The Junkyard Druid Box Set 2

by M. D. Massey

  Shifting back into my human form, I took in the tattered state of my wardrobe, lamenting my torn clothes and shredded combat boots. It happened whenever I shifted in a hurry—turning into a nine-foot-tall version of Quasimodo would do that. It was a hassle each and every time, because clothes were so damned hard to replace in the apocalypse. Not because you couldn’t find about a zillion abandoned houses with drawers and closets full of stuff just there for the taking. No, it was because finding stuff that fit properly was up to the luck of the draw.

  I dug around inside my Craneskin Bag, that bottomless pit that served as my own personal bag of holding. Early on in my time here, the Bag had saved my life more than once, proffering up food, water, items of clothing, and a variety of weapons I’d stored within its depths. Over time, my various stashes had dwindled to nearly nothing, and at the moment the Bag’s clothes racks were bare.

  “Shit. Looks like I’m headed back into town.”

  A moan drew my attention, causing me to turn a critical eye at the ghoul still squirming on the branch above.

  His Chuck Taylors looked to be about the right size, and if the pants were a bit too large around the waist it was nothing a belt wouldn’t fix. A quick search of the area revealed my hand-and-a-half sword sitting exactly where I’d dropped it. After retrieving it, I stood in front of the ghoul, leaning on the pommel as I looked him in the eye.

  “Man, I bet you never even got laid before you died. That must suck.” I paused, scratching the back of my neck. “Can’t remember the last time I got laid. Oh, yes I can, it was right before that asshole of a magician stranded me here.”

  The ghoul moaned, gnashing its teeth at me.

  “Yeah, I hear you. You never even got to ask that cute little waitress over there out on a date. Sorry about line-driving her head into the lake, by the way. Couldn’t be helped. And sorry about this, too.”

  I drove the tip of my sword through the ghoul’s left eye, ending its thrashing instantly. Then, I sidestepped and chopped the branch off cleanly at the trunk, thanking my lucky stars I had good steel in my hand. Reliable gear often made the difference between life and death in this world.

  I’d grabbed the sword from a booth during the chaos at the Ren Fest, that very first day. Luckily it had been made by a smith who knew their way around a forge. Fucker was probably deader cheddar by now. Damned shame, because whoever “Angel Sword” was, they made one hell of a functional blade.

  I relieved the kid of his duds, letterman jacket and all, and searched the pockets for useful items. A lighter—keep. Ballpoint pen—toss. Wallet with cash—nope.

  As I went to discard the wallet, it flipped open to reveal a picture that featured a happy family of four. Dad stood on the left, his arm over his teenage son’s shoulder. It looked liked Sis’ was in the middle, hugging her brother while Mom stretched to squeeze the both of them in a hug. It was a happy picture, obviously snapped by someone on the fly—a brief moment in their lives when everything was good and right.

  I looked up at the former band geek, comparing the face of the young man in the photo to the ghoul. Yep, definitely him. I discarded the wallet but held onto the picture, unwilling to throw the young man’s cherished memento away. Curiosity caused me to flip the photo over, and sure enough someone had scribbled something on the back.

  —Remember, family always has your back. Love, Dad.—

  I snickered. Well, you’re all worm food now, so good luck with that.

  Yeah, six months in this hellhole had made me a little jaded.

  After tucking the picture away, I washed the band geek’s clothes as best I could in the nearby lake. Without soap, there was no way they’d ever smell spring fresh, but at least I could get most of the stench of death and decay out of them. Unfortunately, the letterman jacket was a lost cause. Too much red, anyway—red just isn’t a good color for gingers trying to survive this Hellpocalypse.

  After using a cantrip to dry the clothes, I got dressed. Then, I retrieved the supplies, bow, and pack, and headed home. Anna was on watch, so I gave her the signal—a bird call, of course—as I made the approach to camp.

  The isthmus was about two football fields across, with a large clearing in the middle hidden by trees on all sides. It had once been a farmstead, complete with a couple of rundown shacks we were using for shelter. I hadn’t bothered fortifying the place, because we would abandon it at the first sign of any real and imminent danger. Standing and fighting just wasn’t a smart strategy for survival in the apocalypse.

  “Looks like a good haul,” Anna whispered as I passed.

  “It was. Found some new clothes, too. What do you think?”

  She frowned, her thick brown eyebrows coming together as she took in my shoes. “Why’d you get rid of the boots? Those things aren’t going to last six weeks out here.”

  I shrugged. “Call it nostalgia. Anyway, I have fresh water and lots of canned food in the bag.”

  “Thank goodness. I was about to start boiling shoe leather. Mickey’s getting some sleep. Can you check on the boys for me, make sure they’re not getting into trouble?”

  I nodded in reply and headed into camp.

  Anna had long since stopped questioning me on how I managed to do the things I did. That included hauling two hundred pounds of supplies cross country, along with all my gear and weapons. Suspicion had long given way to a trust born from hunger and a desire to survive, and thus far I’d kept her, Mickey, and the boys alive. Apparently, that was enough.

  They’d all been there at the Renaissance festival that first day. Anna ran a LARPing group for her little brother and his friends, and she’d taken them to the festival as a special treat. The boys had been looking forward to the trip for months, or so I’d been told, and the fact they were there had probably saved all their lives.

  Mickey had been an employee at the Ren fest, an actor in period garb who was part of the entertainment. He was no fighter, but when I stumbled across their group he and Anna had been fighting off the deaders with reckless abandon. They’d herded the boys into one of the smaller buildings, but it was a losing battle keeping the zombs from overrunning the place. I’d gone decapitation happy, then got them back to their bus and drove us out of there. It’d been a snap decision, but one I’d never regret.

  Matthew, Christopher, and the rest of the little rascals were playing a game of tag when I arrived. They played like any other kids, except for one difference—no matter how hard they played, the boys barely made a sound. They all knew that noise drew the dead, so instead of the raucous laughter and shouts you’d normally expect from a group their age, they spoke in whispers and expressed their excitement with gestures and high fives that always stopped short of contact.

  It was a sobering sight, and one that always gave me pause. But I had no time to get maudlin, because once the boys saw me stroll into camp they swarmed me immediately.

  “Colin’s back, Colin’s back!” they whispered, the enthusiasm in their voices nearly driving their chorus to conversational levels. “Whad’ja bring us?”

  “Sssh!” I admonished. “Mickey’s asleep. And besides, I killed a small herd that was headed this way earlier.” The boys’ dirt-stained faces grew somber, and several started looking nervously at the tree line to the south. “Not to worry—I took care of them, and Anna’s keeping a sharp eye out for stragglers. You’re all safe.”

  “Nobody’s safe now, Mr. Colin,” nine-year-old Matthew said.

  I squatted down to their level. “That’s true, and I’m not going to lie and tell you it isn’t. The sad fact is, you’re all responsible for your own safety now. So, you can’t rely on anyone else to save you from any dangers that are out there. Which reminds me, shouldn’t you boys be practicing your archery about now?”

  “Aw, we already finished, and Mr. Mickey said we could play,” Christopher said. Chris was Matthew’s best friend, and one of the older kids in the bunch. A once-chubby eight-year-old, he’d leaned out over the last few months, his bab
y fat turning into rangy kid muscles. “’Sides, you never told us what you brought.”

  “I might have a bag of candy in this bag…” I said as I watched their eyes light up.

  “But I’m only going to share it with you after you’ve each taken thirty more practice shots.”

  Despite a chorus of grumbles, the boys took off to grab the PVC bows and dowel rod arrows that Mickey, Anna, and I had made for each of them. None of the boys were strong enough yet to draw a bow that could pierce skulls, but they had hunted the isthmus clear of small game in short order. Rapidly adapting to their environment as kids often do, they had quickly gained proficiency at stalking and hiding. When they got older, their skills would serve them well for surviving in this harsh, unforgiving world.

  I watched them scamper off, then put the supplies into storage and headed for the trees to relieve myself.

  I sensed it before I saw it, the distinct bone-jarring hum that preceded a major magical working—a dimensional portal, for example. I spun toward the source, still zipping up my pants as the hole in time and space appeared.

  “Why there y’are, lad!” I heard a familiar voice exclaim.

  Quicker than I could react, Click stuck his head and arm through the doorway and yanked me into the portal.

  3

  I stumbled forward, landing atop Click on the hard asphalt of the junkyard parking lot. My hands found his throat of their own accord, and I began throttling the life out of him with considerable enthusiasm.

  “You weaselly, sneaking, conniving little pile of excrement. Six fucking months! You left me in that hell hole for six—fucking—months!”

  Click’s face started turning purple, but instead of trying to free himself he kept pointing and looking over my shoulder. Realizing that my chances of choking him to death were zilch to nil—he could vanish at will, after all—I followed his gaze back to the portal we’d just exited.

  Like a painting in still life, the scene framed in that seven-foot-tall oval chilled me to the bone. I saw Anna running into the camp from the south, her face twisted in a silent, desperate scream. The boys turned toward their ward, ever more slowly, and their eyes grew wide with fright as a shambling, shuffling mass of the walking dead emerged from the tree line.

  The moment stretched out into eternity, likely due to Click’s mastery over the forbidden, mystical, highly esoteric art of chronomancy. My hands went limp as I leapt to my feet. I spun and lunged for the portal, only to hear the sound of Click’s fingers snapping as it closed in front of me.

  Landing catlike in a three-point stance, I turned on the immortal chronomancer, grabbing him by the lapels of his leather biker jacket and slamming him against the junkyard delivery truck. I hovered over him, my glaring countenance reflected in his strange, hazel eyes. Those orbs sparkled with madness and delight even as he watched me struggle to contain my bestial other half. I felt veins pop out all across my arms, neck, and face. My muscles started to swell, and my bones and joints began to creak and crack as the change started coming over me.

  “Send me back—now!” I growled with low menace.

  Click had the audacity to flash me a sheepish smile and shrug. “And what if I told ye that I’d only do so under certain—er, conditions?”

  “Click—or should I say, Gwydion—this is not the time for your fucking games.” I switched my grip, crossing my hands to reach deep into the collar of his jacket on either side. Twisting my hands, I pulled him into a cross choke as I slowly increased the pressure on both sides of his neck. “I might not be able to choke you out, but I can sure as hell pop your head off like a cheap fountain pen lid. Open the fucking portal, now!”

  The little mage snapped his fingers again, and I found myself holding air instead of leather.

  “Always scramming me clothes up, ye bastards are. Totally uncalled fer, I’d say.” I turned in time to see him popping his collars and flicking imaginary dust from his jacket a good twenty feet across the parking lot. “So, ye found me out. I was wonderin’ when ye’d solve that riddle. Well done, lad, well done. I believe my faith in ye is well-placed, indeed it ’tis.”

  I leapt at him, but he disappeared with yet another snap of his fingers. My eyes searched the immediate area, finally spotting him leaning against the junkyard fence. I jumped toward him and he vanished once more, this time reappearing atop a nearby light pole, legs crossed at the ankles and smiling for all the world like this was nothing more than a silly game.

  “We could muck around all day, lad, and still accomplish nothin’. Are ye ready to settle down and listen?” I picked up a nearby chunk of concrete the size of my head and fastballed it at the little man. He leaned to the side at an impossible angle, deftly dodging the missile. “Alright then, ’av it yer way if ye like.”

  I grabbed an even larger piece, shifting further into my other form. Click cleared his throat and nodded toward the street. A group of kids on bikes were stopped on the sidewalk, gaping at the ’roided up freak handling fifty-pound rocks like tennis balls. I doubted they could even see Click, as good as the bastard was at making himself invisible.

  The mage tapped his foot in the air above me. “I assure ye, lad, I kin take ye back to that exact moment, anytime ye like. But not before ye hear me out, now that ye truly know what’s at stake.”

  I hung my head with a sigh, dropping the chunk of rebar and dried mortar to the dirt. “Fine. But I’m almost tempted to say the hell with it and shift, if only to get you back for six long months of abject misery.”

  I marched through the junkyard gates, and Click appeared in front of me with a snap, walking backward to match my pace. He spread his arms in a magnanimous gesture, as if all could be forgiven that quickly. I growled at him, causing him to wince.

  “Too soon fer a hug, then?” the little trickster asked with mock seriousness.

  Before I could sock him in his smug little face, Jesse appeared over Click’s shoulder in a swirl of leaves and faery dust, brow furrowed and eyes darting this way and that.

  “Colin? There you are. O-M-G, I was so worried about you. One minute you were there, and the next you just vanished. I couldn’t sense your presence at all.”

  I unclenched my fists and exhaled heavily. “It’s okay, Jess. Click here was just showing me something. No harm done.”

  Jesse squinted for a moment, then twisted her mouth in a deep scowl. “He’s responsible? Well, I’ll just show him—”

  The youthful mage snapped his fingers again. Instantly, Jesse froze in place, just as her hair began to billow out in a halo like Medusa’s own locks—a sure sign she was about to have an ass attack of Hiroshimic proportions. I pursed my lips and tsked. Although I was still a bundle of raw nerves and pent-up rage, seeing Jesse put in her place calmed me down a bit.

  “Huh. Now, that’s a trick you’re going to have to teach me sometime. You have no idea what it’s like, living with her.”

  Click glanced over his shoulder at my ex-girlfriend-turned-power-crazed-dryad. “Eh, I’ve had the opportunity to court a few of the Greek fae in my time. Believe me, lad, I’ve an inkling. But we’ve more pressin’ matters ta’ discuss. C’mon then, let’s chat before she finds a way to break outta me spell.”

  “So, I was right about your true identity, you sneaky Welsh bastard,” I said as I toweled the water from my hair. It’d been a long time since I’d had a decent bath, and the cold water and new bar of soap in my outdoor shower had been nearly as welcome as a hot soak. I’d had to burn the clothes I’d been wearing. For now, I’d be dressing in the finest mechanic’s fashions by Dickies, at least until I had a chance to go shopping.

  Click sat on a nearby car hood, legs crossed at the knee as he leaned back against the windshield. As usual, he showed not a care in the world, despite the urgency of his words just a few minutes earlier.

  “And Cymru am byth, at that,” the little trickster god replied. “Aye, ’tis me given name, such as it were. But I’ve not used it nor been called by it in quite a spell.”<
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  “Why all the secrecy?” I asked.

  “Oh, I dunno. Perhaps it’s because we tricksters tend ta’ collect enemies like a Cardiff pub gathers drunken sailors. It goes wit’ the territory, ’an sometimes ’tis nice to take a break.”

  Realization dawned across my face. “You’re hiding from someone—and you tricked Maeve into helping you do it.”

  “From something, actually, if ye want to split hairs. But enough o’ that. Let’s talk about the task at hand, before the wee little nature goddess in yer backyard cuts herself loose o’ me magic.”

  I did a double-take. “Whoa, hold up. Jesse’s a nature goddess?”

  The youthful-looking mage nodded. “A baby one, fer sure. But she’ll grow in strength if ye don’t find a way ta’ rein her in.”

  “Any suggestions on how I might do that?”

  Click squinted and arched an eyebrow as he looked up to the sky. “Nuclear warhead? Naw, I’m jest messin’ with ya’, lad. Ye should talk ta the Dagda, or that crotchety old druid ye call yer mentor. Either one’ll have an insight or two ta share regarding how ta settle the lass down.”

  I cringed inwardly at the thought of explaining the whole thing to Finnegas, but I’d have to do it, and soon. Jesse grew ever more powerful—and ever more capricious—with each day. I simply couldn’t put the dreaded task off much longer.

  I waved his suggestion away with a flick of my hand. “I’ll take care of the situation before it gets out of hand, but right now I’m more concerned with preventing an undead apocalypse. Tell me the truth, Click. Everything I went through—is that really our future?”

  He propped himself upright with his hands as his carefree smile vanished. “The most likely future, I’d say. I try ta avoid walking the Twisted Paths, as it’s easy ta get lost, or ta go mad fussin’ o’er all the possible futures and outcomes. But I look from time ta time—curse of the chronomancer, ’tis—and that one kept coming up, over and over again.”