The Wastelanders

by K. S. Merbeth

  “Murder scene is mine,” Wolf says, indicating the bloodstained one with one hand while he removes his head-wrap. “No arguments.”

  Tank says nothing, and flops down on the burnt one with a weary groan. Sprawled out, his thick body doesn’t even fit on the mattress. He lies there, eyes closed, as if daring someone to try to move him. No one does.

  And so the stinky cot is left to Dolly, Pretty Boy, and me. I step away from it, raising my hands in surrender. It’s not worth fighting over … not that I’d be able to get it if I tried. Dolly and Pretty Boy glare at each other.

  “Oh, come on,” Pretty Boy whines. “I was puking my lungs out all night at the Queen’s, and—”

  “Don’t care,” Dolly says flatly.

  “—and then Wolf did this to my face, and—”

  Dolly shakes her head.

  “—you always get the nice things, Dolly. I never get anything. And I’m a part of this crew, too. I talked to that townie for all of you today …”

  “No,” Dolly says.

  “I deserve it! It’s mine!” Realizing his wheedling isn’t getting him anywhere, Pretty Boy defiantly sits down on the cot. Dolly walks over, shoves him off, and takes his place.

  Pretty Boy scoots away on the floor. He seems to consider challenging her again, but thinks better of it.

  “Assholes,” he says, and retreats to a corner to lean against the wall.

  Tank starts to snore. Apparently he fell asleep mid-argument.

  “Think he’s got the right idea,” Wolf said. “Dunno what you all are complaining about. I’m the one who spent the night bein’ kidnapped and shit.” He places his hands behind his head and yawns. “Someone else take first watch. And by someone I mean Pretty Boy.”

  Pretty Boy sighs but doesn’t protest. Dolly walks over and hands me the pillow and blanket from her bed.

  “Oh, wow, thanks,” I say with a smile. She returns to her cot.

  I’m about to set up my own makeshift bed when a thought stops me. Pretty Boy has had a rough time lately … and more importantly, he came very close to abandoning us in favor of the Queen. Is it really the best idea to give him first watch? He could screw us over far too easily here. I hesitate, and then walk over to his corner and offer him the sleeping supplies.

  “How ’bout I take first watch?” I say, holding out the folded blanket and pillow. He stares up at me, surprised and a bit suspicious, as if he’s expecting some kind of trick. Our eyes meet, and it doesn’t make me want to blush out of either attraction or embarrassment. I hold his gaze steadily, and after a moment or two he’s the one to drop his eyes. He takes the offering.

  “Thanks,” he says without looking up, and curls up in his corner.

  I sit under the window, keep an eye and an ear out for trouble, and try not to let my mind wander to dark places. The room becomes eerie real fast once the others are asleep. The window doesn’t have any glass, and the wind whistling through it reminds me how high up we are. I swear the whole tower creaks every time the wind blows, and I hear whispers and footsteps from the room above us.

  I hug my knees to my chest and look over at my sleeping friends for comfort. Tank is snoring loudly, Wolf is sleeping with his mouth open and has a string of drool trailing onto his pillow, and Pretty Boy shifts and mutters in his sleep. Dolly, I realize with a jolt, isn’t actually sleeping at all. She’s wide-awake, and staring at the ceiling.

  “Dolly?” I whisper. She’s across the room, in the cot closest to the door, but her head turns toward me. “Is everything all right?” She nods. “Why aren’t you sleeping?” No response. She turns and stares at the ceiling again.

  I move over, stepping over Wolf, and crouch beside Dolly’s cot. Something must be bothering her. I search my brain for what it could be, and guiltily remember Ruby’s death. That’s right—I wanted to ask if she was all right, but we’ve been so busy it slipped my mind. Somehow it never seemed appropriate to say in front of the others, anyway.

  “Umm,” I say timidly, “I’m sorry about, um, your friend.”

  “Friend?” she asks, her face a mask.

  “Ruby.”

  “Oh. Yes.”

  I pause.

  “She was your friend back from when you worked for the Queen, right?” She nods. “So … that must suck. Sorry.” I’m no good at this whole comforting thing. She falls silent again, and I wonder if maybe I should stop prying—maybe she doesn’t want to talk about it, and I’m just being a nuisance. But just when I open my mouth to apologize, she speaks up again.

  “I didn’t think the Queen would kill her,” she says quietly.

  “Yeah. Me neither.” I stare down at my ragged boots. “So … it wasn’t your fault or anything.”

  “I know,” she says.

  “But it must suck, still.”

  “Yes.”

  We lapse into silence. The wind whistles and the tower groans around us. I can’t tell if Dolly welcomes the chance to talk or resents it, but at least she seems to be opening up a little. It stirs my curiosity, and I can’t help but try to get more out of her. It’s such a rare opportunity to speak to Dolly like this.

  “So, umm.” I try to think of the most tactful way to continue. “Someone told me about … when you worked for the Queen.”

  “Hm.”

  “And why you stopped.”

  She doesn’t respond. I steal a glance at her and notice that she has, seemingly without noticing, placed a hand on her stomach.

  “I had a baby,” she says after a long pause. She stops again.

  “Yeah?” I say. Trying to get information from her is like pulling teeth, but somehow I get the impression she does want to talk about it. Maybe she just doesn’t know how. Or maybe I’m reading her completely wrong … It’s hard to tell with Dolly.

  “She died,” she says bluntly.

  “How?”

  “Don’t know. She was sick,” she says. Another long pause. “Since she was born. And born too early.”

  “Oh …”

  “Radiation. She wasn’t strong enough for it.”

  “I heard that happens a lot,” I say. It happened all the time back in town. Lots of times the pregnancy went wrong, or the baby was born dead, or wrong, or died real young. Healthy post-bomb babies are rare. But I was born after the bombs fell, and so were plenty of others, and we lived and grew just fine. Nobody really knows why we survive while others die.

  “It’s strange,” Dolly says. Her voice stays as quiet and unemotional as ever. “When it first happened I was scared. Couldn’t work like that. I wanted to get rid of it. But then … I couldn’t. The Queen let me keep the baby. She was nicer then.”

  I try to picture that: the crazy old Queen supporting Dolly, letting her take off work, prepared to let her raise her child there. I can’t make that idea match with the woman who shot Ruby in cold blood. I guess people change. The wastelands warp them.

  “One day I woke up and she was cold,” Dolly says.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “I never even thought I wanted her. And then she was gone and I knew I did.”

  I bite back another sorry. It’s all I can think of saying, but I feel like repeating it just makes it feel empty.

  “And then you left the Queen’s?”

  “Yes.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “So how’d you get all wrapped up in … this?”

  “Wolf found me,” she says. “He saved my life. I wanted to be like him.”

  I know trying to get the full details on that story would be near to impossible, so I’m not even going to try. My imagination can fill in the blank spaces.

  “Wow,” I say. “And now you’re so cool.”

  “Cool?”

  “Yeah. Like …” I scuff one boot across the floorboards. “Like I want to be like you, the same way you wanted to be like Wolf.” It sounds so lame when I say it. I can feel myself turning red. When I look over at Dolly, though, she’s smiling.


  “Thank you,” she says.

  “Umm, you’re welcome.”

  “Holy shit.” Wolf’s voice nearly makes me jump out of my skin. “This is the most awkward conversation I’ve ever eavesdropped on. Can you two shut up and go to sleep already?”

  Embarrassed at being overheard, I clamp my mouth shut and rise to move to the window. Dolly sits up and grabs my arm before I can get there.

  “Can’t sleep. I’ll watch,” she says. When I hesitate, she stands up and nods to the cot.

  “Are you sure?” I ask. She nods. “Oh … all right.” I am feeling awfully tired, so it’s hard to resist. I lie down on the offered cot. It’s definitely not as nice as the bed at the Queen’s, and the reek is pretty awful, but I’m so exhausted I hardly care. “Good night, Dolly.”

  “Good night.”

  I’m asleep within minutes.

  XXII

  The Queen’s Return

  When I wake up, sunlight streams through the window. It’s not the gentle glow of early morning, but the harsh light of midday. The cozy room has become a furnace; I’m covered in sweat. That discomfort, and the realization I’m alone, wakes me up.

  Blinking away a sleepy haze, I notice I’m on a different cot as well. I somehow swapped to the bloodstained one—the prize formerly claimed by Wolf—and picked up a pillow and blanket. No wonder I slept so damn long. I disentangle myself from the sticky blanket and rush to the window, hesitating a moment before I stick my head out. The height makes my head swim, but I ignore the shaky feeling in my knees and search the town below. Our huge supply truck stands out among the squats and smaller vehicles. When I squint, I can make out the others clustered around it, unloading with the assistance of some townies. I spot Dolly’s bright hair, Wolf’s ridiculous head-wrap, and Tank carrying a hefty-looking box on each arm. Soon I see Pretty Boy as well, standing nearby and talking to the rat-faced townsman.

  Hurt pricks me. I hate being left behind like this. Wolf must have really been worried I would screw things up for everyone, but like hell am I going to sit around in this room all day. I have to go out there and show them I can keep up. I head for the door, nearly tripping over a pile of stuff on the way.

  Upon closer look, I realize it must be meant for me. There’s a bottle of water, a tin can of food, and a pile of clothes too small to fit anyone else. I unfold them. It’s a new outfit: a T-shirt and an old pair of jeans.

  I change out of my god-awful dress in favor of the new clothing. The shirt is baggy and dusty, and the jeans have various multicolor patches crudely sewn on to cover holes, but it’s a lot more comfy than that girly thing I was wearing. I take a gulp of water, grab the can of food, and leave to meet up with the others.

  As I reach the bottom of the stairwell I use my knife to pry open the can of food, and eye the red insides before taking a cautious slurp. It turns out to be cold and slightly chunky tomato soup, not bad at all.

  Outside, the town is full of midday hustle and bustle. Townsfolk are everywhere, carrying boxes of supplies to and from our truck. Everyone seems to be in good spirits, and the townies chat happily as they investigate crates of food and water and other supplies. They smile at me as I pass. My friends are smiling, too, and as I get closer I can see why: As they empty the truck of other goods, it’s slowly filling up with guns and explosives. They sure have a lot of shit for such a small town. I guess towns close to the Queen really are lucky.

  Even rat-face is smiling as he talks to Pretty Boy. Either his suspicions have been dismissed, or he stopped caring so much when he saw the goods we brought. I avoid the two of them and head for Tank. He’s setting down two crates in front of a group of townies, who all crowd in to peer at what’s inside. I nearly yell out his name, but stop myself as I remember we’re using other aliases here.

  “Hey!” I yell instead, and stand on my tiptoes to tap him on the shoulder. He turns around and grins at me.

  “Oh hey, what’s up?” He squeezes the breath out of me in a one-armed hug. “Sleep well?”

  I squirm out of the iron vise of his arm.

  “Well, yeah … but why’d you guys leave me? I wanted to help!”

  He notices my disgruntled face and laughs.

  “Oh, kiddo. We just figured we’d let you sleep. You’ve been through a lot.”

  “Yeah, but …” It’s hard to keep feeling crabby in the face of Tank’s easygoing warmth. “But so have all of us!”

  “Yeah, but you’re, y’know, the baby of the group.”

  “I am not a baby!”

  Tank laughs and heads back to the truck. I doggedly follow on his heels. The back compartment is wide open and surrounded by a crowd of people. A few men inside, including Wolf, hand off crates to the waiting townies. Every time a new box is delivered into the truck, Wolf rushes to look inside, as giddy as a little kid with sweets.

  “Well, these will come in handy,” he says to one, gives the townie a thumbs-up, and dashes over to check another one. “Is that a bazooka? Holy shit, I love you townies.”

  I line up behind Tank, waiting for Wolf to stop drooling over his new toys and keep the line going. As soon as Tank walks off with a crate in each arm, I step up, hold out my own arms, and wait.

  Wolf walks over with a box. He bends down to hand it to me, and looks surprised when he sees my face.

  “You should, uh, maybe let someone else handle this one,” he says.

  “No, no, I got it!” I stand on my tiptoes and reach for it.

  “If you say so.” He hands it off to me and straightens up.

  It’s … a lot heavier than I expected. The wooden crate is wider around than I thought, too, and I find it difficult to get a good grip. I take a few shaky steps away from the truck, gradually leaning backward from the weight. Someone puts a hand on my shoulder to steady me.

  I pause to regain my footing. Once I feel like I can stand on my own, I readjust my hold on the crate. My injured hand slips. Pain shoots through my stumpy finger. I hurriedly shift my hand, and feel the crate sliding out of my grasp.

  I try to fix my hold again, narrowly avoid dropping the whole thing—and find myself falling backward. I topple over before I can even react, and land flat on my back on the hard dirt. The crate spills out its content of bandages and first aid supplies onto my face. I lie there, reeling. I can hear Wolf howling with laughter from the truck. Some things never change, I guess.

  I’m too embarrassed to stand and face the stares and laughter, so instead I try to muster up some inkling of dignity. After a few seconds, Pretty Boy’s bruised face pokes into my line of sight, his expression oddly caring.

  “You all right, sis?”

  “Eh?”

  “Are you all right?” he asks, and adds with more emphasis, “Sis?”

  Sis? It takes me a second to process. Another part of our act I have to remember. Reacting a little late, I nod. He lifts the crate off me and offers a hand. I ignore it and stand up on my own.

  “I’m fine, I’m fine,” I say, brushing myself off. A wad of gauze sticks to my boot, and I try to inconspicuously peel it off with my other foot.

  “Maybe you should help out with some, uh, less strenuous stuff,” he says, and laughs charmingly. It doesn’t have its old effect. I can tell now he’s only pretending, and it grates on my nerves to have him keep trying it on me. So I don’t return his smile, and stare at my feet instead.

  Unperturbed, he reaches over and grabs my arm. Before I can shake him off he turns over my injured hand and gently examines it.

  “Looks like you could use some new bandages. Does it still hurt?”

  Of course it still hurts. I’m missing a finger. I bite my lip and nod.

  “Come sit down, let me have a look.”

  “I can do it myself,” I say quietly.

  “Whoa, somebody’s stubborn today. Come on.”

  He grabs my arm a little too roughly and leads me away before I can protest. We sit on a pair of overturned crates and he obtains some first aid supplies.

/>   I can’t help but be impressed by how well he can act. The kindness he feigns is so completely different than the real Pretty Boy. If I didn’t know him any better, he’d have fooled me easily. But I set my jaw and refuse to react as he tends to my wound. He unwraps the old bandages as gently as possible, and I wince at the ugly injury it reveals. There’s a lot of dried blood and scabbing, and it hurts somewhere deeper than physical pain to see my finger missing.

  “Well, it doesn’t look infected,” Pretty Boy says. “That’s good.” He douses it in water to wash away the caked-on blood, and then in alcohol to sanitize it. My eyes tear up from the sting, and I lower my head in an effort to hide it. “Sorry … it should only hurt for a second.” He touches my shoulder, squeezing lightly. I’m about to shake him off when I notice Mayor Rat-Face standing nearby and scrutinizing us. Being forced into playing this out just makes me more embarrassed, but my pride isn’t worth blowing our cover.

  I stare at my boots as Pretty Boy all too tenderly applies some antibiotic ointment and new bandages to my hand.

  “That all right?” he asks, holding my freshly wrapped hand between his own.

  “Yep.” I yank my hand away and stand. “Thanks.”

  From the side, I hear rat-face laugh. Pretty Boy and I turn to him.

  “Siblings, eh?” he asks, taking a step toward us. Up close and personal, he’s only a bit taller than I am, and has to look up at Pretty Boy.

  “Yeah?” Pretty Boy says. His arm slithers around my shoulders. “And?”

  “You two don’t seem like siblings.”

  “I don’t understand what you mean,” Pretty Boy says. I decide it’s best to keep my mouth shut, but the townsman turns his sharp eyes to me.

  “What’s your brother’s name again, little one?”