The Wasteland Soldier, Book 2, Escape From Tamnica (TWS) Read online

  THE WASTELAND SOLDIER

  BOOK 2

  ESCAPE FROM TAMNICA

  BY

  LAURENCE MOORE

  Copyright © 2015 Laurence Moore

  1st Edition 2015

  ISBN: 978-1514187135

  All Rights Reserved.

  The use of any part of this publication without prior written consent of the publisher or author is an infringement of copyright law.

  Also by Laurence Moore

  The Wasteland Soldier Series

  A Fractured World

  Escape From Tamnica

  Drums Of War

  Coming Next

  Men of Truth

  For updates on new releases visit

  http://thewastelandsoldier.blogspot.co.uk/

  Contact:

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  [email protected]

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  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  The first world has gone. This is the second world.

  I'm Laurence Moore and I write post apocalyptic, western themed stories set in a future America devastated by war.

  I'm currently working on the next book in the Wasteland Soldier series. The central character in each book is a ruthless drifter called Stone, a man determined to right the many wrongs of an unforgiving world.

  Born in 1970, I was an avid reader as a child and by the age of 10 declared that I wanted to become a full time writer. Naturally, I was encouraged to finish my education first.

  I currently divide my time between writing, reading and my family.

  To my Mum and Dad

  Valerie and Michael

  Thank you for all your support and belief

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About The Author

  Links

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty One

  Twenty Two

  Twenty Three

  Twenty Four

  Twenty Five

  Twenty Six

  Twenty Seven

  Twenty Eight

  Twenty Nine

  Thirty

  Coming Next

  --- One ---

  It began to rain.

  The candles were burning down and Dani watched vacantly as beads of hot wax trickled into a growing pool. She sat at the cramped table next to a curtained window, massaging and flexing her hands as Cristo finished preparing a meal of boiled potatoes, fried mushrooms and crispy wint. The potatoes were stolen; the mushrooms and wint grew in the forest. She recognised potatoes and mushrooms but was unsure if wint was the correct name for the green leafed plant that flourished in small bushes. It was a name she had heard before though it didn’t really matter one way or another. It tasted horrible raw but delightful when cooked. Cristo had lightly seasoned the food with sprinkles of a nameless spice, a pale orange powder that had a mighty kick and would leave your tongue burning and gasping for fluid.

  Her bones were aching more than usual today. Her knuckles clicked and Cristo glanced over his shoulder at the sound. He stared down at her hands, palms now clasped together, and a tinge of concern flashed in his dark eyes. He was a tall, lean man, with narrow shoulders and a sunken face, a shadow of the bright spirit she had known since childhood, racing along the riverbank on a sunny day, full of ideas and hopes about impending adulthood. She smiled back at him and mouthed a silent I’m fine, I’ll be okay tomorrow but she could see he was not wholly convinced.

  It was draughty in the wooden shack, concealed deep in the bowels of the forest by a twisted canopy of trees and salvaged camouflage netting. The rain grew loud and heavy. It had been raining a lot more lately. After seemingly endless days of burning heat the weather was morphing into that period when the hours of daylight grew shorter. Winter would soon be upon them. Ice cold winds and snow. She felt the seasonal change acutely in her hands as the damp seeped into her bones. When she clenched or gripped, pain would flare. Sometimes she would drop things and bemoan herself for being clumsy. The change was definitely coming and she would suffer if they remained here.

  “How long?” she asked, sniffing the air.

  “Not long.”

  On one of his previous supply runs, Cristo had unearthed a collection of vividly coloured blocks with melted corners and rough edges. One or two had even bore teeth marks. The two of them had studied the blocks at length; puzzled at their purpose and the curious feel of the plastic they were constructed from. Dani had washed the dirt from each one and carefully smoothed off the scratchy edges but she could do nothing with the teeth marks. She had thrown them into a bag and they somehow looked different bunched together bright and clean. She had walked for two hours to Belsont, a town to the southwest, with a thriving trade. A small core of men and women were permanent residents but most of the population was transient and the people she passed on the streets were strangers, drifting from one place to the next, always looking to move on, to find a better place, a safer place, a place where you could sleep with both eyes closed and without a weapon clutched in your hand. She knew of no such place in Gallen so she had carried a long knife with her. She always carried a weapon into Belsont, she knew the dangers of being a woman unarmed and alone, and it wasn’t safe for Cristo to go where he might be recognised and the knowledge traded. He tried to persuade her to take one of the shotguns but she argued it was impossible to conceal and would probably attract more attention and, anyway, ammunition was priceless and they needed every shell.

  In a small shop, with grimy windows and a bell that jangled as the front door opened, she threaded by the clutter and jumble and junk and offered the owner the bagged plastic blocks. His eyes lit up at them. He knew what they were and how rare they were and would have a line of parents seeking his business for them. Dani knew it would be a good trade. She had returned with the orange spice, a clean blanket and a bottle of recently brewed alcohol. The bottle was clear, the liquid the colour of indigo, the merchant had explained. She had no idea what indigo was.

  Cristo set down two hand carved wooden bowls with steam rising from them. He fetched wooden spoons and empty wooden drinking mugs, all whittled by Dani. She smiled as he reached for the bottle, studied it for a moment, then removed the plunger and sniffed the pungent aroma inside. He poured slowly, savouring every slosh over the rim of the bottle. They toasted in silence as the rain tapped a mournful symphony on the roof of the shack and shadows danced across the floor in the flickering candlelight. At first, there was no conversation, no heavy dissection of the plan or light banter to pass the minutes or soften the mood or even smooth away any apprehension; they possessed a near telepathic connection, actions simply knitted together, words were spoken when needed, never wasted, and at this moment they both wanted nothing more than to eat and drink. All the preparations had been made. They had exhausted all the details, motives, possibilities, outcomes and random spikes; there was nothing new or further to di
scuss. It had been plotted. It had been decided. Tonight would be their last night here. It had been a place of refuge for a long time but they would never return and it would be impossible to do so once the plan was executed. So they continued to eat, continued to drink; the rain fell, the wind blew, and then finally the words came.

  “What did the merchant call it?” asked Cristo, taking a sip.

  “He had a name for it,” said Dani, crunching a mouthful of wint. “But I can’t remember it.”

  “Did he have more than one to pick from?”

  “No.”

  There was a time when drink was plentiful, so they understood, in bars and shops, but the concept was surely absurd. It was challenging to conjure the picture of a building filled with only drink, shelf upon shelf, row upon row; bottles of brightly coloured liquids with imaginatively designed labels. Some bottles would be hidden in boxes, so rare and precious were they. Each would have a unique taste. Each would have a unique aroma. Each would have its own identity. They had gleaned this tale from the shiny pages of a large floppy book of the Before, when the Ancients had ruled the land of Gallen, over one thousand years ago, give or take a century or two. They had been a similar looking race of men and women, though with subtle alterations; the skin appeared more cleanly scrubbed, bronzed, and stomachs looked well fed, too, and the clothing was bright and dazzling, splendidly cut and well fitted. It also seemed their version of Gallen had been a far greater one; a neatly constructed framework of an ordered and industrious society within which freedom and personal individuality flourished and blossomed.

  The Before was a time of wonderful knowledge, of spiralling achievements, catalogued instantly for all to witness, if the fragments that remained had been correctly interpreted and were to be believed. Yet the Cloud Wars had shredded Gallen, the clans and tribes had clashed and the landscape had been brutally ravaged and the sky had wept blood. No one had kept records since the Cloud Wars as swathes of darkness, shame and death blighted the land. Stories carried through the generations. Legends grew. Myths were born. There were even tales of a city, fine and bright, behind high walls, where life bore a semblance of normality, of expectations past merely hacking out a life in the dirt; but it was in the Southern Deserts, across the arid wastelands, a place told in chilling tales of blood and horror. It was not a place they would travel to. It was not a city they would ever see.

  Their plan would take them a long way from here. Their destination was beyond Gallen.

  “It burns,” said Cristo, coughing. He drove his spoon into the blackened mushrooms.

  Dani smiled at him. Her deep brown eyes glowed in the light from the candles. Her black hair was straight, lank, curled onto her shoulders. She wore loose fitting grey bottoms and a ribbed jumper that covered her throat. It was not unduly cold but a blanket was draped across her narrow shoulders. She was in her early thirties, an age considered the twilight years in Gallen. Few lived beyond their thirties. Even fewer lived beyond their forties. She intended for her and Cristo to outlive them all.

  “We should give it our own name,” he said.

  They reeled off names, each one more outrageous than the one before. The rain lashed the trees, splashing off leaves, turning the ground mushy. It was black outside and there were a number of hours before dawn. Cristo cleared away the bowls and spoons as Dani refilled the mugs. They still hadn’t decided on a name for the drink but the game was exhausted. Dani twirled her fingers around the rim of her mug. She looked into Cristo’s hooded eyes as he sat opposite her. Her lips were wet in the candlelight. He urged to kiss her but had long forgotten how to and was terrified of what might follow. Instead he gently massaged her hands, her skin pale and taut against bone. Then he pulled away as her eyes warmed with longing.

  The shack creaked. A steady plopping sound caught his attention. He glanced up at the roof and saw a bubble of water weep through.

  “Another one?” said Dani.

  He nodded, went into the kitchen area and took a metal pan from the basin.

  “Does it matter?”

  He crouched and set the pan down on the floor, a metallic echo as it caught the first drops.

  “It matters,” said Cristo.

  They relaxed on a bed of cushions, blankets, and material, backs against the wall. Dani wanted his arm curled around her but they sat apart. He had nothing more to say and nor did she. They drank in silence until the bottle was empty, listening to the persistent rain. In the corner of the shack was a bucket. Dani used it first, then Cristo. She held the shotgun as he unbarred the door, pushed aside the netting and carried it out into the wet night. He didn’t go far and didn’t bother to bury it. He was only gone for a minute but his clothes were drenched when he came back inside, dark hair plastered to his head.

  Dani yawned. She recklessly kissed his cheek goodnight and saw him flinch as her lips brushed his flesh. She desired him now more than ever but she knew there was only coldness there and she would lay awake blaming herself for being selfish and that would quickly dampen her fire below. She buried her head against the pillows and he tenderly drew the blankets over her shoulders. He told her he would join her shortly but Dani knew she would be asleep before she felt his heat radiate next to her. Her pillows were lifeless and offered no support or comfort so she folded them over to cushion her head better. Cristo blew out all but one of the candles and sat in the corner of the shack, behind where they stored all their supplies and salvaged goods and weapons. She could hear his muted sobs above the drum of the rain, needing these moments without her, in the near dark. He had been back for more than sixty days but every night had been the same. He was an outline of the man who had been taken from her, a rough etching. She knew he would never be the same unless they succeeded. He spoke nothing of the time he had been gone. It was an inkiness that festered inside him. One day the words would come, she hoped, but she had no idea how to coax them forward nor was there anyone else to turn to, but if the plan worked, and it would work, then they would soon be gone from this place, far from this dark misery, into a better world, and then she would hold him and he would hold her and the tears would be but a memory.

  She rolled onto her side. A bright flash of white light outside caused her eyes to flick open.

  Then she was plunged into darkness as thunder growled. She never heard the second peel; she was fast asleep by then.

  Mist clung to the saturated land, drifting slowly in a light wind that shook raindrops from the trees.

  Dani checked her shotgun one final time and sucked in a lungful of fresh air. The ground was spongy underfoot, the long grass and tangled undergrowth shiny with dew. She glanced across the road and nodded at Cristo. His face was drawn and pinched with tension but he nodded back at her. They could both hear it; drawing closer to them, the sound reaching their stomachs more than their ears. The road was a three lane highway with cracks and fissures and potholes brimming with grimy water. It slashed mercilessly through the forest, the sky above grey, streaked with angry strips of red, like neglected wounds.

  She looked past him to where the shack was concealed, an odd lump in her throat, a flutter in her chest. Day after day, night after night, she had dreamed of leaving the place, to bid farewell to the damp and draughty conditions. When Cristo had been taken she had followed but it had been a woefully vain attempt to reclaim him. There was nothing she could do. Wandering lost in the forest she had discovered the shack, a half-buried relic, long forgotten. She had marked her ground and claimed it for her new home, working tirelessly to improve the dilapidated old dwelling; but it had tricked her, lured her inside with a false sense of hope. The four walls had formed a prison around her thoughts and crowded it with tormenting whispers that plagued her during her those long spells of solitude - but she never gave up hope of reuniting with him, even during those darkest periods. She thought back to that day when she had brought Cristo here for the first time, stumbling upon him half-starved and wandering the ruined streets of Belsont, begging for foo
d and water. He had gingerly stepped across the threshold of the shack, like a toddler taking its first steps.

  Yet, here and now, on the cusp of this plan, she became aware, with alarming dread, how much of a wrench it would be to abandon the rickety old building, faults and all, reflecting upon it for too long as only a place for food and shelter, to plot and plan, never accepting its truth worth. As the mist swirled about them and the deep noise throbbed in the distance, her hands gripped tightly at the shotgun, pain flaring in her bones, and she realised, completely and utterly, that what she had ached for, what she had always desired for them both, was sitting beyond his right shoulder.

  Home.

  A flicker of doubt crept into her thoughts but then she slammed the door hard on it. Doubt would weaken them and weakness would see them dead. The deep noise was causing her insides to churn. Closer and closer it barked, flying across the miles at tremendous speed. The ugly distorted noise shook the ground beneath them; a succession of rapid bangs, muffled shots and explosions, layered with a repetitive thump, like an accelerated and amplified heartbeat. Finally, the sound was thickened with the snarl of the fume spewing exhaust and the roar of an engine. And then it shot forth out of the grey swirling mist, emerging like a mythical beast, bursting from the gloom. It swerved left and right, splashing through wide puddles, trees all around, burning rubber, headlamps on, twin beams scorching down the highway. The car was compact, brown with rust. Miles behind it trailed a pickup truck in similar condition. The booming noise came from the car. Always it came from the car. The windows were rolled down. Two men were in the front. Blue and white scarves concealed their faces. Sunglasses covered their eyes. The vehicle began to slow as the driver eased against the brake pedal but then he pushed down hard and the car skidded, bounced and squealed to a halt.