Welcome to Gaia! ::

This is the first part of a large piece I did on this, which is my other big idea for a story. Basically, the premise is that the world has suffered a devestating nuclear holocaust about a hundred years ago and now vast swathes of the land are uninhabitable due to radiation, scarcity of food and water, or the presence of assorted critters - mutated wildlife and people degenerated into sub-human barbarians, aliens(!) and other, even weirder things.

Life is harsh. There aren't as many people around and technology has been blasted back to earlier days - although it has a few gaps, like an abundance of working motor vehicles that the geniuses of the post-apocalypse figured out how to maintain, and Vaults - caches of military and scientific knowledge and supplies, either used to create new fledgeling communities or waiting to be discovered by lucky, lucky wanderers.

As ever, its part of a work in progress - which means it throws you into the thick of it without explaining some important plot points. For example, 'Santa' is the villain of the story. How the characters met, also, is another tale - one for each, in fact!

I'll stop soap boxing and let you hazard the madness.

* * * * * * *

Boy hammered the barn door with his foot once, twice, and then the rotten wood caved in to form an opening wide enough to crouch through. He skipped side as a shotgun scattered its bearings at the door, punching a series of splintered holes, and a revolver fired two rounds through the gap. He waited as the dust and shards settled, listening for the bandits inside.

"What are we waiting for?" Savage hissed, holding his sawn-off tightly. Boy ignored him. There were more than two in there. He could hear them shuffling, whispering like Savage was, trying to guage whether they were going to fight or run, trying to figure out who was after them. "Yo Boy, lets get em!"

Boy glared once at Savage, who frowned in confusion, but shut up nonetheless. Then, after a curt nod from the Boy, Savage hammered what was left of the door with the butt of his sawn-off and discharged both barrels into the far corners of the barn. The report of the gun was a bass, almost muted explosion that struck fourteen lead pellets out to evenly pepper the far wall of the barn. The bandits inside, all six of them, ducked behind bales of hay and makeshift barricades of tables and wheelbarrows. Savage grinned and nodded with the satisfaction of submitting an entire barn to his control, before noting that he had fired both rounds and was now out of ammunition.
The Bandits realised it too, and two braved the uncertain opposition to return fire. On seeing their enemies, they laughed, because instead of dreaded Rangers or Militiamen, all they faced was a ragged idiot with a shotgun and a dirty boy with a spear.

Savage ducked behind the nearest hay bale and snapped open his shotgun as bullets flew overhead. As he emptied out the spent shells, Boy darted across their side of the barn to the left, keeping his spear low so that the bandits wouldn't see it poking out from his scant cover behind a cattle sty. The Bandits seemed to concentrate on Savage, since he was the only one with a gun, pretty much discounting Boy from the fight altogether. And that was exactly what he wanted.

Savage jumped and shuddered as bullets ripped through his hay bale and thumped into the woodwork behind him. Their aggression was ripping his flimsy cover to shreds little by little. He decided it was time to move, and fired a quick blast over the nearest Bandits' heads to provide cover while he shimmied across to the next bale. A bandit drew a bead on him with a rifle, and Savage fired fast one-handed, almost breaking his wrist with the recoil. There was a cry above the dull thud of the sawn-off though, and Savage grinned as he took shelter from the return fire that exploded around him and carefully slotted another two shells into place.

About when Savage made his move, Boy moved also, watching for the right moment. With their attentions on Savage, no one noticed him roll over the sty and gain more ground on the bandits, staying well into the corners where his heavy leathers blended with the shadows and didn't catch anyone's eye. One of the bandits was now totally open to him, but there was open space between them and if the enemy saw him he'd be finished. He'd have to be desperately quick to take him and not get shot, and what then? No, better to gain even more ground, so he could disrupt their group from within, attack them from two directions, make them split their fire. He peeped through the sty at the hick bandits as they nervously snapped off shots with their revolvers, shotguns and old rifles.

"Boy, you ok?" Savage yelled above the firefight. He wasn't sure quite what response to expect from a mute, but he thought maybe the urgency of a gunfight would bring a new side of the mysterious wanderer. "Boy?" There was no reply. In fact, Savage looked around and couldn't see the Boy anywhere. The thought occured to him that the Boy had been shot. The further thought occured to him that 'The' Boy hadn't actually backed him up at all, the little s**t. And there he had been, thinking that a guy who doesn't say anything must be one crazily tough b*****d in a fight. The equation now seemed to rest at himself, a rather lucky (but not deservingly so) smuggler, trying to outshoot a half dozen cutthroat hick bandits, who would cut your guts open for so much as knocking on their barn door, let alone kicking it down and shooting at them. Suddenly, the wide-open doorway they had kicked their way into seemed very tempting.

"He's gon' done a runner boys! Get out thar an' run that lil' queer down!" The largest of the bandits, presumably the eldest too, rose from his luxury hiding place (an upturned horse trough backed up with hay bales) and pointed his lackeys toward the door with his rifle. He himself headed out the side door, where his pickup truck was parked beside the barn.

Boy watched, stone faced, as Savage broke and ran out the way they had both come in. But this presented him with a good opportunity, as the bandits rushed after him. He knew he was faster than any of these toads and now he was behind them, as they charged out the battered door whooping and firing their guns in the air. Boy noted the leader heading out of an alternate exit, however, and decided he'd know the most about any dealings this group had with Santa Claus. Luckily, hicks were never considerate about the environment. Picking up an empty beer bottle, Boy took careful aim, and brought the fat ogre down with a satisfying crash. As the leader groaned and writhed on the floor, Boy bolted after the other bandits, keeping his spear close in both hands as he ran.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Not far away, a strikingly tall and well-built young woman walked along the empty asphalt road with what appeared to be a firefly glowing in her wake. On closer inspection the woman appeared to be no less than six feet two inches tall, toned and pleasing on the eye, and appeared to be carrying a section of telegraph pole almost as tall as herself slung across one shoulder, and a huge, bulging suitcase in each hand. Closer still, the firefly in fact resembled a small woman with tiny wings that left trails of sparkling particles, like airborne cinders from a bonfire mixed with yellow stars. She appeared to be dragging a leather wallet almost twice her size through the air with some difficulty. In the shadows, a large black dog of indeterminate breed followed sulkily, its parched tongue and shiny eyes the only thing discernible against the dark evening asphalt.

"It must be so hard for you, dating a mute. I mean, how do you know what he likes? What he's thinking?" Jessica Ironhorse chattered happily as she plodded along with easy, long strides.

After a whimper of exertion, Belle answered. "Well, the thing is, he's not totally a mute. Don't get me wrong, he doesn't say much even when he does talk, but he does speak sometimes. He only speaks to a few people."

"Uh huh, just friends and family and you, huh?"

Belle cocked her head wistfully as she considered all the people Boy ever spoke to. "You know, I don't think he has any friends. And his family all got killed by this despotic slaver-come-arms dealer called Santa Claus. Hm, maybe it's just me after all."

"So whats the secret then? How do you read a guy's mind when he doesn't talk to you?"

"Its not like he's unreadable or anything. Its easy to tell what he's thinking. He has looks. And moods. You have to know what to look for. When he looks at you like this," Belle did a tiny, laughable impression of one of Boy's flat glances "it means you said something stupid. And when he looks at you like this, it means he's really grateful. And when he turns away from you and walks off, it means you're talking doesn't matter."

"He sounds like an arrogant a**hole..."

"Oh no, he really isn't. He's just gotten used to only listening to himself. Hm, and that damn Dog. You know, I think he talks more to the dog than me, you know, in secret when I'm not there. Before me, he must have done. He feeds the dog before he feeds me, sometimes."

"Feeds you!? So how does it feel to rate below the family mongrel?"

"Not like that, I mean, he feeds the dog first before we eat anything. Whatever we scrounge, he always makes sure the dog gets his share. And me. There've been times when he's had nothing to eat because he let us have enough to eat. He's really sweet in ways like that."

"Sounds like typical masculine nonsense to me. Savage likes to eat with candles, when its just us. Doesn't matter what we're eating. Could be cold beans. He insists on it. Its pathetic, really, but these days I'd all but forgotten about little things like that. And he opens doors for me as well. I've slapped him so many times for that, and he keeps on doing it. However much I try and toughen him up, he's just a wastrel when it comes down to it."

"You guys sound like such an odd couple."

They both laughed. Behind them, Dog whined quietly and wished for rain.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The spear punctured the big hick's back with a meaty squelch, and Boy wrenched the man's head back to breaking point using his scalp as a grip. The crunch was horrible, but Boy had heard it many times before and now ripped his spear clear of the corpse. Two of the Bandits turned on him with horror, raising a shotgun and a rifle to gun him down. Boy grinned.

Savage tripped on something metal, which he later found to be a steel trough, and went head over heels into a dyke. Feeling his way to his knees in something wet and pungent, he shuddered as he considered what Jess would do when she found him rolling around in the mud, or whatever it was. The fall wasn't entirely unlucky though, as the Bandits had lost sight of him in the darkness, and now they paced warily above him with their revolvers held high. With a wry smile, he lined up on the nearest one and pulled the trigger.

Boy lashed the spear point across the first bandit's throat, scoring a shallow cut in the man's flesh. The Bandit cried out in pain as he toppled to one side, but his fellow cracked Boy in the side of the face with the butt of his shotgun. Boy's vision exploded into a kalaedoscope montage of blurry duplicates, and the slow motion chuckle of the fat hick as the dizziness intensified into nausea. The bandit he had sliced with the spear kicked Boy in the guts, and picked up his spear.

"Now little boy, I'm gonna give you a tribal tatoo..." the booze-laden breath of the hick as he brought the spear point toward his face prompted Boy's guts to react to the nausea that had been welling in him.

Boy's existence was one of circumstances. In order to survive, he had to adapt to circumstances. The life-shattering experiences of his childhood had forced him to keep his mouth eternally closed, as far as he was able to do so, because if he spoke he ran the risk of talking about certain things, like his family, or his formative years, and remember the pain his memories still held, locked away in a padlocked section of his brain. A life without income meant scavenging, and learning the best places to do so. A life of hunting down an arms dealer had meant learning how to fight. And fighting well had meant learning how to turn everything to your advantage. Much like life. Circumstances must be bent to your own gain.
Puke wasn't unpleasant, it was refreshing. It was also a good weapon.

The bandit howled with rage as Boy siezed him by the throat and vomited in his face. While the hick floundered, Boy took back his spear and swirled it around at the other. He backed away, levelling his shotgun, but boy hammered the barrel down and the buckshot blasted the downed hick's legs into a bloody mess. Then the spear point was in the survivor's left eye socket, and he jerked spasmodically for a few moments like a gaffed fish, before Boy ripped out the spear and let him flop to the ground. The maimed, floored Bandit whimpered as Boy raised his spear overhead.

The Bandits looking for Savage chuckled to each other. Savage, down in his ditch, looked in horror at his shotgun, which had issued an ominous, hollow click when he pulled the trigger. Now, the two hicks levelled their revolvers with a slow relish, and even slower grins.
Savage grinned too.
"Yes, now, get them!" he yelled, looking past the bandits. They turned.
Savage bolted at the nearest hick and smashed the butt of his sawn-off into the man's bearded face, breaking his nose and spattering blood. The man roared, and his friend panicked. There had been nothing behind them, and in the confusion between turning and realising, Savage had struck, wrenching the revolver from the stunned bandit. Now he and the remaining hick drew a bead on one another at the same time. The man blinked, wide eyed. Savage fired.
As the man dropped, a smoking hole in his chest, the bandit at Savage's feet groaned.
He placed the revolver in the bandit's mouth.
"I have a friend who probably wants to ask you a few things."

"Santa."
The bloody-nosed bandit quaked as Boy held the spear above his left eye. His quick, panicked breaths laced with liquor steamed on the crisping night air. Blood was starting to cake in his beard, and staining his white shirt and dungaree jeans with red flecks. He said nothing, instead frozen in terror, only his chattering teeth making a sound.
"Santa."
The hick's eyes darted to Savage, who crouched nearby slotting new shells into his sawn-off. "Don't look at me. I'm not going to help you. You better answer the question."
"Santa."
"I...." The hick began, then faltered. Boy jabbed with the spear, making the bandit shriek. He stopped it before the blade pierced his eye, though.
"Santa."
"I done never met him! But ole' Barnaky has. Traded him booze for a few women. One good time for another, heh. He meets with him every couple of months, at Brasco a ways down the road. No militiamen there. Just one Ranger, and he's on the payroll."
"Is he the leader of this bunch of losers?" Savage asked. The hick nodded.
Boy hammered down with the spear point, not blinking even when the blood splatted across his face.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Read this far? You're brave.

If you couldn't guess, influences behind this monstrosity are the Mad Max trilogy and the RIFTS RPG universe, chiefly. If anyone has ever heard of the brilliant PC RPG series, "Fallout", that too had a heavy hand in the atmosphere of this story. Minor influences include Desperado, O Brother Where Art Thou?, The Big Lebowsky and The Warriors. Maybe Young Guns too.

But hopefully, you needed me to tell you specifically what influenced it. I may cry if someone says "Waco, that was quite clearly based on Fallout 2". But if thats what it seems like, hit me with it.

The next part will be posted as a continuation. Cheers.

Yeah, I suffer from an unfortunate case of "If its not bleeding, its not very interesting" which is of course very remiss of me. However, action is my preference, so I make no excuses for mindless violence. There will be a lot of that in the piece - this is a call out to some of the films I was talking about, like Mad Max and O brother where art thou? - because in those films, the world is portrayed as a very unpleasant place.

If you've ever read the Garth Ennis masterpiece comic series, Preacher, there is a great deal of absurd violence in it that creates a sense that the world is a cr*p place - which, in turn, makes the nicer sections of the story...well, nice. If you're not very comfortable with writing 'nice' things, like me, then it makes a clever-sounding reason to do lots of violence in your work in the hopes of emphasising the softer elements of the story. Because they stand out against the background of brutality and punishment.

Ahem. I'll just see what you thought of the second part...

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