The Post-Apocalyptic Tourist's Guide to the Mojave Desert: A Novella

by Sean Hazlett

  ~~~

  Mickey “the Boss” Milano sat comfortably behind a mahogany desk flanked by two scantily clad brunettes fanning him with palm fronds. Tony, Milkshake, and Bobby stood before Mickey. For a world that had nearly been destroyed forty years earlier, Mickey’s perch in the penthouse of the Excalibur was impressive as was the complex gear and pulley system that powered the elevators. In the old days, they used to run on electricity. But today, the damn nanoswarms destroyed anything with an electromagnetic signature and killed anyone who tried to spark up.

  Tony and Milkshake had waited outside Mickey’s office for what had seemed like half the day, while Bobby had briefed Mickey on a range of topics only made men were entrusted to hear. In the interim, Milkshake had driven Tony crazy with the kid’s incessant requests for a damn guidebook. All the while, Tony couldn’t stop imagining how Mickey might punish him for the botched hit. By the time Mickey had called Tony into the room, Tony had been ready to shit his pants. Who knows what Bobby had told the boss? Tony was just as likely to be stabbed for botching the hit on Vinny as he was to be praised for keeping Milkshake alive.

  The instant Milano’s eyes locked on Tony’s, Milano scowled. “What’s this I hear about DeMarco?”

  “Boss, I got something more important that I thought you needed to see first.”

  Milano pounded his fist on the desk. “Goddammit! You thought. I don’t want you to think. I don’t wanna hear any fucking excuses. Is DeMarco feeding the worms or not?”

  “He’s not. I...I got jammed up. But I can explain,” Tony put his hand on Milkshake’s shoulder, “This is Milkshake, he’s...”

  Milano put his hand up. “Shut the fuck up. Bobby already briefed me about the kid’s dramatic entrance. I must say, pretty fanciful story. If Bobby hadn’t been there to see it, I wouldn’t have believed it.”

  Tony lowered his head in shame. “No excuses, Boss. I’ll get right on it. Soon as we’re done here, I’ll take the boys and we’ll track DeMarco down.”

  “No! Fuck that! You fucked up, and now I gotta clean up your mess. DeMarco’s probably out there now shooting his mouth off about us to the other families. Not to mention I’ve got other, more pressing problems. I mean, hell, I got homeless people fleeing the flood tunnels with stories about some boogie monster they call the Troll. They say this Troll’s been eating people. You believe that shit?”

  “Boss, just tell me what you want me to do to make it right. Anything,” Tony pleaded.

  “DeMarco can wait. Hell, I’ll take care of him myself. You, on the other hand, I got a very special job for you.” Mickey said the word “special” in his best retard voice.

  Tony sucked up his pride. “Name it.”

  “I gotta package. A very special package. And I want you to take it to the Mad Greek.”

  Tony frowned despite himself. “Boss, I know I said ‘anything’, but there’s ninety miles of desert wilderness between here and there, there’s no water, and don’t even get me started about the People of the Sun.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Tony. You’ll be safe as a clam. I got wagon trains heading out that way all the time. I’ll just attach you to the next one,” Mickey said. “I’ve also contracted for a cavalry troop from the Blackhorse Regiment to link up with you in Primm and escort you to Baker.”

  Throughout the High Desert, the Blackhorse Regiment had one hell of a reputation for fighting. Starting from a small core of military survivors at the Army’s National Training Center in Fort Irwin and the Naval Air Weapons Station at China Lake, the Blackhorse had established control over the Mojave Desert’s major trade routes, most notably the I-15 Trail, one bloody battle at a time. Learning he’d be riding with the Blackhorse was the best piece of news Tony had heard all month.

  Tony sighed in relief. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

  “You bet your ass you will. Oh, and don’t forget to bring me back a strawberry milkshake. I’m sending this cooler with you so you can deliver it to me nice and chilled.” Mickey extended his hand toward a blue cube-shaped Coleman cooler.

  Tony glanced over at Milkshake and mouthed, “The fuck?”

  “Oh, and I’d like ya to meet Joey.” Mickey tilted his head up, looking beyond the three men, and shouted. “Joey, come here.”

  A skeletal man with a black goatee and a lily-white suit stepped forward. He carried a nondescript cardboard box not much larger than the cooler.

  Mickey pointed at Joey. “This here’s Joey ‘No Words’ Colombo. He’ll be joining your crew. He’s also in charge of the package,” he indicated the cardboard box with a nod, “which no one but Joey is authorized to open. Let me repeat myself: under no circumstances is anyone to open that box except Joey. Capische?”

  Tony nodded. He extended his hand to Joey.

  Joey ignored it.

  Annoyed at Joey’s rebuff, Tony said, “What’s wrong with him, cat got his tongue?”

  Mickey smiled. “Funny you say that, ‘cause Joey don’t got no tongue. He keeps secrets.”

  Right on cue, Joey swiveled his head and opened his mouth, confirming Mickey’s claim.

  “Anything else special about Joey we need to know?” Tony asked Mickey, putting the same emphasis Mickey did on the word “special” earlier in the conversation.

  Mickey held out his index finger. “Don’t you fucking crack wise with me, Tony. But now that you mention it, yeah. He’s double-jointed and one hell of a killer.”

  “Okay. When do the four of us get going?”

  Mickey scrunched up his face like a rabid bulldog. “What do ya mean ‘the four of us’? Bobby ain’t going nowhere. He’s staying right here with me.”

  “Why?” said Tony.

  “’Cause I said so, that’s why. ‘Cause unlike your lazy ass, he’s a real earner.”

  Clenching his fists, Tony struggled to contain his rage. It took every bit of self-control not to reach across the table and choke Mickey.

  “What about the car in Arizona that zapped Milkshake into Vegas? Isn’t that more important than your package?” Tony said in a last ditch effort to get out of Mickey’s suicide mission. “Let’s give this kid a pen and paper so he can write down what he knows.”

  Bobby turned toward Tony. “We got that one covered. We’re sending a separate expedition southeast.”

  Tony grabbed Milkshake’s shoulders. “Don’t you think it would be a good idea to take someone who’s been there?”

  Bobby shook his head. “We’ve already considered that option and ruled it out.”

  “Why would you rule something like that out? You’ll be going in blind.”

  Mickey interrupted, “’Cause, for all we know, Milkshake’s a spy. Plus, a company outta Utah called ACNUS hired us to settle other matters in Tempe. Now stop asking questions, you stupid shit. I don’t gotta explain myself to you.”

  Tony took a deep breath and, before he could say anything, Bobby gave him a now-is-not-the-time look. Tony just shrugged.

  Mickey clasped his hands. “Good. So we’re done here.”

  “Boss, what about the...” said Bobby before Mickey cut him off.

  “Ah, yeah, yeah, yeah. I almost forgot. I got three more things for you to take with ya.” Mickey pulled out a tin of Altoids, an old, neon green Motorola handheld radio, and a roll of green duct tape. “In case your expedition goes tits up and the People of the Sun decide to skin you alive, this Altoids tin has cyanide capsules for all three of you. Just put one in your mouth and bite down. Easy peasy. This goes without saying, but only use the Motorola if shit really hits the fan. Wrap some duct tape around the push-to-talk button and a nanoswarm’ll be on you like flies on shit. Capische?”

  Tony nodded.

  “Good. Now get the fuck out of my office.”

  II. Regimental Rendezvous

  The next day, Tony, Milkshake, and Joey headed southwest by wagon train, sharing a covered wagon drawn by four Percheron draft horses. Only this time, it wasn’t one of the fancy wagons built on the chassis of some old
world luxury sedan. It was the wooden kind: lighter for the horses hauling cargo through harsh desert conditions, cheaper to provision, and more expendable for Mickey Milano in case of loss.

  Tony had plenty of reasons to curse Milano, but the boss outfitting him with this carriage sure as hell wasn’t one of them. Even if the vehicle was expendable. A full ten to twenty degrees cooler inside, the wagon made the trip more tolerable.

  The wagon train included twenty wagons with cargo ranging from fruit to dry goods like clothing manufactured in Las Vegas. Some of the men whispered that Milano’s cargo also carried a meth shipment, which, if true, would have been frowned upon by the other families.

  Either way, given the sheer scale of the convoy, Tony was convinced his mission was but a small part of the entire operation. To him it was clear that managing Milano’s growing trade network was the boss’s primary aim.

  An escort of fifty family associates on horseback, clad in thick leather armor, and armed with spears, scythes, and crossbows protected the cargo. By pre-invasion standards, these weapons were fairly primitive, but they were all Tony had ever known.

  Tony’s teacher and mentor, Father Serra, used to tell him stories about how people once waged war. With firearms, tanks, artillery, and bombers, soldiers and airmen could reach out and touch someone miles away. But after more than four decades of constant strife, the world had run out of bullets. And without electricity, the high tech manufacturing required for ammunition production was no longer feasible.

  The Five Families’ desert empire extended north to the edge of Area 51, southeast to Lake Mead, and southwest to Primm, an old gambling town on the California-Nevada border. Bobby had told Tony to expect a two-day, forty-mile trek to Primm. There, he’d link up with Captain Fitzhugh, commander of Alpha Troop.

  Even in a covered wagon, the ride along the I-15 Trail was rough and bumpy, and Tony was sweating like a pig. The kid sat next to him and was now wearing some old Army surplus olive drab coveralls Tony had scrounged up before leaving Vegas.

  Milkshake gaped in idiot wonder at the horses. Tony got so sick of watching the slack-jawed redneck stare at the animals, he kicked Milkshake out of the covered wagon for a few hours just so the kid could satisfy his curiosity and learn how to ride a horse.

  The column traveled from dawn to dusk, then circled the wagons and set up a laager site about twenty miles northeast of Primm. While the Five Families controlled the area, the People of the Sun sometimes raided local homesteads. So everyone did a two-hour shift on watch.

  When it came time for Tony and Milkshake to crawl bleary-eyed out of their sleeping bags and stumble into the starry night, Milkshake was shivering like a little bitch. Apparently he wasn’t aware the temperature in the desert could plummet more than thirty degrees from day to night.

  Tony took the hourglass from Joey, who’d just completed his shift, and flipped it to start his. Then he sat by the fire, wondering what the hell he and Milkshake would do if anyone attacked.

  In the cold darkness, crickets chirred. From a short distance away and hidden in the fire-cast shadows, coyotes yipped and yowled. A city boy at heart, Tony found these desert outings uncomfortable and sometimes downright terrifying. To pass the time and calm his nerves, he grabbed some hardtack from his pocket and munched on it.

  Tony and Milkshake finished their watch in silence, then went back to their wagon, where Tony drifted off into sleep.

  ~~~

  Tony woke to a blood-curdling scream. The faint morning light seeped into the wagon through the opening in the white cloth bonnet that kept out the dust and heat. He shook Milkshake awake. Joey was already gone.

  Tony grabbed the boots sitting next to his head and shoved them on.

  More screams.

  Tony left the wagon. Joey was helping Dom, one of the associates, stay on his feet. Dom was frothing at the mouth and shaking violently.

  “What the hell’s going on?” Tony asked.

  Joey pointed at an object near Dom’s feet.

  A tan suede combat boot.

  Tony couldn’t resist. “What the fuck, Joey? Cat got your tongue?”

  Joey glared at Tony.

  Nick, another associate, answered, “Dom left his boots out last night. When he put ‘em on this morning, he got stung by a scorpion.”

  Tony struggled to say something profound, but “shit” was all he could manage.

  “Someone’s gonna need to ride Dom’s horse. For now, he needs to rest in your wagon,” Nick said to Tony.

  Tony shrugged. “Sorry. I don’t know how to ride a horse. It’s gonna have to be either Joey or Milkshake.”

  Joey extended his middle finger at Tony.

  “Great! Thanks for volunteering, Joey.”

  ~~~

  The wagon train halted a few hundred meters from the edge of Primm. Tony observed the town through a pair of binos. Ahead, a hill-sized sandstone rock towered over the left side of the trail. A rusted iron rollercoaster track wound around the knoll. To the left of the rock stood a gigantic wedge-shaped building. It was faded red with white-framed windows. The structure reminded Tony of the barns Father Serra had shown him in the ancient tomes.

  Between the red building and the road there was an open sandy area that used to be a parking lot. Near its edge loomed a thirty-foot tall sign with a Native American headdress crowning a buffalo’s head. Beneath the icon, two lines read: “Buffalo Bill’s” and “Hotel-Casino”.

  Tony lowered his binos, then faced Milkshake. He handed them to the boy, then motioned toward the dull red casino. “That’s where we’re supposed to rendezvous with the Regiment.”

  A low-lying dust cloud stirred on the horizon. Soon, it resolved into a posse of man and horse. From his rough count, Tony estimated about a hundred or so riders.

  Milkshake’s mouth gaped open like a snake about to swallow a rat. “I’ve never seen so many horses in my life.”

  “You kidding me?” Tony said, “Wild horses are everywhere out here.”

  “Where I’m from, people ate most of the horses.”

  Tony laughed. “Well, fortunately for us, people needed water more than food, so they died of dehydration before they could worry about starvation. Wild horses, on the other hand, have been roaming Nevada for well over a century.”

  The mounted column split into two threads and encircled Tony’s caravan. The Regiment’s horses were lightly armored with metal likely scavenged from automobiles. The cavalrymen wore light breastplates and backplates that Father Serra had called cuirasses. Underneath their polished armor, the men wore midnight blue jackets and light blue pants. On every trooper’s head sat a midnight blue Stetson with crossed gold sabers centered on the crown just above the brim. Beneath the crossed sabers, rested a gold cord terminating in two golden acorns.

  And all of them were armed with sabers.

  Their uniforms reminded Tony of pictures Father Serra had shown him of the Union Army in the Civil War.

  A white horse carrying a grizzled man with a tidy brown beard cantered forward. Two parallel silver bars sitting above his Stetson’s crossed sabers marked him as Captain Fitzhugh.

  The trooper’s scarred and leathery face gave Tony the impression this officer was the real deal, a man who’d clearly been in a few scuffles; a man who’d been accustomed to always coming out on top; a man who wouldn’t take shit from anyone.

  Fitzhugh dipped the brim of his Stetson in greeting, then extended his white-gloved hand to Tony. When Tony gripped it, Fitzhugh studied Tony’s fingers. “You must be Mr. Genovese. So it’s true what they say.”

  This kind of thing happened so often it was starting to get on Tony’s nerves. So he played dumb just to mess with the captain. “What do ya mean?”

  “They call you ‘Six Fingers’ because you actually have six fingers.”

  Tony glanced over his shoulder at Milkshake. “Look at the big brain on Captain Fitzhugh.”

  Facing Fitzhugh again, Tony said, “Pleased to meet you, Captain. You
r troopers ready to ride?”

  Fitzhugh glowered at Tony as if insulted. “Of course. The Regiment’s always ready. A better question is: are you?”

  Tony didn’t much care for Fitzhugh’s tone. “What? You think me and my associates can’t handle it out here?”

  Fitzhugh laughed, then turned serious. “Since the invasion, Mr. Genovese, the Mojave’s not what it used to be. It was always desolate and dangerous to be sure, but it’s got a whole new level of surprises out there now.”

  “Yeah? Like what?”

  “I’m sure you’ve heard the stories. The People of the Sun. Their dark rituals. Their cannibalism. Reports of strange animals roaming the desert. The fact of the matter is that most of what you’ve heard is only half-true.”

  “So they don’t eat people?”

  “No. That’s definitely true. But I’ve seen worse. On their patrols, my troopers have found signs of ritualized human sacrifice. Mr. Genovese, these people aren’t just cannibals—they worship the practice. Hell, they’ve organized a whole religion around it. And their faith is strong.”

  Tony tried not to let the captain see his fear, so he changed the subject. “So what’s the plan?”

  Captain Fitzhugh ignored Tony’s question. The commander clearly wasn’t finished. “And you know what else I’ve heard?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Rumor has it that one of the Five Families is trading meth with the People of the Sun. And if that’s the Genovese family, me and my boys are gonna have some serious problems with you and yours.”

  Tony had heard rumors about the meth shipments before, but he hadn’t thought Milano would sink that low. But who knew? Bobby was constantly ginning up new schemes to enrich Milano. Tony wouldn’t be surprised if that sneaky bastard Bobby was running drugs in this caravan.

  But to sell that meth to the People of the Sun? Well, that was preposterous. All Tony could do was tell the truth. “Look, Captain, I don’t know anything about that. If I did, I’d come clean right now.”

  Fitzhugh stared at Tony for several long, uncomfortable seconds. “No, I suppose you don’t. I’ll tell you what: take this as a fair warning. You tell Boss Milano that my boys are inspecting the next caravan we escort. If we find meth, we’re burning every wagon that carries it. Do I make myself clear?”