Desolation Crossing Read online

  No one knew why, but from that day all bets were off. It wasn’t as though there was any sign of friendship, but the bristling atmosphere that she had exuded every time she was near J.B. vanished. There was a respect, grudging at first, then growing into a mutual admiration society that had bets being returned, much to Poet’s disgust.

  Abe had watched this from a distance. Trader’s right-hand man, if not for a bout of dysentery when they had sampled the crap food in Guthrie, he would have fulfilled the tasks allotted to Poet in recruiting the Armorer. But in a way he was glad, as it gave him a chance to assess the newbie from a distance. He was just about the only man in the convoy who hadn’t placed a bet, but had never said why. Who would have believed him from the evidence before their eyes, except maybe Trader.

  Abe saw that J.B. and Hunn had more in common than was obvious. Both had their defense mechanisms in place—her spikiness, his taciturnity—to keep people at bay until they chose. Both were dedicated to their work. Both had something in their pasts that they wanted to remain that way, and both would open up only when they were ready. That was why they had butted heads: like attracted like, but also caused suspicion as—even on an unconscious level—recognizing like made a person wary.

  Time went on, and Abe watched as they got each other’s backs in situations of danger. He wasn’t surprised. He once said to Trader: “You know, long as we’ve got those two on the team, then there isn’t any way anyone’s going to come through us. Long as we got them, then we’ve always got the backbone of a strong team. They might be loners, but they know how to bat for the team.”

  Trader could sometimes wish that Abe didn’t have that old baseball card collection they’d found in a redoubt. He talked like people still played sports—like they still had time to take out from the harsh need to exist—and expected people to understand. But once you worked out what he was talking about, the thoughts if not the words made sense.

  Trader had made many finds over the years that he could call good. He was coming to consider that one of the best hadn’t been in finding any goods or jack, but in finding a man.

  John Barrymore Dix.

  So it was that the Armorer settled in, became a fixture such that no one could remember a time before he was there. But it was only a year.

  Only a year before Trader returned to Hollowstar.

  “WHY ARE WE GOING to this dead and alive pesthole?” J.B. asked as War Wag One rumbled along a rut-filled highway, the convoy the only vehicles on a four-lane road that headed away from the mutie growth of trees, creepers and plants that thrived in the chem-laden rains of the region, and toward a sparser, clearer region where the bleached-out and burned remains of civilization showed how the nuke damage stood as monument to skydark.

  “Because it is,” Trader replied cryptically. He enjoyed the look of puzzlement in J.B.’s eyes, mirrored by his spectacles.

  “And that’s an answer?” he said finally. “More like a fucking puzzle.”

  Trader smiled enigmatically. “You work it out, son. It isn’t difficult.”

  It had been an easy ride. There were only a few isolated settlements—most too small to even be called villes—out in this stretch. The poisonous nature of the soil made it hard to farm. The equally poisonous flora of the region was also little incentive. And if that wasn’t enough, the few examples of fauna that could thrive in such conditions made for a new definition of the term hostile. Good for travelers as it also dictated that any marauding bands of coldhearts in the region wouldn’t get far before the local environment claimed them. Bad for travelers as it meant they had to get through the region as quickly and as easily as possible.

  Farther east there was very little: beyond the rad-blasted mutations of this region were the hotspots where the nukes had hit, and the land was virtually waste. Nonetheless, there were a few settlements, bands of survivors who had managed to make a life rather than buy the farm in the aftermath of nuclear winter, and had adapted to their conditions before birthing those who would be their descendants.

  And they all had a need to trade.

  Abe explained it to J.B., seeing the young man’s still puzzled expression.

  “Boy, how d’you think you hooked up with us? How many convoys had come through that pesthole you found yourself in? Not many, I’d guess. But Trader, see, he pays attention to detail. There are little places like Guthrie, like Hollowstar and the lands beyond, where there are people who want to buy. They got something to sell, too. It might not be much, but if you only go once a year or so, then it makes the trip worthwhile for us. And they’re desperate for what we’ve got, willing to pay. ’Cause no one else can be bothered.”

  J.B. nodded. In the year that he’d been with them, they had headed for the big settlements, the larger villes, the areas where there was a large population. And they’d made good trade, that was for sure. But always with other traders there just before or just after, people whining about how little they’d gotten, or how much they were going to get. It figured that if there were places that were hard to get to, then few would bother. Except Trader. J.B. had been with him more than long enough to know that attention to detail was what made him the best.

  So he wasn’t alarmed when Hunn took War Wag One off the highway at a turn-off that led to a place called “Ne J rsey,” according to the sign that hung precariously over the narrower ribbon of road. The vibration of the convoy on the ruined road made the metal posts supporting the sign shake, the once-strong metal now wasted and eaten by the environment, looking as though it could crash down on any of the wags in train.

  “Always looks that way. Puts people off, but never comes down.” Abe sniffed. “Least ways, not yet.”

  “Why not stick to the main roadway?” J.B. asked. “Looks safer.”

  Trader grinned. “Everyone comes this way the first time thinks that. Hell, even got caught that way ourselves first time out.”

  Abe chuckled. “Shoulda heard the cursing when we had to turn back. Only found this turn-off because he—” he pointed at Trader “—was so stubborn he didn’t want a totally wasted journey.”

  Seeing J.B.’s questioning look between them, Trader elaborated. “You carry on down the highway, all you get is it ending in a big fuck-off landslide where part of the old county got a hit. Must’ve been some kind of quake thing going on, as you can see nothing but this big, empty hole for what seems like forever. The other side is…Well, shit, I dunno, but I’d bet not much can live over there.”

  That would be a no, then. J.B. knew that Trader was no gambling man.

  Easing into his theme, Trader continued. “So, like Abe said, we were all pissed—not just me.” He glanced to his number two, who returned it with a grin. “Anyway, as we came back I saw this road, and thought ‘fuck it, nothing’s going to be alive in this bastard region.’ But then it occurred to me that every fucker must think like that. So, for the sake of a few gallons of fuel, why not have a look-see? We had enough spare with us.

  “And there, at the end of the line, was Hollowstar. A poor little place, but managing to get by because of where it was.”

  “I must be triple stupe, ’cause I don’t get that,” J.B. murmured.

  Trader’s face split into a broad grin. “Course you don’t. No one does till they’ve been there. I sure as shit didn’t—”

  “And you won’t hear him say that often,” Abe interrupted.

  “Fuck you,” Trader said lightly. “See, there were a few survivors in this region, but the villes they made could only exist if they put them on a road that survived. Well, the big fucker didn’t, but this smaller one did. They used to call it the New Jersey Turnpike, or so they say around here. There are a few villes, some places too small to call that, and they ribbon out along the road until it just kinda ends. Hollowstar is the richest, Baron Emmerton the smartest. And lucky.”

  “Why lucky?” J.B. asked, knowing that Trader was warming to his theme, and enjoying the rare chance to kick back and chew the fat while they ro
de a road that presented little in the way of danger.

  Trader’s grin widened to the point where it looked like it might split his face. “Whoever built Hollowstar used buildings around the old toll booths for the road, and they still work. To pass through on either side you have to pay the baron. The smart thing is that whoever started the ville wasn’t greedy, so in the long run they’ve had a steady stream of jack coming in both ways. There aren’t many who pass through, but they have to pay in and out, so that’s two for one. It isn’t much compared to villes out there where there are more folks, but that’s the word, isn’t it? Compared. Makes Emmerton and all those who came before him richer and more powerful than any other baron in the region. Smart boy…”

  Hunn, who had so far been ignoring the conversation, chipped in. “You do realize that every poor fucker who joins us and lasts this long gets exactly the same speech when we come here, almost word for word? I know the fuckin’ thing by heart. I swear, I could say it in my fuckin’ sleep. Probably do, for all I know.”

  “Fuck you, bitch,” Trader said with good humor, “next time I’ll make you say it, just to see.”

  “Yeah, well, we’ll see about that. Meantime, you should all stop yakking, as we’re there.”

  J.B. looked out of an ob port. The foliage that had covered the side of the old highway had now thinned out and changed. The vines and creepers had vanished, replaced by sparse grass under trees that were still twisted and stunted in places, but had a healthier look than the looming green giants that lined the highway. The remains of some old buildings could be seen—low-level blocks that had once been shops and warehouses, but were now split by trees that had grown through and broken the line of the structure. There were no houses in this section. If there had been, they had long since been swallowed by nature, reclaiming its damaged stock. The road they were now on had narrowed, and was two-lane gray asphalt shot through with weeds, the sidewalk a similar hue, the weeds now more prevalent in places than the original stone.

  J.B. had seen places like this before, even though he had never ventured this far east as of yet. There were old industrial and residential areas around cities like this all over what was left of the old United States. They differed in detail, but in essence they were the same. J.B. came from a ville that was the remains of an old small town. Most of the places he’d drifted into before hooking up with Trader had been based around old small towns, or had been built up from scratch. He’d never really been on any of the convoy trade routes. Now he knew what the Deathlands looked like, knew how the old cities had mutated like the flora and fauna that had begun to reclaim them since skydark, the people reduced to living on the fringes, trying to regain a foothold.

  All those footholds were the same. The edges of dead cities reclaimed and recycled. And beyond this one? A real wasteland, one that was so rad-blasted that it seemed as though it were the beginning of never.

  If the way in which Hollowstar sat in the middle of this semiwilderness was common to many villes he had seen, then so would be the people. They didn’t change in essence, no matter where you went. They had different customs and ways that you had to get used to, lest they chill you for insulting them in some manner of which you weren’t even aware. But that was just surface shit, J.B. knew. Deep down they were as brave, scared, greedy, lustful, sharing, good or evil in one place as they were in another. You just had to take them as they come, size them up, and then treat them accordingly.

  It was a simple way, and one that had kept him alive so far. That put him ahead of the game as far as many were concerned. There were too many who didn’t live this way, and had long since bought the farm as a result.

  These were the thoughts that went through his head every time that he entered somewhere new. It was as if he was preparing himself for whatever he was about to face, reminding himself to keep a close watch until he’d understood the ways of the ville.

  But this time it was stronger than he’d ever known it. As if there was something nagging at him. J.B. didn’t believe in that doomie shit; not unless you were some kind of mutie, which he knew damn sure he wasn’t. Nonetheless, as Hunn slowed War Wag One, signaling their approach to the old toll gates, he knew that something was going to happen here that would change things for him. Good or bad? That was the bastard thing—he couldn’t tell.

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Six

  “Welcome back to Hollowstar, Trader. How long has it been?”

  Trader eyed the sweating, grossly fat man in front of him and figured that it had been too long. Baron Emmerton was not his favorite ville leader by a long way, but he was basically harmless. It was just that there was something about him that made Trader’s skin crawl. Maybe it was because his wife was so young, and there always seemed to be a new one every time he passed this way. Sure, a lot of barons had a taste for young flesh, but it seemed as though Emmerton made an art form of it. And there was something in the way that his eyes shifted uneasily across your gaze, unwilling to meet it….

  But all things considered, he was a man to keep sweet. Trader was a thorough man in all ways. That was why his haul was so big, why he was the best. No one else on the trail could be bothered to check out these far-flung villes, and because of its location on the old turnpike, Hollowstar was a key ville. There was no other way to access the villes that lay beyond, so Emmerton had power. So far, his relationship with Trader had been cordial, and that was just the way that Trader intended it to stay.

  So, instead of his first thought, he said, “It’s been too long, friend.” He took the outstretched, sweaty paw and tried not to grimace as Emmerton pumped it in his slimy grasp.

  “Things haven’t changed much around here,” Emmerton said slyly, “except that mebbe we’re running low on some things. We weren’t expecting you to be so long, and so we didn’t mebbe plan so well.”

  Trader knew only too well what that meant—the cost of going through to the villes beyond would be higher than last time, with each part of the increase carefully explained and accounted for. Shit, it was an occupational hazard to be lied to and cheated. It was just that he didn’t want to have to sit around listening to the bullshit explanation.

  So he said, “I’m sure we can come to some agreement. Have to say, for my part I would have been back this way sooner, but we’ve had a few firefights along the way with parties who wanted to make trouble. You know me, Baron, I don’t like trouble. But when it happens, you have to deal with it. Anyway, we lost a few people along the way, picked up some newbies. Things go on, no matter how tough it gets.”

  He studied the baron’s face to see if the message had hit its intended target. The way in which Emmerton licked his lips, his eyes flickering more than before, suggested that it had. Good.

  “I’m sure our ville will give you ample time to rest before moving on,” Emmerton said hesitantly, “and I hope that you’ll take advantage of our hospitality both before and after your trip down the road.”

  Emmerton was referring to the one highway that linked the rad-blasted east with the lands west of his ville. It was the convoy’s custom to rest a few days on either side of their trip into these lands. It gave the crew a chance to enjoy themselves before they hit the road once more, and—more importantly from Trader’s point of view—it meant that his crew spent some jack in Hollowstar, making Emmerton and his sec men that bit sweeter when it was time to come around again.

  Trader left Emmerton in his baronial house. The baron had been flanked by his personal sec men, Laker and Farmer. Trader had taken Abe and Poet with him, as they had traveled this way the longest and so were the most familiar with the sweating baron. As they left, Abe murmured, “Nice to see the baron’s fitness plan is working so well.”

  Trader almost kept the smirk from his face, but figured what the hell, seeing as they were out in the open. He took the chance to look around the ville, and reflected once more on how, even by the whacko standards of some of the places they’d done business, Hollowstar was a we
ird one.

  For a start, despite operating as a toll gate on the road that split the ville, it had been built some distance from the old toll booths. A brick construction fulfilled their function, built just beyond the last of the houses in the ville, a scaffolding gantry across the top of the road mounting armed guard. This was completely at odds with the way that the rest of the ville appeared.

  If Trader had to take a guess, he would have said that whoever founded the ville had a definite idea of what they wanted—a show ville that idealized the way they wanted the country to develop again. The problem being that they had to use what they had, so it turned out kind of wrong. Trader had seen some old vids of what used to be called “smalltown Merica,” as he understood it, and Hollowstar was modeled very much on those lines.

  He figured that they had chosen here, away from the old toll booths, as those were surrounded by the remains of old industrial and retail areas. This was an empty space of land, and it looked to him as though they had painstakingly taken some of the low-level houses in the area and transported them to rebuild here. Others had been built from using salvaged materials, shaped to fit the overall plan with some odd results. Storefronts lined a main square that had a bandstand, although in all the times he had visited here he had never seen a band in there; and the square was grassed over, if it could be dignified with that term. Trader had seen pictures of how green-lawned squares like this had looked before the nukecaust. The square achieved that look only if one applied a high degree of imagination. In truth, it was a square of dry dirt, with creeping weeds choking the brown stunted grass that struggled with the toxins in the soil.

  But still, it had one big asset, and he was going to enjoy that asset meeting the Armorer. Yes indeed, that would be one to watch.