Battle for the Wastelands

by Matthew W Quinn

  Andrew raised an eyebrow. Clever. Any returning turncoats, if they didn’t hang for turning their coat, would hang for that.

  “It’s a right treat to watch,” Will continued. “With the harvest coming up, it’ll be the last fun for a spell. Everybody turns out. Maybe the trading folk will show up and we can swap out some of the loot.”

  Owen appeared behind Will. It was right fitting he’d show up. “Come on. The ones who’re going to get the blade are officers. They damn well deserve it.”

  Andrew tensed. The pikeys didn’t care about anyone outside of their clans, but Owen’d been nothing but friendly. Hell, he’d saved his life during the ambush. He shrugged. Owen was probably half-breed. Maybe he’d been brought up in the towns like anyone else and wouldn’t have their attitude.

  “All right. Let me put this back together first.”

  “Fine. But don’t dawdle.”

  The hot sun watched from the bright blue sky as Andrew, Will, and Owen approached the hundreds gathered around a large wooden platform. The crowds kept them back, but Andrew could see six poles standing at one end. Flesh-Eaters were bound to two. David waited there, but Hank was nowhere to be found.

  “Figures,” Will spat. “They made him do this too.”

  “I hope Hank’s at least getting some work done,” Andrew said. “Zeke’s going to make us do gaspers until we drop if someone’s rifle isn’t clean.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about him,” Owen said. He looked at David. “Did you clean your rifle?”

  David frowned. “Course I did. Did a damn good job, I reckon.”

  “Good.”

  Andrew took a gander at the day’s victims. One was tall and swarthy, the other shorter with blond hair. Both still had silver bars on their collars.

  “Lieutenants,” Will observed. “I thought we only bagged one the other day.” He shrugged. “Another one to kill’s fine with me.”

  Four men wearing black Flesh-Eater trousers, but not their red jackets, gathered at the other end. Armed Merrills surrounded them. In the center of the platform, flanked by soldiers carrying repeaters, stood Alonzo Merrill. His two long braids trailed behind his shoulder and out of sight.

  “Is everyone supposed to be here?” Andrew asked. “What if the Flesh-Eaters attack?”

  Will shook his head. “It’s not required. But most come anyway.”

  Andrew looked at the pair. The only officers he’d seen were cruel and vicious, men who collected tribute and conscripts. The image of the young Flesh-Eater soldier screaming for his mother as the huge gut wound slowly killed him rose into his mind. Andrew winced and quickly pushed the image away.

  “Don’t puss out on us now,” Will said. “These are officers, not some poor body dragged away to be cannon fodder.”

  “I know that!”

  “Quiet, both of you,” Owen ordered. “The Merrill’s going to speak.”

  “Soldiers of House Merrill,” the rebel chief began. “Thanks to your skill and valor, Lieutenants Marshall Pierce and Gabe MacDonald of the Flesh-Eating Legion have fallen into our hands!”

  Merrill listed their crimes. Pierce oversaw the killing of ten men in one town in reprisal for the death of a single Flesh-Eater. And MacDonald was even worse — he’d celebrated his platoon’s victory over a Merrill raid by building a bonfire of living prisoners. The audience booed. MacDonald — the blond-haired one — cursed back. Pierce remained silent.

  “As the Merrill, I sentence them to death.” The troopers on the platform escorted the Flesh-Eater rankers forward. Alonzo turned to face them. “These men made you into cannon fodder, forced you to commit crimes against your neighbors and against me. As your first act of service, kill them.”

  The troopers handed long blades to the former Flesh-Eaters. The four stepped forward, two eagerly and two less so. Those required prodding with bayonets.

  “Kill the bastards!” someone shouted from the crowd.

  “Cut them open!” added someone else.

  The two eager ones approached MacDonald. They raised their knives. Andrew smiled. Pay the sons of bitches back. One lunged and buried the knife in MacDonald’s gut. Andrew winced. Just like how the Flesh-Eater had stabbed Sam two weeks ago. He hoped MacDonald’s death’d be slower and worse.

  MacDonald’s eyes bulged but he kept his jaw tightly clenched. Fuck. I wish he’d scream. The captive kept his mouth shut as his attacker tore the knife free.

  The second ex-Flesh-Eater slashed MacDonald across the face. Blood spattered the turncoat’s white undershirt. MacDonald still did not scream. The first turncoat struck again, stabbing MacDonald’s face a second time before slashing him across the throat. Blood boiled from his ruined neck. MacDonald slumped forward, not even gurgling. The audience roared. Andrew thrust his fist into the air. One less Flesh-Eater soiling the world!

  Now the Merrill soldiers prodded the two reluctant Flesh-Eaters toward Pierce. What the hell is wrong with them? If they were rankers, their officers probably treated them like shit. Now they had a chance to kill the sons of bitches and they didn’t want to do it?

  The officer looked straight at them as they approached. His mouth moved, but Andrew couldn’t hear him. The prodding grew more aggressive.

  “Come on!” Andrew shouted. “Gut the son of a bitch!” He wasn’t alone in voicing his displeasure.

  Steel flashed in the afternoon sun as the first straggler slashed Pierce across the throat. Twin fountains of blood erupted. The second straggler watched until he received a firm jab from the troopers. He stabbed Pierce in the gut and flinched. Pierce slumped forward.

  The audience roared as the soldiers on the platform let the turncoats step back. Andrew shouted until his throat hurt. The cheering went on and on and someone even fired a shot in the air. Beside Andrew, David flapped his arms excitedly. Will and even Owen looked at him as though he’d escaped a sideshow. David glumly lowered his arms. Andrew remembered he’d done that more when they were children. People’d call him “bird.” It was rarely a compliment.

  The Merrill raised his hands. “Return to your duties. And know someday this will be done to Jasper Clark and Grendel himself!”

  The crowd gave one last cheer as he turned and departed.

  Andrew headed back toward where he’d been working on his rifle. As he entered the rows of tents, the jangling of bells pricked his ears. Through the gap between the rows came colorfully-dressed men on horseback, with heavily-laden bulls bringing up the rear.

  The pikeys had arrived, no doubt attracted by young men with Flesh-Eater loot burning holes in their pockets. And however they might try to cheat anybody outside their clans, they’d have a lot more to sell than the other troopers.

  Andrew followed the traders back toward the platform. Other soldiers peeled away from the disintegrating crowd as the traders halted in an empty spot. Owen was among them, which wasn’t a shock. Andrew reached into his pockets and counted the coins he’d taken from the Flesh-Eaters after the skirmish three days before. Four gold dollars and some smaller silver coins too. That might buy some extra jerky or perhaps a patch for when his boots started to thin.

  He spotted Owen palavering with a trader as he ambled closer. The trader wore a sneering expression. Owen looked pissed off.

  Andrew’s jaw clenched. Pikey or not, Owen had saved his life. He wasn’t going to let anyone, let alone some big-nosed pikey vagrant, treat the other man poorly.

  He strode toward the two. A right hook would wipe the sneer clean off the trader’s face good and proper.

  Another man appeared in Andrew’s way. He stood out among the drably-dressed Merrill soldiers like a peacock, his vest crimson edged with gold. The white shirt underneath was cleaner and finer-made than Andrew’s. A bright red belt held a dagger to his waist. He stank of the too-spicy food the pikeys loved. A smile crossed his broad face.

  “Money burning a hole in your pocket?” Andrew grit his teeth. Did this clownish-looking man know what he had planned? “You look like you haven�
�t been eating,” the pikey continued. “Need something to supplement your rations? I’ve got jerky and flour. I bet you could whip up something better than that awful hardtack.”

  Andrew’s stomach rumbled. Breakfast that morning was hardtack, some potato peelings Zeke said would keep scurvy away, and water. And there wasn’t lunch, not until harvest. Dinner wouldn’t be until dark. There wouldn’t be much.

  Andrew’s gaze drifted. Others had gotten between him and Owen. He couldn’t see either man now. “All right.” He could deal with the insolent trader later. “What you got?”

  “Bags of wheat flour for two gold dollars each. If you’re in the mood for bargains, cornmeal goes for a dollar a bag.”

  The trader pointed to the coarse fabric of the bags peeking out from the saddlebags of his horse. Andrew’s heart sank. When times were good, ten gold dollars bought a fifty pound sack of wheat flour. The man’s saddlebags didn’t look like they could hold that much.

  “How much flour per bag?”

  “One pound each.”

  Andrew’s eyes bulged. Right ridiculous!

  The trader rolled his eyes. “I said bag, kid, not sack.”

  “I’d like the cornmeal. How about two bags for a dollar?”

  The trader sighed. “We have to travel fifty miles straight into the desert to avoid the Flesh-Eaters before we turn west to get into the high plains. If the man-eaters catch us on the way in or out, we’re lucky if they just rob us. Do you want me to starve?”

  The trader reached into his saddlebag and pulled out a roll of paper.“I’ll throw this in so you’ll see how much of a boil on our ass it is to keep you people supplied. A bag of cornmeal for a gold dollar and you’re lucky we’ve got plenty of maps.”

  Andrew pursed his lips. That map could have been right useful when he’d fled Carroll Town. “All right. Four bags of cornmeal for four gold dollars.” He extended his hand. The trader shook it. When the man turned away, Andrew wiped his hand on his pants leg.

  It didn’t take long for the trader to bring his goods. “Here you go.” The man set the cornmeal on the ground, the map on top. “Knowing army rations, I’d say it’d last you about a month.”

  That’d be the case if Andrew kept all of it to himself, but he wouldn’t hoard his food while his tent-mates hungered. That was something pikeys would do. Andrew fished the coins from his pocket, coins that soon disappeared into the trader’s coat. There went most of the loot he’d gotten off the Flesh-Eater corpse. The cornmeal would supplement the scanty Merrill rations, but it wouldn’t last forever.

  Another soldier pushed past. Andrew picked up his goods and stepped out of the way. The crowd had thinned but both Owen and the sneering man were gone. His frown deepened. The bastard had been rude to one of his friends. Letting him get away with it just wasn’t right.

  Holding the cornmeal bags as best he could, he unrolled the map. His eyes widened.

  The map didn’t cover just the towns along the desert rim and the high plains. It included much of the desert, cities to the north he’d heard about but never seen, and an ocean in the west. An arrow marked “Everett” pointed out to sea. It even included a city south of the Iron Desert.

  Andrew didn’t know there were cities below the desert. Hell, he didn’t even know there was anything there. He’d thought the desert rolled on and on to the end of the world, a dead land inhabited only by the ghosts of those who’d died there.

  Will’s face appeared over the map. “So, what’d you buy?” Andrew pointed at the sacks of flour. “Good call. You intending to share?” Andrew nodded. “Good.”

  Will cocked his head as he examined the map.“Hope you didn’t waste any coin on that. There’re plenty of maps around the camp, and you can’t eat the damn things.”

  “How about we not judge too fast?” a feminine voice interrupted. Both Andrew and Will jerked to attention. Was that the horsewoman he’d seen during the ambush?

  He turned to see the woman with hair the color of honey approach. She dressed like a man and walked slightly bowlegged like a cowboy, but she stood out from the men like a flower in a mud puddle. And based on some of the looks she was getting, it wasn’t just him thinking that.

  Remember Cassie.

  She walked up to Andrew. She stood far closer than any stranger would. He could feel her warmth even though she wasn’t touching him. “Care to let me take a gander?”

  Not really noticing what he was doing, Andrew pushed the map forward. She took it from him, her hands sliding across his. She swept it with her eyes and whistled appreciatively.

  “You got yourself a good one here. Not just the fringes of the desert and our old country, but down into the desert and the lands beyond.”

  “Have you…ever been there? Beyond the desert?” A moment passed. Andrew felt like an idiot for even asking, but she did seem casual about the “lands beyond.”

  She shook her head. “Nope. Some of the trading clans around here have traded with other trading clans deeper in the desert who have, but most of that’s done out west. I’ve heard of ships from the south too, but I don’t know much.” She returned the map. Their hands touched again. Andrew’s heart raced.

  “I’m Alyssa, by the way. Alyssa Carson.”

  Andrew tensed. The Carsons. It hadn’t been long since the Carsons had attacked Carroll Town. If she learned who he was, she might not be so nice. Andrew wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. On the other hand, she was comely, and friendly to boot.

  “I’m Andrew.” They had the same enemy now. “Andrew Sutter.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Maxwell’s son?”

  He was afraid she’d ask. Of course, if she didn’t cotton to him because of that, maybe she wouldn’t come around and he wouldn’t be tempted…

  “I suppose so,” she continued. “Right clever move your pa did. Taught us not to mess with Carroll Town.”

  “Th…thanks.”

  Alyssa smiled. “Course, we’re all on the same side now.”

  Andrew nodded quickly. “Yeah.”

  “By the way, you boys did good back there with the mortars.”

  Will finally found his voice. “Thanks.”

  “Well,” she said. “Gotta run now.” She looked at Andrew. “Be seeing ya.” She slid back into the crowd with a wink. Andrew’s gaze followed until he couldn’t see her anymore.

  “Wow,” Will said. “Wow.”

  Andrew shared the sentiment. It wasn’t often pretty girls came out of nowhere that were interested in him. Or at least that’s what it seemed like. It was all well and good for a man to pursue a woman, but for a woman to pursue a man? He wasn’t sure if he should be glad or complain about it being improper.

  Behind Andrew, the trader laughed. Irritation flared. Eavesdropping pikey bastard. “Pretty lady likes maps,” the man said. “Anybody else want one?”

  “I sure do!” one soldier shouted. He rushed past Andrew.

  Andrew almost laughed. Copycat.

  Then his scalp prickled. Cassie might still be alive. He hoped she wasn’t spreading her legs for some Flesh-Eater — willingly at least. He owed her the same courtesy.

  He shook his head. He had to get off this horse lest it carry him somewhere he didn’t want to go. He walked away from the trader and Will, passing a group of officers carrying bundles of red and black fabric. The sight stopped him dead. His gaze followed the officers as they disappeared into the crowd.

  They were selling Flesh-Eater uniforms?

  He found Owen beneath the tarp, cleaning his own rifle.

  “I saw you with one of the traders earlier. What the hell’s going on?”

  Owen sighed. “That piece of shit thought I’d joined the Merrills even after most of our Houses — the great families of my people – knelt to the Flesh-Eaters. The heads of the Houses disowned the ones who did, to protect themselves. The ones who left get called ‘cast-out.’ They don’t have a House to protect them, and we’re too dependent on the ones trading with us on the sly to make
a stink. When he found out I was from House Gollmar, it got worse.”

  “Why?”

  “My pa was part of House Gollmar, but Ma was a flatlander from Pendleton. Most of the Houses would cast out anybody marrying an outsider, but my grandfather thought it a good idea to have ties with the towns.”

  That would explain the smaller nose. But he’d been brought up among the trading folk, not in some town they’d visited. Andrew’s scalp prickled. Perhaps the Gollmars weren’t so bad.

  But the ones who’d joined the Merrills came from other clans too. He paused. He could ruminate on that later.

  “And the other Houses didn’t approve?”

  “That’s part of it. The real issue is they’re ashamed.” Andrew didn’t expect that. “We stood by the Merrills even after Grendel killed James Merrill at Fairmont. Most of the Houses switched sides or at least went neutral.” Pride entered his voice. “Grandpa kept his word. We beat the war drums all night for Alonzo and sent the Flesh-Eater emissary who demanded tribute and submission back with his boots shoved down his throat. We kept his scalp.”

  Andrew laughed at House Gollmar’s sheer balls. Owen scowled. “Two hundred Gollmar soldiers and maybe one hundred shootists who didn’t run away against a whole army of Flesh-Eaters. It was insane, but what’s the point of making a promise you don’t keep? The other Houses didn’t have the guts.” He frowned. “Who knows if it would have made a difference?”

  Andrew’s eyes widened. That definitely didn’t seem like something a pikey would say. “What happened?”

  Owen’s scowl deepened. “What do you think? We raided the forces besieging Pendleton and got our asses whupped. We killed a lot of the bastards, but they outnumbered us and had some damn big guns — not just mortars, but the kind that fire from so far away you can’t see them. Howitzers.” He sighed. “The Flesh-Eater commander thought himself funny. He gathered up all the bodies and made jerky. He sold them around and called them ‘Gollmar bars.’”

  Andrew didn’t laugh. “How’d you survive?”

  Owen closed his eyes. “When it was obvious we were losing, Grandpa led an attack on the enemy command post to distract the bastards and sent the women and kids away. I was one of the youngest bearing arms. They put me of all people in charge on account of everyone else being needed for the attack.”