Davis Aurini - As I Walk These Broken Roads

He treated people the same way you treat a pack of pariah dogs.

It wasn’t that he demanded his city be above all others — he accepted that it was, and they were all beneath it! He treated everyone like the deformed waiter at the Roadhouse — as if it would be unfair to expect more than failure!

Uniform.

Assumptions… they were always complex. He’d once assumed that an engine sensor — one out of over a dozen, none of which he’d had the equipment to test — had been faulty, but it had turned out to be nothing more than a dirty fuel-filter. He’d wasted a lot of money fixing that.

Uniform.

Wentworth’s arrogance had blinded him to something about this group — something he ignored about every group — but this time it would prove critical to outsmarting them.

Uniform.

Who the hell were they?

Wentworth’s dreams were broken and distorted. He kept thinking he was chasing something, or maybe being chased, but he couldn’t say what or who. In the waking world he was sweating wherever the sun beat down on his jacket. It kept intruding into his dreams, making him feel sticky and unclean, like he was in a swamp. There was a buzzing sound in his ears whenever insects flew by. The dreams kept his heart at a heightened pace, and adrenaline flowed through his veins. Not enough to be called a panic, it was more like caution, or edginess — but too much for proper sleep.

The amputee woman moaned, struggling against the straps, her skin blistered. He aimed the rifle at her head.

He awoke up with a jolt. His eyes opened up, surveying the scene around him, keeping the rest of his body still. The tree branches above him, gray and eldritch, were swaying gently in the wind, covering half the sky. Immediately about him he could hear the sounds of nature, the quiet breaking of twigs and shuffling of leaves as the forest animals went about their lives, the wind whistling through the branches above and the grass around him. Beyond that, the far-off shouting of men and machines. The air was humid, and he was uncomfortable in his jacket. The fresh morning air was gone, and the earth no longer stole his body’s heat. The shouts were becoming more frequent.

“You picked a good time to wake up. I was about to give you a shake.”

“Why? What’s happening?”

“Well, after they woke up Blondie made them exercise for a bit, and then they started doing maintenance — I wrote it all down — but now they seem excited about something. There’s all lining up.”

Wentworth had his binoculars by now, but he was wary about using them, “They’re getting ready for an inspection parade.”

“A what?”

“But not from Slayer… that’s him down by the front gate… shit, they’ve got guards up now!”

“I wrote it all down — and I kept an eye on them, they won’t see us.”

“Okay… somebody’s coming in the front gate… shit, Raxx, is that who I think it is?”

“Yes it is.”

“Damnit, he’s the last guy we need killed… we might just have to—”

“They’re not going to kill him.”

“Well, yeah, not at first — they’re going to parade him around and make fun of him. I wonder how they hell they got him to—”

“No, Wentworth, you don’t get it — this ‘parade’ or whatever, isn’t to make fun of him — this parade is for Jenkins’ sake.”

A grim wind was blowing across compound, settling into the corners and moaning against the earth. The band was gathered in the north end, facing the entrance, Slayer and his Second standing to the side. The men weren’t formed into rows, they jittered, and their postures slouched, but they stood with a martialness which traced back to the first hunters standing solemnly on the savannah. As Jenkins’ dark-cloaked figure drifted through the entrance, they all went down to one knee. The priest moved towards them, hands clasped.

Wentworth’s eyes narrowed. Some of this was ritual that he understood, but there were other elements he didn’t recognize. Next to him, Raxx furrowed his brow. The elements he recognized were frightening.

Slayer’s face was dark and serious. His Second’s, void. The assembled band glistened with the same sweat and anger as the night before, but now it was controlled, transmuted into a new form.

The Elder kept his visage remote.

He reached them, walking slowly up and down the makeshift lines, staring hard into each one’s eyes before pacing to the next. His robes drank in the light, a carbon cut-out from the dust and the shine. His movements were deliberate, his gaze was inevitable. The wind’s sad moaning was the only voice raised against him.

He paused at the final set of eyes then walked away, taking up a position in front of the assembled band. He raised his arms — for a moment even the wind silenced — and then, projecting from deep within his chest, he started chanting in a melodic tongue.

Up on the cliff side, the distant hum of it reached the two watchers. “It’s Latin,” whispered Raxx

“How do these jokers know Latin?…you manage to catch any of it?”

The Mechanic grimaced, “I only know a few words,” He shook his head, “Couldn’t even guess.”

“Looks like they’re done anyway.”

Jenkins continued speaking for some time, but without the chanting projection only a deep sibilance reached the men on the cliff. Upon finishing the speech his body seemed to close in on itself, hands clasping; effectively dismissing those gathered. Within a heartbeat Slayer’s Second had bounded to his feet, facing the men. A set of sharp, terse orders burst from him, he gestured fiercely. The men stood and scattered, returning to their previous tasks. The Second watched them go with an intense aspect, while Slayer stood and walked over to Jenkins.

Wentworth could see his lips moving, his hand itched for the binoculars — but there were too many eyes that might notice the glint.

Jenkins responded with a slow nod.

The three walked slowly to the hangar, past the other men who had returned to their previous work. When they had disappeared into its depths, Wentworth’s shoulders relaxed.

“Looks like you were right,” he pulled his canteen out of his belt, unscrewing the cap, “Right about Jenkins. He’s no victim. There’s something in him now that wasn’t there before.”

“It was always there. It was just hidden under false piety.”

Wentworth swished the water around his mouth, washing away the sleep. The Mechanic seemed to have a penchant for archaic language. “Raxx, if there’s something going on here that you understand and I don’t, I’d appreciate it if you told me.”

Raxx chewed his lip ring for a moment, then lit a cigarette to collect his thoughts. “Wentworth — here’s the thing — you’ve been a lot of places, and seen a lot of things, but sometimes I think you miss a lot of what makes people tick. If you don’t agree with what some group thinks, well, then you just sort of dismiss them.”

He raised an eyebrow, “You know as well as I the type of nonsense most of them believe in. You said yourself, last week, how they don’t accept the truth, even when you hand it to them on a silver platter. How’s that relevant?”