Dusk Territories: Always Burning (16 page)

“Run along now,” Ragnar edged on.

She ran away, auburn locks in the wind behind her. He gave a sigh, shifting himself on the ground, mud covering his shredded pants.

“Raggy still has a soft spot for playing doctor!”

Ragnar frowned, as he cleaned his bloody hands; the blood seeped into the colorless water of a bucket. He gave a large grunt, licking the rest clean that he couldn’t wash. “I wasn’t playing “doctor” River. I
am
a doctor. That didn’t precipitously change overnight.”
Though a lot of other things did.

River smiled, twirling into Ragnar’s sight. The two of them wore cloaks to the village, in case someone saw them. She had no qualms in burning the city down if someone was
stupid
enough to try and kill them. Ragnar, however, thought it would be a better idea. For a man who could slip easily into rage and murder, he was soft at times. “Weakness is cute, you know. That’s the only real thing it’s good for.” She cocked her head to see the man’s face under the mottled hood.

He looked to her with a dark glare. “A little weakness breeds a lot of strength. But you wouldn’t know about that, little girl.
” Ragnar gritted his yellow teeth like a bear. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

River ran her fingers through the mess of Ragnar’s beard, looking at him—or rather through him. “I did what I came to do, of course.” She paused for a second, processing the previous statement. “But, Raggy,” she whispered, void of tendrils of her jubilant tone, “I know about weaknesses. I watched mine die.” She traced his face with her index finger down his cheekbone.

A sting followed the movement of her fingers, slowly burning where her skin touched his. “You are very
lucky
that I enjoy your company.”

River felt the cold touch of a knife—or rather a scalpel—at her throat. “You are lucky that I need yours.”

The stalemate lasted a few long seconds, each feeling each other out in case of any changes in plans. None could work without the other. So, they broke away staring at each other with contempt. River was the first to change her expression, adopting her smile again. She brushed her hair from her face. “Not yet, Raggy! We have better things to do! We have a party to set up, silly. What kind of host would we
be
if we weren’t there first?”

Ragnar opened his mouth to speak.

“A bad host! That’s what kind of host we would be. Who would come to River Valentine’s parties if I have a bad host reputation!”

“Everyone knows to avoid your parties…”

“Stop being a party pooper.” River slapped him on a head, as though they were the best of friends. “The Boneyard is already a few miles away, and I’ve set a trap for the Drifter. It should allow my—“she giggled for a moment, “My—“she tapped her chin. “My buddy to meet with his side of the bargain. We can’t exactly attack a well-armed caravan on our own…can we?”

“I had some men.”

“And they died! Imagine that!”

Foam fumed from the corners of Ragnar’s lips. He knew that. A lot of men, maybe not the best men, died that day. Drifter and his new undead toy had killed them. Men that he had known for years were dead at that soldier’s hands. And Drifter, well…he had started the crack in Ragnar’s mind, the crack the killed Dr. Scott Owen. Working with River was means to an end. It was fleeting until he accomplished his goal, then she would be dead. Alliances didn’t need to be long.

When one side got what they wanted, the bonds keeping them together would crumble.
He would wait, take on her games and her jokes. That would be until he saw the chain that kept them together at his feet. Ragnar reeled in the fury in his heart. “Joke all you wish. I’m going to get what I want…”

“And I’m going to get what I want!” She danced around him, moving like water. “But will you...” River ran her fingers down to Ragnar’s stomach. “What you wanted sat at the bottom of your tummy. Did that little girl remind you of her? How
did
your wife and unborn daughter taste?”

By reflexes alone, River managed to dodge the arch of the battleaxe raining down towards her head. The heavy weapon slammed into the ground, ripping through the thick mud as though it was butter. “Don’t ever talk about them…”

“Blame Drifter all you want. You’re the one that killed her. Hehehe.”
River backed away. “Maybe I pushed
too many
buttons. Have a nice day, Raggy!”

Ragnar clutched the axe, watching the young girl skip away once again. One day, she wouldn’t be skipping away. That day she would look down at her broken legs, begging for every mercy to every god she could fathom. None of them would listen to her prayers. They would just smile, watching as one of the other riders to hell sent her there early. That would be a good day. That would be the best.

9

Mangroves and Pine Straw

“A distant memory set off a film of colors in his head. Tangled roots curling underneath still water, the spicy smell of the pine trees and moss, it reminded him of home. Gears in his mind began to churn

Preparation and fear knew each other fairly well, Graham wagered. The news of River spread from ear to ear. Younger members panicked at the thought of such a person. Older people kept their cool, but were still frighten as they held their children’s hands and told them it was going to be okay. The “Messenger” they had called her. When she came, problems arose. They were going to have to deal with these problems.

That’s why this marksmen training felt today.

The caravan themselves were only a few miles away from the village of Rootgrove, a small settlement on the border of what was Georgia and Florida. Rootgrove sat on St. Mary’s River, nearing the Okenokee Swamp. Through there was the only real entrance into the safe haven in the radioactive hotspot of the Boneyard. Whoever was pursing or setting a trap for them would undoubtedly be at the village or at the entrance of the treacherous death grounds.

So, his little group would need to be ready.

Marksmen training had been going rather smoothly, in comparison to physical training. The state of the world had taught everyone one thing, how to use a gun. If you didn’t know, the men with more skill or “unique” gifts would get to you first. However, this wasn’t just learning how to shoot. Anyone can point a gun and fire. A true master needed to learn how to shoot: when, where, and how. Fingers needed to be primed, eyesight keen, all the while having their breath held or regulated. They weren’t learning how to shoot, they were mastering it.

Drifter had provided them with several guns for practice. They had carried them away to the deeper parts of the mangroves, trudging through water and mud to get here. Weapon training was required, but they could risk being heard in the openness of the land. Here, amongst the trees and the canopy of thousands of leaves
, only the animals could hear. If they became a threat, then Graham would handle them.

Graham chose to let them all master one weapon, the M16, first before progressing into a suitable main and secondary weapon of their choosing. The choice between that and the M4 weighed in Graham’s mind as he talked to Raleigh before this. M16 won out a bit more, due to his fondness of it and the natural learning curve of the weapon. He guided them through the proper techniques; handling, operation, maintenance, and shooting. His words held meticulous detail, each topic with the care that his instructors had taught him.

With the instruction portion over, the teacher took his place on the sidelines.

Mostly, they were getting better. Emelle and Forrest was each a bit lazy with their shots. Tyrus, used to a closer ranged weapon, had a bad habit of firing too quickly. Juvenico’s problem lied in he never really held a two-handed gun. Raleigh was almost perfect with his shot. But, the kicker was Rachael who mastered the weapon with almost beautiful accuracy and efficiency.
Damn. I can’t even give her pointers right now.

“Rachael!”

The young girl lowered the gun from her sights, turning with a grin. “Yes, sir,” she chimed, her voice as sweet and innocent as ever. She swept her hair from her face. Graham opened his mouth to bark about safety, but she beat him too it.
Ahead of the game, aren’t you?

“A bit good with that gun,” Graham said, trying to keep an unimpressed tone, “who taught you to do that?”

Forrest lowered his gun for a moment.
“You haven’t heard, boss.” He raised his gun again, shooting a spray that hit the target with better accuracy than before. “
She’s Bardon’s kid.”

Amongst his short time in the Caravan, Graham didn’t know a man by the name of Bardon. “Don’t know of his name, who is he?”

Forrest couldn’t answer. His concentration persisted in a set of fire, sloppier than the previous. He grunted. Instead, his wife, Emelle answered. “Bardon Grimstad. He’s a personal friend of the Drifter, even before all of this. Very scary looking man if you don’t mind a little gossip, sweetie.”

A small chime echoed in Graham’s mind. That name, it sounded familiar. He couldn’t recall when or where he had heard the man, but it was there.

“He wasn’t that scary,” Rachael said, shooting another round perfectly into a log, this time splitting it in half. “He’s easy going for the most part. Just…”

“Deadly—“

“Learn to shoot your gun before speaking, Juv,” Graham said interrupting the man. The tan skinned man frown, focusing through the iron sights of the gun.

“He was a soldier, like you, Mr. Graham. He would teach me how to shoot sometimes. Archery mostly, he was quite fond of shooting his bow and arrows. Occasionally though, he would teach me how to shoot guns. I guess it stuck.” Rachel effortlessly shot another burst, but this time shooting Juvenico’s almost untouched log. It was an impressive shot, so good in fact it even made Graham lean forward. Normally, a soldier would get chastised for showing off. It didn’t happen this time. Rachel was getting payback for the grief she got in physical training.
We’re all too busy eating crow to say anything about it.

Juvenico whistled his impression.

“Is he still at the camp?” Graham asked.

“No,” Rachael said, sighing. “One day, he just…disappeared. No trace. I talked to Drifter about it, and…”

“He didn’t give you a straight answer,” Tyrus finished, mimicking the girl’s technique almost flawless.

At least, someone was getting my point of focusing the conversation on Rachael.

“No, he didn’t,” she whispered. “But I know he’s alive. He won’t die so easily.”

“Grim Face and Drifter were always really good friends.” Raleigh loaded his gun. He had been the most focused out of the group, so speaking and shooting was almost impossible for the chunky man. “Don’t see why he would ever just up and leave, especially without his only daughter.”

“He probably had a good reason…” Rachael sighed. “How about you, sir? What about your father?”

The question stirred a memory in the back of Graham’s mind. He followed the thoughts as though it was connected by an endless amount of strings. He surveyed his surroundings: the sound of crickets singing, long and green Spanish moss cascading from the trees, the smell of the murky water. It reminded him of his father: a stern, shrewd, and short man. He took him out to places like this, a long time ago. “He was a…very serious man….” Euphoria slipped into his head as he swayed.

The camp went silent as Graham touched the side of his temples. “Shit—I think I’m starting to remember things.”

_

The thought had accompanied Graham through the journey back to the camp. For the majority of the time back, he worked through the memories that surfaced from the back of his mind. Reawakening was confusing. He would remember short burst of memory, but never the whole idea. Yet now, something just clicked. Everything but one thing stood out now in his brain. That day. The day that killed him. It was still blurry as an unfocused camera.

The feeling of the day touched him. The pain, a gunshot wound. He touched the side of his face where his skin stopped, stripped away from the side of his cheek and jaw. The bullet had hit there, through his cheek, shattering his teeth. Metal sung through his jaw and out the side of his head, marked by the hairless patch of darker bruised purple on his temple.
Or maybe he had it backwards. Maybe he was shot in the head and the bullet came through his teeth.
Falling happened next. His limbs felt as though they were water in his memory. He had died then, only to be reanimated.

The rest of his group quietly let their “CO”—as they called him—think. Occasionally, they would ask him questions. His answers were usually terse—icy but untouched by annoyance. It wasn’t until they were halfway back to the caravan that he issued orders as the authoritative voice that everyone knew. “We’re going to Rootgrove 16 o’clock. Check on anything that you can possibly help on. Raleigh, I know that you need to work on the guns. You should finish those before we get to Rootgrove. Drifter didn’t specify if the village was safe or not.”

“Have they told you why we’re going to the Boneyard?” Raleigh asked, grabbing the bag of guns from the struggling Forrest with ease.

No. They hadn’t. Graham thought to ask, of course. Questioning wasn’t in his nature, so he went on for the ride. There was a time to ask for the objective. It wasn’t when the soldier wanted. He trusted in Drifter enough to know that the briefing would come. If it didn’t, he would ask then. “Negat—no,” he said catching himself from slipping into jargon, he promised not to be that guy. “But you guys know the Drifter better than me, is danger ahead?”

The group shared a look amongst each other, chorusing murmurs.

“I’m going to take that as a yes. Eat up and get prepared.”

“What about you?”

Juvenico had asked the question, but it had been on everyone’s mind.

Graham shook his head.
Dammit, now everyone knows
. How exactly they figured it out was beyond him. More than likely, Pub or Haggis—the two had been drinking quite a bit the night before—might have let it slip. Blame wasn’t going to get him anywhere. This needed to be handled at one point or another. Security is what they needed. Security that meant: I’m not going to tear you apart. “I don’t need to eat as often as you,” he started, wearily picking his words as though they were grapes for a wine, “Just enough…enough that’s alive. To keep me alive. Dammit.”