Wasteland: Chapter 6
A Dystopian Fantasy
At this point in my life, writing isn’t just a hobby—it’s something I’m trying to build toward, slowly and with a lot of care.
If you enjoy this work and have the means, I’d be deeply grateful if you considered becoming a paid subscriber or supporting me through Buy Me a Coffee. My financial situation is a bit tight right now, and any support helps me keep writing and sharing this story.
The Wasteland series itself will remain free to read. I’m keeping the core story open to everyone. Paid subscriptions will include behind-the-scenes author reflections for those who want a closer look at how this world is being built.
If paid support isn’t possible, subscribing for free still means a lot. Sharing, liking, or restacking helps more than you might think, and I’m genuinely thankful for it.
If you’d like to support me directly:
Wasteland: Chapter 6
The driver pulled up to an apartment building.
Not home.
Not quite.
Just a building.
Janius asks, “Why did you give me a ride home?”
Mr. Elliott doesn’t look at her.
“We need to be quick. In and out.”
They pull up outside her apartment.
The engine stays running.
Mr. Elliott follows her inside, walking with a purpose that feels rehearsed. Junior and the driver remain in the car, silhouettes through the glass.
“Don’t ask any questions. There isn’t much time.”
Janius feels it before she understands it.
A shift.
A tightening in the air.
What was happening?
She hated being alone with Mr. Elliott. Trusted him very little. His presence always felt like standing too close to a drop-off in the dark.
He moves fast. Mechanical. Grabbing clothes. Pulling drawers open. Tossing belongings onto the bed.
“Leave anything that can be replaced. You’ll never see it again,” he says sharply.
Never see it again.
The words hang there.
Janius nods. She follows the most confident person in the room — not because she trusts him, but because panic makes confidence contagious.
There is no visible threat.
But his voice changed.
His recent erratic behavior has peaked into something sharper.
Controlled.
Urgent.
She is afraid of what he might do in this state — unpredictable predictability.
And somewhere beneath the fear is a colder thought:
The worst thing that can happen
is she gets left behind.
Janius frantically packs everything she can think of — clothing, books, toiletries…
even her personal massager.
The normalcy of the object makes her stomach twist.
“We need to hurry up,” Mr. Elliott says, closer to panic now.
“Okay. Let’s go.”
She tests the water.
“Can you get that?” she asks, pointing to her luggage.
Mr. Elliott’s subtle glance — barely a second — could have told a whole story.
There’s resistance there.
Pride.
Something calculating.
Janius sees what she hopes to see.
He grabs the luggage.
Struggles slightly with the weight.
Carries it.
That is the answer she needed.
They head back to the waiting car.
She becomes the only servant being rushed away.
Mr. Elliott looks disheveled now. Jacket crooked. Breath uneven.
Something is happening.
Something big.
Normally he would have stared at that luggage until it moved itself.
He never raised a finger.
Watching him strain under the weight eases her — just slightly.
If he’s carrying something heavy, maybe he’s still human.
The traffic is busy.
Headlights blur past.
Horns bleed into one another.
Heavy enough to make Mr. Elliott nervous.
His jaw tightens.
Junior plays his handheld game, oblivious.
Thumbs tapping.
Small electronic sounds leaking from the speakers.
He probably doesn’t even realize he’s in a car.
The driver pulls up to a brown brick building.
Older.
Unremarkable.
Forgettable.
They rush inside.
“Go home for the night. Return tomorrow,” Mr. Elliott instructs the driver.
There is no tomorrow.
You can feel it.
The driver drives off.
Inside: a red door.
Clear windows.
You can see everything.
Stairs.
A hallway.
A small table with mail.
A little bowl for keys.
A mirror above it — to check yourself before leaving the house.
Domestic.
Ordinary.
Next to it, a door leading down into the basement.
The stairs creak faintly under their weight.
The air grows cooler.
Drier.
An average basement.
Exposed framing.
Unfinished walls.
A bar lined with bottles.
Stools neatly arranged.
A gaming table with poker chips and decks of cards.
A red and gold rug beneath it — vibrant. Bright. Perfectly centered.
Too perfect.
Mr. Elliott pulls the gaming table aside.
The legs scrape across concrete.
He goes behind the bar and presses his right eye to a retina scanner.
A soft green glow.
A pause.
Then—
A large mechanism unlocks.
Smooth.
Heavy.
Metallic.
He reaches beneath the rug and pulls open a massive door.
Air rises from below.
Cool.
Filtered.
Wrong.
A tunnel yawns open.
The three enter.
Behind them—
A distinct metallic click.
Final.
Janius gasps as the locking mechanism echoes down the tunnel walls.
It vibrates through her ribs.
Panic hits fast.
Not gradual.
Not rational.
Her lungs forget how to work.
Janius collapses, palms flat against the cold floor.
Concrete against skin.
The thought hits before she can stop it—
This is permanent.
She thinks of the smell of rain on pavement.
The way wind funnels between buildings.
The distant hum of traffic at night.
Ordinary things.
Gone in a single metallic click.
Mr. Elliott and Junior walk the long corridor, leaving her there.
Their footsteps echo.
Then fade.
Janius stays on the floor longer than she needs to.
If she doesn’t stand up, maybe it isn’t real.
Dread spreads slowly now.
Colder than panic.
She knows exactly what happened.
But her mind refuses it.
No.
There will be sirens.
Announcements.
Someone will knock.
This is temporary.
It has to be.
Her thoughts race.
New narratives forming.
Then worse ones.
What is happening outside?
Fire?
Riots?
Silence?
She cannot picture how bad it is going to be.
When the world burned and the air turned unsafe to breathe, the wealthy retreated into bunkers.
Hidden away safely.
While the rest of the world coughed.
Coughed.
Until they didn’t anymore.
It felt like a cleansing.
A sorting.
Getting rid of the unwanted.
Anyone inconvenient.
These bunkers were self-sufficient.
Oxygen systems.
Food crops.
Preserves.
A reactor containing the miracle mineral.
Endless energy.
They didn’t need the outside world.
Everything renewed itself.
Nobody knew where anyone’s bunker was located.
That’s how this one stays hidden.
Not in the wilderness.
In the middle of a city.
Hiding in plain sight.
The dual glass doors are already open when they pass through.
The facility is clean.
Sterile.
Too new.
Offices.
Rooms.
Washrooms for many.
More than three.
Maybe hundreds could stay here.
Janius wonders why nobody else was brought along.
Mr. Elliott walks differently now.
The sharpness is gone.
If you met him before, you wouldn’t recognize him.
There’s happiness on his face.
A smile.
A laugh.
A sigh of relief.
He can finally exhale.
Something changed outside those walls.
And whatever it was—
he was waiting for it.
Maybe he wasn’t cruel.
Maybe he was preparing.
Maybe this was survival.
Or maybe it was something else entirely.
Mr. Elliott plays hide and seek with Junior in the massive underground corridor.
Their laughter echoes.
It sounds wrong.
Janius has never seen him smile before.
It’s calming.
And unsettling.
The cruelty hasn’t disappeared.
It’s just resting.
“You came down,” Mr. Elliott says gently.
“I need to close that glass door now that you’re here. They seal us inside for safety. It’s much worse out there. The world just changed forever.”
He sounds kind.
Caring.
Weird.
He walks her to the door.
“The glass doors need to remain closed at all times.”
The seal engages.
A suction sound.
Air compressing.
A finality.
“I’m truly sorry about this. You are safe here,” he says, almost apologetic.
Safe.
Mr. Elliott shows her to her room.
“You can stay here. Rest. Make yourself comfortable. My room is down the hall. Junior’s is across from yours. There’s food when you’re hungry.”
The hallway smells faintly metallic.
Recycled air.
Janius finally sleeps.
Restless.
Shallow.
Dreaming of wind.
Randy shakes his head as he finishes telling the story.
He doesn’t smile.
I appreciate you being here, reading this, and spending your time with my work. That alone already means something to me.
Growth takes resources—time, energy, care—and I’m trying to give this project as much of myself as I can.
(Every bit helps.)
With gratitude,
Leo
Have typewriter, will travel.
This article lets me know that I do not need to back down in the face of opposition, especially when I require a man's cooperation in getting something done or obtaining something from him.
I am not a fan of oppositional men but I live in a country with a significant Islamic population wherein I meet more than my fair share of such males.
I have learned to have a high frustration tolerance in the face of such men's hostile uncooperativeness. Naturally, this has made me less amenable to doing things men's way in the Abrahamic reality but becoming self-interested and resistant to subjugation.
Hopefully, I will become masterful with each passing day without the attendant feeling of resentment that ensues when people meet a masterful human being used to having her way and taking no prisoners.
I admire your gratitude to such a series 🙏