AN: Please read and review. Mahalo!
The lyrics to "Bomber" are by David Bowie.
Chapter 2: Dead Man Walking
"All clear," wail the sirens... Sunshine on the wasteland...
When the smoke had blown away... There was nothing left to view...
Except a man, dear Lord, who looked like you...
Twilight encompassed the camp and the cold settled in on its heels. The Marketplace would be closing soon and the supplies needed replenishment. Grumbling to himself, he stood, stretching out his cramped frame, and brushed the dust from his trousers.
After gathering his minimal belongings, he contemplated leaving the fire burning for some other miserable soul to find and take shelter in its heat- he would not be returning to this place again. With a swift kick, sand cascaded over the flames and he did not wait to see if all the embers died.
The Marketplace, he discovered, was even busier in the evening that it was during the day. It made sense to him, however, as darkness gave sanctuary to the dregs of society allowing them to wreak their havoc in anonymity.
He pushed his way past the stalls where merchants reached out to prospective customers and physically grabbed them, trying to force them to buy their wares (the items for sale could hardly be called "goods" for nothing was good any more). He brusquely shrugged off the grips and slapped away hands that attempted to latch onto him.
"Hey!" a hoarse, wispy voice called out as he passed by. "Hey, yous!"
Keeping his eyes straight ahead, he forged on by.
"I was talkin' to yous, stranger!"
He felt a bony clutch sink into his forearm. He turned, coiled to strike, until he saw that the offender was a fragile old man with rotten teeth and a humped decrepit posture. The stranger relaxed slightly.
"Look, mate," he said, trying to disengage the man's hand. "Can't buy anything today. Sorry."
"Oh," the man's clouded gray eyes sparkled with mischief, "yous ain't seen whats I've gots to sells."
"Look, I'm not interested," he pulled against the against the geriatric man, but could not get away- the little old man was not as feeble as he appeared.
"Sees," the old man entreated, dragging the stranger over to his stall. "Sees whats I gots? Yous can't find any finer anywheres." He released the stranger from his trap-like grip and rubbed his grimy hands together in pride.
With great reluctance, he turned to the old man's stall with the intent of making over the man's ware, hoping that would satisfy the goat enough to leave him alone.
"So whats yous think, sonny?" the old man winked, his face shining like an eager child awaiting approval.
"Yeah, they're real ni-," the words died in mid-sentence. What the old man was selling caused the color to drain from his face. The fool was selling girls-young girls. They were chained together, wearing rags for clothes. Many looked diseased, all looked wretched. The sight of them filled him with abhorrence.
"Theys real beauties, eh, mate?" the old man leaned forward, so desperate for affirmation.
The stranger turned angry eyes on the man who shrank back in fear, a bizarre, crooked grin frozen on his wizened visage.
"Pig!" he spat, advancing towards him with unmasked fury in his eyes. Then suddenly he turned on his heel and left.
"Wait!" the old man flung himself down in front of the stranger and clung miserably to one of his mud-caked boots.
The stranger glared down at him.
"Please!" he cried, trembling violently. "This ain't wrong! I'ms doing a good thing!"
The stranger swore and tried to walk away, but the man held fast.
"I ams!" he screamed. "Females can't goes nowheres any mores unless theys married! Too dangerous for 'em not to bes! I'ms helping them- I ams!"
With one brutal kick, the stranger sent the old man tumbling across the ground and into a stall selling rickety furniture.
"Yous knows I'm rights!" was the man's final shriek to the stranger, but his words fell on deaf ears.
He searched the stalls more carefully now, hunting for scrap metals and other odd bits that he could make use of.
Just as he located a stall that appeared to have some useful items a violent skirmish broke out close by. He ignored it until he caught a glimpse of the vulgar old man, who was goading the instigators on.
"Comes on, girlie," he croaked. "Bes a good girl. Fightin' onlys makes it worse."
The stranger's head jerked up and his eyes narrowed. He strided over to the scuffle, his strong gait impeded to a degree by a limp.
Four miscreants were trying to pin down a young girl who was fighting like an enraged feral cat. It was quite a struggle she was putting up, too.
He was impressed, but there was no way she could break away from her assailants- four men, all twice her size in both height and girth.
He approached one of the four, a squat, bug-eyed man, and clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder. The man turned slightly, distracted, and tossed a backwards glance over his shoulder. His eyes bulged further out of his skull when he saw the fist speeding at him. A sickening crack was heard as his jaw shattered.
The stranger shoved the man out of his way and set his sights on the next one. By the time he was ready to take on the third man, the remaining two were ready for him. The two hulking brutes grinned apishly at him as they slowly advanced. He reached out for any object that might be within reach. As fortune would allow, his hand closed around a bundle of wires. At the end of the cords was heavy plastic, too badly mangled to tell what it once was.
One of the two beasts suddenly made a dive at him. Effortlessly dodging the human mass, he lassoed the wires around his neck before he could turn around and charge again. His attempt to strangle him was cut short by the boor's mate who grabbed the stranger by the scruff of the neck. Not realizing that the stranger still held onto to the wire bundle encircling his partners neck, the man dragged the stranger backwards several meters. The wires suddenly snapped out of his hands as hands seized his throat. The lowlife in front of him fell to the ground, lifeless, but the one behind him still had plenty of breath in him
Gasping for the air and trying to keep his trachea from being crushed, the stranger struggled to reach the knife concealed in his jacket. But his attacker was unrelenting. It was more than he could take. When the stranger went limp against him, the man released him and watched him slip to the ground, face first. He grinned a rotten-toothed grin. He kicked the stranger for a good luck, causing his victim to roll over onto his back. Never one to pass up the opportunity to scavenge, the victor knelt down to the stranger to search him. He never saw the knife before it slipped in between his ribs.
The stranger rose to his feet and retrieved his dagger, not bothering clean it off before he put it back into his coat.
He scanned the area for the girl, but did not see her. He did, however, see the old man looking very guilty.
In a moment's breathe, he seized the geezer by the neck. The man shook under the stranger's penetrating arctic glare.
"Where is she?" he growled menacingly.
The man shook his head and was slammed against a stall wall.
"I's doing her a good thing!" he declared, squeezing his eyes tightly shut. "I's get her a home!"
"Where IS SHE?"
The unspoken threat was evident in the intonation of his voice.
"Overs there," he confessed as he pointed a crooked finger to the southern cluster of booths.
He abruptly dropped the beggar and stepped over his crumpled body. His intent was to release the girl and move on, but when he reached the old man's stall he found, much to his surprise, that the girl was in no need of rescuing. She was, instead, freeing the other girls and urging them on to elsewhere.
He stood there a moment, watching, then, his service unneeded, turned to leave.
"Hey, mate!"
He glanced behind him and saw the girl running after him. He did not stop or slow his pace.
"Come on," she entreated, darting in front of him. "Lemme at least say thanks."
"You're welcome," he said gruffly, trying to get around her.
"I'm Megs," she said, extending her hand to him. "Or Meg. Whichever."
He stopped now and regarded her hand as though it was a lethal weapon.
"I've got to be going," he told her shortly, pushing past her.
"Aw, com'n," she persisted. "I owe you lots."
"No, you don't."
He continued to weave his way through the Marketplace. Knowing he was being followed, he spun on his heel to face her.
"You're not going away, are you?"
Meg smiled slightly, a mischievous gleam in her eyes.
"No."
He sighed.
"At least tell me your name," she said.
He regarded her warily.
"No."
Then something dangling from her belt caught his eye.
"What's that?" he demanded, grabbing for the object.
She deftly avoided him, dancing out of his grasp.
"So I've got something you want, huh?"
He frowned. "Maybe."
"Fancy that," Meg retorted saucily. "Whatcha need with a spark plug?"
"What do you need with it?" he shot back.
Meg cocked an eyebrow.
"Let's swap," she suggested, take the plug from her belt.
It was the stranger's turn to raise an eyebrow.
"I don't think so," he answered dourly.
"Your name for the plug," she continued. "That's all."
"My name for that?" he sounded skeptical and suspicious.
"Yep."
"That's a foolish trade."
"It's mine to make."
He studied her thoughtfully for a moment. At length, he spoke.
"Max."
Meg smiled fully and tossed him the spark plug. As he turned to leave, she called out once more.
"I know where you can get more like that."