Optimistic or not, by the time the sun is setting, we’re forced to retire for the night. Not even this madman raider is crazy enough to keep searching through questionably stable buildings without light to guide us. We’ve collected a small, pathetic pile of loot: tattered blankets, some ammo, a few bottles of murky water. It’s a sad haul, especially considering we put in a few hours of work after most of the other crews retreated for the night. Nobody is happy with it, but nobody seems willing to say anything. Instead, the group seethes quietly as we leave town.
The remnants of town are unstable and ripe with death, so we head out into the wastes to make camp. Most of the other crews are already set up. Small fires dot the wastes surrounding the thoroughly looted town. The raiders seem to be celebrating, the camps lively and rowdy, full of shouting and singing. The air is thick with the smell of cooking flesh and the occasional whiff of alcohol. None of them pay much attention to us as we pass through, keeping to whatever temporary truce is holding this mob together.
I keep shooting Jed long, angry looks. I know it isn’t really his fault, but I need someone to direct my frustration toward, and I’m not going to take the chance of pissing off any raiders. Of all the goddamn raider crews, we just had to pick this bunch of misfits, the only ones who seem to have gotten nothing of worth.
Aside from the bodies, of course. The big man carries one over each shoulder, looking quite cheerful about the task, and Wolf drags one with much greater difficulty through the dirt behind us. He huffs and puffs with the effort, hampered by his injury, but snaps at anyone who offers help. The two women of the group carry the loot that isn’t dead flesh, while Jed and I trail behind, carrying armfuls of blankets, since that’s all they would trust us with.
Throughout the day, I worked on picking up the names they use for one another. They were difficult to distinguish from the insults Wolf throws around, but I got them eventually. The girl, as we already learned, is Kid. The odd, quiet woman is Dolly, the big guy is Tank, and, of course, their foul-mouthed leader is Wolf. It’s all very western-wastes in nature, not having real names, but I try to accustom myself to it. After all, we could be stuck with these people for a while. Thinking about exactly how long puts a knot in my stomach. How long will it be until I have to raid with them? How long until I get hungry enough to become a shark? How much will I have to sacrifice in order to survive?
In the midst of the revelry all around us, Wolf and the others quietly make camp and start their own fire. I sit beside it—but not too close, the sight of the flames devouring Fort Cain still vivid in my mind, mixing with my memories of Old Creek burning to the ground—and sift through my duffel bag. On the edge of camp I hear Wolf and Tank hacking up the bodies we brought out with us. I try very hard not to look, but the sound of knives hitting flesh is evocative enough without the visual. It reminds me of death, and violence, and I feel like I’m going to be sick. I force myself to breathe deeply and calmly, keep my face cold and stone-like, and force my attention onto cleaning my guns.
I’ve always known there was cannibalism in the wastes. It’s the final taboo, the hard line drawn between sharks and other wastelanders. The thought has always sickened me, always brought up my burning hatred for the raiders and made me feel justified in it. Everyone in the wastes does horrible things to live. We all kill, we all make sacrifices. But this? This is too much. This is the one thing that truly separates them from the rest of mankind. They’re not people anymore; they’re just sharks.
And now, for the first time, I have to sit here and face it.
I may have imagined these things, but it’s a different matter entirely to watch them reduce a human being to meat. At least it doesn’t look so obviously human by the time they’ve put it over the fire to cook, but the sizzle of skin still makes my stomach roll. It smells deceptively like real food, like any other meat, but nonetheless revulsion rises in my throat. It’s even worse how casual they are about it. There’s no grim recognition of how horrible this is, no solemnity about the process. They’re even cheerful, talking unabashedly about how hungry they are and how good it smells, no shame in their eagerness to consume what was a living person just earlier today.
At least I feel a little safer with a gun in my hands. It quiets my wailing nerves and the vengeful murmuring of my mind. Being here, in the middle of a raider camp, surrounded by enemies and doing nothing about it, is a betrayal of everything I’ve ever said and done. I’m a coward. I’m a traitor. My head feels hot, my hands tremble, my vision blurs. I need to hit something. To kill something.
As I busy myself cleaning guns and counting ammo, I gradually settle my nerves to a tolerable level. I’m just doing what I need to do, I tell myself. Just tolerating this to stay alive. Now is not the time to be a hero.
After prowling around and chatting with the others for a while, Jed sits beside me. He’s quiet for once. I wonder if he’s concerned for me. I glance at him, but he’s staring into the fire, his face impossible to read. I should know better than to attempt guessing at his thoughts. I may have grown closer to him, even to the point where I trust him to some extent, but that doesn’t mean I understand what happens inside that weird head of his. He remains an enigma to me. I hope I’m the same to him.
I manage to avoid attention from the rest of the crew for a while. They’re busy with their own tasks, and tired from the raid. But once the meat is done cooking and they start doling it out, I can’t remain overlooked anymore.
When Tank offers me a slice of meat, my stomach clenches. If they think I’m a raider, they’ll expect me to eat it. It’s normal for them. If I turn it down, I’ll stick out like a sore thumb. But can I go so far? I raise a hand, reaching for the meat—and then draw it back. Tank’s forehead creases, still extending the meat like he expects me to grab it at any moment.
“Not eating?” he asks. “Plenty to go around. It’s not charity or anything; you’re with us now.”
“I’m not—” I start, and hesitate. No way are they going to believe I’m not hungry. As Jed said, the best lies have a bit of truth hidden in them. But what can I say that won’t completely give me away? “I don’t eat meat.”
“Eh?” If possible, Tank looks more confused than before. “You serious? A raider who doesn’t eat meat?” He looks at Wolf. The leader of the crew scrutinizes me.
“You don’t seem like the squeamish type,” he says. “What kind of half-ass raider doesn’t eat meat?”
“They’re not from around here,” Kid volunteers. “Maybe it’s different where they come from.”
I almost nod, but notice everyone’s eyes shift. I follow their looks to see Jed eagerly digging into a piece of meat, so gleefully invested that he’s totally oblivious to the conversation. It takes him a couple seconds to notice the stares. He pauses, hunk of meat halfway to his slightly open mouth. He tentatively takes another bite, chews it, and swallows. “What?” he asks, finally, his eyes locking with mine.
I swallow hard, disturbed by the image of him eating human flesh just like the others. Before we met up with these raiders, it was easy to forget who he was. Now I’m suddenly finding myself wondering if he’s really still on my side, or if it was just convenient. He could throw me to the raiders right now, and carry on his way.
“Looks like you’re wrong,” Wolf says to Kid. “Surprising no one.”
And then everyone’s looking back at me, awaiting explanation. I clear my throat, trying desperately to think of something reasonable to say and finding nothing. The tension rises with every silent second. I’m itching to grab my gun just for the comfort of having it in my hand, but I have a feeling that would incite an all-out brawl right now, and I’d rather avoid that if I can help it. I keep my eyes on Wolf, assuming the others will take their cues from him.
If he reaches for a weapon, it’s over.
“She’s a vegetarian,” Jed says, abruptly breaking the silence. Everyone, including me, turns to stare at him.
“What?” Wolf says incredulous
ly, while I try to wipe the dumbfounded look off my face before anyone sees it.
“Weak stomach. She’s actually allergic to meat,” Jed says. Though I’m grateful that he’s trying to argue for me, I bite back a groan. That’s the best explanation he can come up with? But he keeps a straight face, nodding solemnly.
“Is that a real thing?” Kid asks, looking over at Wolf, who seems about as baffled as she is. She frowns. “It doesn’t sound like a real thing.”
“Oh, it’s real, all right,” Jed says in a very grave voice. “I’ve seen it in action. Real ugly. She’ll break out in hives if she even touches the stuff.”
As the crew turns back to me, I fold my arms over my chest and force myself to nod. The moment they turn away, I give Jed the most intense glare I can muster up. His lips twist to hide a smile.
“Oh, not to mention she gets the shits,” he adds. “You don’t even wanna hear about those.”
There’s a pause. Then Wolf and Tank burst into laughter, while Kid turns red and Dolly looks on, unruffled.
“Shut the fuck up,” I say.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to embarrass you,” Jed says, chuckling.
“Idiot,” I mutter, dropping my eyes to my boots. But, despite my words, I know better than to think Jed is anything close to an idiot at this point. Embarrassing as that exchange was, he did successfully de-escalate the situation. The crew doesn’t question it again, and Kid is happy to hand over a can of beans.
I pry it open with my knife and inhale the food in seconds. I notice the big guy—Tank—staring at me, and glare at him out of habit, but he looks more impressed than anything. Still, I maintain the scowl. I’m not going to let my guard down around these people, and definitely don’t plan on being friendly.
Once I’ve finished my meal, I toss the can aside and make myself comfortable by the fire. I try not to think about the fact that I’m surrounded by raiders, or the sound of Jed gnawing the last of the meat off a bone. The rest of the crew chats idly among themselves, and Jed is more than eager to join in, but I stay quiet and tune it out. I catch occasional bits of conversation, mostly about where they’re going and what their plan is, which all seems up in the air right now.
Honestly, I’m not sure how this crew made it this far. I haven’t seen them in action yet, but they already seem barely competent. They have hardly any loot from this raid, and hardly any idea where they’re headed. Perhaps my standards for raiders are too high. Crews like Jedediah Johnson’s don’t exist out here; if they did, the western wastes wouldn’t be the way they are. Still, I expected better than this.
“You guys aren’t worried about Jedediah Johnson?” Jed asks out of nowhere, jerking me away from my thoughts and into the conversation. I shoot him a warning look. Surely it’s better to stay away from subjects like that, which could lead to hints that we’re not who we say we are, but apparently Jed has other ideas.
“Who the fuck is Jedediah Johnson?” Wolf asks without looking up from his meal. Jed lets out an exaggerated gasp of surprise, pressing a hand to his chest.
“You don’t know?” he asks, appalled. I sneak a glance at the crew, but luckily they don’t seem suspicious about how personally he takes the lack of knowledge. Instead, they’re just giving him blank stares. “The legend of Jedediah Johnson? The one, the only?” He pauses, as if expecting that to ring any bells, and sighs loudly. “They say he was the son of an assassin and a whore—his father being the whore, that is, and also the source of his overwhelming charm and good looks—”
“Skip to the important part,” Wolf says, while I resist the urge to roll my eyes at Jed’s ridiculous dramatization of his own father.
“Well, it’s all important, but yeah, okay. He’s a famous raider, king of the eastern wastes—”
“Oh,” Wolf says. “Well, that explains that. I don’t give a single fuck about the eastern wastes.”
Jed, shocked into silence, only stares at him.
“Well, you should,” I say. “The eastern wastes are what happen when you let a psychopath take charge.” Jed certainly isn’t doing the story justice, so I guess I have to step up. “He’s a tyrant. You westerners are lucky you killed Saint before he got a chance to do that here.”
“I don’t know if that’s fair,” Jed says. I look at him, eyebrows rising. I know Jedediah Johnson is his father and all, but I can’t believe that he’d suggest his rule is anything but tyrannical. “You really think life is better here than there?” he asks. I open my mouth to answer, but before I can, he continues, “Not for people like you—people like us.” He gestures not just at himself, but also at Wolf’s crew. “People like you and I are fine out here, obviously. But for other people? Normal people?”
His usual playfulness is all gone, his tone serious and his stare intent. I open my mouth again, ready to argue, but falter. I don’t think I realized it until this very moment, but he could be right. People like me, and Jed, and these raiders thrive in the chaos of the wastes, but other people—townies like Wyatt, or that girl who tried to help bandage my wounds in Fort Cain—don’t stand a chance on their own. All the townies we’ve met out here are dead. Under Jedediah Johnson’s rule, they’d probably still be alive right now.
“Everyone hates Jedediah Johnson,” I say, well aware that it’s not an answer to his question.
“Sure, but they’re safe,” he says. “They’re alive. Probably leading longer, fuller lives than the townies out here.”
I open my mouth and shut it again, unable to come up with an answer. I’m left feeling shaken. Jed glances around at the raiders, as if suddenly reminded that we have an audience.
“I mean, it’s shitty for people like us out in the east,” he says. “Just saying, I can respect the guy for what he’s doing. Begrudgingly.”
There’s a long pause, and I look around, worried that he might have ignited suspicion in the raiders. Tank and Dolly have clearly stopped following the conversation, though Kid is giving Jed an oddly piercing look, and Wolf looks thoughtful.
“Fucking eastern wastes,” the crew leader says, shaking his head. “Who knew anything interesting was happening out there?”
“Uh,” Jed says. “Mostly everybody.”
“Next you’re gonna tell me shit’s going down in the southern wastes or somethin’.”
“Wait,” Jed says. “You don’t know about the southern wastes? Are you serious? They’re—”
“No, no, no,” Wolf says, waving a hand at him. “I don’t wanna know. Got enough shit to worry about already.”
Jed sighs, but says nothing.
“You know, I think I have actually heard the name,” Tank says, scratching his chin. “Some of the other crews were talking about some guy coming from the east. Some famous raider king, yeah, I remember now. They say he’s getting real close to us. We could cross paths with his crew any day now, and no one is sure what will happen.”
“Well, he sounds like an asshole to me, calling himself a king,” Wolf says. “If we run into the guy, I say we kill him.”
I bite back a curse. I knew Jedediah’s crew was drawing near to this area, but I didn’t know he was quite that close, and didn’t think the raiders might intentionally start shit with him. If that happens, our plan of hiding among the army will fall apart. And if it comes down to that, I wonder, will Jed side with me, or his father? I glance at him, trying to gauge his reaction to Wolf’s words, but he shows none except for a small twist of his mouth.
“Anyway,” Tank says, “if I can make a suggestion to lighten the mood …” He reaches into his bag, pulls out a plastic bottle, and holds it up triumphantly. “Got a surprise in town.”
“Oh, damn,” Wolf says. “Is that what I think it is?”
“Pretty sure it’s vodka,” Tank says, squinting at the unlabeled bottle. “Or moonshine. I dunno. Something that smells like rubbing alcohol. I bashed a guy’s head in to grab it.”
Wolf whistles under his breath and holds out his hands. Tank tosses the bottle to him.
“Suit yourself, kiddo,” Wolf says, unscrewing the top. “More for me.”
What he should’ve said is “more for Jed,” as it turns out. Soon enough, my companion is unsteady in his seat and talking much too loudly, with plenty of over-the-top hand gestures that throw him further off-balance. He spouts off story after story, spinning some ridiculous yarn about how we ended up here. The crew doesn’t seem to suspect it’s a lie, or if they do, they don’t care. Tank and Wolf laugh uproariously at each of his stories, and he even earns himself one small smile from Dolly, though Kid still seems wary of him.
As for me, I keep a careful eye on Jed. I didn’t expect him to actually get drunk. I haven’t taken a sip myself. I’m not usually one to turn down a drink or two if the opportunity arises, but it seems too risky in this situation, surrounded by people who would kill both of us if they knew the truth. But Jed seems to have no reservations, taking eager swigs every time he gets ahold of the bottle, getting progressively drunker and messier. I don’t like the way he’s letting his guard down, or the way he’s talking so much as a result. It seems like it’s only a matter of time before some little lie causes suspicion—or even worse, he lets out something true.
I try to act like I’m just relaxing by the fire, but I listen very carefully to every word out of his mouth. More than anything I want to knock the bottle out of his hands, or drag him away to shut him up, but I know that will only arouse suspicion. We have to keep acting like we have nothing to hide. And Jed’s constant chatter does do that job … as long as he can keep pulling it off.
“Really, though,” he says, holding his hands up to get everyone’s attention, which he clearly already has. “Let’s talk about Jedediah Johnson. The man, the king, the legend—”
“All right, well, I think my partner here has had more than enough,” I say, cutting him off. He’s spewed out a lot of bullshit tonight, but we definitely don’t need another conversation along those lines. I grab Jed’s arm and haul him upright. He sways on his feet, murmuring slurred protests. “It’s time for bed,” I tell him firmly. He pouts at me, but he shuts up, and doesn’t resist as I pull him away from the fire. I grab the blankets we looted from Fort Cain and throw them over my shoulder as we head for the edge of camp.
Raid Page 17
