I seriously missed my gun.  As the days of our imprisonment dragged on I began to realize more and more how slim the chances were that I would ever see my beloved M1 again.  It was probably still sitting behind the grandfather clock in our rooms in the capitol building a couple of clicks away.  So close yet so far, never to be held by me again.  I considered going back for it after Shields sprung us, but immediately realized how ridiculous it would be to risk life and limb for it.  But it was a gift from someone important to me, and it had been my only friend for the past two decades.  How could I just leave it behind?  And so that was first issue that had me infuriated.

The second was Nick.  Nick had done his fair share of pissing me off in the past on numerous issues (most often we butted heads over what was best for the Roadhouse), but usually I recognized that he only thought he was doing what was best for everyone, and often he or I would come around and discover that the other was right.  This time, however, he was being foolish.  Lacey incited a quick but brutal war between Nick’s wisdom and his libido, and his libido had scored a decisive victory.  So now I counted one less person that I could trust during our extended stay in enemy territory.

The third and final item on my list of grievances was Shields.  Our great and noble savior, David Shields.  Before he was kind to us, and then he took a huge risk springing us, risking his title and his life.  But to hole us up in his own home with his family, to risk their well-being?  Foolishness.  Or, even more worrisome, he had a plan, and it was working perfectly.  I needed to get into his head and figure out what he really wanted.  Nick was content to accept favors as simple acts of nobility and kindness, but I always tried to look for those ulterior motives.  People called it paranoia until it saved their lives, then they praised your foresight until they forgot and resumed calling it paranoia.

I am alone.  Utterly alone.

I was in the room assigned to Nick and I, silently searching the walls and furniture for anything out of the ordinary.  I didn’t trust Shields.  He was either horribly irresponsible or brilliantly devious, and either way it was quite possible that the room was tapped.  So far though, nothing.  The room wasn’t cluttered, but it was large and certainly not sparse, and this made my search long and slow.  I was on my hands and knees, peering into an air duct when I heard the door open and close.  I knew without looking that it was Nick.

“What are you–” he began, but I held my hand up to him without looking back, and he stopped short and waited.

I grabbed the duct’s slotted cover and worked the tips of my fingers behind it.  The house was nice, but, like all pre-Crossing houses, it was old, and the cover came off, albeit a little noisier than I had hoped, with a good hard yank.  Nick was across the room now, hovering above me, watching as I reached into the duct and pulled out a small blue baby monitor.  A small green LED light was ignited, telling us it was on and functional.  And listening.

I considered smashing it, but instead I handed it to Nick and went up to the roof for a smoke.  It wasn’t long before Nick came to join me.  Habitually, I offered him a cigarette that I knew he would refuse and then placed one in my lips and lit it up.

“So what now?” Nick asked.

“I don’t know,” I answered honestly.  ”I really don’t.  We’re far away from home, and everyone between here and there will be looking for blood and we’re completely unarmed.”

“David said that he sent a letter–”

“David also had a baby monitor planted in our room,” I interrupted impatiently.

“Regardless, when we don’t come back, they’ll send someone looking for us, Kevin.”

I nodded, taking another hit.   ”I admire your optimism.”

Nick sighed.  ”Shields isn’t our enemy.”

“Maybe not, but he’s not to be trusted,” I replied, and then, in a whisper: “The Hub still wants our oil.  They put us next to each other in that prison hoping we’d talk.  Now Shields suddenly risks his job, his life, and his family for us, only to spy on us?  What if it’s all for the oil?”

“That’s a pretty elaborate ruse,” Nick responded doubtfully.

“It’s oil, Nick!  Oil!  We don’t know what they’re liable to do.”

“Alright,” he resigned begrudgingly, “we’ll be careful around him, all of them, but he’s still our best chance of making it out of this in one piece, so why don’t you try to be at least a little less paranoid?  At least in appearance.”

“Fine,” I laughed.

We heard footsteps padding up the stairs then, and we both turned to see Joy emerge from inside.  ”Gentleman,” she greeted us.  ”My husband is home.”

We followed her quickly down the steps to find David Shields in the kitchen, panicked and packing supplies into three backpacks.  Great.  Three.

“David,” Nick began, “what’s wrong?”

“They’re going block by block.  I can’t stop them.  You two have to leave now or I’m dead.  All of us will be, actually.”

David tossed me and Nick each a bag.  ”You’ll probably get back home on that food if you ration it.  Where’s the woman?”

“I’ll get her,” a pale Joy offered, and she hurried away.

“Nick, take this,” Shields said, handing him a folder.  ”It’s got information in it that you’ll need to read when you get to safety.  If they catch you, burn it, because they can trace that back to me.”  Nick nodded.  ”Kevin,” he said turning his attention to me, “I left two pistols and a few boxes of ammo out in the living room.  It’s all I could get without raising too much suspicion.  Also, I found your rifle, and it looks like it’d be hard to replace.”  I followed him into the living room, where I saw three pistols and a bag laying on the couch, and just inside the door, leaning against the wall was my M1.  I grabbed and checked it over, cradling it in my hands lovingly.

Nick, Joy, and Lacey soon joined us in the living room; Joy near tears, Nick looking at me with his “I told you so” face, and Lacey looking rather confused.  ”So I’m going with them?” she asked.

“You don’t have to,” David replied, “but you’re not staying here.”

She nodded, and David now addressed us as a group.

“I want to apologize for your treatment, ambassadors.  The Hub wasn’t always such an oppressive regime.  I’d like you to know that there are those of us, even in the government, who are working tirelessly to make this great place into a democracy once more.  Tell that to your people so that perhaps we can avoid a senseless war.”

He shook hands with Nick and I and wished us Godspeed, and resting a hand on Lacey’s shoulder, he told her he was “sorry you got mixed up in all this madness.”

“Head south until you reach the river, then follow it west,” Shields instructed us.  ”You’ll find a small ferry operation there.  Tell them I sent you, and they’ll take you out west into Harrier lands, outside Hub influence.  Then it’s up to you to get home.  Best of luck, my friends.”

And with that, we left.

+

Under cover of darkness, the three of us darted through alleyways and across quiet streets.  Nick and I had been in similar situations (though much less dire), and so were well prepared for the slow progress through the city.  My concern had been that Lacey would slow us or get us caught, but she too seemed to have a good idea of what to do.  I was impressed by her patience and dexterity.

About an hour later, we reached the river that ran along the southern edge of New Richmond.  Nick crouched down and rested on his haunches, taking a swig of water from the canteen provided to him by Shields while Lacey stretched with feline grace.

“Five minutes,” I said softly, and went to find a place to piss.  I found a tree and watered it, and then leaned against it and lit a smoke.  I watched the silhouettes of Lacey and Nick from where I was as I smoked.  Lacey sat down beside Nick, and they spoke quietly.  I couldn’t make out what they were saying.  I slid down the tree until I was squatting.

Watching them reminded me of things.  I missed her, and with hollow grief came boiling hate.  I wanted to kill Adam.  I clutched my rifle hard and shut my eyes tight.  I can’t, though.  I can’t kill my own brother.  I can’t do it.

“Hey,” Lacey said softly.

I flinched at the sound of her voice.  I hadn’t seen her coming while I was lost in my memories.  I looked up, but the moonlight was behind her and all I saw was her shadowy outline against the sky.  I stood quickly, and knowing she could see my face even if I couldn’t see hers, I assumed a harsh yet passive expression.  ”What is it?” I asked.

“Look, I know you hate me and all, but I was wondering if maybe it’d be alright with you if I came back to the Roadhouse with you guys.”

I grinned, not an amused grin, or any type of grin, really.  It was an empty, flat grin.  ”I don’t hate you,” I replied.  ”And even if I did, you’d be in pretty good company.  Ask Nick if you can come, I don’t care.”

“I did,” Lacey said.  ”He said I had to ask you if it was alright.”

I sighed.  Nick was doing this to appease me.  And it was working.  ”Very well, let’s go then.”

We went and got Nick and then headed west along the river, keeping our eyes peeled for the ferry Shields had instructed us to find.

+

It was early morning when we heard the distant sound of a harmonica.  I raised my rifle, prepared for the worst.  We crested a hill, and from the top we saw an old man sitting on a lawn chair on the river bank.  Behind him, what could only be described as a raft was on the river, tied to a post on the shore.  I lowered my rifle and the three of us approached.

When we were still thirty feet away, the man stopped playing and smiled at us toothlessly.  He waved.  ”Ho there,” he called in a raspy voice.  He sported a long handlebar mustache and was otherwise dressed like a cowboy biker.

“Hello,” Nick called back. ”David Shields sent us, with his regards.”

The old man nodded and stood.  ”It’s a pleasure, in that case,” he replied jovially.  ”Name’s Phil.”

“Nick,” Nick responded.  ”And this is Lacey and Kevin.”

We now stood face to face with Phil.  ”So,” he said, producing a can of chew, “you’re all headed west, eh?  Got some heat on your tail?”  He put a massive wad of tobacco into his cheek and offered some to Nick.

“That’s right,” Nick replied, politely refusing with a wave of his hand.

“Well, then,” Phil started, spitting on the ground.  ”Seeing as how you’re friends with Mr Shields, I’ll cut ya all a break.  What’ve you got?”

“Excuse me?” Nick prompted worriedly.

“Ya know, fer payment.”

Nick sighed and nodded to me.  I sighed in turn and began to raise my rifle, but before I could, Phil had already produced a revolver in each hand, one on me, the other on Nick.

I let out a low whistle.  ”You’re pretty quick, old man.”

“Damn right.  Now let’s try this again:  What’ve you got?”

Phil wound up with Peterson’s phone, Lacey’s Zippo, and Nick’s wind-up pocket watch, all of which he took eagerly, but still reminded us that we were getting “a deal, a real hell of a deal.”  And proceeded to talk about the usual going rate for his services, and about how that one guy tried to get over on him but “no sir, I wouldn’t have it!  Shot him right in the eyeball from fifty feet.  Ever shot a man in the eyeball?”  He didn’t stop until the raft was loaded and we were well underway.  Then he sat down on his lawn chair and went to sleep.

We all wordlessly agreed with that idea, and soon Nick and Lacey were stretched out on the deck asleep and I was taking first watch.  I didn’t mind, the air out here was fresh, and I felt at ease for the first time since we had got on that damned rail car.

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.

Nick came trotting up to me from the rail car, still clutching Jason’s pistol.  I showed him into the plant.  There were machines about, hulking and silent, and menacing in their silence.  Nick glanced around at the dead machines and through the huge building’s production floor.

“Is it safe?” Nick asked.

“I killed the sniper and his spotter,” I replied.  ”We’re going to clear the rest of the building, and then we’re going to eat.”

“Are we going to split up?” Nick asked.  He didn’t seem thrilled with the idea.

“No, you’re going to watch my back.  Let’s go.”

Nick checked his pistol, then followed quietly after me.  First we swept the production floor and all of the rooms on the main level: a set of bathrooms, a locker room, a handful of offices and a workshop.  We breathed a little easier after we had it secured.  Next I led Nick up on to the catwalks and into a series of offices that overlooked the floor.  We opened every door and checked every closet and bathroom.  Still no one.

“Seems we’re alone,” Nick said with a sigh of relief.

“There’s a basement,” I replied.  ”Sorry, ten more minutes.”

“You know, Kevin, we’re wasting time, maybe we can grab some food and just head out.”

I shook my head.  ”One more level.  We need to be thorough.”

Nick sighed.  ”If you insist.”

We headed back down to the floor and over to the only door we hadn’t opened.

“No one comes in and no one leaves,” I told Nick.

“I’m staying here?”

I nodded and opened the door.  A flight of steps became visible in the dark and I slung my M1 Garand over my shoulder and drew my pistol and flashlight and descended the steps into the darkness.  I came to a landing and took another flight down until I reached a heavy steel door.  I opened it and was surprised to see a well lit room on the other side.  A man was scurrying back and forth carrying boxes of papers over to a small fire he had burning in a metal trash can.

“Ah, you’re here,” he said upon seeing me.

I leveled my gun at him.  ”Who are you?” I demanded.

“My name is Peterson,” he responded, dropping another box of papers into the fire.  ”And that’s the rest of them; the important ones anyway.”

“You’re burning files?” I queried in disbelief.  ”Files that were printed when?”

“Oh, we’ve already reinvented the printer,” Peterson grinned.  ”I forget sometimes how low-tech you Hubs tend to be.”

“We’re not Hub, we’re–”

“Right, of course, Roadhouse.  My people, we consider that the Hub.  I mean, tomatoes, tom-ah-toes, right?”

“And who are your people?” I asked.  ”Associated North?”

Peterson just laughed.  ”So, are you going to kill me?”

“I haven’t decided yet.  Are you going to talk?”

“I’ve just burned perfectly good paper and ink, what makes you think I’ll talk?”

I smiled warmly at him.  ”Well then, Mr. Peterson, I am going to kill you.”

“I see.  May I suggest an alternate course of action?”

I laughed uncomfortably at his conversational tone and demeanor.  ”What the hell, go ahead.  I’ll take it under consideration.”

“Take me prisoner.”

“And why would I do that?  We barely have enough supplies as it is.”

“Because–”

“Because the people you work for need an inside man with us in Richmond.”

“Excuse me?”

“Let me ask you something, Peterson.  How is it that the only damn sniper in North America happens to be perched along our route to Richmond around that same time we happen to be using that route?”

“Coincidence.  Or something more.  Either way, I have information that you need.”

“Information you won’t give me.”

Peterson set his jaw.  ”What do you want to know?”

“Tell me what my name is.”

“Captain Kevin Daniel Mason, born in Monroeville, Pennsylvania on June 12, 1989 to Anna and Kenneth Mason.  You were 16 years old during the Crossing.  You and your brother Adam Joshua Mason, born July 26, 1987, were separated and reunited in 2009, shortly after the founding of Skip’s Roadhouse.  You joined the Roadhouse military in 2010 and led ‘paladin’ teams throughout southwestern Pennsylvania to clear out remaining zombies and harriers in order to encourage resettlement.  You distinguished yourself and in 2014 you took over as the leader of the Roadhouse’s military forces shortly after Nicholas Roney retired.”

“When was Roney born?” I asked.

“He’s no longer important, so I don’t know.”

I shot Peterson twice in the chest, and as he crumpled to the ground, I heard a sound I hadn’t heard in fifteen years.  A phone was ringing.  I ran over to Peterson and rummaged through his pockets.  I heard Nick call my name and I heard him on the steps.  In Peterson’s back pocket I found it, and I held it up, gazing at it.  It was beautiful.  It was technology.

Nick burst into the room, but I didn’t even look up.

“What’s going on?” he asked, panting.  ”Hey is that a–”

“Yes,” I replied.  ”It’s a phone.”

I pressed the button gently, sweetly, as though caressing a lover, and I cradled it lovingly against my ear and waited.

“Peterson?” the familiar electronic parody of a voice called to me from across perhaps hundreds of miles.

“Peterson had an accident,” I replied.

The line instantly went dead.  I shut the phone off and put it in my pocket.

“What happened?” Nick asked.

“We’ve been infiltrated.  I’ll explain once we’re on the way.  For now, we’ll grab as much food as we can carry and we’ll start heading south again.”

“South?  You just said that the Roadhouse was infiltrated!”

“Yes.  By someone who would rather see us dead than get to Richmond.  Besides, we don’t know who it is or who they’re representing.  We’re going to Richmond, Nick.  We have to press on.”

By first light we were heading toward Richmond once more.

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.