The Weller squinted through the thickening coat of dust clinging to his goggles at the battered and tilting road sign ahead. The faded green sign read, “Malvern – 11 miles.” He consulted the tattered notebook in his dry, cracked hand. Scrawled next to the town’s name were the words “less than 1000.”

For a moment the Weller considered moving on to the next settlement, doubting that such a puny town would have even half a gallon of usable petrol, but a second look at the fuel gauge compelled him to reconsider. He looked back to the west and frowned behind the red bandana covering his mouth. The dust storm would be upon him soon; no time to go gallivanting around the wastelands looking for petrol. He decided to take his chances in the small town.

Matt Freeborn stood at just under six-feet-tall, his body protected from the elements by a pair of frayed blue jeans, a black t-shirt, and a brown leather duster. His shaggy red hair quivered in the wind, lightening to a shade of tan from the accumulated dust. His heavy, steel-plated boots thumped dully on the cracked asphalt as he returned to his car. The car, a black 1971 Plymouth Road Runner, had been stolen a few months ago from the remains of an old pre-war tourist attraction in Minden, Nebraska called Pioneer Village. He had inadvertently stumbled across the car while searching the resort for water and found it inside a two-level building filled with old cars from the twentieth century arranged by year.

Along with two gallons of water he found stashed under a kitchen sink, the trip had made quite a score for the Weller. He quickly transferred his gear from his battered old Jeep to the Road Runner and continued his meandering journey east. A side trip to an abandoned garage outside Omaha and a good shot of black primer had taken care of the car’s original bright yellow paintjob. He attracted more attention than he’d bargained for in the few days the car had stayed yellow.

Converting the antique muscle car to four wheel drive had been quite an undertaking, but well worth it in the end. An old Delco tape deck found on a shelf in the garage completed the Weller’s masterpiece on wheels. He’d taken great pleasure in relieving the shop of its extensive collection of classic rock cassettes, his favorite being the one by a band called Blue Öyster Cult. Since then, on his trek through Nebraska he had acquired two more Blue Öyster Cult tapes.

Once inside the car, Matt quickly pulled the door shut, sealing him off from the howling winds of the impending dust storm. He jerked the bandana off his face and pulled the goggles down to hang around his neck along with the dusty red cloth. He scratched at his dusty sideburns as he reached for the ignition. With a pump of the gas pedal and a turn of the key the Road Runner roared to life and B.O.C.’s “Godzilla” blared from the speakers. The Weller slammed the car into gear and the Plymouth rocketed east toward the small town of Malvern, Iowa.

After a few minutes of driving at breakneck speeds the Road Runner reached the crest of a tall hill and the Weller got his first glimpse of the town. But his heart jumped into his throat as he noticed the large pile of debris blocking the road at the bottom of the hill. He cursed as he drove his foot onto the brake pedal, mashing it down to the floorboard with all of his strength. He cranked the wheel to the left at the last second and the car skidded to screeching a halt, the rear end bumping into the obstruction as it swung around. The impact dislodged a rusty shopping cart, causing it to fall onto the car’s trunk and prompting another curse from the shaken Weller.

Matt stepped out of the car and took a few steps backwards to get a better view of the obstruction. The debris was actually a shabbily–but effectively–constructed barricade made of various pieces of junk stacked nearly fifteen feet high. The barricade stretched across the entire road and into the ditches on both sides, making access to the town by car virtually impossible.

Must be intended for Road Pirates, he thought, kicking a park bench jutting out of the pile with his toe. Lot of good it’ll do though. A single armored truck would make short work of it.

For a moment the Weller considered kicking the Road Runner into four wheel drive and taking his chances with the pastures lining the road, but in the end decided it was better to walk. He reached inside the car to retrieve his keys and a large leather bag sitting on the passenger seat which contained three Mason jars filled with water, among other things.

He walked around to the back of the car and opened the trunk. Inside were several plastic jugs of water and a wooden box with four framed sections. Each section contained a car battery; three with cables connected and one spare.

He lifted the box out with a grunt and slid it underneath the car. He crawled under the car on his back and carefully connected the cables from the individual batteries to corresponding posts connected to the trunk and both doors. It was a trick he learned from an older Weller who had taken him on as an apprentice in his early years in Arizona. Should any poor idiot come along with deluded notions of stealing either his water or his car, he would receive severe burns on his hand for his trouble.

Once, when the system had been installed in his old Jeep, Matt had returned to find a road pirate unconscious next to the vehicle. The pirate’s hand had become fused to the door handle, which had melted from the intense heat. Finding a replacement handle proved easier than removing the pirate’s hand from the door. Satisfied that his car and water were safe from bandits-at least those less sophisticated than him-Matt slung the leather bag over his shoulder and began the long walk into town, pulling the bandana and goggles over his face as he walked into the swirling dust of the developing storm.

*

Almost ten minutes later the Weller crossed an old neglected railroad track, passed underneath a crumbling concrete viaduct, and walked down the dusty main street. He immediately noticed the absence of any human life in the streets. In front of a tavern, two horses were tied to a pathetic, improvised hitching post and he spotted a watering trough on the ground in front of the horses. He approached and cautiously stroked the neck of the larger of the emaciated animals. He looked down and was surprised to see the trough filled almost entirely to the brim with crystal clear water. Most towns in the wastelands would never allow this sort of water usage; even to beasts of burden, the dispersal of drinking water was strictly regulated. Usually working animals were given a solution of drinking water and synthetic electrolytes developed from recycled urine.

He reached into his pack for a water testing kit but the rising dust storm caught up to him before he could unpack the equipment. Harsh, abrasive sand and dust stabbed at his fingers and peppered his goggles loudly. He looked around for shelter, saw an old service station directly behind the horses, and made a mad dash for the door.

An old, dented bell rang loudly as he opened the door and pushed back against it to lock out the dusty gale outside. He turned and saw a balding man of about fifty, thin and nearly toothless, sitting behind the counter reading a stained and wrinkled copy of Playboy dated November 2000.

“Help you?” grunted the proprietor, eyeing the Weller suspiciously.

Matt removed his bandana and goggles and began shaking the dust out of his ginger hair, but did not answer the shopkeeper yet.

“Can I help you?” said the man again, this time sounding much more annoyed.

Matt stepped up to the counter, “God, I hope so. Do you have any petrol?”

The shopkeeper looked the Weller up and down and – obviously not liking the look of this stranger – decided the quickest way to get rid of him would be to answer truthfully. “About fifteen gallons.” “Great,” said Matt. “I’ll take ten.”

The shopkeeper picked up two five gallon cans from behind the counter, “That’ll be one-hundred-twenty-”

Matt cut the old man off by setting two of the glass jars filled with water on the counter, “This ought to cover it.”

The shopkeeper frowned and set the fuel cans back behind the counter, “I don’t think so. Get out.”

“I’m sorry?” said Matt, not believing his ears. “I don’t understand. What’s the problem?”

“Cash or gold, stranger,” said the shopkeeper, returning to his magazine. “Your water ain’t no good here.

“Bullshit,” Matt scoffed, still not believing his ears. “Water’s the only currency out in the wastelands.”

“Not here,” snapped the shopkeeper, getting to his feet and raising his hand to swipe the offending jars off his counter. “Now take your damned water and get the hell out of-”

An enormous double-barreled pistol appeared in the Weller’s hand, aimed right between the shopkeeper’s trembling eyes. The pistol’s double barrels lead to double cylinders, each housing three .50 caliber rounds. Inscribed on the side of each barrel were the words “The Well Digger”. For a moment the shopkeeper wondered how a man could even hold the gargantuan weapon let alone fire it, but then his imagination wandered to exactly what the weapon would do to his face.

“Touch those jars, old timer, and I’ll turn your head into a wet, sloppy ashtray,” said Matt. “Comprende?”

The shopkeeper slowly raised his hands above his head, but still mustered enough bravado to say, “Get the hell out of my place.”

“With pleasure,” said Matt, twirling the pistol backwards on his finger and dropping it into the leather holster on his hip.

He collected his jars and turned toward the door, seeing the swirling dust storm through the dirty glass. He looked over his shoulder and said, “There an inn in this town?”

“Down the street,” the shopkeeper grunted. “But he don’t take no water neither.”

“I’m sure I’ll think of something,” said the Weller as he pulled his goggles and bandana back over his face.

The ringing bell, howling wind, and slamming door punctuated the Weller’s departure. The shopkeeper walked around the counter and watched as the outlander walked down the street, fighting against the abrasive winds. The old man’s thoughts returned to the enormous gun that had just been pointed at his face.

“That Weller could be trouble,” said the shopkeeper to himself. “Trouble we don’t need.” 

*

A few moments later Matt found himself in front of the town’s “inn”, an old motel with a faded sign declaring “Color TV in every room! Free HBO!” Matt mused that having these things would have been a marvel for this town even before the war destroyed everything. He stepped into the motel office and once again shook the dust off of his clothing after the door closed behind him. The innkeeper, a scruffy-looking blond man with a skeletal physique, sat behind the counter with his feet up. His bony fingers clasped a tattered paperback copy of Robert Heinlein’s “The Green Hills of Earth.”

Matt approached to the counter, but the man remained immersed in his book, determined not to be roused from the fantasy of spaceships, alien landscapes, and the long-gone green hills of Earth. The dust-covered Weller cleared his throat, but this had no affect on the reading innkeeper. Finally Matt’s eyes come to rest on a bell sitting on the counter next to the yellowed guest registry. He repeatedly slapped his palm against it, filling the room with a piercing cacophony of chimes. Finally the innkeeper laid down his book and slapped a bony hand down over the bell to silence it.

“Help you?” he asked in a scratchy voice.

“You got a room?”

The innkeeper eyed the stranger suspiciously, “You got cash?”

“No,” said Matt flatly.

“Then I ain’t got no rooms,” said the innkeeper, returning to his book.

Expecting such an answer this time, Matt dug into the pocket of his coat and tossed a large leather pouch onto the countertop. The pouch thumped heavily on the wood and the innkeeper hesitantly reached out for it. He untied the leather strings with shaky hands and dumped its contents onto the counter. Several gold timepieces of various shapes and sizes, from pocket watches to wrist watches, spilled out of the bag. The innkeeper’s eyes grew wide as saucers as he eagerly picked up the shiniest watch in the pile, holding it up to the light.

Matt took a moment to mentally praise himself for collecting the gold. Normally the only people who would trade for gold were dentists. Places like this were few and far between; damn near non-existent. Luckily he’d been saving it for the odd occasion such as this one.

“How long would you like the room for?” asked the innkeeper.

“Only for the night,” said the Weller, retrieving the empty pouch and returning it to his pocket. “Will that be enough?”

The innkeeper nodded, his eyes still fixed on the gold watch between his fingers, “Oh, most certainly. Will you be requiring anything else during your stay, sir? Women? Drugs? Liquor?”

“No,” said the Weller, signing his name in the registry. “Actually, wait, you said liquor?”

“Yes, sir.”

“A bottle of whiskey then,” said the Weller, putting down the pen. “If you’ve got it.”

“I do, sir. I have an entire case of it in the back,” said the innkeeper, turning the guest book around to read the stranger’s entry. “Matt Freeborn. What kind of name is Freeborn?”

“Irish,” said Matt, holding out his hand. “Key?”

“Oh, yes,” said the innkeeper, turning around and grabbing the first key on the rack. “You’ll be in 1A, Mr. Freeborn. Will there be anything else?”

“My whiskey.”

“Oh, yes!” exclaimed the innkeeper, hurriedly disappearing into the back.

A moment later he returned holding a dusty, but sealed sixteen-year-old bottle of Jack Daniel’s in his bony fingers. The bottle barely touched the counter before the Weller snatched it up and turned toward the door. The wind slammed the door shut behind the outlander, leaving the innkeeper alone with his gold. One by one the innkeeper pawed and fondled the shiny timepieces as if they were more precious to him than the very blood in his veins.

Suddenly the door opened again and the innkeeper quickly gathered up the watches and stashed them underneath the counter. He relaxed a bit when he saw his friend, the owner of the old service station down the street, standing in the doorway; a hood and cracked respirator mask protected him from the vicious storm tearing through the street.

“Kale,” said the innkeeper with a nod.

“John,” said Kale, pulling off his mask and hood. “Did an outlander come in here just now?”

“Yeah,” said John. “He’s in room 1A. Why?”

“Did he pay for the room?”

“Of course he paid for the room,” said John indignantly. “I don’t give out no charity to drifters.”

“What did he pay you with?” asked Kale.

John grinned, showing a mouthful of blackened teeth as he proudly dumped the pile of watches onto the counter, his face resembling that of a cat that’s just caught a baby bird. His smile vanished however, when the shopkeeper slammed his fist onto the counter and cursed.

“That dirty bastard,” snarled Kale. “He was holdin’ out on me.”

“What do you mean?” asked John, wrapping a protective arm around his precious watches. “Held out on you how?”

“He tried payin’ me for ten gallons of gasoline with water,” explains Kale. “And all the while he had gold. He tried to swindle me.”

“Water?” said John with a cock of his head. “Why?”

Kale leaned in close and in a snarling whisper said, “Because he’s a stinkin’ Weller, John.”

John’s eyes grew wide and he yelped, “A Weller?”

Kale quickly slapped a hand over his friend’s mouth and whispered, “Quiet, you idiot. He could hear you. The walls in this hole are as thin as tissue paper.”

“What’s a Weller doing in Malvern?” asked John. “We don’t need any water.”

“Ain’t it obvious?” said Kale. “He wants our water.”

“No!”

“Yep,” Kale nodded. “These Wellers, they go from town to town looking for clean water. They don’t care who they steal it from, so long as they fill their jars with it to peddle out in the wastes. He’s come to kill us all and take our water.”

“It’s ours,” said John, his eyes full of anger and fear. “It’s our water. Let them poor bastards out in the wastes find their own damned water!”

“That’s right,” said Kale with a slow nod.

“So we gonna run him outta town, Kale?”

“No, John. He’ll just be back with friends,” said Kale, pulling a shotgun out of his coat and presenting it to his friend. “We’re gonna kill ‘im.” 

*

Matt sat alone in his darkened motel room, staring at the dusty television with its cracked screen lying on its side in a shadowy corner. Filthy, stained bedding covered the sloppily-made beds. Not wanting to take his chances with the unidentifiable yellow stain on the chair, the Weller elected to sit on the floor against the wall directly across from the outside door.

The bottle of whiskey hung precariously from his loose fingers until his grip tightened and he lifted the bottle to his lips, taking two long pulls off of it before lowering it again. A small stream of booze trickled down his chin and his tongue snaked out to catch it before it could drip to the carpet; a reflex action born from many years of making every drop of moisture count.

The last time Matt had found real honest-to-God whiskey had been almost a year before in a brothel in Wyoming. That time the liquor had cost him nearly a gallon of water, but damn it was good. Usually all you could find in the wastelands was moonshine that tasted only slightly better than turpentine laced with warm goat piss, unless you happened to be lucky enough to find a bottle tucked away in a desk drawer somewhere while welling. Wastelanders could make shine out of some of the strangest things. Matt had tried carrot whiskey once in Montana; the shit damn near killed him.

For a moment he considered buying a few more bottles from the innkeeper with the bag of rings in his other pocket when suddenly he heard a noise – the sound of boots scraping on a sand-covered sidewalk. The Weller placed the half-empty bottle on the carpet and reached for his pistol. He shook his head to relieve the lingering drunkenness and leveled the weapon’s sight at the door. He blinked, trying to clear the double vision. Damn it, Matt, he told himself. Sober up!

The shadows of two pairs of legs came into view in the dim light filtering in under the door. The drunk Weller struggled to hold the weighty weapon steady as one of the figures outside slipped a key into the lock. A thought surfaced through the alcohol-induced fog in his brain: The innkeeper.

“Sumbitch,” he said, his speech slurring profusely. “He’s after the rest of my damned gold.”

Slowly, almost painfully slow, the doorknob turned and the door opened with hesitant jerks, as if the intruder was trying very hard to keep the hinges from squeaking. The Weller squinted at the two silhouettes framed in the doorway and tensed as the one on the left raised a shotgun.

“Dunmove,” said Matt, his words blending together.

Kale laughed, “Look at you. You’re so plastered you can barely hold that cannon, let alone fire it. You can’t even see where you’re aiming.”

“With a gun this big,” breathed Matt, cocking back the dual hammers. “I don’t need to.”

With a laugh, Kale sighted down the shotgun’s barrel at the Weller’s head, but before he could pull the trigger the night exploded with a deafening roar as the Well Digger spoke. The shopkeeper gasped as the bullet tore an enormous hole in his stomach. He coughed; blood trickled down his chin. In a last act of hatred his finger began to pull back on the trigger. The Well Digger fired again and the second round struck him right on the bridge of his nose, turning his head from the jaw up into a red, wet mist.

The innkeeper, covered in his friend’s blood, screamed and turned to run away, but stopped cold when he heard the Weller’s voice yell, “Stop!”

Slowly, the Weller stood, his gun arm trained carefully on the remaining intruder. His head throbbed from the thunderous discharge of the gun, but he suddenly found himself very sober in spite of the whiskey. His legs rubbery from both sitting and the drink, he carefully crossed the room to his sniveling prisoner. The innkeeper tensed and sobbed as the hot, smoking barrels of the Well Digger pressed against the back of his head.

“You stupid hick,” the Weller hissed coldly. “I was going to give you more gold in the morning for some more of that whiskey. But you just couldn’t wait, could you? You just had to have it all, didn’t you?”

“We didn’t want your gold,” sobbed the innkeeper pathetically, dirty snot dripping profusely from his nose. “We was just protecting our water.”

The Weller stared at the man as if he’d just sprouted a third eyeball from the back of his skull and it winked at him, “Your water?”

“Uh huh,” said the innkeeper. “Kale said you Wellers get your water by stealing it from folks like us.”

“Some Wellers maybe,” said Matt, pressing the barrel harder against the man’s head for emphasis. “But not me!”

“We didn’t know,” sobbed the innkeeper. “But, w-we gots plenty. Take as much as you want. Just please don’t hurt me, please. I’m sorry. Take as much as you want.”

“Plenty?” said Matt, not believing his ears. “As much as I want?”

Suddenly a thought popped into his head and Matt reached out with his free hand to turn on the sink to his left. The knob barely completed a full turn before a strong stream of cold, clear water spurted forth from the spigot. Matt stared, horrified, as the water pressure remained constant and the water began to fill the clogged sink. This town still had running water!

“Where does this water come from?” he asked, not taking his eyes off of the sink.v “The town reservoir,” said the innkeeper.

“Show me,” said the Weller. “Now.” 

*

The Well Digger’s shots woke half of the town, and those that they didn’t were awakened by the resulting commotion. Now Matt Freeborn found himself, half-drunk and bleary-eyed, leading a procession of townspeople to the reservoir with the Well Digger pressed firmly into the innkeeper’s back. Luckily the sandstorm had subsided about an hour before, or this trip would be even more of a pain in his ass.

Finally the innkeeper stopped at the edge of a neglected golf course and pointed to a manhole cover set into the ground, covered in dried mud and sand. The Weller looked down at the manhole and shook his head. A service reservoir. Christ.

At least it’s better than an above-ground reservoir, he thought. But I hate going down into these things.

He motioned toward the manhole with his pistol, “Pry it up.”

A discarded golf club nearby served as a crude pry bar and the manhole cover was soon lifted and slid to the side. The whistling of an underground breeze echoed from the hole at their feet. So much for hoping that the reservoir was sealed.

“Down,” said the Weller.

“W-what?” stammered the innkeeper.

The Weller raised the pistol to the man’s chin and repeated the order, “Down. You think I’m stupid enough to go down into that hole first? Down. Now.”

The innkeeper nodded and quickly began to descend the rusty iron ladder, disappearing into the shadowy depths. Matt holstered the Well Digger and began the long, ominous descent into the reservoir. Finally his boots touched solid ground and he heard the voice of the innkeeper calling out meekly from the shadows. The Weller cracked a glow stick from his pack and shook it vigorously, filling the underground chamber with an eerie green light.

Less than ten yards away, the ground gave way to an immense lake of shimmering water. Brick pillars and arches supported the ceiling. The Weller knelt down and began digging through his bag, the glow stick clenched between his teeth. At the bottom of the bag he found what he was looking for — a beaten Geiger counter.

He switched on the machine and a furious clicking sound immediately filled the chamber.

“What does it say?” asked the innkeeper.

Matt rolled his eyes, “It says, ‘You’re screwed, Gomer.’ This water’s so radioactive you people should glow in the dark.”

“Well,” said the innkeeper. “What should we do?”

“Do?” said Matt, shoving the Geiger counter back into his bag as he headed for the ladder; no sense in bothering with chemical tests. “Get yourself a damned good Weller.”

A loud hissing sound emanated from the shadows behind them, echoing menacingly off the brick walls.

The innkeeper jumped, “What was that?”

Matt squinted in the darkness and his heart jumped in his chest as several pairs of eyes blinked eerily at him in the green light of the glowstick.

“Trouble,” said the Weller, drawing the Well Digger.

One by one, several large furry bodies with pale, hairless tails slinked out of the shadows and into the light. The animals were roughly the size of coyotes. The alpha male hissed at the two humans, displaying a maw full of sharp, white teeth.

“Great,” said Matt. “Radioactive water and giant mutant rats. This place just gets better and better.”

“They’re not rats,” said the innkeeper, a look of absolute horror on his face. “They’re possums.”

“Possums?” said Matt, risking a bewildered glance at the innkeeper. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!”

Just then the lead possum lunged and Matt fired the Well Digger with a deafening roar that reverberated through the entire cavern. The attacking possum exploded in a spray of blood and viscera. Those that didn’t stop to feed on their fallen leader began to advance on the humans. The Weller fired three more times in quick succession, but the mutant marsupials just kept on coming. He opened the breach of the massive pistol with a flick of the wrist and held it out to the innkeeper.

“Reload.”

“W-what?” stammered the innkeeper.

“Shells are in my pack,” Matt explained. “Hurry.”

While the innkeeper dug through the cluttered bag, Matt drew a machete from the sheath strapped to his left leg and slashed at an approaching mutant, severing its head and sending it rolling into the lake. “Ugh,” Matt grimaced. “I’d seriously stop drinking that water now if I were you.”

One possum leaped at him and the Weller lashed out at the animal with a vicious kick. The steel plating riveted to the toe of his boot connected with the beast’s face and the sound of cracking teeth filled the air. Another mutant came too close and Matt sliced through the corners of its open mouth with the machete. The innkeeper finally slid the sixth shell home and handed the gun back to Matt. The Weller switched the machete to his left hand and covered the hissing mutants with the Well Digger in his right.

“Climb,” he said, training the gun on the nearest mutant.

“What about you?”

“I’ll be right behind you,” said Matt. “Now go.”

The innkeeper climbed frantically, putting as much distance between himself and the hissing monsters as possible. Satisfied that the mutants weren’t going to rush him again, the Weller sheathed the machete and began to ascend the ladder.

The inquisitive chattering of the townspeople grew louder with every rung he climbed, but it is another sound that drew his attention — the sound of hissing at his feet. His eyes widened at the sight of one of the possums climbing the ladder behind him and nipping at his steel-plated heels. He lowered the Well Digger and fired both barrels simultaneously, effectively vaporizing the mutant’s head and upper body, but the marsupial’s tail continued to cling to the ladder even in death.

Finally he pulled himself out of the cold, clammy atmosphere of the reservoir and into the warm, dry Iowa air. He holstered the massive pistol and helped the innkeeper drag the manhole cover back into place. The heavy iron disk clanked home, silencing the rising hisses from within the reservoir. Over a hundred townspeople converged upon the shaken pair, and for the first time the Weller realized that there was not a single child among them. Not surprising, due to the high level of radiation in their water supply.

Countless cries of “What’s wrong?”, “Is something wrong with our water?”, “What’s happening?”, and “What’s down there?” overlapped each other as the townspeople attempted to quench their thirst for gossip. This was undoubtedly the most excitement this town had seen since the first bombs began to drop during the war. And now the Weller was about to drop another bomb on them.

“Everybody, settle down,” he shouted, struggling to be heard.

But the crowd was either unable or unwilling to give him their full attention, and continued to question both him and the innkeeper about the events unfolding beneath their town. Losing his patience, and feeling the beginnings of a massive headache, Matt raised the Well Digger above his head and fired an ear-splitting shot over the heads of the crowd. Immediately the crowd grew silent and every face in Malvern was focused on the weary Weller.

“Listen up,” he said. “Your reservoir has been contaminated by radiation. The water is no longer safe to drink.”

A plump, middle-aged woman in a patched pink dress called out to him, “What can we do? Is there any way to clean the water?”

The Weller shook his head, “The water cannot be salvaged. What’s more, the radiation has mutated the animals living inside the reservoir and has made them abnormally hostile. Your best option is to simply evacuate the town and relocate to a new settlement before they crawl up to the surface. I do have some water with me that can help get the town started on the journey. I trade for petrol, batteries, and food. But, please, no food that has been cooked in this water.”

“How do we know you’re telling the truth?” yelled a man toward the back of the crowd.

Matt rolled his eyes, tired of the repeated attacks on his character, “You want to pry open that manhole and ask the mutant possums on the other side? Here’s another question for you. When was the last child born in his town? I’m willing to bet not since shortly after the war. Am I right? Close?”

“Go to Hell,” shouted the woman in the pink dress. “If there are monsters down there, then you must have put them there! We didn’t have no trouble here till you showed up.”

This sentiment was obviously shared by the rest of the townspeople as the rest began to yell, spit, and throw rocks at the Weller. He ducked one of the larger rocks and came back up with the Well Digger clasped firmly in his left hand. Slowly, he sidestepped around the edge of the crowd, never turning his back on them. Hate-filled, paranoid eyes met his steely gaze.

As he finally arrived at the back of the crowd, placing himself between them and the town, a man in a battered straw hat cried out, “Go home, Weller! Go peddle your piss-water out in the wastes.”

A woman behind him yelled, “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with our water. You’re just trying to cheat us!”

“No,” said the innkeeper, coming to Matt’s aid. “He’s tellin’ the truth. There really are creatures down there!”

“Shut up, John,” said one of the older men. “Can’t you see he’s trying to trick us into leaving so he can steal our water?”

“We’ll see,” said Matt, walking backwards toward town and keeping the mob covered with the gun. “We’ll see.”

Once, he had to fire the Well Digger into the ground at the advancing mob’s feet to dissuade them from trying to rush him. Finally the townspeople ceased trying to pursue him and let him make his escape. When there was enough distance between him and the mob, Matt turned and ran down Main Street as fast as his legs would carry him. He didn’t stop until he reached the vacant service station.

He wasted no time in kicking down the door and retrieved two of the five-gallon cans of petrol from behind the counter. For a moment he considered trying to devise a way to carry the third can, but in the end decided not to chance being caught looting by the mob. The yells of the townspeople grew louder from around the bend in the street. The Weller paused a moment to look longingly at the inn down the street, thinking about the case of whiskey in the back room.

No time, he decided and took off running toward the edge of town.

A few minutes later he arrived at the Road Runner, exactly as he left it. He quickly crawled under the car and disconnected the cables to the security system. As he stowed the batteries in the trunk he noticed a glowing mass of torchlight slowly approaching from town. He hastily poured both cans of petrol into the tank and tossed the empty cans into the back seat.

A turn of the key later, the Plymouth roared to life and the approaching cries of the mob were drowned out by Buck Dharma’s voice singing of Tokyo’s destruction.

Matt slammed the transmission into gear and threw the muscle car into a fishtailing U-turn. As the town of Malvern and its angry mob became a tiny glowing speck in the rearview mirror, Matt allowed himself to settle back in his seat and breathed a sigh of relief as the Road Runner and the sounds of Blue Öyster Cult carry him away to a much safer place… far away from godforsaken Malvern, Iowa. 

*

Six months later, the Weller sidestepped the shriveled, partially-devoured carcass of a horse lying in the middle of the sand-strewn street and continued on down the lane. He stopped and stared at the corpse of a mutant possum lying on the sidewalk in front of the door to the rundown inn before pushing open the battered and clawed door. The sickly-sweet smell of vomit assailed his nostrils and for a moment he considered donning his bandana, but settled for leaving the door open instead. He approached the counter, cluttered with various gold watches and rang the bell. A soft moan from behind the counter alerted the Weller to the proprietor’s whereabouts and he craned his neck to look.

Sprawled on the floor behind the counter, lying in his own vomit and excrement, was John the innkeeper. His bloodshot eyes grew wide in recognition and another low, pleading moan escaped his toothless mouth. The Weller slammed a Mason jar full of crystal clear water onto the counter and the man’s blistered tongue protruded feebly from between his cracked and bleeding lips.

“Want to trade some of that good whiskey, old man?” asked the Weller.

---

Adam J. Whitlatch is the author of numerous science fiction and horror short stories, as well as the novels The Blood Raven: Retribution and E.R.A. – Earth Realm Army. His works have appeared in Six Sentences Volumes 1 & 2, Northern Haunts: 100 Terrifying New England Tales, Dead Science, Poems of the Dead, MicroHorror, and Shroud Magazine.

Adam resides in southeast Iowa with his wife Jessica and their two sons. He is currently working on a novel chronicling the adventures of Matt Freeborn, The Weller.

http://www.adamjwhitlatch.com
http://www.thebloodraven.com
http://www.earthrealmarmy.com