Men of Truth (The Wasteland Soldier #4)

Greasy and fast moving, Panola Avenue had a reputation and squarely delivered.

A wide two-lane roadway, it had been a mix of residential and commercial during the age of the Before, and on that front nothing had changed, with people still living here and still selling. But the asphalt was heavily-potholed and weed-ridden and some areas were flooded with gurgling water as first-world drainage failed its second-world successors. And the road no longer swelled with dozens of brightly-coloured metal vehicles grinding through the gears to the gas station or the grocery store or the school district. There was no pumping fuel and no filling brown paper bags and no letting out on the sidewalk. It was now swollen with a transient population, a vacuum of rain-drenched men and women, drifting in from different quarters of the city or from the shanty towns and camps on the outskirts. Some were scarred or covered in ink. Others were missing limbs or were sickly-looking. Many wore masks, helmets or hoods. And they were all jostling for space, looking to get down to it and sort out business.

Stone pushed forward into the crowds with Cali and Yuan beside him, watching them as much as he watched those around him.

There were single-storey buildings with boarded windows and faded signage above mended doors. This was second-world business. No branding and no finesse. No neon, no deals and no pithy slogans. There were only hand-scrawled signs, sometimes not even that, offering WEAPONS, DRINK, DICE, WOMEN.

Men lounged outside on easy chairs, weather-beaten skin, steely eyes, controlling all the action, like their father’s before them. They wore big coats with turned-up collars and wide-brimmed hats and gun belts, and tucked into hot food from across the street, eating with their hands and licking the grease from their fingers as they told stories with bursts of laughter. They were aware of everyone and everything. Only the control they held changed hands door by door. There was no single boss and no crew exerting overall power, only an understanding that easy money could be made and every one could enjoy a piece of the pie as long as no one got too big for their boots.

Ragged lines of food stands were shunted together beneath awnings. Grills sizzled, pots bubbled, pans smoked; there was stirring, chopping, slicing and peeling. Smells filled the air, rich and sharp, bitter and tangy. There were junk stalls and weapon stalls and voices yelling back and forth. Further on came much larger trade areas, tents and wagons belonging to the Junk Men, true scavengers of the wastelands, men with skills and equipment and a long history of unearthing the unfathomable from the soil.

“Stay close,” said Stone. “Don’t wander off.”

Cali gave him an insulted look. “Why?”

“Because we don’t know who runs this place and I’m in a foul mood already.”

She laughed, but it was fake and nervous and drew layers across the pain and fear that swirled inside and checked every foot she placed on the wet ground ahead. The past hour had been like walking through mud as her experience at the hands of Timo and Pavla had surged into her head and refused to let go. Her heart raced, thumping so hard she was certain her chest would explode and she’d drop dead on the spot.

Stone could see that Panola Avenue was no place for taking risks. Jeremiah was dead and Cali had been slashed and nearly raped. That was the fallout of risks and lies and there would be no second chances from here on out. He carried the shotgun that had belonged to one of Reardon’s men. He also carried Timo’s pistol, nestling inside his coat, and his own revolver was tucked in his belt, his hand never straying too far from it. Yuan was talking to him but her soft voice was inaudible in a place such as this. He wasn’t too concerned. Whatever it was it could wait.

His clothes were soaked, and he was angry and vengeful, knowing that Pavla was ahead of him, and Reardon most likely behind him, and he wanted to bury rounds in both of them. But he had to shut that out for now and focus on finding a vehicle that would take them to Silver Road and take them fast. He couldn’t connect the dots of the drawing and the weapon Jeremiah had sought. But he knew that Kiven had used missiles in the summer and who knew what other weapons were hidden in the town of Silver Road.

In that moment, he craved the clarity and freedom of the highway, his boot on the pedal, hands curled around the wheel, nostrils tingling with the stench of fuel, and a land of unending craters on all sides. The wasteland had always been his home. He’d been born in it and would end in it. He needed to get away from Batesville, a chance to think on the mission he was undertaking with Cali, not knowing if it would take him further from Nuria or closer to her. But Cali had spoken of thousands of lives at stakes, and that meant he had to reach Silver Road and put his hands on whatever the second-world town concealed.

He’d warned them to tread carefully here, to keep with him and avoid confrontation, until they worked out what was what, and who was who, although it seemed people were more wary of him than the other way around and once again a man shuffled away to avoid his long strides.

He guided Cali and Yuan onto a less crowded sidewalk, constantly alert, his eyes roaming from side to side, memorising faces, catching snatches of conversation. The numbness in his arm was fading but his head was beginning to swim once more after the long walk here, and the noise of the place wasn’t helping. He suppressed the urge to pick a fight with any one who looked at him a little off. His bandaged head and Cali’s bruised face drew scant attention. They were anonymous. Every other person seemed to have something missing or was inherently damaged.

Yuan was fascinated by Panola Avenue. Deshi had told her of this world but captured none of its energy and intensity. It was intoxicating and she couldn’t help but stop and stare. There was a heartbeat, a vibrancy that resonated in a way that her life did not. She wanted to remember the sounds and smells forever. She glanced at Stone, unsmiling and determined looking, and was so thankful for him; he’d shown her how to stand and fight, and how to walk and live.

“I wish Travis could have seen this place,” she said. “At least once.”

Cali rolled her eyes.

“Girl, I can’t work you out.”

“Yeah,” shouted Kody, slamming his fist into the wall.

The bed shook. The girl cried out.

“That’s what I’m about, baby. Ah, yeah. That’s it. That’s the good sweet stuff for you.”

He squeezed out every last drop. Sweat dripped from his beard onto her back. He jerked free and stepped naked from the bed, red-faced.

“Girl, you put some serious black in the Black Region.”

He slapped the rounded cheeks of her ass.

“You’re a pretty hot thing. You don’t fuck like no Kiven whore fucks. Respect to you, ma’am. Black chicks rule.”

Tisha rolled onto her back and sat up cross-legged. She lit a cigarette, skimpy on the tobacco. She was eighteen years old with long black hair, dark brown eyes and an oval-shaped face. Cigarette hanging from her lips, she wrapped a blanket around her shoulders. She had worked Panola for two years. It wasn’t so bad, she told herself. She earned a good wage and no one beat her or forced drugs on her. Her cut to Big Red, the whoremaster, was small and he kept all his girls safe. And it helped when the dude she had to bang wasn’t old and stinking of piss and liquor. This one was pretty decent looking and he hadn’t treated her rough.

She fixed her hair in a ponytail. “You got a name, man?”

He was pulling on his shirt. He stopped, looked at her. “Why the fuck do you want to know my name?”

She swallowed, realising she’d been stupid to think there might have been anything more than a customer and client relationship.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Fucking right it doesn’t. You don’t ask me shit, girl.”

She shuffled to the edge of the bed and smoked her cigarette. There was groaning coming through the wall.

Kody shouted. “Finish up, cocksuckers. Shot your puny loads. We got important shit to do.”

He pulled on his jacket and left without a word. He sauntered into a corridor that led into a square-shaped room with a dirty tiled floor. The windows were shuttered. Dead cables hung from the ceiling. Dusty light filtered through gaps around the front door.

Three men sat on chairs. One of them was wiry and old, eagerly waiting for Tisha to become available.

A busty girl in a low-cut top was perched on a stool behind the front desk, handling the business.

She smiled at him.

“What the fuck are you grinning at, retard?” he said.

The girl held onto the fake smile but lowered her eyes. The wiry old man shuffled to his feet and stepped forward.

“Tisha?” he asked the busty girl.

“Sit back down,” said Kody. He pushed his hand into the man’s chest. “That bitch is wrecked. Ain’t nothing left for you.”

He laughed, nudged open the front door with his boot, and stepped into the glare of daylight.

There was a sign above his head: REDS GIRLS.

Beneath it was scrawled: Best Fucks in Batesville.

The rain was still coming down in heavy grey sheets. Red, the whoremaster, was in his late forties, bright red beard and a milk-white left eye. He sat with three other men, big coats with turned-up collars, wide-brimmed hats and gun belts. Kody gave him an appreciative nod.

The young man took a few steps along the sidewalk, leaning back against the wall of the building. The sloping roof above kept him dry. He reached into his pocket, took out his gloves and slowly pulled them on.

They were black, fingerless and bore the symbol of Triple Death.