by Pete Aldin
"Oh. She told you."
"She hardly speaks, you know that. No, I worked it out. All on my own." She batted her eyelids. "Ain't I clever?"
"Well, use some of that cleverness to help me figure this out."
Sobering, she straightened in her seat, staring forward. "What the hell is wrong with the human race? Seems like fighting slavers at Settlers Downs is becoming a habit. Feels like déjà vu. How'd we do this last time?"
"We used what we had."
"And we teamed up with complete strangers. With a common interest."
"You want to go get some of Jericho's ... workers?" He almost said peasants.
"No. I was just thinking. It'd be nice if we had allies. Why can't the other damn factions near us be friendly, instead of marking out territory?"
"Like you said: what's wrong with the human race?"
"Well, maybe a miracle will happen. Maybe we'll stumble across whoever wrote bullshit on that sign."
"Someone put barricades across the roads in Birns River Bridge."
"You're thinking of joining up with them? It was probably Vikes."
"I'm thinking of the barricade. It's a good idea. To beat the SERPs, we need to get them somewhere we control the conditions. Even if Kyle only took one truckload of men, there's a lot more of them than you and me."
"One truckload of men and women."
"Men includes women."
"People includes women. Staff, team members, soldiers, dumbasses—those designations include women. Men means men."
"Fine. Let's call them SERPs. Anyways, I'm considering ambushing them."
"Okay. I like that. Tell me more."
"I will. When I get the ideas straight in my head."
"Not wearing my tiger-print bra, this time, sorry."
He grinned briefly. The smile turned to scowl as he was forced to crank hard on the wheel to turn onto a connecting road; the BearCat was a real bastard to control. "I'm open to other ideas."
"Because we worked so well together the first time we met."
"Because we did."
"This is where you say, 'And because you're really clever, Angie, even if you never watched Discovery Channel.'"
He repeated it dutifully.
She pretended surprise. "Was that a compliment? I think I heard a compliment."
Stick around, he thought and brushed his knuckles across her hair. You might hear more.
18
On a wide stretch of flat highway, Angie stirred and said, "You're very quiet there. Planning that ambush?"
The sun was fully above the trees now. And Elliot was not thinking of solutions. Elliot was driving on autopilot. Elliot was somewhere inside his own head, thinking about the smell of cordite and of opened stomach cavities. Thinking about how distant the whump of an explosion could sound, even when it was only a couple dozen metres away from you. And he was beginning to think that he should just accept these kinds of things as the way of the world, as normal. There'd be more of it, that was certain—a lot more. Blood. Screaming. More unnecessary bullshit. And he'd be causing some of it, hopefully all of it.
"Elliot?"
He patted the automatic rifles snug in the weapons-bracket between their seats—he'd stowed the .22 in back. "I was thinking how we all get dealt our roles in life."
"Our ... roles?"
"Sure. Like a movie. We get a role and then we play it out."
"Okay?"
"You asked."
"Go on."
"So, it doesn't matter whether we like them or not. We can try and pull away from them. But the Universe pulls us back into them. It won't let us off that hook."
She gave him a quizzical look. "And?"
"Well. Your role is to build community, hold it together. Like Claire." Well, she wasn't much like Claire. "Kind of."
"And?"
"Mine's to do the dirty work. So ... you should let me do the dirty work." Then she wouldn't have to have the ghostly carnival of sights and sounds and stinks that he lived with all the time.
"Bullshit, Elliot." He blinked at her. She said, "Your role is to lead. Your role is to get the rest of us to help you fix this."
"Now who's talking bullshit. When I try to lead people, most times they end up dead."
"Most times? You have actual statistics on that? Look, do not start doubting yourself. And do not try and sideline me again."
"I'm not doubting myself. Trust me, I know what I'm doing when it's just me. I'm better when it's just me. And I'm not saying it's my fault people I knew died. Sometimes they had their own trouble. Sometimes they were dumb. Or as unlucky as that wallaby was lucky just now. Sometimes some other sonofabitch did it to them, like they did to Jimmy. But ... you know ..."
"What?"
"What if I get you killed? What if I can't stop it?"
"You already did stop it, you ... you dumbarse. You kept me out of the Death Druids' hands three years ago."
"You did that."
"You did it, too."
"It was teamwork. You worked as hard as I did."
"Exactly. And now you've walked into your own logic trap. Like we said before: we work well together. So we're gonna work together. And hell, if I die today or tomorrow, then I've already lived a few years longer than I might have—and I've certainly lived free. Some of that, sure, I did for myself. Also, you helped me. You led me. You led Lewis and Dylan and Heng. And you've led Settlers Downs from the sidelines ever since. Get used to it, dumbarse: this is your role in life."
"But—"
"Discussion over." She rummaged at her feet, in the box they'd taken from the back of the truck, came up with a water bottle and sealed jar of dried pears. "Breakfast?"
"Good talk," he muttered.
⁓
The thing Elliot liked most about the BearCat-analog was the frankenstein-modifications. Following the precept of You Can Never Have Too Much of a Good Thing, the SERPs had indeed welded plates across the tires to within a couple of inches off the ground to dissuade sniping. It meant zero off-roading, really, where uneven terrain might jam the plates into the earth, but for road driving it was smart. They must have had a heavy-duty hoist somewhere to raise it for tire changes. The plates across the front wheels were curved like cupolas to allow for turning, steering. Better, the cow catcher meant he could keep his speed up. Some of the obstacles forcing careful driving or detours on the journey to Jericho presented little challenge now. Others had already been cleared, testimony that Kyle's convoy had been along this route.
Retracing their steps through Ross and Campbell Town, he filled in more details as Angie asked about them. The wipers swished against a light rain shower.
Ten kilometres out of Campbell Town, she started oiling the knife from the ballistic vest's sheath. "What d'you think they did with Woodsy? Is he going with 'em?"
"He'll be alive. It makes sense to keep him that way. So, yeah, probably."
"He might die in friendly fire. When we start shooting."
"He knew the risk. He wanted to be a hero. He signed up for whatever came of it."
"He's one of us, Elliot."
"He's not. His big mouth has put all our people in danger." He could see her staring at him out of the corner of his eye. "I mean, the man endured getting the ends of fingers clipped off, for Christ's sake, and then after that's over, he goes and gives them all up. Jesus Christ."
"It was for Jimmy." Her fingers brushed his arm before returning to their work. "You wouldn't do the same if Lewis was threatened?"
He ground his teeth together. After a while, he murmured, "That's not fair."
"Not fair that I'm right? Or not fair that you can't justify hating Woodsy?"
"Sorry I brought it up."
"He's not a bad guy."
"He's a moron."
"And he cared about Jimmy like you care about Lewis." Her fingers were back on his arm. "Like a son."
"Son," he snorted. He shifted in his seat, leaning over the wheel. Goddamn, but his back was getting stiff dr
iving this beast. It sure as hell wasn't built for long trips. "Simple arithmetic. I wouldn't have given you all up. Not even for Lewis."
"Not even for me?"
He squirmed some more, dislodging her hand from his arm. "Sorry, but no."
"You don't know that." If she was hurt she didn't sound like it. She sounded—he risked a glance—and looked calm.
"Let's drop it," he said. Conversations like this—where he was being asked to compare the woman to something else, or to make some kind of promise—shit, historically these were often where relationships started going south.
"Nope," she replied.
"What!"
"I said nope. This is a necessary conversation. It could be me one day sitting where Jimmy was sitting, with you in Woodsy's seat. Or vice versa." She sheathed the knife, dropped down in her seat enough to prop her feet on the dash. "And I get the arithmetic thing. I really do. Far as I'm concerned, if they're pressuring you to put good people at risk or it's my head, you let them shoot me. Or I'll never forgive you. I can live with a lot of things on my conscience, Elliot, but not with knowing I got good people killed. And if the seats are reversed, and they want me to give up Lewis and the others or they'll shoot you, I'll let them shoot you. Got it?"
"Yeah. I got it."
"Deal?"
He settled back from hunching over the wheel. "Hundred per cent."
"Right. Good." They drove in silence a long while before she added, "But if it's a choice between adults dying and our kids dying, it's not so easy to choose. Not for me. And I know not for you. That happens, and I guess we do what we have to."
"Fair enough."
"Like Woodsy did."
"Fair enough."
"Lewis is one of our kids. And Jimmy was, too."
Damned Woodsy had put everyone in the worst situation possible, and himself along with them. He'd sacrificed everything to save Jimmy. And Jimmy got bit anyway.
Elliot slowed, ready to swerve around a plastic planter box blown onto the road, then changed his mind and sped up to plow on through, demolishing it.
"This goddamned world," he said.
19
The rain shower passed as they coasted down the mountain road toward the Birns River. Exhaustion and grief applied pressure to Elliot's temples; he wasn't certain if the buzzing in his muscles was the after-effects of adrenaline, of his tasings, or of lack of sleep. Probably all three.
"What?" Angie asked.
He realized he'd muttered a thought out loud. "Telling myself I can sleep tomorrow."
"Oh. Yeah." She yawned and flexed her hands, her arms. Then reached over to massage one of his shoulders. "Sorry. I should drive."
"Let's get through Birns River first."
At the bottom of the hill, he stopped before the bridge. "You got binoculars?"
She dug some from her pack.
The glasses didn't reveal anyone across at the shopping precinct. What they showed was a wide gap in the Main Street barricade. Something had pushed its way through from this side, shoving two car bodies clean out of the way. A big vehicle could do that in low gear, an earth-mover, or a BearCat like his.
Yeah. His fingers squeezed the steering wheel. Mine. He handed her the binoculars then patted the MCX on his side of the rack. Mine also.
"This Kyle guy did that?" Angie had the glasses to her face.
"He'll have at least one truck like this."
"Well, at least that's confirmation he's headed for our place." She kept the glasses on her lap and picked up her Glock with its big fat C-MAG. "Might finally get the chance to use you, big girl."
"Let's be careful waving guns over there." He put the truck in gear, steered it onto the bridge, crossing slowly. "If those Vikes are around, we want them to help us."
"Wait. What?"
"I've been thinking ..."
"And you couldn't have thought that out loud? I think we call that conversation."
"Sorry."
"So, you've been thinking what?"
"That if they hang around this town, maybe they'll help us."
"The Vikes. How about we stick to you and me doing it?"
"Problem is I can't see you and me pulling off what I have in mind."
"Oh, you've been thinking a lot, haven't you? So you'll tell me about this big plan you're developing?"
"Some time." He forced a light-hearted brow waggle. "Every relationship needs suspense."
"Gimme a break."
At the junction of bridge and tarmac on the other side, Elliot put the shifter into neutral, engaged the handbrake. The PA/Siren controls were in a small panel in the center dash. He flicked the dial selector to the PA setting, adjusted the volume, hoped the SERPs weren't taking a break nearby and lifted the handset. Depressing the thumb-switch caused a squeak from the speakers set behind the front bumper. He released it, chewing his lip, and passed the handset to Angie.
"Me?"
"Not to sound sexist, but a female voice might be less threatening to any Vikes in town."
Her shoulders hunched in irritation, but she said, "Probably right."
With the handset to her chin, she thumbed the switch. "Hello, Vikes. Calling all Vikes. Any Vikes out there today?" Her tone made their name sound like a cuss word.
"Try saying 'Vike' a little nicer."
She scowled and tried again. "We probably look like the faction that smashed your road block. We're not. In fact, we hate those fucking people's guts because they're on their way to hurt our people. So we're on our way to kill the fucking bastards. Before they hurt our friends, preferably. If you're out there, we could use your help." She passed the handset back. "That's all I got."
"Not bad," he said and concentrated on scanning nearby windows, the park, alcoves and hideaways down along both streets.
Angie's mention of their friends brought his concerns crashing back. What the hell was happening at The Downs? Did they have Lewis and Alyssa in their truck already? Had they—?
Cease this shit right now. The job. Mind on the job. Nothing else. Concentrate.
Angie had the glasses up again, for all the good they'd do this close in. "Damn big house up there on the hill. Maybe they're up there? Wanna go check?"
"Remember I told some of you about a guy named Jock?"
"...Yeah?"
"That's his house."
"Ah." She put the glasses on the floor. "Screw that."
"No movement," he said. "One more try?" He offered the handset.
She didn't take it. "Your turn."
"But—"
"You have a nice speaking voice."
"Goddamn liar." He hit the switch. Fumbled for words for a moment, let the switch go.
"It's not that hard," she said. "Just talk, dumbarse."
He took a breath and tried again. "I once met a guy named Spider. At a creek. Had a good talk. If Spider's there—or if he told you about me—then you know I'm no danger to you. I'm the American guy."
Angie chuckled. "I think they've worked that last part out."
He continued, "Our people are in danger from a bunch of assholes who'll one day put your people in danger, too. If you're up for helping us, and thereby helping yourselves, show yourself now. We leave in two minutes." He put the handset away and reflexively checked his watch before remembering it wasn't there; the SERPs had taken it. The dash clock read 10:44.
At 10:45, Angie said, "Well, at least you got to play with your loudspeaker toy." Then she froze, staring forward.
There were three of them.
Directly opposite and in line with the bridge, the road continued, cutting across Main Street to bisect the town. The three men had appeared from the properties down that way, forty metres past the intersection. They wore tight denims. No shirts, despite the cool weather. Tattoos covered their torsos. All were bearded and they'd shaved different areas of their scalps. The two to his left were stocky; they wore sneakers. The guy on the right was skinny, but not like the workers in Jericho: his arms and stomach and shoulders w
ere well-defined; there simply wasn't an ounce of fat on him. Even at this distance, Elliot could see his naked feet were brown with mud. And he looked familiar, like he could have been the fella he spoke to across the creek that time.
They all had a bow slung over one shoulder and a quiver over the other. One of the stocky guys held something in his right hand.
"Is that a—?"
"Boomerang," Angie confirmed, the binoculars to her face. "Viking-wannabes carrying an indigenous Australian weapon: how do you spell incongruous?"
"Who is he, Zombie-killer Dundee?"
She lowered the glasses. "He's a whack-job, my dear. A nutcase. They all are. They're dressed like cosplayers and they do drugs. Let's get out of here and do this ourselves."
Elliot shook his head. "I have to try. I need more people." He cracked open the door, causing the men to flinch. Holding his empty hands high, he shouldered it open and slid out. He left one hip and shoulder in the cover of the door, painfully aware that Angie wore the ballistic vest now. Still scanning the store windows nearby, he called, "Willing to help us?"
The skinny one opened his mouth to say something but the guy with the boomerang got in first. "Help you what, exactly?"
"Ambush those pricks."
"What's in it for us?" The boomerang-wielder tapped his chest with the stick.
"Apart from protecting your people? Apart from making friends of us?"
"Nice voice, remember," Angie warned from the cabin. "Make friends and influence people."
Swallowing the quick eruption of temper back down, he called, "Half the haul if you want it. We just want our people back."
Boomerang-wielder gathered his mates into a tight huddle where they argued in harsh whispers.
"Shit, they're gonna take all day," Elliot muttered. Angie echoed his sentiment with softly spoken curses. "Leaving now," he called to them. "You in or not?"
The huddle broke up with the boomerang-carrier stomping off up the street away from them. The other two seemed to forget him instantly, venturing closer until Elliot was sure the skinny one was "Spider".
"How do we know you're safe?" Spider said. "How do we know you're not on their side?"
"Have you ever met those guys?" Elliot replied.