The Wasteland Soldier, Book 1, A Fractured World

Ten

"Drop it," said Tomas.

The biker didn't react. He was an older man, wearing faded blue denim and black leather stretched over a round stomach. He had thick arms and legs. He peered through brass coloured eye glasses perched on a squat nose and was still weighing up the crowbar in his hand against the crossbow pointing at his chest.

"Just you?" asked the man.

Stone pinned the steel barrel of his revolver against the base of the biker's neck.

"Drop it," he said.

Wordlessly, the crowbar clattered to the floor and Tomas sprang over the counter to scoop it up. Stone nudged the man towards the nearest booth.

"Sit," he said. "Hands on the table."

The biker carefully followed the instructions and rested his gloved palms on the dusty table top. His face was grizzled and he had a straggly grey beard. Tomas leaned his crossbow against the wall and dipped outside to inspect the bike. He glanced around, saw no one and wheeled it into the building.

"You take care with that," said the biker. "You don't ..."

"Shut up," said Tomas, walking back to close the metal door and wedge it shut.

He snatched up his crossbow and pointed it at the man's head. Stone backed away to the counter and lifted a stool to sit on. He kept his revolver level with the stranger. Emil poked her head from the back of the room and the biker looked at her, showing no reaction to her scarred face and patched eye.

"Who are you?" asked Tomas.

The man reached for something in his top pocket and Tomas leaned into him, the tip of the crossbow bolt pressed against a rough cheek.

"Easy, old man."

He seemed unflustered by the weapons pointed at him and slowly produced a black comb. Tomas eased back and frowned as the man calmly dragged it through his thick grey hair and beard.

"I used to come here years ago," he said, popping the comb back into his pocket. "Some people tried to open it up. Make it into a diner. Like it was during the Before. That's what they called them. Place you could eat, have decent conversation. But some guys came and shot the place up."

He nodded at the bullet holes that riddled the counter and back wall.

"A name," said Tomas. "Not a history lesson."

"Lucas," he replied, grinning. "Just looking for somewhere to sleep. Not looking for any trouble, son."

"You alone?" asked Stone.

Lucas turned in his seat to answer.

"I am, looks like you're not," he replied, leaning from the booth to smile at Emil. "Evening, miss."

"We could cook you and eat you," said Tomas, a flash of anger in his eyes.

"I don't think you're the type," snorted Lucas. "You want this place, fine. Let me take my bike and I'll be on my way."

"Tie him up," said Stone.

Tomas fetched a length of rope from his pack and eased Lucas from the booth. The man placed his hands behind his back and did not struggle as Tomas tied his wrists together. Stone watched the biker very closely. The man had years on him, which meant he had survived for a very long time in the wastelands. It was rare to see older men in Gallen. They would all need to be careful. Tomas thrust him down on the dusty floor, next to his bike, and bound his ankles. Lucas shuffled around and leaned his back against the counter.