The Wastelanders by K. S. Merbeth

Author:K. S. Merbeth [Merbeth, K. S.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Orbit
Published: 2018-10-16T00:00:00+00:00

I throw the Butcher facedown in the dirt. The townies scatter as if expecting him to jump up and grab them, staring goggle-eyed first at him and then at me. Several of them back away, their eyes wide.

My mistake. I forgot I was dealing with civilized folks. At least, that’s what they fancy themselves, hiding in their walls and ramshackle communities and clinging to scraps of what life was like before the bombs fell. They’re not like raiders, who fully embrace the mayhem of the world and make their livings killing and looting. Townies would rather rely on scavenged canned food, rather stay half-starved than eat human flesh like the sharks do. I admire the way they stick to some semblance of morality, even in a world like this. I try to do the same, though I’m no townie—not anymore. Of course, I’m not a goddamn shark, either. I exist somewhere in between the two ways of life, apart from all of them.

The townies don’t let me forget it, either. Right now, they’re staring at me like I’m some kind of monster that wandered into their midst.

The two dozen standing in a half circle around me comprise the bulk of the population of Sunrise, a dingy little town on the edge of what we call the eastern wastes. The buildings of Sunrise are all stout and cramped together, not one above a single story high. It’s like they’re crouched in the dirt, afraid to lose their hold on the earth. Beau the Butcher lies still in the middle of the dusty ring the people of Sunrise call the “town square.”

“Is he dead?” one man asks, after several moments of silence. He cautiously cranes his neck and then retracts it, like he simultaneously wants to get a better look and fears what he’ll see if he does.

“Well, no,” I say, my eyebrows drawing together. “Figured you’d want to do it yourselves.”

They ogle at me some more. One man clears his throat. Nobody meets my eyes.

“But he’s one of …” A townie starts, and stops. He licks his lips and drops his voice to a loud whisper. “Jedediah Johnson’s men.”

“Yes,” I say, not sure what that has to do with anything. “And he killed your sheriff over a card game. So you wanted him dead. What am I missing here?”

There’s another long stretch of silence, in which all the townies glance at each other and shuffle their feet and refuse to look at me. Finally, a woman steps forward. She’s a solidly built, middle-aged woman, dusty and stout like the buildings of her town. The top of her head barely reaches my chin, but then again, my height rivals that of a decent amount of the men in town as well. I recognize her as the woman who made the initial deal with me—the wife of the recently murdered sheriff, who seems to be taking on the role of her dead husband.

“Well, there’s a reason we hired you to do it,” she says.

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