Oil and Gears

Silence was a heavy thing. Alek knew the weight of it. So much thrived in its comfort. Doubt, pain, remorse. A paradox, really, that absence could breed such presence. A mind reeling with questions, chasing itself in circles, conjuring the imagined possibility of existence. A veil to hide behind, something he found himself clinging to. It was safer than saying the wrong thing.

Safety. That was what a freed brain longed for. Or at least the illusion of it. Predict a reaction, anticipate a notion, find a reason for… anything. Everything.

It was peculiar how silence could be found even in moments where so much happened. Even now, the river churned against the concrete in a rhythm influenced partly by the howling wind. Distant screams of hundreds of throats gurgling and the muffled shrieks of alarms dying behind them — they all participated in this ambient noise.

Noise. That was all it was. Just signals carried to your brain — information to be ignored. Sometimes, noise could distract, prevent one from thinking, or shield even. Keep one from forming questions better left unasked. Other times, it was precisely the right amount to carry thoughts to new uncharted territories. Imagination. Inventivity, even.

But here and there, Alek could only feel the anxiety. The fear of not knowing. The fear of a possibility unpredicted. There was only so much he could do not to ask the stupidest question. To break the silence, just because it needed breaking.

The last of Victoria’s sobs had faded into the wind, and now she remained still. And so did he. Alek stood at the base of the steps, watching Victoria where she sat, and he felt utterly useless. No book, no theory, no amount of reason could prepare you for the unfiltered grief of another human being. Of a mind just as complex as yours.

If not more.

A gust rolled through Grand Riverview, kicking up dust from the ruin, and Victoria’s auburn hair stirred in its wake.

And then, unexpectedly — she was the one to break the quiet.

“They took him.” That was all she said.

And already, his mind was flooded with vain questions and pointless attempts at reasoning. Searching for a solution to a problem that demanded none. And because no words came to him in that instant, Victoria broke the silence again.

“The men. They took Milo. Left in their van.”

His stomach tensed. He had known. Deep down. What else could have explained the boy’s absence? It had to be the work of Rook’s men. The why was a different question. One that didn’t matter yet.

She ought to feel horrible. She must think it’s her fault. Of course, she did. Guilt was easy, a cruel thing that latched onto the heart like a parasite. Except it was no one’s fault. Only the product of a merciless world, claiming another innocent soul.

“A child, alone in the wasteland…” he sighed. “That was bound to happen.”

Victoria turned. Her eyes filled with anger and grief. Then she rose, and he knew. He had been here before. Just not with her.

Descending the stairs towards him, she stopped one step over and now looked down at him. All she did, then, was press a finger against his chest.

“Fuck you.”

Alek didn’t know what to retort. But he knew he shouldn’t.

A fist struck his jacket. And then another. And another. He let her. Let the rage crash against him like waves against stone as she beat her fists against his coat and asked him where he had been, why he wasn’t there. How he could be so cruel.

There was little he had to say about that. He was cruel. That’s what you had to be in order to survive. He had abandoned so much of himself to be where he stands today. Lost too many good people. And the only thing he regretted — was that he hadn’t been crueller.

His hesitation had always been the death of others. That’s why he was still here, standing in front of Victoria, behaving like the man he was twenty years ago.

Some things you never learn.

So he took the time to let her fall between his arms, and there she kept cursing him and hitting him. Her pleas lower and lower. Until they were gone. Replaced by whimpers.

He held her softly. He owed her this much. And more probably. But that was a start. Time was a luxury they barely could afford. A peace they wouldn’t be able to enjoy for much longer. But she needed it because once they took a step down this path, there would be little of it to enjoy anymore.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“We have to go after him…”

Her voice was tentative, but the words carried a reckless certainty.

An expected insanity. The first step. And he knew better than to try reasoning with her — because Alek would not have been able to be reasoned with had he been in her place.

“We can’t stay here much longer anyway,” he said, pointing at the street behind them. “The dead are gonna come crawling our way.”

Alek could see the depths of her feelings far beyond the azurean field of her irises. That storm of grief and determination rawer than any words she could say.

He could almost envy her.

She merely nodded.

“Let’s go then,” he said. “We’ll have to run east. Keep to the river.”

“Wait.”

She climbed back up the steps, moving to where she had rested only moments ago. When she returned, she held a blue cardboard box.

“You should leave it,” he said. “It’s dead weight.”

Victoria’s grip tightened on the box.

“I promised him.”

Promises were the death of choice. But he wasn’t one to talk.

----------------------------------------

Victoria hadn’t expected much. Another hole in the ground, perhaps. A ruin draped in dust and decay, like everything else she had seen so far. Instead, Alek had led her to a place far beyond her expectations.

The ‘Garage’, as he called it, was not just a shelter. It was a workshop.

To get there, they hadn’t run for long. Alek had taken her to a wall of ivy under a crumbling building, down a dark alley. There, he had pulled on a rusty chain, and the wall had lifted, revealing the space within. A beating heart of metal and ingenuity. Shelves stacked high with scavenged parts. Barrels filled with a black shiny liquid. And plastic. Piles and piles of plastic waste.

It reminded her of the machinery rooms of Noxhold in a way. Though even there, she had never seen as much… passion.

At its centre stood a machine. Stripped and rebuilt. A skeletal beast of welded steel cobbled together from mismatched parts.

Two massive wheels had been fitted onto modified suspensions. Metal plates reinforced key points of its rusting chassis. A monstrous engine was barely contained inside the frame, and along its sides, tool pouches and bags had been strapped. Even at rest, it looked like it was waiting to lunge forward. Hungry for the road.

A motorcycle. A ghost of one anyway — a monster resurrected from the old world. Twisted into a new shape, modified to navigate the apocalyptic landscapes. Almost as weathered as Alek himself and probably as efficient.

Victoria didn’t know much about motorcycles. Or vehicles, for that matter. But she could tell this wasn’t an ordinary one. She stepped closer, brushing the back of her hand across the dust of the tank.

“Does it work?”

Alek was already moving, crouched near the back tyre. He tested the chain with a practised tug before reaching for a fuel can. “Took me a long time to find the right model,” he said, pouring the thick liquid with a funnel. “Needed an older one. More endurant. Something that didn’t rely too much on its battery.”

He cast her a look, amusement sparkling behind his eye.

“Believe me, it works.”

The sharp tang of petrol burned through the air, and Victoria turned, eyeing the barrels along the back wall — rusted drums, makeshift distillery pieces escaping a hearth. A factory in the heart of a dead world.

“You make your own fuel.”

“Had to,” Alek muttered, screwing the cap back on. He straightened, giving the machine a final once-over. “Siphoning from old cars hasn’t been enough for a long time now. Gasoline spoils. Or at least, it loses its potency. But with a little trick,” he gestured towards the pile of plastic and the forge. “You can get something that works.”

He rapped a knuckle against the frame. “And with the right engine, it will run on the worst shit you can throw at it.”

Victoria still felt the burn of regret inside her. The raw, gnawing resentment at herself. But all this — it made her believe it might not be as hopeless as she’d thought. Maybe they could save Milo after all.

“How are we going to find him?”

Alek’s expression darkened. “I think I know where they’ll take him. There’s only one place. We’ll have to catch them before they get there. Otherwise…”

He turned to one of the shelves, grabbing something from a worn canvas bag. “We shouldn’t forget why we came here in the first place.”

She caught the object as he tossed it to her. A gas mask. Sturdy enough but lightweight, straps slightly frayed from use. She turned it over, fingertips tracing the filter’s edges. So this is what keeps us from turning into them.

She looked at him. “Thanks.”

Alek raised a brow, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. “I said I’d give you one, didn’t I?”

Victoria nodded and secured the mask to her belt. Then, she moved Milo’s cardboard box to a corner of the workshop. “We’ll come back for it, right?”

“Right,” he simply replied. “You should leave your bow here as well. It’s only going to bother you.”

Victoria ran her fingers over the worn curve of her bow before setting it aside. It felt wrong to part with it; she hadn’t even had time for it. But she figured he was right. If they were going to race inside the enemy’s camp and make their way through rows of undead. She would need to be as lightweight as possible.

Alek swung his leg over the bike, boots settling into the grooves of footpegs. His gloved hand skimmed the throttle. There was a rare flicker in his eye. All of this was beyond mere function. It wasn’t just oil and gears. Not just a machine. This was purpose. His way forward.

And for the first time in a long time, Victoria felt her own.

Helping people had always come easy to her. It had taken on many shapes. Patching up broken pipes, making herself useful, finding small ways to make people smile. Investigating the dark truth of Noxhold. She hadn’t thought much about it then. That was her way to keep on keeping on. A little joy in a grim place. But standing here now, the pieces clicked together.

She felt the same way about going after Milo. Of fighting side by side with Alek. And when she had no one to help, no use… she was left incomplete.

Milo was out there, afraid and alone. Forgotten by the world. She would not let him stay that way. Victoria had a purpose; she always had. The unrelenting will to help. To aid. To guide. This would be the first step. The first of many.

Alek revved the engine. The beast snarled awake, coughing up a thick plume of smoke before settling into a low, hungry growl. Raw power trembled through the frame. Barely contained.

“Get on,” he said.

Victoria swung herself onto the seat behind him, gripping Alek’s coat before the motorcycle lunged forward. The tyres screeched against the cracked pavement, erupting into a cloud of dust.

Alek and Victoria ripped out of the garage door, the engine’s roar shattering the quiet as they tore down the street.

Hold on, Milo.

We’re on our way.

***