By the Feet of Men Read online

  Warspite sang as it took the contours. The asphalt shimmered. A film of sweat covered the scalps of the Runners.

  ‘Pull up here. Let me drive a while, would you?’

  ‘You sure? I’ve got it.’

  ‘I’ve slept all I can.’

  The truck rolled to a halt and Cassady slid into the driver’s seat. He felt rested, though his stomach was growling. As they bore down on the Watched Road, his movements were mechanical, yet fluid, as though the wheel, the stick and the pedals were extensions of his own body. He’d been driving since he was a child, and the Old Lady was his life. Now, before the monotony kicked in, he was able to relish the vibrations passing through his arms and the fact that he was in complete control of five tons of metal and rubber. Sometimes at night, after surviving another day, he would sit in the cab listening to the rig cool down and slow his breathing until his body and the machine became one.

  The gate blocking the way to the Watched Road consisted of stacked metal containers and a portcullis strung between them. On either side, foliage and hills of rubble prevented any vehicles from simply driving around the gate. A couple of rusting motorcycles sat nearby. The Agis standing in front of the gate wore a black keffiyeh and a pair of goggles and hugged a riot shotgun against her chest. Another, hair braided in tight rows, trained a rifle on them from a sandbag fortification on top of the gate. Her eyes didn’t leave the two men behind the windscreen.

  Cassady switched off the engine and opened the door, keeping his movements as relaxed as possible. The air was thick and unmoving and the music of the mosquitoes faded in and out. He held out his hands, palms forward, in greeting.

  ‘Trade?’ asked the Agis. Her voice was muffled.

  ‘Water. Five litres.’

  Barely a pause followed. ‘Unload. Leave it there.’ She pointed at a barred metal door in one of the containers.

  Once they had the water, two more figures appeared on the container roof and heaved on hemp ropes wrapped around a winch. The portcullis rose. The Agis with the shotgun stood to one side and waved the vehicle through. Cassady stabbed the horn as they cleared the gate and rolled onto the asphalt. Compared to the previous night, it was more like floating than driving.

  Ghazi loosened the laces on his boots and leaned back against the headrest. ‘Rather taciturn today.’

  ‘Better than the ones who keep you standing there for twenty minutes while they talk at you. Lonely bastards.’

  ‘How’s the juice?’

  ‘Halfway gone. We should make it fine.’

  Ghazi took out a knife and a piece of basswood he’d half-carved into an elephant, an animal he’d once seen a picture of in a book. Cassady didn’t understand why he’d been so enraptured by it. It was just another reminder that they lived in a deader world. The creatures were gone, and the last few humans clinging onto existence would join them soon enough.

  Warspite devoured the highway, and he raised a hand in greeting each time they passed one of the watchtowers. A fly landed on his cheek and he waved it away, but it kept coming back for more until finally he swatted it. The things feasted on human sweat and mucous and were more than capable of turning the days into a living nightmare. He wished he could gas them all.

  Before the turnoff to Prestige, they bore down on an orange muscle car hugging the shoulder of the road. Supplies in jerry cans were lashed to the roof and a small motorbike, its wheels barely clearing the floor, was mounted to the rear fender. The car’s battery poked through a hole cut in the hood. Music drifted from an open window.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ shouted Cassady. ‘What’s that crazy bastard doing this far north?’ he shouted, and stabbed the horn three times.

  ‘Trouble at the plantation, maybe,’ muttered Ghazi.

  Cassady wound the window down and shouted over the music and the keening engines. ‘What’s the story, Wyler?’

  A massive bearded man, mostly naked except for a pair of tiger shorts and red sunglasses, leaned out of the window. He lifted the glasses and screwed up his eyes.

  ‘Cassady, the high priest of the wheel! And Ghazi, my man from Afghanistan. What’s happening?’

  The two vehicles pulled over. Wyler couldn’t stop laughing as he embraced them. His teeth, all present and intact, were as white as bleached bones.

  ‘Ain’t that something, meeting you two out here? Tell a brother the news.’

  ‘Not much to tell,’ said Cassady. ‘We were run out of a twobit camp last night and now we’re hustling to Prestige for some chow.’

  ‘What happened to the farm, Wyler?’ asked Ghazi. The huge man’s smile became a grimace. He tugged at his beard.

  ‘Bad luck, man. Some evil sons of bitches paid us a visit one night. Nothing left for me there now. Figured I’d head north, see if there’s any action.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Ghazi.

  ‘I ain’t dwelling on it now.’

  Cassady let it drop. ‘How about coming with us to Prestige? Food and a place to sleep. It’s the next exit.’

  ‘Sure, brother. Sure. Be good to spend a night among friends. I’ll follow you, okay? Don’t leave me in the dust. The old heap ain’t cut out for speed.’

  ‘Yeah, right. I’ll take it steady.’

  Warspite rejoined the road. The muscle car, all sleek lines and raw power, followed close behind.

  The exit from the Watched Road was marked by two rusting containers and a sedan sitting lengthways in the road. After a brief exchange with the guard and another few litres of precious water, the Agis shifted their car. The asphalt ended a couple hundred metres from the gate, and Warspite shuddered as it moved across the beaten earth. Cassady’s gaze kept flitting to the mirror and the muscle car close behind them. He tried to recall the last time they’d taken the rig as far south as Wyler’s plantation. The wild man’s farm had been self-sustainable with enough food all year round, even in the burning months when the land offered little more than dust and misery, and he’d always made Cassady and Ghazi welcome. Now he was on the road just like them, driving naked through the dirt and the heat and the emptiness to find a reason to keep going and survive another day.

  Prestige appeared without warning. One moment the ground was hard and barren; the next they were hemmed in by a favela. Plastic turned the road a greyish-white. On either side were single-storey shelters thrown together with tarpaulin, timber, plastic, netting, corrugated iron, nylon and anything else people could lay their hands on. Although it looked like chaos, Cassady’s practised eyes identified the markers and signposts hammered into the ground and the narrow channels running between the structures. These homes belonged to the latecomers and refugees who had fled something, somewhere, and who now clung to the city as though it was a lifeboat in a boiling sea. The stench of faeces, sweat and fat clogged the air. Skinny children picked through mountains of refuse, hoping to find a scrap of food or something useful to trade. Haunted and hungry faces appeared in dark openings as the two-vehicle convoy drove by. A few had the look of a survivor. Their skin was leather, their eyes stone, and they were driven solely by a desire to outlast the others around them. Ghazi unbuttoned the flap of his holster and rested his hand on the butt of his pistol. Both men kept an eye out for slingers and climbers. Most of the people in the favela were sick. Some lay outside on the ground, too weak to search for food anymore.

  ‘Worse than death,’ said Ghazi. Cassady didn’t reply. It was true. The ones on the ground would be set upon and cut up for meat once they became too weak to fend off attackers. There was a rule against cannibalism in Prestige, but it didn’t apply in the slums. He looked on with detachment. He’d been lucky not to end up in a place like this. Ghazi had grown up in one with the rest of his family, and he didn’t speak about it.

  The favela gradually gave way to pre-Change concrete and brick buildings that had been built to last for two hundred years. Some bore the marks of the recent failed uprising. Colossal water cones sat on the roofs, condensate dripping from the plastic inner
walls. Banners hung from some of the buildings, each bearing a name, drawing or dictum. Cassady’s gaze lingered on one displaying a vivisected man. Two guards armed with axes stood outside the structure. The fighting was over, but Prestige was still on edge.

  People moved with purpose. These were the scavengers, mechanics, doctors, drivers, explorers, soldiers, farmers, opportunists, murderers and the lucky ones who were never short of something to trade. Cassady spotted a few pantechs clustered outside the only bar in the settlement. His stomach throbbed. He wanted a drink, but they had to sort out business first. He guided Warspite to a spot by a four-storey building, its heavy doors drawn shut and windows mostly covered with sheets of metal. This one had no banner hanging from its walls. More pantechs were lined up here, along with a few quads and buggies and even an exo-suit. The two Runners hopped out and locked the truck. The muscle car idled in the road, music still blaring from inside. When Wyler leaned out of the window, his twisted grey beard fell almost to the floor.

  ‘Any place to get a drink or some herb?’

  ‘Over there,’ said Ghazi, pointing at the bar.

  Wyler lifted his sunglasses and looked at the low, dark structure. ‘Family place, is it?’

  ‘Just be careful,’ said Cassady. ‘Don’t go talking yourself into trouble.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me, babe. I didn’t drive all the way up here to start fighting. Not unless somebody picks one.’ He laughed.

  ‘That’s exactly what I mean.’

  ‘See you over there.’ The muscle car wheezed as it pulled away.

  The Runners turned to face the sealed building. It had a few more holes in it than they remembered.

  ‘We’d better hope she’s still in business,’ said Ghazi in a low voice. ‘Or we could be here for a while.’

  ‘If she’s half as smart as I think she is, she would’ve seen the trouble coming before anyone else. In fact, she probably twisted it to her advantage.’

  ‘Let’s see.’

  Cassady rapped on one of the rusted doors and a slot at eye height opened a few moments later. He passed a card through the gap and it closed again.

  ‘Must’ve been bad for Wyler to leave his farm,’ Ghazi said, pinching the flesh near his shoulder.

  ‘I don’t know what he thinks he’ll find up here.’

  ‘Same as what all refugees hope for.’

  Metal ground against metal and they stepped away from the door. A concrete pillar of a man appeared in the gap. Livid tattoos scarred his skin and an eye patch dug into the meat below the socket.

  ‘Cassady.’

  ‘What happened to the eye, Sergei?’

  ‘Carelessness. Faustine will see you both.’ He handed the card back. They followed the giant inside, and a guard yanked the door closed behind them. Sergei led them up flights of rusting stairs to a drab third level where flies dive-bombed every surface. Two more guards flanked an opening into a harshly lit room. The Runners paused before the door.

  ‘Waiting for an invitation?’ called a voice from within. ‘Mon dieu. Come through.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Sergei. He limped back down the stairs.

  A woman dressed in a grey hemp smock and khakis waited by a window frame fitted with wooden planks instead of glass. Pencil stubs protruded from a tight black bun at the back of her head. She was thin, but wiry, and moved with the cold grace of a killer.

  ‘Hello, Faustine,’ said Cassady.

  She gripped the pair of them in a strong forearm handshake. ‘As always, it is good to see you both.’ The way Faustine spoke made it sound as though she’d filed down the words until no ugly corners remained. They curled around peoples’ ears and held on tight. Most of the time, all she had to do was talk until she got what she wanted. Runners called her the Siren.

  ‘How’s business?’ asked Cassady.

  ‘Good. Where have you been hiding the past few months? Tell me this. You missed some inviting jobs.’ She flashed a set of pointed teeth. ‘But no matter.’

  Cassady appraised her without staring. She looked more drained than ever. Deep lines were etched into her forehead and around the mouth. Nevertheless, she radiated control. She strode over to a table covered with ledgers and beckoned for them to follow.

  ‘Looks like you rode out the storm well enough,’ said Ghazi. ‘Oui. But it was a close run thing for a while. Sergei suffered worst. You saw his eye? Of course you did. He saved my life. I owe him. I told him I would give him anything he desired, but he simply said he wants to keep doing what he is doing. That is loyalty.’

  ‘Or he knows a good thing when he’s got it,’ replied Ghazi mildly. Faustine shot him a glance.

  ‘Perhaps. Still. All quiet now. The leaders have been executed. We’re back to normal.’

  ‘That’s why we’re here,’ said Cassady.

  ‘Busy day for good Runners. Brandt was here earlier.’

  Ghazi smiled. ‘How’s he doing?’

  ‘Working hard like an ox. People left their bunkers just to look at his pantech. Très formidable.’

  ‘Where did you send him?’

  ‘North. Where are you arriving from?’

  ‘Verne,’ said Cassady.

  ‘With Quentin? That abruti is something short of a full tank. Did he try anything on with you?’

  ‘We didn’t exactly hang around. What’s the deal?’

  ‘Twenty wives, too many children to name. He believes he can scratch out a city in the middle of a basin and become its emperor. He can get quite violent if he doesn’t have his way. We’ve had some trouble with him in the past.’

  ‘The man who would be king,’ said Ghazi.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Just something I read.’

  ‘Never a good idea. What are you looking for now? Long haul or short trip?’

  ‘Either,’ said Cassady before Ghazi could speak.

  ‘Let me see what I have.’

  The Siren took a grimy notepad from her pocket and leafed through it. ‘That has been resolved,’ she muttered. ‘This one was cancelled today. Ah, here. I have a red run. Four deuces northeast to Syntovia. They’re desperate for Gro-crop, food supplies are almost gone. Heavy flooding around the camp. Could get a touch difficult.’

  ‘We don’t need that right now,’ Ghazi interjected. ‘One of our batteries blew on the way to Verne.’

  Cassady narrowed his eyes, but said nothing. Ghazi was right. It was too far to go without a backup.

  ‘Dommage. I will have to find another couple of lunatics. Okay, how about this: green run, religious camp, half a deuce from here.’ She unfolded a map and showed them the location. ‘They call themselves the Gaeans. They need explosives to make a cave so they can pray in it.’

  Cassady raised his eyebrow and Faustine smirked. ‘I just send the supplies. It is not my concern what people do with them.’

  ‘So what are you giving them?’

  ‘Some sacks of ANFO and a handful of cast boosters.’

  He whistled. ‘What are they paying you for that?’

  ‘Nearly everything they had. They brought it all in on the back of an ancient pantech and then sold it, too. Had to return to their camp on bicycles.’

  ‘What shape are the explosives in?’ asked Ghazi, waving away a fly that was determined to land on his eyelid.

  ‘Safe. Old, but in good condition. You would not be able to detonate them if you dropped your Warspite off a mountain.’

  ‘Cut?’ asked Cassady.

  ‘All the rations you need. No cargo.’

  ‘Deal.’

  ‘When’s the go-date?’

  ‘Tomorrow. I’ve had it on the books for a few days. Perhaps they are praying for a sandstorm to come and give me a new complexion.’

  ‘I thought they only dealt in forgiveness.’

  ‘Not in this world.’

  Cassady offered a tight-lipped grin. ‘By the way, you know anybody in Prestige with a spare battery?’

  Faustine laughed and revealed her needle-like te
eth. ‘It is as simple as that? You must find a mechanic and hope she has the parts to fix it. Perhaps you can pick it up on your way back.’

  ‘Who says we’re coming back?’

  ‘There is nowhere else like Prestige. You know this.’ She gave a dry chuckle. ‘And before you go,’ she said, opening a small wooden box, ‘have some root.’ Cassady added a few sticks to his pouch.

  ‘Not for me,’ said Ghazi.

  ‘Then take a water ration on your way out. Pick up the cargo tomorrow morning at daybreak. Sergei will be waiting. Do you have a place to sleep?’

  ‘We’ll park the Old Lady nearby.’

  ‘Cą marche.’ They shook hands again before parting. On the ground floor, Sergei loomed next to the open door. The sun had dipped below the horizon. It would still be hot for a couple of hours.

  ‘Stay outta trouble,’ said Sergei as the door slammed shut.

  Cassady kicked up a plume of dust. ‘The battery,’ he said simply.

  ‘Ease up.’ Ghazi scraped a sliver of black out from underneath a nail, studied it, and wiped it on a trouser leg. ‘The Old Lady’s in good shape. We know the terrain. We aren’t going to run into trouble.’

  He pursed his lips. There was little point discussing it further. ‘Let’s go to the bar.’

  ‘Not a good idea. You should rest.’

  ‘I want to catch up with Wyler. One drink.’

  Ghazi frowned. ‘It’s your health. I’ll meet you there after I see a couple of the junkers. Maybe I can scrounge a piece of metal to patch the truck.’

  ‘You want me to come with you?’

  ‘I’ve got it. Find some food if you can.’ He set off across the dusty square in the direction of a building with piles of rusting and broken parts stacked outside.