GunBarrel Gauntlet: The Last Bronze II

30. The Torch of Olympus.

Later the following day, a vehicle towing a series of caged trailers slithered its way out of the heatwaves, each trailer segment loaded with the confined bodies of pickups and reclaimed runaways that had been caught in the patrols along the Gauntlet.

Carrion and Shamrock could see each other in the cramped cages when the trailers had flexed off the highway, turning ninety degrees west over a rail crossing toward a twisted fortress of pipes and girders that stood out from the barren hills . In the desolate fields rushing by, human skin canvases dried over bed frames in the glare of late noon.

The Nomad had been caught as well, forced into another cage somewhere in the towline. Like the others he had been discovered wandering near the Gauntlet that morning, delivered there by the Kenworth truck that had previously carried the water during the ill-fated exchange.

Packed-earth walls surrounded the complex above the ditch moat they had been raised from, some narrow bridges of pipeline extending from the buildings to the vanishing point of the horizon, amidst the shimmer of further distant structures.

Pausing on the far side precipice of the great drawbridge of Gaswells, counterweights dropped on chains as the span unfolded and aligned with the corridor of road and rail line that led back to the Gauntlet. As they passed over the bridge, the avenue into the complex narrowed their view to witness the burning peak of Mount Olympus, the highest venting tower rippling with the flames of the Torch of Olympus, a totem symbol for the raiding tribes whom believed they would be eternal so long as they were strong enough to continue feeding the sacred fire with the factory by-product fumes.

Somewhere in the grease filtered light of the underground tunnels, they were herded like slaughter yard arrivals, electrocuted to stay in line with the cattle prods or stunned with the smack of a jack club.

"You will release your bodywater here! All of you!" A bass voice cried out over the shuffling queue. "Every last drop!"

Bedpans and water jugs hung from a tiered rack against the concrete wall, each captive given a vessel to squat over, chipped enamel or a neck-less plastic bottle. Once their bladder's had been emptied, the contents were poured into an acrid smelling vat to collect the putrid brine.

"Keep moving forward, toward the light! Move! Tell the People Critic your sorrowful tale and be judged as a cunning man, or a fool!"

Waiting under a lamp bulb at the junction of a T-intersection, a frowning man whose head was encased by a cage helmet licked the end of a pen in preparation.

"Name, age, and occupation?" The People Critic asked with monotone boredom.

The scrawny man before Shamrock peered down both passages of the intersection then gulped.

"Tea-bag, twenty and five years since the Big One, just passin' through."

"Dogmeat." The Critic spoke after he had written some notes of the prisoner's general physique in his ledger. "Take him away."

Screaming for mercy as the Critic's guards surrounded his personal space, the scrawny man was dragged away to the left, still on his knees begging for their clemency until his howls had been replaced by the background machinery.

"Next!"

Shamrock was kicked forward to stand before the Critic.

"Name, age, and occupation?"

"Paddy, thirty two, I'mma Grease-Easy, bikes and sedans, anything on wheels really." He winked.

"You're in luck, Paddy. A position has become available in the workshops, due to some minor losses on the roads these past few days." The Critic met his gaze with lazy brown eyes. "Take him to Mr Screw-Right for further proof of his credentials."

Compelling hands caught Shamrock by his shoulders and upper arm, forcing his to walk with them into the right tunnel. He turned to look for Carrion and the Bronze in the headcount of misery, unable to see them before his departure into the new passage.

Minutes later, a bald woman with an eye-patch stepped into the yellow glare of the overhead lamp. The Critic was still writing in his ledger about the preceding captive when his task was interrupted by a guard whispering through the grid of his helmet.

"Name?" The Critic asked.

"Carrie." Carrion offered.

"Take her away for interrogation; Zeus or Boudisha may want to speak with her first, make sure she's restrained."

Fighting back against the encroaching ring of guards became a losing struggle, the combined strength of the many leading her away under duress.

At the tail end of the captives, the Nomad was one of the final dozen to be interviewed by the man in the cage helmet. Before the other could ask, he gave his three terse answers:

"Nomad, early thirties, driver."

"Driver? Of what? The cleanup crew didn't mention finding you with any vehicle, can't have been a very good one if you lost your wheels." The Critic looked down his nose at the Wastelander.

"My gasoline tank went dry, can't ride without it."

"You want another set of wheels, is that it stranger? Very well." He turned aside to address the waiting guards, "Put him in tonight's show, as a rodeo clown..."

* * *

Shamrock had soon proven himself capable to the chief mechanic in the garage workshops, the one they called 'Mr Screw-Right'. Inside the maintenance sheds that were piled with relic machinery, the Irishman had revived an old tractor motor as a practical demonstration for the oil stained man, whom soon set him to work with a salvaging team.

The recent influx of automobiles and spare parts had come from the Junkyards. Shamrock not only recognized the evident burn marks and melted plastic, he had also recognized the armoured hull of Audrey across the warehouse with the rest of their stolen vehicles.

Excusing himself to find a replacement part, he surreptitiously crept further away from the other mechanics, using the walls of storage shelving to work himself close enough to the Kenworth w900 that he could crouch down and spy on it through the gap between the shelved pieces.

Leather boots entered his crouched view of the far workshop, two men walking toward the black Enforcer.

"Here she is, like I promised." Screw-right proclaimed to the other. "Eleven-hundred scee-scee Enforcer special. Near complete."

"Where'd you find it?" The other man asked, his voice familiar to Shamrock in some indefinable way he could not as yet guess at.

"Junkyards, they rescued her and the hauler with some other choice kits before they tore the place apart. As soon as I saw it roll in here I thought of you, Baron."

The name 'Baron' jump-started Shamrock's memory, recalling a few frames from a scene, a marauder dressed in police leathers riding directly toward Shamrock's sense of perspective, on a country road from his shared past with the Bronze.

"... rumour has it that the owner was none other than The Lion. He teamed up with the crew that stole Zeus's haitch-two, apparently left the bike behind." Screw-right finished answering the Baron's questions.

Rising cautiously from behind the shelving to achieve a height in which he could see the Baron's face, Shamrock's heart squeezed with a waking déjà-vu.

"There wouldn't be any of these left intact on the roads now, I know; I used to ride one of these, when I had a badge..."

Mr Screw-right became visibly wary at the mention of a badge.

"... you didn't know? Sure, I was once part of the Force. So were many other survivors. Once there was no law left to maintain on the roads, why go on being a copper, eh?"

"What about the previous owner? Reckon he was still wearing a badge?"

"The Lion!? Nah." Wrapping his fingers around a handle grip, the Baron flexed his wrist as though he were riding, compressing the brake levers as he tested the response. "There ain't any men with badges left in this world. Those few who kept their badges on were just easy target practice by the end."