Book 3, Chapter 19 - Life of a Wastelander (1/2)

As darkness took authority over the sky, dots of light sprang up throughout Miner’s Bluff [1]. Soldiers huddled by campfires to dispel the chill. The cold and darkness made them lazy, and they filled their bellies with heated wine. The slaves they were meant to watch over saw it as a fortuitous combination.

Miner’s Bluff was a wasteland slave camp, with a hundred captives working nonstop in the bowels of the mountain. It didn’t serve the master to offer any safety equipment, so hardly a week went by without at least one death from exhaustion, illness or injury. The black-hearted slave driver didn’t want to waste any funds of keeping the slaves fed, so it was common practice to mince up the dead and use them to sustain the living.

Most of the slaves survived because of this forced cannibalism. Despair and hopelessness had drained them of shame. However, those who did not die harbored a secret seed of rebellion.

For a month they prepared. Tonight was the night – they would gamble their lives for a better future.

A grizzled, white-haired slave turned back to look at a younger man, named Sprout. Sprout was nothing like his name implied, being the largest and strongest of the enslaved miners. He’d been down here with the rest of them for two years, but never once in that time resorted to eating his fellows. He wasn’t special, and eventually the ones who refused to eat became fodder for the others who didn’t. But thanks to his strength, the slave-drivers felt he was more use to them alive than on someone’s plate. They kept him fed with proper food, to keep him strong and healthy.

“Everyone, get ready.” The old slave kept his voice to a haggard whisper. “Sprout, we’ll keep the guards busy. I need you to break into the room, gut that pig, and take his gun. Use it to kill the watchtower guards. That’s our only hope.”

Sprout’s simple, earnest face betrayed anxiety. But the memory of his people, the ones he knew were still waiting for him, spurred him on. Filled with resolve, he nodded.

“Alright friends. Live or die, it all gets decided right now. Go!”

The group of slaves sprang up from their crouched positions and clambered over a high fence. The guards, comfortably languishing near their fires, were taken by surprise. As they groped for weapons, a hundred angry men descended on them. Although shackled they fought with fist and feat, and heavy rocks they carried up from the mines. The shrill cries of the guards rang out as they were torn apart.

Men up in the watchtowers heard the commotion. Clearly it was a revolt, so they did not hesitate to level their weapons and start firing into the crowd. Slaves began to fall, helpless as fish in a barrel.

Sprout heard the whistle of an arrow pass centimeters from his ear. Screams came from all around as his fellow slaves died. He ran over the body of his closest friend, Brick. Flea, who’d cared for him many times over the last two years, fell somewhere to his right and didn’t get back up.

Fear gripped him.

The slave-master’s private cabin was down the way, but his courage was fading fast.

Whoosh!

Another arrow was coming his way.

Before it could find purchase, a wrinkled and emaciated form shoved him aside. The old slave hit the ground, clutching his chest. “Don’t stop, Sprout!” He cried. “You have to live!”

Sprout’s eyes were red from fear and grief. An inner strength he didn’t know he had burst from him, and he jumped back to his feet. With a roar that rattled through the night he charged ahead. Arrows peppered the ground he’d just vacated, and several more buried themselves in his old friend. He died with his gnarled hand outstretched toward Sprout’s fleeing figure.

Many nights in the cold and dark had been spent fantasizing about what the slave-master’s home looked like. When Sprout burst through the door he couldn’t help but stop dead in his tracks. Pots of clean water were piled up in one corner, while the walls were hung with smoked meats and sun-dried grains. A group of five or six young women without a stitch of clothing between them huddled together, like frightened naked sheep. Scarred, wounded, they curled in a shivering ball of clutching limbs.

The slave master had been busy with one when Sprout forced open the door. Bare-assed, he hurriedly climbed off the bed with a pair of trousers in one hand. His member pointed accusingly toward the door, but shrank instantaneously when he saw the large slave who stood there. The slave master’s ugly face was a mask of fury. “What the fuck are you doing?! You’ve got a death wish!”

It was kill or be killed.

Sprout underestimated the fight contained in the slave-master’s pudgy body. It cost him a few broken ribs before he managed to wrap his hands around the fiend’s throat. With a satisfying pop the slave-driver’s spine separated.

Fumbling through the hut, Sprout grabbed the master’s gun and stuck his head back outside. Crack! Crack! The guards raining arrows from their towers screamed as they tumbled from their posts. The day was won.

By the time the night reached its deepest point, shadows clung to a very different scene.

Those guards unfortunate enough to survive were tied up. Slaves argued over whether to cut them up and eat them raw, or cook them first. Filthy slaves flooded the master’s room and dragged his women out by their hair, kicking and screaming. The men pounced on them, one after the other, like a pack of ravenous wolves.

Sprout stood back and watched it all with a black expression. He was thinking about a woman, too. One from his past, his first, the one he had sworn to protect for all his life. They’d only been together for two when the slavers got him.

Two years. He’d been gone as long as they’d been together. He thought about her every night.