The Long Road

By S.L. MacLellan

It was fifty years ago when the Bombs fell and the world was brought to a screeching halt. But humanity is stubborn, and a new world is being built from the ashes of the Time Before. For Locke, surviving in this land is hard enough between the flesh-rending sandstorms, ravenous mutants, and the daily challen

• Language: English
• Publisher: CEN Publications LLC
• Release date: Sep 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9780999034330

Book preview

Prologue

The sun dipped below the horizon, blanketing the wastes in crimson light and turning the normally silver waters of the Wound blood red. Daniel Torrez watched as the last of the light faded from the sky and thought of Taylor. His confidant would have considered the sky to be an ill omen, but Daniel rarely took stock in such things. He considered himself a practical man, one who dealt with what was before him, not what might be around the next turn. Let others grow concerned with the possibility of what could come to pass. He would take care of the here and now.

Daniel looked down into the Wound - a great crevasse considered ancient even in the Time Before. It spanned for miles in both directions, stretching north and south beyond sight. Spires of rock, some ancient and others the result of the bombings during the Last War, rose up from the bottom like stony fingers reaching for the poisoned sky above. It was hardly an ideal location for their next battle, but the Marked Ones didn't have many choices left.

He took some solace in the fact that the elderly, children, and other non-combatants had already crossed the Wound and were on their way toward a small village some of Daniels scouts had located weeks before. There beneath the shadows of the great mountains they would be far from the reach of Clay and the Great Vallahs. Taylor would keep them safe and help them rebuild – start a real life.

Daniel thrust his left arm through the rolled sleeve of his leather coat and stretched it across his shoulders before threading his right arm through the second sleeve. He tugged on the lapels to settle it into place, allowing it to rest nice and easy on his shoulders. A mural of the various tribal insignias and icons adorned the back – rearing horses, broken chains, spent casings for a variety of true guns, skulls, and a four-leaf clover stood out among other sigils and marks. All of them had been painted by Taylor to commemorate their history.

The coat hung over an old combat vest, an olive drab affair stuffed with a myriad assortment of ammunition and supplies needed to wage his war. Lightweight ceramic plates backed the vest, providing modest protection. On his hip he wore a revolver chambered to fire .410 shells, on the grip rested the image of a Zetan long horn cast in silver. It had belonged to Roland O’Donnell, a founder of their rebellion. His death had prompted the sacking of Crater, the birth of the Marked Ones, and the war Daniel and his brothers had spent the last two years fighting.

Daniel looked west one last time and offered a small wave to Taylor before turning away from the Wound. A great dust column rose up from the eastern horizon, heralding the approach of Graeme the Butcher and his army of Great Vallah warriors. Daniel frowned as his gaze fell upon his own forces. A ragtag band of fugitive slaves, of tribals once living under the iron rule of the Great Vallahs, and of misfortunate caravanners who wandered too far from home. They had named him their taladro – their leader – and they were his brothers and sisters in battle – his Marked Ones.

Together these men and women had fought, bled, and died for their freedom and for the freedom of their children and their children’s children. Once, they had been part of the lowest dregs of Vallah culture; now they were on the verge of bringing one of the greatest wasteland civilizations to their knees.

Daniel’s head tilted back as his eyes followed the column until it disappeared into the gray-brown clouds lingering above the lands surrounding the Wound. For the last three weeks, since the defeat at the King’s Rock, Graeme had been doggedly pursuing them. Now they were backed against the edge of the Wound with nowhere to run.

He ran a hand through his hair, dark with flecks of silver – waging a war and leading an army had taken their toll. His hand continued down the side of his face across the stubble along his jaw. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the brand on his left forearm, the letter C stylized as an exotic blade: Clay’s personal mark of ownership. Running up and down both arms were myriad assortments of tattoos ranging from the personal marks of fellow slave rebels, to iconography to images found in ruined cities and towns he happened to like. His own personal mark was the rearing lion on his left shoulder.

These marks – scars and tattoos alike – told the story of Daniel’s life. Of his humble birth in the frontier lands of the Ah-Toy territories and of a childhood spent hunting and foraging through the ruins of the Time Before with his mother in search of scrap to sell to passing caravans. The story shifted when he was captured by slavers and sold to the Great Vallahs to toil in mines and fields until finally he was thrown into one of their arenas. He earned one victory after another until he caught the eye of Clay, a Vallah known for the quality of the warriors he brought to the Pits. Daniel continued to prove himself until Clay saw fit to make him the taladro of his fighters and tasked him with training them so they, too, would find only victory.

Daniel became Clay’s favored slave, never seeing defeat and training scores of warriors who achieved their own glory in Clay’s name. Daniel was given attendants, private living quarters, books, whores, records and a record player. Such was Clay’s pride and appreciation for his taladro that anything Daniel asked for was readily given to him. Everything – save the keys to his shackles.

Everything changed the day Roland had died. Daniel and his fellow slaves rebelled, burning Crater to the ground and fleeing into the wastelands. The first battle of many.

Daniel turned toward the faint sound of boot steps, his hand straying toward the hilt of his machete. He relaxed the moment he saw the approaching figure.

Report? Daniel asked as the man stopped in front of him.

John looked out past the rolling dunes of sand, his thoughts and expressions hidden behind a pair of mirrored sunglasses. The wind picked up, working to bury the tracks from the man’s scouting expedition. Out there in the desert he was a ghost, able to disappear and reappear without a trace. John had survived more than three days in the Great Glass Sea and had personally led the March of One Million Steps, feats that made him a legend among the Marked Ones, one to rival Daniel’s own.

A thousand, maybe fifteen hundred strong, John replied. The man was simply dressed in a brown and tan poncho over jeans and a thin, hand woven shirt. He wore a wide-brimmed hat on his head and a pair of worn combat boots on his feet. Across his back rested a rifle and machete, and at his hip was the M1911 handgun given to him by Clay the night before the rebellion.

Against our six hundred, Daniel said quietly, his shoulders sagging. He took a breath and squared them again, continuing with a more confident tone: We stand our ground here and play out one last show for the Great Masters. We end this rebellion, and I can return home to Taylor. We’re going to become farmers, can you imagine?

John laughed. I can’t say that I can, but I’ll be happy to live alongside you both when it happens. You’re going to be a terrible farmer, though. I saw the garden you tried to start back in Crater.

There was a pause. Save the soft howl of the wind blowing through the Wound, the wasteland around them was silent.

I’m tired, John, Daniel finally said. Tired of fighting. Tired of the fact that we’re up against an enemy that outnumbers us ten to one...

He left the rest unsaid.

John clapped the taladro on the shoulder, though he had to reach up to do so.

These men and women wouldn’t have a chance at freedom if it wasn’t for you, John said. The ones who died... they died free. The ones who are still fighting... They get the chance to live free. And that’s because of you.

Daniel put a hand on John’s hand and the other on his friend’s shoulder. He squeezed slightly, although the wince of pain from his adanto warned him that even after all these years he still didn’t know his own strength.

Come on, John said. It’s time you gave the troops a rousing speech.

Daniel ran a hand through his hair again as he followed John away from the Wound and back toward the bulk of their camp. They walked down the sloping hill and stopped on a small hillock that overlooked the assembled Marked Ones. The motley assortment of men and women wearing anything from rags to full suits of ceramic plated armor, fell silent as they noticed Daniel standing before them.

Our path has been a difficult one, Daniel said raising his voice to be heard. "Every one of you has done everything I could have ever asked of you and more without complaint. You’ve all accomplished great feats in the name of freedom! In the name of justice! And all that hard work has brought us here! We destroyed Crater! We routed Magnas at the Night Stalkers’ Canyon! We burned Blue Water to the ground! When Phillip the Slasher fell upon our ranks with his armies, we repelled them, turned the tides, and tore them to pieces! The heads of fifty-three of the Great Vallahs’ finest were sent to the Great Masters! Our message has been sent: We are a free people!"

The Marked Ones erupted into a cheer, the sound rolling over Daniel and John like a wave. Hundreds of men and women raised their fists in unison as the taladro took a few steps toward the edge of the bluff and raised his hands to silence the masses. It took a moment, but the warriors grew quiet enough for him to continue.

Brothers and sisters, our enemy is at hand! The Butcher Graeme marches an army of one thousand upon us! They fight for greed and a lust for blood while we fight for a more righteous cause! They hope to break us here and steal our hard-earned freedom because they do not have it themselves! They are merely the dogs of the Great Masters of Sune Vallah!

He paused, waiting for the shouts and cheers to die down again.

Brothers and sisters... Daniel continued, this time in a comparatively softer tone. "I know you have already given so much. You have fought, you have bled, and you have seen your friends – your brothers and sisters in arms, fall and been forced to bury them. I should not ask you for anything more than what you’ve already given, but here I stand, asking you to march once more.

So, Marked Ones, will you fight alongside me one last time?

The warriors raised their arms together once more, this time with rifles, spears, machetes, and pistols in hand. They cheered, the primal, almost visceral, sound battering Daniel, making the prior shout seem like little more than a whisper.

Ready yourselves for battle, brothers and sisters! Daniel shouted as he drew his revolver and pointed it over their heads toward Graeme’s approaching army. It was no longer just a column of dirt and sand, but a dark spot at the edge of their vision as well. Ready your spears! Secure the trenches! Pray to your gods for a swift victory! Rise up, Marked Ones, for today shall be a day worthy of remembrance! And when the sun rises, it shall be a red sun drenched in the blood of the Great Vallahs! Death to our enemies!

The Marked Ones picked up the last words, chanting them again and again as Daniel stepped away from the edge of the hill to return to John’s side. The man’s hand was over his face and when he removed it there was a wry grin beneath his nose.

What? I thought it was a good speech, Daniel said. He chuckled slightly.

Not bad at all, John replied. I just thought for a moment there that you were going to quote Tolkien.

The name was lost on Daniel, who suspected John was used to people missing the references he often made.

What are my orders? John asked as they walked back to the edge of the Wound.

Daniel crossed his arms and found himself staring once more at the red ribbon crawling along the base of the Wound like a trickle of blood. The taladro found it poetic, albeit macabre.

I will be front and center, Daniel replied. I am not a Great Vallah and I will not hide behind my army, safe while my warriors die for my cause. I’ll fight by their sides.

There was no argument from John. In fact, there hadn’t been an argument about Daniel’s place on the battlefield since Daniel had ripped the head of the Vallah warrior Sacanell from his shoulders in battle. While a capable commander in his own right, Daniel was the most effective on the frontlines, killing their enemies and inspiring the men and women around him to perform great deeds on the field of battle.

Doesn’t answer my question, John said with a sigh.

Daniel laughed and extended an open hand. Keep me safe like you always do.

John clasped hands and bumped his shoulder against Daniel’s upper arm.

Someone has to, with Taylor on the other side of the Wound, the adanto said with a laugh. He motioned north and east, not far from the approaching horde. I saw an outcropping of rock a couple hundred yards north of here. I'll grab my Rifles and set up shop there. See you on the other side.

John broke into a jog, making his way north and leaving Daniel alone. The taladro stared at the river, losing himself in the play of light on water until a horn cut through the air. He turned to see that Graeme’s army was upon them, nearly at hand. Daniel took a deep breath to steady himself and kneeled.

The taladro grabbed a handful of dirt and ash and rubbed his hands together, sapping away any remaining moisture that might be clinging to his skin. He smelled his hands as he stood back up and smiled. There was an honesty to the scent of earth, an honesty he liked. An honesty he would have to get used to, truth to be told, since Taylor was insistent that they start their damn farm.

Daniel began his long walk to the front of his army. Men and women stepped aside as he passed, although many reached out to touch his coat or arm as he walked by. Occasionally a higher-ranking Marked One would rebuke someone for taking too long, but each time, Daniel would raise a hand and exchange a few words with the adoring warrior.

He let their expressions sink in, resolving to carry them with him into battle. The looks on their faces. The trust and adulation. They respected him. Revered him. He could not fail them. Not today.

Taladro a woman said as he joined the warriors in the first trench. It will be an honor to fight and die alongside you this day.

Daniel looked her in the eye as the crack of gunfire sounded behind them, signaling the start of battle. Promise yourself that you will be the last to die today, he said. He turned to look the rest of the Marked Ones assembled with him. All of you, promise me that you’ll be the last to die!

Chapter One

The man walked down the cracked pavement of the desert road, leaving the corpse in the ditch for the buzzards and crows. He crossed himself, his fingers tapping his forehead, his breast, his left shoulder, and right shoulder before tearing a length of cloth from the bottom of his poncho. Quickening his pace, the man wiped the blood from his hands and threw the cloth to the ground. The man had the information he needed, and with it, a newfound determination to bring Red Jake to justice. Behind him, the birds were already cawing and circling.

Some fifty feet in front of the man was a small boy, barely more than a toddler, sitting on the hood of a rusted-out sedan, headphones covering his ears and a small device in his hands. The man closed the gap and crouched in front of the child, smiling. The boy took off his headphones and looked at the man wordlessly, his brown eyes drilling holes into the man’s own light blue orbs.

Come on, AJ, we’ve got to get moving, the man said, holding out a hand for the child to take.

They continued their journey, the man leading and the child following. For every step the man took, the boy was forced to take six. From time to time the man would pause and wait for the child to catch up before continuing along on their path. He wanted to find Red Jake, but he wouldn’t leave the boy behind to do it.

The sun beat down on them, oppressive and overbearing, but they both wore wide-brimmed hats, tinted goggles, and ponchos to shield themselves from the worst of the sun’s assault. Occasionally, the man would have to pull the brim of his hat down further across his eyes, but it was a mild inconvenience at worst.

He was a handsome sort, if not a little rugged and worn. His features were sharp and held a countenance that looked as though someone had carved them from wood. The man’s eyes were a pale blue and his hair was a thick, messy mane of muddy auburn locks. A ragged mess of a beard in severe need of a shave crept across his face. Three scars, the parting gift from an angry bear, ran from his jaw line across his left cheek, nearly reaching his eye. Beneath his shirt was a mass of scar tissue covering his right shoulder, the memento of a burning barn crashing on his head.

Tattoos covered the man’s left arm, starting with the four-leaf clover and crossed guns of his home. Flowing cursive script formed the words Further Up and Further In on a pair of dog tags hanging from the clover. Beneath the guns and clover ran a broken chain cloaked in flame and between each link was a different icon or image that formed a portrait to chaos and fury. All of this led to an angry C-shaped scar just over the words Remember why you’re here. Three items on a steel chain hung from his neck: a set of dog tags bearing the name James Flynnt, a silver crucifix, and a small gold locket shaped like a heart. On his hip he carried a revolver he called the Iron, and across his back were a rifle and a long-bladed machete.

The child had a round face with skin like brass and rosy cheeks hidden beneath layers of dirt and grime. His hair was dark brown, bordering on black, and in greasy strings – the result of life spent on the road. He was scrawny, but not unhealthy, and his soft brown eyes held an intelligence of sorts, though he did not utter a sound. While the child kept his eyes to the ground most of the time, there were occasions where he would peek out at the world around him. No matter where he looked, however, his feet remained forward and he followed the man without delay or deviation.

All around them, the drone of cicadas hummed in their ears, interrupted only by the jingle-jangle of the iron skillet and tin cups hanging from the man’s rucksack and the regular patter of feet on broken pavement. The highway stretched out from beneath their feet, paving the way west until it disappeared into the horizon, fading and fusing with the unbroken blue of the sky marking the end of the world. Rusted skeletons of trucks and cars dotted the road. Some called it the Devil’s Highway. Others called it the Long Road. The man didn’t call it anything, but instead chose to walk its length in near silence.

They walked for hours, stopping to rest only when the sun ended its dance across the heavens. The man led the child off the road to set up a camp, and within minutes a fire danced and crackled to life, its light warding off the encroaching darkness.

The sounds of the desert shifted as the cicadas drifted off to sleep and the cabras rose from their slumber. A howl echoed in the distance, fading for only a moment before it was taken up by another beast, and another, and another until the cries came from all directions.

The child shuddered and moved in closer to the man, who wrapped an arm around him in response.

Shh... don’t worry AJ, they aren’t going to come any closer, the man whispered.

The words and gesture proved to be the panacea the child needed. The shaking gave way to steady breathing, which in turn became the slow, rhythmic sounds of a dreamless sleep. There would be no monsters haunting the child tonight.

The man shifted and laid the child to rest in a sleeping bag. He stepped away from the camp to relieve himself, then returned to take inventory of their supplies. There was food and water enough for three more days, at least. The man released a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. They were fortunate and making good time.

He laid his rifle across his crossed legs and took it apart to clean as he did every night, his hands moving across the weapon without waiting for commands from his brain. It was as much a ritual to him as it was a routine. To him, it was more than a mere firearm. It was something akin to Excalibur, a legendary relic of a time long since passed. The rifle was one of the few functioning firearms in the wastes, and the fact that he had ammunition to shoot only made it more valuable. In a world of slings and arrows, the rifle reigned supreme, allowing its wielder to lord over man.

It had been a gift from Elizabeth, the only woman he had ever truly loved. Ruger action, bolt lugs lapped for uniformity, a Timney trigger with a one pound, eight ounce pull weight – perhaps a tenth of an ounce more. Wood stock, laminated to resist weathering.

Twenty-five-and-a-half-inch varmint contour barrel, the man said quietly, speaking with an almost religious reverence, turning the words into a mantra, a creed. Free-floated with a custom muzzle brake, helical fluting to reduce weight. Six-point-five millimeter round with a one hundred and forty grain bullet

He reached into his rucksack and pulled out a beaten-up cardboard box. He opened it slowly and watched as the fire’s reflection danced along the brass hulls of the eleven bullets still in the box. With the six resting in the rifle, including two tracer rounds, the man had seventeen rounds for the rifle, and another fourteen for the revolver on his hip.

The man looked out over the vast, unbroken, and seemingly endless desert. He knew better, however. He had seen the far end of the desert, where ruined cities crumbled in silence. The place most only called the East. He had been born there in the land of the Forefathers on the outskirts of the City of Stone Idols. He had grown up along the banks of a great river that emptied into the sea. It was there his father had taught him the lore of the bygone scholars, and it was there his grandfather had taught him the ways of the world.

Violence had descended upon that land, tearing it apart, and when the man had ended it, he chose to go west rather than stay and rebuild. He was a warrior, not a builder. His hands could not remain idle. Violence was in his blood – had been for generations. The sound of gunfire was like music to his ears, a lullaby that would one day shepherd him into the Last Sleep.

But that had changed five years ago when he arrived on the farm. When he had met Elizabeth. He had put away his guns and taken up the implements of a farmer – hoe, trowel, scythe, and shovel. Each day he would head out to the fields to reap what he had sown, and each night he would return to the arms of the woman he had grown to love. It had been a good life, an honest life, and a life far more fulfilling than his days spent fighting his way across the desert. But it did not last. Mere minutes of blood and gunfire had taken that life from him.

His eyes grew heavy, but he forced himself to stay awake, as he often did. In truth, the man required little sleep anymore. He could work tirelessly for days on end; traveling, hunting, keeping watch. His body didn't need as much rest as it used to.

The man put a metal cup on the edge of the fire, half buried in coals and filled it part way with water before mixing in the last of his coffee grinds. The smell of coffee quickly overpowered the combined scents of the desert air and the smoke from the fire. The man inhaled, letting the air fill him up like a meal. When he could take the tantalizing odor no longer, the man grabbed the cup’s handle, grimacing slightly at the heat against his skin, and pulled the coffee from the flames. He brought the cup beneath his nose and breathed in once more. His eyes rolled back and his eyelids shuttered in ecstasy.

The can, filled with more air than actual coffee, cost him half a dozen bullets and four dollars, but it had been worth every round and cent. He took a sip from the mug. The hot coffee scalded the inside of his mouth, but the man didn’t care. Tonight, he was a king, a god among men, because he had in his hands a treasure that most could only dream of.

His senses sharpened as the caffeine kicked in. The fatigue was banished from his bones, and the sandman no longer offered him the seductive velvet of sleep.

The man leaned back against a rock, pulled the locket from beneath his shirt, and opened it. On the left was a picture of AJ, smiling and happy. On the right was Elizabeth, with her mousey brown hair in its messy bun and the smattering of freckles across her cheeks and nose. He closed his eyes and imagined she was there with him in the desert. The man could almost smell her – desert willows, dirt, and rain.

He opened his eyes and looked up into the night. Stars filled it, as if thrown from the hand of a god attempting to seed the sky. In many places there was more light than darkness, but along the edge of the sky, where heaven met earth, the night was so black it almost appeared purple.

The man blinked, a slow, lazy motion, and the stars blurred together. He closed his eyes again and when they reopened the man found himself staring into the light blue of the midmorning. He looked over at the child, who was sitting quietly, drawing in the sand. The man looked at the zigzagging lines and soon realized the child was making a map. An X to mark the farm they had come from, and a line snaking through the sand to represent the old highway they followed.

The man smiled as he started up the fire once more. He had promised Elizabeth to take the child to safety, to find a home where his old life of blood and violence would not follow them. While he wasn’t sure if such a world existed, the man had given his word and if he couldn’t find that world, he would make it.

Breakfast was humble: a fried mash of salt, meat, fat, and cornmeal. They ate in silence, as they always did, while the man looked over his map. When breakfast was done, they wordlessly rose to continue their journey. The sun spent the morning chasing them across the wastes, and the man and the child spent the afternoon chasing it across the sky, stopping only when they needed to get off their feet or empty their bladders.

The man made sure the child remained hydrated. He did not fear the men or beasts that called the desert home, for they bled, and all things that bleed can die. He feared only his own weakness, and the weakness of the child. Too long without food or water or rest and the boy would soon be picked clean by the buzzards circling ever above them, leaving the man alone.

He looked up and considered bringing a bird low, but decided against it. The buzzards were too