Three seconds.

  The mech’s hands grabbed the earth, cutting huge furrows into the dirt as it dragged itself closer and closer to safety.

  Two seconds.

  The ground shook as Bunting’s mech started to vibrate with nuclear energy. There were safety protocols that would keep it from going totally mushroom cloud. There had to be, or the land would have been a radioactive wasteland after the first few months of the Bloody Conflict. But even still, things were going to get hot and uncomfortable if they didn’t get at least another few dozen meters away.

  One second.

  Clay closed his eyes just as their mech reached the white line. It was all over. Nothing more they could do.

  The world went white with a light so intense that Clay felt pain even with his eyelids closed. Then their mech was tumbling and falling over itself, shoved across the desert by Bunting’s self-destruction. Flames and debris rushed around them, and Clay screamed the entire time. He didn’t stop screaming until the mech had been still for at least thirty seconds.

  “Well, that was new,” Gibbons said. “Let’s not do that again.”

  “Yes, let’s not,” Clay said. “What are we looking at?”

  “Still missing a leg,” Gibbons said. “We are down to five percent power. Half of the cells are wiped. Her mech must have had some sort of EMP dampener, because our systems are still running. Obviously, since I’m talking to you right now.”

  “Obviously,” Clay responded. “Are we salvageable?”

  “We are,” Gibbons said. “But we’ll need some repairs.”

  “Well, we did just win the tournament, so I’m guessing we can make a request for parts and a repair space,” Clay said. “In fact, pretty sure General Hansen’s ranch is up for grabs right now. I’ll suggest that the comunistas take that over as their new home base, which is within their rights, since they sponsored us.”

  “Good idea,” Gibbons said.

  “Clay MacAulay,” the tournament voice announced. “You have been disqualified. Your mech moved over the white line before the match was completely ended. The Mister is declared the winner. Please exit your mech and prepare for it to be handed over, per the rules and regulations.”

  Clay sat there, his mouth open.

  The triumphant cackle of the Mister filled the com.

  “Ha! You sorry sack of mech shit!” the Mister yelled. “Too bad you were so focused on living and forgot all about the fight! Suckers!”

  “Gibbons,” Clay whispered.

  “We’re good, pal,” Gibbons said, his voice light and cheery. “Watch.”

  Clay watched on the one screen in the cockpit that wasn’t flickering and smoking. He smiled and nodded.

  “Good catch, buddy,” Clay said and rested his head on his arms. “Very good catch. How about you show that to the tourney folks while I take a little siesta?”

  “Will do, pal,” Gibbons laughed. “You just go ahead and pass right out now.”

  31

  It took a full week to repair the mech, which included getting the full weapons systems back from the Mister’s ranch and reattaching them so the mech was whole once more. Better than it had been when it had stumbled into the territory, since it was fully powered with geothermal as well as a nice reserve of grey.

  During that week, Clay rested and relaxed in the late General’s ranch house. To his surprise, Zeus was still alive. He was missing both his left eye and left arm, but he was alive. He refused to say what the General had exactly done to him, but there were rumors amongst the servants that the woman had forced him to eat his limb, as well as the eye.

  Clay didn’t doubt that at all. He also didn’t ask for confirmation of the rumor.

  To while his time away, Clay entertained himself by watching the instant replay of the last moments of the fight with Bunting. There was a particular part he liked to rewind and watch again and again. The moment before Gibbons’ and Clay’s mech hand had reached over the line, Bunting’s mech had exploded. It blew with so much force that a good deal of Bunting’s mech had raced past the white line at supersonic speeds, beating Gibbons’ and Clay’s mech fist by milliseconds.

  It was a photo finish. After Gibbons insisted the tournament organizers study the footage a few times, there was no question. Bunting’s mech was declared disqualified, not destroyed.

  The Mister had lost his shit. He threatened to kill everyone within shouting distance. He even powered up a couple of his rollers and had aimed cannons right at Clay and Gibbons. But in the end it had all been worked out. The Mister wouldn’t be bothering anyone again.

  “Knock, knock,” a voice said from the doorway to the den Clay was lounged in. “A word, Mr. MacAulay?”

  Sheriff Trang sauntered in, his thumbs hooked into his gun belt, making sure Clay knew he was ready to get tough if needed but would rather not have to.

  “Looks like your mech is up on both feet again,” Sheriff Trang said.

  “That it is, Sheriff,” Clay agreed. “Getting ready to pack up and be on my way.”

  “That is exactly what I wanted to hear,” Sheriff Trang replied, his face confirming his statement. Relief was written all over it. “As much as some folks are happy you’ve helped relieve the territory of two of its biggest problems, there are a good deal more who see you as the problem, not the solution.”

  “Story of my life, Sheriff,” Clay said. “I’ll be out of your hair by this time tomorrow.”

  “Yes, about that,” the sheriff said. “I might suggest you up your departure time. Like I said, there are a might more people who would rather you hung from a mesquite branch than be hailed as a hero.”

  “Yep, you said that,” Clay replied. “So?”

  “Well, those folks are on their way to this ranch right now,” the sheriff said.

  “They are?” Clay asked, surprised.

  “They are,” the sheriff replied and nodded. “They’ll be here in rollers in about an hour. I can talk to them, which is my job, but in the end I just don’t have the men to hold them back. Your little win has created a power void in these parts, and loyalties are a little loose at the moment. Once things is settled, I’ll have more sway, but right now? Not so much.”

  “Mob rule, is it?” Clay chuckled. He waved a hand at the sheriff. “No need to look apologetic. I get it, Sheriff. This ain’t the first time I’ve been run out of town. Not even my second. I’ll be on my way before they get here.”

  “I appreciate that,” the sheriff said.

  “No problem,” Clay replied. “How is the mood toward the comunistas? They’ve taken this ranch as their own, you know. The mob gonna give them a hard time?”

  “Do you really care?” Sheriff Trang asked.

  Clay shrugged. “Not really. I freaking hate comunistas. But they are helping some friends of mine.”

  “The undergrounders,” Sheriff Trang said and nodded. “Last I heard, those folks haven’t even stepped one foot out of their caves. Smart people. Best to let the dust settle before they get back to work.”

  Clay gave the sheriff a curious look. “You approve of what they’re doing?”

  Sheriff Trang chuckled softly, then rolled up a sleeve. He showed Clay the brand. “We all have our pasts, Mr. MacAulay. Being the law around here, I can’t outright condone what they are doing. But then I’ve been looking the other way for the Mister and General Hansen for years. I have no problem staring off in the distance for some undergrounders helping out people who just want a chance to live free lives.”

  “Good to hear, Sheriff,” Clay said and extended his hand. The sheriff shook it then moved aside, indicating the meeting was over and it was time for Clay to go. “Hopefully I won’t ever see you again. So you take care, okay?”

  “You as well,” Sheriff Trang said. “Safe travels, son.”

  Clay nodded and stepped out into the hallway. He had stacked his things by the front door, having expected to need a quick exit, but they were gone. Zeus stood there instead and bowed slightly.

  “Godspeed, Clay MacAulay,” Zeus said. “May the fates be kind to you on your travels.”

  “Thanks, Zeus,” Clay said. “Hey, do me a favor, will ya?”

  “Yes, sir?” Zeus replied, eyebrows raised.

  “Firebomb that dungeon,” Clay said. “I’ll sleep a lot better knowing something like that is gone from this earth.”

  “Plenty more out there,” Zeus said. “Just like there is plenty more bad folk. But, yes, Mr. MacAulay, I’ll firebomb the living hell out of that dungeon. Won’t no one in this territory be bothered by its horrors again.”

  “Thanks, Zeus,” Clay said and clapped the man on the shoulder. His only shoulder. “My things in the mech?”

  “I had them moved there when the sheriff arrived,” Zeus said. “As well as something else that was brought by per the terms of your win.”

  “My revolver?” Clay asked.

  “Your revolver,” Zeus said. “Mighty fine piece that is. Glad you got it back.”

  “Me too, Zeus,” Clay said. “Oh, and thanks for giving my hat to Hank. You did do that, right?”

  “I may have had something to do with that,” Zeus said and smiled.

  Clay stepped out onto the porch. His mech loomed in the middle of the ground. He smiled up at it, gave a half tip of his hat back toward Zeus and the sheriff, then sauntered down the steps and over to his machine.

  Gibbons piloted them well around the oncoming mob, but Clay watched the rollers head for the ranch on the screen next to his seat. His legs hung over the chair’s arm and he dug into a gap between his two front teeth with a toothpick as the mech stomped its way across the desert.

  “Gibbons?” Clay asked.

  “Yeah?” Gibbons replied.

  “Hang a right at that bluff there,” Clay said. “We need to make a stop.”

  “We do?” Gibbons asked. “Is that a good idea? What if the mob decides to turn around and come after us?”

  “You think they’ll try to take on a fully repaired battle mech?” Clay laughed. “I don’t.”

  “You’re probably right,” Gibbons said. “Hanging a right at the bluff.”

  They walked for kilometers until they came to a familiar mesa. Gibbons piloted the mech right up to the spot below the undergrounders’ cave.

  “You going to go talk to her?” Gibbons asked.

  “Nope,” Clay said as he took over the controls. “Just going to leave them a little present. Should brighten up Firoa’s day, at the least.”

  “You sure you don’t want to kiss Nasta goodbye?” Gibbons asked. “Isn’t that what people do when they care for each other and may never see each other again?”

  “Some people,” Clay said. “But not me. Too complicated. I like the simple goodbyes.”

  He removed something small from the cargo hold, almost too small for the mech’s fingers to grasp between them. Clay reached up and set the small item up on the lip of the cave, waited to make sure it didn’t come tumbling down, then nodded when it stayed put.

  “Time to go,” Clay said. “You’re driving for today. I’ll take over tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, sure you will,” Gibbons laughed. “Lazy bastard.”

  “Kiss my ass, punk,” Clay laughed back as the mech turned around and moved away from the mesa.

  32

  Nasta watched the mech walk off across the land, on its way to leaving the territory for good. It took the giant machine close to an hour before it was lost from sight over the horizon. She sighed and put the hand down she didn’t even know she’d been holding up the entire time.

  She rubbed at her tired elbow and laughed to herself as she turned away from the mouth of the cave. Something caught her eye and she stopped. Nasta cocked her head as she moved cautiously closer. She was only a couple of feet away when she gasped and put her hands to her mouth.

  “What?” Firoa asked, moving to her side quickly, having been lurking in the cave’s shadows, watching Clay and Gibbons stomp away as well. “What the hell is…?”

  The two women stared down at the severed head. The eyes were bulged out and the neck was ragged, like the head had been cut off with a very dull knife, but it was easy to tell who it was.

  The Mister’s dead face stared back at them until Hank walked by and punted it out of the cave mouth, sending it falling to the desert floor far, far below.

  The three of them faced the horizon one last time, each swearing they saw a flash of light as the sun glinted off the top of the mech. But there was no way to know for sure, it was gone for good. The last of the Fighting Iron making its way to NorthAm and a future that wasn’t theirs.

  The story continues in A Few Mechs More.

  THANK YOU FOR READING A FISTFUL OF MECHS

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  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  A Bram Stoker Award nominated-novelist, short story writer, independent screenwriter, podcaster, and inventor of the Drabble Novel, Jake is the author of over sixty-five published novels including the bestselling Z-Burbia zombie apocalypse series, the bestselling Salvage Merc One military scifi series, the bestselling Roak: Galactic Bounty Hunter space crime series, the fan favorite hit Team Grendel/Mega thriller series, and his original post-apocalyptic mech/zombie mash-up, the Apex Trilogy. His other novels include the YA zombie novel, Little Dead Man, the Bram Stoker Award nominated YA horror novel, Intentional Haunting, the middle grade scifi/horror series, ScareScapes, and the historical fiction/space opera mash-up series, Reign of Four, for Permuted Press, as well as Stone Cold Bastards and the Black Box Inc. series for Bell Bridge Books.

  Born and raised in the Pacific Northwest, Jake currently lives in Asheville, NC with his wife, two cats, an old dog, and occasionally his college-aged kids. He enjoys the eclectic, outdoorsy attitude of the area and the good ol’ Southern hospitality. But, he really, really wishes the tourists would go away.

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