Men of Truth (The Wasteland Soldier #4)

MThe girl danced and the men clapped.

They clapped because she was a city girl with the verve and energy and daring that only a city girl could possess.

The girl danced and the men cheered.

They cheered because she was lithe and shapely, skin glistening with perspiration, body moving in a way they had not seen in a long time. They whistled as she flicked aside the flaps of her loose shirt, exposing a pale and taut midriff. They opened their arms and declared love for her as she pouted lips that were full and dark, breathlessly parted. They pumped fists as she flashed legs that extended from an incredibly short skirt, sparkling in the flickering light of the old lamps.

The girl danced and the men stared.

They stared because it was tonight and by tomorrow she might be gone and they would never see the like of her again. They desperately needed to memorise every curve, look and nuance, and capture it in a bubble, protect it, so they could summon it later in a drink-fuelled moment as they laboured between tired, married legs and saw only the painted eyes and painted lips of the dancing girl.

Some men stared more closely, as only men of that kind can, and maybe someone should have pointed them out and warned her. But no one did, because she was a city girl and city girls can handle themselves.

But one man sat apart, alone at a small fire in a corner. He did not clap or cheer or stare. He was obviously a tall man, despite his folded posture, wearing rough clothing of fur, wool and leather. A fleece, a battered tunic, a heavy shirt, thick trousers and worn boots. He was hunched forward as he cleaned a revolver, careful and precise with his work.

Satisfied, he flicked open the chamber of the weapon and dropped in six bullets. They were little more than conical-shaped projectiles. He had not loaded real bullets for some time, but they packed enough of a punch to toss a man from this life into the next.

He snapped back the chamber and put the gun down. He picked up a mess tin filled with meat, vegetables and chunks of bread. He ate slowly, prodding and stirring with a spoon, lost in thought. He unhooked a coffee pot from the fire, refreshed his cup and sweetened it with whiskey.

He was lifting it toward his lips when he became aware of the white-haired man.

“She’s something, ain’t she, fella?”

Stone raised his brooding eyes. His beard was full and bushy. His hair was long and wild. His face was unsmiling, dominated by a scar that crossed from one eye toward his chin.

He picked up his revolver and angled the barrel toward the old man who saw it but showed little concern.

“I bet you’ve never seen a girl dance like that, have you? Young girls, what can you do?”

Stone said nothing.

The hall in which she danced was a nameless and forgotten building in a nameless and forgotten first-world town. It had witnessed torrid arguments and tender passion, brave declarations of love and even braver confessions of adultery. It had been present at recitals, film nights, spelling bees, poetry nights, concerts and end-of-year school plays packed with those tear inducing moments and awkward parts when everything stops as a solitary child waits for the next line. The hall had resonated with people and their lives had filled it to the rafters.

But in an epic finale, the curtain had been lowered on the first-world. This would be a performance to eclipse every performance that had come before. The sky burned, the people vanished and the old hall trembled in the wrath of the mushroom clouds. It remained upright, though sick and weak, and watched its companions taken one by one - the seats and the curtains and the pulleys. Until finally its oldest and dearest friend, the wooden stage, was ripped out and sacrificed on blazing fires, memories of cushioned feet and joyous choirs crackling into nothing.

For centuries the old hall was silent, in mourning, crumbling bit by bit, pitted walls and dusty corridors, until the Brotherhood arrived, bringing faith and hope and, more importantly, tools to work with and clean with and make ready for a new generation, a second-world generation, who knew nothing of recitals, film nights, spelling bees, poetry nights, concerts and end-of-year school plays. They knew of simple melodies and the hall chimed with them. There were flutes and hand drums, bells and stringed instruments, and bouncing amongst the notes of the six-piece band was a percussion of excitable squeals as young children chased around the refuge, stopping once in a while to mimic the dancing girl, and the old hall knew that all was not lost, and all was not without hope, and that one day the heart of the second-world would beat as fervently as the first one had.

“They pick it up in the city. The League of Restoration is pretty good at getting the old tech working. Big screens, loud music. For the right ones, of course, and always at a price. You understand me, right? Course you do, a fella like you.”

The old man had twenty years on Stone. He was in his mid-sixties, leathery skin and narrow blue eyes, thinning white-cropped hair revealing a scalp of brown spots.

He held a bottle of whiskey.

“Mind if I join you?”

Stone gestured with his revolver. The old man sat across from him, uncorked the bottle and took a cup from his pocket. Stone finished his coffee, shook out the last drops. The old man extended the whiskey. Stone nodded and the copper-coloured liquor flowed into his cup.

“I’m Jeremiah Cartwright. Got here a few days ago. Then you already know that. A fella like you misses nothing, am I right? That’s Cali. Girl belonged to my daughter, Eileen. She’s dead now. She was a cleaner, back in Kiven. Got an infection that killed her.”

He went silent. The band played with passion. The wives and mothers loved the music and adored the musicians. They appeared young and handsome to them, and for fleeting moments the women were only women and nothing else. But the dancing girl had sullied their thing because the musicians now played for her.

The women became more infuriated. A few of them said she was asking for it and others said she deserved it.

The children bounded around the hall and one man plucked his daughter into his arms and twirled her around.

“Cali reckons that’s how the young ones danced during the Before. Don’t get it myself. I’d rather sit on my ass and tap my foot. My Eileen used to dance. Not like Cali, not showing bits. She was slow and sorta glided all graceful. You ever see a woman dance like that? Upright and neat and such? Cali couldn’t dance like that. She wouldn’t have a clue. So she does her thing and I guess it makes the kid happy.”

Stone looked at her. The girl was no kid. She was possibly eighteen or nineteen years old, older than he’d first thought when she’d arrived two days ago. She was fairly tall, about five-eight, and he watched her jerk from side to side, hair swishing about. Her painted eyes flitted in his direction. Then the look was gone and her focus was on the men gathered in the centre of the hall. She rotated, thrust, strutted, dipped, tossed, stroked and flashed. The men cheered but Stone saw it in her dark eyes; they were invisible.

The dance was for her. Not them.

It was late and the women fussed over the children whilst glaring at their men who were loud, misty-eyed. The men ignored the tongues that flapped with poison. They knew they would pay for it later. But it would be worth it. For one night it would be worth it.

Jeremiah leaned in close.

“I know who you are but I only care about what you are. And what you are is what I need.”

He topped up his cup.

“You’re the one Cali and me heard about; the stranger from across the sea, the one the League of Restoration sent the death squads after in retaliation for wiping out their top man.”

Stone whipped the barrel of his revolver into the man’s throat.

“But I also heard you’re dead. That the gangs got you and collected the bounty on your head.”

He cocked the hammer.

“Be glad you still have air in your lungs,” said Stone. “That’s more than most get with me. Who are you?”

“I told you already. And you ain’t the monster they say you are.”

Stone grunted.

“You ain’t even the monster you think you are. Listen, do you think Cali’s out there creating a distraction so I can grab you? How could I take you? I’ve got no weapon on me and the drink ain’t tainted because I tasted it as well. I’m no bounty hunter, mister. Besides, there’s no bounty because you’re dead. Look, she likes to dance. That’s all.”

“Last chance, old man.”

“You ain’t gonna shoot me, son.”

“You reckon?”

“Muscane Brotherhood don’t allow killing in the hall. That’s the rules. That’s how you get to stay.”

“Piss on their bullshit rules.”

But Stone had no intention of squeezing the trigger and Jeremiah knew it. The hall belonged to the Brotherhood and this was his corner and he didn’t want to be out there trudging through the snow. From here, he could observe all the doors, corridors and alcoves. Two men had slept here before him but he’d encouraged them to leave. This was his spot now and had been since the blizzards swept the Black Region nine days ago, forcing him to take shelter. He was mostly left alone to clean his weapons and drink coffee and whiskey and brood. A woman had attempted to broker conversation with him once but he’d merely stared at her and she’d melted into the shadows. He had no words for any of them. A few of the young ones would offer a tentative smile now and then and he’d growl at them, in a half-playful manner, and they’d run off, laughing.

He lowered the hammer, snatched the whiskey bottle and filled his cup.

“I’m looking to trade, fella. That’s all. Just a trade. The obvious skills of a dead man for information.”

“What information?”

Jeremiah smiled. “The Pathfinder.”

“Why would that interest me?”

“Now listen, fella, there’s time for Cali to dance but not us. The clock is ticking and I need to get where we’re going and get there fast. We both know you’re hoping on bumping into the Pathfinder. Reckon he can help you find your way back to Ennpithia. But he’s a ghost, ain’t he? You keep searching and hitting brick walls. The man keeps moving. He doesn’t want to be found. Not by you, not by no one.”

Stone listened, saying nothing. Jeremiah was typical Kiven, or so it seemed. He had a lazy twang that bounced here and there with a sprinkle of confidence blending with arrogance. But Stone was a good listener. He picked at the strands of Jeremiah’s accent, and pulled hard until it unravelled. The man was no more Kiven than Stone was and he wondered what Jeremiah wanted in the Black Region because there was nothing here to want.

Jeremiah was still talking but Stone had stopped listening because the old man had spoke of Ennpithia and his thoughts now drifted to that fateful day of the quake. He’d stood at the Place of Bridges, a giant canyon stretching from one horizon to the next, a leftover from the first-world, an open wound. The shattered bridges lay thousands of feet below. Kiven and Ennpithia had fought a bitter civil war a decade earlier and that long hot summer they came within a heartbeat of fighting a second one.

But the quake had sealed a tentative peace between the two states. It was pretty hard to wage war with no way across. It also condemned him. Nuria’s blue eyes had pulsed with tears as she saw him one last time. The bridges were gone. The wasteland was strung with impassable mountains. There was no way back. Stone had run, run hard, as soldiers from the League descended upon the area. He had infiltrated the city of Kiven, wounded, low on ammo and looking to disappear.

After six months of hiding and fighting, he’d fled the city, with every low-level street gang and bounty hunter believing he was dead. It had been more than one hundred and sixty days since he’d seen Nuria and he knew he would never see her again. She was the price he would pay. He understood it. He accepted it.

“You left someone over there,” said Jeremiah. “Someone you care about?”

Stone looked at him, harshly.

“The Pathfinder is the man you need.”

“I can’t find him.”

“His real name is Chan-pu. He was a spy. Enlisted into the League of Restoration. Drifted when the civil war came a decade ago. There you go. That’s what you call a gesture of trust. One man to another.”

“What does he look like?”

“I’m old, but I’m not stupid.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“You got that right, son.”

The musicians were taking a break. Cali was curved between two of them, talking in whispers.

“You know what I am?” said Stone.

“Sure do.”

“I could cut you to pieces for that information.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I’ve done worse.”

“You wouldn’t torture me. Or Cali.”

“Much worse.”

Jeremiah raised his cup, but his confidence had ebbed a little. He drank, erratically, and poured another.

“In the city we heard stories about you. People ain’t stupid. They know all about the missiles and the cover up by the Alliance. That crazy bastard almost triggered a fourth war.”

“A fourth war?”

“I mean a second war, a second war between Ennpithia and Kiven. But you stopped it and paid a heavy price for stopping it. In the city folk talk of you with a fond smile and brightness in their eyes. They say you killed men that needed killing. Fella’s that were rotten to the core. You made things right for people who couldn’t do that kind of thing. There’s always an asshole that needs killing. And Cali and me, we heard you killed plenty of assholes good and proper, righted a lot of wrongs. And I guess a man like that doesn’t hurt innocents.”

“No one’s innocent.”

“Cali is.”

“No one. Not me and not you.”

“I’m an honest man, son. Always been an honest man.”

“Then where are you from?”

“Kiven. Why’d you ask?”

Stone snorted.

Jeremiah cleared his throat. “I need a man who ain’t afraid to do the killing and we know that’s you. Now you need information on the Pathfinder and that’s me. I just want Cali settled away from that city, from the drugs, the gangs, the factions.”

Stone eased his back against the wall. The object was in his pocket, anchoring him to the spot. He would carefully hold it tonight and imagine Nuria’s scent upon it. She had bought it at the festival in the village of Great Onglee, a gift for them. She had one half. He had the other. The old man was still talking and it was all lies. Stone listened to the crackle of the flames and glanced at Cali. She was alternating kisses between two band members. There would be no more music or dancing tonight. Jeremiah didn’t seem to notice or mind. The bullshit stories he’d lifted from bars and on the road just kept coming. It was all shit. So much shit that Stone was tempted to shoot him just to shut him up. And if the Muscane Brotherhood were unhappy then he’d gladly shoot them as well.

His heart was rust and broken glass, a clenched fist and the blast of a revolver. His veins screamed with the urge to deaden life, payback, bleak and primal. He’d been torn from someone very close, very special. He might die and never hear the tone of her voice or watch the curl of her mouth. He couldn’t think of her without the spike in his chest. She had coloured his breath. She had reached into his black soul. She was everywhere inside of him. In a long life of violence he’d finally found a calmness, a peace, a sanity, but it had been taken, wrenched away, and he was trapped, with only bodies, and he was alone. And alone frightened him. Alone made him face himself. Alone was the place of voices.

He knew the old man was lying, and the old man knew he knew, but the Pathfinder was Stone’s last hope, which meant Jeremiah’s deal had to be worth the gamble.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“Escort us to Silver Road. It’s a second-world town. Place families can start again. It’s near Jackson, a first-world city. We won’t go near there. Nothing but craters and bones. Quickest route is to hug the fifty-five. I need you to protect us on the road.”

“What’s the fifty-five?”

“A highway from the Before. An interstate. I’ve got a map we can follow.”

Stone allowed himself a wry smile. “That explains a lot. Assholes with maps love the sound of their own voice.”

Jeremiah waved a dismissive hand. “Get us to Silver Road and I’ll tell you where the Pathfinder is. And I won’t mention to anyone how I’m having a conversation with a dead man.”

Stone leaned forward. “I’ll get you there. But if you’re playing me, old man, I’ll gut you and the girl in the blink of an eye.”