Men of Truth (The Wasteland Soldier #4)

PART THREE

THIRTY

They crossed the bridge, cramped and windblown, and Stone glimpsed two wrecked vehicles at the bottom of the creek, one peppered with arrows. It appeared the road gang stretched this far. Not that he had even seen them. He wondered what defences were in places to repel motorised attackers. He would have to know. He would have to know everything before they tackled the bank.

Loitering on the outskirts of town, grimy and dishevelled, they saw population ahead.

Men, women and children bustled in and out of wood and brick buildings. It was a second-world settlement. There was no asphalt and no towers reaching fifty-storeys into the sky. It might have been the site of a former first-world town but there was no evidence of it now.

A man stepped before them. He had known they were coming for the past two hours, the moment they left the cover of the hill.

“I’m Sheriff Rawles,” he said.

He was the first obstacle. He was in his fifties, roughly six-foot, silver hair curling onto his shoulders and an old scar down his neck.

“Do you have names?”

He had a warm voice but there was firmness to it and it was a question he wanted answered or they weren’t going anywhere.

They were here to steal, maybe even to kill. But it wouldn’t be on the first night, or the second, it would take time, as much time as they could spare, so they had to adapt, blend.

Stone told him his name and extended his hand. He couldn’t think of the last time he had willingly offered his hand to another man. Rawles had a meaty grip and blue eyes that probed. He shook Weaver’s hand next, almost crushing it, and greeted Cali and Yuan with a polite tip of his wide-brimmed hat. He wore regular clothes and old looking boots that needed stitching. Around his waist was a tan-coloured belt with a faded buckle and a revolver holstered on his hip. There was blue armband around his left arm, stitched with the letters S.R.E.O.

“Silver Road Enforcement Officer,” said Rawles. He was fully aware of Stone’s observation. “It means I can enforce the law by peaceful arrest or with my weapon. Now we have only one law here in Silver Road and it works well for us. If you’re passing through, or you want to stay, then you need to follow it.”

“Yeah, we know about the law you got, man,” said Cali.

She sounded half-asleep.

“I’m sure you do, ma’am. But Mayor Jefferson pays me a wage and part of my job is to lay out the law to any strangers.”

The voice was still relaxed and easy-going but there was no mistaking the grit behind his words.

“We’re listening,” said Stone.

“You take nothing that isn’t yours,” said Rawles. “Well, that’s it, simple enough for most folks, though some still don’t get it. There are no big books here filled with the law. We know our history but it’s not the way we work down here. There are no trials, no juries, no appeals, no sentencing, no parole. Silver Road law is a black and white thing. If you take something that isn’t yours – food, coins, weapons, a woman or even the life of another – then I arrest you. You draw on me and you end up dead.”

“We’re not looking to cause any trouble,” said Yuan, and Rawles smiled sweetly at her.

“Ma’am, I doubt you are, but the law is the law and it’s best you know it from the outset.”

“We’re looking for a bit of quiet,” said Stone.

Rawles considered his words, ran his eyes over them.

“I don’t know what your plans are and you don’t need to tell me, either. We let people have their privacy here. You have seven days in Silver Road. No more than that. You keep out of trouble, show you want to be part of our town, that you have something to offer and compliment the honest family living we have here, and we allow you to stay for good. The final decision belongs to Mayor Jefferson.”

Stone nodded.

“We’re looking to stay.”

Rawles half-turned, flanking them, his right hand on the grip of his revolver, left hand pointing into town.

“I had a gut feeling you might. You people look done in. The Black Region is a harsh place. Anyway, motel is there, always rooms available. You need to stay there for the seven days. You can get food in the diner across the street. We have a general store, it’s well stocked, and a bar that’s even better stocked.” He chuckled. “There’s a school, a bank, thrift store, a Holy House, you name it.”

He jabbed a thumb.

“You got any bullets in those guns?”

“No.”

“Figures,” said Rawles. “Well, come and see me later and I’ll see what I can do for you.”

He signalled to another man, in his mid-twenties, unshaven and narrow-faced with a shock of brown hair.

The man wore the same blue armband with the same stitched lettering.

“This is Carlton.”

Rawles introduced the four of them. Carlton nodded, but didn’t offer his hand and said nothing.

A woman shouted from down the street, leaning out of an open doorway, and both men turned.

Rawles patted Carlton on the shoulder. “You deal with that, Carlton.”

The man strode away, head ducked.

“You’ll have to excuse Carlton. His best friend, a fellow enforcement officer, was murdered two days ago. It was a terrible shock. Silver Road isn’t crime free but there hasn’t been an enforcement officer slain in nearly three years. People have respect for the blue armband.”

“That’s horrible,” said Yuan.

“It is, ma’am. Young fella is still coming to terms with it.”

“You get the fool that did it?” asked Cali.

“Oh, sure, he’s locked up, but what difference does that make? Nicky’s still gone and Carlton has lost his friend.”

There was a moment of hesitation.

“Well, enjoy your time here in Silver Road.”

There were no sidewalks. They walked in the road, kicking up loose dirt and saw horses and carts, and plenty of people on foot. A few took notice of them but no one openly stared or stopped and pointed. Yuan was smiling, from ear to ear, despite the tiredness she felt. The sun was weak, the wind brisk, the temperature hovering close to zero, and her home in Batesville was a lifetime away from this place. But she was happy.

They reached an intersection, clustered with single-storey stores. They stopped as a horse drawn wagon loaded with tied down crates rumbled past. Pausing for a moment longer, absorbing the calmness of the town, they moved off, sensing little trouble or threat from the people around them. A young man strolled by, crossbow hooked onto his back, heavy satchel in his hand. He greeted them with a tip of his hat and a quiet good morning.

There was a strangely surreal atmosphere. Stone was guarded, prepared for the façade of normality to slip, exposing the true nature of Silver Road. Only it didn’t happen.

People busied from one place to another. Stores opened. Life carried on. With or without them.

“Rawles is smart,” said Stone. “He doesn’t miss a thing. We’ll need to be careful around him.”

“I hear you, man.”

They followed a road away from the busy streets. The ground switched from dirt to stone. There was a square-shaped building with a hand-carved wooden sign above the doorway.

It read: MOTEL.

A stream meandered through pine trees, gurgling over rocks, sparkling as it was caressed by the sun.

Beyond, the land rose steadily toward watchtowers and men with telescopes and rifles.

The wind whispered through the trees. A hanging chime of rusted cutlery jangled.

“This place is wonderful,” said Yuan.

Death and violence had shocked and challenged her, had dulled the edges a little, but the shine was still there, in long vibrant streaks, and her belief that the world was a place of wonderful things was far from destroyed. She saw beauty, hope, brightness and kindness and her mood was infectious. Stone looked at her fondly and worried for her, knowing that the higher you climbed the more painful the fall was. He hoped he would be around to catch her.

“So this is my life then?” said Weaver. “I don’t understand how this has happened. What am I doing here?”

He stood apart from the three of them, no bonds. His hands were spread across his hips.

“This is a good place,” said Yuan. “Tell me where in Batesville you can find a sanctuary like this?”

Stone understood the word and thought it was pretty apt. Pathways snaked around lawns where winter wildflowers grew. There were rows of wooden cabins in blocks of four with front porches and sloping roofs.

“Yeah, some sanctuary,” said Weaver.

He nodded toward a man sprawled on a chair outside one of the cabins. His stubby legs were stretched out and spread wide, his ink-covered arms folded behind his head. A hat was perched across his face and he wore a short-sleeved undershirt and loose trousers. His feet were bare, thick with dark curls of hair.

“I recommend the view here.”

“You have to give this place a chance. I’m going to. We all are. And I already feel safer than in Batesville. They have law here.”

“They have law in Kiven,” said Weaver. “I wouldn’t call Kiven a sanctuary, or a paradise, or whatever the hell you want to call this place.”

“We have only just arrived. You might like it.”

“Look, you chose to come here. I didn’t. I was kidnapped.”

He looked around, repeated it.

“I was taken at gunpoint, forced here. I was kidnapped.”

Cali jutted her chin at him. “If you hadn’t fucked with the gauge you could be driving …”

“Oh, will you shut up,” said Weaver.

Stone rounded on him.

“The world owes you nothing, Weaver.”

Weaver stood toe to toe with him.

“Perhaps I should march back down there and speak to the sheriff. Tell him the type of man he’s just admitted into his perfect town. A murderer, a kidnapper …”

Stone glared at him.

“I’m not afraid of you, Stone.”

“Then you’re an idiot.”

The man in the chair let out a short chuckle. He eased forward, took the hat from his face, and yawned. There was a shirt and a gun belt hanging on the back of his chair, a pistol jutting from the holster. He got to his feet, stretched. His head was squashed, giving him the appearance of having no neck. He shuffled into one of the cabins and came back out a moment later, liquor bottle in hand.

“Can I help you people?”

But it wasn’t the man who spoke. The voice came from behind them and belonged to a woman. It was a functional voice and nothing more. They turned and she stood in the doorway of the motel office, tall and slender. She had red hair streaked with grey, shoulder length and straight, her fringe a perfectly neat line above thick eyebrows that curved over brown eyes. Her freckled face was long and her lips were unsmiling. She was in her forties, a sour and unwelcoming manner about her.

Stone hesitated. For a moment he thought he knew her, had encountered her once before and then it passed.

She didn’t wait for an answer, and went back into the office, allowing the door to close behind her.