Men of Truth (The Wasteland Soldier #4)

It was late in the afternoon and the sun was dropping behind the trees.

Stone watched the barracks from a nearby bar. He had been loitering for roughly an hour now. People drifted by, this way and that, important errands to run. Rawles and Carlton were nowhere to be seen. He saw other men with the blue armband but he couldn’t recall any of their names. He pushed himself from his chair and walked to the bar, setting his glass down for one last drink. There were only a few men on stools and they had been there since he’d arrived, and probably most of the day by the look of them. They reeked of stale beer and pipe smoke and were giving off angry opinions about the labouring jobs being offered on 24th Street, putting down slabs that would form the town’s first ever sidewalks. The main gripe seemed to be the rate of pay. The second gripe was about the type of men who’d quickly snapped up the work.

The barman poured Stone his whiskey. “I saw that business earlier. You did a good thing.”

One of the drunks climbed from his stool and bumped into Stone. He apologised, his eyes fixed on the blue armband, and then trotted out back where the buckets were lined up for men to take a piss.

“Even the drunks have respect for the men and women who enforce the law,” said the barman.

He leaned forward, grinning.

“Not that there are any women deputies. Not for a time now. Mayor Jefferson put a stop to that.”

Stone sank his whiskey and said nothing.

A deputy looked up from his desk as Stone came into the barracks. He was cleaning his weapon and drinking coffee. Stone still couldn’t remember his name but it didn’t matter because the man wore the blue armband and so did he. He went to the stove, picked up the coffee pot and poured a cup. He took a sip. It tasted good. It had all week.

The keys were on the deputy’s desk. Stone casually picked them up, saying nothing, and unlocked the door to the holding cells.

The deputy paid him no attention, kept on with his cleaning and drinking.

The door eased shut behind Stone with a sluggish hiss.

He took another mouthful of coffee as he walked the corridor. Palmer looked up but Stone ignored him and went directly to the shelves stored with large plastic tubs. He put his cup down and began to pull at them with both hands. The first two were empty, as were the next two. It had dropped into his thoughts shortly after he left this morning. It was a procedure the enforcement officers followed before locking a man or woman in one of the holding cells. All prisoners were to be frisked and all items confiscated and placed inside one of the tubs. Once the prisoner was shipped off to Starkville, the possessions, after Rawles had inspected them, were to be handed over to the Junk Men.

“Hey.”

Stone ignored him, and kept searching.

“Hey, man, how long until that truck arrives?”

Stone didn’t answer.

“Get me out of this cell and I’ll tell you what I know.”

It was Stone’s turn to play hardball.

“You know they’re not letting me on that truck. You leave me in here I ain’t seeing tomorrow. You feel me?”

Stone pulled at a tub but it refused to budge. There was a considerable weight inside it.

Palmer came off his bunk and stepped up toward the bars. “I’ll tell you about the weapon, Stone. Just let me out this damn cage.”

Stone hefted the tub from the shelf, and slammed it onto a nearby desk.

“Open this gate, man.”

“I don’t think so.”

He sipped his coffee and rooted through Palmer’s possessions. A change of clothes. A kit with bandages and needles and thread. A kit with an open-back razor and a hand mirror. More clothes. A torch. A black sheathed knife. A semi-automatic pistol. Three spare magazines. A leather thigh holster. A suppressor. An oblong shaped wallet with a shiny clasp.

He snapped it open and thumbed through notes, lists and maps until he saw what he was after. He fished out the drawing and paired it with the drawing Cali had given him.

“A perfect match,” he said. “What is it? What’s the code?”

Palmer studied him.

“Why’d you keep asking, man?”

“Because I don’t know.”

“Peshkin wouldn’t ask. They would know.”

“I’m not Peshkin, Kiven or Ennpithian. Jeremiah found me in the Black Region. He wanted me to get him here. But he spun a pack of lies. I would’ve never left his side if he’d told me the truth that he was being hunted because of this mission.”

Stone folded away the pieces of paper.

“So what about you, Palmer? Are you going to feed me more bullshit like your major did?”

Palmer held the bars, remained silent.

“The weapon is in the town bank,” said Stone. “They have a basement stacked with hundreds of numbered boxes. I’m hoping to get the box number tonight. But if I can’t then hitting the bank will be for nothing unless I know what I’m searching for.”

Palmer walked away, cycled his arms, crunched his hands.

“Man, the fact that you don’t know what you’re looking for almost makes me want to trust you.”

“I’ll make sure you don’t end up in that truck, Palmer. Maybe that’ll convince you.”

“You could always beat it out of me. Or try, anyway.”

“I have a meeting with the mayor. I don’t want to turn up covered in your blood.”

Palmer gave a half-smile.

“Make sure I don’t end up in that truck, or dead, and then we’ll talk.”

“Answer me one more question. Who are the Peshkin?”

“Mercenaries,” said Palmer. “Ex-military, ex-special forces. A private army for hire.”

“And Pavla is Peshkin, right?”

“Right.”

“So who sent her all this way?”

“People who send others into the ring to fight whilst they keep their hands nice and clean.”

Palmer grinned.

“Old enemies, Stone, old enemies.”