Toll Road: A Short Story of Murka

by Christopher Keelty

quietly.

  “Please allow me to introduce myself, I’m a man of wealth and taste.”

  The music transported him to a time not very long ago. He remembered warm water and riverboats with brass bands, coal-fired kitchens, electricity, and thick feather beds with down comforters. Kish stopped and laid down the instrument.

  “Sorry,” he said. “It’s not what you wanted.”

  “Actually, that was more like what I wanted than I realized.” Bayle wiped a wet eye. “Took me far away.”

  Bayle lay beside the fire, his body growing loose as it forgot the cold. He propped his head on his knapsack and drew his hood over his eyes.

  “So,” Kish said, tentative. Bayle grunted.

  “Why did you leave Pittsburgh?”

  “Get to Philadelphia. Why did you leave Man Hatten?”

  “That’s not what I mean. What made you decide to leave?”

  Bayle thought about Danny, the cuffs around his wrists and ankles. The growl of the bike engines. “Didn’t like it any more. You?”

  “Same thing, I guess,” said Kish. “Well, not exactly. The city was okay, but I think I’d be happier somewhere else.”

  “Itchy feet.”

  “Yeah.” Bayle couldn’t see the boy, but he could hear a smile. “Itchy feet. I like that. I like the way you talk. Like a cowboy.”

  Bayle laughed. “Never thought of myself as a cowboy.”

  “I guess there’s no cowboys any more,” said Kish. “Funny thing. Or maybe there are, out west somewhere.”

  He got that sing-song voice again. “Heard about Houston. Heard about Detroit. Heard about Pittsburgh, PA.”

  Kish poked at the fire.

  “You ever been to Nollins?”

  “Naw,” said Bayle. “Heard of it.”

  “Supposed to really be something. You can live as a musician there, really live. With a house, and electric. Horses, even. Just playing guitar. You think that’s true?”

  “Don’t know,” said Bayle. “Never heard that, but they say Nollins is a pretty unusual place.”

  “It’s run by the Loas,” Kish said. “They never leave Nollins. Ever heard of them?”

  “Yep,” said Bayle. “Black magic priests. Hoodoo and hexes. Other factions are afraid of them. Heard they accept everyone, though. They don’t care one way or another. Man, woman, black, white, pink.”

  “It’s pretty far, though. A lot further than Philadelphia.”

  Bayle sat up. Kish’s cowboy comment had him thinking.

  “Kish, how far is Philadelphia? Fifteen, maybe twenty mile?”

  Kish shrugged. “Catholics control everything to City Avenue. From there it’s the Dawn. There’s some bloodland in between. The Dawn protect the Quakers. They have to, Quakers are pacifists.”

  “Heard that. To Quaker territory, how far?”

  “Twenty, twenty two miles maybe, to the gate.”

  “Two or three days on foot,” said Bayle. “On horse…”

  “You mean to steal a horse? From Catholics?”

  “Horses. Must be a stable nearby.”

  “For me too, you mean.”

  “Can’t stay here forever,” Bayle said. “Go together, at least we have conversation. Music.”

  “I don’t know.” Kish’s voice cracked.

  “It’ll snow soon. You know what that means? Footprints, all around this hut. Ever hunt in snow? White background makes it easy. Lucky you made it this long, Kish. Don’t push it.”

  “They’re all over the roads.”

  “If we move before sunrise--“

  “They hang horse thieves.”

  Catholics did worse than that, Bayle thought, if the stories were true. The stories told about Catholic horses too, that they were as vicious as the knights and near untamable. Bayle frowned.

  They drifted fast, sedated by the heat and the crackle of the fire. Bayle didn’t dream. His sleep was black sucking tar, and when he woke he felt no rest. The fire had faded to embers, allowing the cold wind in like a serpent. His body felt near-paralyzed, too cold to shiver.

  He fought to his knees, dragged bits of broken furniture onto the coals and rubbed heat into his body as the wood smoldered.

  “Kish, wake up.”

  A flame flickered to life.

  “Kish,” Bayle snarled. The boy raised his head. He was drained of color.

  “You’re freezing. Come to the fire.”

  Kish dragged himself closer and pulled his jacket tight. He tucked his chin to his chest, but snapped to attention then, staring out into the darkness. Bayle frowned.

  “Mmuh,” Kish said. He flexed his jaw, coughing hard. Before he spoke again, Bayle heard it. A familiar sound, aggressive and angry.

  He rose on creaky knees and went to the door. It was night still and the clouds blocked out any stars or moon. White lights moved in the forest, fast like fairy fire.

  “Motorcycles,” said Kish, the word distorted by his sleeping tongue. He scrambled to his corner.

  “Knights of the Coming Dawn,” said Bayle.

  He tried to count engines, but there were too many. He knew there were a lot. It was not a raiding party that approached. It was an army, come to challenge the Catholics.

  Bayle looked around the hog house, grinding his teeth. The Dawn would have the edge by night, but there would be casualties on both sides. He tugged the mattress away from Kish.

  “Get your things,” he said. “We’re going.”

  Kish stared back, cowering.

  “Now!” said Bayle. “Or I go without you.”

  Kish slung the guitar across his back. He moved slowly, reluctantly. Bayle thought to go without him, but he felt pity for the boy. He was a coward, true, but he had passion--and that was something in this world.

  “Stay close,” said Bayle. “Keep low, in the shadows.”

  They moved through the trees toward the creek. The drone had grown to an animal roar, the lights close enough that the forest glowed. At least fifty, Bayle thought. Maybe a hundred or more. Shouts sounded from the broken farm.

  The ground rumbled. Bikes roared across the creek, first one then many. They tore out of the forest, raising a dust cloud that glowed in their headlamps. Bayle realized his mouth was open, his heart racing. Kish pressed himself to the damp earth as if he would sink into it.

  Then came the Catholics, like a cloud from their hill, their thundering horses joining the rumble of the bikes. Bayle realized the two would clash only yards from he and Kish.

  “Back,” he said. “Away from the path, Kish. Now!”

  They stumbled deeper into the woods, across a shallow place in the creek. The freezing water soaked Bayle’s jeans. The impending battle had taken his mind off the cold, but now it was impossible to ignore. Kish whisper-shot a curse as he splashed to the shore. Bayle pushed him to the ground. They were dangerously close to the motorcycles.

  They could see the battle taking shape, illuminated by the swarming headlights. The Catholics split into three groups, roving like packs of wolves. One cut left, one right, and one up the path. They meant to surround the Dawn, thinking the bikers would be confined to the pavement, but Bayle knew better.

  A third of the vehicles split from the group, cutting away onto the grassy hillside. ATVs. Bayle grinned as he imagined the Catholics’ surprise, but the horsemen were not deterred. Engines roared and horses brayed at the factions met. Steel crashed against steel.

  Bayle heard gunshots, saw horses crumple. Some got up, but not their riders. A riderless horse ran into the forest, toward them. Kish looked to Bayle, but Bayle shook his head. He’d lost interest in horses.

  From their left came the sound of gunfire. The ATVs had intercepted a group of Catholics attempting to flank the motorcycles. Muzzles flashed, but the Catholics’ armor was thick and their lances deadly accurate. Two drivers were skewered, their vehicles left driverless. The Catholics curl
ed behind the remaining three. Two horses fell, but that did not deter the others.

  A blast, this one deeper. A scattergun. One of the Catholics exploded like a firework, dropping smoldering pieces in the grass. A second boom, and another Catholic disintegrated. The last caught a driver with his lance, taking the man’s head, and continued to the edge of the woods. His horse reared and whinnied as if asking for more blood.

  The two ATVs turned, their headlights washing over the rider and the forest behind him. Bayle pushed Kish’s head down. The Catholic spurred his horse. Shots roared, but he did not fall. Leveling his lance, he charged the driver on the left. Just before he connected there was a bright flash and a thunderclap. The Catholic fell.

  Their skirmish won, the two ATVs revved their engines and returned to the battle. Two ATVs remained, riderless, engines idling.

  “Come on,” said Kish.

  “Too slow. Not enough gas.” Bayle wanted one of the Harleys. The battle was too tight, though, and he saw none available.

  “Twenty mile to Philadelphia, Kish?”

  “Maybe twenty two.”

  “Come on.” They stayed low and ran to the ATVs. Bayle mounted one. Kish went for the other.

  “What the hell,” Bayle growled. “Kish, you ride with me.”

  Kish turned, crept toward the ATV that now growled between Bayle’s legs, and then froze in the headlights. Bayle froze. He knew what was behind him before he turned.

  The Catholic contemplated Bayle the way a snake might consider a mouse. He towered seven feet at least, his lance held low at his side. Bayle reached behind him, fingering the butt of the revolver. Even if it fired, the bullet would hardly stop the Catholic at this distance.

  “Jesus Christ,” Kish screamed. Bayle hung his head. The