Badlands: A Post-Apocalyptic Journey

by Nathan Jones

  “Fair enough, I suppose,” Simon said grudgingly. “I imagine most of my own people would probably say the same. But you're going to be scouting for us, doing your best to avoid fights in the first place, right?”

  “My number one priority, believe me.” Tom offered his hand.

  After a few moments Simon reluctantly shook, grip still just as firm. “I hope you feel as unsatisfied with this deal as I do, Miller. I'd hate to think you got the better of me.”

  Tom leaned back again. “Well you convinced me to do something I really didn't want to do.” He smiled thinly. “Although if it makes you feel better there's every chance the badlands will get the better of us all.”

  From the convoy leader's expression it obviously didn't. When Reina came by not long after that with the pie and a glass of water Simon quickly drank it down, then stood. “We're not quite ready to go. Come by tomorrow morning and you can get started by giving us tips on what specific preparations we need to make to travel through the badlands.”

  “Fair enough,” Tom said, picking up his fork and digging in. “After I've given you some pointers I'll need to head back into the mountains for my trade goods. If I hurry I can be back by morning day after tomorrow, noon at the latest.”

  “We should be ready to leave by then,” Simon said as he paid Reina, ignoring her inviting look. He turned towards the door. “Enjoy your pie.”

  Chapter Two

  Preparations

  Tom broke camp at the crack of dawn the next morning, hastily cleaning up the small hollow a mile or so west of Emery that he used on trade runs.

  He wanted to get an early start with Simon and take care of things quickly so he could head for his mountain hideout, retrieve the cache of trade goods he'd buried not far from it. It was going to be a rough hike, uphill most of the way there and downhill with a heavy load most of the way back.

  But he planned to trust the convoy's leader to hold onto his pack so at least he wouldn't have to deal with its added weight. It was something he hated to do since his pack had all the stuff he needed for survival at the most basic level, but in this case he didn't see many alternatives.

  When he reached the convoy's camp he saw that most of the sixty or so people were already up cooking breakfast or getting an early start on preparations to leave. He found Simon helping a younger man adjust the wheel of his handcart, while nearby two women were busy preparing food over a small fire and keeping an eye on a couple sleepy kids.

  Most carts and wagons these days were made by scavenging wheels and axles, or occasionally the entire chassis, from otherwise useless motor vehicles. Then they were jury-rigged with a simple wagon bed for cargo, and a seat for the larger wagons meant to be pulled by livestock, usually without even springs for comfort. It was rare to see functional rubber tires on those wheel rims, which were usually fitted with some sort of tire made from wood or other materials, ideally compacted rubber if they could make or find it.

  Although some of the carts, like the one Simon was working on at the moment, didn't bother at all and just ran on the rims, which worked well enough as long as they weren't loaded too heavily. Which might actually be a risk for that handcart, considering it looked as if it was going to be carrying possessions and supplies for five people.

  Probably something Tom should warn them to watch out for.

  “There's our guide!” the convoy's leader called as he spotted him approaching, hastily straightening from the cart. He came over and shook Tom's hand, seemingly over last night's bitterness about the tough negotiations. In his wake a few other curious people gathered around, and Simon raised his voice for their benefit. “Ready to get started?”

  Tom nodded. “First off I'd like a closer look at your convoy, see what we're working with. Specifically things like number of people and livestock, food supplies and fodder, and estimated carrying capacity for your wagons and carts and what condition they're in.”

  Simon frowned slightly. “I think I can help you with most of that, at least the broad strokes. Most of the people here will know what they have and how much they can carry.” He nodded to the gathering crowd. “While we're doing that, any suggestions on what people can get started on?”

  If the convoy needed that sort of micromanagement they were in serious trouble, although Tom assumed Simon was just offering him a chance to share his expertise. It was what he was getting paid for, so that's what he'd do. “Well for one thing you're going to have to lose some weight.”

  The redheaded man looked around at his fellow settlers, none of whom were especially thickset, with a wry twist of his mouth. “I assume you mean leave things behind.”

  Tom nodded. “You're going to be racing thirst from one source of water to another, and the trek will steadily wear down the strength of you and your animals so each mile becomes harder and harder. You can't afford to be dragging along anything you don't absolutely need.”

  As expected Simon didn't look pleased by the news. “We do need all of this if we're going to have any sort of life in Texas. Why can't we just carry more water when we need to?”

  “Oh you definitely should . . . it'll run out faster than you think. But eventually you get to a point where what you're carrying slows you down almost as much as it buys you extra days of travel, until before long you hit the wall of running out of food. Not to mention there are other hazards and hardships besides thirst that you don't want to linger to enjoy.”

  “I suppose lightening the load doesn't apply to what you want us to carry for you in one of our wagons?” the convoy's leader demanded sarcastically.

  “No, because it was part of our agreement so you'll have to account for it.” Tom shrugged. “You don't have to follow my advice, but it's a long, hard way to Texas. You'll want to run light even if it means doing without, take my word for it.”

  “I do.” Simon looked anguished, though. “It's just that we've sacrificed so much to bring it all this far. We've already been forced to abandon a lot of it along the side of the road. Things we needed.”

  “So do it again.” Tom wandered over to the nearest wagon and rapped his knuckles on a plastic chair strapped to the top. “This may not seem all that heavy, and it may be painful to leave something like this behind, but if you've got tools you can make new furniture on the far side. Believe me, halfway through the trip you guys are going to be dumping this stuff yourselves. The badlands will make you sacrifice in ways you've never encountered before. Ways you can hardly imagine.”

  A dismayed murmur rippled through the crowd. Simon rubbed at his chin. “I suppose if we trim the convoy down while we're near Emery we have a better chance of selling what we leave behind.”

  Yeah, I'm sure you'll get great deals for all this junk you're obviously desperate to sell. Personally Tom would've cached anything he left behind. In fact that was what he often did when preparing for a trip like this.

  But he supposed none of these people would be coming back this way. Even if they managed to make it across the badlands the brutal passage would discourage a return trip, no matter what conditions were like on the far side. In that case caching their goods would be about as much use as just tossing them off the wagons for the elements to destroy.

  Selling them for a pittance wasn't the worst option in comparison.

  As Simon led Tom off to inspect the convoy the gathered crowd reluctantly dispersed. A few even got started lightening their loads. As they walked the redheaded man briefly described their trip down from their homes just outside the Utah Valley fallout zone, and introduced a few of the more prominent families as well as pointing out the new arrivals.

  The group of settlers had a few additions besides Tom, residents of Emery or traders passing through the small town that were hopping on board the only convoy they knew of that was making its way to Texas. He was sure the refugees' glowing tales of a bright new future in Newpost had helped encourage those hesitant to make the dangerous trip across the badlands, and could only hope they still felt like
it was worth it when they reached the other side.

  Their first stop was a makeshift corral for the convoy's beasts of burden, a circle of wagons to house the animals inside for protection during the night. There were a dozen or so horses, mules, and oxen, most with the look of wagon teams. They were reasonably healthy animals, and Tom didn't see too much to worry about there.

  Just out of idle curiosity he asked Simon how much some of the less flashy horses had cost. The answer wasn't heartening, although not really surprising either.

  After a few minutes of checking hooves and teeth and inspecting hitching gear and packsaddles Tom pronounced the animals sound, aside from one older mule that might be a concern. With that task completed he turned towards the wagons. “All right, now let's check the most common source of problems for these convoys: wheels.”

  Improvised tires slapped on rims from pre-Ultimatum cars tended to have almost as many problems as the old iron-shod wooden wagon wheels settlers used in the 1800s. The rims themselves were orders of magnitude more sturdy, of course, but ten years wasn't long for people to reinvent the wheel when it came to what to put on them now that good condition rubber tires were getting harder and harder to find.

  Another issue, often even more pressing, was keeping the axles and other moving parts well greased so the tires would even turn without backbreaking force. Where so many of these carts were being pushed by people, and the trip through the badlands was going to be brutal enough on its own, making sure everything was functioning optimally would be critical.

  They'd also have to plan to bring along replacement parts, repair tools, and extra grease in case of the inevitable breakdown.

  Simon nodded at his suggestion and started for one of the wagons in the circle. “I guess we'll start with the one that'll be carrying your stuff,” he said, pointing to a modest space in the largest wagon's bed that Tom judged would be more than enough room for his things. “I imagine you're eager to confirm it can make the trip.”

  Tom supposed he was, although any wagon breaking down would slow the convoy down equally. Something Simon likely was well aware of. “I'll also want to look at your repair tools and spare parts.”

  The convoy's leader smiled. “I think you'll be pleased there. And I should also introduce you to our wheelwright, Frank Beesley.”

  * * * * *

  The man Mr. Randall had hired to lead their convoy across the badlands looked like he'd come straight out of a picture from the Wild West, although Kristy felt a bit bad thinking it.

  To be fair people tended to look more . . . rugged these days. Hard living prematurely aged you, and it was hard to find clothes made before the Ultimatum that were still in good condition. Meanwhile the clothes made after it tended to be, well, not very good looking.

  Even after years of learning and practicing, a lot of the old techniques for sewing and making cloth were just not very well known anymore. Over the years she'd seen some neighbors and friends who looked like what they were wearing was only a step above woven grass.

  But even knowing all that, it was impossible to pretend their guide looked like anything but an honest to goodness mountain man: medium height, scrawny, and old, he was clad entirely in buckskin, right down to the stiff moccasins he wore that could almost have passed for boots. The only modern things about him were his faded green camping backpack and the sleek black hunting rifle slung across the top of it. The revolver at his hip was modern as well, but still oddly fitting for his attire.

  To further the impression he had long brown hair and a thick beard down to his chest, both liberally salted with gray. His eyes were almost lost in that tangle, sharp and piercing as he moved through the convoy with Simon, offering advice on last minute preparations and occasionally stepping in to help with them. When they passed by her position in the convoy the breeze carried the strong smell of the buckskin he wore, sharp and almost unpleasant, and it took effort not to wrinkle her nose.

  Oddly enough, Kristy actually found his wild appearance comforting. He seemed like the sort of man who'd wandered the Southwest for years and could guide them safely to Texas. For that she could put up with him looking like a crazy old hermit.

  Not that she had much time to gawk, busy as she was with her own final preparations.

  She and Skyler were carrying their few possessions in the handcart of their close friends, the Hendricksons. Bob and Vicky had been their neighbors for years, and their daughter Lisa was only a bit younger than Skyler.

  It was generous of the family to share their cart, but it came with a price. Bob only had the strength to push it for so long, and when he rested Kristy and Vicky took over for him pushing it together.

  It was hard work, especially when she and Vicky weren't working in sync. Skyler and Lisa tried to help out as much as they could, but they just weren't big enough to do more than throw their weight against the back of the cart and ease the burden somewhat. Kristy thought she'd been in good shape back on the farm, but in the almost two weeks since the convoy started south she'd discovered just how ill prepared she was for the brutal grind of hauling a heavy weight one step after another, as the miles slowly crawled by over the endless hours of an entire day.

  It constantly amazed her that Bob was able to push the handcart on his own for so long, and still seem to have some energy left when it came time to set up camp. Like a spring that compressed under a heavy weight but bounced back as soon as the pressure was gone.

  She envied his resilience; she was 27, but after some particularly hard days on the road she felt like an old woman. And shallow as it was, she often fell asleep with the dread that the harsh conditions of the journey would prematurely age her.

  Of course, once she started looking like Grizzly Adams over there she'd know she was in trouble.

  With breakfast eaten and the washing up finished Bob got back to looking over the cart. Kristy was about to suggest a trip to town when Vicky beat her to it, straightening from laying out the dishes on a clean cloth on top of the cart with a small sigh. She brushed a stray lock of dark brown hair from her face and turned to Kristy. “Got your silver?”

  Kristy nodded, although she hastily checked the purse in the front pocket of her jeans just to be sure. In order to get what they needed for the trip she'd been forced to sell Miles's .30-06 hunting rifle, his shotgun, and all his remaining ammo. They'd been valuable and sold quickly to sympathetic neighbors, and provided enough that after buying supplies she should still have a good amount of silver left over. Enough for her and Skyler to start their new life in Texas, she hoped.

  But she'd only bought enough food for the trip down to Emery, on her friends' advice that it'd be better if they waited to load down the handcart until that point. Now they needed to go into town and purchase provisions for the remainder of the trip.

  She hoped she had plenty of money; the more she could save for when they reached Newpost, the better. “How much do you think we'll need?”

  The petite woman frowned. “Bob thinks enough for four months. So . . . maybe a hundred and eighty pounds of food for the adults and half that for the kids, just to be safe?”

  The amount staggered Kristy. She could practically hear her back screaming at the prospect of hauling another seven hundred pounds of food in the cart. And could they afford that much, even with all hers and the Hendricksons' silver combined?

  “There's no way we can manage that,” she declared. “How safe is he talking?”

  Vicky's brow furrowed. “Well he assumed the adults would eat around a pound and a half of food a day, about like we have been, and the kids half that. That means we each need 135 pounds for each adult and around 68 pounds for each kid for the three months he thinks it'll take us, plus an extra month's worth for everyone to be safe in case we run into delays. We don't want to run out of food in the badlands.”

  An extra month's worth? And would it really take three months? The mountain man had just told them to reduce weight however they could. “Maybe we should talk to
Simon,” Kristy suggested.

  Her friend looked a bit peeved that Kristy was doubting her husband's reasoning, but she nodded reluctantly and called Lisa and Skyler over, making sure they all had their straw hats to fend off the unforgiving sun. Then the petite woman herded the children ahead of her, following Kristy as she led the way over to the convoy's leader and newly hired guide, who were working to grease an axle on the heavy wagon pulled by the convoy's pair of oxen.

  Kristy couldn't help but notice that while the mountain man simply tipped his wide-brimmed leather hat at them and continued working, Simon paused and straightened respectfully. Although the openly interested look he gave her was arguably less so; Kristy felt herself flushing under his scrutiny, not sure whether to be flattered or indignant. Miles was barely in his grave and the man knew it. He could at least be more sensitive to that fact when it came to checking her out.

  But the convoy's leader was quick to notice her annoyance and flushed in embarrassment, giving her a chagrined look. “How can I help you, ladies?” he asked, making sure to direct the words as much to Vicky as her.

  After exchanging glances with her friend Kristy took the lead, explaining their dilemma about having enough food versus overloading the cart to the two men.

  Once she was finished Simon frowned and turned to the mountain man. “They won't be the only ones wondering, Tom. What's our route looking like, and how much do we need to purchase here?”

  Tom shrugged. “Depends. I can give you rough estimates, but you'd know how fast the convoy travels better than I do.”

  Simon rubbed his chin, which looked as if he'd shaved it just that morning. Something that couldn't have made a starker contrast to the other man's long salt and pepper beard if they'd intended it. “Well going by the mile markers on the way down I'd say we averaged around ten to twelve miles a day,” he said slowly. “Fifteen on a good day, but when the roads were gnarly we got slowed down to five or six.” He gave Kristy and Vicky an apologetic look. “The handcarts slow us down, more than even the oxen do.”