As I Walk These Broken Roads br-1

by Davis M. J. Aurini

“That’ll do. You want to take over the picket? I’m going to go wash my canteen cup.”

  He got up and vaulted down to the landing, walking down the stairs to the rear of the truck. Unscrewing the cap on the water jerry sitting on the bed, he tilted it over and rinsed out the aluminum cup. Shaking it dry, he put it back into its pouch, topped of his canteen, and rejoined Raxx on the hill.

  By the time he returned Raxx had lit a cigarillo and was looking thoughtful. “You know, earlier this week, just after we got into town and were doing all that boozing, you said something that stuck with me and it’s been going around my head.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You asked me ‘Do you think the war helped us appreciate tragedy?’ I was wondering what you meant by that.”

  The words sparked a memory, flashing him back to the Tracy’s Roadhouse. The beer had been catalyzing his brain, letting disparate thoughts flow together.

  Tragedy.

  An off the cuff remark, made as various elements crystallized — only to fall apart with the next sip of beer.

  “Tragedy.” he said it out loud, tying to evoke the forgotten thoughts. One by one the pieces drifted in from his subconscious, but some were fragmented, others missing. His eyes ticked back and forth across the horizon, alert for the raiders, but it was reflex-response. His mind was focused inward, trying to find the paths he’d travelled before.

  “My entire life,” he spoke slowly, “has been spent studying war — not just any war, the War. Everything I do, everywhere I go — it’s always there in the background. It’s the one… fundament, for everything. That’s how it feels, anyway. Like every day we’re stuck paying the toll.”

  “I know what you mean. It’s everywhere you go.”

  “Not just in the physical sense, either. That part’s obvious — farmers lyeing their fields against acid rain; mutations in crops, livestock, people; the social and structural breakdown — say, you know what a horse is?”

  “Yeah — it’s an old pre-metric measurement for wattage. Horse Power’s how it’s usually written.”

  “That’s not what I meant. The ‘Horse’ part of Horse Power is the name of an animal they used for riding back in the pre-tech days. When they made the first vehicles I guess they measured how good they were by how many horses they were equal to.”

  Raxx canted his head to the right. “…yeah! They used to use ’em for riding on. Like your motorcycle? You ‘saddled’ ’em for riding, right?

  “Yes. They were sort of like an ox, only skinnier and faster.”

  “I’ve read about them in old stories, only I didn’t really get what they were talking about ‘till now. I haven’t read any of those since I was a kid. Huh. So what, none of them survived?”

  “Well, I don’t know. There might be some left somewhere, I guess, but I haven’t seen or heard of any since E-Day. And I guess you haven’t either.” He shrugged, “They must have been more sensitive than other animals to the radiation, or to something else. Maybe they all got eaten. Who knows? But I don’t think there were that many before the war, there wasn’t much use for them. So that didn’t help…”

  He’d gone off track. He thought for a moment before continuing. “Take farmers. The way their lives have changed, how their farms have changed… what’s happening now is something new. It’s not… it’s not just like they just threw away all the tech — they’ve still got some of it — but it’s… schizophrenic.”

  “It’s what?”

  “Crazy, all mixed up. They’ve got mechanical threshers they pull by hand. A bit of both… but neither, not prewar, not pretech — both at the same time.”

  Raxx nodded, “Okay, I get you, it’s the same for everything else. Merchants’ll sell electronics, but they’re using animal power to transport ’em. Tech shops using coal fires to blacksmith the tools they need. Precision machined firearms,” he hefted his shotgun, “and handmade cartridges.”

  “Sort of… I don’t think I’m explaining it right. Everything we do is different, different from ever before, and it all traces back to the same place… to the War. It’s hanging over our heads. I remember what you said to me that one time, you said that people can use the tech, but they don’t understand it. They can’t build it, but they rely upon it. The ancients… their tech — it’s a blessing, but it’s a curse too.”

  “He giveth and He taketh away…”

  “What?”

  “Never mind.”

  Wentworth shook his head, and stared at the settlement. He was beginning to worry that the bandits wouldn’t show. Then what would they do? Go back to square one. “Now here’s the part that starts to get a bit complex. Mostly because it’s not all sorted in my own head. Have you ever heard of Pandora’s Box?”

  “Yeah, I have.”

  “You read more than most. I was hoping you hadn’t, actually, because I could have explained it to you in under thirty seconds. I wouldn’t have had to tell you the whole legend, and that’s the argument I’m trying to make.

  “Pandora’s Box is a great example of the old cultural myths — when it was opened out came all the troubles, but along with them came a silver lining of hope. There’re other myths that are basically identical, but I can’t think of their names just now. They’re all about how innocence lost can never be restored, but that along with the problems and responsibilities of adulthood, there comes the ability for agency, for hope, or whatever you want to call it. A cold stark freedom.”

  “Free Will,” intoned Raxx, “Knowledge of Good and Evil. Moral choice and responsibility. The ability to choose who we become and what we are. To know the cost of moving with grace.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about, only it sounds like you’re using myths I haven’t heard before; but it’s all the same thing.”

  Raxx only nodded silently to this. Wentworth was too preoccupied to notice the faraway look in his eyes.

  “When I said earlier that I could have explained Pandora’s Box to you in thirty seconds, it was because we’re both products of thousands of years of culture and philosophy. The myth’s about an idea, and when it was first realized it had to be put into story-form to help explain it. But nowadays, all of these ancient ‘Truths’ are obvious to us — that’s because we’ve got a thousand-year culture behind us that let us assimilate them. Take anybody — some citizen back in Hope, or one of the Mennites even, doesn’t matter — no matter how ignorant they are, they’ll still figure out the meaning of the story, because of their thousand-year culture. Whether they know it or not, they’ve got the knowledge — and they’ve lost their innocence.

  “That’s what I was getting at, Raxx, is that we — all of us — have opened Pandora’s Box. We’re paying the cost, but because of the War we’ve lost the agency. We got all the tech, knowledge, and wisdom; but we’re living in the state of nature, like savages. We’ll never get it back — the agency — because we’ve fallen too far behind. We work as hard as people without tech, just to maintain our tech, and nothing’s left over to go forward. We can’t be moral, because we’re not free. We’ve got no choice; all we’ve got is necessity.”

  He paused to spark up a cigarette. “We’re blinded wise men, wandering along broken roads, past decaying ruins. Our throats have betrayed us, and we can’t tell our tales. Our hands tremble when we try to write them down. Our memories have faded, and our exploits have become meaningless. We have all the solutions, but we’ve forgotten the questions…

  “We’re intimately familiar with the primitive’s struggle to survive, but unlike him, we’ve got the wisdom to fully appreciate it. We got the wisdom — but no means to emancipate ourselves.” He sighed. “That’s what I meant by ‘greater appreciation for tragedy.’”

  Wentworth finished, and they sat in silence. The seconds passed, and Wentworth began to feel foolish. He was being morbid — and while he knew from experience that it wouldn’t faze him, it was his load to bear, not Raxx’s. Subjecting him to this on the eve of battle was stupid and unf
air. Inward-turning depression was the last thing the man needed before going into a situation where speed and aggression could count as much as planning. He was trying to think of something to say, something to lighten the blow, or to change the topic, when the Mechanic startled him.

  “I see what you’re saying, but I think you’re forgetting about something.” Wentworth glanced over and noticed the man’s brows creased in concentration; he was busy thinking and considering, not dwelling; his voice focused and forceful. The ticking thing inside him was showing its face. “Most of my argument comes from the old literature, the really old stuff. That’s where I’ve picked up most of the stuff I know. Have you read many of the old books?”

  Wentworth’s reply was interrupted by the hint of a rumble in the distance. He held up his hand to motion for silence, and pointed to his ear. Raxx nodded, canting his head to the right, listening. After a few seconds it became clear that what they were hearing was a vehicle approaching from the west.

  Wentworth’s heart started pumping in anticipation, sending blood to his extremities, warming his muscles. Looking over at Raxx he could see the same energy lighting up the man’s features. Wentworth could taste the upcoming fight like something sharp in the back of his throat. He reached for his binoculars and grinned. “Looks like we’re going to have to postpone enlightenment for another day. Time for us to get back to work.”

  Chapter 19

  The morning’s overcast haze had returned with the sun’s retreat, leaving a murky twilight. The glittering gold band on the horizon outlined everything in fire. Unmoving, they waited, watching silently.

  The sound had first appeared as a hum deep in their ears, then growing in the pit of their stomachs. It sliced through the crisp air, unmistakeable; the rumble of an internal combustion engine.

  Several of them.

  Struggling angrily up the hills.

  Carrying lanterns, the Mennites gathered like willowisps on the highway. The hot, phlegmatic day was gone, and in its wake a ritualistic, feverish pattern took shape. A dark figure guided them as they laid their offerings in the center of the road; Jenkins, shepherding his flock.

  A set of lights burst over the distant berm, seconds later the scream of a three cylinder reached the silent watchers. Two vehicles followed it, each with their own octane howl, then three singular lights appeared, gliding across the road like oil. Great arcs were lit up, harsh and white against the darkening, red-washed background. As they reached the settlement the red overtones were torn away. The villagers stood, gaunt and brittle under the electric glare.

  Screeching and whining, the first three vehicles came to a halt, fifty meters from nearest structure. Their engines moaned, their brakes screeched, and the lights swung across the buildings and they drifted to a halt on the dirt road. The motorcycles overtook them, racing into the crowd. People screamed and lamps fell, exploding in puddles of fire. One of the Mennites was lifted up, shouting, only to be dropped in the dust moments later.

  “Enough!”

  An electronically enhanced voice echoed across the hills. The riders ended their game, turning back towards the other vehicles, while the farmers remustered, huddling. The engines were killed and the area was left in a harsh, bright silence.

  A figure jumped out of the central vehicle — the glint off its fenders suggested a dune buggy, the floodlights along its top casting long shadows. He walked towards them like an obelisk, back straight, his head tilted down. He stopped just short of the tribute, crossed his arms, and regarded the gathered villagers. Jenkins, standing in front of his people, had disappeared into the giant’s shadow.

  As the sun finished its journey, the land faded to black. The cold headlights and the Mennite lanterns measured out the silence of the man known as Slayer.

  He spoke. But even with the still night air, no words reached the hilltop. The bass of his voice rumbled. Twitches of his frame accented his speech. Only the remnants of his speech reached them. Submit… Dominion… Machines… Penalty… Progeny…

  An old woman fainted. Her lantern rolled in a crescent before going out.

  Slayer grew silent. Jenkins, standing straight, proclaimed loud enough to reach the hilltop.

  “This tribe submits to the Lord. And to the Beast that he did send down to us. It is the path.”

  Nothing more was said. Slayer stood silently, his posture betraying no emotion. With a sharp nod of his head he turned and walked back to his vehicle. A swarm of his men descended on the tribute with raucous roars.

  Within seconds they’d loaded it, remounted, and were starting their engines.

  Wentworth hissed, “Go!”

  Raxx was already vaulting down. They raced to the pickup, shattering the night as they slammed the doors. The starter screamed, scenting the air with burning oil, and the engine roared into life. “Let’s hit this shit!” said Raxx, switching into reverse and accelerating backwards. He shifted while moving, and skipped the tires as he gunned it in first, manoeuvring around the rotting house, to the track behind it.

  Only the thinnest shafts of light escaped through the taped-over headlights, the terrain ahead was shaded in grey. Despite it all Raxx drove aggressively, quickly shifting to second, then leaving it in third to brake against the hill’s slope. A bead of sweat trickled down from his armpit. He squeezed the steering wheel with both hands.

  The truck bounced back and forth, its shocks protesting, before settling into the groove of the ancient tracks. Raxx’s feet were perched above the brake and clutch, gravity adding to the vehicle’s momentum making the speedometer climb steadily. With slight adjustments to the steering column he guided her, more by feel than by sight, to the distant blue line of the road ahead. Tall grasses disappeared under the grill, flashing in the thin beams of light, while the truck bounced back and forth in the tracks. A sudden dip surprised him, rocks and dirt scraped loudly against the undercarriage, then the front shot upwards — he slammed down on the clutch and downshifted as the wheels left the ground.

  The bed landed with a shudder. His rear wheels tugging to the left — his fronts had come out of the rut. Raxx turned the wheel — too much — but before he could correct a sudden bump tossed the vehicle’s front-right into the air. The rear wheels shuddered against the walls of the rut, before hitting their own ramp.

  The vehicle was in the air again, rotating to the left.

  The sudden steepness of the hill became apparent to him, as another part of his brain noted the lights of Slayer’s convoy disappearing into the distance. He was blind, with no sense of the road.

  He turned the steering wheel a hair to the left and squeezed.

  The ground hit hard, all four wheels shuddered, and he tasted blood in his mouth. Debris flew around the cab. Accelerator pedal — match the revs to the velocity — release the clutch — the engine gripped the earth and he eased off, letting the tires burn off the momentum.

  A few more quick adjustments and the truck was hugging the track again. The shaking subsided and the vehicle slid forward smoothly, the engine tugging against the slope. Raxx’s face was a mask of focused calm. His grip on the steering wheel relaxed slightly. His eyes flickered back and forth rapidly gathering data on the situation, but his mind was elsewhere, feeling the truck through the wheel, the sounds of the engines, and the bouncing from the shock absorbers. The engine roared under the hood while rocks kicked up against the undercarriage.

  The terrain was clearing out, becoming flatter and smoother, easier to drive on — when the secondary road suddenly materialized directly in their path. Wentworth reached up, gripping the roof-handle, as Raxx gunned the gas, aiming for the center.

  They hit gravel, and the truck lost traction, moving too fast towards the ditch. One hand spun the wheel while the other reached down for the parking brake lever, kicking the vehicle into a spin. He dropped the clutch and gunned the engine, for a moment all four wheels were loose as she glided sideways — then the back tires caught, and he played with steering wheel, easing
them back onto the road. In his side view mirror a thin line of blue showed against the black of the ditch. Churning up gravel, he started towards the highway.

  Using the foot brake this time, he slowed and turned west. The Mennite settlement was now several hundred meters behind them. He began accelerating towards the red lights off in the distance.

  With the hard-pack beneath him the tension began to ease, a cold sweat broke out on his forehead. Soon he was in fourth gear, bouncing over the loose gravel and potholes. The road was a blurred line against a darker background of the hills, straight and easy to follow. Slayer’s lights were a beacon, blinking as they came in and out of sight. Beside him Wentworth undid his seat belt and slid his seat back, taking up a relaxed firing position after he rolled down the window. The sudden inrush of wind was bracing.

  Bit by bit, the tension returned as he realized how fast they were going, hardpack or not. The darkness was maddening, and each shudder from under the vehicle made his heart jump in alarm. The tail lights in the distance were beckoning, telling him to speed up when he wanted to slow down. Beside him, Wentworth remained silent, unmoving.

  The tremble of the steering wheel was numbing his hands. The stress of the drive was numbing his mind. The red lights would disappear, ticking away the seconds, before reappearing. His jaw was clenched in concentration. He had to downshift to make it up a hill. Upon reaching its peak the lights blinked once more, before disappearing again.

  He frowned. He drove. The wheels ate away at the road ahead. Seconds stretched into minutes.

  A shadowy ghost — a herd of them — darted across the highway.

  He jerked the steering wheel, and the truck began fishtailing — a flash of the deer past the passenger window — the road spun around him, while his foot slammed down against the clutch. He was vaguely aware that his other foot still pressed against the accelerator, making the disengaged engine roar. His hands were trying to adjust the steering before he’d had a chance to think about it. The vehicle lurched left, then right.