By the Feet of Men Page 2

A cough that started deep in his chest had him doubled over with his arms wrapped around his stomach. His lungs were on fire. After a minute of agony it stopped. He took a drink of water from his canteen and leaned against the hood of the rig. The road was getting to him. A few days in a larger settlement would be no bad thing. All he wanted was a river to wash away the lice, a warm meal that tasted of something other than grease and Cosinex, and a night of uninterrupted sleep.

  He struck out along the main path that cut through Verne. The camp was quiet. Places like this always were once night fell. Only a fool advertised their position when they could no longer see well enough to protect themselves. Dwellings fanned out on either side: corrugated iron shacks, wooden huts, vehicle bodies, canvas bivouacs designed to be taken down in a hurry. Squat solar stills that were little more than a black tray with a plastic cone and a spout at the top had been set up wherever there was a free space to distil the water they had managed to collect. The air was heavy with sweat and incinerated plastic and illness. Few lights burned inside the shelters. As he walked past the doorways, he caught snatches of conversation. The water shortage was on their minds. Verne was vulnerable. He didn’t hold out much hope for it. Setting up a new camp always came with a cargo full of risk. A lack of food and water, disease, infighting, flash floods, dust storms, the baking sun. They were a prime target for nomadics too. Virtually no defences to deal with, and Quentin hadn’t even put sentries on the gate. One guard watching the road from a tree house didn’t cut it. A few men with rifles and bows could take this place. The settlers would be cut down where they stood and the dwellings would be razed. Cassady shivered. As soon as morning broke, they were getting out.

  At the end of the trail was an old windowless substation that had been turned into a bunker. Behind it, pylon legs jutted out of the ground, rising to a height overlooking the station’s flat roof. A lamp hung from one of the legs and a limp flag from the other. Two generators thrummed next to the squat building and thick cables disappeared through a small hole in its side. Loopholes had been hacked into the brick and a sandbag fortification, vacant now, had been set up on the roof. Next to the entrance was a crude metal barricade that could be dragged in front of the opening in the event of an attack. One of the boys who had helped to take the cargo from Warspite stood by the door, leaning against a crude pike with a look of boredom on his face. When he spotted Cassady approaching he straightened up and stared at him with cold interest. The Runner stopped and plugged a new stick of root in his mouth. The stench of Verne’s latrine pits drifted over from their location in the forest. He spat a long stream of saliva into the dust. It wouldn’t take a minute to walk over and take a look inside the bunker, but that would mean dealing with Quentin again. The man might not be so easy to shake a second time. The boy’s hands wrung the body of the pike like it was a wet rag. Cassady winked at him, turned away and started back to his rig.

  As he neared the end of the thoroughfare once more, he spotted movement near Warspite. It was too furtive and unsure to be Ghazi. Keeping low and on the balls of his feet, Cassady left the track and squeezed between a tent and a lean-to. The trees whispered with the wind, damping the sound of his boots hitting the ground. He peered into the shadows and recognised the rig’s bulky form and the blades spinning on the roof. And there, by the hood, the silhouette of a man. He ducked back behind the tent, blood pounding in his temples. Either the man was friendly or he was not, but he would have to find out either way. Another peek. Some kind of tool glinted in the man’s hand. As Cassady watched, the man bent over, wedged it into one of Warspite’s headlight sockets and yanked the cover off. A cold fury made rational thought impossible. Cassady fished the wad of root out his mouth and dropped it on the floor. From his belt he took a switchblade knife and snapped it open. If the thief damaged or stole the light, it could be weeks before they found a replacement. But if he made too much noise trying to take the bastard out, the whole settlement could come down on them, which meant they probably wouldn’t make it out alive. He focused on the back of the man’s neck, knife held in a tight grip, and covered the dead ground at a jog.

  The thief spun around, eyes dilated with surprise. He had a scavenger’s face, thin and hollow and lacking a conscience. He swung at Cassady with the sharp-edged tool and bared an incomplete set of brown teeth. Cassady stepped back, keeping his body loose and his eyes on the tool. The thief darted forward and swung once more, slicing the air as Cassady rocked on his heels. Before the thief could bring his arm around again and regain his balance, Cassady stepped forward and led with his elbow. The thief’s head snapped upward. He grabbed the wrist holding the tool, plunged the knife into a bloated stomach and pulled hard. The blood ran hot and slick over the hands of both men. Cassady yanked the blade out, held the thief by the hair and plunged the knife several times into his neck.

  It was over. The scavenger dropped to the floor, bubbles forming at the corners of his mouth, dust puffing against his cheeks. Cassady picked up the tool and cracked it across the back of the man’s skull to make sure. He turned the body over, wiped the blade clean on his tunic and then rifled through the pockets, which were empty except for a fire steel. Light footsteps sounded behind him and he spun around, the handle of the knife feeling inadequate in his bloodied palm.

  Ghazi glanced at the body and holstered his pistol. ‘Dead?’

  He nodded. ‘Where were you?’

  ‘Watching from over there. You were too quick. You spooked him.’

  ‘I didn’t ask for a review.’

  ‘Let’s get rid of the body before anybody else decides to visit.’

  They lifted it by the arms and legs and carried it into the forest. It didn’t weigh much more than a child.

  ‘Do we cover him?’ asked Ghazi.

  ‘No. We’re out of here once the battery’s charged.’

  ‘First light, then. I’ll check the maps.’

  ‘Good. I’ll give the Old Lady a once-over.’

  Cassady rubbed his eyes and cursed the thief. As soon as dawn diluted the sky, they would be bouncing over the excuse for a road once more. There would be no sheets of metal to patch up the rig and no sleep for either of them. He climbed into the cab and took a blitz pill from the bottle under the seat. The miserable camp crowded the windshield. A few metres away, a body lay in the trees. He suppressed the urge to retch. Then he got to work.

  2

  The road played hell with the suspension and the tree branches flogged the Old Lady like she was a sinner. Behind the wheel, Ghazi did his best to keep the truck on an even keel, but it was tough work. They had to put as much distance between them and Verne as possible. Just in case. There had been a couple of shouts when they’d rolled out of the camp, but none of Quentin’s men had taken a shot and they’d made it through the gate and back along the gravel trail without being pursued. Then, as soon as the chance arose, Ghazi had guided Warspite onto a track that bent north. There were more settlements up that way.

  Cassady hunkered down in the passenger seat, hands gripping one of the maps as he searched for a likely destination. Ghazi kept his eyes on the trees. He had a few suggestions on where to go, but for the moment he stayed quiet. The ration boxes rattled in the back. The run to Verne had left them with enough water to last a week, but beyond that they were struggling. Breakfast had been hardtack biscuits and dried rabbit meat. The pangs in their stomach kept them alert, but they weren’t much good for anything else.

  The map fluttered and fell onto the Runner’s lap. ‘That thieving parasite,’ he said. ‘I can barely keep my eyes open.’

  ‘After we’re off this track, you can sleep.’

  ‘We need a plan first.’

  ‘You want to go to Souk?’

  ‘There’s nothing there.’

  ‘Okay. On a day’s juice, we can get to the Eisernstadt, Catun or Brunna. In two, we could make it as far as the Complex.’

  ‘And do what there? Watch the machines tear up the earth? Schlep rubble for a
meal a day? Forget it. We’re not that desperate.’

  ‘So tell me your idea.’

  ‘I was thinking about what that settler said last night. He mentioned Prestige. Why don’t we head there?’

  Ghazi wrestled down a gear and considered the proposal. Prestige was as pre-Change as they came: a stable economy, supplies, jobs, a freshwater source and a swollen population of refugees. It was well-defended and a good place to land a contract to run supplies to the north, south, east or west. Or at least it had been until a recent coup had stained the dusty streets and favela hovels with blood.

  ‘What about the uprising?’

  ‘It’s over now. They’ve had the executions. All back to normal.’

  ‘That’s what Faustine and the others would like us to think.’

  ‘It’s less than 90 kilometres due north from here and we can take the Watched Road for most of it.’ It was obvious Cassady had already made up his mind.

  ‘I’m not exactly keen on driving into a warzone, Cass.’

  ‘We won’t be. Look, we need food. You want to go someplace else, I’m open to it.’

  They fell silent. The whine of the transmission raced in front of the truck, encouraging them to follow. With the sky now grey enough to see the road, Ghazi switched the headlights off.

  ‘Okay,’ he said against his better judgement. ‘But I want to hear a report first.’

  ‘You’ll place your faith in that?’

  ‘Please don’t start.’

  ‘I’m not starting anything.’ Cassady checked the map. ‘Track should finish soon. Mud for a K or two. Then we’re back on asphalt. We’ll stop there and catch your report.’

  Ghazi patted the steering wheel, his apprehension appeased. Despite the danger, it was likely no worse than any other plan. And driving on a paved surface was something to savour. Pre-Change blacktops were becoming rarer all the time. They usually had to make do with broken, weathered roads, old farm tracks and post-Change routes that had sprung up out of necessity. Much of the infrastructure built before the temperatures and oceans rose had been reclaimed by nature or torn up for use by gangs and settlements. He and Cassady sometimes encountered highways that had toppled over, legs broken and cracked and useless. Other routes had been buried by rocks or mudslides, never to be used again. Of the passable roads that still existed, many were regularly blocked by desperate individuals waiting to liberate a vehicle of its occupants and gun it north to where the water supplies were more plentiful.

  Despite the early hour, the day’s heat pressed against the windows, but the A/C sat quiet. They couldn’t afford the juice to switch it on, not with only one battery working. It would be hell to drive come the afternoon. While he guided Warspite over the mud, Cassady opened the armoured box under the dash, took out a ledger and skimmed through the pages. Scrawled on the pages in jagged handwriting were the broadcast frequencies of the listening stations.

  As promised, the mud gave way to a tarmac road that whip-cracked between the trees. Warspite’s tyres dug in and the vibrations receded. Ghazi sipped lukewarm water from the bota bag hanging above his head and kept an eye on the surroundings as the world beyond the windshield heated up. Plastic debris in the road was chewed up under the treads.

  Cassady snapped the ledger shut. ‘Closest station will report in fifty-seven minutes. Call sign Poor Yorick.’

  ‘When was it last verified?’

  ‘As if it matters. Around three months ago.’

  ‘Better get some sleep in the meantime. I’ll wake you in forty.’

  Cassady pulled his cap over his eyes and within a couple of minutes his chin was resting against his chest. Ghazi stretched his neck muscles. An hour was a long time to wait. If it was bad news or Poor Yorick had switched frequencies in the past three months, the distance they’d travelled in the meantime would be for nothing. But that was the gamble. The stations had their schedules and the Runners had to obey them. Other than sharing information at the settlements, it was the only way they could find out about road conditions. Cassady didn’t trust them one bit, but Ghazi had gleaned enough useful intelligence from the reports to be convinced of their worth.

  The early morning sun poured death onto the asphalt. Ghazi frowned. Few of the trees on either side showed any green. If there was a spark, the forest would burn until there was nothing left. He’d driven through a forest fire once. No other choice. Flames had set the tarp alight and the smoke had come close to taking him. Almost unconsciously, he pushed the pedal down and Warspite leapt to the challenge. The rumble of the tyres against the ground undercut the whirring engine. He wiped the sweat from his eyes and reached for the sun goggles. The strap bit hard into the back of his head, but they were all he had.

  There was a flash of movement as something crossed the road in front and disappeared into the brush. Ghazi tensed, but kept Warspite steady. He was about to rouse Cassady when a dog jumped out from the trees and nearly fell under the wheels. It raced after the truck. Ghazi watched it through the side mirror. A bloodhound, eyes red, foam dripping from the corners of its mouth, fur caked in dust. He was acutely aware of the wheel in his hands. A jog to the left was all it would take to put it out of its misery. He studied the reflection in the mirror. Then he dipped the pedal again. The dog stopped running and stood in the road, watching the vehicle as it picked up speed and disappeared.

  He woke Cassady just before the report was due and pulled over. The drowsy Runner unlocked the storage box above their heads and took out the telescopic antenna. Outside, he uncovered the jack mounted near the hood and screwed the antenna home, then climbed back into the cab and yanked the door shut. He wiped his brow.

  ‘The days aren’t getting any cooler.’

  He checked the ledger once more and read out the code. Ghazi dialled it in and turned up the volume. A sound like rain hammering against iron sheeting filled the cab. ‘Here we go,’ he murmured.

  A low whistle cut through the rain and a few bars of a tune rang out, cold electronic splinters that got under Ghazi’s skin and pulled his muscles taut. As a synthesised voice reeled off a series of letters in blocks of four, Cassady dotted boxes in the ledger. The voice repeated the message three times and was followed by the tune and the interval signal. White noise flooded the cab again.

  ‘Got it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Ghazi switched off the radio and waited for his partner to decipher the message. Without the solution in the ledger, the letter blocks were meaningless. Each station used a substitution cipher, and each one had its own ciphertext alphabet. Runners received the solutions from the merchants, who traded them with the stations for whatever the stations needed. Nobody knew who ran them or if they were even part of the same network. But it gave the operators a purpose, and that was all anybody wanted in the world.

  Once the antenna was back in its box, Ghazi manoeuvred Warspite back onto the road and eased through the gears until they were cruising.

  Cassady grunted. ‘It says there’s no flooding in the area.’

  ‘With this drought I’m not surprised.’

  ‘Route 25 is out of action. Rock fall.’

  ‘I heard the same news back at that last town we were in. Anything about the Watched Road?’

  ‘No. But there’s a group causing trouble. Hang on.’ Cassady unfolded the map and laid it against the dash. ‘Near Prestige. Remnants of the uprising, I guess.’

  Ghazi’s jaw tightened involuntarily. Cassady caught it.

  ‘Near, I said. Not in the actual camp. If we go in via the Watched Road, we won’t have to deal with them.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘That was it. Glad you pulled over?’

  He ignored the jibe. ‘Let’s make it to Prestige before sundown.’

  ‘You want me to take over?’

  ‘Get some more rest. You’re the negotiator.’

  Cassady settled back in his seat. For the first time in days, the creases on his forehead disappeared.

  ‘
Follow this route until you reach the marker,’ he said softly. ‘Old power plant with a chimney stack. Take a left and then a right at the next crossroad. Keep going until you hit the Watched Road. Wake me then.’

  ‘Understood.’

  Cassady covered his face with his cap again. Ghazi took another sip of soupy water and rolled his neck from side to side until something clicked. An ancient urge for a cigarette stirred within him, but he quashed it. No chance of that. Nobody bothered to grow tobacco plants anymore.

  3

  Cassady knew the hand was reaching out for him before he opened his eyes. He grabbed it.

  ‘I’m awake.’

  He pushed his cap off his face. A paved road twisted through the washed-out brush. His throat was tighter than an engine nut. A mouthful of chlorinated water loosened it a little.

  ‘Any trouble?’

  ‘Overturned four-wheeler half an hour back. Already stripped. No bodies, but signs of a struggle. At least a couple of occupants, I would reckon.’

  ‘Enough meat for a week or more, then.’

  As usual, Ghazi said a prayer in Farsi under his breath. Cassady yawned. For a long time the mechanic’s need to say a few words had annoyed him, but the man’s respect for the dead had succeeded in making him a little less desensitised as well.

  ‘The toll is coming up.’ Ghazi swept the steering wheel left to avoid a hole. ‘What do we give the Agis?’

  ‘One of the water carboys should be enough.’

  ‘I heard they’re starting to ask for more. And not just in the north.’

  ‘We’ll see soon enough.’

  Cassady poked his head into the back and counted the precious water vessels. Asking for more. They’d be lucky. In a previous lifetime, he’d wanted to join the Agis, a loose association of men and women who controlled the Watched Road. The road itself was an old highway that started at the lagoons in the north, just beyond the ruins of Hanover, and twisted south for four hundred kilometres. The only way to get on or off was through the gates guarded by the Agis. Ramshackle watch posts sat at remote intervals, each manned by a few devotees who kept the highway safe to drive on. From time to time a band of nomadics would become desperate or brash enough to block the road, and the Agis would have to take it back. He’d changed his mind about joining them after he found out the devotees almost never left their posts. They were married to the highway and the system they’d created and so they simply waited, contending with the heat and the flies and the monotony and the sudden violence, until death came for them.