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Chapter 6
The 80s
The sandstorm departed as suddenly as it had arrived. Ali and his caravan left in its wake, heading south, toward legion lands. Before Ali set off, he gave me a small sheet of paper with type on it that looked like it had been made by a homemade press. The paper was old; its surface dry and yellowed. On it, printed in both English, and a flowery, swirly script that I assumed to be Arabic, was written the following:
The Five Pillars of Islam
Shahada: There is no God but the one God, Allah, and Muhammad is his prophet.
Salat: Pray to Allah five times daily, head bowed, facing East.
Sawm: Fast to repent for your sins
Zakāt: Give alms and be charitable toward all of Allah's children
Hajj: Before you die, make a pilgrimage as far East as your legs will carry you. Once there, give thanks to Allah for all that He has provided.
"Follows any or all of these five rules, my friend," Ali had said, "and you will be a true Muslim in Allah's eyes. . .and a just man in all others."
Ali's words rang hollow to my tired ears.
Just another proselytizer.
(***)
Ali and his caravan begin to walk off. I study the strip of paper for one last time. Once they're out of earshot, I crinkle the paper up into a ball, and let it fall to the earthen cave floor. It dances across the rocks from the restless wind, seemingly animated by it.
Ali and his mercs disappear into the lingering fog of dust that now blankets the south. I think back on the strange, one-eyed woman. Kat. For whatever reason, I have a very strong feeling that we'll meet again.
Somewhere.
For the rest of the afternoon, I walk due north, keeping my bearings by tracking the sun as it slowly completes an arc across the cloudless sky. Twil shadows me, several hundred feet back, like a stalking yao guai.
I never answered Twil's humble request to be my guide. I thought that simply walking off, without a word, would be enough of an answer, but from the moment I set out, she followed.
I could kill Twil now, on this empty, lifeless, desert trail. It's an excellent opportunity. There's no one around and I have two good weapons. In a bit of poetic justice, it was Twil herself whom had bought them for me.
It would be a quick death, and an easy one too. Just a single shot to the head or a well placed thrust of my machete.
I would have killed Twil; had it been just one day earlier.
But now. . .now I know Twil too well. Much too well.
It's easy to kill your enemy when you don't know who they are. It's slightly more difficult up close, but I'd fought face-to-face many times, and had used my gladius to slice several profligates' throats wide open. Their faces faded quickly from memory - some faster than others - but soon they all melded together into a blur. They had no names to go with them, no personality beneath them, and no memories or emotional associations, other than the adrenaline and fear I had felt in the heat of battle.
Twil was different. She wasn't some unknown, unnamed face. She was Twil. She was a shrewd, conniving tribal. A wanderer. An outcast. She was neither kind, nor truly cruel. She had been a happy, pretty girl, and was now a miserable shrew whom had had everything taken from her. She was a broken woman, but she bore her disgrace with more honor than most men could ever muster.
I hated Twil for how she'd treated me, but knew I could never kill her.
Hate isn't love, yet oddly, they seem to share a lot in common. They are both strong emotions, directed at a single, special person. To truly love or hate someone, you have to know them well. You have to know them deeply. You have to know where they came from and what drives them. Somehow, you have to be close to them.
When you truly love or truly hate someone, you can't get your mind off them.
Whenever you close your eyes, you see them, smiling at you, and your blood flows hot with passion or simmers to an angry boil.
So, although I hate Twil, I cannot kill her. Although I might savor the sight of her blood spilled over this dry dust for a moment or two, her gloomy ghost would haunt my dreams. I'd see her crooked mouth, those two squirrelish eyes, and hear her constant, gurgling sniffs forever.
(***)
Eventually, the desert trail I've been following north throughout the day, forks off in two different directions. Both go north, but one fork curves slightly east, and the other west.
I have no idea which path leads to Ogden.
I pause at the fork, taking in the bleak view of dead trees and wind-swept scrub. The wind howls, as it has for my whole walk. Its raspy, dry voice sounds like death, always taunting me with inevitability.
Twil walks ahead of me, for the very first time. She stands at the base of the fork, and points to the path to the right.
She says four words in monotone.
"Ogden is that way."
I have no reason to trust Twil, but one way looks just as good as the other. I walk down the path Twil directed me to.
The trail forks off several more times before twilight, and each time I follow Twil's terse directions.
(***)
Now, the sky is dark. The air is much colder. Its strange how quickly heat leaves the desert. A few stars twinkle above, but the skeletons of petrified trees block out most of them.
I walk forward, guided by moonlight. Its pale shadow provides just enough light for me to see my immediate surroundings.
Twil is only a few feet back now. Her directions had become indispensible once the dirt path turned into shapeless forest. I had wanted to get a fire going and setup camp when the sun began to set, but trusted Twil when she advised me that that would be sure to attract White Leg attention.
Without a fire's warmth, it's too cold for me to stop walking. I continue on, rubbing my arms to keep my skin from freezing.
Twil is like an owl perched on my shoulder. As it grows darker, she closes to just a few inches behind me, breathing down my neck. All I can hear is the sound of her runny nose and the creaking branches that surround me.
Slowly, off in the distance, between the ghostly branches, several points of light take shape. They are bright white, unnaturally round, and seem to be oscillating. I stop in my tracks, kneel down in the dirt, and wave for Twil to mimic my actions.
"Are those lights up ahead Ogden? Or is it White Legs? A raiding party?"
Twil furrows her brow and tightens her hood around her flush cheeks. She can see the lights too. She creeps forward, and peeks around a tree trunk to get a better look at them.
"Not White Legs." She whispers back. "White Legs use torches. Those lights are different. Not fire."
My breath turns into white fog as I respond. The cold seems all consuming.
"Could it be Ogden?"
"I. . ." Twil's voice quivers in hesitation. "I don't think so. Ogden should still be another day's walk. But there are no other villages out here. . ."
The lights grow closer. Brighter. Deep, booming voices accompany them, along with a strange, groaning rumble that makes the trees around me vibrate. I feel the urge to flee, but have no sense of direction.
I am blind in a sea of blackness.
"If they aren't White Legs, and that's not Ogden, what is it? Who are they?"
Twil looks back at me with a blank stare. She must not know. Her crooked mouth is just the tiniest bit twisted. I can sense that she's afraid. It's the first time I've ever seen her afraid, and it makes me verynervous.
"This way." I gesture for Twil to follow me.
The voices, lights, and the dull rumble draw even closer.
Twil and I walk - or rather jog- parallel to the lights, hoping to slip past them, unnoticed. They seem to go on forever in a solid line in either direction. The rumbling continues, growing louder by the second. I can feel it in my chest. Its drone is constant.
"Let's hide." Twil chirps. She hunkers down behind a fallen tree. I join her in the little hiding spot as the lights come to within a few feet of us.
The voices I'd heard earlier are somewhat intelligible now. I'm shocked that they're speaking English, not some rudimentary tribal gibberish. I can't understand more than a few words here and there; the rest is drowned out by the loud, continuous rumble.
I poke my head over the log, as does Twil, and both of us take a quick second to gaze out at the lights and the approaching strangers.
A few dozen feet ahead is a column of men and women dressed like raiders. They're all wearing steel helmets and ragtag, metal-studded, leather armor. They are not armed like tribals. Most are carrying shotguns or assault rifles.
The lights that Twil and I had seen from the distance are mounted to the front of small, prewar vehicles. The raiders seem to be riding those vehicles, as I'd seen men ride horses in Medieval drawings. Those machines are what have been making the loud, rumbling noise. I had seen vehicles like them before - rusted hulks lying by roadsides and crumbling garages back in more settled places like Arizona.
A very old slave in Flagstaff had called them. . . .motorcycles.
"The 80s." Twil whispers into my ear. Her tone is frantic. "Those must be the 80s."
I put my hand on her shoulder and pull her down, so we're both hidden behind the log.
"Who are the 80s?"
"Another tribe. Enemies of the White Legs. I've never seen them this far south - in White Leg lands. This is strange. . .They are dangerous."
"What are those machines they have with them?"
"Steel horses." Twil says with a gurgly sniff. She wipes her nose with a trembling hand. "They call them 'hogs.' They can ride them. No other tribe can move across the desert as quickly as the 80s. All fear them."
The motorcycles' rumbling echoes in my chest. My heart is pounding.
The 80s 'hogs' are almost on top of us now. I have no doubt that we'll soon be spotted. The headlights are too bright, and the 80s are packed too tightly together for us to go unnoticed. If we try to run, they're sure to ride us down, and butcher us like animals.
I glance over at Twil. She is huddled down in the dirt. I can tell that she's scared out of her wits, but she keeps a blank face. She tries so hard to never show fear. I respect that aspect of her. No matter how scared, or angry, or happy she is, she's almost always stone-faced.
I tend to openly display my emotions.
As Twil tries to shimmy under the log, I try to come up with a plan to avoid my own slaughter. There is only one that comes to mind, and it is not a very safe idea, but it's the only idea I have at the moment.
Without saying a word to Twil, I quickly shake off my brahmin skin robe so I am wearing only my tattered legionary uniform. I then pull out my machete, and to Twil's horror, I stand up, on top of the log, in full view of the approaching column of 80s.
Headlights immediately shine in my face, followed by excited, frantic chatter.
I don't flinch. I don't blink though the light burns my eyes. I cannot show the slightest bit of fear or I'm as good as dead.
The only thing that will keep me alive is false confidence.
One of the 80s rides ahead of the others, driving his motorcycle up to within a few feet of me. He's a burly man. His leather attire has been augmented with several segments of scavenged NCR armor.
"Who the fuck are you?" He roars.
This is it. This is my moment.
"I am explorer Andronicus Io of Caesar's XXIIV Legion." I bang my fist against my chest plate in the strongest, sternest legionary salute I've ever given.
The man on the motorcycle stares at me vacantly. Several other men ride up next to him. One of them is dressed in something approaching a proper uniform. Over his leather armor is a steel breast plate. The breast plate is red, white, and blue, and has been cut into a curious design; almost heart shaped. There is a letter and two numbers printed on the center of it.
I-80
It's a highway sign, I realize.
The man in the highway sign waves for the others to hold their position. He then climbs off of his motorcycle and anchors it to the ground with a long metal peg, so it doesn't fall over. I notice he's wearing metal boots with old fashion stirrups. He has a wiry black beard, a fat face, and dark eyes. His shoulders have several patches sewn onto them, red and gold bars that seem intended to mimic the rank stripes of NCR uniforms.
He pulls a shotgun off his motorcycle and walks up to me without hesitation.
"You are legion?" He sniffs, pumping the shotgun.
"I am explorer Andronicus Io of Caesar's XXIIV Legion." I repeat coolly.
"What are you doing in Utah?"
"I'm a scout. The XXIIV Legion is camped nearby." I lie. I reach down, grab a fist full of Twil's hair, and pull her up by it. She lets out a soft whimper and rises to her feet, visibly stunned. Shaking. "I was sent to search for a virgin girl to satisfy the appetite of my centurion."
The raider gives Twil an icy glare and then studies me as if I were an intricate painting.
"I'm Drak, leader of the 80s Bonneville Chapter." He booms. Several other 80s ride up alongside him, menacingly. "Why have the legion come to Utah?"
"To sack Ogden." Ogden is the only city in Utah I'm aware of. "Caesar was told that New Canaanites are taking refuge there and has ordered all of them slaughtered."
Draks nods and mumbles something to one of the other 80s. He then steps even closer to me. He towers over me, almost seven feet tall. I'm forced to look up his hairy nostrils.
"How many days march is the legion from Ogden?"
I squint and consider my answer.
"I cannot divulge our position. That would betray Caesar. I am no traitor. But I have already told you that the legion is camped near here. You must know the distance to Ogden."
"We're also going to Ogden." Drak smiles. "The Burned Man lured the White Legs into a trap in Zion Canyon. He killed their chieftain, Salt-Upon-Wounds, and scattered the rest of the tribe. We have slaughtered most of the survivors. Now, the road to Ogden is open and unguarded. While the new Canaanites have rebuilt much of the city, it remains vulnerable. We too have come to raid it, and take from it, everything worth taking. That is, unless the legion beats us to it. The 80s are not enemies of the legion, and have no reason to make war with them, yet. I ask you again - scout - how many days march is the legion from Ogden?"
I stare intently at Drak's motorcycle while I try and think of something to say. I'd heard rumors that the NCR have motorcycles too, and other machines called 'cars' that are even bigger. I try to imagine how much ground those machines must allow their riders to cover in mere hours.
"I will not betray Caesar." I repeat. "But the legion marches by foot. We do not have machines such as yours." I point at Drak's motorcycle. "If the 80s ride to Ogden using such machines, I am sure they will reach the city well before the legion catches sight of it."
Drak stares back at his motorcycle with something approaching a look of pride.
"Very true. No one is as fast as us when we're on our hogs." He nods with conviction. "Regardless of how close you are camped now, we'll beat you to Ogden - easily. It's still many miles away, over flat ground. Easy riding. We will reach it before sunrise."
I clutch Twil's left arm in a death grip. "I am sure that you will, Commander Drak of the 80s. Now, if you excuse me, I need to return to my centurion."
Drak cocks his head to the side without saying anything.
The 80 who had been the first to spot me takes a long swig from a flask and then calls over to Drak, bellowing.
"What should we do with them boss? The man's too much trouble to take along. He'll go down easy though. Let's off him and take the woman."
I feel Twil's muscles tense. She radiates anger.
"If you attack me, you attack Caesar." I snap.
Drak's eyes wander back and forth between me and Twil. I'm almost certain that he's going to side with his brethren.
"Scamper back to your centurion, legionnaire." Drak smiles. "Tell him that the 80s bear the legion no ill will, but there will be very little left of Ogden once he gets there. We'll take that slave girl off your hands. If you're in need of another, I suggest you turn south, instead of going where we've come from. We've already raided the lands behind us and taken everything and everyone worthwhile."
The blood rushes out of Twil's arm. I can feel it.
This is my chance to walk off scot-free. I can go back into the woods and wander wherever I'd like.
I'm free, once again.
Yet I'm not.
Twil's fate is dire. The 80s seem to take few slaves. I don't see any with them. I guess they'd slow them down – they can't ride motorcycles. I have no doubt that Twil will be given to all of these hairy men, passed between them like a piece of fresh meat, and once she's used up, she'll no doubt be murdered.
I can't accept this. I don't know why. I want to turn and look into Twil's eyes to try and comfort her, but that would show weakness. This is no time for weakness.
I couldn't kill Twil myself, and I won't let these raiders do it either.
"This slave is not yours to take." I sniff. "The tribes here are foul. I have searched long and hard for a virgin such as this one. She belongs to the legion now. If you try and take her, you steal from Caesar."
I can feel Twil's gaze turn to me. I don't turn to face her. Legionnaires never look their slaves in the eye. Slaves are dogs, rats, animals. Nothing but property.
"Very well scout." Drak says with a shrug. "But take my advice; she doesn't look like a virgin."
With that, Drak mounts his motorcycle and revs the engine. He shoots forward and his motorcycle bounces up and down the hilly terrain with an earsplitting whine. Dozens of others motorcycle follow in his wake, darting by me and Twil, their drivers shouting and laughing as they follow their commander into the darkness.
After several minutes, Twil and I are alone, and the dead forest has once again fallen silent.
"That was very. . .bold." Twil mumbles. "I was sure they were going to kill you."
"Confidence can be a powerful weapon." I mutter. "Since there aren't any more White Legs out here, let's get a fire going. I'm freezing and would like to sleep somewhere warm. Get us some firewood."
Twil meekly nods and then begins to gather up twigs. I sit down on a log and watch her idly.
When she's amassed a small bundle of sticks, she piles them together, and lights them with a flint.
I join her by the fire.
"You could have let them take me. They wanted me. They could have killed you for refusing." Twil whispers, staring not at me, but at the fire. "Why did you do that?"
I don't answer.
Twil nods to herself. She is silent for what seems like hours.
"When morning comes, where will you go, Io? Where do you want me to guide you? Do you want me to guide you?"
I stare in the direction Drak and the 80s are headed. I see only darkness.
"I don't know. Obviously not Ogden." I say bitterly. "By tomorrow, they'll be nothing left of Ogden."