Davis Aurini - As I Walk These Broken Roads

“Guess we’re eating it cold,” said Wentworth. He opened the bag which lay at his feet and started pulling out dry-rations, while the others removed their exterior layers of clothing. He handed them out, and for the next fifteen minutes they ate in silence. The rain drummed on the roof overhead and a small waterfall flowed over the windscreen. An annoying leak began by the rear view mirror, splattering the two in the front seat as tiny droplets fell and hit the dashboard. A shallow stream had started on the road, pulling bits of detritus with it and deepening the central ditch, while on either side the trees’ branches hung low from the weight of the water. By the time they were finished eating the dried out riverbed was roaring with life once more.

“Oh, Iain!” said Maria, putting down an empty tin can of tuna, “Is your bike going to be okay?” She almost had to shout to be heard over the drumming on the roof.

“Yeah, the bike should be fine,” he chewed on a piece of jerky, “not that I can drive her in this weather.”

Vince grimaced, “So we’re stuck here, then?”

“Well… I suppose it would be alright to leave it here overnight.”

“I hate to break it to you…” interjected Raxx, “but, well…” he switched on the wipers and after a momentary pause and groan they started stuttering inconsistently across the windshield. The waterfall barely noticed. “Huh. I’ll be damned. I was going to show you that they’re broken. They were last time I checked. But even with them working, it doesn’t matter; just look at it, there’s just too much rain for them to cope with.”

They lapsed into silence. The rain continued drumming on the roof and the darkness was growing. Raxx started the engine and turned on the heaters, but the humid air coming through the vents did little to dry them. The light continued to dim until there was nothing but the silver flash of rain drops striking, and the occasional blast of lighting. They arranged their wet clothes so they were hanging off of the seats and handles inside the truck’s cab. From the back came the sound of a match striking, and the sweet smoke from Vince’s pipe. Raxx leaned forward and pushed in the console lighter, then fumbled around for his pack, lost somewhere on the dashboard. A second later there was a click as the lighter popped out. As Raxx pulled it out of its housing all that could be seen was the deep orange glow of its coils, and the reflection off his face as he lit two cigarillos. He handed one to Wentworth.

“Thanks,” he said, rubbing his hand on the seat to try and dry it, then feeling for Raxx’s hand with the offered cigarillo, careful not to burn himself on the heater.

They smoked in silence, the glow of the cherries arcing back and forth from mouth to ashtray, blowing the smoke out the cracked windows. In the backseat there was a ruckus as Vince adjusted one of the bags lying between the seats, and he and Maria cuddled into a comfortable position.

“See you in the morning, boys” said Maria, as cheerfully as she could muster.

“G’nite,” said Vince. The two in the front responded in kind.

They finished smoking then slowly tilted their seats back, trying to get comfortable without discomforting the others. Then they lay back, in the dark, with the drum of rain and thunder rolling over them, staring at the abstract patterns formed by the silver rain. Raxx killed the vehicle. Then they closed their eyes and slept.

Raxx stirred restlessly. He was exhausted from the day’s drive, but he could only sleep in fits. His long legs felt trapped under the steering wheel, and paradoxically the monotony of the night’s rain kept drawing his attention. Finally he relented. Putting the truck in accessory mode, he turned on the vents and cracked the window open another notch. Then he lit a cigarillo.

The situation with Slayer and the Mennites was still bothering him. Staring out at the silvery darkness offered no catharsis. His mind coasted, settling into the moment but going nowhere.

Shifting his cigarillo to his left hand he turned on the radio. He kept the volume low and the fade forward, so as not to disturb the others, keeping it just loud enough to hear over the rain which was beginning to slacken.

He shifted frequencies one click at the time. The interface was digital, one of the few non-analog devices to survive the war. He’d click the button, moving up by 0.2 MHz each time, and spend a few seconds listening. The hiss of background radiation came from the speakers mounted on the inside of the doors, random and meaningless. Sometimes a high pitched oscillating hum would play on one of the bands. Whether it was the side-effect of some powerful generator, the fingerprint of a binary system, or even something else entirely, he couldn’t say. Other times he would think that he heard human voices in the background, but he couldn’t be sure if it was just his imagination playing tricks on him.

He had cycled through the upper limit of the commercial bands, 107.9, as high as his receiver went, and was just beginning to cycle back up through the low frequencies when a faint voice came out of the speakers. Surprised at finding something, he turned up the volume to try and make it out.

“Two-one-india, this is niner-one-charlie. Message, over.”

Several seconds passed before the same voice came back on.

“Niner-one-charlie is the sunray at your position, over?”

Once again there were a few moments of silence. Whoever was receiving the messages must have been or a different frequency or they had a weak transmitter.

“Niner-one-charlie, tell him that figures two foxhounds have arrived with the papa-oscar-whiskeys. We require his presence at our position, over.”

“Niner-one-charlie, Rodger, wait out.”

“Niner-one-charlie, figures two kilometres north of your present position. Inbound on MSR niner-alpha-zulu. Niner-one-charlie out.”

Raxx waited, but nothing more came on. He pondered the cryptic jargon they’d been using but couldn’t decipher it.

“That’s what’s known as Radio Voice Procedure.” Wentworth lay unmoving, but awake. He’d forgotten to take his goggles off; they were two silver pools in the darkness.

“Oh, hey, Wentworth; sorry for waking you,” said Raxx in a muted voice.

“No, don’t worry about it. I couldn’t sleep either.”

“So do you know what they were talking about?”

Wentworth shrugged; Raxx could hear the motion even if he couldn’t see it. “The boss is trying to talk to some of the guys lower on the totem pole. They captured some prisoners. Oh, and they’re two kilometres apart. That’s the genius behind voice procedure — if you’re the one doing it, it’s both fast and specific — no wasted words. But if you’re eavesdropping and you don’t know what context it’s coming form it’s cryptic as all hell.”

“Do you think that might have been your people?”

“Maybe. Doubt they’d be using these frequencies, though. It’s not like voice procedure’s a huge secret, any more than Morse code. I’d be surprised if it was them, honestly. We’re a long distance away. I don’t figure they’d send a sunray after me.”

“Hm. Sometimes during these rainstorms the signals do interesting things. Bouncing off of the atmosphere, so it might be them. So you really prefer Wentworth?”

“It’s what I’ve gone by most my life. But whatever. Say, I just realized I never asked what you’re last name was. Or would that be your first name?”

“Just Raxx. Never had another name.”

Wentworth fumbled around for his cigarettes. He’d left them in his jacket pocket before going to sleep. He pulled them out and cursed; they were soaked through. He put them on the dashboard by one of the vents, and bummed a cigarillo off of Raxx. The shadows played across his features as he lit it, the flame flickering.