King of the Wasteland: Follow-up to Knight of the Wasteland Read online

  Copper-green pools spread across the sky as the first light of dawn shatters the darkness. A crowd of men and women surges around the gate as a shack burns to their right. Abel grabs a bucket and runs to the water tower, his body tingling with the rush of adrenaline. David picks up a second bucket, a restless line forming behind them as they work the water pump, filling the buckets to their brims.

  Abel leads the way with a brisk half-jog, his feet slipping on mud as he keeps the water from spilling over the sides. Reaching the burning shack, they throw the water onto the flames with little effect.

  Other people shove past, throwing water at the blaze. Abel curses and runs back to the pump, repeating the process several times as fights continue near the entrance.

  Abel ducks as a spear flies past his ear. He locks eyes with one of the king’s men. Without thinking, he charges forward, swinging the bucket in an upward arc, striking the man on the jaw. Mounting the man, he pours the remaining water onto his face, tossing the bucket aside before beating down on him with fists, shouting and cursing, eyes watering from the smoke.

  “Leave it,” David snaps, dragging Abel away as the man lies sobbing and bleeding from his mouth. “Get him out.”

  Taking a breath, Abel looks down at the man and sighs. “Help me,” he says, nodding towards the gate. “Let’s get him out of here.”

  Abel and David lift the man by the shoulders and knees, his flailing limbs weak and useless. Passing a group of Trinity’s residents clustered around the open gate, they drop the man next to the nearest trench.

  Residents cheer as Abel steps back inside, the gate closing behind him. The bells continue to ring and he turns his attention back to the burning shack. “Get buckets. Get bowls. Get anything. We don’t want this fire spreading.”

  He returns to his bucket, now dented and spattered with blood, hands trembling, breath heavy, and joins the queue to the water pump.

  Filling up another bucket, he follows the stream of men and women to the fire, throwing its contents over the blaze. He covers his face when the water hisses and flames expire, giving off a cloud of thick white smoke.

  Wiping his brow, he catches his breath. “I think it’s out,” he says, coughing.

  “You think they’re gone?” David asks.

  “I hope so, kid. I hope so.”

  ABEL CHEWS IDLY ON a chunk of stale bread as he watches the trail towards the highway, leaning with his back against the fence. The crucifix’s shadow stretches ahead. Wind catches dead ash in the trench at his feet, shifting it around in shuddering swirls. He looks past the barricades and barrels, his eyes fixing on the dead horse’s body, and sighs.

  “I’m going back up,” Sis says, gesturing to the cross.

  “You didn’t need to kill that horse,” Abel says.

  Sis scowls and follows Abel’s gaze along the trail. “Didn’t kill people. Did what I said.”

  “Still...” Abel’s voice trails off.

  “If I didn’t, they’d be in there,” Sis says, gesturing to the gate. “Don’t say I shouldn’t.” She heaves herself up the crucifix. When she reaches the crossbeam, she takes her rifle from her shoulders and sweeps the sight along the trail. She points her rifle down and rummages in her pockets for some bullets, taking them out one-by-one and holding them up to the light.

  “Any movement?”

  “They behind big road. Can’t tell.”

  The fence rumbles open. A few men with spears file past. Sal follows with a water bottle under her arm. “I brought you a drink,” she says, unscrewing the cap.

  “Thanks, Sal.” Abel takes a swig and wipes his mouth. “Sis,” he calls, holding the bottle up.

  “Your friend has been very helpful around the kitchens. He’s very smart — I think he has a lot of potential.”

  “Yep, he’s a good kid. He’s been through a lot, but he’s come through the other side.”

  “Sounds like someone else I know.”

  Sis drops down to the ground, takes the bottle, and gulps down several mouthfuls.

  “You did very good work last night,” Sal says, smiling at Sis. “We’re very lucky to have you helping us.”

  “Abel said I shouldn’t have killed horse.”

  Sal looks between them and sighs. “You saved many lives. Their spirits were broken, and they had no choice but to run. After this morning, I’m sure they’ll move on.”

  “They’re camping just past the highway,” Abel says. “This place is too good to let go.”

  Sal makes a grim smile and nods along the road. “They’ve found it.”

  “What?” Abel asks, confused.

  “One of our people died last night. I’ve sent them to recover the body so we can find out who it is and give them a proper burial.”

  Three men haul the woman’s limp body onto their shoulders and trudge back towards the gate. Tears streak their grimy faces. Abel dips his head respectfully as they pass.

  Sal touches Abel’s elbow and offers another smile. “Thank you for helping us.”

  Abel gives a half-shrug, turning to the road. “You do what you need to. We’ll keep an eye on stuff here.” He nods towards Sis as she scales back up the cross. “You should get some of your people to take that horse in. There’s a lot of meat there.”

  “I will.” Sal brushes her dreadlocks back from her face, hugs Abel, and then goes inside, closing the fence behind her.

  ABEL TUCKS IN HIS ELBOWS as the residents shuffle aside for Sal as she makes her way towards the altar.

  An untreated pine coffin rests on a table at the front of the church, a single beeswax candle burning on its lid. Herby incense does little to block out the smell of damp clothes and scorched wood.

  Sal places a hand on the coffin and frowns. She taps her fingers on its lid, brushing a rusted hinge, and shakes her head. “Our community is a darker place today,” she says in a low, sombre tone. “We all knew Mary — a sister, a mother, a friend. She was skilled with wood. Indeed, the table her coffin rests on was made by her own hands...” Sal swallows, her voice cracking. “In these end days, it is easy to lose hope. It is easy to curse God’s name and wish to die. But what Mary has shown us with her great sacrifice is that even when all is lost, there are still things worth fighting for, still things worth defending.”

  She shakes her head and sighs. “I am not going to give you false hope — we are at a crossroads. As we gather here, raiders have designs on taking our community for their own. Mary did not die so our community can be taken over by thugs. We have worked too long and hard for this to happen.” She sweeps her gaze across the residents’ faces, raising her chin. “We will not let Mary die in vain. We will not lose our community. We will defend what is ours by any means.”

  “What do you mean by ‘any’?” a woman on the front row asks.

  “We have lived under a set of laws laid down by God. And these laws are not open to interpretation. ‘Thou shall not kill’ is a cornerstone of our community — if we lose that, then we have no right to call ourselves Christians. All I’m saying is, you can live through a lot.”

  Abel shifts uncomfortably as whispers and murmurs spread across the congregation.

  “So you’re saying we go after them with an intent to cause harm? What happened to turning the other cheek?”

  Sal raises her hands. “Our commandments are our commandments. There is no turning the other cheek against raiders wishing to destroy our homes and lay waste to our lives. I am not advocating hunting them down like wild dogs, I am saying that we need to be prepared to defend ourselves against this menace. Some of you will know our trader friend, Abel.” Sal signals towards him. “Only this morning, he fought a raider and ejected him from within our walls. The raider was left beaten and bloody, but Abel did not kill — he protected more of our homes from being razed.”

  Sal dips her head and clasps her hands together. “Let us pray,” she says, lowering her voice. “Dear Lord, we pray that you will accept your servant Mary at your side in Heaven, that
you will cleanse her soul of all sin and bless her with eternal life.”

  “What’s she on about?” Sis whispers, looking up at Abel.

  “Just God stuff. It gives them hope.”

  “I’m bored.” Sis looks around. “And I’m hungry.” She goes to the door and leaves.

  SIS HANDLES THE SPOON with awkward, fumbling fingers, chunks of stringy brown meat dropping back into her bowl.

  “Don’t rush it,” Abel says across the table. “Not often you get meat like this.” He pushes his tongue around his mouth, frowning at the unfamiliar taste. He looks over at Sal as she wanders around the tables, leaning in to talk to the residents, nodding with a forced smile.

  “Not used to eating like this,” Sis says, dropping the spoon and reaching out for a slice of bread. She folds it in half and uses it to scoop up the meat, letting the stew soak in before ramming it into her mouth. Chewing, she gives David a defiant look, her cheeks round and filled with food.

  David nudges Abel’s side, sniggering. “She’s put too much in.”

  Sis leans over her bowl and spits, letting a half-chewed chunk of meat roll from her tongue and into the stew. Swallowing the bread, she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “Ate too much,” she says, grinning.

  “You should eat it though,” Abel says. “It will do you good. Get some meat on those arms.”

  Sis looks down at her bony wrists and nods. “Okay.” She prods the meat with her finger. “What is it?”

  “It’s beef,” says David.

  “What’s a beef?”

  “Cow.”

  Sis nods and raises her fingers to her temples. “Oooorm,” she says.

  “Moo’s better.”

  Abel shakes his head, smiling as he inspects the meat. “This is horse, kid.”

  “Sis’s horse?”

  “Yep.”

  David turns to Sis. “Good food for everyone.” He offers Abel a sly grin.

  “Yeah, yeah.” Abel waves him away. “You’re right. We all got to eat a good meal.”

  “This is why we should have let Sis take out that king guy. We wouldn’t be worrying. He’d already be dead.”

  Frowning, Abel reaches for his cup and takes a sip of water. He examines the scores of faces — the tense expressions, the hushed words. He places his cup down and gets to his feet. “I’m going to get some air,” he mutters.

  10. The Bullet

  The box truck glows in the moonlight, its front wheels dipping off the highway’s edge. A pair of guards lean against its side, one of them laughing while the other checks his rifle.

  Abel crawls prone, his head dipped and legs flat against the dirt as he reaches the asphalt. Fires burn in trenches behind him while Trinity’s residents keep sentry along the trail.

  Across the highway, twists of white smoke mark the king’s camp. Taking a deep breath, he rises to a crouch and crabs his way towards the highway’s central barrier. He exhales and scans through the trees, stopping when he spots the king’s tent.

  He takes out his pistol and checks the bullet, turning it in his hand before slipping it back inside the cylinder. Dark clouds cast shadows across the moon, ghostly swirls of powdery black.

  Pistol in hand, he vaults the barrier and looks over the truck. He waits for several moments for a guard to move out of view, then runs across the three lanes of concrete, his head low and knees bent.

  The damp ground sags beneath his boots when he drops from the highway. Towering trees whisper around him, their dying leaves clinging to branches on thin, brittle stems. Twigs shatter under his boots as he clambers down the embankment, one hand held behind him for balance.

  Tents and bonfires emerge through the trees. People walk around, no more than shadows in the night. Abel presses against a twisted trunk and watches the camp below, pulling his eyes away when they’re drawn towards the flames.

  The king’s tent stands centre, its red and white stripes reaching up to a point, colours dulled to greys. A bulky man emerges from inside the tent, looking around before speaking to the man with slicked-back hair.

  Abel slumps down, resting his head against the tree as he watches for a long time. After several hours, the fires dim, and many sleep in shelters and beneath blankets. He gets up, brushes himself down with his hands, and works through the trees, towards the camp.

  Heart pounding, he starts at the snort of a man’s snoring and bolts behind a tree, holding himself against the trunk until his breathing slows. Moving forward again and keeping in shadows, he creeps past a man and woman curled up together on a bedroll and finds himself behind the king’s tent.

  Reaching into his jacket, he takes out his hunting knife and drives it into the canvas and pulls it downwards, dragging it through a red stripe. He cringes at the tearing sound and waits. Nothing happens, so he leans inside.

  Abel can just make out the king’s shape beneath a mound of blankets. He stands over the king and looks around. They are alone.

  The king stirs, mumbles something, and then stares up, wide-eyed, as Abel pulls his pistol.

  “Don’t you dare call out.”

  Swallowing, the king nods and holds out his hands in a helpless gesture. “What do you want?”

  “I need you and your people to move on.”

  “And leave that settlement?” The king smirks.

  “You need to leave Trinity alone.”

  The king nods to himself. “I’d have to change that.”

  Abel flexes his fingers, gripping the pistol’s handle as sweat seeps from his palms. “Change what?”

  “That name,” the king says, brushing something from his shoulder and getting to his feet, wobbling over his left leg.

  “Stay where you are,” Abel growls. “It’s over.”

  The flicker of a smile passes across the king’s face and he limps a few steps forward. “You are as bad as the other raiders in this disgusting place. When the lawless zone is under my rule, I will crush people like you and your precious Trinity like the worthless bugs you are.”

  “They’re good people, damn it.”

  The king shrugs. “We’re good people. We are bringing order to a world in chaos. What could be more virtuous?”

  Abel licks his lips and narrows his eyes. “You’re killers.”

  Examining his fingernails, the king sighs. “We execute those who stand in the way of progress. It is natural and necessary. I’ve seen the addicts, the pushers, the slavers — we are putting an end to that.”

  Abel lets out a bitter laugh. “Is that why you kidnapped those women? Very virtuous.”

  “Those spawn of sin and incest?” The king gives an indignant, pitying look. “Those women were victims, forced to interbreed with their father and brothers. We saved them.”

  There’s a long silence and Abel looks down at his trembling hand.

  “See,” the king says, grinning. “We’re working for the good of everyone. Can’t you see that?”

  The pistol shifts in Abel’s hand.

  “You’re hesitating. That means you have the capacity to think, the capacity to comprehend my vision.”

  “No. If you care so much, then move on. Leave Trinity alone.”

  The king snorts and lets out a mirthless chuckle. “That is not up for negotiation. I need that settlement. I sent an envoy with a fair offer, and he was unceremoniously ejected. And if that wasn’t bad enough, when I tried to speak to them in person, one of their thugs shot Binky. We are beyond the point of negotiation. They can only resist for so long.”

  Abel closes his eyes for a short moment. He pulls his pistol’s trigger and opens his eyes at the high metallic click. He pulls the trigger again, and again, and again. He looks down, mouth gaping.

  “And you call us killers?” The king shakes his head. “You should join us.”

  “No,” Abel growls, swinging his pistol and connecting with the king’s jaw. The king staggers back a few steps, eyes rolling back in his head before crumpling to the ground.

  Abel looks a
round, sweat pouring from his forehead, and slides his pistol back inside his jacket. Staring down at the king, his hand creeps towards his hunting knife. “Damn it,” he mutters. He takes a few steps backwards and ducks outside.

  Seized by adrenaline, he scrambles through the brush, not looking back as he makes his way up the embankment. He stops by a tree and catches his breath, resting his head on a forearm, heart racing.

  “Damn it,” he spits, punching the trunk. He reels back with the pain and yanks a splinter from a knuckle.

  Taking a deep breath, he gets back onto the highway. His eyes shoot towards the truck, scanning for the guards. He races forward, hopping the central barrier to meet the trail to Trinity, boots pounding on the asphalt.

  He weaves through the first set of barricades — twisted steel sheets and piles of bricks. A fire burns low in a trench to his right.

  Looking back across the highway, he shudders at the stillness. A cool breeze whips around him, picking up a swirl of dust and clattering junk. A bullet fizzes past him, ricocheting on a barricade to his left. He follows the noise of the gunshot and waves his hands towards the crucifix, its black shape just visible against the night. A tiny iridescent flash comes from the cross as a chunk of dirt flies up to his left, the gunshot echoing around him.

  Abel freezes as another gunshot rings out. “Damn it, Sis,” he mutters, sliding behind a barricade. He looks over his shoulder towards Trinity and then stares ahead at the king’s camp.

  He waits.

  After several minutes, he gets up and runs forward. Another bullet lodges in the ground to his left. He drops and crawls to the trail’s right until his elbow slips into an irrigation ditch, his chin hitting the dirt with a dull thud, an explosion of purples and whites filling his vision. Almost breathless, he crawls to the shelter of ferns nestled beneath a large tree, nettles brushing across his face.

  He lies on the damp soil, staring up at the stars. Sighing, he sits up and shuffles backwards until his back reaches the trunk, face throbbing with stings. With trembling hands, he reaches into his jacket and takes out his pistol, shaking his head. The cylinder clicks open and he drops the bullet onto his palm. Taking it in his fingers, he breathes on its surface and wipes it on his sweater. He blows into the barrel, his breath resonating with a low moan, and replaces the bullet, clicking the cylinder shut with a flick of his wrist.