Wasteland Arizona

By Matt Webb

Life is pointless. Jack watches everyone go through the motions of the new normal in the Wasteland, waiting for the reason why to hit him; but then Doug's head explodes and that hits him instead. Suddenly there's a bigger problem. 

 

Jack learns the hard way that sometimes, even your most burning questions don't get answers and there's nothing you can do.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Matt Webb
• Release date: Jan 18, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201796976

Book preview

Chapter One

It’s been years since the world ended, centuries of progress burnt to a crisp and blown to the winds. As the dust settled so too did global society, stagnating completely while coming to terms with the new normal. Populations around the world saw their numbers deplete further for about a decade as most became victims of the environment, mainly radiation poisoning or bees, sometimes both. Others found solace in the barrel of a gun. Then there was all the murder, most people who survived everything else would probably at some point be murdered, whether it’s from bandits, a rival community, or just someone they walked past. The global consensus on murder switched sometime between the fourteenth and fifteenth explosion, what was once met with swift obloquy is now ubiquitous, along with its acceptance. Out of the people that haven't been murdered, most tried to rebuild, some pockets of survivors even managed to cobble together pretty sturdy communities. Other areas were not so fortunate, whether for lack of talent or resources. Those that had the resources and/or talent tried to slowly instil some form of sophisticated societal system bit by bit, where rules were introduced to inculcate a sense of order - but mainly to cut down on the murder.

There was also the otiose problem of the bomb shelter, many families encountered this one once they’d entered their metal and lead havens (those that actually managed to make it that is, there’s nothing quite as disheartening as taking the initiative to prepare for the apocalypse only to be stuck in traffic at the key moment). Certainly, there were those families that entered their bomb shelter, emerged three weeks later and managed to scavenge enough supplies to fund an adequate life in the new wasteland - adequate by wasteland standards. There were even those that were so sure of nuclear annihilation, that believed so strongly the destruction of earth was coming and was coming soon, that they had devoted most of their time planning for it. In some cases, this led to ‘bomb houses’ fitted with artificial lights suitable for underground agriculture. So, they were fine too, but for the vast majority of those that had squandered thousands of dollars on what they saw as irreproachable salvation from oblivion, soon realised upon exiting that there wasn’t anything to eat; and those that did have something to eat didn’t really want to share it. So, they were forcibly thrust into the post-apocalyptic fray anyway, regardless of whether or not they dropped five months' salary on a brief escape from madness. For all their faults bomb shelters were pretty good at protecting against the initial blast, but try asking those that achieved this laudable feat how they are liking their new life that they strived to save. In hindsight these families would admit they’d rather have invested that money on a holiday instead, but hindsight was comically meaningless now, nobody had regrets from the Old World, nobody wished they’d achieved more in their lives, coming to terms with the end of the world was simply too jarring.

Some of the cities and towns that once dominated are still there but lost to savages and/or the hideous abominations born from the radiation, they’ve made nice cosy nests where once thousands of people a day would wait for their trains. Most people chose to flee the cities and moved out into the smouldering, arid landscape that had replaced the vibrant, coruscating colours that covered the planet. Sadly, they were all dying slowly of radiation poisoning, but depending on where you happened to be standing when the bombs fell you might be lucky enough to have quite a few years left in you. In some areas small populations even managed to reproduce (to varying degrees of success), in this particular instance we find ourselves in Dateland, Arizona, about an hour out of Phoenix, aptly renamed Wasteland, Arizona. In an area that was still standing (comparative to the rest of it), it’d been sectioned off with a rudimentary wall and fitted with an even cruder gate that had to be manually pushed and pulled. It was flanked on all sides by rubble with the occasional still-standing sign or telephone pole serving only as a window into the past. There were sandy hills to the left and the dusty remnants of Dateland to the right, but there was no reason to go there; everything worth looting had already been looted.

Jack was sitting on his doorstep; he was twenty with brown hair and three gunshot wounds. He had his head bowed, tormenting a twin-stinger, the new radioactive cousin of the bark scorpion. In addition to their rotting, semi-melted flesh that peeled itself apart progressively with every scuttle, they’d also acquired a second stinger protruding out of the base of the first. It wasn’t fully operational, and frankly it looked disgusting, but they were a thing now so people like Jack didn’t bat an eye at them anymore; but if one fell from the ceiling it would probably get a scream out of him.

Jack was hunched over with his arms resting on his knees, his dark green eyes following the scorpion back and forth. He watched it furtively move a couple of feet before sharply bringing the stick down in front of it, forcing it to turn around and scuttle back. He sat and watched as the rest of his camp were busy at work in their five-hundred-meter-squared camp, he watched phlegmatically as everyone got on with their duties, while he thumped his stick into the sand.

Jack! Cried Talia, her long black hair flowing over her toned shoulders. Jack didn’t move, only when he wanted to strike fear into his deformed prisoner after he’d decided it’d scuttled enough in one direction. Talia walked calmly towards him, we’re on the board for security today, get your shit.

Jack didn’t look up, Talia paused for a second then tried to change her tone.

I’m sorry about your dad. She was worried that the lack of compassion in her voice was going to be noticeable. We’ve all lost people to bandits.

Jack took a deep breath, Ok, then he brought the stick down again but a little prematurely and instead of stopping the twin-stinger in its tracks he instead ripped its front leg out of its socket, trapping it underneath the splintered tool. The creature let out a faint screech of pain and proceeded to stab at the stick with its stingers. Whoops... muttered Jack, with such indifference that Talia wondered whether it was even an accident at all. Jack proceeded to thrust the stick straight through the scorpion’s back, crushing its exoskeleton and bursting its organs, with a dull thud the stick hit the sand below the scorpion’s abdomen. Blood started to pool immediately underneath it, the twin-stinger’s attempts at fleeing were pointless, unless it could miraculously find a way to elevate its body eight inches up and off the blood-soaked stick. Alas, it could not, and finally stopped moving after about five laboured seconds of sheer panic and desperation, with Jack observing until the last jerk. He then rose steadily to his feet.

After you. He gestured towards the main gate of the camp, he brushed the sand and dirt off his cargo shorts, the hot midday sun beating down on his dusty, unkempt hair. He picked up his cowl and threw it over his head and brought it up around the bridge of his nose. It was standard practice to have some way of shielding your facial orifices from the relentless turbulence of an Arizona sandstorm, if one happened to show up. Arizona sandstorms were on the whole pretty timid things pre nuclear war, however the sudden abundance of sand, dust, dirt, grit and rubble exacerbated these natural occurrences; plus, the air was toxic now.

Talia turned around and started towards the gate, pulling up the hood on her red jumper. She closed her eyes and focused on the crunching sound of the sand granules beneath her boots as she walked. She didn’t know why but focusing on this sound had always relaxed her, she saw it as in-motion meditation. Meanwhile, Jack pulled back the rug that hung down to simulate a door to his sheet metal box that simulated a house. He stepped in and was welcomed with the gentle but deep sobbing of his mother who was hidden away behind a second hanging rug in an attempt to compartmentalise the abode. Jack walked over to the table set in the middle of the biggest compartment and picked up his .45 Magnum. The granddaddy of handguns, his dad used to say (prompting Jack to ask what a ‘grandad’ was the first time his dad uttered the phrase), Jack remembered when his dad had given it to him, he’d won it in one of Victor’s poker games off a guy who stole it off someone in another camp who (allegedly) killed the previous owner and took it for himself. Guns weren’t hard to acquire in the new world, but they weren’t particularly easy to acquire, either. You basically had two options, shops and people, the problem however is that most of the shops have been disintegrated, and most of the people have a gun. But real beauties like Jack’s .45 Magnum were hard to find.

He picked up his canteen and shook it gingerly, listening for the familiar sound of water sloshing around inside, he was met with silence. He threw his rug-door aside and walked out into the camp, while on the way to fill up his canteen from the tap in the centre he was stopped by a very tall man.

Shouldn’t you be on patrol? The tall man said.

I’m on my way. Jack replied in an inpatient tone. He tried to move past but the tall man rested his slender fingers on his shoulder and gave it a firm squeeze. Jack snapped his neck up to meet his beady eyes, I’ve paid what I owe, Victor.

"Ooh listen to that fire, how old are you now, boy? Victor retorted condescendingly.

Jack held his eye contact for a few seconds, then replied, I’m late. The mutual disdain was palpable.

Your father owed me a fair amount of food, what happened to him was a tragedy, he noticed how Jack’s fists clenched to near bursting point when he said that naughty six letter word, and a small smirk crept onto his face. I’m thankful that the both of you kept my poker games secret, but when you lose, there are consequences...

What do you want you asshole? Jack spat through gritted teeth.

Victor’s grin dropped. ...Which is why I’m asking you to cover for him, you being his next of kin, in fact I was on my way to have this conversation with your lovely mother but seeing as you’re here I thought I would save myself some time. Now, as your cheap four-wheeled junker I won was destroyed, I want you to do something for me instead.

Fuck you. Jack was nearly foaming at the mouth, quickly tiring of Victor’s fustian style of speech.

Victor leaned in, his long, spindly hair caressing Jack’s forehead. Jack reeled at the stench emanating from this disgusting weasel, his breath made Jack want to vomit all over his boots. There’s a hatch near this camp that leads into the sewer networks, your father has a map, find it for me and I won’t have to return.

Jack was grinding his teeth so hard they felt like they were about to crack. People always say that the eyes are the windows to the soul, but Victor’s eyes seemed vacant, completely devoid of any emotion. It was both sad, and utterly terrifying.

I don’t have a choice, Jack said, finally breaking the silence.

There’s a good lad. With that, Victor took his leave, Jack watched as he slowly paced across the camp, one lonely fly buzzed around his head, Victor seemingly didn’t know it was there, either that or he liked the company. Jack remembered overhearing his parents talking about a hatch not long ago, but nothing about a map. His father said that he and Frank stumbled upon it while out scavenging, it was buried behind some bushes and apparently looked like people had already tried to get inside it - as it was inundated with dents and marks. It was likely a sewer network, but in this economy you never pass up a chance at an unopened hatch; the best you could expect was a nuclear bunker stocked with food. The best you usually got was a maintenance hatch that led to a section of some good-for-nothing pipe.

Jack suddenly felt sharp stabbing pains in the palms of his hands causing him to quickly unclench his fists, blood beaded faintly under the flesh where his nails had been burrowing. He looked towards the front gate, his gaze was met by Talia watching Victor stride towards the bar, hands cupped behind his back. Jack filled up his canteen from the tap, then started towards her.

What was that about? Talia said as she turned to leave the camp, her scarf fluttering over her shoulders, she usually tucked it into her hood, but it was too hot for that.

I don’t really know, he asked me to find a map, Jack replied. I want to kill him so badly.

So do I, but we can’t. Talia said, unless I can shoot you, then him, then tell everyone he shot you. Talia cocked an eye to Jack but he didn’t respond to her attempt at a joke.

The midday sun was high in the sky, the pair headed towards the ridge where some wild dogs had been spotted. Security patrol was basically, go somewhere and shoot something in the face. Wild dogs are on the tame end of the spectrum, they’re violent, fast and don’t back down. But giant spiders can stun, wrap and eat a person in about five minutes, mutant rattlesnakes can crush bones, Gila monsters are still a thing and bandits will shoot on sight, if you’re lucky.

They walked south of the camp and into the massive expanse of barren wasteland. Nothing for miles but the remnants of the Old World, a bleak existence dappled with confusing monuments that no longer made any sense (like the Lincoln Memorial, anyone happening upon it now would probably assume Lincoln was a tyrannical subjugator of the people, why else would he have a giant statue commemorating him in such a grandiose way, if not to aggressively aggrandize him? - Mount Rushmore would have been a good example but sadly that was one of the many artificial artworks that didn’t survive). These remnants are surrounded with dead trees and dilapidated buildings, entire countries were unrecognisable, but there were pockets of green with the occasional still-standing house or street. In fact, there was quite a large bit of green in the North of Brazil, and also in the South of Denmark.

The sand and dirt crunched and pulsed beneath Jack and Talia as they walked, lizards and small insects darting and buzzing all around them. The boundaries between humans and nature had collapsed. Cities had crumbled, towns were destroyed, vast areas of Earth had been levelled in a heartbeat; but small lizards and insects for the most part seemed unphased. Their populations haven’t even seen a dent. Maybe it’s because they were small, or maybe it’s just because there were billions of insects before, even if fifty percent of them had been obliterated, there would still be an abundance of the little critters. These little questions helped to distract Jack for brief moments, however brief they may be.

They approached the ridge, not a word had been uttered for ten minutes, not that that mattered to either of them. They veered to the right and off the path they had been on that led south of their camp, they embarked up a bank to the right where they had a vantage point on the ridge.

Talia crouched down and crept to the edge of the bank. Shh, look. She whispered, as Jack carefully crouched down beside her and looked out across the wasteland. Down there. She directed his gaze about two hundred metres down the bank to a pack of three wild dogs sleeping under the shade of dead trees, surrounded by the torn and bloodied carcass of what looked like a smaller dog.

I’ll take the two on the left. Talia spoke softly as to not draw attention, they were no doubt hungry - wild, malnourished dogs don’t pose great meals. Wait for me to fire, then shoot. Talia’s boots shifted the sand beneath them as she stepped lightly across the bank, every step a gamble on whether a slight collapse to part of the bank would generate a mini avalanche.

Ready? Jack said insistently, not taking his eyes off the sleeping dogs, their scrawny bodies repulsing him. It almost seemed like their skin was being sucked in between the ribs. The fur on their legs was patchy, and the areas where there was no fur was red and irritated, the skin peeling and cracking. They looked like they might snap like twigs if the right breeze hit them, but Jack knew not to underestimate anything in the wasteland.

Ready, Talia whispered, aiming her pistol towards the pack, the sand rolling down the bank in shallow waves emanating out from where she was standing. She took aim, hoping to hit the first unaware mongrel right between the eyes. Anyone who has shot something will tell you right between the eyes is the most satisfying way to do it; closely followed by the groin.

Jack drew his gun and steadied it, ready to pull the trigger, he held his arms straight out in front of him, he could feel his heartbeat quickening. He tried to slow his breathing, making for a better aim. Jack leaned his head towards Talia, keeping his gaze on the dogs.

What’s taking so lo...

BANG!

It felt like two drawing pins had been thrust into his ear drums as Talia pulled the trigger, missing her preferred target and instead entering the dog’s skull via its left eyeball. The bullet exploded out the back of the dog’s head and blood painted the base of the tree trunk as the other dogs began tearing up the bank.

Shoot! Talia cried as she steadied herself for another shot, Jack’s finger slowly pulling back on the trigger as he tried to compose himself, but then it came again. The sharp pain as Talia fired, causing the beast that was barrelling towards her to buckle face first into the sand. Blood started streaming down the bank, darting around particularly large granules of sand as it made its way towards the trees.

Jack momentarily lost concentration but quickly steadied his grip on his gun, the last dog was sprinting at him, snarling with its upper lip rolling back showing its teeth. It was about one hundred metres from him now, Jack’s composure started dropping as panic took over. He fired, and a howl of pain echoed out through the wasteland. With blood running down its face, and a new crescent moon shape in its left ear, the dog was still coming for him. He went to fire again, by this point all composure he might have had was gone and panic had taken control. His hands shook, sweat seemingly appearing on every inch of his body all at once. Then it was on him.

The dog lunged at Jack pushing his hands up with its snout and pinning him down. Jack instinctively brought his forearm across his face and throat to stop the animal from tearing his windpipe out and throwing it halfway to Phoenix. Its teeth were snapping inches from his eyes, the stench of the beast was just as overpowering as its jaws. Saliva was dripping sporadically onto Jack’s cheek as he pushed up against the animal. He didn’t know what to do, his arms were trapped, his legs flailing desperately. Then he felt the unique sensation of a row of sharp teeth digging into his face, Jack screeched and tensed up, waiting for the pain to hit him like a train, but it didn’t. He slowly opened his eyes, Talia was standing over him and attempted to pull her switchblade out of the dog’s neck. With a swift tug it came free, and a fountain of blood shot out like water from a hose.

Disgusting. She grimaced as she wiped the blade on her trouser leg. Here. She rested a boot on the beast’s bloodied stomach and pushed the lifeless body onto the sand. Did it get you? She asked, sheathing her knife.

Jack checked himself for wounds. No. He said with a sigh of relief (if you thought rabies were unpleasant just wait until you see radioactive rabies). Sorry.

It’s fine, next time I’ll just take all three. This time Talia was being serious, and Jack knew it, she wasn’t really known for being jocular. She helped him to his feet and Jack stared down at the static husk, blood flowing out of the knife wound at an alarming rate. Shame, I really felt like killing it. A passing thought as he bent down to retrieve his gun, half buried in the sand.

How much rope do you have? Talia gestured towards the bodies. Let’s get them back to camp, and save some for Lucky. Just her name made Talia shudder, she hated spiders, and this was a big spider. A descendant of the wolf spider that resides in burrows waiting to snatch anything unfortunate enough to wander just in front of it. However, thanks to the radiation that now plagues the earth’s atmosphere, Lucky was the size of a car.

About four months ago while out on patrol, Joel and Smith Carpenter (may they rest in peace) spotted what looked like a big hole five meters across in the ground about four hundred meters from the main gate at the foot of the executioner’s stump. The brothers were naturally curious as this hole was not there yesterday, or if it was, then the previous day’s patrol was probably having a snooze instead of doing their jobs, as nobody mentioned it.

They approached with their weapons drawn at their sides. They were too fixated on the darkness to notice the thick, sticky residue that carpeted the ground. With every step the ground compressed beneath their feet and the earth would resonate back, shaking softly, but enough. Each stride bringing them closer to the darkness, Joel noticed that his steps were becoming more laboured before his younger brother did. He stopped and bent down to inspect his boots, he felt the thick string that painted the soles of his shoes, rubbing it between his pointer finger and thumb; trying to figure it out. Feels like web... Almost exactly like it (just in case you were wondering, the Carpenter brothers weren’t renowned for their shrewd intellect). All the while Smith was edging ever closer to the opening. All he could hear was his own breathing as he let his curiosity guide him, critical thinking being brushed aside for sheer childlike wonder. His eyes were wide and unblinking, his strides becoming smaller and smaller until he was practically stationary. A faint echo crept out of the darkness, it whispered beguilingly through the shadows and crept through the pair’s hair and down the back of their necks - the follicles on their napes appeared to almost burst through their sun-kissed skin.

Suddenly two giant hairy appendages burst out and grounded themselves firmly on both sides of the hole. Paralysis immediately set in for the brothers, the giant legs raised up and slammed down hard a little closer to them, accompanied by four more, two on each side. Long, thick branches that poked out of the blackness, neither of the Carpenters had ever seen anything like this in their lives, which was evident from their fatal levels of gawping. Eight bowling ball sized eyes glinted as Lucky rose up out of her hole, her mandibles twitching incessantly, but the clicking; the clicking is what caused the brother’s spines to seize up. It was like a metronome sounding out hypnotically. Smith was motionless, except for his gun rattling in his hands. Then as quick as a heartbeat a pair of fangs lurched towards him, pierced the flesh around his shoulder and neck, tearing muscle and cartilage as they trawled across his skin and dragged him into the hole. His brother’s screams echoed out of the hole, at this point Joel couldn’t even think about moving, let alone actually run away. In a second instance the giant wolf spider darted back out, snatching Joel in her jaws, breaking bones and splitting skin as she recessed back inside. You can only imagine the rest of the camps’ reaction when they came to investigate the noise and realised they were neighbours with a mammoth arachnid. Four months on and she’s still there, in fact the camp has formed a rather nice symbiotic relationship with her. When no one volunteered for the job to remove her the camp realised they needed a plan B, so instead they decided to use her as a hairy garbage disposal for bodies - at least until they bought something explosive from a trader. This way the camp didn’t need to worry about disposing of bodies and the diseases that it brings, and Lucky doesn’t come to the camp in search of food, hopefully.

Grab its legs. Talia said as she finished tying the third dog’s front paws together, before hogtying them with the back two. Finally, she tied the rope around one of the loops on her belt. Jack tied the remaining carcass to himself, as he tugged on the rope for a little slack he caused the limp body to bounce, and a dark, dehydrated tongue unfurled into the sand. The pair then began to trek back to the camp with tonight’s’ dinner dragging behind them.

As they approached the gate they could hear the unmistakable sound of a pissed off Stan, the man in charge of this little speck of survivors, his bronze wrinkled skin creasing even more as he yelled. He believes that cooperation and kindness will rebuild this world; but he also has an egregious temper with the patience to match. He voluntarily stepped up when the previous person in charge was kidnapped by bandits, but he quickly became frustrated at the camp’s reluctance to cooperate to his punctilious standards. He tried to pass the responsibility of lead supervisor onto someone else but no one wanted it, which made him even more frustrated. Then he started to change, there was a period where people were genuinely afraid of Stan, he disconnected from the camp and spent his time sitting at the bar drinking. Some nights he would drink until morning and then retire to his bed for most of the day, not uttering a word to anyone. Not even Lana could get him to talk, he would just look straight through her with listless eyes. One day she broke down in front of him and he finally spoke, he didn’t see the point in trying to survive and wanted to burn the camp down. He said it with such sincerity that the camp was forced to intervene - which initially went about as well as you’d expect - but he eventually came back to reality, albeit reluctantly.

As Jack and Talia rounded the corner of the initial buffer zone between the main gate and the camp, they were greeted by Stan pinning the wriggling body of Doug Sanders against the outside of the bar; a scene that the camp was all too familiar with. Stan was a good foot taller than Doug and sported a bushy moustache and patchy stubble, while Doug could only muster some peach fuzz. Stan’s stocky frame looming over Doug’s spindly body seemed to further diminish Doug’s stature.

I’ve had enough! Stan yelled, tightening his grip around Doug’s windpipe, I’ve given you enough fucking warnings, Doug!

Stan, let him go, his neck is turning purple! Frank implored, Frank ran the bar, it was the first thing people tended to build after shelter was ticked off the list. If I had known he was using again I would have stepped in. Frank continued, running his hands through his thick beard that hid his round face, he was an eternally anxious man but tried his best to hide it.

I want you out of this camp Doug, you’re a worthless junky who’s just an extra mouth to feed. Stan released his grip and watched as the flesh around Doug’s Adam's apple turned pale, then slowly faded to pink as blood flowed back. Stan didn’t take any pleasure in it yet still had to stifle a grin.

Please, I... I just want to go home! Doug’s eyes bounced around from face to face not fixing on anything, he had a thousand-yard stare and his arms were feebly fondling with Stan’s sleeves. Doug was a drug addict, it’s called ‘tar’ and it’s pretty rudimentary, what you do is get some codeine, then you boil it with paint thinner, gasoline, hydrochloric acid, iodine and red phosphorus, the final product is injected into the arm. Sounds like quite a shopping list, but all the big-ticket items can be swiped from one of the