Ain't Talkin'

As the sun rose the Resistance assembled half a dozen trucks. Men with families said their goodbyes to their wives and children, those with no one took morning meals with whiskey and colorless liquors. Some men sat astride synthetic horses, others took motorbikes from a machine shop near the entrance of the compound. Those who had neither piled into the backs of the transports with their automatic rifles strapped to their bodies, check, check, checking their slides and magazines.

Roche sat in Lucky’s saddle amidst all of the hustle and bustle. In one hand he held the reins, in the other was a cup of black coffee given to him by the passing cafeteria head, a portly man in an apron with a back-full of hair. The coffee had seemed like a good idea, strong and gritty and thick as tar. He hadn’t regretted it.

Markus was nowhere to be seen, though Roche had already spied Doctor Weaving, bound at the wrists, being led to a transport among the soldiers in their helmets and scarves.

“Where are you taking him?” Roche asked a passing soldier, jigging his chin towards the doctor.

“Boss wants him in tow for the conflict. Says he knows about the constructs.”

“That so?”

“Yeah. He are you the walker that they’re saying killed a white-construct?”

“Maybe so.”

The soldiers eyes lit right up at that. “How!?”

“Same way you kill anything. . .bullets and shotgun shells.” Roche tapped the sawed-off strapped to one thigh.

“Good to know.” The soldier emptied off with a little spring in his step.

By mid-morning they’d dallied around enough that Miner grew impatient. The old man hobbled out from his quarters somewhere near the back of the compound with a regalia jacket on and a military cap cocked back on his thin hair.

“Why are we not moving yet, Mr. Briggs!?”

A soldier, presumably Briggs, rapped his heels together and saluted toy-like. “Sir, just been loading up for the fight. We’re near finished, sir.”

“Did you speak with Mr. Roche about purchasing the excess armaments from him?”

“Sir, not yet, sir.”

“Then I’ll bloody-well take care of it.” Miner dismissed Briggs with a wave of one old-man hand and caned his way to Roche and Lucky. “I take it you heard that exchange?” He asked upon standing under Lucky’s shoulder.

“Aye. You want the guns in the truck, ain’t nothin’ free in the wasteland.”

“I supposed that would be your response. I can offer you five-thousand bank notes for the lot. Ammunition, guns and the rest.”

“Blankets and foodstuffs too? I’ll take five and a half.”

“Five and two fifty and that’s my offer.”

“Done.”

“Fine then.” Miner dug a wad of rolled bank notes from a pocket and supplemented it with bills folded out from his own leather wallet. Roche hopped down from his horse to take the money, respectfully.

Flipping the cash with one gloved finger Roche asked; “We headin’ out soon. When do we meet the other walkers?”

“They’ll meet us on the way.”

“And what’s the plan when they do?”

“Might I suggest another story as a way of er. . .making a simile to my point?”

Roche groaned. “Sure.” He sipped his tar-coffee, bitter as sin.

“Have you heard of Gévaudan, Mr. Roche?”

“Nope.”

“It’s a region in what used to be France. Following the second revolution, a beast terrorized the landscape. Many assumed it was a shapeshifter, a beast of folklore and horror story. Whether it was or not has been lost to history, though many suspect that it was no more than a trained foreign animal.”

“This is ancient history. So?”

“We believe the work at New San Fran may be something similar. Some believe that the Beast of Gévaudan was a political ploy to unite France and the Gaul region under one banner. An area of the kingdom divided on whether or not to support the new aristocracy turned to them rather quickly when it seemed things were getting bad and they needed a savior. If Ethercorp releases constructs on New San Fran and then rallies in quickly to stop the attacks, it brings faith in them on behalf of the people, and demonstrates all at once their control over these ether-weapons, buying them the interest of wealthy parties.”

“Two birds?”

“Yes, precisely. We aim to stop them before they get started.”

“Would their ploy not unite the people though?” Roche sipped his coffee, wishing there was whiskey in it. An easy fix though.

“Perhaps.”

“So the alternative to a united populace driven by fear is the chaotic way mankind has been living since the catastrophe?”

“One could see it that way, yes.” Miner shifted his weight on his cane.

“What if one did?”

“Then you’d be of no use and you’d be branded by our organization as a defect and a traitor. Is that what you wish?”

“Not when you’re the one holding the ace-in-the-hole.” Roche thought of the little girl that Weaving had claimed was a near-copy of the woman he’d once known better than any other, and wondered not for the first time if it was too good to be true.

“Then we have an agreement that still stands Mr. Roche. I’ll see to it that you’re bound to it. As for the other two walkers, we’ll meet them closer to New San Fran. And I’m afraid we’ve spent too much time gabbing. There’s work to be done.” Miner did not say goodbye, he simply turned an hobbled away with a poor gait.

Roche downed the remainder of his coffee and dropped the cup to the dust for the wastelands to swallow up if it saw fit, or for someone else to pick up, whichever came first. He wheeled Lucky about and stared across the compound at Weaving grin, grinning in the back of the transport with too many teeth, surrounded by soldiers like a Cheshire monster.

What is it you want you sick sumbitch, Roche thought.