Men of Truth (The Wasteland Soldier #4)
Chapter 42

The cell gate creaked outward. The hare-lipped ringleader stepped back.

“Gonna string you up, colour man, then give you to the Junk Men when you’re good and dead.”

There was another flash of lightning. Palmer bounced and rocked on the balls of his feet. The gloomy outline of two burly men ambled toward the open cell, thick-necked and thick-armed, one with a pick handle, one with a ball hammer. He wouldn’t step out just yet, but he had to make sure they didn’t box him in. It wasn’t the worse place to stand and fight, not great for movement, but great for keeping the numbers down and he needed an edge because he was outnumbered nine-to-one.

The man with the pick handle gripped it two-handed and thrust, using it like a spear, his body half-turned as he jabbed, barring teeth. Palmer angled and avoided it, shifting back as the ball hammer swung from the other direction, bouncing off the cell bars with a clang that echoed through the holding area. The men cheered. One of them ran a baton along the bars of the empty cells, spitting insults and threats.

Palmer moved forward, and both men prepared for his attack, trying to guess where it would come from, fist or boot or even head, but Palmer used none of them and grabbed hold of the gate, bringing it round hard and fast and clattering into the man with the pick handle. He howled and went down, twisting his ankle as he fell and rolling in pain. The pick handle came loose across the dusty cement floor and Palmer flicked out a wrist and curled his fingers around it. He rolled and ducked as the man with the ball hammer tried to crack his head open with rapid, overhead blows. Palmer lashed out with his left boot, scooping the man with the hammer off his feet.

He twisted, rammed one end of the pick handle into the man’s groin, and burst from the cell.

Seven-to-one.

Palmer readied himself as the group swarmed at him.

Hanging the shotgun across his back, Stone drew his pistol and put one in the pipe.

He moved fast. The dirt road was mushy and soggy beneath his boots. He held the gun in both hands, safety off. His trigger finger was ready, elbows bent, eyes peering down the sights, lining up the killing shot. The two men outside the barracks saw him coming and tossed away cigarettes. One of them yanked out a revolver, snub-nosed with a taped grip. The gunman hesitated, debating whether or not to take cover or start blasting at once but he got caught in the middle of both and did neither.

Stone fired twice, planting both rounds in the man’s chest.

The second man ran.

Stone swivelled his body, aimed and fired, bringing him down with a slug to the back of the head.

The man slumped forward into the rain-soaked dirt road, spread-eagled.

“Where’s the bike and escort car?” said Guzman.

Carlton was deep in thought, feeling the chill of his conscience, going ten rounds with it. He knew the prisoner was taking a hard beating. He would be swinging from a tree by the end of the night before being handed over to the Junk Men. There were no burials in Silver Road. No flesh and bone stinking up the dirt. Bodies went to the Junk Men and they gave you back weapons, tools and all manner of items. It wasn’t good dwelling on it.

The truck came off the bridge, huge tyres driving ruts in the road.

“Keep the truck here,” he said, suddenly. “There’ll be a prisoner transfer tonight.”

He started to move off, heading for the barracks, but Guzman called out his name as the truck slowed to a stop.

Carlton turned around. He shielded his eyes from the glare of the headlamps and saw the bullet holes.

“Oh, shit.”

Palmer had bulk but moved fast, perfectly balanced on his feet, able to bend and flex his body as blunt weapons jabbed and swung at him.

They shouted names he’d heard before, and a few he hadn’t, but he remained silent, focused on the job of reducing the odds. He’d taken them from nine-to-one down to five-to-one.

The hare-lipped ringleader was at the back, arms thrust in the air, the rope in both hands, showing Palmer the noose, but his confidence was waning a little because the floor was getting crowded with groaning men nursing busted limbs.

Palmer spun his body, his leg flipped out and his boot cracked a jaw and a man reeled backward, blood and teeth spraying from his mouth. The baton he carried clattered against the floor and rolled away

The hare-lipped ringleader glanced nervously along the corridor.

“Fuck it,” he said, throwing down the rope.

Then he heard gunshots and a moment later the door at the end of the corridor was thrown open.

Rawles stood in the rain, looking down at the body.

He shook his head, sadness in his eyes. The dead man was Mitch Coulter, a thirty nine-year old labourer, good-humoured and generous in the bar. How the hell had he got himself mixed up in this? He would leave behind a wife and a grown up son who worked as a spotter, developing into a fine shot with a rifle. Mitch had been part of the crew building the town’s first ever museum. Most of the exhibits would come from the mysterious Junk Men. There was set to be a grand opening with a holiday declared and food and good times. Now there would be one more widow with a plate of cooked meat.

He thought about the flag for a moment, a mythical piece of cloth from the Before, the cause of all this bloodshed.

Was it worth it? Killing to take it? Killing to hold onto it?

As pain swelled through his stomach and chest, he looked toward the bridge and noticed the truck was idling a long way from the barracks.

He frowned.

Something was wrong.

Carlton approached the cab and Guzman wandered to the rear door.

“No,” he hissed, reaching for his gun.

There was an explosion of shots and his deputies were flung back. Rawles watched with horror as Reardon and his gang spilled from the truck.

Stone lowered his pistol, the floor around him strewn with bullet-riddled bodies.

“You’re pretty serious,” said Palmer, lightly swinging a blood smeared pick handle in his fist.

There were busted bodies all around him.

“Do you trust me now?” asked Stone.

Palmer shook his head.

“No.”

“Good, get your shit.”

There was a rapid burst of gunfire from the street. The two men looked at each other.

On an adjacent rooftop, crouched in the shadows, Pavla swept the building with her night-vision binoculars.

The brick walls were soaked and rain sloshed along metal guttering, flooding into barrels fitted with taps. But the building looked still and intact. It was poorly defended without a fence or razor-wire or lights or traps. The girl was an experienced thief. This would be child’s play for her.

Pavla scanned the ground floor once more and wondered where Cali had forced her way in.

She adjusted her line of vision, focused on the roof and her forehead creased with frustration. She had followed the girl from the house, alone, with Stone and another man moving in the opposite direction. It had been tempting to kill Stone there and then but she needed the girl to lead her to the bank and she would take care of Stone later.

She was still unable to replace the access point. That was where the girl would leave once the flag had been obtained. Pavla would have preferred to bomb the building but her superiors demanded the relic be returned. There would be a ceremony. The flag would be burnt. Thousands would cheer, punching the air as the flames licked the stars and stripes. There would be no saving the townships. It would end swift and brutal and bloody and she would deliver vengeance for her people and this time they would know her name.

She grew agitated, curled on the gravel-covered roof. Her boots were leaking. Her feet were sodden.

She lowered the night-vision binoculars.

The girl had been unaware of her, sprinting from the house with the outbuildings and the picket fence. She was not skilled enough to have detected her. Pavla had seen her reach the bank and disappear.

Her skin crawled.

Gravel crunched.

The girl had known she was being followed …

Pavla rolled, hurling the binoculars and snatching her pistol. Cali kicked out and it flicked from Pavla’s grasp.

She slashed with her knife. “I’m gonna fuck you up.”

Pavla lunged, hit her twice, and then drew her own blade, forcing Cali to the edge.

Cali punched and cut her way out, raw knuckles colliding, her knife skimming off Pavla’s arm.

“Yeah, you feel me now, bitch?”

“I’m helping you,” said Palmer.

Stone shook his head.

“Pavla is in the town. Help Cali.”

He showed Palmer the town map. “That’s the bank. The flag is in the vault. Wait until I’m out there and then slip out.”

Palmer looked onto the street.

“Those are shitty odds, man.”

“You just keep low and get to that bank.” He suddenly thought of Jeremiah, dying in his arms. “And take care of Cali. She’s a good kid.”

“What about …?”

“This is my war, Palmer. Go fight yours.”