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

  The noise continued until the pickup truck emerged, driving around them and only then was there silence.

  Two men jumped down from the truck. Both carried loaded crossbows. Blue and white scarves were tied around their faces. One began to pace, his head turned toward the trees, his crossbow angled at the leaden sky. The men in the rusted car stepped onto the rain slick road. The four looked identical. Young, athletic, features hidden. One seemed shorter than the other three, more slender, and carried an automatic rifle. He slipped off the dark sunglasses and tugged down the face scarf. Dani and Cristo both saw it was a woman, not a man, with thin lips and a petite nose, crew cut black hair and eyes the colour of the rain sodden soil. She gave an order to one of the men, the driver from the pickup, and he complied immediately. He went to the back of the truck and opened the tailgate. It swung down with a loud clatter. He quickly untied the tarp cover and dragged a heavy looking crate to the edge of the flatbed but did not move it any further.

  The young woman took a small container of blue tablets from her pocket and swallowed one. One of the men asked her something and she swore at him. He shook his head and ambled away, swinging his crossbow toward the line of trees. The woman looked down the empty highway, one hand at her waist. As she turned to open her mouth and say something her head exploded, her body sagged and the rifle clattered against the road.

  Cristo fired from the other side of the road, slamming a shell into a man’s chest, shattering bone and organs.

  Dani fired for a second time, blasting one of the masked men in the shoulder, tossing him against the car. He cried out in agony and raised his weapon but she pumped the shotgun and finished him off.

  The last man frantically swept his crossbow at the line of trees, trying to spot the gunmen. As his finger reached the trigger there was a deafening boom as Cristo fired and the man’s throat exploded.

  Cristo and Dani broke cover.

  “You used an extra shell,” said Cristo.

  Dani said nothing. It wasn’t a criticism, more a worry over the lack of ammunition they had and, even more importantly, concern over what had caused her shot to go askew.

  Without saying another word, they hurriedly collected the crossbows and the automatic rifle and placed them on the flatbed of the pickup truck. They carried each body from the road and rolled it into the undergrowth. Dani set down her shotgun and sprinted into the trees to fetch the buckets of water. One at a time, Cristo took them from her and began to wash away the fresh blood. He glanced up as Dani dropped one. It clattered loudly and rolled into a pothole. She gritted her teeth and flexed her hand. Cristo looked at her, his face crunched with deep concern. He hesitated, and for a moment the plan unfurled and they wasted precious seconds worrying over her pain. The distant sound of grinding gears shook them into focus. Dani carried their backpacks from the grass to the pickup truck and put them with the weapons. Cristo bought the final buckets of rainwater and spilled them onto the road, cleansing the last of the blood. Some patches stubbornly remained but he was certain they would not be noticed. He saw the dropped container of blue tablets and flicked it into the bushes. The truck grew closer. Cristo looked over both vehicles. There was a large smear of blood on the car and he quickly wiped it away.

  Headlamps speared the dawn mist. They both tied blue and white scarves across their faces and slipped on dark sunglasses. Cristo’s right hand drifted and he squeezed his left forearm. Dani saw him jerk it away. Her scarf had a strong smell and she tasted something bitter and unfamiliar against her lips as she sucked breath rapidly. The truck bore down on them both. It was heavily rusted with a high and broad windscreen, an iron grill fixed across it. A jeep was alongside it, headlamps switched off.

  Two men rode in the jeep. Two more in the truck.

  Breathing hard, they stood in the middle of the road, shotguns in hand, the rusted pickup truck and car behind them.

  “I’m Victor. Where’s Anna?”

  The man had black eyebrows that knitted together above his leathery nose. His eyes were crossed and his skin was scarred. He swigged from a canteen, swirled the contents around his mouth and spat on the ground.

  “Warm,” he said.

  He was broad shouldered, with a thick neck and long arms. He didn’t appear to be carrying a weapon.

  “So what happened to her? It’s the only good thing about this rotten drive. I look forward to seeing her.”

  “Chucking up her guts,” said Dani, shrugging.

  “What?” said Victor, hiking up his trousers.

  “Too many blues.” She made a gesture with her hand, toward her mouth. Victor had a throaty laugh.

  “What’s your name?”

  As she told him, two painfully thin men dropped down from the back of the truck and began to unload large canisters. Cristo watched on in silence, his shotgun casually angled toward Victor. The men shuffled obediently from truck to truck, hefting the canisters one at a time and carefully stacking them on the flatbed. In no time at all they were sweating profusely. They wore ill fitting brown clothing, made from stretched animal hide and stained black with dirt and grime. Open sandals revealed grubby feet. Each man had been branded on the forearm, a sequence of shapes burnt into the skin. Behind dark sunglasses, Cristo’s eyes welled with hate. He closed them, for a moment, as his finger strayed toward the trigger of his shotgun. He quickly opened them and took deep breath as he realised someone was speaking to him.

  “Got a light?”

  It was the driver from the jeep. A man of similar age and build to himself. His name was Enzo. He wore clean clothes and his neatly trimmed hair and beard were the colour of the sun. A white mask hung loose around his neck and he carried a pistol in his belt. He was holding a glass pipe, open at one end with a bowl at the other.

  “You got a light?” he said.

  “No,” said Cristo, padding his pockets.

  The jeep driver nodded sourly and sloped away.

  “He doesn’t have one,” he said, addressing his companion in the jeep, who had remained in his seat, looking sullen.

  Enzo turned, suddenly, looking back at the car.

  “That yours?”

  Cristo nodded, his finger edging closer to the trigger. The weak looking men continued to move the canisters. Victor wandered away from Dani, turned his back on her and began to empty his bladder.

  “Nice,” said Enzo, bending at the waist and looking inside the car. “That jeep is a pile of shit. That thing work?”

  “What thing?” asked Cristo.

  Dani listened to Victor urinating. The men had finished loading the canisters and lifted down the metal crate, slowly lowering it onto the road. The passenger from the truck dropped down onto the road and stretched his arms and legs. He ignored every one around him and went directly to the crate. He opened the lid with toe of his boot and looked inside. Dani saw an assortment of small containers filled with tablets. The man, a cap pulled over his light brown hair, crouched down and began to count them.

  “That,” said Enzo. “Are you stupid? The player.”

  Victor wiped his hands on his trousers and barked at the two men who stood idling, eyes downcast.

  “It works,” said Cristo, walking back to the pickup truck. Dani helped him tie down the tarpaulin cover.

  Enzo pulled open the car door and slid into the driver’s seat. It was more cushioned than the jeep and there was a nice smell. He tested his hands on the wheel and grinned. This was a top car. He really could see himself driving back in this. Maybe he could dig four graves and keep the car and Noah could keep his canisters.

  “Enzo,” called the Noah, standing at the crate. “Out.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” said Enzo. “Just a fucking minute.”

  He reached toward the dashboard and jabbed buttons. The noise erupted, the car vibrated and Dani’s stomach lurched. Noah launched himself to his feet and drew his pistol.

  “Turn it off,” he hissed.

  Enzo blinked, stabbed the buttons and silence desce
nded. The rainwater dripped from the trees.

  “You fucking idiot,” he said. “There could be bandits or marauders nearby.”

  He turned to Dani and Cristo. “Apologies.”

  “No problem,” said Cristo, raising the gate on the flatbed and latching it into place. “We all done?”

  Enzo strolled back toward them, sheepishly looking around, trying to avert his eyes from Noah’s steely glare.

  “Load the crate,” Victor barked.

  The two thin men rushed toward it, stooping at each end, but Noah stamped his boot down on the lid and held the crate in place.

  “No,” he said.

  Victor frowned. Enzo scratched his crotch.

  “Problem?” said Cristo.

  “You’re one container short,” said Noah.

  Dani, half into the pickup truck, dropped back onto the road, shotgun in hand, eyes hidden.

  “What do you mean?” she asked

  “There’s a container missing.”

  “That’s not down to us,” said Cristo.

  “I didn’t say it was,” said Noah, his pistol relaxed at his side. “But I am a container light. What will happen when I return? Do you know what will happen? I will take the blame for a missing container.”

  Cristo thought of the container he had tossed into the bushes and his stomach lurched. He had no idea it had been purloined from the crate.

  “Give him the container,” said Victor, stepping forward. “We all slip things into our pockets but this is a bad idea. If you have it, give it to him. No need for this to get ugly.”

  “Four graves,” said Enzo, something dawning on him.

  They all turned to look at him.

  “Why are there only two of you?” he said. “Where’s the other two? We bring four you bring …”

  Dani was the first to react, the shell ploughing into Noah’s arm, the pistol spinning from his grip. Cristo dropped to one knee as Enzo reached for his gun. Bullets fizzed past him and one smacked against the pickup truck. He pumped the shotgun, fired again and struck Enzo in the leg. Noah was on his knees as Dani fired her last shell, spattering blood and bone across the road.

  Victor fled toward the truck. Dani grabbed Noah’s pistol from the ground and fired. The bullet missed and punched a hole through the truck windscreen. The truck roared into life as Victor twisted the ignition. She fired again but he ducked as the bullet tore another hole in the windscreen.

  There was a flash of movement from the corner of her eye and she saw the passenger in the jeep slide across and climb behind the wheel. She fired twice and his head rocked back.

  Cristo closed in on Enzo, flipped the empty shotgun and jammed the stock into the young man’s face. He staggered back, the glass pipe rolling from his pocket and shattering on the ground. Cristo lunged at him and battered him with the shotgun, turning the man’s face bloody until his body no longer twitched.

  He ran back to the pickup as Dani fired at the truck, pistol clicking empty. He snatched the automatic rifle and sprayed the vehicle with bullets, ripping holes in the tyres and splintering the windscreen. The truck stuttered to a halt. Victor sprang from the vehicle and began to run back down the mist covered road.

  Cristo chased after him, catching up to him easily, and planted a boot into the fleeing man’s back.

  Victor rolled over.

  “You can keep it all. I haven’t done anything.”

  Cristo tore off the sunglasses, tugged down the blue and white scarf.

  “You.”

  His pointed the rifle and squeezed the trigger.

  The two thin men were on their knees, heads bowed, sobbing, begging to be spared.

  Dani climbed into the pickup truck and left Cristo to deal with them. He saw them kneeling against the hard, wet road. He peeled off his heavy jacket and rolled up his left sleeve.

  They gasped as he showed them the sequence of symbols burned into his forearm.

  “Take the car,” said Cristo, and left them with two of the crossbows.

  --- Two ---

  Lena dipped her feet into the river and wriggled her toes. The sky was an insipid blue, torn with ugly red streaks, and she closed her eyes as the sun peeked from behind sluggish grey clouds. The warm rays touched her skin and the cool water lapped her ankles. She leaned back on her elbows and idly plucked at the damp grass, tugging skinny blades from the soil. Gently lifting her left foot out of the water she dropped it sharply, creating a splash, and then began to kick freely with both feet, giggling as the water soaked her bare legs.

  “Lena.”

  Abruptly she opened her eyes and sat up. It was Mallon, head of the village militia, standing over her with three other warriors.

  “Hello, Mallon,” she said. “How are you?”

  “You have work,” he said, tightly, ignoring her question.

  The four men carried round wooden shields and spears and wore loose fitting trousers and sandals. Lena stared at his feet, noticing how clean he kept his toes and how neatly shaped his nails were. She had never seen a man with such beautiful feet although she had never really bothered to look at a man’s feet before Mallon.

  “I was just taking a break,” she said, lazily getting to her feet, smiling brightly. “You should try it.”

  She waited for a reply but there was none. She sighed. She revolved her day around where he would be training or patrolling, where he enjoyed a break or spent time washing, often arriving late at school or attempting to slip away early, but he barely noticed her and didn’t seem to hang on her words the way she hung on every one of his. She lingered at his side for a moment longer, awaiting a response, but soon realised she was not going to get one. She sighed. He was so different to all the other men in the village, special and unique, perfect for her. The men were shirtless beneath the hot sun and her eyes unashamedly roamed Mallon’s defined torso. He was five feet ten, the shortest of the four men, with slanted, wide apart eyes and a flat nose. His dark hair was very short and his skin was a glorious dusky brown colour and hairless. Most of the men in the village were pale, long haired and bearded, browned only from the sun.

  “The water is lovely,” she said. “You should dip your feet in, Mallon.”

  “Did you change the Centon this morning?” he asked.

  The cheeks of Lena’s face blazed as she realised she had forgotten to advance the marker.

  “Not again, Lena,” he said. “Do you not understand how important it is? What have I told you? How many times do I have to say that if you do not…”

  “… do your jobs then someone else will have to do them,” she finished, her tone flat. “I know, I’m sorry, I was late for school and I forgot.”

  “Never forget the Centon, child.”

  He had to do it. He had to use that word. Strip away everything she was and everything she was becoming. She hated the word. Child! It was deeply insulting. It was as upsetting as when the other children called her or Nathan lumpy head or freak or bony bones or mutant and she would flee the school building and run and hide and sob until there were no more tears left inside her; but the village was her world and there was nowhere to run and nowhere to hide and nowhere to even cry alone before an adult would happen across her and try to comfort her and lead her back to the school where Margaux, her teacher, would admonish and punish her tormentors. Then, a few days later, it would happen again and if it wasn’t her suffering at the hands of venomous bullies it was Nathan. The children never used the names against the adults who looked like her. Children. If they were children then she was a child but she really despised the way Mallon used the word. She was twelve years old and she was maturing and growing and learning and training and building and she would finish her schooling when she reached thirteen and couldn’t Mallon see she would one day become a fearsome warrior and his life partner and their tale would rival the legends of the drifters who lived an entire existence in the wastelands.

  “Go,” he said, as she continued to idly daydream.

  H
is warriors laughed as she sulked away and Mallon turned and told them to be quiet.

  “You shouldn’t laugh,” he said, glaring. “She will think you are laughing at her, teasing her like the other children do.”

  Mallon shook his head and watched her traipse back along the grassy bank and onto a wide road of red clay. Lena walked slowly, almost a shuffle, hardly lifting her bare feet, driving lines through the clay and dust. Her fair hair trailed down her back and her wraparound skirt was hiked above her knees. It seemed to become shorter every day. She swung a pair of sandals in one hand. She reached the bridge that spanned the waterway and began to cross but then stopped to look back. She waved and grinned at Mallon but he responded by jabbing his spear in the direction of the village, a furious expression across his face.

  Across the bridge a haze of wood smoke drifted up from thatched roofs and hung above a large scattering of mud huts. The village hummed with the cacophony of chopping, peeling and slicing as food was prepared for evening meals. Children were being washed. A man was slathering mud against one of the huts that showed great cracks. There was the repetitive sound of hammering and sawing, the tentative first stages of a palisade wall. Men, women and children threaded busily along churned up red clay paths, voices loud.

  Mallon smiled, delighted that work on the wall had finally commenced. He had argued with the village council concerning the building of a wall to surround their homes for many days. It did not matter how long construction would take or how many trees they would fell for wood; they needed protection. His passionate argument was countered by the notion that they already retained protection and that no walls or weapons or even militia would ever be required.

  “I will not disband the militia,” he had told them.

  “Nor have we asked you to,” spoke Margaux, teacher and councillor. “They are useful in resolving local disputes and settling minor issues between neighbours. Are they not?”