Battle for the Wastelands

by Matthew W Quinn

  He forced his head upward. The man wore a brown duster, which could conceal red and black Flesh-Eater uniforms or ordinary clothes.

  Andrew cleared his throat. Though he tried to put some volume into it, he could barely hear himself. He shook his head. “Hey.” He raised his voice as much as he could. What emerged from his mouth wasn’t much louder.

  Andrew tried to reach over and tap the man’s leg, only to find he couldn’t. Rough rope bound his hands behind his back, rope that scratched his wrists when he moved even slightly.

  He tensed. The pikeys loved money, far more than they loved any outsider. If this were a pikey, chances were Andrew would be sold as a slave!

  And who bought slaves? The Flesh-Eaters!

  Andrew thrashed. The Flesh-Eaters would conscript him into their armies or put him to work in the fields or mines. He’d rather goddamn die.

  Something cold and circular pressed against his temple.

  “Hold still, you little bastard,” the rider ordered. He spoke with a slow drawl much like a Flesh-Eater. Andrew froze. “That’s better.” The gun remained pressed against his head for a moment longer and then vanished.

  The man turned in the saddle, his body pushing against Andrew.

  “You were in a bad way when I found you. Drink this.” A rough hand holding an open canteen appeared in Andrew’s face. “Drink.”

  Water! Andrew wrapped his mouth around the canteen’s opening. The man tilted the canteen, pouring enough to fill Andrew’s mouth but not so much it spilled. There was something odd about the taste, something Andrew couldn’t quite place.

  “That’ll keep you out for a spell.”

  Andrew’s world began spinning. It was slow at first, so much Andrew didn’t notice it at first. As it grew faster, the yellow-brown sand and the blue sky swirled together, like some insane, colorful version of the swirling in the river after a rain when the water was high and fast.

  He only had a moment to wonder just what he’d drank before the whirl grew too intense to bear and he spun away into unconsciousness.

  Andrew’s head still hurt when he woke. The first thing he heard was nearby voices. One might be a neighbor, but the other two had northern drawls. Flesh-Eater drawls.

  Andrew looked from side to side. He lay on a simple cot, looking up at the canvas ceiling of a tent. The three people he heard were in the tent with him.

  “He’s awake,” one Flesh-Eater said. “Let’s see what he has to say.”

  Say? I’ll do more than say!

  Andrew swung in the direction of the one who’d spoken. A hand caught Andrew’s fist. Weakened as he was, he couldn’t get free.

  The hand belonged to a large man in brown trousers and a plaid shirt. Beyond him stood another large man whose clothes hid beneath a duster. None wore obvious Flesh-Eater uniforms.

  Relief flooded through him. The first thing awaiting recruits to the Flesh-Eating Legion was a week of living only on the flesh of prisoners sacrificed to the Howling God. He’d been spared that, at least.

  Of course, just because he wasn’t in the custody of the Flesh-Eaters didn’t mean he was safe. These men could be slavers or common bandits.

  Then he spotted a short young man with a crudely-stitched wound on the right side of his round face. It was David Court, one of Eudora’s cousins. Like the others, he bore a holstered pistol on one hip.

  Oh thank the Good Lord.

  Chances were he was in friendlier hands if someone else from Carroll Town was there and armed.

  “This one’s feisty,” the man who grabbed Andrew drawled. “Maybe we’ll keep him.”

  “Sergeant, that’s a damn sight better than he deserves.” The other stranger’s voice combined equal parts drawl and gravel. “He’s a damned Flesh-Eater.”

  “Not a Flesh-Eater,” Andrew moaned. Pain crackled across his lips. He smelled blood. “Stole uniform.”

  “A right likely story,” the second man snapped. “If you said you were one of their conscripts who deserted, maybe we’d believe that —”

  “He ain’t a Flesh-Eater,” David declared. “That’s Andrew Sutter. He’s from Carroll Town like me. He was born the same month as me, his dad was the mayor in town, his family owns fields near the river I used to work in, and —”

  “Why’s he wearing their duds then?” the second man interrupted.

  David paused. “Good question.” He turned toward Andrew. “What’s with the getup?”

  “Sam and I stole it off a Flesh-Eater we killed.”

  That got the sergeant’s attention. “I’d like to hear this.” He handed Andrew a canteen. “Drink and tell me more.” The man paused. “I’m Sergeant Ezekiel Thaxton, Second Pendleton.”

  After drinking most of the water, Andrew told him what had happened, starting with the Flesh-Eater tribute-gatherer and his bodyguard. The three listened to his tale patiently until Andrew arrived at the death of Eudora.

  “She was with you?” David demanded. He stepped toward Andrew’s cot. “You led her against the Flesh-Eaters?”

  “Yeah.” David’s tone irritated him. “I needed anyone who could shoot and she took out that ripper, remember? The ripper that —”

  David recoiled. “I know about the ripper. I was actually going to thank you. Better what happened than what the Flesh-Eaters would’ve done if they’d got her alive.”

  “Enough.” Zeke silenced David with a glance. He turned back toward Andrew. “Continue.”

  Andrew continued his tale until the part where he had the bald man and the man in black in his sights.

  “Hold it,” the second man — Wyatt — interrupted. “You saw a big, bald man and a man in black, a man who wore a helmet made of a tiger skull?”

  “Yeah,” Andrew said guardedly. His scalp tingled. Those men must be important, somehow.

  “That was Jasper Clark and Grendel!”

  “Jasper Clark?” Andrew’s eyes widened. “And Grendel?”

  Wyatt nodded. Andrew abruptly fell silent. He had the chance to kill the Flesh-Eater bossman and the man who held his leash? And he didn’t? Well shit. He’d killed a lesser officer when the biggest target of all was right there! He had a right great opportunity and blew it!

  Shit.

  Wyatt leaned forward, blue eyes wide in his narrow face and his stained teeth showing. “Did you get them? Did you get both of them?”

  Andrew closed his eyes. He could feel himself turning red. “No,” he whispered. “I shot an officer with them.” When the man’s expression darkened, Andrew’s voice hardened. “I didn’t know who they were, okay? I got one of their officers, though. Must be a high one, if he’s consorting with them!”

  “You dumb goddamn kid!” Wyatt roared. “You could have killed Jasper and Grendel and you didn’t?” He stepped forward, teeth bared. Andrew’s hands trembled. He couldn’t have beaten the man even if he’d been hale. “I ought to whup your ass for being so goddamn stupid!” Wyatt raised his fists. “You fucking —”

  “Rein it in!” Zeke barked. He stepped between them. As he moved, Andrew spotted an old manacle encircling one wrist.

  Wyatt immediately backed away, but kept his eyes locked on Andrew. “Boy, you could have won us the war right then!”

  You’re a right fool, Andrew Sutter. Jasper Clark, ruler of the Flesh-Eaters? And Grendel, a man so powerful even the Flesh-Eaters truckled to him? And he’d skipped the chance to kill one or both to kill some brown-noser?

  That officer had laughed about his mother’s death. Grief and anger welled up from inside him. He grit his teeth. “The man I killed, he was laughing about what they did to Carroll Town! Laughing about killing my ma!”

  “A lot of people lost their mas and their pas to the Flesh-Eaters,” Wyatt retorted. “If you’d laid Clark or Grendel in boot hill, there’d be a lot fewer mas and pas getting killed.” He spat on the dirt floor. “Dumb, idiot kid.”

  “Andrew ain’t dumb,” David interrupted. “Maybe he’s ignorant, not knowing who those people were, but
—”

  “Hobble your lip, greenhorn,” Wyatt retorted. “I’m a goddamn corporal. If I want to say someone’s a right dumb shit and he ain’t a sergeant or an officer, I damn well will.”

  “Both of you, can it,” Zeke ordered. “Squabbling won’t put either of them in boot hill.” Wyatt scowled. Zeke turned back to Andrew. “All right. Once you’re rested up, we’re gonna need to find something for you to do.”

  Then someone pushed the tent flap open. “The Merrill approaches,” a new voice said. The three stood to attention, David a little slower than the others. A slender man stepped into the tent.

  He was tall, at least six feet, and wore a shabby duster that looked a little too large. Brown hair peeked out from under a slouched hat whose crown was encircled by tattered gold braid. Two long ponytails hung over his right shoulder down to his chest. White bandages spotted red emerged from his left sleeve. Three fingers on his left hand were made of metal.

  Andrew’s heart leaped into his throat.

  Alonzo Merrill!

  He sat up a little higher. It was the best he could manage.

  “At ease,” the rebel chieftain ordered. The others relaxed. He looked at Andrew. “I wonder what the desert brought us today? It looks like we’ve got a young Flesh-Eater.”

  Andrew looked down at his clothing. Although his red jacket was gone, he still wore the black trousers of a Flesh-Eater infantryman. “What were you thinking, running off into the desert?” Alonzo asked. “If I hadn’t been raiding your people, you’d be food for the vultures or a sand snake.”

  Andrew was right tired of people thinking him a Flesh-Eater. “They’re not my people.”

  Alonzo raised an eyebrow. “If you’re not a Flesh-Eater, what are you?”

  “I’m from Carroll Town,” Andrew declared. “There was a revolt. We were hoping you could help —”

  Alonzo turned to the others. “Is this the same story he told the rest of you?”

  “Aye,” Zeke said.

  “Andrew’s no coward,” David spoke up. “He’s right brave and right smart. There’s no way he’d ever join the —”

  Alonzo raised his hand, silencing David. He looked at Andrew for a moment. “You look familiar. What’s your father’s name?”

  Andrew sighed. Why did everything keep coming back to Pa? “Maxwell.”

  “Maxwell,” Alonzo repeated. “Are you related to Maxwell Sutter?”

  Andrew groaned. Alonzo cocked his head. Andrew’s stomach lurched. Hopefully he hadn’t pissed off the rebel leader. He didn’t want to end up bunking with a ripper.

  “He was my pa.”

  Alonzo smiled. “I remember him. He led the delegation from Carroll Town when my grandfather died and my father became the Merrill. You look a lot like him.” He turned to Zeke. “He’s not one of them, so we won’t need to put him in the pen.”

  Andrew sighed in relief. If they locked him up with Flesh-Eaters, he doubted he’d come out alive.

  The rebel leader turned and left the tent. Zeke gestured to Wyatt and David to leave likewise. Wyatt stepped backward through the flap, scowling at Andrew the whole time. David stayed put.

  “There’re chores to do, Court,” Zeke said. “Get.”

  David flinched, like he suddenly realized something. “Got it, sir.”

  “Don’t call me ‘sir.’ I work for a living.”

  “Sorry, sergeant. Yes, sergeant.” David quickly left.

  Zeke turned to Andrew. “The bossman seems to reckon you’re on the level, but I want to hear more. What happened after you didn’t kill Grendel?”

  The man’s words stung. Andrew continued his tale, his voice rising to a babble when he described the encounter with the dirigible. He went on about the airship until Zeke raised his hand.

  “We know all about dirigibles. Keep going.”

  Andrew described the rest of what had happened, including the Old World house. By the time he finished, both of Zeke’s eyebrows were pretty high. “Pretty impressive, surviving all that. How old are you?”

  “Twenty-one.”

  Zeke laughed. “Not much younger than me when I took James Merrill’s dollar.” He pulled a canteen from the pocket of his duster and set it by Andrew’s cot. “Stay here and drink when you need to. I’ll come by when you’re rested.”

  The big man turned away, giving Andrew another glimpse of the manacle, and left the tent. Andrew reached over and took a swig from the canteen. He lay back down and stared at the canvas ceiling.

  He was alive. Despite all that had happened, despite the deaths of so many, he was still alive.

  He closed his eyes. Tears gathered beneath his lids. He was still alive, while so many from Carroll Town had died.

  “Why me?” He kept staring at the canvas ceiling. “Why am I here?” Tears rolled out the sides of his closed eyes, sliding over raw, sunburned flesh.

  Sam had survived the battle on the hills and even the Flesh-Eater invasion of the town. If that Flesh-Eater hadn’t killed him in the alley, he’d have joined his rifle with Andrew’s and maybe both Clark and Grendel would be laid in boot hill.

  But Sam had died. Sam had died because Andrew hadn’t reckoned a Flesh-Eater had seen them fighting. If he’d been more careful, they could have gotten the drop on that son of a bitch and Sam wouldn’t have been killed. Sam would still be alive, and maybe both tyrants would be dead.

  The guilt still lashed his mind when he finally slipped into the dark.

  Andrew spent the next four days in the tent, wobbling out only to answer the call of nature in a nearby slit trench. The cot provided little comfort. He constantly pulled the blankets on or off — it was always too hot or too cold. When he did get close to sleeping, trumpets often yanked him back awake.

  David brought him water and after a couple of days, food. He also brought new clothes and Andrew’s rifle, which Andrew hadn’t even noticed was gone. Something metal now hung beneath the muzzle.

  Once Andrew had time to ponder anything other than water, food, and sleep, he started picking David’s brain about what had happened at Carroll Town.

  “Well, after you potted the enemy bossman, they rounded everybody up and took us out of town. They split everyone into groups of around ten. Lucky for us, the Merrills had been raiding north against the forts the Flesh-Eaters are building. The Southern Wall, people call it. They were on their way back and bushwhacked the Flesh-Eaters who had us. They killed all the bastards and set us loose. Afterward, they — we — went south. The scouts went out in two directions. One set found some other people from back home out in the desert, mounted, while the other set found you.”

  “Who else was with you?” Andrew demanded. “Ma? Sarah? Cassie?”

  “Sarah got taken by a different group. I got a look at them going straight north when my group went east.” Andrew swore. He was relieved Sarah was still alive, but he was not relieved she was in the hands of the Flesh-Eaters. “Before you laid the bastard in boot hill, the Flesh-Eater commander asked her some questions.” Enthusiasm crept into David’s voice. “She gave him a piece of her mind. It was a hoot.”

  Andrew grit his teeth. That sounded just like Sarah, but her performance probably pissed the cannibal sons of bitches off. Things would go even worse for her, if that were possible.

  “What about Ma?” Although he’d heard her scream, that didn’t necessarily mean the Flesh-Eater had killed her. Maybe the Flesh-Eaters changed their minds. Anybody with half a brain knew older women could be used for more than bed-warming.

  David winced. “They damn near cut her head off. She was one of the first.”

  “Damn it!” Andrew snarled. He pounded his fist on the wood of the cot. David recoiled. Andrew closed his eyes. It wasn’t David’s fault he bore bad news. “Sorry. Thanks for telling me.”

  “Got it.”

  “And Cassie?”

  “I didn’t see her after they took everybody out of the square.”

  Andrew changed the subject. “Where are we now?”
/>
  “We’re at one of the camps the Merrills’ve got scattered about.” He paused. “When you’re rested up, I expect they’ll make you a soldier. They put me in the Second Pendleton, in Zeke’s squad. Every man in this outfit fights, and some of the women besides. Seems a bit peculiar, having women soldiers, but they — we — don’t really have much of a —”

  Andrew raised a hand. “Okay.” He reckoned he’d end up a Merrill soldier. He didn’t mind one bit.

  “I’ve never seen you rope cattle or ride with a herd before, so I doubt they’d make you cavalry. I reckon they’d make you a dragoon.”

  Andrew had heard that term before, but he didn’t recall where. “What’s a dragoon?”

  “A mounted footslogger. You’d ride to the fight and dismount. Best of both worlds, I suppose — mobile like a cavalryman, but can dig in and hold ground like an infantryman.” He paused. “That’s one reason the Merrills have been able to keep fighting for so damn long. It’s a right pain in the ass to feed all these horses, but we can get in and out double-quick. Zeke says one time, the Flesh-Eaters were pulling a noose round the whole army, but there was a gap, just one gap, and all the troopers got out through it. I don’t know why the Flesh-Eaters don’t mount up their infantry, but —”

  Andrew raised a hand. “Okay. I got it.”

  On the fifth day, Andrew felt well enough to look around. His boots crunched against the stony earth when he left the tent. In areas where few feet had trod, he spotted grass. The camp must be on the high plains, not the badlands or the Iron Desert.

  The yellow sun hung to Andrew’s right in the blue sky. It was hot, but not uncomfortably so. Maybe it was still morning.

  The Merrill encampment lay spread out as far as Andrew could see. Relatively few people moved among the tents. It must be time for training, chores, and the like.

  He didn’t see David. He’d have to explore on his own.

  Directly ahead a vast, brown rock emerged from the tents like a huge tooth from gums. A rickety wooden stairway scaled the stone, culminating in a wooden platform manned by several soldiers. A green flag bearing a yellow horseshoe hung limply on a pole. Observation point.