Broken Land

By Peter Menadue

THIRD BOOK IN THE WEBSTER CITY CHRONICLES. Carl Davidson and three companions flee the carcass of Webster City into the wasteland beyond. They must journey to safety across a brutal land where the past is more dangerous than the future. The third and last installment of the series that began with Webster City.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peter Menadue
• Release date: Jul 23, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005445393

Peter Menadue

Peter Menadue grew up in Canberra, Australia. After a foray into journalism, during which he shared an elevator with Rupert Murdoch, he studied law at Sydney University and Oxford University. For the last 22 years, he has worked as a barrister at the Sydney Bar. He also writes courtroom novels under the pen name "Mark Dryden".

Book preview

BROKEN LAND

by

PETER MENADUE

(Third in The Webster City Chronicles)

Copyright: Peter Menadue

Peter Menadue was a non-prizewinning journalist before studying law at the University of Sydney and Oxford University. He has worked as a barrister in Sydney for more than 20 years. He has written numerous novels under his own name and several legal novels under the pen-name ‘Mark Dryden’.

CHAPTER ONE

There was nothing romantic about the ruins of Webster City - no tinge of lost grandeur. The city had an evil founder and three centuries of despotic rulers. Then the Freedom Alliance reduced its shoddy buildings to rubble and forced the population to flee. The last city on Earth died a hard death.

Davidson drove his truck out of the city with excitement and apprehension. The world outside was cruel and deadly. But that gave it a strange attraction. He wanted to forget Webster City and the crimes he committed in its name. The harder he struggled for survival, the easier that would be.

Helen sat beside him in the truck. His brother, Ted, drove the Jeep trailing behind them; Ted’s adopted son, Philip, was his passenger. They were all heading towards the ranch that Ted owned in southern Kansas, hoping to find it intact. If it wasn’t, they would be homeless in a pitiless land.

They drove south under a vast and impersonal sky, chasing a retreating horizon. The former United States of America was now an archipelago of tiny settlements that robbed and killed strangers. So Davidson skirted around them. Sometimes, a battered vehicle appeared in the distance and zoomed off or a stray figure watched them from a hillside. Otherwise, their only companions were huge herds of buffalo and wild horses.

The highways had not been repaired for 300 years. The surfaces were dotted with potholes, cracks, huge trees and rust-eaten vehicles. Large chunks had been washed away. Bridges had collapsed. Even benign-looking surfaces were full of treachery. However, fortunately, the vast network of highways running south provided plenty of alternate routes.

Davidson drove slowly and concentrated hard. He was driving a heavy-duty military truck. But, if he wrecked it, they would all have to climb into the Jeep and abandon most of their supplies. The Jeep would become a lifeboat on an empty sea.

After a couple of days, the two vehicles circled Indianapolis where, just before the Great Plague, a terrorist blew up the last Republican Party convention with a dirty atomic bomb. The Geiger counter on the dashboard chattered for an hour before losing interest.

They headed south through crumbling towns and overgrown farms, piercing the heart of the unknown. After passing through the derelict suburbs of St Louis, they crossed a bridge over the Ohio River.

They stopped beside a river in fading light, 100 miles from Kansas City. While Davidson stood guard with a rifle, the other three frolicked around in the water, snatching at happiness.

Helen emerged wearing a bra and shorts, and sat beside him. You going for a swim?

After the other two get out.

There’s nobody around. We haven’t seen anyone for two days.

Maybe, but complacency kills a lot of people.

She sighed. We’ll never relax again, will we?

Nope.

Damn.

Ted and Philip emerged from the water in shorts. Twenty years ago, Davidson thought Ted was killed while serving in the Webster City Air Cavalry. Ted’s unit raided a Freedom Alliance base in southern Kansas and Ted was reported missing and presumed dead. But Ted had deserted his unit. That was how he came to own a ranch in the area. Davidson only recently realized, when Ted reappeared in Webster City, that Ted was still alive.

Ted turned away and coughed. Davidson shivered with fear. Ted arrived in Webster City suffering from advanced tuberculosis. Davidson found him some drugs that seemed to help, but still feared losing his brother for a second and final time. He saw no sign of blood, thank God.

Ted and Philip dried off and dressed. Seventeen-year-old Philip donned a cowboy shirt, pinstripe vest, riding boots and a gun belt with a Colt revolver. Ted adopted Philip when he was five after a tribe of cannibals called the "Dog People" wiped out his family. The Badlands was a desolate world in which everyone was forced to assemble their identity from scratch. Many put on strange disguises. Philip grew up fantasizing that he was a western gunfighter so intensely that he became one. That fantasy world drove out the real one. He could draw with blinding speed and kill with cold efficiency. Yet, in many ways, he was still an immature kid. Davidson often wondered how he would turn out. Would he become a cold-blooded assassin or learn to control his deadly skill?

Ted looked at Davidson. You should swim. Helen and Philip can stand guard. I’ll try to catch some fish.

OK.

Helen and Philip stayed alert while Davidson swam in the river. Ted caught a few catfish and cooked them over an open fire. They all sat around the fire and ate the fish while the sun crash-landed on the western horizon.

When it was time to sleep, Philip offered to be the first sentry. Davidson was worried the kid would get distracted, but accepted his offer. They all had to share the load.

Philip headed for a slight rise 30 yards from their camp and the other three climbed into their sleeping bags. Davidson lay beside Helen. A full moon hung from a ceiling of stars. Three hundred years ago, the Earth had billions of inhabitants and even sent astronauts to colonize Mars. Then a man-made plague almost extinguished humanity. The population of the planet had now climbed back to a few million who used technology long outdated when the Great Plague hit.

Looking up at the stars, Davidson wondered if mankind would ever send another rocket into space. Probably not. Humans had gone from being owners of the planet to puny creatures clinging to its face. The planet would soon spin through the universe without them aboard.

Helen held Davidson so tight he had trouble breathing. The surrounding desolation had pushed them even closer together. He was more afraid of losing her than dying himself. An eerie sensation.

She said: What’ll we do if Ted’s ranch isn’t there?

We’ll go to Plan B.

What’s that?

That’s a surprise.

Hah. You mean, you’ve got no idea?

Correct.

Jesus, we’re in a tight spot, aren’t we?

He whispered. Yes, but don’t tell the others.

She laughed. I think they know. Seriously, though, all I want is a home somewhere. It doesn’t have to be much. I just don’t want to die out here in the middle of nowhere; I want to die somewhere I belong.

I’ll do my best.

At dawn, the sun burst through a red mist and began its fiery ascent. Thirty minutes later, after breakfast, Davidson drove the truck towards Kansas City with the Jeep trailing behind. They reached the outskirts just before nightfall.

The cities of the former United States of America were all desolate ruins. In Kansas City, half the buildings had collapsed. Most still standing were burnt-out shells. The streets were strewn with rubble and automobile husks. The city looked like it suffered through an epic siege.

Most of the cities housed small communities of Outlaws. A tribe called the ‘Unkula’ had occupied Kansas City for almost a century. The tribe had a hereditary chieftain and grew prodigious amounts of cannabis that it sold to outsiders and consumed in large quantities. The Unkala believed that a Sun God called ‘Moki’ would soon send a spaceship full of long-dead Hollywood superstars to distribute luxury goods made just before the Great Plague.

Crossing the main bridge over the Missouri River would be difficult. The approach roads were strewn with rubble and Unkula guards taxed anyone trying to cross. Indeed, when the guards saw a truck and Jeep from Webster City, laden with prized goods, they would try to murder the occupants and steal the goods. However, Davidson’s party had to cross that bridge. They could not afford to waste fuel on a 200-mile detour to the next closest one.

Davidson drove the truck, headlights on, through the city towards the bridge with the Jeep trailing behind. A light sometimes flickered in a window or a shadowy figure ran along the pavement, but nobody challenged them. After plenty of wrong turns, he reached the north side of the river just after midnight. Everyone climbed out and studied a four-lane bridge bathed in moonlight.

The only barrier was a mesh fence with a gate that ran across the far end of the bridge. Beyond it was a small brick bunker. Light spilled from its observation slit. Looked like the guards were inside.

Davidson was tempted to plow straight through the fence. However, a half-awake guard in the bunker could riddle the truck with bullets. The smartest option was to cross the river in a boat and neutralize anyone inside the bunker before driving across. If he took Philip, he could use the kid’s skill with a gun and keep an eye on him.

Several small rowing boats, probably used for fishing, dotted a narrow beach below them. After telling everyone his plan, he and Philip descended to the boats. They climbed into the sturdiest one and Davidson rowed a boat for only the second time in his life.

The flow of the river tugged them downriver and they reached the other side about a mile below the bridge. Davidson climbed out with his AK-47. Philip had his revolver riding on his hip. He refused to carry any other weapon.

Davidson looked at him. Let’s be as quietly as possible - no shooting unless absolutely necessary.

A resigned shrug. Sure.

They jogged along a few debris-choked streets and reached a couple of exhausted buildings propping each other up. Davidson looked around a corner and studied the rear of the bunker, 20 yards away. A rim of light showed the door was slightly ajar. Philip finally fished out his revolver.

Davidson slid towards the door with Philip just behind him. He yanked it open and leaped inside, rifle extended. A hanging hurricane lamp illuminated a dirty interior with two cots, a couple of chairs and a battered dartboard. Cannabis and sweat odors hung in the air. Where were the guards? A moment of panic. He looked down. Two Unkula with mohawks, sleeveless jackets and streaky tattoos lay motionless on the floor. A bong stood beside them.

Davidson resisted the temptation to shoot them. While Philip covered them with his revolver, he took some rope from his backpack, rolled them over and tied their hands behind their backs. Neither woke. One started snoring.

Their rifles stood against a wall. After tossing the rifles into the river, Davidson flashed his torch at Ted and Helen on the other side. The headlights of the truck winked back. Helen drove it over the bridge, dodging the debris, and ploughed through the wire fence. Ted followed in the Jeep.

Helen slid over and Davidson got behind the steering wheel of the truck. Philip climbed into the Jeep.

She said: Any trouble?

They’re still asleep.

Davidson drove along deserted city streets. Mounds of debris often forced him to find a new route. Dark apartment buildings looked dead on their feet. Soon after dawn, they reached an endless expanse of broken suburban homes that looked like they had been carpet bombed.

A few hours later, they turned onto a remarkably well-preserved expressway and passed a burnt-out nuclear plant. The Geiger counter resume its chatter and haunted them for half an hour.

Ted’s ranch was near a town called Apple Tree. They stopped that evening behind the shell of a gas station about 70 miles from the town. The next morning, after breakfast, Ted looked excited. Almost home, if it’s still there. We could walk from here.

Davidson said: No thanks. Since this is your neck of the woods, you’d better drive the Jeep out front. I’ll join you. Helen can drive the truck.

Ted and Davidson got into the Jeep; Helen and Philip climbed into the truck. Within an hour they started to see, for the first time since leaving Webster City,