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

8. Meet the Farmers (Part 1)

Phoenix stood alone upon the ruins of what civilisation had grown to call the Back Road.

He was having a moral conundrum of sorts. You see, someone once asked him, if a man-eating tree tripped over in a forest and nobody saw it, did it truly happen? This sounded philosophical enough, but Phoenix couldn't help but think that of course it happened, and all the tree's friends probably pointed and laughed. "Have a nice trip," they would say. "See you next fall."

Now, though, Phoenix was wondering: If somebody were to sucker punch a wounded, drunken man, but nobody was there to see it, did it truly happen? Great heroes were never supposed to kick a man while he was down, no matter how much of a bastard he was. It would be unethical. Damn near immoral. At least bloody rude. But, standing on the broken asphalt as little wisps of dust rolled past his boots, Phoenix couldn't help but grin and look at the blood on his knuckles.

Fuck it, he was retired.

The distant figure of Terrance Leeland was fading to brown in the murky horizon to the north. His ragged silhouette limped and staggered all down the way, leaving a little trail of breadcrumbs ... made of blood. He had sworn revenge. He had sworn he would return. He had sworn an awful lot. Well, at least he had learned some manners before he left. Right to the face.

Smack's adventurer felt proud in his full adventuring gear, a man finally back in his own skin (not that he was ever in someone else's skin, which should be clarified. There are plenty in the Waste who have found human skin makes a nice coat, especially when it's fresh). He tapped out a gentle rhythm on his thick, plated body armour and began strolling in the opposite direction to Terrance. His long, brown trench coat billowed out behind him like a muddy waterfall of fabric, a large Waste Beast tooth knife (acquired very recently) dangling by rifle magazines, grenades and myriad pouches at his belt.

He shrugged his shoulder to push the strap of a large automatic rifle into a more comfortable position, preparing himself for a long march into nowhere. The weapon was heavily customised, even compared to other Waste weaponry (that was often measured not on weight or balance, but use of duct tape and spikes). It had enough slots for two or three magazines, an additional grip at the front, a bloody great scope on the top, a slot for a bayonet (which Phoenix had lost), a laser sight that never worked, and plenty more that Phoenix had forgotten the use of.

Phoenix considered himself Smack-dab's resident badass. He understood that Bert and The Woman were close, but she really had to admit that The Woman's adventuring gear was not up to modern standards (or, considering her demise, not up to historic standards, either). She didn't have bandit-tackling shoulder plates like Phoenix, or punchy punchy metal knuckles, or steel-capped boots. Hell, she didn't even have theoretically bulletproof armour, which was armour that you were told is bulletproof, but you haven't had tested yet. All she had was a bone-handled peashooter and a grimace. Oh, and a statue.

Not that he'd tell Bert any of this, of course. Especially at the moment, as she appeared to be particularly shooty. And so, gently humming the Starry Place's Battle Tune - which had been stuck in his head since the attack - Phoenix pushed down his thoughts of superiority and went to go do Bert's dirty work.

So, Phoenix thought to himself, if I were a salad, where would I be?

He stopped walking and narrowed his eyes. Through dirty, well-worn goggles he saw the big ol' Waste, and rather dismayingly, not a whole lot else. The last salad Phoenix had caught was half way up a mountain, clinging to a rock on a sheer cliff and gnawing on the bones of some long-dead creature. A big long-dead creature. Boy had that turned into a shitshow. He'd wasted a tonne of ammo, a precious and very limited commodity, and then the little bastard had the gall to escape!