With the instruction portion over, the teacher took his place on the sidelines.
Mostly, they were getting better. Emelle and Forrest was each a bit lazy with their shots. Tyrus, used to a closer ranged weapon, had a bad habit of firing too quickly. Juvenico’s problem lied in he never really held a two-handed gun. Raleigh was almost perfect with his shot. But, the kicker was Rachael who mastered the weapon with almost beautiful accuracy and efficiency. Damn. I can’t even give her pointers right now.
“Rachael!”
The young girl lowered the gun from her sights, turning with a grin. “Yes, sir,” she chimed, her voice as sweet and innocent as ever. She swept her hair from her face. Graham opened his mouth to bark about safety, but she beat him too it. Ahead of the game, aren’t you?
“A bit good with that gun,” Graham said, trying to keep an unimpressed tone, “who taught you to do that?”
Forrest lowered his gun for a moment. “You haven’t heard, boss.” He raised his gun again, shooting a spray that hit the target with better accuracy than before. “She’s Bardon’s kid.”
Amongst his short time in the Caravan, Graham didn’t know a man by the name of Bardon. “Don’t know of his name, who is he?”
Forrest couldn’t answer. His concentration persisted in a set of fire, sloppier than the previous. He grunted. Instead, his wife, Emelle answered. “Bardon Grimstad. He’s a personal friend of the Drifter, even before all of this. Very scary looking man if you don’t mind a little gossip, sweetie.”
A small chime echoed in Graham’s mind. That name, it sounded familiar. He couldn’t recall when or where he had heard the man, but it was there.
“He wasn’t that scary,” Rachael said, shooting another round perfectly into a log, this time splitting it in half. “He’s easy going for the most part. Just…”
“Deadly—“
“Learn to shoot your gun before speaking, Juv,” Graham said interrupting the man. The tan skinned man frown, focusing through the iron sights of the gun.
“He was a soldier, like you, Mr. Graham. He would teach me how to shoot sometimes. Archery mostly, he was quite fond of shooting his bow and arrows. Occasionally though, he would teach me how to shoot guns. I guess it stuck.” Rachel effortlessly shot another burst, but this time shooting Juvenico’s almost untouched log. It was an impressive shot, so good in fact it even made Graham lean forward. Normally, a soldier would get chastised for showing off. It didn’t happen this time. Rachel was getting payback for the grief she got in physical training. We’re all too busy eating crow to say anything about it.
Juvenico whistled his impression.
“Is he still at the camp?” Graham asked.
“No,” Rachael said, sighing. “One day, he just…disappeared. No trace. I talked to Drifter about it, and…”
“He didn’t give you a straight answer,” Tyrus finished, mimicking the girl’s technique almost flawless.
At least, someone was getting my point of focusing the conversation on Rachael.
“No, he didn’t,” she whispered. “But I know he’s alive. He won’t die so easily.”
“Grim Face and Drifter were always really good friends.” Raleigh loaded his gun. He had been the most focused out of the group, so speaking and shooting was almost impossible for the chunky man. “Don’t see why he would ever just up and leave, especially without his only daughter.”
“He probably had a good reason…” Rachael sighed. “How about you, sir? What about your father?”
The question stirred a memory in the back of Graham’s mind. He followed the thoughts as though it was connected by an endless amount of strings. He surveyed his surroundings: the sound of crickets singing, long and green Spanish moss cascading from the trees, the smell of the murky water. It reminded him of his father: a stern, shrewd, and short man. He took him out to places like this, a long time ago. “He was a…very serious man….” Euphoria slipped into his head as he swayed.
The camp went silent as Graham touched the side of his temples. “Shit—I think I’m starting to remember things.”
_
The thought had accompanied Graham through the journey back to the camp. For the majority of the time back, he worked through the memories that surfaced from the back of his mind. Reawakening was confusing. He would remember short burst of memory, but never the whole idea. Yet now, something just clicked. Everything but one thing stood out now in his brain. That day. The day that killed him. It was still blurry as an unfocused camera.
The feeling of the day touched him. The pain, a gunshot wound. He touched the side of his face where his skin stopped, stripped away from the side of his cheek and jaw. The bullet had hit there, through his cheek, shattering his teeth. Metal sung through his jaw and out the side of his head, marked by the hairless patch of darker bruised purple on his temple. Or maybe he had it backwards. Maybe he was shot in the head and the bullet came through his teeth. Falling happened next. His limbs felt as though they were water in his memory. He had died then, only to be reanimated.
The rest of his group quietly let their “CO”—as they called him—think. Occasionally, they would ask him questions. His answers were usually terse—icy but untouched by annoyance. It wasn’t until they were halfway back to the caravan that he issued orders as the authoritative voice that everyone knew. “We’re going to Rootgrove 16 o’clock. Check on anything that you can possibly help on. Raleigh, I know that you need to work on the guns. You should finish those before we get to Rootgrove. Drifter didn’t specify if the village was safe or not.”
“Have they told you why we’re going to the Boneyard?” Raleigh asked, grabbing the bag of guns from the struggling Forrest with ease.
No. They hadn’t. Graham thought to ask, of course. Questioning wasn’t in his nature, so he went on for the ride. There was a time to ask for the objective. It wasn’t when the soldier wanted. He trusted in Drifter enough to know that the briefing would come. If it didn’t, he would ask then. “Negat—no,” he said catching himself from slipping into jargon, he promised not to be that guy. “But you guys know the Drifter better than me, is danger ahead?”
The group shared a look amongst each other, chorusing murmurs.
“I’m going to take that as a yes. Eat up and get prepared.”
“What about you?”
Juvenico had asked the question, but it had been on everyone’s mind.
Graham shook his head. Dammit, now everyone knows. How exactly they figured it out was beyond him. More than likely, Pub or Haggis—the two had been drinking quite a bit the night before—might have let it slip. Blame wasn’t going to get him anywhere. This needed to be handled at one point or another. Security is what they needed. Security that meant: I’m not going to tear you apart. “I don’t need to eat as often as you,” he started, wearily picking his words as though they were grapes for a wine, “Just enough…enough that’s alive. To keep me alive. Dammit.”
Surprisingly, they all took it very smoothly. Icing on the cake, everyone just shrugged. Knowing that the man you just spent time in a mangrove alone with was a man satisfied on guts wasn’t assuring. Yet, they didn’t seem to mind. “Well that’s interesting,” was all that Rachel said. Her words spoke for the whole group.
“We can help you find food if you need it,” Emelle said. “He’s responsible for tracking the game around here.” The thin lanky woman pointed to her equally slim husband. He grinned sheepishly. “Everyone swears he’s a mutant or demon of some sort the way he finds animals. But he’s always been like that.”
“Stop it, hun.” Forrest’s face was a bright crimson from embarrassment. “I just know animals and stuff…” he trailed off.
Emelle kissed off his embarrassment from his face. Juvenico scoffed, heading towards his RV.
“Jealous, Juv?” Graham asked, grinning. He had seen that face before. Plenty of leaving and returning from deployments, he had seen the lonelier men pine for companionshi
p like that. Of course, even after plenty of years of service, that expression had probably settled in his face a few times. Everyone thought that he was impregnable, but there was no man void of matters of the heart.
Juvenico grunted. “I’m not jealous.”
“At least you have a chance at it.”
No one had thought about it, but Graham’s condition ruled him out from any love pursuit. That revelation made the group stiffen with awkwardness. Rachael coughed, trying to ease the knot in her throat and the knot in the air. “Um…let’s get to work guys.” It was a futile attempt to escape, but just what everyone needed to go back to work. The group dispersed in a matter of seconds, just to get away from the talk. Nothing’s better than awkwardness to get people moving.
Graham nodded triumphantly at his success. “Sometimes, you’re a bastard.” Marines told him that more than a few times. After a while, he started to realize that was true. He was a hard-ass, jackass, 100% grade-A bastard and he wouldn’t change that for the world.
_
The day drove on, and so did they.
Graham rode with Drifter, Wood, and Heron on the top of the largest wagon. Drifter was always manned with two people at least; Graham never known exactly why. Not until they took the first ride into Rootgrove. The reception was neither warm nor cold, yet reeked with something. He described it in his head as if fear and respect shared a bed, but neither knew who dominated. That led to uneasiness, restlessness to a certain fearful mystique. In some cases, the foolish—on the mask of courage—would challenge the legend for his supplies or his prestige.
But, they didn’t have a guard consisting of some of the best soldiers. Nor could they manage to even defeat him. Drifter had amassed a reputation, not only as a group, but as a competent defender. The people of Rootgrove were smart enough for now, at least thoughtful enough to clear the streets as the man entered. That didn’t’ stop the feeling. Graham knew that something would boil here. We’re in a pot with the burners off.
The town itself was only about fifty or so wooden and mud buildings. Rootgrove came around into a full circle, the tallest structures being near the center. Walled off by thick stone, it sat on a bend within the much larger and deep St. Mary’s River. Thusly, it was covered by the same canopy, string-leaved vegetation, and horrendously large insects like the mangroves they had trained in. Surprisingly, however, they had developed streets made of cobble and stones. Some streets possessed long black post with dim indigo lights gleaming at the top. The way they glowed almost unstirred Graham. Even Wood seemed to be oddly weary of them.
All of the long roads worked like a web, leading into the middle of the village to a circle plaza. Within the middle was a metal statue of a man with long features, almost hawk-like. His face was pointed, nose sharp, eyes narrow, and limbs long. The statue had captured the man saluting proudly; however the look in his eyes seemed dark and cold. But, as good as the statue was, it wasn’t nearly as striking as the actual man standing at the foot of it.
The Conjurer, people had taken to calling him. He held this territory. The tall man stood proudly, grinning with pearl-white teeth, the only thing truly appealing about the man. His long hair hung around his face, dripping down his eyes. His amber eyes, rimmed with black circles, never left Drifter’s face. The roaring of engines and the rattling of cobble under the crushing weight of the trucks didn’t deter the man. He looked focused, fixated only on Drifter. He doesn’t want us here. No one does. If had the chance, he would plunge a knife in the Drifter’s back the first chance that he could get.
Today wasn’t that day; Conjurer knew that all too well.
“Drifter,” Conjurer roared over the engines like a mighty bird.
Drifter gave a simple nod. All of the trucks halted, even a few turned off their engines.
Wood and Heron jumped from their post first, standing sentinel as the Drifter eased himself down. Graham took the rear, gun slung over his shoulder. Heron shot him a look, mouthing a simple phrase: “Stay alert.” As he suspected, Rootgrove was dangerous. He was made of death, yet he tasted it in equal measures in the very air around here.
“It’s truly a pleasure to see you again.” Conjurer’s voice matched his clothing, smooth and made of silk. He ran his fingers through his brown hair, trimmed with silver. That wasn’t the only thing laced with silver. “Truly, sir.” He extended his long hand, at an attempt for a handshake.
The two men observed each other silently. Drifter was the first to break the silence. He gave a flash of yellow teeth, chuckling madly. Drifter felt normal sometimes. Other times, the normalcy just stopped. “Pleasure was the word you used last time, Harmon.” Conjurer’s face went sour. “But bygones are bygones, right?”
“Of course, of course.” Conjurer folded his arms, taking on a more serene expression. An expression Graham and everyone else felt unnerved by. Drifter hardly seemed to notice. “What brings you to my corner of the world?”
“Your corner?”
“My corner.”
Graham tried to push back his expression of disgust. Wood and Heron did not show such restraint.
“I have two requests.” Conjurer opened his arms to the “city”. “You and your companions can stay here until your business is complete.”
“But…” Drifter drawled, arching an eyebrow.
Conjurer looked at his fingers, adorned with emerald and ruby rings. “Your tanks must stay outside of the city limits and I’m only permitting a small group to investigate through the Boneyard.”
Everyone looked at Drifter, awaiting his response. The old man stuffed his hands in his pocket, walking around with his cane as though thinking about the possibilities. No one voiced their opinions. Somehow, it seemed out of place, wrong in the grand scheme of things. So they waited. Waited for the white haired leader to speak to agree or deny these terms. “I agree, if I can bargain. You don’t mind me swindling, right?”
Amused by the gesture, Conjurer bowed to allow him to continue.
“My tanks and the scouting party are agreeable, only if you allow me to look at a certain book that I found was in your possession.”
“Oh you know about that!” He shrugged, unfazed by the added stipulation. “It has no use to me. Not anymore. You may take it if you like. It has already brought me what I want.” Conjurer clapped his hands together, irises of his eyes staring at Drifter. “Then we have a deal, Mr….. It’s a shame you know my name and I do not have a clue of yours. Mr. Drifter would do. Do we have a deal, Mr. Drifter?”
The deal was already forged and set. This was just a commodity, a ploy of mutual trust. Trust wasn’t there, just a temporary agreement. Drifter played the part better than an actor, despite that. “Of course. Of course, of course.” This time, he extended his hand.
“Good that we have met to an agreement.” Conjurer took his hand firmly, releasing in less than a second. “I’m sorry to cut this short but I have other business to tend to. If you excuse me.” He turned on his heels, heading down the largest pathway of the city, green silk robe flying behind him. He was happy; everyone saw it in the way he walked. That man was vile, and a vile man happy was worse than a snake bite. Somehow, they were equally as poisonous.
Graham touched the end of his gun. That man has probably killed thousands of innocent people to get here. “I don’t like him.”
“None of us do.” Heron gave her best impression of a frown, which in fact, wasn’t that different from her normal expression.
“Then why did we just let him deal his way to a tactical advantage?”
Drifter stroked his beard at the question. “Sometimes, my boy, you have to let the small dog act like the big dog. Everyone go get ready. Graham, choose a group.”
“Choose a what?”
“Potatoes in your ears? You’re going to the Boneyard.” Drifter tapped Graham on the head with his cane. “Remember, trust’s a concept boy. I happened to have little for Conjurer.”
“You thin
k it’s a trap?”
“Of course it’s a trap, Corporal. That’s why I’m sendin’ a bear, a slim undead bear. Now get to it, our pursuer has made a deal with Conjurer and I plan to find out while you retrieve the contents of the Boneyard.”
More of this Graham heard, the less he liked it. “What am I looking for?”
“A cache of some sort. It’s important. Trust me. In the meantime, I’m going to go find some cheese. Wood, come my boy. We’re going on an adventure for cheese in this town.”
With not even a second thought, Drifter and Wood detached themselves from the group, heading in the direction of some of the larger buildings of the settlement. Graham stood, watching them walk away. He was really going to do this. He was really just going to leave him with that vague of an assignment. Retrieval and extraction missions weren’t out of his resume, but really? This was going way over the top.
“Best not to think about it,” Heron warned. “The more you think about it, the more insane it looks.”
“I see that now...” Stunned, Graham turned towards the caravan. “I’m going to go prepare.”
Hell, that’s where they were going, he knew it. Right now, they were headed right into the gates of hell with nothing better than a flashlight and some hope. A bumpy ride. Better bring something.
_
They’re here already, so the game will start soon.
Celine took another sip of tea from her thermos, staring at the large bunker before her. Among the muddy marsh, thick trees, and circle of bones, the stone building was completely camouflage by the very landscape itself. It wasn’t a site for a large battle. Something important was in there. They might not notice the gravity of it, but it is one of the keys to stepping back to the past. They needed to figure this out or things might get worse. Much worse.
Her mind sung whispers into her head. Take what’s inside, keep it for the sake of what you hold close. She could. Morality stopped her, she knew what was right. It would just alter the course, change things that doesn’t need to be changed. For now, she will sit outside of the game and occasionally help each player, equally, with tips.
Dusk Territories: Always Burning Page 13