Ain't Talkin'

In the desert foothills beyond the derricks some miles Roche came upon the sign.

In was a tin rectangle four feet across laced with dozens of old bullet holes. Amidst scattered old graffiti worn to bare legibility were the words United States Government Property: No Admittance!

Scrawled at the bottom of the sign in old black paint was the word Empoorium. Jex was never a strong speller.

Roche chuckled and moved on.

Thirty yards further was a barbed wire fence, and beyond that was a minefield. The majority of the Claymores and pressure grenades were old-world and had long rusted or fused past being live. Never could be sure though, and Roche knew the snaking path that bypassed all of the mines by heart, he’d traced it so many times.

Off to his right was the dusted ribcage of someone who’d been unfortunate enough to have tripped an ancient mine. Roche had no idea who it had belonged to, the bones had been there on his last half dozen trips and Roche had never thought to ask Jex.

In a small hollow in the dunes and hills was the entrance to the Emporium.

The building was a pre-catastrophic survival bunker placed in the Mojave by the old United States. There were hundreds of them dotted across the landscape, but Jex had made this one his home and his business. Low concrete walls flanked the heavy steel door and on the stoop was an old welcome mat patterned with little birds.

A small panel to the left of the door blinked with a red light above a ten-button dial and a speaker. Above it a black, all-seeing surveillance camera stared across the wasteland of the continent west of the Colorado.

Roche stood at the door, watching the tiny eye of the camera. Several minutes went by with nothing. Then the lens on the camera flicked into motion and focused.

Static crackled from the speaker and it flicked to life.

-Hey. What’s up, Roche?-

“Nothing in particular, Jex, got a job and need me some sundries. You open?”

-Always am, partner, ’specially for you. Come on in, I’ll meet you at the front.-

“Keycode changed?”

-Yeah, changed it last week. Five-Seven-One-Three.-

“See you in a minute.”

-Got it!-

The speaker squalled with static and flicked off. The silence that filled the desert again swung in like a tide.

Roche keyed in the code on the panel and stepped back.

The lock inside the steel disengaged with a large, hollow sound and the door swung open a fraction of an inch.

Roche took the edge of the door with his fingertips and opened it the remainder of the way.

Just inside the door was a small landing and mesh stairs that were so steep they may as well have been vertical. Roche closed the door behind him, listened to the lock re-engage and made his way down by the filthy light of ancient yellow flourescents.

Down and down he went. The bunker was a fallout shelter and by nuclear exposure regulations they were something real deep.

Every time Roche made the descent it seemed to take longer, but he had the leisure of all the time he could ever want or need. Not aging had it’s perks.

The stairwell ended abruptly and opened into a small entry room with a dismantled metal detector and a guard’s desk. Jex sat behind the desk, boots up and a curly pipe gritted in his teeth.

“Roche, ol’ buddy! Been ages.”

“Has it?”

“Seven months, at least. Kinda disorienting when you don’t get above ground very often, but you’ll like my stock. New shipment came in a week ago, why I changed the door code.”

Jex was not a heavyset man but he was large. Broad shoulders, thick arms and a barrel of a torso. His neck was nonexistent and his shoulders seemed to dimple upward into his head. He kept his hair and face shaved neatly, but the remainder of his body was covered in a jungle of tight black hair. He wore khakis almost exclusively, and was always strapped. There was a .45 holstered at his side, a knife at his hip and Roche was sure he had a snubnose in his boot, he always did. Dark eyes were offset only by the rings of scars around his orbital sockets from ages of bar brawls, back alley fighting rings and combat cages. He’d done several years with mercenary companies until he lost a foot, it had been replaced with an iron peg.

He was a fighter and a soldier through and through, but ever since the peg, he’d made his way supplying men like himself. Roche had known the old merc for years.

“What’s the job, then, walker?” Jex sucked on his pipe, puffing clouds of smoke into the air.

“Kidnapping. Ethercorp took some kid. Father wants him back.” Roche leaned against the wall while he spoke.

“What kinda hardware you need?”

Roche motioned for Jex to move his feet and the old merc obliged. The walker laid out the sawed-off from his thigh, his revolvers and his gunbelts with half the bullet loops empty.

“This all I got for now.”

“And this ain’t enough?” Jex broke the sawed-off and inspected the gun. Taking an oil cloth from a pocket he began to wipe at the trigger box and the hammer where dust had settled in.

“I doubt it. Far as I know the Corporation may be trying the drag this guy all the way to Terra 2. Gotta make a full trek through the white and I haven’t been to 2 in some time, no idea what it’s like over there anymore.”

“Just being prepared. That’s what I like about you, Roche.” Jex puffed on his pipe. “Follow me, I got just what you need.”

The merc gathered up Roche’s gun, handed him back his revolvers and gunbelt and continued to fiddle with the sawed-off, muttering to himself as he led Roche deeper into the bunker.

“Fine piece of work, this. Remington made good shit in the old world. Sure as fuck they did. . .”