Chapter 3
When I finally come to, I'm lying on my back on a hard surface. My body feels stiff; I've been here for a while. Bright sunlight stings my eyes, but I don't bother waiting for my vision to adjust. I need to move.
I try scrambling to my feet, but my arm pulls me sharply back to the hard earth. I squint as my vision finally begins to return. A short chain is wrapped around my wrist, looped through a small lock. The chain is attached to a circular piece of metal driven into the ground. I sit up and pull at the chain with both hands, but the thing doesn't budge. I reach for my weapons, but they're all gone. I'm unarmed and chained like a dog. Worse - I'm alive, and that can't mean anything good.
With my eyes nearly adjusted to the light, I'm able to scope out my surroundings. The ground drops out of sight a short distance from where I'm chained up. Bastards must have hauled me to the top of one of the mesas. Nearby are several small tents and some work benches surrounding a large fire pit. The tents are all decorated with skulls and other human bones. Several areas of the mesa are stained with blood. If that weren't grisly enough, the fire pit houses about ten burnt human corpses. No sign of my car anywhere.
It's then that my other senses start to return. The first is pain. My head is throbbing, and my leg hurts like hell. I check the lance injury and discover that it has been dressed properly with new bandages. Looks like they didn't want me dying too soon. Not good.
My hearing comes back next - the faint sound of someone humming reaches my ears. I whip around to see a dark figure sitting on a rock. It appears to be a man shaving his face with a bowie knife. He holds up a rearview mirror so he can see what he's doing. He is wearing dirt-stained jeans, large black boots, and a tattered t-shirt. His hair is short and black. A large pile of long, black hair is sitting on the ground in front of him. A heavy jacket that was probably once green but is now closer to black is folded beside him, next to a pump-action shotgun that looks well cared for. He is a very muscular man. His most striking feature, however, is the black eyepatch over his left eye. Before I can say anything, he speaks.
"Good," he says without turning his gaze from the mirror. His voice is deep and raspy. "I was starting to get worried you wouldn't wake. Don't worry about me, I don't bite much. Unlike the damn Mozzies that got you."
I stare at him sitting there, shaving his face without a care in the world. I brush my fingers against the stubble on my jaw, trying to remember the last time I shaved. I open my mouth, but it takes me a moment to force the words out of my dry throat.
"Where's my car?" I finally ask.
The man finishes shaving and tosses the mirror on the ground. He sheathes his knife in his boot. Then he leans forward and places his arms on his knees, looking down at me. The skin around his eye is wrinkled, and the corners of his mouth sag a little. It's rare to see someone this old still kicking out here. From what I've learned, most people don't live much longer than my age.
"At the bottom," he says, motioning his head towards the edge of the mesa. "But it is pretty beat up, and when I got here, the Mozzies were in the process of stripping it for scrap."
I scowl and clench my fists. I knew this would probably happen one day, of course. I couldn't outrun everyone forever; it was only a matter of time.
"It may take a while get it up and running," the man adds.
He pauses and reaches over to his musty jacket. He pulls a small, white object from a pocket and tosses it on the ground, watching it closely. I recognize it as a six-sided die. Gambler. Once it stops rolling, the man looks at me again.
"But I'll be happy to give you a ride to wherever you need to go. Provided you aren't a fucking savage."
I just blink at him for a moment. A ride? I've been through a lot of shit, but this is something entirely new. People don't help each other out here - not for free.
"I'm no savage," I eventually reply. I glance once again at the bones, blood, and bodies strewn about the campsite. Then I turn back to glare at the stranger. "But how do I know you're not?"
"You don't. But I am the man who patched you up and killed the angry ferals who planned on eating you." The man bends over to pick up the die. He rolls it between his fingers. "If you don't trust me for a ride, that's fine. I'll also help you fix your car until it's drivable, or just leave it to yourself if you prefer."
The man stands up and puts his heavy, green-black jacket on. He returns the die to one of the various pockets. On the left shoulder of the jacket is a patch of a flag: red, white, and blue in a criss-cross pattern. It's the flag of a dead nation; I've seen it before. It has a name that I can't recall right now.
"At the very least, I'll free you of your shackle so you don't have to gnaw your arm off like an animal," the freshly shaven man says, pulling a small a key from another pocket.
He takes heavy footsteps towards me, humming as he twirls the key on his finger. I scowl at him, feeling my body tense up in preparation for a fight. People eating other people? That happens all the time out here. But people helping other people for no reason? Now that's a rare thing. Rare and very, very suspicious.
"Your die tell you to help me?" I ask as he approaches. "Seems like a risky way to decide what to do."
"It did. I don't care much either way and can't make decisions for myself." The man's deep voice is monotone and has no emotion. "What's the worst that could possibly happen? I die? That's not much incentive to care."
He doesn't take out a weapon, showing no fear of a stranger in the Wastes. He finally reaches me and stoops down to unlock the chain. I ready myself, preparing to lunge if he goes for the knife in his boot, but he never does. There's a click, and the chain goes slack. I pull my wrist free and get to my feet, grimacing as the pain in my leg flares up. The man collects the chain and lock before standing. He's about a head shorter than I am, but what he lacks in height he makes up for in muscle. He turns and walks back to his rock.
"So anyway, guy," he calls over his shoulder. "What's the plan?"
I rub my wrist, trying to ignore the pain in my leg. It'll be a bitch to drive with it like this. I'll just focus on trying to walk with it for now.
What's more important is deciding what to do about this man. I don't trust him, especially since his attitude towards me could change with the roll of a die. But on the other hand, I'm as good as dead without a car. Part of me is jealous of this guy's decision-making system. Sometimes I tell myself that I don't care what happens to me - caring only leads to pain, I'll say. But try as I might, I can't quite let go of some things. As hellish as this life can be, it's the only one I have. And my car is the only car I have.
"If my car is in as bad shape as you say, I could use a hand fixing it up," I say after a moment. "But I don't wanna see you rolling that die to decide whether or not to kill me while we're working, yeah?"
"I don't kill unless I get attacked," the stranger states, grabbing his shotgun and slinging it over his shoulder. He hangs a bandolier of black shotgun shells across his chest. Then he looks around the camp for a moment, again showing no expression. "And after killing these Mozzies, I decided to check out their camp to see if I could find some scrap. Then found a survivor - a prisoner - and decided to help. Helping you is no setback unless you turn on me."
With that, he reaches into one of his pockets and produces a small box. From the box, he pulls out a small, white tube - a cigarette. He places the cigarette in his mouth and lights it with a rusted lighter from yet another pocket. He seems completely relaxed. Maybe he's cocky, or maybe he's just that good. He did kill a whole camp of Mozzies by himself, after all.
"But if you don't trust me, I'll leave," he adds as he begins smoking. "I really don't care. I'm going to go see Anuket for work after this anyway."
"Fine, let's get to work, then," I say. "Who's Anuket?"
"Anuket is one of the Gods the locals here in the Caesar's Empire worship." The man pauses and takes a long drag from his cigarette. "Of course, they aren't actual Gods. Just powerful people with an ego in control of a resource."
The man walks towards the opposite end of the mesa. I follow, trying not to limp. I glance at the tents, looking for any surviving Mozzies. All clear. It suddenly occurs to me that I never thanked this guy for helping me. I'm out of practice with thanking people. I doubt he cares, though. He doesn't seem to care about many things.
"Anuket is the Goddess of water and agriculture," the stranger continues as we walk. "Her city is in the middle of an oasis, and I do work for her every few hundred days for weapons and tobacco." He takes one last drag of his cigarette before stomping it out on the ground. "Fucking bitch, though. She took my eye."
He reaches the edge of the mesa and kicks a coiled rope off the edge. The end of the rope is tied attached to a metal loop in the ground, similar to the one I was chained to.
Seems Pash was right about being able to get work from Caesar or in one of his cities. Judging from this well-equipped man, it doesn't seem like a bad idea - except of course for the possibility of losing an eye or worse.
"After you," I say, gesturing to the edge. Can't have him cutting the rope in me when I'm climbing down. He might trust that die, but I don't trust him. "You're one of the so-called barbarians that do work in Caesar's cities, yeah?"
"We are all barbarians to him," he replies, grabbing the rope and lowering himself over the edge. "Anyone who isn't native to the Capitol is a barbarian. Crazy bastard is up on his high horse, that's for sure. But he gives outsiders the privilege of doing dirty work for him. The Gods do the same but have a pretty bitter rivalry between each other so tend to pay competitively to try and outdo each other."
With that, he slides down the rope and lands quite easily on the ground. I follow him down much less gracefully. At the bottom of the mesa, I see a handful of vehicles, one of them mine. It was a small car to begin with - slim, only two doors, low-riding - but it looks even smaller now. The front is pretty thoroughly smashed from the collision with the truck. The front axle is bent; the wheels sit at harsh angles. Any remaining windows have been shattered, and the front windshield is severely cracked. The tiny patches of red paint have been scraped off. I get closer, circling around to the front. The hood has been pried completely off, revealing the engine and interior parts, which are in various states of damage and disassembly. It looks fixable, but it'll take time and parts. I almost wish the stranger had left some Mozzies alive so I could kill them myself for what they did to my car. But I know it would be worse, so much worse. I place a hand gently on the cracked windshield. Battered but alive, just like me.
Next to my ride are four twisted motorcycles and the tow truck. The front of the truck is lacking the human-shaped sacks, but the grill is bent and caked with dry blood. The hood is propped up; tools are scattered around. Another vehicle is parked nearby: a rusty, armored van. There are metal bars welded across the front windshield and barbed wire spread across the passenger and driver side windows. The armored hulk's front has been fitted with a battering ram made out a large plow. Along the sides and top of the van are more strands of barbed wire to prevent people from climbing on it. Smart. This is a true Road Warrior's ride if I've ever seen one.
Without a word, the man walks up to the van, opens the passenger side door, and sets his shotgun on the seat. He then grabs a small bag of tools from underneath the dash.
"So I figured we might as well break down the Mozzie's truck for parts to patch up your ride," he says.
I nod in agreement, wondering if this man thinks I am a complete idiot for getting myself captured and my vehicle destroyed. It happens all the time to people out here, sure, but it probably doesn't happen to him very often. But at least I have both my eyes…
I sigh and open the passenger door. Time to see if the scavengers left anything for me.
"Hey, you happen to see any of my shit around here?" I call to the man as I duck inside my car.
"Yeah, just a sec," he says, placing the bag of tools on the ground next to my vehicle.
The stranger walks behind his van, and I hear a heavy creaking as he opens the back door. He rummages around for a little while; I can hear him humming over the sound of clattering metal. Eventually, he returns with a large duffel bag.
"Hope you don't take it personally when I say I took this in case you didn't make it or I had to kill you if you were aggressive." His emotionless, rumbling voice is so deep I can almost feel it more than hear it.
"Did you have the pot of spices, too? Shit's valuable out in the Empire."
"Uh, yeah," I reply, not bothering to hide my surprise. "Just got that from a job before I was attacked."
I'd asked him about my stuff, but I hadn't expected him to actually give it back. I figured he'd just say he didn't find anything, whether that was the truth or not. This guy showed up out of nowhere, saved my life, and offered to help me with my car. The least he could do for himself is to steal my stuff. It makes no sense to me.
I take the duffel bag and set it on the roof of my car.
"Surprised you even brought it up," I add, rummaging through the bag. Everything's there - weapons, canteen, funnel, medical supplies. "If it's so valuable, why not keep it for yourself? Why not keep all of this? Why give it back to me, huh?"
The man sighs heavily. Annoyance. The first emotion he has expressed since I met him.
"Because I rolled to help you," the man says as if it were a normal thing to say. "And I wouldn't be much help if I stole your stuff, now would I? You're paranoid - a healthy thing to be when you're a lone Road Warrior. But it is misplaced. We haven't started killing each other yet. That's a good sign." The man rubs a nick on his jaw from shaving. "I know it's hard to believe, but sometimes people do good things. Selfless things. I get nothing out of helping you, but I also lose nothing. I trust that you aren't going to kill me; you seem like a good kid. Just twisted by the Wastes. I don't blame you." The man starts walking back to his truck to retrieve the spices. "You need to hold onto your humanity, or you'll go insane. You'll end up like them." He points to the blood splatter on the back of the tow truck's cabin.
"All right, all right, I was just asking," I mumble. "Didn't need a lecture about it."
I glance the blood. It's hard to even imagine that those savages used to be regular people. I absent-mindedly fiddle with the scarf around my neck as I ponder the man's words. He trusts me not to kill him. I've killed a lot of people. Some of them I didn't want to kill, but it was necessary. Lots of things I do are necessary, or at least that's what I tell myself. I empty the duffel bag and return its contents to their places in the car or on my body.
"I've still got some humanity left," I say when the man returns with the spices. "Got a name, too. It's Roman. Pleasure to meet you."
"Yeah, I have one, too," he replies as he sets the container on the ground. "Call me Three."
Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who has been checking out this story so far. Special thanks to reviewer Lewibaton and followers prettytightkid and SirReaper56. My co-author and I are really excited about sharing Roman's story with you all. Stay tuned.