Ain't Talkin'

The Corporation transport was a canvas-backed truck on ten wheels.

Roche and Markus had gone about stockpiling all of the guns and ammunition that they didn’t actually need and loading it in the truck along with the rations, blankets and other provisions that Lucky could not carry.

Now the plan seemed to be changing.

“What’s this idea of yours?”

“We take the truck. It’ll be faster but if the Corp sends any men down to check with these dead fools they’ll know we’ve taken it and come after us. Hopefully the changing sands in this godforsaken county will make our trail a little harder to find, though.”

“What about the horse?”

“Ain’t leaving her. She can ride in the back of the truck. Right, girl?”

Lucky looked sidelong at the hunter. If horses could express disdain, the bay mare did.

“Well. If that’s the case, I’m not letting you drive in your condition.” Markus wheeled around and popped the cab door open. “You’re drunk.”

“Yeah? And you’ve got a bum leg.”

Markus poked his head inside the cab. “Clutch. Shit. I’m still driving, even with the bum leg.” Without another word the kid pushed his glasses up higher on his nose, grabbed the handle beside the door and swung up into the cab.

Roche took one last look at the po-dunk shitty crossroads where he’d killed twenty or so men. The young soldier, Fray, was groaning, already starting to come to.

“Good luck, son.” Roche grumbled, lighting a smoke. “Horse! In the truck, let’s go.” Roche threw down the gang plank into the back of the transport. Lucky trotted into the back between a pair of metal hang-down benches, assorted artillery and automatic weapons, foodstuffs and bedding for twenty men. She picked up and loose bit of salted meat and chewed on it numbly, while Roche shut the gang plank and shut her in halfway so that she might hang her head out the back. If the mood struck. “Good horse.”

Roche hefted a bottle of whiskey in one hand, taken from the saddle bags and stowed in his jacket, drank deep and leapt into the passenger seat.

“Start her up, kid!”

“Oh my god. Are you in a good mood? Or are you just drunk?”

“The good times come around every now and then when you’re as old as I am, shithead. Let’s go!”

Markus, shaking his head in disbelief, put the truck in first, clutched in, and turned the key. The engine roared to life and the windshield wipers squealed across the dust-covered glass.

“Where we headed, Roche?”

“East for the night. S’go.”

Checking the compass attached to the dash, Markus slid the truck in gear, and they rumbled off into the east with their headlights on brightly against the simmering night.