Repatriation Pt2

jimber00 (25)in #fiction • 6 years ago (edited)

Roy's boots skidded on frost and gravel. Loose pebbles skittered down the verge and left craters in the snow bank. Pulling the crossbow into his chest, he leapt the twisted steel carcass of a crashed motorcycle, skipped left to avoid planting a boot through a leather-clad carcass that had been stripped clean by crows and other scavengers.

"Wait," he shouted again, flicking his gaze back to the ominous ridge and its bank of shadows.

The guy stepped away from the vehicle. Shoulders a continuous hump, he braced his hip against the van's lights. Roy noticed a quiver in the guy's fingers that raced up to his elbows.

"Hi," the man said, throwing a look to his trembling digits and crossing arms over chest to his the tremble. A half-smile crept across his pale, clean-shaven face. The expression looked more constipated than friendly.

"What can we do for you?"

Roy sprang the last few feet of embankment. Landed half-crouched in ankle-high snow before straightening up. Chin tilted down, mouth a hooked sneer, he jabbed a thick finger at the shuddering vehicle.

"You can kill that god damned engine right now."

Resting the bow against his shoulder, Roy Tucker stepped toward the sputtering machine. A crack barked from the exhaust, making him flinch into a half-crouch. Hinges screamed from the driver's door. A shotgun's twin eyes stared at him from around the thin panel. A furrow in his brow, Roy looked down, realised he'd instinctively aimed his bow at the blond man.

"Hey," he said, gently laying the weapon in the snow.

"You made me jump, that's all."

The rusted door squealed louder. Gun still trained on Roy's chest, a woman moved out into the open. Hazel eyes, only a shade lighter than her skin, bored into his. She dragged her tongue across chapped lips. Hammers clicked as she thumbed them back.

"We've got you out-gunned and outnumbered," she said, the slight hint of a South Asian accent touching the words.

"All we want is to fix the engine and get on our way."

Barrels still fixed on Roy's chest, she moved with a dancer's grace to the blond. She flipped a glance to her companion, eyes narrowing a fraction.

"Can you fix it?"

The guy flinched. His eyes bugged out of his skull and his mouth dropped. He slid a shaking hand from under his armpit and jabbed it in his chest.

"Yes, Dave," the woman snapped, rolling her eyes.

"You don't think I'm talking to the hobo with a crossbow, do you?"

Dave stammered. Shrugging his narrow shoulders, he thrust his head back under the hood. Left hand braced against the van's body, he poked around inside with his right.

"Uh..."

Roy snorted, hands flexing at his sides.

"I'd wager a Jerry can full of fuel your injector's screwed."

The woman jabbed her shotgun in his direction, fixed him with hazel eyes that burned with savage ferocity.

"No one asked you," she spat, blowing a loose strand of straight, black hair from her face.

"So why don't you pick up your toy and go back to wherever you came from?"

Roy shook his head. The short, sharp motions displayed his disbelief better than any words. Sweeping his weapon from the ground, he slipped it over his shoulder. He half-turned, ready to leave.

"What ever you say, lady."

Tucking a thumb into the belt around his rawhide long coat, Roy tipped his head toward the opposite verge. Shadows under the trees shifted with the viscosity of treacle. Small pebbles skittered down the snowy banks.

"But I'd recommend either getting that piece of junk moving real fast, or killing the engine and continuing on foot. All your banging and rumbling's drawn something from to the trees and I'm as certain it ain't friendly as I am that your injector's shot. Now, If you don't mind not putting any lead in my spine, I'll be off home to my nice, warm bunker."

"Maybe..."

"Shut it Dave. He's leaving."

Shrugging his shoulders, Roy began to climb the steep verge. He braced a hand against the snowy bank, felt his body heat leach from the contact. From over his shoulder, he heard the whispered back-and-forth between the two travelers. The hissed conversation died, cut short by the piercing note of a child's scream.

"Dammit," Roy barked.

He changed direction with a switch of his hips. Boots pounded across snow and uneven ground as if it were paving slabs. Arms slightly extended to aid his balance, he allowed himself to skid the last few feet of incline. He threw a quick glance at the woman before shouldering Dave's hunched form out of his way.

"Don't shoot and shut and that damned kid up."

Diving under the hood, Roy swept the battered engine with an experienced eye. The couple moved away, the crunch of footsteps compressing snow moved to the van's rear. The side-door squealed open on angry hinges. Choking sobs broke rattled the valley air.

"Christ on a bike!"

Roy ducked his head out from the bonnet. Steely grey eyes scanned the ridge line. Thick patches of shadow lurched. A large swathe of darkness seemed to drip slowly down the hillside. Sticking his tongue between his teeth, the old engineer returned to the purring engine. A flicker of motion caught his eye. He dipped muscular fingers inside, squeezed a vacuum hose back into position.

"There," he said, leaning out from the engine compartment and gently lowering the hood into place.

"Get in your van and get the hell out of here."

His words petered off into a whisper. The couple lent against the vehicle's side. Dave stood with a child cradled in his arms. Tight blonde curls contrasted with the kid's pale olive skin. Red rimmed her eyes. Dried mucus crusted around her lashes, nose and lips. She gasped for air, coughed so hard her tiny body shook in Dave's arms. Flecks of blood joined spattered her lips and Dave's pale blue shirt. The woman shot him a look, narrowed eyes daring him to speak. Without breaking eye-contact, she reached into a pocket, withdrew a handkerchief.

"Thanks for your help." she said, patting the kid's mouth clean.

"But we need to get out of here."

Rocks and debris trickled down the embankment. A fist-sized stone smashed into the van's tyre. Roy shot it a look, took in the looming shadows then returned to the woman.

"The kid's sick," he said.

"I can help."

The woman grimaced, stepped closer to her partner and wrapped an arm around the pair of them.

"So you're a doctor too, now?"

"No," he said.

"But I've got a bunker up in the hills. I have medicine, water and food."

He looked them over, noticed the grime on their skin and the grease on their hair. Engine oil, dirt and vomit crusted their clothes. The woman's jeans were ripped at the knees. Her plaid shirt had ripped at the shoulder seam.

"I have clothes too," Roy said, holding out his hands palms up.

"I don't I have anything in your style, but you'll be able to find something that fits."

The woman's eyes drifted from his, wandered over his right shoulder. Roy saw them change. Narrowed slits stretched wide with sudden fear. Her full, dark lips snapped open, releasing a hard exhalation.

"The gun," she barked, pushing Dave into the van's open door.

"Where's the damned gun?"

Limbs buzzing with adrenal energy, Roy slipped his bow from his shoulder and spun on a heel. Amber eyes stared into his. The chemical stink of mutation filled his throat.

"Get in the van," he barked.

"Get in the god damned van."

Read Part 1 Here. Roy's boots skidded on frost and gravel. Loose pebbles skittered down the verge and left craters in the snow bank. Pulling the crossbow into his chest, he leapt the twisted steel carcass of a crashed motorcycle, skipped left to avoid planting a boot through a leather-clad carcass that had been stripped clean by crows and other scavengers.