James A. Hunter
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Wasteland Warlords: Chapter 8 - Mecha Madness
🕑 Added 2022-07-21 22:00:04 +0000 UTCAs the crane lurched into motion once more, Clay took off at a sprint, grabbing Alex by the arm then shoving his brother down an adjacent row. Metal screamed and treads rumbled. Scrap heaps toppled as the crane bashed and smashed its way through the junkyard in hot pursuit.
“Look out!” Alex grabbed Clay’s cuirass and jerked him to a sudden halt, saving him in almost precisely the same fashion that he’d just saved her.
The ground shook and slammed together inches from his boots, a metallic clang reverberating in the air. A car compactor had been planted in the dirt. It creaked open and shut like a massive pair of jaws.
Clay gulped. If she hadn’t stopped him, he would be meat paste on the crusher’s plates.
“Thanks, babe,” he said a little breathlessly.
She smirked. “You just got a little ahead of yourself. Ninja speed’s not for everybody.”
He couldn’t help it, he grinned. “You’re such a dick.”
Joe ran up beside them. “Are we having a moment?” He spun around and put his back to the yawning compactor.
“What’re you doing?” Alex yelled.
He raised his chainsaw to a pair of oncoming mechacoons. “Being a big damn hero, like always.”
“Get away from there before you fall in!”
Joe didn’t. The coons tore after him like he was covered in their favorite dumpster sauce, but he held his ground until the last second, then sprang to the side. The half-metal creatures couldn’t stop their momentum and skidded right into the compactor. It snapped shut, crushing them flat in an instant.
The crane had caught up by then. It tossed the remnants of a burned-out VW bug.
Joe flattened himself against the far wall of cars and fitted Bertha into a gaping trunk for safe keeping, while Clay shoved Alex into a crack on their side and shielded her with his body. The VW bug bounced and rolled past, shedding bits and pieces, before its front end got caught up in the jaws of the car crusher. A mirror snapped off and hit Clay in the shoulder. It didn’t do any major damage, but he was going to have a bruise there tomorrow.
Alex grinned up at Clay. “That’s two saves on your scorecard.”
“You’re keeping track?”
“If we don’t keep track, how will we know who wins?”
“You’ve got a serious problem, Miss Competitive. And obviously I’m going to win.”
She punched him in the liver, but he could hardly feel it through the cuirass.
Clay laughed. “Let’s go, I think it’s reloading. We can edge our way around the compactor.”
There was about a foot and a half of dirt around the edges of the car crusher. While the crane snatched up another huge projectile—what looked to be the rear end of an El Camino with a camper shell—Alex and Clay crept around one side of the banging jaws and Joe sidled around the other, hugging Bertha to his chest. Once they were clear, they hung a left, then cut between a loose stack and came up another row. Clay spotted the crane over the top of the smoking scrapheap, but it didn’t seem to be following. Maybe it couldn’t figure out how to get past the crusher. Or maybe it had lost them.
Either way, it was a win.
Unfortunately, the massive trash panda with the flamethrower arms had found them. It leapt from stack to stack, shooting waves of flame as it pursued.
“There it is,” Joe called back over his shoulder.
At the end of the row was the processing building. A rotting conveyer stuck out the back, its grated rolling door smashed off its track. Farther down the wall was a set of concrete stairs leading to a door with a black security camera perched overhead.
Clay beelined for the security door, long legs eating up the ground. He grabbed the stair railing and hurdled himself up to it, but the handle wouldn’t turn.
“Locked!” he yelled.
“The conveyer,” Alex shouted back.
Clay jumped down and hit the dirt running. Alex and Joe were already on the wide rotting belt, climbing under the dented rolling door.
The flamethrower mechacoon leapt from the last stack of cars with a thud and clank of metal. It shook its head once, then its flashing red eyes locked on Clay. He picked up speed, praying the cobra ring was effective enough for him to outrun this thing.
“Come on, babe!” Alex yelled from the shadows inside the building, sticking her hand out toward him.
A wall of fire exploded behind Clay.
Searing pain bloomed across the back of his neck and right ear. He heard Alex let out a yelp and Joe cuss, but he didn’t slow down for a second. Adrenaline drove his legs and blocked out every other thought, save the demand to survive. He smelled burning hair and barbecue, but the Cinderscale must have protected him from the worst of the burns because that scorching hadn’t incapacitated him. With a final burst of speed, he ducked under the dented rolling door. Alex grabbed his arm, and they sprinted into the darkness with Joe.
Outside, the mechacoon thundered to a stop and bellowed at the building. It dropped to its flamethrower forepaws and stalked back and forth, roaring and shaking its massive head, plumes of acrid smoke drifting up.
“Why isn’t it coming in?” Joe gulped, staring out at the frustrated monster. “It could squeeze through that conveyer hole if it wanted.”
“I don’t know.” Clay shook his head. Then, after a beat, “Coons are smart and they’re territorial. If I had to gamble, I’d say there’s probably something worse waiting for us in here.”
“Aren’t you just a ray of sunshine,” Joe said, checking Bertha to make sure the contraption hadn’t been unduly damaged in the scuffle. He cared more about that damned chainsaw than the fact that Clay had nearly been charbroiled alive and was missing his eyebrows.
“Here.” Alex shoved an Ultimate Healing Potion into Clay’s hand. “If you’re right, you need to heal up before we run into whatever that thing’s afraid of.”
Clay downed the potion, grimacing. The flavor wasn’t the sort that grew on you, but the effects were well worth the taste. The burns he’d taken from the flamethrower mechacoon cooled and healed over in seconds, and the scorched hair grew back in as good as new.
The room they’d taken shelter in was a cavernous sorting area. Massive bins were crammed in all along one wall, and metal pigeonhole shelves lined another. The conveyor stretched from the door to a black hole of a pit on the opposite end of the floor. Past the pit, a set of metal steps led up to a door with a sign marked Office.
“I assume that’s where we’re headed,” Alex said.
Clay nodded. “That’s where I’d keep the potions if it was me.”
Joe looked up from rubbing a splash of blood and oil off Bertha’s bar.
“But where would a monster keep them? That’s the real question.”
“I don’t think it is a monster,” Clay said. “The old timer said some guy made these potions. Could be, we’re dealing with an Incant here. I mean, he didn’t explicitly say that, but he was also cagey. That would explain all the rumors keeping people away.”
“And the mechacoons,” Joe agreed.
Alex cocked a skeptical eyebrow. “Why on God’s green earth would anybody want to make a giant racoon with flamethrowers for arms?”
“Are you kidding me?” Joe said. “Why wouldn’t you? It’s the perfect merging of beast and machine.”
They took a quick assessment of everyone’s wounds, then grabbed a long drink from their canteens and checked the ammo situation. Joe hadn’t even pulled his revolver once, so he was still stocked. Clay had about three-quarters of what he’d started with. Alex was sitting at less than half, so she switched over to the kusarigama. Clay didn’t like it, but he had to admit meleeing had been effective for Joe on the way in. Far more than his own efforts with the M4. Still, he wasn’t ready to stow the rifle—not just yet. He wanted at least one of them to have a ranged weapon ready to rock in case they needed it.
Not to mention, he still hadn’t acquired anything that spoke to him in the same way that the kusarigama did to Alex or Bertha spoke to Joe. He would find something that fit. Eventually.
They picked their way through the scrap metal littered across the floor. Now and again one of them bumped something and it clanked or scraped across the concrete, but for the most part it was much quieter in the sorting room. Clay had almost started to relax when he heard the chittering.
All three of them swung around at once, aiming their weapons at one of the big metal bins, ready to unleash hell.
A baby mechacoon popped up, not much bigger than a cat. Instead of a flamethrower for a paw, it had a tiny hedge trimmer.
“Aw, look at its little chainsaw arm!” Joe gushed, eyes going big and gooey. “You’re a cute little chonk, yes you are!” He rushed forward, arms extended toward the creature as though it were a stray pet and not a deadly murder-machine in the making. “You wanna go home with me, chonky boy?”
“You are not taking that home,” Alex said.
“Like hell I’m not.”
The mechacoon let out a modem chirp and ducked back into the metal.
Clay sighed. “It’s a wild animal, Joe. Not to mention it’s probably programmed to kill us.”
“It’s okay, little guy, you don’t have to be skittish.” Joe scooted up next to the bin and made pss-pss-pss noises at the thing like it was a cat. “You and me are just the same. You’ve got a saw, I’ve got a saw. It’s meant to be. Come on, buddy.”
A little at a time, the creature poked its head out, then scampered over Joe’s outstretched hand. It reached up at him with its black-padded paw and hedge trimmer arm.
“See, he knows I’m his friend.” Joe pulled a granola bar out of his pack. “Here you go, chonky boy, eat up.”
“Isn’t chocolate deadly to them?” Clay asked.
“Psh.” Joe scooped the mechacoon up. It squalled, but miraculously didn’t bite him. “Trash pandas can eat anything. That’s another thing we have in common.”
The thing stuck the granola bar in its teeth, then climbed up Joe’s spiked pauldron and wrapped itself around his neck. Once it was settled in, it went back to chowing down. Crumbs tumbled down the front of Joe’s flannel.
“Besides,” he added, rolling his eyes at Clay as if he were the one being ridiculous, “I kind of doubt the half mechanical racoon is allergic to anything.”
Clay and Alex’s eyes met, and they silently agreed to pick their battles. Assuming the thing didn’t immediately maul or decapitate him, it was better to let it be.
“Let’s keep moving,” Clay said.
They crept up the metal steps and through the door, coming out in some kind of workshop. Fluorescent bulbs flickered overhead. Workbenches and fabrication machinery broke up the floorplan, with components, weapons, and tools littering every surface.
Given the old-timer’s warning, they expected to meet major resistance, but the place was deserted and quiet as a graveyard.
Joe reached for a massive gauntlet with switchblades popping out from between the knuckles.
“Don’t,” Clay said. “You already got your critter friend. No need to be extra greedy. We’re just here for the potions. Nothing else.”
“I was only looking,” Joe protested, pulling back his hand.
“Look with your eyes,” Alex said. “Eyes don’t set off boobytraps.”
Honestly though, Clay could see why his brother was so captivated. Joe had always loved tinkering with mechanical stuff, and this place was a mechanic’s paradise. The workbenches were filled with half-finished projects and softly glowing arcane gadgets that would’ve been worth a fortune back in camp. There was even a metal golem creature hanging on pulleys, its huge steel feet barely scraping the floor.
“Whoa.” Joe circled the golem, poking and prodding. It swayed softly on its chains. “I always wanted a mech suit.”
“Hey, didn’t we just say not to touch?” Alex snapped.
But Joe wasn’t listening. “Ho. Ly. Shyit.” He hunched over, squinting at something on the golem’s back. “Guys, I figured it out!”
“Figured what—”
The front door of the workshop rebounded off the wall. A huge shadow ducked inside, whirring and clanking.
“Whata’ ya bloody slaggas doin’ in me shop?”
Clay blinked, surprised to hear the Australian accent way out in the IZ. Supposedly the area was locked down against any non-US citizen to keep other countries from gaining the magical weapons contained within.
In the mech suit, the angry Aussie stood seven foot tall, and looked like a robot body builder. Clay had only seen Morgan the Hexblade loitering around Camp Liberty over the past several weeks, but he’d gathered enough intel to know this had to be Flynn “Gearhead” Lynes, one of the other local Incants. Gearhead was known for his tech-creations and also for having a nasty mean streak a mile wide.
“Take it easy, pal,” Joe told Gearhead. At some point, the mechacoon had climbed up on top of his head, which seemed to be drawing the majority of the Incant’s attention. “First off, slow down. We can’t understand a word you’re saying. Do you speak English?”
Clay stepped forward, hands raised and mind racing.
“We came out to buy one of your magical items,” he lied. “We don’t want any trouble.”
“Ah, get stuffed!” Gearhead scoffed. “I was out doin’ valuable shit when ya fucksticks set off me traps. Had to flat out all the bloody way back here, and what do I find? A pair a’ bludgers robbin’ me blind and makin’ hats outta me little furry mates.”
“Hey, I…” Joe patted the mechocoon on its perch. “…think Chonky and I resent some of that.”
Clay frowned. Lynes had said pair of bludgers. He tried to glance around without being obvious about it.
Alex had disappeared.
“You wankers must have bollocks made outta solid cast iron to try and steal from me.” Lynes stomped forward, mech legs whirring and clanking. “But it ain’t gonna serve you well in the long run, ’coz all ya gonna get is dead.”
