The Wasteland Soldier, Book 1, A Fractured World

Twenty Six

The early morning wind whipped through Progress Square, stirring nearly a thousand citizens.

Men, women and children woke bleary eyed to a new world. Bodies ached from sleeping rough on the ground. Stomachs rumbled. Food bars were handed around. Muted conversation began. Another Chancellor had been murdered. The members of the House of Leadership had been slaughtered. The world had been turned upside down, shaken and put back askew. First Minister Mason's stumbling and nervous address last night had instilled little confidence. SOT members were more vocal than ever, demanding an election, demanding the right to choose who ruled. Nervous faces wondered where this was all going to end. The marketplaces had been wrecked and burned. There was nowhere left to trade. The plants and factories and warehouses were silent. There was nowhere left to work. Shame fell upon many. This wasn't what they had wanted. Fury had gripped them, had needed to be unleashed.

As the sun penetrated the grey clouds, fresh fires were lit and soldiers joined to warm themselves. Talk grew louder, more animated, and there were even moments of sporadic laughter. A convoy of three wheeled bicycles sailed by, another delivery for Hamble Towers, some things never change, and the children waved at the riders, who wore standard blue caps with dark red overalls and black boots. Litter blew across the dirt road as the convoy continued to thread its way past apartment buildings with broken windows. The cyclists had red faces from the sharp morning air. The lead rider continued to pedal hard and the others followed.

"No," said Mason. "I'm sorry. I don't understand why you want to help two cold blooded killers."

"Because they did what we only ever dreamed of doing, Mason. They tore it all down and now you have to start again."

He stared at her, stunned by the outburst.

"I can make you the most loved Chancellor in our city's history," she said.

"How can you say that? I might not be Chancellor. If we follow the SOT and give the citizens an election they might not choose me."

"Let them have an election," she said. "Insist on it. But I can still promise you a victory, no matter who stands against you."

Mason was silent for a moment.

"How?"

The cap was pulled down over his shaven head. His face was blank, his eyes betrayed nothing. The overalls covered his bruises and scars. Wind rustled the boxes strapped to the back of his three wheeled bicycle. He was the sixth in a convoy of ten. He observed Hamble Towers for the first time in his life with little interest. It was only bricks, windows and doors. There was no life. There was no breath. He knew only the wasteland, the burnt soil, the bandits and the quick draw of his revolver. This world meant nothing to him. He would continue to tear it down.

Ahead, a curved bridge spanned a narrow waterway. There was a checkpoint with a lowered barrier at each end. The convoy slowed and the lead rider handed across paperwork. The riders took a moment to arch their backs and blow air from their lungs as the soldier on duty yawned and studied it. He looked along the convoy, counted ten riders, handed back the paperwork, and then waved them through as the barrier was raised. One by one, they cycled over the bridge, the water beneath grey and unsettled. The guard at the second checkpoint had already lifted his barrier and motioned them through without making any further checks.

"That's a lie," said Mason. "You're trying to trick me."

He reached for the bottle, looked for a glass. Unable to spot one, he wiped the palm of his hand across it before swallowing a mouthful. He grimaced, revolted by the taste, and shook his head as the foul liquid burned down his throat.

"That's my offer," said Nuria. "Ex-Chancellor Facundo, convicted of hundreds of crimes, for the lives of the two assassins."

"The people will be in outrage," he said, gesturing furiously.