Walk a Lonesome Road Page 13

  What should take them four days, takes twice that long, and they are down to almost nothing in their stores by the time they reach the plains. Dek’s on half-rations, despite Ren’s protests—Dek forces Ren to eat his proper allowance, because he has to keep the baby alive. The urtibes are struggling too, but at least they can now start to graze properly, after weeks of living on sparse forage Dek and Ren have cut for them. After the dangerous confines of the steep black rock mountains, their first sight of the open semi-desert plains of Febkeinzian is like the first clear breath after a lung infection. The country stretches wide and clear before them, flat and brown and alien. All they have to do is cross it, and Ren will be safe. Or so the theory goes, anyway.

  The first night after they get past the foothills, they camp by a stream fed by snow melt. Dek finds some freshwater shellfish—barely enough for a snack but welcome all the same, and Ren tells him where to dig out the bitter root of a water plant that turns sweetish when grilled over a flame. They’re still a hundred pardecs—two days’ ride—from the nearest town, but the hardest part of their journey is over, and none too soon. They’re both sporting bruises, they’re ragged and dirty and bone-deep tired because they couldn’t rest long enough or well enough on the mountain, but they did it. Dek swears he’ll never travel that route again, not even in summer. How he’s going to get back to Pindone is a problem he’ll solve once Ren is safely on his way out of Febkeinzian. Dek’s only got a vague idea of how that will happen but he figures if he can get Ren on a boat to the Weadenal, that’ll be half the problem solved. He’ll need to find a captain who’s bribable, but that never used to be difficult in this country with its endemic poverty, and there’s always a way of covertly getting someone across national boundaries if you pay enough for it.

  He’s worried about Ren though. By Ren’s calculations, he’s more than five and a half months along. The foetus will be growing faster now, and the drain on Ren’s body is increasing. He’s sleeping badly, finding it almost impossible to get comfortable at night, and his feet have swelled so much that the last few days of walking have been torture for him. He looks ill, and his cheerful chatter comes in infrequent intervals, as if he can only spare the energy for a few minutes a day. Dek has even tentatively suggested they try and find a doctor in the town, only to get a withering look from his companion. “Febkeinze doctors are about twenty years out of date in their practices and don’t get me started on what their facilities would be like. You’d be better off taking me to the local vet. At least animals have some value—the vets are better trained than the doctors, believe me. Even if we went somewhere with a hospital, I need major surgery. The chances of there being a surgeon on hand with anything like enough experience are almost nil.”

  “It was just an idea,” Dek says, as he carefully stretches his injured arm. Ren’s got him on some strengthening exercises both for that and his leg. It’s been hard to find the time and energy for them, but Ren’s insistent. His shoulder is nothing like as good as it was, but Ren’s hopeful he’ll regain full strength in it. Dek wishes Ren’s medical situation was so easy to deal with.

  Because water’s a problem in this region, they decide to follow the line of one of the mountain-fed creeks that flows into one of the Limodi tributaries. The grazing’s better for the animals along its edge, though there’s not much prey for Dek’s snares, and it’s too early for most edible plants to be available, so Dek’s still on short rations. At least he can ride. It’s not for very long, he tells himself. Ren’s guilty expression over each meal makes him more uncomfortable than mild hunger pangs do.

  The main product of the region is energy, and here and there along the range of mountains, plumes of steam rise high into the frigid air from power stations. There are over a dozen dotted along the line of the mountain range, making use of the thermal energy from deep underneath the range and the water supplied from the mountain snow, recycling it back into the rivers to supply the rest of the region. Huge silver power lines and relaying towers bisect the landscape and the horizon, carrying the energy to where most of the population lives, which is not here.

  The only people who live here are small holders scratching out a meagre existence on the arid plains. To keep the river systems healthy and the important fishing industry viable, the farms aren’t allowed to draw water for crop irrigation. So they mostly raise gekels, domesticated smaller relatives of the urtibes who can live on the sparse vegetation and visit the streams and waterholes as needed. It’s too early for the livestock to be out of their winter pens, so the landscape is empty, brown and apparently dead, enlivened only by the green edges to the streams and creeks that crisscross at infrequent intervals, and by the small, rainwater-tank-supported gardens close to the rundown farmhouses. It makes him homesick for the dense forests and lushness of his own secluded haven.

  After the struggle of the mountain crossing, this flat terrain is frankly dull, but it gives them a chance to recover, and the prospect of fresh supplies cheers them both up. Being two foreigners in a country rent by war means they’ve had to concoct a cover story to explain their presence and unconventional travel method, and now they’re a lot closer to needing to use it, they spend a bit of time talking about the details. The cover’s flimsy, although they’ve done their best to collect ‘samples’ of rocks and plants to prop up the image of two amateur rock collecting botanists. It won’t stand up to any kind of informed questioning, but Dek is counting on the chaotic governance of this country to give them some wriggle room. It’s pretty insane, but so’s crossing that range in winter and they survived that, so he’s hopeful. Anyway, he’s crazy so it follows his plan’s crazy too. He doesn’t say any of that to Ren, of course.

  They also talk about whether to leave Ren behind while Dek heads into the town, because Ren’s appearance is distinctive even without the belly, but if anything happens to him, Ren’ll be stuck, helpless. On balance, Dek thinks they should travel in together and Ren agrees. The man’s already proved himself useful in a fight, if it comes to that, which Dek really hopes it won’t because these people are not his enemies. He and Ren are planning to project dopey harmlessness. They’re about to find out how good their acting skills are.

  The town, Heparnime—a long name for a mudscrape of a place—is dead as they ride in on their third day after reaching the lowlands. The dry desert wind which has been cutting through them and making their skin crack for two days, whistles along the gravel and packed dirt surface of what passes for a main street, kicking up unpleasant dust devils that toss grit into their eyes and make the urtibes’ ears flatten in annoyance. No one’s walking the road or driving veecles down it—the few houses have their shutters closed against the wind, and Dek doesn’t imagine it’s much of a town for recreational strolling. ‘Town’ is a bit of a misnomer—it’s just a shambolic collection of rundown mud brick and unpainted wood buildings, and the only one that looks halfway respectable is the general store, which is where Dek’s headed.

  He knows from experience that the store is the hub of these little communities, and as he and Ren walk in, he sees this one is no different. There are a half a dozen men sitting around an ancient electric heater in the corner, drinking buga—a horrible, weakly alcoholic concoction that smells vaguely of vomit and which is practically the national beverage—from long, decorated glasses. The storekeeper’s sorting through screws and other metal fittings at the counter. The grimy windows let in very little light so there’s a single dusty bulb casting a thin glow over the shelves. It makes the people look sickly, and the stock seem run down and crappy, like a geriatric version of the central store in Osiwen.

  Everyone turns and looks at them as Dek pulls off his woollen face protector and plasters on his best village idiot grin. “Hi. Come to buy some supplies.”

  “Pindoni,” a man in the corner rumbles. He gets to his feet and doesn’t look too happy to see them. “Why are you here?”

  Dek scratches his beard as Ren smiles disarmingly, picking up o
n the suspicion even though he doesn’t speak a word of the language. “Weeell—we got kind of lost. We were looking for seivk rock samples a ways north and my friend here says, hey, I’d like to collect some puipa plants. I says to him, it’s too early for puipa but he won’t take no for an answer, and so we went looking. I think we took a wrong turn—are we anywhere near Kulite?”

  That makes another of the listeners chuckle. “Kulite? That’s some wrong turn.”

  “Gentlemen, can I help you?” the storekeeper asks, shooting a glare at his customers.

  Dek turns to him gratefully. “Yes. We’re out of stores so we could do with flour, beans, any fresh vegetables....”

  The man shakes his head. “Vegetables? Got no fresh food, my friend. Supply’s been cut off for weeks now. You picked a bad time to come to Febkeinzian.”

  Dek plays dumb. “Isn’t the war over? I thought the rebels came to an arrangement with the government.” The man in the corner chuckles again, taking a delight in the idiocy of the strangers.

  “Nobody’s told the ones fighting in this region, if they have. You should get yourselves back home, if you know what’s good for you.”

  Dek asks how they can do that, and the bad news is that the Limodi river isn’t going to work for them. “The rebels hold Jikl Bridge and the lock there—that’s where our supplies are being turned away. What’s getting through, we have to pay a ‘tax’ on. I can’t afford it.”

  It seems the only alternative is to go further northeast and hope they can get on a rollo south. It’ll add time to their journey they can ill afford but they have no choice—they can’t get to Jurgizme Port by foot, not within the deadline imposed by Ren’s condition. Dek thanks the storekeeper, trades some of the uncured pelts they took off the dead poacher for a couple of bottles of syngas, and buys what food the man can spare. One of the idlers says he can sell Dek a salted quarter-gekel and Dek seizes on that, so the guy heads off to collect it. They’re invited to take their ease while they wait, and offered buga which Dek accepts, though mentally gritting his teeth. Ren takes one sniff and shakes his head, looking green at the very idea. “Sorry—he’s got a fragile stomach,” Dek explains.

  “Maybe he should eat less,” one of the men says, pointing at Ren’s protruding gut.

  “Yes, he’s on a diet. You should have seen him when we started,” Dek lies cheerfully, and though it sets Ren up for half an hour of less than good natured teasing and comments, it deflects attention from their real purpose, and establishes them both as fools. No one sees a fool as a threat, so that’s fine by him.

  The man with the meat returns—he asks what’s an outrageous price by Febkeinze prices but a mere pittance to Dek, and they take their leave. It’s pretty obvious Ren’s anxious to put as many pardecs between them and Heparnime as he can before nightfall.

  “Sorry about that,” Dek says after they’ve ridden a pardec in clenched jaw silence.

  “Not your fault,” Ren says, teeth still grinding. “You don’t just know how ironic it is to be mocked for overeating when I’ve been so hungry for years. Smug bastards.”

  “They’ve had their lean years too.”

  They make camp five pardecs from the town, and while eating the first full meal he’s had in over a week, Dek breaks the bad news to Ren. “Won’t the rollo be a target for the rebels too?” Ren asks.

  “Guess they tried and failed already. The situation’s not stable, you know that.”

  “I’ve just got this feeling like we’re not going to get there in time. It’s nearly a month by boat to the Weadenal, and I still have to find someone to help me. It might make me a coward, but I’m terrified, Dek. I look at my stomach and think, this is going to kill me.”

  Ren’s not a coward, and what he’s facing would scare anyone. “I’ll stick with you until you’re right,” Dek says. “Go with you to the Weadenal if I have to, help you find this Wechel. You won’t die. I won’t let you.”

  Ren put his hand out and squeezes Dek’s wrist. “Thank you. But I...think Wechel may not be very friendly towards you. His group were primarily interested in saving us because we’re fellow paranormals.”

  Dek cocks his head. “Thought they didn’t say anything about why they were rescuing you.”

  “They didn’t. I just picked up bits and pieces.”

  Dek frowns as Ren gets up, his hands under his belly like he’s trying to support it. “Back in a minute. I have to piss again.”

  The man’s hiding something, and it’s like being kicked in the balls. After all this time together, what they’ve been through together, Ren’s lying to him? Could the whole story be a crock of shit? Ren’s ease with a gun, his readiness to kill like a pro...that doesn’t fit with him being a doctor, or even a soldier since he’s so long past his service. But there’s the pregnancy, and the scars, and Ren’s nightmares are too real to be based on a lie. Dek would swear that Ren’s fear, his gratitude, his kindness are all real too—but maybe he’s just a good actor. He is a good actor, Dek’s seen him at it. He’s seen him at it today, in the store. None of the men there had suspected he could kill without blinking, or that he was concealing such a bizarre secret. Dek’s worked with men who could carry off that kind of act with the ease Ren’s displayed—and none of them were just simple doctors. But then none of them had been imprisoned for four years or forcibly impregnated, and Dek has no idea how that changes a man. That uncertainty stops him pushing harder for the truth than he thinks he ought to.

  Ren avoids his eyes when he gets back from the latrine, and doesn’t raise the issue. Dek waits and waits the rest of the afternoon as they do small chores and Ren avoids talking to him. Finally, much against his instincts, he confronts him as Ren’s cutting up vegetables for supper. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “About what?” Ren says, his eyes just a little too wide and innocent.

  “About anything.”

  “I’m not hiding anything, Dek.”

  “Are you working for the Weadenisis?”

  “No!”

  “Then why did they rescue you?”

  Ren grits his teeth and looks up. “I told you then, I’m telling you now. I know no more than they told me, and what I told you. They never explained, they never answered our questions. You want facts, ask them yourself when we meet up with them.” He gets up. “I’m tired. I’m going to lie down for an hour. Can you finish up?”

  Dek only nods. Ren certainly isn’t telling him everything, but if he’ll lie straight-faced, there’s not much Dek can do to force the issue. This isn’t the place for a full-on confrontation either.

  He doesn’t mention it again when Ren comes out of the tent to eat, and neither does Ren. The atmosphere between them is cooler though, and Ren presumably can sense Dek’s disapproval and suspicion. The fact he doesn’t comment on it only reinforces Dek’s feeling that he’s concealing the truth.

  Ren’s sleep is plagued by nightmares, but he acts cheerful the next morning, and with a full stomach, Dek feels better able to deal with whatever surprise lies in store for him. He figures nothing will happen until they get to the coast. He’ll keep his eye on his companion and trust him no more than he has to, but they have to get to the port first, and that’s weeks away.

  They have enough food for eight days if they’re careful. They’ll cross the Limodi before then, and go through one more town, though it may have even fewer supplies than Heparnime could provide. The nearest rollo station is two weeks further on from the river crossing, and then it’s a three day trip to the coast. The unknown factor is rebel incursion. They’ve seen no action, no sign of fighting, and the storekeeper said there’s been no trouble this far north—yet. But the insurgency is active and having too many successes for comfort. They can’t afford to be complacent.

  They ride together as they have been doing, but Ren seems to accept that things have changed. He makes little attempt to chat, and the easy companionship is now reduced to grunts and brief discussion of what needs to be done, what pl
ans are to be made for the next day and so on. Some of that’s Ren’s condition—he’s having a bad time of it and it’s getting worse. Each afternoon as he climbs off Wuzi, he almost collapses from exhaustion, and can only sit, his huge belly obscene between bent knees, watching Dek set up camp. Firewood is near impossible to get here, so they have to make do with the syngas which is fine for cooking, but doesn’t give them the comfort of a proper campfire. The nights are still shitting cold, though it gets hot enough at midday for them to have to remove their outer gear. In the tent Ren still presses hard against Dek, seeking his warmth, but there’s a coolness between them that no body heat can breach. Dek quietly mourns the loss of the friendship he’d barely begun to accept, but at the same time, it’s all he should expect from his shitty luck. He hardens his heart and prepares to be betrayed, even as he continues to do all he can to keep his companion healthy and safe. He’s given his word, after all.

  They’re able to buy more supplies at the next town, though at an outrageous price, and with more suspicion. Still no soldiers, but Dek’s dreading their first encounter since the increased rebel activity is bound to make the soldiers more wary. Surprisingly, there’s only a bored civilian guard at the river crossing and he listens to Dek’s story of moronic adventuring with only one ear. He’s more curious about Ren, and Dek confides in him that in fact his companion’s very ill and this is his last chance to visit Febkeinzian. The guard becomes sympathetic, says he hopes they get home safely and allows them across, to Dek’s intense relief. Ren doesn’t ask what they discussed. Perhaps the subject of false stories is a bit too close to home, Dek thinks sardonically.

  After they cross the river, they start to see worrying signs of the war—people heading in the other direction, all their belongings piled on gekels or urtibes, and in one case, an elderly veecle Dek thinks won’t make another five pardecs. It’s a trickle of refugees, not a flood—people who are lucky enough to have relatives elsewhere in the country and who are getting out before the real trouble starts. No one’s interested in why two Pindonis are headed the wrong way into a war zone, and no one gives them any trouble. Like Dek and Ren, they all just want to get where they’re going as quickly as they can.