For a few moments, I laid with squinted eyes gazing in to the late summer sun. It was mid morning and the sun was well on its way to cresting in the sky, but the colorful songs of robins and wrens still filled the air. I closed my eyes and concentrated on the other senses for a moment, enjoying a feeling of tranquility that has become so rare for me. I could hear the soft lapping of the river water on the sides of the decrepit catamaran, complimented by the gentle rocking of the vessel, but drowned out by the small 2 stroke motor whirring as it powered us upstream. It smelled like summer still, though some of the trees were already shifting colors. I could hear Kevin and Lacey murmuring about something, but they were talking softly and facing the other direction.

I rubbed my eyes, ushering myself back to reality, and sat up.

“G’morning chaps.” I greeted in a good-humored attempt at a pathetic British accent.

“Well ‘ello ol’ sport!” Lacey said over her shoulder, in a significantly more accurate accent.

“Where are we?” I asked.

“Not sure really.” Kevin said flatly.

“By the sun, we are headed west, maybe northwest.” Lacey added.

“Well, I’d like it to be more west than north. We don’t exactly have a GPS.” I said.

Phil spoke up from under the brim of his hat “We ’bout 6 hours out of Lynchburg.”

“We got enough fuel for that?” I asked, hanging on to my pragmatism.

“Dunno, current seems a bit heavy today, and but I reckon we’ll make it.” Phil seemed confident as he held on the the control rod of the small motor at the back of the raft.

Lacey stood up to stretch her legs and I exchanged spots with her next to Kevin at the bow. She detected we were going to have some private talk, and seemed perfectly content with lying down across the boat to bask in the sunlight. She removed her denim overcoat and rolled up her T-shirt to expose her midriff to the sun’s rays. I wasn’t sure if she noticed Kevin and I experiencing a brief moment of carnal distraction over her very well-maintained physique before pulling ourselves back to reality.

The cicadas were chirping loudly now off the river banks, and with the sound of the motor, we had enough acoustic cover to exchanged a short conversation in privacy without seeming conspiratorial.

“What are we doing when we get to… Lynchburg?” I asked Kevin softly.

“I don’t know what to expect.”

“I haven’t seen any signs of civilization around here in a while.” I said.

“That’s probably a good thing.” I couldn’t argue with that. “We are going to need to plan for a few different situations.”

Kevin nodded. “First, this could all be a trap, he could be taking us to a Hub prison. Second, he could be taking us to a place devoid of any witnesses before he rapes and murder us.” I was expecting a laugh from Kevin about that notion, but it  never came.

I thought for a moment. “He could be actually be taking us upstream without complication, but it doesn’t mean we’ll have a way home. I fear this day will end up in Harrier territory.” I feared.

“Or we could just be lost in the woods.” Kevin said with finality.

“I guess it couldn’t hurt to ask Phil what was going to happen at the end of this boat ride.” I said suggest. Kevin didn’t protest, but I saw him slowly check the position of the pistol under his arm.

I turned around, engaging my diplomatic drive. I could turn it on and off as if it were a simple flashlight. At my will, I could suppress the idiosyncratic parts of my personality. I could fetch a new vocabulary that would make the conversation a comfortable one. I could adjust my posture and body language in a hundred different ways, from standoffish, to impatient, to consolatory, to friendly. Half of the skill required to be a good diplomat was being able to read situations dynamically and adjust yourself to accomplish your goals. I’ve taught myself to avoid danger, to appear respectful without appearing intimidated, and most of all, I’ve taught myself when to shut up. A diplomat leads a conversation towards a goal while making it appear as though he’s not in the drivers sea. It’s a facade, a front. It’s equal parts of deception and honesty, and it is volatile.

On this particular occasion, my subject was Phil. He was simple, not very well educated, confident and cocky about his independence form higher thinking. Just as his southern, country accent reeked of stupidity to mean, almost anything I would say to him would come off as snooty and condescending. He wouldn’t be receptive of it, especially since Kevin has raised his rifle at him.

I turned over my shoulder so I could only make eye contact with one eye, and said friendly: “Hey Phil.” Hey is a word to be used carefully, and in diplomatic settings, it’s almost always used incorrectly. Hey is a cocky, ineloquent and unrefined word. But it just so happened that Phil was all three.

He tipped the brim of his hat up. “Howdy.”

“Dave didn’t fill us in very well, where we going?” My style of diplomacy all rests on using the word we alot. We makes the conversation seem mutual, that outcomes are shared by all parties, and for a single syllable, carries a trove of subconscious trust.

“Depends. Dave said you need out of the Hub, and the only way I could gitcha out safely is up the river. What you do after that is up to you.”

“D’you know where the Roadhouse is?” I asked cautiously, hoping not to insult his knowledge of post-apocalyptic American geography.

“Yea, sure. North a few hundred miles.”

“What’s the best way to get up there from here?”

He thought for a moment, grasping for an answer. It was almost as if the man hadn’t thought that far ahead. Kevin and I exchanged a glance to each other, speaking volumes silently to each other. “Well…. I reckin’ y’all follow the ol’ interstate up. Them harriers been a lil’ rowdy lately, but it shouldn’t be nuthin’ ya can’t handle.”

Lacey cocked her head sideways. “Harriers?”

I shrugged sardonically. We’ve seen Harriers before. She still looked concerned, so I naturally went and took a seat next to her. Meanwhile, Kevin continued to probe Phil for solutions on how to get home: “Phil, how long you think the hike North will be.”

He shrugged. “Guess about two weeks walking pretty quick.”

Lacey didn’t seem thrilled about the figure, but she kept it to herself.

*  *  *

Several hours had passed, and the late afternoon sun was pounding on our shoulders. I had already taken the clothing off of my upper body, leaving myself on in jeans and my boots. Even after I stripped down, I could feel the constant flow of sweat down my back. I would need water soon, but not bad enough to drink the river water. Kevin had followed suit, only leaving his two button leather vest on, drooping over his shoulders. Lacey had rolled her shirt up above her navel and tied it in a knot modestly, though I still caught myself staring at her when I thought she wasn’t looking.

Phil, on the other hand, left most of his clothes on, and surprisingly, he was very dry. The man had gotten used to this dank summer heat, and casually meandered the boat up the channel.

At around 8pm, as dusk began to grab hold of day, we saw a small dock ahead. Phil gracefully slipped the boat in to the dock and tossed a rope over to the dock poles.

Cautiously, never taking eyes off of Phil, we took our turns dismounting the boar, standing on the dock to help each other out. Phil was the last to step out of the boat. And there we stood, the three of us facing him, unsure of how to end our small excursion with the mysterious Phil.

Phil was the first to speak as he lit a cigarette. Kevin’s mouth watered at the site of the tobacco, having run out of cigarettes hours ago.

“Boys… ma’am, I had half a mind to kill you when I laid eyes on ya.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Kevin check for the presence of his pistol, expecting Moore’s law always.

I replied cautiously, “Why is that, Phil?”

“Well, you just don’t know who to trust anymore.”

“You’ve lost some faith in humanity?”

Phil thought for a second. “No, I half expected you to be Hub informants.”

“Trust us, Phil, we are no friend of the Hub. Not anymore.”

He smiled. “Then it’s true what they say?”

I raised an eyebrow. “What do they day?”

“That a war is coming. That the Roadhouse is choosing sides.”

“Phil, I can’t tell you whats going on because I honestly don’t know. That’s why we are heading back now.”

He was silent for a second, than fished a box of cigarettes out of his pocket, tossing them to Kevin. “Take ‘em.”

Kevin nodded and smiled genuinely. “Thanks! So we are heading up that road?” Kevin indicated the direction of the interstate, speckled with car carcasses of world’s past.

Phil nodded. “Strait until you get to Maryland, than you should know your way from them.”

Lacey reached out to shake Phil’s hand. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure” said Phil. And with that, we headed North.

When I opened them again, minutes, hours later, the room was brighter, and I could see the green trim that framed the faded wallpaper, and dust motes swirling in the bright sunlight that now filled the room.  I heard soft footsteps coming toward the room, the quiet creak of the old door opening to her (our) room, and my Ella entered, carrying a battered stainless steel tray with sandwiches and a pot of some pungent smelling tea.

She wore a clean white summer dress spotted with faded red flowers, no doubt trying to enjoy one of the last warm days before the harsh winter set, the fabric clinging to her slender frame, swishing almost noiselessly around her hips and thighs as she padded silently across the floor.

Ella set the tray on the end table and climbed into the bed and lay next to me, propping herself on a slender arm, looking at my face with a deep compassion that for some reason unsettled me even as I felt a spreading warmth in my chest.  She smiled, and brushed the hair back from my temples and forehead, her spidery fingers running gently over my face.  I closed my eyes again, enjoying the sensation of her touch on my forehead and eyebrows, down my cheek, across my lips.

“How do you feel?” she asked.

“Better,” I replied mechanically, keeping my eyes closed, focusing on the warmth of her fingertips, now tracing the veins of my throat.  ”Where’s Margaret?”

“She’s in school,” she answered, and we let the silence return for a moment.  One of the recent reforms in Roadhouse territory created the option of a public schooling system, based out of the old high school.  Originally, the benefits of a pre-Crossing education were relegated to those of us who were old enough to have actually had one and to those we independently decided to teach, creating an almost mystical reverence of the wisdom and knowledge of the “elders.”  However, Nick had proposed to create a schooling system available to all of the children in our territory, citing that it would create a stronger future than would a community of peasants ruled by some intellectual elite.  I was inclined to agree with him, despite Kevin’s misgivings about planting the seeds of liberal and enlightened malcontent.

There were maybe a hundred children in the school program all told, since it was voluntary and most families preferred to keep their children home for safety and labor reasons, even though the vegetable oil bus that transported the children was barred and armored, and contained no less than two armed guards in addition to the armed driver at any given time.

“How long have I been out?”

“Almost three days.  Your fever finally broke last night.”  Her lips touched my forehead, what I had always considered a mysteriously developed maternal instinct for checking temperatures.  Satisfied that the fever had not reemerged, she gently kissed my cheek and then sat up in the bed, expectantly.

I opened my eyes again, finally, and with a small grunt lifted my heavy head from the pillow and pulled myself into a sitting position, hooking my arms around my knees so that I wouldn’t fall back again.  The room spun and pulsed terribly, and blood pounded vengefully through my temples and neck, but I forced myself to keep my eyes open, knowing that if I shut them against the maelstrom it would be a short trip down again to the threadbare pillow.

Ella’s hand pressed reassuringly to the center of my back, and I gratefully leaned toward her, resting my head in the nook of her shoulder, letting her fragrant hair cover my face.

“Come on,” she whispered.  ”Let’s see if we can’t get something down you and get you out of this bed.”

I felt her smile.

“Ella,” I said, almost tenderly, and felt her other hand gently squeeze my arm.  ”What are we?”

She leaned back suddenly, her lips curled into an almost pitying smile, her bright eyes the only steady points in the still swirling room.

“We’re Adam and Ella,” she said warmly.

+

A little less than an hour later, Ella and I walked hand in hand toward the central mall of the Roadhouse.

The Roadhouse had changed significantly since pre-Crossing times, when it was simply the Skvarla house, fortunately situated between all of our own homes, and thus was our unofficial “base” of operations.

Now most of the woods behind the house had been cleared, surrounded by high stone walls, and the Roadhouse resembled not a spacious Pennsylvania backyard but a spoked, teeming futuristic medieval micropolis.  In the center, as mentioned, was the mall: a trim, spacious, and reasonably circular clearing which provided a sort of community center, complete with cart-pushing vendors and merchants from the surrounding towns peddling their wares during the semi-open daylight hours of the Roadhouse before the evening lockdown.  Just off of the center of the mall stood our laughably named Forum, a closed pavilion made of cinder blocks and two by fours filled with folding chairs, where we occasionally had something like “town hall” meetings, but more often it was used as nothing more than a run-down dance hall for the Townies, with grainy speakers trickling pre-Crossing music.

To the west of the mall, along the old Paintertown Road, was the limited residential sector, which those of us lucky or powerful enough to have been allowed to actually live within the walls called home.  Running along the whole northern wall was the foreboding military complex, with its low concrete buildings and flat dusty earth, encompassing the training grounds, barracks, the armory where Ella worked, and the notorious “Brig,” located in some cold sub-basement where our AN friend was no doubt being held.  Toward the south were the administrative offices, and along the eastern wall, furthest from the interterritorial travel roads, were our utility centers: power, water, the motor pool with its vegetable oil refinery.  It was a self-contained fortress, and while Nick had always encouraged it as a community center for greater Roadhouse territory, we rarely saw new people milling about.

The mall was quieter than usual as the two of us strolled along.

“I guess word must have spread about your unusual return,” Ella said, worry creasing her brow.  ”I’ve never seen it this empty.”

“People are scared, I suppose.  This is an unstable time.”

“But do you think they realize that?  How bad things are getting?”

“Maybe not consciously.  But you can feel it.  In the air.”  At least I could.  ”Ella, do you even know how bad it’s getting?” I asked gently.

She drifted a bit closer to me and I wrapped my arm around her bare shoulders.

“I’ll protect you,” I said after a while.  ”And Maggie.  I promise.”

“Don’t say that, ” she said bitterly, quickly.  ”Don’t promise.  You’re a lot of things, boy.  I don’t want you to end up a liar too.”

I pulled her a little closer, and we walked on in silence.  We had almost made a full lap when Michael appeared.

“Adam, I’m glad I found you.”  He stopped and turned to Ella, bowing slightly.

“If you’ll excuse us–” he began, trying to lead me by the arm back the way he had came.  He seemed agitated and hurried.  I rotated my elbow, popping out of his grip.

“What?” I snapped.  I could hear the coldness returning to my voice.

He sighed, obviously anticipating resistance.  ”Emergency meeting.  Dad’s house.  We need to go, now.”

“Can she come?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Michael said, raising his hands in a placatory gesture.  Shrugging, I began to turn away.  It was Ella who stopped me, her own hands resting on my chest.  She was smiling again.

“I have to be home for Maggie anyway,” she said.  ”The bus will be coming soon.  When you get done, though, we’ll all have a nice dinner together.  Okay?”

I didn’t answer at first.  To be honest, I really didn’t want to go to the fucking meeting.  I wanted to rest.  I wanted to be with Ella.  I wanted–

Her cool hand came to rest on my cheek.

“Okay?” she asked again, her eyes full of compassion and understanding.  She knew how I felt.  I was beginning to think that maybe she always had, even when I didn’t.

I nodded reluctantly.  She stretched up on her toes and kissed me, and then walked away without another word, sunlight in her hair.

“Look,” Mike began, but I had already pushed passed him and begun stalking toward the house.

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.

“DPM,” I started, but he was fixed on Adam, who was stalking away.  I snapped my fingers. “Mike, over here.”

He turned to me and shook his head, “Yeah, what’s up.  Glad you’re back.”

“Get a fire going and get all the lead you can find. I know we’ve got some fifty pound bricks lying around here, so get someone to round them up.   We need some lead sheets pronto.  And a Geiger counter.  I don’t suppose you’ve got one stashed away somewhere, do you?”

“Mike, what’s going on?”

“So that’s a no the Geiger counter?”

“Yeah, probably.  I don’t know why we’d have one.”

“Well, check anyhow.  I wonder if they’re hard to make, you should check into that too.”  I turned to the guard nearest me.  “Find my father and bring him here.  I don’t care what he’s doing, just get him here as fast as you can.”

I closed my eyes and pressed my fingers into my temples, trying to make the jumbled thoughts churning through my head coherent.  “DPM, hold up.  You said something Smarto and Kevin..?”

“Yeah, word is they’ve been captured at the trade summit.”

I let the words sink in for a few seconds before opening my eyes again.  “Ok.  I need you.  This may be the hardest we’ve been fucked in a long time.”

DPM started to ask something, but I cut him off when I saw my father coming down the hill from the Roadhouse in a trot.  “I need a garage,” I told him.  “Functional, but a few miles from the Roadhouse at least.”

Mike was quiet for a few seconds.  “I think I know one we can use.”

“Good.”

Skip stopped in front of us, no more out of breath than a man half his age would have been.  “What’s so urgent it’s got your panties in a twist?” he asked.

“We’re at war with the Associated North and we didn’t even know it,” I told him.

Dad seemed to slump just a bit at the weight of the news.  “You’ve got evidence I assume.”

I motioned to the tarped thing in the bed of the truck.  “I need it checked out, but…”

“But what?”

“I think that’s an atom bomb we intercepted.  We didn’t dare fiddle with it, but it reminds me of one.  DPM, do you know anyone..?”

“Sure, loads of people.  The tech’s only been dead for the last twenty years, but we’ve got loads of nuclear engineers.  Scratch that.  Nuclear weapons engineers.  Fuck me!”

“And you brought it here?  What if that was the plan and it’s on a timer?” Skip asked.

“We didn’t want to risk leaving it on the roadside to be found by harriers.”

Dad wasn’t very pleased with the answer, but he didn’t say more about it.  “DP, see if you can find someone who knows anything about bombs enough to tell us what the fuck this thing is.  Be discrete about it.  Get whatever you need from the garage and get this thing out of here, at least ten miles distant.  Take a dozen guards with you; I want Roney to hand pick his best men.  You’ve got twenty four hours to get some answers and get back here.  I’ll leave it to your best judgment if you want to bring the bomb back or not.”  Skip turned to me then.  “You look like shit.  Go get some sleep.  There’ll be an emergency council meeting when DPM gets back and I’ll need a full report from you.”

“Can’t do that just yet,” I said as I opened the back door of the truck. The AN prisoner fell to the ground in a heap.  “I’ve need some answers first.”

Knowing better than to resist, we allowed the guards to grab us by the backs of our collars and search us again for anything that could be used as an improvised weapon, including my precious mechanical pencil and Kevin’s hidden blade in his tube socks. They threw Kevin in a cell as he landed with a big “Ouff’, and threw me in the cell next to him.

The guards, seeming content with their hostility, slammed the doors and left without comment. As the guards footsteps disappeared around the corner, Kevin gave me a look. It wasn’t a facial expression I recognized, it was full of anger, disillusion and resent. He seemed ready to defend any sort of sardonic statement I threw his way, and I knew that during times like this, it was best not to poke the beast.

Kevin nonchalantly examined to the hinges. “Rising-butt barell hinges” he grunted.

I didn’t bother to confirm, I just agreed with a simple impassive “Yep.”

“Any way to break them?” Kevin asked, already knowing the answer.

“Nope.”

We heard the guards slam he door to the corridor and with that, we were left in the complete dark.

“Kind of them.” Kevin said acerbically.

*  *  *

We sat in quiet speculation. Questions flew across my mind like a swarm of locusts. Were they talking about us right now? Were they going to exalt us? Were they going to make us martyrs? Would we just ‘disappear’ the way Sandrin did?

Finally, it was itching to much: “Well that…” I stopped myself. I was going to give my two cents about Kevin’s attempt at the oil power-play, but there had been a degree of tension in the rapport between Kevin and I ever since we got to the Hub, and I didn’t want to instigate. “Well that was unexpected.” I left which that I referred to ambiguous.

Kevin thought for a second. “You think they’ll keep us here long?” He sounded gloomy.

I had heard horror stories of the Hub’s torture tactics. If they wanted information, they would get it or kill us trying. “No, I think they are just making us tired” I said hopefully. “They might just want to talk about it, oil is enticing.”

“Not my idea of a fun sleepover.”

“I think they may starve us, actually. They think we’ll exchange information for food.”

“Not a particularly bad way to  go.” said Kevin. Was he being glib?

“I think I’d rather take a bullet.” I said all to honestly.

“Too messy. Bullets are too expensive, they won’t waste them.” Kevin retorted, considering all of the other options.

“Drowning”

“Not for certain.”

“What’s not for certain?” I asked.

“Drowning may not finish the job.” said Kevin.

“Electrocution?”

“Nah, how?”

“Poison?”

“Not enough spectacle. They won’t let it look accidental.” Kevin’s cynicism was dripping.

“How about fire?”

Kevin thought for a second. “It would draw a crowd. Also, it smells like shit. No one, not even the Hub, wants the smell of death looming in the air.”

“True.”

A soft, feminine voice came from the darkness. It was confident, but with repose: “They’ll probably just beat you for talking so much.” The voiced echoed around the long hallway, cloaking it’s source. We hadn’t realized there was another person among us.

“Who are you?” I asked the vacuum of dark.

“I’m Lacey”

“Are you in a cell?” Kevin asked.

“No, I just hang out in dark hallways at my leisure.” Everyone was a comedian. “I’ve been here for two days.”

“In the dark?” I asked,

“Yep, no food or water either.” Her tone was surprisingly light, considering the circumstances.

“What did you d….” I began but was interrupted by another sound. Footsteps approached down the hallway, accompanied by the warm, orange glow of a small cigarette lighter. It was David, and inside I rejoiced at this realization.

He was panicked, and spoke in a rushed whisper: “You guys, we have to go. They are coming. They are putting you to death!” He was succinct and terrified.

David quietly fished in to his pocket and produced a large ring of keys. Selecting the appropriate key, he slid it as quietly as possible in to Kevin’s door, and with a sharp clank, the door freely swung open. He turned to my door and did the same, and I saw the fear in his eyes. “Hurry.” Panic almost overtook him as he shooed us towards the other end of the hallway.

“Lacey, where are you?” still not able to determine the source of her voice.

“Turn around” the voice suggested with hint of sarcasm. All three of us looked over our shoulders as the faint orange glow of David’s lighter cast a wash light on a womanly figure inside the cell across from Kevin and I. She was sitting in the rear of the cell, hugging her knees. Most of her features were camouflaged by the dark.

David held the keys in his hand for a second considering the notion. He apparently wasn’t familiar with this prisoner. The woman could see the consideration on his face, so she spoke up, “I’m here for the same reason as you. The council has no sympathy, only power.”

David leaned in close to the bars and whispered. “You are a rebel, eh?” Was David taunting her?

The woman slowly unraveled her limps and stood up. She approached the cell door and grabbed the bars with her very delicate hands. She leaned in to meet David’s penetrating gaze. “I am no rebel. Don’t make accusations.” The flames from David’s lighter reflected off of the woman’s dark brown eyes.

David was still rushed. He backed away from the cell, we followed suit. “We don’t have time for this.”

Lacey’s hand flew through the bars and struck my arm like a viper, her fist clenching my wrist. “They will kill me too” she said with more prudence than plea.

David was already trying to shoo us down the hallway, but something inside of me manifested, a feeling of regret. Some qualitative response to Lacey’s plea had made me hesitate and I couldn’t move my feet. I’ve always been plagued by the fear of making decisions I would later regret, and I knew I’d regret leaving Lacey to be killed by the same thugs that had intended on killing me. I grabbed David by his sleeve and stopped him.

“David, let her out. No person deserves what the Hub is going to do to her.” I pleaded with little tact.

Kevin was already moving down the hallway. “Nick, shut up, we don’t have time for your heartfelt bullshit.” Kevin was being the the typical id to my superego, forcing self-reliance in a manner that he often described as ‘pulling one’s head out of their ass.’

Davis stood with the key ring in one hand and shrugged as he lost his words. I put my open palm out as if to say ‘give the keys to me’. He considered but yielded and a moment later I had unlocked Lacey’s cell door. Kevin cursed at me, but we all fell silent as we heard a door creak at the other end of the hallway.

David’s voice fell to the quietest of whispers as he pulled all four of us in to a circular huddle. “Shit, they came quick. There is a carriage out back, go jump in. The driver knows what to do. I can’t be seen with you” With that he turned around, extinguished the lighter and disappeared in to the black.

We felt our way down the hallway as we heard the jovial guards approach from the other end. They were laughing about some crude joke one had told, and were utterly unsympathetic of their duties to bring an individual to their execution; heartless as the council themselves.

Moments later, we found an unlocked but very narrow door at the end of the hallway. From behind, I pushed Kevin’s massive frame through the door to the exterior and pushed Lacey ahead of me as we landed in the next room. We closed and locked the door behind us, hoping the guards hadn’t heard.

There was a little light in this room and it appeared to be foyer. We felt the warmth on the next door, excited knowing that the late summer daylight was on the other side. We quietly made our way in to the burning sunlight, our eyes painfully meeting the sun and the gaze of a large brown horse, a small carriage and a tall driver with a bowler hat.

The driver said nothing, only smiled and opened the carriage door as if he were a refined, cavalier chauffeur. He seemed surprised to find a third fugitive in our group, but the sunlight had revealed that Lacey was surprisingly alluring. Her dark eyes and freckled nose were bordered by her jet-black, straight hair, all on top of her lean but curvy frame. Her gray denim overcoat and jeans had blotches of oil and dirt, reminding me of a very sexy mechanic, but her face was soft with delicate features.

I think even Kevin was pleasantly surprised by Lacey’s beauty despite his fervor for getting far away from the Hub. I cherished these brief, fleeting moments where Kevin seemed human. His experience with war and diplomacy had made him in to such a machine that I often wondered if a grease-pump had replaced his heart ages ago. But he was still my friend and I relished seeing him break facade one in a while.

Needless to say, the driver wasn’t opposed to the beautiful addition to our party, and we crammed in the back of the carriage. The driver started the horses before we could even get the door closed. “Duck down!” Kevin whispered as he pulled a blanket over the three of us, now crammed in the foot wells of the passenger compartment.

The carriage swayed and rattled over the cobblestone alleys for over 15 minutes, rocking back and forth with tranquility and in my weariness, I almost feel asleep. I was abruptly plucked from my haze as the carriage slowed to a stop. I began to stretch my limbs, but Kevin grabbed me by the hair and forced me back to the carriage floor as we heard muffled voices.

Though mostly indistinguishable, I heard the words ‘fugitive’ and ‘escape’ very clearly and I surmised that the man hunt for us had already begun. The driver appeared to sound calm and play dumb. A few panicked moments later, the cart began to move again. We all breathed an audible sigh of relief which was short lived as Kevin’s foot was lodged in my back and Lacey’s shoulder was burrowing in to my stomach as we all crammed in the small foot-well of the carriage.

After another short period of the carriage rocking back and forth, we felt the it come to a halt. We held our breaths in anticipation of another checkpoint, but instead, the tall, lanky driver with an impressive mustache turned around and pulled the blanket off of us. “We’re here”.

‘Here’ wasn’t terribly descriptive, but we were definitely in a covered garage. Kevin rolled out of the cart, his legs having fallen asleep. He shook them vigorously, trying to call them back in to function. Lacey followed suit from the other side with a little more grace than I, and I rolled out on to the floor much as Kevin had when he was thrown in the jail cell an hour ago. The driver closed the carriage door with a certain level of chivalry and broke the silence: “Go inside and make yourselves comfortable. ”

“Where are we?” Kevin asked.

“This is Mr. Shield’s private residence. His wife is ready to receive you.”

“Are you his personal driver?” I asked.

He nodded. “Of sorts.”

The door from the garage led to a modern-style kitchen with white tile floor and aluminum counter tops. At the kitchen table sat Joy and her son Davey. We had met before.

“Nick, you look tired.” she approached me and gave me a hug. Davey ran up to me and looked up. I put my hand out and he jumped for a high-five. I was genuinely happy to see them, they were long-time friends. I was informally Davey’s godfather and although I never felt cut-out for fatherhood, I always shared a special bond with Davey.

“Joy, you’ve met my partner Kevin?” I asked.

“No, I don’t believe I have, but nice to meet you.” They exchanged a firm, diplomatic hand shake. “This is my son Davey.” Kevin gave Davey a warm, masculine nod. I rolled my eyes, the machine was back online. Joy looked over at Lacey, who was still stretching her limbs as she recovered from our journey. “Who might you be?”

“I’m Lacey.” The exchanged an awkward handshake. “The man that rescued those guys rescued me too.”

Joy smiled. “That man is my husband, David. He’s the Secretary to the Grand Council.” Lacey had a brief moment of fear flash across her face. Joy gave a motherly smile. “Don’t worry dear. He’s one of us. How did you get wrapped up in all of this?”

Lacey took a moment to phrase herself. “Suffice it to say, I’ve had some grievances with the council.” she said with humor but with conviction.

Joy laughed comfortably. “Haven’t we all, dear.”

I finally introduced myself to Lacey. With little reservation and great gratitude, she threw her arms around me and gave me a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you for the rescue.”

“Twas my pleasure.” I gave an awkward smile, realizing that I sounded more like a limerick than the sophisticated Victorian poet I was channeling. We exchanged a smile at the awkwardness, and I appreciated her tolerance. She felt oddly comfortable.

Kevin found no need to a polite introduction. It was clear that he already saw Lacey as unnecessary baggage. Avoiding any more discomfort, I pointed to him. “That’s my partner Kevin.”  The machine nodded, but he was, if nothing else, civil.

Joy poured a round of coffee and we all sat down at the kitchen table. Coffee was rare these days, usually reserved for guests, and we all appreciated the gesture. Kevin and I sat at the end of the table. Lacey hesitated, and then pulled a chair up next to us. I supposed that in her head, she was committing to whatever battle Kevin and I were fighting. “That will be all Joe, thank you very much” and with that, the driver left through the door to the garage. Joy continued: “I don’t know how much David told you.”

Kevin sipped is coffee, finally relaxing a bit. “He said we have been sentenced to death, we didn’t get much else out of him.”

“David thinks they are doing it to send a message, but they are doing their secret motions, so it’s anyone’s guess.”

“Well, us not showing up in a few days back at the Roadhouse will send a message itself” I said with a degree of threat. I always counted on Mike and Adam to be my pocket aces in dangerous situations.

“True, but there are some things you don’t know about.”

“Like what?” asked Kevin.

Joy sipped her coffee, “I should let David explain them.”

“Fair enough.” No reason to prod. “They’ve started to search for us, so how do we get home?”

“We don’t know. It’s only a matter of time until they come search here. We have to get you out somehow. David already wrote a letter to your pals.”

“Michael and Adam?” She nodded. “Well, hopefully we’ll get out of here long before there’s any need for them, we can’t risk your family like this. Not with Davey here.”

Joy smiled, “Nick, some of us still believe in doing the right thing. Even if it means a little danger.”

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.”

]]> http://www.theworldendsagain.com/2010/02/demi-dreamt/feed/ 0 http://www.theworldendsagain.com/2010/02/the-rod-and-the-serpent/ http://www.theworldendsagain.com/2010/02/the-rod-and-the-serpent/#comments Wed, 17 Feb 2010 00:54:17 +0000 Kevin http://www.theworldendsagain.com/?p=833 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.

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.”

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.”

“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.

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