Chapter 55 “How was your first day as a warlord?”

“Thanks for coming.” Brandon greeted them outside the lighthouse. John hadn’t seen him in a month. Not unusual for him, but neither had Rosie. He led them down to the cellar, Charlie, Paul, and Matt were waiting. Along with something tall, covered in a sheet.

“Recent events have prompted an acceleration in our plans.” Brandon gave Matt a nod. He and Rosie made for the sheet covered object, almost giddy. “Strictly speaking we don’t need you on this, but it’ll play better with you.”

Matt pulled the sheet away. John saw his T-51 armour, repaired and upgraded. Fresh shining steel welded into the tears gave it a pattern like claw marks. Menacing gauntlets formed from sharp bone. The missing helmet had been replaced with a steel cast replica of a Deathclaw head. His eyes level with hardened alloy jaws.

“Modernised the fifty one with sixty components. Lightened where I could.” Matt put his hand on the curved shoulder plate, proud of his work.

“Full electronic suite in the helmet. There’s glass in the snout for better visibility. And then there’s this.” Rosie sent a command to the armour. The jaws hissed open and snapped shut with a clang. “Oh and the eyes glow.” The green tinted glass in the eyes light up, bathing them in red light.

“Alright, I’m in.”

After running a series of tests and tweaks, they set off into the breaking dawn. Headed for the Four Corners.

Noon came as the team split. John and Brandon stayed back with the monstrous sets of armour. Hidden from the road by trees. “Give them time to infiltrate, then I’ll go, then you.” Brandon repeated the protocol for entering hostile territory.

“Have you heard from Sara?” John asked, trying to sound casual.

“I haven’t. I’ve decided to give her space.” Brandon picked up on the look John failed to hide. “Speak freely.”

“I think that’s a mistake, sir.” John felt out of his depth, for a moment.

“The truth is I don’t know what to say to her. Or him.” Brandon sighed. “Imagine if Rosie had been going out and slapping collars on the people you’ve freed. What would you say to her?”

“I’d tell her I loved her, and that I’d help put things right.” John answered plainly. “With respect, I don’t think that’s the same thing, sir.”

“How so?” Brandon asked, intrigued.

“Elder Maxwell made a decision and he followed it through.” John had found forgiveness for his betrayal at the hands of the elder. “That’s who he is. Not personal, not out of malice, tactical.”

“He should have known better, John. You’ve seen them.” Brandon looked ready to throw up.

“And Sara saved me from them.” That felt like the least she’d done for him. “What’s done is done. If I had to go up against them again, I’d want the elder with me.”

“As would I.” Brandon relit his cigar with the somehow still warm knife, thinking and puffing smoke. “Sara’s angry, she’s right to be.”

“She thinks she let me down. She didn’t.” John hated that Sara felt that way. “I thought the wedding might help her see that.”

“You know sometimes, I go down to the smallest storeroom on the sub level. I sit inside and shut the door, trying to imagine what it was like for you, and Rosie, down there.” Brandon looked him in the eye. “I think it would have made me into a cruel man, bitter and spiteful. Which only makes me respect you two more.” He let his words hang in the air with the smoke before grinding out the cigar.

Brandon hopped into his armour, exhaling smoke through skull mask. “Wait an hour and make an entrance. Follow my lead, and try to look mean.” He headed in.

John stomped his way along the east road, arriving at the almost medieval Four Corners. Things were quieter than he remembered. No sickly beggars barely rattling their cups. No caged slaves being auctioned off like cattle. Still plenty of raiders.

He enjoyed the space made for him, along with the frightened stares. A glass bottle shattered in front of him. John couldn’t see who threw it. He half suspected Rosie, but picked the nearest raider. John stomped over, putting him the shadow of the armour. He clicked on the red lights, and the raider fell out of his chair trying to get away.

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John retraced his steps to the side entrance of the old world building. Brandon told him it used to be a theatre. A fitting place for a performance.

The same two guards stood blocking the door. Suits and ties, forty five calibre submachine guns with drum mags. The Family’s goons. “You can open the door, or I can use you to open the door.” John gave them a choice.

The doors burst open, the guards landing in a heap. The room fell silent, save for the sounds of people hiding and guns cocking. The Baron extended a clawed hand, gesturing to his right. John stomped over, and took his place.

He took off the ornate helmet, holding it by one of the horns. The Hunters banged their spears in approval. John gave the leader a slight nod of respect, then put his mean face back on for Gino, the head of the Family.

Traders and travellers took to the stage. Offering up a percentage of their wares for safe travel. John wished he’d kept his helmet on, at least then he could have yawned.

With the business drawn to a close, John followed the Baron out of the east gate. They stopped off the road and exited the armour. “So.” Brandon took a swig from his flask. “How was your first day as a warlord?”

“Boring.” John thought it might be a nice break from his usual day. Brandon offered him the flask. “Still, quieter than I remember. No beggars, no slaves.”

“Winter normally kills off the beggars. The lack of slaves though, that is troubling.” Brandon’s concern helped John understand the shades of grey of his world. John would never have thought a lack of slaves was a bad thing before now.

John heard a coded knock and Rosie and Matt emerged from the trees. “Got one Boss.” Rosie grinned. “Clean grab, he didn’t see shit.” She held out a fist and Matt bumped it.

“Good. Show me.”

They walked until it went dark, arriving at the basement of an old store. The rest of the building burnt to nothing long ago, leaving a square pit under open sky. A table and two chairs sat in a circle of light, the old desk lamp flickering.

Brandon, out of his armour, walked down the steps. He sat opposite the blindfolded man, cutting his hands free and taking off the blindfold.

“You fucked up old man. You have no idea who you’re fucking with.” He snarled like a cornered animal.

“Hardly. You run shipments for Jones, supplying the dealers in your building. You’ve also been skimming off the top. Stashed the caps under the floorboards in your bedroom.” Brandon reeled off the man’s secrets, the shock hitting like punches. “Anything I’m forgetting, Richard?” The lamp seemed to flicker out on cue. “Ah, yes. You used the east road without paying. Which is why my employer requested this meeting.”

A flaming torch punctured the darkness, casting the Baron’s bone white armour in orange light. John saw the light, and started running. The armour pounded louder and louder, till John reached the edge and leapt.

The metallic thud echoed like thunder. John clicked on the red lights, seeing abject terror on the man’s face.

“I’ll pay! I’ll pay!” He screamed, cowering in his seat.

“Too late for that now, Richard.” Brandon paced in the dark. “My employer wants you staked out for the ferals.” John snapped the metal jaws.

“Please, not ferals, there must be something!” He tried looking for Brandon.

“Where’s Jones?!” Brandon lunged from the dark, thumping his palms on the table.

“I don’t know! I get drop locations twice a week. I don’t know where he is, I swear.” He pleaded.

“You swear?” Brandon raised his hand, prompting the terrified man to copy. Something flitted from the dark, one of Rosie’s knives. He screamed, the shock amplifying the pain.

Brandon slammed the injured hand down. In one motion, he pulled the knife out, and stabbed it back through the wound. “I’ll do whatever you want!” The man sobbed and whined, his hand pinned to the table. The desk lamp flickered back on. John shut off his lights and stepped back.

“You work for the Baron now.” Brandon signalled Rosie, her face obscured by a black balaclava. She laid out a medkit, starting with an injector.

“No.” The man barked, desperate more than brave.

“For the pain.” Brandon reassured him.

“No chems, just do it.” He took a few rapid breaths and Rosie took out her knife. She held his hand up to slow the bleeding, then started to wrap it tight.

“Chew this.” Brandon took a strip of dried bark from his coat. “That’s what I use.” He lit two cigarettes and passed one over.

“What do you want me to do?” The man looked broken.

“Your job. Stop skimming, and you tell us when and where the drops are before you make the pickup.” Brandon tossed down a pouch of caps. “Your pay. We’ll be watching.”

He took his caps, staggering up and out. “Tracker in the boot is good. We’ll know his movements for the next twenty four hours.” Rosie pulled off her mask.

“Good. The others?” Brandon asked, his cigarette between clenched teeth.

“No unexpected movement.” Rosie’s answer wasn’t helpful, she had a suggestion. “We could always start a fire here and there, see who puts it out.”

“No. I want as small of a footprint as possible.” Brandon looked frustrated with his own orders. “The animals will turn on each other soon enough. That’ll move our people up the food chain.”

The walk back to the lighthouse dragged, filled with the tension of helplessness.