The King of Mars

Mineshaft was a small sprawl of makeshift buildings that were made out of whatever scraps of material its citizens could find. They were made of rusty, corrugated sheets of metal and 2x4s, tarps and poles and warped sheets of plywood. The town was built at the foot of a craggy mountain, nestled in between the rocky hills and spreading out from a deep crack as if the earth vomited out these heaps of squat, misshapen homes.

Wheels and I have been walking the whole day; my patience was beginning to wear thin. The bleached sun was setting behind the monolith of the mountain which became a silhouette, black against the rust colored sky. One by one, small lights came to life across the town. Candles burned in irregular windows and torches were lit along the winding paths through the mess, down which I could see the shapes of people walking.

As we finally traveled over one last rocky hill and closed in on a gate surrounding the town, I sighed with relief, "Finally. I'm starving to death." I said moving towards the patchwork of wire fencing that surrounded Mineshaft.

"Don't get too comfortable yet, you're a newcomer." Wheels grunted. "Out here, people generally aren't too cozy with outsiders." As if on cue, when we took another step towards the only gate in the fence, a gruff voice called out.

"Who the fuck’re you?" I stopped, noticing a man on the other side of the gate, arm cocked, holding a pistol near his face. He was dressed very much like Wheels was, shorts that fell in tatters past his knees, heavy boots, thick sweater over which a leather vest was thrown haphazardly across his broad shoulders. I couldn't make out many facial features besides the ones that the red glow of a cigarette illuminated every time he drew breath. His eyes were hard and lined, fierce as they stared out at me through the gate.

"Ayyo, Sarge! It's me, Wheels," the skinny young man called out as he stepped around me. "This is a friend of mine I met out walking." Then he threw back at me under his breath, "That guy over there is the watcher of Mineshaft. Just let me do the talking cause, not like mine, those pistols are always loaded. All it takes is one wrong word to set something off."

"Oh, it's you!" Sarge grinned, clearly happy to see the kid. He flicked the cigarette away and boomed, "What's been up motherfucker??"

"I been here and there, you know. Just found myself in the area and thought I'd stop by. The town's grown since last time. Nice fence."

"Yup, we finally finished puttin’ her up," Sarge said, rapping on the fence proudly. "It was a bitch too, finding all of that crap out in the Hills."

"But you the man, Sarge." Wheels smiled back at him. "My friend here, this is Moleman."

"Moleman?" I said to myself.

"Moleman..." Sarge repeated. "Well, if you a friend of Wheels, you a friend of Mineshaft. Come in, fellas." He shoved the pistol into his belt, his fingers fumbled with a ring of keys and then searched for the padlock keeping the gate shut. He found it, the lock opened with a metallic clink and pulled the chain through. Wheels pulled me along inside and Sarge quickly locked back up.

"Good to fuckin' see ya, kid!" Sarge laughed again, embracing Wheels in a brief hug.

"You too, Sarge." Wheels half groaned, rubbing the spot on his back where Sarge's book-like hand hit. "You gettin' any more trouble from those raiders?"

"Nah, they learned the first time not to fuck with us." Sarge beamed proudly. "Anyways, lemme get someone to take my spot for a bit." He whistled, piercing the air like a siren. In a few moments, another skinny, wiry kid appeared at Sarge's side without a sound. Like the other two, the new kid was heavily tattooed, upper arms covered in dark swirls that moved up his shoulders and disappeared into his tank top.

"Tarzan," Sarge grunted, patting the tattooed kid on the back. "You remember Wheels, right?" The kid, Tarzan, nodded once at Wheels and again fixed Sarge with his silent gaze. "I'm taking him and our new friend here into town." Sarge pulled the pistol out from his belt and pushed it into Tarzan's hand. "So I'm callin' you in early."

We parted from Tarzan, whom silently vanished from sight as soon as our backs were turned to him. Wheels and Sarge reminisced while I looked around in almost awe the first piece of civilization I've ever seen. Mineshaft is a quaint, quiet place. It was dead now, settlers holed up in their houses for the night, I'd imagine that most of them had to get up early; it couldn't be easy to scrape out a living in this world.

"How do you survive?" Thinking about that, I asked Sarge, who looked back at me with a raised eyebrow.

"Moleman doesn't get out much." Wheels explained for me. "At all."

Sarge chuckled. "That's all fine and dandy, kid. I'm happy to explain our history." He pointed at the mountain that loomed in the upcoming center of the town. "That mountain, Silver Hill we call it, was split open in the war. I used to live nearby with my ma and pop, in the world before. I'm what, 30 or so years, so the war happened when I was about 10. In the world before, we lived in a place called South Dakota, near the Dark Hills. There really wasn't much except stone and trees and animals, ma and pa traveled to the city to make our living.

"Pa saved our asses when the bombs fell. He knew about a cave that went deep into the mountain from when he was a child. When it was said that the world was ending, we were freaked, but pa brought us and a couple of other families and we holed up in there. The bombs tore the mountain open even more; we thought it would cave in on us. Instead, the shakes gave way to great tunnels, tunnels filled with silver ore.

"My pa, being our leader pretty much, helped us survive by digging up roots and mushrooms to eat. We weren't interested in the silver much until the traders started coming in from the south after a year or two of us living like tunnel rats. From them, us and the families that survived were able to buy tools we needed with the silver. Using those tools, we scraped out the beginnings of Mineshaft. Hearing about our slice of heaven, people started coming from the wasteland for food, protection from the elements, safety, or just company. As you can see, we grew."

Sarge was glowing with pride at the memory, looking around at the hovels. I wouldn't call it a metropolis, but I didn't dare share my thoughts with Sarge. "And then, pa passed eleven years ago and it was up to me to make sure Mineshaft was kept safe. I became the watcher, protecting these people from raiders and other shit from the wastes." Looking at me again, Sarge growled. "I am the law here, kid. Don't fuck with me, or I'll gut you like a pig."

"Oh..." I muttered, anxiously looking away.

Feeling tension in the air, Wheels clapped me on the back and laughed. "Lighten up, Moleman. No one is killin' anyone." He said, Sarge was grinning at me as well. I breathed a sigh of relief. We came to a slightly larger shack, lit up from the inside by flickering fluorescent bulbs. I heard raucous laughter coming from within and the mechanical drone from a generator.

"Little Lamplight, Mineshaft's finest inn." Sarge announced, stepping inside. We followed him into a dim, smoke filled room. Workers and travelers sat at rickety tables, spilling mugs, laughing and joking about whatever you laugh and joke about in a post apocalypse. "Come on, Wheels, Moleman, have a drink on me."

"And once again, you the man, Sarge!" Wheels clapped his hands together and strolled over to the bar with the rugged, tattooed man, me following behind. We each got a mug of foamy, sour smelling liquid. I asked for something to eat, Sarge nodded and a cracked plate of shriveled, grey meat was placed in front of me a few moments later. Not at liberty to be picky, I picked up a strip with my fingertips, which appeared to be the custom judging by the other guys, and shoved it in my mouth. It didn't taste bad at all.

"So, what's new with you?" Sarge asked. "Anything about your brother?"

"Nope, not a damn thing." Wheels answered with a sigh and a smack of his lips after a long drink from his mug.

"That’s a fuckin’ shame but I think I can help." Sarge said. "Few weeks ago this decent sized group of people showed up out of the wasteland. Thought they would've been on their way by now, but looks like they're here to stay for a while which is fine by me s’long they pull their own weight."

"Oh?" Wheels hummed curiously. "A group? That's weird."

"Called themselves the Children of Ash." Sarge said, taking a gulp of his drink and lighting up another cigarette.

"Oh, no Sarge..." Wheels groaned and took an exaggeratedly long drink from his cup. Burping, he said, "Cult freaks? You know they're no good. Seriously, you shouldn't have even let them in."

"I know, I know your feelings. But they've been harmless, not preaching their bullshit trying to convert people. We checked all their cargo and they been pretty much keeping to themselves while they aren't at work with the rest of us," Sarge explained. "I say, live and let live. The leader, Ashtor or something he calls himself, is real smart, like you said your brother is. They have these crates of books they lug around to trade with. I thought maybe they might know each other."

"I appreciate the help, Sarge. But not everyone who can read knows each other." Wheels grumbled with a slight hint of annoyance.

"For your bro, man, anything." Sarge smiled, taking a long drag of his cigarette. “I still owe that guy a lot, y’know?”

"Guess I gotta go see the cult freaks," Wheels said.

"It would be offensive if you didn't" Sarge blew a long stream of smoke before looking back at Wheels, his smile now menacing. Jokingly so, I hoped. We sat quietly after that, drinking and eating. As I was chewing my last bit of the meat strips, I heard a shout behind me. I turned to see one of the bar goers, a big, burly, brute of a man, all hair and muscle, grab the shirt of a smaller guy in one beefy fist. The smaller guy glared back in defiance, hands small on the fuzzy forearm of the aggressor.

Sarge sighed and rubbed the glowing tip of the cigarette out on the bar top. "Hold on guys," he grunted, spinning around and stepping off of the stool. He strolled over to the argumentative pair. Wheels and I half turned, watching.

Before Sarge could say a word, the big guy shoved the little guy down, hard. The little guy hit his head on the dirt floor and didn't get up. The big man reached to his side and with a metallic sheen, a gun was pointing at Sarge's face, swaying drunkenly. "Fuck off, Jarhead," the big guy slurred. "This doesn't concern you."

"Sarge," Wheels groaned, "just let it be. Bet that thing isn't even loaded."

Despite his friend's protest on behalf of the drunken traveler, Sarge flashed like lightning, instant death. In a single movement, he broke the man's wrist and shoved the palm into the drunkard’s nose, upwards, the deadly way. The gun clattered to the ground and the hairy muscleman soon followed. I knew without even looking that the guy was dead already.

It was then that I realized how truly insane and violent the wasteland is. Sarge simply laughed as his slaughtered victim settled into the dust. The small guy laid out in an expanding pool of blood while the other people at the table continued a card game that I'm guessing started the dispute.

"Jarhead, that used to be my dog's name." He picked up the gun, the magazine fell into his empty palm with a click, and with another click, was shoved right back in. "You were right, it was empty," Sarge grunted and shoved his new weapon into his belt, grinning like a child with a brand new toy. "Now, if we’re done let's go see Ashtote, or whatever the motherfucker's name is."