He stood up awkwardly, joints cracking, and heart pounding with its sudden awakening. He’d been laying there for hours. He began walking, fingers and feet numb, icicles of pain shooting through his extremities. He opened and closed his hands, waiting for the blood to return to them, then fished into his jacket for a pack of cigarettes. It was almost empty, he saw. The remainder waited for him back at Landfall’s. He paused in his walk, taking careful note of the copse’s location — three fingers left of those boulders — before looking down to light his smoke. Then he carried on, unthinking, returning gradually from his meditative state.
When he arrived the copse was empty; crushed grass and torn branches showed the deer’s’ escape to the north. He paused to take all of this in then walked over to the tree the doe had been standing by. It had been one meter to her left from his perspective. He reached up and caressed the bullet hole, so tiny on entry, a gaping hole on exit. Maybe a hand’s breadth higher than where he’d aimed, but otherwise dead on target. The deer would have been dead if he’d wanted that. He turned around and began the trek back to his duffle bag.
He’d already thought extensively about a future as a hunter. During long rides he’d argued and ended that debate already. But his mind decided to flit back and forth on the topic anyway, part of its readjustment to the logical world. There was no sense in it, really. He had no butchery skills, and with the price of ammunition… on top of that he’d have to figure out some way of bringing the animal back after he’d shot it…
His mind yammered away, drowning out the pleasure of the clean shot. The thought of subsistence labour filled him with distaste, but it was either that or consider more dire problems. It was with relief that he returned to camp and crawled under his cam-net, laying his rifle down on the grass beside him and taking up his observation post.
He had a clear view of the highway. If not for hill off to his right he’d of been able to make out Blackstock too. The scene was as empty as it had been that morning, and the day before. There was no reason for him to be so keyed up.
That merchant! Merchants had always struck him as the keenest of the lot, and this one was no exception. That look had made his hackles rise, and had spurred him on in his decision to head for the hills for a few days. It made good sense to do so anyways, to keep an eye on his tracks, but he didn’t like feeling coerced into it. Between the boisterous juvenility of the two guards, and the sharp suspicion of the older merchant, Blackstock wouldn’t be a good place for him to set up kip for the next while.
The sun was making a lazy arc. With its light shadowed, the coming breeze cooled the forest.
The Mechanic was a bit of a broken one. He seemed oblivious to the juxtaposition of his presence in a backwater. Wentworth wondered what the man was running from. The grasses in front of him cast long, sharp shadows. The whole landscape was distorted with lines of cutting dark.
He sighed, and stood up. He didn’t need his Datapad to tell him that he’d better get moving if he wanted to eat a warm dinner tonight. Within minutes he’d packed up his kit and shouldered his duffel bag, turning south for the walk back.
Damn, but he wished he’d grabbed a ruck sack before leaving.
“Falcon, what’re ya’ looking at!”
“Wanted to see if you needed help with anything, Mad Dog.”
“Yeah, top off your canteen then go and fill the jerry here.”
Falcon shook the jerry on the back of his quad, “It’s still pretty much full, Mad Dog.”
“‘Scuse me Falcon, is that what I asked? I said go fill it in the stream there — you’ll be glad when we don’t see no water for a while!”
He looked back down at the map, and Falcon left to fill the jerry. Mad Dog’s brows furrowed; the man hadn’t said anything to acknowledge his command. “Sheik!” he shouted, “Git yer ass over here!”
“‘Sup, boss?”
“You see this right here?” he pointed at an orange square on the map.
“Yuh-huh.”
“It looks real interesting to me. See, it’s one of them old
Sheik squinted and scratched at the scruff growing on his chin. He looked out over the rest of the Hellhounds taking their meal break, and scanned the contours of the hills. “Now see, Mad Dog, what I’m thinking — I’m thinking that the blue line there is this stream here — and that hill there is maybe this one here on the map. So maybe this place ain’t too far off.”
“How far ya thinking?”
Sheik shrugged. “Pretty close. What, four, maybe five klicks?”
“Attaboy, Sheik. Falcon! Maybe you could learn a thing or two from this bro! Alright, Dunzer, Chain — get your boys mounted up! You too, Sheik, you got point on this one — you want the map?”
“Nah, boss, I got it all upstairs. You want I should bring Falcon with me?”
“Yeah, I like that idea — you heard him Falcon — tail on to his boys and watch what they do.”
Raxx caught himself just as he was about to knock on her door. He shook his head. What was wrong with him? Why did he feel so out of place? Christ, this was juvenile.
Whatever. Connie was smart, even if she was a local. He chuckled at himself. “Bite the bullet, old man,” he said, and knocked. He heard shuffling inside, and the door opened.
“Oh!” Connie’s mother looked shocked to see him standing on her front porch. Her tattoos knitted up on her brow, looking like an exclamation mark.
“Lady Mabs?”
Her face relaxed, and she laughed, adjusting her shawl, “Raxx, always the charmer! What have I told you about that? I suppose you’re here to see Connie?”
“Yes ma’am. I’ve been a bit worried about her, you see.”
“Well, come on in and I’ll see if she’s up for company—” she leaned close and whispered, “She’s been just dreadful with the flux, you know. But I just made her a bowl o’ stew for dinner, and I think she’s still up. Just give me a moment, boy, and I’ll make sure she’s decent.”
Raxx came in, and sat down on the wooden bench in the sitting room, while Mabs went off towards the back. He sat, hunched forward and tense; something about Mabs’ attitude was putting him off. Probably just worried about her daughter, he decided. But his shoulders didn’t relax.
“Ai, Raxx, she’s all ready to see you — and wondering why you haven’t been visiting her more!” She smiled at him, but the smile stopped at her cheeks, never making it all the way to her eyes.
Raxx stood up and forced himself to smile down at her. Why did he feel so out of place? She was just worried. “Been working too much, I guess,” he held his hands out in a placating gesture, “but I’m going to make it up now!”
“Well, you know where her room is — I got to get back to prepping for the smokehouse.”
He nodded his farewell, and made his way down the hall. Floor boards squeaked as he walked by and the drywall showed stains from where the roof was leaking. He thought about the improvements he could make, treading slowly to her door, about the chemicals that could be ordered to sustain the wood. He paused at her door, taking in a deep breath. He wanted to savour this moment.
His rap broke through the cloistered air. Connie’s voice was subdued, “Come in!” He peeked his head around the corner, a wry grin on his face.
“Is this the right room?”
She giggled, then broke out coughing. Raxx stepped in and kneeled by her bed. Despite the cough, her health was improving; her face was ruddy with mirth, and her tattoos were a brilliant dark blue.
“Raxx!” she said between fits, “It ain’t fair to make me laugh right now!”
“Hey, I’m just here to make you feel better!” He grinned with foolishly, and dropped his gaze for a second. “I, uh — got something for you.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the necklace he’d bought from Vince.
Connie’s eyes glazed over for a second as she looked at it. “Is that..?”
“Yeah, it’s that Yorker jewellery you like.”
