“You know,” I said, bracing myself against the frame of the cab with my good arm, “if you shred the transmission, we’re pretty much fucked.”

Michael grunted sharply, his brow knitted with concentration and anxiety.  Even after nearly a day’s practice, navigating the truck slowly through narrow canyons lined with cars and debris was still harrowing.  He would’ve undoubtedly given me the finger if he was willing to loosen one of his whitened knuckles.

I sighed, and glanced into the jumpseats behind us, where the bleeding soldier from the AN lolled and sweat in a haze of pain and drugs.  Next to him sat the ominous cylinder wrapped in scraps of blue tarp that had been recovered from the burning truck.

I faced forward again.

“I really don’t like that thing being in here.”

“Would you rather have left it for some harrier to run across?”  Mike sounded more relaxed now that the road widened; Behemoth was easier to manage at a reasonable clip.

I was silent for a moment.

“Can I get back to you on that?”

Mike grinned a little uncomfortably, and then glanced over at me.

“You look like hell, dude.”

“I feel like it.  Felt like it for a couple days, now.”

“Probably from never sleeping.  Come to think of it, I can’t even remember the last time I saw you eat.”

I shifted, annoyed, trying to wedge myself into a more comfortable position.

“Maybe it’s the company,” I said coldly.

This time, Michael gave a genuine grin along with one of his freed fingers.

We were quiet for a while.  It was hard to say how long, but it couldn’t have been much longer than ten minutes.

“What I can’t understand,” Michael said, “is why they had that thing on them to being with.  Unless . . .”  His voice trailed.

“Unless they weren’t planning on turning around when they got us,” I finished.

+

Despite the lurching and roaring of Behemoth, I felt myself dragged into some twilight of consciousness, slipping in and out of feverish dreams and memories and nightmares.

I dreamt of Michael’s wedding.  Michael was dressed in a worn yet impeccably cut tuxedo and a deep green tie, and Maria was in a long, flowing, and clean white dress adorned with ribbons and lace, also of green.  I think it was the brightest white I had ever seen after the Crossing, burning like a sun from some faraway place.  The whole compound had been decorated likewise, with banners and trappings of green and white stretching and flowing over and among the buildings with glorious verdant fervor.  Flowers of every conceivable shape and size and color had been planted and meticulously cared for in large strips, creating a beautiful aisle through which they had ascended as two and descended as one.

During their reception, a loud, joyous, cacophonous affair, I found myself so moved that I ran to my house and returned, breathlessly toting a battered banjo, the grin on my face finally one of peace and revelry, devoid of cunning and violence, and I leaped onto the small crude stage and began picking out a spry jig, stomping and shouting, feeling the band silent for only a moment and then joining into the song, the storm, surrounding and exalting my friend, my only friend, and his beautiful bride.

I wept, and I couldn’t tell how much was memory and how much was nothing but a hollow dream.

I dreamt of Kevin.  We were talking, and then we were arguing, and we were savagely punching and kicking and rolling around and I remember his eyes, full of fury and a deep sorrow, stung with tears, and I remember hearing my laughter as it filled everything else.

I dreamt of waking up to gunfire and dirtbikes, screaming and shouting, fire and blood and snow everywhere, on the ground and on the burning homes and in my eyes and my mind and my heart.

I remembered that the fire had gone out as I stared at the young girl’s charred flesh, mummified by the senseless heat and violence, her parents’ tears freezing on their pale faces, and where the fire had been there was stillness and silence and nothing but the ashen gray of the empty skeletal buildings steaming and smoldering in the slush and ice.

I remembered the fire that followed, hoping that the pain and destruction and heat could somehow pierce into my own cold flesh.

I dreamt of that great rotting house that still filled my mind sometimes, its cracked windows and sagging roof like a mirror of my face, the door long gone leaving nothing but an aching and black maw daring and damning entry.

Michael stayed outside, and the electric torch clipped to my belt shone like a sad, pathetic angel dancing across endless ruin and mildew and blackened wood.

I smelled the cooking fire.

I climbed the stairs slowly, the odor and rot of it all in my lungs and mouth and behind my eyes, the cooking scents replaced by wet ash as someone had heard me, doused the fire, was no doubt lying in wait at the top of those dark stairs.

I kept walking.

The door was closed, but it yielded easily, crumbling like glass under the savage kick and then my automatic was thrust into the room, the trigger half squeezed in my steady hand, and it was then that I saw her eyes.

The light from my torch played across her face and hands,  glinting off of a worn kitchen knife that was pointed at me from across the room.  I could see her chest and her shoulders trembling as she clutched a dirty bundle to herself, but the point of the blade stayed true and still.  Her eyes were filled with a calm hatred, and they shone through the dark circles and lines of her face, smeared with old blood and new soot, and I lowered my pistol, staring into her eyes, drinking from the deep wells of them.  The bundle in her arms shifted and turned, and another set of eyes emerged, peaceful and stupid, and I felt something in my chest like a twinge of remorse and betrayal, and I held out my hand to her, the pistol clattering uselessly to the floor, and I prayed with whatever fervor and strength and faith that I had left, and her eyes bored into me, past the shame and guilt and brokenness and loneliness, and Ella, my Ella, laid the child tenderly in a tattered stroller,  stood, and lunged.

+

I awoke with a start.

“Where are we?” I muttered through the haze.  My mouth was dry.

“We just turned onto Paintertown.  Sorry for the rough downshifting.  You were out for quite a while.”

“Did you drive straight through?”

Michael nodded, and I could see the rings under his eyes and the pallor in his skin.

“Wow.”

While Mike navigated down the treacherous and winding road toward the compound, I tried my best to clear my head.  The dreams and nightmares had all but faded, drawing back into the recesses of my subconscious like a tide into the sea, and all I could think about was how apocalyptically dry my mouth was and the rust that had managed to work its way into my limbs.

Before long we had made it to the gates of the Roadhouse, and, as per protocol, there was a party to meet us, headed by DPM.  There appeared to be some consternation regarding our early arrival back home, and even more when somebody realized they counted only two heads.  Our friend from the AN had sank low into the back seat, his head resting on the tarp-covered cylinder.

I clambered out of Behemoth’s cab, hopping unsteadily down onto the pavement.  Michael had begun talking in a hushed whisper with DPM, whose expression grew more and more dour.

“There’s bad news about Kevin and Smarto, too,” DPM began, but was interrupted as I pushed past one of the nameless and faceless guards that had accompanied him.  Technically speaking, I was supposed to present my papers before entering, and always had, but today I had no patience or interest in playing the game.

The guard was staring at me, stupidly I’m sure, but then again, was he supposed to try to stop me?  Could he?  I was respected and feared.  Should he?

I didn’t care what he did.

I heard DPM call over my shoulder, sounding exasperated and afraid.

“Adam!”

I stopped, but didn’t turn.

“Where are you going?”

“Home,” I answered.

Home.

+

As I marched through the grounds, I recited in my head the words I’d use when I saw her.  I had thought a lot about hers, and they had cut me more than anything I’d ever seen or done.  I was still deep in thought as I crested the small hill and saw our house come into view and, kneeling in front of it, tending to some small and wilting flowers, still dressed in her work jumpsuit, smeared with grease from the armory and dirt from the garden, was Ella.

She turned suddenly and saw me, and even from that distance, I could see the concern and confusion in her face and her movement.  She stood and I quickened my pace.  I raised my good hand and felt myself smile (when was the last time I had smiled like that?) and tripped, falling to the ground.

I tried to catch myself, and pain shot through my bandaged and already swollen hand and up my arms, resonating in my side and in my head.  I groaned sharply, and rolled onto my back.

Ella stood over me a few seconds later, her cheeks rosy both from running and the cooling night air.  She knelt, then, and I felt her hands gently examining me, her hands smelling sweetly of solvent and brass and gunpowder.  Her face was full of compassion and worry, and her cool hands reached my face and neck.

I closed my eyes.

“Adam,” she said softly, “you’re burning up.”

I opened them again, and her face filled my vision, her eyes shining like chips of sapphire, her hair surrounding everything as it circled her face and mine like a bright corona.  She was beautiful.

I opened my dry, desert mouth.

“I’m so sorry.”

I woke up sore, feeling every inch and second of our seven-day, three-hundred-mile journey.  I climbed out of my comfortable bed–almost too comfortable for my tastes–and walked steadily to the huge bay windows and drew back the curtains.  We were on the top floor of the “capitol building,” which was the fifth.  I could see for miles in the breaking light; the perfect grid of the new Richmond, the reaching buildings of the Hub’s busy capital, and beyond, the tangled ruins of the abandoned old Richmond.

I showered in the overly-luxurious accommodations and dressed silently.  I pulled on a beat up pair of jeans, a black T-shirt, and my boots.  I strapped my holster to the inside of my belt at the small of my back, and after a quick check, I deposited my Colt .45 1911 into it and pulled my shirt over it.  I slid my knife into my boot and fetched my M1 and tossed it on the bed.

I glanced around the room quickly casing it.  There was a grandfather clock in the corner.  Perfect.  I walked up to it and, as quietly as possible, I slid it forward.  The backing was concave, as I had hoped.  I grabbed my Garand and slid it gingerly behind the grandfather clock and pushed it back up against the wall.  It was nearly invisible behind the clock.

I looked around some more.  A ceiling fan.  Maybe.  I slid a chair across the room and under the fan.  The I went to my bag and rummaged around for my other pistol, a .357 revolver.  I loaded it and climbed up onto the chair and put it on top of one of the fan’s blades.  They were slanted, but it stayed.  Good.  I smiled at myself.  A job well done.

I put the chair back and walked back over to my bag.  Rummaging through it again I found it.  I unwrapped the black handkerchief and revealed the steel flask.  I opened it, just a little bit, and the aroma of petrol filled my senses.  Pleased, I put the cap back on, wrapped it back up, and put it in my back pocket.

I sat down awkwardly in the chair and prayed.  Not a real prayer; I hadn’t said a real prayer in ten years.  I thought at God.  To me, the Roadhouse was the Promised Land, a land of milk and honey; it needed to be protected.  I hadn’t spent forty years in the desert searching for it, but I had spent four years in a zombie infested wasteland trying to get back to it.  I could relate to the Hebrews.  Our land needed a Moses to stop the Pharaohs of the Hub.  I wasn’t arrogant enough to feel like Moses, but our problems were similar.  I wasn’t going to turn a rod into a serpent.  I wasn’t going to bring water from a rock.  I was going to bring oil from a flask.

+

About an hour later, a knock came to my door.  I opened it and found Nick looking rather preoccupied.  ”Hey,” he said.  ”What’s the plan?”

I shook my head.  ”There is no plan, Nick.  We have to convince them that we’re either loyal or not worth invading.  That’s it.”

“And a plan would be a way to do that,” Nick answered dryly.  ”You asked to meet with the council and you’re telling me you don’t have a plan?”

“Listen, I have a contingency plan, okay?”

“Great.  And that would be?”

I smiled.  ”Trust me, Nick.”

Nick laughed a full, albeit forced, laugh.  ”This had better be good.”

Another knock from in the common room interrupted us.  ”Must be Shields,” I said as Nick went to answer it.  I stepped into the common room and shut the door behind me.

“Gentlemen,” David Shields began, stepping inside at Nick’s gesture.  ”Are you hungry?”

“I certainly am,” Nick replied pleasantly, all worry gone from his demeanor.

“I am, too,” I chimed in.

“Come with me then, and we’ll get you fed and then we’ll go see the council.  They were very interested to speak to you.”

Nick shot me an “oh shit” look as we followed Shields out of the room.  He led us through several corridors and down to flights of steps before we arrived in what seemed a utilitarian buffet.  It was a clean and tidy mess hall, and it lacked the embellishments of the rest of the building.  We collected our food and Shields made polite suggestions about the different dishes as we went.  For himself he picked up only an apple and a cinnamon roll, but Nick and I attacked the buffet without reservations.  Bacon, sausage, eggs, toast, pancakes; it was as if the apocalypse never happened.

The few others in the mess hall eyed us with distrust, but let us eat in peace.  Nick and Shields exchanged small talk, while we ate, and Shields eventually got to business.  ”As you know,” he began as he poured us some milk from a pitcher, “there are nine councilors, and decisions are made by their voting, five or greater wins.  However, when it comes to decisions of great importance, as with the decisions pertaining to the Roadhouse, they forgo that method and make decisions unanimously.  If you can just convince one of them not to take action against you, then you can at least by yourselves some time.”

We nodded.

Shields sighed.  ”Unfortunately, lately the council has been acting almost as one.  Internal pressures with things like taxation and lack of commodities for our more distant settlements has caused them to put aside a lot of their differences.  With unrest growing in our backyard, the Hub can’t afford to have you break away.”

“So–” Nick began.

“So you two will have your work cut out for you,” Shields finished.

“Great,” I grunted.  ”We’ll figure something out, I’m sure.”

Nick cast a questioning gaze at me as I finished my breakfast.

+

We were walking down a spacious and generously decorated hallway toward the council chambers, just a few paces behind Shields.  It was obvious we were getting close.  The guards were more numerous on this floor, the second, and much better armed and decidedly stonier.

Shields led us into the antechamber, where four guards stood watch.  ”Weapons,” one ordered, gesturing to a plastic bin.  I placed my pistol and knife into the bin.  He looked me over briefly.  ”Go ahead,” he said to Shields.

Shields nodded and held the door for us.  ”Good luck, my friends,” he whispered as we passed him.  He shut the door quietly behind us.  Inside, we faced a long table that sat nine individuals, eight men and one woman, all facing us.  The room was surprisingly sparse, considering the well decorated halls and other rooms.  There were two guards at either side of the door behind us, both brandishing M16’s.  There were no seats for us.  I looked quickly from one councilor to the next.

“Let’s begin, then, sirs,” one of the councilors said.  ”My name is Thomas Jackson, and I will be the Speaker for today.  To make this go smoothly, I will be asking you questions and all responses will be directed at me.  I will ask a question and you will respond, then if my colleagues have questions, they will ask.  Then I will continue.”

“So it’s an inquisition,” I muttered to Nick.

“Our first question is about the incident involving the death of Hub Ambassador Sandrin in Roadhouse territory.  If you would be so kind, gentleman, please explain to us, for the record, what exactly happened to Mr. Sandrin.”

Nick cleared his throat theatrically and stood up straighter and, looking Jackson right in the eye, began:  ”We believe that the Ambassador was most likely killed by harriers.  He was in Roadhouse territory, but the area in question has been hotly contested and has been the site of many raids on our outskirt settlements.”

“Very well,” Jackson replied.  He glanced right and left at the other councilors and, satisfied that they had no questions, continued.  ”We have heard rumors that a large settlement exists north of the Roadhouse and has been expanding south steadily.  Have you made contact with this settlement?”

Nick and I, after working together for years, had a way of communicating without speaking.  How much do they know? his expression asked me rhetorically.  He hesitated briefly and answered, “We have made contact with them, they call themselves the Associated North, or the AN.  We have no reason to believe that they are hostile at this point in time, and we sent some representatives to them to attempt to open up a trade route.”

“I see,” Jackson said leaning back in his chair.

“What kind of technology do they have?” one of the councilors asked.

“We don’t know yet,” Nick responded.  ”We have no reason to believe they are any more or less technologically advanced than we are.”

Jackson nodded his head slightly, as if to absorb this.  ”Good.  Gentleman, as you’ve undoubtedly heard, your current situation is precarious.  We have heard many rumors that you are planning to formally secede from the Hub.”

“That’s absurd–” Nick began, but Jackson’s outstretched hand stopped him.

“It is this council’s opinion that you need to be reeled in.  The day our southernmost settlements made contact with the Georgian Federation we were aware through our network of radio operators.  How long ago was it that you made contact with the AN?”

Nick wisely remained silent.

Jackson sighed.  ”You operate as though you are not the Hub, as though you are a separate entity, and therefore this council has decided to treat you as a separate entity.  Starting this day, the Roadhouse will be treated as a settlement in revolt.  All in agreement?”

One by one the councilors raised an arm in agreement.  It was unanimous.

“Well this isn’t going well,” Nick mumbled.  ”How about that ‘contingency plan’ of yours?”

“As such,” Jackson continued in his monotone, “you two are now enemies of the Hub, and will be dealt with accordingly.  I am sorry, gentleman.”

One of the guards approached, pointing his rifle at us.

“If you’d be so kind as to go with Officer Price there, we wouldn’t want to get blood on the carpet.”  Jackson smiled with self-satisfaction as though he had been thinking that quip up all day.

Wordlessly, I pulled the flask out of my back pocket.  The guards tensed and pointed the business ends of their guns at me.  I twisted the cap off the flask and walked over to the table the councilors were sitting at.  I poured sweet black oil onto the desk and it pooled in front of Jackson.  He stared at it with awe.  The smell was intoxicating, and the effect was similar to what I imagine Moses got from Pharaoh, except there were no court magicians to deal with here, and that was good.

Jackson touched it with his finger and put it in front of his face, examining it.  He tasted it with his tongue.  He became convinced.

“If you want some of that,” I said, leaning into his face, “you’re going to want to stay on friendly terms with the Roadhouse.

“Thomas,” one of the councilors said, snapping him out of his stupor.  ”The other representatives will be arriving soon.  We have a lot to do.”

Jackson nodded.  ”Officer Price, take them back to their rooms and station guards to watch them.  I want them under lock and key until the trade summit is over.”

Price grabbed me by the elbow, a little harder than necessary, and walked us out.  Nick’s expression was, and continued to be, frustrated disbelief.  He’d get over it.

Time was growing short when we got back into the Behemoth; I was glad we’d searched Marlow already as we couldn’t afford it now.  I figured we had less than a minute before whatever was coming towards us would be in view, and maybe another thirty seconds before they were at the rigged car.  We had to act fast but had no plan.  We usually preferred it that way – it’s easier to improvise when you’ve got no plan to deviate from in the first place.  But this time worried me.  Adam was already injured and we had no idea what the odds where.  Whoever was coming could have a tank or a pack of attack beagles for all we knew.

I slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine.  I head was spinning, racing for a solution, when I felt a weight flop into my lap.  I looked down to see a fairly unstable rocket resting on my thighs.

“Oh, fuck,” I breathed out when I saw the rocket sitting there.   “I forgot about the LAWs.”  I turned to Adam as he took the rocket back and put it in a satchel next to two others.  “That changes everything now doesn’t it?”  Pieces fell into place and something crazy crystallized in my head.  “Hold on,” I said, and threw the Behemoth into reverse.

I cut the wheel and had the vehicle perpendicular to the road when we slammed into the rusted out skeleton of a car.  It caved under the force and we bounced off the shoulder.  I worked the pedals and slide the Behemoth into first gear.  Cutting the wheel again we climbed back onto the road, headed away from the incoming rumble.

“Can you operate the .50 cal?”  I asked

“I think so,” Adam replied.

“Good,” I said.  We’d made it maybe sixty yards down the asphalt.  I cut the rig left and hit another rusted hulk, pushing it out of the way with relative ease; the Behemoth had a lot of balls in low gear it seemed.

There wasn’t much time left.  I reached over and took the rockets from Adam.  “I’m going to take out one of their rear vehicles.  Stay hidden and wait for my fire, then light up the rigged car with the .50.  Keep it going until I get back; If we sandwich them between the explosions maybe we can buy some time to make it out of this mess.

I was out of the car and running before Adam could voice any objections, though even if there had been time I knew he wouldn’t.  It’s not that he especially liked crazy plans, but he also didn’t have an aversion to them.

I kept the ancient cars between me and the highway, hoping they would keep me hidden long enough to get into place.  I was bent low, almost below the level of the windows in sedans, and taking long, loping strides.  This was something that Adam and I had become quite proficient at over the years as it seemed one or the other always needed to outflank the enemy.

I was less than ten yards from the blockade when the first car came into view.  I stopped on my heels and hunkered down.  Not much time now.  I slid the first rocket into the launch tube and readied the firing mechanism.  It was tricky because the rockets were home built by DPM.  Normally LAW rockets were a one shot deal; the firing tube was discarded after the rocket was launched and couldn’t be reloaded.  This was a problem in a society where tech like that couldn’t just be thrown away and replaced.  The engineers of the Roadhouse had worked out a conversion to retrofit homemade rockets into the spent tubes, but the rockets were a bit unstable and unpredictable.  I suppose that’s what happens when you mix scavenged C4 and decades old primers with homemade gunpowder.

Three more vehicles, all trucks, followed.  Each had been transformed, much as the Behemoth had, with steel plate armor.  The first and last truck each had mounted guns in the beds and men to operate them.  The middle truck’s bed was covered in a tarp; I hoped it was covering something that went boom.

The convoy stopped a few feet from the roadblock.  A man got out of the passenger’s seat of the lead sedan and walked to the trunk of the rigged car.  He stopped in his tracks when he saw Marlow.  The man dropped into a crouch and pulled a pistol.

“What’s wrong?” the driver of the lead car called out.

“Fuckin’ a, Marlow’s dead.”  He paused.  “And it looks like the bastards who did it didn’t make it very far.”

That was enough for me, but it wasn’t time to move just yet.

“Send up Jeff and Gordy, I want them to check out that rig while I defuse this.  A few seconds later two men trotted up, assault rifles in hand.  They were professionals.  It was always easy to tell, like looking in a mirror.    “Clear that truck before we get to it, I don’t want any surprises. “

“Yes, sir,” they replied in unison.  Too professional.  Soldiers.

They spread out, one on either side of the road.  It would be harder for Adam to shoot up the trapped car and hit the two of them before they found cover.  That increased the chances Adam had of taking return fire.  It was time to get the party started.

I shouldered the LAW waited a few seconds for the gunners in the tuck beds to look away from my position.  As soon as they did I stood up and took quick aim at the tarp covered truck.  The gunners saw me and started to turn.  Both mounted machine guns opened up simultaneously, breaking the relative silence had hung in the air.  Dirt kicked up twenty feet away as lead impacted earth.  I saw dirt explode with each hit in my peripheral; time stretched into eternity as each shot grew closer and closer.  I pulled the trigger and was pushed back slightly by the recoil.  The first stage, a small charge that projected the rocket fifteen feet ahead before the second stage ignited, went off well.  The second stage, however, was not so good.  When it caught the rocket kicked right, out of line with the middle truck.  Luck was somewhat favourible, though, as the rear truck erupted in a column of fire.  I dropped the rocket tube and hit the ground, hoping the cars between me and the mounted gun were solid enough to slow it’s shots; I knew they almost certainly were not.  Slugs tore through the rusted panels above my head, missing my scant inches.  As soon as the gunner adjusted for another pass I knew I was done.

I heard Adam open up then, a distant staccato that was almost lost in the cacophony that surrounded me.  He hadn’t got off more than a few shots before I felt an intense heat wash under the car I was hiding behind.  The world was silent then.  There was a pressure that followed the heat and then…nothing.

I came too lying on my back, maybe twenty feet from where I had been lying.  I couldn’t have been out for more than a few seconds, but the battle was all but over.  I saw with crystal clarity the burning heaps that used to be vehicles.  The rusted-out car I had been behind was completely gone, demolished by the blast of the erupting Howitzer shells.  The car they had been in was nothing more than a few bits of metal strewn about the highway.  The lead truck had been thrown like a metal rag doll and lay twisted and dead on the side of the road.  The rear truck I had shot was at least somewhat recognizable, though it’s gas tank has caught after the rocket hit; it wouldn’t be much more than a blackened skeleton when the flames finally died down.  The middle truck had somehow miraculously survived the mayhem that surrounded it.  I wondered if the AN had invented a force field when I saw movement in the cab.  Instinctively I went for the revolver at my hip, aimed, and shot.  The driver’s side window spider webbed.  I guess their technology wasn’t that advanced after all.

I turned to see Adam sweeping his fire across the road.  The first soldier already lay bleeding on the far side of the road, two gaping holes through his chest. I saw the second soldier picking himself up, figuring he had been knocked down like I had been.  The sound warbled in my ears as Adam caught the caught him, cutting his legs out with the .50 caliber slugs.  I heard the man scream as he clutched at one knee.  There was nothing but ragged flesh and a stump.  Adam cut his fire and I stalked toward the wounded soldier.  The man either didn’t hear my approach or care about it, though I suspect it was a bit of both.  I considered ending his misery with a bullet, but decided against it.  Instead I flipped my revolver over and clubbed him with the butt.  The man fell into a heap.

I removed the soldier’s belt, cinching it around the thigh of his amputated leg.  There was still a high probability he would die, but I did what I could to prevent it.  I took the handcuffs Marlow had used on me and cuffed the soldier.  He might be very wounded, but if he came too he could still be dangerous.

My ears were ringing quite badly when I heard Adam slowly trot up.  “He’s alive?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Kind of unexpected.”

“Probably not for long, but if he survives we could use someone to question once we get back to the Roadhouse.”

“Save the man’s life just so we can torture him,” Adam said.  “Kind of ironic, don’t you think.”

“It’s like ra-a-ain, on your wedding day…” I belted out.

Adam just stood there and gave me a look.  After a few seconds he said “Mike… you’re singing Alanis Morissette…overtop of a man who’s bloody stump you just tourniqueted…after I shot him with a .50 cal machine gun…after you were thrown twenty feet through the air by an explosion I created.”

“And your point is?”

Adam just shook his head again and sighed.  “All in a day’s work I suppose.”

“Pretty much.  Think you can do anything else for this guy?”

“Maybe.  I can give him a bit of the heroin, keep him doped up until we get back.

“Ok, good.  Do that.   I’m going to go see what’s under that tarp on the truck.  I hope it’s gasoline.  Or gold.  Actually, I’d think I’d prefer if it’s gold.”

Days after staring at the infinite horizon roll in and back out of our view, the semblances of society became to show themselves once again.

At first, there were just little circles of yurts around camp fires. The small family units eyed our strange rail car suspiciously as it drifted slowly and silently across the landscape – but ultimately they looked with more indifference than contempt. Business as usual.

The landscape, speckled with Hub outliers gradually became more populated as the forest gave up its footing to human rebirth.

It was noon, the August sun was beating down on our shoulders and we knew the poor horses needed a break. Kevin pulled the reigns and the lead Greenbroke succumbed to the command and I slowly applied the rail car breaks to prevent the horses from falling victim to momentum.

“Make it quick?” Kevin suggested, I nodded.

We had come to a stop near a small village of plebeians, probably farmers. I met the gaze of one of the older men who nodded back in a silent gesture of peace. He approached.

Kevin, quick to anticipate the worst, checked for the presence of his pistol in its concealed holster, but he continued to empty the last of our canteens in to the horse trough.

The man, tall and unshaven, but still cleanly, stepped up on to the railroad tracks, his low, crackling voice greeted: “m’names John. You guys headin’ to the inner Hub.”

Kevin nodded with an uncomfortable lack of trust, but I hopped off the car and pleasantly replied. “Yep, it’s that time of year again. I’m Nick”

“Yea, we’ll be takin’ some of our corn down tomorrow for the small trades fair. You guys from out west?”

“Nope, Roadhouse.” Kevin said, still a small flavor of skepticism in his voice, but it was fading.

John stopped walking with an abrupt shifting of gravel at his feet. “…Roadhouse?”

I grabbed a chunk of deer jerky out of my satchel as I approached John. “Yea, why?” I tore off a piece of the jerky and offered it to John. His mouth watered at the sight of the salted meat, but he hesitated.

“I’m not so sure I should be talking to you, sir.” He stammered.

“Why, we are here to trade peacefully, we mean no harm.”

“It..it’s not that. It’s just… we heard about that ambassador. We’ve heard about a lot of things.”

“So have we, we hope to sort a lot of that out while we are here.” I offered the meat again, he accepted cautiously.

“Thanks for the jerky, haven’t had it in a while.” I nodded, he continued. “They aren’t happy with you guys down there. I don’t know if I’d even continue if I were you.”

Kevin let the horses drink, and walked over to John and I.  “Hi, I’m Kevin.” They exchanged a handshake, colloquialism I forgot to do. “Can you explain a little more?”

John took another small bite of jerky but continued talking, albeit with a very full mouth. “Out here on the outskirts, its all about rumors and lore. T’aint never hear anything official, but there’s alotta talk about you guys, they say you guys want Hub resources without playing by Hub rules.”

I thought for a moment, and softly said. “You’re leadership council has become very powerful. What do all men with power want?”

John nodded in agreement. “You’re Smarto, aren’t you? And your Mason?”

Kevin tensed up, obviously replaying our close encounter in his head again. “You’ve heard of us.”

John reinforced again: “Yes, as I said, there is always a lot of talk.” He said it some finality, I knew we’d have a more complicated trade summit than usual.

“Well, Kevin and I are here to do some talking of our own. We mean no harm at all, we’re all just trying to rebuild and survive. I would appreciate it if you try to spread that word around yourself.” I handed John a final piece of jerky, but he refused.

“You guys seem alright. I’ll do my best, but be on your guard as you get closer to the inner Hub. They aren’t as reasonable as we farmers are.”

I smiled, but Kevin asked one more question. “John, does the name Peterson mean anything to you?”

He thought for a second, and cryptically said “Another person who talks a lot, though I haven’t seen him in a while. Last time I saw him, he was heading up the tracks where you came from.”

“Anything else?”

“No, he passes by here a lot, but we aren’t really sure where he goes. He stops in for water about once a month, and that’s about it. We figured he was going to see you guys actually.”

*  *  *

The sun was getting lower, but we were close so we continued. Slowly over the horizon, we saw a large wall come in to view, with large french-style doors where our rail tracks would intersect. Two guards stood on either side.

Kevin pulled the rail car to a halt.

“Name?” one of the guards said with authoritative indifference.

“Nicholas Smarto, Council Secretary of Faction Affairs for the Roadhouse, former Westmoreland, Pennsylvania.” I had the long introduction well-rehearsed.

The guards lip curled, he whispered something suspiciously to the man next to him, and then looked back at me. “We’ve been expecting you.” I had no appreciation of the dramatics.

I had expected them to take our weapons, but as usually, they let us through. This time, though, there was a different feeling in the air. We felt the gaze through gun-sights upon us as the familiar metal-on-metal creaking accompanied the opening of the gates.

Inside the wall, we were greeted with the same skepticism.

Every person we passed gave us an unsettling look, even without our conversation with John, we would’ve been able to detect the unpleasant sentiment towards all things Roadhouse.

We arrived at the rail depot and, having no other options, trusted that we wouldn’t be looted as we made our way to the council chambers. The officials at the rail depot seemed a little more pleasant, and greeted us with our titles.

There was a horse-drawn cart awaiting us, another sign of good will, but Kevin and I still felt nervous as we hopped in and greeted the driver. He had little to say in return.

We weaved our way through the Richmond thicket of brick and dirt streets until we arrived at the familiar council chambers. At the front door between four guards, stood my old buddy David Shields, Secretary to the Grand Council. “I got your letter” he said with a smile.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes, Dave, good to see you”. We exchanged a handshake and one-armed hug. “You’ve met Mr. Mason?”

“Once upon a time, good to see you Mr. Mason.”

“Kevin” he smiled.

“Well good, good, lets go inside and get you guys something to eat.”

Inside the council chambers, there was a aura of reverence, flamed torches lit the paths speckled with paintings and portraits. It seemed like a cathedral more than a political epicenter. It was quiet and any sound we made echoed through the chambers, the sounds of my satchel hitting my hip and Kevin’s neck-piece oscillating against his shoulders reverberated.

“I made sure you guys had your typical rooms available.”

I whispered “I hope they have locks on them.”

Dave gave a little smile, “I guess it was obvious that there has been talk about the Roadhouse around here lately.”

I continued to whisper, not trusting any off the other officials passing by us as we walked. “Anything I should know about?”

“Nothing you already don’t. People are ticked about Sandrin but that will pass, there is no definitive proof and I personally trust your testimony. I should have enough pull around here to calm things down.”

“I’m glad somebody trusts us.” Kevin said.

“It’s not you Kevin. It’s not the Roadhouse really. I mean…” he paused to phrase himself  “…people here think the Roadhouse is up to no-good, that they are planning to formally succeed.” Now he was whispering too.

“You’re being frank, I appreciate that. Buy why would we succeed? That’s ludicrous.” I asked.

“We can’t talk here. Let’s go to your quarters.” I appreciated his discretion.

*  *  *

Arriving at our quarters, we were feeling a little more comfortable. We sat down in the common room between Kevin’s and my suite, and all three of us pulled up a chair.

“Okay, explain it to me.” I said, realizing afterward how demanding I sounded.

“Well, let me be blunt. The Hub wants to grow.”

Kevin said “Grow how? Power? Resources? People?”

“Yes.” he smirked sarcastically. He continued “The council means well, they want to rebuild and grow for good reasons. This isn’t as terrible as it sounds I assure you, and you would be playing a positive role.”

“That’s fair. Where do we play a role?” I asked.

“Well, there are many unknowns. We have to plan our resources accordingly.”

“You didn’t answer my question” I said.

David thought for a second to rephrase himself. “You’ve admittedly been a little distant lately, at least in the council’s eyes.”

I was getting a little stressed “Dave, we are over 300 miles away. It took us over a week to get here, what does the council expect?”

“They expect your allegiance. After Sandrin died, there has been speculation of a revolt.”

Kevin was silent. I spoke “Dave, it’s been over 10 years we’ve cooperated. There is peace. Sandrin was probably killed by Harriers like the rest of them.”

“Yes, but that wasn’t isolated. People are still worried that you’d try to pull another Charleston.”

I was so tired of trying to cover up that mess, I damned Adam and Mike. “Well, we are here to trade, to offer peace to the council. We are allies.”

“The council talks about reigning you in. Often.” David asked humbly.

Kevin broke his silence “The Roadhouse? Are you saying a forced invasion? There would be so many casualties.”

David hunched over the table and whispered “You don’t think the council would like it that way? You’d be tamed and incapacitated. You’d need us again.” David was sympathetic for this notion, he was truly one of the good guys.

Kevin was silent for a second. He was fooling with his necklace as his brain churned.  “David, will you be free tomorrow? I’d like to speak with the council.”

“Yes, I’ve been on Roadhouse duty so I’m yours for the week. You guys need a friend around here. But I warn you that the council has been simply locking people up that contest their decisions. You have no amnesty in that room.”

I felt a bit undermined. “Kev, what do you expect to say?”

Kevin said “I can’t allow a war on my soil. I’ll say whatever I have to.”

At this, David stood up. “I have to be getting home, I can arrange a meeting with the council tomorrow if you are sure you want to go through with it.”

Kevin nodded with certainty, I obliged.

David sighed “Alright. I’ll be here tomorrow to take you guys to breakfast.”

We thanked him, and he walked to the door. As he opened the door, he looked over his shoulder and said softly “think carefully about what you want to say to them.”

Kevin said slow: “I have.”

Marlow cleared his throat.

“So, if you don’t mind my asking,” he began.  I sighed and shifted my weight.  It was one of those opening statements that I loathed, up there with “No offense, but” and “Don’t take this the wrong way”–useless phrases that never seem accomplish what they’re designed to do.

I don’t like my time wasted.

I was enjoying one of my favorite pastimes, which was smoking a cigarette and staring at nothing in particular, and thinking about hazy, swimming things that I could never seem to recall when I was roused back to whatever semblance of reality everyone still shared.

Michael was silently reading for perhaps the literal hundredth time his faded and beaten copy of Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell.

“What’s the deal between you and your woman?” he continued.  I, of course, realized he was referencing Ella, but was intrigued by his apparent bravado.

So, I pushed him farther.

“Who?”

He was silent for a minute, obviously not certain how best to describe her.  The insane woman who accosted me?  The skinny bitch who kissed me in front of everyone?

He stammered stupidly.  ”You know, the girl . . . before we left . . . she talked to you.”

“Ella.”

“Yeah, that’s her.”

“I’m not really sure what you mean,” I lied.

“I dunno.  It just seemed like you guys dug on each other, but there was a problem.  Just wonderin if you wanted to unload some.”

I was quiet for a few moments.

“It’s just all very confusing,” I said softly and lit another cigarette.

Marlow grunted a little bit uncomfortably, but took my hint.

“So what about you,” he said, elbowing Michael.  ”Any girl troubles?”

“Widower,” Mike said distractedly, and turned another page.

+

The three of us drove in silence for a while, Michael still methodically flipping through his book, my head bouncing off the slightly opened window as I smoked, Marlow driving as steadily as ever.

It was all very peaceful, actually, and the rumbling and motion was slowly lulling me off to sleep.

I was beginning to feel myself floating away from my exhausted body when Marlow slammed on the air brakes.  They chugged and huffed and squealed and barked and the whole rig began to slide left and right.

Michael and I were thrust forward against the large dashboard for a moment, only to be thrown back against the seat as the truck finally lurched to a stop.  My shoulder was beginning to pound where it had connected with the hard vinyl.

“What the fuck, man?” I whined, rubbing my shoulder, but when I glanced out the window, a little dazedly, I knew why.

Sitting suspiciously in the middle of the road, perpendicular to our previous vector, was a single car where the rest had been cleared, though by AN or raiders it was hard to say.  I didn’t quite know how to judge distance when we were traveling by vehicle, so where exactly we were remained a mystery.  It all seemed to go much faster and much slower at the same time.

“Well that looks suspect,” Michael observed, after collecting himself from the floor of the cab.  The back end of the car was sagging deeply on its rusted suspension, and the angle of the car had the clear indication of being placed.  Michael and I didn’t run into IEDs very often in our travels, but spending a couple of weeks without eyebrows early in our adventures taught me the valuable importance of caution.

I sighed, rather dramatically.  “Let’s check it out.”

+

It was a remarkably sophisticated device.  Against both Michael’s and Marlow’s better judgment, I savagely and repeatedly kicked in the trunk until I could force it open, and stared silently at what looked to be four or five silver cylinders, which appeared to be stripped down howitzer shells, each with a small green wire coming from the top and disappearing into the recesses of the vehicle.  Shredding the interior of the car did not reveal any more wires or, what I was hoping for, a detonator.  So now I laid on my back under the frame, a small flashlight in my mouth, following the tangle of wires into the wheel well.

“Son of a bitch,” I breathed, my lips curling into a wolfish grin.  The detonator was planted on the axle.  In a particularly sadistic way.

“What do you got?” Mike called, a little uneasily.  He always got antsy when I played with explosives.

“Fucker’s set to blow if the wheel turns.”  I slid out from under the the car and sat down, lighting a cigarette while studying the clever bomb.

Mike inched next to me, still palpably uncomfortable.  I considered pointing out that if anything, he was more likely to die a slow and tortuous death at his farther post rather that simply being vaporized where I was sitting, but thought against it, in what I assumed was probably a rare moment of sympathy.

“This is a remarkably sophisticated device,” I remarked casually.  “Definitely not a harrier trap.”

I’m sure Michael caught the hint, but we never really had time to discuss it.

“Face down,” Marlow ordered, gruffly.  “Hands on your head.”  He paused for a moment.  “Sorry.”  We didn’t have to look to know that he had a gun pointed at one of our heads.

Mike turned his head slightly, glancing at me.  I shrugged, and spat out my cigarette.

Even I wasn’t that fast.

+

In a remarkably exhaustive search on Marlow’s part, I had been relieved of both of my sidearms, three knives, a pair of brass knuckles, my picks and jimmies, and even my little grease pencil.  Michael had received a similar treatment.

Marlow now stood about eight or so feet away from us, a pistol gripped tight in his fleshy hand, watching us reasonably well.  After all, though, we were unarmed, handcuffed behind the back, and alone.  We had been sitting on the dusty pavement for more than an hour, waiting for whomever Marlow had called on his cell phone after rather roughly restraining us.

I sat cross-legged, facing Marlow, and Mike sat  with his legs stretched out, leaning against the wheel of the Behemoth rig.  His eyes were closed, but I knew that he was deep in thought, his mind racing.

For my part, I was trying to talk myself up for the insane plan that I had hatched in my head.  I really didn’t want to go through with it, but at the same time, I figured that waiting for his Yukon mates to come would only serve to narrow our options even further.

So the question became one of when.  I could tell that Marlow’s lonely vigil was waning in its intensity, but it still was not enough.

Suddenly and fortuitously, an electronic ringing sound pierced the bright afternoon.  Marlow fumbled for his phone, keeping the gun trained more or less on the two of us.

“Yeah,” he nearly whispered.  After listening for a few seconds, he seemed to grow agitated at the other.  He looked over us angrily, and stepped partially behind the truck .  I knew that it had to be now or never.

I leaned forward onto my knees slightly, raising the seat of my pants off of the ground several inches.  I folded my left thumb as much as I could across my palm, did my best to move the other hand out of the way, and dropped my full weight onto my hand, dislocating the thumb.

The pain was surprisingly fierce as it burst behind my eyes, my tongue feeling swollen as fire and glass coursed through my wrist and forearm.  I did my best to stifle a pained groan, focusing the air into a thin blade, letting it out slowly between my lips.  I prayed that I hadn’t broken the thumb instead.  Having never purposely dislocated a digit before, I wasn’t sure how it ought to feel.

Michael opened his eyes and stared at me evenly.  I wonder if he was thinking maybe it was the last time we’d see each other.  Marlow leaned out then, checking up on us.  I didn’t think that he had heard anything, so I did my best to look impotently suspicious and not in stifling pain.  Apparently satisfied, he returned to his hushed argument on the phone.

I wrenched my flattened hands apart and another wave of pain shot to my elbow.  My knuckles were skinned, and I felt like I was on fire from my fingertips to my shoulder, but the hand was free.  I stretched it open and closed, and the thumb popping back into place hurt nearly as much as it had coming out.  I took it as a good omen.  Marlow was facing away from us now, and I crept forward, clutching the empty manacle so it wouldn’t jingle, feeling like an orangutan doing a surprisingly reasonable impression of  a duck.  I made it nearly halfway when Marlow stepped back out from behind the truck.  He was looking down at his phone when I lunged, giving me the split second advantage I needed.

My hands closed over his and pushed the gun away from my chest where it had been quickly leveled.  It discharged once, searing the flesh on my already  throbbing hand, but I kept the grip and twisted it as far as I could, locking his elbow and forcing his shoulder away from me.  I thrust my mangled hand into his elbow, and felt it split with a satisfying crunch.  I immediately followed with a savage kick into the back of his knee and he dropped and I caught him with my arm around his throat.

In my experience, there are some injuries that can give your enemies incredible strength in the rush of adrenaline and panic, but generally I found a shattered arm to not be one of them.  But as I fruitlessly tried to wrench his neck from its natural position, he elbowed me twice in the ribs with his good arm like a tattooed steel piston, and I felt a rib pop.  I hated myself for loosening my grip, and hated myself even more as he turned in my arms and swatted me away with the bear’s arm.  I was on my feet almost as I hit the ground, but he was already going for the gun, and I knew that there was not enough time to close the distance again.

I sincerely hoped Michael had taken advantage of the opportunity.

Of course he hadn’t.  Instead, Michael, still handcuffed, awkwardly and heroically crashed into Marlow, sending him sprawling and the gun clattering once again.  I scrambled madly for it, my hands closed around the familiar cold weight, and I ended the struggle with a single echoing retort.

I stumbled unsteadily over to Marlow, and took his phone as well as the keys to the rig and the handcuffs.  Unlocking Michael and my other wrist, I finally sat down and tried to ignore the pain washing through my hands and head and chest.

“Wow,” was all Michael could manage as he rubbed his raw wrists, I think more out of surprise at how out of hand the whole thing had gotten than anything else.

“Which way,” I whispered hoarsely, my eyes pressed shut.

“You mean keep going or go back?”

I nodded.  Everything was silent for a few minutes as we thought, but slowly a low rumbling from the north filled the air.

“Guess that settles it,” Michael said.  He hauled me to my feet and I handed him the keys, and we ran towards Behemoth.