Wasteland Warlords: Chapter 6 - Word to the Wise

The next day was Sunday. Their day off, if there was such a thing out in the IZ. Joe slept through the morning—still passed out from the heavy night of drinking before—while Clay and Alex attended a short service over at the local Camp Liberty Chapel. The place was presided over by a sparkplug of a Lutheran minister, who had more scars on his face than actual face. Only a handful of congregants turned out for the weekly event, but that didn’t stop ol’ Flat Top Phillips from barking out his sermon like he was giving marching orders to a battalion heading to war.

Once service let out, Alex meandered back to their can to collect Joe. The two of them had plans to ask around town for any last scrap of intel they could get on Katotes, while Clay headed over to the weekend flea market to sell off some of their stockpiled loot, search for any rare deals, and pick up all the health potions they could carry. Although the General Store stayed open week round, the Sunday market was the best chance to barter with mercs and freelancers.

Clay absently wandered down the dusty boulevard that ran between McPike’s General Store and the Yacht Club.

Camp Liberty’s regulars were out in force, pitching stalls, setting up canvas awnings to offer some shelter from the scorching sun, and laying out blanks covered with their meager offerings. Though, admittedly, a few of the offers weren’t so meager at all. Terri “the Terror” Thornton—a mean old battle axe of a woman with a face like boot leather—was selling a helmet called the Wolf’s Visage that returned twenty-points of health for every kill. She wanted an arm and a leg for it, but Clay still considered it. Just down the aisle, Handsome Lou, easily the ugliest man Clay had ever seen, was hocking a single gauntlet that allowed the user to unleash javelins of blue-white lightning.

Handsome Lou wanted two literal pounds of gold for it, which was damn-near everything Clay and Alex had to their name. Still, the temptation was real. Anything for an edge.

Instead, he picked up an Amulet of Cleansing—a fancy sounding trinket that gave a boost to passive poison resistance—for Alex, and a hand-axe called simply the Lumberjack that dealt additional slashing damage and an ability called Keen Edge. No sharpening ever, which was as miraculous as anything Clay had ever seen. That one was going to Joe. He was so hung up on that damned Chainsaw, maybe Clay could persuade him to give the axe a go. It was a longshot, but stranger things had happened. Although the weapon was almost certain to reinforce that stupid Lumberjack Joe nickname.

Once Clay was done perusing what the town raiders had on offer, he headed over to McPike’s. The Old Weed from their first night at the Yacht Club was sitting on a rocker out on the dusty wooden deck, soaking up the cool shade of the store’s covered patio. He tipped his hat as Clay passed.

The door let out a soft tinkle as Clay shouldered his way in. A wave of refreshingly cool AC washed over him like a shower, chills dancing along his spine. The shop itself was a mix of just about everything. Rickety wooden shelves held bags of beans and rice, dented cans of Campbell’s soup that sold at a hefty premium, and huge burlap sacks filled with potatoes. There were a couple of refrigerated units buzzing along the back wall, their shelves stacked with local beer and the occasional import: soda. McPike did well enough for himself to afford the generators to keep the drinks cool and the AC running, which was no mean feat in camp.

There were also more esoteric items. Everything from steel bear traps and boxes of ammo, to sigil runes, magical wands, and enchanted jewelry. There was a glass case filled near to bursting with an assortment of potions.

“Hey now, if it ain’t Lumberjack Joe’s brother,” McPike said.

Clay offered the man a thin smile. “I can’t believe that’s catching on.”

“Yep.” McPike hooked his thumbs in his belt. “Well, whattayagonna do.”

Over the past six weeks, Clay had learned that the shopkeeper didn’t expect a response to the question. It was a catch-all answer. Leg bitten off by a Hyenacrotta? Well, whattayagonna do. Hit the jackpot and loot a hundred gold pieces off a single monster? Well, whattayagonna do.Clay could respect that level of stoicism.

He headed for the glass case at the end of the counter. Even as long as they’d been in Camp Liberty, this was the first time he’d taken a peek at the potions the store kept on offer. So far, they had managed to scrounge up everything they needed by looting monster corpses, and honestly… Well, he just hadn’t been able to bring himself to so much as look at the contents inside that case. The colorful bottles reminded him too much of what he’d lost. But he couldn’t afford to ignore them if they wanted to take down a Dungeon Lord, so he would just have to suck it up and deal.

Clay leaned against the case, staring at the glass vials all meticulously sorted within. Ultimate Health Potions, Sufficient Health Potions, Resist Fire Potions, even Cure Disease Potions—great for both Dysentery and the Clap, according to McPike.

“Four silver apiece for the low-tier ones,” McPike said stubbornly, as though he knew he was committing highway robbery and didn’t care. “And if you want the Cure Disease Potions, they go for a gold each. I can’t budge a copper on those prices.”

A thread of anger burned through Clay’s stomach looking down at the brightly colored array of bottles.

“These things sell for hundreds of thousands of dollars on the other side of the Containment Barrier,” Clay replied.

McPike shrugged. “That’s because hardly any of ’em make it back outside. When you try to get back through the barrier, all potions get confiscated. They’re considered a Schedule 1 substance. Same as heroin or cocaine or any other drug. Get caught with it, and it’s a mandatory minimum of twenty years. You gotta turn ‘em all over or sell ‘em off to a broker before you leave.” He picked up an old Folgers coffee can and spit out a line of tar-black tobacco chew. “Whattayagonna do.”

Clay’s hand balled into a fist below the counter. He should leave it alone. He already knew where this was going. But the fucking hoops he’d had to jump through… “Did you know that pharmaceutical companies sell ’em? Your insurance doesn’t count for shit against the cost, but they do sell them. They sell even the bottom-tier potions like they’re rarer than caviar from those extinct sturgeons.”

“Well, that FDA packaging probably counts for a little something,” the storekeeper joked.

Clay pulled his hand down his face, suddenly tired.

“Plain criminal, ain’t it?” McPike said, clearly sensing Clay’s mood. “That’s the civilized world for you. Goddamned bunch of animals out there on the other side of the fence. You might die here, but at least it’s clean and fair. An honest death. Back out there, on the other side, they’ll kill you too, they’ll just do it in bits and pieces. Take a pound of flesh at a time until there ain’t nothing left but bones.”

“Whattayagonna do,” Clay replied back, which gained him an approving nod from the storekeeper. He handed over the four silver per potion.

“Anything else I can do you for while you’re here?” McPike asked cheerfully as he set the potions on the counter for Clay.

“Yeah. Let me get two sodas. Also…” Clay faltered and moved to another case, this one filled with jewelry. “Can I take a closer look at your rings?”

                                                                                       ***

Twenty minutes later, he headed back out into the blistering heat of the day, his pack several purchases heavier and a pair of sodas in hand. The Old Weed was still rocking away in his chair, the squeak of wood carrying on the bone-dry air.

Clay offered him a Mountain Dew and took a seat on a vacant rocker beside the old man.

“Much obliged,” the Old Weed said, accepting the drink and popping the cap with a leathery thumb.

“Haven’t seen you around much lately,” Clay said.

“Oh, I’ve been here and there,” the old man replied. “Mostly just keepin’ my head down and tendin’ to my own business. Heard a thing or two about you, though. And I ain’t the only one who’s taken notice.” He tapped conspiratorially at the side of his nose. “Seems like you’re doin’ pretty well for yourselves. I reckoned that dingus brother of yours woulda gotten the whole lot of you killed by now, but you seem to be flourishing here. Got more runs outside the wires than men who been out here more’n a year.

“I was almost startin’ to think that maybe I’d managed to talk some sense into you three.” He paused and drummed his fingers on his bottle. Beads of condensation ran down the side and pooled on the wooden arm of his rocker. “’Til I started to hear a certain group of tumbleweeds making discreet inquiries around camp about Katotes.” He glanced at Clay’s pack, near to overflowing with health potions. “That there looks to me like a bag full of trouble. Don’t suppose you three are planning to take a run at a Dungeon Lord, now are ya?”

Clay froze. Apparently, they hadn’t been quite as stealthy as they’d thought. Probably had Lumberjack Joe to thank for that.

“What if we are?”

The old man frowned and gave him the side eye. “It’s foolishness is what. You’re in the Cans already, lad, making a comfortable living, carving out a place for yourself in this dusty wasteland. Just what in the hell do you wanna go chasing death like that for? Ain’t no amount of money or fame worth the wasps’ nest you three are poking your collective heads into.”

Clay didn’t say anything for a long beat. His gut reaction to folks prying was always the same—that it was nobody’s damned business but theirs. His redneck side flaring up, Alex would say. On the other hand, though, he hadn’t really talked to anyone about this in a long time. Not since before they left for the wall. And this old guy, whatever baggage he was carrying, genuinely seemed to care.

Besides, maybe somebody ought to know in case they didn’t make it back.

“It isn’t about fame or fortune,” Clay said softly. “We’re backed into a corner—no other options. ’Bout two years ago Alex was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. Stage three. The docs caught it late, but just this side of not-too-late. We tried everything—chemo, gene therapy, even a hysterectomy. The cancer didn’t give two shits. All it did was advance.”

Clay grimaced, hand tightening around his soda bottle. Remembering those days felt like getting sucked back into that tar pit of sheer hopelessness. He’d spent so many nights lying awake thinking how he would’ve fought to his last breath to destroy anything that tried to hurt Alex. Except, how did you fight cells and proteins? All his life he’d given a hundred percent to everything he did, but what were you supposed to do when a hundred percent wasn’t enough?

“It took everything,” Clay said. “Our savings, our house, Alex’s martial arts school, any chance we had at having kids. I sold off my construction equipment one piece at a time to pay the bills, and she still didn’t get better.” He shrugged and took a long swig of his drink. “Traditional medicine couldn’t touch it. When it was obvious there wasn’t shit else to do, I reached out to a buddy of mine from the Corps. After he got out, he’d signed on with a private contracting outfit out here in the IZ. He managed to smuggle out a potion of Cure Disease, but it cost us everything we had left and then some.”

The old man grunted and nodded his head in understanding. “That’s a tight bind, to be sure, but it don’t explain why you three can’t just come out here and farm gold ’til you’re out of the hole.”

Clay scuffed his boot along the dusty floorboards of the porch. “It’s not just the debt. The Cure Disease potion put her into remission, but it didn’t fix her. Turns out, Cure Disease isn’t the same thing as Alter Your Genetics Forever. Three months ago, her blood test came back with elevated CA-125 levels. That’s the protein they look for in a resurgence. Doesn’t mean it’s a done deal that the cancer’s back, but…”

“But the clock is tickin’, huh?” the old weed finished, scratching his stubbly chin. “So you figure if you can turn your bride into a bonafide Incant, you might be able to beat the cancer for sure.”

“Got it in one,” Clay said. “Especially if this Ettin, Katotes, really does have regenerative and healing capabilities through the roof. If she can get in the death blow, she’ll be damn near bulletproof. The cancer won’t be able to touch her, and neither will anything else.”

The old man drummed his fingers on the bottle. “I reckon that’s as good a reason as any,” he finally said. He licked his lips and glanced left, then right. “Listen, I like you fool kids. The three of you got work ethic. Grit. Ain’t afraid to take risks. Plus, you ain’t involved in the local politics like a lot of the knuckleheads round these parts. I wasn’t lying when I said you’re attracting attention. Mayhap there are certain folks that might have a vested interested in seeing a couple of new Incants running around these parts.”

Clay sucked in a deep breath, too afraid to speak.

“Those folks can’t be seen to interfere too much, though. Kinda puts a target on their backs. So might be these folk use an old, unassuming man to pass word along from time to time.” The old weed raised his eyebrows significantly.

Clay nodded to show he was following.

“I’ll give you a bit of unsolicited advice, lad. If you take a run against Katotes the way you are now—even with all your gear and your fancy potions—you’re not coming back out. Period. A level discrepancy like that’s something you can’t beat out here. But for folks who are serious about becoming Incants, there’s a dirty secret.” The old timer reached into his coat pocket and fished out a vial no larger than his pinky finger full of electric blue liquid.

Cautiously, Clay accepted the potion.

                                                                          ╠═╦╬╧╪

Potion of Power

Permanently add +5 Strength

Uses: 1

Feel the power flow through your veins…

                                                                          ╠═╦╬╧╪

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” Clay mumbled.

“Serious as a night raid,” the old weed replied, nimbly plucking the vial from Clay’s hand. “Not many folk know about these. They came along after the Merge, understand, and the people that do know about ’em guard the secret. But if you really want to become an Incant, well, you need the stats of an Incant to pull it off in the first place. Bit of a pickle, that. But if you and your crew get loaded up on these, you might just have a fighting chance against ol’ Katotes.”

“Don’t suppose you know where I could find some?” Clay asked, already knowing the answer.

“Mayhap I do.” With a lopsided smile, the old timer held up a cheesy old tourist map of Bakersfield with one section circled in red. “You decide you want to follow up on this, go in heavy. The ol’ boy what makes these things is no pushover, but if you want the big power, you gotta get the small power first.”

Clay stood and shoved the map into his back pocket. “Much appreciated, old timer.”

“Let’s see if you’re still singin’ the same tune after you get done tangling with that grumpy gearhead bastard and his pets,” the old weed said with a grin.

“A little hard work never scared me off,” Clay said. Then he shouldered his clinking, potion-filled pack and headed for the Yacht Club as fast as he could without drawing unnecessary attention. They had plans to make and no time to waste.