The Big Waste (After-Skirmish Book 1)

by C. W. Ashley

  By C.W. Ashley

  For Katerina

  Contents

  Chapter 1: The Pit Maneuver

  Chapter 2: Animal

  Chapter 3: Bright Eyes

  Chapter 4: Wheelhouse

  Chapter 5: Free Trade

  Chapter 6: Finding Your Way

  Chapter 7: Garage Talk

  Chapter 8: Arrears

  Chapter 9: Tee Total

  Chapter 10: Risk Factors

  Chapter 11: The Clutch

  Chapter 12: Amazon Chaser

  Chapter 13: Canis Canem Edit

  Chapter 14: Lore and Infamy

  Chapter 15: Limited Dreams

  Chapter 16: Nature’s Path

  Chapter 17: Food Chains

  Chapter 18: Homebody

  Chapter 19: Surrogates

  Chapter 20: Artificiality

  Chapter 21: Help Wanted

  Chapter 22: Conference

  Chapter 23: Blood Thinner

  Chapter 24: Deadline

  Chapter 25: Ladykillers

  Chapter 26: Loose Ends

  Your first day in The Big Waste can often be your last.

  -Citadel Warning

  Chapter 1: The Pit Maneuver

  They were gaining on him, the delicious buzz of the wheels in the wasteland tearing through the orange sand and patchwork tarmac was the music of the hunt. Cook’s bandits had found a courier in a Class A vehicle. After blasting an entire day’s worth of ammo during the chase, they started to ram it.

  The driver of the vehicle, a freelance cargo transporter, was still defiant as hell in the face of the assault despite the fact it was his first day running a delivery. After repeatedly wiping sweat and dirt from his driving goggles he tore them away from his eyes so they snapped uncomfortably on his bushy hairline. Bleeding from a hole in his leg and without any weapons of his own, all he could do was grip desperately to his consciousness and steering wheel every time the cheap metal of the pursuers’ off-road mini-beast slammed into his car door.

  The Big Waste smelled blood.

  I refuse to fucking die today.

  He was determined to convince himself.

  I’ve got a full tank of gas. These fucking powder-heads can’t drive like I can. I have to survive this. Then I’m heading back home and staying there. I never should have come out here.

  The driver known as ‘Ignition’ liked to talk to himself in times of desperation – it always made him feel less lonely when he needed friends around him the most. Now he was in the middle of nowhere, trying to survive a failed delivery run while being chased by two of Cook's bandits in a Scar-Buggy. The gash in his thigh just added to those things reminding him he needed friends now more than ever.

  Eyes open Iggy! You can still drive...

  The gurgle and scream of the dueling engines were loud enough to wake sandworms from hibernation. They sang in chorus with the howling jeers of the powder-addled bandits desperately smashing Iggy’s beloved car, the Blockgain Chaser. The scrap they’d be stripping from it was almost as exciting to them as the cargo they hoped to steal. The buggy they were in had been modded to hell and back, with enough power under the hood to keep up with a high-end Chaser. If Iggy wasn’t on the brink of death at a ridiculous speed, he might have been impressed.

  “You ain’t shit without that ammo! Last chance to run back the outpost, waste-rats!” Iggy yelled from his broken window as the bandits pulled closer for their next attack.

  Iggy wanted to be intimidating, but he was used to demolition derby rivals in controlled citadel tournaments. Not murderous bandits so high on powder they couldn’t even respond coherently. His threat only seemed to excite them even more as they pulled a hard-left side shunt into the Chaser for the 4th time with exuberant screams.

  The impact wasn’t enough to cause Iggy to spinout, but more than enough to splash the pumping blood from his bullet wounded leg all over his dashboard. The metallic stench of his quickly-drying sticky blood was so putrid it kept him conscious; like some sort of crude smelling salt. His blurring vision made out that the area around him was an endless looking sea of flat wasteland. No roads, or shortcuts, no alleyways or mountains, just a wide-open space for him to die.

  I need something to ram them into, like a rock or a steel post. Hell, even a guard rail to grind them against would do it…why is the waste so empty?!

  Iggy clenched his teeth and grunted weakly as the pain began to overwhelm him. The shallow pool of blood in his lap made him feel like he pissed himself. The rushing cold air felt like a blizzard as his life energy was literally draining out of him. The Scar Buggy was gearing up for another sideswipe, looking to put him to sleep. Iggy knew as well as they did, he would never wake.

  Keep it together! Stay alert! It’s the last round of the seasonal qualifiers, take them out, Iggy!

  Feeling the blisters on his palms split open as he squeezed the wheel with a desperate surge of survival strength, he pulled his Chaser into a minor right turn – just enough to lose a little speed. The Scar buggy’s over modded engine made ugly sounds as it tried to slow down, but with all the upgrades in the world, it was still just a poorly made bandit buggy. It couldn’t re-adjust like a derby vehicle and that split second in the screaming inertia was all Iggy needed.

  Hello PIT Maneuver, I’ve missed you!

  Iggy cranked his vehicle into a hard left while diverting fuel to his custom petrol boost, a standard function in all derby machines. The front end of the Blockgain Chaser plowed into the side of the Scar Buggy’s back wheel with the impact of a scrap cannon.

  The Blockgain Chaser’s ramming power turned the bandits into protein spread. The meeting of flesh and bone against the metal of their own vehicle cut their whooping screams of bloodlust viciously short by the much louder crunch of them being churned into their mangled vehicle as it split in two. Iggy’s car spun out like a tornado after the crash, and the dizzying effect along with the impact robbed him of his last bit of consciousness as his car skidded to a halt. The last thing he saw before passing out was the pale severed hand of one of the bandits landing on the roof of his car, before sliding off with a trail of gore on his windshield.

  The Blockgain Chaser had wrecked its 173rd vehicle, and Iggy had killed for the first time in his life.

  Chapter 2: Animal

  “Ignition to Citadel depot...do you copy?” There was nothing but static. Iggy had the communicator close to his bloody face as he held down the button. “Ignition to Citadel depot, I am still carrying package 320, I’m…in an unknown patch of the Waste, please respond.”

  Iggy had awoken with a tongue like sandpaper, and with all the adrenaline of the high-speed chase now gone, his body was deathly weak from his injuries. Although his leg had stopped bleeding, he wasn’t confident he could walk if he needed to. The radio device was slightly damaged but it was still working, Iggy knew someone was listening.

  Pick up you bastards, you can hear me.

  Suddenly the fuzz and crackle came to life, and a heavily muffled voice responded. “Copy Ignition, this is Rayko, Depot office. You’re over an hour late.”

  “Y-yes Depot, bandit raid. Cook’s men, I think. I barely escaped with my life and my vehicle is-”

  “What of the cargo, is it intact?”

  Iggy sighed, noting the emotionless tone of the officer. His head was still spinning. It was hard to focus. Yet he had no reason to believe the grey strongbox in the back of his car would have been damaged; the material of the cargo’s casing was stronger than the armor of the Blockgain. But he thought he’d take a look anyway.

  “Just confirming, there was a collision and-”

  “And what? What is the status of th
e cargo?”

  It wasn’t there.

  Everything in the atmosphere suddenly became much more unpleasant. The wind became salty and dry; the screech of the crows became that much shriller and the glare of the pale orange sun felt excessively harsh. This was the effect of panic setting in.

  It was definitely here…how long was I out for?

  “I repeat, what is the status of the cargo? Please repor-”

  Iggy ended the call immediately.

  He knew what was coming next, no matter how rational or fantastical his excuse; the depot would hold him responsible for the missing cargo. The price of the cargo was seven thousand standards, the delivery error fee was another two thousand, and every day he failed to clear that debt he would be charged another thousand up to a month.

  The Citadel was a day away, assuming he could get back right away. That was ten thousand standards. Even selling all of his assets and stripping his accounts wouldn’t be enough. They’d send him to one of the debtor’s prison camps, a death sentence for sure.

  Returning to the Citadel was no longer an option.

  Iggy slammed his fist into the dashboard. He shoved open the car door and attempted to climb out. He realized the pain in his leg was gone, due more to the fact it was numb rather than that the wound was healing. The bleeding had stopped but only due to a gruesome-looking scab over his heavy-duty cargo jeans. He briefly picked at it. The scab was the only thing keeping the grit out, protecting him from infection. He left it alone.

  Swinging both legs outside the car; he grimaced as the hot sun beat down on his back. The waste stretched on endlessly in all directions and the only scenery apart from the discolored sand was the remains of the Scar Buggy that he totaled.

  Scavenging wasn’t something Iggy ever considered himself doing. As a minor celebrity in the Demolition Circuit, he had the luxury to look down on those who were forced to dive in junkyards as a means to live – and those were the folks inside the Citadel; the wasters outside of it were basically living like animals. Regardless, it was survival time and supplies were top priority before the dreaded sundown.

  Walking was very uncomfortable. His injured leg dragging along behind him, he desperately crossed the 30 or so feet between his car and the smashed buggy. His sleeveless duster felt heavier than ever and his armpits itched ferociously as large droplets of sweat trickled down the inside of his wiry arms. He tried to lubricate his throat many times by swallowing. It only exacerbated the issues caused by his tongue, which was rough as granite due to the onset of dehydration.

  Do powder-heads carry water?

  A couple of steps away from the front half of the buggy, Iggy was met with the repulsive sight of one of the passengers. The bandit's upper body had been torn from the abdomen with a trail of intestines painting a bright red trail back to the front half of the vehicle. The heavily tattooed, bare-chested corpse laid face down in the sand with its two broken arms stretched out in separate directions.

  In the left hand was a large dark grey revolver with an engraved cream wood handle. Iggy leaned over and grabbed it. The barrel was still warm from the recent fire. He checked for ammo. There were two bullets remaining. He sighed with disappointment but shoved it in his pocket; a gun was a gun, and there could be more ammo over on the buggy.

  Breathing as shallowly as possible, Iggy limped to the front half of the rival vehicle and did his best to rummage through the debris. Apart from a few bags of powder, there was very little of value. There was a canteen with a small amount of liquid but Iggy decided against drinking it until he could be sure it was water.

  Searching the back half of the buggy was a little more fruitful. He found a spare half canister of fuel which miraculously didn't explode upon impact when Iggy smashed into them, plus a nasty looking nail-bat that had a few strings of razor-wire around the end of it. Iggy liked the weight of it as he gave it a few light swings. A chill went down his spine. They’d have used this to turn him into Bull-chow once they took out his car. He shuddered and took a few deep breaths.

  Not this time fellas...not this time.

  That minor pleasant turn was instantly soured by the sight of the 2nd corpse. Although still in one piece, all of the limbs were heavily distorted and deformed from the crash. The face had the horrifying final expression of life plastered across it, with gory holes for eye sockets were the waste crows had plucked them out for an afternoon meal. Iggy wretched, but the dryness of his throat kept him from bringing anything up.

  He wasn't built for this kind of violence. There had been fatal accidents in some of the derbies he was in, but he very rarely had to see the state of the victims in the aftermath and never up this close.

  I sure don't want to do this again; it can't be like this all the time in the waste, can it?

  The introspection was cut short by a sharp, stabbing pain in his leg. The feeling hadn't returned fully but it was enough of a contrast to draw immediate attention to his crusted wound. It almost felt like a bite.

  Still holding his new nail-bat, he used his free hand to immediately grab his leg where the pain was shooting from. The scab was coarse and sticky and he was met with a slight sting when his blistered hand felt it. But the throb of the pain was coming from somewhere deeper inside his leg, underneath the scab he felt something moving.

  Panic hit him like his old driving instructor smacking him across the face with a heavy glove. Iggy dropped to the ground as he abandoned all fear of pain. He tore at his scab, searching for the source of the movement. Bleeding to death was preferable to dying from some sort of parasite devouring him from the inside out.

  The thick layer of stiff encrusted flesh came off. Iggy was met with a horrific sight. Something bulbous and slimy was lying there, pulsating and feeding on his leg. Iggy had no interest in trying to waste precious seconds wondering what it was. He wanted it off of him immediately.

  He could barely get a decent grip on it before he began to pull. It was a pale yellow color with blotches of a wine-red shade across it like the pattern of a spotted super bloom mushroom. As Iggy squeezed it to tug, the color morphed with the pressure of his hand, turning a passionate blood red like a fist-sized pimple ready to burst. Iggy's panic and anger were the only things keeping him from passing out due to shock.

  Get off, fuck, come on….

  With a desperate yank, Iggy removed the fleshy bulb from his skin and it flew from his hands as fast as he pulled it. His scream of fear and pain was matched by a terrifying high-pitched wail that came from the thing itself as it flew across the sand.

  Wh-what the hell was it?

  Iggy didn't have to wonder long. Through the blur of his teary eyes, the source of his panic took shape. The bulb opened to show a gaping wide mouth and two protruding black eyes. It was a Bloodtoad.

  Of course…I mean what else?

  Fairly common across the more remote areas of the wastes, the very small Bloodtoad would burrow its way into the body of a much larger host, usually through an open wound, before secreting a blood-clot toxin which would cause the opening to rapidly close up and scab over. The blood-toad would then begin to dig deeper inside and drink blood from the host gradually enough to go unnoticed while growing with every gulp. Some reports described the toad inside a human for days or even weeks before being noticed depending on how slowly it would drink. After reaching a certain size and strength it would deliver a knockout toxin and fully devour the host from the inside as they slept.

  Dinnertime is over, you fucking animal!

  Iggy rose to his feet, unbalanced from the fresh surge of pain and staggering as his body registered the blood loss. The toad was too fat and bloated to scramble to its feet in time to make its escape. Iggy closed in and cocked his new bat back to swing for the fences.

  The sound was repulsive but to Iggy, it was like the finest music. The bat found its target perfectly. The blood-sucking monster exploded upon impact. Sweet-smelling blood splashed in every direction, a purple-red slime covering Iggy, the c
orpses, and the remnants of the buggy.

  ...Nice….

  Iggy reveled in the small high he got from ridding the world of the beast. He wasn't certain he had saved his own life, but destroying that slimy pus balloon felt just as good.

  Then came the growls.

  I must smell pretty tasty right now...

  The sweet scent of the toad’s blood was already being carried on the wind. It had already caught the attention of something hungry. That wasn’t hard though, everything was hungry in The Big Waste. He was a little too dizzy to hear exactly what direction it was coming from but it was getting closer.

  Raidlion...Gamma-Grizz...Plentipede, what are you?

  His brain gave his damaged body several orders to dash back to his car and escape. Drained from his blood-toad home run, he was barely able to take two steps before stumbling to the ground; his legs wouldn’t carry his weight. He was now using every ounce of willpower just to stay conscious. Being devoured wasn't going to be pleasant at all; he could only hope that dying quickly would spare him the agony of being digested.

  Maybe I can hold my breath...it eases the pain…I just want to sleep now.

  It was widely understood that citizens like Iggy were never meant for The Waste. It was no more apparent to him than now as he lay there, blood pouring from his leg, listening to the growls of the beasts around him. The growling was now ravenous and shaking the air around him. Curiosity caused the doomed driver to stare right at the source of the guttural sounds.

  Ugh...another frog...of course it'd be.

  It wasn't actually a frog but a Gecko of the waste variation. About 6 feet long and covered with rough yellow scales and huge black eyes with a red tint. Its lengthy tongue lashing back and forth, tasting the air for a source of food, which was now right in front of it.

  Iggy wasn't scared anymore, there was nothing he could do but show defiance, he wanted to look straight at this beast and sneer, cursing it for not being the high powered muscle car he always assumed would kill him in a derby.