by DMJ Aurini
Behind him marched the rest of the patrol, male and female, all of them his ‘Boys!’ armed with shotguns and rifles. The wagon train was pulled by a group of oxen, with a constable at the reigns. The ancient oil tankers had been taken from rail cars and strapped down to truck beds. None of the wheels matched, but the wagons rolled smoothly.
Clouds were beginning to form, blocking the midmorning sun. It was a two hour journey to the electrical plant, and already the smell of rain was in the air. The Mennites might welcome it, but he wouldn’t mind if it held off for a few hours.
They were leaving the ruins of a prewar town, entering the blowing fields beyond. A line of water shimmered off to their left.
The bark of gun fire shattered the calm.
Dupont hit the ground. The constable he’d been talking to jerked once before crumpling. He heard the shouts of the others as they moved to return fire.
The building where the shots were coming from was set back from the road, fifty meters distant. It was burnt out from an ancient fire, its red bricks soot streaked, its windows gaping maws. Muzzle flashes lit up the lower storey, sparking the darkness. Bullets ripped through the air, ricocheting off a wall behind him and penetrating the tankers, ringing hollowly.
Dupont returned fire, aiming at the muzzle flashes. Things were moving too slowly; he was going into a panic, powerless to stop it. Not knowing whether his shots had connected, he got up, running for cover behind the wagons. He was the Sergeant; he needed to rally his boys so they could return fire effectively.
A fist hit him hard in the back and he started to fall. His right arm turned to rubber and he lost hold of his weapon. Time was still moving slowly and he could feel the rifle rotating under him; he wanted to grab it but his left arm was too far away, twirling in the air in a futile attempt to recover balance. The weapon jammed under his left side as he hit the ground, digging into his armpit as his jaw slid against the asphalt.
He tried to get up but his muscles wouldn’t respond. He tried to call out but he’d been winded. He gasped like a fish, and his chest wouldn’t move.
There was a sudden stabbing pain in his ribs and his muscles awoke, sending a violently shiver down his body. A pathetic yelp escaped with his first breath; he’d been shot. He twisted his head to the left. He could make out the dying cries of his boys, the glug and splash of petroleum as it poured out the bullet holes, and the terrified bellows of the oxen. The fight couldn’t be over already. He wanted to shout something, anything, but his chest wasn’t working properly.
Blood loss – Dupont was getting cold, light headed. He needed first aid. He could get up – he needed to! – but he couldn’t summon the will. The petroleum was hypnotic; transparently green, it splashed in a shower of droplets as it hit the pavement. The pavement was hot on his cheek…
His senses were dimming and losing focus. I need to move, he levered his good arm under him, pushing, hearing somebody scream in pain, when all of a sudden a boot kicked his shoulder, flipping him over and bringing things back into focus. He looked up to see a giant standing over him, silhouetted by the sun, teeth glinting in a smirk.
Dupont’s last thoughts were frustration over his inability to raise his arms in defence as the giant raised a pistol and aimed between his eyes.
Chapter 13
Wentworth stared at the pint glass in front of him. He rubbed his thumb down its side, clearing away the condensation and watching the droplets flow. “I think… that the War let us understand tragedy. More so.”
On the table between them a cigarette burned away. Its smoke curled up, then plateaued and spread out horizontally. Both of them held fresh cigarettes from the same pack and he couldn’t tell whose it had been. He left it smouldering.
* * *
It had taken them five days to reach Hope on the southern coast of Lake Simcoe. They’d been moving at the speed of the slowest cattle, trying to keep the herd together. Eventually they’d arrived at a moderate-sized hub, the Eastern tip of local civilization. Vince had gone straight to work finding a buyer for the herd. Raxx and Wentworth had disappeared into the local bar.
* * *
The waiter came over to bring them another pitcher and ask for the tab. He was short and disproportioned, with an enormous jaw. His face looked like a plough. It wasn’t clear whether his slurred speech was due solely to the deformity or if retardation was playing a part. Wentworth was thankful that they managed to pay without incident.
Raxx was staring across the bar, watching a pair of blind musicians on the bar’s stage. One played a broken beat on bongo drums, while his partner shook a tambourine like a rattlesnake.
Wentworth nudged him again.
“If anything I’m surprised there aren’t more cases like him,” he looked towards the waiter, “genetic damage.”
“The midwives usually catch ‘em,” Raxx was leaning back against the wall with one leg stretched across the bench, “Take ‘em to the river. His probably showed up a few years too late.”
* * *
They were sharing a room at the inn Vince had recommended; a favourite with merchants for the dining hall that served breakfast and dinner. It was a three story affair with a stucco exterior, but the local water tower – the source of Hope’s water pressure – was only two stories high, so the third floor was empty. The walls were streaked with dark rivulets from the infrequent rains, and the garden which had once circled the building was long dead. The earth was dry and pockmarked.
Vince was staying with a friend named Maria.
Their room had no bed frames, just a couple of mattresses with faded covers. Two low-wattage bulbs, one in the bedroom and one in the bathroom, turned on at sunset and turned off at midnight. The local power – confusingly referred to as ‘Hydro’ – had no billing system so it was effectively free, but that didn’t mean that the citizens of Hope would be overly generous with visitors.
Outside a sign of cracked and sun-bleached plastic lay in the center of the dead lawn. In stylized letters it read off a ubiquitous, forgotten name. It lit up red during the night.
* * *
After Tracy’s Roadhouse served last call they returned to their room at the inn. They lay on their respective mattresses passing a bottle of whiskey back and forth staring at the stars through the window. They drank in silence.
Wentworth knew this feeling. In front of him the ground had fallen away. Behind him paranoia whispered that a bulldog was circling; profound apathy with flashes of adrenaline. Depression and fatigue closed around his heart like a purple glove.
“It was the rai’tion sickness ‘t did it,” he slurred, speaking to himself, “The deaths. Stuff in the air, stuff in the barrels. It got ‘em way before we showed. Hah. Lotta good… I saw you after, after the fight. Did as much as you could. Did good.”
Raxx responded. “I was shakin’, man. I was shakin’ bad. I couldn’t hardly stand.” He took a heavy swig from the bottle and passed it back to Wentworth, “Is fucked. Just fucked, man. Like they never ex-sisted . . .”
They continued to stare at the sky through the sandblasted window. The moon was rising.
“. . . like they’s gone from history.”
* * *
How many days had he been like this? Three… four? He’d lost count.
* * *
The dream was unexpected. The events were long passed yet here he was in their midst. Confusion, yelling, rising tensions – the locals were screaming out their cries, confrontational and inflammatory; the meat of their protest was vague and unimportant.
He could smell the armpits of the man next to him. Sweat beaded on his brow.
The order came down. He and his fellows raised their rifles, taking a point of aim. The cries continued with a fierce determination.
The first crack of gunfire came from the protestors – at least, that was how he remembered it. Somehow he was aware of this factual ambivalence, even in the midst of things. Instinct drove him to a kneeling position as he reflected on it. Spe
nt casings rained down around him in slow motion, bouncing off of him, hot where they struck his face, a tinging rainfall on the ground…
The locals jerked into silence with the squeeze of his trigger.
* * *
He awoke with a start, reaching for a rifle that wasn’t there. Looking over he saw it lying in the corner where he’d left it days ago, uncleaned. Raxx was already up, sitting in the room’s only chair, smoking. He looked freshly showered. Above him the ceiling fan spun lazily, dispersing the light.
Wentworth looked down and noticed that his right hand was covered with dried blood. With his left he felt his face for tender spots, but couldn’t find anything aside from his hangover.
“Did we get into a fist fight last night?”
Raxx shook his head, “You got angry on the way back from the bar. You saw an old newspaper box and decided it was everything wrong with the world.”
“Huh. How’d I do?”
Raxx managed half a smile. “You kicked its ass, man.”
* * *
“You’re all fucked up.”
Wentworth looked over to see that Vince had sat next to him at the breakfast table. The other residents had been decent enough to sit a few seats away.
“How’s your hand?”
“It’s okay.” He’d cleaned and bandaged it a couple days back. There didn’t seem to be any tendon damage. “Just cut it up a bit.”
When he didn’t say any more Vince spoke again. “You’re all fucked up.”
Wentworth put down his fork and stared at his plate. He leaned back in his chair and ran a hand through his hair, “Sure I am.”
“I meant both of you. I heard you’ve been drinking your skulls off each night at the Roadhouse. Where is Raxx, anyway?”
“Sleeping. He finished a bottle of rum to himself last night. I said something that upset him. Not sure what.”
Vince sighed, “I suppose you know there ain’t nothing more you could’ve done for those folks?”
Wentworth nodded. Vince was a million miles away.
“Lad – I didn’t know what to think of you at first. I’d heard the rumours… but you showed me different. You ain’t what they say you are. Least, not to those that don’t deserve it.
“You done everything you could – and you hardly knew those people! What happened afterwards weren’t your fault. So why are you killing yourself over it?”
Vince’s plaintive tone stretched out, ruining his digestion, and interrupting his thoughts. It hadn’t been the deaths; it hadn’t been the violence; it hadn’t been the blame, spoken or otherwise – as if Blackstock would keep him up at night, even if it were. All Blackstock had done was underscore the sheer meaningless of it all. It had been meaningless back then, before he’d struck out on his own, and it was meaningless now.
He could see the broken puppet strings. Raxx had been right – the Hellhounds were nothing more than remnants of the war, as were he and Vince, as were the citizens of Hope, as was everything that was left… Violence begets violence. One of the protestors had said that. His rifle and his eyes: keeping him alive to watch the last bits smoulder to ashes…
Vince hadn’t stopped talking. “Now I ain’t trying to pry, or tell you what to do, but I hope you’ll listen to a bit of advice from an old man who’s knocked around a bit and might have seen a thing or two. Taking on the Hellhounds the way you did… even if I didn’t know the rumours, it’s obvious this wasn’t your first fight, aye? You know what this is, then – you’ve got the battle shakes.”
Wentworth had a different word for it, but Vince was essentially right. He nodded, impassively.
“Lad, being a trader ain’t so safe in some areas. Vince here’s been in a few scrapes, and he knows how they can mess you up. And some things never go away…” he stopped, his fists clenching involuntarily, “…but you still got your responsibilities. You know I had to go and talk to Bill and Verizon’s people when we came back…” he sighed, and exhaustion set over him.
“Truth be told, you ain’t really the one I’m worrying about. You know where you’re at, and you’re just sitting there ‘cause you feel like it. After you’ve had enough hangovers to suit yourself, you’ll climb out of your hole and get on with things. You could do it today, only you don’t want to. It’s Raxx that I’m worrying about…” the man who builds machines, “…he’s a good lad, who’s never been in a mess like that. And he really knew those people. He’s going through the same stuff as you, only worse, and he doesn’t know how to get out. You oughta be helping him, not wallowing.”
Vince poured himself a cup of coffee and leaned back.
After a moment Wentworth leaned back as well, gripping the rails of his seat, half ashamed at what he was about to say. “Yeah, Vince… you’re right.”
The merchant poured milk into his coffee.
“You’re right… about Raxx. He’s doing rough right now. On a lot of levels. I’ll help him out of it.” Vince took a sip. “The man saved my life back there; I’ll bring him out of this. He deserves it.”
Vince gave a slow nod. “Wentworth, why don’t you and Raxx go explore Hope for the day, then come over to Maria’s for dinner tonight? I’ve mentioned what you guys did for me and she wants to meet you. Hey,” he stood up and slapped Wentworth on the shoulder, smiling, “You did good, lad. Aye?”
“Aye.”
* * *
“Wake up.”
Raxx groaned and threw his arm over his eyes.
“I brought up some coffee, and I’ve got my canteen right here. Drink up. You’ll feel better. Oh, and this might help.” He handed Raxx his sunglasses.
Raxx struggled up into a sitting position, put on his sunglasses, and downed the offered canteen in three long, gulping swigs. “Gah. You said something about coffee?”
Wentworth handed him the aluminium canteen cup he’d filled downstairs. They wouldn’t let him bring up a mug. He gave Raxx time to drink and offered him a lit cigarette before he spoke. “So how long have we been drinking now? A week?”
“At least.”
Wentworth nodded to himself and stubbed out his cigarette. “Much longer and we’re going to have critical liver failure. I was thinking we could walk around town today. Get you a hotdog or something. The kitchen’s closed downstairs.”
“Yeah. Yeah, alright. Sounds good man.”
“Good. I’ll meet you downstairs in fifteen.”
Chapter 14
Hope was built around a large public square. An abstract pattern of red and white bricks paved the ground, circling a two tiered fountain. Tiny droplets broke off from its jet of water, drifting through the air, while the rest filled the upper basin before pouring down into the lower. Children jumped and splashed while their parents gossiped on the surrounding benches.
Along the outer perimeter of the square were market stalls, haphazardly arranged with paths breaking through to the buildings behind them. In the north and south were gaps for supply trains. The square was filled with people enjoying the midday sun, the shouts of children playing, and the smells of stone, sweat, and cooking bread.
At one of the benches sat Raxx and Wentworth, chewing on their hotdogs and sweating. Even with their eyewear the light was aggravating their hangovers, but the heat was good nonetheless.
“So,” said Raxx between bites, “What do you think this is? Rat or opossum?”
“Uh-uh. This is dog. You can tell from the tang.”
“It’s too soft to be dog. I’ll bet it’s opossum.”
“Nuh-uh,” said Wentworth with a full mouth, “Dog. Boiled it.” He finished his and pulled a donut out of the bag sitting between them. He leaned back on the bench, stretching out one arm along its rail, and took a bite.
Raxx finished up. “Those were good,” he said, pulling out a donut of his own. They ate in silence, enjoying the atmosphere.
Raxx took a deep breath and let it out slowly, feeling the fats and sugars replenish his system. “Ya know what man? This is the reason we we
re drinking in the first place. This,” he swept his arm vaguely at the square, “places like this. They’re still around in the world, ya know?”
Wentworth nodded, still eating. The sun was hot on his face but a sprinkle of water drifted over from the fountain, beading on his goggles and cooling him.
Suddenly Raxx shifted from his comfortable position. His brow creased, and he looked pensive. Finally he spoke. “Listen, man. There’s something that’s been bugging me. Something I don’t get. What I want to ask – what I’ve been wondering, is – why did you help me out back there? In Blackstock?”
Wentworth finished his donut. “That’s a good question.” He chewed his lip, and stared out at the crowd. Seconds passed and he was still reclining. Raxx grew impatient. He was about to ask again when Wentworth started forward, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket.
“You know, you can always recognize ‘em, can’t you? The derelicts always stand out.” He pulled out a cigarette with his teeth and searched his pockets for a lighter. Raxx followed his gaze to the pair of shabby men skulking by one of the booths. Their faces betrayed them, showing that they didn’t belong there, that they were forever lost to society. Desperation, fear, and guile sulked within their features.
Wentworth lit his cigarette before going on. “It was strange at first… the derelicts treated me different. Started talking to me. Wanted to tell me their stories... you know what I mean?”
Raxx nodded slowly, “Yeah, man, I met a few. Them and their ‘My People’ stories. That’s what I call ‘em. They always start by saying ‘Back when I was with My People.’ Then they ask for money, or start poking at my truck.”
“Heh. ‘My People.’ That works. But, yeah, you can always pick ‘em out. Even in the dirt towns where they’re all dressed the same, you can still tell which ones are the locals and which ones are the derelicts.” He let out a breath of smoke. It lingered in the air until an errant breeze dispersed it. He looked down at his feet and continued speaking. “Why’d I help you out? Maybe because I’m not one of them, not a derelict. I don’t know. I can tell you one of those “My People” stories, though, if you want.”