The Wasteland Soldier, Book 1, A Fractured World

Thirteen

As the sun broke through the clouds, Marge headed for the early morning café and took a breakfast of processed tea, skinny slices of halk and three black eggs.

Unbuttoning her coat and laying her shotgun across the table, she curled her thick fingers around the mug and closed her eyes, enjoying the burning heat seeping through her skin. She lifted a piece of meat, bit into it and chewed it down. Then she cracked one egg and drank it. Her eyes were brimming with frustration and disappointment in herself. She puzzled over the Cleric's decision not to attack her town. Naturally glad, and relieved, too, but now troubled. It had been a wasted night of double patrols and preparing traps.

The hardest route into Ford was the northeast corner, near Derek's clothing store, where the roads and pathways on the edge of town fell away into giant craters. There were barricades of rock, wire and debris but these were more to stop people falling in and injuring themselves rather than keeping out a determined menace. Marge knew it would have taken a raiding party of warriors several hours to cross that rugged landscape but, once that hurdle had been eliminated, there were a number of scattered roads, walkways and underpasses to move quickly through and Marge didn't have enough men and women who could handle weapons and cover every avenue. The crater was a natural defensive barrier and no one had ever attempted to cross it.

"It's the route he'll come. Watch that man, that man's a devious slippery thing. Makes his own way in Gallen, he'll take the hardest way into us, that makes it the simplest."

"I'm not sure you're right, Marge," said Geoff, shaking his head. "Why choose the hardest direction to attack us?"

She needed to make the northeast corner even more vulnerable and inviting for the Cleric, to be certain he would take this route. The people in the area had been hurriedly evacuated and directed to the warehouse where they would be safe. She had withdrawn her snipers and placed them in the centre of town, on rooftops and at windows. It was also closer to Sadie's bar, where the Map Maker drank, read and cleaned, his price for a bed with a lumpy mattress, thin sheets and a hot meal once a day. This is where the Cleric would be heading. Allow them across the cratered land, Marge had said. Allow them to run along the roads, walkways and underpasses, yelling and brandishing weapons and funnel them towards the square where a new series of devious booby-traps had been set and rifle fire would cut them to ribbons.

"That man's got brains. Don't survive this life long, leading that rabble, with no knockings upstairs. What we do is smarter, because we're this dumb little town who left the back door wide open."

"If he takes the bait it," said Geoff. "I suppose it could work."

But it hadn't worked. It hadn't worked because the Cleric had ignored the bait and ignored the town. Nothing had happened. The town had waited on high alert all night and nothing. Not a single bullet or arrow fired in anger. The tribe had drunk and wrestled, shouted and laughed until the fires were dying embers and heads had grown foggy and bodies weary and they had crawled into tents a few hours before dawn.

Jaded, Marge walked through the centre of town, past Geoff's workshops and a row of tenement buildings. She nodded to the men and women she passed and they all looked drained. She walked on towards the school and saw Jenny, the town teacher, yawning loudly as she pushed through a low gate into the front yard. She watched her root into her pockets for a bunch of keys and curse as she dropped them on the ground. Marge tried to catch her eye but Jenny ignored her, unlocked the building and ducked inside.

"Not in the mood for you," said Jenny, seeing Marge trudge away, shotgun slung over her shoulder.

The school lobby was cold and a draught rustled her collar. She took off her coat and hung it on a bright red hook. There was a long row of colourful hooks, each with a child's name scribbled beneath it and a drawing. Jenny saw muddy prints across the floor and on the wooden benches that lined the walls. She made a mental note to ask Dorran to make this his first job of the morning. She hadn't realised the children had tracked mud back in yesterday. She went into the washroom and filled the sink with water from a plastic bucket in the corner. She took off her glasses, cupped her hands into the water and splashed it over her face. She pictured Marge heading to the front of the town and felt a pang of guilt for ignoring her. Simple fact, the older woman had done a lot for the people of Ford and was always at the front when trouble turned up. She found the tribe an odd collection. The vehicles had looked fearsome and the men and women inside them equally as dangerous but they hadn't actually done anything and already looked to be on their way.