Walk a Lonesome Road

by Ann Somerville

  There’s a little town—barely three buildings, according to Dek’s map—on their route, but their supplies are good after the last stop, and he’d been thinking of bypassing it until Ren comes down with a vomiting bug that knocks him flat for three days and leaves him unable to face the hard, bland rations that’s all they have in their packs. Neither of them have eaten fresh fruit or vegetables since they came off the mountain—ironically there was more edible greenery there than there’s been on the plains—and Dek thinks it’s worth seeing if they can buy any at the store here.

  The place gives him bad vibes from the start. It’s deserted—not in the way Heparnime had been, where it was obvious the residents were just holed up in the warm, but in the way that a town looks when everyone’s gone for good. Dek draws his pistol and holds it at the ready as he tries the door of the small general store. “Locked,” he says. Ren shrugs. They’ll manage, he’s saying, which is true.

  Dek would like to get out of here but there’s a barn behind the store, and the only thing they could really do with is some grain. If the occupants have fled, they probably only took what they could carry, and it might be worth seeing if there are any sacks Dek and Ren can take. Dek doesn’t like to steal from people this poor, or at all, but if they’ve really left for good, then the supplies will go to waste. He can leave money to salve his conscience.

  “I’ll go look,” he says to Ren. “Keep your gun in your hand, fire it if you hear or see anything.”

  “You sure you don’t want back up?”

  Dek looks him over. “You can’t run fast enough. Stay here, look after the animals.”

  Ren nods, Dek waits until he draws his weapon and then walks down the side of the store towards the small, rundown barn. It’s possible it’s used as a veecle shelter, but he’ll know that in....

  A gunshot from Ren’s position, and he whirls, weapon at the ready, only to hear a clipped, “Drop it, put your hands up.”

  Dek obeys. He’s facing a bearded man of about his own age, wearing a ragged uniform and pointing an elderly Pindoni-made Rassel automatic at him. The uniform’s Febkeinze military issue with the insignias cut off, all except a kazmi’s double bars on the pocket and a red lightning bolt crudely stitched on the sleeve. Rebel army. Now he wishes like fuck they’d given this shitting town a miss. “Hi—I was just looking for the owner.” He takes care to make his Pindoni accent particularly thick.

  “He’s not here.”

  “Fine, then I’ll be on my way.”

  The man snorts. “I don’t think so, my friend.” He taps his ear—he’s got a communicator, and unlike the gun, it’s new. “Have you got the other one?”

  Damn it. Ren. “Look, we’re just passing through....”

  “Shut up.”

  Dek hears footsteps and the jingle of urtibes harness, and then sees Ren walking towards them, his hands raised. Behind him another man in rebel uniform is holding Ren’s own gun on him, and leading their animals by the reins. Ren gives him a queasy little smile as he’s shoved alongside Dek.

  “Good work,” the man holding Dek says. Some kind of officer, Dek guesses, from his demeanour—the kazmi bars might be his own, might be those of a man he killed for the uniform. He bends to pick up Dek’s dropped pistol. “You two are coming with us.”

  They’re searched with frightening competency—Dek was hoping they might be amateurs, but everything about them says they’re far from being that—and their knives and wire saws are taken off them. The animals are led off to the barn—when the doors open, Dek hears other urtibes or gekels inside, though he can’t tell how many, and it doesn’t give him any more information about how many soldiers there might be. He’s given little time to think about it as they’re ordered to get moving. If he was alone and in his prime, he’d probably be able to take them both down, guns or not, but his leg is prone to failure at crucial moments, and then there’s Ren to consider. So he lets himself be prodded at gunpoint and forced around the back of the store, because it’s only worth fighting if he can get them both out.

  They’re shoved in through the double doors behind the store, and Dek realises their luck’s run out completely—inside there are at least twenty rebel soldiers holed up, and there’s no way Dek and Ren will be allowed to just walk out now they’ve seen them. The escape routes are the doors and the high windows which may as well be on the moon for all the use they are to them, even if they had their weapons and Ren was capable of running faster than a pardec an hour which he isn’t. They’re screwed.

  As he’s still frantically assessing their non-existent options, his legs are suddenly kicked out from under him, as are Ren’s. Ren falls heavily on his front and can only partially prevent himself landing on his stomach. Dek instinctively tries to help him, covering Ren with his own body, resisting attempts to pull him off Ren. “Leave him alone, he’s sick,” he snaps.

  He’s shoved back with a boot at his weak shoulder, and then the leader’s gun is in his face. “I give the orders here. Who are you and why are you in Febkeinzian?”

  Dek’s distracted by Ren’s attempts to sit up—he sees a soldier raising his boot to kick him and he yells. “Don’t! You could kill him!”

  The leader glances at his soldier and shakes his head. The man drops his foot, but then Dek’s smashed across the mouth and knocked backwards. “That’s your last warning. Answer the question or he dies.” The leader points his gun at Ren who looks craven and cowardly and utterly non-threatening. Acting again, Dek thinks, and wishes Ren just wasn’t this good at it.

  “We’re rock collectors. You can check our packs. We got lost and ended up down here. We were trying to get to Kulite, but now we just want to get to the coast and go home.”

  The leader narrows his eyes, then nods. “Names?”

  “Dekan and Rensire. That’s Rensire.”

  “Well, Dekan, you and your friend are the prisoners of the Febkeinze Liberationists.”

  “What are you going to do to us?”

  The man smiles. “Shoot you if you don’t stop asking questions. On your feet.”

  Dek has to help Ren, though he’s not sure if Ren’s still acting—he’s looking damn pale, but he was before they ran into these people. He’s breathing fast—not acting, Dek decides. Just terrified. He wishes he could offer reassurance, but he can’t afford to piss these people off.

  They’re stripped of their outer gear and forced through a side door into the adjoining building, which seems to be the storekeeper’s home. Dek wonders what happened to the man and his family, and if they were ‘liberated’ or simply fled ahead of the fighting. There are more lounging soldiers in the kitchen, all heavily armed with a motley collection of knives apparently chosen for how impressive they look when used to pick teeth, and rifles, automatics and pistols of varying vintages but all unfortunately completely operational. The only commonalities are the insignia-free uniforms and the red flash on the sleeve—some of the men are undoubtedly deserters, but others look to Dek more like ordinary thugs. The leader, he’s military, no doubt about it, but Dek suspects it’s been a long time since he took orders from someone officially in charge.

  All this he assesses as they’re shoved through the kitchen and into the front room. The sickly smell of faeces smacks them in the face, and the source is obvious—a wounded man on a table, a cushion under his head and a blood-soaked field dressing over his torn gut the only comforts that seems to have been given him. Ren starts as he sees the guy, before glancing quickly at Dek. A mistake, because the leader’s no fool. “You know him? You know about the fighting?” he says, jamming his gun in Ren’s side, and making him cry out in pain.

  “No. He’s a doctor,” Dek says quickly. “Please don’t hurt him—he doesn’t speak Febkeinze. He’s just concerned at seeing someone injured.”

  “A doctor? Then he can save Gimon’s life, and maybe we won’t have to kill you,” the leader says, smiling and baring grotty teeth. “Tell him!”

  “Ren—can you help him?
”

  “I don’t know until I look.”

  Dek relays the answer. The leader drags Ren over to the injured man. “Save him, and you live. He dies, you die.”

  Dek doesn’t say all that. “Can you do it?” he asks. Ren’s already lifting the field bandages and wincing.

  “He needs surgery—even in a hospital, I doubt he’d make it.”

  Not what Bad Teeth needs to hear. “Can you at least try?” Dek asks.

  Ren looks at him helplessly. “Have they got any instruments? Alcohol? Any drugs? I’m not a miracle worker.”

  Impatient with their conversation, the leader grabs Ren’s arm. “I said, help him!”

  Ren turns to him. “You want me to help him? Then help me,” he snaps, and there’s no fear in his voice, just anger. Dek starts to quickly translate on the fly. “He’s got a lacerated bowel—that’s what you can smell. The chances of him surviving this are very slim—and nonexistent if you don’t give me something to work with, some space and some fucking hygiene.”

  The man snarls as Dek translates. “Don’t talk to me like that, you piece of shit.”

  “Fine—let him die. You’re going to kill us anyway.” Ren folds his arms, and Dek holds his breath.

  The man narrows his eyes angrily, and brings his gun up. “You think pointing that at me will change the facts?” Ren says, his lip curling in disgust.

  Dek’s sure they’re about to die. There’s a long, dangerous moment while Ren and the rebel exchange equally determined and poisonous glares, then the man barks an order for two of his men to come to him from the kitchen. “Find out what he needs,” he says, shoving one of the newcomers at Ren, then he walks off.

  Dek gets a list of Ren’s requirements, and the soldier goes off to find them. Three more men saunter in and take up position on the ratty chairs, their posture very clearly saying the prisoners aren’t a threat, but the soldiers will be if anyone tries any funny business. Dek pretends to ignore them, even as he’s noting potential escape routes and strategies, and the fact that the soldier nearest to him has his holster unbuckled, which might give Dek an opening if he can grab the handgun.

  Ren, in doctor mode and not military, turns back to the injured man, checking his vitals. “Can you save him?” Dek asks, quietly because he doesn’t know if any of the guards speak Pindoni. It’s unlikely, but not impossible.

  “Not a hope in hell,” Ren says, giving him a grim look. “He’s going to shoot us. But he’s going to shoot us anyway. Any chance you can take any of them?”

  “One, two, maybe. Not all of them. Not without a gun.”

  Ren nods, strangely calm. “Then that’s that.” He smiles, though it looks painful. “Dek, thank you for all you’ve done. I know you think I’ve...lied, or done something, not sure what. But it’s been an honour to know you. I wish you felt the same, but anyway...I’m still so glad I met you.”

  Dek feels his throat closing up. “We’re not there yet.”

  “No. But soon, and I wanted to say it. Help me talk to this guy, will you?”

  The man’s barely conscious, but in agony nonetheless. He answers Ren’s quiet questions in grunts and monosyllables—Ren doesn’t waste a lot of time asking how he feels, because it’s bloody obvious, and instead offers reassurance that would sound almost sounds credible if the smell of shit wasn’t so thick in the air. There’s nothing Ren can do for the pain except put cold cloths on the man’s forehead. He’s asked for drugs, painkillers, kumozine, anything they’ve got, but Dek will be surprised if they have anything—these guys will have prioritised weapons and food, not medicines. And he’s right—the best the rebels can offer is Dek and Ren’s own medical kit, a few dressings, some knives, kitchen scissors, thread and a bottle of hooch. “It’s no good,” Ren says, surveying the pitiful collection at the other side of the room, out of the patient’s sight and hearing. “It’d be kinder to stick a knife in his heart and get it over with.”

  One of the watching soldiers correctly interprets Ren’s expression and his tone, and shouts a name that Dek realises is the leader’s. The man comes in. “Why aren’t you working?” he says to Ren, raising his gun again.

  “Because I’m not a fucking vivisectionist, that’s why!” Ren hisses, keeping his voice low but losing none of the emotion. “Trying to operate on an unanaesthetised man with no proper equipment is tantamount to torture, and the end result’s the same—he’s going to die. All I can do is not try and make him die in more pain than he’s in.”

  As Dek finishes translating, the leader puts his gun to Ren’s temple. “Do it or you’ll die.”

  “Then shoot me.” Ren’s fists are clenched, but Dek knows that look. He means every word. Dek doesn’t know whether he should admire him or smack him.

  The leader knows people, it seems, because he immediately swings the gun to point at Dek’s gut. “Do it or he dies. In agony, while you watch.”

  Dek refuses to translate, but Ren understands anyway. “I can’t save him. I can’t—no surgeon on the planet could with these tools.”

  “Fine. Then your friend will die alongside him.”

  Ren looks at Dek. “What do you want me to do?”

  The heroic way would be to jump the guy and force a hail of bullets to bring this farce to a swift and merciful end. “You want me to start a firefight?”

  Ren bites his lip. Suicide or suicide. What a choice. “You decide. At least I’m not going to die in prison. That’s more than I expected.”

  Dek nods, his heart clenched at the flat acceptance in Ren’s voice. “If he fails, kill us clean,” he says to the leader. “At least do that.”

  The man nods, for a moment looking almost sympathetic. “You have my word.”

  “Ren? Do what you can.”

  Ren tilts his chin, and then calmly asks for the knives, scissors and thread to be boiled up. Nothing gives away that he’s operating under a death sentence, from the rock steady hands to the even, unhurried way he gives orders, more reassurance to the injured man. He asks for soap and hot water to be brought in and he washes his hands in the bucket with care and attention, as if he really thinks it’ll make a difference if his hands are clean when he operates. The leader watches all the preparations in silence, and when, after the boiled up collection of implements are brought in, Ren motions him and Dek to step back, the rebel agrees without hesitation. Dek wonders why the man’s persisting when he must know it’s hopeless—perhaps for the same reason Ren is. Where there’s life, there’s hope, and a miracle might come, who knows.

  But it doesn’t. Two of the wounded man’s friend’s hold him down at feet and shoulders, though he’s barely conscious. Ren begins to carefully cut off his clothes and the filthy dressing—the smell of bowel becomes overpowering, and one of the lounging soldiers puts his hand over his mouth and makes a run for it. The leader doesn’t even twitch. Dek wonders who this ‘Gimon’ is to him, but he’s unsurprised at the lack of obvious emotion. He’s not going to reveal a weakness to his enemies, even if his enemies are helpless prisoners.

  Ren pours some of the hooch on a cloth, then wipes the skin around the wound, making the patient whimper. He glances at the rebel leader. “You should let him go.”

  Dek translates—the man’s expression doesn’t change. “Get on with it.”

  Ren grits his teeth, picks up one of the smaller knives, and cuts into the wound. The patient rears up and screams behind a muffling hand—Ren hesitates and the leader growls. “Shut up,” Ren snaps, his eyes stark. “I won’t work faster with threats.”

  The man’s eyes narrow. “He won’t,” Dek says. “He’s a stubborn arsehole.”

  “Tell him he’s a dead arsehole if he doesn’t hurry.”

  “He’s going as fast as he can.”

  The man looks about to make another threat, but then he shuts his mouth. Ren’s been paying him no mind anyway. The screaming has muted to moans, and Ren continues, his hands now inside the man’s guts. Dek forces himself to watch, but he can’t help wi
ncing in sympathy for both of them.

  Less than a minute later, Ren throws the knife aside and yells at the soldiers to get the hell away. He starts doing chest compressions on the patient, telling Dek to get over and start breathing support.

  They both know it’s hopeless, but Ren forces them to continue until pure fatigue means he simply can’t keep the compressions going any longer. Dek could drag one of the soldiers in to take over, but there’s no point. “Stop,” Dek says, pushing Ren back. He resists, but then he nods and steps away, his bloodied hands shaking.

  Dek straightens up. “He’s dead,” he says to the leader. “He tried. We both did. You saw.”

  The leader’s expression is unreadable. Ren, ignoring them both, takes one of the kitchen cloths that have been provided for him to wipe his hands, and lays it respectfully and with gentle precision over the dead man’s face. Then, to Dek’s surprise, he makes a gesture over the body, and mutters something that sounds like ‘Travel joyfully’. He straightens and turns to face Dek. “I guess that’s it,” he says, a pained smile on his lips. Dek doesn’t know what to say. It’s over, but it shouldn’t have been this way.

  The leader tells them to step away from the body, his pistol pointed at them. “Remember your promise,” Dek says, reaching for Ren’s left hand.

  “I will.” And there’s almost regret in his eyes, except Dek doesn’t believe the man couldn’t just let them go.

  But as the leader raises his gun, takes careful aim, and Dek braces himself for a shot he probably won’t feel, they get that miracle after all. The window shatters, showering them with glass, and before they can take the least cover, a hail of bullets smashes into the room, through the cheap walls, the door, like they’re made of cardboard, spewing wood splinters and dust and broken brick like shrapnel through the tiny space. The soldiers throw themselves behind the furniture and start to return fire. Dek doesn’t even have to think as he yanks Ren down hard, diving under the table and not carrying which side hits the floor, only that Ren is down. He throws himself over Ren, and covers his head with his arm, while a hellacious firefight goes on over the top of them. What the fuck is going on, he wonders. More rebels? Civilians? Or the army? He thinks about making a run for it while the rebels are occupied, but now there’s gunfire at the rear as well, and the soldiers in the kitchen are responding. Fuck—blocked both ways. The only direction where there isn’t fighting is straight up and unfortunately Dek’s left his wings in his other pants.