Davis Aurini - As I Walk These Broken Roads

“That’s what all the burgs do out West; they don’t mess with the derelicts as long as they’re abiding at the time. That saves trouble, ‘cause maybe they ain’t a derelicts after all — and what more, maybe chasing them off is more trouble than it’s worth. Now, if for some reason, the law does come after these boys, well, they ain’t the type to go quietly. Like I said, trying to take down this Wentworth, or kick him out, or whatever, just runs the risk of pissing him off. And that ain’t something you wanna do — if he’s the guy.”

“What do you say then?”

Vince leaned back and shrugged, “Wait it out. Hopefully once Raxx gets his motorcycle fixed he’ll be on his way; usually they don’t like to stay in one place too long. They show up for a few days and then they’re gone. There’s usually somebody after ’em. And if the guys hunting him show up, well, just keep everyone’s heads down.” He leaned forward, “It ain’t great, aye, but that’s just the way the world is. You’ve got to keep your people safe. But… all the same, you might want to deputize those boys of yours, just in case. As long as you can trust ’em to stay calm.”

“Vince… you make sense. But you ain’t comforting an old woman who wants to sit and watch her grandkids. I’ll get together a council of Seniors to discuss things and I’ll tell them what you told me… but I’m a-feared they don’t got the patience you want. I’d like you to be there, tell ’em firsthand what you’ve heard, and we’ll see what we can say. But however it rolls, I ain’t gonna let some derelict hurt my people — you got my word on that.”

Vince kept a serious expression on his face as he nodded. Damn Blackstock — couldn’t this nonsense have waited a week?

Mad Dog wafted into consciousness. A migraine was throbbing in his skull, and the world glowed deep red through closed eyelids. The noonday sun was burning his chest, beading sweat across his belly, while swirls of thought traced back and forth through his mind like the dregs of rum that still flowed in his veins. Gradually the pieces of his world came together, crystallizing in a bracing flush of excitement and apprehension. Shoving back the pain, he rolled over and got up. There was work to be done.

He located his canteen and drank half its contents. A stab of pain lanced through his left shoulder, making him grimace and spill water down his beard. They’d burned off their Vipers tattoos last night and now his arm was throbbing. He picked up a bottle of vinegar and splashed it on, then donned his leather jacket, pulling it down tight over the wound.

“Wake up, Falcon!” He put the toe of his boot to the sleeping form; waking the orderly with a jerk. “Wake up the rest of the Hounds! Get a move on things, and get some food cooking.” Falcon glared at Mad Dog, lost in the pain and confusion of the jolt, until his discipline caught up with him and he nodded, moving to rouse the others.

Canteen in hand, Mad Dog went over to his quad. He unfolded the map lying in the driver’s pouch to start planning their next move. It was hard to read, and he was in too much pain to make out the details, but he needed to look busy and in control for when the others awoke. Last night had been spent in drunken revelry and self-congratulation, and they were all hurting, but he couldn’t show weakness. They were still close to the Golden Horseshoe, that crescent of merchant-run civ that was home to the Vipers — and they’d be looking for revenge.

Mad Dog hadn’t been stupid — in fact the remaining Vipers ought to thank him for how he’d handled things. A mutiny had been coming down the tubes for a long time, and if he hadn’t seized the reins it would have turned into a full blown war. Then the Skullz, or the Six Nations, or somebody, would have moved in, and everything would have been fucked. But he’d been smart, and instead of letting it come to that he’d put a plan into action. The attack had been hard and fast; they’d taken what they needed — quads, ammo, cash — and left what they didn’t — the cycles and most of the drugs. They’d left enough so that if the Vipers wanted to keep being merchants they’d be able to. It had been the best solution all around, and hardly any blood had been shed. But that wouldn’t stop them from retaliating, given the chance. There were still plenty of klicks to cover before the Hellhounds would be able to breathe easy.

Falcon came over with his breakfast, and Mad Dog snatched it, glaring at the man. Falcon dropped his gaze, but not quickly enough for Mad Dog’s likings; he didn’t fit in. Wearing some ancient flak vest instead of the proper jacket, he was too smart, and too quiet. But they’d needed his help with security, and the symbol was visible on his epaulettes. There was nothing overt for Mad Dog to call him on — he’d just have to keep leaning on him. Either Falcon would fall into place, or he’d act out, and give Mad Dog an excuse to shoot him.

But the example ought not to be necessary for this group; aside from Falcon, they were all on track. They were Hellhounds now, not Vipers, and they knew they couldn’t go back. They’d forsworn their oaths, and would pay with their lives if they ever tried. Last night he’d seen the fear in their eyes as he lifted the glowing steel brand out of the fire and burned it into their tattoos, but there’d been no questioning, no reluctance. These men knew he was all they had now — and they believed that he could give them what they craved. The Hellhounds belonged to him.

He tossed his plate aside and stood up. “Look alive, Hounds! We’ve got a lot of traveling to do today; and I don’t want to hear no whining about hangovers! I drank twice as much as any two of you put together, so suck it up!” This brought some laughs and a few punches to burned shoulders as they remembered the party. “We won — we got these vehicles and we got our freedom!” A cheer. “We got power! ” A louder cheer, hooting and clapping. “And there ain’t no boss-man saying we can’t use it. The only boss-man here is me, and I’m only gonna tell you to hit ’em harder! Ain’t that right, Falcon?”

“Uh, that’s right Mad Dog.” Falcon’s response elicited another round of jeering and laughter. The Hounds’ eyes glinted, their hangovers forgotten.

“The way I figure it, we got at least a day or two before anyone back in Steeltown sorts themselves out. So we’re gonna keep heading east. What they say about the wasteland sounds like bullshit to me, the maps show plenty of old cities out that way. But old Falcon here thinks different — ain’t that right, Falcon?

“All I said was that we ought to look at all those merchants, and where they’re moving about.”

“You hear that boys? He ain’t got no confidence! He can’t get all that ‘merchant’ shit out of his head!”

“Oy, all I was saying was—”

“Shut the fuck up, Falcon, Mad Dog’s talking!”

Sheik’s crew cheered him on, and Mad Dog grinned, gloating as Falcon simmered.

“Shut up all of ya!” he yelled, once they’d laughed enough. “He’s got that badge on his shoulder, don’t he? Even if it ain’t properly on his shoulder!” There was a round of subdued laughter at Falcon’s flak vest. “So here’s what we’re gonna do — we’re gonna keep travelling ‘till we find some farmers — and their daughters! — and then we’re gonna set up something good for the Hellhounds and forget about those merchants out west. Fifteen minutes, we mount up! Get moving, Hounds!”

He could feel the hangover receding as he contemplated his purpose. As he waited for the others to get ready he stared up at the sun, challenging it. He was tensed and waiting. A roar was building up deep in his soul. All he needed was someone to unleash it on.