The Wanderer and the New West

by Adam Bender

  “Lone wolf!” cried Lin-Z dramatically. “Where did you get that jacket?”

  He displayed a facial expression several teeth short of a smile, and Lindsay instantly lost her brave front. As she ran, she heard the crack of a rifle. A single bullet whistled into the ground beside her feet, kicking up a burst of dust. Wide-eyed with terror, she struggled to control her breathing, but it just kept going in-out, in-out until she was wheezing from asthma.

  “Okay,” she gasped, trying to compose herself. “Okay.”

  The next bullet knocked her to the ground.

  *

  Errol’s eyes snapped open at the echoing report of a distant rifle. When a second one came, he pushed himself to his feet and ran to the cliff to join Kid Hunter in gaping down at the land below.

  Rosie burst out of her tent in a state of alarm. “Did you hear that?”

  The Wanderer nodded grimly. “Sounded like a Montag. Wake up Lindsay. Could just be a hunter, but we ought to be prepared.”

  Kid Hunter gritted his teeth. “Think it’s the lone wolf? Maybe he found a new target?”

  The Wanderer narrowed his eyes. “It seems likely.”

  “Oh no,” cried Rosie. She was standing outside Lindsay’s tent. “She’s gone.”

  He felt a chill run through his body. “Did she take anything with her?”

  “The gun and her bag. I don’t think she was planning to come back.” She looked like she was about to explode with worry.

  “How did she —?” Errol looked at Kid Hunter. “You were supposed to be watching! How did she get away, dammit?”

  Charlie took a step back and stammered, “I … I don’t know. I was watching all night.” He looked down at his hands for answers. “It must have been when I left to piss —”

  “You left your guard?”

  “Boys!” cried Rosa. “We’re wasting time! We have to go find her!”

  “You said she has a gun,” he said to calm himself as much as he meant it to calm her, but the statement only served to make the reporter furious.

  “You know what day it is, don’t you? It’s Saturday. Girls her age like to wake up early to watch cartoons! Not … not to run off into the forest with a loaded gun!”

  “I’m going for her!” shouted Charlie. He was already running down the trail.

  *

  Lindsay’s sweatshirt was sticky with blood. She had managed to flip herself over to her back but she couldn’t get up. Maybe if she just lied here long enough for the wound to heal — twenty minutes, an hour max — she’d be up on her feet again, good as new.

  Getting shot had felt like an explosion emanating from the core of her body, but after that it didn’t hurt much, really. That was good because it gave her time to think about what to do next.

  Slowly, she became aware of crunching footsteps growing closer … closer …

  She closed her eyes and gripped her handgun.

  One foot smashed down into the pine needles by her left hip, followed by another on the right. She could smell the lone wolf’s breath. It was like cigarettes and piss. With a sudden flick of her wrist, Lindsay flipped up her handgun. Over the blast she screamed, “For Jimmy!”

  She expected him to holler but the lone wolf just gurgled. She opened her eyes in time to see his belly flop down on top of her. Lindsay started screaming. She couldn’t get him off! She couldn’t get up! And now, oh God, the sharp pain in her back! It had been there all along!

  Lindsay screamed as loud as she could, praying that someone would hear her, that someone would come.

  *

  Kid Hunter ran harder when a third gunshot went off in the distance. It sounded different from the previous blast. It sounded like —

  “That was Lindsay’s gun,” yelled the Wanderer from behind.

  Charlie smiled. Then maybe she was still alive, still fighting.

  Ahead he saw the top of a great boulder they’d had to scramble up earlier. He remembered it was a few feet taller than the Wanderer. He ran right to the edge and jumped straight down to the path below. He landed with a thud and nearly fell forward onto his hands.

  “Careful!” Rosa called from behind him.

  “I have to find her!” Charlie shouted back.

  The Wanderer was right. It was his fault that Lindsay was gone. He’d done a poor job protecting her. He’d been no better an older brother to the girl than Jimmy.

  Charlie kept running toward where he thought he’d heard the shot, but he couldn’t find her anywhere. How much farther? Had he passed her somehow?

  He was getting tired, had to stop to catch his breath. The others were still coming but he’d gotten pretty far ahead of them.

  A girl’s scream — quiet, distant, but unmistakable — turned his head forty-five degrees to the right.

  “This way!” he hollered back to the others.

  Lindsay yelled again. It was the sound of pain and desperation.

  Kid Hunter ran toward it.

  *

  “Lindsay!” someone called.

  Frantic footsteps. The crushing weight of the lone wolf’s corpse pulled away. Kid Hunter wearing a shocked look she’d never seen before. “You’re going to be okay! I got you, girl.”

  Lindsay squinted at the bright blue sky beyond the pine needles and then over to Charlie’s stubbly chin. She could see worry in the way his mouth fidgeted.

  “I’m sorry!” she blurted. “I just … wanted to find Jimmy.”

  “I get it. He’s family.”

  Rosa materialized through the haze. “Oh, God,” murmured the reporter, kneeling over her. “I-I can put on a bandage, but she’s going to need medical attention.”

  The Wanderer appeared over Rosa’s shoulder. “Founders Spring isn’t far,” he said, pointing northwest. “Someone there will be able to help.”

  Hazily, Lindsay wondered where Charlie had gone. Eventually, she found him by the lone wolf’s Montag. The sniper rifle rested innocently on the forest floor. Kid Hunter stared at the side of the barrel and muttered a few numbers.

  “What … what are you doing?” she asked.

  “Memorizing the registration,” he said. “189, 200, 756. Let’s try to remember that.”

  “189, 200, 756,” she repeated. “Why?”

  “So we can figure out who this son of a bitch was.”

  Lindsay began to cry. “I can’t … I can’t get up.”

  Rosa shook her head. “Guys … I don’t think she’s going to be able to walk.”

  “It’s okay, I’ve got her,” said Charlie. He came over and lifted her into his arms. “Lucky for you, you’re light as a feather.”

  Rosa shook her head. “What about your arm, Charlie? It hasn’t had time to —”

  “No, I’ll carry her,” he stated more affirmatively. “It will be slow, but I can do it.”

  “Then we’ll split up,” said the Wanderer. “Rosa and I will run ahead to get help in town, or maybe find someone on the way if we’re lucky. When we find help, we’ll come back and meet you on the trail halfway.”

  Before leaving, Errol took Lindsay’s hand and spoke softly into her ear. “You’re going to be okay. Just hang in there, Little Wanderer.”

  *

  With Lindsay in his arms, Charlie followed the others back into the trees. Before long, his friends had disappeared into the shadows and he couldn’t hear them anymore. There was just the sound of his own heavy footsteps.

  “Charlie …”

  Glancing down, he was surprised to see all the fire gone from Lindsay’s visage. It was like the girl in his arms had vanished, replaced by some wispy woodland spirit. “Don’t talk,” he said. “Save your energy.”

  “Is he … is he dead?”

  Charlie tried to smile. “Yeah, you got him real good.”

  “Oh.”

  He could see she was upset and changed tactic. “You did the right thing. He was a bad man.”

  Why didn’t he stop her? Why didn’t he get there in time?

  “I killed
him …”

  He remembered what she’d told him back in the canyon. “You’ve never killed anyone before. I’ve been there. We all have. It’s hard.”

  “He killed Jimmy. I think he did anyway. He had his coat. There was a hole … blood …”

  “You did the right thing.”

  There were tears forming in her eyes. Taking a life was never easy; you just got better at not thinking about it. Charlie could always do it when he knew next to nothing about the target, but as soon as he learned something — as soon as the target became a real person — he struggled. It was why he hadn’t been able to kill the Wanderer, after all.

  “Charlie?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Am I a hero?”

  It struck him as a funny question and he laughed. “Well sure, I guess so. You are Lin-Z, right?”

  Lindsay smiled weakly. “Charlie? The hero never dies, right?”

  *

  Trees, trees and more trees. To Rosa, the path seemed endless. Would they ever reach the town?

  It was too soon to cry. She knew that, but Lindsay looked bad. The shot had missed her heart, but she was bleeding so much. She wasn’t sure how long the girl could go on without a doctor. The Wanderer seemed to be thinking the same thing. He pushed one long leg straight out in front of the other as if he was some sort of machine.

  In the rush to help Lindsay, they had abandoned all their supplies at the campground. There had been no time to go back and get anything. If they had to spend another night outside …

  Before she could finish the thought, a two-lane road appeared through the trees. Rosa stepped out onto the pavement and looked right toward a rusty old sign declaring the distance to Founders Spring: five miles. They could easily walk that distance and get to town well before sunset. But time was running out to help Lindsay.

  The humming of an engine made Rosa yelp with joy. She turned around and watched the car appear mirage-like in the distance. Errol swung his arms wildly, while Rosa yelled as loud as she could yell. But the car didn’t slow. She caught a brief glimpse of the driver’s fearful eyes as the vehicle sped past them in the direction of salvation. She couldn’t blame him. It was plain risky to pick up hitchhikers. If their roles were reversed, she wasn’t sure she’d have stopped, either.

  “There’ll be another,” said the Wanderer, but his typical confidence waned.

  They walked down the road in the direction of town. The road was dusty and full of potholes, but it still felt easier to walk on compared to the mountain trail. A pang in her throat reminded Rosa she was thirsty. She hadn’t thought about this for some time, but her body seemed to have picked up on the fact they were getting close to civilization and had lost its patience.

  A low, mechanical growl developed behind them; it sounded angrier than the car. The Wanderer spun around and waved, but Rosa couldn’t bear to look. This time, however, nothing passed her, and she heard the questioning voice of the driver. She turned to see Errol at the window of a silver pickup truck, his palms explaining what had happened. The driver popped open the passenger door.

  *

  “189, 200, 756,” recited Kid Hunter, ignoring the numbness spreading through his arms. He carried Lindsay toward a bright spot between the trees, an escape from the shadows. It looked like some kind of clearing. As he moved closer, he saw it was a field of gray tree stumps and tall green grass. A place where lumberjacks once had been but had long since abandoned. As he moved among these round wooden tombstones, Charlie found himself suddenly turned around. Were they still going the right way?

  “Okay, Lindsay, I’m … I’m just going to put you down for a minute while I have a look around. And then we’ll get going again, all right?”

  She didn’t breathe a word.

  “Oh no.” He laid her on a fallen log. Her sweatshirt was soaked in blood and so were his arms. Desperately, he tried to think of what to do. He’d seen people do CPR on TV, but with the damage to her back, it didn’t seem like a good idea to press on her chest.

  She didn’t breathe.

  The hum of an engine and crackling of sticks alerted Charlie to a silver pickup coming up the trail. Before the truck could come to a complete stop, the passenger door flew open. Rosa and the Wanderer jumped out and raced toward him.

  “They’re here, girl! C’mon, you’ve got to hold on — they’re here!”

  She didn’t.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  A Militia!

  Ben Martin squirmed in his seat. Church just didn’t feel like church anymore. Yes, it still looked like one with its stained-glass windows and vaulted ceiling. But ever since that damn Wanderer came in here, the place just felt wrong. Like it had lost its … what was the word? Sanctity, maybe.

  The preacher was going on about forgiveness, but Martin didn’t see the point. That was the problem with Father James. The boy was just too damn naive. It wasn’t his age, it was his lack of experience. He didn’t know the world like Martin did. He wasn’t there that terrible day at the Walmart. So what right did he have to preach forgiveness?

  When the call had come in — “Shots fired” — the sheriff had been patrolling along the bleak highway of strip malls just east of the suburbs. He wasn’t far from the store. Only a couple intersections, and he’d be there. Jaw clenched, he’d flicked on his siren and hit the gas pedal hard.

  The terrified screams had told the sheriff he was in the right place. They’d risen — there’d been a sound like a snare drum — and they’d fallen. Martin had parked at a distance from the gunman, pulling his cruiser sideways so he’d have something to duck behind. He’d readied his Breck 17, and jumped out of the cruiser.

  The shooter had worn a black trench coat. Martin remembered the lunatic turning, seeing him, aiming the Yossarian. But the sheriff had his shot lined up already and fired first.

  For a moment, the scene had gone silent except for the sound of his own heavy breathing. Then came the moans of the dying. They were strewn across the ground like poisoned cockroaches — some on their backs, some on their bellies. Some he knew, some he didn’t. Some were just plain too shot up to be recognized.

  A man had cried out in anguish. Jackson Veras, crouched over his boy, willing him to live. Rosie had been there, too, looking too stunned to speak. Martin remembered telling them that ambulances were on their way and that everything would be all right as he made his way to the man who’d caused all this mayhem. The shooter hadn’t moved a muscle when Martin turned over his body. The pale face greeting him hadn’t belonged to anyone he knew, but he’d looked a lot younger than he had anticipated. Martin had checked him for Red Stripe Gang paraphernalia, didn’t find any. He’d also checked his wallet, found a couple of bucks, and a student ID from a college a few towns over. That was it. Not even a death note explaining why. He was no one, and there was no reason. Just a kid, a gun, and seventeen dead.

  The same thoughts ran through Martin’s mind again and again: This kind of thing wasn’t supposed to happen in America. How had this happened in America?

  *

  Father James frowned as he looked from one empty space to another between the parishioners in the pews. Church attendance had dropped sharply the week after the Wanderer’s arrival in Liberty, and today it was even worse. He was giving a sermon on forgiveness, but wondered what good this lesson was with so few to hear it.

  He closed his Bible and was about to dismiss what was left of the congregation when Ben Martin jumped out of his seat and strode purposely up the aisle.

  “Sheriff?” gasped Father James.

  “I just have a few words, if you’ll let me.”

  “I don’t think —” the preacher choked, but the fat sheriff had already begun to address the parishioners. Father James caught a sympathetic smile in the audience from Jack Veras.

  “As you know,” Martin said while adjusting his Army hat, “we had a psycho calling himself the Wanderer in our town a couple weeks ago. He showed up while we were all here and started firing h
is gun like a maniac. He killed a boy, one of Liberty’s good sons —”

  The crowd murmured some words of sympathy. Father James couldn’t take it anymore and burst forward to take back the pulpit. “Now, Sheriff! Let us not forget what that ‘good son’ did to one of Liberty’s good daughters!”

  “Allegedly,” spat Martin. He pushed the preacher aside and pulled back the people’s attention with a raised finger and an exclamation: “I tried to get the Wanderer! I just couldn’t do it alone. I went to our elected representative, Mayor Alex White himself, for assistance bringing that outlaw to justice, but all the government bureaucrat could do was shrug his highfalutin shoulders! But I tell you, men like the Wanderer are going to be the death of American society. It’s already going to Hell. Before you know it, we’re gonna be living among thieves, murderers, and cannibals!”

  The crowd gasped.

  “That’s right — cannibals!”

  Jack stood up like he was going to object. Martin must have seen him, too, because the pace of his diatribe quickened.

  “As you well know, the Wanderer isn’t the first thug with a gun who’s shown up here in Liberty. About a year ago, we had a shooting over at the Walmart. You all remember. The gunman shot and killed nearly twenty people. I was just a block away when the shots started, but I couldn’t get there in time. I took him down, but there were already so many dead, or dying, when I got there.”

  Jackson Veras paled and slumped in his pew.

  “I’m sorry, Jack, to have brought that up,” said Martin. “I know that day was especially hard for you. For your wife, Elaine. For your son, Pablo.”

  Father James frowned. Poor Jack. The recitation of each name looked like a stab in his heart.

  Martin continued. “I don’t mean to dwell on these two difficult days for Liberty — the shooting and the arrival of the Wanderer. The reason I’m addressing y’all here today is to tell you that I have a solution. Y’see, we may not have the budget for a police force, but by God we can still protect this town! The Second Amendment reads, and I repeat, ‘A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.’ Hear that? A militia! And so, what I’m proposing is a volunteer group of good men to protect this town — Liberty’s very own militia.