James A. Hunter
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Wasteland Warlords - Chapter 1
🕑 Added 2022-07-13 14:02:10 +0000 UTCNOTE FROM JAMES: Hey everyone, just wanted to let y'all know that I'll be posting chapters from a new novella series called Wasteland Warlords. It's post-apocalyptic Gamelit with a fun cast of wonky characters. I'll be posting a chapter a day for a while, but no worries, it won't interfere with my other current projects, Vigil's Valor and Shadowcroft 3. These chapters are just already done and I figured I might as well get them out into the world, especially since I plan to start running this thing on Royal Road in a few weeks as well. Hope y'all enjoy it!
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“I can’t believe I let you two talk me into this,” Clay Jaeger muttered. He let his M4 dangle on its three-point tactical sling and slowly stuck his hands in the air. He’d thought he was done getting shot at when he left the Marines. Now here he was, staring down the barrel of a sniper rifle, palms up, with the hardcore militias of Camp Liberty at his front and one of the deadliest Inhabited Zones in the US at his back. “This was a stupid idea.”
“At least they haven’t started shooting,” Alex said. “Yet.”
From the corner of his eye, Clay could see his wife’s hands shake slightly as she released her death grip on the Mossberg and raised them. Probably not enough for the guy on the wall to see the trembling, but enough that it got Clay’s attention. Hopefully it was the fear of being shot causing her tremors and not… anything else.
“Phft. Are you kidding me? This was a genius idea, and you both know it,” Joe said. “We’re here, aren’t we? And this guy’s not gonna shoot us. That sniper up there has a Dragunov—coulda picked us off at a thousand yards if he wanted to.”
“Yeah?” Clay asked while keeping his eyes fixed on the gate ahead. “You learn that in Kill Shot Online, huh?”
“And if I did? It’s true, either way. All I’m saying is you guys need to chill. It’ll be fine. My gut instincts are never wrong about these things.”
Joe had certainly taken his own advice to heart if his gear was any indication. Unlike Clay and Alex, who were kitted out in survival gear, hiking rucksacks, and assorted weapons necessary for surviving within the Infested Zone, Clay’s brother had gone a less… conventional route. He wore denim shorts—he’d cut them into jorts half way through their desert trek after complaining about the ungodly heat—calf-high cow-boy boots, and a red flannel shirt with the sleeves cut off. The scuffed hockey pads clicked and shifted as he bent over to set down his chainsaw. He had a Glock at one hip and one of Clay’s K-Bars at the other, but he’d refused to leave that damned chainsaw behind.
“I said get your hands up!” the sentry at the top of the wall shouted down, and the tension in Clay’s shoulders ratcheted up another ten notches.
“Yeah, totally, a hundred percent, my man.” Joe stood back up, raising his hands. “I was just putting Big Bertha down so I could better comply. Chainsaws are freaking heavy—especially the quality ones like this Poulan Pro Classic—and I’ve been packin’ the old girl by hand since we crossed the border at Fresno, so you can see where I’m coming from.” He paused and squinted. “Don’t suppose you guys have any gas in there?”
Alex sighed, and Clay knew what she was thinking: Leave it to Joe to get them shot after they’d already made it to Bakersfield. Or what was left of Bakersfield.
Hot desert wind whistled through the creosote bushes and dried the nervous sweat on Clay’s skin. The breeze carried a scent like barbecue smoke. The only question was whether it came from the human settlement in front of them or some dungeon out in the Infested Zone, a.k.a. the IZ. Word had it the monsters who spawned out here had developed a taste for human flesh and human cooking styles in the twenty years since the Merge.
All the more reason to get inside as fast as possible.
At the bottom of Camp Liberty’s massive, corrugated steel wall, a set of double doors that looked like they’d come from an old high school gym clunked, then screeched open. A big sumbitch wearing a steel breast plate over his desert cammies, the Camp Liberty insignia hammered into the metal—a shield with a chevron, rocker, and three crossed arrows in the center. He covered them with a crossbow as he approached. Runes burned like hot embers along the breastplate’s surface. The guy was sporting some top-of-the-line gear—a chromed out 1911 riding a high-speed leg holster, extra mags clipped to his belt, magical axe pulsing with a soft green light strapped to his back.
He wasn’t an Incant, though. At least Clay didn’t think so. He’d see footage of them on TV, but he’d never met one in real life, not even when he’d technically been deployed to fight one. But they were like celebrities—no way would someone like that draw gate detail.
The newcomer stopped a good ten feet from them, crossbow ready to rock if they made any sudden moves. Burn scars covered most of his face and had turned his ear into a melted stump of cartilage. Shiny pink claw marks crisscrossed the sunbaked skin where he’d rolled up his sleeves.
He scowled at Joe. “Fuck are you supposed to be? A lumberjack?”
Clay saw a moment of understanding dawn on his brother’s face.
“Yeah.” He nodded. “Hell yeah. Lumberjack Joe,” he said like he was testing it out. “That’s a badass nickname. Guys, call me Lumberjack Joe from now on.”
“No,” Clay said.
“We already told you we’re not doing nicknames,” Alex said.
“I can’t win,” Joe said through up his hands in evident frustration. “First you didn’t want to do the Ginyu Squad, even though they were tailor made for us, and now you’re vetoing Lumberjack Joe—”
“We’re not vetoing it,” Clay grumble, “we’re shooting it down because we already said no nicknames and now isn’t the time or the place for this.” He glanced uneasily at the towering, scar-faced guard.
“And why would we go with the Ginyu Squad?” Alex asked, “they are literally the worst squad in DragonballZ.” They knew in detail, after Joe had found an old archive of the ancient show and forced them to watch all hundred and eleven seasons.
“If by worst you mean best,” Joe said. “They’re some of the most powerful mercenaries in the galaxy, they’re insanely loyal, they have great style, plus they inspired Gohan to later become the great Saiyaman. They’re unsung heroes that always got a bad rap, because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time and no one is ever gonna convince me otherwise.”
“You and your big mouth about to be in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Big Ugly growled. “I don’t want to hear any more of your bullshit. Now tell me where you newbs coming from, or you can turn around and walk your happy, talkative asses right back out into the Wasteland.”
Clay cleared his throat. “Yeah, sure, sorry about him.” He hooked a thumb toward Joe. “Sometimes my brother doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut. We came through Containment at Fresno, like he said.”
Big Ugly grunted and rolled his eyes. “Before that, dipshit.”
“St. Louis,” Joe volunteered cheerfully. He spread his hands in an arc like he was depicting a rainbow. “Gateway to the West.”
“More like Big Pharma Capital City,” Big Ugly grunted. “Which company y’all contracting for?”
“None of them,” Clay replied. At the same time Alex said, “We’re homesteaders.”
They glanced at each other. Okay, little too eager to keep Joe from answering any more questions. Time to dial it back.
Alex pointed at her side opposite the shotgun. “I’ve got our claim papers in my pocket. I’d be happy to show them to you,” she offered.
Big Ugly grunted again and took a hand off his crossbow long enough to make a Give it here motion.
Slowly, deliberately, she reached the tips of her fingers and thumb into her pocket just deep enough to pull out the folded forms, stamped and sealed by the St. Louis Stronghold Division of the Interiorofficer. They’d made sure to cross all their T’s and dot all their I’s.
In Clay’s experience, former military types could be oddly picky with paperwork—and out here wasn’t the time to be missing a document or a signature. Alex stopped in front of Big Ugly, handing them over. Next to that bruiser, the tiny five-foot nothing blonde looked like one of those antique American Girl Dolls, Wasteland Survivalist Edition, with her size six combat boots, chipped black nail polish, and severely short pixie cut.
Instead of even glancing at the papers, Big Ugly sized her up.
“Let me guess—you tenderfoots got tired of soft, sweet civilization and decided it might be fun to play pioneers? You got a suicide wish or what? Because that’s what happens to idiot tumbleweeds who roll into the IZ unprepared.”
Alex cocked her hip. “Listen here, jackoff, we just hauled our asses over a hundred miles through monster-infested territory—”
“Oh shit, you pissed off the shortstack!” Joe laughed, slapping a knee. “Watch your balls, man, she can punch higher than you’d think.”
Clay placed a hand on Joe’s shoulder and squeezed. Then he gave his brother the same warning look he’d given him a thousand times before—mostly when Joe would mouth off to their Dad, who didn’t take lip lightly. This ain’t the time or the place. Joe had never been good about thinking before he popped off, even if it meant sitting lightly for the next week. Clay waited until Joe rolled his eyes and gave a nod, then slipped between his wife and the scar-covered guard. Big Ugly let the homesteading claim papers drop and swung the crossbow up again.
Clay stuck up one hand and nudged Alex behind him with the other.
“We know the Containment Area isn’t a game,” he said in what he hoped was a placating tone. At their feet, the homestead papers caught in a creosote bush and fluttered in the breeze. “Between the government contractors, the Triple S, the roving monsters, and Incants… Well, there’s a lot of ways to die out here. We get that loud and clear. I spent time overseas—Operation Hell Gate. I know the score better than most civilians.” Clay paused, searching the man’s face. “Thing is, there’s nothing left for us back on the other side of the Wall. We don’t want any trouble. We’re just looking to stake a claim where we can start a new life.”
It wasn’t a total lie, and Big Ugly seemed to accept the sincerity of it. His burn-scarred snarl cooled a couple degrees. Finally, he took his finger off the crossbow trigger—though he didn’t lower the weapon.
“Fucking tumbleweeds.” He spat off to the side. “Whatever, it’s your necks.” His eyes flicked toward the Marine Corps tattoo on Clay’s exposed forearm. “And I guess you might have a little better luck than some of the others.”
He waved a hand at the sniper on the wall. The barrel shifted, dampening the imminent danger. Clay’s shoulders relaxed a few inches.
Big Ugly jerked his chin at the repurposed gym doors, motioning them to go first. Obviously he wasn’t planning to give any stranger his back, whether he believed their story or not.
Clay led the way, Alex falling in beside him. Joe hefted that stupid chainsaw back onto his shoulder, then followed, already chatting with their scarred escort like they were old drinking buddies.
“So, seriously, about that gas,” Joe said. “Thing is, I brought plenty of two-cycle engine oil, but my gas can got jacked by separatists while we were passing through Visalia. We barely got out of there with our lives, but that’s neither here nor there. Anyway, I was planning to siphon some, but I haven’t come across many broke down vehicles since we crossed the border at Containment. What’d you guys do with them?”
Big Ugly didn’t answer.
The gym doors clunked open, held by another heavily armed militia man.
As he ducked inside, Clay rested his hand on the M4’s grip and scanned the area for threats.
“Easy, cowboy,” the doorman growled, leveling an ancient-looking six-shooter. The weapon glowed with violet magic, but instead of runes, the gun was etched with what appeared to be flash-art tattoos. The only one Clay could see all of was a snake coiling around a dagger. “Been a while since I got to gun down a newb. My trigger finger’s itchy.”
“Force of habit is all.” Clay stuck out his fingers to show they weren’t on the trigger, but didn’t take his hand off the grip. And making sure you assholes don’t try anything.
What little they’d seen of the Containment Area so far hadn’t exactly instilled trust and goodwill for their fellow IZ inhabitants. The human ones, anyway. So far, they’d managed to get along without going toe-to-toe with any of the monsters who lived out there. Joe had glossed over a lot of the firefight back in the ruins of Visalia, and they’d come across more than one set of grisly remains of people who’d had worse. Folks back in civilization talked about the IZ like it was the second coming of the Wild West, but these new-age gunslingers were a lot more brutal than anything Clay had seen on the old movies.
For at least the hundredth time, he wished Alex was safe back home. She could handle herself in a brawl, he knew she could, and she was as good behind a gun as any Marine he’d served with, but not even third-degree blackbelts could survive a bullet through the brain. If there had been any other way…
But there wasn’t. This was it. Their one shot. He set his jaw and ducked through the doorway into the settlement. Clay scanned the dusty streets for threats while Alex, Joe, and their big ugly escort filed through. The heavy metal door swung shut behind him with a creaky groan.
With the lack of trees out here, basically everything in Camp Liberty had been built from a combination of scavenged metal and crude adobe. Here and there rusty shipping containers were stacked on top of each other, connected by rusty scaffolding and ramps. He spotted a handful of generators, all rigged with Innova Corps solar panels. More of the glassy black panels lined many of the roofs. Perfect for the desert, though it meant there wouldn’t be any gas for Joe to siphon. A half-smashed Airstream sat butted up against the wall nearby, sparkling in the midday sun.
The doorman let the doors swing shut, then went to the back of the camper. He used what was left of the ladder to climb up onto its roof, then took an old, repurposed fire escape up to join the sniper on the wall.
Hard-looking characters wandered the streets or slouched around doorways. Most of them were sporting a mishmash of low to midlevel magical items and modern manufactured guns and ammo. Clay saw a few swords, shields, and armor—both with and without enchantments—but he also saw a lot of sawed-off shotguns, semiautomatics, and bulletproof vests. He didn’t see any of the latter with enchantments.
Guys in the Camp militia had the Liberty insignia on their gear. The folks working for private firms were easy to spot, too, outfitted in all black, with shoulder patches that read Signet Security Solutions. Triple S. One of the biggest private security firms working in the Containment Area. There were others mercenary groups, but they didn’t have the brand equity or name recognition Triple S commanded.
Surprisingly, there were a good number of people without any obvious affiliation. Misfits and dissidents and those who were just plain sick of civilization from across the country, Clay guessed. All here to try their luck killing monsters and grinding for gold in the Infested Zone. There were probably also a few independent contractors selling magical items to the military or smuggling potions to the pharma companies across the border.
The thought of those dickweeds didn’t do much for Clay’s mood. He shook off the residual frustration and glanced back at Big Ugly. Their scar-covered escort obviously wasn’t much for conversation, but maybe they would have more luck gathering intel at the local watering hole.
“Any place around here we can get something to drink?” Clay asked.
“Yes!” Joe said, shaking his non-chainsaw fist at the brilliant blue sky. “We’ve been hoofing it through the desert for almost a week now, and neither of these chuckleheads thought to bring beer, can you believe that?” He looked at their scar-covered escort. “I mean, you’re the expert. I ask you: Does that sound like any way to prepare for the man versus nature fight of your life? Because I say nay.”
Big Ugly had clearly already figured out that the best way to deal with Joe was to ignore him.
“Liberty Yacht Club,” he told Clay, nodding down a dusty street lined with pitted tin siding and reclaimed wood shacks. “End of Ocean Avenue.”
Clay glanced around at the profound lack of ocean and boats, but decided not to mention it.
“Much appreciated.”
A couple minutes later, they came to a stop outside a pair of shitty doublewides screwed together by strips of rotting wood paneling. Up a rickety porch, the sliding doors had been removed and replaced with a crude set of swinging batwing doors. A false front cut from old plywood had been stuck to the top. Spray-painted across it in runny letters were the words Liberty Yacht Club, followed by something that was either a poorly rendered stick-Cthulhu or an anchor. It genuinely could’ve been either.
“Somebody in Camp Liberty has a sense of humor,” Alex said eyeballing the sign, the ghost of a smile on her lips.
“Gotta be honest, this is kind of a letdown.” Joe let his chainsaw hang against his thigh and scuffed the dirt with his boot. “With a name like Liberty Yacht Club, I was hoping it’d be built out of an old yacht or something cool.”
“I’m gonna say that cool factor is low on these people’s priority list.” Clay took a deep breath to settle his nerves, squared his shoulders, then headed for the porch. “Let’s go see what we can dig up.”
