Dusk Territories: Always Burning (4 page)

Graham tried to gather the meaning of mutant or the new one, demon, but stopped trying in mid-thought. He wasn’t going to strain his brain. All he needed to do was to get to this caravan. Finishing the field dressing, he got himself up, and dusted the sand off his faded and torn camouflaged pants. He kicked the empty first aid pack aside. “So, what you’re saying is this Drifter might know a little something for me?”

“Yeah,” Tyrus and Crisium said in unison.

“He might even let ya chill around for a bit,” Crisium added, blowing a ring of smoke.

Tyrus rolled his eyes. “He does pick up mutants and demons like stray puppies.”
He looked to Crisium, and both busted out in laughter. “But really, he’ll probably find you interesting. There’re worse, personality wise, than you.”

“Wood?” Crisium questioned.

“Wood,” Tyrus answered.

That wasn’t the first time Graham had heard that name
. He must be some real pain,
Graham thought. Giving an amused laugh, he slung his assault rifle into his palms. “I suppose that we should get going if they’re expecting you back. They might expect trouble if two of their own is missing.” He knew he would if he sent his men out on a scouting or retrieval mission and they hadn’t returned in the allotted time. “I’ll take point. Just guide me where to go and I’ll make sure you two get there safely. It’s the least I could do for what you have done for me so far.”

Tyrus and Crisium both gave a blank expression.

It was a very dangerous move that in no way worked in his favor aside for gaining trust. If they were some sort of bandit group leading him to a trap, he would have no way of knowing. However, he was confident. Graham was confident that they could be trusted enough. But if not, he planned some ways of escape. Training had taught him many things. One of those things was how to be deadly. He could easily wheel himself in a 180, pop their heads off with two shots, and go on his merry way. But he was sure that it wouldn’t have to come to that.

Graham gave a toothy grin, probably more frightening than reassuring. “Just lead the way.”

_

The Drifter’s company had set up just a few miles from the edge of the base, to the north near what was Jacksonville. Or what was left of the broken city once named Jacksonville. Even from this distance, the city seemed to be in shambles. The entire city was a different landscape than the land around it. Where around the city were badlands, the city itself was like a miniature forest. Tall trees jutted from the toppled buildings, wild grass broke through the dark soil. An indigo haze drifted around it, hanging loosely on the threshold of the inner city. He squinted, trying to see more of the city to no avail. Yet, he could easily settle on dealing with the majesty of the caravan instead.

Every assumption that Graham made about this caravan was wrong. He had expected something worse, something less put together.
This
was like a well-oiled machine. Some armies in the old world (if he could even call it that) would have envied this.

It was almost the size of a flank of an army. There were three main types of vehicles. The first were the RVs, armored in sheets of salvaged metal, making them almost aegis-like. A few spots from some of them were cut out for the inhabitants to shoot from if need be. Larger ones, specifically on the outer ring, had guns attached to them to better help with firefights; however, Graham could tell from here that they were just the residential trucks. There were many much more equipped for the fighting, but these were no slouch.

The second types of vehicles were the armored trucks and Humvees. They were painted completely black, and looked insanely tough with their added metals. They were packed heavily, most of them having mini turrets welded to the top where a man or a woman was always stationed. A few had rocket and grenade launchers in addition. These vehicles sent memories through Graham’s brain. He had spent a lot of his time in and around Humevees, bumping around and complaining in equal measures. More memories of his squad surfaced but he pushed them aside. It still took all the will in the world not to head towards one instinctively.

He didn’t however. His main reason was that he remained frozenly aghast by the last vehicle, tanks. The Drifter had acquired two. The pair of hulky M1 Abrams sat on each end of the long chain. Like the trucks, these were crudely painted black, yet held a symbol of a single painted storm cloud on the side. In comparison to the others, the Abrams were behemoths in a sea of rabbits. If the other ones were equipped heavily, these were equipped for annihilation. They were modified for gun fire, rocket fire, probably even worse. They were well maintained and armed to the teeth.
They could receive
fire, and just as easily answer back tenfold.

The upkeep of this must be insane,
Graham thought, pale eyes wandering.

Crisium and Tyrus now took the lead, heading for the largest of the RVs. Graham followed, now somewhat aware of the eyes that watched him. Men, women, and children all matched his movements with their eyes. Who wouldn’t? Not only was he armed pretty well and looked proficient, but he was frightening. They were probably thinking of the horrible things that could be done to them. Something along the lines of him firing at their knee caps and subsequently pinning them down to eat them alive. Graham knew that he would do no such thing, but they didn’t. If it wasn’t for him “escorting” two members of their crew, he would have been riddle with holes by now.

Or maybe he would’ve been rewarded with
a rocket to the face.
Suddenly, Graham felt fortunate that he wasn’t taking those chances.

Crisium knocked on the door of what appeared to be the central headquarters of the caravan. It was painted differently. Instead of just the normal black, it had a streak of silver down the side. The mark of the wispy cloud was on the side of it, absent on all the other RVs. This had to be the Drifter’s residence. The willowy woman tapped her foot impatiently, waiting for the door to swing open. “Dammit Drifter,” she muttered.

A few minutes passed before the door opened. Instead of an older man, however, a young man answered the door with a glazed and tired expression on his face. Crisium snarled and Tyrus folded his arms defensively, neither being too ecstatic to see him.

The young man in his early-twenties was only in his plaid boxers, and even those were too big for him. His body was long, lanky with all of his bones visible under a thin layer of pale white, hairless skin. The hair that he did have on his messily cut head was a deep sickly green. Above his upper lip was an ill-attempt at a moustache, which appeared to be nothing more than a green patch of fuzz. His chin, sharply gaunt as the rest of his body, had faired a bit better with facial hair, but not by much. He stared at Crisium, green eyes narrowed and a weak smirk creeping up on the corner of his thin lips. “Cris.”

Crisium stood stiffly. “Wood,” she said from the side of her mouth.

Wood kept his grin as his bare and skeletal feet guided him down the metal stairs.

Graham could basically hold the awkward tension between the three. They didn’t like him. He was hard to look at, yes. But there felt like another story was being told.

“Wood, ya heard of clothes?” Crisium grunted, backing up.

“Yeah,” Wood said distractedly. “I’ve heard of ‘em.” He paused, his attention caught on Graham. “And what have you brought us.” His voice tone, oddly normal despite his appearance, held no change. It was akin to him asking,
what did you bring from the store?
The skinny man, almost sleepily, tilted his head to look pass Tyrus.

“Brought your
uncle
a person to see, Wood,” Tyrus explained tersely.

“Aren’t we all family here?” His two fellow members gave Wood a cold and silent reception. Wood didn’t grin this time. Instead, he lost all of his expression, leaving a void. He calmly pushed Crisium from his line of sight, receiving a sneer from the woman in return. The sounds of his feet against the dry land sung as he closed the gap with Graham. It wasn’t long before the tall man loomed over the shorter soldier. “You’re a new one.” He laughed, “Can
it
speak?” The legitimacy in the question was blunt, like a hammer crashing into Graham’s head, to say the least.

“He can,” Graham said, unfazed. Wood, as they called him, hardly seemed like the taunting type. However, Graham wasn’t going to fall for it even if he was. They stared at each other for a moment, feeling each other out like men in the same territory would. A part of Graham felt the need to throw him over his shoulder, but suppressed it. He was here to make a somewhat good impression. This went on for a few seconds before Wood arched an eyebrow and backed up.

“Ah—“Wood nodded, detaching himself from the wordless confrontation as though bored with it. “No offense, but thought it was important to check.”

“How responsible of you, Wood,” Crisium said, sarcasm dripping from her voice.

“Best damn security ever,” Tyrus added.

Despite the disdainful comments, Wood gave an almost genuine laugh. The young man turned on his heels and back up the stairs of the truck. “Follow me—“he reached for a name.

“David Graham,” the corporal said with a nod.

“Follow me, David,” Wood stopped again, watching the other two people follow Graham up the stairs. He put out his hand, making a
n ahem
sound as though the two were children caught doing something they weren’t supposed to do. Both of their faces flared with anger. “Crisium, Tyrus, Uncle told me to tell you when you got back to check on truck three or four. I don’t quite remember. Check on both.”

“Great selective memory you got there.”

Wood nodded knowingly at Tyrus’s response, scratching the stubble of his cheek. “I just don’t care enough to remember small things. Go. Go. Make yourself useful.”

Crisium opened her mouth to say something, but was quickly taken aside by Tyrus. “We better get going on helping those trucks, David. We’ll get to talk a little later. Come on Cris, before you say something.” Tyrus urged the woman on. It took almost all of his power to drag the woman away. A fight was about to happen over Wood’s words. Wood hardly even noticed. That, however, made Crisium even angrier. If Tyrus wasn’t bigger than she was, the next phase would have been Wood and herself tumbling on the ground, fist flying.

There was one-sided animosity there, and it crashed like waves.

Graham shook his head. “Are you trying to get her mad on purpose?”

Wood raised his eyebrow again, “She was mad?”

Now, Graham could see it clearly. The man just didn’t give a flying leap about anything.

Graham followed Woo
d into the interior of the RV. He peered around
for a moment. It seemed pretty standard, a bit anticlimactic in comparison to everything else. There were wooden cabinets on both walls, a small eating area to the right of the door, a two cushioned areas for the occupants to sleep or lounge. The vehicle was far from clean, but could easily have been worse. The windows were clouded by the constant rain of dirt. Clothes sat haphazardly piled in corners, trash littered the floor, and various maps and drawings were sprawled out on the tables and counters. Of course, the one part that was clean was the gun rack.

Wood quickly grabbed a pair of lime green pajama pants, and slipped them over his thin body. “Don’t expect this all the time,” he explained. “You’re new, so maybe I should wear something…” He went into a bit of whispering mumble after that. He proceeded deeper into the RV before disappearing into a side door. “Unc. Unc. Get up, you’ve a visitor.”

“Five more,” a long drawl of a voice yawned.

“Seconds?

“Minutes, my boy.”

“Not going to entertain anyone for five minutes, Unc.”

The old man, which Graham assumed to be the Drifter, gave a haughty laugh. “You ain’t no help, Wood.”

Wood didn’t give a response, just exited the side room. He sat in the nearest seat, and kicked his feet up on a low window pane. A normal person would have informed Graham that his uncle would be out in a second. Wood, though, easily decided that it was implied and relaxed himself, free of the burden of being a host.
The entire two or so minutes he was one,
Graham noted.

Sounds of rumbling and tumbling rippled from the small room. It only ceased when the old man stumbled out of his bedroom, cane in hand. The Drifter, a man in his late fifties or early sixties, brushed back his stringy white hair. His skin was just as pale as his nephews, yet sagged a bit here and there. He wore a straggly beard that hung loosely on his face like some sort of white furred animal. His eyes, startlingly blue, stared at Graham. “Hm,” was his only reaction.

The Drifter leaned on his cane as he observed Graham closely. Graham followed suit.
It’s better to know someone when they’re sizing you up.

From the looks of it, this old man didn’t seem powerful. He looked crazy with his long hair, thin tank top, battered jeans, and worn and yellowed work boots. But, he stood with majesty and deep understanding. The look in his eyes seemed almost mad, but held wisdom. The air that he presented around him made Graham recognize and intuitively respect him. Somehow, he felt that The Drifter had the same thought about him.

“Name, son?” The Drifter said. He walked forward, caning Wood’s ankles in the process, earning the young man’s howl.

“Corp…” he stopped. Somehow the title that he was used to saying felt fragmented in his mouth. Drifter lowered his broken lensed glasses, wanting more. No, he was expecting more. That ice cold glance somehow loosened his tongue. “Corporal,” he finished. Graham frowned. “Corporal David Graham of the United States Marine Corp, sir.”

“
Sir?” Drifter gave a humorless, wild laugh. “Ain’t heard that one in a
long
time. Formalities are dead son, don’tcha know that.”

“Actually…I don’t.”

Drifter cocked his head back as though struck by his statement. “Pardon me?”

“I’ve been asleep, dead, whatever since the world…” Graham toyed with words in his mind, nothing worked. “Since whatever happened out there.”