Leon leaned back against the runabout's fender, ruffling his shaggy hair so the breeze could get down to his scalp. The predawn air was cool and clammy as it had been for the entire summer so far; it moistened the metal surfaces of the vehicle, made his clothing uncomfortable and left a heavy stillness in the air. Apart from the rustling trees, the only sounds came from a hushed conversation down in the ditch; the guys they'd stuck him with this time were as thick as two short planks and half as useful, spending most of the time gossiping like a bunch of broads. The more he tried to tune them out, the more annoyed Leon became. He had to give them something to do before he strangled them and staked them out on the roadside.
"Hey, ladies." The three dark figures hunched over by the wire fence all turned to look at him. "How about someone make themselves useful and go up the road to check for vehicles."
"Maannn, nobody's gonna come tonight, same as the last three," one of them whined.
"We ain't even got no radios," another added. "How we supposta signal back to you?
Leon pulled the wheat stalk from the corner of his mouth. "Aww, baby needs to call mommy? If we had radios the COG would be able to scan them, dumbfuck. You there, shorty. You go up by the thicket of oaks there and tell me if you see any headlights." He squinted into the darkness, hoping to see the flicker of halogen bulbs off in the distance. This was supposed to be the main road between Scyllia and Harnstadt, with lots of good stuff moving along it in the dead of night. They might as well have camped out in someone's driveway for all the luck they were having.
The short man got up and marched off down the road, sulking with his hands in his pockets. Shaking his head, Leon wondered what in the hell Byrd was thinking, vetting this latest bunch of guys. Stacking boxes at a hideout, maybe, but an actual job? At least they're expendable, he thought. If the rumours were true, the COG overlords were putting decoy shipments out on the roads, filled with soldiers. That was a big 'if' in his estimation. The COG was short on just about everything in Feria, except for snitches in their ranks.
If they upped the ante, that would just make the game more fun.
A cry from the short man jolted him out of his musing. Two bright lights were bobbing along the road about a quarter mile distant. "Show's on," Leon hissed at the men hiding in the ditch as he reached into the runabout and grabbed the red signal light, flipping it on. He stepped out into the roadway and, when the vehicle came closer, started waving the light back and forth in his hand, hoping the driver wasn't asleep at the wheel.
It was a truck- a big covered-bed Roadman- and the driver did see him, for the truck started to slow down and pull over. His headlight beams illuminated the runabout, pulled half into the ditch with its hood up, and a very grateful looking man with a signal light. Leon couldn't make out the driver through the headlight glare, but he could tell the man was alone in the cab. When he hopped out of the truck. Leon ran over, bubbling with false exhuberance and praying the idiots in the ditch wouldn't blow it.
"Oh thank the Sovereigns, someone's finally here! I need help; I've been marooned here for hours because this fuck- sorry, this darn piece of trash car gave up the ghost. There must be a loose wire or something, there's plenty of fuel-"
The young trucker looked him up and down, and it was clear that he wasn't nearly as naïve as his youth suggested. "Car trouble huh? Why didn't you go to that farmhouse over there?"
Leon turned to look, kicking himself for not having an excuse for it offhand. There was a farmhouse off in one of the distant fields with a thin wisp of smoke curling up from the chimney. "Oh, I did try there, but they don't have a car or a phone, and well, they seemed kinda… odd, you know. Real 'country' folk, if you catch my drift."
"I was born and raised in the country."
"Yes, well, but obviously you aren't like them." He squirmed a bit at his gaffe. "Look, it's my own fault, I know, but I got this teletype and I just have to be in Harnstadt by morning, so I grabbed the first car the COG could lend me and took off. I was supposed to be there by now."
"Sorry," the man replied. "I'm not allowed to pick up passengers. Safety policy."
"Oh no, no I don't want a ride. All my stuff is in the car. I just need a jumpstart to get it going again. I got cables but the battery's dead."
"I thought you said there was a loose wire." In the sharp light from the headlights, Leon could see a frown creeping across the man's face. This bastard just had to nitipick everything. Thankfully, he was pretty handy around cars – at least when it came to bluffing.
"Yeah, loose wire on the alternator junction. The battery's probably been draining for days, and the ignition is kind of spotty. I can fix the wire good enough to get me to town but I got no juice to start it."
The trucker looked him up and down again, and then the car, and the frown came off his face. "Alright," he offered. "I'll give you a jump, and if that won't work, I'll find a service centre as soon as I get into Harnstadt and tell them about you. Probably only one garage in the whole town, anyways." He let himself be led over to the car where he began poking at the electrical box under the hood while Leon pretended to grab jumper cables from the trunk. He pulled out a black canvas bag and tiptoed behind the man, banging his boot twice against the steel body of the car.
It was over in a second.
Just as the two idiots from the ditch stumbled into view, guns at the ready, Leon threw the sack over the driver's head and pulled the drawstring tight. The man put up a hellacious struggle, forcing Leon to pistol whip him and direct the burlier of his two accomplices to knock him down and hold him. He placed his snub pistol next to the hooded man's ear and cocked it deliberately. The driver calmed down after that. The other man was already into the truck, starting it up and rolling it ahead of the car for an easy getaway. The watchman came back from up the road, eyes alight with mischief at the scene before him. They bound the driver's hands and feet with cord and sat him down by the truck's rear wheels. Leon bent in close to speak into the frightened man's ear.
"Alright son, I know this is rapidly becoming your least favourite day of the week, so I'm going to make this short and sweet. This is how it's gonna go. We're gonna open up the back of your truck, take what we want, and then piss off."
"Yeah, and if you cause problems we'll waste ya," the burly moron quipped. Leon fixed him with the coldest stare he could muster, but didn't dare start to argue with an underling in front of 'the business'.
"Before I open this truck up," he continued, "you need to tell me if anything's gonna jump out at me. Some COG assholes, your dog, your girlfriend, your parents… if something jumps out at me I will shoot it dead, understand? Best to let me know beforehand."
The hooded man nodded. "There's no-one in there. Just farm supplies and parcels," he replied shakily, voice partly muffled by the black canvas.
He was telling the truth – nothing stirred when they opened up the canvas flaps at the rear- and the bed was absolutely filled with treasures. Leon stood outside as the watchman and burly moron went in and started listing off things they found, trying to decide what was worth stealing and what to leave behind. They didn't seem to have much of a clue.
"Okay, uhh, we got ten sacks of fertilizer-"
"Too heavy, leave it."
"I got a box of 'oil injectors' here. Inject it into what?"
"Converts imulsion engines to fuel oil, dipshit. Auto parts are good, take all the auto parts."
"Eww, pickled fish."
"Worthless. Take a jar if you're hungry."
"There's a crate of ammo."
"Take it."
"Parcels – what the hell is Granny Peoria ordering that's so huge?"
"Private property, don't mess with it."
"Holy shit, forty boxes of electric lightbulbs."
"Priceless, take all of them."
"Vacuum food preservers. How the fuck does a vacuum preserve food?"
"Idiot. Take 'em lots of people want that kind of thing."
"Whoa, I got a whole case of desktro- dextra- dexoli- uhh, looks like drugs."
"Leave it."
"Could be used to cook up some good shit, boss."
Leon lifted up the flap and stuck his head in. "Leave it," he hissed. "You wanna be the guys who take medicine from someone's sick grandpa?" The henchmen exchanged dubious looks but set the crate of pills back down. Theft of medications, fuel or COG weapons were all hanging offenses in a world where every two –bit lieutenant was judge, jury and executioner. The less of that stuff they took, the less inclined the COG would be to hunt them down.
"Hey, boss! Boss man, we got company!"
Leon whirled around to see three figures coming out of the oak thicket towards them. They were treading along carefully, purposefully, and for a moment he wasn't sure if they were interested in the scene on the shoulder of the road, but they were definitely not stopping their advance. He jammed his gun back inside his jacket and nearly slapped the man leaning against the runabout. "Grab the driver and hide him under the truck! If and only ifhe yells, shoot him. You two in the back, close up these flaps and shut your mouths! I'm going to see who the fuck these assholes are and baffle 'em with some bullshit. We're part of a delivery convoy or something." He put on his best fake smile and approached the people, who seemed very interested in the newly sprouted wheat seedlings.
"Hello there!"
All three figures gave him a cursory inspection and turned away from him. Leon wondered why they were so completely wrapped in clothing, belts and fabric, even to the point of wearing hoods and facewraps. One of them had a metal welder's mask on; evidently he was the leader, pointing out things of interst on the young plants. They weren't COG, at least, but they defiantly had the build of former Gears. He wondered if they were badly scarred; the COG certainly had no qualms about throwing its men to the wolves and turning their backs on the shattered husks that came back.
"Excuse me, what are you fellas up to?"
They turned to look at him again, this time permanently. The leader stood as he approached, hooking a thumb in his belt. Leon stepped right up to him. He was a few inches taller and thick as hell. Definitely ex-Gear, unless a bunch of wandering bodybuilders had come on holiday. "Sorry fellas, but this is a sensitive convoy stopped up on the road there and I'm going to have to ask you to vamoose outta here. Head back on up the road until we're gone. Won't be more than a minute."
The only response was for the figures hand to clench into a fist hard enough that Leon heard knuckles pop. He reached inside his jacket and closed his fingers around the pistol's grip.
"Listen, buster, I'm going to say this slowly now since you're obviously educationally-challenged. You need to go away now. Bye-bye." Leon reached up with his free hand and poked the burly man in his chest.
"That means back… the… fuck… u-"
Stepping out of the runabout immediately threw Lieutenant Mills' head into disarray and he reached out for the roll bar to steady himself. "What exactly was so important about this that I had to come, again?" he griped, shielding his eyes from the harsh flare of the rising sun. He stepped into the shadow of the big truck that was their first crime scene of the day.
"It's the Byrd gang!" the constable with him replied, "Some of 'em, anyways. We finally got the bastards." Fumbling around in the pockets of his ballistic vest, he brought out a notepad, eager like a cadet. Most of the constable trainees Mills was in charge of were bundles of nerves and excitement every time they got to leave the classroom. Two of his classmates were already ambling around the scene of the crime, no doubt pawing everything and eradicating what little evidence remained. The veteran lieutenant recognized one of the two officers – former COG soldier like himself – and instructed his driver to busy himself interviewing the witness to shoo him away.
"Jenkens! What's going on here?"
Turning around, Constable Jenkens gave his characteristic shrug. He'd been gazing around the scene with his hands on his hips, evidently asking himself that same question. "Oh, Lieutenant Mills, sir!" He almost saluted before remembering they weren't in the army anymore. "I'm…I'm not quite sure myself, sir. Four stiffs and one walking, and it looks like all of the victimswere members of the Byrd gang. Hijacking gone wrong would be my guess."
"I heard that tone, Jenkens. Victims. Dead gangsters get investigated, just like everybody else." Mills lit up a cigarette, hoping to stave off the headache building behind his temples.
"Sorry sir. Can't get too sobby about four of these assholes dying, after all the officers they've shot."
"Duly noted." Mills nodded towards the man leaning against the truck's front fender. "Who's the survivor?"
"Truck driver. He's all shook up, bein' kinda evasive," Jenkens replied. "He's not the star of this show, though… you're gonna wanna see this."
"This" turned out to be a blanket-draped body sprawled in the field, just next to the shoulder. Mills whistled when the constable pulled back the blanket enough for him to get a look at the victim's face. "Well I'll be damned, that's Leon Vedder. Now isn't this a pretty picture?" he smirked. It took him a second to realize that the odd appearance of the body was because the crook's torso was facing down… while his head was facing up. The lieutenant grimaced and stuck his tongue out. "I'm going to guess that cause-of-death has something to do with his head being on the wrong way.
"Yeah, Byrd's right-hand man himself. Someone fucked him up good," Jenkens grinned, mimicking a neck-snapping with his hands.
"What about the others? You think maybe a fight broke out/"
Both men stood up and the constable pointed out three other white blankets laid over lumpy forms nearby. "Well, the two guys in the ditch were dumped there, and there's blood and a few spent casings up by the truck. I figure that ol' Leon here ran into the opposition first and got imself all 'turned around', then those two guys tried to be heroes and got stabbed or something. Couple of really deep piercing wounds on both of them and one had his throat slit. The last guy tried to run" – Jenkens waved his hand towards the furthest white blanket, about two-dozen feet in front of the truck – "and got hit in the back of the head with an arrow of some kind. Found the broken shaft sticking out of his bald-ass head." He folded his arms across his chest, satisfied with the story he'd woven together.
Mills pondered the situation for a moment. It sounded like someone had interrupted an all-too-common highway robbery and decided on some vigilatne justice, and gotten away with it. That was odd, considering the reputation of the Byrd gang both for being minor folk heroes standing up to the COG, and for ruthlessly cutting up anyone that crossed them. "Jenkens, was anything missing from the truck?"
"According to the driver, probably a few things. Odd, though. I think he said there was some fertilizer and food missing, but none of the expensive stuff was touched. Someone definitely went through all the boxes and messed around with things. They didn't take the truck or the decoy car. Plus, I counted about a half-dozen Hammerburst casings but no weapons on any of the guys, and I don't think they robbed the truck using harsh language."
The whole scenario was staring to sound unsettling to the lieutenant. Feria's budding police force was lightly armed and staffed entirely by local farmboys and a smattering of demobbed soldiers for discipline. Pre-war target pistols were in short supply and the most advanced forensic tool left was the magnifying glass. The Byrd gang had been plenty to handle, and now there was a new crew moving in, or maybe some insane ex-commando turned vigilante carving up the countryside. He fished another smoke out of his ballistic vest pocket. "I want to talk to the driver," he said, "and god help him if he thinks he's going to be evasive with me."
"I told you, I was hooded! What the fuck do you want me to say, 'gee, I got a good view of the inside of a burlap sack?"
The young man fidgeted, balancing on the exposed front tire of the police runabout. He kept scratching his arm and staring at the dirt, and Mills couldn't tell if it was guilt or fear that was throwing up a wall between them. "Listen son," he advised gently, "I understand that this is all very difficult for you now, but you have to see how this looks. By your own statement, you were tied up on the ground, helpless, and yet somehow you survived. People are going to wonder if you were involved in this-"
"Well I fucking wasn't! I had a gun shoved in my face! One of them said they were going to kill me! You always think that us country folk are in on these jackass schemes but it's our stuff that gets stolen, our asses that get beat. My cousin got jumped by the Byrd gang and they stabbed him and you barely even came to the hospital to-"
Mills cut off the young man's babbling with his best Army Voice. "Your cousin isn't here right now. This is about you and you alone. Now maybe you couldn't see, but you could goddamn well hear, so I'll rephrase the question: what did you hear, son?"
"Nothing!"
"Absolutely nothing?" Mills asked, annoyed. "No screaming or gunshots or yelling? Not a branch rustling or a bird chirping? You suddenly deaf?"
"I heard the gunshots and the screaming, and then it went silent. Well, actually …" the trucker said hesitantly, "I heard footsteps."
"Excellent. How many footsteps?"
Screwing up his face, the driver thought for a minute. "At least two. Maybe four. Real heavy footsteps too, like a bunch of COGs tramping around. I thought that's what it was, and I called out for help but- well, they ignored me. One of them came real damn close and just stood there for a second, then they all moved off. Assholes never helped me."
"Considering what happened to the four guys with guns, maybe you should consider that a blessing," one of the constables standing to his side observed.
"Yeah, I guess." He managed a sick laugh, then added, "Wait! I just remembered! One of them did say something!"
Mills and the two constables leaned forward intently, pens at the ready. "What did he say?" Their keen attention made the man hesitate, chewing on the inside of his cheek.
"I couldn't really hear it. I just remember this whisper, a real hoarse whisper like the guy'd been drinking paint thinner. He said a bunch of words, and I think one of them was 'humans' or something. Maybe 'new guns?" he added.
Both the constables eagerly began scribbling down this new info and launched into a barrage of declarations and instructions for giving an official statement and the importance of testifying and other bureaucratic things that Mills couldn't care less about. He leaned back, drifting out of the present conversation and back into the war, to a world of flames and shadows, to the harsh, alien voice that cried out in the darkened factory, sibilant and malevolent, driving the invaders onwards to crush-
He started suddenly and all eyes turned to him. That was a long time ago in a different world. He was starting to get the jitters, letting the past spook him like this. Mills snapped his notebook shut and placed it back into the pouch on his belt, cracking his knuckles.
"Something wrong, Lieutenant?" It was his driver, looking at him with concern.
"Just thinking of ghosts. Lets get wrapped up here and go back to the station, constables. Paperwork awaits."
'Runabout' is a Seran term for a small, open-cab 4x4 vehicle, slightly smaller than a pickup truck.