Battle for the Wastelands

by Matthew W Quinn

  The two erupted from the back door, firing together. One Flesh-Eater went down. The others retreated around the corner.

  “Eudora, now!” Andrew shouted.

  Eudora followed, but didn’t join them. Instead, she spun and fired. “There’re more!”

  “I’ll handle them!” Andrew pointed back down the alley, toward the square. “See if the way’s clear!”

  Eudora scampered down the steps. As soon as she was out of the way, Andrew fired twice into the boardinghouse’s smoky interior. Someone screamed.

  Gunfire roared beside him. Eudora and Sam traded bullets with the Flesh-Eaters around the corner. Smoke stinking of sulfur began filling the narrow space between the boardinghouse and the building behind it.

  A Flesh-Eater rifle cracked. A bullet caught Sam in his already-wounded leg. He screamed and fell to one knee. Luckily, he didn’t lose his rifle.

  Eudora screamed and fired back at the Flesh-Eater, a boy who looked younger than Andrew. The bullet caught him in the stomach and knocked him down. “Ma!” he cried out amid a growing pool of blood. “Help me, Ma!” Tears streamed down his face. His writhing formed corn-kernels of blood and dirt.

  Andrew gagged. Gut wounds killed slowly. It would be a kindness to blow out his brains. He raised his rifle, but his hands trembled too much to fire. Just how hard was it to shoot a damn Flesh-Eater?

  A short, swarthy Flesh-Eater emerged from the boardinghouse. He aimed at Sam. Andrew snapped his rifle sideways. His bullet caught the Flesh-Eater in the shoulder. The man’s comrades pulled him out of sight.

  “Cover me!” Andrew called to Eudora. He grabbed the screaming Sam under his arms and dragged him back. A trail of blood lay on the dirt behind them. Andrew hoped the smoke from the gunfire would conceal them.

  A Flesh-Eater leaned out from around the corner. With his rifle in the crook of his arm, Andrew couldn’t immediately shoot him.

  “Eudora!”

  She turned. Andrew let go of Sam and scrabbled for his weapon. Sam struggled to raise his own rifle. Before either could fire, the Flesh-Eater shot Eudora in the head. Her ruined skull struck the second step and bounced like a toy ball.

  “No!” Sam screamed. Shouting incoherently, he fired over and over. The Flesh-Eater fell, hit three times in the chest. Sam kept shooting anyway.

  “Sam!” Andrew shouted. Sam fired again. “Damn it, he’s dead!”

  Two more Flesh-Eaters leaped out from around the corner. Sam’s enraged firing caught one in the thigh. The wounded man staggered out of sight. The second man, however, targeted Sam. His bullet took some hair and part of his ear.

  Andrew cut him down before he could fire again. No more Flesh-Eaters appeared. Joy rose in Andrew’s chest. They’d killed all the bastards!

  Then his gaze drifted over to Eudora’s corpse and the smoky boardinghouse beyond. The momentary victory came at a price, and there were many, many more enemies out there. Time to skedaddle…

  Holding the rifle in one hand, Andrew grabbed Sam and dragged him down the path winding behind another building. The wound on his friend’s leg still bled. The blood on the path would lead the Flesh-Eaters straight to them.

  Andrew reached up and tore part of his bloody white shirt away. Then another. He jammed the first piece into the furrow the Flesh-Eater bullet carved in Sam’s leg, slowing the bleeding for a moment.

  Sam screamed. “Don’t touch me!”

  Andrew threw the second strip of cloth at him. “Tie this around!”

  Sam gingerly went to work. Andrew had his rifle ready just as a fanatic burst laughing around the corner. Andrew pulled the trigger. The Flesh-Eater fell. Andrew returned his rifle to crook of his arm and resumed dragging Sam. Luckily, his friend had the wound covered and left little blood behind.

  After passing behind another building, Andrew stopped. He raised his rifle and looked down the sights toward the way they’d come.

  No more Flesh-Eaters appeared. They checked their ammunition. Andrew had only two rounds left.

  “How many rounds you got left?”

  “Three in the tube.” Sam searched his pockets. “Got a box, but they’re rattling around in there.”

  Andrew fished in the pockets of his coat. “Got a box too, but it’s running light.”

  “What do we do?”

  Andrew looked back once again. No new enemies came. “Hide.” A savage anger rose in his chest. “Get ammo off the dead ones. And uniforms too. We’ll look for officers.” The Flesh-Eater leadership deserved to pay far more than their conscripts.

  “This means we don’t get out of here,” Sam murmured.

  Andrew gestured around them. “The Flesh-Eaters control everything to the north, east, and west. South’s the desert. There ain’t nowhere to get to.”

  Slowly, Sam nodded.

  The Judgment of Carroll Town

  Thirty terrified, dirty townsfolk, mostly women and children, huddled in the town square awaiting their doom. The Obsidian Guard hemmed the captives in, bayonets glittering on their repeaters’ muzzles. Flesh-Eaters went from building to building within the cordon, dragging out those hiding within. Clark and his ripper looked on approvingly.

  Grendel watched from among the Obsidian Guard gathered in the mooring tower’s merciful shade as Fort Vallero’s tall, skinny commander stepped forward between two kneeling men who must have been prisoners taken on the hills. The major swept the crowd with an angry gaze before speaking.

  “You are accused of many crimes,” the officer drawled. “You murdered officials lawfully discharging their duties, then your mayor falsely claimed wrong, all while the rest of you prepared insurrection. Rather than throw yourselves on our mercy, you made war. You killed many troopers, some of whom were your neighbors. I reckon the Merrills helped.” He snorted. “But just enough to get you whupped.”

  The captives trembled. Grendel smiled. Now the boiled pork is fried.

  The commander eyed the survivors. His attentions alighted for a moment too long on a girl not much older than Grendel’s daughter Astrid. Grendel frowned. The man continued sweeping the crowd with his hard gaze.

  “You know the penalty of disobedience.” The commander pointed to one of the few young men in the crowd. “You. Your legs will carry you back to Fort Vallero. If you don’t pass muster to work in the cotton fields or the coal mines, your blood will feed the Howling God and your flesh will feed the conscripts.”

  Ignoring the man’s frightened expression, he pointed at another young man, whose hands clamped around a weeping wound in his middle. “You probably won’t make it to the fort alive. We’ll kill you here.” He pointed to the first man. “He’ll carry your carcass and get the first bite.”

  His gaze fell on the women. He smiled, an expression even Grendel found disturbing. “Some of you have skills. Those that don’t…” He let his voice trail off, implication obvious.

  Then his gaze fell on a little boy sitting all alone. The hard look in his eyes softened for a moment. “He’s young enough. He’ll make a fine soldier someday.”

  His gaze swept over the crowd again. “This will be your fate unless you earn mercy. During the battle, one of you used an Old World grenade, killing several of my zealots. Having these weapons means death.” He paused. “Tell me where it came from. Other than that dead meat over there, you all will be sent into the mountains to mine, but you’ll at least be alive.” He looked up at the mooring tower. “Carroll Town’s a good location for an airbase. We’ll need to repaint this damn tower.” He spat at the concrete piling holding it up.

  Grendel stepped between the Flesh-Eater officer and Clark, emerging from the tower’s shadow like some monster from the deep ocean. He glowered at the captives, hoping his appearance might loosen some tongues. He wore the battle kit he had not worn since the Merrills fell — black armor and a helmet forged from the skull of the saber-cat he had killed long ago. The durable Old World repeater with its curving magazine hung looped from his shoulder. His axe, whose handle included
the spine of Ejnar Irontooth, clung to his back.

  “I am Grendel.” The crowd shuddered at his name. Good to know my reputation precedes me. “Listen to him.” He stepped back among the guardsmen, his point made.

  Still none spoke. The officer shook his head and turned to the other Flesh-Eaters, a grin splitting his face.

  “Wait!” a female voice shouted. Grendel raised an eyebrow. A young woman emerged from the crowd. Her eyes were green and her hair was the color of straw. He leaned forward. This one was dirtier and skinnier than he preferred, but she was easy on the eyes and still had all her teeth. And she was more spirited than the others.

  “Where did the Old World grenade come from?” the Flesh-Eater officer demanded. His smile became a leer.

  “I don’t know,” she protested, her accent more clipped than the Flesh-Eaters. “None of us knew anything about Old World weapons!”

  The officer scowled. “There was an Old World weapon here! Maybe you didn’t know anything about it, sweetheart, but one was used.”

  The woman scowled and drew herself up taller. “That’s Sarah to you. And how hard do you reckon it is to hide anything from anybody in a town like this?” She paused. “And we tried to find the Merrills and couldn’t.” She glared. “Maybe if they’d come, you wouldn’t be here.”

  The officer’s scowl deepened. Grendel allowed himself a chuckle. He could claim any captive he wished. This one had spirit. Knowing Jessamine Keith, the dark-haired concubine and former citadel telegraph girl traveling with him, she might welcome the prospect of sharing his bed on the way home. She was a strong woman. She would bear him strong children, so the bloodline that nearly went extinct when Ejnar Irontooth fell on his family’s hall forty years ago would survive.

  He shook his head. If he had too many concubines, he would not be able to devote the proper attention to each. They would seek affairs with his guards, try to pass off their bastards as his. He was not interested in that, not at all.

  You do not know just how unlucky you are, girl.

  The officer did not respond, instead turning his attention to the wider crowd. “Perhaps an object lesson will loosen some tongues.” He turned to a pair of soldiers flanking a shirtless man with a black bag over his head. “Bring the prisoner forward.”

  They dragged the man forward. Blood from hamstrung thighs trickled from beneath his ragged pants to stain the ground. They tore the bag away, revealing a bloodied man with unfocused eyes.

  “This is your mayor. If you do not tell us the truth, we will butcher him in front of you!”

  A dark-haired girl cried out amidst the crowd. She rushed forward, only for the other women to pull her back.

  Clark stepped forward to stand beside his officer. “I once butchered hogs for friends of the goddamn Merrills who thought they were better than me. Now I butcher men.”

  Grendel would have left the task to a subordinate, but this was Clark’s business. He would see how the townsfolk reacted.

  “Hold him still,” Clark growled to the two soldiers. “Chicken breasts are good. Man breast is better.”

  He drew a long knife from his belt and went to work. The mayor screamed and thrashed as Clark cut into his chest. A sharp cuff to the side of the head stilled him. Blood poured down his chest to soak his pants and feed the ground.

  Clark tore away the pectoral muscle and held it above his head. His soldiers shouted and cheered. Grendel kept his disgust away from his face. Even at his most desperate, hiding in the bog from those who had murdered his kin, he had never resorted to cannibalism.

  A young man near the edge of the captive crowd trembled, face red with fury. Grendel frowned. That one could be trouble, but nobody seemed to notice.

  Clark sliced apart the muscle in his hand, the knife no doubt biting his palm with every cut. He turned to the Flesh-Eaters behind him. “See how your master favors you!” He threw chunks of the raw meat to the soldiers. Still keeping hold of their rifles, they snatched the flying flesh from the air. Some stuffed it still-dripping in their mouths. Others pocketed it for later.

  The angry prisoner lunged for Clark. Though his hands were bound, the blow nearly toppled the Flesh-Eater overlord. Clark recovered quickly as the prisoner tumbled forward onto the ground. Flesh-Eater guns snapped up, but Clark waved them down.

  “You’ve got more spirit than the rest of these dogs here.” He stepped over to the prisoner as he wormed on the ground and cut his bonds. The man glared at the Flesh-Eater chief. “What’s your name?”

  The prisoner spat on the ground. “Taylor Welborn.”

  Clark grinned.“I like you. I’ll cut you a deal. If you can beat me, I’ll spare this one’s life.” He looked at the bleeding mayor. “Assuming he doesn’t die first.”

  “If I beat you,” Taylor growled. “I’ll kill you.”

  Clark shrugged. “We’ll see.” He threw the boy one of his knives. “You can keep this if you win.”

  Grendel rolled his eyes. Such bravado. He would have immediately killed any man who dared attack him. He was not in so weak a position he had to prove his mettle at every opportunity.

  Taylor rose to his feet, knife in hand. Clark did not draw any of the other knives in his belt, clearly choosing to face an armed opponent bare-handed. Grendel nearly snorted.

  With a shout, Taylor charged. Clark stepped aside, letting his opponent rush past. He kicked the boy in the rump before he got too far. He tumbled to the ground. The Flesh-Eaters and even some Obsidian Guard laughed.

  Taylor rose, murder in his eyes. Blood trickled from his wrist where the blade must have bitten him as he fell. This time he approached slowly, holding the knife like he knew how to use it. Grendel raised an eyebrow. He did not recruit flatlanders into the Obsidian Guard, but he was momentarily tempted to make an exception.

  Taylor lunged again. Clark stepped aside once more, but Taylor turned to match his movement. The blade flashed. Clark shouted. Blood flew. One Flesh-Eater raised his rifle, but Clark waved him to a stop. The cannibal overlord wiped blood away from his split cheek and held his wet hand high.

  “Blood for you!” he shouted at the sky.

  Taylor lunged again while Clark made his invocation. Clark’s huge fist snapped forward, striking him in the throat. He fell to his knees gagging. A swift kick followed. Bone cracked. Taylor’s head rolled at an unnatural angle.

  “A pity,” Clark shouted to the townsfolk. “He would have made a fine Flesh-Eater.” He laughed. “In a way he will. We’ll feed him to our most promising men so they will have his spirit.” He stepped over to the fallen mayor and kicked him. The man did not move. Clark looked at the townsfolk. “Your mayor’s dead. Anyone want to spill their guts? Last chance.”

  The dark-haired girl erupted from the crowd, shaking off the restraining hands of other women. She glared at Clark, enraged eyes bulging in a tear-stained face. “You dirty murderer!” she cried.

  Ignoring her, Clark turned to his men. A grin sprawled across his face. “They belong to you now!”

  The Flesh-Eaters fell on the captives like rippers. The townsfolk screamed as the soldiers separated the hale from the injured and the women from the men. The wounded man batted with bloodied hands at one Flesh-Eater and got his throat slashed for his pains. The Obsidian Guard remained behind, weapons ready in case of trouble.

  “Take anyone you don’t want over there,” Clark ordered, pointing toward a barber’s shop. “Make an offering of their blood.”

  Grendel nearly smiled. The Flesh-Eaters played right into his hands. Havarth would someday claim the Merrill inheritance. Clark would trumpet his suppression of the Carroll Town revolt far and wide hoping to cow his subjects, not knowing he sowed the seeds of his own doom.

  Wearing Flesh-Eater uniforms already stiffening with blood, Andrew and Sam made their way toward the square. Andrew led, rifle up, while Sam limped behind. He’d since stopped bleeding, but the leg wounds slowed him considerably.

  As they drew near, a Flesh-Eater sergeant’
s gaze fell on them. Andrew tensed. Hopefully they were far enough away he wouldn’t see bullet holes or the lack of filed teeth.

  “You two lost?” the sergeant shouted. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “We were fighting the holdouts near the boardinghouse.” Nerves sped Andrew’s tongue. He gestured to Sam. “He got hurt. Had to patch him up a bit.”

  The sergeant didn’t seem to notice anything abnormal. “Did you get them? Bastards killed good men.”

  “Yes, sergeant,” Sam said. Andrew forced himself not to look incredulously at Sam. “We got them.”

  The sergeant nodded. “Good.” He pointed toward the gap between two buildings to Andrew’s right. “The bossman and his bossman are in the square dividing up the survivors. Git.”

  “Yes, sergeant.”

  “The bossman and his bossman?” Sam whispered once they were away from the sergeant. “Who do they mean?”

  Andrew pondered that. Fort Vallero had a commander — a right pervert, based on how his man talked about Lily. Perhaps the man in charge of the bastard had come along to oversee the judgment of Carroll Town? “Flesh-Eater bigwigs no doubt.”

  A faint smile crossed his face. Flesh-Eater bigwigs. Just the kind who deserved to die.

  They approached the alley. The first thing they heard was a cruel shout from the square.

  “Take anyone you don’t want over there. Make an offering of their blood.”

  Screams erupted from the square. Andrew’s heart jumped into his throat. He quickened his pace, almost jogging. Only the need to avoid revealing himself to the Flesh-Eaters slowed him. Sam staggered after, every step bringing grimaces and hisses of pain.

  “Please!” Andrew’s mother shouted above the din. “Stop! We can’t hurt you! We have skills! We can —”

  Then she screamed. Her cry lasted for a terrible second before fading back into the chorus of terror erupting from the square.

  Andrew nearly screamed but quickly bit his tongue. What came out resembled a groan he hoped the sergeant couldn’t hear. He rushed toward the gap between the two buildings, Sam barely keeping up. They were in such a hurry they nearly collided with a Flesh-Eater.