As I Walk These Broken Roads br-1

by Davis M. J. Aurini

  Silence — then a confused, terrified wail began from the caged villagers out back.

  Without a word, they remustered by the garage door—

  The C4’s blast shook the earth, flashed the warehouse with light, and made them flinch as the sonic impact washed over them.

  “Now! Move!”

  Wentworth rushed forward into the ringing dust cloud, trusting the Mechanic to follow. The warehouse was dark, the sleeping quarters pitch; any candles had been blown out by the explosion. He gritted his teeth as he approached the maw, willing his irises wider.

  The Mechanic’s footsteps thudded behind him.

  Flipping the fire selector onto Automatic, he stepped through the door. Concrete dust floated in the air, and the punch drunk-raiders were yelling. The darkness congealed into a moving form, and he squeezed the trigger. The burst hammered back at his shoulder, its echo banging against his ear drums. He moved over to the next target, the one he’d seen in his weapon’s flash, as Raxx entered and unleashed a volley from his shotgun. The blast bounced from the far end of the room, and back again, as the pellets tinkled against the wall. Wentworth clattered another burst. Their individual weapon sounds began to merge into an ongoing sonic assault.

  He was shooting by instinct. Yelling and recoil merged into a continual impact on his senses. His weapon kept panning left, a split second before the confirmed kills registered in his mind. The room strobed with the light, twisting the Hellhounds into broken marionettes. A yell from Raxx, a reload, then the shotgun blasts came again at a steady beat. His own instinct vibrated as his magazine ran low.

  The bolt locked back with a dull thud. He dropped into a crouch, yelling “Spent Mag!” His eyes were adjusting. He reached into his pocket. At the far end of the room a grey form was rising. The empty mag had slipped from his weapon, clattering against the floor, and the fresh one was in his hand. The form was taking aim as his new magazine locked into the housing. He thumbed the release and the bolt slammed forward. He took aim. Too slow—

  A dual burst of light as the raider’s muzzle, then his, flashed white

  The scream of pellet on steel.

  The raider fell. His world went silent. It spun

  He lived in darkness.

  “Wentworth! Snap out of it, man!”

  His world slowed from its wild spin and his vision came back in dark splotches.

  “They’re dead. We got ’em!”

  A wave of nausea swept over him as he reached up to feel his head. His hand met something hard — his helmet. He was wearing his helmet. His fingers traced along a slick groove dug into its side, a channel cut by the raider’s bullet…

  Raxx was still yelling, shaking his shoulder. “It’s okay — Raxx, I’m alright,” but he wasn’t; something was niggling, just beyond the nausea. The close call had shook him, the bullet had left him concussed, but his senses hadn’t stopped recording. Something was wrong… the body-count! It was too low, “Raxx—”

  At the far end of the room a door was kicked open. Something clattered onto the concrete.

  “Get down!”

  He tackled the Mechanic, and they fell to the floor as a burst of light polarized his goggles. Hot bile burned against his throat.

  Raxx was howling, his shotgun clattered to the ground as he covered his eyes.

  Wentworth grabbed him by the back of his armour with one hand, stabilizing his rifle under his armpit. Aiming in the direction of the other door he let go a series of heavy bursts, blowing away half the magazine as he dragged Raxx out to the warehouse. Waves of hollow sickness washed over him.

  The Mechanic’s cries had turned from shock to anger. Wentworth’s legs motored backwards, and he threw the man into one of the trenches. He stumbled over to a counter, fell back against it, as a sour self-hatred mixed in his stomach.

  He’d fucked up; a stupid, tactical error. Of course the officers wouldn’t sleep in the same room as the troops. He spat, it landed on his leg, and dropped his head back against the counter. Soon enough they’d come out and put a bullet through him…

  An angry moan came from the pit where he’d dropped Raxx. His eyes shot open and a sharp chill went up his spine

  A bang of light filled over the room as he slid in a fresh mag; then several sets of feet came pounding in.

  He’d promised to keep the Mechanic alive.

  Chapter 12

  The footsteps had come to a halt just inside the warehouse. Wentworth sucked air, imagining them spread out against the back wall. One of them muttered a curse, his weapon rustling it lowered. A second voice barked, telling him to keep his weapon up.

  They thought he’d fled.

  A grin wanted to stitch across his face, but the odds were still too rough. He thought of throwing a rock to distract them, but the old cliché would only confirm his presence. Better to leave them confused; to stay a terror in the dark.

  Seconds passed. His pulse pounded through his fingertips, and he tried to keep his breathing silent, thankful that Raxx had the sense to remain quiet. The Hellhounds began moving. Their footfalls echoed out a cautious trot.

  The moment came. He rose with an explosive force, leveraging himself up as he squeezed the trigger. Strafing right, he dropped ammo on the four shadows, reaching the trench before they could react. The first of the return fire passed over him as he fell down into the pit.

  The floor struck with enough force to wind him, but he didn’t feel it. Rolling into a kneeling position, he took in his surroundings. The trench ran the length of the vehicle bay, with ladders on either end. It was about two meters wide, and a meter and a half deep, with metal walkways overtop. Debris lay everywhere; he’d been lucky not land on any, but none of it was large enough to serve as cover. Already the return fire had ceased. He was sure he’d caught one of them — maybe two — but now they had the advantage of higher ground.

  Raxx lay in the trench west of him.

  His heart was beating, and sweat trickled down the side of his neck. He was stretching eyes and ears to their maximum, waiting for the sound of approaching footfalls, when he noticed a rain gutter running through the middle of the trench, hidden under the walkway’s shadow. His neck twitched as he took it in. The depression was half a meter wide, with a tunnel on either side running to the other bays. It was big enough to fit him. It had to be.

  He broke into a run as another flash-bang went off behind him. He stumbled — the reflected light had been enough to polarize his goggles, and for a split second he was blind. He found the eastern tunnel by feel, and was already thrusting his rifle down it before his sight returned. It was just big enough — his right arm was stretched out before him, holding the weapon, while his left hand rasped against the bottom, underneath his body. His helmet was pushed down by the ceiling and his shoulders scraped against the walls. Thrusting forwards, he heard a burst of fire impact the trench behind him. Heaving and grunting he struggled against the concrete, dragging and pushing his body forward.

  The air smelled of engine oil and mildew, and his hot, spent breath seemed to collect around him.

  Cool air exploded as his head shot out the other side. He rolled onto his back, throwing his one free arm against the wall and pushing. The reflected moonlight was like daylight after the tunnel. He wrestled his body free and rolled backwards into a kneeling position, scuttling south.

  He got out from underneath the walkway. A seven rounds burst would take just under a second; long enough for him to maybe get them all, but too short for any survivors to react. He stood up, taking his bead on the far end of the far trench.

  Cra-cra-cra-cra-cra-cra-crack! The recoil tried to fight him and drive the weapon up as he held it firm in his shoulder. The rounds splashed the scene with light, and he saw two men collapse under his volley. As he dropped back down his peripheral caught a third figure, outside his arc of fire. By the other trench’s walkway was the squat form of the Hellhound’s leader.

  A submachine gun fired as he fell back. “Goddamnit! You
sonuvabitch!” A second burst hit the wall behind him. Wentworth yelped as concrete shards hit his face, and a ricocheted shard burned into his leg. “You gonna die, you mother! Mad Dog’s gonna kill your ass!”

  His leg was throbbing. The muscles had knotted around the hot steel, and the whole leg had stiffened. He pushed himself back with the other leg, gritting his teeth. He tried to hold his weapon steady in one hand, as his other held him up off the floor.

  The walkway clanked with Mad Dog’s crossing, and the sound of it told Wentworth that he was bent-kneed and cautious. Ragged breaths shot through him, blowing spittle between his teeth, as he continued moving backwards. One more enemy, just one more… but no matter how stupid or arrogant, this one owned the high ground.

  His leg throbbed worse, and the tip of his weapon shook violently. He found a position against the other wall, and steadied the rifle. He was ready for whatever might come, but if Mad Dog had any more flash-bangs the fight was already over.

  His eyes narrowed, and the footsteps approached.

  Bang Bang Bang — three shots from a high-calibre pistol broke the air, their echo washed back and forth across the warehouse before dissipating. Then something slumped down, hard, onto the floor.

  Wentworth lay still. Three staggered breaths worked through him — then a voice spoke, its tone strained. “Wentworth, man — you okay?”

  The tension poured out of him, as his rifle fell down to his lap. “Yeah,” he paused to listen, but heard nothing over his heartbeat. “You just got the fat one, eh?”

  “Mad Dog? Yeah, I think that was him.”

  Wentworth’s breath left him in a sigh. “Hey Raxx? I think we won.”

  * * *

  Falcon crouched in the thicket. Instinct held him in a defensive pose, but his weapon hung listless as he watched the two men crawling out of the warehouse gutters.

  He’d been out walking the field, ruminating darkly, when the sound of gunfire had first reached him. He’d started running — bitterness forgotten as the fear of Viper retaliation incensed his blood. The explosion had gone off then, shaking the air as he made his way through the trees, around the undergrowth. He reached the western sentry point, and found what was left of Dunzer’s kid. The slick line across his throat glistened in the moonlight.

  He’d switched to a crouch then, moving into the shadows of the wooded ridge overlooking the compound. The sounds of a full-on firefight broke out, and dread took a cold grip of his heart. He reached a promontory that looked down into the warehouse, and took a bead on the sleeping room’s door. Before his weapon had steadied he’d seen two figures spilling out. The injured one was dumped in a mechanic’s trench, then the other took cover behind a work table. Falcon eased to the side so that his iron sights swung onto the form.

  For a long time he just panted in the darkness. It never occurred to him to squeeze the trigger.

  His weapon had slowly dropped as he watched Dunzer, Chain, Sheik, and Mad Dog fall to the madmen’s fire.

  Who the hell were they?

  His surroundings creaked silently in the breeze. Whoever they were, it didn’t matter anymore. The Hellhounds were dead. His eyes tracked them as they moved from body to body, but his mind was reeling and he saw none of it. The Hellhounds were dead. The stunned villagers trooped out from the back, along with the cattle; a single mass.

  The Hellhounds were dead.

  It struck him — the Hellhounds — all of them — were dead. But he, the villagers, and those two men were still alive.

  His eyes watered up.

  Laying down his weapon, he fell back into a sitting position. A silent sob seized him. He felt for the patch on his flak-vest’s shoulder. Gripping it by the corner, he tried to tear it off. A few strings broke, but he couldn’t get the rest.

  The herd of men, women, and cattle were disappearing, heading back towards the town, into the pinkening sky.

  Once they were out of sight he’d go down to the compound, grab the best weapons, some loot, and some gasoline. Then he’d leave. He wasn’t a Hellhound anymore. He wasn’t Falcon, either.

  He didn’t know who he was.

  The sun broke the horizon. He walked on stiff legs down to the carnage.

  He set to scavenging.

  * * *

  Wentworth stepped into the office. The air was cloistered with the scents of vomit and diarrhoea. Behind the desk the old woman huddled in a mess of soiled blankets, shivering despite the warmth. Her head was erect, though, and the eyes that peeked through her ravaged face burned with pride.

  “Vree.”

  “Wentworth. I fear what you have to say. I see no joy on your face. And I doubt you would come to witness me without cause. But speak — I would hear it.”

  Wentworth crossed his arms and looked down. “You told me to tell you when… if—”

  “Ai, so I did. What is it, then?”

  Wentworth looked up. Deep within her eyes a flame of hope still flickered. After a moment’s consideration he raised his goggles. “The children are dead, Vree. I saw Lucas and Marie with my own eyes. Connie — well, Raxx is still with her…” he grimaced and glanced down, before looking back. “But if she’s still alive, she won’t be for much longer.” A fit of coughing broke over the Councilman. Wentworth waited, ignoring the bloody flecks, and the bout of incontinence that accompanied it. When she managed to breathe again he continued. “I’m sorry Vree. Some of the adults are still alive, but you’re the last Senior. None of the others could hold on. And the rest aren’t going to last much longer, either.” He glanced down, and squeezed the pistol on his belt. “I wish there was something more that I could do.”

  “Ai…” she seemed lost in thought, “ai… it would be easy to blame you for this sickness,” another bout of coughing, “but that wouldn’t be right. I think I’ll take the… your offer, Wentworth. Please.”

  He nodded, walked around the desk, and stood next to her chair. He drew his pistol. He readied it with a firm draw then pointed it at her head.

  Her sightless gaze was broken by a sudden jerk. “Wait — I would do it.”

  Her eyes were firm, certain. He turned the pistol around, and handed it to her. Her hands trembled under its weight as she gripped it backwards, and put it into her mouth. The shaking increased, then it subsided. A strange look came over her, and she removed the weapon.

  “Wentworth… those men would have been sick just like us, if you and Raxx hadn’t fought them, ai?”

  “Yeah.”

  She stared down into the chamber. “So they all got the easy way.”

  “Not that easy.”

  “Wentworth… thank you.”

  The gun fired, and her body jerked, flinging the pistol away as she bounced back in her chair.

  Wentworth waited to see that she was dead. When she didn’t move he wiped the splatter off his sleeve, retrieved his sidearm and left the office.

  * * *

  Vince stood behind the Landfalls bar. A scratchy voice sang an old love song on the stereo as his features sagged.

  Wentworth sat across from him. Vince poured him a drink which he drank thoughtfully. When it was gone the Merchant refilled it, as well as his own.

  “All the cattle survived…” the older man mused.

  “Hah. Why not? They survived the war.”

  Vince nodded, taking a sip before continuing. “I’d heard of radiation sickness before… in the old stories…”

  Wentworth glanced up. In doing so he realized why his eyes were burning; he’d forgotten to put his goggles back on after leaving Vree, and the sunlight had got to them. “It’s nasty stuff, isn’t it?”

  “Aye… is Raxx..?”

  “Still with Connie,” he knocked back a swig of his drink, then pulled out a cigarette. “I don’t think we’ll have to wait too much longer.”

  Vince nodded as the other man flicked his lighter.

  * * *

  Raxx sat by Connie’s bed as she breathed her last. He held her hand, reflecting that he’
d never truly known her. She’d been nothing but an infatuation; someone… someone he’d never met. A forgotten memory.

  Her hand trembled as she squeezed his.

  He hadn’t loved her. He didn’t even know who she was. With her town dead nobody ever would. She said some words, and his lips mouthed a reply. She deserved better than that. Better than him. And he deserved better than this.

  He buried her in loamy soil, building a cairn of rocks to keep off the predators. Afterwards he stood there a long time, eyes dry, with a confused and troubled expression on his face. He shivered from a cold more imagined than felt. The sun set and he walked away.

  The others two were heavy in their cups by the time he walked in, but the drunkenness stopped at their shoulders. A cold sobriety shon in their eyes. He sat down and glanced from one to the other.

  “They’re all dead.”

  Vince and Wentworth looked down. The merchant nodded, then put a glass in front of the Mechanic. He sipped at it.

  Vince sighed. “I… I just wish I knew where those Hellhounds came from…”

  “We know where they came from” said Raxx. His voice was mechanical. “They came from the same place that all of it comes from: the War. The same poison. It went deep, it got into everything…” he took another sip, “or maybe they were nobody. Fuck it.” He put the drink down, spilling some, and walked outside.

  Wentworth retrieved his cigarette from the ashtray. Blackstock’s air still smelled of the fire.

  Outside a bank of clouds was slicing away the moon. It will not come openly; it will come creeping in, on all sides. Raxx shook his head at the half-formed thoughts. He finished his cigar, and crushed it into the road.

  Vince was speaking as he re-entered the bar. “…that’d be Hope, the last Eastern trade center; around it the Mennite farmers, but I don’t go to their settlements; I stick to the city. That’s where I’m gonna head — I was gonna bring the cattle with me…”

  “It’s not like anyone is using them.”