Few caravan masters would hire this one, thought Vince. Compared to Billy and Verizon, Wentworth stood in sharp contrast. Where they were boisterous and full of bravado, his anima was cold and calculating. He looked capable, but no one would trust him. Something was waiting just beneath the surface in him, coiled like a spring.
His stance was relaxed, with the bulk of his weight on his right heel, but he stood like he was in Vince’s peripheral — as if he could slide away without being noticed. There was something else about his stance too, something that was niggling at the back of Vince’s mind…
It clicked, and a bolt of ice went down his spine. It was the way he held his sandwich.
The bread had come from a wide loaf, and the condiments were generous. Even with two-handed grips, the group was losing bits to the dusty asphalt — but Wentworth held his loosely. His left did all the gripping, while his right was only a guide. Subconsciously or not, he was keeping his weapon-hand free — free to draw the pistol holstered on his hip.
Vince grimaced. Nothing to do but see how this beast barked.
“Oy, Raxx!” he shouted, strolling towards the group, “How you been keeping up, lad?”
Raxx glanced over, his face splitting in a wide grin. “Vince! Not too bad! Actually, it’s going pretty good. I got an interesting commission today — this here’s Wentworth. He’s got a motorcycle I’m working on.”
“Well that’ll be interesting for ya,’” he tucked his thumbs into his belt, “pleased to meet you, Wentworth. New in town, aye?”
The man dipped his head in a nod, “Guess so. Lucky to find a proper Mechanic.”
“Don’t give me too much credit just yet — save that ‘till your bike’s running!”
“Yo, Vince,” interjected Verizon, “what’s the dilly-o? We gonna get set up so you can buy me and Prince Billington here a pint, or what?”
“Aye, that’s right. Everything’s sorted, we’re gonna set up over by that wall there. Oy, Raxx, we’re gonna have to catch up some other time.”
“Sure, no problem. I ought to get working on the bike, anyway.”
“Say Wentworth,” said Verizon, “You gonna join us for that pint after we’re done setting up?”
Wentworth didn’t move, but Vince could feel the burn of his eyes through the polarized lenses. “Nah… thanks though. I’m feeling a bit tired after that sandwich. Think I might go grab some rack. Pleasure meeting all of you. See you later, Raxx.”
Vince watched him walk off as Raxx made his farewells. The man was keen, alright. Hell, a merchant ought to be better at hiding his thoughts. “Alright lads, the oxen are no good to us now, we gotta lift the trailer off the hitch, and move her ourselves. You two want to get on either side?” Maybe his first impression hadn’t been fair. Maybe he’d been letting the locals’ paranoia get the better of him. The man had been polite enough…
But that was no hunting rifle on his back. And then there was the pistol. And that blade on his other leg.
He’d be keeping his eye on this one.
Chapter 5
The doe sniffed the air. She kept picking up that odd scent — piquant and harsh… it wasn’t a predatory scent, but it was out of the norm. Nudging her fawn, she guided him over to a crescent shaped copse of trees. Leaves surrounded the two of them, and hid them from sight. On an instinctive level she felt comforted, and returned to her grazing.
Through the scope of his assault rifle the two animals were nothing but brown blurs. At four-hundred meters that was all its magnification would do. The glowing bead of tritium in the center swayed back and forth in a lazy figure eight across the area they grazed.
Wentworth took a deep breath and watched his sight picture pan down, then back up onto the target area. He closed his eyes and took another deep breath. Opening them, he confirmed that his point of aim hadn’t changed. He rubbed his thumb across the grip’s cross-hatch pattern, and stroked his index along the trigger. His left hand gripped where the handguard met the magazine housing. His elbow was planted firmly in the earth below.
Taking his time, he breathed deeply, feeling his heart rate slow. The doe and her fawn felt safe, and stayed where they were. He blinked as his vision began to cloud, as it always did, then relaxed his eyelids, watching through slit-eyes. The wind swayed the grass in front of him and birds chirped all around.
Lub-dub…
He’d stopped breathing, he realized. His pulse sent a tremor through his weapon.
Lub-dub…
His vision blurred out in horizontal streaks. Other senses took hold of the weapon, silently placing it on target, as he began to apply pressure to the trigger.
Lub-dub…
He could feel the creak of the trigger-spring as he squeezed it, tightening as it neared the hammer. His vision had gone grey, and even his hearing had dimmed. He waited in bated anticipation, feeling the grind of muscle and metal working in sync. He had to calm; no tremor; no shake; he focused on remaining still when—
Crack!
The scope shot upwards, the recoil spring hammered backwards, and the birds scattered. Rebounding on the cushioning force of his arms, the scope steadied, coming to a still on the original point of aim. He slowly released the trigger. It thunked into place. The copse was a mess of greys, blacks, yellows, and greens; there wasn’t a trace of brown to be seen in the softly swaying grasses.
He stood up awkwardly, joints cracking, and heart pounding with its sudden awakening. He’d been laying there for hours. He began walking, fingers and feet numb, icicles of pain shooting through his extremities. He opened and closed his hands, waiting for the blood to return to them, then fished into his jacket for a pack of cigarettes. It was almost empty, he saw. The remainder waited for him back at Landfall’s. He paused in his walk, taking careful note of the copse’s location — three fingers left of those boulders — before looking down to light his smoke. Then he carried on, unthinking, returning gradually from his meditative state.
When he arrived the copse was empty; crushed grass and torn branches showed the deer’s’ escape to the north. He paused to take all of this in then walked over to the tree the doe had been standing by. It had been one meter to her left from his perspective. He reached up and caressed the bullet hole, so tiny on entry, a gaping hole on exit. Maybe a hand’s breadth higher than where he’d aimed, but otherwise dead on target. The deer would have been dead if he’d wanted that. He turned around and began the trek back to his duffle bag.
He’d already thought extensively about a future as a hunter. During long rides he’d argued and ended that debate already. But his mind decided to flit back and forth on the topic anyway, part of its readjustment to the logical world. There was no sense in it, really. He had no butchery skills, and with the price of ammunition… on top of that he’d have to figure out some way of bringing the animal back after he’d shot it…
His mind yammered away, drowning out the pleasure of the clean shot. The thought of subsistence labour filled him with distaste, but it was either that or consider more dire problems. It was with relief that he returned to camp and crawled under his cam-net, laying his rifle down on the grass beside him and taking up his observation post.
He had a clear view of the highway. If not for hill off to his right he’d of been able to make out Blackstock too. The scene was as empty as it had been that morning, and the day before. There was no reason for him to be so keyed up.
That merchant! Merchants had always struck him as the keenest of the lot, and this one was no exception. That look had made his hackles rise, and had spurred him on in his decision to head for the hills for a few days. It made good sense to do so anyways, to keep an eye on his tracks, but he didn’t like feeling coerced into it. Between the boisterous juvenility of the two guards, and the sharp suspicion of the older merchant, Blackstock wouldn’t be a good place for him to set up kip for the next while.