As I Walk These Broken Roads (28 page)

Once again he stood before his men, grinning, a sheen of sweat across his chest.

They’d won their second tribute from the settlements, the Mennites eyes shining like rabbits in the electric light. Their submission had filled his belly with a warm, quiet laughter.

“We are a new force! The faithful steward the land, whilst we steward them! Like the fattened cows they herd, they are there for our food, our clothing, and our pleasure!”

A fit of laughter rolled through the band. No need for formality this time. The point had been made, and tonight they were revelling. Even his own planning could be put on hold for once. A cask had been tapped, and the stewards were unloading – they’d feast soon, after some drinks. The Catamite had a soft, wistful look in his eyes, his pipe smouldering darkly.

“With each act of submission, every tremor of fear, each flame of anger they become more like us, their forgotten children! Our truth fills them with bile and they forget their lies of love, land, crucifix, and family! We grow! They diminish!”

He slammed his fist on the table, rattling the cutlery. Another cheer went up, eyes gleaming red in the torchlight.

He smiled with a hanging jaw. For a moment these men were almost as brothers. A forgotten want, a sudden urge for kinship that not even the Catamite brought forth in him. The bonfire glowed warm and violent. Perhaps Jenkins prophecy was more than mere dream...

Then–

A shattering of contexts.

Ears screaming, thoughts jumbled – his men scattering, diving to the floor – a blast wave through his body, chemical scent – he grabbed the table for support, gaping at the ringing hum, watching the band right themselves. He looked at them, and they him. A brief amnesia.

The dust settled. Then he screamed, “The trucks!”

The band started moving, chaotic like a swarm of bees. Some hefted weapons, readying them, others scrambled for medical supplies,
and others
simply ran towards the chaos. He stood, and strode through them, the Catamite following in his wake. He exited the hangar, rounded the corner to the supply sheds, and passed through the crowd that had gathered. He came to a halt. A nervous fire burned up from his groin, numbness travelled downwards.

The supply sheds were torn open, corrugated steel
shredded
open like pieces of fruit. The hulks of the vehicles remained. One had been twisted, an ugly interpretation with its roof open wide. The other had rolled, its tires hanging limply and its engine shiny with leaking fluids. The supplies were gone, scattered. A plank from one of the crates had flown towards the hangar, penetrating the side and canting lazily.

The remains of five stewards were in the blast radius. Various scraps – bovine, human – littered the area, but five torsos were unmistakeable, arrayed spastically around the blast centre. One and been split open along the seam of his chest; another appeared unharmed, but was unmoving.

His hearing was beginning to return. Above the ringing he heard a wail. A survivor was kneeling by the front to the still-righted vehicle. His hands were clasped to his ears, blood running down his elbows and dripping off his chin.

The Mennites had planted a bomb in their tribute.

An animalistic scream of fury came out of Slayer and he looked up at the sky, bellowing at the heavens. The endless ringing made his voice sound far away. He turned to face the band.

“Prepare yourselves.”

It was all he said. They unfroze and started scrambling.

The next five minutes were a swarm of activity. Slayer wandered about giving orders, while the band equipped themselves and mounted up. The Catamite opened a vial hanging from his neck and snorted some of the contents. A moment later his grin widened and a maniacal look replaced the haze. He let out a jackal’s call.

Once every man was armed, and they had mounted their vehicles, the Catamite drove the dune buggy around so that Slayer could face them. The band was expectant, their mounts rumbling, their souls forged of iron.

He raised his pistol in the air, pointing at the sky. “We go for vengeance!” The heavy crack sounded as he pulled the trigger, and the men let out a war cry. Gunning the engine, the Catamite circled around, leading them out of the compound. Everybody was going this time. They’d
all
make the Fathers pay.

They drove hard, full of juice and anger for their lost brothers. A lustful yearning worked its way through them, driving them to find an outlet for their rage. They tore down the pathway, brush scraping against the sides of the vehicles, tearing off leaves, and screaming out for vengeance.

Slayer ground his teeth.

As they left the woods and the Catamite turned right onto the highway, he thought he saw something out of the corner of his eye. As the vehicle kept moving, he turned around, staring behind them. Something back there had drawn his attention.

There it was – barely visible above the noise, light, and vibrations of his band. A pair of red lights, floating, somewhere in the distance. He stared at them, trying to make out what they were, as more of the men turned onto the road behind him. He was just beginning to sort out the perspective when a splash of white sparks appeared between the two red lights. His eyes widened. Muzzle flash.

His mouth was just opening to shout out a command when the crack of automatic fire reached them.

* * *

“I got their attention. Start driving.”

* * *

Panic broke out. The Catamite had the sense to slow down gently, but the man behind him didn’t. The gutted station wagon ground to a halt, only to lurch forward with a plastic crunch as the long sedan behind it slammed into its rear. The rest of the column stopped nervously and the motorcycles jerked their way past them, halting in a cluster further down the road. Desperate and angry, Slayer knelt down, fumbled for the switch, and turned on the dune buggy’s
flood lamps
. He was blinded by them, staring into pure whiteness while throwing his arm, indicating for the band to pursue. It worked. He heard the roar of engines, then the Catamite turned the dune buggy around. They were now at the tail end of a column that stretched on down the road.

The enemy continued firing, sporadic bursts followed by their echoing crack. His band returned the favour. Crossbow bolts shot out, falling short, while those with pistols levered themselves out the windows, sitting on the frames. The motorcyclists drove cautiously, keeping a wide margin between them and the vehicles.

With the mass of headlights pointed west, he could make out the shiny, rusted sheen of the fleeing truck. Jenkins had guaranteed no interference from Hope until next
spring
at the earliest, but the old man had been wrong. His lips snarled at the thought of those
citizens
daring to interrupt his plans. But damn them all, his band knew these roads – they knew every turn, every pothole, and every slick patch of gravel.

The enemy was cresting a rise now, while his column pursued through its valley, bellowing out their fire in return.

* * *

“Shit! You okay?”

“The sandbags caught it. Keep going.”

* * *

They crested the rise. There was another short valley here, less than half a kilometer across. He saw the taillights disappearing again as his band spread out along the road, gaining ground. The motorcycles worked their way cautiously, gradually overtaking the lead vehicle. The enemy came into view once more, climbing the next hill, and each of the bikes lit up with their own automatics. How these faithless had managed to plant tech-heavy explosives in the Mennite tribute was beyond him. The Fathers had always been too faithful to even consider anything like that before. Ahead of him men were leaning out of their vehicles, trying to get a point of aim. The smells of petroleum and gunpowder filled the damp night air.

The whole situation was strange. Strange that the Fathers would allow foreign tech into the mix. Strange that they’d speak to the Constabulary – if that’s who this was. He squeezed the roll bar with a white knuckled gripped. A wariness was growing within him...

No, those thoughts were disgusting. Any other time he’d be leading the pack, hot on the scent of the blood. Following the scent of exhaust is what drove these thoughts. It wouldn’t matter, either way. Whoever the taillights belonged to, they were coming up to a sharp curve, and from the looks of things they were taking it too fast.

He chanced a couple wild shots with his pistol, and saw one of the taillights go out.

His
bullet
or one from the band. It didn’t matter.

* * *

“What the hell was that?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“The turn’s coming up.”

“Glad to hear it, this mag’s almost done…”

* * *

The vehicle’s brake lights lit up at the last second. Like a chain reaction, the column followed suit, sending up dust clouds as they slowed, grabbing the edge of the embankment to speed their turn. The motorcycles passed on the inside, retreating back to the middle of the column.

He fired off a couple more shots during the brief moment the truck was in sight, before it disappeared again behind the hills. One by one they were making the turn, when something ticked at him – there was a line of discolouration on the road ahead.

* * *

Raxx swerved through the turn, underestimating it – he clutched, counter-steered, and for a brief moment rode the far bank. He could feel clods of earth being churned up. It wasn’t enough, the gentle slide would ground them into the ditch – Damnit! – he eased the RPMs up, and released the clutch, leaning his body to the side as if it would do anything to counter-balance. The wheels spun, then gripped, then spun again, but it was enough. With a nudge on the steering the truck nosed back onto the road, and flattene
d out. His shoulders twitched;
o
nly a bit further to go.

The manoeuvre had thrown Wentworth on his side, but he ignored it. He pulled out the magazine with the tracer rounds in it. As the truck realigned he fell back into his point of aim. The first of the raiders had appeared around the bend behind them. Give it a few more seconds... anywhere on the road’s surface would do.

He held down the trigger and a swarm of red phosphorous shot through air. Blue devils appeared forth wherever they struck, then flattened out and splashed in a heavy woof, turning the road into an orgy of flame.

The last tendrils pursued the back of the pickup truck, licking it, as he and Raxx sped off into the night
.

* * *

The fire moved too fast to compensate for. Half the column was already engulfed, while the other half slammed on their breaks and skidding across the hardpack. In front of them a station wagon was fishtailing violently. The Catamite was letting out an angry growl. He refused to lose traction, and as a consequence they were nosing up on the station wagon. Five meters had closed to two meters, they were almost riding its bumper now, and there was still no safe way around. The Catamite screamed out a wordless curse, Slayer just gritted his teeth. Their world had
shrunk
to the narrow space between bumpers.

And then the wagon righted itself. They were still rolling towards the conflagration, but there was no imminent crash coming. Slayer began to loosen his grip on the roll bar, when the wagon made a sudden swerve to the left. He could hear the screaming of the occupants as the car went into a spin, and in sudden flash he saw what had prompted the manoeuvre – a fallen motorcyclist and his bike blocked the lane ahead.

The Catamite screamed angrier and louder than before. The left side of the road was blocked by the spinning station wagon, and on the right was a rocky ditch. He made a jerk for the latter, but there wasn’t enough time.

The spinning station wagon’s lights swung across them as their left wheel raced towards the motorcyclist, his arm raised in defence. He and his bike disappeared under them with the scream of tearing metal. The shock launched the buggy up off the road.

Slayer was flying now, thrown from his standing position. The road was a blue and yellow line, spinning sickly.

He couldn’t see the ground until it struck him. With a bang his lungs were hollowed out, his stomach seized, and his eyes sparkled white. Nausea spread filthy tendrils through his system. He couldn’t vomit, and the world kept spinning. His head had come down on a rock, his vision was blurred, and he couldn’t move.

Up on a hill. Watching the enemy truck disappear around the next corner, out of sight and free of the fire. The path of flames. Sickly black smoke. Along the bend of the second corner a cluster of stars appeared and then, off to its side, another. Sparkling light. Weapon signatures. The flaming road was a shooting range, then. One group taking it straight on, the other covering it at an angle.

The first of his vehicles, a van, began to slow, its driver killed or injured. The next, a sedan, tried to pass it, racing through the flames and bullets, when the first struck a pothole. It jerked across the road rolled over, ending up on its passenger side. The sedan couldn’t slow down in time and slammed into it, crushing the roof.

One by one the other vehicles piled into the crash, or into the ditch. The spinning station wagon stopped short of the flames, but the second group of ambushers had it covered. The glitter of ricochets marked the outline of its body. Figures fell out of the wreckage, screaming into the night as the flames raced up their clothes. Some tried to run, but fell to the bullets. Others tried to return fire, but they fell two. The last vehicles tried to turn back around, but with melted tires it moved awkwardly. Two of the motorcycles exploded, and then one of the pickups. A petroleum fireball lifted it up, and slammed it into the last moving vehicle, sliding them both into the ditch.

The rifle fire ceased.

He heard a distant cheer start in the hills.

Finally – as if the shock were over, instead of just setting in – Slayer’s chest heaved and he pulled in a breath. He’d lost his gun. He didn’t need a gun now. It was too late.

Reaching up to scratch his hair, he looked at his hand and wondered why it was black. It was blood, blood in the moonlight. He had a head wound.

He climbed down the embankment. He’d been thrown high, above a rocky berm on the side of the road, while the buggy lay below in the ditch, flipped on its roof. He was dizzy. He used three limbs to maintain balance. The buggy had been in defilade, none of the bullets would have reached it. He got to the bottom without falling, and lay down in the semi-dry mud to look inside.

The roll cage had held. But there was no movement.

He crawled toward the driver compartment. The Catamite, his other, was dead. The steering wheel had crushed his chest into a concave shell. His arms hung down, resting on the ground, and blood came out of his mouth and nose, pulled by gravity over his forehead and into his hair. For some reason it looked as if he was smiling.

It hurts so much...

Hardly conscious of what he was doing, Slayer picked up a shotgun lying randomly on the ground. Then he reached up and slid the Catamite’s razor from its place on the dead man’s belt. Grabbing his necklace, he tried to undo it, but couldn’t figure out the locking mechanism. Making a fist, he tore it off, breaking the chain, and jerking Catamite’s head. The dead man’s blood splattered into Slayer’s mouth.

It tasted metallic.

Then, limping from injuries he didn’t yet realize he had, he made his slow way into the fields, away from the battleground, away from the cheering, away from his past, away from whatever it was that he’d attempted to do here.

He limped away from the Catamite.

It was still hurting when the dawn came.