The Wasteland Soldier, Book 2, Escape From Tamnica (TWS)

by Laurence Moore

  The cars sped away, leaving home. Basile drove the lead vehicle. Montre rode with him. Both men were in their twenties, huddled down in heavy coats with blue and white scarves covering their faces. Basile jerked the wheel suddenly as another obstacle appeared before him, the tail end of a car jutting half way across the road. The snow was thickening and he turned on the screen wipers. The light was fading and his headlamps pierced the dusk and swirling flakes. He nudged his foot lower against the accelerator. The car rocked from side to side. Montre glanced at him. He hated when Basile drove this way, in a foul mood, but he understood the rage and pain his friend felt and his acceptance was to remain silent.

  They gathered more speed and soon the outline of the town etched against the horizon.

  “Someone has to pay,” said Basile, tugging down his scarf. “For killing our people.”

  He slammed his fist against the steering wheel.

  “No canisters, no new women, no bullets, no tablets, nothing, Montre, nothing but Maizan blood.”

  Montre nodded, rubbed his gloved hands together, and took out an automatic pistol. He checked the magazine was full.

  “We’ll get all the answers we want soon,” he said, pointing toward the town. “Even if we have to kill them all.”

  Basile lifted one hand from the wheel and squeezed his companion’s shoulder.

  “You are a good man, Montre. You understand me.”

  The snow began to settle across the rugged terrain, colouring the brown white. It was falling more quickly now. As the cars drew into the ramshackle town they saw no one walking about. A thin layer of white covered the ground. Flickering orange glows appeared in buildings. Basile turned off the engine and stepped out into the swirling blizzard. He stamped across to a building set back from the road. His boots ground against the fresh snow. He looked through a grimy window and saw a cluttered junk shop lit by candles. At the far end was a counter. A black haired woman wearing an apron over a knitted jumper stood behind it. She was tall with a long neck and her head was tilted down. Basile saw she was assembling something from wood.

  He admired her confidence. She would have heard the vehicles long before they arrived and the only people who drove in this region were Maizan. She would surely know of their reputation yet she seemed untroubled by their appearance. Smiling, Basile tried the door and found it unlocked. He pushed it open. Montre followed him into the shop. His men remained outside, sitting in their cars, roofs swiftly covering with snow.

  Beatriz raised her head and Basile saw she had been savaged; the white scar ran from her nose to her chin.

  “Hello, my name is Beatriz.”

  She glimpsed the pistol in Montre’s gloved hand.

  “What is that?” asked Basile, nodding at the contraption she was working on.

  “Oh, this. I’m quite proud of this. It’s a slingshot crossbow. It’s quite simple to make once I sat and thought about it.”

  Basile blinked, suddenly realising a sharpened iron bolt was pointing at him. The crossbow was small and wooden with a thin band drawn back. He saw her finger on the trigger.

  Montre raised his gun arm and Beatriz shook her head.

  “Your boss will be dead before that bullet hits me.”

  A gust of wind rattled the windows and the candles flickered. In the distance a door slammed and there was the sound of voices. Montre’s upper lip glistened with perspiration. His finger edged inexorably toward the trigger. He stared into the black haired woman’s eyes and saw an unshakable confidence in her puny looking handmade weapon.

  “It’s okay,” said Basile, gently placing his hand on Montre’s gun arm and lowering it. “We’re only here to ask a few questions.”

  “That’s how it always starts,” said Beatriz. “I think your friend should wait outside.”

  Montre frowned but Basile leaned toward him, whispered in his ear.

  “The back door is booby trapped,” called Beatriz. “Just in case you are wondering.”

  Basile waited until he was alone with the woman. He held out his hands, showing her he was unarmed. She pointed the slingshot crossbow away from him but did not take her hand from it.

  “I’m Basile, I’m Maizan. We do not trouble your town. You have nothing we need.” He paused, looking around. The window had fogged over and the street outside was a blur of white and shinning headlamps. “All of these goods are available for trade, yes? You trade anything and everything, yes?”

  “Except people.”

  He let out a short laugh. He picked up a silver block with dials and buttons and a cracked screen.

  “I had a friend. His name was Loic. He would have loved your shop. It’s a shame he never came here.”

  He strolled back to the counter.

  “Now he cannot. He was murdered. On the road to Tamnica. A lot of Maizans were killed that morning. Did you hear about it? No? I’m surprised; shopkeepers and merchants live on gossip.”

  He glanced down at the slingshot crossbow in her grip.

  “We have left you alone but now you have betrayed us. Who traded you the black energy?”

  Beatriz saw the cold look in his eyes, the deep furrow of his brow. She realised, in that awful moment, that Cristo had stolen from the Maizans and condemned her.

  “I’ve no loyalty to him. I didn’t know it was yours.” She ducked behind the counter and lifted clear the canister. “It’s half empty. I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

  Basile peeled off his gloves, ran his fingers around the rim.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” he muttered, studying it. “I don’t hurt women. I prefer to love them. This was part of a larger consignment that was stolen. Four Maizans were killed at the same time. Tell me about the man who trade this.”

  His hands moved fast and she fired. She had rushed finishing the weapon and it failed to propel the bolt. She reached for her dart gun but he yanked her hair, jerking her back. She threw a punch, clipping the side of his head. He slapped her, twice. She opened her mouth to scream but he clamped his thick hand across it and shoved her head to the counter. She heard the sound of the shop door opening and footsteps across the floor.

  “Take everything,” said Basile.

  Montre appeared, pistol in hand.

  “Make the bitch talk. I want to know who stole from us.”

  Beatriz screamed as Montre twisted her arm behind her back and forced her into the back at gunpoint. Basile pushed himself onto the counter, propping one arm on his canister, and watched him men strip the shop bare. He reached into his pocket for a blue tablet, swallowed it and closed his eyes at the rush. He could hear Beatriz in pain as Montre tortured her for the information. A voice called him and he opened his eyes. A small group of people had gathered outside in the snow, drawn by the screams. He shoved himself back onto his feet and stomped outside.

  “What are you looking at?” he said, to the nearest person, a tall young man flexing his arms. “Do you want to start something? With us? You want to tangle with Maizans?”

  He circled the young man, pushing his face into his, eyes bulging with rage.

  “You want to mess with us? Do you? We’ll bury you and your fucking town.”

  The young man lowered his eyes as another scream rang out.

  “Fuck off, all of you …”

  Basile snapped his head round. That had been Montre screaming. He sprinted toward the shop. He burst into the back room where Montre lay on his back, eyes wet, body jerking, trousers around his ankles, a dozen wooden spikes rammed into his groin.

  “Fuck,” yelled Basile.

  The back door was wide open. He could see footprints in the snow. He stepped over his bleeding friend and stuck his head through the doorway. A gust of wind blew snow into his face. He could see her fleeing across the snow covered land, bathed in grey moonlight. There was the crack of a gunshot and he ducked as a bullet bounced above his head.

  He knelt down and saw Montre’s pleading eyes. His groin and thighs were covered in blood.


  “I am sorry, my dear friend, Montre. You are beyond help. I am so sorry.”

  Basile kissed his friend’s cheek, then covered his mouth and nose and suffocated him.

  Outside, he roared orders at his men, sending half of the convoy to track her across the wasteland.

  He went to his car, took out an automatic rifle. He instantly shot the young man he had threatened earlier, cutting him down in a hail of bullets.

  “I want to know,” he said. “About every stranger who has been through in the last few days.”

  They were on foot when the snow had begun to fall. Emil watched it tumble from the sky, smiling at the graceful way it fell, unlike the rain, nasty and spiky. It dropped with a loving touch. The horse had bolted. It had been unsteady on the road north, trying to turn back, snorting and stamping and rearing up until it refused to go any further. Emil looked at the long broken highway that ran to the horizon, wondering what had frightened the beast. It trotted away into the fields, the Map Maker chasing after it, waving his fists. He had tired quickly. She had noticed her was in poor shape. His body was squat, rounded. He was slow and consumed twice the rations she did.

  It was already dusk and she thought she heard the distant rumble of thunder. She pulled her oversized coat around her and ducked her head, following him. He was a few steps ahead but there was no point in running. He had a pistol and she had nothing. She took one step at a time. Left foot, right foot. Or was it right foot, left foot? She wasn’t certain. No, it was surely left foot, right foot. She smiled to herself and looked over her shoulder.

  “There,” said the Map Maker, pointing.

  He led her from the road and stood before a wrecked vehicle, abandoned in the brush; rusted, dented, tyres flat, but windows intact. He peered inside, opened the door. It creaked loudly. Emil covered her mouth at the smell.

  “Help me move him,” he said.

  Nausea swept over her. She kept her head tilted away, adamant she wasn’t going to look at the body. The Map Maker rolled him onto his side and tugged. She pulled as well, sneaking a glimpse, seeing the decaying skin and hollow cheeks. She looked away, instantly, feeling her stomach turn. Between them, they dragged the corpse from the car and left him on the ground.

  “Snow will cover him,” said the Map Maker. “Get in.”

  “In there? No.”

  He stared at her and she knew there was little point in standing here arguing with him and getting covered in snow. He had decided they would shelter in it and that was that. She clambered into the back and hunkered down. The car reeked but once he closed the door she did begin to feel a little warmer. He handed her a blanket and she wrapped it around her body.

  “No,” she said.

  “I’m just saying that our combined heat will …”

  “If you try to sleep with me I’ll rip your cock off.”

  He stared at the windscreen, quickly piling with fresh snow.

  “Have I done anything to you?” His voice had become quiet. “Have I touched you? Made you do things for me? I haven’t hurt me.”

  “You took me in the middle of the night,” said Emil, from the back seat. “I woke up naked in the forest. That’s what you did to me.”

  “You were already naked. I never molested you. I’ve done nothing to you. I just thought if we lie together we would be …”

  “I’m not lying with you.”

  The snow tumbled down. Again, Emil thought she heard peels of thunder. She wiped her fist across the fogged back window but the outside was already covered in snow and she could see nothing. She rolled onto her side. She was only five feet tall and was able to fully extend her legs. It was cold and smelly but they would have frozen out there and there was nowhere else to take shelter. She had no idea where they were. She didn’t want to ask him. He talked too much whenever she asked a question. He could spend twenty minutes answering the most simple of questions. She wondered how long it had been now. She was angry for not keeping track of the days. She wanted him dead, still, and she wanted to return to Dessan, but the rage had left her as she had begun to accept her new existence.

  “Why do you want to go there?” she asked him, suddenly, surprising herself with the question.

  He was in the passenger seat, studying a map. The supplies were piled on the driver’s seat.

  “Why do you want to stay here?”

  “I was born here,” said Emil. “Gallen is where I’m from.”

  “What does that matter? Do you have any family left? No, they’re all dead. And where are you friends? Nowhere.”

  “Tracking you, I hope.”

  “I doubt it.”

  She was silent for a moment.

  “Stone will kill you.”

  “What is it with him? Are you sleeping with him?”

  “That’s disgusting.”

  He lowered his map.

  “Then what?”

  “He cares about me. More than you do.”

  “He cares about himself,” said the Map Maker, laughing. “No one else. He stole my maps. Did you know that?”

  “I know that.” She rolled her eyes. “You’ve told me the story a thousand times.”

  “Did he care about me when he shoved a gun in my face? No.” Beads of sweat broke out on his bald head. “He did that and just took them. He didn’t care how it affected me, did he?”

  “He had a reason.”

  “Yes, there’s always a reason with Stone.” He began to scratch his head. “Steals from me and uses my maps to kill people. What a hero he is. And you look up to him? He’s a monster.”

  Emil swallowed hard. A lock of copper coloured hair fell across her line of vision and she brushed it away. She suddenly wanted to be outside, standing in the snow, breathing cold air.

  “You should have seen him on the forest road,” she said, turning onto her back, not looking at him. “Killing the Collectors and freeing those people. That’s what a hero does.”

  “You mean sticking his nose into other people’s business. Like in Ford. When he fought the Cleric.”

  The Cleric. She had not thought of him in sometime. His face no longer filled her nightmares.

  “He helps people. Not like you, running around with bits of paper. I can put the world back together.”

  She chuckled but he was silent. She took a deep breath and turned round. He seemed crushed by her mocking.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s always there,” he whispered. “In there. The noise. Going round and round. Since I was a child.”

  She propped herself onto her elbows.

  “What noise?”

  “Voices, words, I can never figure it out, but they’re always pushing me forward, driving me from place to place. It’s like … it’s like I’m searching for something … I don’t know what it is … I don’t know where it is … except … I don’t know.”

  Emil rubbed her eyes, yawned.

  “What will you find there?”

  “What will we find there, do you mean? You’re coming with me, Emil. I need you to keep me alive.”

  “I told you already. I’m not healing you. I don’t care what you do to me. I’m never going to heal you.”

  “You were given your gift for a reason,” he said. “It’s not coincidence we met. You’re here to help me. Make sure I reach Ennpithia. I was born in a cell. Did you know that? I never knew my parents. I grew up in the dungeons of Chett. They saw it in me from an early age. I knew, you see, I always knew. I could see it. I could see how things fitted together. I could see it then and I can see it clearly now. The way the world is. You know it’s not right. This isn’t the life we should all have. It didn’t used to be this way. Things were different, better. Look into the past and it’s there, it’s all there, the truth of Gallen. I see it in my maps. We were a great people once. Nations with flags, languages and customs. This is a bad stain. Across the sea, in Ennpithia, they understand. They share the vision I have. A land of cities where people live in harmony.”

&
nbsp; He folded away his maps.

  “I thought you would understand. You don’t fit in. What do they call you? Magic Girl? You know you’re different. You know you’re special. How many more …”

  He heard her snoring. He watched her sleep, the gentle rise of her chest. He smiled warmly. There was something very special about her. More than the healing hands. She was infectious. He watched her. He thought of her naked, her skin youthful though badly scarred. The urges had been coming and going. He had resisted them. He had never taken a woman before and could not imagine himself doing so now. He saw her lips gently part, her brightly coloured hair tumble across her patched eye. He could not discern the curves of her body, hidden beneath the blanket and her clothes. He took a deep breath and reached for himself, surrendering to the temptation, rolling his eyes.

  It was then he heard it, the roar of engines, bright headlamps shattering the blackness. Emil’s eyes snapped open and she sat up.

  “Down,” whispered the Map Maker, tugging free his hand.

  Emil slunk into a ball. Her heart was racing. She could hear car engines idling. Doors slamming. Loud voices.

  Then a burst of gunfire.

  She gritted her teeth and clamped her hands over her ears as there was a second rattle of bullets.

  She could barely breathe as men ran past the car, yelling, still unaware they were inside.

  Could they hear her chattering teeth?

  More sporadic gunfire.

  “No,” she whispered, as her legs became warm and wet. The Map Maker looked at her as the smell tickled his nose.

  “… you see that crazy fucking bitch?” said a voice, passing the car. “Where the fuck did she …?”

  They can’t see us, thought Emil. Calm down, think about it, if they knew you were here you’d already be dead. The snow has been falling for hours. The ground is blanketed in the white stuff. All your footprints are gone. The body must be covered by now. The windows of the car are mostly covered. Inside they’re steamed up. They’re chasing someone. They’re not looking for you. Calm down, calm down, just calm …