Ain't Talkin'

Roche and Alex Markus sat in the center of the dead crossroads town, just beneath the stoplight. Markus had managed to bandage the wound to his calf from a stray bullet. It hadn’t been anything serious, more a flesh wound. The kid was almost more excited about having shot his first enemy soldier. The whole thing was almost comical.

“Leg okay?”

“Yeah. Just a graze shot. I’ll be fine.”

“Pour some of this on it, soak the bandage.” Roche held up a bottle of cream-colored whiskey. He’d had a go around of the campsite where the Corporation had set up and come back with a couple boxes of bullets, some rations of dried meat and dehydrated potatoes, threadbare blankets that he’d tied to Lucky’s saddle, some waterskins, and above all else, half a dozen bottles of decently stilled whiskey. Without saying anything else, he’d upended the bottle over the kid’s bandaged leg. Alex Markus sucked on his teeth and winced, but stuck through the pain like a good boy.

“How do you do it?” Markus asked through the pain, sweating a little.

“Do what?”

“Kill men like that.” Markus said plainly. Looking towards the pile they’d made of the bodies. When it had all been done, while Markus picked at his wound and cleaned it, Roche had picked through the crossroads and collected the bodies, piling them in a heap where he’d set them on fire. The last part had been a courtesy. On the off chance that wastelanders who were keen on eating person steak happened by, it was better for the folks Roche had just shot if they were already burned away to nothing. Even cannib wastelanders couldn’t get much out of sucking on blackened bones and connective tissue. Dead didn’t mean you had to be eaten too. The smoke plume from the burning heap was rank and foul, rising black into the dying daylight. They’d better move on quick, before any wastelanders or highwaymen did get it into their minds to check it out.

“What do you mean how do I kill ’em? Bullets do the trick just right. Same way one did for your calf.”

“That’s not what I meant. Your speed, the way you move. It’s. . .”

“It’s the white, kid. But you knew that. You’re just looking for topics of conversation because you have a problem with keeping your yap shut.”

Markus didn’t say a word.

“The white seeps into those of us that spent enough time in it. Once you’ve got a taste for using it, it becomes easier and easier. You live long enough on a plane where you can be as fast or as strong as you wanna be and some of that insanity carries itself with you. I seen walkers that abused the ways of it too much and they had to consciously keep themselves from moving too fast, or from crushing every whiskey glass they laid fingers on because they’d forgotten how to not be too strong. It’s all a way of the thing.” Roche took a swig from the whiskey bottle and sighed.

“You’d have been a valuable asset at the Corp.” Was all Markus said.

“Probably why I prefer to do things on my own. Fewer people I run with, fewer people I knew, fewer people got hurt.”

“And you’ll be a valuable asset to the Res, if you can stomach it.”

“Not gonna let that dream die, are you?” Roche asked, smirking wryly down at the kid seated indian-style on the concrete with his bum leg. “Son I ain’t convinced, but that does lead me to something else.” Roche set the bottle back in his saddle bag, capped and took the A-Mat from it’s holster.

“What?” Markus stood shakily, the flesh wound in his leg clearly hurting more than he was letting on.

“You’ll see.”

They’d left the sole survivor from the encounter, the one Roche had pistol-whipped, bound and gagged with a couple lengths of rope, leaned up against an old propane tank. He’d come to about an hour ago and decided his best bet was to stay quiet and hope that Roche or Markus didn’t take to disliking him. His feet were hobbled together and his wrists were bound behind his back, where could he go? Now Roche strode over to the bound soldier, a boy himself of no more than twenty-five and put the A-Mat in his chest.

“Son, they call this an anti-material rifle. I’m not exactly sure why but I have an inkling it’s because whatever I shoot with it ceases to be anything other than dust and pink mist. And if I take this gag off and you scream or do anything besides answer my questions quickly and to the point then I will pull this trigger and evaporate your ribcage. The last seven-tenths of a second that you draw breath will be terrible and cold and painful and I will not do you the courtesy of burning your corpse and the wastelanders will eat your guts for breakfast sausages. We have an understanding?”

The soldier, Fray, nodded vigorously. This was a young man who was not interested in having his chest cavity cease to exist.

“Good.” Roche removed the gag of thick rope. Fray stretched his mouth and smacked his lips, wetting his teeth again. “Question number one.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“Okay, statement one; cut that shit right out. I’m not your commander I’m the one who will decide not to kill you if you answer my questions.”

“Yes, s-. . .yes.”

“Good. Where did the intelligence that we were going to arrive here come from?”

“Terra 2, a waystation commanded by the Corporation that manages constructs.”

“So they knew we were coming through the white because they saw us in the white?”

“And guessed where you were headed, yes.”

“Good. Good, boy. You’re good at this. Question two; what day is today?”

Fray screwed up his mouth. “Thursday?”

Roche sighed. “I’m sure it is. The date, son. The date.”

“Oh, shit. . .um, the ninth. Ninth of December. Please don’t shoot me.”

“Not gonna, yet. No need to, yet. Question three; you’re not the cavalry or the vanguard. How many more of you are waiting for us between here and Parmiskus?”

“A lot.”

“How many?”

“I don’t know. Several more. Probably at least a hundred and fifty men, and constructs besides.”

“Are you lying to me?”

“No! No, I swear!” Fray was a smart boy. Roche could tell the liars when he saw them, especially under duress. And threat of losing most of your thoracic cavity would be considered duress. This kid was more worried about his own life than what the Corporation would do to him if they found out he ratted. And that was a good thing for the hunter and his charge.

“Yes, yes, son. I believe you. So here’s what I’m going to do. That transport truck that the lot of you brought here, we’re going to take that, and I’m going to leave you here. I’ll be assuming that you can eventually weasel your way out of those ropes and pick up the .22 that I’m going to leave you, but the rest of the guns are coming with me on the truck. You told me what I needed to know, so you get your freedom and a gun with a half-full clip to fight your way back to whatever fuck-hole town is nearby. I advise you not to return to the Ethercorp or they’ll have you shot for insubordination, because after what I’ve got in mind they’ll certainly know someone ratted. Go find yourself a nice girl and put a baby in her. And get the hell out of Polkun County. You get me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Roche gagged him again and pistol whipped him again, knocking him out cold.

“What did you do that for!?” Markus squealed like a little girl.

“So he can’t see where we go. Now let’s take a look at their truck.”