Davis Aurini - As I Walk These Broken Roads

Wentworth sat across from him. Vince poured him a drink which he drank thoughtfully. When it was gone the Merchant refilled it, as well as his own.

“All the cattle survived…” the older man mused.

“Hah. Why not? They survived the war.”

Vince nodded, taking a sip before continuing. “I’d heard of radiation sickness before… in the old stories…”

Wentworth glanced up. In doing so he realized why his eyes were burning; he’d forgotten to put his goggles back on after leaving Vree, and the sunlight had got to them. “It’s nasty stuff, isn’t it?”

“Aye… is Raxx..?”

“Still with Connie,” he knocked back a swig of his drink, then pulled out a cigarette. “I don’t think we’ll have to wait too much longer.”

Vince nodded as the other man flicked his lighter.

Raxx sat by Connie’s bed as she breathed her last. He held her hand, reflecting that he’d never truly known her. She’d been nothing but an infatuation; someone… someone he’d never met. A forgotten memory.

Her hand trembled as she squeezed his.

He hadn’t loved her. He didn’t even know who she was. With her town dead nobody ever would. She said some words, and his lips mouthed a reply. She deserved better than that. Better than him. And he deserved better than this.

He buried her in loamy soil, building a cairn of rocks to keep off the predators. Afterwards he stood there a long time, eyes dry, with a confused and troubled expression on his face. He shivered from a cold more imagined than felt. The sun set and he walked away.

The others two were heavy in their cups by the time he walked in, but the drunkenness stopped at their shoulders. A cold sobriety shon in their eyes. He sat down and glanced from one to the other.

“They’re all dead.”

Vince and Wentworth looked down. The merchant nodded, then put a glass in front of the Mechanic. He sipped at it.

Vince sighed. “I… I just wish I knew where those Hellhounds came from…”

“We know where they came from” said Raxx. His voice was mechanical. “They came from the same place that all of it comes from: the War. The same poison. It went deep, it got into everything…” he took another sip, “or maybe they were nobody. Fuck it.” He put the drink down, spilling some, and walked outside.

Wentworth retrieved his cigarette from the ashtray. Blackstock’s air still smelled of the fire.

Outside a bank of clouds was slicing away the moon. It will not come openly; it will come creeping in, on all sides. Raxx shook his head at the half-formed thoughts. He finished his cigar, and crushed it into the road.

Vince was speaking as he re-entered the bar. “…that’d be Hope, the last Eastern trade center; around it the Mennite farmers, but I don’t go to their settlements; I stick to the city. That’s where I’m gonna head — I was gonna bring the cattle with me…”

“It’s not like anyone is using them.”

“Aye…” he nodded at Wentworth’s statement as Raxx sat down. “I’d be glad if you were to come along. You too, Raxx. My guards are gone, and…”

Wentworth shrugged, and looked over at the Mechanic. “What do you say?”

Raxx looked up at them. “Might as well.” He downed the rest of his drink in a steady pour. “I’m going to bed. See you in the morning.”

Sergeant Dupont walked along in front of the petroleum shipment, chatting with the constable he’d assigned to point. After putting his back out last winter he’d been stuck in the office for months; it was good to be out in the open again with the road under his feet, the sun on his back, and the conversation of the young man beside him.

Behind him marched the rest of the patrol, male and female, all of them his ‘ Boys! ’ armed with shotguns and rifles. The wagon train was pulled by a group of oxen, with a constable at the reigns. The ancient oil tankers had been taken from rail cars and strapped down to truck beds. None of the wheels matched, but the wagons rolled smoothly.

Clouds were beginning to form, blocking the midmorning sun. It was a two hour journey to the electrical plant, and already the smell of rain was in the air. The Mennites might welcome it, but he wouldn’t mind if it held off for a few hours.

They were leaving the ruins of a prewar town, entering the blowing fields beyond. A line of water shimmered off to their left.

The bark of gun fire shattered the calm.

Dupont hit the ground. The constable he’d been talking to jerked once before crumpling. He heard the shouts of the others as they moved to return fire.

The building where the shots were coming from was set back from the road, fifty meters distant. It was burnt out from an ancient fire, its red bricks soot streaked, its windows gaping maws. Muzzle flashes lit up the lower storey, sparking the darkness. Bullets ripped through the air, ricocheting off a wall behind him and penetrating the tankers, ringing hollowly.

Dupont returned fire, aiming at the muzzle flashes. Things were moving too slowly; he was going into a panic, powerless to stop it. Not knowing whether his shots had connected, he got up, running for cover behind the wagons. He was the Sergeant; he needed to rally his boys so they could return fire effectively.

A fist hit him hard in the back and he started to fall. His right arm turned to rubber and he lost hold of his weapon. Time was still moving slowly and he could feel the rifle rotating under him; he wanted to grab it but his left arm was too far away, twirling in the air in a futile attempt to recover balance. The weapon jammed under his left side as he hit the ground, digging into his armpit as his jaw slid against the asphalt.

He tried to get up but his muscles wouldn’t respond. He tried to call out but he’d been winded. He gasped like a fish, and his chest wouldn’t move.

There was a sudden stabbing pain in his ribs and his muscles awoke, sending a violently shiver down his body. A pathetic yelp escaped with his first breath; he’d been shot. He twisted his head to the left. He could make out the dying cries of his boys, the glug and splash of petroleum as it poured out the bullet holes, and the terrified bellows of the oxen. The fight couldn’t be over already. He wanted to shout something, anything, but his chest wasn’t working properly.

Blood loss — Dupont was getting cold, light headed. He needed first aid. He could get up — he needed to! — but he couldn’t summon the will. The petroleum was hypnotic; transparently green, it splashed in a shower of droplets as it hit the pavement. The pavement was hot on his cheek…

His senses were dimming and losing focus. I need to move , he levered his good arm under him, pushing, hearing somebody scream in pain, when all of a sudden a boot kicked his shoulder, flipping him over and bringing things back into focus. He looked up to see a giant standing over him, silhouetted by the sun, teeth glinting in a smirk.

Dupont’s last thoughts were frustration over his inability to raise his arms in defence as the giant raised a pistol and aimed between his eyes.

Wentworth stared at the pint glass in front of him. He rubbed his thumb down its side, clearing away the condensation and watching the droplets flow. “I think… that the War let us understand tragedy. More so.”

On the table between them a cigarette burned away. Its smoke curled up, then plateaued and spread out horizontally. Both of them held fresh cigarettes from the same pack and he couldn’t tell whose it had been. He left it smouldering.

It had taken them five days to reach Hope on the southern coast of Lake Simcoe. They’d been moving at the speed of the slowest cattle, trying to keep the herd together. Eventually they’d arrived at a moderate-sized hub, the Eastern tip of local civilization. Vince had gone straight to work finding a buyer for the herd. Raxx and Wentworth had disappeared into the local bar.