"We're nuts. You know that, right?"
The older woman at the wheel laughed. "Of course we are."
Miss Pauling pulled her glasses away from her face. She was cleaning them for the fourth time in six hours. Sure, they had made it past the checkpoint north of Teufort. They had gone out of New Mexico, onto the very bottom of Colorado. Even this far out, she was worried. Gray Mann would have found out about her escape by now. He always had patrols watching her. Now, with the little woman vanished, what would he do?
"Hey, Miss P. Are you okay?" the Scout's mother asked.
"A little worried, I suppose," she admitted.
Ma smiled. "Ain't nothin' to sweat. Dhat old bastard's gonna have to search a long time for us in town. Might take him a little bit. So, we've got enough time to figure out where to go."
The younger of the two leaned forwards. That was the next problem. When the first team had vanished, she tracked them every night. There were even attempts to follow them to their coordinates. No matter where Helen had sent the other team, it was much too late. There was always a troop waiting to intercept the remaining mercenaries. When their signals left New Mexico altogether, Helen called off the hunt for the missing men.
That decision frustrated Miss Pauling to no end. But, what else could have been done? Robots were kicking in the doors of each and every base. Gray was taking back his family's property, one chunk of land at a time. Sure, the remaining boys could hold a fort for maybe one, two months. It was a fruitless effort. No army could stop the tide. Flesh always fell to machine.
In the end, she couldn't even keep her boss from falling. She failed at the very basic core of her job—to serve the Administrator. Not that the old bat needed a shield, but she could always use a second pair of eyes. Tough as she was, she was still human. Vengeful, fiery, venomous, but human. She wished Helen had listened to her. She had hoped that somehow, someday, Mann Co. and their president would have gotten their heads out of their asses and helped out.
There were always markets outside of New Mexico, though. And, there was only one man in that company that would have fought. Even he would have been nothing against the thrashing machines. He was not a demigod, much as he may have thought otherwise.
So, there was nothing left. No warriors, no land, no reason to fight.
Miss Pauling rubbed her eyes. "Sorry. I'm…" She took a deep breath, then let toxic air out. "I could use a restroom break."
"Me too," the Scout's mother agreed.
They didn't stop for long. The poor sedan was just about drained of gasoline, so it was filled first. Both women stepped inside a small gas station. It had terrible plumbing. They knew this before they even went to the restroom. The whole of the little shop reeked of stale, ill-treated water and mold. The coffee machines were shut off for the evening. Not that either lady was itching that much for the shop's coffee. It was probably little better than black tar, if the water situation was any indication. The duo grabbed a few starchy items, a map, some water, and a bottle of diet soda. They had paid and were out the door before their clothes could take on that dreadful stench.
The Scout's mother reached for the cola as she sat down in the driver's position. "So, here's what I'm thinking. You close your eyes for a bit, and I'll keep driving."
"Where are you going to go?" Miss Pauling asked.
Both women's minds blanked. That was a question they hadn't fully formed an answer to. The thrill of escaping vanished. In its shift came dull, droning doubt. Where were they going to start? Were they just going to sweep through each state, one town at a time, and hope they got lucky? They didn't have the time or resources for that.
The Scout's mother sat upright. "Crap. I thought you would know."
"There was a time when I used to monitor the—computer systems," Miss Pauling caught herself before she said too much.
The Scout's mother nodded. "Right. Dhat respawn junk, right?"
Miss Pauling lifted an eyebrow, "I'm surprised you know about that."
"Well, my man could keep a secret," the Scout's mother smiled. "Not so much my kid, though."
"…like I was saying before," Miss Pauling tried to get them back on track. "I used to write their coordinates down. The last time I was able into the system was a few months ago. After our last mission failed, I wasn't allowed near a computer again. I doubt my credentials would still be valid, anyway."
"Do you still have dhem?" the older woman asked.
Miss Pauling nodded. She cracked open her suitcase, then fished out a folded piece of blue-lined paper. Faded, smeared notes were jotted down on the page. Ma just about snatched the paper out of Miss Pauling's hands. She read the coordinates, her face bright.
"Well, I hope you know how to read dhem," the Scout's mother laughed.
"Of course," Miss Pauling replied. She started at the top of the list, then dragged her finger down. "Rural South Dakota. Northern Wyoming. This one was in a small town in Pennsylvania. New York City."
The Scout's mother was about to jump out of her seat in excitement. "My son?"
Miss Pauling's finger traced down to his coordinates. "Orlando. And before you ask—New Orleans."
"Dhat makes sense," Ma laughed. "Where else could ya hide a Frenchie?"
"If you wanted my opinion, though, you'd go here," Miss Pauling tapped on a coordinate in the middle of her notes. "It's the closest to us."
"And dhat is?" the Scout's mother asked.
"Southern California," Miss Pauling replied.
There was a screech as the older woman swerved out of her parking spot. Miss Pauling barely had enough time to catch the open drinks in the car before the Scout's mother rocketed onto the interstate. She was hardly a stunt driver, but she whipped the vehicle around with amazing confidence. Years of being the only driver in her family had trained her well.
"Didn't have to tell you twice," Miss Pauling huffed.
"Yeah, well. Sooner I do dhis, dhe sooner I get my boys," the Scout's mother smirked. "And trust me—It's killin' me to go dhe wrong way."
Sniper Mundy could kill whoever he pleased. Ranger Mundy could not.
The torn man sat in a barren room, fingers laced and head lowered. No one had to find the poachers dead in the forest. Especially if he would have buried them deep enough. He couldn't run away. He was a different person here. If he disappeared, they would always wonder what happened to him. If they found the bodies, he would have been hunted and skinned.
Miseries greater than facing long, hard years' worth of jail time dug into his tired eyes. His brain hurt. It flickered in and out, trying to fetch little memories. A birthday party. The smile of a man he'd long forgotten. His parents. His parents! God, he hadn't called them in a year! Did they think he was dead? Even in the maw of the Sahara, he always found a phone. How could he have forgotten them?
He was about to slide off his chair and onto his knees when two cops came into the interrogation room. He collected himself with what little dignity he had left. It all seemed so funny now. Green-thumbed Mundy. Mundy, friend to the animals. Mundy, the neglectful, piss-throwing assassin with the smart mouth. Who the hell was he, anymore?
"Sorry," the Sniper apologized. "Bit bushed."
The first of the cops nodded. He sniffed once, his large nose and puffy moustache wriggling. "You look it."
The Sniper bowed his head. "I…I assume…"
"No," the first replied. "We're not pressing charges."
Energy shot through the Sniper. He banged his knees against the table as he just about jumped out of his chair. "What?"
There was a growl from behind the first cop. It was a short woman, with large sunglasses and a clean ponytail. "We found your fingerprints on the knife. The cause of death was as you said—your doing. However…" She scrunched her face up, like something ragged was caught in her throat. "Your injuries, the placement of the shotgun next to the second corpse, and your overall demeanor give my partner reason to believe that you acted in self-defense."
The Sniper's fingers trailed absent-mindedly to his face. The stroke of silk gloves and a sharp blade was a memory that was quick to leap to mind. His gut churned. "I…I should have…"
"What's done is done," the first cop boomed. He clapped a hand on the Sniper's shoulder. "You are a ranger, and you saw trespassers in a national park. You approached them, they harmed you, you fought back to save yourself."
"You're free to go," the second cop stated. She bobbed her head towards the door. "Get out, before we change our minds."
A chill bristled the hairs on the Sniper's neck. He didn't need a second warning. He shook the hand of the first cop, who gladly took his gesture. The second cop wasn't nearly as touchy-feely. He lowered his gaze and escaped before she could turn him into stone. He grabbed what little provisions were taken from him. As he strolled out, he expected to find his green Range Rover sitting in the parking lot. He was disappointed to find a brown box of an Oldsmobile Cutlass.
Driving to his hole in the wall was disorienting. His mind wandered in the gray rain. His guts were clamping up, his face burning. Yes, he'd had a wonderful van. He had slept and ate and lived in it. On stormy days, when the winds buffeted his vehicle like a tin can, he'd pull into a massive garage. There were people inside. Big smiles, friendly faces, good food. A beaten-up leather couch in a work room. He would sleep there, in that peaceful little slice of the desert, listening to the gentle scratching of a graphite pencil. Warm and cozy.
Weak, but happy.
He stepped into his ratty apartment with heavy feet. Rubbing a hand across his long face, he took stock of his little life. What had he done with himself? There were organized heaps of books piled next to a beaten loveseat, back issues of men's magazines left untouched. A black telephone sat on one mound, coiled within its wires like a weary snake. A ratty twelve-inch TV with rabbit ears was parked in front of it. He'd hardly turned the damn thing on. Clothes were folded and put away, sparse but well laundered. His bed was a mattress in the corner of the back room. No bed frame. Just a pillow and a blanket. Food was all but gone from the fridge and cupboards. Plain white plates and simple silverware were polished and cleaned. Here he was, standing in a perfectly clean, but Spartan home.
Ranger Mundy's home. And yet, Sniper Mundy had come through enough to ruin that. He didn't even give himself a decent hobby.
The Sniper flopped onto the loveseat. He sat with his arms folded, legs crossed at the ankle. What was he supposed to do now? Glancing over his shoulder, he gave the phone a cold stare. It had been sitting there, all this time, and he hadn't thought once of calling his parents. Why? Didn't he love them? Well, at least his mother?
He snatched the phone off the cradle like a cat by the back of its neck. Pounding digits into the device, he tried to hold back a frown. One call. He owed them a call. He wrapped the cord around his right arm, flopping back as he listened to the tone drone on, hollow and cold.
There was a click, then a snap. "Who the bloody hell is this?"
"Dad?" the Sniper gasped.
The line went silent. The Sniper drew his legs up. He could imagine his old man at the phone, flesh bubbling to a bright red. A dread spread through his limbs, the same cold terror that he got when his father used to reach for his belt. He loathed the oncoming crack.
His old man was eerie, quiet. "Where in the hell have you been?"
The Sniper's fingers fumbled around the receiver, his well-honed dexterity gone in the presence of his father's voice. "I…I'm in Wyoming. Dad, I…I don't know how I got here."
"Son of a bitch. Give me a second." There was a rustling and a snap of paper on the other end of the line. The Sniper found himself smiling. The old man had kept his map of the United States. "Wyoming. Alroight. Blazes, that's a bit north for you."
"Somethin' awful happened to me," the Sniper murmured.
"Oh, what a big surprise!" his old man grumbled. "Ya went off to kill people, and somethin' bad happened!"
The Sniper sank into the loveseat. He felt as if he'd had this argument a thousand times before. Now, he was unable to defend himself. "Dad. I don't know what happened to anyone. They're…I don't know."
"I wouldn't cry over it, if I were you." The old man was on a rant. "They all deserved this. Bunch of mass-murdering maniacs."
The words felt like a cold slap to his face. His stomach and heart clenched. He could barely speak. "Did I?"
Now, his father hushed up. There was a long, dreadful static on the line. A low sigh rattled the phone, and the old man began speaking again. "No. Of course not." He drew another long breath, then continued. "Son. Your mother…ya worried her sick."
"Put her on the line," the Sniper begged.
"I can't," the old man replied.
A thousand terrible thoughts raced through the Sniper's head. She was dead. She died, and he broke her heart. He mashed his left hand against his scarred face. How could he? Even a brat as insensitive as him loved his mother. How could he do that to her?
The Sniper's voice cracked. "Dad, I'm so—"
"Don't be daft," his father growled. "She's already in bed. I'll tell her ya called."
A laugh escaped the Sniper. "Oh, thank God. I thought she'd—"
"Yeah, well. She could have, you ass," his father sassed back.
The Sniper lowered his head. His dad was right. About his job, about his mother. Here he was, languishing in a prison of his own making, and he had no one to blame but himself. He could have crawled into a hole and buried himself in his own shame. He felt as if he was cut in half.
"I won't go this long again. I promise," the Sniper swore.
"Good, ya bastard," the old man repeated. "You can treat me like sheep shit long as ya please, but don't ya dare hurt her again."
Bringing himself upward again, the Sniper tried to collect his thoughts. "Dad. I…I don't know what to do."
His father gave another small grunt. "Son, when in the hell have ya ever taken advice on what I want ya to do with your life?"
That brought a dark chuckle from the Sniper. Even now, when his dad deserved to shove him face-first in his own mess, he was pulling punches. He nestled into the loveseat's armrest. "I'm serious. I was this…well, this park ranger. And it was good for a while, roight? But, Dad. There were these poachers, and I—"
"No, let me guess. You horribly butchered them," his father interrupted.
The Sniper's face scrunched up. "Well, ya didn't have to put it like that. But, yeah. They attacked me, 'n I fought back. Got scratched up 'n sick. That's when I remembered everythin'—'bout you. Mom. My job. My mates. I lost them all, Dad. 'N that scares the hell outta me."
"Roightly so," his father agreed. There was a shifting on the other end of the phone, and his dad grunted. "So, you gonna get the bastard that did this to you, or not?"
Another shiver froze the Sniper. He remembered the sneer of a square-faced geezer, the burning of electronics. Being beaten and drugged. Carried away. Even the faintest, haziest memory of that was coming back. Being so sick that he couldn't see straight, so weak he couldn't move. His gut sank again. His teammates…one of them had seen him like that, just a pale, lean shadow of himself. He'd heard them all being taken away, screaming and fighting, all cast aside like refuse. The memory flowed like glacier ice through his bloodstream.
"I don't know if I can," the Sniper answered his father.
His father echoed the same low laugh that he possessed. "You'll figure out a plan for that. Proper murderer you are, and all."
The Sniper let air hiss through his teeth. "For the thousandth time, Dad, I'm—"
"Son, I saw your mother drop ya onto this bloody planet in the back of a barn," the Sniper's dad retorted. "I damn well know what ya are. Tough, that's what. More than I'd like, frankly."
"…I thought you'd ask me to come home," the Sniper confessed.
His father sighed. "Son, I wanted that for you more than anythin'. Or, at least for ya to settle down with a good gal 'n have a bastard of your own. But, let's face it. You weren't interested in it in your twenties, and you weren't in your thirties. Ya just aren't domestic." There was another rustle, and the old man cracked up again. "Besides. I've got a perfectly good thing goin' with your mum, ya know? Just us, 'n the farm. The animals, the dog, the tellie. It's noice. 'N knowin' you, you'd foight me over the damned remote every bloomin' chance you got."
The Sniper cackled. "I haven't watch TV in weeks, Dad."
"Even worse! You'd probably have us out hikin' in the fields, huntin' for mutant kangaroos!" his father replied.
The two men laughed, as if a year of silence and decades of fighting hadn't happened at all. The Sniper rubbed the side of his face. The corners of his eyes were damp. They spilled down his sore cheek, salt burning sensitive wounds. God, it was true. He was an ass, and he'd left his family behind. He'd almost lost them completely.
The Sniper sighed. "Tell Mum I love her."
The old man grunted. That was how they said this. There were never audible sentiments to each other. It wasn't the kind of thing stoic, polite men said. It was much easier to talk about women and how dear they were. "I love her, too."
"Get some rest, Dad," the Sniper said.
"You too, Son," his father replied.
They hung up together.
The Sniper flopped onto his back. He felt like painful metal was boiling in his chest. No. No time to sleep. He could rest when he was a thousand miles south. Throwing his legs off the couch, the Sniper scurried around his apartment. He had little to take—clothes, soaps, combs, a knife. Not even a rifle. He hadn't been able to touch them, all this time. Like if that terrible ball that had been in him had repelled it. That could be fixed. There were gunstores, cheap and shady. All he had to do was visit one.
His home for the last year was gutted and abandoned in ten minutes.
Author's Note
I had intended to get to what the Demoman was up to this chapter, but the Sniper bit ran long. Oh, well. Like it always goes, I'll get to it next chapter.
I should get a lot of crap for how I write the Sniper's father. Then again, all I know about the guy is half a phone call conversation, a post card, and a photograph. Though, technically, that's more than I know about the Scout's mom. Long as the liberties are believable, I suppose.
See you next time, hippie!