“So do we have a plan yet?” I asked as my waking brain shifted into gear.

“No, any suggestions?” Adam replied

“I could kill you and present your corpse as proof I want to join him, play it from there.”

“Why do so many of your plans involve me being dead?”

“It always seems to be an option.”

“We could just go wake him up right now, put a bullet in his brain.”

“We don’t know if he’s against us or not.  Almost certainly he is, but we can’t be sure.  Besides, we don’t know where exactly he’s going.  If there’s a war brewing we won’t divert it by killing him right now.  I wonder if we can get inside though.  Remember Charleston?”

Something dark sparked in Adam’s eyes and he smiled.  “How could I forget? Hm, you want to take the AN apart from the inside?”  The smile was a grin, the spark a fire.  “I’m sure they’ve got some fun toys stockpiled if they’re planning on a war.”

+++

Marlow didn’t reappear during my watch.  We got up before dawn and had a small breakfast consisting of salted meat and coffee.  Coffee was a rarity nowadays.  Most of it had been lost or drunk after The Crossing and what little was left was usually horded.  We were lucky because I’d had three potted coffee trees before everything fell apart.  We’d rooted a half dozen more since then, and constructed a special hothouse for the trees.  While the yield was small, maybe two or three cups of coffee per tree a year, it was enough to impress any dignitaries who stopped by the Roadhouse.  I was hoping the show of coffee would keep Marlow thinking we were still pals, keep him off his guard.  The pieces weren’t in place yet to make our move.

+++

We made good time travelling that day.  The road was still reasonably clear from Marlow’s original trip south and we weren’t accosted by any bandits.  We decided to stop for camp a bit early that evening.  There weren’t any houses around, so we pulled into a small copse of trees.  We’d give our position away with a fire after dark, so I started dinner as soon as we were parked.  Adam said the area looked good for hunting and we could use some fresh meat.  He asked Marlow to join him, but Marlow declined, citing the fact he needed to patch his gear bag before it fell apart.   It seemed reasonable, his bag was in tatters, but I suspected he didn’t want to leave anything unattended.  Adam shrugged and slipped into the trees, silent and invisible after a few steps.

Marlow and I made small talk until dark fell.  I tried to seem as normal as possible while watching everything I did.   Marlow wasn’t to be underestimated, and while I was handy with a gun, interpersonal relations still eluded me.  I didn’t want to give away anything with a slip of the tongue, or a wrong body movement, but was worried that he might pick up the fact I was putting on a show.  It was a nerve wracking charade.

+++

Adam was back shortly after nightfall, a dead rabbit in hand.  I didn’t hear a shot; we’d travelled together for nearly half of our lives, but he still managed to impress me on occasion.

I traded him a bowl of stew for the rabbit and started dressing the kill as Adam ate.  Once the rabbit was taken care of I started rummaging through the car.

“What’er ya lookin’ for?” Marlow inquired.

“My tanning salts,” I replied.  I knew exactly where the salts were but used it as an excuse to search the vehicle.  I was fairly positive Marlow wouldn’t have been stupid enough to leave anything incriminating where Adam or I would easily come across it, but I wanted to be sure, and this was the first time I’d had a plausible excuse to rummage around.  After five minutes of searching I “found” the salts I was looking for and prepped the rabbit skin.

The evening slowly faded into night.  The moon was bright and high above us, slightly waxing past half full in the cloudless sky.  It was bright, even among the trees, so we didn’t turn in right away.  Adam and I continued talking to Marlow, keeping up the cheery façade, excited about meeting our new northern brothers.  Adam was a good actor, and I knew that even as he spoke of the bright future this alliance would mean for our people he was analyzing everything Marlow said, looking for the smallest clues.  It was easier to play along when I had a partner, so I concentrated on being natural and let Adam do the intelligence gathering.

Marlow volunteered for first watch.  He didn’t always volunteer, and when he didn’t neither I nor Adam forced him.  I bedded down knowing it was going to be a long night for the two of us.  Adam never really slept when Marlow was on guard; neither of us had ever really trusted the man enough to be completely vulnerable around him.  I tried to stay awake with Adam, but often didn’t.  He would give me a look in the morning, silently telling me I was a dick for putting all of the responsibility of keeping us safe on him.  But I don’t think he minded all too much; he’s told me he doesn’t really ever sleep anymore anyhow.

I felt my limbs grow heavy and knew sleep was imminent.  I tried to rouse myself without letting Marlow know, but it was useless.  My mind wandered, the beginnings of dreams lapping at the edges of consciousness.  The cold ground melted away.  I fought it silently, but lost the battle as sleep overcame me.

+++

it was a spring like any other.  rain had come almost daily for the last week and the roads were muddy.  i’d like to say that i stoic about the whole thing, but i’d be lying.  adam seemed to fare better, but i suspected it was more a consequence of his quiet nature than anything else.

it was still the early years after the crossing – the hub hadn’t risen to power yet, hadnt contacted skip’s roadhouse.  for all we knew we were the only bastion of civilization left in the world.  adam and i were charged with finding what survivors we could.  sometimes we were greeted warmly, the first friendly face a person had seen in a long time.  often we were forced to explain ourselves at the end of a gun.  the dead still walked the earth, though they were dwindling in numbers every year.  my own theory was that the zed turned in the crossing had all but disappeared, either killed by the living or decomposed and rotted away.  the ones that still remained had been survivors unlucky enough to be taken by surprise after the initial outbreak started to subside.

we were making our way towards a house.  slivers of light shone through the windows, clean indications people were inside.  and people were the goal of this trip.  we were trying to find and bring anyone we could to the roadhouse territory.  there was safety in numbers and the more we had the faster we could recover.  as we approached the door i heard muffled music; it seemed to be an irish tune played by a banjo and tin whistle.  i shouldered my rifle and knocked.  the music stopped and there was a commotion.  the sound of guns chambering rounds was unmistakable and i prayed that adam would be a fast enough draw if they decided to fire first and ask questions later.  the door was cracked open.  i was greeted with the end of a shotgun.

the gruff man on the other side of the gun looked me over.  “what do you want?” he asked at length.

“id like to come in out of the rain,” i answered honestly.  “its rather unpleasant out here if you havent noticed.  weve got food and supplies we can share if youd put us up for the night.”

the man glared quietly for a tense few moments.  the door opened a bit wider.  “unload your guns and slide them and whatever other weapons you’ve got through.  it wasnt an unreasonable request, but adam and i would be almost defenseless if it came to a fight.  still, it was wet out and this was our job.

the guns were unloaded, five between the two of us, and slide through the portal along with three knives and a metal spork.  I could see the tension start to break when adam added that spork.

“thats it?” the man asked.

“thats it,” i replied.

the door opened and we stepped in out of the rain.  that’s when i first saw her, my beautiful Maria.  sitting on a beat up couch with her mother, tin whistle in hand, with her raven black hair and strikingly green eyes.  it was an image id never forget as long as i lived.

i heard the door shut behind me and the trance id fallen into was broken.

“michael,” I heard adam say. I turned to him as the scene melted away, replaced with a grey nothing.

+++

“Michael,” I heard again.  An invisible hand shook my shoulder.

“Fuck you,” I grumbled.

“Keep it down,” Adam whispered.  “It’s your turn.”

I came around slower than normal, not wanted to give up the dream.  Giving up, I opened my eyes and saw Adam squatting in front of me.  His body blocked Marlow from view.

I sat up as Adam leaned in and whispered.  “Watch your back tonight.  We’re being followed.”

“How do you know?”  I asked.

Adam replied opening his hand, which I hadn’t noticed had been clenched.  He revealed a silver ring, spotted with blood.  It had a maple leaf stamped on the inside.

“I made it look like he had an accident, but be careful, they might not buy it.”  With that he walked to his bed roll and laid down.

I stared out into the moonlit forest, watching and waiting.

It was dark now, nearly pitch black except for the cherry on Kevin’s cigarette and the soft gray glow of the sun’s last futile attempt of illuminating through the overcast summer skies.

Kevin and I leaned against the rear bogie of the rail car, shoulder to shoulder. The cold steel felt cool on our backs. After a few minutes of silence, I whispered: “You know, if we leave him alive, he’ll probably follow us.”

Kevin reminded me: “He hasn’t shot our other horses yet.”

“I’m sure they’d look real good in his stable.”

Kevin took another drag. “He hasn’t come for us yet.”

“We only have 5 horses. We’ll be slow. Can we kill him?”

Kevin pondered this for a second. “Maybe. And if he’s not alone?”

I shrugged, not having an answer. I felt a subtle patter on my shoulder, I turned to see the drop of blood that had dripped from the rail car. Jason’s blood has pooled above our heads on the flat wooden bed of the rail car.

“Nick, I have an idea.”

+ + +

This had to executed perfectly. The satchel with Kevin’s guns rested right behind the crates of milk, it couldn’t be accessed from our side of the car without reaching around.

Kevin laid on his belly and reached for a long stick that was laying on the track bed a few feet away. He grabbed it and retracted it back to our ‘bunker’. We rested a second and waited to hear a gunshot, but it was silent. After feeling like we had gone unnoticed, he swiveled around and faced the rail car and our aggressor. It was dark now, and only the silhouette of the large hulking building could be seen.

He poked his eyes over the platform and carefully raised the stick until he could place it on the rail car. He did so silently, I was amazed. He used the stick to slowly reach to a loop on his satchel. After a few attempts of hooking the pack, he finally got a length of the stick through the loop. I hung on the stick as a counterweight to beat the overwhelming leverage as Kevin slowly drew the stick back, and with it, our guns. The satchel plopped on Kevin’s lap, the stick fell on my head, but we had our firearms.

Kevin’s plan continued, and the stick wasn’t done its duty.

He withdrew a rifle from the satchel, and old M1 Garand. I patted him on the back and said “See you in a few minutes bud.”

He disappeared away from the bogie towards the dark forest, and I saw him begin his arc. He walked slowly, on the outside of his feet, and I could barely hear him.

“Psst” I signaled to him. He turned to look and I motioned for him to put out his cigarette. He did, and a moment later, he was part of the forest.

Now, my role had to be executed. I reached up slowly over the top of the rail car, hoping that I wouldn’t get a bullet to the fingers. I felt around for a moment until I found what I was looking for: Jason’s lifeless, cold hand.

I tugged hard, but Jason wouldn’t budge. After I brought my feet up on the rail wheels, I achieved the force I needed and Jason’s body toppled on top of mine.

I slowly buttoned his shirt, praying that the shirt wouldn’t rip with what I was about to do. I slid the stick up Jason’s back and lodged it in Jason’s collar.

Now the hardest part, I had to lift Jason’s body up. I planted my feet in the ground, along with the bottom end of the stick, a hoisted the stick and Jason’s body upright. Driven by pure fear and adrenaline, I managed to stand the 200 pound man and the stick up on its end so that most of Jason’s weight was carried by the now-bowing stick and I was just keeping it balanced.

Jason’s body was perching over the rail car, and dark was our advantage. After waiting a few minutes for Kevin to circle around, I executed.

I shouted. It came out guttural and unintelligible, but the sniper heard it. A moment later, several bullets came flying through Jason’s lifeless body, spattering me with a cold rain of blood. Three bullets, but I heard four gunshots.

I released the stick and Jason fell to the ground.

Now I waited, I had given Kevin the distraction he needed. I prayed that the fourth gunshot that I heard had been from Kevin’s Garand. The 30 seconds dragged on for hours, and then I heard another 3 muffled gunshots that sounded as though they came from inside the building.

Now time had stopped and I was sweating with fear.

Over the hill from the factory, I rejoiced as I heard a distant: “Smarto! They left dinner on the table for us!”

I fiddled idly with my pistol while Jason drove the horses.  We were only six hours out of Roadhouse territory and I was already dreading the whole damed trip.  Although I recognized the importance of these summits I had always hated them.  It was, for all intents and purposes, a slightly more civilized version of a gang fight.

This year, though, this year was going to be even worse than usual.  Whether we liked it or not, in the eyes of the Hub, we had blood on our hands.  We were already carrying a stigma that might as well have been a target on all three of our foreheads.

Honestly, I wasn’t sure what to expect.  Violence?  Most likely.  But from where, from whom, and how soon it would start I could only imagine.

This year, I took special precautions, however.  This year, unlike any other, I had a trump card.  I of course didn’t tell Nick about it, mainly because he would be horrified to know what I was planning to do if worst came to worst.  And Jason was on a need to know basis.  What I had planned would make a likely war imminent.  Someone had made us a message, a warning, out crude oil.  When the fuss had died, I scraped all the oil I could from the siding and into a bottle and packed it away with my guns.

“Remember when roadtrips used to be fun?” Nick asked thoughtfully.

I looked out over the barren wastes as our rail car squealed over the tracks.

“Fuck roadtrips,” I replied.

Nick shrugged reached for his pack and procured a book and settled in for the journey.

+

It was late in the the second day, near dark and it was Nick’s turn at the reigns.  Jason was asleep in his cot, and I was perched at the rear edge of the car, my feet dangling over as the tracks sped back away from us with a cigarette hanging from my lips.

“We should water the horses,” I called.  The rail car slowed to a stop at my suggestion.  We were just past the Mason-Dixon Line and at the very edge of Roadhouse influence, and the lands before us were, as always, teeming with harriers and bandits.  This had to be done quick.

I grabbed one of the water jugs from beneath the awning and Nick grabbed the small trough.  We walked around in front and Nick set the trough down on the ground.  ”Hurry up,” he replied.  ”We don’t want a repeat of last time.”

I laughed uncomfortably and pulled the cork out of the jug, and as I did so, a sequence of terrifying events unfolded.  First I heard the sound, that unmistakable sound of a gunshot and of a whizzing bullet flying nearer than I’d prefer.  Then I was getting wet.  I glanced down and saw that the jug had a hole clean through it, and water, precious water, spewed out of it onto me.  Then my eyes met Nick’s, and I knew that his expression was a mirror of my own.

“Behind the horses!” I cried, grabbing him and pulling him to the far side of the horses as another gunshot sounded, sending one of them reeling to the dust in its death agony.

“What the hell?” I heard Jason shout.  ”What’s–”

I watched as a bullet pierced through his throat, sending him backward off of the rail car and onto the ground in front of us.

I drew my pistol, the only weapon I had on me.

“Can you see them?” Nick asked, peering around the horses.

I was rummaging through Jason’s pockets for anything useful.  I took his pistol and tossed it to Nick.  There was nothing else worth taking.  ”Watch for a muzzle flash,” I replied, lifting Jason’s lifeless body, peaking his head and shoulders over the side of the rail car.  Two gunshots pierced against my ears, one hitting Jason’s shoulder.  I dropped him.

“I saw it,” Nick called, crouching down behind the horses again.

“Where?” I asked.

“There’s a building just east of us, looks like it used to be a factory or something.  He’s on the roof.”

“A sniper?” I thought aloud.  Snipers were uncommon enough that I had never fought one, met one, or known one.  During the Crossing I had killed my share of zombies, and in the clean up that followed I led teams from the Roadhouse on search and destroy missions.  More lately I had dealt with thugs and gangs, but those types seldom had the patience to aim.  This was new.

I poked my head slowly above the rail car and found the building Nick was talking about.  It indeed looked like some kind of plant, and it was about a quarter of a mile away.  I stared at it for several minutes, and finally my patience was rewarded.  I saw movement on the roof in the fading light, but that was all.  My binoculars were with the guns, which were in a case on the other side of the rail car, out of my reach.

“Any bright ideas?” Nick hissed.

“We’ll wait for dark,” I replied.  ”In one hour I’ll go for the guns and your go for the horses.  We’ll ride as fast as we can.  He’ll never hit us moving in the dark.”

Nick crawled over and sat down next to me with his back against the rail car.  I pulled out my cigarette case and offered him a hand rolled cigarette which he politely declined with a wave of his hand.

It seemed like I always had the first watch.  I suppose it was because I rarely slept even when Mike took over.  I rarely slept at all.  They say you need less sleep as you get older.  Then again, they say you need more sleep when you get older.  They say a lot of things.

To be honest, I don’t know if I actually do sleep.  Sure, I close my eyes for a few hours at a time, and when I open them again I’ll feel a little better, but when the world with your eyes closed and with your eyes open is the same place, the same nightmare, how can anyone be sure?

So the night found me with the first shift, and the first shift found me with my weapons laid out on a greasy towel in front of me.

I cleaned and oiled each in turn.  I cleaned them often, and I cleaned them well.  Each was a tool, a precision instrument, and each needed to be operating efficiently.

Before long, the task was done, and I returned my automatic pistol to its holster under my arm, the heavy revolver to my side, and carried the nicked up carbine over to my bags.

I slid the medic bag and revealed my beat up messenger bag, emblazoned with a fading but proud red star.  I rooted around inside for a few moments, and produced a yellowed and creased paperback volume: “1,200 Chess Problems.”  I was on number 984.  I produced a grease pencil from my pocket and sat cross-legged on the floor, poring over the diagrams and numerical hieroglyphs.

I shook my head at the treachery in some of them, scratched notes, drew arrows, and smirked as I slowly unlocked the puzzle within each one, the perfect moves that would lead to one inevitable conclusion.

The beauty of the problems was that perfect move.  There were scores of bad moves, a couple of decent ones, a few good moves, and then the perfect move.  The perfect move that changed the game from a battle of wills and hearts and minds to the tragic and forced knowledge of predestined victory or defeat.

Life was the same way, sometimes.

Sometimes you found yourself the heroic White, always a step ahead, playing on your terms, and finding victory.

Other times, far more often, you were the Black, the disadvantaged, the lonely, forced to make moves that you didn’t want to make, to be put into positions that you never in your wildest dreams imagined you’d occupy.  You watched, helplessly, your hands forced, the slow, inexorable march of the oncoming checkmate.

I was so enraptured in the diabolical beauty of the book that I almost didn’t hear the low, almost musical tones of a human voice.  A conversation.

It was coming from outside.  I exchanged the book for my field glasses and climbed into the loft, silently crawling to the edge of a large hole in the front of the barn, and began to scan the area.

The binoculars fixed on an apparition stalking back and forth before the monstrous rig (which we had already nicknamed Behemoth), its head glowing an unnatural whitish blue, its feet almost fading into the darkness of the ground.

It always surprised me the things that you could remember from before.  Things that you hadn’t seen or heard in 15 years you’d wake up thinking about with no rhyme or reason.  I know Mike would occasionally wake up humming showtunes from our high school musicals.

But I didn’t spend much time wondering about all of that, because I found it far more interesting that our illustrious driver and guide to the north, the perfectly named Marlow, was pacing back and forth, jovially chatting on a cell phone.

+

I had watched Marlow until he retired back into the cab, and then climbed back down into the barn.  At this point there wasn’t much time left in my watch, so I absently sharpened one of my knives as I waited for Michael to awaken.  I thought.

We knew the AN had the advantage of oil, and therefore probably superior tech.  But if Marlow was truly an ally, why wouldn’t he tell us he had a phone?  And who was he talking to?  I saw the moves play out in my head.  This was the endgame.  But we had an advantage going into it.  We knew.

+

My shift over, I kicked Michael in the ribs, probably a little bit harder than was necessary.

He coughed and rolled away, half awake.  He leveled his gun at my chest and blinked a few times.

“What the fuck, man?”  He lowered his pistol and stretched and sniffled and rubbed his eyes, his attractive morning routine.  I crouched down, feeling a bit like some terrible Black bird of prey as I hunched over his supine form.

“We’ve got a problem.”  My mouth widened into a death’s-head grin.  ”But we’ve got the advantage, boy.”

The oil was dripping in thick drops, making tiny puddles below the white, vinyl siding.

“Harrier?” Skip said after a moment of silent staring.

“Nah, not a typical one anyway. They wouldn’t be so subtle, and they wouldn’t have been able to sneak through any of the main gates.” I said pragmatically. Muffled murmurs reminded me that a small crowd had gathered. “Please leave us, friends.” I said shallowly and the crowd dispersed. Randy had lagged.

“Hey Nick” he greeted me. “You need anything from me?”

“No…. well actually, I would like to have a PACE walk-around inspection of some security equipment around the inner compound. I’m probably over-reacting, but someone is obviously inside the compound without the best of intentions.”

“What needs inspected, sir?”

“Don’t call me sir.” I said tersely. “Just have a look at hinge pins on the main gates. Maybe check out the concrete supports of the inner wall, anything else you can think of. I just don’t want to take chances.”

“That shouldn’t take long, can I take a few of the men off duty then?”

“Yea, take Bridges and Hynes. They were structural guys right?”

“Nick, we’re all structural now, not to many computers to tinker with. Though Hynes is out at RH-3-15 fixing their water tower.”

“Ah. Well take Dale, he’s bored now that we fixed the log splitter.”

“Okay, good call.”

“Can you file a report when you’re done? I’ll want to show the others when they return.”

“No problem. I’ll stick it on your desk.”

“Thanks.”

I remembered that Skip was standing behind me. “So what do think?” I asked.

“I think its dangerous. Fear mongering works.” he said rather gravely.

“I think it’s dramatist. Might even be some kid skipping out on the learning center today.”

“A kid with access to crude?” Skip asked.

“No, I’m not disagreeing that it’s worrisome, but what can we do. Sweep every hut for a can of oil and interrogate?”

“I’m more worried that it was someone we trust blindly.”

“I’ll keep an eye out.” I said with finality. “Now, we haven’t heard back from the Hub yet, right? We are scheduled to go to the Free Trade Summit next week. You wanna roll with me?”

“I think it’s better that I stay”

“Yea, especially with Adam and Mike back out.”

I nodded and patted Skip on his shoulder. I approached the oil on the wall and gave it a smell.

Oil, real honest-to-God oil. None of the corn derivative crap we’ve used around here. It smelled positively sensual to me, it smelled to me as it must have to oil tycoons of centuries ago. It smelled like success and lust and all things coveted. Oil, the petroleum pheromone,  the thick, black aphrodisiac.

I tasted it. It had been a long time since I’ve seen oil this fresh. This was not from an old Chevy engine block nor siphoned from the dank bottom of an old locomotive. This had been made after the Crossing, it smelled like a gas station, fresh and pungent. There were no metal filings and engine flakes, this was virgin.

Somewhere in this vast, baron landscape… there was a refinery.

+ + +

Free Trade Agreement Summits are volatile.

Everyone has something and wants everything; the fundamental and powerful law behind countless killings, heists and micro-revolutions.

Some years, Texas Commonwealth will demand vegetables by threatening to hoard water from it’s coveted desalinization plant. How they made the plant is one of the closest-guarded secrets of New America. Some say it doesn’t even exist and the Commonwealth just bottles spring water and sells it for whatever they need. Last year’s FTA summit turned bloody over this accusation when a Texan ambassador lunged over the conference table and a fist fight broke out amongst 50 members of the summit. I’d like to say that the Texan ambassador was simply banned from the summit, but unfortunately he went to sleep in his sleeping quarters and never came out the next morning. He is still missing.

Some years, the Georgian Federation will sell timber by the acre in pursuit of gold; a currency they intend on re-valuing after capturing all of the gold from the former Fort Knox. This was widely accepted as a joke, as New America never settled on an official currency, and refused to revert to the gold-backed dollar under the knowledge that the Georgian Federation had most of it. This infuriated the Federation entirely, and in 2021 led to an argument between Georgia and the Hub that ended with a spilled glass of Scotch, an ambassador’s black eye, and the suspension of admittance to the FTA Summit for 5 years. Rumor also had it that the Georgian Federation’s President’s wive had to sell a certain privilege to a Hub ambassador to regain rights to participate again, which led to the a terrifically bloody and brief battle between the two sovereigns that ended in 124 deaths and 8 pregnancies.

It is for these reasons, and dozens more, that inter-commune politics are bloody, irreverent and unfair. The commune with the most coveted item of the year makes the rules, but often pays for their greed in blood. This makes thin-ice for an ambassador for a successful and isolationist colony like myself. The Hub always offers protection in the form of their numerous foot-soldiers present at the FTA summit, but will oppressively tax any major trades that occur at the Summit in exchange.

Like space-race of a century ago, the name of the game this year was ‘who can find oil first’.

Refineries of the past were complicated and the process hadn’t been quite perfected yet. Some places like Texas had a few in-tact oil wells, but no capability of filtering and refining the thick sludge with the small quantities they could pull up. Some communes boasted refining capabilities but it is largely accepted that these are ploys to gain access to the very sludge that couldn’t be used by other communes.

This year was bound to be as bloody as usual.

+ + +

I had done all of my preparations. This included a detailed inventory of what we had and didn’t have.  Our corn-oil engines were always very coveted. So was our milk and meat. Our cows were healthy and surviving well off our grain farmers. Though, we always needed things. Talking to the executives of communities within the Roadhouse, the following items were in high demand: antibiotics for our doctors, some form of toothpaste or fluoride for our dentists, and an electric generator for a wind-turbine PACE was working on.

The week before I left for the FTA summit, I was everyone’s best friend. “Nick, I need a pocket watch. Nick, I need bag of vanadium power ’cause I’m trying to make steel. Nick, I need Qtips.” Everyone had a shopping list, and while I listened, everyone knew that I simply wouldn’t have time or trading supplies to make everyone happy. I had to focus on what the compound really needed.

Years ago, we outfitted a old flatbed rail car for travel and cleared the tracks systematically all the way to Richmond. The rail car had a small awning on it to sleep under which could comfortably sleep three. The car was drawn by six horses, so we had to pack food and water for all 9 of us, as well as all of the trade supplies we needed. It was a big operation, and worst of all, it was slow.  The horses needed to rest every few hours, and barely made more than 40 miles a day – it takes about a week to go one way.

After I organized the loading of the rail car, I spoke briefly with Kevin. He would bring himself, Jason and a handful of firearms. It was important that we protected our horses, should we loose more than one or two, we would be stranded somewhere between the Hub and Roadhouse, a dangerous territory filled with the infamous Dixie Harriers.

With about 1500 pounds of cured meat, 1000 gallons of milk on ice and 100 small corn-oil engines, we departed the Roadhouse Inner Compound at daybreak.