<b>Roo'd</b>

# Roo'd

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# Chapter #21

Since they’d pumped him full of boiled black Cuban heroin Poulpe had found himself significantly happier with life. The crazy Hispanics who’d rescued him had been exceedingly sloppy about the whole affair, but effective. That the Boers had underestimated the crude techniques his contact’s representatives were willing to use was clear. He would be nervous about the actual data trail they left later, but for the moment he was high as a kite and couldn’t bring himself to care one whit.

At the moment he was playing with his toes, noting with some interest that four of them were broken on his left foot. He recalled distantly that the Boers had broken them before they’d put him in the car, most likely so he wouldn’t try to run away.

“Shit! Hey you crazy fuck, cut that out! You’re going to have to walk on that soon!” yelled the taller fellow, the one with the magazine-perfect face, pores artificially shrunken, skin a glowing golden brown.

“You’re like a delightful pastry, brushed with egg whites before baking” sighed Poulpe through the tiny sliding window between the truck bed and the cab.

“And you’re like a fucked up gringo somebody overdosed on smack” growled Esco, more at Baby than at Poulpe. Baby shrugged impassively at his side, fingers sliding up and down and over the black plastic knob of his controller. He’d wired in a chord to the thing, of course, and was busily obtaining coordinates for their next stop. Pharoe had told them to head to Texas, towards Austin, and to keep the Frenchman safe and in their sight. This was the part of the game Esco didn’t like, the politicking in which he was clearly a lackey. He didn’t like being a driver, didn’t appreciate the tiny ante part of the job. Could be they’d be driving from mini-mart to mini-mart in the backwaters of Austin for weeks, providing distanced proof they had the package, taking him away again, getting shot at out of nowhere, having to kill sixteen-year-old Columbian prostitute-ninjas when they bust through his door waving swords while he was trying to pluck his eyebrows. It was messy.

Esco didn’t like messy. Poulpe began to sing songs of the French revolution in the back of the truck bed, comfortably sprawled out on the metal-cased wiring of the big gun, oblivious to his dehydration and miscellaneous injuries.

Baby was right that the heroin had taken care of the Frenchman’s whining and sniveling, but he wasn’t at all convinced it had improved the situation. The man needed professional care, and while keeping him full of water and in the cool of the air-conditioned truck ought to help his heatstroke, that foot was going to need more. And when he came down from the smack... It wasn’t going to be much better than before at all. Poulpe began humming loudly in the back and Esco slid the window shut with a snap.

“Take the next exit” said Baby, late-afternoon sunlight glinting off the Virgin Mary where his eyes should be. “We got some brothers running a restaurant here. Pharoe’s bought us a nice meal and some protection until we get our next location.”

Esco pulled off the highway into the deep blue shadows pooled on the off ramp, the truck cooling suddenly as they plunged into the shade. Baby gave him a few more directions, the lazy shopping malls aggregating around them like garbage in a pond, Starbucks and Targets and juice shops and sandwich chains. As they passed from one shopping center to another the buildings showed less plastic, developed nailed-on shingles, piles of trash in the corners of their lots. They began to see dark and peeling paint, hand-made signs appearing in the windows. Esco realized he was reading Spanish more than English when Baby told him to pull into a lot, pointed to the store at the far end of it. An ancient hardware chain had been taken over by one of the ubiquitous mexicali restaurants sprawled across the countryside. Cultural kudzu, clinging to people’s need to eat. As they approached Esco could see that the store had originally been called Sears. The new owners had tacked up red neon over the blue sign, adding an “n” and an “o” where the “a” had been. Sears became Senior’s, the accent over the n done in squiggly glow-in-the-dark spray-paint.

He hoped they had plantains.

The truck pulled up next to half a dozen others of similar make and style, albeit likely without hardware like theirs. Shovels and blowers and wide-feed lawnmowers were mounted on polyboard sidings glued onto the beds of the trucks with fat worms of plasticene. Chew cups and shotgun racks gleamed dully in the fading sunlight through the open windows. A dog barked from the back of one of the trucks, followed it with a weird chittering sound.

Sick dog, thought Esco as he got out of the truck. Inside, Baby was reclining his seat, cussing at the Frenchman to move over towards The Big Gun. The truck was modded so the seat could recline all the way back, a false jacket and bag resting over Baby’s legs and midsection. The rest of him laid back into the bed of the truck where he could control his toys in peace. The Frenchman was making things difficult, but eventually Baby got him moved over. Esco lit a cigarette in the meanwhile, eyeing the cars, considering his angles. Eventually he reached in across Baby’s knees and pulled the flechette from the glove compartment. Baby had cleaned and reloaded it while they’d drove, running through the process by touch on the back of a porn mag held over his lap. Esco tucked it into the small of his back, stretched out his arms a few times, loosening up his bad elbow. The bruise the Boer had given him was bad, but from what he could feel there wasn’t any breakage. The icepacks and anti-inflammitories he’d used on the drive helped, but it still hurt like a bitch. He hopped on his toes to wake up his legs and peered in the cab to make sure Baby was fully covered. He could see all around the truck from his headset, but there was no sense in tempting fate. The Frenchman mooed loudly in the back and Esco winced.

“What’re you sending in?” he asked Baby’s knees.

“Fox. Here.” said Baby.

From beneath the truck a small, lumpy figure crawled out, its round head facing skywards as it walked on all fours. Once it stood next to Esco it bent its back legs and rose smoothly to a standing position, its front legs becoming arms. The creature was a panoply of colors, exposed wires and ducting welded across its back and between its limbs and body. It was garage work at its finest, Baby’s hacked darling. The thing packed enough firepower to take down a legion. If it didn’t break down first.

Fox tilted its head and snapped a neat salute at Esco. He took another drag of his cigarette, regarding the tiny robot next to him, and then turned and slammed the door to the car. The day was fading.

Baby had to make Fox break into a run to keep up with him on his way to the restaurant.

Esco pushed through the heavy door and entered a giant hall. The bar stretched out nearly a hundred meters in front of him, a metal lattice making an artificial ceiling on which candles and chemsticks flickered and glowed. The place was nearly empty, a small cluster of tables near the door hugging the bar. The rest faded into dimness. Voices stopped when Esco entered, plumes of smoke from cigarette-fueled conversation slowly rising and vanishing into the darkness overhead. Half a dozen cowboy hats perched on the tables, nearly twenty dark men next to them sitting motionless, watching him.

He went to the bar. The short Mexican behind the bar said nothing when he asked for a beer. Esco’d figured there’d only be one kind, and was right. An unmarked bottle of piss yellow liquid appeared in front of him. He put a twenty on the table, kept one finger on it as he leaned forward towards the bartender.

“I’m here to talk to the owner” he said in Spanish. He knew it was Puerto-Rican Spanish, knew it marked him more clearly than his mods or clothes or attitude. He wheeled on his chair, beer in hand, leaving the bartender behind him to sort out the rest. Fox was standing in the shadows near the door; if the bartender tried anything he’d get a laser in the eye for the effort. At least, Esco hoped Baby would do as much.

Somebody to Esco’s right tossed back a shot glass of an oily yellow liquid. Esco went to do the same, realized his beer wasn’t opened. His eyes tightened as he frowned and reach his arm out level to the bar on his right, let the top of his bottle rest against the edge of the bar, pressed. The cap popped off and beer sizzled against the cement. Esco’s shoulder muscles screamed but he smiled sweetly, slowly brought the beer back in front of him, wiping off its edge and flicking the drops towards his shoes. He hadn’t done that in years. It fucking hurt.

But it worked. The guy who’d swallowed his shot stayed seated, cigarettes began their cargo cult missions from mouth to table, beers were slowly mouthed over. Nobody said anything. Esco watched the crowd. The crowd watched Esco. Baby, via Fox, watched them all. Esco hoped.

The sound of boots came echoing up slowly from the vanished dark rear of the room. A figure entered the bar from the shadows to Esco’s right, a tall figure dressed a in neat white shirt, sturdy black trousers. Esco watched over his right shoulder, noticing the tiny golden cross, the neatly cropped hair, the six-foot frame wrapped in loose solid mass. As the man approached Esco slowly turned to meet him, stood when he came close and extended a hand.

The man slapped his palm against Esco’s own, leaned close and kissed his cheek. He smelled of bay rum and aftershave, of rich tobacco meant to be packed in pipes, and most importantly, a sweet fine scent of hot fried plantains. The man whispered a few words of Spanish the way Esco’s parents spoke it, held his body close for a moment before leading him back to the shadows. Esco was smiling.

Five hours later Baby had setup perimeter defenses of his own around the back office Fuentes had given them. They’d feasted on fresh fried plantains and chorizo burritos dripping with sizzling grease and served up by a small grayed and grizzled woman Fuentes introduced as his Mama. It was, barring the burritos his own mama had made, the best Esco’d ever had.

Now they sat watching the last of the sunset over the dusty remains of a cornfield behind Senior’s. Every three minutes a soft shuffling noise reminded them that Fox was patrolling the hallway behind them, every ten minutes a small flash showed the black flyer zipping by against the tree line on its way around the house. Esco inhaled deeply from the thin white hand-rolled he’d gotten from a red-eyed old man parked by the far end of the bar after they’d eaten. Fuentes’ appearance had worked magic on the crowd, and they smiled when Esco returned to them. Baby slid in easy, ignored and smiling as always. Baby liked all his mods internal, enjoyed the anonymity of his mulatto background and easily forgettable looks. Esco thought Baby didn’t much care how his face looked — it belonged parked behind a headset anyway.

The Frenchman moaned slightly, the comedown troubling his already fitful sleep. They’d sedated him once they got him inside, splinted and tied up his foot before he had a chance to start feeling it. Fuentes had given them some stuff to accelerate the healing, but it’d still be a while before he was walking steady.

Baby had sent word to Pharoe that they’d reached their first destination. Now, they waited.

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