Tales of Junction

by Davis IV, John L.

  Filler was leaning against the hog pen, a fence made mostly of old pallets and street signs when he heard a voice behind him.

  “Hail Filler.”

  Filler turned to face the prophet who was once again wearing his long bathrobe, though it was now clean.

  “Nice robe, does that mean you are planning to leave Junction?”

  “Men at some time are masters of their fates. The fault, dear Filler, is not in our stars, but in ourselves that we are underlings.”

  “Johnson, what are you driving at?”

  “Wenches cried and forgave him with all their hearts, if Caesar had stabbed their mothers, they would have done no less.”

  “Johnson, if you are leaving, we can’t stop you, but by taking those girls, you are dooming them to die out there.”

  “And yet you conspire against me.”

  Filler saw the man’s hand flash from his robe, the large knife he held slicing through the air, then through Filler’s left forearm as he deflected the blade. Johnson tried to pull back his hand for another stab, but the fat man held it firmly by the wrist. The prophet swung with his left hand now, the small blade in it went straight through his victim’s hand as he tried to protect his face. The fat man’s right hand closed around his attacker’s fist as best it could.

  Filler was bleeding heavily from the deep cut in his left forearm and while he outweighed Johnson, the man was freakishly strong. Unable to overpower him, Filler pulled him closer until the tip of the large blade began to pierce his shoulder. Instinctively Johnson tried to pull away and as he did, his would be victim shoved hard, sending the attacker back several feet. Johnson recovered his balance and prepared to lunge again. Filler looked around for something to use as a weapon, finding nothing, he prepared for the next onslaught.

  “I come to bury Caesar.” With that he lunged forward.

  Filler braced himself, not sure how well he could fare. Then, as he stood there bleeding, wondering if this was his end, Johnson’s robe seemed to explode as a bullet tore through his chest from right to left. The prophet collapsed in the dirt. Not certain where the shot had come from, Filler went into a crouch and tried to determine its origin.

  Mitch Burton lowered his rifle, walked to where the prophet’s body lay, removed the large knife from its lifeless hand, then sunk it into the base of the skull and up into the brain.

  “Come on, big man. Let’s get you over Doc’s.” Mitch helped the bleeding man to his feet.

  “For the record, Mitch, he came at me.”

  “No kidding? I thought maybe you planted those knives in his hands.”

  “What were you doing back there? Shouldn’t you be at the gate?”

  “I was coming to talk to you. I wanted to remind you that those girls are free to leave if they want. Then I saw you two grappling. Wasn’t sure who the aggressor was until you pushed him away and I saw that big knife.”

  Mitch opened the door without knocking. “Doc, wake up!”

  The physician rubbed his eyes and tried to focus on the men. “What happened?”

  “The president of the Filler fan club has resigned, it seems.”

  Doc inspected the wounds then began to rummage through drawers, setting selected items on a tray.

  “Care to fill in the blanks for an old man?”

  “Our preacher, Johnson, decided to carve the Easter ham a little early this year.”

  “Yeah, I’ll say. Its only mid-March. This is gonna hurt, wanna drink?”

  “Just stitch it up Doc.” Filler winced as Doc, unceremoniously went about the job of closing the large gash in his forearm.

  Mitch watched the proceedings for a couple minutes before asking, “Filler, did Johnson say anything to you, or did he just come out swinging?”

  “Just the usual gibberish. Something about stars and fate and wenches. Why?”

  “He didn’t by chance mention Caesar, did he?”

  “He called me Caesar. Did it when he first got here too.”

  Doc spoke without looking up from his work. “You know what I think? I think he never planned to leave with them girls. His plan was simply to usurp the throne.”

  “What are you talking about, Doc?” Filler’s words were punctuated with grimaces of pain.

  “I think Doc is right. When he first got here, he asked for an audience with Pharaoh.”

  “That crazy bastard!” Filler had finally caught up. “He didn’t just want the girls, he wanted everything.”

  “Bingo.” Doc spoke through clenched teeth as he bit through the thread he’d just tied off. “And as they say, beware the Ides of March.”

  “Looks like you guys are about done, I’m going back to the gate.”

  “Hey Mitch, I know we don’t always see eye to eye, but thanks.”

  “Filler, I didn’t do it for you, I did it for Junction. It’s my job to keep Junction safe. I’ll have the body drug out to the pit.”

  To Be King in the Land of the Dead - Part 1

  1

  Pacing tight circles on the small right-side platform that stood next to the north gate, Laidlaw looked out over the deserted highway, peering into the distance, seeing nothing but heat shimmer on the badly broken, faded blacktop. “It’s bullshit, Burty. I’ve done plenty for that woman and she can’t front me even ten minutes with one of the girls. It’s bullshit, Burty. It really is.”

  Mitch Burton occupied the platform on the other side of the gate. Sitting in the rusty folding chair someone had left there, he propped is feet on the short rail and looked out over the “town” of Junction. He hated being called “Burty”, more so because the name-caller was Frank Laidlaw. “Can you blame her, Frankie? I mean damn, after how you tuned up on the last girl I’m surprised she hasn’t fed you to that gawdamn cat of hers yet.”

  “Man, that was just a misunderstandin’. She went batshit, too. Damn cut still hasn’t healed up yet.” He hiked up the back of his shirt, showing Burton a nasty slash across his lower back, about five inches in length, reddish and seeping. “Hell with that bitch, Burty. I don’t need her stinkin’ ass whores anyway.”

  “There’s always Filler. He’s still got a few girls left.”

  “Eh, me and Filler don’t ‘xackly see eye to eye, on, well… nothin’.”

  “That’s because you’re a fuckin’ shitheel, Frankie,” Burton said. Standing up and stretching he almost laughed out loud at the look on Frank Laidlaw’s face. He kept it in though, knowing one of them would end up at Doc Shoup’s if he started bellowing at the asshole across from him.

  Laidlaw stood with his knees pressed against the low rail, his rifle hanging by its strap. Hands clenched at his sides, he glared across at Burton. With a sudden burst of emotion, he spit out, “Eat me, you damn funker!”

  At this Mitch did burst out laughing, keeping it in no longer. Then both men began to laugh. Insults had been shared, the moment defused and both men returned to their job, which consisted mainly of staring out over the highway and watching the ugly little town.

  Mitch gazed across the town of Junction, eyeing the tiny huts pieced together from tires and tin, wood pallets, brick, whatever a person could find. These huts made up the primary housing of Junction. He could see his, close enough to hit with a rock, sitting squat and forlorn among the rest of the squat and forlorn “homes” spread out on the wide four lanes of the cracked and faded highway. “Damn, I hate this place,” he muttered.

  “What’s that?”

  “Just bitchin’ Frankie, just bitchin.’”

  “What about, Burty?”

  Mitch sighed, wanting to tell Frank to stuff it. “Life in general, man. The shittiness of everything.”

  “Yeah, I hear that,” Frankie said. “You know what I think…” Frankie began as he slapped at the sound of a bee buzzing near his hear. It dawned on him after several swipes that that no one had seen a bee or butterfly in years.

  Peering down the highway, squinting to see through the heat haze he made out the cause of the buzzing, a sh
adow in the distance that crept slowly closer. “Well, I’ll be damned, he came back.”

  “Who came back?” Mitch asked. He stretched again as he craned his neck, following Frank’s gaze down the highway.

  “That kid, uh… Corey’s his name.”

  “Yeah, I remember him. Mouthy little shit, kinda pudgy lookin’ in the face.”

  “Yep, that’d be him.” Frank Laidlaw chuckled, “I’m surprised he’d come back so soon, after he and Tool got into it.”

  “You know how these scavs are, man. Ready to kill each other over a rumor one minute, sharing a whore the next.”

  “Gotta get your tales’ worth of tail somehow!” Frank blew a loud fart and laughed heartily at both his joke and his gas.

  “I’ll wait up here, you go let him in, check his shit.”

  Laidlaw nodded, climbing slowly down the shaky ladder.

  Minutes later the incessant buzzing became a lopsided humming rumble as the worn-out Vespa scooter Corey Balmont drove pulled up outside the gate.

  Frank slid open a small aperture in the larger gate, watching as the man removed the grit encrusted swimming goggles he wore as riding glasses. “Come in slow. Gonna search the cart. You know the drill, kid.” He noticed as the man on the scooter stiffened at the use of the word “kid” and chuckled softly to himself.

  Swinging the gate in just enough for the scooter to scrape through, Frank stepped back and waited for the small trailer tailing behind to clear before quickly slamming it shut again with a loud clang that echoed through the town. He threw the massive bolt, and re-looped a chain connected to it over a hook welded into the frame.

  “Hey there, kid, surprised to see you back so soon.” Frankie walked up to the idling scooter, flipping back the tattered tarp covering the trailer. A couple of gas cans, a battered rifle, several water-stained boxes, and an old rucksack filled the minimal space. “Anything good in here, kid?”

  “Fuck you, Frank, I’m no damn kid.” Corey’s voice was raspy from the long, dry ride. “And no, nothing in there for you, butt-wad.”

  Frank Laidlaw smiled. He usually enjoyed the banter shared with returning scavs, but this kid could get under his skin damned easy. “Get yourself any good ass while you was out there, Corey?” Frank made a point of emphasizing the name.

  “Damn sure did, Frank! Best I’ve had in fuckin’ ages.” Corey smiled at the dark, grinning face looming over him.

  “No shit! Well come on, man, don’t hold out.” Frank’s pulse raced at the thought of a good sex story from outside the gates. Life in Junction revolved as much around the tales the scavs brought back as the recovered goods they returned with.

  “Yeah, man, it was a couple days out,” Corey said, smiling. “I was at your mom’s place. Tapped it hard, Frank. Good stuff for an old woman, I gotta tell you.”

  Franks eyes darkened, his grin turning down, “My mom’s dead, you little prick.”

  Corey flashed a big smile up at Mitch watching from the platform above. Looking back to Frank he said, “Nah, Frank, you dumb Sore, she’s alive, said to give you this.” Corey flipped a middle finger up in Frank’s face.

  Corey’s head snapped sideways with the force of Frank’s open-handed slap, nearly tumbling him off the scooter. The sound rang out with an echoing crack.

  Corey looked back at Frank, then up at Mitch who held his rifle just a little higher. Tears filled his eyes as a thin line of blood traced a path from the corner of his mouth through the sparse stubble to drip from his chin.

  “Better learn to watch your shitty mouth boy, gonna get you more than slapped one of these days.” Frank glared his disgust and turned around, climbing back up the ladder. He knew if he didn’t step away that it would escalate to the point that he beat the dipshit kid to death.

  “Go on Corey, head on over to Filler’s and check in,” Mitch said.

  Corey looked up at both men on the platforms and spat an arching gobbet of blood in Frank’s direction. The scooter rumbled and buzzed down the street, navigating the shacks, going toward Filler’s.

  “Fucking kid,” Frank mumbled.

  2

  The scooter wobbled as Corey swiped at the trickle of blood leaking from his mouth. He probed at the inside of his lip, feeling the cut his tooth had left when that bitch Frank slapped him. “Make you regret that, bastard,” he mumbled into the wind.

  Pulling up to the back of Filler’s place he turned off the key and set the little bike on its kickstand. Grabbing a box from the trailer, he pushed through the back door, into the kitchen area.

  He sat his box next to a large duffel bag lying on the floor in front of the door to Filler’s office. Someone, Filler he assumed, had scratched “Filler Only” into the wood of the door.

  Corey eyed the tally sheet to see if anyone had checked in recently, a sinking feeling in his gut when he saw that both Frito and Tool had been in. He hoped they weren’t still inside.

  Taking up the pen hung next to the list he started to scratch a notation in a spot by his name when he realized someone had crossed through Corey and written bitch-boy above it.

  He scowled but didn’t bother to fix it. “Shitheads, every last one of them.” Seeing Tool again might not be so bad, he really felt like telling someone off.

  He was glad to see that Frey dude wasn’t here. Though he would never say it out loud, that guy scared the shit out of him.

  Stepping through the doors out onto the dining floor he saw Frito and Tool sitting at one of the rickety, scarred tables. He walked up, wiping away the drying blood on his chin and signaled to the girl now bringing three glasses and a pitcher of water to the table that he would pick up the bill.

  “You were gone for a while. How’d you do?”

  Frito glanced at Corey as he rooted around in his jacket, producing a bag of corn chips, which he proceeded to dump into his bowl. “Not as good as I’d hoped. I’m going to owe Filler forever at this rate. Everything to the north is tapped out for at least sixty miles.”

  Tool and Corey both had their doubts about that but left it alone. Each scav chose whether or not to mislead those he competed against. It was part of the game.

  “What about the Sores, did you see many?” Tool asked.

  Corey tuned out the conversation, letting the two talk. His mind wandered back to his exchange with Frank at the gate. Inside the twists and turns of his thoughts he formulated a plan to get a bit of revenge.

  Corey rejoined the conversation when a large shadow passed over the table. “Fat prick.” Corey thought as he looked up at Filler. Without preamble Filler asked, “Who wants a job?”

  Corey waited to speak, having learned from past experience that volunteering for a “job” from Filler could mean just about any damn thing. He listened as Filler bitched about pregnant whores and how much it cost him. Though his ears perked up when the big man mentioned something about getting his bill wiped clean.

  Corey was shocked when Tool burst out with, “You’ve lost your mind!” Speaking to Filler like that was tantamount to asking for a nasty death. Even he knew that.

  Fast, far faster than anyone would ever expect from such a big man, Filler snatched up Tool, yanking him face to face with a fistful of his jacket. Corey was even more surprised when he witnessed a small, wickedly pointed blade appear from the folds of Tool’s jacket and come to rest under Filler’s wobbling chins. Corey’s mouth opened, a snide remark ready to tumble out into the air and risk his life. He snapped his jaw shut, wisely choosing silence over smart-ass.

  The air hung thick with tension for a moment before Filler opened his hands, slowly releasing Tool. “Look, those pilgrims that passed through a while ago said there was a small town with two gas stations about ten days south just off the big road. Those gas stations will have rubbers in the men’s rooms. Probably 400 or more.”

  “Filler, you don’t know that for sure. Those pilgrims probably made the whole thing up just to pay you for their room and meals.” Frito declared.

  Cautiously
, Corey said, “Seriously. You didn’t accept that bullshit as payment did you Filler?”

  Filler explained about a map, and his certainty that there was a town out there. Corey saw on Frito’s face that he wasn’t interested in the job at all. Waiting, letting Tool have first crack at the job, Corey wasn’t let down, besides, he wasn’t in bad shape, as far as what he owed Filler. A few simple runs and he’d be clear.

  Filler and Tool shook on a deal and everything went back to normal, which was mostly tense uncertainty.

  Enjoying a few drinks with the guys, his animosity for Tool buried like the little blade hidden somewhere in the man’s jacket, Corey laughed, shared a few stories and ate before standing up on stiff legs.

  “Where you heading to?” Frito asked.

  “Eh, Gonna go see Janet, I found a little something she might like. Then I think I’ll go talk to Doc Shoup.”

  “Filler’s friggin’ stew making you sick already?” Tool said around a mouthful of the stuff.

  “Oh hell no, I love that shit,” Corey said with a straight face. “Nah, I need to go see Doc because I got this nasty rash on my cock, Tool.” Reaching for the fly on his worn and patched jeans he said, “You wanna see it?”

  Tool flicked a spoonful of brown broth at Corey, “You are just nasty, man!” He said with a laugh.

  Corey danced backward, a smile on his face and darkness in his heart. No matter the camaraderie he shared with the other scavs or the residents of Junction, he despised them all. His smile was always false, his joy at another’s success was manufactured. He did what he had to survive, and sometimes, just a little more.

  Frito lifted a hand as Corey walked away, heading out through the kitchen door, to the back where his scooter waited.

  Crossing over the highway to the motel sitting almost directly across the four lanes from Filler’s, Corey flicked a glance up at the guards on watch. It didn’t miss his notice that Burton virtually dismissed him by looking away, and Laidlaw spit over the rail, an unmistakable sneer on his face.