“Lad, being a trader ain’t so safe in some areas. Vince here’s been in a few scrapes, and he knows how they can mess you up. And some things never go away…” he stopped, his fists clenching involuntarily, “…but you still got your responsibilities. You know I had to go and talk to Bill and Verizon’s people when we came back…” he sighed, and exhaustion set over him.
“Truth be told, you ain’t really the one I’m worrying about. You know where you’re at, and you’re just sitting there ‘cause you feel like it. After you’ve had enough hangovers to suit yourself, you’ll climb out of your hole and get on with things. You could do it today, only you don’t want to. It’s Raxx that I’m worrying about…”
Vince poured himself a cup of coffee and leaned back.
After a moment Wentworth leaned back as well, gripping the rails of his seat, half ashamed at what he was about to say. “Yeah, Vince… you’re right.”
The merchant poured milk into his coffee.
“You’re right… about Raxx. He’s doing rough right now. On a lot of levels. I’ll help him out of it.” Vince took a sip. “The man saved my life back there; I’ll bring him out of this. He deserves it.”
Vince gave a slow nod. “Wentworth, why don’t you and Raxx go explore Hope for the day, then come over to Maria’s for dinner tonight? I’ve mentioned what you guys did for me and she wants to meet you. Hey,” he stood up and slapped Wentworth on the shoulder, smiling, “You did good, lad. Aye?”
“Aye.”
“Wake up.”
Raxx groaned and threw his arm over his eyes.
“I brought up some coffee, and I’ve got my canteen right here. Drink up. You’ll feel better. Oh, and this might help.” He handed Raxx his sunglasses.
Raxx struggled up into a sitting position, put on his sunglasses, and downed the offered canteen in three long, gulping swigs. “Gah. You said something about coffee?”
Wentworth handed him the aluminium canteen cup he’d filled downstairs. They wouldn’t let him bring up a mug. He gave Raxx time to drink and offered him a lit cigarette before he spoke. “So how long have we been drinking now? A week?”
“At least.”
Wentworth nodded to himself and stubbed out his cigarette. “Much longer and we’re going to have critical liver failure. I was thinking we could walk around town today. Get you a hotdog or something. The kitchen’s closed downstairs.”
“Yeah. Yeah, alright. Sounds good man.”
“Good. I’ll meet you downstairs in fifteen.”
Chapter 14
Hope was built around a large public square. An abstract pattern of red and white bricks paved the ground, circling a two tiered fountain. Tiny droplets broke off from its jet of water, drifting through the air, while the rest filled the upper basin before pouring down into the lower. Children jumped and splashed while their parents gossiped on the surrounding benches.
Along the outer perimeter of the square were market stalls, haphazardly arranged with paths breaking through to the buildings behind them. In the north and south were gaps for supply trains. The square was filled with people enjoying the midday sun, the shouts of children playing, and the smells of stone, sweat, and cooking bread.
At one of the benches sat Raxx and Wentworth, chewing on their hotdogs and sweating. Even with their eyewear the light was aggravating their hangovers, but the heat was good nonetheless.
“So,” said Raxx between bites, “What do you think this is? Rat or opossum?”
“Uh-uh. This is dog. You can tell from the tang.”
“It’s too soft to be dog. I’ll bet it’s opossum.”
“Nuh-uh,” said Wentworth with a full mouth, “Dog. Boiled it.” He finished his and pulled a donut out of the bag sitting between them. He leaned back on the bench, stretching out one arm along its rail, and took a bite.
Raxx finished up. “Those were good,” he said, pulling out a donut of his own. They ate in silence, enjoying the atmosphere.
Raxx took a deep breath and let it out slowly, feeling the fats and sugars replenish his system. “Ya know what man? This is the reason we were drinking in the first place. This,” he swept his arm vaguely at the square, “places like this. They’re still around in the world, ya know?”
Wentworth nodded, still eating. The sun was hot on his face but a sprinkle of water drifted over from the fountain, beading on his goggles and cooling him.
Suddenly Raxx shifted from his comfortable position. His brow creased, and he looked pensive. Finally he spoke. “Listen, man. There’s something that’s been bugging me. Something I don’t get. What I want to ask — what I’ve been wondering, is — why did you help me out back there? In Blackstock?”
Wentworth finished his donut. “That’s a good question.” He chewed his lip, and stared out at the crowd. Seconds passed and he was still reclining. Raxx grew impatient. He was about to ask again when Wentworth started forward, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket.
“You know, you can always recognize ’em, can’t you? The derelicts always stand out.” He pulled out a cigarette with his teeth and searched his pockets for a lighter. Raxx followed his gaze to the pair of shabby men skulking by one of the booths. Their faces betrayed them, showing that they didn’t belong there, that they were forever lost to society. Desperation, fear, and guile sulked within their features.
Wentworth lit his cigarette before going on. “It was strange at first… the derelicts treated me different. Started talking to me. Wanted to tell me their stories… you know what I mean?”
Raxx nodded slowly, “Yeah, man, I met a few. Them and their ‘My People’ stories. That’s what I call ’em. They always start by saying ‘Back when I was with My People.’ Then they ask for money, or start poking at my truck.”
“Heh. ‘My People.’ That works. But, yeah, you can always pick ’em out. Even in the dirt towns where they’re all dressed the same, you can still tell which ones are the locals and which ones are the derelicts.” He let out a breath of smoke. It lingered in the air until an errant breeze dispersed it. He looked down at his feet and continued speaking. “Why’d I help you out? Maybe because I’m not one of them, not a derelict. I don’t know. I can tell you one of those “My People” stories, though, if you want.”
Raxx shrugged and nodded. “Go ahead.”
“My people.” He took a drag to collect his thoughts. “I guess it all goes back to my people. Say, Raxx, you ever listen to the sort of rumours Vince hears? You ever heard of a group called the Regiment?”
“Uh, once, I think. Last year I was talking to this guy at a bar — Uh, Joseph? Jerry? I forget — anyway, he worked for the North-Route Company. We were mostly talking tech — he had an O2 sensor that was right for my truck, which I needed — he mentioned something about the Regiment. Said he got a lot of stuff from ’em. But that’s it. They’re north-east of here, right?”
“Due east, about three hundred klicks. Around the Ottawa Vale.”
“What, through the wasteland?”
“If you go far enough north, you can loop around the lakes, avoiding the radiation. That’s the route the merchants take.” He shrugged, “I didn’t. Blackstock wasn’t the first time I used those pills.”
He flicked his cigarette, “Anyway, the Regiment: they’re my people.” He paused as a couple walked by their bench. Once they were out of earshot he continued. “Any decent sized burg, they all got their own culture. In Blackstock it was the tattoos. Here it’s the way they dress,” he nodded at the locals with their flowing, pastel colours, “with us it was tradition and discipline.” He tapped hard at his cigarette. “Do you know what the Military was?”
