Seventeen Roaches

Part One: Roatcheskov 4 5 1

It was nothing like how the fables were written and rewritten, told and retold.

The fables, nothing more than lies, told and retold, could not have been more false, the world having been blackened and changed. The terraced fields of what were once mighty vineyards, ancient and eternal, are little more than a reminder of the abundance of a world long forgotten. A field of skeletons, rotted and gnarled, buried at the hips and reaching skyward. That is all that remains of the legendary vineyards. Stone paths, worn down for eons from hoof to foot to wagon wheel to tank tread, wrap around the once-historic site. Now little more than a charcoal field, a world long overdue. The blood pounded in the head of the man, a simple traveler, courier, from a land so far north that even the ice can not be aged nor the remains of the cities named. With his symbolic emblem, a golden shield with a black circle, written in hand-stitched font, "R & R", fitted so carefully to the man's ventilator, his eyes a grey of ungodly storms, there was only one thought of what came next. He slowed to a crawl, stopping along the side of the road beside a firetruck, or what was once a firetruck. He finds himself glancing across the black shield. "Fire Engine 4 5 1". He shakes his head, making himself comfortable as he takes a moment to rest. He takes his lighter from his belt, having to open his ghillie and removing the top and mask. He fumbles with it a moment, such a small and intricate piece of metal, decorated with intricate carvings of railways and elk and eagles and tanks, branded on the back with the signature R&R.

Flick. Flick. Flick. Strike.

The man lifts a small tin, detailed in hundreds of skulls, serpents and eagles. He opens the top, sliding it across the folded lips. Cigarettes. Four dozen at most, but he has gone through more than half, barely more than a dozen remaining. He pulls one free, bringing it to his lips, then bringing his smoke to flame.

The sickly-sweet smell of the tar, the sickness of the nicotine and the haze of the tobacco, an intricate dance of death and desire across the tongue and lungs of a man having gone a journey from Hel to Hell. He closes his eyes, listening to the distant caw of a crow. Inhale. He listens evermore, a second cawing finding its way to his ears. Exhale. He listens once more. Nothing of interest.
He presses his cigarette to his metal plate, smothering the sickly flame. This treat is for later.

He gets to his feet, pocketing his tin of smokes back into his belt. He leans over, grabbing his camouflage of garbage and pulling it back on. The final piece, made of shredded newspapers and scraps of garbage bags, his mask, is put on over his head, his red-lensed goggles glinting beneath the hair of rot.

The man once again begins his walk, a chuckle forming deep within his chest as he sees a distant billow of smoke. A town, a speck across a valley of skeletons, a beating heart in a forest of bones. The sun, however, does not agree with the man. A flaming reminder that his world, once a lush and beautiful place, ended with the same power that brought it life.

"This is Roatcheskov with the Royal Runners. If anybody is on this frequency, I am at Firetruck Four-Fiver-One. I am opening up a stall until morning, come by and knock the bed if you're interested, I'll be sleeping but if I hear a damn thing I don't like, I'll be selling your teeth at the next destination. I am incredibly armed and incredibly well-stocked." He clicks his radio off.

Roach takes only a moment to walk toward the side of the road, he lies down amongst a wrecked car, the shredded seats still holding the bones and tattered clothes of the woman that had been driving. He sits down, pulling himself into the garbage pile beneath the driver side. He loads up his shotgun, snuggling into place until he is more invisible than a shadow in the dark. It is time to relax, catch some sleep.

"Almost. That is how close you are, Hyndryx. Almost." He sighs. His companion, some dumb kid only fifteen, perished a week earlier, now the only voice he has to keep him company is his own.

"You could have made it, Danny. You just," he stops. He quiets down fully, no time to dwell. It is time to sleep, time to rest.