Pathspace

by Matthew Kennedy

Chapter 80

  Jeffrey: “Then spoke the thunder.”

  According to the map they were almost to Noodle. Though he understood his father's reasons, Jeffrey could not help feeling that it was wrong. It was bad enough for a town to be called Noodle. Must be some crazy story behind that. But bad as it was, it was at least a name. And soon there would be no need for it. Why bother even with a word on the maps when what it names is a smoking pile of wreckage?

  The tanks had to be tested, and the crews needed experience. Fine. But did they have to destroy a town to do that? Even as he thought that, he could imagine his father's rebuttal. Why waste resources building targets for them to practice on when there were plenty of places like this, abandoned and empty?

  Except Noodle wasn't abandoned.

  As they approached, he could see that someone was trying to work the land. Yes, civilization had fallen. There was no electricity, no buses, no telephones. But the buildings were still standing. Apparently, long after the locals had fled toward the dying cities, someone else had moved in. Why build a log cabin when there were perfectly good structures? Some wanderers must have found the place and decided to start a commune. Whoever they were, they must have avoided the Honcho's scouts, shutting themselves away when horses cantered through on their way to somewhere else.

  Even from a distance, he could see it was not a large community, and never had been. It must have begun as a way station, a place for the trucks of the ancients to stop and refuel.

  It was a little like those islands he had read of in his father's books. A coral atoll arises somewhere in the ocean, and eventually accumulates the beginnings of soil. Birds come to nest, unwittingly bringing inside them seeds that would begin a forest. And then ships would anchor offshore. If there was game and fresh water, the island's location would be remembered. More ships would come. And eventually someone would stay and make a living offering goods to the ships that stopped there.

  Noodle must be like that, he thought. A road had crossed another, bringing travelers through, until some had stayed to make a living refueling the trucks. Then feed shops, a restaurant, maybe an inn for drivers who didn't sleep in their vehicles. Before you knew it, there was something more than a crossing of roads. Something to give a name to. Only God knew why they had decided to call it Noodle. But they had.

  And now he was here to destroy it. To put a period at the end of its sentence. To help it on its way to becoming nothing again...because the trucks weren't coming back. He had no doubt that the Honcho would devote all of the fuel his men refined to war. And armies do not found villages. They pass through them, or destroy them.

  There was a line of people across the road. Jeffrey saw young and old men and women, their faces tired but not resigned. How had they known he was coming?

  “Stop the tank.”

  He was up and out the hatch before he could talk himself out of it. Someday these would be his people.

  The other tank drew alongside of them and halted. Brutus was climbing out almost as quickly as Jeffrey. “What do you think you're doing?”

  “There's people blocking the road, Commander. Are you going to just drive over them?”

  Glock just looked at him. “Yes, if they don't get out of our way.”

  Jeffrey shook his head. “Let me talk to them first. Once they understand – “

  “I don't give a shit what they understand. I can't let you risk it. Your Daddy wouldn't like it...even if you survive.” The Colonel glanced at the people, then leaned toward the hatch and said something to his crew.

  With a quiet whine and grinding of steel on steel, the Tank's gun swiveled to point at the center of the road ahead.

  Once more Jeffrey found himself moving without planning it. The next order would be to open fire, and after that they would be seeing what happens to human bodies struck by high explosive tank rounds. He leaped off the top of his tank and dashed forward, moving directly in front of Brutus's tank. “If you shoot them,” he said, “it will have to be through me. The Honcho won't like that either.”

  Brutus glared at him. His eyes shifted to the men below him inside the hatch. Jeffrey could almost see how his thoughts were spinning. What now? He couldn't shoot the Runt. But neither could he risk Jeffrey getting close enough to the rabble for a stray arrow to get the Commander in just as much trouble. Though he had operational control of this sortie, Brutus couldn't just order the Runt to get out of the way. And arguing with him about it in front of the troop would be bad for morale, bad for discipline.

  After a moment, the Commander shrugged and lit a cigarette.

  The pause was all Jeffrey needed. He began strolling toward the people. Relief flooded him. He was nearly shaking. Could it be that easy? If they'd been on horseback, Brutus would simply have followed him, or sent troops to cover him. But they had no horses here. Horses couldn't keep up with the untiring motors that sped the tanks. Sure, horses could put on a burst of speed when needed. But you couldn't ride them at full gallop mile after mile, not unless you had fresh horses waiting for you on the way.

  Jeffrey kept left of center, staying on the same side of the road as Brutus's tank. He didn't hear the whine of a motor until it was too late. Then came a word of death: “Fire.”

  And then spoke the thunder. Ahead of them, a group of people to the right of center simply disappeared, replaced by a cloud of dust and smoke and flying bits that used to be human. People to the left and right of them were blown off their feet by the blast, and some of them didn't get up again. An ancient ugly word came to mind: shrapnel.

  “No! Oh God, no!” Jeffrey spun, ears ringing, and saw Brutus on top of Jeffrey's tank. As soon as he'd turned his back, the Commander had done the obvious: hopped up on the other tank and had them aim the gun to the right of Jeffrey.

  There were horrified shouts and screams from the crowd as it scattered left and right.

  Jeffrey raced back to his tank. “Damn you!”

  Brutus blew out a cloud of smoke and grinned. “And that, son, is how you clear a road.”

  Jeffrey could feel his fingernails digging into the palms of his hands. “You didn't have to do that. They might have listened to me.”

  Brutus climbed down and went back to his own tank. “Well they won't now.” He flicked the butt end of his cigarette away. “Let's get this over with.”

  Jeffrey swallowed, aware that the troops in his tank were listening. He wanted to weep. He wanted to jump up there and punch the sardonic grin off Brutus's face. But he knew better. It wouldn't save anyone. Heart pounding, stomach twisting with the knowledge that the older man had made a fool of him again, he climbed down the hatch and looked at his men.

  Nobody said anything for a moment.

  Sgt. Haskew broke the silence. “Sir, we – “

  “Stop.” Jeffrey willed his trembling to subside. A coldness swept over him. “Don't say another word.” He knew Brutus was right. The opportunity was gone. None of them would listen now. Future citizens had just become targets. He turned to face front. “Forward.”

  They rolled forward. Some of the people were heading off toward a large building on the left, maybe an old warehouse. Thunder spoke again. Brutus's tank put a round in it before they could get inside, and what was left after the explosion collapsed with a crash that sent a ring of smoke curling out from it in all directions. The people who were lucky were lucky enough not to get crippled by flying bits of stone and wood ran around the wreckage and kept going.

  Jeffrey tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry. He couldn't let Glock do all the shooting. “Fire on the first building on the right.” Only then did he remember the earplugs. He managed to get them in before the gun fired.

  Once arrows rained on them, bouncing off the tank like so much hail. The other tank spat death, and the arrows stopped. This wasn't a battle. It was destruction and massacre. He could taste bile. His troops were getting experience all right. More than they bargained for. His father would probably be happy.

 
He found his canteen and gulped metallic-tasting water to get the taste of vomit out of his mouth. Another successful mission. Another glorious victory for the Lone Star Empire.