He’d finished eating and was debating with himself over the wisdom of having a third pint when he heard the voice for a second time.
“Hey, you!”
The first shout had failed to register. With the second Wentworth realized that they were speaking to him. Annoyed, he took a sip of his beer and slowly looked over.
“Yeah, I’m talking to you!”
The gangly youth had a scruffy beard, and he carried a Vedaic kukri. Dull eyes and open mouth suggested low intelligence, while his furrowed brow made it seem as the world left him perpetually confused. On top of this he appeared to be well into his cups even though it was only mid-afternoon. Thinking back Wentworth remembered seeing him when he first arrived, arguing in a barking manner with a group of similar individuals. His friends had left him alone at some point, and now he wanted to share his ideas with the rest of the patrons.
Wentworth waited a beat before replying.
“Yeah?”
The response seemed to confuse and anger the youth even more. The kid’s eyebrows knotted as he searched for a response. “Doncha know this ain’t no derelict bar?”
Wentworth spent another few seconds examining him before responding, wondering if he should point out that this was Visitor’s wing. “No, I didn’t.” He turned back around, hoping the idiot would leave.
It took the kid a while to respond but when he did it was clear he wasn’t going to let things lie. “Hey, donchou turn your back on me, derelict!” There was the sound of a chair scraping against the floor as he got up.
Wentworth turned his head around and the youth stopped in his tracks, halfway between their two tables, staring at him, chest heaving as he breathed through his mouth. Something in Wentworth snapped.
With the sudden burst of adrenaline he stood up, hearing the table and chair clatter and the cutlery shatter. All of his pent up frustrations exploded at once. Maybe it was the kid’s vacant gaze. Maybe it was the ‘derelict’ epithet. Or maybe it was just the mouth breathing. Whatever it was he found himself standing with his pistol drawn and pointed at the kid’s skull before he had a chance to think.
He immediately regretted it. He’d upped the ante when he should have been talking his way out of it. He was only helping this idiot cause trouble. But it was too late to back down. In the background he heard the rest of the patrons as they caught on to what was transpiring. He held the pistol in a firm grip, willing the kid to back off, watching his eyes through semi-polarized lenses.
One’s eyes are nearly impossible to control; they’re hardwired to the brain. The kids were wavering. They ticked to his left. Back off, thought Wentworth keeping his gaze steady. They wavered again, unable to choose. Then they twisted, darting to the right. Wentworth was moving before the kukri was drawn. The curved blade was dangerous; he could feel the kid preparing to slash it in a downward arc. He twisted the pistol in his hand, catching the blade on his finger guard, swirling it clockwise to the right and away. His left hand caught the boys wrist and he hooked his right foot behind the boys ankle, toes curled slightly upward, cupping it. He pistol whipped him, then dropped the gun and grabbed his shoulder, going down with him as the kid fell backward. Guiding the shoulder, he allowed the momentum to bring his opponent’s elbow down on his knee while keeping a firm grip on the wrist. There was a loud crack as the elbow bent backwards and the kukri clattered to the floor.
The silence lasted a split second. Other patrons were still scrabbling out of their chairs by the time it was done.
The kid blinked twice in confusion. Then his eyes widened in pain. He began shrieking.
Shit, Wentworth looked over at the table he’d knocked over and the shattered remains of his plate and glass. Idly he kicked away the kukri.
He looked at the bartender, and pulled his money clip out. “Sorry about the dishes. Let me cover that.” He glanced around the bar. Mostly foreigners like himself, but a couple of locals were there, cigarettes dangling from long holding stems. The wary gazes were split between him and the kid. “How about I buy a round for the house, seeing as how I interrupted their meals?” He lay another wad on the counter, and saw a slight nod in response from the bartender.
He picked up and holstered his pistol; there was still no round in the chamber; then pulled the duffle bag from under the turned-over table. The kid was whimpering pathetically now, rolling back and forth on the floor while clutching his bicep, the forearm hanging at too-straight an angle. He pulled a couple more bills out, and dropped them on the writhing form. “I hope that’ll cover his medical expenses,” he said to the bar at large.
Then he vaulted over the wrought iron fence, and disappeared down the service corridor.
Saxony grunted as he lifted the crate up to the loading dock, Jeremy took it and put it on the forklift’s palette. Despite cool air he was sweating.
“Oy, gents!” The two of them glanced over. Approaching them was a foreigner dressed all in black with a duffle bag over one shoulder. “Is this here Anderson’s shipment?”
“Who?” asked Jeremy.
“Anderson, I just rode with him outta Steeltown.”
“Sorry guy,” said Saxony, “This is nothing but farm crops we got here. You’re with one of the highway traders?”
“Yeah, I was just supposed to be guarding for him, but then one of his kids sprained his ankle, so now I gotta help him unload. It’s a big shipment, whole bunch of electronics.”
“You must mean for Gizzer’s shop?” said Jeremy.
“Yeah, that sounds about right — is this loading bay C1?”
“No guy, this is C2. Only local stuff in here. Any highway merchants, they all go over to the other side — C1 should be the first. Hey, you know you can even cut through Complex, there’s a door just over there.”
“Nah, I just came from there — it’s locked on the other side, I was hoping maybe this was the right place. Guess I just gotta go for a little walk, then.”
“Uh, locked? Shouldn’t be,” said Jeremy, “Tell you what, the keys are just over there in the key box, how ‘bout I go open it for you.”
“That’s alright, you guys are busy. I’ll just take the long way around, if I can squeeze past you. Thanks, though.”
“Sure. No problem, guy.”
Raxx was underneath his truck inspecting things when he heard Wentworth’s voice.
“I come bearing gifts.”
“Oh, hey man.”
Awkwardly he crawled out from underneath. Wentworth had laid his duffel bag on the hood and was rifling through it. “I saw this stuff for sale and I thought of you.” He pulled out a large black vest with large shoulder pads and covered with pockets and handed it to him. “Try it on.”
Raxx slipped it on over his sweater. It was heavier than it looked and a bit loose, but comfortable enough. “Nice, what is it?”
“Fragmentation vest. It beats the hell out of those football pads of yours. Won’t stop heavier calibers, but it’ll keep you safe from most rifles and explosives. Here’s the other thing.” He handed over a longarm made of slick, moulded plastic, with a drum magazine and a bull-pup design. “It’s a proper combat shotgun with a constant recoil system. Fully automatic, twenty round mag, and a hell of a lot nicer on your shoulder. I’ll show you how it operates later.”
Raxx hefted it. It was much lighter than his old shotgun but it looked well made. “Well, thanks man. Did you get anything for yourself?”
Wentworth shrugged, “Just this.” He held up a piece of tubing roughly thirty centimetres long with a trigger at one end. “It’s a grenade launcher. But it’s rusted all to shit, and Lord knows where I’m going to find some ammunition for it.” He shrugged. “I got it free with the other stuff.”