As I Walk These Broken Roads br-1

by Davis M. J. Aurini

  As I Walk These Broken Roads

  ( Broken Roads - 1 )

  Davis M.J. Aurini

  Out of the irradiated wastes comes a soldier. On the far edge of the trade routes, in a small farming community, there lives a mechanic. Two men from a previous era, surviving through steel and cunning in a world of degenerated philosophy; a world where the old tech is treated with savage, animistic worship.

  A storm is coming. When civilization is scattered and broken, what is a man supposed to do?

  How is a man supposed to live?

  AS I WALK THESE BROKEN ROADS

  A Novel by D.M.J. Aurini

  For Josh, and all those broken roads we’ve travelled down.

  Acknowledgments

  This book never would have reached its present state without the support, encouragement, and most importantly the critiques of many people; both known to me in person and online. I can’t possibly hope to recall all of you who have helped me over the years, but know that you have my gratitude.

  In particular I’d like to thank the No Mutants Allowed forum for giving me the inspiration to write this book in the first place, and the Rudius Media Messageboard for all the lessons, both in writing and in life, that I learned there; Tucker Max, Donika Miller, Ben Corman, Proser, Secret Agent Dan, and all the rest — I’m thinking of you guys right now.

  My friends and family, of course, for putting up with my scribblings, but most of all I’d like to thank my best friend and confidant Chris Griffin for the encouragement, the whiskey, and the insight into the publishing industry he gave me. I couldn’t have done it without you, brother.

  Chapter 1

  The sun bore down through rippling air. It was sinking ever closer to the horizon and its glare was blinding. Sweat dripped down over his goggles, beading down the lens and vanishing. With each step his feet throbbed. There was no breeze and the road was silent, except for the ragged sound of his breathing and the endless creak of leather-on-wool from the duffel bag slung over his shoulder. In his hand was an assault rifle, gripped by the magazine housing. The sight of it ought to ward off any predators.

  The highway he walked was cracked, bleached, and hard on the feet. For most of the journey the soft embankments had been too steep to walk on and he’d been stuck with the blacktop. The heat of it rose up through the soles of his boots, burning with each step.

  But his trek was nearing its end. Twenty-three kilometres ago he’d decided to go no further than Blackstock before packing it in for the night. Both Nestleton Station and Yelverton had lain in ruin, and from the looks of things Blackstock would too. Somewhere out here he’d find people, but where they were or how far he’d have to go were questions he didn’t know the answers to. He hoped his rations would hold out.

  The land was hilly, with brush and scrub lining the road. Occasionally he’d pass the remains of a barbwire fence, rusted and fallen from decades of neglect.

  A cold breeze began to blow, harbinger of the coming gloom. It whistled through the trees, stirred up dust devils, and crept into the folds of his jacket. It chilled his arms and neck, but left his back sweating. The road led through a valley, and as he neared its low point the sun disappeared behind the slope. He pulled out his Datapad and tilted the olive drab casing left and right until he could make out the screen. The GPS claimed he had only five hundred meters to go, but it was only picking up two satellites, so its predictions were questionable. He put it away, and leaned into the hill’s slope.

  As he crested the rise an old highway sign came into view. Village of Blackstock, Population 800; the Datapad had been right after all. Shading his eyes against the glare he saw a Victorian-style building down the road, stone walls with a red roof. It looked like it had been ancient even before the war, but it wasn’t abandoned — over the door hung a wooden sign of recent manufacture, and in good repair. Red letters spelled out Landfall’s Ale House.

  “Damn,” he sighed, “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

  Beyond the Ale House he could make out the rest of the town stretching off to the left along a pair of south-bound roads. Most of the buildings were makeshift, shanties cobbled together from recycled materials. A few prewar places in decent repair could be spotted between them. On the closer side of town was a tan-brick building with a market set up in its parking lot; probably the centre of local governance. South of it were the various cobbled-together dwellings of the natives. Stretching out west of the town were tilled fields and penned-in cattle. Milling about the area were men, women, and children; the sight of them filled him with relief, and a slight apprehension.

  He unslung his duffle and went down to one knee. He popped out his rifle’s retaining pins and separated the upper and lower receivers, storing them in the duffle bag; he didn’t want to provoke the locals. But he left his pistol where it was, holstered on his hip. He didn’t want to use it.

  His knees cracked as he stood. He ignored them, threw the bag over his shoulder, and staggered over to the ale house. He opened the door and stepped into a cool room smelling of stale beer and sawdust. His goggles depolarized and he surveyed the scene.

  * * *

  The stranger’s presence was announced by the screech of the door and a flash of sunlight. The patrons paused in their conversation, and Eddie leaned away from the bar, sizing up his new customer. In the doorway slouched a dark figure, silhouetted by the setting sun, resting on his back heel. After a moment he strolled in with a deliberate gait. Muted conversation resumed amongst the regulars.

  The door swung shut and the man grew visible. Like most foreigners his face was naked, no tattoos at all. He was dressed in leather, chaps and jacket, with a black helmet and a set of eye-lenses — like one of the old riders, almost. Not a derelict, but no merchant, either. His movements were self-assured and he seemed relaxed. Eddie brushed away a lock of hair and gripped the bar with both hands.

  “Hi-ya there. You’re new in town, ai?”

  The man put down the duffel he was carrying and leaned one elbow on the bar. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

  “Well then, welcome to Blackstock.” He glanced down, grabbed a rag and started wiping the bar. The muted conversation of the others was just a cover up for the fact that they were listening in; he was the youngest man present, but it was a Landfall’s job to suss out strangers. He kept his gaze steady. “So what’s your name then, stranger?”

  The question seemed to faze the man; it was a split second before he answered. “My name’s Wentworth.”

  “Wentworth, ai?” he mulled it over. “Well I’m Eddie Landfall. What can I getcha?”

  “I guess I’ll have a pitcher of whatever you guys brew up around here.”

  “Sure thing, Wentworth,” he grabbed one of the steel pitchers from the shelf. “I don’t know where you’re from—” he moved back to the keg and started pouring, “but you won’t be disappointed with Landfall’s Ale. Been brewing for generations.” Out of the corner of his eye he saw Wentworth look about the room; the other patrons stole surreptitious glances when they thought he wasn’t looking. Eddie tapped off the keg and brought the pitcher forward. “So where ya from, Wentworth?”

  “Out East. Heading West.” He put money on the counter.

  “Huh. Ain’t never heard of no one coming from the East, before. Thought all those places were abandoned.”

  “Yeah, they mostly are,” the stranger’s voice changed, swinging upwards in pitch, “Say, where’d you get the power for those lights?” He glanced towards the LEDs strung along the ceiling.

  “You like ’em? They’re new — a guy moved into town, a few months back, built us a generator, works off of coal. But that ain’t nothin’. We got an old sou
nd system that another guy salvaged — an old ‘record player.’ Now with the generator, we’ve got music, even when Murphy here don’t feel like playing. We turn it on after sunset — it’s real chill; you oughta stick around. And there’s a pool table upstairs, if you play.”

  “Nah, I’m not too good. But I think I’ll just head up there and rest my feet for a bit, if you don’t mind. Thank you.” He nodded and re-shouldered his bag, then with pitcher and glass in hand, he went up the stairs. As soon as he was gone a fevered conversation broke out.

  * * *

  Relief sagged through his muscles as he left the locals behind. Seconds after his foot reached the second storey he heard a loud guffaw burst out. Anger tensed across his face. He dropped his duffel by the stairs, looking around for a place to sit.

  The upstairs was divided off into two rooms; there was a pool room in the back, and an unmanned bar in the front. Along with the bar were a number of chairs and ‘couches’ recovered from the backseats of ancient minivans. On the building’s front wall was large bay window with cracked glass just barely staying in the frame. Wentworth took the seat nearest to it, setting down his pitcher on the nearby table. From his seat he could see out the window, and keep his eyes on the stairwell. He poured a beer, lit a cigarette, and put his feet up.

  He felt as if every blood vessel in his body had relaxed, and now the blood was rushing to his lower half. He was tempted to remove his boots but resisted the urge. He might need them. The muscles of his back began un-knotting and his legs throbbed. He put his jacket on the couch next to him, ignored the smell from his armpits, and for half the pitcher just sat there watching the sun go down.

  It was some time before he remembered to take off his helmet.

  * * *

  Raxx flickered the flame of the acetylene torch along the broken axle. With quick strokes he sealed the two pieces together, leaving hardly a mark. He took a cigar from the pack sitting on a nearby table, and ran it under the jet. He killed the torch, and lifted his welding mask, blowing on the cigar to kill the flame. Putting down the face shield, he smoked, admiring his work. It wasn’t perfect, but it was damn good — elegant.

  He nodded, satisfied. It wasn’t the owner’s standards he was trying to live up to, but his own — Thomas could care less about how his donkey cart looked, but he imagined that his craft could reach tool-and-die perfection one day, if he was attentive. He left the garage and sat on his barrel, leaning back against the wall to smoke his cigar and watch the sunset. Yeah, he’d earned this rest.

  Through the gaps between the buildings he could see into the soya fields west of the city. The farmers were finishing work for the day and heading back into town along the dirt tracks separating the different crops. He waited until he saw Thomas then stood and waved his hand back and forth high above his head.

  “Thomas! She’s good to go! Grab one of the donkeys!” he shouted.

  The farmer waved back, and turned back towards the animal pens. A while later he came around a corner leading an old mare on a rope.

  “Ai Raxx, you got my cart working now?” he squinted at Raxx under his baseball cap.

  “The joint and axle’s fixed. I just need to set it back into the joint. It should’ve cooled off by now, just give me a sec.” Raxx went into his workshop to get the axle and, and brought it to the cart that had been sitting there since the morning. He and Thomas small talked while he slid the splined ends together, and tightened the bolts holding it in place. “That’ll do her; good as new!”

  “Thanks lad, you always do good work.” Thomas shook Raxx’s hand and began strapping the donkey to the front of the cart.

  “Say,” said Raxx, “Did you see Connie working the fields today? I’m wondering how she’s feeling.”

  “Ai, I didn’t see her out in the north field, so I guess no. Give her a couple days; I’m sure she’ll be better. Her Mam’s looking after her, so you shouldn’t worry. Anywho, Gertrude and I better get this cart put away. My bones are about ready for a lie-down. You have a good night, Raxx.”

  “Yeah, you too, Thomas.”

  They made their farewells and the farmer left. With the day’s work done, and Connie still sick, Raxx had nothing else to do. He reached up and grabbed the handle of the garage door, pulling it down harder than was necessary. He watched it slide to the ground, listening to the sound of it and wondering if he ought to apply some more grease. He shook his head, consigning the problem to another day.

  The wooden trim along the building’s main entrance was cracking. It wouldn’t affect the insulation, but it looked like shit. Not that it mattered anymore. He shook his head — to hell with that problem and to hell with the cleanup — he was heading down to Landfall’s for a pint.

  * * *

  As Wentworth watched the sun pass the horizon he heard the music go on downstairs. It was soft, but he could still make out the lyrics. He knew them. The prewar music was a nice addition to the beer and tobacco. He didn’t realize it, but his toes were tapping.

  He heard somebody moving up the stairwell, and looked over expecting to see the bartender come up and offer another round. Instead it was another patron, somebody new. He was tall and lanky, with a pint of beer in one hand, and a solid expression on his face. He’d shaved his head recently and was spotting a goatee, as well as several facial piercings, but didn’t wear the facial tattoos of the others. His black jeans and blue-plaid vest clashed with the tool belt he was wearing — and Wentworth’s eyes picked out the revolver strapped subtlely under the belt. The man sat down at a table kitty-corner from him, and nodded.

  “Hey,” his body was turned slightly away, “how’s it going?”

  “Not too bad. Just finished a long hike, and figured I deserved a drink to relax with. That music downstairs is helping. Gotta say, I’m pretty impressed with the tech you guys got going in this burg.”

  “Heh, glad you like it.” He put his hands behind his head and stretched dramatically. “Yup, yup, a bit of ole’ Raxx’s handiwork!”

  “Oh yeah?” said Wentworth, perking up, “The music or the generator?”

  “Well, both, really, but don’t say that to Bill. He’s the guy that runs the feed store.” He sipped his beer, “The generator was easy, I designed my first one years ago. There’re a couple parts you’ve got to scavenge, but they’re easy to find. The rest’s pretty simple if you know what you’re doing.” He paused to pull out a cigar and light it.

  “What about the sound system?”

  He got a serious look on his face and focused on the table in front of him. ”Bill managed to find an old music player and some speakers, but it didn’t work at first. I’ve never played around with anything like that before, but Bill was pestering me so I took a look to see what I could do.

  “Well, it turned out that the only problem was that the speakers’ internal power supply had gone dead way back — the chemical rig had rotted. You needed it to even out the sine wave. I tried reconditioning it, but that didn’t work, so I just rigged a new one with some copper and citric acid. Heh, she’s an ugly beast — but it works, and now we’ve got all this old-time music!

  “But, see, here’s the thing—” he smirked conspiratorially, “Since Bill found the thing, I’m letting him have the all the credit — except when people ask. So there you got it — music à la Raxx!”

  Wentworth nodded, “That’s pretty impressive. There aren’t many guys left who know how to handle the old tech — say, I don’t suppose you know anything about mechanics?”

  “Hmm, I might know a thing or two. I’m the general fix-it guy here in Blackstock and I’ve dealt with internal combustion before—” He tilted his head, “Are you saying you’ve got something for me to work on?”

  “Yeah. Motorcycle — she broke down on the way into town — the chain snapped while I was riding. So that needs fixing, the wheels probably need realignment, and one of the cylinder heads might need replacing — she’s been sounding funny for the past couple of days. Does that s
ound like something you could fix?”

  “Yeah… yeah, I should be able to help — but what about you? Are you okay man?”

  “Mostly,” Wentworth rubbed the back of his right calf, “the chain whipped around and hit my leg when it broke, but these chaps took most of brunt. My leg was numb for a while there, but now it’s just bruised. I didn’t wipe out or anything and I can still walk — so yeah, I’m okay.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “Yeah, so am I. The trek here was bad enough without a broken leg.”

  “How far out were you?”

  “About twenty klicks. That’ll be a problem.”

  “Hmm,” Raxx thought for a minute, “It’s doable. Come by my workshop tomorrow morning and we’ll talk. Don’t worry, I won’t overcharge you. But I’m off the clock right now, so I don’t want to talk business,” he smiled, “I haven’t even said welcome to Blackstock. The name’s Raxx, by the way, like I said earlier.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Raxx. People call me Wentworth.” They got up to shake hands and Raxx relocated to a couch near the window — his larger frame made him lurch in the seats. “I’ve gotta say,” said Wentworth, “this place seems alright. Everyone I’ve met has been decently friendly so far.”

  “Yeah, it ain’t a bad place. I’m new here myself. Moved in about six months back.”

  “Right — the bartender said something about a new Tech in town.”

  “Yeah, that’s me, but I prefer ‘Mechanic’ — you can decide later if I deserve it or not.” He sipped his beer, and looked out over the town. “I like Blackstock — I think it’s because it’s so isolated. Out West — well, there’s a lot of bullshit. People are denser out there, so you’ve got plenty of derelicts, and then there’s the politics… between the different cities, that is… but Blackstock, it’s pretty isolated. It’s not on any of the trade routes, and there’s no working railroad, so you avoid all that shit. But at the same time it gets the occasional trader coming through — it’s got enough contact to keep it sorted out, with none of the garbage. The locals are a bit suspicious at first, but they give you a chance if you’re alright.”