Dusk Mountain Blues Read online

  Doc shuffled outta the way, waddling to the side. Drifter turned the truck around and backed in (perfectly, might he add) through the cave’s entrance. That was when Doc saw it - the glowing battery sitting in front seat, all strapped in and safe - and almost tripped over the laces of his black combat boots, mouth salivating with the very thought of having a battery for his new project. “How’d you get that? It’s barely used! They didn’t have that lying around, did they?”

  “Am I good brother now?”

  “Urgh.” Doc all but tore off the passenger’s side door. His fiery red eyes, the color of his forges, sparkled with delight. He picked up the battery with care remarkably close to when he held his children as newborns. “I guess I can forgive you for the fence.”

  Drifter rolled his eyes.

  “Vermin!! Get this stuff outcha Uncle’s truck before I snatch a knot in you.”

  ​ Beau “Vermin” Caldwell, Doc’s son, shuffled from the junkyard. Young, oil-covered, and blonde, thin as a whip and as small as his father, he wandered over with a piece of straw in yellow rotten teeth. He wiped a black rag over his brow and then against his loose-fitting blue coveralls. He boasted a beard longer than even his uncle’s, with wisp of brownish-black hair on the top his head. Drifter wished he would’ve cut the top off already; the boy had been balding since he was fourteen. Vermin gave an ugly grin at the spoils too, very much his father’s son. Not an appealing fella, but very few Caldwells could boast on their looks alone.

  “’Ey, Uncle Luke,” he said, his voice small but deep. “How’s it going?”

  ​“Seen my boy and girl?”

  ​“Appetite and Kindle just got back from fishing. Brought back enough for everybody.”

  ​“Good, they’re home now?”

  ​“Yup.”

  ​“Boy, if you don’t get to work,” Doc shouted from the cave, “I’m gonna come over there and stick my boot up your--”

  ​“Language, pa!” Vermin shouted back. “I gotcha Uncle Luke, let me unpack you.”

  ​Vermin got his family nickname (a family tradition of sorts) from his mutation, which gave him four arms and an adhesive goop that leaked from his palms. Came as quite the surprise for Doc and his wife. Drifter barely even noticed; it was a part of who he was. Each arm was functional, though the lower set was a bit less muscular than the upper one.

  Drifter watched Vermin from the back as he took bit by bit from the truck bed with a strength impressive for a man so slender. He finished unloading the truck within fifteen minutes. The stickiness of his sweat made lifting jobs easy, allowing him to pluck heavy objects and kept them in his grasp with little to no resistance. After the young fella was done, he closed the bed of the truck, walked around to Drifter’s side and slapped the side of his truck, earning Drifter a thick green slime handprint on his door.

  “You rotten--” It was gonna take forever to get that off.

  ​The young man cackled. “Thanks for the stuff, Unc. Don’t be shy now! Drifter’s leaving, pa! Say something!”

  ​“Don’t get killed by nothing!”

  ​Vermin sighed. “We’re trying to work on his manners.”

  ​“’ight, I’m gone. If I can’t get this gunk off, I’m coming right back, so get the hose ready.”

  ​Drifter started his truck, turning the truck around (again, perfectly, might he add), and continued on his way. He blared his horn at the scrap yard, feeling the lightness of an unloaded truck. Vermin waved for the sake of his now distracted father, the sparks of whatever he was working on lighting up the entrance of his cave.

  Drifter couldn’t fight off a grin. Doc was a tough nut to crack. He didn’t like many people outside of his kin; it took a special something to get a smile out of the cranky old geezer. Old geezer. I guess we all are now. Drifter shook his head as he drove back up the mountain.

  ​Doc was the only brother sharing his mountain. Moses, Pit, and Big Thunder each had a bigger family with enough children and grandchildren to fill an ark. Though the head of the Caldwells, Drifter’s was smaller, with two sons, a daughter, and a grandchild.

  He came upon the land of his middle son first, Evan “Loner” Caldwell. He had a small shack on a cliff carved out from rusted out old models they had salvaged. Loner was a quiet man, with great ideas like his uncle Doc, the foresight of his mother, and a temperment Drifter liked to think that he got from him. Passing by and honking his horn earned him a wave from his pepper-haired son leaning over the edge of his “porch” made of rusted metal. Loner sipped his rum over the edge, the ominous red glass of a dead machine’s eye glowing behind him from the shadow of his home.

  ​Driving a little further, he came upon his daughter’s land. She was tucked into a sloped part of the mountain in a small wooden cabin, overlooking a plain of yellow flowers and a small ranch. Jo was a willowy woman with none of her father’s features aside from those harsh green eyes. Her hair wasn’t the clay red-brown of Drifter’s youth, but gold like her mother’s, in a sharp ponytail high on the back of her head. She waved at him as she glided through the field, looking every part lady and every part survivor. Drifter couldn’t help but notice the sawed-off shotgun dangling from her leather holster. That’s my girl, Drifter thought, giving a small salute with two fingers. To think that he worried about her for so long. She was her papa’s daughter through and through. Bluecoats, raiders, animals, mutants - they all knew better than to mess with her.

  Up and up he went until he reached the top. Up here was the Homestead, once the land for the Caldwell seniors. Fond memories of decades ago passed through this land, and through the ol’ mind.

  Long ago, when they were young men chasing dreams and women, the land was good; it was surprising at the time, before the atmosphere stabilized and became livable for anyone other than mutants. He remembered stepping out of that mangled mess of a ship they stole, bleeding and smiling all the same. The ship remained on their stake of the land of Dusk Mountain. Around the small ship (stripped of everything important) were two sizable houses made of wood and metal, a fenced-off area where the animals stayed, and a barn.

  The last of his sons, the oldest, Woodrow Caldwell--or Appetite, as everyone called him - lived on the Homestead itself with his ma and pa and his daughter, Kindle. Drifter saw them pull up to the cabin, each shouldering racks and racks of fish. Appetite lived up to his name. He was much bigger than a normal man, made of pounds and pounds of pure hairy weight, and towered over almost everyone he came across.

  Always has been big, Drifter remembered. Appetite’s birth almost made his wife swear off pregnancy forever. He lumbered from place to place with a slow deliberate movement, big arms placing things down with an obscene amount of care. Flecks of fish scales and blood (Drifter assumed it was only fish blood) stained his white tank top and Old World green-and-brown camo pants. At his side was his daughter, Kindle, with warm dark skin, kinky black hair, her father’s and grandfather’s eyes - and her pa’s fashion sense.

  Kindle hardly waited for the truck to stop to come running. “Grandpa!”

  Drifter stepped out of the truck and into the arms of the teenage girl. She’s fifteen now, not a child no more. Still, he picked her up all the same and swung her around like she was five. But she wasn’t anymore. She wasn’t the young girl who begged him to take her fishing and hunting any chance they got. She was a young woman as stubborn as her grandmother, as quick tempered as her grandfather, and as a sly as her father. Have mercy on our souls.

  ​“Where have you been?” she asked once her feet were on the ground.

  ​“Yeah, where’ve ya been, Pa?” Appetite grinned. He knew exactly where his pa had been.

  ​“Out and about,” Drifter said, shrugging.

  ​“You went to steal some stuff, didn’t ya? You can just say that y’know. I ain’t a little girl. I know what we do.”

  ​Drifter gave an honest and awkward laugh. “Yeah, I know you know by now. Ain’t much a secret ’round these parts.”

&
nbsp; ​“That’s what the Bluecoats said too.”

  ​Appetite frowned. “They’ve been gettin’ kinda close, Pa. Bold even. They shoulda known better by now.”

  ​“Bill and Jose says that they got a new commander on planet.” Kindle’s eyes brightened with the reckless excitement for trouble found in all Caldwells. “Gettin’ kind of handsy with other planets. Ours is next, they said.”

  ​Drifter sighed. Another one. “No need to worry ‘bout that, Kindle.” Not right now. “Get those fish inside before they jump back into the river you found ’em in.”

  ​Kindle nodded and took the fish racks from her pa. Appetite smiled as he watched his daughter run into their cabin.

  “She’s right, you know,” the big man said after a while. His speech was slow; he planned his words like he planned his meals. His chunky build and sluggish speech made him an underestimated member of the family, but he was strong. Drifter had seen his son crunch a man in half. Crunched into the fellow soon after. His strength was matched only by his smarts. He knew his stuff. Not technical things like his uncles or trigger skills like himself; Appetite was more of a planner, a strategist. “They’re gettin’ mighty close, Pa. Ain’t long before they cross our borders.”

  ​“We don’t got no borders. This is our planet.”

  ​“Okay, Pa, I get that, but they aren’t aware. New guy on the scene. Captain Xan. S’posed to come down to finally clean up the mess that is us.”

  ​“Captain Xan.” The name sounded familiar. Drifter assumed it was the fella’s last name, but he couldn’t be sure; Bluecoats didn’t work with no sense after all. The name tugged at an old thread in his head but he couldn’t quite remember where. “Ain’t the first to come here and expected the land to be theirs, son.”

  ​“Didn’t say it was, Pa. But you were the one that told me, don’t underestimate no one. Don’t care if it’s a fish, a dog, a raider, a man or a woman, family or Bluecoat. You gotta be careful, always.”

  ​He’s right, Drifter thought. I taught ’im that.

  Chapter 2

  Catfish and Biscuits

  Appetite

  “A bigger man’s naturally hungrier than a smaller man. It ain’t gluttony if ya need it.” – Woodrow “Appetite” Caldwell

  Any good meal started with one thing: patience. This mentality was what he lived by, what shaped him throughout his childhood and into who he was. Never settle for anything you don’t want and work slowly to make it work for you. That meant playing the long game, learning how to satisfy the hunger for more and more. Some might call him greedy - and they would’ve been right. He would do anything for his family, take anything, hoard a mountain of things to make sure his baby girl had a good life.

  She deserves the best. Better than the best. Appetite rubbed Kindle’s head, earning an annoyed pout from his teenage daughter. “You aren’t gonna get too old for that, I hope you know that.”

  ​Kindle sighed. “I know.” She tried to wrap her arm around her father’s back, not getting even a quarter a way around his waist. “Shame we had to stop fishing early today.”

  ​“It’s better that we don’t start fights.”

  ​“I can handle myself, Pa.”

  ​“Did I say that you couldn’t?” Appetite gave a deep and slow laugh, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Don’t wanna risk it as all. Ain’t a problem being safe, is it?

  ​“Guess not,” she said with another exaggerated sigh. “I wanted a fight.”

  ​“There’s a time and place for that.”

  ​Appetite wasn’t like the rest of the family. He was so massive that he couldn’t fit into most cars or shuttles and he spoke with a thoughtful care. This came with a reputation of being a slow giant - or a coward, given that he rarely went out aside from the occasional hunting or fishing trip. Even his cousins, nephews, and nieces thought him to be a gluttonous idiot; but anyone with half a brain knew that Appetite was none of those things. He knew to never jump into things without knowing what he was getting into. Whether that made him the brunt of jokes or invited general judgment from other family members, it didn’t matter. He would choose protecting his girl and his family over fighting the Bluecoats at the lake. There’s no rush. There’s never a rush.

  ​After tossing the racks of beheaded fishes on the nearby table, Appetite sunk into the comforts of his big plush chair. He rubbed his jaw, feeling the smoothness of his clay-red beard. Kindle wasn’t wrong; the Bluecoats were getting close. This new Captain Xan knew his stuff.

  It had been a while since they’d had a legitimate threat. It was easy to get comfortable - he would know. Respect ’em; don’t worry, respect. They were getting bold to even get close to the Four Water Lake or cross the line to the Rippling Creek. Appetite groaned. “Kindle. Do you blame me for not killing those guys on our land?”

  ​“I--”

  ​“Be honest with me, Cassie.”

  ​Cassie. He never used her name like that. “The cousins say we’re getting weak.”

  ​Appetite laughed, brushing the fish scales off his belly. “What? ‘cause we aren’t slaughtering them in the streets like we used to? Or that we have a home on the mountains?”

  ​“No…”

  ​“That’s exactly why. I’ve been there, Kindle. My generation thought the same.”

  ​“Salvaging, the ship fuel, the pillaging. It’s not…”

  ​“Exciting?”

  ​Kindle went quiet as she tossed the catfish into a bed of flour and then into the fryer. The bubbling oil popped. She paced back and forth, watching the fish rise to the surface one by one. She then walked to the oven on the other side of the room and pulled a fresh pan of biscuits from the oven.

  Appetite’s stomach roared something mighty fierce. That was half the reason he got his nickname among the family - he was always hungry, for food or otherwise.

  After Kindle plopped six fish and six biscuits down on a plate, she spoke again in a soft voice. “I want stories of my own. Like yours and Grandpa’s. Is that silly?” She put the plate down. Appetite smiled at her. The food was great, but she was better.

  ​“Nope. I get that,” he said, grabbing the nearest fish and eating it bones, fins, and meat all the same. He only felt a mild discomfort as the spikey bits jabbed his throat. Not a good feeling altogether, he reckoned, but he never had to worry about choking. He licked the hot grease from his lips. “Don’t ever be satisfied. It takes time. You’ll find your story soon. Perhaps sooner than you think. Don’t be impatient.” Appetite took a biscuit from his plate, tearing the flaky crust with ease. “Your cousins been giving you trouble ’bout your big slow pa, have they? Which ones?”

  ​Kindle froze and said nothing. Appetite leaned back in his chair, chewing with a practiced care. “Which ones?” he repeated, softer this time . “I ain’t gonna hurt them; I’m curious.” To be fair, he was more amused than anything. He had a good idea of which ones already - probably some of the Hounds. But if they were gonna give his little girl some problems, he wanted their names. Whether Kindle wanted to give them up or not was on her. “Nevermind,” he said after a long silence, filled with the scraping of her deboning knife. “I gotcha. Forget I asked.”

  ​“I punched them.”

  ​“You did what?”

  ​“I punched Zeke and Jeremiah. In the nose. ”

  ​ Appetite choked and swallowed, thankful for his mutated throat and stomach. Without it, he might’ve found an early and stupid grave.Guess there’s a first time for everything. He hacked out a few meaty coughs, beating his broad chest with his fist and reaching for a beer by the foot of his chair. He fumbled with the small metal cap and downed the lukewarm drink in one long gulp. “What?”

  ​“I punched ’em in the nose. Broke Zeke’s. Only bloodied Jeremiah’s.”

  ​Zeke and Jermiah were the oldest of the Eleen’s sons. They were big fellas of muscle and height, who, already at sixteen, had the bodies of grown men. “They’re twice your size.”


  ​“And I’m twice the better puncher than they are.”

  ​“Guess you don’t need your pa fixin’ all your problems.”

  ​Kindle smiled. “Thanks for offerin’ though.”

  ​“I’m glad I have you ’round.”

  ​She finished making her food and sat down across from him in their chair. No matter how old she got, this wonder never truly left. Appetite remembered bringing her home, a small little girl that fit in the palm of his hand with a tuft of thick black hair on her head. To see her now often brought memories he thought lost in his head. She did remind him of her; he couldn’t bring himself to even think of her name. It brought the soft kind of pain that brushed against the heart and lingered all day.

  Sometimes, feels like it would’ve been easier if you were dead instead of gone. Then I’d have a reason why you’re not here with your daughter. He knew he shouldn’t have thought that. It was an awful thing to think - absolutely terrible. But he felt it all the same while also wishing she was here, twining her delicate fingers into his long auburn hair and kissing him on the cheek.

  He shook off the thought. Kindle was here. Her gun was here. She wasn’t; that was how it was.

  ​They sat and ate together. Appetite slowed his already sluggish eating pace to match his daughter’s. They talked for a while about simple, more pleasant things; Doc’s new project, the red cloud and acid rains to the north, news of the Fleets. In the solitude of the mountain, it was easy to forget there was a whole galaxy around them.

  This was a game for them, a pastime. They talked about things, trying the catch the other off guard with information they didn’t know. Little tells told them whether or not the other knew about the news given. This afternoon ended in a pleasing draw. Thought I got her with the news of Vice Admiral Blitz. She was getting better; kinda made him feel old.

  ​“Got some chores to do, and you need to get outta the house for them,” Kindle announced after she finished her food.

  ​“Oh? I thought this was my house, missie.”

  ​“Then you’re mistaken, Pa.”