Chapter 8
The remaining nomads fell silent, each trying to figure out their next move.
Leaving meant giving up life in the Badlands. After all, the Badlands belonged to the nomads; if you weren't part of a tribe, you became their enemy. That left them little choice. If they wanted to keep surviving out here, they had to accept the Snake Nation's terms. But joining the very people they'd just been fighting to the death was hard for them to stomach.
Leo was thinking even further ahead.
Up to now, the Bakker family had repeatedly clashed with the Snake Nation, resulting in casualties on both sides. The Snake Nation's "generous" offer of letting them join felt more like a trap.
They had sent fifty people but failed to capture a camp defended by only ten. All fifty of those attackers were wiped out. Though the camp had suffered serious losses, McCoy mentioned that some of the Bakker nomads who'd gone out with Charey had managed to escape.
What if, when the Snake Nation attacked again, those escapees returned and staged a pincer attack from inside the camp? It was likely the Snake Nation wanted to minimize its own casualties by luring everyone into surrender. They'd split up and absorb what was left of the Bakker family, then settle accounts once that was done.
McCoy glanced at the others, then pulled Leo aside. "Leo, what are you planning to do?"
"I'm done with nomad life. I'm heading to Night City to try my luck."
"All right. I respect your choice…" McCoy leaned in, lowering his voice. "Don't forget what I told you yesterday. You'll need those supplies."
"Thanks." Leo hesitated, then said, "Why not come with me, McCoy?"
"Where—to Night City?"
Leo nodded.
McCoy shook his head with a rueful smile. "I'm not like you, Leo. I'm too old to start over. Go on without me. And if you make a legend for yourself someday, don't forget this old friend."
…
An hour after leaving the Bakker camp, Leo found the cave McCoy had described. Its entrance was hidden behind junk and debris. He spent some time clearing it, then ventured inside. Not far in, he discovered McCoy's stash: an SUV packed with enough water, food, and supplies to last several days. Lying beside it was a familiar-looking Katana.
Leo paused. Then he remembered—this sword belonged to McCoy.
He recalled McCoy once saying this sword, named "Murasame," was a cherished heirloom passed down through his family for generations.
At last, Leo realized what McCoy had meant by leaving him a "little gift." A strange twinge welled up inside him.
"Why give it to me?"
Leo pulled Murasame free, and shut the SUV's trunk. Climbing into the driver's seat, he started the engine and exited the cave.
He turned toward the distant Bakker camp and tipped his head in a silent farewell.
"Goodbye, McCoy."
---
The sun high in the azure sky radiated enough heat to warp the air itself.
A tangled network of old asphalt roads stretched across the wasteland, many half-buried by sand.
On either side lay an endless desert and low-slung hills.
Heaps of garbage and clusters of Joshua trees seemed to wave in greeting. Far in the distance, beyond the swirling dust, stood the silhouettes of city skyscrapers and giant holographic billboards.
That was Night City.
In the blistering heat, an SUV sped toward the metropolis. Leo finally let out a long breath. He was almost there.
Over the past two days, he had barely stopped, sleeping behind the wheel whenever he could.
At last, he'd crossed the desert and glimpsed Night City's skyline.
Along the way, he had even picked up a side job: a client wanted a nomad to "transport" something into Night City.
Running cargo was a standard gig for nomads. Though Leo had never done it himself, McCoy had once explained the process down to the tiniest detail.
He felt confident he could handle it.
…
An hour later, Leo drove into a small settlement just outside Night City.
The place was exactly as it looked from a distance: bleak and lifeless.
He followed the directions to the eastern outskirts of town, scanning the area.
According to plan, his client was supposed to meet him here.
Yet Leo saw no sign of them.
Time, place—both as agreed.
But no client.
Was he getting stood up?
Just then, he noticed someone approaching. They didn't look like a customer, more like a local.
They walked up to his SUV.
"Need something?" Leo asked.
"Come with me. The sheriff wants a word."
…
Inside the sheriff's office, the uniformed man had his legs propped up on the table and a burger in one hand.
The door swung open, and two men walked in—Leo behind the local.
"Sir, I brought him," the local said, with a note of servility.
"Mm. You can go now."
The sheriff set his legs down, placing the burger on the desk.
He stood, resting both hands on his belt, and slowly circled around Leo.
He moved at a measured pace, clearly trying to project intimidation.
"You do know, if you come into this town, you're supposed to say hi to the sheriff first. Tell him what you're here for—even if you're just grabbing a cup of coffee."
Leo stayed put, letting the sheriff circle him.
"I wasn't planning to stay. I just came here to… well, meet someone."
The sheriff looked mildly disappointed at Leo's lack of fear. He returned to his chair.
"Who are you meeting?"
"That's not important."
"Oh, is that right?" The sheriff sat up straighter, wearing a faintly mocking smile. "If a stray mutt wanders into your home, would you still think it's 'not important'?"
Only a fool would miss the insult. But Leo showed no anger, replying calmly:
"That depends on the situation."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"For example, some folks don't see so well and might mistake a wolf for a dog."
The sheriff's face stiffened. He shifted to a different tack.
"I'm Andrew Jones. Maybe you've heard of me?"
"I've heard of Indiana Jones."
The sheriff raised an eyebrow, grin turning sardonic.
"And your Indiana Jones… he wouldn't happen to have served with the Silver Shotgun Special Forces in the last war, would he?"
Leo shook his head.
"Not as far as I know. He was a folklore professor and archaeologist, not a soldier. And, honestly, a lot more likable than you."
"Not exactly a people person, are you?" The sheriff snorted. "Listen up. I've got a little problem on my hands, and I need a helper. You look perfect for the job."
Leo arched a brow.
"Did I miss something? When did I say I'd help you?"
"You don't have a choice."
"Is that so?"
"It is. Though it's not as bad as it sounds. If you say yes, there's a thousand eurodollars in it for you. Plus, you earn this town's gratitude."
Leo fell silent.
A thousand eurodollars was no small chunk of change.
If the job wasn't too big a headache, he wouldn't mind padding his account. Sure, the jerk's attitude pissed him off, but if there was real money on the table, Leo could forgive him like a patient dad.
Emotions mattered little when it came down to business.
"All right, let's hear it."
"There's a cyberpsycho prowling around nearby. So far, he hasn't attacked the town itself, but anyone who goes out has a nasty habit of ending up dead."
Leo grimaced.
He already knew what cyberpsychosis was. His half-year among the Bakker family had taught him plenty about this world.
In simple terms, it was the umbrella term for all anxiety-related mental and personality disorders caused by bodily implants—both the hardware and software modules.