Men of Truth (The Wasteland Soldier #4)
Chapter 9

Eighteen-year old Bobby Reardon stood at the boarded up window, staring through a crack at the snow-covered park across the street.

He was five ten with a shaggy mane of dirty blond hair hanging around his long face, curling onto bare shoulders. He was naked, skin pale and freckled, and his hand scratched idly at a long scar on his hairless chest.

Outside, it was a little after dawn and trees bent in the wind. He saw a branch snap and skitter away. He didn’t like it when stuff died and left him. He couldn’t wait for the time of flowers and warmth. That was when he enjoyed going into the park. This time of year it looked miserable and bare, a lumpy blanket of dirty white hiding the walkways and swathes of grass. He thought back to balmy summer evenings riding along the parched canal with his brother, Chuck, shadowed by a fringe of maple trees. They would spend all day together. But they were no longer children, the canal was clogged with old rubbish now, and the grooves from their tyres had long since worn away.

A wood burner crackled, flooding the room with heat. He lit a hand-rolled cigarette and the tip glowed as he filled his lungs. Cigarette hanging, he closed his eyes, began to flog his semi-aroused cock. His head jammed with fond times of gatherings in the park. He could see huge cooking fires and hear laugher. He was surrounded by family and friends once again. Everyone was an aunt or uncle or cousin, even if they weren’t. There was drink, nakedness, food and brawls. He must have been six or seven years old when he’d first glimpsed tits and bush. It was a vivid memory. They didn’t belong to his Ma because she had died giving birth to Chuck. The big lump must have torn her open getting out.

He couldn’t remember a single thing about his Ma. But there were always women around, always a substitute Ma if needed a hug or deserved a clip. The woman he saw naked might have been one of his aunts or adopted aunts. He had no idea. She had tits that were small and pointed up toward the sky and a bush that was ginger and wild. She had marks on her, across her belly and her tits, like the marks he had on his chest, only more of them. She had a mark around her neck as well. Like a red ring on her skin. It looked weird.

Da had been nailing her. He dragged her onto her feet and made her stand before him. Small tits and ginger bush. Bobby had run away. Da had found him later that night and beaten him black and blue. Looking or running away, it didn’t really matter why. One beating was the same as the next. Bobby knew from an early age he could take a beating from anyone because no one could ever match the beating your Da gave you.

But the civil war came. He had been seven or eight.

Kiven had chosen to annexe its neighbours and seize the green fields and fresh water rivers of Ennpithia. They intended to smash the Holy Houses with the huge crosses and kill the Holy Soldiers. But war wasn’t only an idea, Bobby realised, it was an actual thing, a living thing. And things that lived needed feeding. The trucks came and Da and the other men were recruited into the ranks of the League of Restoration. They were driven away, handed weapons and banners, and ordered to kill.

There were no more fires and no more parties.

The fighting dragged on for years until the belly of the living thing called war got full and swollen. Documents were signed, leaders strung up and men returned.

Da came back but not the Da that had left. He no longer lit the huge cooking fire in the park. He no longer sat on the old benches singing and telling stories. He no longer laughed when he drank. Bobby remembered getting beat more than he’d ever been beaten before. Da had left a bad man and returned a cruel one. But Bobby got it and took his beatings. He understood. War was a thing and when they sent your Da back home he came back as the thing itself.

He sat on the edge of his bunk, thinking of the woman with the small tits and ginger bush.

She left when the war came, dumping the boys with Michelle Creagh. Fat God they called her. She loved the cross despite being Kiven born. She made them kneel. She made them pray. She stank of piss and sweat and farted like a man. She humped in the bedroom. They all heard her groaning and crying out. He’d see her naked and wanted to puke. She was shapeless with giant white rolls of flesh and tits that swung toward her knees. He couldn’t see her bush. The fat hid it. She had two boys, the same as Da. There were wee ones as well. It was a noisy house of noisy children.

Bobby fought with the brothers all the time, bare-knuckle. But no grudges were ever held. It was a family thing. They ate around a table, cleaned floors, picked up the leaves in autumn. Michelle took them to Panola Avenue and taught them how to steal, and cut, and what it took to survive amongst the hustlers, dealers, whores, hired guns and gangs.

He opened his eyes. Released his hand. He was ready. His brother was sprawled in his bunk, arms and legs akimbo.

“Chuck!”

There was a groan.

“C’mon, Chucky boy. It has to be now.”

He spoke fast, a lilt to his words.

“C’mon, you shite.”

“No,” said Chuck, eyes shut.

Bobby grinned, pulsing with excitement.

“Chuck.”

“I’m tired.”

“C’mon, Chuck, get up. C’mon, wake up, you half-wit.”

His cock strained. He didn’t want to lose it.

“Get your fucking ass outta that bed, you lazy fucking cunt, you. Or I’ll batter the fuck out of you.”

Chuck snapped open his eyes.

“Put that away, Bobby.”

“Aye, aye, you’re just jealous, that’s all.”

“I’m not.”

“You fucking are, baby brother.”

Chuck giggled. “Aye, baby is right, Bobby.”

Bobby slapped him. “Move, you bastard.”

Chuck smacked his dry lips together. Throwing back the covers, he shuffled toward the piss bucket and let out a loud yawn as he relieved himself. He started for the door, dragging his grubby feet. He was heavier than his older brother and taller, but with the same pale complexion and shaggy blond hair. He wore trousers several sizes too big but no shirt.

He stopped at the door, looking worried.

“Are you sure, Bobby?”

“Aye, I’m sure.”

“Da will be pissed.”

“He’s always pissed.”

“I mean, he’ll be pissed at us.”

“And I mean he’s always pissed at us. Go, baby brother. Or I’ll sing to you.”

Chuck grimaced.

“Not singing.”

“I will.”

“Bad enough waking to see that scrawny maggot. Not singing as well.”

“Bastard,” said Bobby.

Chuck grinned, and disappeared through the door. Bobby lit a fresh hand-rolled cigarette.

He hummed. “C’mon, Chucky Chuck. See me, Chucky Chuck. I’m the best, Chucky Chuck. You’re the …”

* * *

Chuck passed through a sliding door into a kitchen with a high ceiling. There was a table and scattered chairs. The air was damp and reeked of stale tobacco. Haphazard splinters of grey light filtered through a boarded window. Chuck could no longer hear Bobby singing. He wished his older brother would shut his mouth and stop making so much noise. The idiot would wake him if he wasn’t careful. He sighed. His stomach was uneasy.

He knew what they were doing was wrong. Da would be furious. He’d batter the life out of them.

This was a lousy, shitty idea. But what Bobby wanted Bobby got and Chuck tagged along.

There was another sliding door at the end of the kitchen. It had a cracked panel. He rolled it open. The room beyond had bare brick walls. There was a blocked doorway that led into the yard and a narrow window covered with iron bars. A metal fan hung from the ceiling. It had a dirty cord dangling from it and made a clicking sound when pulled but nothing else happened. There was a workbench scattered with material and rusted tools. More rusted tools were hanging from a warped peg board and there were tubs of small rusted things covered in dust. Along one wall were several block-shaped metal things. One had a round door and one had a lid. There was lettering across the front and dials and grimy-looking cables. There was a gummed vent in the wall and narrow metal pipes travelling into the floor. None of it made any sense. None of it interested him.

He heard a creak somewhere in the house and looked around, his heart suddenly racing.

No, no, no, he didn’t want to be here. But what Bobby wanted Bobby got and Chuck tagged along. Sᴇaʀ*ᴄh the (ꜰind)ɴʘvel.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

He stood before an oblong-shaped thing wedged in the corner. It had dull panels that were cracked and chipped. There was a faded picture of a red metal can on the front with writing across it.

Chuck could handle a few words and letters but he couldn’t read this word.

“I can read,” he’d tell Bobby.

“Then what does it say? Eh? Eh?”

“I don’t know that word.”

“Aye, that’s ’cause you’re stupid, Chucky.”

“I’m not stupid.”

“You are.”

“I’m not.”

“You fucking are, Chucky Chuck Chuck. You’re a big useless dummy. You can’t fucking read.”

“I can read. I just can’t read that word. You’re the idiot, Bobby. You can’t read any words, so you can’t.”

Bobby would slap him for that. And then Chuck would slap him back and they’d brawl for awhile, battering each other and spilling blood until they grew tired and collapsed on their bunks. There were never any apologies or reassurances afterwards because none were needed; they were brothers. They would smoke dope and sift through the large amount of treasure they’d taken from townhouses and apartment lofts and department stores when Da let then out on raids. They had boxes with cables and smaller boxes with worn buttons and flat boxes with faded pictures that snapped open, holding shiny discs inside that spun wild through the air when thrown.

The treasure was hoarded beneath their bunks. Sometimes they stacked the boxes that had contained the shiny discs. They built skyscrapers with them and took on the roles of wrecking machines from the first age. They watched the world crumble wide-eyed and breathless. They played cards for the treasure, drinking and smoking and cheating and arguing. Sometimes they owned a market stall, taking turns at being the stallholder and the customer. Da used to call them his little treasure hunters. My little bastard treasure hunters, so you are. He would grin and slap them on the back. Chuck wondered when the grins became sneers, the slaps became punches and they became only bastards.

He sighed and thought back to last night’s conversation with Bobby, long after supper and deep into the night.

“He’ll never know,” said Bobby.

“I’m not sure.”

“Shut up, Chuck, you’re doing my head in, so you are.”

He blew smoke toward the ceiling. Chuck sat up on his bunk.

“Why are you like that with me? Why do you always make me feel shit when I talk about things?”

“’Cause you’re acting like a wee one.”

“I’m worried, Bobby.”

“Aye.”

“I’m just saying …”

“You’re just saying. I’ll tell you what you’re saying. Wah wah wah. That’s all you’re fucking saying.”

Chuck laughed.

Bobby laughed

“Will it be OK?” asked Chuck.

Bobby hugged him.

“I swear it.”

Chuck replayed the words. I swear it. He took comfort from them. Bobby never lied to him.

He turned his attention to the oblong-shaped thing in the corner. It was a giant white box. A giant white box with a faded red can on the front. The hinges of the lid had rusted to nothing so it was weighted with a small engine. Some nights they forgot to place the engine on the lid. Some nights they even forgot to put the lid on the box. But they never forgot to tie the lead to the iron hook. It was high up on the wall, out of reach.

He lifted off the engine, propped the lid against the wall and untied the lead.

It was a length of rope. They’d used a piece of chain before but rust had eaten away at the rings.

The rope fed into the box and was attached to a collar.

He gave it a gentle tug.

Obediently, a girl climbed out of the box.

He caught her chin, tilted her head back. Her face was numb. She refused to look at him. He shook her head from side to side.

Slowly, she met his eyes. There was nothing in them. He placed a finger against his lips.

* * *

She wore a coat and boots.

They took off the coat but left her boots on. She had no other clothes. The room was gloomy. The air was rank with unwashed bodies. She didn’t cry out or fight. She didn’t make any sound. She hadn’t for a long time now. She no longer thought about escape or resistance. They were only words and she had no use for words. There was life in the box and life outside the box and nothing else.

She had no idea that she would never see the box again and that only two words remained for her and they would be the most important words of her life.

Only that wasn’t now.

That was later.

* * *

The brothers dressed. She put the coat back on and waited. The collar was around her throat. The rope draped limply across the floor.

Chuck said, “We’re in so much trouble.”

“No, we’re not.”

“He always goes first.”

“Not today he didn’t.”

“But you know how he gets.”

“I don’t care.”

“Aye, you do, Bobby. I don’t like it when you say that. You do care.”

“Stop being a fucking pussy,” said Bobby. He ran his hands through his hair. “I’m getting sick of his rules. It’s always his way. What about me and you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t put her back.”

“We have to.”

“You said he’d know.”

“What are going to do then?”

“What if we get him a new one?”

Chuck nodded.

“That’s a good idea. But he’ll still know you went first.”

Bobby grinned.

“Then we’ll recycle her to the Junk Men. Get Da a new one on the way.”

“I’m not sure. I don’t like the Junk Men.”

“You don’t have to like them, Chuck. Go fetch the sign. Gotta make sure everyone knows.”

Chuck nodded.

Because what Bobby wanted Bobby got and Chuck tagged along.

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