Ain't Talkin'

There was dust on Roche’s jacket when the sun went down. Halfway through the day a storm had kicked up and Roche had spurred his mare to a full-bent gallop that left her covered in foamy sweat and heaving. They’d outran the dust storm but at the cost of most of Lucky’s stamina.

The dying light saw Roche leading his mare on foot, scanning the gullies and gaps in the hills for water.

Within an hour of total darkness, Roche came upon an old industrial culvert pipe as wide as his arm sticking straight out of a hill. The running water had worn through the bottom of the pipe over the course of time. But from somewhere deep in the hill, water still flowed, and a small pool collected under the pipe near it’s base.

Roche left Lucky to drink and hobbled her with a length of rope. He set off in search of dried wood for a night’s fire.

Returning with enough old boards and roots dug up from the sand and the dust Roche lit a small fire, not to cook or for the warmth but more out of habit than anything.

The same way the walker had not forgotten how to ride, so had he not forgotten that the warmth of a fire helped him sleep.

Roche unslung the A-Mat rifle from his shoulders and checked his new equipment while the fire took to the dry old wood and crept to life.

Under his old duster jacket Roche now wore body armor made from ceramics and carbon-weave. Plates in tight-fitting military regalia bound his belly, chest, shoulders, hips and thighs. It was extra weight to carry but the protection would likely be worth it. Body armor besides Jex had sold him a weave hood that he promised would stop a knife, though it wouldn’t be much good against bullets.

Jex’s .45 was buckled to his thigh, and Roche’s revolvers hung cris-crossed around his waist. With the A-Mat and the sawed-off counted he was carrying five firearms, a boot knife and a pair of metal cestus knuckles at each hip that he could slip his fingers into at a seconds notice if things got too close, too dicey.

In the end, Roche had been on his way out the door when he’d spied a fine pair of old-world sunglasses. When and where the walker had lost his last pair he couldn’t remember, but these were close enough as made no matter, and he’s taken the shades too.

With the horse and the equipment Roche had rung up a tidy little bill with the old merc, but Jex, as always, was a fair man and made it his business to keep his prices just as even-keel. They’d settled up and Jex had rode with Roche as far as his coyote traps.

Now in the cold blue light of the desert evening, Roche sat with his arms on his knees and his heels in the dust before his makeshift little fire, listening to Lucky drink her fill of the water pooled under the old industrial pipe.

Roche rolled a cigarette and stared into the fire.

He was well ahead of schedule now that he had a mount, but he still couldn’t be sure how quickly the Corporation soldiers who’d taken Alex Markus were moving. If they were on foot he might be on them by tomorrow. If they’d brought synthetics or bikes they might be a ways off and nearly through the Sierra’s at this point. Didn’t matter. The horse needed rest and somewhere in the back of his mind Roche knew that his body wasn’t entire inhuman yet. He wasn’t tired, but the walker had to sleep just the same as any man.

The warmth of a wasteland campfire helped, the smoke stinking of old world-chemicals soaked into the wood and dried by the sand and dust of two hundred years of dead civilization.

Roche let the fire lick warmth at his heels and he puddled his hood behind his head while he closed his eyes to sleep.