest and drink over the day, life gradually returns to my body—and with life, the will to fight.

  Later in the day, Jedediah comes for another visit, this time bringing a can of beans. I can smell meat cooking outside, but he didn’t bring any. A gesture intended to show that he knows me, I assume, just like the bomb shelter thing. But if he thinks he’s going to trick me into trusting him again, he’s dead wrong.

  I stay in the corner and bristle silently as he sets the opened can in front of me and sits, cross-legged, a few feet away. After a few minutes of silent standoff, the smell of food becomes too tempting. I reach out and grab the can, dragging it over to me. It’s warm, and I eat it quickly, while still keeping one eye on Jedediah. He watches me, one hand propping his chin up.