Smack-dab, in the Middle of Nowhere (Waste Stories #1)

0. Introduction: A Bloody Wall Falls

The bandit lord known as Ash knew his end was near.

He ducked instinctively as a hailstorm of bullets scoured the paint off his fort's walls, its defenders leaping wildly for cover nearby - lest they discover what their insides look like. He cursed loudly, the spray clattering behind where he now sat in an angry slump, gripping his old hunting rifle tight in blood-stained hands. The roar was utterly deafening; it drowned the cries of fallen bandit soldiers all along the metal wall, and more so the moans of his enemies dying slowly in the river at the foot of it.

Let them sob, he grunted to himself. They could cry until the river's acid dissolved them, for all Lord Ash cared. They didn't deserve a swift death for the menace they had caused.

His slender fingers tightened around the cracked wooden stock of his aged rifle. The mob of southerners who now laid siege to his precious fort had come out of ruddy nowhere. Yesterday Lord Ash was a glorious bandit king, lord of the Ash Fort, and ruler of Can't Be Buried - the great Waste plains upon which his mighty walls stood as a beacon of power.

Now? He was fairly certain he'd shat himself.

"Lord Ash!" a voice called, somewhere beneath him.

The bandit lord grunted, shifting his weight forwards so that he could peer down to the lower rampart. He placed a hand firmly on the floor, but slipped on a pool of fresh blood. His, presumably.

He had been shot, possibly twice, but his body had given up sending pain signals from specific areas and was now blaring vague alerts from just about everywhere. His best cape, a pleasant shade of blue, was now a less-than-pleasant shade of red. His manicured, pointed beard was now ragged with filth, his patchwork metal armour even more so - not like it was much use, anyway. Couldn't even stop a bullet or two.

The Ash Fort's walls were towering bloody things, built from layer upon layer of iron, steel, and anything else vaguely solid that could be patched on in a hurry. The upper rampart, crammed with defenders, ran in a staggeringly large square the entire perimeter of the fort. It took Lord Ash an hour just to walk the length of one side - an impressive barrier keeping out the Waste's many perils, until today anyway.

The lower rampart, which Lord Ash was crawling over to investigate, was about halfway down and acted as a storage space for additional supplies, manpower, or, in one small section on the eastern wall, a pleasant little coffee stall. It hadn't sold actual coffee in years, but that never stopped anyone from drinking the tarry black mess.

Lord Ash glared over the side of the upper rampart, spying a skinny wretch of a soldier clutching a boxy radio to his breast. "Tell me some good news!" Ash called down.

The skinny soldier shuffled awkwardly from one foot to the other, staring up at his leader. "Erm," he stammered back.

"Well? Out with it, man! By jing by jove, I haven't got all day."

Then, another storm of bullets pounded the length of the wall, ripping up twisted metal and spewing it across the ramparts, deadly shards spilling onto the cowering bandit soldiers. Lord Ash rolled to his right and gritted his teeth, pointing towards the Waste side of the wall.

"Will one of you blow that bloody truck up?" he bellowed, sporadic rifle fire filling the void between hailstorms. "I just had this wall repainted!"

Not waiting for a response, he rolled back onto his stomach and gazed down at the soldier with the radio. "Good news, Gordon! Or you'll be scrubbing my toilet for a month!"

Gordon, knuckles white around his radio, stared at Lord Ash. "We jus' got word from Lady Gertrude's party in Behinds, sir."

Ash scowled. Behinds was a small, derelict Old World town about three hours walking south of the Ash Fort. "Well she jolly well better be lining up for a flanking assault, Gordon m'boy! I'm getting tired of bleeding all over my fort!"