Battle for the Wastelands
Matthew W. Quinn
Copyright © 2019 by Matthew W. Quinn
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
ISBN (TPB) 978-1-7131923-67
Artwork © by Matthew Cowdery
Contents
In the Beginning, A Hunt
Ultimatum
Carroll Town Prepares for War
Onslaught
Inspection
Carroll Town Falls
The Judgment of Carroll Town
Into the Desert
Alonzo Merrill
A Reason to Live
Keeping the Peace
The Army Life
Ambush
Home Sweet Home
How the Merrills Do Justice
Things (Start To) Fall Apart
Harvest Problems
Imposing Peace
Harvest Festival
Developing the Plan
A Most Interesting Night
The Great Vittles Grab Begins
A Meeting of Minds
To Battle
Mission Creep
Successful So Far…
Storming the Tower
An Unpleasant Surprise…
Race Against Time
An Awkward Gathering…
Relief Arrives
To The Victor Go The Spoils
Triumph, But…
Afterword
Acknowledgments
About the Author
In the Beginning, A Hunt
The punishing July sun glared in the cobalt sky above lean Andrew Sutter. He stared down the sights of his rifle, tracking the gray-furred ripper ambling across flat, rocky ground below the desolate brown hills. The heat pulled sweat from his thin face, darkening his straw-colored hair.
The men of Carroll Town went out that morning, each alone to cover as much territory as possible. They’d strip the countryside, right down to the kangaroo rats. If game were plentiful, they could survive until harvest without eating their livestock or their seed grain.
Just his luck he, who’d only hunted meek pronghorn or mule deer, faced the biggest predator roaming the badlands between the river valley and the desert. He’d considered skedaddling, but the growl of an empty stomach stopped him dead. A ripper meant a powerful amount of meat.
He’d laid out the scraps of his meager prairie dog breakfast before tucking himself behind some rocks on a nearby hill. The smell brought the ripper into rifle range soon enough.
The predator bent its lupine head and sniffed the meat. Andrew aimed for its flank just behind the ribs and pulled the trigger.
The rifle kicked against his shoulder just as the ripper stepped forward. His shot cut across the ripper’s back. The beast threw back its head and howled.
His ears still ringing, Andrew flipped the rifle’s lever, ejecting the spent shell. The ripper looked up. Andrew flattened himself against the hard ground behind the rocks, but their eyes met. It roared. Andrew swore and aimed again. The ripper bounded toward him, long forelegs and short, muscular hind legs kicking up dust behind it.
Andrew’s bullet caught it in the shoulder. The ripper kept coming. Oh shit!
Andrew scrambled back and fired again. The bullet carved a deep furrow down the ripper’s side. The wound slowed it but didn’t stop it. Shit! His stomach boiled. The damn things liked to go for the soft parts, the guts or even the balls.
Andrew made it to the bottom of the hill by the time the ripper crested it. It fell like a lightning bolt. He aimed for the ripper’s red right eye.
CRACK!
His bullet punched through the cheek and erupted from the other side of its skull. The ripper tumbled. Its momentum slammed it into the ground beside him.
Despite his shaking hands, Andrew kept his rifle leveled on the dead ripper. He circled it, breathing heavily. He jumped forward and kicked the creature as hard as he could. Something cracked beneath his boot. The ripper did not stir.
Andrew whooped. “Thought you’d be eating me today?” Andrew taunted the corpse. “Looks like it’s you going on the stove!”
The ripper weighed at least one hundred pounds. Between the meat and what Andrew could trade for, his mother, sister, and himself wouldn’t need to worry about food for awhile. He laughed.
Holding on his rifle with one hand, he pulled one of the beast’s forelimbs across his shoulders. His back protested. Once he’d have gutted it or at least bled it to reduce the weight, but these days offal and even blood had uses.
Andrew bore his prize from one brown stony hilltop to another, never lingering in the low areas watered by the dying stream. Though the sun wrung rivers of sweat from his body, he wanted to see any predators coming from a long way off.
On his fourth hill, something moved below amid the sea of dying vegetation cloaking a rusted Old World rail line. His gut clenched. Rippers mated for life.
A roar announced the second ripper’s attack. The creature surged up the hill, murderous eyes locked on Andrew. Had they been hunting him like he’d been hunting them?
Andrew twisted away at the last possible second. The blow that would have sliced him open from breastbone to crotch tore only his white shirt and brown trousers.
The ripper’s momentum bowled him over. He and the dead ripper tumbled, the live one atop both. They broke apart as they rolled down the hill into the dead grass. Luckily he’d kept hold of the rifle.
Andrew scrambled away as the beast recovered. The ripper lunged. He shoved his rifle forward, the stock catching a blow meant for his throat. He struck the beast’s bony brow with his rifle butt. It stumbled back on three limbs, clawing at Andrew with the fourth.
Andrew wasn’t going to lick the ripper in close combat. He had to find a way to shoot the damn thing.
The predator slashed again. A claw caught Andrew’s left shoulder. Andrew retreated, blood already darkening his shirt. He raised his rifle as it lunged. The barrel touched the ripper’s forehead in the instant before he squeezed the trigger. A cone of blood and brain erupted from the back of its head. Some ended up on Andrew’s face as the ripper slammed into the brown earth.
He wiped the gore onto his sleeve. Not wanting to waste anything, he picked a large bit off his arm and swallowed it whole. The foul taste gagged him, but it’d silence his stomach.
He looked at his kills. No way could he carry both home. He dragged the first carcass over to the second, drew his knife from the sheathe on his leather belt, and opened the arteries on both necks. He scowled as the red blood drained into the dust. There goes some sausage. Next he opened both bellies, wrinkling his nose when the hard, fecal scent slammed into his face. He cut the organs free, stuffing them into the bag. Next came the thighs and calves. By the time he’d sawed those from both rippers, his arms ached. For a moment, he considered burying the rippers and coming back later.
He shook his head. He’d be damned if he let anything snatch what he’d won. And he wasn’t going to risk his family going hungry because he took the easy way out. He wiped the sweat away from his sun-reddened face and returned to work.
He spent hours butchering the two rippers beneath the burning sun, all while keeping his eyes peeled for predators. Fortunately the wind from the Iron Desert blew his scent toward the river valley his folk farmed, an area the rippers and sand snakes had learned to avoid.
When he’d finished, the bag almost overflowed with meat. Blood dripped from the saturated leather. He hoisted the ponderous bag onto hi
s back. The straps bit into his shoulders. Andrew leaned forward.
Bent beneath the load, he made his way through the badlands toward Carroll Town. He did his best to ignore the warm ripper blood soaking through his shirt and trickling down his back. His mother and sister Sarah would be glad he came home alive, but his clothes would right horrify them.
As he followed the sun, he pondered how he’d be received. The others likely bagged pronghorn, mule deer, or prairie dogs, if they’d gotten anything at all. He’d landed something bigger, something that ate the game the men wanted. They’d cheer. His sweetheart Cassie Wells would want to hear more about it. Hopefully somewhere cozy and private. He smiled.
His heart leaped with delight as the skeletal iron mooring tower, a gift from James Merrill upon his ascension in Jacinto two years before Andrew was born, came into view from the hilltop. The tower was empty — dirigible visits had been rare even when the Merrills ruled, before the tyrant Grendel threw them down and raised up the murderous Flesh-Eating Legion. But it still reared into the blue sky like a huge finger. And though most paint had peeled away, it still bore scraps of the Merrill green.
Eventually the ground sloped downward toward a white wooden fence. Beyond, parched fields of stunted wheat clawed their way from the black earth the river had laid, earth left dry by the drought. A horse-drawn iron reaper, huge and skeletal, sat amid what promised to be a poor harvest.
A voice startled him. “Hey Andy!” Sam Cotton, his friend since they were both six, called out in a voice drawling somewhat more than his own. “What you got?”He approached from the north, following the hills. Sweat plastered dark hair to a head that came up to Andrew’s chin, and his skin, fairer than Andrew’s, had burned worse. He carried his rifle under his arm. His hands were empty.
“Oh, howdy Sam. You not get anything?”
Sam’s thin face fell. He shook his head. “Couldn’t find anything. Anything living, that is. Found a dead mule deer, but it was half-rotten. Would’ve sickened anyone who ate it.”
Andrew winced inwardly. Sam had two brothers and a sister, all younger. He’d give Sam some of his kill. There was more than enough for Andrew’s kin.
Sam’s gaze fell on Andrew’s burden. “Looks like you got something.” A moment passed. “Need any help?”
A twinge of ache crossed Andrew’s back. “Yeah.”
He set the heavy bag down and tightened the straps holding it shut. If he got one end and Sam got the other, it’d be just their luck if the bag split open in the middle. He tucked his rifle under one arm to keep both hands free.
Sam came over, holding his rifle the same away. He picked up the end of the bag. “You got the other end?”
Andrew nodded. “On the count of three. One —”
“Two,” Sam added.
“Three!” both said together. They lifted the bag. Andrew’s arms protested but they didn’t yell as loudly as his back.
“Okay,” Andrew said. “Let’s get this down.”
Sam nodded. He scooted backward down the hill, Andrew close behind. They soon found the dusty path that would take them the last mile home. The sun was low now. Fear set its teeth to the base of Andrew’s spine. Best not be out at night, especially smelling like they did. “Let’s get a move on.” Sam nodded.
It didn’t take more than half an hour to reach the white-painted wooden arch marking the entrance of central Carroll Town.
And just inside were a trio of strangers on horseback. The townsfolk gathered between them and the town’s white clapboard buildings. Through the crowd he saw they wore the red jackets and black trousers of the Flesh-Eating Legion beneath their brown dusters.
The hairs on the back of Andrew’s neck stood at attention. His gut clenched. His hands trembled.
Nothing good ever happened when the Flesh-Eaters paid a visit…
Ultimatum
Andrew locked his eyes on the trio. The Flesh-Eaters usually came for tribute or conscripts. Those few who returned began their stories with forced consumption of human flesh...
Andrew wasn’t that hungry.
Sam stepped forward. “What’s going on?” Andrew nodded toward the gate. Sam’s hands tightened on his end of the bag. “Flesh-Eaters. Goddamn it.”
One Flesh-Eater – a ranker based on his simpler uniform – turned straight at them. Andrew hoped they weren’t looking for young men. They knew he was here, and he wasn’t going to run and risk them burning Carroll Town.
The Flesh-Eater looked them up and down, snorted, and turned away. Andrew prickled. That son of a bitch!
Soon curiosity rose alongside his fear. If they weren’t conscripting, why were they here? Andrew set the bloody bag down. He edged closer toward the gate.
Sam’s eyes bulged. “Andy, what are you doing?”
“Just going to get a closer look.”
The most elaborately-uniformed Flesh-Eater — he wore a red sash over his buttoned black jacket and red epaulets peeked out from under his duster — sat confidently on his horse. An ugly smile illuminated his blunt features. His two mounted bodyguards, both carrying shotguns, flanked him. The chief Flesh-Eater spoke imperiously to Arnold Emerson, the short mayor whose hanging skin folds indicated he’d once been heavier.
“I require the usual tribute,” the bossman growled as Andrew came into earshot. Andrew could detect the stronger drawl of the hill trash from well north of Jacinto. “One hundred gold dollars, or the equivalent in trade or farm goods. Value to be determined, of course, by me.” The emissary grinned. Andrew caught a brief glimpse of two filed front teeth, the mark of the cult. “If the money doesn’t arrive within three days, there will be consequences.”
The insane demand struck Andrew like a blow. Before harvest the people of Carroll Town had little enough to feed themselves, let alone the Flesh-Eaters. That jackass had to know.
Fearful muttering snaked through the crowd. “My lord,” Arnold protested. “We’re in the middle of a drought.” He gestured toward the townsfolk, all bearing the pinched look of hunger. “We can’t pay now. In a few weeks, when harvest comes, we’ll at least have something. I doubt your bossman wants dirt for tribute.”
The emissary locked eyes with the older man. “Pay up, or I’ll tell the fort they’ve got a rebellion on their hands. They wouldn’t like that much.” He dropped from his horse. His dark eyes swept the crowds. “You know, there might be another way out of this.”
His gaze fell on Lily, Arnold’s pretty dark-haired daughter. Her brown eyes caught his. She paled and recoiled.
Andrew gritted his teeth. Lily was a friend of his sister. His grip tightened on the rifle, but he didn’t dare move. Anyone who raised a hand to a Flesh-Eater official doomed himself and his kinfolk too.
The ugly man continued. “One of the officers at the fort delights in young women.” He kept his gaze on Lily. “It gets powerful lonely up there sometimes. He might be willing to exempt Carroll Town from tribute entirely this year — and maybe even the next — if you give him someone…appropriate.”
Arnold swallowed. “My lord, she’s only fourteen —”
The Flesh-Eater snorted. “I said young women.”
Arnold’s face reddened. Then he purpled. He twitched.
One mounted man turned to the other. “That one’s a bit young, but she’ll probably sprout well.” The guard, a thin-faced man with cold blue eyes, spoke entirely too loudly. A salacious smile spread across his face. “I wonder if there’re any older ones?”
Andrew ground his teeth. That description covered Sarah, Cassie, and most of the girls he knew. His fingers clenched harder around the rifle.
The second bodyguard, black-haired and one-eyed, shook his head. “The older ones are a bit more fun. If they’ve already had kids, they know what they’re doing.”
That description happened to cover Andrew’s mother. The hand enclosing his rifle trembled.
The mayor’s impotent rage purpled his face further as the emissary approached Lily. He reached toward her
in a manner courtly in anyone else. She stumbled backward. Andrew almost raised his rifle right then and there.
“Your folk are in great danger,” the bigwig said. “But if you cooperate, I can save them.” Lily kept retreating. The foul man kept coming. The townsfolk pulled away around them. “Nobody needs to die, if you come with me. I’m not asking you that much.” He looked around disdainfully. “Fucking him’s a better life than living in this dump.”
“All right!” Anger broke into Arnold’s voice at last. He advanced on the emissary. “This is damn well —”
The emissary wheeled. “Do you want your town to burn?” he snarled. Arnold retreated. The emissary turned back toward Lily. “What say you? Maybe you have more sense than your pa.”
“Leave Lily alone, you piece of shit,” Taylor Welborn growled as he pushed his way through the townsfolk standing behind Lily. The Flesh-Eater was not a small man by any stretch, but Taylor had a least a foot and thirty pounds on him, even after the long hunger. Anger lit his broad face beneath the shock of curly brown hair.
“Taylor,” Arnold stammered. “Stay out of this!”
The emissary laughed. “Listen to the old man.” He shifted his gaze back to Lily, pointedly ignoring Taylor. “You’re young,” he continued, still playing at being charming. “Malleable. He could learn you things, interesting things. You’d be much more fun than any whore —”
Anger lit up Lily’s face at the word “whore.” She slapped the Flesh-Eater. Her blow did little beyond provoke chuckling from the guards. The emissary silenced them with a glare, a glare that soon fell on Lily.
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