Ain't Talkin'

The third walker employed by the Resistance was an older man by his face, but Roche could feel the youth in him. He had not been long in the white. He was unlike Thomas and himself in that, an older gentleman who was in fact younger. Strange times, these. He stood by the side of the road smoking a long pipe. He wore a simple hat with a brim that kept his long hair from his face, sunglasses, a leather jacket over a hooded shirt, dusty leggings and a pair of handguns in visible holsters slung over one shoulder.

The caravan slowed to a crawl and finally a stop as they drew down on the third walker.

Roche and Thomas exchanged a look of that’s-him-eh. Kendall Miner hopped his privileged bottom from the transport truck and held out a hand to the stranger leaning on the guardrail.

“Mr. Leon, I presume?”

“It’s Mr. Wellam, actually. Leon Wellam. And I presume you to be Lieutenant Miner?”

“Yes, pleasure, Mr. Wellam. I’ve heard nothing but good things about you.”

“It would seem, yes.”

While the two men exchanged a myriad of thickly worded pleasantries, Thomas got Roche’s attention.

“Oy.”

“What?”

“See that band on his arm?” Thomas pointed at Leon Wellam’s jacket with his chin. Indeed there was a black armband like the ones worn by many members of the resistance. “He’s Res already. What’s that make the two of us?”

Roche lit a smoke and tisked with his tongue against his teeth. “I suppose that makes us employees of the Res same as he’s a part of it. We all picked a side didn’t we?” Roche sniggered.

“We picked the right one, right?” Thomas asked.

“Right or not, we picked it. We get paid, we see it through.”

“You’re a man of your convictions, Roche. I like that.”

Roche dragged on his cigarette and exhaled through his nose. “About all we got.”

Miner and Leon Wellam had hit it off heartily, likely joshing one another about their affiliations with the Res and the coming conflict. Miner hand his hand on Leon’s back and was leading him to the cab of the truck. Seemed that Leon Wellam had no vehicle of his own and had walked to the meeting point.

They stopped by the truck as Leon caught sight of Roche and Thomas, sitting a ways back, watching Leon from a ways off.

Leon walked promptly away from Miner and straight to the other two walkers. His arms were spread wide, welcoming, like some kind of approaching messiah.

“My friends and compatriots, it is good, isn’t it? My name is Leon Wellam.”

“Thomas.”

“Roche.”

“Well met then, Thomas. Well met, Roche. This is a curious predicament for three walkers such as ourselves, isn’t it?” Leon Wellam had thin lips, and a wide mouth, a face lined by dozens of years of exposure to the sand and the sun and the wind. He carried himself like a military man, with purpose and sure steps.

“Did you join the Resistance before or after you started walking?” Roche asked the question straight out of nothing.

“Nothing gets by you, does it? Yes, sir. I was a walker before the Res. Not that it matters now, though does it? We’re all in one boat together. Might as well make the best of knowing one another.” Leon smiled wide, his face creasing a hundred times over.

“There’s an idea.” Thomas said, smirking and looking to Roche. It seemed the younger walker was taking his cues now from Roche, though the two had known one another for less than a day. Roche sighed subconsciously, exasperated. It was the kid all over again. The hell?

“If we’re gonna do the koom-bye-ah crap I’ll be drinking by the transport truck after we stop tonight. You’re all welcome to come by and chit-chat, except probably not. But bring your own booze if you do.” Roche kicked his mare and rode down the 80 West. Thomas and Leon Wellam looked from one another to the trail of dust and hoof beats that rang down the 80. Thomas shrugged.

“He does that. A lot.”

“I see.”

The caravan mounted back up, Fairfield was over the next rise, and it was past noon.

Roche rode ahead, a slipping dark figure over the thermals on the asphalt, shimmering in and out of vision as the caravan caught up.