As I Walk These Broken Roads br-1

by Davis M. J. Aurini

  Vince watched him walk off as Raxx made his farewells. The man was keen, alright. Hell, a merchant ought to be better at hiding his thoughts. “Alright lads, the oxen are no good to us now, we gotta lift the trailer off the hitch, and move her ourselves. You two want to get on either side?” Maybe his first impression hadn’t been fair. Maybe he’d been letting the locals’ paranoia get the better of him. The man had been polite enough…

  But that was no hunting rifle on his back. And then there was the pistol. And that blade on his other leg.

  He’d be keeping his eye on this one.

  Chapter 5

  The doe sniffed the air. She kept picking up that odd scent — piquant and harsh… it wasn’t a predatory scent, but it was out of the norm. Nudging her fawn, she guided him over to a crescent shaped copse of trees. Leaves surrounded the two of them, and hid them from sight. On an instinctive level she felt comforted, and returned to her grazing.

  Through the scope of his assault rifle the two animals were nothing but brown blurs. At four-hundred meters that was all its magnification would do. The glowing bead of tritium in the center swayed back and forth in a lazy figure eight across the area they grazed.

  Wentworth took a deep breath and watched his sight picture pan down, then back up onto the target area. He closed his eyes and took another deep breath. Opening them, he confirmed that his point of aim hadn’t changed. He rubbed his thumb across the grip’s cross-hatch pattern, and stroked his index along the trigger. His left hand gripped where the handguard met the magazine housing. His elbow was planted firmly in the earth below.

  Taking his time, he breathed deeply, feeling his heart rate slow. The doe and her fawn felt safe, and stayed where they were. He blinked as his vision began to cloud, as it always did, then relaxed his eyelids, watching through slit-eyes. The wind swayed the grass in front of him and birds chirped all around.

  Lub-dub…

  He’d stopped breathing, he realized. His pulse sent a tremor through his weapon.

  Lub-dub…

  His vision blurred out in horizontal streaks. Other senses took hold of the weapon, silently placing it on target, as he began to apply pressure to the trigger.

  Lub-dub…

  He could feel the creak of the trigger-spring as he squeezed it, tightening as it neared the hammer. His vision had gone grey, and even his hearing had dimmed. He waited in bated anticipation, feeling the grind of muscle and metal working in sync. He had to calm; no tremor; no shake; he focused on remaining still when—

  Crack!

  The scope shot upwards, the recoil spring hammered backwards, and the birds scattered. Rebounding on the cushioning force of his arms, the scope steadied, coming to a still on the original point of aim. He slowly released the trigger. It thunked into place. The copse was a mess of greys, blacks, yellows, and greens; there wasn’t a trace of brown to be seen in the softly swaying grasses.

  He stood up awkwardly, joints cracking, and heart pounding with its sudden awakening. He’d been laying there for hours. He began walking, fingers and feet numb, icicles of pain shooting through his extremities. He opened and closed his hands, waiting for the blood to return to them, then fished into his jacket for a pack of cigarettes. It was almost empty, he saw. The remainder waited for him back at Landfall’s. He paused in his walk, taking careful note of the copse’s location — three fingers left of those boulders — before looking down to light his smoke. Then he carried on, unthinking, returning gradually from his meditative state.

  When he arrived the copse was empty; crushed grass and torn branches showed the deer’s’ escape to the north. He paused to take all of this in then walked over to the tree the doe had been standing by. It had been one meter to her left from his perspective. He reached up and caressed the bullet hole, so tiny on entry, a gaping hole on exit. Maybe a hand’s breadth higher than where he’d aimed, but otherwise dead on target. The deer would have been dead if he’d wanted that. He turned around and began the trek back to his duffle bag.

  He’d already thought extensively about a future as a hunter. During long rides he’d argued and ended that debate already. But his mind decided to flit back and forth on the topic anyway, part of its readjustment to the logical world. There was no sense in it, really. He had no butchery skills, and with the price of ammunition… on top of that he’d have to figure out some way of bringing the animal back after he’d shot it…

  His mind yammered away, drowning out the pleasure of the clean shot. The thought of subsistence labour filled him with distaste, but it was either that or consider more dire problems. It was with relief that he returned to camp and crawled under his cam-net, laying his rifle down on the grass beside him and taking up his observation post.

  He had a clear view of the highway. If not for hill off to his right he’d of been able to make out Blackstock too. The scene was as empty as it had been that morning, and the day before. There was no reason for him to be so keyed up.

  That merchant! Merchants had always struck him as the keenest of the lot, and this one was no exception. That look had made his hackles rise, and had spurred him on in his decision to head for the hills for a few days. It made good sense to do so anyways, to keep an eye on his tracks, but he didn’t like feeling coerced into it. Between the boisterous juvenility of the two guards, and the sharp suspicion of the older merchant, Blackstock wouldn’t be a good place for him to set up kip for the next while.

  The sun was making a lazy arc. With its light shadowed, the coming breeze cooled the forest.

  The Mechanic was a bit of a broken one. He seemed oblivious to the juxtaposition of his presence in a backwater. Wentworth wondered what the man was running from. The grasses in front of him cast long, sharp shadows. The whole landscape was distorted with lines of cutting dark.

  He sighed, and stood up. He didn’t need his Datapad to tell him that he’d better get moving if he wanted to eat a warm dinner tonight. Within minutes he’d packed up his kit and shouldered his duffel bag, turning south for the walk back.

  Damn, but he wished he’d grabbed a ruck sack before leaving.

  * * *

  Alright, Mad Dog mouthed the words silently to himself, if that hill’s over there — he glanced up, and the tower’s back over there— looking up again he saw Falcon staring at him.

  “Falcon, what’re ya’ looking at!”

  “Wanted to see if you needed help with anything, Mad Dog.”

  “Yeah, top off your canteen then go and fill the jerry here.”

  Falcon shook the jerry on the back of his quad, “It’s still pretty much full, Mad Dog.”

  “‘Scuse me Falcon, is that what I asked? I said go fill it in the stream there — you’ll be glad when we don’t see no water for a while!”

  He looked back down at the map, and Falcon left to fill the jerry. Mad Dog’s brows furrowed; the man hadn’t said anything to acknowledge his command. “Sheik!” he shouted, “Git yer ass over here!”

  “‘Sup, boss?”

  “You see this right here?” he pointed at an orange square on the map.

  “Yuh-huh.”

  “It looks real interesting to me. See, it’s one of them old guvment buildings. That’s where’s we’re heading, lad. Now I’m wondering if you can tell me where it is?”

  Sheik squinted and scratched at the scruff growing on his chin. He looked out over the rest of the Hellhounds taking their meal break, and scanned the contours of the hills. “Now see, Mad Dog, what I’m thinking — I’m thinking that the blue line there is this stream here — and that hill there is maybe this one here on the map. So maybe this place ain’t too far off.”

  “How far ya thinking?”

  Sheik shrugged. “Pretty close. What, four, maybe five klicks?”

  “Attaboy, Sheik. Falcon! Maybe you could learn a thing or two from this bro! Alright, Dunzer, Chain — get your boys mounted up! You too, Sheik, you got point on this one — you want the map?”

  “Nah, boss, I got it all upst
airs. You want I should bring Falcon with me?”

  “Yeah, I like that idea — you heard him Falcon — tail on to his boys and watch what they do.”

  * * *

  Raxx caught himself just as he was about to knock on her door. He shook his head. What was wrong with him? Why did he feel so out of place? Christ, this was juvenile.

  Whatever. Connie was smart, even if she was a local. He chuckled at himself. “Bite the bullet, old man,” he said, and knocked. He heard shuffling inside, and the door opened.

  “Oh!” Connie’s mother looked shocked to see him standing on her front porch. Her tattoos knitted up on her brow, looking like an exclamation mark.

  “Lady Mabs?”

  Her face relaxed, and she laughed, adjusting her shawl, “Raxx, always the charmer! What have I told you about that? I suppose you’re here to see Connie?”

  “Yes ma’am. I’ve been a bit worried about her, you see.”

  “Well, come on in and I’ll see if she’s up for company—” she leaned close and whispered, “She’s been just dreadful with the flux, you know. But I just made her a bowl o’ stew for dinner, and I think she’s still up. Just give me a moment, boy, and I’ll make sure she’s decent.”

  Raxx came in, and sat down on the wooden bench in the sitting room, while Mabs went off towards the back. He sat, hunched forward and tense; something about Mabs’ attitude was putting him off. Probably just worried about her daughter, he decided. But his shoulders didn’t relax.

  “Ai, Raxx, she’s all ready to see you — and wondering why you haven’t been visiting her more!” She smiled at him, but the smile stopped at her cheeks, never making it all the way to her eyes.

  Raxx stood up and forced himself to smile down at her. Why did he feel so out of place? She was just worried. “Been working too much, I guess,” he held his hands out in a placating gesture, “but I’m going to make it up now!”

  “Well, you know where her room is — I got to get back to prepping for the smokehouse.”

  He nodded his farewell, and made his way down the hall. Floor boards squeaked as he walked by and the drywall showed stains from where the roof was leaking. He thought about the improvements he could make, treading slowly to her door, about the chemicals that could be ordered to sustain the wood. He paused at her door, taking in a deep breath. He wanted to savour this moment.

  His rap broke through the cloistered air. Connie’s voice was subdued, “Come in!” He peeked his head around the corner, a wry grin on his face.

  “Is this the right room?”

  She giggled, then broke out coughing. Raxx stepped in and kneeled by her bed. Despite the cough, her health was improving; her face was ruddy with mirth, and her tattoos were a brilliant dark blue.

  “Raxx!” she said between fits, “It ain’t fair to make me laugh right now!”

  “Hey, I’m just here to make you feel better!” He grinned with foolishly, and dropped his gaze for a second. “I, uh — got something for you.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the necklace he’d bought from Vince.

  Connie’s eyes glazed over for a second as she looked at it. “Is that..?”

  “Yeah, it’s that Yorker jewellery you like.”

  “Oh!” she leaned forward and pulled him into an embrace. He gripped her and held her tight. The muscles of her back weren’t as thick as they ought to be, and her arms trembled. “Thank-you-thank-you-thank-you!” She pecked him on the forehead, “Oh, I’m just gonna give you the flux too!”

  “Nah, don’t worry; I’m good.”

  She leaned back anyway, head tilted up as she clasped the necklace.

  “Raxx… it’s been so boring being sick all this time — I haven’t had any of your stories to keep me going! What’ve you been up to? I want to hear everything you’ve done!”

  Raxx launched into an explanation about the stranger, and what he’d been doing with the man’s motorcycle. He gesticulated as he spoke, glowing inwardly as Connie looked up at him, but with a serious expression on his face. Her head was tilted to the left, nodding at his words.

  This was why he’d been ranting at the stranger — because he was missing this. During the winter months Connie wove; she was an artist who cared about her craft, and that allowed her to understand his in a way none of his customers did. The whole reason for the work was appreciation — wasn’t it? The warmth in Connie’s deep blue eyes filled him with hope. It reminded him of why he’d moved to Blackstock in the first place.

  He caught himself disappearing into technical details and stopped himself short.

  “Heh — you catch any of that, what I was just saying?”

  Connie shook her head. “One of these days I’m going to make an Afghan about what you do, Raxx — a whole wall!”

  They kept talking. Raxx told her about what was going on with the farmers and the merchant, and she confided in him that her cousin had a crush on one of the guards. Their conversation was interrupted when her mother arrived to bring them both a glass of water, and Raxx took advantage of the break to ask her the question he’d come here to ask.

  “So, Connie, I was wondering… do you think you’ll be feeling better in time for the Corn Festival?”

  “Hah, of course I will! I can’t miss that, now can I?”

  Raxx grinned in response, “Well, see, I was kind of wondering—” he looked at her with a rakish grin “Seeing as you gotta have somebody to take you there…”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that — Jeff’s going to be taking me!”

  Raxx’s features froze, but she went on as if nothing had happened.

  “See, he’s my second cousin—” she counted off on her hand, “So the tradition is that he’s gonna take me — always been, ever since the War. But you’re gonna come too, Raxx, ai?”

  “Uh, yeah. Of course.”

  “Oh, good!” she leaned forward to give him another hug. “I’ll make sure to save a dance for you, ‘kay?”

  “Yeah… yeah, sounds good.” He leaned back, trying to make his smile spread properly. “Hmm… Listen Connie, I’d better get heading. Your mam will have a fit if I keep you too long.”

  Her smile subsided, and fatigue took her in its grip. Smiling gently, she nodded, and snuggled into her covers, “‘Kay, Raxx…”

  “You feel better, okay?”

  “Mm-hmm…”

  He gripped her knee and gave it a squeeze, a pained expression on his face.

  “G’night, Connie.”

  Chapter 6

  Shape, Shadow, Silhouette; Texture, Spacing, Sound; Movement and Shine: the Ten Reasons Why Things Are Seen.

  He could never remember the last two.

  But it didn’t matter. While his mind traced through the list, his body moved by instinct. It pulled him through the woods, finding the shadows and avoiding the twigs.

  It was a padded list, anyways.

  The midsummer smells of dust and dry rot pervaded, while shafts of light shone through the trees, confusing the senses. The precautions he’d taken over the past couple days, scouting the eastern arc for a possible tail, had calmed his mind but left his body full of nervous energy. He stepped out of the woods near the ‘Town of Blackstock’ sign, but he didn’t climb up onto the Highway.

  His gait transformed into a nondescript stroll, while his thoughts drifted back to the long trek he’d been on when he first passed this way. He stayed to the low ground. Beneath the surface his muscles were twitching.

  A sun dipped behind some clouds, and he crossed the street, over towards Landfall’s. The hair on the back of his neck stood up as he drifted into view of the market, but nobody looked over and saw him. He slid into the bar’s welcoming darkness.

  The Mechanic was there; his hunched form was sitting in the far corner. With a discreet motion, Wentworth slid his duffle bag down his arm, and propped it against the stairwell heading up to the pool room. His rifle — damn! He should have put it away, or at least slung it before coming into town. None of the other patrons s
eemed to have noticed though — that loudmouth caravan guard was at the bar, drawing everyone’s attention — so with a casual movement he tucked it under his duffle bag, then walked away, sliding into the empty chair at Raxx’s table.

  “How’s it going?”

  The Mechanic’s eyes clicked up from the pint they’d been staring into. For a moment Wentworth felt bad for sneaking up on him, but the man showed no discomfort. The Mechanic’s face was blank.

  It was only a heartbeat before he replied, but for that instant his visage was stripped away. Gone were the mannerisms, the cheerfulness Raxx showed the outside world. His face was a stone clock, ticking away. A cold, benign intelligence.

  “Hey.”

  Wentworth tilted his head in acknowledgement, then glanced over at Eddie behind the bar. The man paused in his conversation with Billy, and held up an empty pint glass. Wentworth nodded, and the two of them waited for the beer to arrive before continuing.

  “So you find what you were looking for out there?”

  Wentworth shrugged. “Yeah. Just getting to know the lay of the land.” He took a sip of his beer. It was warm and bitter. He crossed one leg over the other, and leaned back against the wall, staring out at the room. He felt comfortable. Stable.

  “You know,” he glanced over sharply, “locals are what they are. You can’t change that.”

  Raxx’s shoulders slumped and some emotion returned to his face. “Yeah, I know that.” He stared down into his drink. “Sometimes I forget stuff I already know.” He took a swig then fell back in his chair. “Fuck.”

  * * *

  Eddie took a slow sip from his pint glass. With the rim half-covering his eyes he watched the mullet-haired guard flirting with Marie at the front of the room. She was ignoring her drink and toying with her hair. Off to the left her brother was glaring at nothing. Elmo had been spending most of his time in the bar since the mule kick, using the alcohol to medicate the pain. But tonight it seemed to be making it worse.