The dawn broke quicker then Avery figured it would. The orange sunlight beamed through the pulled curtains of the hotel room, laying perfectly across his closed eyes. The warmth of that strand of sun was the only thing comforting about such a wake up. He nearly gasped as he thrashed to his side, laying a hand over his eyes and groaning as he rubbed them. The pain and the pale image still residing within his very eyelids. He groaned to a slouched position at the edge of his bed, bringing his other hand around which was still glued to a bottle of whiskey that had maybe a quarter left in it.
He laid the bottle on the bed and raised his head up, opening his eyes carefully and becoming aware of his temporary home. The room he's stayed in sense arriving in Providence. Just a cheap looking room with faded blue carpeting and faded, weathered wall paper that had begun to peel up. Avery closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them.
He reached out to his right, grasping the edge of his army-duffel-bag and pulling it up onto the bed next to him with great effort. He unzipped one of the pockets and fished his hand into it, causing something to rattle grasped it and pulled out a small bottle of buffout, popping the cap and dumping two large oval shaped pills into his hand. He put his hand against his open mouth and tilted his head back, letting them fall in. Then brought the bottle of whiskey to his lips and took a small sip. They'd probably kill the hangover. If not, then give him a small boost to do what he needed to do.
He put the pills back into the pocket of the bag, his hand lingering inside of it. After a lingering moment his hand slid out of the pocket and into the unzipped main compartment. He fished through his clothes and grasped another object. Colder and heavier than the last one. He pulled his hand out, and in it he grasped the marksman grip of a laser pistol.
Avery brought it over to his lap, letting his fingers sweep across the dark green colored chamber. He looked down at it with weary eyes. But something inside of him was glad to see it still remained. Among all that was gone, the gun stayed. The gun always stayed the same. He handed it off to his left hand, and stuck his right back into the bag. He located the the pair of socks he was looking for, folded into a tube. He pulled on the toes as his other hand sweeped up, unrolling it like a tube of toothpaste. Three fusion cells rolled out onto the bed. He was shocked the guards hadn't found the gun, the ammo was more hidden than it so he wasn't nearly as surprised. He'd perfectly managed to distract the guard from searching the pair of jeans the gun was hidden in. Just involved informing them that another caravan beside him had a gun hidden away. A gun that he may or may not have planted, depending on his mood towards confession.
He stared down at this gun in his hand. It was a weighted death dealer. It's weight only compacted by the weight of the actions of the wielder. Avery looked down at it and searched deep inside of him. "You've been killing all your life. Made your way from one cause to another to another." He thought to himself. "You want out...but you always find your way back in. Now you have a choice. It doesn't have to end with this gun, not again. YOU have a choice. But that girl? She doesn't."
Upon thinking that to himself, he knew. In someway he knew what he had to do. Being around Elias was like an ex-addict being around his drug of choice. Mad him want to fall into old habits. It didn't have to be like that, like how Elias saw the world, how he treated people. It didn't have to end in blood.
He tucked the pistol into a stiff harness just under his left arm. And put his jacket on over it. He checked himself one final time in the mirror, taking his hand out of his pocket to push his hair to the side and out of his eyes. Headache lingering in the back of his head. "Rest in peace." he mumbled and reached to his side, turning off the lamp at his bed-side.
Out the door and to the stables, the sun just beginning it's burning rise into the blue sky. He walked right up to the camped out caravan's just outside of the city walls. Fire's still burning in fire pits, sleepy, ragged caravan guards keeping an eye out on the distant horizon.
Avery stopped just before the rather large group of them. And loudly spoke up. "Who wants into the city?" Merchant's opened their eyes, some taking their hats off their heads and sitting up in their bed rolls, looking at Avery. Some sun burned, all dirty.
One merchant, a fat man in a dirty white suit with a large mustache stood up, putting on his suspenders. "We allowed in now? Because I got some choice words for your mayor!"
Avery looked at the man and turned towards him. "The cities locked down because a Sixteen year old girl's been kidnapped and the Sherif is...hurt. The sooner this get's resolved? The sooner you get into the city."
The fat man snarled with a sigh. "Christ on a cross, we've been baking out here for days! Coulda just told us that!"
"I'm sorry, but I'm telling you now. Now, who wants into the city?"
The merchants all exchanged looks, then looked back at their cargo. And soon every one of them had raised their hand. Even some of the guards, voicing their distaste for their current situation. "Then if you want in, you'll let me borrow one of your Strider's so I can get to to Silverridge. Resolve this. And get you all into the city."
The fat man scoffed and turned away. "Very funny, sir. I ain't giving you my strider on the mere chance you could-."
"Fuck you, George!" A man in a thick, dry and twiney voice shouted, standing up in the background. He was thin, lanky, dirty and had his red scarf wrapped around his head like a bonnet to keep the sun off of him. "I've been out here longer then you! Me and my guards have been roasting! If you ain't gonna give him your damn strider, I'll give him mine! Shit, I'll give you a gun too if you tell people ya shot a child-snatcher with a Jimmy Lawren brand!"
Avery huffed and walked forward, left-hand thumb hooked into his jeans belt. "Don't give much of a shit about branding, but if you give me your strider I'll wear a neon sign." he muttered as he approached then walked beside the man. The skinny, frail salesman gave the fatter one the finger as he walked by, chatting to Avery about the recoil of his shotgun's and that he may need to hold it particularly tight to his shoulder or hip.
They suited up grey hide-strider with a saddle much darker than it, and a holster for the shotgun. Avery wasn't as quick with the Strider as he'd have liked, fumbling with the straps and constantly having to adjust the saddle so it didn't slip off the surprisingly patient beast's back.
After about fifteen minuets of fumbling with it and some help from Jimmy, Avery saddled up and slid the old pump-action hunting-shotgun into the holster on the side of the strider. The sound of gunmetal scraping against the leather created an all too familiar sound that sent a shiver down his spine. Jimmy handed Avery a canteen of fresh water and smacked the back of the Strider's ass, sending it lurching forward and taking off down the road at full pace. The sun already felt like it was frying him inside of his clothes. It'd be a long journey ahead, but it was one he knew deep inside that he had to make. But his hopes were high. Hopes that he'd make it in time and thing's would resolve themselves.
Avery had always been like that. All throughout his life. He was a glass half full kind of guy, one that would drudge through the knee-deep shit to get the better outcome. It'd been a long time, though. A long time since he'd journeyed out on something like a mission. And even longer since he was on one that actually felt worthy of going on. Those were too much to not pass up on. He wasn't a mercenary, or a law-bringer. He was Avery. And he saw hope where people saw little.
Thirty more minuets passed, and the sun felt like it was hitting a melting point. He'd stripped himself of his coat, putting it on the front of the saddle, choosing to endure the dry and hot wind that blasted against his bare arms and hands, kicking up sand particles and grinding it into his bare flesh. It stung like the pin-prick of needles that wouldn't pierce the skin. Just poke. He pulled the sweat dampened and thin scarf off from around his neck, and tied it over his face for cover, resting the edge of it on the bridge of his nose. Then reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out a slightly scratched pair of aviator-sunglasses to cover his eyes. It helped little. There was no relief from the heat. He was far from the air-conditioned cool buildings of Prosper.
He was in hell for all he knew. Sand-dunes around him and broken grayed asphalt under the strider's hooves. Occasionally a broken billboard that read "HUSTON 20 MILES" with an arrow pointing off to the left. Avery looked to see the heat covered silhouette of many large towers jetting up from the ground. He could see holes to the other side in almost all of them. He wondered what it was like in these long-lost cities. He heard only horror stories from those who'd ventured near. Locals called them "The Crypt's." Made up of the pre-war cities Houston, Dallas, Austin and San Antonio. The rest were just burned out husks. But something about these four kept all the local's scared and away from it. Away from scavenging even. Avery wondered what there was to keep people away from supplies and to rather attempt to grow produce out in a desert.
He did not know how many hours had passed him by. The strider had slowed down and they both appeared to be panting. Avery's clothes were grimy from sand and drenched in sweat that poured out of every inch of his skin. His hands shook lightly, and no matter how many times he clenched them into fists, the shaking always came back. He could feel the moisture being sucked from his skin. And with his canteen running as dry as the ground beneath the Strider's hooves, soon he'd be feeling the life being sucked from his veins too.
"Just. . .hold. . .on. . ." his parched lips whispered a raspy voice to himself as his body hung heavy against the strider. "Anna. . .hold on . . ."
He didn't recall what happened after thinking this. His body slumped in the burning mid-day sun, and his vision drew distant. But when he came to, it was to the huffing of the has-been-horse. His eyelids nearly stuck to his eyeballs as he opened them. And when he did, he found something that he almost couldn't believe.
Water. Water all in the bottom of a up-turned satellite dish, laying next to a large building that jetted out of the sand. It was a little murky, but by God it was water. The strider's head was bowed and it was drinking steadily from the pool. Finally some relief from the scorching head. He could even feel dark clouds rolling in-front of the sun, dampening the heat.
Avery gripped the leather of the saddle and coughed dryly. He tried to lift himself, but he was so heavy. So weak. He pushed up with his hands and barely managed to lift his sweat-soaked body an inch off the back of the strider. With all his effort, he slid his booted feet from the slots on the saddle, and managed to lean just far enough to one side that he fell from the strider and into the sand.
Dust kicked up around his impact, and the strider whined. Looking back at it's fallen rider and huffing out a breath. He must have been dehydrated before he'd even left town and not realized it. Spent too much time trying to fix what was wrong he forgot to take care of himself. His lips were peeling, and his fingers weakly clawed at the sand as his partially open eyes begged for the water.
The strider turned slightly, then took a step towards Avery. And to his utter surprise, the horses head reached down and grabbed the back of Avery's T-shirt. It pulled him forward with a yank, dragging him through the sand but closer to the water. Avery couldn't even begin to understand what was happening. But something in his mind registered at that moment. That something more than himself, and this desolate world, was aware of him. Something of a higher power was watching out for him. Or, at-least that's what he chose to believe.
His hand touched the edge of the water with final yank. His hand clenched, almost as if to grip the water. He could feel small ripples knocking against his skin from the Strider drinking. It was now or it was never. He summoned all his strength and pulled himself forward with a weak groan.
His body slid over the edge of the satellite dish and into the murky water. Falling forward and submerging his head into it. He opened his mouth and let it fill it, then closed and swallowed. He did so several times before panic set in of near drowning. And with that, he pushed himself up with no effort at all and gasped, water pouring down his face. Wet bangs hanging in-front of his eyes. He took some breaths, then dunked his head back in.
The water was cool, and refreshing, even if not clean. Damn the bacteria, damn the radiation. He could find a way to fix a sick body, but not a dead one. Several more gulps later, he brought his head up and gasped again.
He was overjoyed, laughing at the luck-no, the blessing, of finding water along this broken and beaten trail. He stayed in that downward dog position, chuckling at absolutely nothing. A smile on his wet face and his vision blocked by over-hanging wet bangs. He reached up with one hand and pushed them back out of his eyes. And immediately wished he hadn't.
The dark clouds that hung over head weren't the only source of shade that was keeping him cool. Directly in-front of him, over-hanging the pool of water. Was a old, dead tree. Towering above even the burnt down building beside him. It stretched to the heavens before him. It's grey branches strewn with plastic sheeting and debris from the wind.
And old and new rotting bodies nailed to it's trunk and larger branches. Blood seeping down them and to the desert ground below.