As I Walk These Broken Roads br-1 Page 12

  Wentworth lit his cigarette before going on. “It was strange at first… the derelicts treated me different. Started talking to me. Wanted to tell me their stories… you know what I mean?”

  Raxx nodded slowly, “Yeah, man, I met a few. Them and their ‘My People’ stories. That’s what I call ’em. They always start by saying ‘Back when I was with My People.’ Then they ask for money, or start poking at my truck.”

  “Heh. ‘My People.’ That works. But, yeah, you can always pick ’em out. Even in the dirt towns where they’re all dressed the same, you can still tell which ones are the locals and which ones are the derelicts.” He let out a breath of smoke. It lingered in the air until an errant breeze dispersed it. He looked down at his feet and continued speaking. “Why’d I help you out? Maybe because I’m not one of them, not a derelict. I don’t know. I can tell you one of those “My People” stories, though, if you want.”

  Raxx shrugged and nodded. “Go ahead.”

  “My people.” He took a drag to collect his thoughts. “I guess it all goes back to my people. Say, Raxx, you ever listen to the sort of rumours Vince hears? You ever heard of a group called the Regiment?”

  “Uh, once, I think. Last year I was talking to this guy at a bar — Uh, Joseph? Jerry? I forget — anyway, he worked for the North-Route Company. We were mostly talking tech — he had an O2 sensor that was right for my truck, which I needed — he mentioned something about the Regiment. Said he got a lot of stuff from ’em. But that’s it. They’re north-east of here, right?”

  “Due east, about three hundred klicks. Around the Ottawa Vale.”

  “What, through the wasteland?”

  “If you go far enough north, you can loop around the lakes, avoiding the radiation. That’s the route the merchants take.” He shrugged, “I didn’t. Blackstock wasn’t the first time I used those pills.”

  He flicked his cigarette, “Anyway, the Regiment: they’re my people.” He paused as a couple walked by their bench. Once they were out of earshot he continued. “Any decent sized burg, they all got their own culture. In Blackstock it was the tattoos. Here it’s the way they dress,” he nodded at the locals with their flowing, pastel colours, “with us it was tradition and discipline.” He tapped hard at his cigarette. “Do you know what the Military was?”

  “Uh, yeah. They were the police, prewar. What I was told growing up was that they patrolled the cities to try and stop the guys with the computers. I heard they stretched out all the way between two oceans.”

  “That’s about right. They were part of the old Country — the people trained to use force. They weren’t just patrolling the streets, they were patrolling everywhere — air, sea, space… anyway, that’s where the Regiment came from. We were a military group before the war. Every group’s got their thing, and ours came from that: rank, order, and discipline. We’re — they’re still the military. At least, that’s how they see it.

  “After the war we’d kept pretty much to ourselves… we survived using the old tech, and for a long time we didn’t think anybody else had survived, anywhere. Not until five years ago. We called it E-Day… Exodus Day.

  “That’s when we moved out. The brass had decided — the bosses had decided — that it was time to start expanding; to try and rebuild and recover what was left…”

  He looked around, at the mothers gossiping, the merchants hawking, and the children shouting. He dropped his head, shaking it. “Maybe… I don’t know. When the rubber hit the asphalt the shit hit the bricks. Maybe… maybe we were more ‘military’ than we should have been. Back in the day the troops were married to civilians… normal citizens — normal people… but not us. We were just the Regiment.” Behind his goggles he looked up at the citizens wandering throughout the square.

  “We thought we were different. But after E-Day… it was nothing but war. Always a different enemy, but always the same. We thought we were something… but then we didn’t even know what we were.

  “See, what we found when we moved into the Vale there was nothing but mess. Prewar there had been two different tribes living there; they’d spoken different languages, but they’d coexisted peacefully, more or less. Until the bomb hit; whatever had been boiling under the surface had exploded, and when we showed up it was still going strong.

  “We stepped in on one side, and the other fought back. We started making progress, but then our rear echelon was getting attacked… we pulled back to reinforce them, only then the attack started on our front. It got to the point where every month we were changing plans, changing enemies… it turned into a cluster fuck. Everything was messed up, we didn’t know who was on our side, whose side we were on, and all the slaving and drug running that we’d managed to stop during the first campaign came back ten-fold…

  “But the leadership wouldn’t hear any of it. Every day, things got bloodier and bloodier, and they kept firing down the same orders… none of it made a lick of sense.”

  He didn’t speak for a long moment. Frozen, he stared at the stone work in front of him. The reverie was interrupted when his cigarette burned down to his fingers. He flinched, throwing it away.

  “So I left. I pulled the pin, made my escape. Hell, maybe the whole world’s crazy, but at least now I’m making my own choices. I told you that I have shit following me: well, I’m a deserter. They might not be close, and I don’t know how much they care… but they haven’t forgotten.”

  Raxx frowned, “It sounds like you did what you had to, man — they can’t just force you to do something without your say so. That doesn’t make any sense. Your bosses told you to get involved in a mess that wasn’t yours, and that’s bullshit.”

  Wentworth shrugged, “Yeah, well, they might see it different. But that’s life; shit happens and you gotta move on.” He grimaced, “We’re nothing but our choices. You choose the behaviour, you choose the consequences.

  “So that’s why I helped you. See, if I hadn’t, I would have been nothing more than the label they put on me — a deserter, a derelict. I wouldn’t have had any principles. Instead I chose — chose to help you, just like I chose to leave their shit behind. And maybe — I don’t know, maybe I’m trying to do what the Regiment, the Military, whatever — what it was supposed to do in the first place. I’ve got these skills; I’ve got to use them. Or maybe I’m just a trained killer, and nothing else.” He shrugged. “Who knows? You can’t choose your situation, but you can choose your behaviour. That’s all I know.”

  Raxx’s eyes traced out patterns on the paving stones as he thought. “Thanks, man. I appreciate your help back there.”

  “Forget about it. We made out alright. Shame no one else did.” He leaned back in the bench.

  The city’s life passed by them. A group of children by the fountain were whispering and pointing at the two of them. Wentworth’s cheek moved in the hint of a smile, and Raxx waved. After a whispered the huddle two of them, a boy and a girl, left the group and walked over.

  “Are you guys Wentworth and Raxx?” asked the girl. She was bothering a crack in ground with her toe, but staring at the Mechanic defiantly.

  “That’s us. What’s your name?” said Raxx.

  “I’m Michael. This is Kimberly,” said the boy “Is it true that you killed those bad guys?”

  Wentworth glanced over, leaving Raxx to handle it.

  The Mechanic leaned forward, glancing left and right. “Have people been telling stories about us?” He wrung his hands and grinned evilly. “I think you made it all up!”

  Kimberly crossed her arms. “We didn’t make it up! My mommy was talking with Beth about it. Is it true?”

  “A man must keep his secrets!” He drummed his fingers against each other, glancing away. “Besides, don’t you know that strangers can be dangerous?”

  “You aren’t scary!” shouted Michael

  “Oh yeah?” Raxx jumped up from the bench, “Roar!” he cried, and the children shrieked, running off in a fit of giggles.

  Wentworth laughed, �
�C’mon, let’s get out of here before their parents talk you into babysitting.”

  They spent the rest of the day exploring the town. Raxx had been through Hope before, working briefly at a metal fabricators that had closed up before signing on as a caravan guard. He pointed out the landmarks to Wentworth. There wasn’t much to see aside from the town square, the residential dwellings, and the ‘factory district’ where he had worked — maybe a dozen shops with two or three workers in each, making anything from furniture to light bulbs to textiles. The town had been cleared of rubble and prewar debris, but the infrastructure showed its age. The sidewalks were cracked, lampposts were streaked, and paint peeled off of the brickwork. Signs of businesses long closed still remained in some places, alongside bleached posters of prewar movies and forgotten rock bands.

  As the sun began to sink the two of them made their way to Maria’s home. It was towards the south end of town, down past the Inn. Above the door hung a sign with cursive writing which read Maria’s Herbs and Preserves. As they opened the door it rang a bell.

  The store was well lit by the two bay windows on either side of the door, shafts of light beamed down the aisles formed by two freestanding shelves. The air was filled dancing motes and the sharp, heady smell of spices. Towards the back was a counter with a register, behind it a bead curtain going off to the living area. The floor was hardwood, with dusty red carpets running along the aisles

  As the bell chimed Maria came in from the back, the bead curtain rattling with her passage. She was full figured with a pretty face, around the same age as Vince. Her hair was mussed and her apron showed that she’d been busy in the kitchen. As she hustled into the room the smell of roast duck followed her.

  “Oh, hello there! You must be Raxx and Iain! Come in, come in!” She bolted the front door and ushered them into the back. Raxx raised an eyebrow and mouthed Iain? Wentworth just shrugged.

  Vince stood up as they entered, “Good to see you lads! So this is my Maria—”

  “Pleased to meet you gents, but I’m sorry, I must head back—”

  “—go! You two sit down and have some coffee while she works on that dinner.” Maria gave Vince a peck on the cheek, then disappeared into the kitchen.

  They were in a small drawing room, with a couch and a few chairs. Raxx took a seat on the couch next to Vince’s, who was up filling a pair of mugs from the percolator. Wentworth sat in one of the chairs, taking off his jacket and folding it over the arm. Vince was glowing; and couldn’t stop talking. With the occasional prod from Raxx, he told them about Maria, her reactions to what had happened, and bragged about her cooking skills.

  “She’s right pleased you decided to come over for dinner finally — it’s her way of saying thank you. So I heard you lads went to look around the town a bit?”

  Wentworth sipped his coffee, and balanced the cup on his knee. “Raxx showed me the sights… you know, word must travel fast around here. I heard a story or two about some fellows out in Blackstock, now that you mention it…”

  “Oy — I’ve only mentioned what happened to a few close associates — don’t worry, I didn’t exaggerate!” He grinned, “Gotta make sure they get their stories straight, whatever those North-Routers might be saying about certain folks!”

  “Supper’s done!” called Maria, “You’re in luck; you two showed up at just in time. Now get back here, and serve yourselves!”

  “What?” shouted Vince, “We’re having a conversation in here!”

  “Not if you want your duck warm, you’re not!”

  The next couple hours were warm and domestic. Raxx eased into the situation, but Wentworth was tense; he wasn’t a fan of having his name tossed around, and besides that the dinner felt like too much generosity. But gradually the mix of Maria’s high spirits and Vince’s bluster set him at ease. Half way through the meal he was surprised to discover an idiotic grin plastered across his face. Maria proved to have a sharp wit as well as a sweet demeanour, and by the time they finished the second bottle of wine they were all laughing. They stayed away from heavy topics, chatting about local gossip instead. The evening, containing nothing of depth, touched something deep inside of him.

  As the night came to a close Maria gathered the dishes. She refused Raxx and Wentworth’s offers of help, and scolded Vince when he stood up. “You broke my best pitcher last time, dear!” With the wine gone, Vince set another pot of coffee to brew. He took the opportunity to change the conversation to something more serious.

  “I’ve been working on things with the cattle; took me a while to find enough buyers; crashing this many head onto the market means we ain’t going to get the best price, but from what I can figure, the difference would be cancelled out by our travel costs if we tried to drive them any further. Besides, I’m a tech merchant, not a cattle herder — and after last week I figure you lads feel the same. So here’s what I got:”

  The figure was split three ways, along with a piece for Billy and Verizon’s families. They both nodded and let it sink in.

  “Man, that’s… not too bad.” said Raxx.

  “Yeah, that’s a good deal. I think you did right by all of us.” added Wentworth.

  Vince shrugged modestly, “It’ll take a couple weeks to sort out and get all the cattle sold, it ain’t gonna happen overnight, but I wanted to make sure you guys were happy with it ‘fore I shook any hands.”

  They finished their coffees and left. Maria gave the both kisses on the cheek, standing on tiptoes to reach Raxx, and Vince shook their hands goodbye.

  As they walked off into the night the scent of roast duck dogged their heels.

  Chapter 15

  He’d overindulged.

  The full dinner had left him logy. Combined with last night’s humid air, and the light from the stars, last night’s walk had been enough to make the naked earth seem reposeful. Struggling against sleep, they’d returned to the inn, and up to their room. Slipping out of his jacket and boots, he’d fallen into a deep slumber.

  His dreams had been snarled and fleeting.

  When he awoke the air had turned muggy, greyish light filtered through the cloud cover. The fowl still sat heavily in his gut, leaving him drained. Forcing himself up, he noticed Raxx stirring on the other side of the room. Once the Mechanic was fully roused they went downstairs for breakfast.

  He ate little; oatmeal, tomato juice, a bit of fruit. He went light on the coffee, sipping a single cup slowly. He stared at the toast on his plate. It was cold, and soggy with butter.

  The money — it was bothering him.

  It was too much, gratuitous. Any romance he might have been feeling had left during the night. He was left questioning just what he was supposed to do with it — and why he, of all people, should be the one holding the purse.

  Sitting across from him, Raxx was inscrutable; his furrowed brows gave nothing away. Presumably he was thinking his own thoughts on the same topic, but whatever they were, the lonely slices of cantaloupe on his plate suggested that he shared Wentworth’s feelings on the dinner.

  As if to confirm this, he put his fork down across his plate. “I think I’m gonna go for a walk. I want to stop into that machine shop we walked by the other day. See what sorta tech they got.”

  “Thinking of picking something up?”

  “Nah. Call it professional interest. I just want to see what they’re working on. Plus, I know one of the guys.”

  Wentworth grunted his farewell as Raxx left. He downed the tepid remains of his coffee and went back up to his room. The money would sort itself out. For now he’d had enough of dealing with other people’s problems and just wanted to get his mind off it all. He rummaged through his kit for the book Raxx had bought him the day before.

  While browsing through the market they’d come across a stall full of prewar junk. The merchant was even selling a few books that had survived the years. Raxx had started flipping through them, staring hard to decipher the titles on their torn and faded covers. One of them had made his e
yebrows stand up. He’d handed it to Wentworth and insisted on buying it for him.

  It was a book of ‘philosophy,’ he said.

  It didn’t come close to resembling any of the laminated or electronic publications that Wentworth was familiar with, and the name on the cover wasn’t one he recognized; but Raxx’s enthusiasm was such that he’d decided to give it a chance.

  He cracked it open now, positioning his chair so that it was facing the door. He’d never figured out what others saw in the philosophers’ ancient writings; they never lived up to their reputations. On an intellectual level he’d been able to admire the richness of the Greek’s logic, but at the end of the day they’d been wrong; any justification of their work smelled like an overextended metaphor. They were historically significant — if that even mattered anymore — but meaningful?

  The Enlightenment was even worse. By then they no longer had the Greek’s excuse of ignorance to justify their navel gazing. Their writings were more passionate, even stirring at times, but they’d done nothing but add to his cynicism. It didn’t matter, Hobbes or Rousseau; whomever you subscribed to, you could find ‘proof’ for their rival premises. They were little more than tautologies; filters that distorted perceptions so that only confirmations could be perceived.

  The idea of basing laws, actions, life on these ideals… well, at least he’d stood faithful to his own.

  He’d expected Raxx’s book to be the much the same, only worse. A faltering attempt by a second rate mind, whom the uneducated Mechanic couldn’t be blamed for admiring. But the first couple pages were surprisingly lucid, and after a few more he’d forgotten his doubts. Instead of a dry, rambling, train-of-thought, the author switched back and forth between narrative and dissertation, constantly finding new threads. It was presumptuous, and yet it wasn’t claiming the truth from on high — it was entirely unlike anything else he’d read—

  But it was definitely philosophy.

  The day began to brighten. Twin shafts of light traced down on either side of him, outlining a thousand motes of dust. As the morning wore on the beams turned clockwise, and shrank back towards the window, fading as the clouds returned. He’d picked up the scent of the book’s core idea. Its threads were myriad, and interwoven, but they were coming together to form a larger tapestry. The sun was nearing its zenith when a sharp rap at the door broke his concentration.