The Gathering of Brothers

chapter three

Two or three weeks back the two cheats had strolled along an abandoned stretch of motorway. They wanted to get away quickly, so it was a risk. In the past, it wasn't always easy to negotiate motorways. It wasn't just a case of all the broken-down automobiles and bodies. There was always the possibility of meeting someone significantly worse than you. They were still faster than cutting through smaller towns near marshal and militia patrols. They had passed a man washing abandoned cars on this particular four-lane road. There was not an obvious explanation for him to be there. It was exactly the way that he decided to spend his days. After all, they had seen men look at other options. Despite the fact that that man's bucket of murky water and moldy sponge had a tragic quality to them. The faint grin of fulfillment on his swollen and worn down face. Little more than a stump in one hand. He walked badly and left behind an infected leg. He just made them work eye however the other hadn't been eliminated. It was still loosely clinging to his cheek. Not that it appeared to irritate him. Most likely the work of thieves. For all the aggravation he probably felt he continued to clean those stalled and deserted vehicles, continuously grinning to himself. A childlike blissful smile without any teeth. After observing him, the older thief pondered whether it would be simpler to simply let go. Give the franticness access. His companion had a different opinion. He had shot the simpleton in the head and taken what he could use from his truck. which was not a lot. Endurance had never been a beautiful word however the world had transformed it into something different at this point. Something fouler, something more combustible. It could start fires right now. The word "survival" was much more perilous than it once was. It was held too dear to the men's hearts. It was a creed and motto. an excuse. Perhaps a religion of sorts. Endurance was spelt with much more blood than it used to be and the more established hoodlum was sure the idea of it had changed. It was no longer a case of the fittest surviving. No, the survival of the keenest was now the priority. "We're vultures," he said, the idea slipping past his drained protections. The younger one turned his head and smiled as though he had just heard a joke. “Careful. That is a derogatory term in this area. They were buffeted by the wind. The more seasoned one could feel his heart beginning to race. His heart was beating faster. The adrenaline that was rising in the back of his throat tasted like sharp metal. He observed his partner's expression of hunger. Any occupation before now and the kid couldn't have ever proposed to go in there alone. Naturally, they had a third man with them at the time. A decent, steadying impact on the kid. a large man who speaks slowly and forcefully. He never got anxious. He never appeared concerned. He barely raised an eyebrow at all. Every time he looked at the devastation, he saw a new way for them to survive. Until those marshals shot him in the knee with a shotgun, he had remained as solid as a rock. A stray hand touched the pistol that was hanging from the older thief's hip. He felt like he was trying to get away from the world and step out of his skin until this was done. Once the g*n was drawn, he never truly exercised self-control. His accomplice read the activity and gestured abruptly. He marched across the deserted parking lot and began his march toward the shop. Before he moved toward the ruins of the low wall that ran along the end of the parking lot, the older thief stood and watched him take a few steps. He established himself behind it. He spit on the dead grass and lowered the brim of his hat so that it nearly covered his eyes. His previous life would always show through at times like these. regardless of whether he wanted it to. The ghost of his wife kept whispering in his ear, as subtle as a regrettable thought. He couldn't stop it. He didn't need to hear it right now, but she always showed up. She used to sing to herself while cooking, but whenever he came near, she would always stop. He would smile to himself and stand in their small dining room whenever he heard her start. He tried to get away from the feeling of her ghost breathing on him. He paid attention to the footfalls of his accomplice as he stepped over to the little shop all things considered. As he went, he counted them. 21. There are 22. There are 23. He didn't rush. That might have been a good sign. As he listened, he struggled to control his stomach's hunger. Over the past ten years, he had witnessed a great number of noble men succumb to hunger. He had seen them run into flames to assault the flares for something to eat, something to drink. He had witnessed men burn a friend's body until the stench became unbearable. This felt the same. They were just picking at a different kind of corpse as they ran into their own kind of fire. As he took in the desolate road and the ruins of the buildings all around him, his hand once more wandered to his hip. No indication of development. His partner's boots kept ringing out of the parking lot's cracked tarmac. He continued to count them. 35. 36. 37 percent. If anything went wrong, it wasn't too far to run. He didn't want to admit it, but he liked the way the boy always carried the rifle in front of him. The action was unpretentious. It was a simple and clear statement of intent. I'm prepared and armed. These days, it was unusual. Both young and old men concealed their weapons. The Rafts had transformed them. It had stripped them down to something dreary and thin. The barest essentials expected of mankind. Both their souls and bodies had evolved into clothespins for the morning. He checked both directions of the road. Nothing shook. Back in town, a chimney stack gave off smoke, but that was all. He crammed a piece of battered gum between his teeth after removing a pack from his pocket. He got to work on it. His stomach's acid level started to rise and start acting up. It would maintain his sharpness. He would remain tenacious and harsh until this was accomplished. As he entered the store, the boy did not pause. His rifle raising as the entryway shut behind him. His yells were only discernible for that second, carried on the breeze. The door then slid shut, and the silence returned. He didn't fire a shot to warn anyone. Another potential positive sign. The older thief looked over the damaged automobiles in front of the location. They number six. rusted, gutted, and burned out. Those would not be used for sleeping. Yesterday, they checked briefly, but there was no sign of life. He wished he could explain away the icy surprise he could feel in the air nearby during all this silence. Christ, how hungry he was. He continued to chew the gum. He thought to himself, not long. Soon, we will consume food other than dry rations. He tried to avoid thinking about what the boy was doing or what he might discover there. The boy had excellent aim with that heavy, fully loaded rifle. That was without a doubt. The older thief was aware of the source of his pretense that he could only fight close up. He was aware that his young companion preferred to kill close to them. He enjoyed watching their deaths. He enjoyed hearing them splutter. Last night, drunks in the town heard that two brothers owned this business. Old folks. They had previously been old when everything turned out badly, when the Rafts had first shown up to wreak havoc and the youngsters had begun to bite the dust. With the man who had just entered through their front door, the shopkeepers' age would not excuse them. In the event that they moved excessively sluggish or didn't hear too well it would cost them and that rifle yapped pretty clearly when it blew up. Out here, he would know everything about it.