As I Walk These Broken Roads br-1

by Davis M. J. Aurini

  Wentworth tapped his fingers then pulled out a cigarette for himself. “Okay… let’s say you’re on to something. What does that mean here? What’s that one percent that I’m missing?”

  Raxx let out an exasperated breath, “Honestly, I’m mostly going by instinct right now; something’s bugging me about them, but I don’t totally understand. I guess… I’ve seen other groups that are like them. I’ve seen this sort of behaviour before.” He took a puff of his cigarette, “It’s the religion. It’s there in the corner, motivating them — they’re confident about something — too confident. Like they know something they couldn’t. Nobody gets that way without religion involved.”

  “Religion…” During their conversation his subconscious had been breaking down the band’s milling about. A pattern was beginning to emerge. “I guess that makes sense. There was a reason they tried to ban it before the War, after all. Maybe if they’d done a better job…”

  “Don’t blame that on religion. It didn’t start the war.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe not. Anyway, that’s a conversation for another time. I think I’m beginning to suss out the organizational structure of these guys.”

  * * *

  As the day wore on, a sheet of clouds rolled across the sky, dimming the light to a washed-out grey. The sweat and dust of the morning had given way to an unseasonable cool. Several crickets mistook it for dusk. Jenkins stayed holed up in the hangar, and Slayer’s band carried on as before. The clang of metal on metal, and the grunt of meat on meat did little to fill the silent air.

  Atop the cliff, they’d divided up the responsibilities. Raxx kept a close eye on the small group servicing their vehicles. He watched them perform various minor repairs and maintenances. Every so often he’d make notes about the vehicles’ conditions.

  Wentworth stayed focussed on the bulk of the men. They were clustered in three separate groups, spread out across the cleared area of the compound. The group furthest from them, lined up by the side of the hangar, were practicing weapons drills. One of the sergeants he’d spotted earlier, a wiry man with eye-liner tattoos, had been demonstrating the operation of different small arms — thankfully no heavy weapons, just rifles and submachine guns — then when that was over, they’d started target practice with a dozen-odd cross bows of different manufacture. Wentworth surmised that they must not have any chemists in their group; that would explain why they were conserving ammunition.

  Another group was gathered out front of the hangar, closer to the cliff face. A heavy-set sergeant with a thick, black beard had been running them through different combative drills. The moves he was teaching were a mixture of boxing and some of the more ornamental martial arts. Nothing too impressive, but it would be enough for the local Mennite population.

  It was the third group that had him most worried. They were spread throughout the structures abutting the entrance, practicing different run-and-gun manoeuvres. Some of them he recognized — ripped straight from the pages of documents in his Datapad. Their sergeant was a man almost as large as Slayer himself, with a sheer black mohawk across his head. He drove the other band members at a frantic pace, firing them through the moves, repeating them, forcing them to get it right.

  He was getting a bad feeling about this. They were unskilled, but weren’t amateurs. These men would know how to work as a team.

  “Looks like they’re not just mechanics.”

  “Huh?” he’d been so focussed on what the others were doing; he’d missed seeing the group working on the vehicles wander off towards the hangar.

  “It looks like they’re cooks, too.”

  “Porters.” Several had grabbed some of the raided supplies on their way to the kitchen. “So, learn anything about their fleet?”

  “The vehicles? Yeah. They’re all in working order, the worst are a couple that’re burning oil. There might be a couple of other minor problems, I couldn’t say about the alignment — oh yeah, one of them’s got bad suspension — but none of that’ll stop them from moving. I don’t think these guys are the one that restored them, though.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Raxx shook his head, “The work they were doing wasn’t that good — the guy with the welding torch seemed okay, but welding the body-panels on like he was doing isn’t something I’d expect to see from a mechanic that cares. These guys are good enough to keep ’em running, but I don’t think they’ll be able to maintain them for long. I’d guess they stole them from one of the Chicago caravans, except that those troupes carry some serious armaments.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t second guess yourself, Raxx. You see that group running around the sheds there? What sort of organization do you notice?”

  Raxx stared down at them for a long moment, lips parted. “Well, they seem to be working in teams of two.”

  “They are — but look bigger. They’re also working in bigger teams of four, and two big teams of eight.”

  “…okay, I think I see what you’re saying.”

  “Remember what I said about the two of us doing this together?”

  “You said the difference was exponential, not linear?”

  “Yeah. Well, the same idea here. These guys are organized, and some of the manoeuvres they’re using are based on lots of history and practice. It’s a good thing we didn’t try and take them out last night — drunk or not, at least a few of them would have reacted in time. They aren’t good at what they do — but they’re working together.”

  “That’s bad, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Shit. So what are we gonna do then?”

  “I don’t know. A direct assault would be too risky at this point. There’s still the question of Jenkins though — I want to know how he’s mixed up with these guys. Those Mennites don’t really seem the type to mix with Slayer and his men. They’re too insular.”

  “I agree. They barely mix with the people in Hope, even though they’re trading. Just look at how they treated us.”

  “Exactly. I want to know what that relationship’s all about before I make any decisions.”

  “Hey — those guys are breaking. Looks like they’re going for lunch.”

  “Maybe Jenkins will finally come out.”

  * * *

  A semi-circle of tables had been setup at the opening of the hangar. The band took their seats, facing inwards. There were no signs of segregation between the groups. The porters had just begun to bring out the food, when Slayer, his Second, and Jenkins appeared. They walked out of the shadows, towards the empty table at the centre of the half-circle, manned by three scavenged chairs. The ornate metal throne had disappeared.

  Once the meals were delivered, and everyone was else sitting, Jenkins spoke a brief formality. The assembly responded with formalized gestures and an incoherent mutter, then started eating. Their behaviour was subdued; only the occasional elbow prod or chuckle. The meal looked warm, and Wentworth felt himself growing hungry. A groan from Raxx’s gut confirmed he wasn’t alone in this, but with Jenkins present neither dared look away.

  The three men at the head of the table ate in silence. A lopsided valley — Slayer, Jenkins, and the Second. Any conversation had already finished. They ate with a grim confidence which didn’t need glances for moral support. Instead, they watched the rest of the band.

  A hint of nervousness was trickling through the ranks. Any joviality seemed forced, and though it was hard to tell from the watchers perspectives, it seemed that none of the band were making eye contact with their leaders. As the meal drew to a close nervous twitches abounded — bouncing knees, tapping fingers — they no more knew what to expect than the watchers on the cliff.

  Then the Second stood.

  The dust seemed to settle as the band froze.

  Walking casually, he approached the same hanging clutch-plate which had announced a young man’s death the night before. He picked up the cudgel which lay next to it. With a deliberate, forceful strike — the din seemed to rarify the air thr
oughout the mine site — Jenkins stood, and his speech cut through the stilled air.

  “Children,” his arms were opened lovingly, his visage full of assurance, “You have come. You have survived the filth and the tribulations. It has come time for you to no longer be the abject — for though you knew it not, you men before me are the faith. I came here this day so that you might learn the first of the mysteries.

  “Your shepherd has brought you to me purified. He has guided and uplifted you from hell. But though you were uplifted, still always you saw nought but the next field of green. You sought only the harvest, not the seeds with which to sow the field. And further, the green lived on only in the presence of the shepherd — you knew not how to find it should you abandon the faith.”

  His vision paused on several of the seated, the sergeants and one of the porters. “Some amongst you, I can see, have learned this vision for yourselves. And yet you remain — for you do not understand from where this vision arises.”

  “You men are the children of filth and apocalypse. In a broken world, only the broken can understand.” He paused for a breath, looking vacantly at the assembly. Then a demonic fury inflamed his features, “In a world of filth, it is the filthy who are filthy no more! With my arrival the prophecy is fulfilled — it is by the seven heads that this beast shall arise, and woe unto those who seek not the new world! It is written that they shall burn, as many did, but still they shall burn again! Death has arrived — the wages of sin are of the past — now comes the hour when the blind shall be cast down!”

  The band was captivated, trembling at his pronouncements. Even the men seated at his side waxed pale.

  “The sodomite era is now! For we shall reap what they sow!”

  “We shall reap what they sow!” shouted the body of men.

  He stopped speaking. Tremors ran through the audience, jerks and twitches moving through the spine. He stayed silent, slowly his body composed itself.

  “But now I must go, children. The hour draws nigh.”

  Slayer’s second fell down to one knee. One by one, then en mass, the rest kicked their chairs out and mimicked his pose.

  “There shall be further mysteries in times to come… think on what I have told you this day.” Abruptly he turned ninety degrees and began walking away.

  “This is it! Wentworth — we need to take that guy, and the rest of it will fall apart.”

  Raxx’s voice snapped Wentworth away from the gathering — for a moment he was stunned at the great distance between him and Jenkins, and the immediateness of his own environment.

  “What’s ‘it’? What do we need to do with him?”

  “Listen, it’s all jumping around my head still — it makes sense, I just haven’t sorted it out yet — Jenkins isn’t just the ringleader, he’s the whole thing — we gotta take him now, before he gets back to Hope. If we crack it there, the whole thing comes falling down like a house of cards. Listen, Wentworth, he’s almost gone already, I—” Raxx paused mid breath. His eyes were wide, and the gears behind them were spinning violently. “Trust me on this. We take him now, it’ll all crack. I can’t explain it.”

  Wentworth stared at him. Every instinct, every knee-jerk, argued against trusting an unguarded argument. He’d see men die over that. But before this he’d always had a counter argument, or at least an educated doubt to fall back on. Today; with this man, and these locals; he was at a loss. Raxx had been raised on superstition and false promises. But he’d also learned the science of auto mechanics.

  “You’re sure about this?” It was the mercenary part of him speaking. A simple cost/benefit analysis had swayed the argument.

  “I’m damn near positive.”

  “Then let’s get back to your truck.”

  Chapter 23

  A sense of urgency overtook them. Their hearts started pumping blood at a rapid rate, pushing it through their body, waking their numb extremities. Once away from the cliff edge they could stand, finally. They began running. The route was steep in places. Holding their longarms out in one hand for balance, with the other they grabbed at passing tree trunks, slowing their decent. In lurching jumps they moved down the hill, tree to tree.

  The woods moved by in a flash of brown and green, and the sound of tearing bracken.

  It took them fifteen minutes to reach the vehicle. They removed Wentworth’s cam-net from the truck’s superstructure, then Raxx went through a quick vehicle-check while his partner packed their equipment. They finished within seconds of each other, tossing their weapons into the bed. He keyed the ignition as Wentworth slammed his door shut. The truck roared to life. He pulled forward through the branches of the willow, over a ditch, and onto the road. A quick fishtail, then the wheels grabbed traction.

  Wentworth pulled his pistol out from his side holster, cocking the upper receiver, and engaging the safety. “Alright, this son of a bitch shouldn’t have an escort, and I doubt he has any weapons on him, but we’re gambling that Slayer won’t hear us drive past — hell, I think that might have been the entrance just now. Our sidearms will do the job, but we need to do it fast.”

  Raxx nodded, a scowl on his face as he accelerated down the torn-up road. Wentworth re-holstered his pistol and reached around to the backseats. Grabbing the handle of his duffle bag he pulled it over and began rummaging around.

  “What are you doing?” asked Raxx.

  “Getting a blindfold and some zap-straps for when we nab him. Plastic Handcuffs.”

  “Gotcha. I think that’s him there.”

  They crested a rise. Down the road was a thin, shredded looking figure. As they neared the details came into focus — Jenkins was pedalling on an ornate bicycle. A sudden movement might have been him turning to look back at the approaching vehicle. The sun was behind them, near the horizon. The truck was lit up with a halo of silver fire. The engine roared as Raxx shifted to low gear, the truck ran down the hill with a predator’s suppressed growl. Jenkins’ figure got off his bicycle and stood to its side.

  The brakes squealed as Raxx slowed to a stop. He tore at the parking break, as Wentworth exited. He followed suit, pulling back the hammer on his revolver. Weapons raised, they moved towards the priest.

  “Get the fuck down right now!”

  “Gents,” said Jenkins, surprised recognition showing in his eyes as he assumed his priestly veneer, “I thought that when I spoke with you I had said—”

  “Shut the fuck up!” bellowed Wentworth, “Get on the fucking ground! Now!” To the priest, the nine millimetre was a cruel cyclopean eye.

  Jenkins raised his hands, “I told you both that this is our land that we steward—”

  “He said get on the goddamned ground!” As the priest continued to stammer Raxx stepped forward. Wentworth shifted right to keep a clear arc of fire. Raxx placed his boot on the centre priest’s chest and pushed hard, knocking him to the ground and winding him, “Stay on the fucking ground!”

  “Stay down! Stay down!”

  Unused to violence, the kick had launched Jenkins into a primal terror; his mind was going through sensory overload. Prostrate on his back next to his fallen bicycle his speech turned into nonsensical babbling. A stray lock of hair ran across his face, caught in his beard. His hands clawed at the air.

  “Get him onto his stomach for me!” said Wentworth. Raxx hooked a toe under his shoulder and rolled him over, none too gently, then backed up several paces. “Cover me!” Wentworth holstered his weapon and moved forward, planting his knee on the priest’s kidney. “Stay still! Stay still!” he yelled, “Get your hands behind you!” Grabbing his flailing arms, Wentworth forced them through the zap-strap loops, drawing them tight. Jenkins stopped struggling as the pain from Wentworth’s knee registered. He pulled the bandanna of his pocket and wrapped it around Jenkins eyes. “Keep your mouth shut and we won’t put a gag on you. Raxx! You grab his bike, we can’t just leave it here.”

  “Right.” Wentworth remained kneeling on Jenkins back, hand on his holstered pistol
to keep it secure. Raxx secured the bike, then returned with his pistol drawn, “I’ve got him covered,” he said.

  With both hands Wentworth grabbed Jenkins by the shoulder and the elbow, flipping him over and forcing him onto his feet. Then, gripping the back of his neck and forcing his head down, he marched him towards the vehicle’s backseat, forcing him in.

  “Keep covering him, I’m going around!” He circled the truck, and slid into the backseat next to the priest. He did up the man’s seatbelt, then pulled out his pistol with his off hand. “Alright, let’s get the hell out of here in case Slayer decides to go patrolling.”

  Raxx got into the driver’s seat and shifted the gearbox, “Full throttle to Hope — we’ll get there before the markets close!”

  * * *

  As the door to the Constabulary opened, Stewart looked up from the training roster he’d been working on. “Yes, can I…” he stopped when he saw the outfit of the man the two mercenaries were holding “What is going on here?”

  “We need your Captain. Now.”

  “Excuse me, do you know…?”

  “Listen, troop, this is above your pay grade — we need Captain O’Neil, now!”

  His neck flared, but he turned towards Patricia’s office just in time to run into her on her way out.

  “Captain,” he said breathlessly, “Those two mercs are here and—”

  As she looked past him her eyes flared with anger. The two men Talbot had hired were standing there with one of the Mennite elders bound and blindfolded. There were two days of beard growth on Raxx’s cheeks, and both of them bore a dirty, unwashed sheen on their skin. Wentworth was wearing an old helmet, complete with bullet-groove he’d probably put there himself. They smelled of sweat and damp wool.