The Waste

The body lay just underneath the shade of the rock. It’s probably been dragged there by some sort of scavenger, maybe a pack of them. Hard to tell from this distance. The Wastelander lowered her scope. No point moving around in this heat, she thought to herself. It’s as much of a death sentence as staying put at night. Best to wait until a bit later when it gets a bit cooler.

She sat in the shade of her rock for a few hours, watching the thin strips of salvageable meat she’d been able to carve off the emaciated dog corpse toughen into jerky on the salt-encrusted rock. A bit of extra protein never goes astray, and, even out here, dog is relatively safe if you cure it right.

The sun chased her around the rock as the afternoon progressed, until finally, an hour before sunset, it sank low enough to tempt her out of the sandy wallow she’d scraped out around the base. Grabbing her now desiccated jerky sticks off the rock, she hoisted her pack and struck out in the direction of the body.

When people think of the Wastelands, they generally think of endless, featureless sand dunes stretching out forever. A waterless hell that ends all life stupid enough to enter. Like all born here, she knew better. Sure, there are areas like that. You, like everything else, keep out of them. Simple.

She wound her way down off the slight rise, through the harsh, spiny, grey scrub. Bushes claw you, not because they’ve got anything against you, they’re trying to survive out here too, like everything else. Survival means not being an easy target. If you don’t want to be eaten, be unchewable. Or, better yet, indigestible. If you don’t want your legs shredded by the plants, follow the animal tracks, and wear as many pairs of pants as you can scavenge. She had three pairs on.

The sun was only just above the burning horizon when she finally reached the outcrop. Approaching from the lee side, she took off her day goggles. She had always loved the colours, the true ones you only spend a couple of minutes a day with, not the dull analogues you see through the deeply tinted lenses. There are a thousand shades of red, brown, and yellow in the rocks and sand. More greys than you can believe possible in the brutal, beautiful foliage. And, visible only at this time of the evening, the greens, blues, oranges, yellows, and reds of the upper-atmosphere fires, illuminating nearly one hundred and eighty degrees of the horizon.

Now that’s a nice set of boots. And look at those pants, not many tears, more pockets than I’ve got weapons. Well, almost.

Is that an intact backpack?

The first thing scavengers do is destroy backpacks and scatter the contents halfway across the Waste.

She hit the ground. The first shot slammed into the rock where her head had been a fraction of a second before. The next two were lower, showering her in exploding rock shrapnel and dust. She rolled hard right over broken rock and into a washout beyond. It was cover.

Or a shallow grave.

She waited. The only sound was her steadying breathing and the occasional cascade of stones and rubble further down the washout every time she moved.

The sun disappeared over the horizon. The temperature would drop soon.

Far off in the distance, the first wail cut through the night.

“Wastelander.”

The call came from the ridge she had spent the afternoon on. How had she not noticed?

“We have limited time if we want to live through this night.”

Man’s voice, position difficult to judge. Is he looking for a better angle?

A red laser site appeared on her chest.

“Loot the body if you have time. Take the backpack. Deliver the package to the trading station on the western edge. You will be rewarded!”

“And if I don’t?”

The red dot disappeared. High above her on the ridge, she saw to top of a head silhouetted against the last of the atmosphere fire’s light, and then it was gone.

The wail was joined by other, closer wails.

Time to be elsewhere.

Pulling down her night goggles, the world went luminescent green. Instinct screamed, run!

She untied the boots and pulled them off. Another wail.

Close.

Maybe at the top of the ridge?

She removed the pants.

Two cascades of gravel. Two heavy bodies sliding down the ridge in different places.

Sweat running down her temples, she sliced the corpse’s abdomen open. Shame to ruin a good shirt.

The bag!

Snatching the backpack, she forced herself to walk silently around the far side of the rock, then crept, quads burning, down the loose surface of the hill.

The wail tore through her, freezing her to the spot. Bile burned in her throat.

Rending of flesh and bone.

Then came the actual explosion. The second body slammed into the first, unleashing a storm of screaming, wailing, howling, shrieking, severing and crunching fury.

And she ran. Headlong into the night.

***

The trading post was unmissable, the only ‘building’ for fifty kilometres. It was more of a structure than a building, bearing closer resemblance to a rodent nest than a human habitation. Most Wastelanders find themselves here one day. There are some things you can’t trade anywhere else.

She’d opened the backpack when she reached the trading post a week ago.

The package inside seemed innocuous enough, a strange, rectangular, disturbingly squashy item wrapped in layers of brown paper. At some point on the trek here, the contents had seeped into one corner of the wrapping, leaving a high-tide ring and a dubious smell impregnated in the paper. She’d thrown up the moment she smelled it.

She watched through the scope as the flap in the outer door opened. Some trading posts in the farming lands only have a single door. Or that was what she’d been told. She couldn’t quite believe that anyone would be so negligent, but maybe things are different there? Maybe there aren’t as many things trying to kill you?

A rake appeared out of the thin slot midway down the door, hooked up the package, and dragged it to the base. A flap opened, a hand shot out, and it disappeared.

She watched.

An hour later, the bottom flap opened, and the rake appeared again, pushing a box of ammunition out across the sand. The rake whisked in again, quicker than a fleeing sand snake. The flap slammed to, and the sound of a well-oiled bolt being rammed into place rang out across the Waste.

A whole box of ammunition.

She winced. It wasn’t going to be a long wait.

It started when a bush on the far north side of the trading post twitched unnaturally. Several bushes to the east then moved in the non-existent breeze. Suddenly, a shadow detached from a tree to the south, less than ten metres from her position, and sprinted towards the ammo.

East leapt up and was immediately shot by the rising North. South pulled out a crossbow, firing and missing North. North fumbled with his gun, dropped it, wrenched two homemade blades from behind his back, and charged South.

The Wastelander lowered her scope. There was no joy in watching them kill each other. Listening was bad enough. These weren’t true Wastelanders anymore. Only the old, the weak, and the desperate staked out trading stations. Still, she felt a faint twinge of sorrow about South. He’d been too easy to spot. Young and inexperienced, greedy. If he’d ever been educated, he’d ignored everything he’d ever been told.

Didn’t matter. He was silent now.

An hour of waiting. Finally, he emerged. She watched as the man scrambled down from his hiding spot. Bold as brass, he made his way through the grasping, spiny bushes, hunting rifle slung casually across his back. The temperature was cooler here on the fringes, but still, he must have been sweating buckets. It was at least forty five Celsius in the afternoon sun.

He walked straight to the ammo and picked it up, hefting it, feeling its weight. Satisfied, he slipped it into his pack and strode away.

All that effort.

All that risk, for a box of ammunition.

***

A month later, she found his corpse. It was impossible to tell what had got him in the end. By the time she reached him, it looked like most of the scavengers in the Waste had tried their luck at one point or another. His clothes and backpack had been shredded, and the contents scattered to the four winds. His gun was gone, but beside him, half-buried in the sand, lay a three-quarters full box of ammunition.

Idiot.

She shook her head. And took his boots.

Like a real Wastelander.