Trail of Chains

[mmeillarec]

A/N

The idea behind this story was to apply the basic plot of a Lifetime movie to a post-nuclear society. Warning for sexual violence, swearing, alcohol, and probably a few typos. Constructive criticism is welcome, rudeness is not. 

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Chapter 1 

“Why is he still alive?” the slaver asked. His gruff voice echoed throughout the cavernous dungeon. It was more like the growl of a wolf, ready to pounce on unsuspecting prey.  

“He is still a citizen of our great city,” the slaver’s companion, a local official, explained. “He will stand trial for his crimes against your family.” 

“I want his head, Lowey,” the slaver muttered, consciously restraining himself. This city wasn’t like the other places he and his criminal fellows visited. They considered themselves civilized. A word like that didn’t
count for much in the wastes, but within these walls it meant that justice was slowed. 

“I know you do, Cinder,” Lowey said patiently. What a stark contrast the two were, even in the darkness of the dungeons. Lowey wore the ragged clothes of the old order: a shirt and tie. Cinder wore chest armor forged from fresh steel and rows of bullets like jewelry. Lowey tried to maintain a clean appearance, while Cinder was content with the healthy layer of dirt on his skin. “But if you take it before the tribunal passes judgment you will start a war.” 

“How long have you been trying to keep me from starting a war?” Cinder asked. Usually such a question might make him chuckle, seeing as war was his entire business model. He was in no laughing mood this day. 

“Years,” Lowey replied. 

“How many wars have I started?”  

“Dozens,” Lowey said. “Though none with our fair city.” 

“And have I ever started a war for petty reasons?” 

“Exclusively.” 

Cinder examined the cavern walls stoically. They were held up by wooden spokes, to prevent some kind of tragic collapse. It reminded him of the mines to the north, where his cargo was destined to be sold. “My people do not believe in dungeons,” he said, grazing the walls with the tips of his fingers. “They’re a waste of space, especially for nomads like ourselves. We prefer to put our cur down as soon as they go rabid.” 

“You give yourself too much credit,” Lowey said. “Nomads. You’re a gang highwaymen. A powerful gang of highwaymen, I’ll admit, but a gang nonetheless.” 

“My point remains,” he insisted, running his fingers across the wooden door at the end of the cavern. They had been bantering just outside it for so long, his prize waiting on the other side. “Wasteland justice is swift and blind. Your people rely too much on words.” 

“And yours on cocaine,” Lowey said, recalling how much of their product found its way into his city. “You know, this was not always a dungeon. It was a wine cellar. Eventually we found the need to imprison people, and the wine had dried up long ago. You can still smell it if you really pay attention.” 

“I don’t smell your grape juice, just the death and shit that this place houses,” Cinder said. “Allow me to see the criminal.” He rapped his knuckled on the door. 

“Only if you promise not to rip off his head,” Lowey insisted, knowing full well what an angry highwayman was capable of.  

“You have my word as High Harvester,” Cinder said, though that word was worth very little and had greatly depreciated in recent years. 

“Very well,” Lowey said with a scoff. He knew that there was a good chance this prisoner would breathe his last today, but he still took the keys from his belt. One of the only belts in the city, something he prided himself on. 

The door was an old rotted slab of wood, something that a determined highwayman could break down in an instant. Cinder chose not to do this. It showed Lowey that he was willing to go through proper, legal channels to get what he wanted. Or it showed that he wasn’t ready to declare war on his only source of processed steel.  

As such, the steel on the door was fresh and new. As fresh as the lead in their guns and the steel on Cinder’s chest. The hinges and lock and key of the door had all been minted not a year ago, to replace the rust that held it together. Not all the steel in this city was fresh and clean, but the metal that mattered was new.  

Lowey slid the key in and pushed the door open. Faint candle light flooded into the cell, once a cellar. It was not bright, but it was more light than the prisoner had seen in hours. More light than he probably deserved. 

He sat against the wall, thick steel wrapped around his neck. The chain bound him to the wall. Other chains, shorter and more restrictive, bound his wrists and ankles. A cloth gag, bound tightly into a knot, gagged him. He looked up at his visitors, rage in his eyes. Red skin flakes where his collar bound him, a reminder of what happens when he resists it. Were it not for that, he would likely have charged at the door and bolted out of the dungeon. That did not work the first time and it would not work again. 

He was fair skinned before the three days he spent in a cell. Acne scars rippled across his face like craters on the moon. Dried blood clung to the side of his face from the head wound he received upon his arrest. More remarkable, however, were the Marks on his skin. They were dark and lumpy like tumors, etching strange patterns across his face. They were not limited to his face either. They stretched across his body in seemingly random places, a gift from the apocalypse. Cinder could make them out in the faint candle light, across his thighs and forearms and even the tops of his feet. In some places they were thicker than spilled ink. Other places were completely devoid of them.  

“You let Marked live in your city,” Cinder said, disgusted at the creature he saw before him. 

The creature stared back, more than aware of the scorn in the highwayman’s voice.  

“Not everyone is a fan of it, but we don’t kill people arbitrarily in Armagetown,” Lowey explained, eyeing the many weapons Cinder carried. Two rifles on his back, a sawn-off shotgun on his hip, a pistol in each boot, and dozens of knives strapped to his body. If Cinder reached for a single one of them, Lowey would have to draw the revolver from his holster. That would only serve to start a war. “His name is Fluke. He was a scavenger before he was a rapist. Now he’s a prisoner.” 

“Soon he’ll be dead,” Cinder said, savoring the thought.  

“If he’s convicted,” Lowey reminded him. 

“He’s a Marked, of course he’ll be convicted. These mutant aberrations are monsters. He should never been in your city. He should have been in irons.” 

“He is in irons, Cinder,” Lowey said, gesturing to the chains that kept the aberration bound.  

“You could have sold him to us,” Cinder said. “You should have sold him. Then he’d be in the mines and not a wine cellar. Then my daughter would have been safe and this crime would have been avoided.” 

“That is the way of the Harvesters, not of our city,” Lowey said. 

“I’d remind you that your city only exists by our good graces,” Cinder said, standing far too close to Lowey. 

“And I’d remind you that our steel mill is what sustains your army. No army, no slaves, no Harvesters.” 

“No slaves, no ore, no mill,” Cinder shot back. “No army, no crops, no water.” 

“Exactly. We need one another. So stop talking about war and start preparing your daughter’s case,” Lowey said. “The trial begins in two days.” 

“Will you be presiding, Chief Engineer?” Cinder asked, glancing at the prisoner. How sad it must be, chained to the floor and gagged for three days. Fluke was lucky to be in Armagetown’s care rather than that of the Harvesters. He got food and water once a day in these dungeons. He would be tortured until he was dead anywhere else.  

“No, but I will be in attendance. A tribunal has been elected to determine Fluke’s guilt. One that isn’t susceptible to bribes and threats.” 

Cinder bent down and looked the Marked rapist in the eye. They were a faint green in the flickering candle light. There was a madness in the unblinking pools, a sort of feral that was all too common among the Marked.  

“I’m going to geld you like a horse,” Cinder said, so closely that Fluke could smell the tobacco and blood on his breath. “Then I’m gonna sell you dirt cheap. Maybe to a whorehouse. You’ll get passed around like a disease. You’ll be a piece of meat for anyone with something to trade. Maybe then you’ll know how it feels.” 

Fluke didn’t even blink. He had heard worse threats than that. He’d made more creative threats as well. That was all this was: a threat. Unlike many poor wasters, Fluke had been born on the right side of Armagetown’s walls. Sure, he was Marked. Many considered him an abomination of nuclear fire. That barely mattered when he was a citizen of the only place that knew mercy. He wouldn’t be gelded or sold. He wouldn’t even be found guilty. Of this much, he was confident, even if he couldn’t say so with a gag and a jaw that lost feeling hours ago. 

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Cinder asked, standing back up.  

“Are you finished?” Lowey asked. He didn’t care for childish mind games and idle threats.  

“This pig have any family?” Cinder asked.  

“A brother, but no parents,” Lowey said. “For his safety I won’t be telling you how to find him.” 

“And the brother, is he Marked?” 

“No. Why are you so concerned with one of my citizens?” 

He looked back at Fluke. “If your brother had any sense he would’ve sold you years ago.” Now he was just trying to add insult to injury.  

Fluke did not seem to care. 

Lowey sighed with annoyance. He often wondered if it was the drugs or radiation that made highwaymen so stupid. Nearly twenty years since the apocalypse and humanity just got stupider and stupider. Luckily, Armagetown had a functioning school. Maybe Cinder should enroll. 

“I want to talk to the boy who found Jewel,” Cinder said. “He deserves a reward.” 

“He’s just upstairs, speaking to our militia about the trial,” Lowey said. How convenient it had been that there was a wine cellar underneath the militia base. “I’ll bring you to him.” 

“Get some sleep,” Cinder said to Fluke. “Soon, you’ll be working seven days a week, so cherish this last bit of rest you’ll get.” 

The door slammed behind them, leaving Fluke to his thoughts. They shuffled up the stairs, fading away in the distance.  

Fluke knew that he had done no wrong. He tried to tell the militia. He tried to tell Wheeler. He tried to tell the Chief Engineer. Nobody believed him. They found Jewel in his bed, drugged or passed out. She had bruises on her thighs and her pants were ripped open.  

The entire city came for him. They didn’t care that he was friends with Jewel for years. They didn’t care that he wasn’t even in the room when they found her. So many people hated him already, and it was easy to blame a Marked for a crime. 

The side of his head still ached from the rifle butt he’d been hit with. Occasionally it pulsed with pain, but that was nothing compared to the thirst. He got one square meal a day, which meant bread and water. That wasn’t enough though, and the clothe gag made him drool all over his chest.  

All of that overshadowed the pain of his jaw, which had been stretched open by the gag for days. Not to mention the raw, exposed skin constantly scraping against the steel he chains he was bound by. A layer of dirt had clung to his skin in the last three days. His ratted old hoodie and shorts did little to keep it out.  

The real criminal was escaping while he suffered in the dirt. Whoever it was probably already skipped town, leaving Fluke with the mess. The militia would figure it out. Someone would vouch for him. Someone would have to. His brother Patch, maybe.  

That was what Fluke kept telling himself. At least highwaymen had the balls to admit their crimes. Then they would attempt an escape, even if it meant losing a hand or dislocating a shoulder. Fluke was too weak for that. He scavenged in the wasteland, but he always had a walled home to return to. 

Civilization, in all its glory, made him soft. 

  

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Obligatory link to my self published comedy novella:  amzn.to/29Me4H1

[mmeillarec]

Chapter 2



The militia base had once been a reasonably sized family home, on the edge of whatever town this once was. When the walls went up, cutting off some parts of the former town, it wound up near the center of town. Right by the steel mill and the water well.


The Armagetown militia converted the home into something resembling a police station. The Commander of the militia, a woman in her forties named Gaylen, stood in an officer with glass walls separated from the rest of the bull pen. There had once been a kitchen and bedrooms, but those were replaced by desks and a small armory in the back that only a few had access to.


Many men of the militia, now in their later years, had been police officers in their previous lives. The younger boys had been born after the war. They didn’t have uniforms, but badges could be minted whenever needed. So the soldiers of the militia looked like ordinary men and women, but were allowed to carry weapons otherwise forbidden to citizens of Armagetown.


It was known to all that the rulers of the wasteland weren’t those with the most guns, but those with the most bullets. Armagetown had the ability to create new bullets and even new guns. To prevent the spread of arms, Chief Engineer Eugene Lowey made the sale of rifles illegal within city walls. Pistols were fine, but rifles were deemed too dangerous. That was the price they had to pay for civilization. They could not allow a single man with a gun to try and wipe out the militia that kept the wasteland at bay.


Cinder did not say how unimpressed he was with the militia base. As one of the High Harvesters, he had seen fortified bases infinitely more secure than this one. People were able to waltz into the building without finding themselves filled with bullets. The steel reinforcements outside didn’t look like they were for anything besides aesthetic.


His own personal base, in the former township of Marion to the south, was impregnable. A small army of Harvesters maintained its walls and watchtowers as a drop-off point for newly acquired slaves. Some were sold at Marion, but most moved on to farms in the west and iron ore mines in the north, all under Harvester control.


Though he had to admit it smelled much better than his base. They weren’t constantly moving flesh through here, so they didn’t have to constantly clean blood and feces. They likely showered as well, having access to clean water. Not many highwaymen took that kind of advantage of clean water. Obviously slaves did not either.


Cinder missed his slaves. He should have told them about what happened too Jewel, but he left in too much of a hurry. One of them was her mother, though nobody remembered which one. Unless it was the woman who died in the sandstorm last year. It didn’t matter.


The militia soldiers, men and women alike, eyed Cinder warily. They had spent years fighting highwaymen. Many lost their brothers and sisters and wives and husbands in their wars. They weren’t happy to be trading with them, even ten years after the deal was made. Cinder paid them no heed. He could kill them all if he so chose.


“Wheeler, the boy who found your daughter, is in the Commander’s office. I understand you knew each other once,” Lowey said.


“It was another world then,” Cinder remarked, recalling the friendship they used to share. He used to wonder if she even remembered him. He didn’t wonder about stupid things anymore.


“I have other matters to attend to,” Lowey said, gently touching Cinder’s arm. “I trust you won’t wipe out my militia while I’m gone.”


“I’ll make no such promises,” Cinder said, but Lowey was already gone.


Cinder did not knock before entering her office. Such courtesies died long ago, though she didn’t seem to mind. She didn’t even deign to look his way when he swung the door open.


A computer sat on her desk, slightly useless due to the lack of any kind of internet, but still good for solitaire and excel. Computers in working condition were a rarity, just like smartphones. They were prized by those able to barter for them and by scavengers who hunted down old computer stores. It reminded her of the days the bombs fell. At first she was just annoyed that the Wi-Fi was down. Then she was annoyed that mushroom clouds were up.


She also had a small collection of snow globes, all of Sears Tower, lined up like a squad of soldiers at attention. Dozens of files and loose sheets of paper were scattered on her desk. Paperwork was yet another price one must pay for civilized society.


Filing cabinets with drawers half open stood behind her, rusted and decrepit. Several plastic chairs lined the back of the room, facing the commander. There was a plastic waste bin beside her desk, filled with crumpled balls of paper.


“Commander Gaylen,” Cinder said, recalling what immature jokes he once made about her name.


“High Harvester,” she said, not taking her eyes off the visibly confused boy who sat across from her. She wore the tattered remains of the police uniform, stitched together as best she could. It was a symbol, as far as she was concerned, of what the militia stood for. She would be damned if that symbol died. Crow’s feet settled around her eyes. Not a lot of people made it to fifty years old anymore, even in Armagetown.


The boy was a scrawny, pathetic little thing. It was clear to see that, in spite of the pistol on his hip, he was no warrior. The dirt under his nails, sand in his hair, and overstuffed backpack told the story of a scavenger. His skin was darkened by years of labor under the sun, always looking for the occasional stash of valuable loot.


“You must be Wheeler,” Cinder said, wondering how something so weak could rescue his daughter, who was so strong. “I am Cinder, High Harvester of the Wastes and father of Jewel. I want you to tell me what happened.”


Wheeler took a deep breath. He was tired of telling this story over and over again. Commander Gaylen had summoned him earlier that day just to tell it again, in case any new details surfaced. That was what he was doing when Cinder arrived.


“It was the night of Armagelia,” Wheeler explained, trying to muster the courage to look the highwayman in the eye. He saw highwaymen when he went scavenging. They didn’t bother people from Armagetown, but that didn’t make the stories of them any less terrifying. He noticed the “H” burned into his neck, branded. It was the symbol of the Harvesters, the slavers.


“What the Hell is that?” Cinder asked, looking at Gaylen for explanation.


“It’s a festival,” she said. “The anniversary of the end of the old world. Booze, partying, that sort of thing.”


“And Jewel was there,” Wheeler continued. “We’re friends, sir. Not like that though. I’d never lay a hand on her, we just hang out sometimes when she’s in town. We were having drinks down at Snake’s Place, the only bar in town. It was a party for Armagelia, but Fluke and Patch live above the bar. Lots of people do. So we’re looking for Jewel, and Patch says he saw the two of them go upstairs. We didn’t find him, but we found her. She was assaulted.”


“Raped,” Cinder corrected. “She was raped. Say it.”


“She was raped,” Wheeler said with some hesitation.


“You talk about Fluke like you know him,” Cinder said. “Tell me about the runt.”


“He’s a scavenger,” Gaylen interrupted, trying to save Wheeler from an interrogation he wasn’t ready for. “Fluke and Patch were both born in Armagetown shortly after the war. Their parents died before the walls went up, killed by highwaymen.”


“I didn’t ask for his dossier,” Cinder said, ignoring Gaylen’s report. “Wheeler, you knew him personally. Tell me, why do you think he did this? If his parents were killed by highwaymen, is it possible this was an act of hate against the Harvesters.”


“I doubt it,” Wheeler said, looking down at his scuffed boots. Same pair for six years, taken from a skeleton.


“Look at me when you’re speaking,” Cinder said, leaning forward.


Wheeler looked up at him. It was like looking at a bull about to charge.


“Why did your skinny friend rape my child?”


“You saw him, right?” Wheeler asked. “He’s Marked.”


“Are you saying he did it because he’s Marked?” Gaylen asked, raising an eyebrow.


“No,” Wheeler said. “Well, not really. Kind of.”


“Spit it out, boy,” Cinder said.


“He’s ugly,” Wheeler sputtered. “Even if it weren’t for the Marks, he’d still look like a crater-faced weasel. This was the only way he would ever get to sleep with someone as beautiful as Jewel.”


“She was drugged when we found her,” Gaylen said. “Doctor Radcliffe examined her after we moved her to the base. We lost the technology for performing blood tests long ago, but he believes any number of easily accessible sedatives could be responsible.”


“Did Fluke have any of these drugs in his room?” Cinder asked, clenching his fists.


“Yes, but it’s not a rarity. Everyone keeps some kind of drugs in their homes, and most drugs can be used as a sedative,” Gaylen explained, hoping to keep the highwayman calm.


“Very well,” Cinder said between gritted teeth. “Wheeler, you’ve done a great service to the Harvesters. Should you ever need my help or a favor of any kind, simply let me know.”


“Thank you,” Wheeler managed.


“No,” Cinder said. “Thank you, boy. Feel free to visit my daughter, she’ll be staying under armed guards at the Hotel Giga. She could use a friend in this trying time.”


Wheeler wondered, as the highwayman left, why Jewel never mentioned him or Fluke to her father. It was probably the same reason she never mentioned her father. Daddy issues galore. After meeting the man, he could see why she could want to stay in Armagetown instead of with her family.


“Why are highwaymen so freaking scary?” Wheeler asked with a sigh of relief, as soon as Cinder was out of view.


“They don’t follow the rules everyone else does,” Commander Gaylen said, shaking a snow globe of the Sears Tower. They hadn’t seen snow in years. Just sand. “That makes them a threat. We all agree to behave certain ways for the betterment of society. They piss on that.”


“It seemed like you two know each other,” Wheeler noted.


“We were friends,” Gaylen remarked. “Back when he had a real name and radiation poisoning was something for science fiction movies.”


“I wouldn’t know,” Wheeler said. “Only old world I’ve ever seen was in movies.”


“You know, it’s not as great as anyone remembers it being,” Gaylen said. “Maybe I’m jaded from spending so long fighting crime, but I don’t think anything has changed. Some people build, some people destroy. It’s the way things always were and the way they’ll always be.”


“I wouldn’t let your Harvester friend hear you talk like that,” Wheeler advised, recalling how Cinder absolutely seethed with rage.


“He’s no threat,” Gaylen said. “Not to me, at least. I can handle him, but everyone else should watch out. Especially Fluke. Guilty or not, his blood is gonna spill.”


Wheeler looked down at his boots again. “Can I see him?” he asked.


“Fluke?” Gaylen asked. “You wanna see that animal?”


Wheeler shrugged. “We were friends. I just want to understand and I can’t do that unless I see him.”


Gaylen sighed reluctantly. “Alright,” she said, taking a set of keys out of a desk drawer. “You’re not gonna like what you see.”


“I know,” Wheeler said quietly. “That’s why I have to see it.”

 

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Chapter 3



Jewel sat on mattress, arms crossed as if they would hold her together. She rocked back and forth, hoping it might somehow jog her memory. A buzzed in and out, playing some annoying pop song from before the war.


The apartment was the closest thing to lavish she could find in Armagetown. Her father was known throughout the wastes. Many feared him, so she got a good price from the Hotel Giga. It only took a silver necklace and a gold watch, items her father’s men had taken from their captives.


Still, there was nothing she could trade to get better wallpaper or a less moldy mattress. Nobody was making those kinds of things anymore, she supposed.


Armagetown was supposed to be a fresh start for her. It was supposed to be a place where she could be away from her father and still be safe from the dangers of the wasteland. Then Fluke happened. Every time the thought of his weasel-looking face crawled into her head, she had to resist the urge to punch something. It didn’t always work, and her knuckles were starting to get bruised.


Her father brought dozens of Harvesters with him when he heard what happened. A veritable army was standing outside the walls of Armagetown. Only a few had been allowed entrance, just in case this was some kind of Trojan Horse situation.


Jewel’s father, a High Harvester known as Cinder, was not a stupid man. He only brought the women Harvesters inside with him, knowing that he shouldn’t run up to his daughter with a group of armed men. Two women were positioned in the lobby, two in the hallway, and two inside the apartment.


She stared at the one beside her bed. The woman wore an armor piece on her chest made out of rusty license plates. All from Illinois. Jewel didn’t know what an Illinois was. The woman also had an “H” branded into her neck. The same one that Jewel and her father had been branded with. Every Harvester had it, but in the city she wore clothes that covered it. Not everyone liked slavers.


Highwaymen – or highwaywomen – weren’t the best for conversation. The women who guarded Jewel didn’t have much to say, and that suited her just fine. Normally she could gab for hours about absolutely nothing, but she wasn’t feeling very talkative.


So she sat there, curled up in a ratty hoodie that went down to her knees, trying to hold herself together. She wouldn’t let the Harvesters see her cry. Harvesters didn’t cry.


But the fact was, she wanted to cry. Jewel replayed that night over and over in her mind until she wanted to vomit in spite of the fact that she couldn’t even eat. So many hours she couldn’t account for. All she remembered was that first beer with Patch and Wheeler and the bastard Fluke. Then she was lying on a bed in the militia base with a doctor looking over her.


When she thought about it for too long she got dizzy, though that likely had more to do with her lack of an appetite.


How can something she doesn’t remember be so traumatizing?


There were points in the days after that she doubted it even happened. That the bruises on her thighs and the memory gap were something that she invented because she was bored or wanted to be a victim or something. Then she tried to sleep, and the reality of the situation returned and her mind started to collapse once again.


“I trusted him,” she said to the guards. She didn’t expect them to respond. She didn’t want them to. But she had things to say, and she wanted to hear them out loud so she knew they were real. “I trusted him and he betrayed me. When he had that dry spell, couldn’t scavenge anything from the ruins, I helped pay for his apartment. When he twisted his ankle, I paid for his brace.”


“He thought of you as an item, Jewel,” one of the guards said. Jewel didn’t know her name. She didn’t actually know anyone her father brought with him. “Like a slave. He took from you and when he realized what he wanted more than anything, he took that too.”


“Maybe he’s no better than a highwayman,” Jewel said, not forgetting the company she kept. These women had no illusions about who they were. They didn’t care if being a highwayman seemed like a negative to others. “Isn’t that what highwaymen do? We take from the weak.” It was foolish to say “we.” She had never been on a raid herself. Never had to.


“You’re right,” the guard said. “I don’t know a single highwayman who hasn’t raped someone. That includes us Harvesters. Stop looking at it as right and wrong. It isn’t about morality. It’s about action and reaction. He hurt you. How are you going to react?”


She looked out the window, at the sun faintly glowing through the dust clouds. “I’m going to personally escort him to Ironhide Mines,” she said, determination growing in her voice. That made the guard smile.

Ironhide Mines was the last stop on the Trail of Chains, or so the people in Armagetown said. Harvesters brought their slaves to Ironhide where they would work until they died, mining ore for the mill in Armagetown to make use of. The Mines marked the northernmost extent of Harvester territory. A highway cut through their land. That highway was the Trail of Chains.


It was just sad that they weren’t farther south. The slaves who walked that trail suffered. It was part of what broke them. The Harvesters had cars and trucks, which were fine for transporting goods. In order to break the will of a slave, they were often forced to walk alongside the cars for miles and miles. Even in dust storms. Even when their feet started to bleed. It rooted out the weak, Cinder had said. A weak slave can’t mine for shit, so if they can’t make it up the trail then they have no business in a mine.


A knock came on the apartment door. Both guards cocked their guns and aimed at it. Jewel huddled back into the corner where her bed met the wall, trying to make herself compress further into her hoodie. It was not working.


“It’s me,” said Cinder’s husky voice. “Open up.”


One guard put the safety back on her gun, but the other continued aiming at the door. Cinder entered as the first guard opened the door.


“Put that thing down before you hurt yourself,” he said to the second guard. “Leave us. We have things to discuss. Don’t go far.”


It was strange seeing his little girl again after so long. It was like in the old days when a child left for college. Still living off her parents’ money, but free from putting up with them. Cinder only got to see his precious Jewel every few months, and her beauty always took his away.


He did not look at her beauty as the shallow, physical aspect that men of all ages saw in her. She was not the skeletal thin that many women thought was beautiful, and she did not care for makeup, but she was a true beauty. Especially by modern standards.


This was not the sort of beauty Cinder saw in her. Jewel was truly the jewel of his life. He amassed a fortune over the years, acquiring an army, slaves, and land. As one of the High Harvesters, he was one of the most powerful people in the region. None of that mattered though, not when he looked at his baby girl.


Building an army was not the same as building a person. He made her with his own flesh and blood. He raised her to be the healthy, happy, fun-loving girl she is. He spared her the harshness of the atomic wastes and gave her everything she could ever need. She was, in this way, the only thing he ever felt connected to and the only thing he knew he would always love.


And someone thought it would be a good idea to rape her.


“I met Fluke,” he said, gently sitting on the edge of the bed. He wanted nothing more than to hold her in his arms and tell her that everything would be okay, but he saw the way she shrank away. So he didn’t dare touch her. She was the only person that made him want to be gentle. He was harsh and rugged with everyone else. She deserved better than that. “He’s in chains.”


“I want him to die in chains,” she said with a quiet savagery he had never seen in her. A bit of the wasteland that she never felt before. It was as strange to her as it was to him. He didn’t want her to be as feral as a highwayman. He wanted her to be gentle like he was for her.


“I’ll put a bullet in him myself if that’s what you want,” he said.


“No,” she said, raising her voice. “I want you to sell him to Ironhide.”


Cinder couldn’t help but smile. “I had the same idea when I saw what a weakling he is. He wouldn’t last a month. Especially if they geld him.”


That made her smile.


“Although I was thinking he’d go to a whorehouse,” he said. “The mines work to. He’ll probably suffer even more there.”


It was the first time the thought of Fluke didn’t make her want to hit something. The idea of him suffering was some kind of catharsis. It made sense. She wanted to hit things because there had to be suffering to balance hers out. The debt had to be paid in blood. The scales of justice had to be balanced.


“You cared about him, didn’t you?” Cinder asked.


“We were friends,” she said softly. “I trusted him and he used that against me.”


“It’s sad that only our friends can betray us. At least our enemies are good enough to stab us in the front.” This was the closest men like Cinder came to being philosophers. Maybe he missed his calling. “You should clean yourself up. Take a bath.” She couldn’t smell it anymore, but a wave of body odor hit Cinder when he walked into the room. Some might say that body odor is the greatest plague to sweep the ruins of America. Those people have no experienced cholera. Regardless, body odor was a rampant problem, one of the many that could be escaped in Armagetown.


“I kept meaning to,” she said, slowly rising off the mattress like a hoodie ghost.


“And you need to eat something too,” he advised, letting his fatherly instincts take over.


She trudged to the bathroom. Remarkable that there even was a functioning bathroom, though the amount of mold and mildew made it seem like it belonged in a motel rather than a hotel. Still, it was a sight better than anything else in the wasteland, even if the shampoo and soap were homemade. “I’ll grab a bite downstairs,” she said, looking in the shattered mirror. She wasn’t hungry, but keeping food down would be easier than arguing. “There’s a meatball place, Atom Ball. I can meet you there in an hour.”


“I’d love nothing more,” Cinder said, risking a pat on her arm.


She dove into the tightest hug he’d ever gotten, in spite of the steel armor piece that covered his chest. He just wrapped his hands around her and held her close. The only connection he ever felt, the only person he ever cared about protecting was right there in his arms. Jewel was the only thing in this world he cared for and some skinny punk hurt her. That should not have been allowed to happen.

It was never going to happen again.

 

---

Obligatory link to my self published comedy novella: amzn.to/29Me4H1

[mmeillarec]

Chapter 4



“They were always right about you,” Wheeler said, sitting across from Fluke. They were permitted to be alone and Fluke’s gag was removed and hanging around his neck, the spit-soaked knot resting on his collarbone. The chains remained and militia guards stood outside the door. The only light came from the Wheeler’s candle. “Everyone who ever called you a monster or an abomination. They were right. They just said it for the wrong reasons. You aren’t a monster because of your Marks. No, it goes way deeper than skin. You’re as bad as any highwayman, with no respect for the law.”


“Are you finished?” Fluke asked, still regaining the ability to use his jaw. It felt like pins and needles but a thousand times more painful.


“You raped her,” Wheeler said, rage building up like a shaken can of soda. It had been years since he had soda, but that well ran dry. “Do you even understand how fucking heinous that is? She was our friend. Our friend.”


“I didn’t do it,” Fluke said. He tried his best not to move. The chains taught him long ago that sitting still was his best option. It wasn’t just the way they raked against his peeling skin. It was the way they rattled. Constantly clanging with every movement. It was enough to drive even the most sober man insane.


“I found her in your room,” Wheeler shot back. “There were bruises on her thighs and her pants were around her ankles. We know you took her back to your room.”


“Yeah, she was blitzed and needed to lie down,” Fluke said through a chalky, dry tongue. It was more speaking than he’d done in three days and his throat knew it. “It was Armagelia, everyone was there. It could have been anyone, but you all singled me out because of how I look.”


“She was in your room.”


“And where was I?” Fluke demanded, stretching as far forward as his steel collar would allow. “I was wandering the town, drunk off my ass. You and Patch abandoned me.”


Wheeler hesitated, knowing when to hold back. The argument was going nowhere. He knew that Commander Gaylen only let him visit because he might be able to get a confession. “Has Patch visited you?”


Fluke shook his head and looked at some dark corner on the cell. “Not once.”


“I’m sorry,” Wheeler offered insincerely. “I can’t imagine what that kind of betrayal is like. Being so close to someone, then learning that they don’t care about you at all. Must be how Jewel feels right now.”


“I don’t know what to tell you, Wheeler. I didn’t do anything. I’m being set up and the militia is wasting its time when they should be looking for the real rapist. Hell, the militia wouldn’t give this much attention to anyone else if they got raped. But because some f***-of-the-wastes highwayman’s daughter got raped the whole world has to stop.”


“You’re right,” Wheeler said. “If someone less powerful, less important got hurt then there wouldn’t be so much pageantry. You’d just be dead. The Chief Engineer is making a big show of this trial to show how civilized we all are. Be happy for that because it’s the only reason you’re still alive right now.”


“Why are you here?” Fluke asked.


“To visit my old friend.”


“No you’re not,” he scoffed. “You’re a scavenger. You aren’t this political. So tell me what you really want.”


Wheeler leaned against the wooden door and let out a sigh. A bead of sweat dripped down his forehead, reminding him how dank and humid all these old cellars could be. “Gaylen thinks I can get a confession out of you.”


“I didn’t do anything,” Fluke repeated.


“You said that already,” Wheeler said. “Make no mistake, you’ll be convicted. But the eyes of the city are on this trial. Command Gaylen wants to make sure they have as much evidence as possible. That way there can be no doubt that our society works.”


“You’re quoting her word for word aren’t you?” Fluke asked.


They stared at each other for a moment, then they both laughed. It was the first time either of them laughed in a few days. It felt good, like a warm fire on a cold night.


“You’re really dumb, you know that?” Fluke said.


“I know,” Wheeler said, smiling with his crooked teeth.


“So what are you gonna tell Gaylen?” Fluke asked.


“I’ll have to tell her that I tried torturing you, but you just wouldn’t break,” Wheeler said.


“Like you would know the first thing about torture.”


Wheeler raised an eyebrow, then slipped his knapsack off. Metal pieces clanged as they hit the floor. “I found these when I went scavenging the old ruins yesterday,” Wheeler said as he pulled a few items out of the bag. The first was a hammer, the kind doctors used to use to test reflexes. The second was a corkscrew meant for opening bottles of wine. The third was a rusty metal hook that might have been from some kind of grappling hook.


“Kinky,” Fluke observed. “I take it you’re trying to intimidate me with these little toys.”


“Not at all,” Wheeler said. “They’re just here so Gaylen thinks I put effort into this interrogation.”


“So you think I’m innocent,” Fluke said, a bit of hope in his voice.


“Oh not at all,” Wheeler said. “You’re guilty as sin. That doesn’t mean I have to torture you, though. You’re a despicable human being, but no amount of torture will make you talk. See, I know you, Fluke. The more I hurt you, the more you’ll stick to your lie.”


The candle flickered, waving orange light across his Marked face. The Marks looked so sinister in the low light. It almost made Wheeler believe they were a curse from God.


“I’m sorry you feel that way,” Fluke said.


“I’m sorry you raped our friend,” Wheeler said in reply.


“Is there anything I can say that will make you believe me?” Fluke pleaded, not wishing to lose a friend over a false accusation.


Wheeler just shook his head.


“Can you at least make sure Patch comes to visit,” Fluke said.


“I will,” Wheeler said, packing up the makeshift torture devices.


“Wait,” Fluke said as Wheeler put a hand on the doorknob. His other hand held Fluke’s only source of light. “I want you to know that I’m sorry for the way things went for us. This might be my last chance to tell you that.”


Wheeler didn’t turn around. “Was there ever a chance for us? Could you ever have loved me?”


The silence seemed to groan on for an eternity before Fluke broke it. “No.”


That was the last they spoke to one another before the trial.


As soon as the door creaked open, militia guards entered to replace the gag and ensure his restraints weren’t tampered with. Another guard took Wheeler by the arm and escorted him up the stone-cut stairway. Gaylen was waiting for him at the top.


“Did you get anything out of him?” Gaylen asked, blocking his exit. She was a nice woman, but ruthless in pursuit of justice. That was why she was so good at her job. She knew how to balance kindness with duty. She knew that Fluke and Wheeler were friends. That gave her reason to doubt Wheeler’s willingness to implicate him.


“Nothing,” Wheeler said, shaking his head. He opened the knapsack to show to supposed instruments of torture. “He just wouldn’t confess.”


She gingerly placed a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you for your efforts. Can I count on you to testify at the trial?” She asked.


Wheeler nodded. “I’ll be there.”


He left the militia base and started home, all the while racked with thoughts of what Fluke once meant to him. The sun had gone down and the crescent moon barely slipped through the clouds of dust in the sky. People talked about how there used to be skies so clear you could see the sun perfectly. It was like that in movies too. Wheeler had never seen that. The closest he came to that was the day he confronted Fluke.

It was sunny, but there was still a thin canopy of ash obscuring the blue of the sky. It was the kind of day Wheeler could feel the warmth of the sun, even get a little tanned. He was scavenging with Fluke, exploring an old storage unit an hour out from the city wall.


The two of them were quite a pair back then. They could haul in enough scrap in a day to pay the rent for a month. There was even a salesman a town over with a car they might be able to buy, if they saved up enough for a decent trade.


That was back when Wheeler felt something resembling love for Fluke. Wheeler didn’t know if it was really love. He didn’t know what that was supposed to feel like. It was just the only word that made sense. It was the kind of feeling that made Wheeler want to impress Fluke. He looked for better scrap, started exercising and building up muscle. He wanted Fluke to think he was special.

So one day, after hours of deliberation, Wheeler told Fluke how he felt.


“I, uh, I think I love you,” Wheeler said. Such a stupid thing to say.


Fluke didn’t feel the same way.


It would have made Wheeler better if Fluke wasn’t attracted to men. If Fluke was only into women then that meant he didn’t like Wheeler because he was a man. But Fluke liked men, so it meant he just wasn’t attracted to Wheeler. For obvious reasons, that hurt.


For a while they couldn’t be around each other. Fluke avoided Wheeler. Wheeler avoided Fluke. Eventually they moved passed it, but things were never the same. The effortless, caring friendship they had built was gone. It could never come back.


Even so many months after it happened, stupid things reminded Wheeler of the friend he used to have. Sure they were still friends, but not like they used to be. Even the quiet hum of the street lights, powered by the same generators that powered all the town’s radios and mills, were a sad reminder of the late night walks they used to take.


The Uncle Sam bobble head next to his bed was another reminder of that friendship. A gift for Armagelia a few years ago. A fond memory. The sad part was that Wheeler hadn’t given him anything in return.

Maybe he was lucky that things didn’t work out. It turned out that the man he loved was a rapist. That could only have ended one way for Wheeler, and he didn’t like those odds. So he counted his blessings, disguised as they may be, as he laid down to sleep that night.


Too late and too dark to sort his scrap, there was little else for Wheeler to do in his little, closet sized apartment. He was nearly asleep, on the knife’s edge of consciousness, when he heard a knock on the door.

He groaned in annoyance and swung out of bed.


“Wheeler, let me in,” a familiar voice said, muffled by the door.


“Patch?” Wheeler asked, opening the door. “What are you doing here?”


Patch, being much taller and more muscular than Wheeler, was able to push his way into the room without any opposition. His namesake, the eyepatch covering his left eye, was stitched with a blue cross on top of the black cloth. Nobody knew why. Nobody bothered to ask. “The High Harvester is looking for me,” Patch said. “I just heard from Rhodney at Atom Ball. Says he’s gonna tear my insides out.”


“Why?” Wheeler asked, shaking off what little rest he’d gotten.


“I dunno, man,” Patch said. He was shaking with fear. Anyone would be if Cinder was after them, but it seemed ridiculous for a man with an eyepatch to be this afraid.


Wheeler sighed. “He won’t look for you here. Take the bed,” he said. “I’ll take the floor.” He pulled another sheet out from under the bed. This one had the least number of holes in it. He had spent dozens of wasted nights at Patch and Fluke’s place. Back when they were close enough to get that kind of drunk together.


“Thanks man,” Patch said as the springs creaked beneath his weight.


“I saw your brother today,” Wheeler said with a yawn. He lied on the floor and put a plush animal under his head, for lack of a second pillow. “You need to pay him a visit before the trial. That means tomorrow.”

“What about the High Harvester?” Patch asked.


“Don’t worry,” Wheeler said, nonchalantly. “I’ll take care of him.”

---

 

Chapter 5



“I heard an odd rumor at Atom Ball yesterday,” Lowey said, sitting across from Cinder. His office was in city hall, the same building that served as city hall before the world ended. Electric lights buzzed in their sockets above and worn out old books brimmed the shelves beside them. The window behind Lowey gazed out onto the city. Old buildings held together with new steel rose up until the wall, a massive structure of steel and concrete with guard towers every thirty yards.


“Do tell,” Cinder said, who stood out in such a pre-war looking office.


“I heard you’re looking for Fluke’s brother,” Lowey said.


“Funny that you heard that since I didn’t see you at Atom Ball,” Cinder said, leaning back in the creaking wooden seat. “That was something I said to my daughter in confidence.” He might have mentioned his certainty that the goat meatballs did not actually contain goat, but that didn’t seem relevant to the conversation.


“I may not have been there, but someone who answers to me was,” Lowey admitted. “Come now, you were at an outdoor meatball bar in the town market. Did you really think nobody was listening to you? And should you really be surprised that I have people spying in you? I obviously have good reason, since you intend to confront one of my citizens.”


“What I do is none of your business, Chief Engineer,” Cinder growled. “Your duty is to your steel mill. Try to remember that.”


“You mistake me for my predecessor,” Lowey said, recalling the vile woman who preceded him. Viola Jackson, the Great Merchant. She thought that her job as intermediary between the Harvesters and the steel mill was essential. She was tragically, mortally wrong. Since her death, Armagetown has been ruled by the Chief Engineer. Nobody else had the knowledge to maintain the mill so completely. Without him, the city would fail. “If one of my citizens is injured at your hands, there will be a war. These people have no love for you, they wouldn’t object to battling your Harvesters.”


“Where is the boy they call Patch?” Cinder asked, not wishing to continue the word games of civilized men. “He was not in his apartment this morning.”


“Then he’s smart,” Lowey said with a smile. “Rhodney, the owner of Atom Ball, is one of my contacts. I had him warn Patch as soon as we knew you were making a move against him. You highwaymen don’t move as quietly as we city-slickers so it wasn’t hard.”


“Why do you insist on impeding justice at every turn?” Cinder asked. “Is this the way of your city? Hiding the guilty from the light of day any chance you get?”


“Why are you looking for him?” Lowey asked, leaning forward and placing his hands on the desk. There was a revolver strapped to the bottom of the desk that he could reach if things got too heated too quickly. No doubt Cinder could reach any of his weapons more quickly.


“The debt must be paid in blood,” Cinder said. “If we have his brother, Fluke will confess his crimes. If he does not, then Patch’s blood will have to suffice.”


“Frontier justice is not our way,” Lowey said. “I’ll trust this discussion puts an end to any fantasy of kidnapping Patch. If it does not, we will be forced to remove you from the city. If that does not persuade you, maybe this will.” He gestured to the door.


Wheeler entered through the wooden double doors on cue. Lowey had actually made him practice so that he came in at the right time. Always a flare for the dramatic. He took the seat beside Cinder, who was staring daggers at the boy. Wheeler avoided eye contact with the highwayman, obviously aware of what a lethal man he was sitting beside.


Wheeler observed the room with the eyes of a scavenger. The books on the shelf were worn out and falling to pieces, too heavy to carry for what they were worth unless someone specifically requested them. The lamps in either corner beside the window were in fresh condition, including the shades. Those would be worth taking, even though they’d be difficult to transport and trade.


“Why have you brought this boy before me?” Cinder asked.


“Please don’t kill my friend,” Wheeler said, not giving Lowey a chance to explain.


“Well, well, Wheeler,” Cinder said, leaning in close to the boy’s face. “It sounds like you know where Patch is. Why don’t you tell me so I can move on with my plans?”


“Because you’re going to kill him,” Wheeler said, as if the answer was obvious. “I’d prefer you left him alone.”


“Is this you calling in that favor I owe you?” Cinder asked. “Because I meant for that to be a free slave. Or an assassination. Or a raid. Something like that. This is just inconvenient.”


“I’m sorry, High Harvester, but I want my friend to be safe,” Wheeler insisted.


Cinder pondered his options for a moment. “Fine,” he conceded. “But next time I’m taking someone captive to expedite a trial, you don’t get to oppose me.”


“We’ll see,” Wheeler said.


“In the meantime, you’d better pay my daughter a visit,” Cinder said, pushing his chair in. “I’ll see you at the trial, if I don’t see you before.”


And with that, the highwayman was gone. Lowey and Wheeler both wondered if he would be able to find his way out of the building, and how many people would die before he did.


“Good thing your messenger caught me before I left for the day,” Wheeler said, recalling the sprinting militia man who stopped him before he got passed the wall. “This could have ended badly otherwise.”


“You know he’s a highwayman, right?” Lowey said, raising an eyebrow. “He’s not going to keep his word. Is Patch at a safe location? The integrity of this case cannot be undermined by the savage moron.”


“He’s at my place,” Wheeler said.


“Good, good,” Lowey said contemplatively. “Tell me, have you prepared what you will be saying before the tribunal tomorrow?”


“I’ll be telling them the truth, Mr. Lowey,” Wheeler said.


“Yes of course, but have you practiced?” he asked. “It can be tricky, remembering the truth.”


“I’ll be fine,” Wheeler said, not wishing to have his testimony influenced. Truthfully, he knew exactly what he wanted to say. He had for some time.


“Did you ever know my predecessor?” Lowey asked, standing up to dramatically look out the window. “We’re a small city, and everyone knows everyone, so you had likely met her. But did you know her?”


Wheeler shook his head. “No, never met her.”


“If I have it my way, history will know her as Viola the Vile,” Lowey said, looking out onto the city he ruled. “She called herself the Great Merchant and tried to set regulations for trade. That way all trade went through her and she could decide what would be done with certain resources. In this way, she accumulated a vast amount of wealth, taking it from the people of Armagetown. She was the one who brokered our first deal with the Harvesters, using this lock she had on trade to do so. An action that has seen us arming their populace for a decade. Tell me, Wheeler, do you know how many Harvesters there are?”


“I don’t,” Wheeler said, squirming in his seat.


“Neither do I,” Lowey said. “That’s why they scare me. I don’t know how many of them there are, but I know how many bullets they have. The only reason they don’t overrun us is because of the deal my predecessor brokered. That deal is also the only reason they’re so well armed. We’re caught in the middle now, at a crossroads of survival.”


“What are you saying?” Wheeler asked.


Lowey turned back around, solemnly and dramatically. “Your friend must be found guilty of his crimes against the warlord’s daughter. But it must be done through our legal system. If he is killed another way, the people of our city will look to war. If he walks free, the highwaymen will invade.”


“Then it’s a good thing he’s guilty,” Wheeler said.


“I agree,” Lowey said with a devilish smile. “Because if he’s successfully, there will be big rewards for the witnesses who testify.”


Ah, bribery. One of the pillars upon which civilized society is built, right next to bureaucracy and corruption. In a fair and just civilization, such as Armagetown, everything is for sale. That includes the law, which has been known to bend and break for the right price. Even righteous citizens like Lowey and Wheeler were not immune to its beguiling siren song. It was no longer the song of coins jingling in a purse, but the rattling keys of a new apartment.


“Is this trial really that important?” Wheeler asked skeptically. He prided himself on having a healthy amount of skepticism.


“Importance is a funny thing,” Lowey said, stroking his chin as if he had a beard. He was remarkably clean shaven. Nobody really bothered shaving these days, not until their facial hair got unmanageable. “Armagetown would not have survived the atomic war had it been more important. We were permitted to survive because our larger neighbors, like Chicago and Rockford, were worth destroying. We were really no different than those farming towns the Harvesters enslaved. Almost twenty years later, things have turned around. We’re so important that we might be worth fighting over. Thanks to Viola the Vile, that is.”


“You think being so important is a mistake,” Wheeler observed.


“Well, importance comes with resources. That was what the war was fought over. That’s what wars are still fought over. Make no mistake, I enjoy the comfort that this city affords us all. What I don’t enjoy is the knowledge that the Harvesters, or any gang of highwaymen, can take it all away as soon as they get passed our walls.”


“Then I guess we’d better keep them appeased,” Wheeler said with a forced smile.


“It’s sad that men with war in their hearts so often get what they desire. It often leaves the peaceful in peril,” Lowey mused.


“Do you really think he’d go to war with us over this? He’d risk destroying his only source of new steel. The other High Harvesters would stop him.”


“What makes you think that? They’re barbarians. They don’t think before they act. They simply act.” Lowey said, starting to shout and clench his fist. “You’re too young to remember the way things were when the bombs had just fallen. Armagetown didn’t exist yet. Highwaymen ruled the streets. Stealing. Raping. Murdering. Burning homes with families inside. They’re monsters, and because of Viola I am forced to negotiate with monsters.”


“You lost someone to them,” Wheeler said, feeling slightly stupid for not realizing it earlier.


“I lost everyone,” Lowey said quietly.


“You’re not alone, you know,” Wheeler reminded him. “Everyone’s lost someone, most of all to highwaymen.”


“Exactly,” Lowey said, wagging an excited finger at the boy. “That’s precisely why I wish to be done with them. To ensure nobody has to lose to them ever again. Sadly, we live in a world where civilization depends on the cooperation of the uncivilized. For that reason, your friend Fluke must die at the hands of the justice system.”


“I’ll make sure it happens,” Wheeler said. A familiar pang of anxiety formed in his stomach. A sensation that was all too familiar and all too connected to Fluke. The same feeling of dread had plagued him back every day when he thought he was in love.


Maybe, just maybe, the knot of nerves would find itself untangled with Fluke gone. Maybe the feeling would never go away.

---

Obligatory link to my self published comedy novella: amzn.to/29Me4H1

[mmeillarec]

Chapter 6



Every city has dark alleys. Bad things tend to happen in those alleys, especially when shady characters are around. There are no characters shadier than highwaymen.


The dust clouds were especially thick today. Their opaque whiteness blinded the city from the sun, casting a perpetual twilight. This, combined with the fact that back alleys are poorly lit, and how close the alley was to the shade of the wall, made it the perfect place for less than legal activities.


The highwaymen were not entirely sure what they were transporting. Their master, the High Harvester of Marion, did not deign to tell them what was in the crate.


Persea, the leader of this small band of highwaymen, was aware of how elaborate this plan was. High Harvester Cinder had given each team a different task. The first group was supposed to find the apartment of a person of interest in his daughter’s trial. The second team raided the apartment and packed a specified item in the crate. The third team, led by Persea, was given the task of transporting it.


Persea was a fan of spy films, particularly those featuring James Bond. She knew that spy agencies used a technique called “compartmentalization.” In order to prevent a leak of information, nobody knew everything. People only knew what they needed for their mission, nothing more. That way the bad guys didn’t find out if someone was captured and interrogated.


She doubted that she would break under a little bit of torture, and she knew for a fact that none of the men who followed her would either. She didn’t, however, know the rest of the Harvesters involved in the operation. It seemed unlikely that the High Harvester would allow weaklings to serve him, but maybe they were the sort of men to break under pressure.


So when the delivery came, she didn’t ask what was in the crate. Though she was curious where they acquired a crate made of what seemed to be fresh wood, and even more curious as to how they put wheels on it, she refrained from asking.


It was a pallet jack with wooden planks on each side, she decided as one of her men started to push it. The highwaymen who delivered the crate didn’t say a word, they just stood there in the dim light and waited for Persea to leave.


“What do ya think is in ‘ere?” the man pushing the crate asked. Its wheels clicked as he turned to avoid the many potholes.


“Don’t know,” Persea said. “Hopefully a weapon. Or proof of what that Marked pig did to Jewel.” She walked in an air of confidence, remembering the first rule of stealing something. Carry it like you own it and nobody will think you don’t. The less sneaky you look, the less people will suspect you of wrongdoing.


Word had gotten around that the rapist was Marked. Not many of the highwaymen felt sympathy toward Jewel or her father. Not many of them cared if a girl got raped every now and then. Their hatred for Marked ran deeper than that apathy. “Should never’ve been in the city,” another highwayman remarked.


“They should’ve just sold it and been done with it,” Persea remarked. She noted how close they were to the edge of the city. The wall that held highwaymen out was just to her right. Concrete slabs covered with fresh steel, some parts more rusted than others. To her left were apartments, some of which barely skimmed over the top of the wall.


Her men continued their discussion of how horrible the Marked are, while Persea counted them. Four men, plus her. She should have realized earlier how much attention that would draw. Especially since they were highwaymen. The militia was already keeping a close eye on them. She considered that profiling, but it’s not like it was incorrect in any way.


Five heavily armed highwaymen transporting a single crate down a back alley. That screamed of something illegal and dangerous. Two lightly armed men in civilian clothes would have been better. She had barbed wire stitched to her leather shoulder pad, something that not civilian would wear.


Regardless of their blatantly suspicious behavior, the highwaymen faced no opposition on their way to the city gate. The gate itself proved to be a problem.


There was only one way in or out of Armagetown, and that was the gate. A large door made of steel extended upward like a garage door, leaving a gateway open about half the height of the wall. At night the gate was sealed to prevent highwaymen and escaped slaves from sneaking into the city. During the day it was wide open so traders could head straight to the market.


The market, home of Atom Ball and other fine establishments, was the highlight of the city. Few other places could boast such a stock of shops. Traders brought food, weapons, scrap, and anything they could salvage from the ruins. In exchange they acquired steel, water from the well, medical assistance from Doctor Radcliffe, or even clothes and armor. The only conceivable item that wasn’t for sale in Armagetown was people. Those who wanted to purchase flesh had to go to a Harvester base.


The well was at the center of the market and was one of the most essential parts of the city’s function. Should Persea ever decide to take the city for herself, she would start with disabling the water pump that brought fresh water to the surface. It was more like a fountain, with water flowing into a wide basin. Without it the city would have dried up years ago. Just another thing the esteemed Chief Engineer gave his city.

Another critical shop in the market was Snake’s Place, the only bar with fresh moonshine for miles. Most of the highwaymen Persea knew could make their own shine, or knew someone who did it for them. If she ever wanted something that didn’t taste like rats or piss, she had to go to Snake’s Place. Nobody knew how she managed to make decent alcohol, but Persea suspected it involved a deal with the devil and a lot of wheat.


The market was not her concern, however, as she led the crate and her highwaymen to the city gate. It was abuzz with merchants with wares to sell and scavengers looking for a place to spend the night. None of them were locals as far as she could tell, otherwise the guards would have known them and let them in immediately. Most scavengers from Armagetown only came back at night or if there was going to be a dust storm. The sky was hazy, but not so opaque that a storm might be on the horizon.


The merchants all had cars, some pickup trucks, parked outside the gate. They were loaded with crates and bags full of goods to be sold. Some were overseers from nearby farming towns, highwaymen who produced food on the backs of slaves. There weren’t more than a dozen, waiting to carry their goods into the city.


“No rifles in city limits,” one of the militia men told a trader as they examined one trader’s crates. “The militia will be taking two of these as tariff, the rest have to stay outside.”

“You can’t just take them,” the man, older and greying, objected. His car was rusted and falling apart.


“Then maybe you don’t need to trade here,” the guard said. The other militia soldiers, who were standing shoulder to shoulder at the gate, looking out at the old man. He saw them looking his way and stepped back in line.


“Fine, take them,” the merchant said. He carried a box of goods passed the gate and into the city, grumbling all the while about how things were back in his day.


The militia were some of the most pathetic soldiers Persea had seen. It took real cowardice to extort someone like that when they could easily have taken everything he owned. It wasn’t civilization, no matter what the people of Armagetown said. Their walls may keep the sand and ash out, but they’re no less wasters than anyone else out there.


Sand poured into the city slowly throughout the day. It was just after noon, so the grey sand was starting to creep passed the line of soldiers. When the sun went down they would sweep it all out with push brooms, only to do the same the next day. It was like the ocean, and Armagetown was the beach. The wasteland encroaches, bit by bit, only to be pushed back. Persea wondered when it would eventually be reclaimed by the wasteland that allowed it to live so long.


“What’s in the crate?” one of the militia men asked. His accent was disturbingly Canadian, something Persea did not care for. She eyed his rifle, wishing any of her men had been allowed to carry one into the city. High Harvester Cinder was the only one permitted to bring such large guns, but the other Harvesters had to leave theirs with their vehicles.


“An item of value, sent for by the High Harvester himself,” Persea said confidently. She was a good liar, but this wasn’t technically a lie.


“He’s still in the city,” the guard said suspiciously as he looked over the crate. It was nailed shut, so he didn’t try to pry it open. “I would’ve remembered someone as scary as him leaving.”


“If you thought he was scary before, try to imagine how frightening he’ll be when he finds out you impeded us,” Persea said, recalling the sinister voice villains in movies used to intimidate their foes.


“You, uh, you won’t tell him if I take a peek inside will you?” he asked, nervously rubbing a hand on the back of his neck.


“I’ll have to,” she said with a shrug. “But he’ll probably be more upset with me than with you. No, he’ll only maim you. I’ll be dead for sure.”


“You’re not serious,” he said, his eyes growing wide. The rumors surrounding Cinder’s might were deliberately exaggerated. When settlements heard his horde was riding for them, they didn’t run or try to fight. They offered tribute. Then, after years of giving all they could, when their fields ran dry and their women went barren, Cinder would take their lands and sell them as slaves. The other High Harvesters were no different. They understood, as all highwaymen did, that fear is the greatest motivator. Persea even recalled a holiday, back when she was a child, when kids would dress as monsters and celebrate fear. Too bad they didn’t know back then that the only real monsters are dressed as humans.


“I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “You’re thinking that he won’t be able to tell which militia guard was the one who opened his box. But before I die, I’ll tell him that it was the sweaty Canadian one. Then he’ll claim the head of every Canadian in this city. Just between you and me, I think he’s a little racist against you guys.”


“Alright, but I can’t let you take it out without knowing what it is,” the guard said, probably trying to remember was racism was. That was one of the better things about atomic devastation: people had new reasons to kill each other. Skin color just didn’t seem as important as water. “Can you tell me what it is? Be as vague as possible.”


The problem was that Persea didn’t know what it was. She did know that it had something to do with Jewel’s trial, so she used that. “A gift,” she said. “For the daughter of the High Harvester. Something to cheer her up when she leaves.”


And there she walked the thin line between lying and bullshitting. The fact was she had no clue what was in the box, so her description was not was lie. It was bullshit. It may have been true. It may have been false. The cat inside her box could be dead or alive. She would find out when she opened it.


“How sweet,” the militia man said sarcastically. “Get it out of my city before your boss shoots me.”


They pushed it out into the sand, where the wheels occasionally got stuck and had to be dug out. Contrary to appearances, there was more city outside the walls. It was not a part of Armagetown, and it was mostly decrepit and falling apart, but it was there. Mostly collapsed apartment buildings and suburbs, washed in the dust of atomized cities. As such, there were roads paved beneath the sand. The trick was avoiding potholes when they couldn’t even be seen.


The Harvesters brought a small armada of cars when they traveled to Armagetown. If they had been transporting slaves then it would have been dozens of cars. Instead, it was six. Three trucks and three vans. Adequate for transporting the thirty or so highwaymen that came. Some were inside the city, looking after Cinder and Jewel. The rest were keeping watch over their supplies. There were other gangs that wandered the ruins of the city, or so they were told. None strong enough to fight the Harvesters or Armagetown, but certainly capable of stealing cars.


They were parked in what was once a parking lot, just off the highway that leads into the city. That highway was the Trail of Chains and it stretched as far south as the Harvester’s territory. A dozen highwaymen patrolled the perimeter of the cars, just close enough to make conversation. Otherwise they would get bored and start smoking something.


“Open the crate in one of the vans,” Persea ordered them. She opened the back doors of the van she had arrived in. it was not one that carried supplies, so there was nothing to move. The van itself had armor on the sides and front, forged in Armagetown’s steel mill. There were even spikes, just in case someone else in a car wanted to start a fight.


They loaded the crate into the van and cracked it open with a crowbar. The wood splintered and split as the nails were pried out of it. A blanket rested beneath the wood, moth-eaten and ratty. When Persea removed it, she saw the High Harvester’s prize.


Packed tightly in a number of blankets and towels was a boy not much younger than her. He was sedated and in the fetal position and would likely wake up with an extraordinarily sore back.

Persea saw his face and wondered what would hurt more: the back ache he was bound to have or the eye he lost.

 

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Obligatory link to my self published comedy novella: amzn.to/29Me4H1