“Huh,” I say, processing the information. Sounds like the same idea as bounties, but on a larger scale. Jedediah probably isn’t the type of person this Saint guy is expecting to get. He and his crew aren’t like raiders in the rest of the wastes. They were once the same—loose cannons making a living off raiding towns, killing and looting, preying on the weak. Now Jedediah and his men have moved on to organized tyranny. No point in random raids when the towns are all under the thumb of the self-proclaimed ruler. But, though the west has never seen anything like him, Jedediah is a shark, and a raider, and most definitely a menace. If Saint is really trying to do some good for the wastes, surely he won’t turn me away.
“What does he do with the sharks?” I ask.
“Supposedly, he holds trials, and executes the ones he finds guilty.”
I let out a huff of air.
“Trials,” I say. “What’s the point?”
Alex shrugs, setting the paper down on his desk.
“Dunno, but that isn’t your problem, is it? You hand over Jedediah, you get a nice reward, and the business is over with.”
I rub my thumb over the handle of my gun, considering. The reward would have to be a pretty damn sizeable one to make it worth a trip to the western wastes. Things are shitty here, with a madman in charge demanding monthly tithes, and public executions of everyone who defies him, and his crew doing whatever the hell they want. But at least we have safe trade routes, and a reasonable attempt at a currency system, and rules—even if those rules are defined by a dictator. When people are killed, it’s usually for a purpose: profit, or punishment, or power. The townies get the roughest of it, but for someone like me who’s skilled enough to live outside of the rules, life isn’t so bad.
From what I’ve heard, the west has none of the structure we have out here. They say it’s completely out of control, a cluster-fuck of mindless violence. It’s so overrun with raiders and crazies that whenever a bounty runs that way, we usually just check them off as dead and gone. Still, I’ve always admired the place. It may be utter chaos, but it’s also utter freedom. A place where you have a chance to be anything you want. Where you fight tooth and nail to survive, but at least you have a chance to fight.
A place without the tyranny of Jedediah … yet also without any aspect of the life I’ve always known. Things may not be great here, but at least they’re familiar. Without bounties to hunt and towns I know, who would I become? Part of me has always wanted to find out, and part of me has always feared it. Either way, there’s always been too much work to be done over here. Bounties to collect, raiders to hunt, townies to save. Since I lost everything five years ago, I’ve let my life revolve around my job. Hatred and hunger are enough to keep me pushing forward. I’ve tried to keep everything else at bay, including that distant but nagging desire to be something more than an outsider again.
But now … if I could save the eastern wastes and take a shot at someplace new, all in one … there’s so much possibility. And maybe the west could be better for me. Maybe it’s a place I’d actually fit in, a place where people wouldn’t stare at me with fear in their eyes. Especially if I show up to hand an infamous dictator over to this Saint man, whom all the towns love …
“You’re sure this is legit?” I ask.
“I’ve got mostly rumors and word of mouth to go by, but all the news from the west says he’s either a good guy, or doing a damn good job of pretending to be.” He shrugs. “At the very least, you can be confident that you’ll get paid.”
I nod, folding my arms over my chest.
“So. Heading west,” I say. “I’m going to need a map, gasoline, some basic supplies.”
“I’ve got whatever you need,” Alex says. “But what will you trade?”
I can see his greedy little eyes light up, probably already imagining one of my precious guns hanging on his wall. The mere thought makes me sick to my stomach, and anyway, my guns and ammo are essentials. You never know how much you’re going to need for a trip like this, especially since I’m going to be traveling through the crazy-ass western wastes.
Unfortunately, though, I only have one other thing to give him.
VII
Across the Wastes
The truck is a liability, I tell myself as I hand the keys over to Alex. Anyone looking for me could recognize it, and such a nice vehicle sticks out like a sore thumb in the wastes. I push away memories of years spent behind that wheel, of nights spent sleeping in the backseat, and instead focus on the stash of goods I’m getting in return: a map to Saint, water and canned food, some gasoline, and a new vehicle.
The car I’m downgrading to is a small, shoddy thing, its chipped brown paint barely distinguishable from the rust. It looks like it won’t make it five miles, but Alex swears up and down that it will get me where I need to go. I’m not too keen on trusting people, but I don’t have much of a choice here. So I transfer my stuff from the truck bed to the trunk of the new car—water, food, bandages, and all of my guns and ammo. Grabbing the last armful of goods, I give my truck a pat on the hood, the only sentimental gesture I allow myself. After I dump the goods into the trunk and slam it shut, I head back inside.
Jedediah is lying on the floor where I left him, now resting on his side and snoring loudly. He looks way more comfortable than he has any right to be. I resist the urge to kick him again, find a spot against the wall for myself, and doze off.
I catch a few hours of sleep on Alex’s floor, just enough to keep me going, and wake up automatically at the crack of dawn. I re-gag a still-mostly-asleep Jedediah with my handkerchief, drag him out to the passenger seat of the new car, and start it up.
The engine comes to life with a pitiful whine, and the entire vehicle shakes and shudders and rattles like it’s going to come apart at any second. Wind whistles through a crack in the window, and the interior smells faintly of piss. But despite all appearances, the thing does run. So, with a wave at Alex’s guard, I take to the road.
The first few hours pass without incident. I’m enjoying the feeling of being on the open road, and reveling in the knowledge that every mile of wasteland is a mile between me and Jedediah’s crew. I know that I’m heading into lands full of their own danger. Surely though, it’ll be different for me. I’m a bounty hunter. A professional. I’ve spent my whole life killing raiders. There may be more of them in the west, but they can’t be any worse than they are here.
For the start of the ride, Jedediah dozes in his seat, head resting against the window. When he finally wakes up, I have a sinking feeling that my peaceful morning is about to be over. He soon proves me right. He starts with some muffled noises and squirming in his seat, which is easy enough to disregard. Then he progresses to kicking the windshield, which I can’t afford to ignore. Sighing, I turn sharply—throwing him half out of his seat—and pull over. I get out, march over to his side, and yank his door open. He tumbles into the dirt.
“What’s your problem?” I ask, placing a boot on his chest. He lets out a string of words that are entirely unintelligible through the gag. I grimace and grudgingly remove the handkerchief from his mouth.
Jedediah stretches his jaw, licks his lips, and clears his throat.
“I’d like,” he says in a raspy voice, “a drink of water.”
I roll my eyes, removing my boot from his chest.
“That’s it?” I ask. I thought he had finally realized his life was in danger, and intended to do something about it, but this is much better. I leave him in the dirt and grab my canteen from the trunk. Luckily I have a few big jugs of water left—I would never be stupid enough to travel the wastes without them—so I don’t have to be too frugal.
I’m not entirely sure what the west will bring, or how long it will last, but I’m as prepared as possible. Alex said it would take about two days of travel to get to Saint’s tower, but that’s assuming I don’t hit any major obstacles along the way, like angry townies, or raiders, or crazies. But whatever comes along, I’ll be ready. I
have enough food and water for more than a week, and plenty of ammo to mow down anyone who gets in my way.
I take a swig of water before walking over to Jedediah and pressing the container to his lips. He takes several big, greedy gulps, and I tear the canteen away.
“A little more?” he asks, licking the remnants off his lips.
“That’s more than enough to last you the whole day,” I say, screwing the top onto the canteen and tossing it into my seat. Clearly, this guy has grown accustomed to a life of luxury. He might’ve once been a raider, but he’s had goods hand delivered to him for years now. Guess he’s forgotten what it’s like to be out in the wastes.
I move to place the gag back in his mouth, but he ducks aside. I smack him upside the head and try to gag him again, but he shifts the other way. I sigh. “Oh, come on,” I say. “Don’t tell me you decided to be difficult now.”
“Is the gag really necessary?” he asks, his neck craned to keep his face as far from me as possible. “It’s gonna be a long ride. We can talk!”
“I have no desire to talk to you.”
“I’d be a lot happier without the gag,” he says.
“I don’t c—”
“And a lot more likely to continue cooperating,” he adds. When I scrutinize him, he smiles.
I suppose a drive with Jedediah occasionally speaking would be much better than a drive with him trying to escape. I could always tie him up and throw him in the back, but I’d rather keep him in my sight. He may be mostly acting like a cheeky little shit, but I’m not going to underestimate him. There’s a mad genius in there, somewhere beneath the smiles and the sass. It’s impossible to tell what he’s thinking, but at least I can keep an eye on him.
“Fine,” I say. “But I won’t hesitate to knock your ass out again. Got it?”
“Crystal clear.”
Jedediah seems content to look out the window and hum under his breath, occasionally asking a question, which I respond to with short, clipped answers while keeping my eyes on the road. He stretches himself out in his seat, putting his shoes up on the dashboard and leaning his seat back, getting about as comfortable as a man with his wrists bound in front of him can get.
“My crew didn’t kill your father or something, did they?” he asks, after staring out the window for a while.
“What?” I ask, startled by the question.
“Brother? Sister? Mother? Oh, jeez, I really hope we didn’t kill your mom. That would be awkward,” he says. He pauses while I struggle to process what he’s asking me. “… Husband?”
“No,” I lie, keeping my eyes fixed on the road ahead.
“Do you even have a husband to kill? Er … that came out wrong. Ignore everything after ‘husband.’” He pauses, but continues after I open my mouth and shut it again. “Or wife. Life partner? Anything like—”
“That’s really none of your business,” I say once I’ve finally gathered myself. I catch myself grinding my jaw and force myself to stop. I can’t let him get to me.
“Right. Anyway. Very relieved to hear that I haven’t killed anyone close to you,” he says, looking out the window again. “We get a few of those every so often, showing up at the Wormwood mansion. Lots of yelling and tears. ‘You killed my mother! Prepare to die!’ Etcetera. Very dramatic.”
“I think that comes with the territory,” I say dryly.
“What territory?”
“Being a complete fucking psychopath.”
“Hey now,” he says, in a voice like I’ve offended him terribly. “You kill people too.”
My back stiffens at the gratingly familiar words. I’ve seen the way townies look at me, heard the things they say. Sometimes it seems like they don’t think I’m any better than the people I’m killing. And they have no idea how many people I choose not to kill—how many I’d really like to, if not for my personal rules.
“It’s different,” I say eventually.
“How so?”
“I only kill assholes like you,” I say. For a moment I flash back to words my old sheriff once said about me—She’s a weapon. We’ve just got to make sure she’s pointed in the right direction. But, like I did back then, I tell myself that’s not an issue. I know the difference between good people and bad.
“Ah,” he says. “So it’s okay as long as they’re a worse person than you are?” He says it almost teasingly. I tighten my grip on the steering wheel.
“I’m not going to discuss morals with a cannibalistic tyrant,” I say. That shuts him up, giving me several seconds of blissful silence. Then he starts mumbling under his breath.
I know I shouldn’t ask, but I can’t help myself. I take my eyes off the road to glance over, and find him with a deeply thoughtful expression.
“What are you muttering about?”
“Tyrannical cannibal,” he says, answering overly quickly, like he’s been waiting impatiently for me to ask. “You should’ve gone with that over ‘cannibalistic tyrant.’ Sounds a lot better, doesn’t it? Tyrannical cannibal. Rolls nicely off the tongue.”
I sigh. Whatever goes on in that fucked-up brain of his, clearly nothing I say is going to get past the layer of crazy. Not that it matters; he’ll be dead soon, and I’ll be a hero, and these pointless conversations will fade from my mind.
I stay silent while he repeats “tyrannical cannibal” to himself several more times, in varying tones and pitches, before finally shutting up.
I shoot down his further attempts at conversation, and we drive through the day in silence, aside from the rattling of the car and Jedediah’s humming, which comes and goes every couple of minutes. At first, we pass by a town every few hours, which makes it easy to check our progress on the map. These are all the towns under Jedediah’s reign, and he perks up at the sight of each one, loudly announcing its name as if I wouldn’t know. “That’s Sunrise!” “Buzzard’s Beak!” “Last Stand!” He’s like a little kid seeing his first meal in a week. Then again, I guess the towns are pretty much meals to the man who demands a tithe from each one.
As we get farther out, the sky gets darker, and the towns get sparser, and Jedediah gets even more excited to see each new one.
“Hey, there’s Old Creek!” he says happily as he sees the latest one—one of the last before we hit the somewhat official border of the eastern wastes, the end of the area claimed by Jedediah and his crew. “There was never a creek there. I don’t know why they named it that.”
The name sends an immediate and involuntary shudder through my body. I don’t need to look to know what I’ll find, but I do it anyway. There’s no town—not anymore. Just the husks of old buildings, melted and blackened by the fire that scorched the place to the ground almost five years ago. As with most tragedies, there was one name whispered in the aftermath. Unlike others, this one I don’t need to rely on rumors to know about.
“Shut the fuck up,” I say, struggling to keep my voice level as a wave of revulsion rises inside me. “Right now.” He looks at me, eyebrows rising as if surprised by the reaction. I turn to glare at him, and in doing so, show the left side of my face again. His eyes land on the burns, and he pauses.
“Oh,” he says.
One of my hands automatically moves from the wheel to my gun, and for a moment I can clearly imagine pulling it out and putting a bullet between Jedediah’s eyes. Or maybe in his knees first—something slow and painful, something I could really relish.
But no. I can’t. Killing him now would get me nothing; personal satisfaction isn’t good enough.
I take a deep breath and slowly remove my hand from the gun, forcing myself to tear my eyes away from the man nonchalantly talking about the town he burned to the ground. At least he has the good sense to be quiet now, watching the burnt remains of Old Creek fade into the distance.
When I look away from him and glance at the mirror to my side, I notice it: a cloud of dust on the horizon. Behind us, and gaining fast. I squint at the rearview mirror, watch it getting closer. It could be a dust storm
… a very fast, very deliberately moving dust storm. But I know it’s not.
We’re being followed.
“What’s that?” Jedediah asks, noticing the approaching cloud at about the same time I do. My pulse rising, I press harder on the pedal. It coaxes a little more speed out of this shitty car, but not enough. Not nearly enough.
“Shut up,” I say. “Stay low.” I don’t check to see if he’s obeying, too busy glancing between the road ahead and the road behind. I can’t see the vehicle clearly enough yet. Is it Jedediah’s crew behind me, on my trail already? But how? Surely they couldn’t have already determined that I left the area and headed this way. Unless Alex sold me out …
I grit my teeth and keep driving.
“Bet you’re missing your truck right about now,” Jedediah says.
“Shut. Up.”
I press the pedal to the floor. The car shudders violently, rattling every bone in my body, and chugs along at a slightly faster rate. It’s enough to pull ahead for just a few moments, so our pursuer disappears from sight. And I see something else that sparks an idea: a heap of junk alongside the road, what looks to be the remains of two cars after a wreck.
I swerve off the road, drawing a startled yelp out of Jedediah, and drive right up alongside the metal carcasses. I kill the engine and yank Jedediah down with me.
Without the grumbling of the engine and the rattling of the car’s frame, it’s very quiet. I sit, silent, listening. I hold my breath as I hear the vehicle approaching, wondering if the ploy will work. It’s a gamble: a gamble that whoever is following me will be looking for my big truck rather than this shitty car, and a gamble that this piece of junk will pass off as a literal piece of junk.
The roar of the engine becomes nearly overwhelming, until I’m sure our pursuer is about to smash into us. My hand seeks the handle of my gun, and I grip it tightly, my eyes fixed on the window though I can see nothing outside. Then comes the blinding shine of headlights, growing brighter and brighter and then—gone. Past us.
The Wastelanders Page 32