Wasteland Angel (A World After Novella) Read online

  Chapter 2

  July 9, 2034

  Former Suburb of Las Vegas, NV

  It was a cool afternoon despite the fact that she was in the desert. The change in weather that occurred during the Aftermath hadn’t done the Mojave Desert region any favors. No more rain fell and the persistent cloud cover had lowered the average temperatures. The plants that hadn’t been killed by the crop virus had died from the climate change. All the animals adapted for desert living had perished as well, and the Mojave had become a dried out waste.

  But stuck in the middle of it was still Las Vegas, or rather the small remnant of it clinging to life. People still traveled from all over to gamble and partake of the hedonistic lifestyle that was Vegas. Sin was even more in demand these days. It was basically outlawed in the U.S.T.G. and everyone else was too busy just trying to survive to pander to it. So the crown jewel of excess had become even more valuable.

  That had earned Las Vegas the honor of being a truly neutral city. U.S.T.G. bigwigs rubbed elbows with C.C.A. Patricians, and they rubbed elbows with warlords, raider kings, and gangster Lords. Vegas was one giant party and everyone was invited. That meant that flights still existed into McCarron Airport and convoys of vehicles flowed in and out of the remnants of the city.

  Minerva was watching one of those convoys now. A small caravan of slavers had stopped in the outskirts of the old city. Vegas now consisted of the Strip and the fortified confines of the airport, which were surrounded by eight foot tall razor wire topped chain link fences. The rest of the city had been overtaken by the desert sands. Without plants to anchor the sand and water to keep the ground compact, it hadn’t been long before the massive dust storms had overwhelmed the suburbs. The city itself hadn’t been too far behind. Only the herculean efforts of the Strip maintenance crews kept the sand out of the Strip.

  The slavers had halted southwest of the Strip in what had been known as Enterprise. They had traveled up I-15 with their human cargo, probably collected from either Aztlan or the gangsters of G-21. The caravan consisted of two technicals and two slaver wagons. Slaver wagons were all basically the same, usually a flatbed truck the slavers had constructed a six foot high cage on. It looked like they had placed straw and some mattresses on the truck bed for the prisoners. All the prisoners looked tired and very scared.

  The technicals were a pickup and an old model SUV with machine guns mounted on them. Metal plates had been welded on to protect them, and wire screens mounted across the windows. The technicals were parked on either side of the wagons, but not to close. The slavers stood around the SUV talking and drinking. The rear hatch was open and they looked to have a cooler they were taking the drinks out of.

  Through her binoculars Minerva couldn’t make out what brand, but the bottle shape indicated beer. The slavers all seemed relaxed and were laughing and joking. Selling human beings was all in a day’s work for them. This was just another run to them. Right now they were just waiting until dark to enter the Strip. It was unbelievable how casually they took their jobs, but scum always seemed to find their calling. Well, she would make them pay for that choice.

  Slavery was illegal in the Strip, but that didn’t stop unscrupulous or greedy casino bosses from utilizing it. All debts had to be paid in Vegas and debt bondage was legal, meaning you could be forced to work off your debt. It was all registered and legal, and the casino was forced to provide shelter and food, but that didn’t mean the conditions had to be good; and no one checked on that. Not every casino did it, in fact most didn’t, but a few needed help to survive and they didn’t hesitate to use the cheap source of labor.

  Slavers would bring people in and sell their “debt” to the casino. No one checked to see if the debt was legitimate and the slaves were so broken by then, they didn’t speak up. They just disappeared into the seedy underbelly of Vegas; destined to become strippers, prostitutes, and dishwashers; or if they were lucky, drink girls and cleaning staff. No one talked about it, but it was an open secret. Something Minerva had sworn to personally end.

  She had made it her mission to expose the links to slavers and free the enslaved people by any means necessary. She had been unable to make any headway in the Strip, since it was so institutionalized, so she had resorted to attacking the convoys and freeing the slaves before they got into the Strip. She had only taken down two caravans so far, so the convoys hadn’t gotten that much better defended yet.

  One of her contacts had let her know that a convoy would be traveling this route today. All she had to do was travel their route to find their resting place. Even though everyone knew about the convoys, appearances still had to be maintained. So they convoys stopped in the outskirts and waited until dark. They were then let in through a side gate and then they drove to a warehouse to wait for buyers. Which warehouses, she hadn’t figured out yet.

  The slavers had chosen to take their break in an old cul de sac. The ruins of the abandoned houses provided some shelter from the wind and constant blowing sand. It had probably been a nice neighborhood once with thirsty green lawns fed from the dwindling water supplies; home to families and happily playing children. Now it was a sandy wasteland whose only inhabitants were a convoy of slavers trafficking in misery. But the ruined houses did provide an excellent hiding place for her to scout from and her all brown attire made her almost impossible to discern.

  There were seven slavers that Minerva could see. They had now spread out around the vehicles in a rough defensive perimeter, but they lounged casually against them. All of them had weapons out, but they were either hanging from straps on their tactical vests or slung over their shoulders. They didn’t seem to be expecting any trouble.

  There was an attractive older man, probably in his fifties, with close cropped salt and pepper hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He wore blue jeans tucked into combat boots, and a bulletproof vest over a cream colored shirt. He had on a black jacket over the vest and shirt and wore a black ball cap without a logo. What looked like a Knight’s Armament PDW submachine gun hung from a strap under his right arm and a pistol hung in a holster on his hip. From his bearing, Minerva could tell he was ex-military. He looked like the leader.

  A woman in her forties was roaming around checking on things and looked to be the second in command. She had on blue jeans tucked into work boots and a bulletproof vest over a red shirt. Over that she had on a black duster and cowboy hat. She had a sawed off pump action shotgun slung over her left shoulder and a bandolier of shells slung across the other. She would have been pretty once; but she looked worn, as if life had been hard on her.

  The other five slavers were all dressed the same in tan cargo pants, a tan shirt, and combat boots. They all had riot gear, including helmets, over what could only be described as uniforms. That was new; was it possible the slavers were getting more organized? All of them had wooden batons hooked on their belts, as well as a pistol in addition to a rifle or shotgun. All five were in their late twenties or early thirties and were otherwise unremarkable.

  There were two white men with M-16s, a black man carrying an AK-74, a white woman with a Steyr TMP submachine gun, and an Asian man with a Remington 870 shotgun. They loosely arranged themselves in a semi-circle around the wagons, but they were more interested in talking to each other than watching their cargo. They obviously didn’t consider the prisoners at any risk of escaping.

  Minerva was so busy shaking her head at their lax security that she almost missed the flash of light from atop one of the slaver wagons. She zeroed in on the location and discovered an eighth slaver lying on top of the wagon. The desert camouflage he was wearing had caused him to blend into the backdrop of sand. The flash had been the sunlight reflecting off the scope of the sniper rifle he was watching through.

  This was the exact reason that she always kept the sun at her back when she scouted. So the sun would reflect off an enemy’s scope and not her binoculars. The man was on over watch and that explained why the others were so lax. They assumed he would catch an
y intruders approaching the convoy. Which he would have if she hadn’t been scouting so carefully, just as she had been taught by her mentor.

  Knowing their numbers, disposition, and the existence of the sniper; now she was ready to plan her assault. She would need to strike after it turned dark and just as they were preparing to leave, but before they got into the vehicles. It would be a narrow window, but it would be when they were most vulnerable. Minerva prepared the distraction and slowly crawled off to the position she would attack from.