Wasteland Warlords: Chapter 10 - Prize in Hand

Evening was falling when they made it back inside Camp Liberty’s walls. While Joe and Alex headed off to get cleaned up and stow their gear, Clay made his way to the General Store to restock their Healing Potions and take care of one last piece of business.

McPike was getting ready to close up, but when Clay told him what he wanted, the promise of the gold outweighed his hurry to call it a night.

When Clay came out, the old weed was sitting in that rocker on the porch, creaking back and forth, just like the day before. His lone blue eye flashed in the dying sunlight.

“Well, somebody’s walking a mite taller in his boots. Come outta the junkyard all right then, did ya?”

Clay smirked and leaned a hip against the wooden railing. “We got what we needed and made it out alive. Now hows about you tell me why you sent us in against an Incant? As much as I want to believe it was completely out of the goodness of your heart, it smells like self-interest to me. What do you get out of this?”

The old man chuckled. “I reckon we’ll see here in a day or two.”

“After Katotes,” Clay guessed.

“Tell me something, lad—what sorta Incant do you think your wife’ll make?”

The question caught Clay off guard. “What do you mean?”

“Well, we got three around these parts already, and they’re what you might charitably call ragin’ assholes.” The old weed nodded in time with his rocking. “I was here long before they tumbled into Camp Liberty. Back in those days, they were green as you, every damn one of ’em. That Aussie Gearhead Lynes, he wanted power. Rhett was hungry for gold, and got himself enough to choke a necrodragon. Morgan, well, he’s in love with fame, now ain’t he? I reckon the power of an Incant—regardless of magic or class—makes people more of whatever they were to start with. Take Morgan. Why do ya think he still drinks in this shithole bar where every tumbleweed and lost cause out here can stand in awe gaping at him? Every one of those three got what they wanted, but it wasn’t enough. They’re still out there, grinding for more. More gold, more fame, more power… and they don’t care who they take out along the way.”

Clay shifted uncomfortably.

“I know what you’re thinking, just coming off a run at Lynes for his potions, but my gut tells me you kids ain’t like those lads. Back before the Merge, I used to deal a good bit with heroes—both the real deal and the ones in name only. I was a skill trainer—taught would be heroes how to fight and survive in a dungeon—and truth be told, I got pretty good at taking their measure when they walked in. I could look a fella or lady in the eye and tell ya”—he stabbed a finger at an imaginary face—“that one’ll turn on me and the rest of her party the second she needs a meat shield or that one’ll get his buddies and me out alive even if he don’t get the loot.

“Now, your brother, he’s a dingus. No way around it. But he’s a dingus who threw away everything in order to risk life and limb for you and your bride. I don’t pretend to know nothing about diseases, but I can see that fire in your gal a mile off, no matter what’s trying to kill her. She’d burn down the whole world for you, and she keeps an eye out for your brother in her own way, dingus though he may be. And you…” The old weed grinned. “Been a long time since I thought, ‘now there’s a young buck who’d put his life on the line to save a stranger same as his own family, whether he got anything out of it or not.’”

Clay shook off the unwarranted praise. “None of that answers the question. What do you get out of telling a group of strangers where to find those stat potions?”

“It does if you’re paying attention,” the old timer said. “See, I don’t have the kind of raw power it would take to knock our local Incants down a peg or two. But I can give a helping hand now and again to the sort of folks who seem like they’d shake things up if they came into some power of their own. You sort of remind me of a fella I used to know, a long way back. I helped him out just the same as I’m helping you now.” He tipped his hat back with a thumb, squinting his eye at the invading sunlight. “In that vein, when’re you kids plannin’ on going after Katotes?”

“Tomorrow,” Clay said, staring off into the darkness. “Crack of dawn. We aren’t going to get any stronger than we are now, so better to take our swing while we’re sharp.”

“I’d say that’s probably as wise a decision as you can afford,” the old man said, bobbing his head. “The sooner you take him out the better, especially since I can guarantee you that Gearhead’ll come looking to serve you three a little comeuppance. Best if one of you have Incant powers when that happens, ’cause all the stat potions in the world won’t save you from a man who can make his own. Won’t save me either, if word gets around that I set you on his trail. But might be I have a proposition that’d benefit the both of us…”

                                                                                    ***

By the time Clay walked into the Yacht Club, Alex and Joe had already gotten a table, bought a round of the skunky beer the saloon specialized in, and put in an order for the dinner special, which was invariably a steak off various kinds of nonhumanoid monsters accompanied by a roasted root vegetable. Usually potatoes or beets. They ate a lot of potatoes and beets in Camp Liberty, because they were about the only things that grew in such shitty gardening conditions.

“Where’s the mechacoon?” Clay asked as he sat down, the wooden chair squeaking under his weight.

Alex slid the unopened beer to Clay. “Don’t get him started, please.”

“Started, hell!” Joe said, gesturing wildly with his bottle. Foam rose up the neck as the beer sloshed around inside. “Can you believe they’re claiming animals aren’t allowed in the Yacht Club? What is this, the White House? Tea with Jesus? Jesus would love Chonk! Unbelievable.”

Alex rolled her eyes. “He’s been like this since he had to take Chonk back to the cans.”

“It’s absolute bullshit, that’s why.” Joe shook his head.

“Sounds more like a health code violation.” Clay twisted the cap off and took a drink of warm beer.

“Health code violation my foot!” Joe cast a hairy eyeball around the saloon. “The Yacht Club is held together with duct tape and tetanus. Violating the health code would be an upgrade.”

“I ran into our old weed friend at McPike’s,” Clay said, ignoring his brother’s ramblings.

Alex licked a bit of foam from her lip. “Did you tell him thanks?”

Clay thought about it for a second, then laughed. “I forgot. He got me sidetracked.”

“You want to talk about sidetracks,” Joe said, leaning forward over most of Clay’s side of the table. “The other night, Roy Lee swore up and down he saw the Warlord of the West once, back when he and Derail passed through LA.”

Clay stifled a burp. “Yeah, I call bullshit.”

“Same,” Alex agreed. “A human Dungeon Lord? That’s just an urban legend.”

“Not to mention no one’s been close to LA, let alone inside it, in twenty years.”

Joe shrugged and sat back. “Good sidetrack fodder, though. I completely forgot what we were arguing about.”

“You think the alcohol might’ve had a little to do with that, too?” Alex said.

“I wouldn’t rule it out,” Joe said. He pointed his longneck at Clay. “Anyway, you were saying about sidetracks?”

“Right.” Clay thumbed the peeling label on his bottle. “The old guy wants to come on our run tomorrow.”

There was a moment of stunned silence.

“No offense, and I mean none at all,” Joe said drumming his fingers on the tabletop. “You know I love old people; they say hilarious, outdated crap and fall asleep in weird places, which I’m all about. But I’m pretty sure that old weed’s bones are made of dust. He steps wrong off a curb and we’re gonna be playing life alert responders to an old guy with a broken hip.”

“You’re wrong,” Clay said. “I think we should let him come. There’s something about him. He’s a lot tougher than he looks, I’m sure of it. Plus, he knows his way around out here.”

“Well, obviously,” Alex said. “The map was proof enough of that.”

“Maybe even more than we know,” Clay said, pulling the folded scrap of paper out of his pocket and flattening it on the table. He tapped a few different notes. “Don’t engage about Proust. Harmless. I think he’s had interactions with the monsters out here beyond just killing them.”

Joe frowned. “Like talking ancient literature with them?”

“You know who Proust is?” Alex asked skeptically. Clay snorted on reflex, blasting beer foam into his sinuses.

“Screw you guys, I know shit,” Joe said. “Just because I don’t say everything I know doesn’t mean I don’t know what I know I know. You know?”

“Oh come on,” Alex said. “No way that made sense.”

Joe crossed his arms and sat back, pleased with himself. “That was clean as a whistle, short stack, accept it.”

She looked at Clay. “Judge. Ruling?”

“It makes sense if you diagram it,” Clay replied, wiping his watering eyes. “Let’s get back to business. I vote we bring him in for the Marriott run.”

“Fine. If you say he’s good, bro, then I say he’s good,” Joe replied. “United Jaeger front. But he’ll have to be the Jeice of our Ginyu Squad. Nothing I can do about it—he’s the only one of us with white hair.”

Alex ignored that. “As long as somebody watches out for him. I know he’s probably tough as hell living out here, but Joe’s not wrong either—he looks like he’s pushing a hard seventy, and I would feel bad if something happened to him while he was trying to lend us a hand.”

They cut the chatter about the Marriott as the bartender came by and dropped off their food. The three of them dug into the hearty fare. After a day like today, the overcooked steaks and dried out beets—yay! More beets—tasted like heaven.

“There was one other thing.” Clay washed down a leathery bite of meat with the last of his beer. “It’s kind of important.”

Joe and Alex both stopped eating to look at him.

“I know we agreed to talk about every purchase before we made it, but I picked up a couple things besides healing potions while I was at McPike’s.”

“Intriguing.” Joe wiggled his eyebrows. “Didst thou purchase some magic beans, my son?”

Clay smirked. “Nothing quite that useful.”

He dug into his pocket and pulled out a mismatched pair of rings. The big, gaudy skull ring with the tiny rubies for eyes he slid across the table to Joe.

“It’s supposed to up your odds of inflicting a Critical Hit by three percent,” he explained.

“And up my bling factor by a power of ten.” Joe slipped the fat band onto his finger and twisted the skull’s glittering eyes around so that they stared out from his knuckles. “I freakin’ love it, man.” He clapped Clay on the shoulder. “You’ve made me the happiest boy in the whole world. Yes, Clay, a thousand times yes, I will marry you.”

“Too late.” Clay picked up the smaller delicate ring and held it out to Alex. “I’m taken.”

Her mouth dropped open. She started to take the piece of jewelry from him, but he grabbed her hand and slipped it on her empty ring finger. Tiny chips of diamond gleamed in the shining silver.

“It’s got a Movement Speed enchantment, too,” he said, a corner of his mouth twisting up into a grin. “Maybe it’ll help you keep up with me, slowpoke. Right now, I’m up two saves to one.”

“Dick, I knew you were keeping track.” Alex punched him in the shoulder, but she was smiling. A second later, she leaned over and kissed him in front of the whole bar. “We have to get one for you, too.”

“Already got one.” Clay pulled the Naga Ring out of his pocket and stuck it on his ring finger. It didn’t quite hide the tan line, but it came close.

“Aw,” Joe cooed. “The Jaeger Squad rides triumphant! Another round, bartender!” he called over his shoulder. “We’ve got a lot to celebrate, my man!”

Clay snorted. Alex shook her head, but even she was laughing. Tomorrow was going to be a hard one, but for tonight at least, life was good.