Book Excerpt: Battle for the Wastelands by Matthew W. Quinn

Chapter One: In the Beginning, A Hunt

     The punishing July sun glared in the cobalt sky above lean Andrew Sutter. He stared down the sights of his rifle, tracking the gray-furred ripper ambling across flat, rocky ground below the desolate brown hills. The heat pulled sweat from his thin face, darkening his straw-colored hair.

     The men of Carroll Town went out that morning, each alone to cover as much territory as possible. They’d strip the countryside, right down to the kangaroo rats. If game were plentiful, they could survive until harvest without eating their livestock or their seed grain.

     Just his luck he, who’d only hunted meek pronghorn or mule deer, faced the biggest predator roaming the badlands between the river valley and the desert. He’d considered skedaddling, but the growl of an empty stomach stopped him dead. A ripper meant a powerful amount of meat.

     He’d laid out the scraps of his meager prairie dog breakfast before tucking himself behind some rocks on a nearby hill. The smell brought the ripper into rifle range soon enough.

The predator bent its lupine head and sniffed the meat. Andrew aimed for its flank just behind the ribs and pulled the trigger.

     The rifle kicked against his shoulder just as the ripper stepped forward. His shot cut across the ripper’s back. The beast threw back its head and howled.

His ears still ringing, Andrew flipped the rifle’s lever, ejecting the spent shell. The ripper looked up. Andrew flattened himself against the hard ground behind the rocks, but their eyes met. It roared. Andrew swore and aimed again. The ripper bounded toward him, long forelegs and short, muscular hind legs kicking up dust behind it.

     Andrew’s bullet caught it in the shoulder. The ripper kept coming. Oh shit!

     Andrew scrambled back and fired again. The bullet carved a deep furrow down the ripper’s side. The wound slowed it but didn’t stop it. Shit! His stomach boiled. The damn things liked to go for the soft parts, the guts or even the balls.

     Andrew made it to the bottom of the hill by the time the ripper crested it. It fell like a lightning bolt. He aimed for the ripper’s red right eye.

     CRACK!

     His bullet punched through the cheek and erupted from the other side of its skull. The ripper tumbled. Its momentum slammed it into the ground beside him.

     Despite his shaking hands, Andrew kept his rifle leveled on the dead ripper. He circled it, breathing heavily. He jumped forward and kicked the creature as hard as he could. Something cracked beneath his boot. The ripper did not stir.

Andrew whooped. “Thought you’d be eating me today?” Andrew taunted the corpse. “Looks like it’s you going on the stove!”

The ripper weighed at least one hundred pounds. Between the meat and what Andrew could trade for, his mother, sister, and himself wouldn’t need to worry about food for awhile. He laughed.

     Holding on his rifle with one hand, he pulled one of the beast’s forelimbs across his shoulders. His back protested. Once he’d have gutted it or at least bled it to reduce the weight, but these days offal and even blood had uses.

     Andrew bore his prize from one brown stony hilltop to another, never lingering in the low areas watered by the dying stream. Though the sun wrung rivers of sweat from his body, he wanted to see any predators coming from a long way off.

On his fourth hill, something moved below amid the sea of dying vegetation cloaking a rusted Old World rail line. His gut clenched. Rippers mated for life.

     A roar announced the second ripper’s attack. The creature surged up the hill, murderous eyes locked on Andrew. Had they been hunting him like he’d been hunting them?

     Andrew twisted away at the last possible second. The blow that would have sliced him open from breastbone to crotch tore only his white shirt and brown trousers.

The ripper’s momentum bowled him over. He and the dead ripper tumbled, the live one atop both. They broke apart as they rolled down the hill into the dead grass. Luckily he’d kept hold of the rifle.

Andrew scrambled away as the beast recovered. The ripper lunged. He shoved his rifle forward, the stock catching a blow meant for his throat. He struck the beast’s bony brow with his rifle butt. It stumbled back on three limbs, clawing at Andrew with the fourth.

Andrew wasn’t going to lick the ripper in close combat. He had to find a way to shoot the damn thing.

The predator slashed again. A claw caught Andrew’s left shoulder. Andrew retreated, blood already darkening his shirt. He raised his rifle as it lunged. The barrel touched the ripper’s forehead in the instant before he squeezed the trigger. A cone of blood and brain erupted from the back of its head. Some ended up on Andrew’s face as the ripper slammed into the brown earth.

He wiped the gore onto his sleeve. Not wanting to waste anything, he picked a large bit off his arm and swallowed it whole. The foul taste gagged him, but it’d silence his stomach.

He looked at his kills. No way could he carry both home. He dragged the first carcass over to the second, drew his knife from the sheathe on his leather belt, and opened the arteries on both necks. He scowled as the red blood drained into the dust. There goes some sausage. Next he opened both bellies, wrinkling his nose when the hard, fecal scent slammed into his face. He cut the organs free, stuffing them into the bag. Next came the thighs and calves. By the time he’d sawed those from both rippers, his arms ached. For a moment, he considered burying the rippers and coming back later.

He shook his head. He’d be damned if he let anything snatch what he’d won. And he wasn’t going to risk his family going hungry because he took the easy way out. He wiped the sweat away from his sun-reddened face and returned to work.

He spent hours butchering the two rippers beneath the burning sun, all while keeping his eyes peeled for predators. Fortunately the wind from the Iron Desert blew his scent toward the river valley his folk farmed, an area the rippers and sand snakes had learned to avoid.

When he’d finished, the bag almost overflowed with meat. Blood dripped from the saturated leather. He hoisted the ponderous bag onto his back. The straps bit into his shoulders. Andrew leaned forward.

Bent beneath the load, he made his way through the badlands toward Carroll Town. He did his best to ignore the warm ripper blood soaking through his shirt and trickling down his back. His mother and sister Sarah would be glad he came home alive, but his clothes would right horrify them.

As he followed the sun, he pondered how he’d be received. The others likely bagged pronghorn, mule deer, or prairie dogs, if they’d gotten anything at all. He’d landed something bigger, something that ate the game the men wanted. They’d cheer. His sweetheart Cassie Wells would want to hear more about it. Hopefully somewhere cozy and private. He smiled.

His heart leaped with delight as the skeletal iron mooring tower, a gift from James Merrill upon his ascension in Jacinto two years before Andrew was born, came into view from the hilltop. The tower was empty — dirigible visits had been rare even when the Merrills ruled, before the tyrant Grendel threw them down and raised up the murderous Flesh-Eating Legion. But it still reared into the blue sky like a huge finger. And though most paint had peeled away, it still bore scraps of the Merrill green.

Eventually the ground sloped downward toward a white wooden fence. Beyond, parched fields of stunted wheat clawed their way from the black earth the river had laid, earth left dry by the drought. A horse-drawn iron reaper, huge and skeletal, sat amid what promised to be a poor harvest.

A voice startled him. “Hey Andy!” Sam Cotton, his friend since they were both six, called out in a voice drawling somewhat more than his own. “What you got?” He approached from the north, following the hills. Sweat plastered dark hair to a head that came up to Andrew’s chin, and his skin, fairer than Andrew’s, had burned worse. He carried his rifle under his arm. His hands were empty.

     “Oh, howdy Sam. You not get anything?”

     Sam’s thin face fell. He shook his head. “Couldn’t find anything. Anything living, that is. Found a dead mule deer, but it was half-rotten. Would’ve sickened anyone who ate it.”

     Andrew winced inwardly. Sam had two brothers and a sister, all younger. He’d give Sam some of his kill. There was more than enough for Andrew’s kin.

     Sam’s gaze fell on Andrew’s burden. “Looks like you got something.” A moment passed. “Need any help?”

     A twinge of ache crossed Andrew’s back. “Yeah.”

He set the heavy bag down and tightened the straps holding it shut. If he got one end and Sam got the other, it’d be just their luck if the bag split open in the middle. He tucked his rifle under one arm to keep both hands free.

Sam came over, holding his rifle the same away. He picked up the end of the bag. “You got the other end?”

Andrew nodded. “On the count of three. One — ”

“Two,” Sam added.

“Three!” both said together. They lifted the bag. Andrew’s arms protested but they didn’t yell as loudly as his back.

“Okay,” Andrew said. “Let’s get this down.”

Sam nodded. He scooted backward down the hill, Andrew close behind. They soon found the dusty path that would take them the last mile home. The sun was low now. Fear set its teeth to the base of Andrew’s spine. Best not be out at night, especially smelling like they did. “Let’s get a move on.” Sam nodded.

     It didn’t take more than half an hour to reach the white-painted wooden arch marking the entrance of central Carroll Town.

And just inside were a trio of strangers on horseback. The townsfolk gathered between them and the town’s white clapboard buildings. Through the crowd he saw they wore the red jackets and black trousers of the Flesh-Eating Legion beneath their brown dusters.

     The hairs on the back of Andrew’s neck stood at attention. His gut clenched. His hands trembled.

     Nothing good ever happened when the Flesh-Eaters paid a visit…