As I Walk These Broken Roads

Interlude II

Henry grunted as he hauled the urn in from outside. It was made of orange plastic and ribbed like a beehive. He’d picked it up from a passing merchant a few years back, and after filling it at the water pump it had grown heavy. He wrestled it through the door, onto the back shelf behind the bar, and wiped his brow. The damned boy was supposed to have done this after close, but he’d probably been drinking again.

There was no time for him to dwell on it. The customers across the street at Mel’s Flophouse would be waking soon, hungry for their breakfast. One of them had woken already; he’d seen him while he was filling the urn. The old man had been wearing a long coat and a wide brimmed hat, just standing there smoking a pipe, waiting for the bar to open.

He went back to work cleaning up the mess from the night before, wiping down the tables, making sure there was fresh sawdust on the floor, and lighting a few candles. The windows were high on the walls, they didn’t let much light in. The building had been a warehouse when it was built, and back then there had been electrical light to fill the interior. It had made a decent bar, though, the tin roof reflected enough light to keep it cool during the summer, and during the winter body heat was enough to keep it warm. On the exterior he’d painted ‘Henry’s’ in two-meter tall orange letters with a black background, that and the ‘Open’ sign were enough to tip off travelers as to what lay inside.

Finally he was done, or at least close enough as to make no difference. He opened up the heavy wooden door and hung his ‘Open’ sign on the screen; soon enough there was a steady trickle of business coming in. For the next few hours he was kept busy serving drinks and frying eggs.

His place and Mel’s were the only occupied buildings at an otherwise barren crossroad; enough traders, merchants, and wanderers came through to keep them in business. It was more dangerous than the place where he’d grown up, but he liked it better, paradoxically because it was both more and less isolated than his hometown. He was free of nosy neighbours, but there was always someone new to talk to. Some of the wanderers were a problem, but for the most part they knew well enough to leave the bartender alone.

The breakfast rush finished and was replaced with sporadic travellers. He took the opportunity to tidy up the last few things the boy had left undone. A couple of working girls from the Flophouse came in and he nodded at them.

When the boy finally arrived mid-afternoon he was both late and hungover. Henry cuffed him before setting him to work cleaning the sink full of dishes and refilling the urn. The stream of business had picked up and there was much to do. It was then that he took note of a customer who’d come in an hour before, who was now standing at the bar. He was slight, with wispy black hair, a thick beard, and a broken demeanour. It took him a second to respond when Henry asked what he wanted, and he hesitantly asked for a bottle of beer. Henry gave it to him and was almost tempted to over-charge the man. He might of got away with it, but that was that sort of thing that would get you knifed out here between the cities.

He charged him a fair price.

The man took the beer and moved to a table. He slumped in his seat, looking broken, slowly nursing the drink. Despite his odd behaviour he wasn’t a threat; not to himself, anyway, and he wouldn’t attract any predators looking the way he did. His dark clothes were tattered, and he didn’t look to have anything of value.

The derelict slipped from Henry’s mind. He didn’t order anything after the first beer, and the traffic was getting heavier as the afternoon wore on. The boy was in the back puking into the piss trough.

Henry tried to think of a punishment before deciding that puking into a piss trough that hadn’t been cleaned the night before was punishment enough.

The bar grew quiet and Henry looked to the doorway to see what was blocking the light. A huge man stood silhouetted in the frame, scanning the room. He was wearing a loose robe to keep the sun off of himself, but it did nothing to conceal his massive shoulders. His eyes alighted on the old man Henry had noticed earlier, and a brief look of surprise passed between them.

The din of conversation in the bar resumed once everyone had looked. The giant strode over and sat down with the old man, ignoring Henry completely, and the two of them, odd couple that they were, dropped out of his thoughts; it was busy and he had people to serve. Half-an-hour later he was filling up a pitcher with luke-warm beer when the bar quieted again. The giant was speaking with a rising tone, silencing those around him.

“…you gave rise to a race of monsters! You created us in your own image — and that makes you think you’re a prophet? You’re more deluded than any of us — at least we knew what we were! But you… listen — you were never in control. Never. You’re just a broken little thing that thinks his dreams are the reality. I was using you. And I was going to kill you.” There was a silver flash. “Like this.”

The old man stumbled back, knocking over his chair. His bottle fell and rolled off the table, hitting the floor with a clink and soaking the sawdust with stale beer. His hands were clutched at his throat as blood bubbled between his fingers and through his mouth, he hacked and coughed. In the giants hand was an open switchblade. He put it on the table then grabbed the old man by the front of his shirt.

“You brought this misery! Your cravenness and lies! Look at me!” He gave the old man a backhand slap, spraying blood from his throat and exposing the wound, causing several other patrons to shriek. “It all comes back to the vileness you embody. You took my Catamite. So you die. Die here amongst the filth, the filth you hated so much! You’re home now. Go! Die amongst these heathens.” He spit in the man’s face, then released him, letting him fall to the floor. After a moment he turned away.

He looked around the room, challenging everyone there. When no one got up he moved to the door. Henry dropped his gaze. Without another word, the giant strode out of the bar into the hot afternoon. The old man was still choking, but soon enough he’d be dead.

Conversation picked up once more, most people ignoring the body of the old man and avoiding discussion of what had just occurred. With the help of the boy, who looked like he was about to suffer another fit of nausea, Henry dragged the surprisingly light body out the back door and into a shed. If nobody came to claim it in the next few days he’d burn it; you couldn’t let the wolves get a taste for human flesh.

He felt no sympathy for the old. Whatever the situation had been between them, he’d probably had it coming; and even if he hadn’t, what was he supposed to do about it anyway?

It wasn’t the first time he’d something like that had happened, and it wouldn’t be the last. Henry had long ago perfected the art of keeping his head down, his mouth shut, and his bar running. He wasn’t about to throw it all away over the life of a derelict.

Chapter 27

Another hamlet. Wentworth had lost count of how many they’d visited, maybe half-a-dozen or so. Behind dark lenses his eyes roamed suspiciously despite his relaxed stance. Vince was hawking his wares to the locals. It wasn’t a market day but there were enough people milling about to justify the stop. He’d made steady custom for the past fifteen minutes, selling and bartering away the tech items stored on the trailer, and there were still customers waiting their turn.

Raxx was playing face-man. The grubby local children seldom saw motorized vehicles, and to have two of them stop by was a special treat. The one-room Schoolhouse had let out for a special ‘field-trip.’ Raxx chatted amiably with the students and their teacher while at the same time keeping an eye open for vandals. Wentworth knew he’d get tunnel vision if he was forced to interact with the locals so he let Raxx deal with them on his own. There was no law out here, away from the major cities. None of them could afford to let their guard down.

Navigating the highways of past generations was an acquired skill. The age of asphalt gridlines had followed an earlier time of foot-paths and river-fords. There’d been compromises made as the former was built over. Large urban centres had spent huge amounts fine-tuning their transit systems, but outside of them a road might start out south-bound before gradually curving west. Other times what looked to be a major route would dwindle, becoming little more than an overgrown foot path. Combined with the social drift following the war, as well as the general