Necessity in all its forms
Stepping down from the train, Jacques sauntered down the drift of loose sand, his footing becoming unsteady on more than one occasion, sending flows of yellow downward. A thick brown bottle was held by the neck, a quarter empty already. His swigs were sloppy but treasured. It had been far too long since he had enjoyed a drink of such quality.
Before him a line of showgirls pointed their revolvers at makeshift targets constructed of whatever could be found in the stock cars that wouldn’t be missed. Each revolver popped with gentle puffs of smoke escaping from the barrels, which were carried away by the wind. Out here in the wasteland, the noise would go unnoticed, far enough from any settlement to prevent suspicion.
Wyld walked along the line, giving advice. She raised the arms of some and readjusted the grip for others, helping their aim become considerably more accurate. She taught them to reload at speed, over and over, with fingers exhibiting mastery over her own weapon’s cylinder. For those who doubted themselves Wyld explained that patience was all one needed to land an accurate shot. Haste was one’s enemy and this was spoken from experience. One had all the time in the world, demonstrating with a calm, relaxed pull of the trigger, sinking lead into a makeshift mannequin.
Jacques watched until he had his fill. He approached Wyld though almost tripped over a rock in the process.
‘That’s a sight and a half. Never thought I’ll see the day that these girls would be lined up for … well, what would you call it? A war?’
Revolvers cracked on the order of a hand wave, their din lost among the dunes. Wyld looked at the man, then the bottle, then back to the man once more.
‘May as well be. It’s as good a word as any.’
‘They’re not soldiers though,’ Jacques pointed out, taking a slobbery swig.
‘They don’t need to be. They’ve got what they need to see this through.’
‘Have they now?’ the man mocked, gesturing his drink to the woman among them with a flare of red curls upon her head. ‘I’ve seen Katerina shoot. I’d be more worried to be behind her than in front.’
Katerina lowered her firearm to object but before she could do so, Wyld placed a hand on her shoulder.
‘Hold!’ Wyld ordered. The women stopped firing immediately. When quiet, she addressed the woman beside her. She walked down the range and retrieved a perforated tin can, holding it up in display.
‘Katerina, if you would,’ she called aloud. The woman complied, checking her ammunition first, then holding the gun to eye level.
The can was tossed high up into the midday sky. Katerina kept the sight line straight, compensating for the bullet drop and the distance and pulled the trigger. The gun fired twice. The first shot knocked the can sideward in the air. The second launched it into a spin before landing with a thump into the sand.
Wyld retrieved the target, sauntering quite proudly, pressing it against Jacques’s chest as an I-told-you-so trophy.
‘You’ve been away too long.’ Wyld teased. ‘They’ll do just fine.’
‘And I suppose you’ve been here since the beginning, right? You were a stowaway, kid. I’m wondering why you would put yourself in harm’s way for anybody on board.’ Jacques grunted, his booze-drenched breath causing her to wrinkle her petite nose.
* * *
Misu came up from behind to review how the shooting practice was going. ‘She’s got her reasons,’ she stated, her hand slipping along Jacques’s waist and relieving him of the bottle that he had taken – without permission – from the bar. ‘And you have no reason to be doing that thank you very much.’
Jacques protested, loudly, but was quickly cut off as Misu gave him a look of thunder. On his next word she upturned the bottle and let the contents drain into the sand.
‘You don’t drink on my train. End of story. My train, my rules. From today you’re going sober. If you object to that then you can hop on off. I’m doing you a kindness.’
He limply pitched the pitted can aside to let it drop onto the ground once more, this time for good.
‘I remember a day it was your pretty behind that got tossed from a train. I also recall that it was you who I saved in a pinch or does that account for nothing?’
‘Yes it does, which is exactly why you’re going dry. You’re too good to live pickled. Look at the state of you.’
Jacques tugged on his jacket lapels and stuck out his chin. ‘I look respectable, like.’
Misu approached, annoyed at even entertaining the excuses that emanated from this disgrace. Of all the difficulties she juggled with, it was inconceivable that he would be the most difficult. Whatever happened to the proud sentry of the Gambler’s Den? He reeked of a pungent odour, like a warm dung pile left in a brewery. The clothes he was so proud of flaunting were filthy with numerous tears hand-stitched. The knees on his trousers were worn thin and his shoes were so cut up it was hard to identify their original colour. He was haggard, plagued with drink and who knows what else.
‘You look like you’ve been living in a barn, under the horses at that,’ Misu spat. ‘And you smell like it too. What’s actually wrong with you? You’re somehow happy to be dragging yourself around like a corpse, stinking up the place? Pissing people off with this … whatever this attitude is. That’s not the man I knew. It’s not who any of us knew.’
Jacques attempted to rise to this, though he stumbled over any word put forward. Misu cut him off with her hand.
‘Not another word – you can’t even talk straight. It’s embarrassing. If you’re quite done looking like death then I propose that you sort yourself out. Go and get yourself cleaned up. The washer is two cars from the front. I’ll get someone to bring you some new clothes.’
Defeated, Jacques lazily took in the line of women who watched. Their precious practice time had been interrupted and rather than offer an apology he simply kicked his feet through the sand as he made his way back to the train. Relieved, Misu could finally focus on the matter in hand.
‘How are they?’
Wyld rubbed her chin in thought. ‘Not completely terrible which is a bonus. I’m surprised how well some of them can shoot. You’ve got a couple of decent eyes in your midst. They’ll prove valuable. I would suggest putting them to the front for the first wave. I would say given the time constraints we have, they’re as good as we’re going to get.’
‘So we’re done?’ Misu asked, slanting her hips.
Wyld pulled off her cream leather gloves and tucked them into her belt. ‘For all intents and purposes I would say that, yeah, we’re ready to take on Wilheim.’
‘What about you? Are you ready for your task?’
‘Breaking in is what I do, darling,’ Wyld quipped, attempting to quash any rising nerves with humour. ‘You don’t got to worry none about that.’