The Deadlands (PG-13/R)

Episode 1: Pilot

1

John Benedict battled the sandstorm as he walked down the deserted road and passed by a nearly buried, rotting corpse. His long, beige coat billowed behind him and he attempted to keep his hat from blowing away.

He’d found that the barren, desert wasteland only held the beauty of solitude. He’d been traversing the land for days without seeing anyone and it was only now that he’d found a reason to be happy. Ahead, partially obscured, was what he assumed to be a derelict building. He believed that he could also make out petrol pumps in front of the building; something that reinforced the stories of how the world had once been before it had went to hell. Reinforced the notion that civilisation had once not been forced to live in make-shift shanty towns and were, at a time, free from the fear of being killed by the human and inhuman beasts, as well as the dead, that roamed the land.

Within moments, he’d made up his mind that he’d see what was inside. Even if he found nothing, the building would offer respite from the cold, harsh wind. However, he was well aware of the fact that the building might not be too stable. Time certainly wore buildings down as did the elements, especially when the elements were a harsh mistress.

As he drew nearer, the building’s state of disarray became ever clearer. Once close enough, he saw that the roof was hole-strewn and that the building was on its last legs before it collapsed.

Upon weaving in-between the petrol pumps and reaching the front entrance, he discovered the door partly ajar and he eased it open enough to slip through, hand on his revolver’s butt. Straight ahead were shelves, caked with dust and cobwebs; some collapsed. At the back was a counter with the till still present.

Aware that this was a perfect ambush spot, he glanced right and then . . . a click. Immediately, he put his arms up in the air with a smirk and spoke quietly, “Easy, I’m not here to cause trouble,” without glancing to the side.

“M—Move forward.” The voice was female and young.

“Alright,” he replied, still smirking. He did, but made one quick movement, spun around and grabbed a hold of the female’s hand. The gun, aimed at the ceiling, went off as he forced her back against the wall by the door.

“At least you’re cautious, girl.” He saw that she was indeed young, perhaps around fourteen years of age, though there wasn’t really any such thing as ‘young’ in this world anymore. Then something howled in the distance. “Shit.”

The girl struggled to free herself, breathing hard. “Calm down. I mean you no harm.” He released her and she slunk back while he stooped to pick-up the gun she’d dropped. “I’ll prove it. Take it.” He grasped the revolver by its smoking barrel and held it out.

While she hesitated to take the gun from him, he noticed that she tried to keep her torn, white shirt pulled around her slim frame. Her brown hair was of medium length and matted while her face bore the ever-present dirt found on everyone’s faces, yet her face was also bruised and there was a cut above her right eye. Her eyes were also red rimmed and with a sniffle, she quickly took the revolver from him. Afterwards, she plonked herself in a corner of the room, away from the wind’s harsh bite, and began to rock back and forth.

John, acutely aware that staying inside wouldn’t be a good idea, peered outside briefly to see if he could see anything. Because he couldn’t, he walked over and knelt in front of the girl, despite his instincts telling him they should leave right now. Or at least he should, but he’d never forgive himself for leaving the girl here. “What’s your name, girl?” He saw her shiver and went to touch her shoulder lightly, but retracted his hand.