Wasteland: Installment One - Jerry

It was Jerry’s best option. Perhaps a few wayward shots would distract his enemy and allow for a conceivable escape. Unlikely though, he considered. Especially against such an aggressive adversary whom is emphatically familiarized with an awful trade. Yet the amenities of time yielded to desperation. And immediacy prompted Jerry to act.
         
So Jerry lunged for the pistol. As he scrambled, the dry, dark earth of the patchwork junkyard wisped loftily in his wake. His crawl became more frantic until his outreached fingers desperately clawed at the rough weapon.
         
It was gouged, nicked, and chipped. Years without proper care rendered the survivalist’s tool shoddy at best.

Jerry then instantaneously rolled onto his back, grunting and cursing at a whisper. He clumsily groped the gun.

His eyes strained to see through the pulverous mass hovering in the stagnant air. Occasionally, the unforgiving sun glared between the broken rifts of dust. It was Jerry’s personal slice of hell.
         
He groveled toward a heap of entangled wreckage and surveyed the contorted landscape. It was an amalgamation of corrugated steel, electrical wire, and weathered concrete. Skeleton foundations of past industrialism eerily loomed and punctuated this haunting valley. But the sound of racing footsteps quelled this uneasy feeling with a more imminently dangerous one.
         
Jerry listened attentively to determine his pursuer’s position. But silence pervaded. He then slowly peered around his rubble cover. A terrible staccato of automatic fire hissed around him. And hoarse, maniacal laughter followed.
         
“I found you, boy.” The raw voice was sneer and deliberate. It reeked of malevolence.          

Jerry, being compromised, darted further from the ensuing slaver. He managed to evade the apt targeting of his foe and found a safe retreat behind the tarnished frame of an eviscerated vehicle.
         
The unholy man snorted in an amused gesture but agitation was pronounced in his voice.
         
“That won’t help.” He said dully. In a foretelling tone, he admonished Jerry. “I will get you.”
         
Jerry lay outstretched, panting vigorously. Droplets of perspiration trickled copiously, collecting on the ridges of his emaciated, gaunt face. He instinctively placed a hand on his hyperventilating chest, applying subtle pressure to cease the convulsions.
         
A metallic noise followed by overwhelming pain. The pursuer, realizing Jerry’s incapacitated state, cleverly tossed a bolt to one side of the vehicle. Knowing his prey would be startled and, consequently, defensive in that direction, he attacked in the opposite way.
         
Flipping the AK-74, eponymously named Little Razor, the attacker cradled the barrel in his callous hands, and, using the butt of the rifle as a cudgel, struck Jerry ferociously.
         
The tremendous force delivered shattered three of Jerry’s teeth. A fountain of blood gushed relentlessly from his lacerated lips. He coughed a spray and splatter of tooth bits and viscous red ooze. Jerry keeled over, heaving fearfully, at the mercy, and dread, of Razor the Slaver.

“I told you, kid.” He said in a forewarning manner. Nodding satisfyingly as he inspected Little Razor, he continued… “I always collect.”

Jerry struggled to maintain consciousness, anchoring himself in a seamless bounty of foreseeable realities. Futures like the hope of freedom, the nightmare enslavement, and the stillness of death. And the sifting instrument which divides each fate, the concealed pistol.

Razor paced unconcerned, impatiently awaiting Jerry to regain composure so that he could apply the restraints. But Jerry slyly milked the opportunity wholly.

He halfheartedly erected himself from his stupor but failed. Repeating this action, Razor expressed a slur of curses and relaxed his guard.

At this time, with the dexterity and resolve of a wounded animal, Jerry raised the great equalizer, expanded a bloodied toothless smile, and pulled the trigger.

Jerry sensed the divine guidance of the universe. It coursed through the deepest recesses of his tattered soul. Every inclination melted, evaporating into the ethereal realm of emptiness. The pistol had misfired. And he was judged to be damned.

In astonishment, Razor hesitated. Acknowledging his life could have been forfeit due to a careless mistake enraged him. And Jerry became the most suitable outlet for that influx.

Razor produced a deafening war cry, charged the hapless Jerry, and began to pummel the delusional fellow with his fists.

After a moment of intense thrashing, Razor leapt to his abandoned rifle, aligned the sight, but paused.

“You aren’t worth being alive.” He muttered breathlessly.

The two were motionless as a rare breeze uplifted loose particles of rubbish. Then a fearsome shot reverberated throughout the valley. It echoed in all directions, the origin unknown.

A mist of blood exploded from a gaping cavity freshly opened in Razor’s chest. He listed slightly then fell upon his knees.
Gravity slammed him to the ground with a thud.

Jerry watched the slaver’s eyes dilate as a pool of red enveloped and saturated the perimeter of his body.

Voices whinnied at a distance and Jerry subsequently shuffled beneath the undercarriage. He heard the percussion of thumping footsteps encroaching fast. Another two distinct shots rang crisply and pierced the lifeless body of Razor. Several men were hooting tribal-like chants.

“Ha!” one proclaimed.

“That’s a nice catch!” said another.

“We nabbed ourselves a slaver! Take a gander at that AK, Ross!”

Ross was disturbingly quiet. He knelt next to Razor and analyzed the scene that transpired moments before their interference.

“Ah-hum” he grumbled.

Being unable to distinguish Jerry’s presence, he ordered the others in a somber manner.

“Strip him of valuables.” He drawled. Ross’s voice was deep, it resonated, and it was strong and oddly sounded disappointed or bored.

Like vagrant condors stripping flesh from a rotten carcass, the group confiscated every morsel of Razor’s gear and clothing. They handled his body so indiscreetly, with such inhumane irreverence. It was terrifying to Jerry.

Then Ross spoke of things that would remain with Jerry forever, things that would mutate and corrupt his view of humanity. And the boundless savagery they are capable of.

“Skin him, gut him, and hoist him. This is my land. So leave a damn good message.” Ross said. Jerry suspected some trepidation in those words. But it didn’t matter. The demand was executed succinctly.

Jerry imagined the evil faces of these men. His elevation was too low and he did not dare risk a glimpse. Nonetheless, he pictured their disgusting, revolting looks. But, sadly, he believed they were as innocuous and plain as he.

He stayed curled beneath the undercarriage for many hours. Roger’s mutilated body served as a poignant fear and, agreeing with the barbarous Ross, a salient warning; for Jerry had not opened his eyes for the same many hours.

So Jerry shivered in his protected world. Injured and exhausted. He rocked back and forth. Night had come. And the desert-like heat precipitously vanished. He whispered to himself in short, raspy, inaudible sighs… “They won’t take me. I won’t leave. You have to go! No you won’t! You will die here. At dawn I’ll leave. At dawn I’ll leave.”