Badlands: A Post-Apocalyptic Journey

by Nathan Jones

  She'd loved the feel of Miles's hair. Whenever they cuddled she'd always combed it with her fingers until she was satisfied with how it looked, mostly just as an excuse to touch it. She thought of her last sight of him alive, nearly bald and his hair brittle and dead, and tears flooded her eyes until it was hard to see the scissors she held.

  She really missed her husband.

  And of course the thought of Miles tore her mind mercilessly back to the attack on the convoy; Simon and the Hendricksons and the crushing grief of losing them, as well as her worry for what they must be going through. A sob forced its way up her throat, pushed back down by sheer force of will, and she rushed to finish the haircut before the sheer physical, mental, and emotional weight of the day's events could crush her down into a quivering ball on the ground.

  In the end the job she did probably wasn't much better than he could do himself with his two mirrors, but it was hard to feel guilty about that as she finished and hurriedly brushed off his head and shoulders and the back of his shirt.

  “There you go,” she said curtly, slapping his scissors down on the rock next to him and whirling away to kneel next to her bundle. She'd intended to get started setting up her tent, something to distract herself from thinking about the attack. But then a fresh wave of emotion washed over her and instead she huddled next to her miserable little bundle of possessions, probably all she had left in the world, and began to weep.

  It was humiliating to break down so completely in front of a near total stranger, which only added to her misery. She did her best to keep her tears quiet as she pressed her face into her bundle and let them flow free.

  The camp was uncomfortably silent behind her. Then she heard the soft scrape of Tom's moccasins as he walked away towards the stream. “Hey Skyler!” he called quietly once he was a respectful distance away. “Let's head upstream a ways and search for firewood, okay?”

  Kristy felt an absurd surge of gratitude at the simple show of respect for her privacy. She did her best to hold it together until the mountain man and her son were out of sight, then rolled onto her side and wrapped her arms around her knees, weeping turning to deep shuddering sobs.

  Miles was gone. And even given her bitter parting with Simon, she still grieved the fact that from the looks of things it wasn't likely she'd ever get a chance to run her fingers through his dark red hair. She hadn't even known what she had with him, and now he'd never be there again to hold her close and comfort her in her moments of grief.

  How, how she wished he was here with her now, strong arms tight around her.

  * * * * *

  “Why aren't we grabbing those sticks?” Skyler asked, pointing to a nearby clump of brush.

  Tom didn't look up from breaking brittle branches off a long dead bush. “Wood's too green. They'd produce a lot of smoke, which might attract unfriendly visitors.” He used a stick to poke at his bush. “Besides, wood from these will burn with less smoke even when it's greener, so it's always a better choice.”

  “Oh.” The boy came over and began aimlessly breaking the tips off branches, making sticks that would be too small to be useful for anything but kindling. Not that the thicker branches would be much better; Tom would have to go back to camp and grab his hatchet in a bit so he could chop up some deadfall.

  He wasn't in too big a hurry, though. He felt awkward enough around women at the best of times; when one was grieving the loss of everyone she'd known and loved he flat out had no idea what to say or do.

  Although Kristy obviously wasn't the only one grieving. After a few minutes of gathering sticks he heard quiet sniffling coming from the boy, and looked over to see him trying not to cry. When Skyler noticed him looking he quickly turned away, trying to sound calm when he spoke. “Do-do you know what happened to our friends? Bob and Vicky Hendrickson and their daughter Lisa. And Simon Randall.”

  Ah. Tom assumed Kristy had watched most of what had happened given her grieving. It was no secret Simon had been courting her, and she had to have seen him beaten down trying to protect his friend, as well as the following executions of the three wounded settlers.

  But either she'd shielded her son from it or the boy had avoided looking on his own, which was certainly for the best. She obviously hadn't told Skyler anything, and the boy probably hadn't asked her about their friends for fear of upsetting her.

  Which left Tom the unenviable task of giving the bad news. He carefully set down his small bundle of sticks and dropped to a crouch in front of the boy, looking him in the eye. “They're all in the group of prisoners the bandits took with them,” he told him quietly.

  “Slaves,” Skyler said, scowling. Tom nodded, and the boy looked away. “I heard gunshots. Was anyone hurt?”

  Tom did his best to keep his tone gentle. “I'm sorry to tell you that the bandits killed three people: Edna Cowley, Bert Grainger, and Brad Durant.”

  Skyler flinched as if at a blow, eyes filling with tears. “Brad?” he whispered. Tom nodded.

  Without a word the boy bolted off, finding a small cubby where a slab of rock leaned against the gulch's wall and burrowing inside. Tom could hear him crying, and gave him his space while he got back to gathering sticks.

  He sympathized with the kid and his mom. He'd at least known most of the people in the convoy by name, and had liked some of them, but they'd just been traveling companions to him. Ones he rarely saw since he was usually out scouting. He hadn't let himself get close to any of them, not even Simon really, mostly because he'd been the target of the man's growing contempt and dislike throughout the trip.

  Besides, with all the death and misery he'd seen since the shortages and especially after the Ultimatum this just felt like more of the same. Or at least he told himself so.

  But to Kristy and Skyler those people would've been friends and neighbors, maybe ones they'd known for years or in the kid's case his entire life. The horror of the morning's attack would be far worse for them.

  Tom hoped the young mother and her son would find the new life in Texas they'd sacrificed so much for. They deserved a break if anyone did. His pragmatic nature told him it was unlikely, but for once he ignored it and just wished for their sake he was wrong.

  By the time he'd gathered more sticks than both of them could carry the boy still hadn't emerged from his refuge. Tom made his way over and quietly sat down on a rock outside the small cubby, keeping a respectful silence as the sniffles within continued.

  After a few minutes Skyler spoke up, almost too quiet to be heard. “Brad was the only guy besides Bob who was nice to me.”

  Tom blinked. “Not Simon?”

  Inside the cubby the little blond head shook once. “Only when Mom's around. Otherwise he just ignores me.” Another sniffle. “Or at least he did before they took him away.”

  Interesting, but from what Tom knew of the guy not terribly surprising. And really not his business, either, although he supposed it didn't matter much anymore since they'd probably never see anyone from the convoy again.

  “Brad was a good man,” he agreed. “I said some words over his grave. If you want, tomorrow you can say something for him too.”

  “I guess.” He saw a slight movement in the dim space as the boy wiped at his eyes with a sleeve. “Can we go back to camp now?”

  “Yeah, I've got enough sticks.” Tom stood. “Let's get you loaded up.”

  Skyler hesitantly emerged, and Tom quietly filled the boy's arms with a bundle, then gathered up his own and led the way back to camp.

  To his relief Kristy had composed herself, at least as much as could be expected under the circumstances. Her face was splotchy from crying and her eyes were red, but she was busy setting up her tent when he and Skyler arrived.

  “Let's get the fire going,” Tom told the boy, dropping his sticks and starting to gather up rocks to make a ring. “You know how to start a fire?” Skyler shook his head. “Well we'll all be taking turns with camp duties from now on so you need to learn how.”

  “I
s it smart to build a fire when those bandits might still be out there?” Kristy asked worriedly. Aside from a slight quaver in her voice she seemed calm.

  He shrugged. “We need it for cooking and boiling water, at least. I can teach him how to choose campsites where the light of a fire won't be visible to unfriendly eyes out in the night, and how to build a small blaze out of wood that doesn't give off much smoke, just enough for our needs. How to put it out without producing much smoke, either.”

  The young mother nodded thoughtfully. “That would be good for him to know.”

  Tom gave her a pointed look. “Both of you, since you'll have camp duties a third of the time too.”

  “I know how to start a fire,” she said, a bit impatiently. “I've even got flint and steel with my things.”

  He supposed ten years after the Ultimatum it would be strange if she didn't. “Good, then you can light it while I cut the steaks.”

  That got both their attention. Tom had cut a slab of meat off one of the oxen and wrapped it in part of the hide, since he didn't plan to try to cure it or any of the other hides. There just wasn't time, and he doubted they'd be able to handle the weight of a bunch of hides if they brought them along anyway.

  He'd brought the hide-wrapped meat back with him, but while it had drawn curious looks from the other two on the trip here neither had commented on it. Now that they knew it was dinner they were both a lot more interested. Skyler even went so far as to unwrap the meat, although his nose crinkled at the sight of it.

  Okay, so it wasn't exactly fresh. It was still edible, and these days without refrigeration “fresh” was a broad gray area. Kind of like that slab of meat.

  Tom drew his knife and began cutting steaks from the slab while Kristy busied herself building the fire with Skyler's help. As they worked Tom gave them pointers on making the fire so it produced less smoke, and how to keep it just big enough to cook and boil water over.

  Once he got the steaks cut and rubbed with salt and some spices from his small supply he busied himself making a spit for them, using some of the greener, sturdier sticks. By that time the other two had the fire burning hot enough to cook over. Tom placed the spit with the steaks and made a few adjustments, then fetched some water from the stream and got it heating in his kettle on a rock close to the flames.

  Then he grabbed his hatchet. “Keep an eye on the food, I'll be back with some proper firewood.”

  It took less time than he'd expected to chop up the deadfall, the wood dry and brittle. He soon had an armful of decent sized chunks and a few proper logs that he brought back to camp. By that time the water in his kettle was hot enough to put in some dried herb leaves from his bag to make tea.

  He busied himself preparing it, glad to have something to do so he wouldn't have to try to think of anything to say to a pretty young woman or a kid, neither of which groups he'd had much recent experience talking to. Once the tea was ready he filled his cup and started to offer it to Kristy, but she'd already produced a tin cup from her own bundle.

  “Thanks,” she said as he filled it up for her. She looked as uncomfortable as he felt.

  “Sure.” Tom gave his cup to the kid and kept the half full kettle for himself, setting it aside to cool.

  As expected the silence settled again, even more uncomfortable now that he'd run out of things to do. He turned the steaks over the fire, wishing they'd hurry up and cook, then sat back on his rock to wait.

  Kristy cleared her throat as she took a careful sip of her tea. “So I was thinking,” she began tentatively. “The bandits probably took all the food, right?”

  Tom nodded. “Aside from a few small bags of flour and beans, some jars of pickled goods, and a bag of salt.” He paused. “Well, closer to a quarter bag of salt now.”

  She didn't follow up on that, sticking to her point. “We're still going to need enough for, what, two weeks to get to Newpost?”

  “Depending on how much gas we've got probably closer to three.”

  “Okay. Well those bandits butchered all our animals, right?” He grunted his agreement. “Which you know since you've got steaks cooking for us, right?” He grunted again. She gave him a slightly annoyed look at how little he was participating in the conversation before continuing. “Well shouldn't we try to get that meat before it goes bad, preserve it for the trip?”

  Tom bit back a smile. “Way ahead of you. I've already got enough horse meat and beef to last us for over a month soaking in brine to sun dry tomorrow. The best cuts, too.”

  The flaxen-haired woman gaped at him in pure shock, although he didn't see why that was so surprising. “When?”

  “What do you think I've been doing all day?” he shot back.

  “Oh.” She focused on blowing on her tea, giving it far more of her attention than it deserved, and the silence settled again.

  He began fiddling with the steaks, which were getting closer to done. Like Kristy he gave it his full concentration to avoid acknowledging the awkwardness. For his part Skyler took his tea and wandered over to sit at the entrance to his family's tent, leaning back against his bundle.

  Tom couldn't think of anything to talk about aside from the attack, and that was something he doubted any of them wanted to revisit. He supposed he could've asked for specifics about this mythical treasure of hers, but he didn't really see the point.

  After a while he glanced over at the young mother, still trying to think of something to say. But his thoughts about topics of conversation scattered when he saw that she was staring at him frankly. She immediately looked away, face flushing, and focused on poking the fire with a stick.

  What was that about? Tom didn't think he looked that much different without his hair and beard. But then again he supposed he probably did. Honestly it had been so long since anyone had seen his face that he felt a bit self-conscious about it, wondering if he looked weird or something and that was why she was staring.

  Before he could try to sort it out Kristy cleared her throat again. “So tell me,” she said with forced casualness while staring intently at the flickering flames. “How does a guy get to where he's living alone up in the mountains, only setting foot in civilization once or twice a year?”

  Tom picked up the kettle, which was probably cool enough now, and cautiously took a slurp of tea. It was, barely, but he wasted no time swallowing the near-scalding liquid before answering. “Global thermonuclear war.”

  The flaxen-haired woman's eyes narrowed in slight annoyance. “The Ultimatum's in all our pasts.” When he didn't answer for almost ten seconds she poked the fire more vigorously. “Did you just always prefer nature?”

  He snorted and took another slurp. “Back before the world went crazy I preferred video games and food I could eat with my fingers. I was probably forty pounds overweight and the closest thing I got to exercise was crashing hot tubs at nearby apartment complexes with my buddies.”

  Kristy gave him a look of outright disbelief, pointedly examining his wiry frame. Even Skyler, who probably wasn't old enough to catch everything he'd said, understood enough to laugh at the idea as he rejoined them at the fire, obviously interested in hearing about his past.

  “So back to my original question . . .” she pressed stubbornly.

  Tom felt his slight smile fade. Honestly he knew people bonded by sharing stories about their lives, that it was just part of being around others. But he could've done without sharing his. “I lived in a small community not far north of Utah Valley,” he said curtly.

  He expected more snark from the flaxen-haired woman, but surprisingly she just listened attentively. Even the kid was leaning forward slightly, hanging on his words.

  Well, if they wanted a story . . . “When the shortages started the City Council got together with the Mayor and agreed if we all wanted to survive we'd have to pool our resources. Most of the town was happy to go along with that, since not very many people were prepared anyway, and within two weeks a newly deputized force was searching houses and confiscati
ng anything that might be even slightly useful, in order to be “evenly distributed”.

  “To make matters worse the Mayor insisted it would be unthinkable to turn away those in need during these desperate times, and the town ended up taking in almost our own number of refugees from cities to the north and south, most of whom didn't have much more than the clothes on their backs.”

  Tom fought down the familiar surge of bitterness as he remembered that time. It was eleven years in the past and the heat of his fury should've died down after so long. But some fires didn't cool, they just damped down until it was time for them to flare up just as hot as ever.

  “There wasn't enough for everyone?” Kristy finally guessed as he sat silent and still, struggling with his emotions.

  “Was there ever enough, wherever you went?” he growled. “But no, there wasn't. It was bad, as bad as anywhere during the shortages. A lot of the folks who had food fled in the night with what they had before it could be taken from them. Others were beaten, even killed during the confiscations as they tried to protect their property or were caught hiding food from the searchers.

  “And it got worse as the deputies decided more and more stuff was useful and needed to be confiscated, and some of the more recalcitrant citizens' homes were ransacked multiple times a day. More and more people started complaining to our leaders about deputies roughing them up, hassling women, even worse. The complaints were all downplayed or outright ignored.”

  Tom grit his teeth. “But the leaders kept their word about everyone getting their “fair” share, even if it was barely a few mouthfuls a day. Everyone wasted away, getting thinner and weaker as the weeks passed. People started dying of sickness and cold as winter approached, and then of starvation itself.”

  His small audience was still hanging on his words, the young mother's eyes full of sympathy as she clutched her son tight. She probably had her own horror stories about that time, just like she'd hinted at. He wondered if she regretted asking him to rehash memories that had to be dredging up her own painful experiences.