Davis Aurini - As I Walk These Broken Roads

He paused to spark up a cigarette. “We’re blinded wise men, wandering along broken roads, past decaying ruins. Our throats have betrayed us, and we can’t tell our tales. Our hands tremble when we try to write them down. Our memories have faded, and our exploits have become meaningless. We have all the solutions, but we’ve forgotten the questions…

“We’re intimately familiar with the primitive’s struggle to survive, but unlike him, we’ve got the wisdom to fully appreciate it. We got the wisdom — but no means to emancipate ourselves.” He sighed. “That’s what I meant by ‘greater appreciation for tragedy.’”

Wentworth finished, and they sat in silence. The seconds passed, and Wentworth began to feel foolish. He was being morbid — and while he knew from experience that it wouldn’t faze him, it was his load to bear, not Raxx’s. Subjecting him to this on the eve of battle was stupid and unfair. Inward-turning depression was the last thing the man needed before going into a situation where speed and aggression could count as much as planning. He was trying to think of something to say, something to lighten the blow, or to change the topic, when the Mechanic startled him.

“I see what you’re saying, but I think you’re forgetting about something.” Wentworth glanced over and noticed the man’s brows creased in concentration; he was busy thinking and considering, not dwelling; his voice focused and forceful. The ticking thing inside him was showing its face. “Most of my argument comes from the old literature, the really old stuff. That’s where I’ve picked up most of the stuff I know. Have you read many of the old books?”

Wentworth’s reply was interrupted by the hint of a rumble in the distance. He held up his hand to motion for silence, and pointed to his ear. Raxx nodded, canting his head to the right, listening. After a few seconds it became clear that what they were hearing was a vehicle approaching from the west.

Wentworth’s heart started pumping in anticipation, sending blood to his extremities, warming his muscles. Looking over at Raxx he could see the same energy lighting up the man’s features. Wentworth could taste the upcoming fight like something sharp in the back of his throat. He reached for his binoculars and grinned. “Looks like we’re going to have to postpone enlightenment for another day. Time for us to get back to work.”

The morning’s overcast haze had returned with the sun’s retreat, leaving a murky twilight. The glittering gold band on the horizon outlined everything in fire. Unmoving, they waited, watching silently.

The sound had first appeared as a hum deep in their ears, then growing in the pit of their stomachs. It sliced through the crisp air, unmistakeable; the rumble of an internal combustion engine.

Several of them.

Struggling angrily up the hills.

Carrying lanterns, the Mennites gathered like willowisps on the highway. The hot, phlegmatic day was gone, and in its wake a ritualistic, feverish pattern took shape. A dark figure guided them as they laid their offerings in the center of the road; Jenkins, shepherding his flock.

A set of lights burst over the distant berm, seconds later the scream of a three cylinder reached the silent watchers. Two vehicles followed it, each with their own octane howl, then three singular lights appeared, gliding across the road like oil. Great arcs were lit up, harsh and white against the darkening, red-washed background. As they reached the settlement the red overtones were torn away. The villagers stood, gaunt and brittle under the electric glare.

Screeching and whining, the first three vehicles came to a halt, fifty meters from nearest structure. Their engines moaned, their brakes screeched, and the lights swung across the buildings and they drifted to a halt on the dirt road. The motorcycles overtook them, racing into the crowd. People screamed and lamps fell, exploding in puddles of fire. One of the Mennites was lifted up, shouting, only to be dropped in the dust moments later.

“ Enough! ”

An electronically enhanced voice echoed across the hills. The riders ended their game, turning back towards the other vehicles, while the farmers remustered, huddling. The engines were killed and the area was left in a harsh, bright silence.

A figure jumped out of the central vehicle — the glint off its fenders suggested a dune buggy, the floodlights along its top casting long shadows. He walked towards them like an obelisk, back straight, his head tilted down. He stopped just short of the tribute, crossed his arms, and regarded the gathered villagers. Jenkins, standing in front of his people, had disappeared into the giant’s shadow.

As the sun finished its journey, the land faded to black. The cold headlights and the Mennite lanterns measured out the silence of the man known as Slayer.

He spoke. But even with the still night air, no words reached the hilltop. The bass of his voice rumbled. Twitches of his frame accented his speech. Only the remnants of his speech reached them. Submit… Dominion… Machines… Penalty… Progeny…

An old woman fainted. Her lantern rolled in a crescent before going out.

Slayer grew silent. Jenkins, standing straight, proclaimed loud enough to reach the hilltop.

“This tribe submits to the Lord. And to the Beast that he did send down to us. It is the path.”

Nothing more was said. Slayer stood silently, his posture betraying no emotion. With a sharp nod of his head he turned and walked back to his vehicle. A swarm of his men descended on the tribute with raucous roars.

Within seconds they’d loaded it, remounted, and were starting their engines.

Wentworth hissed, “Go!”

Raxx was already vaulting down. They raced to the pickup, shattering the night as they slammed the doors. The starter screamed, scenting the air with burning oil, and the engine roared into life. “Let’s hit this shit!” said Raxx, switching into reverse and accelerating backwards. He shifted while moving, and skipped the tires as he gunned it in first, manoeuvring around the rotting house, to the track behind it.

Only the thinnest shafts of light escaped through the taped-over headlights, the terrain ahead was shaded in grey. Despite it all Raxx drove aggressively, quickly shifting to second, then leaving it in third to brake against the hill’s slope. A bead of sweat trickled down from his armpit. He squeezed the steering wheel with both hands.

The truck bounced back and forth, its shocks protesting, before settling into the groove of the ancient tracks. Raxx’s feet were perched above the brake and clutch, gravity adding to the vehicle’s momentum making the speedometer climb steadily. With slight adjustments to the steering column he guided her, more by feel than by sight, to the distant blue line of the road ahead. Tall grasses disappeared under the grill, flashing in the thin beams of light, while the truck bounced back and forth in the tracks. A sudden dip surprised him, rocks and dirt scraped loudly against the undercarriage, then the front shot upwards — he slammed down on the clutch and downshifted as the wheels left the ground.

The bed landed with a shudder. His rear wheels tugging to the left — his fronts had come out of the rut. Raxx turned the wheel — too much — but before he could correct a sudden bump tossed the vehicle’s front-right into the air. The rear wheels shuddered against the walls of the rut, before hitting their own ramp.

The vehicle was in the air again, rotating to the left.

The sudden steepness of the hill became apparent to him, as another part of his brain noted the lights of Slayer’s convoy disappearing into the distance. He was blind, with no sense of the road.