The Wastelanders

by K. S. Merbeth

  I disentangle myself from the fighting, pausing to kill an idiot townie who decides to pursue me, and instead start to check the places I haven’t been looking. The quiet places; abandoned rooms, hallways occupied only by corpses, cramped closets, places where an injured woman with some serious issues might drag herself if she was in trouble.

  And finally, in the dining room, I find her.

  She’s curled up under the table, rocking and shivering, cradling an arm against her chest. Sitting on the floor near her is a bloodied knife. My heart sinks. If she’s hurt badly, getting her out of here will be the least of my concerns. There’s no way we’ll make it across the wastes with both her and Cat useless. But getting a closer look, I realize there’s no blood on her, no sign of actual injury.

  “Come on, we need to go,” I say. She doesn’t even look at me. “Cat’s waiting.” She pauses at that—only to resume rocking, ducking her head lower.

  My first instinct is to leave her behind. I’ll tell Cat I couldn’t find her, or that I found the body. Hell, I should probably kill her myself just to make sure the lie doesn’t come back to bite me. I tighten my grip on my knife, but then pause.

  I’m not leaving her behind.

  “Fuck,” I say, shoving the knife into my leg holster. Who knew a journey to the west would turn me into a goddamn bleeding heart?

  Sighing at myself, I lower to a crouch beside Bird.

  “Let me see it,” I say. When she doesn’t respond, I grab the arm and yank it toward me—maybe a little more roughly than necessary. She smacks my face with her free hand, making high-pitched sounds of protest. I release her after I see the problem: a rip in her sleeve.

  “Ugh,” I say. “Can’t you subdue the crazy long enough for us to get out of here?” Of course, she doesn’t respond to that, just resumes rocking and whimpering to herself. Grumbling, I reach down and rip off a piece of my shirt. I fight with her for the arm again, and wrap the piece of fabric across her revealed skin, circling it twice and then tying it off tightly while she smacks me in the face. Once it’s done, I shove her back, struggling with the urge to bash her head in. “See? I’m trying to fucking help,” I say, pulling back.

  She pauses, looking at the arm and seeming to finally realize what I was doing. She flexes her arm, scrutinizing the knot, and then looking at my dirty, bloodstained shirt.

  “Unsanitary,” she proclaims quietly.

  “Oh come on,” I say. “It’s good enough for now, right? Considering the imminent danger?”

  She grabs the bloodied knife off the floor, scrambles to her feet, and races for the door. Cursing under my breath, I follow.

  Bird weaves an unpredictable path through the building with occasional pauses to stab someone. She’s so fast that I can do little but struggle to keep up, and take out anyone who gets in my way. I want to ask if she has any idea where she’s going, but I can’t spare the breath.

  Her path seems random, but after several minutes of winding her way through rooms and halls and stabbing her way through raiders, she bursts through a door into open air. I follow her outside and skid to a stop, blinking in the sunlight. I take a moment to catch my breath—and it then hitches as I realize we’re not alone. Cat is standing nearby, waiting as she promised, but she’s not the only one. Beside her stands Tiny, huge and silent, his eyes locked on me.

  “Bird!” Seemingly oblivious to the hulking man standing nearby, Cat grabs her partner by the shoulder, yanks her close, and plants a noisy kiss on her mask. “You asshole!” Bird ducks her head and rubs bashfully at the spot on her mask.

  Tiny stares at me over the tops of their heads, waiting for the sickeningly affectionate reunion to finish before he steps forward. I keep an eye on his gun, but he doesn’t reach for it.

  Instead, he juts out a fist and lets it hang in the air. After a moment, I bump my own knuckles against it, and we both let our hands fall.

  “I’m sorry things turned out this way,” I say. I’m confused about a lot of things right now, but I do mean that.

  “Hmm,” he says, and then stares out at the wastelands ahead. He doesn’t look as torn up as I’d expect, just vaguely troubled. I wonder if he feels as uncertain as I do about Jedediah’s death, and whether it’s for the best. There are still a million questions churning through my head, but right now, there’s only one that’s important.

  “So what do we do now?” Cat asks. Silence hangs in the air for a few moments before I realize all three of them are looking at me, waiting for an answer. I blink at them, startled. Gradually, the initial shock fades and a strange calm settles over me. They’re looking to me to lead them. This feels … right, somehow.

  “I think we start in the east,” I say.

  “Start?” Bird asks.

  “The east is gonna be a fucking mess,” Cat says, almost simultaneously.

  “So we put it back together,” I say.

  “How are we gonna do that?”

  “One piece at a time.” I glance around at them. Cat and Bird shrug at each other, and Tiny just watches, silently waiting.

  “Gonna be hard,” Cat says. “Been a long time since they’ve been without a leader.”

  “Oh, they’re gonna have one,” I say.

  Behind us, I distantly hear the fight continuing inside the former Queen’s palace; the sound of the raider army and Jedediah’s men tearing one another apart. Jedediah’s crew will be done for, especially with their leader gone. The raider army will be left limping, and likely dissolve into individual crews again. Everything restored to its natural balance—but in the wastes, balance never lasts for long. It’s too ripe with opportunity.

  I smile out at the expanse of wastelands in front of me, vast and empty and waiting. So many little towns out there, left alone and uncertain about what comes next. Both the east and the west will be left bleeding from all of this. Someone has to rise to the challenge of handling the aftermath.

  People need me. Even if they don’t know it.

  Like with most things, I think Jed had the right idea about that. Time and time again, I’ve found myself wrong about people. I overestimate them, and end up disappointed—like the townies we’ve encountered who fell apart at the first sign of trouble, like those raiders who killed Jed before he had a chance to speak, and like Jed himself in the end. He got greedy, he got cocky, and he paid for it.

  I won’t make the same mistake.

  I’ve always placed so much value on freedom. But what does that really give people? The right to die free, and little else. Townies know nothing about the world beyond their own walls. How did I ever think they were capable of making their own decisions? All the towns that turned me away when I would’ve helped them … All the people who saw me as a monster when I was just trying to protect them. Clearly, they have no idea what’s good for them. But I do.

  So, I think it’s time to do what’s best for them—even if they hate me for it. I’ll save them, even if they don’t deserve it. I can’t help but care, but I’m tired of chasing love. All I need is a few people to support me … a few whom I’m already starting to gather. The rest will fall in line. They’ll respect me, at least, and that will be good enough.

  All this time I’ve spent searching for a new home, without realizing I could make one. By force, if I have to.

  “The King is dead, long live the Queen?” Cat mutters, looking at Bird. Overhearing it, I grin.

  And we set off to make our new world.

  Acknowledgments

  First of all, thank you to my critique partner Leigh Mar, who was the first person to read the first draft of Raid, and who gave invaluable feedback and encouragement that helped shape it into an actual story.

  Thank you to my amazing agent, Emmanuelle Morgen, for always believing in my writing and for preventing me from panicking when deadlines loom a little too close for comfort.

  Thanks to Lindsey Hall, whose insightful editing made this book bolder and immeasurably better. Thank you to Lisa Marie Pompilio for designin
g the badass cover, as well as to Ellen Wright, Nazia Khatun, Sarah Guan, Gleni Bartels, and the rest of the team at Orbit, who have been amazing during the publication process for both Bite and Raid.

  As always, thank you to my family for encouraging me to chase my dreams, and for not judging me when those dreams included writing violent books about cannibals. A special thanks to my mom and gramma for all the support, and to my dad, who checked Barnes & Noble every day for a week to see if my book was back in stock yet.

  And lastly, thank you to everyone who read and enjoyed Bite and/or Raid. Hearing from you always makes my day!

  By K. S. Merbeth

  Bite

  Raid

  The Wastelanders (omnibus edition)

  Praise for K. S. Merbeth and the Wastelanders

  BITE

  “A full-throttle, sand-in-your-eyes, no-holds-barred ride through a Mad Max–style wasteland where the bad guys become family. Finally, an underdog with teeth!”

  —Delilah S. Dawson

  “Merbeth has created her own universe filled with destruction and not a small amount of grim, acerbic wit. Fans of Mira Grant’s ‘Newsflesh’ series will be pleased by the smart writing.”

  —Library Journal

  “Filled with dark humor, wit, and a realistic dystopian setting, Bite plays with the idea of who the good guys are in such a harsh world.”

  —Booklist

  “Merbeth’s debut novel puts a unique spin on post-apocalyptic horror.… Bite flips the script.”

  —B&N Sci-Fi & Fantasy Blog

  “Pure undiluted high-octane anarchy.… If you enjoy movies like … Mad Max: Fury Road, or games like Fallout 4 and Borderlands, then Bite is the book for you. Gleefully unrestrained and unrelenting, strap yourself in and enjoy the ride. Bite is here, let the mayhem commence!”

  —The Eloquent Page

  RAID

  “Merbeth returns to drag readers off of their couches and into the explosive, feverish Wastelands.… [An] edge-of-your-seat rush.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “Merbeth’s fast-paced Mad Max–style adventure, set in a post apocalyptic desert, is difficult to put down.”

  —Library Journal

  extras

  meet the author

  Photo Credit: Mauri Mobray

  K. S. MERBETH is obsessed with SFF, food, video games, and her cat. She resides in Tucson, Arizona. You can finder her on Twitter @ksmerbeth.

  interview

  When did you first start writing?

  Writing has always been my passion, and I’ve been doing it for as long as I can remember. Ever since I was a kid I’ve been carrying around notebooks, dreaming up new stories, scribbling ideas in the margins of my notes for class. When I was young I wasn’t dedicated enough to sit down and write daily, but I didn’t go a single day without thinking about whatever story I was working on. Really, I don’t think I’ve ever had any choice but to write. If I didn’t, my head would probably explode from all of the ideas rolling around in there.

  Where did the idea for Bite come from?

  It’s a common theme in postapocalyptic stories that when everything goes to shit, people lose their humanity. Many of these worlds are overrun by groups of killers who are so vicious and violent that they might as well be monsters. And yet they’re not monsters; they’re still human, and therefore should still have backgrounds, feelings, and motivations. I became very interested in writing about these types of characters, finding out more about who they are and how their lives led to this point. So, I came up with the idea of writing a postapocalyptic story with typical “bad guys” as the main characters.

  In postapocalyptic worlds, there are often zombies or monsters hungering for human flesh. Bite turns that idea on its head. When did you first know you wanted to write a book featuring cannibals?

  After seeing a few films featuring cannibals as villains, I found myself fascinated by the idea. Cannibalism is such a taboo, and people tend to have such an intense disgust and discomfort toward it. I was intrigued by the idea of a world in which people would be forced to commit such an act to survive. Even further, I was interested in the challenge of creating sympathetic characters who also happen to be cannibals. I first explored the idea in a creative writing class in high school, where I wrote a short story called “Love Bites” about two cannibals falling in love in a postapocalyptic world. The idea was so fun to write, and garnered such a strong reaction from my classmates, that I knew I had to explore it further.

  Did you have to do any research in preparation for writing Bite?

  I’m sure there are a number of weird Google searches in my browser history, like “severing a finger” and “long-term effects of cannibalism” and “what does human flesh taste like.” I also looked into guns and ammo, grenades, etc., but most of my research went into finding realistic challenges that Kid and the crew would face while trying to survive in the wastelands. I browsed a lot of survivalist Web sites and looked into things like heat-stroke, dehydration, water purification, and what kinds of canned food would still be edible.

  There was a wide-ranging cast in Bite. Who is your favorite character?

  I adore the whole cast of Bite, and more than any one character in particular, I love the crew’s dynamic together. I really love Kid, of course, and I enjoyed writing her journey and her growth. If I have to pick a favorite, though, it’s Dolly. I love every aspect of her: her elegant badassery in fight scenes, her total awkwardness in social situations, her wholehearted dedication to Wolf, her maternal protectiveness over Kid. She’s a very odd character, and that made her entertaining to write about in every situation.

  What is one piece of information that you know about the story or characters that you loved but couldn’t fit into the book?

  Early in the book, Tank mentions that Dolly once broke Pretty Boy’s nose, but nobody ever explains why. The story is, when Pretty Boy initially learned that Dolly was once a prostitute, he attempted to proposition her by offering her a nice gun. She punched him in the face and took the gun. He never tried to make a move on her again.

  Lastly, we have to ask: If you could have any superpower, what would it be?

  I have to go with telekinesis. It’s super cool and I could definitely kick some ass with it. Realistically, though, I’m not really sure whose ass I’d kick … I doubt gaining a superpower would actually give me the motivation to become a superhero or villain. But at least I could use my power for things like getting food out of the fridge without leaving my computer desk.

  if you enjoyed

  THE WASTELANDERS

  look out for

  AFTERWAR

  by

  Lilith Saintcrow

  History is written by the victors; but when you’ve been fighting your fellow patriots, your own brothers and sisters, does anyone really win?

  A harrowing gut punch of a novel, Afterwar tells the story of a dark future where America has been devastated by a second civil war. As the fighting draws to a close, the camps are liberated, and the fascist regime crumbles, the work of rebuilding begins. But can a population who’s spent years divided and hell-bent on victory at any cost ever be truly reunited?

  Afterwar is bestselling author Lilith Saintcrow’s answer to the dystopian genre: a timely and all-too-realistic glimpse of a future that we hope never comes to pass.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Details Later

  February 21, ’98

  The last day in hell ran with cold, stinking rain. A gunmetal-gray sky opened up its sluices, mortars and bigger artillery shook the wooded horizon-hills at 0900, and roll call in the central plaza—down to two thousand scarecrows and change, the dregs of Reklamation Kamp Gloria—took only two and a half hours. Pale smears peered from the red-painted kamp brothel windows, disappearing whenever the Kommandant’s oil-slick head and unsettling light blue gaze turned in their direction. Stolid and heavy in his natty black uniform, Kommandant Major General Porter stood on a heavy platform; the raw
edges of its boards, once pale and sticky with sap, were now the same shade as the lowering sky. The skeletons in dun, once-orange dungarees stood unsteadily under a triple pounding—first the Kommandant’s words crackling over the PA, then the thick curtains of rain, and last the rolling thunder in the hills.

  Not just partisans, some whispered, their lips unmoving. Convicts and kampogs learned quickly how to pass along bites of news or speculation, despite the contact regulations—worth a flogging if you were caught talking, a worse flogging if more than two kampogs were “gathering.”

  Nope, not just partisans. Federals.

  Feral rumors, breeding swiftly, ran between the thin-walled Quonsets, bobbing over the reeking, sucking mud like balls of ignes fatui down in the swampy work sites, drifting into the empty stone rectangle of the quarry, flashing like sparks off the sicksticks the uniforms and jar captains carried. Raiders, Federals, knights riding dragons—who cared? Hope wasn’t a substitute for a scrap of moldy potato or a filched, crumbling cube of protein paste.

  On the second floor of the joyhouse, in a room with dingy pinkish walls, cheap thin viscose curtains twitched a little, and the narrow bed underneath them shuddered as he finished. The bedspread had been freshly laundered, and the white, sharp smell of harsh soap and dead electrical heat from the industrial dryers filled Lara’s empty skull. It was a darkness full of small things—a glimpse of the dusty silk flowers in the tiny vase on the nightstand, a twinge from her discarded body, the burn of slick soylon fabric against her cheek, the indistinct mutter of the PA as Kommandant Porter, the God of Gloria, spoke. Someone would later tell her the Kommandant, his hair swept back and his mirror-shined boots splattered with that thick, gluey mud, had made a speech about how the shivering pogs had paid their debt to society and were to be taken to a Re-Edukation Kamp. Porter audibly hoped they would remember the struggle and sacrifice the uniforms had suffered to remake them—brown immies, any-color degenerates, white politicals since the brown ones were shot, traitors all—into productive members of the Great United States of America First.