Men of Truth (The Wasteland Soldier #4)

TWENTY

Reardon galloped onto a deserted avenue, rain hissing against the asphalt.

His ear was bandaged and he carried a pistol in his gloved right fist. He warily surveyed the scattered houses. They were mostly broken down and surrounded by bare trees. He slowed his horse and trotted toward a clapboard dwelling where smoke curled from a stone chimney. It stood on an overgrown lawn, the original paint having long since peeled away, its boards mismatched as rotten ones were replaced down the years. There was a covered veranda with wooden benches and a battered looking crate half-filled with rubbish.

It had been a good few years since he’d been here. He really shouldn’t have left it so long.

The closer they are, he mused, the further apart they are.

“Michelle, are you in there?” He waited, keeping his gun ready. “C’mon, you wee bitch, it’s Robert Reardon.”

His horse snorted, twisted her head. He soothed her and glanced at the graves to the left of the house, each one marked with an outline of stones and a wooden cross.

He grew impatient. His gnarly voice barked. “Michelle?”

A wooden frame window slid upward and a round-faced woman appeared. She was in her forties with dark hair and small green eyes. She smiled broadly at the sight of him.

“I’m hardly fucking wee, am I? Can’t a woman take a shit in peace without a man interrupting her?” She regarded him for a moment. “Well, what about you, Robert Reardon? What’s going on with you, big man?”

He holstered his pistol, took off his rain-soaked hat, and placed it across his chest, a solemn expression upon his lined face. A second rider, Danny Sullivan, emerged from the rainy gloom, leading a horse with two drenched bodies roped to it.

“My boys are dead, Michelle,” said Reardon. “A big bastard from across the water took them down, so he did.”

The smile slipped away. She called into the house. “Donal, Declan, go and help Mr Reardon. Now, boys.”

Her boys were strapping young men. Donal was seventeen, Declan was twenty-two. They came through the front door, smartly dressed in matching shirts. Donal had shot up in height, now shoulder to shoulder with his older brother, Declan, and he was growing a wispy-looking beard. They were stocky and muscled with fists suited to brawling.

Heads ducked against the rain, they hurriedly loosened the ropes holding Bobby and Chuck.

“The Lord have mercy on them,” said Michelle, fervently crossing herself. “Come on in, soup for breakfast.”

The window slammed shut. Reardon and Sullivan wandered into the trees for a piss.

“I told you, Bobby,” said Sullivan. “She’ll start all that fucking religious shite with us. You mark my words. Lord have mercy on them. The Lord wasn’t watching over those poor wee boys. I don’t want to hear that crap from her. My own Da was full of it, so he was.”

Urine splashed on fallen pine needles. Sullivan shook his head with frustration. The rain was heavy and cold, dropping through the branches and running off the brim of his hat. The snow had turned to slush. Reardon looked into the face of his oldest and most trusted friend, saying nothing, and Sullivan nodded.

“Aye, I’m sorry, Bobby. I know you don’t want to hear it. You’re a man of grief.”

“No bother,” said Reardon. “You need a woman, Danny, that’s all. You’re wound like a spring.”

“You know me too well.”

Reardon glanced at the house.

“The Creagh family have always helped us. Michelle and her boys will ride with us. If you’re lucky, she’ll ride you.”

Sullivan laughed. The families had been close, back in the day, those special nights in the park. Drink and cooked food, children running wild, dancing and singing, long before the shadow of civil war fell upon them, before Kiven decided to make a greedy grab for Ennpithia’s land, like a spoilt child.

“Let her have her God and her cross, Danny,” said Reardon. “And you get to shaft her big ass before we go.”

“Good, because I need a fucking release. You know, I still can’t believe Connor and Gerry are dead.”

“I did the right thing last night.”

“You don’t have to convince me.”

“But we lost Mickey and …”

“Fuck Mickey,” said Sullivan. “I never liked that bastard. Worm-faced cunt, so he was.”

The two men sauntered toward the house.

“It’s her house. Let her do her thing.”

“Aye, OK, OK,” said Sullivan.

They gathered in the front room. A fire blazed and it was noisy with a handful of children. The two men were greeted with hugs and a chorus of questions. A newly made wooden cross hung from the wall and Sullivan glared at it. He’d never seen one that big before. Reardon’s eyes were on him and he nodded, agreeing to keep his mouth shut.

Bobby and Chuck, bullet holes and bloodstains, were given the best chairs Michelle owned. Declan and Donal angled them toward the front window, with a view of the rain swept lawn.

A twelve-year old girl with freckles and dark hair ushered the little ones into a back bedroom, closing the door on her way out.

“Now who are you, miss?” said Reardon. “Will the Lord forgive me, is that you, Molly? That can’t be you. Look how tall you’ve become.”

Michelle watched Reardon. She saw his eyes linger.

“Molly, this is for grownups, away with you.”

“I’m grownup,” said Molly. There was an even defiance in her voice. “I can shoot, hunt, and kill.”

She made a pistol with her hand and shot Reardon. He staggered back, clutching his chest and laughed.

“In the bedroom,” said Michelle. “Now, girl.”

Reardon patted her head, stroked her cheek, squeezed her shoulder. “Best do as your Ma says, Molly.”

“She’s grown,” said Sullivan.

“That she has.”

With the children gone from the room, Michelle fussed over her guests as if they were replacements. They would be well fed and cared for under her roof. She said prayers and made the sign of the cross, for the hundredth time, thought Sullivan. They ate soup and bread, and drank coffee laced with whiskey, and smoked cigarettes and pipes.

The rain slanted against the house, and Michelle listened closely as the story of the shootout was recounted and the dead men named. There was nothing much said for a short time. Reardon slumped in his chair with glazed eyes.

“Never seen him before,” said Sullivan, breaking the mood. “That fucking gun he used on Connor. Split him open and put his guts on the snow, poor bastard.”

Michelle drank, called over at Reardon’s boys. “Don’t you worry now, lads. We’ll do you right and take this bastard down. You hang on a wee while.”

Sullivan rolled his eyes.

“Don’t you start your shite with me, Daniel Sullivan.” She pointed across the table at him. “Not in my own house. This is a house that respects the Lord and you’ll be mindful of that.”

“Aye, aye,” said Sullivan, holding up his hands. “Have it your own fucking way, darling.”

He winked at her.

“And don’t you be trying to sweet talk me, you dirty scumbag. My legs are not parting today, not when there’s business to get done.”

“He’s a little tense,” said Reardon, suddenly grinning. “Ain’t that right, Daniel?”

“A little is right,” said Michelle. “Maggot cock.”

She laughed. It sounded as if she was being choked. The men cringed.

“Declan will come,” she said. “Donal will stay behind.”

“The boy should be on the road,” said Sullivan.

Michelle shook her head. “Donal is no fighting boy. The Lord gave him muscles in his head.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? Look at him. Sure, he has bigger arms than me. Like a boxer, so he is.”

“He’s staying here, Daniel,” said Michelle.

“What about Molly?” asked Reardon.

“I need her to watch the wee ones.”

“Can’t you give them to one of your neighbours?” he asked.

“We have no neighbours,” said Michelle. Dead or driven out, she thought, but kept silent.

“Why can’t Donal take care of them?” asked Sullivan. “If he’s staying …”

Michelle’s voice boomed. “Molly stays here. That’s an end to it.”

Reardon took his eyes off the closed bedroom door and stabbed out his cigarette.

“Four will have to do.” He turned to Donal. “You still collect the posters, son?”

“Yes, sir, Mr Reardon, I do, sir.”

“Fetch ’em.”

Declan watched his younger brother smile from ear to ear, proud his collection of posters was suddenly important.

“He’s a good boy, Michelle,” said Reardon. He looked at Declan. “They both are. You got any kills, son?”

“Yes, sir, Mr Reardon, I killed one of them brown bastards down at Panola Avenue only a week ago. Cut him from here to here.”

Michelle crossed herself. “Declan is good with a blade.”

“You got one of the brown ones?” said Reardon. He reached into his pocket and flipped a coin. “Fair play to you, Declan. Remember, son, the world is a better place when you take colour from it.”

The young man pocketed the coin. “Aye, sir, it is. Thank you, sir.”

Reardon turned to Michelle. “Brown skins on Panola Avenue?”

“Aye, but not organised. We think they were only passing through.”

Reardon nodded, thought on it. “Good to take no chances. It was brown skins that cut Bobby.”

“Aye, poor Bobby,” said Michelle, crossing herself.

Sullivan jerked his thumb toward the bedroom, where Donal was retrieving his collection of posters.

“You reckon he might be amongst them?”

“Worth a look,” said Reardon. “Depends how long he’s been in Kiven. He’s not local. I’m certain of that.”

“You said he was from across the water?” said Michelle. She refilled the coffee cups.

“Aye, he has that shifty look about him, you know the fucking type, bastards all look the same, so they do.”

He stared into space.

“He’s good, make no bones about it. Look at my fucking ear. He put a bullet right through it. If I hadn’t moved he’d have popped out my eye with that shot. He came down the street bold as brass, fucking balls on him, knowing full well he’d taken my boys from me and willing to front me up like that.”

The rain tumbled down.

The children squealed in the back room.

Donal returned with a heavy looking crate, home to his prized collection of posters. They were different shapes and sizes, some of them more than a decade old. Most of the men and women depicted on them were long since deceased, handsome rewards claimed and spent. He had collected the majority of them in Kiven, when his Ma took them on trips to buy and steal. He would take the posters down from walls and notice boards and carefully roll them up. He never folded them. He couldn’t abide creasing one of his posters. They had been sketched by the same artist, Aidan Foster, an expert in capturing likeness. He was a well-known figure in the city, and Donal had always wanted to meet him. People who had never met Foster spoke of him as if they had, and elevated him above them, making his life more valid than their own. Donal knew he was no different. He did the same thing and always wanted to hear stories of the man, outrageous bullshit or not.

He carefully emptied the contents on the table and Reardon went through them one at a time, dumping them back into the chest once he was satisfied the poster bore no resemblance to Stone.

Donal winced as Reardon handled them. Declan thrust an elbow into him and told him to grow up.

“Look,” said Reardon. “Connor.”

It was the grey-haired fire starter Stone had cut to ribbons with the submachine gun.

“God rest your soul, Connor McLaughlin,” said Michelle. “Let the Lord watch over you.”

Sullivan had reached his limit. This was Kiven. Not Ennpithia. Those fucks over the Place of Bridges had Holy Houses, Holy Men and Holy fucking Laws and it was seeping into Kiven like water through a dam. He couldn’t take the crossing, blessing and knee-bending shit anymore. He let rip. Michelle took him on man-for-man and they threw insults back and forth. Reardon had heard the argument a hundred times. It was foreplay, plain and simple. He told them to get it over with because they had shit to do. They didn’t move from the table but the ranting ceased and he continued to sift through the posters, occasionally laughing at some of the rewards the Alliance offered for men that were his friends. He hesitated at one poster, and they all looked at him expectantly, but he shook his head and carried on.

“C’mon then,” said Michelle. “Let’s get you straightened out, Daniel. You can’t ride all agitated and stiff, so you can’t.”

They used the bedroom next to where the kids played, brimming with stolen and salvaged items.

Declan listened red-faced to the creak of the bed. It was not the first time. He hoped it would be the last.

“Mr Reardon, sir?” asked Donal, seemingly oblivious to the laboured grunts that everyone else was listening to.

“What’s bothering you, son?”

“Will you bury Bobby and Chuck here?”

Reardon stared at him.

“Our Da is buried out back. They could lay with him. He was fond of them, wasn’t he?”

Declan wished his brother would be quiet. He was overstepping the boundaries of familiarity.

But Reardon looked at Donal fondly.

“No, boy,” he said. “Bobby and Chuck will come on the road with me. Won’t you, boys? They don’t go into the ground until the bastard that killed them is dead. Then I can send them on their way. Proper and decent. But not before, son, not before.”

He got to his feet, scattering the remaining posters.

“Danny. Michelle. Get the fuck out here.”

Sullivan roared. Michelle cried out. A moment later they emerged, flushed and half-dressed.

Reardon held up a poster of a long-haired man with a scar down his face.

“The long hair has gone and he has a bandage round his head, but it’s him.”

He handed the poster to Donal.

“Read the words, boy.”

Donal gripped the poster between his fingers. Michelle noticed his hands were trembling.

“His name is Stone,” he said. “Known as the Tongueless Man and the Wasteland Soldier. He’s wanted for killing Governor Omar … and more than thirty soldiers from the League of Restoration.”

There was a long silence.

“So he fancies himself a hard bastard,” said Reardon, walking over to his dead boys.

He crouched, gabbed each one by the leg.

“I promise you this, boys, we’re gonna find him, and we’re gonna hang him for what he did.”

He drew his pistol, kissed the cold steel barrel.

“Let the Lord be my witness.”

“A-fucking-men,” said Sullivan.

He grabbed his rifle, and Michelle thumped him around the head.