-14-

Aftermath

Wyoming peered out at the Pitt through the breaking dawn. Most of the city had been reduced to smoldering ruins from the Marauder siege. The last fires from the prior night were slowly burning down to cinders, and the morning breeze had cleared away the dark smoke that hung over the city like fog.

Everything around Wyoming was shattered and broken. Haven was a burned-out shell, less than half of its original size. Bodies littered its entrance and clogged the narrow alleys next to the building.

There was very little left of the Pitt, and Wyoming saw no point in remaining. The slaves on both sides whom had made it through the final battle had slipped away into the uninhabited sections of the city and the steel yard. There, they were arming themselves and regrouping. These hastily formed bands had begun to attack the Marauders during the night, trying to drive them out like freedom fighters.

Wyoming had neither the wish nor will to fight them. Having become the sole Lord of the Pitt, there was no reason to stay. It was a complete ruin - he saw nothing left that was worth fighting for.

After the battle ended, Wyoming ordered the Marauders to pack up in preparation for their next voyage. Many had deserted during the night, having lost faith in the wisdom or sanity of their commander. Those who hadn't disbanded were now making their way back across Liberty Bridge, over to the surrounding hills, clear of the wasted city.

While Wyoming watched the Marauders march off in an orderly, blue column, he noticed a familiar body lying in the rubble around him, near the entrance to Haven. It was California. She was slumped over a small, ornamental garden, part of the decorative walkway that extended out from Haven's lobby.

Texas, Nevada, and Florida had gathered around her to pay their respects.

Wyoming walked over to see her for himself, one last time.

California's body was tucked into a tight fetal position in the shallow grass. A pool of blood bathed the weeds around her. Although pale and cold, she still looked as she did when she was alive. Her lips were still red, and still pressed into a smile, as if she knew exactly what was coming to the very end.

Wyoming parted the three Marauders so he could kneel down beside her. He gently stroked her dirty hair. The grease and gelled blood clung to his fingers.

"Myne poor little Aphrodite," Wyoming said longing, "if only you could hath seen our victory . . .," he sucked in his cheeks and closed his eyes. He then tried his best to stifle his emotion, turning his gaze towards Texas who was staring back at him, trying to get his attention.

Wyoming rose to his feet and nodded to his subordinate.

Texas pulled a folded piece of paper out from his armor and placed it in Wyoming's palm. He had a look of sadness and slight confusion, "California gave this to me last night before the charge. She wanted me to give it to you."

Wyoming peered down into his open hand and stared at the folded note. He read the writing scribbled in pencil across its face.

To: Leo

Wyoming's eyes remained locked on the two words for over a minute. He was so focused on them that it looked to the others like he was reading his own tombstone.

Florida and Nevada nudged in closer, their eyes drawn to the tiny wad of paper.

"Leo. . .is. . .is that your real name?" Texas whispered.

Wyoming looked up from the note and stared at the three Marauders in silence. His eyes began to glaze over with a film of tears and it seemed like he was having a brief, lonely, lucid moment.

"Maybe. . .," Wyoming wiped his face, "maybe that was my name. .," he pocketed the note and looked away, "or maybe I just read it in a book. . .a long, long time ago."

Wyoming collected himself and began to walk away. He glanced briefly back to the three Marauders. He could tell from their eyes, that a little bit of his mystique had faded forever.

(**************************************************************)

Kylie watched the fires twinkle over the Pitt's skyline. She and the rest of her old mamluke unit were standing high atop the steel yard, watching the Marauders slowly disappear over the hills, far off in the distance. All fighting in the Pitt had finally ceased, allowing them time to breathe, relax, and reflect on what had happened.

The former mamlukes were acting as sentries, holding back the trogs and Wildmen from a large group of freed Pitt slaves. Those former slaves were huddled together around the bonfire of an old Wildman's camp, slightly down the catwalk from Kylie, like a crowd of refugees. Ray and Lance had gathered the slaves from the ruins of the Pitt and brought them back to the steel yard during the night. The two mamlukes had found nearly a hundred weary men and women roaming the broken streets and were preparing to turn them into the nucleus of a new city.

Kylie shivered on the edge of the catwalk; it was a bitterly cold morning. Her eyes rose up from scanning the pipes below for trogs and fixated on the ruins of Haven, which still glowed hot from the siege fires.

Ray walked up behind her and threw a blanket over her armor, to help warm her up from the chill.

"I know you could have just ran away. . .thank you for coming back to free us," Ray stood along side her and followed her eyes out towards Haven.

Kylie wrapped the blanket more tightly around herself, "you don't have to thank me. I did it for everyone. . .including myself."

Ray smiled and leaned over the railing, staring down at the steel yard below, "someone should thank you though, right?"

Kylie smiled back to him. Being next to Ray made her feel safe, yet shy like a teenager. She tried to think of something to say to him, but for a moment she was too bashful. Her mind was completely blank and her jaw was sore.

"There's not much left in this place is there?" she managed.

"No, not too much," Ray shook his head. He looked back to the slaves huddled behind him, "but we're here. The city is ours now, all of ours. We can rebuild it."

Ray looked Kylie up and down. He and Lance had become like brothers over the years, but besides him, Ray didn't have any other close friends. The other slaves and mamlukes only saw him as a warrior. Now they all had begun to look at him as the leader of their new city. Ray was uncomfortable with his newfound responsibility but shouldered it like all of his former burdens.

However, when Ray looked at Kylie, he saw a piece of himself in her, someone he could intimately relate to and trust. He continued to ogle her, dwelling on her gangly figure and her sad brown eyes.

"Are you going to stay here, with us?" Ray timidly smiled.

Kylie looked over to him, "stay here with you?"

Ray blushed, "yeah. We could use your help. You've got to be the bravest woman I've met. Pretty lucky and clever too. I hope you stay," he backed away from the railing, "with me."

He began to walk back towards Lance and the freed slaves.

Kylie smiled to herself. She had nowhere to be and no plans for the future. Her family and caravan were far, far away, and had possibly moved on. Although the city surrounding her was in tatters, so was everything else out in the wasteland. No matter where she went she would have to build up a life from a scratch.

As she watched Ray and Lance joke around with the men and women huddled by the fire, she decided that she had never seen a better place to build a new life, or a new home.

"I. . .I think I will," she muttered.

Post Script

Wichita slowly made his way down a narrow path through the thick Ohio forest. He was far away from the Pitt now; it lay several days back down the meandering trail. Over those few days since he had left the Pitt, the bleak and blasted surroundings had given way to the green hills and towering trees of a land where the bombs had never fallen.

As Wichita continued to follow the winding path through the woods, tiny droplets of morning drizzle began to fall down from the overcast sky. Wichita brushed the mist off his hair, he hated being wet. Wasteland attire was desert attire without question, and the fleeting moisture would ruin his arid clothes, turning them into damp, muddy rags.

The forest surrounding Wichita echoed with the innumerable taps of raindrops hitting leaves. He paused in his step to hold out his tongue to try and catch a drop of water to tease his thirst. A few hundred feet behind him, his pack Brahmin let out a long moo. He had acquired the cow just after leaving the Pitt so the girl wouldn't have to limp the whole way back to Motor City. The beast was laden with cargo, and spattered with dried blood. It shook its heavy head in the rain and dug its hoof into the now muddy trail.

The girl who had been riding on the Brahmin's back had limped out into the woods, insisting on complete privacy while she relieved herself. She had done little but complain since leaving the Pitt, and Wichita was only able to tolerate her by thinking of how handsomely he'd be rewarded.

Wichita was slightly nervous that she might try to run away from him while she was out of sight, but her wounds had not yet healed, and she would be easy for him to track down.

A large rain drop dripped down from a leaf, somewhere high above Wichita's head. It landed on his cheek; splashing into his eye and making him cringe. Wichita wiped his face and huffed to himself. He tried to cow his discomfort by thinking of the wondrous cargo King Minos would lavish upon him for returning the young princess from bondage.

As Wichita savored that thought, he noticed a black shape was lurking in the trees just ahead of him. The dark shape looked like the outline of a man, trying to stay hidden between the trees. He had a shotgun resting at his side and a twisted, almost evil smile. Wichita hadn't expected to come across anyone in the forest, he was caught completely off guard.

"Who are you?" Wichita called out to the dark shape. He began to fumble at his side, searching for his weapon, but out of carelessness, he had left his only pistol back on the pack Brahmin.

The dark man slowly approached, "I'm nothing but trouble. . ."

Thanks for reading . . . and if you took the time to read, why not write a review and tell me what you think. . . .