Nick Cole - The Wasteland Saga

The Boy leaned outward and far to the right, still swinging the great mace in a wide circle.

Spears jutted forward from some of the horsemen, while machetes danced wildly about the heads of others.

‘This is madness,’ thought the Old Man again.

A moment later, they met.

Six riders.

One went down beneath the tank.

Forget that sound. The sound that man and horse make when that happens. Never think of that sound again in all your life, my friend.

Yes, I won’t ever if I can help it.

And in the next moment, the Old Man forgot as the Boy lowered his powerful arm and swept the club past the Old Man’s head and straight into the chest of the nearest oncoming rider.

In one moment, the man changed direction from charging atop a terrified horse, to flying backward and alone, almost keeping pace with the tank for the merest second before he disappeared beneath the tread.

The Boy pivoted and watched the riders wheel their horses about.

They’ll catch us if I don’t go faster.

But the tread?

The Boy nodded toward the main body of prisoners, telling the Old Man to continue forward.

The ground all around and behind them exploded again as the Old Man looked up to see smoke drifting away from the mouths of the cannons that rested midway up the hill behind a low bric-a-brac wall.

Ahead, the slavers were throwing down their weapons and outrunning Ted’s people who also continued to run forward in terror.

Turning back to the Old Man as if to tell him something, the Boy suddenly raised his shield. A spear shattered against it, emitting a small metallic note.

The Boy climbed back to the Old Man and uttered a breathless, “Keep moving forward!”

The Old Man turned to see the riders closing up the distance on the tank’s sides. The Boy whirled his club quicker than the Old Man thought possible and brought it down onto the head of one of the nearest horsemen who crumpled instantly.

Ted’s people were huddled together now, bloody, screaming, crying, protecting each other. The Old Man swerved wide to completely avoid them.

Halfway up the conical hill, ashen-faced warriors waving spears and machetes surged out from behind the bric-a-brac wall.

Once more, the Old Man saw the cannons belch forth with their sudden puffs of white smoke.

Duck!

A moment later he felt a jarring impact slam into the side of the tank.

His granddaughter screamed.

“Poppa!”

The Old Man’s ears were ringing.

“It’s okay!” he yelled down into the dark. “Are you all right?”

Please don’t let this be a worse nightmare. Please don’t let this be the nightmare too terrible to imagine. The one in which she is hurt.

Can you let go?

Stop! I cannot because too much depends on me and I am not enough.

A shot had fallen amid the prisoners. Bloodied bodies were being dragged back within their huddle in the midst of the battlefield.

“I’m okay, Poppa.” But he could hear her fear.

We’ve got to protect those people.

But how?

And…

Where is the Boy?

I can’t see him!

The Old Man gunned the tank and pivoted hard, throwing up giant clods of dirt and torn grass.

Be careful of the tread!

There is too much to worry about.

The Old Man drove the tank between the prisoners and the cannon on the hill.

Leaning down, he beckoned Ted’s people toward the side of the tank.

“Get close to the sides, you’ll be safer here!” he yelled above the roar of the engine.

Where is the Boy?

“Poppa, what’s going on up there?”

A battle is nothing but confusion, my friend.

Maybe this is how the world was destroyed. Confusion took charge in the absence of leadership.

Yes.

But the fear-struck people would not move from their huddle.

“Stay here!” he called down to his granddaughter.

“No, Poppa!”

Don’t say it, please. Because even if you do, I still need to do this.

The Old Man dropped to the ground.

My legs feel weak and far away.

That is just fear, my friend.

He stumbled forward to the wild-eyed prisoners. Waving with his hands, he urged them to take cover alongside the tank.

Out in the tall grass he could see the Boy battling three horsemen. He swept his club into the legs of one horse, and a second later raised it high above his head to strike down its fallen rider. The other two horsemen wheeled about trying to bring their spear points to bear.

Again the Old Man heard the distant boom of cannon.

“Please!” he beckoned the terrified people.

All at once they ran forward screaming and crying, like a stampede of frightened animals. Or a hurt child wailing, racing for the comfort of its mother’s arms.

The Old Man could see their bloody backs and torn clothing, their haunted tearstained faces.

“Thank you,” someone sobbed. A woman holding a small child. “Thank you.”

There was a series of deep thuds as the earth shook about them and seconds later it was raining dirt.

The Old Man turned to see the Boy who danced away from the last standing horseman, limping away from a striking axe that glanced off his manhole cover shield. The Boy retaliated, dragging his mace from the ground and slamming it into the man’s ribs, crushing them.

Again the Old Man could hear the cannons bellow their dull whump .

Someone screamed, “Oh no, please not again!”

Thuds. Sudden and terrible. Near and close.

Dirt falling from the sky.

How can I save them all?

How can I get us out of this place?

This is too much for just me.

The Boy was running toward them now.

How are we going to get these people out of here?

The Boy loped past the tank, disappearing around the gun barrel, his broken feather flying out from his hair as though it had followed him everywhere he’d ever gone. Would go. Even if it was to his death.

What is he doing? Where is he going?

“Wait here!” the Old Man shouted at those huddled about him. Then he climbed up onto the tread, keeping the low flat turret between him and the cannons on the hill. When he peered over its edge he saw the Boy running now, no longer limping, he was running, running forward to meet the ashen-faced warriors who were coming down the hill for them.

There must be a hundred of them, at least.

The Old Man watched the warriors surge out from the gates and leap through the tall grass, waving their machetes, screaming as they came on.

The Boy raced to meet them.

His mace circling above his head.

He’s going to give you the time you need to get out of here, my friend. So I suggest you go now.

“Get up on the tank,” he called down to those huddled at its sides. He had to say it again and a moment later they were all climbing up onto the tank, pushing children down inside the hatch. Everything in chaos.

Children screamed.

Men swore.

A woman begged for someone to leave her behind.

The Old Man watched helplessly as the Boy ran forward to meet the oncoming mass of ashen warriors.

He is braver than anyone I have ever known.

And…

He will be killed for sure.

What can I do for him, my friend Santiago? What can I do to help this Boy?

Nothing, my friend. Nothing.

To the south, the Old Man saw dark figures coming up out of the earth.

More horsemen, dark riders to encircle us.

Moments later the dark riders were charging forward.

They have been down in a riverbed that must run through this plain, and now they are coming to attack us from behind.

The Old Man climbed into the driver’s seat at the front of the tank.

The cannon fired once more.

But this time the rounds fell amid the charging horsemen. The dark riders.