As I Walk These Broken Roads (14 page)

* * *

Raxx sat by Connie
’
s bed as she breathed her last.  He held her hand, reflecting that he
’
d never truly known her.  She
’
d been nothing but an infatuation; someone… someone he
’
d never met. A forgotten memory.

Her hand trembled as she squeezed his.

He hadn
’
t loved her. He didn
’
t even know who she was. With her town dead nobody ever would.  She said some words, and his lips mouthed a reply. She deserved better than that. Better than him. And he deserved better than this.

He buried her in loamy soil, building a cairn of rocks to keep off the predators. Afterwards he stood there a long time, eyes dry, with a confused and troubled expression on his face.  He shivered from a cold more imagined than felt. The sun set and he walked away.

The others two were heavy in their cups by the time he walked in, but the drunkenness stopped at their shoulders. A cold sobriety shon in their eyes. He sat down and glanced from one to the other.

“
They
’
re all dead.
”

Vince and Wentworth looked down. The merchant nodded, then put a glass in front of the Mechanic. He sipped at it.

Vince sighed.
“
I… I just wish I knew where those Hellhounds came from...
”

“
We know where they came from
”
said Raxx. His voice was mechanical.
“
They came from the same place that all of it comes from: the War. The same poison. It went deep, it got into everything...
”
he took another sip,
“
or maybe they were nobody. Fuck it.
”
He put the drink down, spilling some, and walked outside.

Wentworth retrieved his cigarette from the ashtray. Blackstock
’
s air still smelled of
the
fire.

Outside a bank of clouds was slicing away the moon.
It will not come openly; it will come creeping in, on all sides.
Raxx shook his head at the half-formed thoughts. He finished his cigar, and crushed it into the road.

Vince was speaking as he
re-entered
the bar.
“
…that
’
d be Hope, the last Eastern trade center; around it the Mennite farmer
s
, but I don
’
t go
to their
settlements
; I stick to the city. That
’
s where I
’
m gonna head – I was gonna bring the cattle with me…
”

“
It
’
s not like anyone is using them.
”

“
Aye…
”
he nodded at Wentworth
’
s statement as Raxx sat down.
“
I
’
d be glad if you were to come along. You too, Raxx. My guards are gone, and…
”

Wentworth shrugged, and looked over at the Mechanic.
“
What do you say?
”

Raxx looked up at them.
“
Might as well.
”
He downed the rest of his drink in a steady pour.
“
I
’
m going to bed. See you in the morning.
”

Sergeant Dupont walked along in front of the petroleum shipment, chatting with the constable he
’
d assigned to point. After putting his back out last winter he
’
d been stuck in the office for months; it was good to be out in the open again with the road under his feet, the sun on his back, and the conversation of the young man beside him.

Behind him marched the rest of the patrol, male and female, all of them his
‘
Boys!
’
armed with shotguns and rifles. The wagon train was pulled by a group of oxen, with a constable at the reigns. The ancient oil tankers had been taken from rail cars and strapped down to truck beds. None of the wheels matched, but the wagons rolled smoothly.

Clouds were beginning to form, blocking the midmorning sun. It was a two hour journey to the electrical plant, and already the smell of rain was in the air. The Mennites might welcome it, but he wouldn
’
t mind if it held off for a few hours.

They were leaving the ruins of a prewar town, entering the blowing fields beyond. A line of water
shimmered
off to their left.

The bark of gun fire shattered the calm.

Dupont hit the ground. The constable he
’
d been talking to jerked once before crumpling. He heard the shouts of the others as they moved to return fire.

The building where the shots were coming from was set back from the road, fifty meters distant. It was burnt out from an ancient fire, its red bricks soot streaked, its windows gaping maws. Muzzle flashes lit up the lower storey, sparking the darkness. Bullets ripped through the air, ricocheting off a wall behind him and penetrating the tankers, ringing hollowly.

Dupont returned fire, aiming at the muzzle flashes. Things were moving too slowly; he was going into a panic, powerless to stop it. Not knowing whether his shots had connected, he got up, running for cover behind the wagons. He was the Sergeant; he needed to rally his boys so they could return fire effectively.

A fist hit him hard in the back and he started to fall. His right arm turned to rubber and he lost hold of his weapon. Time was still moving slowly and he could feel the rifle rotating under him; he wanted to grab it but his left arm was too far away, twirling in the air in a futile attempt to recover balance. The weapon jammed under his left side as he hit the ground, digging into his armpit as his jaw slid against the asphalt.

He tried to get up but his muscles wouldn
’
t respond. He tried to call out but he
’
d been winded. He gasped like a fish, and his chest wouldn
’
t move.

There was a sudden stabbing pain in his ribs and his muscles awoke, sending a violently shiver down his body. A pathetic yelp escaped with his first breath; he
’
d been shot. He twisted his head to the left. He could make out the dying cries of his boys, the glug and splash of petroleum as it poured out the bullet holes, and the terrified bellows of the oxen. The fight couldn
’
t be over already. He wanted to shout something, anything, but his chest wasn
’
t working properly.

Blood loss – Dupont was getting cold, light headed. He needed first aid. He could get up – he
needed to!
– but he couldn
’
t summon the will.
The petroleum was hypnotic;
transparently green, it splashed in a shower of droplets as it hit the pavement.
The pavement was hot on his cheek…

His senses were dimming and losing focus.
I need to move
, he levered his good arm under him, pushing, hearing somebody scream in pain, when all of a sudden a boot kicked his shoulder, flipping him over and bringing things back into focus. He looked up to see a giant standing over him, silhouetted by the sun, teeth glinting in a smirk.

Dupont
’
s last thoughts were frustration over his inability to raise his arms in defence as the giant raised a pi
stol and aimed between his eyes.

Wentworth stared at the pint glass in front of him. He rubbed his thumb down its side, clearing away the condensation and watching the droplets flow.
“
I think… that the War let us understand tragedy. More so.
”

On the table between them a cigarette burned away. Its smoke curled up, then plateaued and spread out horizontally. Both of them held fresh cigarettes from the same pack and he couldn
’
t tell whose it had been. He left it smouldering.

* * *

It had taken them five days to reach Hope on the southern coast of Lake Simcoe. They
’
d been moving at the speed of the slowest cattle, trying to keep the herd together. Eventually they
’
d arrived at a moderate-sized hub, the Eastern tip of local civilization. Vince had gone straight to work finding a buyer for the herd. Raxx and Wentworth had disappeared into the local bar.

* * *

The waiter came over to bring them another pitcher and ask for the tab. He was short and disproportioned, with an enormous jaw. His face looked like a plough. It wasn
’
t clear whether his slurred speech was due solely to the deformity or if retardation was playing a part. Wentworth was thankful that they managed to pay without incident.

Raxx was staring across the bar, watching a pair of blind musicians on the bar
’
s stage. One played a broken beat on bongo drums, while his partner shook a tambourine like a rattlesnake.

Wentworth nudged him again.

“
If anything I
’
m surprised there aren
’
t more cases like him,
”
he looked towards the waiter,
“
genetic damage.
”

“
The midwives usually catch
‘
em,
”
Raxx was leaning back against the wall with one leg stretched across the bench,
“
Take
‘
em to the river. His probably showed up a few years too late.
”

* * *

They were sharing a room at the inn Vince had recommended; a favourite with merchants for the dining hall that served breakfast and dinner. It was a three story affair with a stucco exterior, but the local water tower – the source of Hope
’
s water pressure – was only two stories high, so the third floor was empty. The walls were streaked with dark rivulets from the infrequent rains, and the garden which had once circled the building was long dead. The earth was dry and pockmarked.

Vince
was
staying with a friend named Maria.

Their room had no bed frames, just a couple of mattresses with faded covers. Two low-wattage bulbs, one in the bedroom and one in the bathroom, turned on at sunset and turned off at midnight. The local power – confusingly referred to as
‘
Hydro
’
– had no billing system so it was effectively free, but that didn
’
t mean that the citizens of Hope would be overly generous with visitors.

Outside a sign of cracked and sun-bleached plastic lay in the center of the dead lawn. In stylized letters it read off a ubiquitous, forgotten name. It lit up red during the night.

* * *

After Tracy
’
s Roadhouse served last call they returned to their room at the inn. They lay on their respective mattresses passing a bottle of whiskey back and forth staring at the stars through the window. They drank in silence.

Wentworth knew this feeling. In front of him the ground had fallen away. Behind him paranoia whispe
red that a bulldog was circling;
profound apathy with flashes of adrenaline. Depression and fatigue closed around his heart like a purple glove.

“
It was the rai
’
tion sickness
‘
t did it,
”
he slurred, speaking to himself,
“
The deaths. Stuff in the air, stuff in the barrels. It got
‘
em way before we showed. Hah. Lotta good… I saw you after, after the fight. Did as much as you could. Did good.
”

Raxx responded.
“
I was shakin
’
, man. I was shakin
’
bad. I couldn
’
t hardly stand.
”
He took a heavy swig from the bottle and passed it back to Wentworth,
“
Is fucked. Just fucked, man. Like they never ex-sisted . . .
”

They continued to stare at the sky through the sandblasted window. The moon was rising.

“
. . . like they
’
s gone from history.
”

* * *

How many days had he been like this?
Three
…
four
? He
’
d lost count.

* * *

The dream was unexpected. The
events were long passed yet here he was in their midst. Confusion, yelling, rising tensions – the locals were screaming out their cries, confrontational and inflammatory; the meat of their protest was vague and unimportant.

He could smell the armpits of the man next to him. Sweat beaded on his brow.

The order came down. He and his fellows raised their rifles, taking a point of aim. The cries continued with a fierce determination.

The first crack of gunfire came from the protestors – at least, that was how he remembered it. Somehow he was aware of this
factual ambivalence
, even in the midst of things. Instinct drove him to a kneeling position as he reflected on it. Spent casings rained down around him in slow motion, bouncing off of him, hot where they struck his face, a
tinging
rainfall on the ground…

The
locals jerked into silence
with
the squeeze of his trigger.

* * *

He awoke with a start, reaching for a rifle that wasn
’
t there. Looking over he saw it lying in the corner where he
’
d left it days ago, uncleaned.
Raxx was already up, sitting in the room
’
s only chair, smoking. He looked freshly showered. Above him the ceiling fan spun lazily, dispersing the light.

Wentworth looked down and noticed that his right hand was covered with dried blood. With his left he felt his face for tender spots, but couldn
’
t find anything aside from his hangover.

“
Did we get into a fist fight last night?
”

Raxx shook his head,
“
You got angry on the way back from the bar. You saw an old newspaper box and decided it was everything wrong with the world.
”

“
Huh. How
’
d I do?
”

Raxx managed half a smile.
“
You kicked its ass, man.
”

* * *

“
You
’
re all fucked up.
”

Wentworth looked over to see that Vince had sat next to him at the breakfast table. The other residents had been decent enough to sit a few seats away.

“
How
’
s your hand?
”

“
It
’
s okay.
”
He
’
d cleaned and bandaged it a couple days back. There didn
’
t seem to be any tendon damage.
“
Just cut it up a bit.
”

When he didn
’
t say any more Vince spoke again.
“
You
’
re all fucked up.
”

Wentworth put down his fork and stared at his plate. He leaned back in his chair and ran a hand through his hair,
“
Sure I am.
”

“
I meant both of
you
. I heard you
’
ve been drinking your skulls off each night at the Roadhouse. Where is Raxx, anyway?
”

“
Sleeping. He finished a bottle of
rum
to himself last night. I said something that upset him. Not sure what.
”

Vince sighed,
“
I suppose you know there ain
’
t nothing more you could
’
ve done for those folks?
”

Wentworth nodded. Vince was a million miles away.

“
Lad – I didn
’
t know what to think of you at first. I
’
d heard the rumours… but you showed me different. You ain
’
t what they say you are. Least, not to those that don
’
t deserve it.

“
You done everything you could – and you hardly knew those people! What happened afterwards weren
’
t your fault. So why are you killing yourself over it?
”

Vince
’
s plaintive tone stretched out, ruining his digestion, and interrupting his thoughts. It hadn
’
t been the deaths; it hadn
’
t been the violence; it hadn
’
t been the blame, spoken or otherwise – as if Blackstock would keep him up at night, even if it were. All Blackstock had done was underscore the sheer meaningless of it all. It had been meaningless back then, before he
’
d struck out on his own, and it was meaningless now.

He could see the broken puppet strings. Raxx had been right – the Hellhounds were nothing more than remnants of the war, as were he and Vince, as were the citizens of Hope, as was everything that was left…
Violence begets violence.
One of the
protestors
had said that. His rifle and his eyes: keeping him alive to watch the last bits smoulder to ashes…

Vince hadn
’
t stopped talking.
“
Now I ain
’
t trying to pry, or tell you what to do, but I hope you
’
ll listen to a bit of advice from an old man who
’
s knocked around a bit and might have seen a thing or two. Taking on the Hellhounds the way you did… even if I
didn
’
t know
the rumours, it
’
s obvious this wasn
’
t your first fight, aye? You know what this is, then – you
’
ve got the battle shakes.
”

Wentworth had a different word for it, but Vince was essentially right. He nodded, impassively.

“
Lad, being a trader ain
’
t so safe in some areas. Vince here
’
s been in a few scrapes, and he knows how they can mess you up. And some things never go away…
”
he stopped, his fists clenching involuntarily,
“
…but you still got your responsibilities. You know I had to go and talk to Bill and Verizon
’
s people when we came back…
”
he sighed, and exhaustion set over him.

“
Truth be told, you ain
’
t really the one I
’
m worrying about. You know where you
’
re at, and you
’
re just sitting there
‘
cause you feel like it. After you
’
ve had enough hangovers to suit yourself, you
’
ll climb out of your hole and get on with things. You could do it today, only you don
’
t want to. It
’
s Raxx that I
’
m worrying about…
”
the
man
who
buil
ds
machines
,
“
…he
’
s a good lad, who
’
s never been in a mess like that. And he really knew those people. He
’
s going through the same stuff as you, only worse, and he doesn
’
t know how to get out. You oughta be helping him, not wallowing.
”

Vince poured himself a cup of coffee and leaned back.

After a moment Wentworth leaned back
as well
, gripping the rails
of his seat
, half ashamed at what he was about to say.
“
Yeah, Vince… you
’
re right.
”

The merchant poured milk into his coffee.

“
You
’
re right… about Raxx. He
’
s doing rough right now. On a lot of levels. I
’
ll help him out of it.
”
Vince took a sip.
“
The man saved my life back there; I
’
ll bring him out of this. He deserves it.
”

Vince gave a slow nod.
“
Wentworth, why don
’
t you and Raxx go explore Hope for the day, then come over to Maria
’
s for dinner tonight? I
’
ve mentioned what you guys did for me and she wants to meet you. Hey,
”
he stood up and slapped Wentworth on the shoulder, smiling,
“
You did good, lad. Aye?
”

“
Aye.
”