Badlands: A Post-Apocalyptic Journey

by Nathan Jones

  Living with Miles in their little community most men had respected her marriage and minded their manners, and the ones who didn't she knew to avoid. But now that she'd been forced back into being single, especially while still dealing with grief and the guilt of when it was too soon to get past her husband's death, those clear lines were gone and she had to deal with the ambiguity of attracting men's interest without always knowing how to respond.

  Especially when the interested man was someone she was interested in as well.

  Simon seemed like a safe bet there, given his sterling reputation and the fact that he was in a similar situation to her with the loss of his wife. Even if he did have the manners of a goat sometimes; she supposed that wasn't the worst thing, since without a little . . . aggressiveness from interested suitors she might never find anyone else at all.

  So she was torn between relief and disappointment when the redheaded man finally stood with a weary groan and announced he still had a lot to do before bed. He wished them a good night, pausing to ruffle Skyler's hair and give Kristy a final smile before walking away.

  Everyone seemed to agree with his reasoning; they were all just as exhausted, and morning would come all too soon with another hard day ahead. Kristy and Vicky quickly cleaned the dishes while Bob secured the handcart for the night, and then they all headed to their tents to sleep.

  Chapter Four

  Grand Junction

  The convoy's second day of travel was pretty much like the first, aside from the terrain becoming even more desolate the farther they got from the mountains. The green faded away to bare patches here and there, and the bare stone and dry dirt seemed to soak in the heat and radiate it back to make the day even hotter.

  Tom didn't mind, shaded under the brim of his leather hat and used to worse anyway. He was feeling almost like himself after a good night's sleep and was back in traveling mode, easily covering the distance needed to scout ahead of the convoy, and even to the sides and behind during breaks or as they slowed down in the evening.

  The people he guided weren't faring quite so well, though. He noticed them struggling more and more as the day progressed, many guzzling water more than necessary and others with the glassy stares of those suffering from heat and dehydration.

  Those pushing handcarts or carrying their possessions suffered worst of all, lagging farther and farther behind the wagons and pack animals until it took them nearly an hour to catch up when Simon called a halt for the day. He thought he should bring it up to the convoy's leader and sought him out as the group busied themselves setting up camp.

  The man didn't look pleased by the distance they'd covered that day, and Tom didn't blame him; yesterday's nearly thirteen miles had become a struggle to make ten today, especially since they had to navigate around obstacles on the path he set for them. But it was the best he could do in this area.

  “Have you planned rest days?” he asked the convoy's leader as they walked away from the families clustered around the oxen-pulled wagon who were busy getting a fire started and setting up tents.

  Simon nodded grimly, spitting some grit out of his mouth before answering. “Sundays have been the pattern. We find a good spot to camp and do some necessary chores and repairs on the carts and wagons, rest ourselves and ideally bathe and wash our clothes.”

  “Good. I'll try to make sure we're near sources of water on Sundays whenever I can.”

  The man seemed surprised by his response. “I figured you'd want us to keep pushing on, making better time.”

  Tom shook his head wryly. “Plenty of things you try to do to go faster just end up slowing you down. Your handcart people are already struggling . . . they need at minimum a day of rest a week.”

  Simon nodded grimly. “You don't have to tell me. I've been considering an extended lunch rest on alternating Wednesdays and Thursdays for the same reason.”

  The convoy's leader headed out to do his evening rounds of the convoy, making sure everyone was doing all right. Tom was about to join the oxen wagon's group to begin cooking his meal when a commotion from the direction opposite the one Simon had gone drew his attention. A quick look told him the man hadn't heard, busy chatting with a flaxen-haired younger woman from one of the handcart groups and ogling her in a way that warranted a slap, although she didn't raise any objections.

  With a shrug Tom headed over to check the disturbance out himself.

  As he got closer he saw that one of the handcart families moving their cart into position had spooked a rattlesnake, which was now coiled up making its familiar menacing sound uncomfortably close to one of the wheels. A few men were gathered a safe distance away, trying to talk each other up to dealing with the dangerous reptile.

  While they were still arguing Tom unslung his .308 and walked over, holding the rifle by the barrel and teasing the rattler with the other end until it finally struck, lightning fast. While it was recovering Tom pinned it just behind the head, then crouched and drew his knife as the snake desperately curled around itself trying to escape. With a quick motion he hacked off its head, then wiped the blade clean and sheathed it.

  As several people looked on he picked up the dead rattler and started to walk away.

  “Hey, can we get some of that?” one of the men asked, looking sheepish but hungry. His friends murmured their agreement.

  Tom glanced over at them with amused disbelief. He was about to say something to the effect of “you snooze you lose”, but then he remembered he'd agreed to share any extra meat he hunted with the convoy. Granted, he could eat the entire rattler on his own, but a few ounces of snake meat weren't worth pissing off a bunch of his traveling companions if they were in the mood to be unreasonable.

  So with a shrug he drew his knife again, spread the rattler across a rock, and swiftly gutted it and tossed away the entrails. Then he hacked it in two and tossed half to the man who'd spoken, watching with amusement as he recoiled slightly before moving to catch it.

  Without a word he walked off, heading over to Simon's fire to cook the meat.

  He was busy stripping the skin off the snake so he could skewer it over the fire when he noticed he'd attracted an audience; a sandy-haired boy, ten or so years old, was over by the wagon staring at him, trying to be inconspicuous. Tom recognized him from a handcart group that only had one man struggling to push a cart big enough for the possessions of five people, with the help of a few women and young children, including the kid.

  As expected the handcart was usually near or at the back of the convoy, struggling to make the distance. For obvious reasons Tom didn't see much of them, since he was usually scouting ahead, but he'd noticed the boy watching him before.

  He didn't think much of it since kids tended to stare at the odd mountain man and he'd sort of gotten used to it. Although to be fair, he doubted the boy often got a chance to watch someone pull the skin off a full grown rattler to prepare it for cooking, so that could be what had drawn his interest. As long as he kept quiet Tom didn't mind.

  Unfortunately the kid didn't keep quiet. When he saw he'd been noticed he edged forward, waving sheepishly. “Saw you kill that rattlesnake. That was pretty cool.”

  “Don't go trying it yourself,” Tom warned. “Rattlers have a quick strike.”

  “Yeah I saw that, too.” The boy edged a bit closer. “I'm Skyler.” When Tom didn't answer he continued doggedly. “You're Tom, right? You told us your name when you were teaching us all those different whistles. Although I've heard some people call you Trapper.”

  So the nickname had passed on from Emery. Fantastic.

  Tom finished peeling away the snakeskin and got to work scraping off the excess flesh with his knife. He didn't know why he bothered for only half a skin; stupid thing to do, chopping it in half like that. He should've skinned it first.

  On a whim he tossed it to the Skyler, who jumped slightly but didn't hesitate to catch it. The kid was probably skinny enough to use it as a belt, something to replace that frayed rope he was using
. “Here, knock yourself out.”

  The boy examined it dubiously, running his fingers over the smooth exterior. “What do I do with this?”

  “Leave it out in the sun to dry. Then you can carve yourself a wood buckle and use it for a belt.”

  “Oh, okay.” The boy came over and sat near the fire. “My dad was a hunter, too.” He fell suddenly silent, looking sad.

  Tom guessed the loss was recent. He nodded solemnly. “Most men are these days, at least some of the time.”

  Skyler shook his head. “He hunted just about every day.” The boy looked around and lowered his voice conspiratorially. “He told me sometimes he even went treasure hunting.”

  It was hard to hold back a smile at that. “Again, most men are these days. At least some of the time.” Tom wandered over to a nearby bush and broke off a stick to skewer the snake on. “He ever find anything?”

  A barrage of emotions flashed across the boy's face, from anger to suspicion to more grief. “Nothing worth taking.” He kicked at a nearby stone, sending it skittering within a few inches of Tom's foot. “All his searching, everything that happened, and we still came south with nothing.”

  Well, that was usually what treasure hunting got you. Most anything worth taking had already been scavenged, and the rest of it was in fallout zones where only a fool would search.

  After a brief uncomfortable silence Skyler changed the subject. “Is your pack heavy?”

  Tom silently motioned, and the boy tried to lift it, then grunted when it barely moved. “You've been walking with that all day?” he asked, impressed. “While scouting everywhere, even when the rest of the convoy is resting? You don't look tired at all. We rest every hour or so and I'm super tired from pushing the cart.”

  Tom could've done without the reminder of how slow they were moving. He propped the skewer over the fire and settled onto a rock, stretching his legs out. “I'm used to walking.”

  “But don't you get even a bit tired?” Skyler pressed. “I know old people get tired easy, and you're super old.”

  That brought an involuntary grin to his lips. “I am, huh?”

  The boy gave him an uncertain look. “Well yeah. I mean you've got a lot of gray in your hair. You must be like 50.”

  “Try 36. My family all shows gray early, sometimes just out of our teens.” Tom absently ran his fingers through his grizzled beard, feeling the old familiar pang of loss. “Or showed gray. Anyway it's a lot less noticeable with shorter hair and a good shave.”

  “Oh. Well 36 is really old too.”

  He supposed that to a kid it would be. He certainly didn't feel old. Most days. But before he could respond a loud stern voice came from behind him. “Skyler Graham! First you run off without a word, and now I find you here pestering other people?”

  Tom turned to see the flaxen-haired woman Simon had been flirting with storming towards them, probably the kid's mom. She was tall, with sky blue eyes and smooth tanned skin in spite of the straw hat she wore. In her mid to late 20s, which was pretty good considering how the harsh conditions of the world since the Ultimatum tended to prematurely age people, the only thing going against her were the dust-caked, patched shirt and jeans she wore.

  To be honest she was an attractive woman; Tom could see why Simon might express an interest in her.

  He immediately felt awkward and self-conscious in her presence, even though her attention seemed to be entirely on her son. Bantering with Raina and Neal's other girls was one thing, but he didn't have much recent experience talking to women who weren't trying to sell him something.

  He scrambled to his feet, suddenly feeling every year of the 50 the kid had assumed he was. “Ma'am,” he said politely.

  The young mother gave him a cool look. “Please excuse us, sir,” she said, grabbing her son by the upper arm and ushering him away, scolding him fiercely with every step.

  “Tom Miller,” he said after her. If she heard she gave no sign, and he continued wryly. “And you are?”

  There was no response. Before they passed out of earshot the flaxen-haired woman noticed the snakeskin Skyler held. “What's that?” she demanded.

  The boy hunched his shoulders defensively. “He said I could make a belt with it.”

  Cool blue eyes looked back at Tom, and for some reason he had the urge to hunch his own shoulders under her scrutiny. “Did you thank him?”

  “Oh. Um . . .”

  She sighed and kept herding him towards their cart. “Never mind. From now on I want you to leave him alone . . . you've pestered him enough.”

  Tom shook his head and turned his attention back to his meal. Well, that had gone about like he would've expected.

  * * * * *

  The rest of the trip to Grand Junction was mostly uneventful, if a long, slow, miserable grind for the convoy.

  The weather got steadily hotter, nowhere near what it would be when summer rolled around but still by no means pleasant. The terrain also remained mostly desolate, and Tom had more and more trouble finding game to hunt. What he did see wasn't worth a bullet, not even a .223, and while he switched to his sling, more out of boredom than necessity, he wasn't nearly as consistent with it.

  In spite of that Simon still remarked on his failure to bring in much meat. Not exactly getting on his case, but snide enough to irk him. Tom didn't bother to try to explain himself, just looked pointedly around at the desolate landscape until the convoy's leader got the hint.

  Some days the convoy could travel well out of sight of I-70, safe on secluded routes. Other times steep terrain, even cliffs and mesas, forced them to travel on the interstate itself. Tom always scouted extra carefully along those spots, wary of any potential bandit activity.

  In spite of his care, or perhaps thanks to it, the only sign Tom saw of a potential ambush was a few hours out from Green River on their fourth day of travel. He caught sight of a group that just seemed a bit suspicious, and rather than risk it advised Simon to lead the convoy well around them. He spent tense hours keeping an eye on the possible bandits to make sure they didn't catch wind of the convoy, but in the end everyone made it safely to Green River without incident.

  The town was smaller than Emery, and while it was right on the interstate it wasn't nearly the trade destination. It was possible to get supplies there, usually for terrible prices, and they had a bar and a few folks who were willing to rent rooms. But mostly they were just a stopover for passing convoys, a place to get water and news of the road ahead.

  On Tom's advice Simon reported the presence of the possible bandits to the few men there who worked as peacekeepers. The men admitted they didn't know anything about the group and would gather up a posse to check it out. From their tone they obviously hoped for volunteers from the convoy, but Simon kept his mouth shut.

  As for Tom, he wasn't the type to volunteer for trouble that didn't concern him.

  On the sixth day out they reached Crescent Junction and the turnoff down to Moab. Tom had taken that route before, but in order to follow water you either had to go northeast or southwest following the Colorado River, which wouldn't take them anywhere they wanted to go. Not to mention the terrain was a lot rougher along there.

  Crescent Junction was a ghost town now, with no available sources of water, and they passed it by and continued on along I-70.

  The same couldn't be said for Thompson, built along the Thompson Wash, and on Tom's advice they pushed harder that day to reach it. Like Green River it was a small, desolate place, not good for much more than a camping spot and a place to refill water tanks.

  Over the next five days they continued through the almost completely uninhabited stretch to the Colorado border. It was mostly uninhabited beyond the border, too, although the interstate ran closer to the Colorado River to the south and some folks had settled in spots along it.

  The elevation rose slightly throughout the rest of the trip, and when they reached Grand Junction late in the afternoon on the fifteenth day the Colorado Rockies could be see
n in the distance.

  * * * * *

  In spite of everyone's weariness the mood of the convoy was jubilant as they pushed the last few miles to the city waiting ahead of them. They knew that they'd be there for at least a day in order to get their bearings, purchase supplies, and finally get some much needed rest.

  Grand Junction was one of the biggest trade hubs in the area. Already a modest sized city during the Ultimatum, it hadn't quite been large enough to warrant a nuclear strike and wasn't in the path of any fallout, although it had still experienced its share of loss during the shortages and the aftermath of global thermonuclear war.

  But it had plugged along determinedly in the decade since. Because it straddled one of the interstate highways, and was on or near roads branching off in just about every direction, it had got a lot of traffic through it during the chaos and in the following years. That traffic eventually became established trade routes, mostly to and from Utah, Wyoming, eastern Colorado, Kansas, and Texas. Although news eventually followed the trade from even more distant locations.

  Tom had been through the place a dozen times, either alone or with a convoy. He knew some of the locals, especially the traders, and had shared a word or two over drinks with Grand Junction's sheriff, Gray Tucker.

  Speaking of which . . . as expected for any large group entering Grand Junction, as the convoy made its way along the final stretch to the trading hub Gray was there to personally greet them.

  The man nodded to Tom as he and Simon broke away from the lead wagon and approached. “Never expected to see Tom Miller leading a convoy,” he said, offering his hand.

  “Not leading, just guiding,” Tom replied as he shook firmly. He sort of had to unless he wanted the sheriff's own iron grip to crush his hand. “This is the man in charge, Simon Randall.”

  “Mr. Randall. Takes a rare man to lead a convoy on a road he's never taken before,” Gray said as the two men shook, Simon wincing and quick to snatch his hand back.