Jackmaw Yapyap watched Krav make his approach. He had to squint at the earth around him. The sand that surrounded the boy was churning with his movements. It was as if the natural forces of the wasteland were at his back, preparing to take Jackmaw’s head. The snarl in his mask grew.

  “Bring me the new one,” he told the Tallyman. The boy had trouble lugging the heavy machinegun to his master, but he was eager to serve.

  “Yes, Lord!” he cried, and strained against the weapon of war. The stock of the weapon dragged through the sands, and he wore the bullet belt around his torso like a cluster of sandbags.

  This wasn’t how any of this was supposed to go. Jackmaw loaded the gun with a practiced familiarity, his eyes never leaving Krav. As he racked it, he pointed it at the boy. To kill him now would be a waste. There was still hope deep down, but hope was nothing compared to fate. The warlord just had to hope fate was on his side, like it always had been.

  Wasteland be damned, he thought. If it was coming for him along with the boy, then it could be cut down as well. Jackmaw sent a volley into the sands, and his eyes widened. There was blood spurting from some of his shots. It wasn’t the wasteland. Krav had brought an army with him.

  “Good,” Jackmaw smiled. “I was hoping I’d get to kill something.”

  The machinegun bucked and kicked in his hands. Automatic gunfire encircled Krav and cut down his allies at a rate that they hadn’t anticipated. Krav had expected the burner to make an appearance. Nala was waiting for the kick of blinkers. They had devised the plan to crawl along the sands under desert carpet carapace to counter both of those weapons. Whatever this new gun was punched right through their plan.

  The Disciples were of little consequence to the crystals that burrowed beneath Krav’s eyes, but he fought their influence. His path aligned with theirs now. The boy needed to kill Jackmaw to get his revenge for Lenny and Rufus. The tribe needed to kill him to atone for their negligence.

  Krav fought the sting behind his eyes that told him to ignore them. The crystals told him they were inconsequential, fodder to die at his feet. But he knew they had gotten him this far.

  The boy gritted his teeth and aimed the laser cannon at Jackmaw. He still intended to remove his head, that much he could agree with the crystals. It would just have to be taken from a smoldering corpse.

  Fresh heat poured from the device in Krav’s hands and flared toward Jackmaw. The warlord rolled out of the way just in time to see the sand where he stood turn to glass. It was an impressive aim.

  “Nice shot!” the warlord called to the boy. “I think it almost gave me another sunburn!”

  “Fuck you, Jackass Yapyap!” Krav’s voice was shrill and spent. He felt like he had been screaming his head off for hours. Another raider appeared, and he was thankful for it. The crystals in his head demanded more carnage. Krav held the tap of his laser cannon down and didn’t stop until the raider was a pile of ash. “I’m going to cut your head off and mount it on a spike!”

  “That’s the spirit!” Jackmaw emerged from a building Krav didn’t track him to. If the warlord was aiming for him, he’d surely have been taken by surprise. Instead, he killed another disciple beneath the sand and disappeared before Krav could retaliate.

  The boy roared in frustration, but he was so close to Footfall now it didn’t matter. Disciples were reaching the edge of the town and springing from their hiding spots beneath the sands. They climbed the buildings and flew across them with as much ease as they had done in the trees.

  As much as he enjoyed the laser cannon, his fingers itched for his axe. Soon, he told himself. Soon he would get to use his weapon of choice.

  Greenblatt and Ulrich made it to the town under the cover of the chaos at the opposite end. Most of the Gordo clan were trying to take down the Pit Lords who had gone berserk. The streets pounded with the distant gunfire, and the heat here was oppressive. That didn’t deter the mad master of Kiva Noon. His crystals were demanding he find the stolen property of his clan.

  “Why would they steal the lobotomites? Wouldn’t that be more of a hassle than its worth?” Ulrich asked. His power fist was still clean, and as much as he wished it would stay that way, it was starting to feel like an underutilized muscle. He knew it ached for use.

  “An army of creatures that don’t eat or sleep and can be made from the corpses of your enemies. That was what we originally intended to create,” Greenblatt said. He was lost in the memories of Sinestra Mode. Even as a witch, he thought she looked beautiful. “The Black Thumbs could have owned this entire world if I had stayed. Do you really think a being like that isn’t worth stealing?”

  “They couldn’t recreate that, though. They’re a gang of mindless hooligans who depend on pillaging to continue their way of life. The Gordo clan could never make use of them.”

  That was true. In fact, it was a wonder how they even followed them all the way out here. Greenblatt hadn’t thought about it, but someone had to have aided them. It was just like his greedy clan to betray their morals for an easy out. Perhaps when the Gordo clan came through Kiva Noon, there was a splinter faction that offered them aid.

  Suddenly, a raider turned from one corner. She looked lost and in desperate need of a place to lay her head. A pair of blue eyes twisted out of sync in her skull, but when she noticed the pair, she fixated on them with an intoxicated focus.

  The raider pulled a pistol from her waist. “Reach for the sky!” she giggled. In her inebriated vision, she thought she was pointing the gun right at the fat one. Ulrich charged her, and she fired, each shot missing.

  “I said reach for the…!” before she could finish her sentence, the Pit Lord slammed her in the face with the power fist. He hadn’t intended it to do so much damage, but it was the first strike he had ever been able to perform with it.

  He was right to heed Greenblatt’s warnings about the weapon. When the fist made contact with the girl, it exploded with kinetic energy. Her skull popped and sent brain, bone, and blood splashing onto the wall of a nearby building. The corpse went tumbling, flipping through the air and crashing beside its blood splatter. The girl’s neck spurted with blood as its dying heart pumped the last of it out.

  Greenblatt and Ulrich exchanged looks. The Pit Lord looked absolutely mortified by the destructive power he wielded. The Black Thumb was giddy with inventive joy. The device worked much better than either of them expected.

  “I-I didn’t mean to do all of that!” Ulrich stammered. He stared at the corpse without blinking.

  “More…” Greenblatt said, but his words were trapped behind his mask. He didn’t know if it was the crystals talking or his own mechanical curiosity. Schematics of upgrades began to form their lines in the back of his head like worms swimming through mud.

  Their attention was pulled away when someone ran across the street. The shape looked like it was trying to avoid them, but it lacked any sense of stealth or subtlety. Ulrich readied his power fist, but Greenblatt stopped him. He recognized the overcoat the figure wore.

  It was a member of the Black Thumbs, specifically a gate guardian from Kiva Noon’s wall. Seeing that made the voice in his head recede as his responsibilities as a warlord took over. He was ready to kill the man himself, but he saw the collar on his neck and the broken chain link.

  “Halt!” Greenblatt called. The figure froze and dropped to his knees. He covered his head.

  “Please! Oh Karma, please don’t kill me!” the man was shaking as he cowered. Ulrich and Greenblatt stood over him, the Pit Lord ready to punch him to a pulp if he made any sudden movements.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Greenblatt, on the other hand, loomed over the man like he was his own wayward child. He looked down at his clansman and pitied him. “What’s your name?”

  The man tensed, then softened. He kept his gaze averted from both of them, but his hands fell away from his head. He held his knees now. “I’m Malcom Woad. I… I almost forgot that was my name.”

  “What happened to Kiva Noon? Why did you side with the Gordo clan?”

  Malcom had tears filling his eyes and a sob caught in his throat. He shook his head. “We were at war with the Bone Eaters. Their raids became more ferocious with each passing day, and they began to even crucify travelers trying to reach the town. We spent weeks fighting them, and we were slowly losing. Once they breached the gate we were done for. They stole women and children in the night and killed anyone who chased after them…”

  “And so, you sided with the Gordo clan of all things?”

  “You don’t know anything about our situation!” Malcom cried. He looked up finally and stopped. He recognized that mask. “You… you were there. The last time the Bone Eaters came for their tribute. You fought them at the gate with us… It’s your fault! If it wasn’t for you, they wouldn’t have attacked us for weeks on end! We could have lived!”

  Malcom stood, and Greenblatt had to stop Ulrich from killing him. The master of Kiva Noon allowed this subject of his to strike him. His punch was minimally damaging with weeks of malnourishment, but it hurt him on a level deeper than physical. This man was right, perhaps Greenblatt had caused this.

  It was his disgust with the Black Thumbs that made him abandon them. It was his insufficient extermination of the Bone Eaters that allowed them to retaliate against his clan. He had turned his back on leadership, and that had cost him his people.

  When Malcom winded up another strike, Greenblatt stopped it with his palm. There was a pop in Malcom’s wrist, and the man sank back to the sands. “Why! Why did it have to come to this!”

  “If you put your faith in me now, I give you my word that you’ll make it back to Kiva Noon.”

  The man remained on the floor and shook his head at the sand. “And who are you to promise such things?”

  Ulrich snatched Malcom by his metal collar and lifted him from the floor. The man was suspended in the air and choking. “He’s Albert Ibram Ao Dominus-Greenblatt! Warlord of the Black Thumbs! Master of Kiva Noon!”

  He dropped the man, and Malcom looked at Greenblatt like he was a messiah figure. The warlord removed his goggles and mask, revealing a tattooed waster beneath. He had heard stories of him as a boy, the lover of Sinestra Mode who went into the wasteland in search of Kiva Noon’s salvation.

  “Show me where they’re keeping the lobotomites,” Greenblatt demanded. Malcom nodded and stood.

  Lenny watched 002 for some time. Being surrounded by mechanically augmented corpses left a lingering chill in his spine, but Mac told him to stay with the creation. Deep down he knew he was safe with it, but that didn’t ease his gut reaction.

  “Do you stand around like this often?” Lenny asked. He had heard some of the other lobotomites talk, but they didn’t say much. It was all machine jargon and proper communications. When 002 didn’t answer, he remembered how they communicated to Greenblatt with sign language. Lenny tried to make signs for it.

  002 stared at him with dead eyes, then returned its gaze to the desolate town. What struck Lenny the most about Greenblatt’s creation was how human it felt. When he had first encountered them in Agua Fria, he was almost certain they were both living beings.

  He felt more comfortable staying close to 002 than he did by the ones that mingled in the shipping container.

  Voices were on the horizon, and 002 perked up. Its eyes widened like a cat’s on the hunt as its head turned in the direction of the sound. It was faint under the continued gunfire, but it was there.

  Lenny put his mask on and tried to focus on the voices. He could hear them, a group of people discussing Kiva Noon and the Bone Eaters. The name Albert formed in his head, as well as Ulrich and Malcom. He didn’t recognize them, but he did recognize one of their voices.

  “Greenblatt?” he whispered to himself.

  Through the mask, he could see them like little ants wandering through a toy battlefield. They crawled along the scarred city streets of Footfall in a hurried pace. A name was being shared between them that he recognized. The one named Albert was telling the Malcom about a battle at Kiva Noon, one that involved a boy named Krav. Word had it that he was here now, dealing a massive blow to the Gordo clan.

  With his brother’s name racing between them, he wanted to run towards the conversation with a head full of questions. He had heard his voice on the wind just moments ago, but even that needed confirmation after the stories he heard from Mac and Shi-Toh.

  Was it even possible? Shi-Toh had said that he’d killed the boy himself, and it had gotten him in trouble with the warlord. What reason would he have to lie about that?

  The details of Krav’s death weren’t clear, just that the feathered man had shot him. Lenny had never seen anyone survive the weaponry of the Gordo clan. Krav wasn’t a deity; he wasn’t any more special than the hundreds of dead at Jackmaw’s feet. What made him different?

  Perhaps he was special. Lenny had been changed by his time with the clan. Latent clairvoyancy had been awakened from all the drugs and death. Could it be possible that Krav’s journey had brought him to the evolutionary steps of the path of the warrior? From Mac’s stories, it seemed more than possible.

  The figures rounded the corner of a building and were making their way towards them. 002 made a move to run towards his master and then hesitated. It reminded Lenny of a young boy fighting his emotions to maintain his father’s commandments. The lobotomite wanted to be reunited, but it remained guarded.

  It was Greenblatt that dropped his fa?ade of composure for his creation. The death of 001 had pricked his heart, but he maintained his sorrow in hopes that they could win this war. There would be nothing left of 001 to bury, so there would be nothing left to cry over. Still, when he saw its twin, he ran to it.

  “002! Karma’s sake, it’s good to see you. What have you found?”

  Lenny didn’t recognize this man. The swirling tattoos on his face didn’t remind him of the man he met back in Agua Fria. He had the eyes and the voice of Greenblatt, but Lenny could swear he would have recalled the marks on his face. But he remembered that the merchant he had met wore a mask. It seemed odd to the boy that one would mark their face only to cover it.

  As 002 signed more communications to its master, Greenblatt’s eyes wandered to the boy. His crusted black eyes widened when he saw him. For a moment, he thought he was looking at an alternate version of Krav. In many ways, that’s what brothers are, after all. He watched the boy out of the corner of his eye.

  Finally, he turned from the lobotomite. He looked at the boy and beamed a smile at him. Beneath the mask, it was hard to tell, but he recognized him. Yes, this must be the boy that all this buzz was about. “Excuse me, but I believe we’ve already met.”

  Lenny’s fingers worked the mask off, and he choked back a sob of relief. He felt like he had spent a lifetime in the nine karmic hells just to finally be rescued by an angel. How could Greenblatt be here? A humble merchant had crossed the wasteland to its most dangerous points and found himself on its bloodiest battlefield.

  “Greenblatt… what are you doing here?”

  There was something about the merchant that Lenny noticed was different. He looked more imperious than a simple trader. There was confidence in his stride, command in his composure. He looked like a god. When he answered him, it was with the booming reassurance of a deity.

  “Why, here to save you of course. Your brother dragged me across the wasteland in search of you.”

  “But… this is none of your business. You have nothing to gain with him.”

  “Nothing to gain? I am Albert Ibram Ao Dominus-Greenblatt, warlord of the Black Thumbs, Master of Kiva Noon. I’m here to help a friend and take revenge for the death and enslavement of my clan. If anyone has anything to gain from this war, it’s me.”

  He was telling the truth. The aura he produced was a bright green; one Rufus had once taught him only emanated from generational leaders. Greenblatt didn’t walk the path of the merchant; he didn’t live his life to barter. This man before him, Albert, was ordained by karmic winds to walk the path of kings.

  Lenny could feel his knees almost give out. He couldn’t tell if it was out of relief or a genetic need to kneel in Greenblatt’s presence, but he fought the urge.

  “My companion tells me there is a stockpile of Lobotomites that belong to my clan. Will you show them to me?”

  Staring into his eyes, Lenny could see the madness that swam behind them, in the growths that crusted his skull and slowly made their way out of his head. He was a man in conflict, perhaps just as Rufus had been. It was hard to trust that an entity such as this, with so much command in his voice and darkness in his eyes. Still, he could see the warmth in him just as he had back in Agua Fria.

  “This way,” he said.

  Ulrich and Malcom caught up as they began their descent into the basement, just in time to witness why they called Greenblatt the master of Kiva Noon. They all stood in front of the shipping container, and 002 opened it once more.

  The shivering wretches within looked up at their saviors. As soon as their eyes met the swirling tattoos on Greenblatt’s face, life returned. Their shaking forms became a dutiful stillness. Slowly they made their way out of the container, no longer shambling and mindless, but like an army of ancient undead marching back into the land of the living.

  Greenblatt counted them with a glance, then commanded, “The first rank of ten: go free the enslaved. Their lives will be redeemed through your obedience. The rest of you: to the front lines. This is your directive. This is your purpose. Protect the citizens of Kiva Noon and destroy those who would cause it harm.”

  The small platoon of lobotomites did as they were told, marching to the surface and splitting up. The first ten ran in all directions in search of the slaves. The rest of them formed a mass of sprinting caricatures that ran for the front.

  “Go with them,” Greenblatt told Malcom. “Your place is behind us. Save your fellow slaves and find me when the shooting stops.”

  The man looked flabbergasted. There was only one other being he had ever heard of with that ability, and she was dead for months. “It’s true… You are the warlord.”