Men of Truth (The Wasteland Soldier #4)

It was dark when Pavla and Timo reached Batesville.

They observed the flat urban landscape before silently moving through the outskirts, hugging the shadows with weapons drawn. Pavla took point, the unfolded stock of her assault rifle thrust against her shoulder. Timo followed, armed with a pump-action shotgun. They moved unseen, deftly exploiting what minimal cover the city provided, knowing where the other was at all times, knowing when to drop down and wait and when to pitch forward.

But the city appeared de-populated, except for the compound. The activity within its walls had quickly punctured the night and was the only disturbance. They flitted across rubble-filled lots and skirted large buildings with roofs that had collapsed inward through the passage of time. A patchy ripple of voices and slamming doors became more prevalent as they drew closer to the compound. Pavla gave a signal and the two of them climbed to a high spot, crouching beneath a star-drenched sky.

“One gate,” said Timo, utilising night-vision binoculars. “It doesn’t appear very strong.”

He furthered his gaze.

“No lookouts. There are two men with rifles patrolling the grounds. But they walk only between the buildings and stay in the light, ignoring the outer perimeter. There are dark areas. It would be very simple to scale the fences and remain concealed.”

Their faces turned numb as they were buffeted by the ferocious wind.

“There is a firebombed buggy outside. I count three charred bodies. This was recent, Pavla.”

He paused for a moment.

“The vehicle bears the same emblem we saw on the convoy. The three knives.”

He passed her the binoculars.

“They are a weak community,” he said.

She scouted the corralled buildings, a mixture of first-world and second-world structures.

“Too weak?” she asked.

“It’s possible.”

“A deception to lure travellers inside? Perhaps the guards ignore the perimeter because it is booby trapped.”

“Perhaps, but I don’t think so this time.”

“Luckily, you don’t need to think,” she said. “You need only to follow, Timo.”

“Yes, Pavla.”

He knew his position. He knew his duty. He did not need her to constantly remind him of it.

“Let’s go,” she said.

She selected a three-storey building for infiltration, ideally placed on a corner close enough to the compound. Its brickwork was mostly intact, the window frames covered with corrugated iron, the long sheets mottled with rust and streaked with faded writing from the past.

Cautiously, they flanked a side door.

Pavla switched on the torch fitted to the barrel of her rifle. Timo hung the shotgun across his back, took his pistol from its holster and fished a small black torch from his coat pocket. They had cleared many buildings together but this was still the moment their heart rates began to accelerate.

Twin beams of light speared a hallway with a dirty cement floor. The air was foul. There were doorways, corridors, an elevator with a broken hand rail and a stairwell.

They heard only the wind.

Pavla gave the signal.

Seamlessly, with half-crouched movements and further signals, they cleared every square foot of the building, room by room, floor by floor.

The interior had clearly been a business during the first age. There was a reception area at the front with a curved desk sheared in half. There was a kitchen area with hanging cupboards that had been ransacked and a ceiling blackened by indoor fires. There was an office where large-framed pictures had been torn from the walls and smashed on the floor. There was a workshop with shattered overhead lights, benches lined with aged tools, broken electric points, old filing cabinets and a belt of metal rollers lying on its side. There was a brick-walled room with rusted generators and overhead ducts gummed with grime. There were small offices where men and women would have sat at desks with screens and spoke into plastic headsets. But the screens and headsets were gone and the desks had been used as firewood. The carpets had been ripped up and the blinds ripped down and everything had been burnt. There was a room with an unlocked mesh cage containing empty shelves and a room where the furniture had been piled in one corner to create a shelter.

Timo shone his torch, wrinkled his nose.

They both recognised the smell of death.

Pavla stepped forward, finger around the trigger. She circled the piled furniture, rifle angled.

The single torch beam illuminated the rotting body of a young child, neatly laid out in a dress and shoes, long blonde hair fanned out behind her skull, eyes closed, hands folded over a hand-knitted doll.

Pavla leaned forward, lips clenched, and took the doll.

“Clear,” she said. “We’ll make camp on the third floor.”

She handed the doll to Timo.

“Put this with the trades.”

She walked away, expressionless, and now that the building was secure her pulse normalised and the tension ebbed away.

“Set the traps and take inventory. I will build a fire.”

Timo nodded. It was the same order every night. Laying booby traps was slow and repetitive work but it had kept them alive on numerous occasions. He finished and returned to the third floor. The fire was built and a pot of coffee hung from a metal tripod. They would occupy two rooms. Pavla was in the second room with the night-vision binoculars wedged in a narrow opening. Timo stood at the fire in the first room and peeled off his fingerless gloves, flexing his hands toward the crackling flames. He breathed out deeply as his body became infused with heat.

“Timo, inventory,” said Pavla, not looking.

She was sat on an old chair, hands on her thighs. He said nothing but immediately began to count everything out in a neat row on the floor. Soon, she stood with him and her eyes reflected on their dwindling supplies.

“Trade or assault?” he asked.

“If we attack there will be a massacre. Even in such a barren place as the Black Region it will attract attention. I will establish trade.”

“We do not have much left,” he said, prodding at a small collection of items. “These horrible coins they value so much are running low.”

“They might not even want them. The last community we visited laughed when I presented them.”

Timo plucked one between his fingers, flipped and caught it. “They are worthless pieces of metal, Pavla.”

She unhooked the coffee pot, poured two cups, handed him one.

“Thank you,” he said.

“This building has a strange feeling to it.” She drank. “Like a mummified corpse. I don’t like it.”

“The whole city feels like that. What we’ve seen of it so far.”

“Do you believe in ghosts, Timo?”

“No.”

“Good. Nor do I. Ghosts are for old women and broken men.”

“You are not old and I am far from broken.”

“You are not funny, either” she said, her voice flat. “Always remain focused.”

Timo lit a hand-rolled cigarette. The tin with the flower on the lid was in his lap.

“We have two days of rations,” he said. “Four if we go onto half rations.”

“That is not as bad as I thought. But it will not be enough.”

She thought for a moment.

“I will take the toys,” she said. “And the doll. They have high value amongst these people.”

“I thought you wanted to take the toys back with us?”

“Silver Road is three or four days away, Timo. We need to remain strong.”

“We can survive without rations. We have done so before. I thought the toys were important to you.”

She leaned a hand against her holstered pistol. “Are you questioning decisions once more?”

“No,” he said, lowering his head. “But what if they are pretending to be weak? Can a community be this stupid?”

“I have already factored that in. Have you forgotten who I am?”

“No, Pavla.”

“Good. If it is a trap then you can rescue me and be a hero. Our people will make up songs of you.”

He laughed at her words, for a moment, but saw there was no humour or warmth in her face and hurriedly suppressed his light-hearted reaction. She went into the second room, coffee in hand, and peered through the binoculars. He understood but could not accept her bitterness. Two years before she had uncovered a plot to assassinate the President and single-handedly prevented it by killing a four-man cell. Other men had claimed the victory, men with influence, and her name had remained largely unknown. But soldiers knew the truth. The President was saved and surely that was more important.

“Are you certain about the toys?”

“Yes.”

“And the doll?”

“Yes.”

He smoked.

He stared into the fire.

“We’re not going back, are we?”

“We have an objective to complete.”

“That wasn’t what I asked.”

She leaned back in her chair.

“You do not ask questions, Timo. In this place or back home, it is the same. You do not ask questions.”

“I understand.”

“You do not seem to.”

He said nothing.

“Our objective is to return home once we have it. But if we are compromised it is to be destroyed.”

“Yes, Pavla.”

He knew of her family back home, a husband and a six-year old son with sightless eyes who’d never witnessed the face of his parents or the twist of autumn leaves. But he had loved ones, too. His father did not recognise those around him and lived in a hospital with other sufferers of the same illness. It was painful to visit him but Timo still enjoyed the old man’s company. His sister, Oxanna, was excelling in science with a bright career ahead of her and his younger brother, Jerek, was a labourer in the city rebuild crews, with a family of his own.

He flicked his cigarette onto the fire, stepped into the adjoining room.

“I apologise. I am not questioning your authority or the mission.”

Pavla nodded.

“We both know there might be no return from this. We have left a trail of bodies and that trail will lead to Silver Road.”

He stiffened.

“I am willing to die for the mission. Whatever it takes.”

He lit another cigarette. Pavla watched his thumb shift across the lid of the metal tin.

“That tin means something to you, doesn’t it?”

He looked up, surprised by her question.

“Yes.”

“Tell me.”

His cheeks grew red. “It belonged to my mother. She gave it to me before she died.”

“What did it mean to her?”

“It seems stupid in the middle of all this.”

She took it from him. “What did your mother keep in it?”

“Teeth,” said Timo.

“Teeth?”

“Baby teeth. Mine, my brother, Jerek, my sister, Oxanna.”

“But now you carry your tobacco and papers inside it?”

“I gave the teeth to my sister. She has a chest for personal family things. But I like to keep the tin with me. I am carrying part of my mother. She is watching over us and she is proud.”

He chewed his lip.

“I told you it was stupid.”

She handed back the tin.

“Empty it, Timo, and put it with the other items. I will trade it in the morning.”