Vile Wasteland (A Post Apocalyptic Novel) (7 page)

Upon closer inspection, she could see the lighting was deceptive.
His hair was a curious mix of reddish gold, that glinted blonde in
the light and came about his shoulders like a thick mane. Turning
towards her, she could see, once again, he bore something of a
resemblance to her old friend. Handsome and appealing, he looked like
Marim in the face to some degree, though his features, nose, jaw and
lips, were wider.

He had a slow sort of movement about him, not as if he were dim or
dull, but rather meticulous and unfazed by all around him.

With deep amber eyes he gave her a curious look over, a drink in
one hand. She could see why the spot beside him was empty, in his
high jack boots and tight white t-shirt that bulged from muscle, he
looked and acted intimidating.

In a deep husky voice that just radiated masculinity he said, "Go
on and take it."

"Awesome, thanks," she replied, her tone seeming far
more girlish than usual as she slid into the seat, "Fuck, this
place always this packed?"

Despite looking like he didn’t care for any interruptions,
the large man brought his attention back to her, slowly looking her
over and nodding. "Yeah, every time I pass through," he
said. Then with a brief look around he added, "Probably slower
than usual, due to that raid I guess."

As he let go of his drink and took a pull on the cigar he had in
his other hand, he then offered her one of his large, tanned hands.
"Grent King," he introduced himself in that husky rasp of
his, obviously having smoked more than a few of those cigars in what
must’ve been at least his thirty years.

She slid her hand smoothly into his in her trademarked way,
feeling out his pulse, "Alex," she smiled. "What
raid?" she quickly followed up, leaning in towards him, quite
interested in what he had to say.

Grent was obviously a man used to being in control, with his slow,
thorough movements and the calm, assured way he sat straight and
looked her over, keeping her small hand inside his over-sized mitt.
Twisting in his seat slightly he lifted his hand with the cigar,
looking to the bartender, "Blueberry wine for the lady," he
ordered. "Town was raided by Viles just before I got here,"
he said to her firmly, her hand still squeezed in his.

She didn’t retract it, but she smiled at his order,
"Blueberry wine?" she asked excitedly before trying to
shake her head free, getting back on topic, "Fuck, glad I wasn’t
here for that."

The man didn’t hold her hand in place, letting hers slip
from the rough touch of his own then returning to lift his drink. The
bartender gingerly laid the wine before her, its curious blue tint
showing through the dainty glass it came in. "Don’t like
it?" he asked, giving her another look over. "Or I guess
they just don’t have that where you’re from, do they?"
he said, as if he understood something about her without even needing
to ask.

"The second," she lifted the glass, swirling it about
with a curious mix of intensity. She looked at him for a moment
though, her head cocking to the side, "I can’t pay for it
though. Just so you know."

Pushing out his jaw a bit at that declaration he shook his head
and said, "Already bought it for you," and took another
mouthful of his own amber drink. "And lucky you weren’t
here for it, yeah. Though I wish I was," he looked back to her
with that intense, amber gaze of his.

She took a sip that was, at best, very unlady like. It was more of
a gulp, half of it disappearing before she rest the glass down on the
table with a broad smile, "They do that often? The Viles I
mean."

Watching her take a gulp of the wine he simply nodded, "Yeah,
they do. Not here though," he said, taking another look around
the place before resting his gaze back on her. "This place was
always one of the safest," he explained. "Was damn out of
character for ‘em too," he said, his dark voice heavy with
some emotion she couldn’t gauge.

"They took my bag!" she said quickly, leaning in. "I
was told that was uncharacteristic too, ‘cause there wasn’t
any food in it." She seemed so excited, as if she’d just
proven her point.

Grent’s brow furrowed, and she could see the man had a few
marks upon his skin, old scars it seemed that traced along his jaw,
and one at his forehead. They were subtle mostly, but spoke of a hard
life. He contemplated her words a while before he spoke. "Hungry?"
he asked, looking her over and not waiting for an answer as he spoke
to the bartender, "Bring a couple baskets of dogs and fries to
my usual table," and immediately he stood up, taking his drink
and cigar with him.

She stood up as well, downing the rest of the wine, "You have
a usual table?" she asked, trying to straighten her posture in
the cramped area.

Without answering he just marched over to a corner booth directly
opposite of where they were. It was, of course, occupied, as they all
were when she came in, but the three young men sat there saw him
coming and, with heads ducked, got up and moved out of the way before
he even arrived. "I stay here whenever I pass through," he
told her, sliding into his seat comfortably, as if he belonged here,
or rather the place belonged to him.

She slipped in across from him, giving a passing glance to the
three that made way for them, "Oh. Everyone knows you, Grent?"

With a shrug of his heavyset shoulders he puffed on his cigar and
looked across at her, sizing her up in her t-shirt again. "In my
line of business that’s kind of a necessity." Exhaling a
cloud of the gray smoke away from her he asked, "So you’re
sayin’ one of those fuckin’ freaks just came by and stole
your pack?" There wasn’t the disbelief on his husky voice
like had been on Jarago’s, instead merely curiosity.

"Yea. I came up on a building and was going to go inside when
they grabbed me. There was three of them, and one took off my bag and
ran off. I still don’t know where they went, ‘cause the
other one pinned me. I fuckin’ killed him, but then the other
one came at me. I woulda had him too but some people came up and took
him out. Still never saw the third one, but there was a woman inside
the building. She’s dead too."

Grent absorbed her tale passively, puffing on his cigar all the
while. He didn’t respond right away, but once the four
baskets–filled to the brim with steaming hotdogs and fries–were
placed before them, and a refill of his drink and another glass for
her, he finally cut back in. "That’s fucked up," he
said simply and began to coat his own hotdogs in some sort of sauce
from an unmarked bottle.

"Yea," she pushed herself back into the bench, thinking
it all over again before reaching for a fry and popping it in her
mouth. "So now I’m out here without my stuff, and I’m
pretty fucked. And no one knows why they’d take my stuff so I
don’t even know where to look."

Quietly he pondered that, then in a series of three quick bites
he’d devoured one of the four hotdogs that sat in his basket.
Washing it down with some more of his drink he looked to her,
"Startin’ to make sense to me," he said, looking more
like he was beginning to understand things in general.

"Really?" her head cocked to the side and she leaned
forward, her eyes narrowing. "Wait, what do you do?"

Eating some fries as well–the man seemed to devour things at
an alarming rate, but then he’d have to, to be able to maintain
his muscular bulk–he then nodded, peering around them
cautiously, though nobody was near them. "Mercenary, bounty
hunter. Whatever you wanna call it," he said, looking her back
over. "I do the tough shit no one else can. Or who has the balls
to at least."

"Oh. So you... don’t kill Viles or you do?" she
asked, seeming a bit tense at his admission, though she noticed how
quick he was eating and grabbed a hotdog before he could devour that
too.

With a bit of a laugh he nodded to her, "I’ve killed
more than I can count," he said, another hotdog disappearing
with a stream of liquor going down behind it. "And I can count
pretty damn high," he stated. Wiping his mouth with the back of
his hand he looked her over, "And then there’s you, fresh
out and you’ve already racked up a kill or two, huh?"

Her eating paused and she stared at him, "Fresh out?"
she took her wine, sipping more of it down and leaving it half full.

Nodding to her he continued eating, "You’re one of the
last bunker dwellers or I’m a janitor," he stated, having
apparently guessed her nature by some process in his deceptively
swift brain. "Those pristine clothes. Your perfect good looks.
Never had a blueberry wine before," he nodded, "yeah,
you’re fresh out of a hole. Or from Mars."

Her nose crinkled as she looked down at the hot dog, "Oh,"
her lips quirked to the side, squinting a bit at him, "I guess
you gotta see this stuff if you’re a janitor."

That, unlike everything else, managed to crack the unflinching
man. His full lips spread into a wide grin, white teeth showing at
her as he gave a near silent chuckle. "You’re good,"
he said while pointing his cigar at her a moment, "Don’t
even doubt your story about the Viles. You’d have taken all
four by yourself in time, I bet."

She seemed pleased at his good humour, and she began to eat in
earnest, "Well I only had my knife. They took my gun. The first
one, that is," she pouted. "So.... why’d they take
it?"

Finishing off the last of his hotdogs he looked her over, head
tilted a bit, and that thick head of hair he wore barely budging with
its consistency. "Viles don’t steal. They kill, they rape,
they pillage, but they don’t steal," he said firmly. "But
here they are, raidin’ this town, leavin’ while there’s
still livin’ folks ta kill, and then... you," he stated,
pointing his cigar at her again. "Stole from you." Mulling
that over, he licked his lips, "So the only explanation is...
they aren’t Viles no more. Not exactly."

She cringed at the word rape, visibly pulling away before relaxing
once more, though her stomach remained clenched. Yikes. Still,
licking over her lips, she swallowed, "Oh. That’s... not
good? Good? I mean... better stealing than killing, right?"

Furrowing his brows he looked off into the distance before peering
back at her. "Maybe, maybe not. Maybe it means whatever turned
‘em into those fuckin’ shits they are is wearin’
off finally after all these years. And they are gettin’
something of their humanity back," he theorized, leaning on his
elbows, hands folded, the cigars smoke wafting up in front of his
handsome, broad face.

"Well that’d be good, right? Except for the stealing
part..." she tacked on, still sounding a bit put out by that
personal loss. Her wine was gone, she had a decent dent in her food,
and she was looking quite grateful at the man’s kindness, even
though apprehension at his words was most dominant.

It was obvious the large, seasoned man was still mulling it all
over in his head. But he looked over her and the mostly eaten
food–his all gone, of course–and shook his head in an
unknowing look. "Maybe, but probably not," he stated.
"Humans can be worse than the Viles at times. And if they’re
gettin’ some of their ability to think and calculate back, but
still got their nasty rage in ‘em, then that only makes them
worse. By tenfold," he added, sounding quite certain now.

"Oh," she slumped back in the bench, pushing her final
hot dog towards him, "Well. You think they’re gonna come
back here soon? I’m here for a few days so..."

With a shake of his head he said, "I don’t know that.
Only puttin’ the pieces together now that I spoke to you."
He looked her over again then, "Where are you headed then?"
he asked.

"I don’t know," she shrugged. "Just tryin’
to get some shit together for the people back home," she sighed.
"It wasn’t supposed to take long, just trade what I had,
get what I needed, then come on back. Now I’m worse off than
when I started."

Nodding slowly to her he said simply, "I see," then went
back to pondering, puffing on his cigar now and then. "What sort
of shit you trying to get together for your bunker buddies?" he
asked in that same slowly calculating manner he had about everything.

She was too accepting to be sceptical of his questioning, and
eagerly responded, "Food. Food and seeds and equipment to grow
our own."

"You won't get that here." The statement was
unequivocal, irrefutable in the way his gruff, slightly rasping voice
said it. "The town’s leader has ordered a halt to all
trade of food and foodstuffs," he clarified. "After the
raid, they can’t afford to give anything away, they say. Hell,
they’ve even confiscated what food there is from the traders,
holed it away for safekeeping."

Shaking his head he gave her a slight frown, "Sorry, Alex."

"Not your fault," she sighed, though she seemed
dejected. Her chin rested in her hands as she stared at him for a
long few moments. "Fuck," she sighed as she pushed herself
back, straightening her posture. "There’s only so much I
can fuckin’ lose, you know."

The stoic mercenary eyed her in quiet contemplation a while. "How
badly you need that stuff?" he enquired, puffing on his cigar,
gears obviously turning behind those curious amber eyes of his.

"About as badly as people need to eat in order to survive,"
she admitted, suddenly feeling a bit guilty at the fullness of her
stomach and her rejected food.

Mulling over her words, his eyes slid down at nothing in
particular. Lost in thought for a bit the older man took a final puff
on his cigar before stubbing it out and looking to her, "There’s
no other town worth a damn for trading within a week of here,"
he stated. "So unless your people can hold on for a couple of
weeks for you to return with a big load of supplies, you have you get
what you need here." The man was calculating his way through
some sort of equation, she thought.