NOTE: Well, here it is, the final part of WASTELAND. I decided to break the last part into several chapters (works better that way). Thank you all for reading up to this point. Also, thanks to all who reviewed this story: gives me reason to write knowing I have an audience. I won't hold you any more. Enjoy the chapter.
It was another dead end.
The faceless man and I stood there in the city street, both unsure as to what to do next as we faced the mountain of rubble impeding our path. The city ruins were gradually falling to pieces around us, making travel slow and arduous.
I wanted to scream out in frustration.
So I did.
The man nudged my arm and nodded his head towards a nearby metro station entrance. I was adamant in my explanation, making it as clear as crystal to the masked man that I would never, ever again set foot inside those metro tunnels as long as I lived. The horrors contained there would forever haunt me, and already the man was willing to step down into hell when not even half a day had passed since our last excursion beneath the city streets.
The man relented and we began searching for an alternate route.
We could backtrack, though there was no guarantee of success. The easiest solution, in theory, was to simply climb over the debris, but that challenge in of itself presented several problems. The sides were hazardously steep and no doubt unstable. Adding to the danger were the beams of twisted steel near the base of the artificial mountain, their points aimed skyward towards the sky like stakes. A single error could spell the end. The man could, with caution, scale the wall, I was sure about this. I, on the other hand, would meet an unfortunate and painful end.
The man found the solution: a small alleyway set between two buildings. I had overlooked this path due to it being partially concealed by a wrecked city bus. We were able to squeeze pass the obstruction with little trouble and made our way to the other side.
Greeting us was a wide avenue unlike any of the streets we had seen previously. Trees that had once been an aesthetic view stood dead and withered along a central median that bisected the roadway which was lined on either side by offices and storefronts. No obstacles threatened our travel. The avenue was completely deserted except for a few rusted cars.
I couldn't wait to leave this city behind me.
"So where are we going?" I asked the masked man, not expecting any reply whatsoever. The stillness of the city air was starting to negatively affect me. Everything was so quiet for so long that it was unnerving. Unnatural. Talking was one way to make it all more bearable. Plus I could still hold conversations with the man, they would merely be one-sided, and I truly was interested as to where we were headed.
The man reached into his rucksack for a worn paper map that was frayed at the edges. He unrolled the paper carefully and showed it to me. It was a map of North America. A large area north of several small seas was circled in red ink.
"What's there?" I asked, studying the map until he returned it to his bag.
He said nothing.
"That silent act of yours is really starting to piss me off," I muttered lowly, my voice tinged with deep annoyance. The man reached out a gloved hand and placed it atop my head as if I was some pet of his. I shook him off and asked, "Why are you so quiet? Can you not talk at all or do you choose not to speak? Either way it's..."
The windshield of a nearby car – maybe two or three feet away – exploded into thousands of shards and disintegrated as the report of a long rifle tore down the vacant avenue. I was already being dragged down behind the car as another shot was fired, the round sparking against the car's metal just inches above our heads. The man held his own rifle at the ready beside me. A third shot was fired, destroying another of the car's windows and sending glass raining down on me. I swore using what few curse words I knew and wiped the glass shards off of me.
A mob could be heard approaching us from where the sniper shots had been fired, yelling and cheering as they fired their own weapons blindly into the air and at us. A torrent of men in crude armor erupted from the building behind us, effectively surrounding me and man from both ends.
The man grabbed me by the arm and I was dragged out into the deadly crossfire. Bullets ricocheted around us like angry wasps as we were fired upon from both directions, and by some miracle we remained unharmed. The masked man jumped through a window, shattering the glass with his shoulder and landing inside a spacious office lobby. I fell in after him and we took shelter behind a wooden reception desk. The men outside opened fire into the building, obliterating what little remained intact inside the lobby. The desk splintered from the hits but held firm behind us.
An order was barked and the gunfire ceased almost immediately. I risked a glance around the corner of the desk, moving slowly so not to draw attention to myself. A muscular man in slightly more elegant armor stood before the mob, a short-barreled assault rifle in one hand and a megaphone in the other. Two bare chested men flanked his sides like Praetorian Guards: both sported masks of human bone that hid their visage and brandished lethal machete-like homemade spears. A vulture was painted in blood across their hearts, its wings spread in mock flight.
The leader spoke loudly, raising the megaphone to his lips to amplify his deep voice. He addressed both me and the masked man as we hid inside the office building. "My name is Samuil," he said, "leader of the Vultures and ruler of this city."
His voice then raised in anger. "You have defiled our territory and killed our own, and for that you must be punished!" The small army behind Samuil cheered enthusiastically, firing their weapons into the sky. Samuil barked at them before speaking again. "Come out with your weapons down and we will show you mercy with a quick death. Fight us and you will beg us to end your lives."
The masked man tightened his grip on his hunting rifle. I knew that he would not die without a fight, and somehow this fact gave me a sliver of hope. Surrender meant death. Resistance mean death, but a small possibility of escape remained. The odds were against us. We were outnumbered and outgunned, but I felt confidence in the man who had saved me on so many occasions.
He would go head on against fate, and he would would win.