Men of Truth (The Wasteland Soldier #4)
Chapter 7

Cali sauntered toward him, grinning, hand extended, ready to celebrate the kills, but Stone brushed past her, leaving her standing, and set about gathering ammunition and weapons and supplies.

He picked through blood-stained bodies with limbs twisted at awkward angles. He rifled through pockets, satchels, packs and boots and took possessions that had been stolen many times over. He went back to the camp beside the construction vehicle and dragged the mesh sled onto the road. He lowered the tailgate of the pickup and loaded everything onto the flatbed.

Yuan emerged from the trees as he was pulling on a pair of fingerless gloves, ones without the Triple Death emblem. He was thankful she was wearing the clothing he’d given her. The blood-spattered fleece almost reached her knees. He watched her take a drink of whiskey and shake her head, grimacing as it burned. But she didn’t spit it out and raised the bottle to her lips for a second time.

She seemed decent, innocent and she’d be OK. He allowed himself a tight smile, no more than that.

He went back into the trees, snow crunching beneath his boots. He’d missed one of the bodies and wanted to search it before they took off.

The man had worn a scratched metal helmet covered with coils of wire but it hadn’t protected him from Cali’s blade. His throat was slashed open, folds of skin flapping in the wind. The snow around him was dark. His hair was long, wispy and grey. His left eye was a milky-white orb. His fingerless black gloves bore the three blade symbol of the Kiven drug gang. Stone wondered how many more of these assholes were in the wasteland hunting the stolen money.

A large roll of paper jutted from an inside coat pocket. Paper was uncommon. Only the powerful had access to it. Only the most influential understood its true worth.

Stone unfurled it. There was a face with writing beneath it. He nodded, unsurprised, and let the paper roll back. He concealed it in his coat and stepped from the trees. Cali was beside the pickup, hefting her pack onboard with a loud grunt.

She nudged Stone.

“Just been chattin’ to her. Her name’s Yuan.”

He ignored her.

“She told me she’s from a first-world city. Not far from here. These assholes were tearing the place up.”

Her mouth curled into a smile. “You were pretty hardcore with these fools. You took ’em out without breaking sweat.”

Stone leaned against the tailgate.

She saw the look in his eyes. She cleared her throat. “What I mean is …”

“What you mean is nothing. I did what needed doing.”

He put his face close to her, nose to nose.

“This is why you and Jeremiah wanted me, right? I put men down and they stay put down.”

She held up her hands, backed away. “OK, I didn’t know you had a conscience.”

“I don’t, but this isn’t a game, Cali. We could all be dead right now.”

“Listen, I ain’t …”

“How many more of these assholes are there?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, you should know. You take from a man and that man is going to hunt you down and keep hunting until you’re dead or he is.”

“Then you’d better keep your eyes open.”

“Why the fuck did you steal it?” He slammed the tailgate, bolted it. “Look around you. What good are coins out here? They’re worthless metal. You can’t eat them. You can’t trade them. You can’t even spend them.”

She shouted at him. “It was Jeremiah’s deal, man. Not mine. I didn’t want to mess with those cocksuckers.”

“Yeah, blame the dead man.”

“Climb off my back. He came to me with this crazy plan. Fuck all this shit. I don’t need it.”

She paced, muttered under her breath.

“Are you telling me your shit never cost no one their life?” she said.

His fists clenched.

“It has.”

“Yeah, well we’re the same, it’s all good.”

“All good? It should have been you, not Jeremiah.”

Her mouth gaped open. “Hey, fuck you, Stone.” She gave him the finger. “Fuck you.”

Yuan approached. Her eyes were red-rimmed.

“We get this girl back to her community,” said Stone. “Then you replace your own way to Silver Road.”

“Fine. Dump me. See where it gets you. Just remember I know what Chan-pu looks like.”

Stone took the bottle from Yuan, swigged it. “You know shit. Just keep your mouth shut from now on.”

He stamped to the front of the truck and dragged out a body, shoving it onto the snow. There was blood on the worn vinyl seat. He ignored it and climbed in. Yuan clambered after him, shuffled across. Stone gunned the engine. Yuan’s hand clutched the edge of his coat. He frowned. Cali took her sweet time, a swagger in her walk. She pulled the door hard behind her, slammed her boots against the grimy dash.

She picked at the upholstery with her knife.

Stone didn’t drive away.

The engine ticked over. The wind whistled. The knife gouged.

Yuan swivelled her head. “What’s wrong?”

He didn’t answer. He continued to stare in the mirror. One hand on the wheel. One hand on the gear stick.

The tip of Cali’s knife hesitated.

Stone narrowed his eyes.

“What’s happening?” said Cali. She looked over her shoulder. The road back north was gloomy, empty.

“Are there more of them?” asked Yuan

He ignored them and pushed down on the gas pedal.

* * *

The truck disappeared. The bodies began to freeze.

Slowly, two men emerged.

“This stranger is good,” said one of them. “He is very good.”

He was in his mid-twenties. He was an even six-foot tall, muscular build hunkered down inside a thick coat. He wore a scarf of fur around his throat and a hat covered his cropped hair. A pump-action shotgun was strapped across his back and a holstered pistol hung from his belt.

“He sensed us at the gas station. This man has good instincts.”

He stood before the carnage and rooted a tin from his pocket. It was small with a decorative flower on its hinged lid. He took out a rolled cigarette, popped it between his lips and cupped a hand around his mouth to light it. He put the tin away, fingers brushing thoughtfully against the lid.

“And the girl is travelling with him now. Not Cartwright. But he is not one of them. I do not understand this.”

He funnelled smoke through his nose.

“He is not one of you, is he?”

His companion stared blankly. There was movement behind them. A woman stepped from the trees.

“He does not understand your words, Timo,” she said. “Leave interrogation to me. Cartwright is dead. That is the only conclusion. Jeremiah would not play games at this stage. This stranger has taken the mission of a dead man.”

Her voice was clipped, abrupt. She was a little shorter than her male companion, about five-feet nine, but several years older. Lean, athletic, she wore a belted jacket, heavy trousers, and a scarf of fur. Her hair was black, cut in a bob, a hat pulled down over her ears. Her face was pinched, nose narrow and pointed, cheeks gaunt. Brown eyes nestled beneath a thin and continuous eyebrow. Her mouth was clenched, and she was scarred from her scalp to her left cheekbone. A semi-automatic assault rifle hung across her back, a holstered pistol from her belt.

She turned to the second man, lowered his gag. His hands were chained behind his back.

His left eye was closed, his head caked with blood.

“Who is the stranger?” she asked.

The beaten man drew back his head, and ran his tongue along bruised and shaking lips.

“Is he a mercenary?”

His shoulders folded inward.

“Fuck you, bitch.”

Timo drove the glowing tip of his cigarette into the man’s cheek. The man cried out and twisted his head.

He spat at them. “Fuck you.”

“No more,” said the woman. “This man is beyond torture. Search, Timo. See what has been left.”

Timo nodded and started forward, boots cutting through the deep snow, weapons and equipment padding softly as he moved.

The woman watched the prisoner. He sniffed, and winced, and shivered as the icy wind tore through him, but remained stoic and she knew he held no more secrets.

“No weapons,” said Timo, returning. “No rations, no ammunition, no possessions, nothing. They even took the clothes from one of them.”

She nodded.

“The second jeep is useless,” he continued. “The tyres are filled with bullet holes. We are still on foot.

“The stranger is efficient.”

“Why is he helping them, Pavla?”

“Maybe he does not know that he is.”

The prisoner began to laugh. It was a thin and hoarse laugh, more of a choking cough than anything else. Pavla was intrigued by his bravado. She kicked behind his knees and dropped him onto the snow. The muzzle of her pistol pressed against the man’s head.

“Go ahead, you bitch,” he said. “Get it over with. There are too many of us. You can stop me but you can’t stop all of us.”

He stiffened his back, waited for the last bullet.

“Why is the stranger helping the girl?”

“Something you’ll never understand.”

Pavla thought for a moment.

“Cartwright is dead. You know this. Or he would be here with the girl. You are the last one.”

“You keep spinning that lie.”

She gripped his chin, and turned his head. She opened a leather bag, and shook its contents.

He heard the unmistakable jangle and saw inside. His eyes flooded with tears.

“You fucking cunt …”

“Take this knowledge with you as you die,” said Pavla. “We killed them all. All fourteen of them. We hunted them and we executed them. You are the fifteenth, the last one. We were better than them and we are better than you. Your mission failed. We did not.”

Timo saw her finger hesitate. He had never seen her finger hesitate before.

“What is it, Pavla?”

She took her pistol away. The prisoner continued to cry, but now he began to laugh as well.

“There is a name missing from the list,” she said. “I saw it in his eyes. He could not hold the secret any longer. There is a sixteenth one to kill.”

“What?” hissed Timo. “But the list?”

The kneeling man twisted his head.

“We knew about the list.”

Timo looked at him, shocked.

“Yeah, I can understand you, fuck head. Not so smart now, are you? I understand every word. It was too late to stop the operation but we knew. You haven’t cleaned house just yet. We’ve still got one in the game. One last ace in the …”

The gunshot echoed through the trees. His body slumped against the snow.

She leaned forward, snatched the metal dog-tag from around his neck and dropped it into the bag.

Timo shrugged. “Then we have one more to kill. It does not matter, Pavla. What is one more?”

“Think,” she said, jabbing a finger against his head. “Think before you speak. We had all the information on these others. That is why they were easy to hunt. We do not know the identity of the last one.”

Timo gestured along the highway. “Then it must be the stranger. He has the girl. She is the key. It must be him.”

“No, I do not think so.” She looked down at the body of the prisoner. “The stranger does not look like them. He does not act like them. He is someone different.”

Timo flicked away his cigarette, its glow instantly snuffed out.

“Then he is a mercenary, as you said.”

He nodded toward the vehicles and bodies.

“I have seen this three knife emblem before, Pavla. In the city they call Kiven. These men are a long way from home. Do you think they know? They might stand in our way.”

“The stranger was more than capable of dealing with them.”

“But if there are more of them in the wasteland they might present a problem for us.”

She did not respond to his words or allay his concerns. She would think as they walked and devise a strategy for this new factor. The fifteen men and women were dead but the agent had failed to supply them with all the names. There was now a rogue element out there. She would enjoy the fresh challenge.

“Are you certain Cartwright is dead?”

She nodded. “He would not have abandoned the girl. He should’ve stayed out of this. He was too old.”

“Why does the girl and the stranger help?”

Pavla reached into her pocket, retrieved a rare piece of paper. She smoothed out the edges and they studied it in the fading moonlight.

It was a primitive sketch of the night sky, like a child’s unfinished drawing, stars and ribbed streaks but no moon.

“The reason is not important.”

Timo nodded.

“The stranger is good,” he said.

“Yes,” she replied, folding away the paper. “But we are better and we will catch up with him soon enough.”