James Axler – Gaia’s Demise

“Nope,” he replied amiably. “The last owner sold me his wags for some predark medicine I found in a ruin. He had the bleeding cough and was dying.”

A minute passed, with the sergeant studying the expression on Stephen’s face.

“It was a fair trade,” Stephen added hastily, as if cutting off an expected argument. “He lived.”

The sec man made no reply.

Stephen knew this was another test to rattle his nerves, so he tried to appear frightened, which was easy, and slightly confused. Innocent folks always seemed to be confused.

“Nothing else?” the man asked. The guards at the blockhouse were watching the exchange, their blasters pointing toward the caravan. From a truck behind him, Stephen heard one of the other drivers nervously cough, the noise unnaturally loud in the tense silence.

“Okay, okay, I’m also hauling shine,” Stephen admitted, ever so slowly lifting a clay jug into view. There was a cross of tape on the side patching a small crack. “Good stuff, mighty smooth.”

“Nothing wrong with hauling shine,” the sergeant said tersely, a hand going to the checkered grip of the blaster on his hip. “If it’s clean. An outlander sold some to us once that killed two of my men and made another go blind. Took us a week to find him again, then it took him a week to die.”

Wordlessly, Stephen uncorked the jug and took a long pull. The home-brew whiskey burned his gullet like flaming battery acid, but he managed not to gag.

“Have a sip,” he said hoarsely, offering the jug. “Good for what ails you.”

Grinning, the sergeant started to reach for the container, then glanced at the blockhouse. “Thanks anyway, but it’s not allowed,” he said sternly, lowering his hand. “The baron forbids drinking on duty.”

“A wise policy,” Stephen agreed, placing aside the jug. “Smart man.”

“That he is.” The sergeant turned toward the cabin and tugged on an earlobe, then dusted off his shoulder. The guards relaxed and slung their blasters. A few started smoking hand-rolled cigs.

“Okay, here are the rules,” the sergeant said, speaking in an odd singsong way as if quoting from memory. “There ain’t no jolt or slaves in Front Royal. Anybody says different is lying. Stealing gets you whipped, rape gets you hanged. Stay on the road. There are land mines in the fields. Watch out for cougars, we’ve had some killings at the farms. You spot anybody wearing a blue shirt, avoid them like a mutie with the plague. Report finding a blue, and you get a reward. Understand?”

“Sure. A blue shirt?”

“That’s what I said.” The soldier waved the van onward. “Welcome to Front Royal.”

Starting the engine, Stephen touched two fingers to his forehead, and the sergeant actually snapped a formal salute in return. Once the road took the blockhouse out of sight, Stephen braked to a halt and climbed from the van. As he stiffly walked over to the first truck, the driver stuck his head out the window. The glass was long gone, replaced by a sheet of tar paper to help cut the wind.

“What now, fatty?” the muscular man snarled. Dressed in badly cured animal skins, he reeked of rotting flesh enough to mask the sour stink of his unwashed body. In the front seat alongside him was a skinny woman snoring loudly, a chicken bone from dinner sticking out of her slack mouth.

“Taking a leak,” Stephen said, strolling into the forest. “Be right back.”

The moment he was hidden by the bushes, Stephen bent over and violently retched, the shine burning much worse coming out than it had going in. When he was finished, Stephen wiped off his mouth with some leaves and weakly stumbled to the van. Starting the engine with fumbling hands, he continued driving toward the ville.

Okay, Overton was dead; now he would work for Nathan Cawdor. Fine. Barons were all the same, murdering coldhearts who lived on blood. Only their names changed. And if Nathan was a good man, well, then, he could always travel north to BullRun ville and work for the mad bitch in charge up there. She kept a mutie assassin to chill her enemies. That was more reasonable. But either way, he would stay in business, finding things for the monsters who ruled the world. Life would go on without interruption.