As I Walk These Broken Roads br-1

by Davis M. J. Aurini

  The Catamite screamed angrier and louder than before. The left side of the road was blocked by the spinning station wagon, and on the right was a rocky ditch. He made a jerk for the latter, but there wasn’t enough time.

  The spinning station wagon’s lights swung across them as their left wheel raced towards the motorcyclist, his arm raised in defence. He and his bike disappeared under them with the scream of tearing metal. The shock launched the buggy up off the road.

  Slayer was flying now, thrown from his standing position. The road was a blue and yellow line, spinning sickly.

  He couldn’t see the ground until it struck him. With a bang his lungs were hollowed out, his stomach seized, and his eyes sparkled white. Nausea spread filthy tendrils through his system. He couldn’t vomit, and the world kept spinning. His head had come down on a rock, his vision was blurred, and he couldn’t move.

  Up on a hill. Watching the enemy truck disappear around the next corner, out of sight and free of the fire. The path of flames. Sickly black smoke. Along the bend of the second corner a cluster of stars appeared and then, off to its side, another. Sparkling light. Weapon signatures. The flaming road was a shooting range, then. One group taking it straight on, the other covering it at an angle.

  The first of his vehicles, a van, began to slow, its driver killed or injured. The next, a sedan, tried to pass it, racing through the flames and bullets, when the first struck a pothole. It jerked across the road rolled over, ending up on its passenger side. The sedan couldn’t slow down in time and slammed into it, crushing the roof.

  One by one the other vehicles piled into the crash, or into the ditch. The spinning station wagon stopped short of the flames, but the second group of ambushers had it covered. The glitter of ricochets marked the outline of its body. Figures fell out of the wreckage, screaming into the night as the flames raced up their clothes. Some tried to run, but fell to the bullets. Others tried to return fire, but they fell two. The last vehicles tried to turn back around, but with melted tires it moved awkwardly. Two of the motorcycles exploded, and then one of the pickups. A petroleum fireball lifted it up, and slammed it into the last moving vehicle, sliding them both into the ditch.

  The rifle fire ceased.

  He heard a distant cheer start in the hills.

  Finally — as if the shock were over, instead of just setting in — Slayer’s chest heaved and he pulled in a breath. He’d lost his gun. He didn’t need a gun now. It was too late.

  Reaching up to scratch his hair, he looked at his hand and wondered why it was black. It was blood, blood in the moonlight. He had a head wound.

  He climbed down the embankment. He’d been thrown high, above a rocky berm on the side of the road, while the buggy lay below in the ditch, flipped on its roof. He was dizzy. He used three limbs to maintain balance. The buggy had been in defilade, none of the bullets would have reached it. He got to the bottom without falling, and lay down in the semi-dry mud to look inside.

  The roll cage had held. But there was no movement.

  He crawled toward the driver compartment. The Catamite, his other, was dead. The steering wheel had crushed his chest into a concave shell. His arms hung down, resting on the ground, and blood came out of his mouth and nose, pulled by gravity over his forehead and into his hair. For some reason it looked as if he was smiling.

  It hurts so much…

  Hardly conscious of what he was doing, Slayer picked up a shotgun lying randomly on the ground. Then he reached up and slid the Catamite’s razor from its place on the dead man’s belt. Grabbing his necklace, he tried to undo it, but couldn’t figure out the locking mechanism. Making a fist, he tore it off, breaking the chain, and jerking Catamite’s head. The dead man’s blood splattered into Slayer’s mouth.

  It tasted metallic.

  Then, limping from injuries he didn’t yet realize he had, he made his slow way into the fields, away from the battleground, away from the cheering, away from his past, away from whatever it was that he’d attempted to do here.

  He limped away from the Catamite.

  It was still hurting when the dawn came.

  Chapter 26

  “So how did you do it? I was there and I saw how you actually did it, but how did you make it all come together like that? Tell me.”

  The attack on the Slayer’s band had gone exactly as planned, with Raxx and Wentworth baiting the raiders into an ambush for Hope’s Constabulary. The only injury sustained had been Wentworth’s, the firing position he’d taken out the rear window of the truck had given him whiplash. The town doctor had prescribed ibuprofen and stretching exercises. Until then Wentworth would have to settle for using his right hand for both cigarette and beer; lifting his left arm sent pains down his back.

  “Really it was a question of concentrating our forces.”

  After sweeping the battle area and going over the mine site, the Constabulary had returned to the brown delivery van which had brought them there, and returned to Hope. They’d been in high spirits the whole way back — it was a rare opportunity, enacting retribution for their fallen brethren. As for Wentworth and Raxx, the excitement of surviving another combat situation had left them in a similar state. No tragedy this time. Short of the taillight, the sandbags and deflector had done their job.

  While driving over the ashes of their napalmed highway both of them burst into hysterical laughter.

  “Slayer’s strength wasn’t in numbers or skill: it was in their secrecy, the way they were amorphous without a fixed position to pin down, and the fact that they had the support of the local Mennites, preventing you from acting openly.”

  Upon returning to Hope Captain O’Neil had declared a general day of leave for all of the Constabulary, effective immediately. The city gates were manned by caravan guards. The constabulary was celebrating at Tracy’s Roadhouse.

  “By discovering their base camp, and outing their collusion with Jenkins, we reversed the situation without their realizing it. Now they were in the same situation you’d been stuck in before, isolated and centralized against an enemy who was supported and dispersed — basically, it was the element of surprise.”

  The beer had flown freely. Patricia had bought the first round, Wentworth the second. In this moment he felt brotherhood with Raxx, and even with the Constabulary. The night was filled with stories. “Did you see when I blew out his tires?…that fat one’s head popped like a watermelon…and then the vehicle flipped… you got him right in the eye… the explosion when the gas tank went up?” The good spirits were infectious, catching with the other patrons. Soon the series of tables they were sitting at were surrounded by other citizens and travellers, relieved that the threat had passed, as well as off-duty caravan guards telling their own stories.

  “The other important thing — and this is all on Raxx — was figuring their critical flaw — Pride. Ironically enough, he says it’s the major prohibition of their superstition, and yet it’s what he used against Jenkins during that interrogation. It’s ironic, really. In the end you can blame all of this on the Mennites — they’re neurotic about sex and ego, and thanks to that Slayer turned his men’s aberrance into an ideology. That’s where their roots lay; sexual, violent terrorism, not combat, no matter how well disciplined they were. That’s how I knew their reaction to the planted explosive would be so immediate. They were a rockslide waiting to happen — Raxx figured out where to put the dynamite…”

  The two girls his partner had been flirting with the other day were there at the bar and they both seemed impressed with his accomplishments. Vince and Maria had stopped by briefly, but left once Vince had congratulated them on their victory and Maria had fussed over Wentworth’s muscle strain. Soon after, with the younger members of the Constabulary engaging in their own form of youthful entertainment, Wentworth had found himself sharing a corner table with Captain O’Neil — with Patricia.

  “You know,” she said, wiping foam from her lips after taking a sip from her pint glass, “I have to admit th
at I had my doubts about you at first.”

  “I hadn’t noticed.”

  “Whatever. I’m sorry your commission got cut, but it was the only way I could convince the Mayor to let the Constabulary get involved, regardless of what I thought.”

  “Hey, it’s no biggie.” It had only been a fifty percent cut so he and Raxx were still walking away happy. The excitement had quickly worn off for him though. Combat against disorganized opponents was nothing new for him, and it had been replaced with… not depression, maybe thoughtfulness? Camaraderie aside, he wasn’t flush with the same mirth as the men and women in uniform, enjoying their youth, or that Raxx felt, laughing and joking with Sherry and Michelle. “The thing that gets me is that the Children, most of them anyway, never would have turned out like that if not for Jenkins, and their society which threw them out. The Mennites manufactured their own trouble.”

  “Well, they paid for it ten times over.”

  “Maybe, but I doubt they’ve learned from it. It’s just… tragic… incompetence causes more harm than evil. In this case incompetence and ignorance is what created the evil in the first place.” He looked down at the ashtray, a sad frustration written across his face.

  “Wentworth — I’ve never liked the Mennites. They’re good enough people individually, but that superstition of theirs makes them impossible to deal with.” She paused to steal Wentworth’s cigarette, and take a draw from it. “Hey,” she said, sliding around closer to him and taking his chin in her hand, making him face her. Her fingers were rough. “You just saved two communities from predation, and took out some bad guys, wherever they came from. Today you’re the hero, Wentworth, and you should be smiling.”

  “Call me Iain.”

  She leaned forward and placed her lips on his.

  At first it was gentle and friendly. But she didn’t disengage. Their lips slid against each other, wet from the beer, and a sudden hunger enveloped both of them. Wentworth let go of his glass and placed his hand on the back of her neck pulling her towards him. Their mouths opened and their tongues met. After a long moment they finally pulled apart, both panting, their faces flushed.

  “Do you want to get out of here?” asked Wentworth.

  “My place is down in the town square.”

  They put down money for the tab, and made their way out of the bar. After exiting Patricia pushed him against the wall of the Roadhouse. “I haven’t done this since I was twenty.” She pressed her body against him and they kissed again, briefly. Then they made the five minute walk back to her apartment holding hands.

  Patricia lived in a walk-up above a cobbler. They kissed while she unlocked the front door, then she led him up the stairs, his good hand on her hips. She opened up her apartment’s door. It entered into the suite’s kitchen, and they started kissing again. A fierce hunger drove them, something awakened in both their chests, and their kisses became violent. Wentworth shed his jacket and boots, while she removed her utility belt, walking backwards towards the bedroom, kissing him the entire time.

  Moonlight streamed in from the window, lighting up everything in shades of blue and silver as Wentworth undid the buttons of her uniform and unhooked her bra. She unbuckled his belt and removed his pants. They fell to the bed still half-clothed, grinding against each other, running their hands up and down each other’s bodies.

  Hers was muscled and firm, small breasts with dark nipples, black against the blue of her skin. He reached up and undid the clasp holding her hair back in a tidy bun, and it streamed out over the pillow, smelling of perfume and sweat, silky against his hand. She ran her hands up and down him, squeezing and kneading his muscles, sliding his clothes off. Her skin tasted sweet and salty, the musk of their pheromones filled the room.

  Then they were naked. He entered her, gasping. The sex was desperate.

  Wentworth could feel her hunger. His sense of time faded and she moaned out his name when his lips weren’t on hers. He squeezed her breast as her hips bucked against his. All of their worked up stress combined with the euphoria of the alcohol until it exploded. She climaxed, and her moans threw him over the edge.

  They drifted in each other’s arms, floating in the afterglow.

  Patricia turned playful. She cuddled into his shoulder with soft animal noises while he ran his fingers up and down her back, making her shiver.

  “You’re a strange man, Iain Wentworth.”

  “That’s what they say,” he leaned down and kissed her on the forehead.

  Looking about the room he saw that it was papered with old prewar posters, the colour bled out. They all showed different actors or musicians posing, all male. They were neither effeminate nor overly-developed; a rare collection. They were of various ages, but all seemed to stand with confidence, maybe a rugged look

  He closed his eyes, surrounded by the scent of her hair.

  His breathing was beginning to fall into a steady rhythm, and the world was blurring with the onset of dreams when he felt Patricia’s hand slide down his chest to his groin and begin massaging him there. He quickly grew hard again and gently rolled her onto her back so that he could work his mouth down her body.

  They made love a second time. Before there’d been heat and need. This time there caressing and tenderness. Their hands and mouths wandered gently over each other, as they continuously changed position, too busy pleasing the other to seek their own climax.

  He fell asleep with no memory of orgasm.

  * * *

  “So you and Raxx are the talk of the town wherever I go.” Wentworth was sitting with Vince in the back of Maria’s shop having a late breakfast. Two weeks had passed since eliminating Slayer’s threat. His shoulder had healed without incident. Maria was out front tending to customers while the two of them spoke. “Doing pretty well financially, too, from what I gather.”

  “Yeah. We are. Thanks again for working on that cattle sale. You did an amazing job there.”

  “Lad, I’ve been doing it long enough, I’d better have.” Vince was wearing new clothes, nothing showy but in much better condition than his old outfit. Maria had made him shave off his beard, despite his protests that with nothing on his head he needed something! “So what are you thinking then? You and the Captain seem to have hit it off pretty well, are you going to set up kip?”

  Wentworth frowned, “I thought we’d been subtle.”

  Vince let out a guffaw of laughter, “You can’t be subtle in a place this size! Everyone’s keeping quiet out of respect, though, and you managed to overcome their natural prejudices… so is that the plan then, you’re staying?”

  Wentworth shook his head, “I can’t do that, Vince. You know about the storm that’s following me. I’ve got to be hitting the road again soon.”

  “Wanderlust, eh? Hah! That’s what I thought. Have you talked to Raxx at all about it?”

  “No, I haven’t seen him much lately. He’s been busy with Sherry and Michelle.”

  “I’ve seen him with them. They’ve been keeping the lad pretty busy! But the reason I asked is because I talked to him the other day. You see, with all the money I’m getting from the sale of the cattle, plus what I’ve saved up over the years, I’ve decided it’s come time to retire. I’m going on one last trading mission around some of the larger burgs, and then heading back to Steeltown, my home. Maria’s good to come with me, and Raxx said he’ll come too. So you want to join up? I could use another caravan guard.”

  Wentworth nodded, “Yeah. Yeah, that sounds like a good plan. It’ll be good to be travelling with someone who knows the area.”

  “Have you told the Captain you’ll be leaving?”

  “No. It never came up.”

  * * *

  “This — this isn’t fair. Not in public like this, not with me. Iain… you always respected my uniform before. This is cruel.”

  They were sitting in the town square; Patricia was taking her lunch break. A couple of hotdog wrappers lay on the bench between them.

  “You’re right.
But I didn’t know where else. I’m sorry. Patty — I don’t have a choice about leaving — if I stayed it’d just put you, and the rest of Hope in danger. These guys who are after me aren’t all that forgiving. I’ve gotta keep moving.”

  “Bullshit. You could deal with them if you wanted to. Who are these guys, anyway?”

  Without lipstick her lips appeared thin, but to Wentworth the austerity only made her more beautiful. He didn’t answer her question. She wouldn’t believe him. He just held his neck straight.

  “Oh, Iain…” she stared into the distance, dry-eyed, “here you are, leaving without reason. It started out as a wild night, and I guess that’s how it’s going to end. So here I am — not even knowing who you really are,” she sighed, “No hard feelings though, nothing lost…” She reached over and squeezed his knee without looking at him. “Where were you ten years ago? I have half a mind to go with you… but I can’t do that. And I guess you can’t stay, either.” Her hand remained resting on his knee.

  “I’m sorry,” he said again, not knowing what else to say. Patricia was as good as any woman he’d ever known.

  Memory flash. There’d been that other one, holding a compress over his femoral, telling him to breathe—

  He felt shame for thinking of her right now.

  Another memory flash. A young girl, sixteen maybe, eyes flecked with blood, with pain, her fingers blackening from—

  He blinked hard, cancelling the memory. Sunlight, birds chirping, the smell of cooking bread; Patricia was speaking to him.

  “Tell me it meant something? It wasn’t… it wasn’t just a collection of one night stands, was it? Iain, give me the truth — did it matter or not? I’m too old for you to lie to me about this.”