How the Mighty Fall
Bennett strode the well-worn pathways of his encampment, the day was fine but still unusually cool considering the season was fast heading into spring. He idly wondered if the heat would be as oppressive this year, the weather had sure been strange. Dust coated the toes and soles of his once bright, black biker boots and he looked up to the sky with his equally cold blue eyes and sighted a half-eaten moon visible by daylight.
My how he had fallen in the recent year. Unlike many who were just happy to be still among the living, Wezley Bennett always wanted more. Where had he erred, he thought somewhat miserably, as he paced with purpose toward the ammunition storage that was situated close by his own domicile.
Perhaps it was the need for safe water, the desire to cling to its safety and proximity that had been his biggest failing? Not even beginning to question that he was just lucky to still be counted among the living after the turmoil of the war, and the chaos that ensued. Perhaps he should have made more use of the remaining, cars, and motorcycles before the fuel had finally faded. He could see in hindsight that decisions that may have seemed trivial in those early days, would now return to affect him greatly.
The cruel leader realized that he would have to inspire his remaining men who now numbered very few. He had only six men left, and he knew could count on five of them; however, he was not so sure of Sven anymore. The big man had lost his desire for blood, that much was evident. Bennett wondered if it was a product of his disfigurement, or perhaps he had a family and more to lose than the others did. Either way, he felt he could no longer depend on the big man, as his loyalties lie elsewhere.
He didn't like that thought much, he had killed men for far less. Yet even one as cold-blooded as Wezley felt he at least owed something to this man, that friend who had stood by him so steadfastly for the past eight years. Perhaps when he departed, and he knew he must, he would free Sven from his duty. Leave him behind with the few slave women and his child. They were little use to him after all. They could take their chances here in the wastes, but his future lie further south.
He had originally intended to stay here a bit longer, however, with the escape of Jormugar he reasoned it may well be time to depart this place. He was stalling the inevitable after all. The weather had improved, and there was little excuse not to leave.
He inwardly admonished himself for letting the man abscond, it had been uncharacteristically careless of him. He didn't rightly know what he sensed, but he felt that staying in this place may bring more misfortune to him. Jormugar had freely confessed to being a bounty hunter, that fact did not necessarily worry Bennett. As far as he was aware there would be no reason for the 'civilized' world to level any bounties against any who dwelt here, with the exception perhaps of Gareth. Any and all acts of savagery his men had committed had occurred after the commencement of complete societal breakdown. But the feeling was there regardless.
His meandering stroll had brought him to the doors of a shipping container patched in peeling blue paint and spotted in rust. They were padlocked shut with a sturdy length of chain. He fumbled with black-gloved hands for the keys tucked into the breast of his beaten leather jacket. The lock resisted at first, and Bennett had to tap it roughly to remove the sand in the mechanism. The noise is strident in the silent camp. Begrudgingly the key grated into the lock and the chain slid to the sand.
The door hinges moaned in protest in their un-oiled state, as he pushed wide one of the doors to enter. There the eight gray warheads sat to the fore of the storage, behind them were ammunition crates and an assortment of plastic boxes housing all manner of projectiles. The gold brass of their metal casings shone in the half-light, like that of a pirate trove. Weapons leaned on the sides of the shipping container, rifles standing on their stocks, sharp-bladed axes and knives interspersed with the occasional sword.
His stock in trade, the tools of war. Without which he was nothing. He knelt, pulling off his kid skin gloves, and touched the casings with his rough, battle-scarred hands. It was as though he were communing with death, and his thin cruel lips twisted into an almost deranged smile.
These beauties were the answer to that which he sought, he ruminated, as he caressed the steel bodies of the projectiles like a lover.
How though to deploy them?
They were made to be dropped from aircraft, there had to be another solution, but no one here in his camp had the technical ability to give him that answer. He had been wracking his brain over this problem ever since he laid eyes on them, yet he had come up empty.
He knew one thing though, they must go back for more. Perhaps he may find an answer to his conundrum if they returned to Wentworth.
*****
Later that very day Bennett had sent Gareth and Dwayne back to the oasis in the hope that some of the horses had survived the winter to be in good enough condition to travel. They would use one of the two drays that were parked on the rise overlooking the camp if they had two strong animals to pull it that was.
He hoped the men would return bearing good news. At times the leather-clad marauder felt as though he was fast running out of options, and he wondered if truly he could take that fortress of his dreams with but a handful of men and a few well-placed weapons? The odds were stacked against him, he had failed miserably last time after all, and after the escape of Renard he had no bargaining chip left with the folk of the farmlands.
In the dark, as he lay next to his slave boy that evening the idea even to him seemed ludicrous. Yet he had to try, for a Warlord with no one to lead would be no Warlord at all. He was afraid of being relegated to a thing of the past. A dinosaur.
*****
Nathan knew that in a few days, it would be time to say goodbye to this cursed valley forever. This place's meaning had been little more than a backdrop to terror. He had lost so much of himself here, and yet he had somehow prevailed. He was actually pleased they would leave, though he still had many reservations about where they would travel to, and how he would fare. He was compared to the other men lacking in robust physicality. What the frail youth failed to understand was his inner strength was mighty. He knew one thing though as he settled into his Master's bedroll and warm embrace. He would be the best slave there ever was. His jade eyes closed, and he snuggled against the warmth at his back. He felt the caress of the large possessive hands on him, reveling in it, he smiled, the emotion completely hidden by his now quite lengthy wall of platinum hair. Sleep soon claimed him.
The young man who had suffered much was no stranger to terrible dreams, even his nicer ones seemed to always evolve into nightmares. He had always put it down to the trauma he had experienced both at the onset of the war and during his time as Bennett's slave. His life always felt precarious, and there were moments he felt he may never live to see tomorrow morning. He never knew if he would eat or not, or suffer yet another cruel and painful beating for the slightest mistake. Naturally in this environment, the young man's thoughts always turned to the worst-case scenario.
