Griggs' Office

“Byers is alive.”

I'll admit, it took a few seconds for that to sink in. When it did I couldn't help but laugh. A bitter laugh, scornful, black as tar.

“Byers?” I mused. “Byers...”

“Yes. Byers.” No amusemant there. None whatsoever.

I shook my head: “Byers is dead. With a bullet wound slap-bang in the middle of his chest.” I hold my fist up, admire the size of it, before punching myself in the centre of my own sternum. “This big. And I put it there.”

“He's alive.”

I sneered, I sighed, I turned away. But Jackson was still looking at me. I could feel his eyes burning a hole in the back of my head. I could see his stony face still staring at me, and I don't mean looking back at me in a mirror. I mean I could picture it, that look he always has when something is badly amiss.

I shook my head, laughed a little if only in a vain attempt to comfort myself, turned back to him, and yeah, there it was, that monolithic look chiselled out of unerring stone. “Have you been drinking?”

“Have you?”

I didn't know what to say. By this point I was speechless. Incredulous. Absolutely [censored] awestruck, and not in my usual overblown fashion like that of an under-talented amateur dramatist. “Well if it's not the Scotch then you've lost your mind, pal.”

“I saw him.”

“Where?”

“About three miles from here, heading North.”

“It wasn't him,” I said, shook my head again, but my conviction was fast slipping. Did I really hit him? Was he wearing armour? No, no, it was crazy. I hit him all right, there was blood everywhere, I even saw the [censored] wound up close and in person. It was there all right. A flesh wound, not just a scratch on a briast plate. “It must have just looked like him.”

“He had a brace on his left knee ---”

“So?”

“--- and an SA-80 at his waist ---”

“Could have been anyone.”

“--- even had that dog of his with him.”

“Hmmm.”

“Oh, and a little tattoo right up there on his shoulder. Steel Works logo. Right... here.” He pointed to the exact spot Byers had his tattoo, same description, same everything.

“Must be---” I begin.

“Coincidence? I thought you didn't believe in coincidence. This isn't a game, Griggs, this is life and death. Byers is alive. I saw him.”

Silence. As cold and stony as his [censored] face. My mind began to wander, began to consider whether Hudson had some reason to lie to me, but I snapped myself out of it. Pull yourself together, Griggs. No more conspiracy theories. That's what got us into this mess, it sure as hell wasn't gonna get us out.

“All right, John...” I only use his first name when I'm deadly serious, and at that moment I was every bit serious and then some. “Let's say you're right, and you're not mistaken.”

“I'm not.”

“Let's say you're not. Byers, who I shot, who had a hole in his chest this friggin' big,” fist again, “is alive. And he knows I shot him, and he knows you're my accomplice for want of a better word. He's heading North, and you know that because you've seen him remember, now, the question is... why.”

“That I don't know.”

“Did you tail him?”

“No. I watched him go though.”

“How far?”

“Far. A mile, maybe two.”

“And he didn't deviate?”

“No, sir.”

“Just kept heading North.”

“Magnetic North.”

“Hmmm...” I sit back, chewing on my knuckles, legs crossed in front of me. “Did he look hurt?”

“He was moving slower than usual, still had his limp.”

I almost laughed, but it wound up as a coughing fit bad enough to draw blood. Black blood. “That must be a different kind of slow...” I eventually managed, words half-spat, half-spluttered.

“It wasn't fast.”

I sighed again. “Okay. So what now?” I asked meeting his stare, eye to eye.

“I don't know.”

“Is he gonna make it?”

“I don't know where he's heading.”

“I thought you said he was heading North.”

“He was. But North is a big place.”

“A damn big place,” I agreed.

“If he's got a hideout nearby, maybe. Within five miles let's say. If he's moving on to the next town, then I'd say he's gonna need a sackful of stimpacks and a whole lot of luck to guide him.”

“So he's got a chance.”

“Perhaps.”

“Well then, you know what we have to do.”

Hudson nodded. “Yeah.” He said almost reluctantly. “Yeah I do.”

“It's hunting season, Hudson. Grab your gear. And for God's sake, bring a gun with you.”

The Steel Mill

I liked to take the fire exit out of the office, the steel route as I called it, but it felt too exposed. Could have been anyone watching, with any intention. And any firearm.

So we stayed indoors, bypassed the half-shattered shaft where a lift once operated, took the staircase instead. There's a reason I prefer the steel route, and it's not just the fresh air and bracing winds. This staircase is a deathtrap, in spite of keeping it swept and having the worst sections reinforced with steel plating. I never felt easy here. I had no trust for the very ground I was walking on.

And if you can't trust the ground you're walking on, what can you trust?

I make Jackson go ahead of me, just in case. It's a coward's move, and I feel like a coward doing it, but I'm almost certain he doesn't see my intentions. We had down for what feels like forever, and nod to the slovenly armed mercenaries sprawled around the expansive lobby of the Steel Mill.

“Heading out?” one of them asked, his skin taught and dry like old leather and roughly the same colour as Mocha, whatever that once was.

“Aye. Out,” Jackson said, stopping to cast an eye over the blatant belligerence of the idle guards.

They didn't bat an eyelid.

“Take your pick,” the man said, motioning to the munitions store behind him, a fairly impressive sprawl of outdated weaponry and ammo boxes cluttered and piled in anarchic disarray.

Jackson shook his head: “No thank you. If I have to trust my life to a weapon, I'll trust it to this.” He lifted his right hand, clenching and unclenching it strapped as it was within a fearsome looking Powerfist.

“I said take a gun,” I reminded him, and Jackson glared back at me, but then nodded.

“All right,” he said, and walked over to the pile, picked out a nice laser pistol, checked for ammo and took that too. “If I must.”

His attitude irked me. If he'd had a [censored] gun in the first place, he could have smoked Byers there and then...

I held my tongue, took a laser rifle for myself and a few fusion cells. In all likelihood I wouldn't need many, and if Byers was dead already, which was perfectly plausible if not likely, I shouldn't have needed any. We used to have gangs of Tweakers and Slavers round these parts, before we bought off the best of them and killed or routed the rest. With the Steel Mill properly fortified and manned, the only true danger still present probably came from within – and I guess on that score, Byers still counted.

Maybe.

So we headed out into the ramshackle shanty town we'd built here, and it's not as bad as it looked truth be told. We'd pilfered the big city and brought in equipment, heaters, air con units, hell some of those shacks even had insulation, running water and had been wired up to the generators we'd salvaged. All we really needed was to get the machinery in the Mill in operation and we could start making these places all uniform and neat, but that was for future efforts.

It was then that Jenkins approached, a young kid who deserted the British Army not long after completing his training. “Going out, Boss?”

I nodded.

“I'll accompany you.”

“No,” I said. Maybe I was a little abrupt, but there it was. “You're good, soldier. I don't need no protection.”

“I'll tail you, then,” he said maintaining his eagerness.

“Just going for a stroll, soldier.”

His face dropped as if I'd hurt his feelings. But then he looked back up as if he'd had an idea.

“What is it?” I asked him.

“I'll watch you from the tower,” he said, meaning one of the four lookouts we made use of.

I looked at Jackson, who shrugged.

“All right, if it you feel better, but seriously, just a stroll.”

Jackson snorted. I could have killed the bastard for that. Jenkins took the meaning of it, and returned to being his overprotective self.

“I'll watch you. And if I see any signs of trouble, I'll come after you.”

“Not neces---”

“I'll be there, don't worry about nothin'!” Jenkins said, and scampered off to one of the towers.

I glared at Jackson, who shrugged nonplussed. “Who cares?” He said.

Dumb bastard.

Last thing we need is some kid soldier blowing the lid of this business with Byers. We'd be strung up in no time.

I could have explained that, but I doubt he'd have cared much more.