Battle for the Wastelands Read online

  Oh shit.

  He backhanded her, knocking her onto the ground. “You imbecile!” the Flesh-Eater snarled. “I gave you the chance to save your worthless town!”

  With a shout, Taylor charged. The emissary turned away from Lily and took a massive fist straight on the nose. Blood spattered both men. The Flesh-Eater staggered.

  “Kill him!” His screech was comically nasal despite the volume.

  The farthest bodyguard’s shotgun snapped up. Thunder cracked. The pellets grazed Taylor’s face and shoulder, breaking the skin but doing little real damage. The blast shattered a window — and put down an old stray dog nobody’d eaten yet — behind him.

  Many townsfolk fled screaming. Others rushed the three men. Shock and growing horror kept Andrew rooted to the ground.

  The bodyguard who’d fired spurred his horse. He thundered toward Taylor, chambering another shell as he rode. The second bodyguard, closer to Taylor, raised his shotgun. Before he could fire, the townsfolk tore him from the saddle. The first bodyguard wheeled and fired, felling one man and driving the rest back before they could swarm his fallen comrade.

  The emissary grabbed for his pistol, but Taylor seized him before the weapon got halfway up. The emissary pulled the trigger. His shot punched through a woman’s leg, drawing blood and a scream. He fought to raise his weapon, but Taylor grit his teeth and kept the gun firmly down.

  The crowds closed in. All Andrew could see now were fists and knives rising and falling. Many came away bloody.

  The bodyguards fired, blasting townsfolk away from the fallen emissary, but it was too late. The emissary laid spread out on the parched earth. The ground drank blood pouring from a second mouth beneath his chin.

  The guards aimed for Taylor. Gunfire cracked. The dismounted bodyguard sank to his knees. The mounted bodyguard surged for the wounded man. Another shot missed. The bullet passed painfully by Andrew’s ear. The mounted man dragged his compatriot onto the saddle behind him and spurred his horse straight at Andrew. Andrew threw himself out of the way. He slammed into the stony ground, rocks biting through his clothes.

  Sam stood paralyzed in the fleeing Flesh-Eater’s path.

  “Sam!” Andrew shouted. Andrew’s voice snapped his friend into action. He jumped out of the way of the oncoming horse, but the Flesh-Eater’s boot still caught him in the chest. The blow toppled him onto his back.

  You son of a bitch!

  By the time Andrew reclaimed his feet, the two Flesh-Eaters were a fair distance away. The crowd’s eyes fell on him. “Kill them!” shouted sharp-featured and balding James Emerson, the mayor’s brother and Andrew’s old schoolteacher. “You’ve got the range!”

  Andrew raised his rifle. The closer the butt got to his shoulder, the slower he moved. His heart raced. He’d never killed a man.

  His gaze shifted to Sam, unmoving on the ground. Anger growled within him. His grip on his rifle tightened.

  “Shoot!” someone else shouted. “Shoot him!”

  His rage and their words gave energy to his efforts. He brought the butt all the way to his shoulder. He sighted the back of the head of the man holding the reins. He nearly pressed down on the trigger. He hesitated again.

  “Andrew, goddamn it, kill them!” roared craggy-faced John Horne, who’d been a sergeant in the Merrill army. “We’re all dead if you don’t!”

  Andrew tightened his finger around the trigger. He still couldn’t fire.

  “Shoot! Now!” a woman’s voice called from the crowd.

  Anger flared at the demand. Some of them had guns — why the hell couldn’t they shoot? Did they want all the Flesh-Eaters’ wrath to fall on him?

  “Shoot!” James screamed. “He’s getting away!”

  Andrew looked back to Sam. Sam still wasn’t moving. His hesitation blew away. He squeezed the trigger.

  CRACK! The Flesh-Eater toppled sideways, pulling the reins with him. The horse slewed. The other Flesh-Eater dragged himself over his wounded comrade to take the reins himself.

  “Again! Shoot again!”

  As if I need you to tell me that!

  Andrew aimed at the man’s head. Too far. He shifted the rifle downward. The horse represented a much bigger target.

  He squeezed the trigger. Nothing.

  “Shitfire!” Andrew hissed.

  “What are you waiting for?” someone demanded. “Kill him!”

  This was too much. “It’s empty!” Andrew roared. His words silenced the crowd. He yanked the ammunition tube out of the rifle butt and reached toward his coat for his cartridge box.

  Horne rushed forward. “Use mine!” Andrew chambered one of the older man’s rounds and pulled the trigger.

  He missed. The Flesh-Eater disappeared into the distance. The townsfolk groaned, but Andrew had more immediate concerns.

  He rushed over to Sam. As Andrew got close, Sam moved. “Damnation,” he moaned.

  Thank the Good Lord!

  Andrew knelt by his fallen friend. “You all right?”

  Sam winced and nodded. “Hurts like hell, but I think I’ll live.” His eyes narrowed. “You get the bastard?”

  Andrew’s stomach churned. “No.”

  The magnitude of what happened hit him. Men were calling for horses, but the survivor had too much of a head start. He’d get back to the fort.

  He’d tell his bossman what had happened.

  “I’d say we give them Taylor,” James said from the front of the room. “It’s his fault all this happened. Hell, he likely killed that son of a bitch. Blame him and we might survive.”

  The men, both those from Carroll Town proper and from surrounding homesteads, crowded into the large building that served as both a meeting place for the town council and a courtroom. Lit only by the caged flames of kerosene lanterns, the room stank of tension and fear.

  Andrew stood in the rear with Sam, who still winced when he moved. Nobody asked for his opinion. Thank the Good Lord.

  “The hell with that,” Taylor’s burly father Taylor Sr. growled from the front of the crowd. His blunt face glowed with anger. The wart beneath his left eye seemed even bigger. He glared at James, then Arnold. “You saw what the son of a bitch was doing to your goddamn daughter. At least my son isn’t a goddamned coward —”

  Arnold flinched. “What Taylor did was admirable.” He paused. “But he might well have gotten us all killed.”

  The mayor glanced at the younger Taylor, who stood scowling in the corner. Taylor glared at him. James glared back.

  “Andrew, what do you think?” asked skinny Jack Welborn, a cousin of the elder Taylor who’d known Andrew’s father when he was mayor.

  Damn it.

  Many gazes fell on Andrew. Just because Pa was mayor once didn’t mean he had something to say. He forced himself to at least not scowl. “Well,” he began. “We’re in trouble, aren’t we?”

  James frowned. “Thank you for that unique observation. Do you have anything helpful you’d like to contribute?”

  Andrew’s fingers closed into a frustrated fist. “How much food we got?”

  “Barely enough to last until the next harvest,” Arnold said. “And what we get from the fields won’t last.”

  “I don’t suppose you’re suggesting we give all our reserves to the Flesh-Eaters,” James interrupted.

  Andrew shook his head. “I mean, couldn’t we hide the food and us outside of town? They might just burn the houses.”

  “And they’ll burn the fields. We still starve. And it’ll be hard to hide from their dirigibles.”

  “Perhaps someone could palaver with the Flesh-Eaters,” Arnold suggested. “They could tell them this was all an accident, come to some kind of arrangement —”

  “The surviving one’s got a bullet in him,” James interrupted. “The Flesh-Eaters aren’t stump-stupid. And what kind of arrangement would they accept? Handing Taylor over would be the least of it. They’ll want even more tribute, and we can’t pay what they wanted the first time.” He fell silent for a m
oment. “Hell, they might even impose direct control. You want this town crawling with their goddamn deacons? You want their officers taking our land and making us their cattle?”

  Arnold’s jaw worked. “At least it’s worth a try.” He turned to the rest of the crowd. “What do you all think?”

  Thomas Daley stepped forward. He was a little older than Andrew and had red hair, one of the few in Carroll Town who did. “This is fucking stupid!” His words raised a dull roar. “Two of them are dead. They’ll want to set an example. I say we fight.”

  “This isn’t like getting a posse together to run down some bandits,” John interrupted. “The Flesh-Eaters outnumber us thousands to one. Even if we could threaten them, they’ll bring in Grendel. Grendel! A man whose lowest privates carry repeaters. Grendel’ll come just like he did when he threw down the Merrills. We’ll all die.”

  Andrew swallowed. Repeaters. They looked like rifles, but fired much faster and farther. A common rifle fit a few rounds into its ammunition tube, but a repeater had magazines. A whole army carrying these would destroy all before them unless their enemies buried them in bodies. And Carroll Town didn’t have those.

  Thomas wheeled on John. “They’re going to kill us anyway. Might as well at least hurt the sons of bitches instead of begging for mercy we won’t get.”

  Someone cleared their throat. The group’s attention fell on Eric Tan, who’d come to the town when the Merrills had fallen. Eric had a round face, amber skin, and angular eyes, something even more peculiar than Thomas’s red hair. “How about this?” Eric asked. “I’ll go and talk to the Flesh-Eaters.” He gestured toward a leg crippled in some long-ago war he refused to discuss. “If they kill me, it’s not like I’m much use anyway.”

  “Don’t say that,” Arnold said weakly. Despite himself, Andrew had to agree. Eric wasn’t much of a hunter or a field-worker, but he was a decent barber.

  “Send him,” Taylor’s father said. “It’s not like we have anything to lose.”

  The crowd muttered its agreement.

  “Why don’t you go?” James demanded. “Perhaps they’ll take the father instead of the son.”

  Horror erupted across the younger Taylor’s face. The elder Taylor narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. More muttering broke out. Many opposed fighting the Flesh-Eaters — the word “suicide” came up a fair bit — and supported negotiations. Others — mostly around Andrew’s age — didn’t.

  Andrew grit his teeth. He didn’t cotton to cravenly giving up other townsfolk, no matter the stakes. “All right.” Andrew raised his voice. The noise in the room tapered off. “The Flesh-Eaters are bastards, we know that. If we send Taylor’s pa with them, what’s to stop them from killing him anyway? If they want anyone, they’ll ask. Why give them ideas?”

  James leaned forward, locking eyes with Andrew. “It’d show our sincerity. You’ve got a lot to learn if you think dealing with this kind of folk’s easy.” He glared at Andrew as if he were cutting up in class. “Besides, we wouldn’t be in this pickle if you’d done what I told you when I told you.”

  Before Andrew could react, Arnold intervened. “If you ever want to be a leader like your father when he lived —” he showed far more gumption than he had with the Flesh-Eater emissary — “you’ll need to know sometimes you have to make sacrifices.”

  The word “sacrifices” got Andrew thinking. “Why don’t you go? You’re the mayor. They’d be more likely to listen to you than folk they’ve never seen before.”

  Some people in the crowd gasped. James purpled with rage. Arnold’s jaw worked silently. “That’s…that’s a good idea.”

  James’s eyes bulged even wider. Andrew smiled. He’d put the older man in his place — and his jackass brother besides.

  The jackass brother, however, wasn’t out of the fight yet. “Why should we listen to this greenhorn? If he’d made sure he’d had enough ammunition, we wouldn’t have this problem.”

  “Greenhorn?” Andrew spat. “How many rippers have you killed?”

  “Just one.” James paused. “But that doesn’t make you any less a failure.”

  Andrew saw red. Before he could retort, Arnold stepped in. “Greenhorn or not, he’s got a good idea.” He looked at Eric. “We’ll leave tomorrow, first light.”

  “I hate it,” Andrew said, shutting the front door behind him. The smell of burning wood and cooking meat engulfed him. “Just because Pa was mayor don’t mean I know everything. Why don’t they bother Arnold as much? He’s got the blasted job.”

  “Probably because this whole situation started when Arnold tried to negotiate,” Ma said, looking up from the stove on which she and Sarah prepared cuts of ripper. Sweat shone in her silver-streaked blonde hair. “Young as you are, you’ve got the Sutter name, and your father was mayor when times were good. Folk remember that.”

  “Thanks.” He scowled. “And I’ve got more of a backbone than that bastard —”

  “Andrew!”

  “But it’s true!” Andrew ignored the guilt from cursing in front of his mother. “James wanted to give Taylor to the Flesh-Eaters! And he listened!”

  He looked around the room. What might they have to buy off the Flesh-Eaters? There was a brass kerosene lamp. A shelf of books, old and worn. Someone with greater resources than Carroll Town might be able to use Introductory Mining Engineering. They even owned a painting of the river before the drought had dried it.

  Andrew’s family was among the richest in Carroll Town. They owned grain fields by the river, a real house that kept out the wind and, out back, chicken coops. Although little feed meant no eggs in a right while, the chickens could be eaten if the alternative was starvation and given to the Flesh-Eaters if the alternative was massacre.

  Other folk weren’t so blessed. They worked fields belonging to others, lived hand-to-mouth in shacks, carefully measured out their stored grain and hoped it lasted until the next harvest. He scowled. Trying to buy off the Flesh-Eaters wouldn’t work.

  Maybe Ma would have an idea. “Why don’t they ask you for advice?” He looked at Sarah. “You’re his kid too.”

  “I think we both know the answer to that,” Sarah replied pointedly. She turned away from the stove. Annoyance crossed her face. “Besides, you didn’t mind being the mayor’s son when Cassie wanted to hear about the time Pa and the others helped the Carsons fight the Lees, or when they killed those big wolves.”

  Andrew reddened. Sarah knowing was bad enough — he did not want his mother finding out.

  The corners of Sarah’s mouth turned slightly upward. “She didn’t ask me.” Her smile broadened. “I wonder why?”

  “Andrew, what’s she talking about?” his mother cut in.

  Andrew tensed. “Nothing.”

  Sarah continued. “She wanted to know all about what Pa did, and she thought the Jacksons’s barn was the best place to —”

  “Andrew!” his mother erupted.

  “Gee, thanks Sarah,” Andrew hissed. He looked straight at her. “You jealous?”

  Sarah made a face. “Eww. No.” She shrugged. “Be glad her pa doesn’t know about that, little brother, or he’d be showing up here with a shotgun.”

  Andrew bristled at “little brother” — she was only a few minutes older — but he was glad Cassie’s father didn’t know. If he disliked her, he wouldn’t have spent a couple of hours getting acquainted with her in the barn. But he didn’t like the idea of getting hitched.

  He shook his head. “I assume you want to know what happened at the meeting.” Both his mother and sister leaned forward. Andrew told them about the plan to send Arnold and Eric to palaver with the Flesh-Eaters.

  “You really think that’s going to work?” Sarah asked, face pale.

  “It can’t hurt,” Ma said. “Considering the alternative.”

  Carroll Town Prepares for War

  Andrew watched the mayor and Eric ride out beneath the sun rising over the white arching gate. James’s words about how it was his fault the Flesh-Eaters now
threatened Carroll Town still stung. It felt right he be there when the two men set off toward the Old World blacktop road. Though much had eroded away and been patched with crushed stone, it still provided the best route.

  The men did not return that afternoon. Nor did they return that evening, though James spent half the night watching.

  When the men did not return the next day, James and John called the men together for war.

  “It looks like we’ll have to fight,” John said. Andrew groaned. So did many other men gathered beneath the mooring tower in the town square. “We don’t have the kit to attack the fort and we’re not fighting them in Carroll Town. We’ll meet them where the Old World road crosses the arroyo.”

  Good idea. The crumbled blacktop cut between two hills before crossing the rust-gnawed bridge over the stony gash that ran with water after it rained. If the Flesh-Eaters stayed on it, they’d hit a choke point. If they moved off, they’d be marching uphill and visible.

  “The Flesh-Eaters’ll focus on the road and the hills. They weren’t much for subtlety back when I rode with the Merrills.” He paused. “However, the arroyo’s dry. We’ll defend it too.”

  Andrew had been to the arroyo before. Twenty feet at its deepest, it grew shallower as it rose behind the hills. If left unguarded, the enemy could march into their rear.

  “How’ll we know when they’re coming?” the elder Taylor asked.

  “And what about the women and children?” his son added.

  “Aye.” Andrew did not want Ma and Sarah falling into the man-eaters’ hands. Nor anyone else, for that matter.

  “We know where the fort is,” John replied. “James has been keeping an eye on it. An infantry column takes a spell to get anywhere, and we should have time to ride out to meet them. About the women and the children, we can always send riders looking for the Merrill.”

  Andrew raised an eyebrow. Alonzo, James Merrill’s son, still harried the Flesh-Eaters from the high plains. Perhaps he could do more than serve as a refuge. “If we can find them, why not try to bring them here? The Merrills would have a better shot at licking the Flesh-Eaters than we would by our lonesome.”