Davis Aurini - As I Walk These Broken Roads

“I’m going after whoever did this!” said Raxx, eyes ablaze, “Listen, I — I could use a guy with your skills with me. You know what you’re doing, you showed me that the other day when we were getting your bike, plus there’s your reputation…” He shook his head and looked down.

Neither of them spoke.

“But this isn’t your fight.” He was whispering to himself. “It’s not even mine, not really.” He stared out at the fire, and slowly fell into a sitting position. His pistol listed for a second, then clattered down against the ancient asphalt.

The emotions conflagrated within him, into a perfect moment of silence.

“Raxx.”

The Mechanic looked back at him. The blank slate had returned, staring at him and ticking. There was no logic to this situation.

Wentworth strode over and crouched next to the man.

“Raxx — we are going to find the guys that did this. We’re going to find them, and we are going to hit them so hard there won’t even be a memory of who they were.” He reached out and clasped the Mechanic’s shoulder. “You and I… we are going to find them. And we are going to kill them.”

Blackstock was burning away in front of them. The heat rose in waves while ash fell like snow. A roof collapsed in a shower of sparks, over the incessant crackle of the background fire. The town glowed and warped like a surrealist painting.

They stood up, gripped their weapons, and strode towards the inferno.

Fanning out, they moved like prowlers under the flickering light. Peering through the smoke, past the flames, they saw the bodies; some burning, others in the street. They walked slowly, weapons up.

Wentworth’s rifle snapped over as he caught a glimpse of green hair — then he remembered the caravan guard. The hair burned away before his eyes, and he wondered if he’d actually seen it. Fat dripped and bubbled off the corpse onto a rifle with an exploded magazine. The muscles sizzled.

He didn’t say anything to Raxx. The Mechanic didn’t need to hear it.

They finished their march to the far side of the carnage. There’d been less than dozen corpses.

The town hadn’t been slaughtered. It had been abandoned. Somewhere out there, it might still be alive.

Fire embraced the city in a crescent along the western rim, leaving the center intact. Raxx’s gas station was unharmed, as was Landfall’s, separated from the consuming flames by the sun-bleached road. The fire had spread as far as it would go, destroying everything of value. There was nothing to do but prepare for pursuit.

Wentworth had spotted the vehicle tracks and footprints on the western edge of town. They cut through the soya fields and pastures, along a route littered with dead animals — fewer than there should have been. It looked like the raiders had taken the livestock as well; that would make them easier to follow.

Through his binoculars Wentworth could make out their path of torn-up shrubs and brush stretching off into the distance. They were off-roading, which meant that his and Raxx’s vehicles were useless; even if the motorcycle had been working it didn’t have enough traction, and the frame of the pickup wouldn’t have survived the abuse. Taking the highways would have lost the trail. Walking was their only option.

He stepped into Raxx’s workshop with a corona of fire at his back. The Mechanic was packing several off-white bricks from a pile stacked next to an old bathtub.

“I’m ready. What’re those?”

“C4.” He finished packing, “It’s an explosive. Thought it might come in handy. I brew it up, sell it to the locals, the merchants that come through,” he avoided looking up, “It’s stable till you set it off. Electric primers,” he pulled one out, “then it goes.”

Wentworth nodded. Raxx slung his bag and they stepped out into the heat.

They paused at the town’s border. A line of discolouration still showed from where manicured lawn had met rough fields, long ago. Behind them lay a burning ruin. In front of them the sun glared a ruddy orange. Wentworth breathed it in, feeling the moment.

Once, years ago, he’d hit a slick patch of road with his motorcycle. The vehicle had skidded sideways on a layer of molten rubber, the wheels going out from under him. For an instant his mind had lit up with perfect clarity. The laws that governed the trajectory of his skid were as cold and absolute as the skills he possessed. He tapped the rear break, turned the steering column ever so slightly, and hit a loose stone at just the right angle. He was howling down the highway once more.

During that split second there had been no illusion of control.

Greasy smoke flowed around him. He stepped forward.

Raxx was quiet. Wentworth would glance over every so often, but when no response came he’d return his eyes to the ground ahead. He was feeling more focused than he had in weeks, months even. His path had become simple.

The Western sky brazed around a dying sun.

“We need to discuss tactics,” his voice spilled over the hollow breeze and Raxx stiffened. “If we’re going to do this we need to be on the same page. I might go over some stuff you already know, but that’s just to make sure. Most of it should be new. I’ll cover as much as I can, alright?” Raxx didn’t disagree so he began speaking.

He went over hand signals and formations, shotgun and rifle implementation. Movement techniques, indications, and terminology. Raxx was reticent at first; nods and grunts mostly. But eventually he started asking questions.

“So what do you think we’re looking at here? You said there were tracks left by a couple-dozen vehicles or so. What do you think that means?”

“Gang, I’d say; disorganized, angry — what we saw back in Blackstock wasn’t targeted or directed. There’s nothing to target there, anyways.”

Raxx nodded, “It’s just a farming town, and it’s a fair ways off from anywhere else. There’s nothing anyone could want with it…” he looked down and shook his head.

“Don’t worry about the ‘why’ just yet. We can figure that out later. Now you said that up ‘til now this area’s been pretty quiet. And you’ve been here for about six months?” He nodded, “and the merchants that come in haven’t said anything about attacks?”

“No, nothing. Sometimes trouble on the roads west of here, but nothing consistent.”

“In that case, I’d say these guys aren’t local. They showed up recently, and they’re squatting somewhere.” He shook his head. “This isn’t professional — it isn’t organized. They just rolled up with guns blazing. Let’s say that there were thirty of them. That’s what I figure from the vehicle tracks — hell, even that’s not done right; if they’d all taken the same path we wouldn’t have known their numbers,” he shook his head again.

The grass swished with their passage.

“From the footprints, I’m guessing at least fifty civilians…”

They crested a hill and Raxx pointed, “Hey!” A body lay in the middle of the track.

He broke into a run — Wentworth’s rifle snapped to his shoulder, and he scanned the horizon for an ambush. With the land as dry as it was, there was little cover for enemies to hide behind, but he wasn’t taking chances.

As Raxx neared the body he shouted back. “It’s Vince! He’s still breathing!” Kneeling by the man’s side, he saw that the merchant’s skin was a waxy where it wasn’t covered with blood and dust. Vince looked up through slitted eyes.

“Water?” his cheeks were pale and sweating.

Raxx freed his canteen while Wentworth approached cautiously. Cradling the merchant’s head in his lap, he looked him over for any injuries. His right ankle was badly swollen.