Wasteland (Wasteland - Trilogy) (9 page)

Dimly, he realized that he should let him escape.

Caleb had won this round, and he should tend to the boy who was still hanging from the streetlamp, who clearly needed his help.

But it was as if he was aflame, burning with a righteous fever that would not be satisfied until each mutant was hunted down, one by one, and made to suffer. A bloodlust was upon him. He took off in pursuit and now felt the glad fire in his legs; the mutant, a fast runner with a good head start, glanced back and the shock on his face was obvious. Caleb was nearly upon him.

The mutant swerved suddenly. He had reached a group of commercial buildings and, now frantic, he intended to escape that way instead. He clawed at the nearest wall and began to climb; Caleb leaped to grab his bare foot and only just missed. But any relief the mutant might have felt was short lived, for Caleb also began to scale the wall, moving with relentless speed.

The mutant pulled himself onto the roof; seconds later, Caleb did the same. By then, the mutant had sprinted to the far end and now balanced on the edge of the parapet; he was gauging the distance to the neighboring building. He glanced back with a look of pure panic and as Caleb ran forward, he pinwheeled his arms and took a standing leap.

Caleb didn’t hesitate. He was aware that he had no clue as to how far he had to jump and that he was at least five or six floors above the ground; a misstep would be fatal. Yet he no longer cared.

He put on speed, then at the roof’s edge, made a blind, running leap. He easily cleared the neighboring parapet and landed hard, instinctively rolling into a sideways somersault to blunt the impact. He came out of the roll without stopping, still running.

The mutant—only halfway across the roof—looked back. He had a setting sun tattooed across his face; beneath it, his expression was one of shock. Yet as much as fear, there was admiration in his voice.

“You have defeated four of my best,” he said. Caleb realized that this one was the leader. “Who taught you?” he called, panting.

“I taught myself,” Caleb said. The hatred and contempt in his voice were terrifying.

The mutant nodded, impressed despite himself. He was cornered now; there was nowhere to run, no other buildings nearby. But as Caleb stepped forward, the mutant hesitated for only a second.

Then he jumped off the roof.

Caleb ran to where he was standing and looked down. The mutant was lucky that the alley was strewn with crates and boxes; a pile of cardboard had broken his fall. Still, Caleb was satisfied to see him limping badly as he escaped down the alley and out of sight.

It was a team of Harvesters who first saw him.

A stranger walked down the main road that led into town. The townspeople viewed newcomers with suspicion, for supplies were scarce enough without interlopers looking for more. This one pushed a battered bicycle, across which was sprawled a body, legs and arms dangling. A dirty white sheet was partly draped around it and already, dark red patches—blood? clay?—were seeping through.

Caleb was bringing the brutalized guard back to Prin.

The Harvesters slowed their own bicycles and came to a stop.

“Mutants?” one of them asked, and Caleb nodded.

The Harvesters exchanged glances as one by one, they recognized the victim. A boy gave an involuntary cry, his eyes round with shock.

“Trey?” he said in a hoarse whisper. “Is he—”

“He’s still breathing,” said Caleb. “Barely.”

The four dismounted and fell in line behind Caleb. There was no need to ask the details; everyone understood what they needed to know. But without being prompted, one of them handed over her water bottle and another took control of Caleb’s bicycle so he had a moment to drink.

By the time they approached the center of town, there were at least two dozen townspeople accompanying them. There was virtually no sound; as newcomers joined in, they were briefly told of what happened in whispers, and then the silence resumed. Without speaking, all had done the unthinkable act of leaving their jobs, and beneath their robes and headdresses and sunglasses, their faces were shocked and somber.

One of them, the guard’s partner, walked up front with Caleb. At first glance, Aima seemed stoic, a sturdy, heavily pregnant fifteen-year-old accustomed to unexpected hardship. But beneath her dusty head cloth, her eyes were dark holes in an ashen face. She gripped her unconscious partner’s hand, massive in her small one, and stroked it with her thumb, as if trying to will him back to health.

Word had been sent ahead of them and by the time the procession reached Prin, Rafe and a small crowd were outside, waiting. Several townspeople managed to lift the boy and carry him into his storefront home. Once inside, Aima and her friends would wash him and tend to his wounds as best as they knew how.

Rafe was taken aback to see a mere stranger followed by the citizens of Prin. As he stepped forward to greet him, he cleared his throat and attempted to take control.

“Thank you for bringing home one of ours,” Rafe said. Even to his own ears, his words sounded falsely hearty.

The stranger said nothing and merely bowed his head in acknowledgment.

“Did you see who done it?” continued Rafe. “Or did he run off before you got there?”

“I seen them,” said Caleb.

Rafe nodded. “So it was more than one,” he said, then turned to spit in the dust. “That makes Trey an even bigger hero. I bet he gave them a good fight with those weapons. Still, we’re glad you come along when you did. Must’ve helped scare them off.”

Rafe’s voice shook and again he cleared his throat, to cover it. He was aware that everyone in town was not only staring at him; they were judging him, weighing his words.

It was, after all, his idea that guards be posted that morning, alone, and without any kind of training or backup. In retrospect, even he had to admit that perhaps it was a bad impulse. He had acted rashly, without a real plan. Without weapons,
real
weapons from the Source that idiot Sarah had promised then failed to deliver, what other choice did he have?

Now Trey’s partner stopped as she headed indoors to tend to the boy. In front of Rafe, her eyes blazing, Aima spoke in a low, accusatory voice.

“Trey never fought those mutants and you know it,” she said. “He’s too gentle. And you sent him there alone. You sent him out there and now he’s—” A sudden spasm of anger contorted her face and she pushed past him to get inside.

Rattled, Rafe cleared his throat, hoping no one else had heard. He was now aware that the stranger was speaking.

“—wonder if you could give me some information,” Caleb was saying. “I have some private business to look into.”

“Of course, of course,” said Rafe, with a wave of his hand. He was not listening; too busy worrying what the townspeople were thinking of him, he had already dismissed the stranger to the realm of the unimportant.

But at that moment, there was a new commotion.

A small boy and even smaller girl had just arrived, and they were both talking to whoever would listen. They were breathless and shrill, words tumbling over one another in their haste to speak.

“We seen it—” said the boy.

“We was hiding,” said the girl. “We heard a noise so we hid. Then we seen it—”

“There was five of them. He was shooting rocks, like this, one after another—”

“They had Trey tied to a rope. He looked bad, he wasn’t moving—”

“—and he beat four. The last one tried to get away . . . but he chased him, too—”

“—five against one. He beat them all. And we seen it—”

“Five against one.”

The townspeople murmured, trying to understand. Bewildered, Rafe stepped forward and leaned down to address the two, with a feeling of dread.

“Who beat the mutants?” he said.

At this, the two stopped talking, self-conscious at being the center of attention. But then, they both noticed Caleb, standing to one side. The girl’s face flushed and the boy broke into a smile as he raised his finger, pointing through the crowd.

“Him. Him over there. He’s who done it.”

T
HE CELEBRATION LASTED ALL AFTERNOON
.

Rafe had sent out orders, allowing everyone in Prin to take the rest of the day off from work. This was to guarantee maximum attendance—ostensibly, to pay homage and show gratitude to Prin’s new hero.

The real reason was that Rafe wanted to ensure the entire town gave him credit for this turn of events.

As a result, the aisles of what had once been a supermarket were crowded. Even Sarah was there, whom Rafe had invited despite his lingering anger, as well as her misfit younger sister, Esther.

The stranger sat next to him, of course, in the seat of honor at the single table in the front of the store.

At first, Caleb was so silent and awkward, Rafe wondered if the reports of his astonishing heroism were true. For a moment, he even considered that he might be simple in the head. But when food and water were placed in front of Caleb—only he was served, as befitted the guest of honor—he started to eat voraciously. Soon, Rafe figured, he was bound to open up. And then they could get down to the real business at hand.

“We wanted to show our appreciation to you,” Rafe said after Caleb slowed down. “For once, somebody not only agrees with me about the mutants . . . he ain’t scared to follow through.”

Caleb cleared his throat. Then he spoke so softly, even Rafe had to cock his head to make out what he was saying.

“Nobody wants to take the fight to the mutants more than me,” he said. When his words were conveyed through the room, there was a murmur of approval.

“But this dinner ain’t
just
about appreciation,” continued Rafe. “I’d like to make you a proposition.” As usual, he, too, lowered his voice, so people leaned forward. “I’d like you to stay on awhile. How about you teach us what you know about fighting and such?”

For the first time, Caleb turned to his host and Rafe was startled by the intensity of his gaze.

“Do you have any
real
weapons?” Caleb asked in his soft voice. “Any hunting knives? Shotguns?”

Rafe flushed.

“No,” he said pointedly. He hoped Sarah was listening. “I’m afraid we got to take on the mutants without those. But I should add—in exchange, we’re willing to put you up and feed you. How does
that
sound?”

Rafe was smiling, a bit desperately now. Caleb appeared to be thinking. After what seemed an eternity, he gave a slight nod. At this, the room began to buzz with excitement.

“But I have conditions,” he said, and everyone fell silent.

This time, he looked up, addressing the entire room. “If any mutants come near town, we will attack them, and attack them hard. Any survivors will be imprisoned. There can be no contact of any kind between townspeople and mutants; if anyone is caught socializing with a mutant, they will also be imprisoned.”

Now the silence was broken. Slowly, a hum of excitement in the room built to a ragged crescendo of approval. One by one, the people of Prin started to cheer, thump the floor, and bang on the metal shelves, whistling loudly. After a while, the place was utter bedlam.

Uneasily, Rafe watched this. He stood and quickly put his arm around Caleb, making sure to share in the applause.

Only one guest was not celebrating.

The person had been standing alone by the front door and now, quietly, slipped outside into the early evening while no one else was paying any attention.

It was late when Caleb staggered out onto the main street. He was full to bursting, more sated than he had been in years.

He was also exhausted, with a heavy bone-weariness. After months of hard travel, he had reached his destination, and he had been welcomed. A good night’s sleep under a roof would prepare him for what he had to do.

Caleb turned onto the deserted street where he had left his bicycle, chained to a rusted parking meter. Then he froze.

Somebody was kneeling next to his bike.

Even from the back, Caleb could tell it was a young boy, small and slight, wearing a red sweatshirt with the hood drawn around his head. Gloves on his hands, he was slashing at the back tire with some instrument.

Caleb tackled the boy from behind. Putting him in a chokehold, he dragged him away from the bike. The vandal was struggling, flailing with his free hand—he was striking out with his weapon, an ugly piece of broken glass—but Caleb was able to shake it loose, then kick it away with his boot.

The two struggled in near silence—Caleb trying to subdue the boy, who continued to fight wildly, despite the obvious difference in size and strength. Finally, the smaller one managed to twist his head into the crook of Caleb’s arm while seizing his thumb and yanking backward; with a cry of pain, Caleb loosened his grip and the other slithered out of his grasp, his hood ripping. The two faced each other, the boy still choking for breath, massaging his throat.

Only it wasn’t a boy. It was a girl.

The girl who had been spying on him near the hoop on the pole, behind the building.

And she looked furious.