Wasteland Blues by Scott Christian Carr, Andrew Conry-Murray

home. Moonlight glinted off a rifle barrel.
    “Home sweet home,” said Silas. “We can give you supper and a few cots, if that’ll suit.”
    “Sure will.” Leggy smiled. “We been sleepin’ out for quite a bit. Won’t mind a roof over my head for a night.”
    They came into a large common room warmed by a wood stove. A rough-hewn table stood in the middle of the floor. The good smell of cooking meat came from a room on their left. On the right was a cloakroom.
    “Stow your gear in there,” said Silas, “then go ’round back and have a wash. I’ll see what Champer has on the pot.”
    They tucked their bags into large cubbies and found a door leading outside to a hand pump. Teddy worked the pump while the others soaked their heads and washed the road grime from their hands and faces. The water smelled slightly of sulphur and was metallic-tasting, but it flushed the road dust from their mouths and faces. They came back to the common room dripping a bit but feeling refreshed.
    “You recognize this place?” asked Derek, his eyes shifting right and left, getting the layout of the rooms.
    “Nah,” said Leggy. “Back when I was with the Paladins, we operated out of an old barn in the hills. Looks like these fellows are doin’ a bit better.”
    At that moment a large, red-faced man tramped into the common room from what must have been the kitchen. His hair was pulled back in a greasy kerchief and he was decked out in sweat-stained, homespun wool. One meaty arm strangled a wide-mouthed cook pot, the other balanced a tray of bowls, spoons, and a fresh-baked loaf of sourdough.
    “If you fuckers weren’t friends of Silas I’d give you a kick in the ass,” he said. “I just washed every goddamn dish and plate in this place. Supper’s at six o’clock, not half past midnight. But Silas says I gotta feed ya. Well sit down, goddamnit.”
    The group approached the table sheepishly. The red-faced man slopped thick stew into the bowls with great sweeps of his arm, nearly knocking John in the face with his elbow as he did so. Silas and Corrin joined them at the table.
    “Eat up, but don’t blame me if you get nightmares or gotta use the shithouse at two a.m.,” said the man. He dropped the cook pot on the table and disappeared again.
    The group fell to eating without much talk. The stew was a concoction of meat, potatoes, beans, and stringy carrots in a thick gravy. They ate to the bottom of the first bowl and sopped up the juices with the bread, then ladled in more stew. The fat man appeared with another tray, this one sporting mugs full of drink.
    Leggy sipped his. His eyes widened. “Sweet Jesus, I’ll be damned if that’s a beer.”
    “Sure is,” said Silas. “Champer got his own works out back and kegs in the root cellar. You work miracles with a little hops and barley, don’t you, Champ?”
    “And I could work a hundred more if you bug humpers just kept to the shittin’ schedule and let a man get some goddamn work done.”
    Silas grinned. “Champer doesn’t need firewood to cook. He curses so hot he can sizzle a horse-steak just by talkin’ to it.”
    “Bah,” muttered Champer, disappearing into the kitchen again.
    ***
    When they finished eating, Silas motioned to the fireplace at the far end of the hall. “You can bunk down there, if you don’t mind. All the rooms upstairs are filled. We got two spare cots, so you’ll have to draw straws to see who gets the floor.”
    Leggy and Teddy won the draw. Silas and Corrin went off to bring in the cots. John stacked the dirty bowls and empty mugs onto the tray and carried them into the kitchen, which was large and spotless. Champer was in the corner, stacking firewood for his stove.
    “Can we help you clean up?” asked John sheepishly.
    “Help? How’s a rabbit turd like you gonna help? Just get the fuck out of my kitchen. Breakfast’s at six a.m. Beans, bacon, and biscuits. If you sleep through it, you can ask your momma for a bag of farts. Now piss