"It's better to burn out
than to fade away..."
Neil Young
Prologue
Brighton was a small town located just over a hundred miles south of New York City. Founded after the war, it wasn't much different from any other post-war settlement. A sheriff's station, who also served as judge
and registrar if necessary. Two bars where you could eat
, drink, and even listen to music. Admittedly, only occasionally, as the signal from New York wasn't always there, but at least it was a change of pace. A hospital, if that could be called a dilapidated building where the local quack doctor set broken limbs and sold pre-war medicines at alarmingly high prices. That was practically all anyone who had the misfortune to find themselves in this town, devoid of hope for a better future, could hope for. The settlement's problems were no different from those besetting similar towns. Gangsters, lack of water and edible food, and of course, boredom, ubiquitous boredom that sapped all their remaining vitality. If someone asked the average resident what bothered them most, they would surely say boredom was the worst. Water and food could always be found somewhere. Well, maybe not always, but usually, the settlers, accustomed to the desert environment, managed to do so. Gangsters could be shot at and somehow defended against. And honestly, the average Brightonite swore at the troublesome and dangerous motorcycle gangs over a beer, but secretly envied them. They envied their freedom and the liberty they enjoyed.
And with what they died. The only unresolved problem was the surplus of time that needed doing. Before the war, there were books, radio, television, computers, and many other attractions. Now, only the radio remained, and it played the same old hits over and over again. Life in Brighton was appallingly slow, and worse still, the city itself was no exception. Life in not-so-distant New York was, of course, incredibly different from the provincial lifestyle in Brighton, but it wasn't rosy there either. Of course, not everyone complained; there were those who were doing quite well and coped somehow. Some, especially the young ones, left for New York or other large cities. But since all the others were so damn far away, they usually went there. In fact, they almost never returned, so it's hard to say what happened to them. No one here had heard of such a thing as local patriotism, and as much as they could, they got out of this backwater. The truly lucky few arrived in a beat-up car, bought a round of beer at the bar, picked up their family, and drove away, leaving clouds of dust behind.
It
was late Friday afternoon. The heat was merciless, and there was absolutely no breeze. If a car had driven by on the main road, it would have taken an hour for the dust it kicked up to settle on the parched earth. If anyone had an air conditioner or even a small fan, they would have been very lucky. Provided, of course, that someone had electricity. Unfortunately, no one in town had either. Jeff was no exception. He was 23 years old.
He lived alone across from "Ostoja," one of the two mediocre bars in town, and one whose name was completely inappropriate. People who were too conspicuous and not particularly good with firearms would have a hard time leaving "Ostoja" on their own. Although for the locals, it might have been a place of relaxation. Jeff had often used it since his parents were killed by a psychopath who shot himself in the head shortly after. They left when he was 16. His aunt took care of him for a while, but when he became independent, which happened surprisingly quickly, she left him alone. The boy generally enjoyed company, but he was completely fed up with his grumpy relative after just two months under one roof. He was doing very well on his own; he was a mechanic and had an uncanny talent for it. He practically taught himself everything. His father had only taught him the basics while he was still alive; he had discovered all the other secrets of engines and other devices himself during countless hours spent in a poorly equipped workshop. Because of his profession, he enjoyed the respect of the locals. It's a fact of life in the world that all devices eventually break down, and in post-war conditions, everything happens surprisingly quickly. If you're the only guy in town who can fix them, people consider you practically a god. Despite the general respect he enjoyed and his relatively peaceful life, Jeff would have loved to leave town. He dreamed of being like a Renegade, cruising the wide, though now terribly potholed, highways on his shiny Harley. He didn't have a Harley, though if he had access to the right parts, he could have put one together somehow. So he put his dream aside and, for several similar years, worked hard to support himself. He usually performed minor repairs in exchange for supplies: food, water, clothing, and many other necessities of life. Today, however, he had the day off; he was his own boss and decided when he would take a day off from work. And that day, he decided he needed one. It was already hot when he woke up, and as the day wore on, the heat became unbearable. The mere thought of work drained him of all his energy, let alone when he actually had to do it. He'd been home since morning, only going to the bar once for a few bottles of beer. It was getting dark just as he finished the last one. Dusk was falling over the East Coast. Slow, depressing music flowed from a homemade transistor radio, and Jeff wondered how many more years he would have to suffer on Earth before death came to ease the pain of a lonely, aimless existence in a backwater forgotten by the world. Suicide wasn't a consideration. He wasn't religious, but taking his own life filled him with disgust and contempt. To him, it amounted to complete surrender and ultimate defeat.If he truly couldn't stand life anymore, he would join a mercenary group of mutant hunters and find his destiny in battle. He didn't know what awaited him after death, he supposed nothing, but he attached great importance to the way he left the world. That was just how he was, and even he didn't know why it was so important to him.
The roar of engines and the nervous shouts of some people broke his gloomy thoughts. Certainly not locals. The mechanic knew almost everyone in town and was certain those voices didn't belong to them. Besides, where would they have motorcycles? So who were they? Jeff forced himself out of bed. He pushed aside the dusty curtains and peered out the cracked window. In the glare of the headlights, he saw six guys, dressed in black leather jackets and worn jeans, pulling up in front of his house. As soon as they dismounted, one of them took a few unsteady steps and almost fell, but two broad-shouldered motorcyclists caught him in time. The guy could barely walk on his own, so the two took him by the arms and headed for a small building with a carelessly painted red cross. It was obviously a hospital, but judging by the expression on the injured man's face and the blood leaking profusely from his chest, it was already too late for him. The others headed for Jeff's house, and before he knew it, they were inside.
"Do you have a mechanic in this damn town?" one of them growled. It was clear, however, that it would be better for everyone if a mechanic were found. Otherwise, the unexpected "guests" might get a little nervous.
"I am. Why else?" Jeff replied suddenly, his voice suddenly confident. The calmness with which he spoke surprised even him. He had no idea why he was acting this way, but he didn't care what happened. Later, he concluded it was probably the beers he'd had, but he wasn't sure.
"I have a question for you," the slightly disconcerted gangster continued. "One of the bikes is breaking down, and we could soon have Rangers on our tails, and we don't want him to surprise us at an inopportune moment. We need to take a closer look at him, and right away. We don't have time.
" "Get him into the garage and I'll see what I can do."
With that, he stepped outside, and the uninvited guests followed him. He opened the wide wooden garage door and gestured for the damaged machine to be brought inside. He lit several kerosene lamps, their glow filling the small room, revealing a typical mechanic's workshop. The cluttered room was filled with the smell of various oils and greases. Screws and wrenches of various sizes and shapes were scattered across the floor. Jeff, however, had a keen eye for what was where, and as soon as the motorcycle was brought in, he immediately got to work, whistling cheerfully. Two gangsters who had stayed with him to make sure everything was in order watched him curiously. After a moment of silence, one of them asked,
"So? Do you know what's wrong with him?"
"I think so," Jeff replied. "It's probably nothing serious; I should be able to deal with it quickly. I don't like working in silence, though. So, could one of you tell me what happened that made you run away at night with one of you seriously injured?"
"None of your business, we don't even know your name, and we're supposed to be telling you about our affairs. All that's missing is you talking about it later and bringing all the Law Enforcement officers down on us.
" "I'm not going to tell anyone about this, especially not the Law Enforcement officers," the mechanic replied, still completely calm. "And as for my name, my name is Jeff.
" "Jack," replied the tall, bearded man, who was clearly not as inaccessible and callous as he tried to appear.
"Ron," said a slightly shorter, and certainly younger, boy with an intelligent, if slightly wandering, gaze. "It was an accident," he continued. "I'm not saying we've never done anything wrong, but this time it was. We made a quick stop in a small town east of here. One of our guys got into an argument with some guy in a bar. Unfortunately, the guy was a Ranger, and when Bill started threatening him, he pulled out a gun. I don't know exactly how it happened, but after a moment, he shot Bill in the chest from a distance of a few meters." Needless to say, a shootout soon ensued. Two of our guys were killed and one was seriously wounded. I don't know if he'll survive." When Ron said this, Jeff felt his eyes glisten as if with tears. The mechanic was a bit surprised, but after a moment, he decided it must have been a hallucination. The boy continued his story. "Somehow, we managed to evade the pursuit, but I'm not at all sure they haven't picked up on our trail again.
" "As you can see, you need to hurry," interrupted Jack, who wasn't entirely sure it was worth mentioning. For a long moment, silence reigned.
"I'm sorry about your buddies," the mechanic finally said, his voice filled with so much genuine sadness and sympathy that the usually empty words "I'm sorry" took on an incredible power
. "Thanks, but there's no point in going back to this. Now we need to get out of here as quickly as possible
and get to our headquarters. "
His words were followed by another silence, broken by the roar of the engine starting.
"Well, that's it," Jeff replied, turning off the engine. "He shouldn't be a problem now.
" "You know we can't offer you anything in return, but please accept our gratitude
." "No problem. It was a small thing.
" "I'm glad you say so, but thanks anyway. We could use someone like that on the team. Especially now that Bill's dead."
Jack probably said it half-jokingly, but for the first time, an idea flashed through Jeff's mind. He didn't say a word, instead, he went with him to the hospital to check on the injured man. It was already quite cold outside, so the mechanic put on a black jacket stained with some kind of gunk that was hanging on a hook. On his way out, he turned off the lights and closed the door. He caught up with Jack and Ron just outside the entrance to the local medical center. Inside, it was bright and quiet. This was a bad omen. When they entered the building, they saw what they feared most.
On a small table where people were usually operated on, a man lay covered in black plastic. Nearby, two men sat on carelessly thrashed chairs. One of them buried his face in his hands, the other absently stared at the black plastic on the table. On the opposite side sat a doctor, his coat splattered with blood. At the sight of the two men entering, the quack briskly rose from his chair, his expression betraying fear.
"I really couldn't do anything," he said, as if to forestall any questions.
He struggled to get the words out, his voice trembling like never before. "The bullet pierced his lung. I tried, I really did.
" "No one doubts that," Jack replied, approaching the body. He pulled back the sheet covering his head to look at it one last time. "Goodbye, my friend. Goodbye forever."
Seeing that he was safe from the gangsters, the doctor breathed a sigh of relief. Jeff knew him well. He might have been a good specialist, even a very good one for a town like this, but he was also a damn coward. After making sure no one held a grudge against him, he slipped out the back door. He didn't want to wait for anyone to change their minds about his guilt or innocence. He knew he couldn't help him, but he was afraid the dead man's friends might disagree. He never called it cowardice. He called it prudence. Maybe he was right. No one even noticed his exit, although the creaking of the old door was clearly audible in the silence that reigned in the room. Their ears, however, seemed to have momentarily stopped working and failed to register the sound. Jeff was a bit surprised by the gangsters' behavior. He would have behaved the same way, of course, but he'd heard countless stories about their ruthlessness, and now it all seemed to make no sense. A while ago, a guy in a bar had said they were like killing machines,
and if one of them was seriously injured, they didn't even try to help him or didn't notice. Either the guy was lying straight out, or there were others. Another dozen or so minutes passed before one of them spoke.
"It's time to go," Jack said, his voice grim but confident. "Jeff, will you oversee the burial? It's important to me."
"You don't have to worry about the burial. The doctor may not be a paragon of courage, but he does his job conscientiously, and that includes burying the dead. However, if you'd like, I can whisper a few words to him to get on with it immediately.
" "If you could, I'd be obliged." His name was Vince.
"Vince..." Jeff thought for a moment. "I'll definitely pass it on. Are you going yet?
" "Yes, we've been stuck here for so long. Thanks again for everything.
" "No problem."
After these words, Jeff left through the same door the doctor had used. He found him easily in his room. He relayed Jack's request to him, and the doctor immediately agreed, jotting down the deceased's name in pencil on a small note. He promised that it would all be over by tomorrow evening. And if he promised, it would undoubtedly be so. As the mechanic walked through the operating room, he heard the roar of motorcycles. This time, the thought of escaping the city pierced his mind like lightning through the night sky. This was his last chance. If he didn't do anything now, he'd soon rot in this town. Another thought. Too late. He didn't let it gain strength, rushing out of the hospital at a surprisingly fast pace. The road was bathed in the red glow of motorcycle taillights. He made it. At the sound of his hurried footsteps, Jack turned as if he'd been waiting for him. Jeff took a moment to gather himself. He was almost certain they'd laugh at him. They didn't know him at all. He didn't know them either. He didn't know what they were like or if it even made sense. Life in Brighton wasn't pleasant, but it wasn't that bad. What awaited him if he left now? Real life, or maybe death. Regardless, anything was better than his current existence. Finally, he forced himself.
"Jack!" he called, approaching. "You said you could use someone like me. Was that serious?
" "Yes," he said, not knowing why, agreeing. He was usually wary, but this time was completely different. "Absolutely serious." But think carefully before you make a decision." Jeff didn't hesitate, the decision had already been made. "
I'd like to go with you. I'm sure of it. I want to be one of you, if you agree." Jeff didn't wait long for an answer, though it seemed like an eternity before he heard anything.
"We agree," Ron and Jack replied in unison, and after a moment the other three also expressed their approval of the mechanic's proposal to join their team. "Take Vince's motorcycle, I hope it brings you better luck than it did him."
"I'll be there in five minutes," Jeff replied happily, and then ran home.
He grabbed only the bare essentials and quickly ran back. He knew he'd have to come back for tools and a few other items, but he couldn't be bothered with that now. He hadn't felt this excited since he was twelve, when he and a friend had sneaked into a cave and found a dusty but still functional Glock. He remembered his parents giving him a good beating later for leaving the house without permission and playing with a gun. But that didn't matter, and he never regretted it. He didn't think about the consequences now either. There was still time for reflection; now it was time for action, and for the first time in years, Jeff felt alive. Less than five minutes had passed when he started Vince's motorcycle, parked in front of the garage door. When he pulled up to the gangsters, they turned off their bikes, which surprised him slightly. For a moment, he felt the ground give way beneath his feet. Jack approached him, his serious expression even more disconcerting. He smiled and said solemnly,
"Welcome aboard! From now on, you're part of the team. You'll be a brother to us, and we'll be brothers to you. I'm happy about that, though under different circumstances, I'd be even happier. Besides, you know what happened." After these words, Ron, Rino, James, and Johnny approached him one by one. Each shook his hand, and they all rode off together without looking back. There was no point.
If anyone had asked Jeff, he would have said they'd been riding for another hour since they left Brighton. But it could have been two hours or a half. After a hot day, night had finally arrived, bringing a refreshing coolness. True, the air was still strangely thick, but riding his motorcycle didn't feel it at all. The mechanic couldn't remember the last time he'd left the city. In any case, it had been quite a while ago. Now he did so with genuine joy, knowing that he was no longer connected to it. Well, maybe except for a few things he'd be returning for soon, and some not-so-pleasant memories, which only reinforced his belief that he'd made the right decision. He knew things wouldn't be rosy, but he wasn't about to regret what he'd done.
After about 45 minutes, they turned onto a side road, though only they knew it was a road. A tall cactus marked the spot where they had to leave the main trail. The bikers quickly covered the short distance remaining to their destination. It had to be admitted that they had chosen a very good hiding spot. After the first few turns between large boulders, Jeff lost his bearings, and the taillights of his new companions' motorcycles served as his only guide. When they reached a large cave, they placed their bikes in a small room. When Rino lit the torches attached to the cave walls, Jeff saw that the cave was divided into several quite nicely furnished rooms. He was almost certain it was man-made. Most likely a small shelter or military outpost. Today, it was surely forgotten and therefore safe. The last traces of sleep vanished without a trace when Jack handed him his almost perfectly preserved black Glock. Jeff recalled once again his first trip outside the city. That gun was in slightly worse condition, but that didn't change the fact that the resemblance was clear. He was bursting with energy just as he had been then, and he'd love to ride on, enjoying his newfound freedom. The other gangsters, however, were exhausted from a long and painful day, so immediately after returning, they collapsed into their beds to regain their lost strength in sleep. Jeff, seeing no other solution, followed their example and decided to sleep. He shared a room with Ron and Johnny, the two youngest gangsters in both age and experience. When he entered, both were probably asleep, as their breathing was calm and even. He settled quietly into the bed so as not to disturb his sleeping companions. The sleeping bag was quite comfortable, though it didn't smell pleasant. The mechanic, who didn't particularly care for hygiene at home, soon got used to it, though it took a long time before he finally fell asleep.
II
The next morning was surprisingly cool, which Jeff welcomed. He was the first to wake up but lay in bed for a while longer. The events of the previous day seemed like a dream, but the fact that he was in some cave and not in his own bed left no doubt as to the reality of those events. His roommates were still asleep, snoring lightly, so he didn't want to get up either. He was new here, so he preferred to wait until the others got up and showed him where things were. He still couldn't believe they'd agreed to join the team so quickly; he supposed the deaths of friends and the purely practical need for a skilled mechanic had prompted them. He preferred to believe, however, that they recognized him and found a friend in him, but that wasn't so obvious, though on the other hand, their attitude yesterday suggested that it was possible. After a moment, another thought occurred: what did they even do for a living? Robberies? If so, would I be able to find it? I wanted freedom, but was that what it looked like? When he was young, his mother had told him a pre-war story about Robin Hood, a good robber who stole from the rich and gave to the poor, leaving something for himself and his companions. Were they a modern version of him? Probably not, and even if they were, the share they kept for themselves far exceeded what they gave to others. His thoughts were interrupted by Jack entering.
"Are you awake yet?" he asked. "I'm making myself breakfast. If you don't mind, perhaps you'd like to eat with me. I'd like to talk to you. It would be good to clear up a few things, since you don't know anything about us, and we don't know much about you either.
" "Very willing," the mechanic replied, rising slightly. "I was going to ask you to talk, but since you beat me to it, it's even better. Just wait until I put something on and I'll be ready in a moment.
" "You don't have to hurry," Jack replied with a smile, watching his new companion hurriedly put on his worn-out jeans. "We have plenty of time." I'm waiting for you in our makeshift kitchen
. "Where is it?
" "It's the next room," he replied. "I don't know why, but I feel like I know you from somewhere, and I think that's why I forget you're new here. Don't worry. You'll soon feel right at home."
With those words, the gang leader disappeared through the door of the adjacent room, and Jeff calmly finished dressing and hurried after his interlocutor. The kitchen in question was indeed makeshift. Instead of a refrigerator, there was a deep pit where food was stored. A worn-out table and a few stools stood there. Where the oven should have been, there was a small fireplace, which, even with a lot of good will, could hardly be called a grill. However, anything can be adapted. When the mechanic entered the room, Jack was pulling something out of the fireplace and using a long knife to split it in two. He handed one of them to his companion, who was sitting down at the table. Jeff initially had a strange feeling that it was a slightly overgrown rat, but after tasting the dish, he realized that even if it was, it only meant that rats tasted truly delicious.
"What is this?" "He asked, taking his first bite. "It tastes delicious.
" "My specialty, but don't ask for details," Jack replied with a mischievous smile. "Better tell me something about yourself, and then I'll do the same to you.
" "Well," he began, a little embarrassed, "there's nothing special to say about me, but since you asked, then..." The mechanic, despite pretending not to want to talk about himself, spoke with genuine pleasure, and despite his assurances that there was nothing interesting to say about him, he didn't bore Jack at all. On the contrary, he listened eagerly, sometimes asking for details and sometimes just nodding. "And that would probably be all." He concluded his over half-hour-long story with undisguised satisfaction. "Now it's your turn.
" "Okay, I'm the founder of our team and its oldest member. Her life is my life, so I owe you a few words about her. We're a group of people who have decided to spend their lives in a slightly more interesting way than most people. Our way of life is to do whatever comes to mind at dawn and not worry about it at dusk." We're not robbers, but we're not benefactors either. You're probably wondering why we don't consider ourselves robbers if we sometimes attack people. Well, we simply try to gather information about our victims before an operation, and we base our actions on that information. But don't delude yourself that we always do it without violence. Most of the time, peaceful methods are ineffective. So if you feel this isn't for you, back out while you can. You won't have that option later.
"I'm in."
"Great. Then we can get down to specifics. The last few days haven't been happy for us, but as we always say, we've left the sadness of those times behind, though we won't forget our companions; we have to move on. What's more, we're in a rather poor financial situation. However, the time has come to rebound and carry out a major operation soon. We've even located a small base of drug dealers. It's not far from here and, surprisingly, not that well guarded. If we manage to seize their cargo, we're set for the next few months. There's usually no problem with the buyers, although it's bloody expensive. I think we'll strike in two or three days. Today we need to do a thorough reconnaissance
and prepare the equipment. Then all that's left is to formulate a plan of action and, of course, execute it. I'd like you to get the equipment as soon as possible, and then you and Ron can scout the area."
"And what will the others do if I have to take care of everything?" Jeff replied ironically. "I know I'm new here, but that's probably no reason for me to do the hard work.
" "Don't get so worked up. I'm sending you on a reconnaissance mission because I want you to get used to our methods as quickly as possible. I need to make sure you don't screw up in a crisis. Got it?
" "Yeah, right. I shouldn't have gotten worked up. It's my first time participating in something like this, so I'm a little nervous."
"That's okay. Anyone would be nervous in your shoes. If you'd joined us under different circumstances, there wouldn't be such a rush.
" "If it weren't for these circumstances," Jeff laughed, "I probably wouldn't have had this opportunity at all.
" "Perhaps," Jack replied, also laughing.
Jeff immediately after finishing breakfast, got to work on the motorcycles. However, it was much better than he'd feared. They were all well-maintained and well-cared for, so he didn't have much work to do. Only a few things needed to be fixed or tightened here and there. He was soon joined by Ron, who spoke at length about the task ahead and the mechanic's role. Things didn't seem so bad, as Ron, who already had considerable experience in intelligence operations, took on most of the responsibilities.
They left the hideout around noon. Jeff rode a few meters behind Ron's motorcycle, which moved at high speed through the thicket of boulders, forks, and cacti. It was warm but not scorching, so the fast ride was pure pleasure. Soon, however, they had to dismount and laboriously sneak through narrow rock crevices. Finally, after about half an hour of walking, they spotted several small buildings adjoining a steep, almost vertical hill, additionally fenced with barbed wire, likely once electrified. Judging by the numerous, though clearly rusted, signs prohibiting entry and photography, these buildings had once belonged to the United States Army. Now, they had a completely different purpose: they served as a drug warehouse and a base for the drug dealers. The mechanic couldn't fathom how the gangsters had discovered these buildings. He was about to ask Ron how it had happened, but before he could say anything, his companion crouched down next to a large rock and gestured for Jeff to do the same. After making sure the mechanic had complied, he took his binoculars from their case and silently surveyed the buildings. Almost complete silence reigned all around, only the muffled sounds of conversation drifting from the direction of the buildings.
"We need to get closer," Ron said after a long silence. "So far, I've spotted three guards. Two at the gate and one walking along the fence. It would be worth finding out how many there are inside.
" "Forgive me for asking, but how are you supposed to check that? We can't go in and ask them about it.
" "Of course not. But by observing the surroundings, we might be able to draw some conclusions.
" "You mean, try to spot any signs of the crew's numbers, such as clothing or bedding?"
"Exactly," the ganger replied cheerfully. "I see you're quickly getting the hang of this." I'll try to get closer and you can observe the area and come to my aid if necessary.
Ron lay down on the ground and began to crawl almost silently toward a large hole, most likely the crater of a high-explosive bomb. His brown-gray clothes, covered in dust, blended so seamlessly with the surroundings that even Jeff soon lost sight of him. He then observed the nearby buildings, wondering how he could possibly help his companion if the need arose. So far, no such need arose, and the mechanic stared off into the distance with increasing boredom. Meanwhile, Ron had reached his destination and, leaning out slightly, surveyed the target of their future operation. It seemed that besides the three guards, there could only be three more people in the camp. Of the three buildings, two were clearly warehouses, as through the small, rectangular windows he could see piles of cardboard boxes, wooden crates, and various barrels full of drugs and God knows what else. The third room had to be a residential building. There was even a yellowed curtain hanging in the window, and inside Ron could see a bunk bed. Judging by the size of the building, it consisted of two or three rooms. One of them must have been a kitchen or dining room. Two bedrooms, so no more than six people could stay there permanently. It was possible, however, that the buildings had underground bunkers that could also be adapted for various needs. Ron doubted, however, that the drug dealers would consider it advisable to maintain such a large presence, especially since the base was located in a difficult location and only chance had determined its discovery. There were six gangsters, so with the element of surprise and a good battle plan, the operation should go relatively smoothly. All that remained was to investigate how to get closest to the base without being detected.
After a brief lethargy, Jeff awoke, and when Ron returned, they explored the area together. The situation looked quite good. The entire area was covered with so many different stones and rock fragments that you could crawl almost right up to the fence. Two roads led to the valley: one was the one the gangsters had come by, and the other was a former road leading to this military outpost. Traces indicated that the traders used the latter exclusively, so they could use the former without fear of being spotted. The only disappointment was that climbing the mountain adjacent to the camp was nearly impossible due to its steepness. Despite this, the scouts returned in high spirits, chatting and joking, while they whiled away the arduous journey along narrow, rocky paths between sun-scorched crevices.
The motorcycles were parked just as they'd left them in a small, natural cave. Jeff didn't think anyone would travel this route, so there was no fear of them being stolen. However, precautions were so deeply ingrained in them that they performed tasks like camouflage of abandoned vehicles almost mechanically, almost unconsciously. An added bonus was that the motorcycles, left in the sun, would have been incredibly hot by now, while their vehicles remained pleasantly cool.
When they returned to base, their companions were immersed in the routine activities performed before such operations. They cleaned their weapons, checked their protective clothing, and packed the necessary equipment. As soon as the scouts entered the main hall, Jack took them in to report on their observations. Hearing the good news, the gang leader visibly brightened, finally shedding any doubts about the possible outcome of tomorrow's expedition. Ron also seemed confident of victory and was spreading his optimism to his friends—all of them, except Jeff. When the mechanic joined the gang, it seemed to him that he had left all his problems behind. Until then, he had associated his boredom and frustration with the place where he lived, the people he lived with, and the activities he performed. He thought that if he left all this behind, he could start a new life. But at that moment, he felt something was wrong. From the very beginning, he had taken a liking to his new companions, especially Ron; the tasks he had to perform were also more interesting than before. There was only one problem: he still felt bored and saw no point in what he was doing. What was the point? He still had to fight for his existence, with the only difference being that this time it would come at the expense of others. He didn't enjoy the prospect. He knew it would, but somehow it didn't sink in. Even this morning, when he'd talked to Jack, it seemed he wouldn't mind. Now that he had a moment of well-deserved rest and the opportunity to gather his thoughts, the prospect of fighting terrified him. He cared less and less about his own life, but an incomprehensible dread filled him with the thought of having to kill others. Perhaps calculating criminals, perhaps ordinary, innocent people. Jeff began to realize that the cause of his boredom must lie somewhere within himself. He just didn't know how to find it, or if it was even worth searching for. He felt like a fly caught in a spider's web, one that might continue its hopeless struggle for survival for some time, but sooner or later it would succumb. Sooner or later, it would fade away like a faint candle flame in the wind. He recalled his last thoughts on the subject. Back then, he had despised suicide. Now... now, he thought, one must know when to leave, and that one must do it with dignity. Why wait for a stray bullet to finally put an end to a monotonous life? He was afraid. Afraid like never before. He felt the ground slipping beneath his feet and impenetrable darkness enveloping him. What if death wasn't a way out? What if it was an entrance into eternal nothingness? Or perhaps salvation? For all or for the chosen few? A wage for life or a deliverance from it? He envied those who believed in God. They had hope; he had nothing. His heart pounded like a sledgehammer, a million thoughts swirled in his head, and before his eyes remained only darkness. He closed and opened his eyes, but nothing changed.The last thing he remembered was being drenched in cold, or rather icy, sweat.
"Jeff! Jeff! Get up! What's wrong!?" The mechanic felt someone shaking him violently and then splashing cold water on his face. "Jeff!? You're alive!?" His words blended into one desperate scream. Finally, the mechanic opened his eyes. Ron stood before him, his expression showing he was utterly terrified. He was still shaking his friend's body, though with less frequency and less intensity.
"What's wrong with you?" he finally asked, his voice breaking. "I thought you were dead.
" "I don't know," Jeff managed to choke out. "I don't know. I was enveloped in darkness, or did I lose consciousness? How long did it all last?
" "I don't know. When I entered the room, your back was against the wall, but I knew you weren't sleeping. You were as pale as a ghost. Your face was covered in sweat. I was afraid you were dead.
" "I'm alive. Thanks to you, you're still alive.
" "It's good I got there in time. Anyway, a doctor should have checked you out. You said you still had some things to get back to Brighton." I could go with you, and you could also get checked out.
"True, we need to go back, but I'm better now. There's no point in going to that old quack doctor," Jeff tried to make it sound like a joke, but no one laughed. Ron's eyes filled with tears. "
Don't say that. I lost my best friend not long ago. I looked at his cold body and it seemed to me that it was over, that there was no point in dragging this on. We've known each other for a few days, but I feel like I've known you for years. I don't want you to go too. You can't even imagine the pain of someone so close to you dying. It's like someone ripping a part of you away, leaving a burning wound that will never heal. Maybe you think that, with my cheerfulness, I quickly forget about such things. If so, you're wrong. Cheerfulness is just a way to lessen the pain. But rest assured, the wound Vince's death left will bleed forever. Go to the doctor. Please."
"Okay," Jeff said, unable to say anything more. He was completely speechless. He silently promised himself he wouldn't let himself be killed as long as Ron was alive. He also felt like they'd known each other for years, and he didn't want the boy's heart to break when he decided to end his own existence. "We'll go together," he added, his voice a little more confident.
Jeff didn't know how long he'd been unconscious, but it was no more than fifteen minutes. He and Ron decided not to tell anyone about the strange incident, at least until the situation was resolved. Ron strongly insisted that the mechanic go to Brighton that day. Once Jeff had fully recovered, he lost all desire for any doctor's appointments, but for peace of mind, he agreed to visit his hometown that same day. He silently decided that this would be his last visit to the place with which he associated all his misfortunes. He had already concluded that the problem lay not with his place but with his personality, but he still believed he should cut ties with the past if he was to start something new.
They reached the city around three in the afternoon. As usual, the streets were deserted at this time, and the windows were covered with dark curtains. Most of the residents
were out anyway. Some were working in the fields outside the city, some were drinking in one
of the bars, and the rest were probably doing nothing. They stopped in front of Jeff's house. The mechanic gathered all the tools and parts he needed from the garage and then went inside to pack his remaining belongings. As he climbed the stairs, memories came flooding back. Although he'd last been here only a few days ago, he felt like years had passed since then. He quickened his pace, not wanting to prolong his stay in a place that was now utterly disgusting to him. He didn't know why his own house irritated him so much. It was completely irrational. "It wasn't that bad," he thought to himself, trying to inject some logic into his thoughts. He failed. What was it that so repelled him from his life so much? The loneliness he was immersed in? The monotony? He didn't know what it was, but when he stepped back onto the familiar street, he breathed a sigh of relief.
"Did you take everything?" Ron asked, helping him load everything onto his motorcycle. "
Yes. Everything I could possibly need. Now I have nothing to do with this place. I'll leave without regrets.
" "Was it that bad?"
"No, I guess not." At least that's what my mind tells me. But my heart shudders even at the thought of those days.
"So it was. I hope things will change between us.
" "I doubt it," Jeff replied, almost whispering.
"Did you say something?
" "Nothing. Nothing important.
" "Okay. I think we can go to that doctor now. Unless you have something else to take care of."
"No, I don't. Let's go."
They found the doctor engrossed in reading an old newspaper. Upon seeing them, he immediately put it down, looking at Ron with a slight hesitation. When they explained their case, he calmed down, however, and after asking a few routine questions, he began examining the patient. All this took little more than half an hour and, as usual in such situations, led nowhere. The doctor didn't know what the problem was and, to avoid appearing incompetent, blamed the entire incident on the weather and his nerves. He insisted that Jeff looked fine and nothing bad should happen in the future. He ordered him to report to him immediately if the mysterious symptoms recurred. By the time they left the local hospital, it was late afternoon. A light, dry wind was blowing, and the first gray clouds in days had appeared in the sky. The two motorcyclists quickly drove through the empty city streets and soon found themselves back at base. They didn't talk much. They sat down in silence to the not-so-appetizing dinner that had already been prepared for them, consisting mostly of stale peanuts and corn. They spent the rest of the afternoon in the dormitory, discussing even the smallest details of the next day's operation. By the time they finished, it was dark, and the next day a difficult mission awaited them. Jeff went to bed first, hoping that night would bring oblivion. However, sleep refused to come, giving way to fear. Instead of oblivion, the darkness brought images from the past, imbuing them with new, disturbing meanings. Eventually, everything merged into one uneasy dream. When Jeff woke up in the morning, all he remembered was a steep slope strewn with dead bodies. He didn't believe in prophetic dreams and didn't know who the dead bodies belonged to, but yesterday's anxiety had turned into a suffocating fear.
As the sun was just rising above the horizon, the six motorcyclists were passing tall, roadside cacti. Less than an hour later, the same men were on foot traversing rocky paths winding between two nearly vertical rock faces. Rino and James led the way, both clutching rifles. Jack and Johnny were inside. Ron and Jeff brought up the rear. When they saw the roof of the tallest building in the distance, Jack stopped the procession to remind everyone of their assigned tasks one last time. Everything seemed to be in order. Rino and James took their places on the right wing, right next to the vertical wall that adjoined the camp. Ron and Jack were to lie in wait opposite the main gate. Johnny, armed with a sniper rifle, crouched behind a tall rock from where he could see most of the base. Jeff was assigned the center. His primary responsibility was to provide cover for his friends while they captured the main gate.
When Jack gave the signal to begin, everyone was already in their positions. Johnny, unhurriedly, raised his rifle, cocked it, and aimed at one of the two guards standing at the gate. He had practiced each move many times, not thinking about what to do, just acting. When the guard's face was exactly in the center of the bullet's trajectory, he pulled the trigger with a steady flick of his finger. Before the echoing sound of the gunshot filled the valley, the mercenary lay convulsing in a pool of his own blood. His companion instinctively crouched behind a concrete pillar that had once been part of the fence. He shouted something nervously, looking around. Meanwhile, Johnny was not idle; less than five seconds passed before he took aim at the second guard. Jeff heard another shot, and the guard fell to the ground, screaming. Simultaneously, a fierce exchange of fire was taking place on the right flank. Jack and Ron had already reached the main gate, surveying the area between them and the apartment building. Seeing no one, they hurried to the side of the building. Jack used the butt of his rifle to smash a small window in the house and then tossed a homemade grenade inside. The roar of its explosion blended with the clatter of shattering glass and human screams. They moved cautiously along the building's walls, constantly looking around. When they reached the door, Rino peeked out from behind the warehouses, signaling that the area was clear. Jack, without waiting for them, kicked the door open and, guarded by Ron, ran inside. Inside the building, there was no one alive; two bodies, torn apart by the grenade explosion and riddled with metal fragments, lay on the floor. Ron struggled to suppress his retching. The air was filled with the stench of burnt hair and blood. While Jack and Ron searched the remaining rooms, the rest of the gangsters checked the contents of the warehouses, hastily packing anything of significant value into backpacks. As expected, the warehouses were full of drugs of immense value. Besides these, there were many other, much less expensive goods, such as spare parts for cars and food. They left these where they were. Jeff, who wasn't directly involved in the fighting, was fully committed to helping his colleagues. Soon, everyone had backpacks full of goods. The bodies of the fallen were gathered into an apartment building, the interior of which was doused with gasoline and set on fire. This had to suffice as a burial. Jack urged his friends, fearing that someone might have somehow seen them and that reinforcements would soon arrive. Everything had gone too smoothly; it was a bad sign.
As they were leaving the base, they heard the roar of engines. Several motorcycles and at least one car. They were quite close, though they hadn't seen them yet. The gangsters were running ahead, trying to quickly hide behind rocks. The pursuit, however, was imminent. Seeing the burning building, the drug dealers and their mercenaries quickly realized that the attackers had only one escape route. Fortunately, the narrow, bumpy paths were unsuitable for riding even on off-road motorcycles. However, there were too many mercenaries to even attempt to fight them. The only solution was to reach the abandoned motorcycles as quickly as possible. Then they would leave the pursuers far behind. Of course, it wasn't impossible that the dealers knew this passage, and someone would be waiting for them at the end. For now, however, they preferred not to think about it, especially since bullets, fired somewhat blindly by the pursuing guards, whistled overhead every few moments. Despite the considerable weight the gangsters carried, they maintained a safe distance from the pursuing motorcycles for now. When they finally reached the cave where they had left their motorcycles, Jeff was gasping for breath, his heart pounding in his chest at an alarming rate. They practically started their motorcycles while running and, with a lighter heart, hit the road. Jack, riding ahead, turned to his companions to congratulate them on their successful mission, but instead, he accelerated sharply and, shouting over the roar of the motorcycles, ordered them to do the same. They didn't need to be told twice. They could see about ten motorcycles in their mirrors, racing at high speed. They weren't necessarily the pursuing dealers, but nothing else came to mind at the moment. And rightly so, because they weren't mistaken at all. Jeff kept glancing nervously over his shoulder. He felt the distance between them was shrinking by the second. The mechanic accelerated, but his motorcycle couldn't go any faster. The situation was becoming increasingly dangerous. A few more minutes and the pursuit would catch up. Seeing this, Ron caught up with Jeff and nodded, indicating that they were turning left at the next fork. The mechanic couldn't see any side roads, but when Ron, who had already overtaken him slightly, veered to the side, Jeff immediately followed suit, followed by James. The others continued straight ahead. This maneuver increased their chances; the likelihood of losing the pursuit on the backroads was incomparably greater than on the highway. The mercenaries, however, didn't give up the pursuit. They split into two groups. Ron was now in the lead. Jeff was amazed at how flawlessly this boy found the right path between the rocks that littered the area. However, the pursuit group must also have been led by an excellent scout. While they weren't closing the distance between them now, they didn't lose sight of them. Even though they were driving a bit slower, they had to maintain maximum concentration.The cost of not having it was demonstrated by the example of one of the mercenaries. Bored with the prolonged ride, he finally decided to end the struggle. Riding at full speed, he soon pulled ahead and was already close to Jeff. However, he couldn't control his machine as he entered a sharp turn. The motorcycle rolled several times before finally exploding, striking a rock. Four more remained. However, the others showed no inclination to charge, especially after what had happened to one of their number. They didn't slow down, however. They were only slowly losing hope of success, which was immediately restored when they saw what Ron had known all along. The road they were traveling soon turned into a steep path winding up a steep slope. The gangers, however, managed to gain enough of a lead that, abandoning their motorcycles, they managed to hide among the sparse, mostly dead and burnt vegetation growing on the slope. That was the point. Now they had a chance to defeat the mercenaries. Before they realized what was happening, the three escapees were already firing rifle fire at them. The mercenaries soon took up firing positions, but in the meantime, James managed to hit one of them in the stomach. The young man fell to the ground, never to rise again. None of his accomplices rushed to his aid, allowing him to bleed to death. The other three bikers pounded the gangsters with relentless fire. They were much better equipped and undoubtedly better trained. James was just reloading a magazine when a grenade landed at his feet. He immediately grabbed it and threw it as far away as possible. He was two seconds too late. The explosion occurred just as the gangster released it, throwing it toward the attackers. Seeing what had happened to his friend, Jeff immediately averted his gaze, clutching his gun tightly to vent some of his disgust and growing hatred. Under increasing fire, the gangsters retreated up the slope, firing less and less frequently as their ammunition dwindled rapidly. The attackers seemed to have no problem, as they hardly paused their attacks for a moment. They approached closer and closer with suppressive fire, preventing the gangsters from even peeking out from behind the rocks. When the fire subsided for a few moments, Ron, his gun poised, peered from behind a rock. About ten meters away, a young man with a terrified expression was tugging at the bolt of his rifle, which had apparently given up at the worst possible moment. Ron mechanically pulled the trigger. A short burst knocked the attacker off his feet. At the same moment the mercenary fell dead, a sharp pain shot through Ron's arm. The force of the impact was so intense that the boy fell to the ground, dropping the gun. However, this momentarily disappeared from the motorcyclist's field of vision. Seeing what had happened, Jeff, who had previously been safely hidden, broke into a run down the slope.Several bullets whizzed past his head, miraculously avoiding them at the last second. In seconds, he reached his friend, bloodied and convulsing violently. Just in time, as one of the mercenaries was already standing over him, pointing a gun to his head to deliver the final blow. However, a moment later, it was he himself, dead, lying beside them. Jeff, forgetting that another enemy remained, began bandaging his friend with trembling hands. The bullet had most likely pierced his lung, but the mechanic hadn't considered that. He didn't want to believe it would all end this way. Ron tried to say something but couldn't. He was trembling, and his face had turned deathly pale. Only his calm, gray eyes indicated he had accepted his fate. Looking at Jeff, he nodded slightly, bidding his friend farewell. The mechanic's eyes filled with tears. His voice broke, he repeated, "It's not time yet. Don't leave. This was supposed to be the beginning, not the end." Before Ron closed his eyes for the last time, he whispered, "This is the beginning for me. But not in this world anymore. Goodbye." Jeff burst into tears. He was still holding his friend's warm hand, wetting it with his tears. He didn't notice the last of the mercenaries sneaking up behind him. He didn't notice him aiming at his head and pulling the trigger. He only regained consciousness when he heard an explosion and realized he was still alive. He turned around, looking at the man with a bloody hand holding the gun that had just exploded in his hand. He raised his own gun, staring at the defenseless attacker with unbridled hatred. He didn't hear the man scream, "Thou shalt not kill!" He thought only of his own pain and the loss of the friend who gave his life any meaning. He shot, blinded by the desire for revenge. A moment later, darkness enveloped him and he fell to the ground. He felt something ending, but nothing new would begin. When he regained consciousness, his soul was filled with emptiness. He sees a slope strewn with human bodies, and now he can recognize them. The mercenaries lie there, James, and Ron, who had been dying before his eyes. There's nothing left, only emptiness. He slowly climbs to the top of the hill. The wind blows his long black hair, and nothingness peers from his eyes. He stands on the edge, gazing at the setting sun, which, as if predicting the events of the day that was already ending, illuminates the desert with a blood-red glow. Jeff doesn't realize how long he's been unconscious, how long he's been wandering the slope. A short time ago, he'd wanted to start a new life; now, he wanted nothing more. He just stared straight ahead, his eyes blank. All thoughts of life and death vanished. Nothing mattered anymore, not how he would die, not when. When he instinctively looked at his hands, he saw the blood of the man he'd killed to avenge Ron. There really wasn't any; only the bloody reflections of the sun, intensified by his sick imagination, created that impression. He couldn't even cry over his fate. He looked down the chasm he was above.He stood there, staring at the fine desert sand for a long time. What he was thinking was impossible to guess. Dusk was falling over the eastern coast, plunging everything into impenetrable darkness...
Epilogue
When Jack, Rino, and Johnny, having finally lost their pursuers, reached the base, no one was there yet. They had been awake all night waiting for their friends. However, no one appeared that night or the next. On the second day, the surviving trio went to the place where they had previously split up. Following the tracks, they reached the slope where their companions' tragedy had unfolded. They found the bodies of both friends and mercenaries and buried them in a common grave. Only Jeff's body was never found, despite a thorough and persistent search. However, no one looked into the abyss he stood on that day. Was he at the bottom? No one knew. If so, then his life was tragically ended. If not, then we should feel even more sorry for him, because the new life he dreamed of would no longer exist, and the memory of those moments would never let him sleep peacefully again. Those among the gangsters who survived had changed beyond recognition. They abandoned their former lives once and for all, disillusioned with bloody freedom. They settled in Brighton, living in hope that one day the world would change...
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