by James Harden
Wasteland Wonderland
Part 1
By J. L. Harden
Copyright © 2015 by James Harden
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events locales or organisations is entirely coincidental.
All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the author.
The
Fall
of
Hector
Ramirez
Chapter 1
I’m somewhere in the Buried City.
Somewhere below the Wasteland.
I’m in a bar, drinking what passes for beer these days. I’m in a bar because humans are fucking weird and even though it’s the literal end of the world, we still need to get a buzz on.
I’ve had ten beers.
But the beers are just chasers.
Because what I’m really drinking is something stronger. A fortified brew that tastes like gasoline. But it does the trick. Dulling the senses and memories, making me forget where I am and who I am and what I’ve done.
The beers are just for chasing away the taste. And to chase away a feeling I’m getting in my stomach. To chase away my nerves, to calm my nerves.
Because I just met a girl. An angel. An angel who has no business being in a place like this. She came up to me not even ten minutes ago. It was like she was looking for me.
She knew my name.
She was friendly.
And I didn’t ask questions. She told me her room number. She told me the door wasn’t locked.
Maybe I should’ve asked questions. Maybe I should’ve told her to get lost, to find some other mark. But like I said, this is the end of the world and I’m a lonely son of a bitch.
She left, begging me with her eyes to follow. I turned back to the bar and finished my drink.
And downed the chaser.
And now a tap on my shoulder. A guy. Tall and thin. He has a scar over his left eye and an expression on his face that says he’s all business. That he’s a consummate professional. He’s wearing a poncho, and I can’t be certain, but I think underneath the poncho he’s wearing a thermo suit. I’m thinking he must be a Merc from the nicer part of town, but I can’t be certain because this guy is dressed like he’s hiding something and I’m pretty damn drunk.
My vision is blurry.
I can’t be certain.
This guy has a beer in his hand but he’s not drinking it. Not like you’re supposed to drink a beer. He shows me a picture of a girl. He asks me if I’ve seen her and even though I can’t get her out of my mind… I lie.
I lie and I say, “I’ve never seen her before.”
And then I tell the truth. I tell the truth and I say, “I’ve never seen anyone like her before.”
The man leaves and he leaves his beer on the bar and I’m too drunk and careless and arrogant to even think this could be a problem.
For me.
For anyone.
I make my way to the room upstairs. She’s there. Waiting. And I’m suddenly aware of the heat.
It’s hot. Because it’s always hot.
Sweat covers our bodies.
I ask her what her name is, trying to make small talk because even though I’m drunk and my guard is lowered and my inhibitions are gone, I’m nervous.
She can tell.
And she says, “My name doesn’t matter…”
“It matters to me.”
She has her arms around me. She wears nothing but a smile. Except it’s not really a smile. It’s not real. It’s a mask.
She thinks for a second, too long. She whispers, “Ruby.”
“Like the jewel...”
“Yeah,” she says quicker. More eagerly. “Just like the jewel.”
Her skin is soft. Too soft.
Her hands.
Her thighs.
Her lips.
Everything is soft.
And smooth.
And pale.
She might be an angel. I might be dreaming.
She inhales sharply as I put my hands on her hips and pull her close.
I ask her where she’s from.
And she says, “Wonderland.”
I laugh.
She doesn’t.
I guess she’s running from an abusive husband. Maybe he’s a Wasteland Raider. Those guys are nuts. People think I’m crazy. People think me and my brother are insane. But we’ve got nothing on those guys. Raiders constantly venture above ground, out into the Wasteland, out into the scorching, deadly heat. People say the Red Giant cooks their brains. I’d have to agree with those people.
So yeah, maybe she’s running from an abusive husband or boyfriend. Or girlfriend. Then again, maybe she just wants some excitement in her life. A fling.
An affair…
Maybe she just wants to know that men still find her attractive.
Irresistible.
I can vouch for that.
And now she knows it, if she ever doubted it.
I kiss her and she shivers.
In the heat.
In this goddamn, unrelenting heat.
I ask her, “What’s wrong?”
“I’m scared,” she answers, her mask slipping away for the briefest of moments.
“Why?”
“Because I know secrets. I know things I’m not supposed to know.”
“What do you know?”
She places her hand at the back of my head. She grabs a fistful of my hair. She kisses me and whispers… “I know everything.”
