Ain't Talkin'

Cordite and lead filled the air. The stink of the gunpowder burrowed deep into Roche’s nostrils and he could taste the grit and dust and sand that flew up into the air from his feet. His footwork was flawless. Step and brace and fire, two feet planted firm, then move, brace, trigger, brace, trigger, point with your long, gunmetal finger and spew lead.

Before the Ethercorp boys had even had the chance to react, their world was thrown into a cacophony of gunshots and burning oxygen. Within the first few seconds a half dozen of them lay dead. Their own punishment for standing straight and tall. Show themselves and a show of force and the walker will drop his guard. Fools all of ’em.

Roche spun out, bent low and recovered behind a low concrete wall. He flipped open the cylinders of his Rugers and slid fresh rounds in. Sidelong glance back at the street told him Markus had disobeyed an order and taken to the opposite side of the street, in cover behind half a building. He’d slid from the horse and like a good girl, Lucky was well in shadow of cover, out of the line of fire. Markus, an equal fool to the Corporate fellas, had the .45 drawn and was peeking in quick fits around the corner for an open shot.

“Stay there!” Roche hollered across the street. Markus caught his eye just a shot blew dust off the brick near his eyes. Roche didn’t wait for a reply, he rolled low into the street over his shoulders, barrels blowing flame.

They’d moved up, a couple of them at least, taking the pair of seconds it took Roche to reload to advance down the roadway. They didn’t get far, and they didn’t manage to find cover before Roche was back in the thick of it.

A soldier clutched feebly at his throat when one of Roche’s bullets tore open the side of his neck. Another went to his knees grasping at his belly and the new hole that it had.

Their body armor covered wide bits of them, but Roche was no spray and pray kind of gunslinger, and the white was in him. Every move the soldiers made was made a second too late, or a half-step too shy of safety. The ether bled from Roche’s gums and his ears seeped with the thin film of it, like a diver who’d come up too fast.

A soldier got close, too close. He aimed straight with his rifle couched nicely in his shoulder. Roche was near enough that he crossed the remaining distance before the soldier could fire. The walker came up under the gun barrel and drove it upwards with a shoulder. The stock cracked against the soldiers helmet and his head nodded back. Roche drove his gun barrel up under the mans chin and pulled the trigger.

“I got one!” Markus called from somewhere behind the walker. Apparently he’d gotten a lucky shot off. Roche smirked and made a mental note to ask the kid about it later. Probably-no certainly, the first man Alex Markus had ever shot.

When another soldier got too close, knife drawn and held backhand like a wastelander might, Roche holstered a gun and took the man by his wrist, he drove the soldier’s knife into his own gut with a cursory move, then drew his Ruger again and kept shooting.

Back behind a wall. Gunshots ringing out and hitting pavement and concrete a foot or three too far to the left. Roche had already reloaded and moved out of cover again by the time the remaining soldiers had deciphered where he’d been hiding to refill his guns.

From under a black mask, a soldier shouted something at the walker. Stop, or hold up, or drop it, it didn’t matter what he’d said. The poor soul had wasted his last breath saying something that didn’t make a difference. Roche had put a bullet through the soldier’s eye before he’d finished saying what he had to say.

A frank lull in the noise. No more shouting, no more gunshots, no sounds of body armor rustling and gunmetal shackling.

Was that really all of them?

Nope.

One left. The remaining soldier stood beneath the dead stop light, gun dropped, hands up, mask pulled down and piss in his trousers.

Roche smiled and holstered his guns. He strode up to the remaining soldier, coat flapping all around him and blinked away the remnants of the white that thrummed through his limbs.

“What’s your name, son?”

The soldier’s lip quivered and he made a whimpering noise in the back of his throat.

Roche drew his Ruger again and aimed it square at the soldier’s nose. “Name?”

“F-F-Fray. . .sir?”

“Fray. Right. Who told you we were gonna be here?”

“Sir?”

“Stop calling me sir and just answer the question. Or this next bullet busts out the back of your skull.”

The soldier’s answer spewed out of him like a bout of vomit and he pissed himself. . .again. “Word came down from the top! Intelligence said a person of interest and a walker would be making out of the hole south of Parmiskus and to intercept and capture, dead or alive, I swear!”

“Right, I believe you.” Roche flipped his revolver around and caught the barrel. He struck the soldier in the temple with the handle. Soldier went down and out cold. Done is done.

“Markus!?” Roche turned and looked back down the street. “People are dead! Let’s go!”

The kid fell out from behind his cover, having not moved for the last couple of minutes. Roche couldn’t help but notice him limping slightly as he came up on the walker, stepping over the bodies of nearly twenty men who’d been alive until just recently.

“Fuck, kid. You hit?”

“Grazed. Right by my calf. Didn’t take nothing off that won’t heal back.” A small ring of red blood seeped around Markus’ calf. The kid sat hard and tore his pants around the bullet hole, setting about bandaging the wound with the same fabric he’d torn off.

“Fine working then?”

“Yeah, I’ll be alright.”

“Where’s the horse?”

Lucky clopped up the street shortly behind Markus.

“Good horse.”