mountain, the cap of which was lost in red cloud.
The landscape had changed greatly with elevation. Besides the drastic temperature drop (the thermometer in the Recon read -12? Celsius), I saw my first trees — at least, the first trees that hadn’t been turned by the xenovirus. They were pines, mostly, and most had been long dead. What few were left alive had the barest tufts of green needles on their branches, indicating that soon they would be joining the rest.
After we stopped, we collected a lot of dead wood for a fire. Once we had the fire roaring, the natural warmth felt good, and the sticky pine aroma was pleasing in the air. It was nice to smell something natural for once, and not the emptiness of the mostly dead world.
Though the fire was warm, the night outside was bitterly cold. Anna cooked the evening meal — the same stew we had eaten last night, with the veggies and potatoes taken from Raider Bluff.
After she gave the stew another stir and covered it, she came to sit next to me.
“You alright?” I asked.
“I think so. Saving the world…exhausting business.”
“What’s your story, anyway?”
She didn’t answer for a moment. “My story?”
“Yeah. Everyone has one, right?”
It seemed as if she didn’t want to talk about it. And if her story was anything like mine, that was understandable.
Eventually, she did start talking. “I grew up in a settlement east of L.A., in the mountains. It was called Last Town. The man who founded it truly believed it was
“How big was it?”
She shook her head. “Not big at all. Last Town had maybe three hundred people. Not like some of the other settlements. It was located on I-10, between L.A. and the Mojave. The city survived off trade for the most part. Me…I was just a kid there. My parents were scavengers, mostly. They went around and found useful items in the Old World ruins, like batts, machines, weapons, and metals, and tried to sell them. As the years wore on, business got worse and worse. All the valuable items had been snatched up. When supplies started getting low, people formed groups to fend for themselves. That’s how the first Raiders came about. All the little towns, like Last Town, didn’t stand a chance. We were taken over. Like locusts, the Raiders stayed until they sucked the place dry, and then moved on. By the time we rebuilt, they would come back.”
I didn’t say anything. Despite the distance in her voice, I saw pain in her green eyes.
She went on. “I was twelve when the big attack came. Only this time, they weren’t Raiders. It was one of the L.A. gangs. They called themselves the Black Reapers.”
“I’ve heard of them before,” I said. “Makara was a Lost Angel.”
Anna smiled. “I did not know that. It was the Angels that kept us safe, for the most part. But the Reapers were more numerous. It was at the height of the Five Years’ War that they took over Last Town. It was a key spot, because of where it sat on I-10 through the mountains. Rather than be taken, my mother and I fled east into the Wasteland, my dad having died in the battle. The only other choice was slavery. Being a slave of the Reapers is said to be worse than death.
“We wandered for countless nights, taking food where we could get it, and shelter where we could find it. Even in those days, the settlements would let hardly anyone in. We wandered north and south, east and west, until I knew the Wasteland like the palm of my hand.
“My mother was very learned, and she enjoyed reading. Books became an escape from our harsh reality.”
“What kind of books did you like?”
Anna smiled. “I have not read in a long time, but I liked fantastical stories, since they did not even take place on Earth most of the time. Of course, anything to do with swords, or the samurai, I read cover to cover many times.”
“Where did you find that katana?” I asked.
“I found it in a home, one day. The place had been picked over already by someone else, but strangely that weapon had been left behind. I took it and it became part of me the moment I touched it. I had already read about Hideyoshi. I also found a book about swordplay. I guess whoever lived there collected swords as a hobby — there were slots on the wall designed to display blades, but the katana was the only one left behind.
“The book I found was an overview of many different schools. I practiced. I was my own teacher. Soon, sword forms became my new escape. Besides, it was a useful skill to learn to keep people from taking advantage. Later on, I found a university library, where I learned even more. When I wasn’t sleeping, eating, or walking to the next place, I was practicing the sword. I started training at the age of thirteen.”
“What happened to your mother?”
Anna’s face grew still. “I missed that part, didn’t I? She died. She got sick with a wasting illness. She was dead within a week.”
“I’m sorry.”
The words sounded so trite for something so horrible. I didn’t know what else to say, though.
“After that, I wandered for another few months. It became unbearable to wander any longer. I headed for Raider Bluff, with the intent of finding my way there somehow, of becoming a Raider. I was hoping a raid group of some kind would take me on, preferably one that would raid in Black Reaper territory. I wanted vengeance, ever since that day, and wanted to kill as many of them as possible. I hope someday I can bring about that gang’s end.”
“You and Makara are alike, there,” I said.
Anna nodded. “Soon, in Raider Bluff, my skill became apparent. Char recruited me as his personal bodyguard. This was four months ago. In Raider Bluff, I had food, a bed, and other people to talk to, even if they were Raiders. And I had full license to practice my craft in my off time, when not running errands for Char.”
“What kind of errands?”
Anna shrugged. “I’m sort of like a spy. Many would try to kill the Alpha to take his place. It’s my job to prevent that happening.”
“I bet you have some interesting stories there.”
Anna gave a half smile. “Maybe. But now is not the time. I have talked enough, and dinner will burn if I do not attend to it.”
She got up, and lifted the lid off the pot, filling the cave with the mouthwatering aroma of stew.
She had given the stew a few stirs when, from nowhere, a shadowy form of a man entered the cave.
Everyone stood and drew their weapons.
Chapter 11
The shadow stepped into the light, revealing itself as a short, stooped old man wearing a cloak with hood. He had no weapon other than a gnarled walking stick.
“Who are you,” Samuel said, “and what do you want?”
He was old — very old. He had wrinkled, weathered skin that had seen many Wasteland winters. His eyes were soft and intelligent, belying the toughness of the rest of his face. By the firelight, I noticed something strange about those bright, gray eyes. They were clouded.
He was blind.
“I felt the warmth of the fire from afar,” the man said, “and heard voices, and smelled the food. I’ve been wandering for days, and was wondering if I might have a bite and a rest.”
No one said anything, suspecting a trap. Raiders did this, sometimes — used a distraction to catch groups unawares. If only he knew about the weapons pointed at him, would he have been so calm?
“You are blind,” Samuel said. “No blind man can survive alone. Not out here.”
The man smiled, as if he had heard this many times before — but no matter how many times it was said, he knew it was wrong all the same.
