As I Walk These Broken Roads br-1

by Davis M. J. Aurini

  He lit the cigarillo and stared out at the scattering rain. Wentworth checked his cigarettes. They were damp, but lightable. He pulled one out, delicately.

  “Parents?”

  “Still alive, I think. They’d hand me over to the priests if they knew what I did with this truck — let alone the rest of it.”

  Betrayer, that what Jenkins had called Raxx in the interview room. He realized, now, that the hurt on the man’s face had been real. The term could just as well be levelled at himself. Raxx wasn’t the only one who’d been ‘excommunicated.’ But that didn’t really matter a damn.

  Raxx wasn’t looking for empathy or validation. He wasn’t a subordinate either, it wasn’t Wentworth’s place to help crystallise his thoughts, to act as a historian and interpret his own past to him. Shared experience didn’t really matter. There was a deeper reason they’d been acting as partners for this long. Past be damned, it was the present that mattered.

  “You and I think differently. I’ve noticed that when you’re explaining things, your thought patterns are in some ways opposite to my own, as if you’re attacking the same problem from a completely different angle. But somehow we both arrive at the same conclusion.” He puffed his cigarette. “Raxx, I’m pretty sure you would have arrived at your present stance regardless of who was around you. Because I’m standing here too, with a completely different background. For a long time I wondered if I was crazy… but then I figured that if some Mechanic I just met agrees with me, and his reasoning’s different, but not contradictory, well…” He looked over at the man, and the reflected light glinting off of his piercings. “Raxx, I don’t think either of us are crazy. We’ve got the other one to prove it.”

  Chapter 29

  Raxx drove as if the road were his enemy. A scowl creased his features while the transmission hummed low in fifth gear. He leaned back in his seat, staring out at the shimmer on the horizon.

  The dashed yellow lines still remained in places, flashing beneath his truck’s tires as he drove with a ground eating pace. The asphalt was bleached a light grey, and over the years the water had got in, cracking it open during the winter. Some patches had reverted to loose gravel, demanding that Raxx downshift and put both hands on the wheel. Prewar tar patches were still visible, filling in ancient cracks. They’d given up less of their original colour to the rays of the sun. Over the years enough dirt and grit had embedded itself in places to support plant life. After last night’s storm, bands of green criss-crossed the road far into the distance.

  He eased the vehicle left and right, trying to find the smoothest route and ever conscious of the trailer’s mass behind him; whenever a pothole caught him by surprise, shaking the cab, he’d gun the engine and try to shift the trailer’s wheels out of its path.

  A hundred meters ahead drove Wentworth. Despite the cool air his jacket was undone and flapping in the wind in an attempt to dry out the waterlogged leather. Free of the vehicle’s cab, he was better able to scout out the surface. Raxx took his cues off him, preparing to make a similar manoeuvre whenever the man swerved to avoid an as-of-yet unseen rough patch on the blacktop.

  All four of them were enjoying the sun’s return. The truck’s cabin was less cramped when they were moving.

  The scenery had been changing ever since they’d found their way back onto a proper highway. The colours of scrub and fields were changing to the washed out browns and greys of the old civilisation. They passed by roadside truck-stops, still advertising fast food chains, fuel, cigarettes, and the coffee that had been the hallmark of the trucking industry. Now the signs were faded like the cheap, transient plastic which they were. The letters on the poster-boards announcing the fuel-prices were askew or missing, with many years’ worth of condensation leaving the sign’s outer layer covered in a white film, obscuring the message. Other ads, announcing deals-of-the-week, were fallen over and flaking tiny bits of paint and plastic everywhere.

  More and more refuse lined the roads on their approach; the last generation’s garbage lived on. Earlier Raxx had noted a coffee cup which must have been lying on its side for decades before getting recently blown over. The sunward side was an unreadable, a mishmash of sky-blue and yellow. The downward side was a vivid brown and red, the sharp lines of a logo still discernible.

  Along the horizon, off to the southwest, the jagged fingers of concrete towers could be seen. The rain had washed away the perpetual dusty haze, leaving the sky a vivid blue. One particular concrete finger stood up higher than the rest of them, thinner, its end jagged as if the top had snapped off.

  A shudder ran down Raxx’s back. The ancient city looked like the ribs of a decayed animal.

  As they got closer to their destination the buildings along the side of the road began to obscure the empty towers to the southwest. Stone walls three meters high lined the road, marred by the marks of ancient gunfire; behind them tracks of houses. They were entering what had one of the Golden Horseshoe’s many suburbs — the great crescent of civilization surrounding Lake Ontario had concentrated all of its industry and commerce towards the waterfront. Those rich enough had moved to the outskirts, encroaching upon the farmland and building gated communities during the anarchic years leading up to the War. Even now, their tenants gone, each block seemed to loom on the side of the road. The communities within hidden from those that journeyed past. The only buildings visible as the gates flashed past were those housing the minor businesses which served the people in those communities. Grocery stores, flower shops, and high-end clothing stores. All the accoutrements that might be needed, shipped to within a kilometre of those that desired them.

  For a moment Raxx was struck with a mental image. The great civilisation, laid out like a blueprint, with distribution lines of different colours for each product and service. Little numbers listed the frequencies and speed of each branch off the main trunk, a great logistical machine keeping millions clothed, fed, and happy. Then an atomic spark had burst in the heart, and quickening into poison along the veins.

  Maria and Vince chatted on happily about what lay ahead in Sauga, but a wave of despair had swept over Raxx. It was like seeing a grandfather clock which had tipped over and shattered on the floor, springs and gears flying everywhere. Shattered glass. How could it ever be reconstructed again now that the clock-smiths were gone? Who could fit all of these pieces into their head?

  Up ahead on his motorcycle Wentworth didn’t share the man’s gloom. The cold air cut through him like a knife, his fingers were numb, and his teeth were chattering, but he was overcome with a sense of light-heartedness. The pain of leaving Patricia lay behind him, bittersweet. He’d made a clean break.

  Sometimes he thought his life was a series of clean breaks.

  A sudden pot hole crept up on him, and he swerved to the left narrowly avoiding it. The motorcycle continued thrumming beneath him.

  Even the best journey was stressful, and the rain storm had made for a bad night. Now, so close to their destination, relief swept over him. His guard duties wouldn’t be required there. He loved riding, but it was going to be good to stretch his legs soon and down a few pints.

  Up ahead the road rose up, passing over a two lane freeway. An old signpost labelled it as the ‘407’. The overpass rose up on columns and must have been made out of better materials than the rest of the road, for it showed few signs of wear. Or maybe it was just that the shifting earth under the roads everywhere else had been replaced with thicker clay. Either way it made for a smooth ride when he reached it, he dropped the engine down a gear on the way up the incline. On either side the freeway stretched out to the horizon. He wanted to throttle her up, but he couldn’t see what lay on the other side of the rise so he remained cautious.

  He crested without incident, and could see the next overpass a klick-and-a-half further up. Grey buildings with black, empty sockets for eyes stared at him from either side as he passed. Wind gusted through their windows. The closer they got to the Horseshoe, the more naked earth he
saw; black and dusty, with nothing growing on it. Ahead on the road lay the forgotten hulks of several automobiles, stopped on the road or parked in lots.

  Behind him he heard the deeper pitch of Raxx’s truck as it crested the rise. Raxx caught up with him, and the two of them rode together, side by side.

  Wentworth signalled a stop just before reaching the next overpass, this one reading ‘401 Highway,’ and they both came to a rest with Raxx on his left. Vince, riding shotgun, leaned forward to look out at Wentworth.

  “You sure this is safe?”

  “Aye, this is the route all the companies take.”

  Wentworth examined the highway ahead for a moment. “It’s just that there’re walls on either side of it.”

  “Not on the far side, lad. The Brahmin in Mississauga tore them all up to build a city wall. You can get off the highway in most places.”

  “Give me a sec,” Wentworth rode up the onramp cautiously, peering down the highway in both directions. After a second he motioned for Raxx to come up to him.

  “She’s good?” asked Vince.

  Wentworth nodded, a wide smile across his face.

  “What’s up?” asked Raxx.

  “The highway; she’s perfect. The road’s in perfect condition, man! Let’s see what these babies can do.”

  With that he throttled up his engine, and threw her into first, jolting up the last bit of the onramp. Raxx laughed, and pressed down on the accelerator, squealing his tires. Within moments he’d caught up with him.

  Wentworth had been right; there wasn’t a blemish to be seen. A few vehicles remained, pulled off to either side, but along the center the highway was free and clear. They each ratcheted through the gears, needles turning, until they’d reached one-forty.

  Everyone in the truck’s cab was laughing, giddy at the speed. Wentworth’s grin could be made out despite the headwind the man was facing. With each tilt of the wheel Raxx could feel the weight of the trailer behind him, tugging him to the side. He made a game of it, keeping the vehicle under control despite the drag from it and the wind which he could sense, pressing the vehicle to either side. Beside him Wentworth wove in between the few bits of debris which he found. Raxx noticed the odd grating cut into the asphalt along the side of the highway, and decided to drive over it to see what would happen. A tremor ran through the entire vehicle, vibrating it, and causing him to release a grunt of surprise. In the back seat Maria broke into a fit of giggling.

  Ahead was a cloverleaf of roads where the 401 met the 407 they’d passed earlier, twisting south. Thinking fast, Wentworth located the proper ramp, while Vince pointed it out to Raxx. They curved about, slowing down to ninety, and were heading south now on the 407.

  They kept blasting down the highway, making the most of this opportunity. They made another left at the next cloverleaf, and ended up headed east on the 403. Soon their destination was in sight. The stone blocks alongside the highway had once served as noise dissipaters for the residential communities nestled within, but now they served as a protective barrier for the Saugan Vedas. Barbed wire was coiled at their top with broken glass. At the highway’s exit was a chain-link gate on wheels. It was closed, and set of dragon’s teeth laid in front of also blocked the path. A small guard shack made of sheet metal was nestled in against the wall.

  As they neared two guards stepped out of the building and watched them approach. Wentworth remembered Vince saying they were called ‘Kshatriya.’ They were both dressed in black combat uniforms with crimson sashes and turbans. They held longarms in a bored grip, on their belts were long, cruel looking knives with a noticeable bend halfway down the blade. ‘Kukris’, he thought they were called. As they drove up the off-ramp one of them held up his hand, indicating for them to stop. Wentworth and Raxx brought their vehicles to a halt a short distance from the dragon’s teeth, and Vince got out to sort out their entrance.

  While Vince spoke with the Kshatriya, Wentworth continued to examine them. They didn’t move with any sort of military bearing he could recognize, though it was clear that they had a rank structure. A third Kshatriya had exited the shack to speak with Vince, and this one had gold markings sewn into his sash. Though he couldn’t interpret them, Wentworth guessed this made him the commander.

  The way they held their rifles wasn’t overly impressive. They probably knew how to use them but they didn’t seem particularly threatening or hostile — just bored. Then again, Wentworth couldn’t blame them. It was both cold and humid, with a painfully bright sun. He knew from experience how tedious guard duty could be, especially with bad weather.

  They all sported facial hair, though the younger two’s beards were patchy, but what really struck Wentworth was their skin colour. It was a ruddy brown, with an almost orange quality to it. He’d never seen anything like it, not in the history vids or anywhere else. At first he thought it might have been reflected light from their crimson sashes and turbans, then he wondered if it might be some sort of paint, but neither seemed to be the case. Mentally he shrugged his shoulders; maybe they just had too much carotene in their diet. Either way they seemed healthy enough.

  While he was thinking this, one of the younger Kshatriyas had been examining his motorcycle. “Hey,” he asked, “that’s some steed you’ve got there. What do you call it?”

  “Call it?”

  “Yeah, man, I’ve never seen one of those before.”

  “Oh. It’s called a motorcycle. It’s pretty good fuel wise, I hardly ever need to fill the tank, but you can’t haul much.”

  “Jeez, that’s what they got out in Steeltown, ain’t it?”

  Wentworth shrugged. “Couldn’t say; I got mine out east.”

  Before the conversation could continue Vince and the Sergeant finished their business. “Alright lads, we’re good to go,” said Vince, getting into the truck.

  The Sergeant walked over in between the two vehicles so that he could address both Wentworth and Raxx at the same time. “Alright, I’m going to get you guys just to pull these vehicles into the parking compound down the road on your left as soon as you go in the gate. Any motorized transport is prohibited in Mississauga, so you’re going to be foot-bound until you leave. Don’t worry about security, we take care of that. All the merchants use the lot for storing cargo. Vince here knows the drill. Just make sure you go down to the far end, all motorized transport has to go down there, ya got that?” They both nodded, “Alright. There’s no smoking or drinking in Sauga, except in the visitor’s quarters, south-west corner of the Erin Mills Centre, and the Hospital grounds are off limits unless if you’re one of the Brahmin, a patient, or a guest. Rajah, get the dragon’s teeth. Sunoco, the gate.” He looked back over to the two drivers. “Enjoy your stay, gentlemen.”

  Chapter 30

  Two days later Wentworth was feeling pleasantly bored. He was sitting at a bar’s patio with his feet up, sipping on an imported brew, while the light from the sun played across his legs, warming them despite the nippy air.

  Mississauga was known for two things: having the largest market east of Petrolia, and the best medical technology anyone knew of. The Brahmin’s administered the latter, treating patients as well as exporting medicines and physicians, while the former was kept secure by the large force of Kshatriyas who guarded against theft and violence. A patrol was maintained on the parking lot where they’d left their vehicles, along with a number of other caravans. There were even a few other motor vehicles present. After they finished helping Vince set up his booth in the Erin Mills marketplace Raxx and Wentworth were free to roam. There was no need to guard his booth as they had in the smaller towns.

  The Erin Mills Centre was a massive concrete building two stories high and half a kilometre long. As they’d entered the gate it had stood majestically in the distance, three giant grey blocks connected by slightly smaller corridors, forming a flattened ‘T’. The interior was open and spacious with the occasional flower garden along the center of the pathway. Sunlight shone in from above through
empty skylights; the interior was open to the elements. There were still puddles on the floor, evidence of the recent rainstorm. About half of the rooms bordering the pathway were occupied by permanent merchants and businesses, the others were empty, awaiting tenants. The sounds of humanity and the voices of merchants hawking their wares echoed through the corridor.

  The steward came by and brought Wentworth a fresh beer. He nodded his thanks. The beer had an odd taste to it, almost spicy, with a full body; he liked it. The bar he was sitting at was set by the main thoroughfare, where it crossed a pair of service corridors; it looked like it had been a bar before the war. The furnishings were well made, and aged. From where he was sitting he could just make out the fountain plaza down towards the centre of the crossroads and watch the locals go about their business.

  During their first day wandering the Centre Raxx had discovered a store selling scavenged tech, stuff that was still serviceable. He’d looked over the different items while excitedly talking to Wentworth about what they did and what they could be used for. He spoke without realizing he was going over the man’s head. He’d ended up buying a number of pieces and heading back to his truck to work on whatever it was that he was going to do with them.

  Left on his own Wentworth had stuck to people watching, reading, with a bit of window shopping mixed in. The day before he’d spotted some items for sale in a weapons store and he’d returned the next morning with an empty duffle bag to purchase them. It was now full and under his table. The odd skin pigmentation he’d noticed earlier, while not universal, was prevalent amongst the Vedas. He also noticed that most of them were carrying Kukris, not just the Kshatriya. After thinking for a while he’d decided that this must be a cultural norm rather than an attempt at self-defence, given how few people were carrying sidearms

  Aside from the shopkeepers — the Vaishyas — who were overly friendly, the locals ignored him. The culture here was not just unique, as Vince had suggested, but powerful as well. They had a strong identity. If you weren’t part of their family unit you just didn’t register with them. It wasn’t hostility, just indifference born out of a strong sense of self.