Adam ran ahead of me, low and fast as some exotic jungle cat. He navigated the wreckage like a professional, and as well he should be after twenty years at this game. We covered the distance as silently as we could until we were a mere three hundred meters away. Adam slowed and crouched behind the rusted out hulk of a ancient semi; I pulled up beside him as he surveyed the scene with a pair of field glasses.
"Two on bikes behind the trailer and another two in front. One is trying to climb the overturned cab..."
I swung my rifle - a Russian military grade Dragunov with extended ten round clip - off my should and brought it to bear. I saw the scene Adam was describing through the scope as I calculated range and windage and adjusted accordingly.
"...the cab slid windshield-first into another truck so they have to go through the passenger door window. "
"There's movement at the read of the trailer, maybe someone trying to get the door up," I said.
"Six in all, good odds I think," Adam replied.
"So, normal plan?"
"Yeah. I'll try and take out the guys on the bikes behind the wreck first so they can't get away for help." And with that Adam ran ahead again, closing the distance between us and the harriers.
While he ran I moved into position, down on one knee behind the wheel of a car while resting the rifle across the hood. Adam was almost in position when there was a commotion - the man climbing up the underside of the overturned cab had reached the top, or rather the side, and was looking in the window. He tried to push away, to slide back down the undercarriage, to pull his pistol all at the same time in a confused, desperate movement. The decision on what to do was made for him as glass erupted from the window of the truck and the mad fell to the ground. His face and upper chest were a mangled, bloody mess and I doubted he was alive. The harriers all moved at once, one running to his fallen comrades side while the others all reached for weapons.
This was the best diversion I could as for and I hoped Adam was ready when I opened fire. Three hundred meters was not a particularly difficult shot with a Dragunov. It's semi-automatic, the action similar in design to an AK-47, so it doesn't have the extreme range of a true sniper rifle, but most of the shots I took were well within it's 600 meter effective range; and the semi-auto nature combined with removable scope and iron sights and a ten round capacity more than made up for it's more limited range.
I dropped the man closest to me, hoping the others wouldn't see him fall; whether the men behind the truck did or not I wasn't sure, but the other guy on my side of the semi turned. He dove for cover, leaving the man who fell from the shattered window in the road. He was experienced, but dumb, and I heard the rapid fire repots as Adam lit the man up.
Two of the bikes behind the truck gunned their engines, apparently willing to leave their friends to bake in the afternoon sun. Adam jumped from cover to the overturned truck, hunting the last man. I ran up the middle of the road, figuring Adam had him covered; I needed to take out the two escaping bandits before they could alert any others.
I reached the semi and braced against it. The bikers were almost of of range, weaving in and out of the wreckage along the highway; there was no time to adjust the scope and I shot as best I could, as much by instincts and luck than skill. The first two went low, throwing up sparks as they ricoched. I used this to judge my shot and fired. A blood red rose blossumed in the back of the closest biker. He went down as I drew a bead on the final harrier. Just as I squeezed the trigger a six inch long stick twirled down onto the road in front of me, sputtering as I came. A bright flash blinded me a half second later. I dropped my rifle (dumb I know), my hands to my eyes when I realized I couldn't hear either. I was amazed, I didn't feel any pain. And then it hit me like a brick wall, a fire that raged along my left arm. I reached for my arm as the vision swam back. I heard more shooting, but it seemed far off and distant. Adam was at my side then, leading me to sit on the ground. He cut the sleeve off my shirt and was was examining my arm. Then I felt a sharp slap across my face. I blinked a few times before Adam was fully in focus, a dour look upon his face.
"You're lucky," he said as he rummaged through his bag for a bandage. I looked down at my arm. Blood seemed to be running from it. "None of the major veins or arteries were hit. It looks bad, but is mostly superficial. A few stictches and you'll be fine." He looked up to where I'd been standing. "Had it bounced a few more inches you would'd have been so lucky."
A flurry of thoughts boiled to the surface: we needed to check the harriers for any kind of identification or supplies; we have their bikes, but fuck how am I going to ride with my arm like this; one had gotten away, we need to be getting gone before he brings back friends.
And then I heard a sound, perhaps one of the most distinctive sounds known to man. It was the sound of a pump shotgun chambering a round. Adam and I turned up to look to the side of the semi cab and saw the driver, blood trickling down his brow, staring down at us over the barrel of the shotgun we'd heard. "You boys have some explaining to do," he said in the most wonderful Canadian accent.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
highway 61
Well Abe said, "Where do you want this killin' done?"
God said, "Out on Highway 61."
+
We sauntered easily down the middle of the interstate. The last vestiges of civilization had dropped away hours and miles before, and with it civilized transportation. I don’t think it particularly bothered either of us.
I was naked from the waste up, cotton shirt and army jacket slung over my field bag. For me, the notion of vehicles was still somewhat alien. Michael and I had been striding these wastes together for nearly two decades, and even though the technology for reviving modern transportation was accessible for many years, thanks to some bright dead minds in the Carolinas, we had only managed to implement it on a full-scale in Roadhouse territory recently. And there was the obvious problem of finding fuel. Filtered vegetable oil, while cheap and easy to make, is not something to be just found among the ruined landscapes to the north.
Though perhaps there was beyond it.
I think that Michael, for his part, feels a bit like a post-apocalyptic Lewis and Clarke. We’re highwaymen, really. We rob and kill our way through our little failed world. But I suppose we’re also explorers, in a way, because for several months we’d been scouting for a reasonably safe path through the ruins of New York.
Whether because of the stupid and bloated population, or the maybe lack of an organized response, or even simple bad luck, the great state of New York had functionally dissolved. All that was left was a minefield of twisted metal and crazed harriers. But beyond the ruined state lay another pocket of civilization, who had finally managed to contact the Eastern Hub.
They offered oil. Real, honest to God oil.
And so, as the drifters of the Roadhouse, the furthest outpost north, it fell upon us to find the route, if it even existed.
+
We had gone up route 79. The most direct route, east on 76, proved nearly impassable without an army and a bulldozer, which Smarto was understandably disinclined to try to acquire. So our plan was to try to get as far north as possible, and then cut east under Lake Erie, attempting to bypass the more populated areas of eastern New York.
"Isn't it something how, even after the functional apocalypse, we're still so informed by our social and environmental contexts?"
"Mike, I swear to God. You know I like philosophical musings as much as you, but this got old like sixty miles ago."
"You're just pissed because you sat on your cigarettes."
"Dude, I tripped."
"Oh, you're right. Much better. My only friendly ally in a hundred miles in any direction is clumsy and jonesing."
"Fuck off."
Mike snickered. It’s worth mentioning that I tried to quit numerous times over our storied career together, but there seems something perverse ultimately futile in trying to prolong my life as a professional gunman. I think Mike tended to agree, but he just like jacking me too much.
"You know what you're problem is? You--"
"Mike, shut up."
"Oh, come--"
"Seriously. Do you hear that?"
Michael was still and strained. There was a low rumbling. It was getting louder. It was punctuated by hyperbolic sighs and coughs, a giant with a headcold.
"Holy shit," Mike breathed. "Is that . . . downshifting?"
"I think so." I grinned as I pulled my carbine around to my chest, racking the action.
"You know, for an ex-psychology student, a trained field medic, and a professing pacifist, you're always awfully excited to use that thing."
"I never said I was a role model." My grin widened. "Let's grab some cover," I said, darting to the side of the road.
Mike rolled his eyes and followed.
+
The truck exploded around the corner, its wheels barking and squealing as it slid through the turn. The trailer almost tilted, but the driver punched the accelerator, and amid further protestations from the wheels, the trailer was jerked straight, which was an impressive move, considering the windshield appeared to be on fire. We watched all this through binoculars from behind the carcass of a burned-out Ford.
“What do you think?” I asked. “Cocktail?”
“Looks to be. I think I see dirtbikes.” Sure enough, smaller silhouettes could be seen flitting about the semi, like some pack of animals. There were bursts of fire dotting the whole scene.
“What’s the plan, Mike?”
It was silent for a moment as we considered our options, when a harsh popping sound crackled through the air, and the truck wove unsteadily. With almost dreamlike grace the truck tilted as it bounced off of the road into the shoulder. The driver, again in a stunning display of nerves and cool, turned the cab as sharply as he could. But it was too late, and with a screech the trailer twisted onto its side, coming partially free from the truck. Momentum continued pushing the twisted vehicle further down the road, but it was clear that the truck wasn’t going to be moving any more. The harriers gunned ahead of the wreckage, encircling it like vultures.
The truck was still about three-quarters of a mile away, but we had already and without words begun sprinting towards it.
There was a truck. There was oil. There was a path.
timeline
before the ebs2 begins, it's worth recounting the events and contexts leading up to it.
+
2006 - The Crossing (EBS1, The Confrontation)
This was the single most devastating event in recorded human history since the Flood of Biblical times. The dead were reanimated for still unknown reasons, destroying most of the human population and almost all technological and cultural remants of society. This was effectively the End of the World.
2009 - The Resettlement Era (a loss, Obsession)
While resourceful and militant societies managed to survive the Crossing, this marked the reemergence of a pseudo-civilian class, allowing for the reclamation of land and limited technology to begin the reconstruction of human society.
2014 - New Feudalism - (satellites, Wind to the West)
With the creation of stable city-states came the inevitable domination of the weaker by the stronger. The Roadhouse, while technically belonging to the Eastern Hub, a conglomeration of east-coast communities centered around post-Federal land in Virginia, has maintained much of its autonomy thanks to physical distance, a lack of particularly unique resources, and a small but effective guerilla army.
2025 - EBS2. The world ends again.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Wind to the West
He extinguished his cigar, slowly turning and pressing it into the crystal dish. A tiny plume of smoke heralded its last moment. Nick breathed the last bit of aroma as he leaned forward in his chair to get up, but arrested himself at the sight of the picture on his workbench. It was of him and his friends, taken over 12 years ago. To him, the adolescents in the picture seemed like a distant memory. Many of those people were lost in The Crossing, and those still alive were certainly very changed men. His thoughts briefly drifted to life before The Crossing, as they often did. As he drifted back to a world without the daily challenges he had faced for over a decade, he insisted to himself that he must stay focused on the task at hand.
He blinked a few times, calling himself back to reality. He paced around his modest office, and thought to himself as he picked up a small wooden carved box, a gift from a fellow diplomat from a smaller faction that had formed near Dayton, OH. He was deciding what he would say when he addressed the Roadhouse in only a few moments. His thought was interrupted by a short tap on the door. “Come in” Nick said mono-tonally.
The wooden door creaked open, and revealed Nick’s good friends and associates, DPM and Kevin.
“Y’ready?” asked DPM.
Nick sighed, “Yea… I’m ready. Any other news come in that we should know?” DPM and Kevin shook their heads. “Alright then.”
Hundreds had convened on the old baseball field. Once reserved for little league games with cheering parents and Big League chewing gum, this had become a makeshift amphitheater that provided a venue to address some of the central members of the Roadhouse. Usually, a weekly address was given, sometimes by Skip, sometimes by his associates, and sometimes by one of the third-in-commands who drew the short straw. It would have been uncommon to see more than 50 people show up for the weekly addresses, as news still traveled remarkably fast, and was usually largely uninteresting. However, on this day, over 600 members of their faction had shown up on the ball field. People were packed into the infield, fighting for a seat to hear the address. Word of such an important address had brought the faction out of the woodwork.
Several months before, they had fashioned a makeshift stage on top of the batting cage using plywood and nails. They were still worried it would topple and send them for a 20 foot fall to the infield dirt. As DPM, Kevin and Nick climbed to the stage, Skip was already standing on top of the plywood, inserting the precious D-cell batteries into the megaphone they looted from a high school football locker room months after The Crossing. Such a commodity heralded an important address. When Skip was done tinkering with the bullhorn, he raised his stocky, muscular right hand into the air. Those who had gathered quickly fell silent. It was remarkable how much respect Skip commanded. The silence lasted for a few seconds, only broken by an infant wailing somewhere in right field.
Skip used his finger to push his thick glasses back on top of the bridge of his nose, gracefully swung the large bullhorn to his mouth and spoke: “Thanks a lot for coming, y’guys. We’re glad to have ‘yinz support.” He paused. “We have been getting some news that there’s been a problem out East. One of our Roadhouse farming camps has been a bit bruised up. Nick, come here and tell ‘em what ya know.”
Nick obliged, and received the bullhorn from Skip. “Hullo everyone. One of our horsemen just came back in to town with a message from Mike Skvarla and Adam Mason. They were on their way out east to handle some unrelated business with a Hub affiliate in Philadelphia, and stumbled upon one of our outskirt farming camps which had been mostly destroyed. The camp was the 34G Corn Farm, they had called their satellite community the Willows Farm. It’s out by Somerset.” A few of the men in the crowd who knew where Somerset used to be, nodded in confirmation.
A voice in the crowd questioned: “What exactly happened?”
“All that we have heard from Adam and Mike was that there are survivors, we don’t know if or how many people got killed.” A woman around third base gasped at this news. “They passed the town on their way east, can saw that there was still smoke coming from a few of the building, so it was very recent, probably within 12 hours of that report. They dated their post July 8 at 7:48am. For those of you without a calendar, that was only 6 days ago.” He paused, and then turned to Kevin. “Kevin, would you please brief them on counter measures.”
Nick handed the bullhorn to Kevin and returned to his seat. Kevin looked at Nick, then Skip, nodded to each of them, and addressed the crowd: “While we do not know who launched this attack, there will be retaliation. We are going to spend the necessary time investigating the roots of this attack, and swiftly so. Adam and Mike, as you know, cannot delay their mission for very long to investigate the situation, so myself and Nick will take a few others out to the Willows Farm. We will speak with survivors and escort them to a safer location. If we can find out who launched the attack, we will likely be diverted for a few days to have a…” he paused to find the proper word “a… conversation… with those responsible.”
A man shouted from the front row: “Who do you think attacked us?”
“We have very little information to go on, but it was likely one of the Scranton Bandit groups. It seems as most of the corn has been stolen, and we know on good authority that they are having a difficult time growing food this year. “
Skip lightly grabbed the bullhorn from Kevin and assured the crowd: “We’ll figure it all out, don’t worry. Please be safe in your daily activities. If anything seems peculiar, send word out.”
Sawdust snowed to the ground as Nick applied the sandpaper to the wood in careful, calculated strokes. He polished the seams between strips of wood, giving the outer shell of the Rider a smooth, even appearance. He was hurriedly completing the Rider, he had perfect conditions outside. In this age in limited petroleum availability, any alternative means of transportation was much pursued.
Nick, who was an engineering student before The Crossing, took special interest in the development of new, old technologies. He treated the craft as an art, and his workshop was his sanctuary. Between his diplomatic requirements, he spent most of his time in the shop. Housed in an abandoned auto mechanic’s building, he had acquired a slew of wood and metal working tools. This acquisition, both through some legitimate trades and some outright theft, allowed Nick to work on developing some very handy contraptions that speckled the Roadhouse. Fundamentally, he was only a hobbyist, and couldn’t compete with some of the more advanced post-scientist’s doing their work rebuilding the world, but he certainly used his tools to advance the Roadhouse in innovative ways.
The project he was finishing now began on the back of an envelope 2 years before. In Pennsylvania, long stretches of major highways, now abandoned, could allow for easy passage across the state, provided there was a means to travel them. The Rider was fundamentally a cart, a contoured surface with three wheels that looked like a cross between a row-boat and a tricycle. On top of the Rider was a mast and sail. The wheels were outfitted with brakes from an old bicycle. Somerset was along the turnpike, almost a direct route, and there was a storm coming from the east that would provide some good wind.
Kevin’s footsteps on the gravel outside alerted Nick to his presence. He looked up, sweat beading from his forehead, brought on by the intense sanding he had just finished. Kevin delicately ran his finger across the smooth oak as if it were a woman’s hip. He looked up and said to Nick “You ready?” Nick nodded.
Kevin had brought two of his most skilled marksman along, hoping he would not have to use deadly force. Nick was more of a diplomat than gunman, but he still had his sidearm holstered under his left arm. Kevin and his cronies had brought a few semi-automatic rifles, which were rolled up in a duffle bag. Kevin examined the Rider and asked Nick: “So, how exactly does this work.”
“It’s a little easier than walking. We’ll still have to push it up hills, but it will glide downhill like a bicycle, and hopefully, if I can figure out just how to use the sail to our advantage, we can get some propulsion on the flat areas.” Kevin didn’t seem like he liked the idea of sailing down the turnpike, but Nick’s words echoed in his head: ‘easier than walking’.
The men stepped in to the cart perched at the top of the garages driveway. Nick looked at Kevin, struck a match to light his cigar, nodded his head, and released the brakes.
He blinked a few times, calling himself back to reality. He paced around his modest office, and thought to himself as he picked up a small wooden carved box, a gift from a fellow diplomat from a smaller faction that had formed near Dayton, OH. He was deciding what he would say when he addressed the Roadhouse in only a few moments. His thought was interrupted by a short tap on the door. “Come in” Nick said mono-tonally.
The wooden door creaked open, and revealed Nick’s good friends and associates, DPM and Kevin.
“Y’ready?” asked DPM.
Nick sighed, “Yea… I’m ready. Any other news come in that we should know?” DPM and Kevin shook their heads. “Alright then.”
+ + +
Hundreds had convened on the old baseball field. Once reserved for little league games with cheering parents and Big League chewing gum, this had become a makeshift amphitheater that provided a venue to address some of the central members of the Roadhouse. Usually, a weekly address was given, sometimes by Skip, sometimes by his associates, and sometimes by one of the third-in-commands who drew the short straw. It would have been uncommon to see more than 50 people show up for the weekly addresses, as news still traveled remarkably fast, and was usually largely uninteresting. However, on this day, over 600 members of their faction had shown up on the ball field. People were packed into the infield, fighting for a seat to hear the address. Word of such an important address had brought the faction out of the woodwork.
Several months before, they had fashioned a makeshift stage on top of the batting cage using plywood and nails. They were still worried it would topple and send them for a 20 foot fall to the infield dirt. As DPM, Kevin and Nick climbed to the stage, Skip was already standing on top of the plywood, inserting the precious D-cell batteries into the megaphone they looted from a high school football locker room months after The Crossing. Such a commodity heralded an important address. When Skip was done tinkering with the bullhorn, he raised his stocky, muscular right hand into the air. Those who had gathered quickly fell silent. It was remarkable how much respect Skip commanded. The silence lasted for a few seconds, only broken by an infant wailing somewhere in right field.
Skip used his finger to push his thick glasses back on top of the bridge of his nose, gracefully swung the large bullhorn to his mouth and spoke: “Thanks a lot for coming, y’guys. We’re glad to have ‘yinz support.” He paused. “We have been getting some news that there’s been a problem out East. One of our Roadhouse farming camps has been a bit bruised up. Nick, come here and tell ‘em what ya know.”
Nick obliged, and received the bullhorn from Skip. “Hullo everyone. One of our horsemen just came back in to town with a message from Mike Skvarla and Adam Mason. They were on their way out east to handle some unrelated business with a Hub affiliate in Philadelphia, and stumbled upon one of our outskirt farming camps which had been mostly destroyed. The camp was the 34G Corn Farm, they had called their satellite community the Willows Farm. It’s out by Somerset.” A few of the men in the crowd who knew where Somerset used to be, nodded in confirmation.
A voice in the crowd questioned: “What exactly happened?”
“All that we have heard from Adam and Mike was that there are survivors, we don’t know if or how many people got killed.” A woman around third base gasped at this news. “They passed the town on their way east, can saw that there was still smoke coming from a few of the building, so it was very recent, probably within 12 hours of that report. They dated their post July 8 at 7:48am. For those of you without a calendar, that was only 6 days ago.” He paused, and then turned to Kevin. “Kevin, would you please brief them on counter measures.”
Nick handed the bullhorn to Kevin and returned to his seat. Kevin looked at Nick, then Skip, nodded to each of them, and addressed the crowd: “While we do not know who launched this attack, there will be retaliation. We are going to spend the necessary time investigating the roots of this attack, and swiftly so. Adam and Mike, as you know, cannot delay their mission for very long to investigate the situation, so myself and Nick will take a few others out to the Willows Farm. We will speak with survivors and escort them to a safer location. If we can find out who launched the attack, we will likely be diverted for a few days to have a…” he paused to find the proper word “a… conversation… with those responsible.”
A man shouted from the front row: “Who do you think attacked us?”
“We have very little information to go on, but it was likely one of the Scranton Bandit groups. It seems as most of the corn has been stolen, and we know on good authority that they are having a difficult time growing food this year. “
Skip lightly grabbed the bullhorn from Kevin and assured the crowd: “We’ll figure it all out, don’t worry. Please be safe in your daily activities. If anything seems peculiar, send word out.”
+ + +
Sawdust snowed to the ground as Nick applied the sandpaper to the wood in careful, calculated strokes. He polished the seams between strips of wood, giving the outer shell of the Rider a smooth, even appearance. He was hurriedly completing the Rider, he had perfect conditions outside. In this age in limited petroleum availability, any alternative means of transportation was much pursued.
Nick, who was an engineering student before The Crossing, took special interest in the development of new, old technologies. He treated the craft as an art, and his workshop was his sanctuary. Between his diplomatic requirements, he spent most of his time in the shop. Housed in an abandoned auto mechanic’s building, he had acquired a slew of wood and metal working tools. This acquisition, both through some legitimate trades and some outright theft, allowed Nick to work on developing some very handy contraptions that speckled the Roadhouse. Fundamentally, he was only a hobbyist, and couldn’t compete with some of the more advanced post-scientist’s doing their work rebuilding the world, but he certainly used his tools to advance the Roadhouse in innovative ways.
The project he was finishing now began on the back of an envelope 2 years before. In Pennsylvania, long stretches of major highways, now abandoned, could allow for easy passage across the state, provided there was a means to travel them. The Rider was fundamentally a cart, a contoured surface with three wheels that looked like a cross between a row-boat and a tricycle. On top of the Rider was a mast and sail. The wheels were outfitted with brakes from an old bicycle. Somerset was along the turnpike, almost a direct route, and there was a storm coming from the east that would provide some good wind.
Kevin’s footsteps on the gravel outside alerted Nick to his presence. He looked up, sweat beading from his forehead, brought on by the intense sanding he had just finished. Kevin delicately ran his finger across the smooth oak as if it were a woman’s hip. He looked up and said to Nick “You ready?” Nick nodded.
Kevin had brought two of his most skilled marksman along, hoping he would not have to use deadly force. Nick was more of a diplomat than gunman, but he still had his sidearm holstered under his left arm. Kevin and his cronies had brought a few semi-automatic rifles, which were rolled up in a duffle bag. Kevin examined the Rider and asked Nick: “So, how exactly does this work.”
“It’s a little easier than walking. We’ll still have to push it up hills, but it will glide downhill like a bicycle, and hopefully, if I can figure out just how to use the sail to our advantage, we can get some propulsion on the flat areas.” Kevin didn’t seem like he liked the idea of sailing down the turnpike, but Nick’s words echoed in his head: ‘easier than walking’.
The men stepped in to the cart perched at the top of the garages driveway. Nick looked at Kevin, struck a match to light his cigar, nodded his head, and released the brakes.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
satellites
Adam walked quickly, his hands jammed deeply into the pockets of his jacket. The jacket itself was buttoned from bottom to top, including the seldom used throat button which held the flipped-up collar tightly around his neck. He tucked his chin down and pulled his shoulders up as far as he could.
Skivvy had actually pulled the tail of his coat up over his head, and held the corners across his chest, forming a miniature tent over his head.
The temperatures had gone from a comfortable fifty down to below freezing in a matter of two days. It had begun snowing the morning before, and hadn’t let up since. The snow collecting on the freeway was now almost eight inches deep and beginning to become a hazard, and in many places snow drifts had collected to waist-height. They had found shelter in an old van the night before, and neither of them was much looking forward to another night outside, but their options were looking slim as dusk quickly approached. They had consulted a map, but there were no charted settlements between them and their target, the town of Charleston, which was at least another six hours. It wasn’t going to happen tonight.
Apparently Charleston had discovered some way or another to power their motor vehicles (at least the smaller ones) and now it seemed that every commune in the tri-state area wanted to open up channels of communication with them. Which included the Roadhouse, hence why Adam and Skivvy were stuck wading through the snow in these frigid temperatures.
He heard Skivvy’s crunching footsteps beside him stop. Adam stopped, somewhat annoyed (if it’s another goddamn pressed penny machine, he thought) but Skivvy was looking down into a gully beside the road. There were lights.
“Hot damn,” Adam stuttered. He thought he had never been so relieved in his life.
+
As it turned out, picking their way down the steep slope had a whole slew of issues all its own. There were plenty of slips and trips and near neck-breaking plunges (Adam was reminded of his father’s professed dislike toward taking busted-up kids to the hospital) but after twenty harrowing minutes they stood at the bottom of the gully.
They approached the town, which was really more of a hamlet; there were a few dozen huts in rings around one larger building, which Adam presumed to have originally been a highway maintenance building. The presence of the maintenance building meant that there was probably a maintenance road as well. They’d look for that on the way back out.
There was warm orange candlelight coming from the windows of the huts, creating a comforting glow in the graying evening. A man emerged from the opposite side of one of the huts. He had a hunting rifle in his hand, but he never pointed it at them.
“Who goes there?” he demanded.
Skivvy suppressed a snicker at the cliché line. Adam smiled and stepped forward, his arms spread out beside him in what might have been surrender or bravado.
“My name is Adam. This is my companion, Michael. We’re traveling diplomats, and we’d appreciate it if you could just put us up for the night.”
The man took a step forward.
“C’mere into the light where I can see you two better.” They did. The man, an older fellow who looked like he could handle himself, gave them each a once over. He seemed to have found whatever he was looking for and nodded. He stuck out his hand.
“Name’s Rick. Welcome to Satellite Community 12-D.”
+
Rick heated up some water in his hut for tea. It was surprisingly luxurious for such a modest exterior. There was a main living space, decorated with rugs and pictures and featuring a sofa and an armchair, a little table off to the side with two chairs, and in the back was a bedroom. Adam assumed there was an outhouse somewhere around town.
“Now, you said this was a ‘satellite community’?” Skivvy asked as Rick handed him a mug.
“Yes sir, that’s the official story. But we like to call this place Starksville. Because, well, you know.” Rick handed a mug to Adam.
“Thanks. What exactly is this place a satellite of?”
“Technically Charleston.” Adam and Skivvy looked at each other.
“You know, that’s where we’re headed,” Skivvy said.
“Oh. Really now.” Rick was studying his tea.
“Yeah,” Skivvy continued. “Isn’t that a bit far?”
“Closer than anything else.” Rick looked markedly uncomfortable. They finished the rest of their tea in silence.
“Well,” Rick said, standing after they had finished, “As you can see our homes are a bit small, but I can house one of you here if the other doesn’t mind coming with me to my neighbor’s.”
Adam looked over at Skivvy, who had already drifted off to sleep.
“I’ll go,” Adam said, stood up, and shouldered his bag and his field surgeon’s kit.
+
Rick knocked at the door. After a brief pause, there were several clicks and sliding sounds as bolts were thrown. These people are scared, Adam thought. The door opened and there stood a man who couldn’t have been much older than Adam was. His brow furrowed slightly and he glanced at Rick.
“He’s a traveler, needs a place to crash. Is it alright if he stays here with you for the night?” Rick said.
The man looked Adam up and down the same way Rick had. After a moment he smiled and his body loosened; Adam hadn’t realized it had been tense at first. The man stepped aside and allowed Adam to enter his home.
Adam looked around. It was somewhat sparser than Rick’s place, but it was very cozy and well-kept. He realized he was probably staying with a married couple. Rick and the new guy were talking quietly by the door when a little girl rushed into the room. She looked to be maybe four.
“Daddy, who’s at the--” She stopped when she saw Adam, clutching a stuffed bear tightly to her chest. Adam smiled and crouched down. He took off his bags and set them aside. He was now at her eye level. She looked a bit uncomfortable, but no longer scared.
“Hello there, miss. My name’s Adam.” He held out his hand.
“I’m Maddy,” she said quietly. She took his hand.
“Well it’s very nice to make your acquaintance, Maddy. Let me ask you something. Do you like candy?” he asked as he produced a chocolate bar from his jacket’s inner pocket.
Her eyes widened as she reached out for the candy bar.
“Make sure you let it last, so you can share it,” Adam said as he placed the candy in her hand.
“What do we say, Maddy?” her father asked from behind Adam.
“Thank you thank you thank you!” she said, hopping up and down. She ran back into the back. He heard her talking to Mommy, now.
Adam had been aware of the man standing behind him, probably ready to bash him with a chair if he posed a
threat to his daughter. Adam gave Maddy the candy as much to pacify her as the man behind him. He turned.
The man’s hand was extended, and there was a pleasant grin on his face.
“My name’s George,” he said.
“Adam. You have a beautiful daughter.”
“Thanks. She gets it mostly from her mother. And I really appreciate you giving her some candy. It’s so hard to find nowadays, and, well, I don’t recall if she’s ever had any more than once.” George’s voice cracked slightly.
“It’s no problem,” Adam said. “I don’t really eat it much. So you guys farm, then? I noticed a lot of empty space behind the town.”
“Yeah, we do. Just pulled in our crops a week ago. None too soon, I’d say, from the looks of things.”
“You can say that again. It’s not exactly conducive to my profession, either.”
“I can imagine,” George chuckled. “You missed dinner, but we have some leftovers if you’re hungry. We can talk while you’re eating.”
“That would be delightful,” Adam said, his stomach growling.
+
George’s wife, Rita, had joined them at the small table while Adam ate. Maddy had gone to bed.
“When I first met Rick,” Adam said between bites, “he said that this town was ‘technically’ a satellite of Charleston. Why only technically?”
Rita and George looked uneasily at each other.
“If you don’t want to get into it, I’ll understand.”
“No, no,” Rita said. “It’s not that. It’s just that we’re a little unsure. We’ve never really liked the way Charleston did its business, which is why this community sprung up out here. However, while we were setting up, we still needed protection. So we paid what was basically a tribute, some of our crops, to Charleston, in exchange for protection. We’ve been paying for nearly nine years now, but this year . . .” Rita trailed off.
“This year we decided enough was enough,” George finished. “They pulled their guards out and left. We . . . we don’t think it’s for good.”
“What, you think they’ll attack you?” Adam asked.
“Not attack, per se. That’s never been their style. They tend to only harass you if they don’t like you, but that could entail any number of things. Maybe just torching our storage, maybe our homes. I really couldn’t say.”
“How long ago did the troops leave?”
“About a day after we reaped our harvest and informed them we wouldn’t be sharing this year,” George replied.
“Well, I’m sure you know that we’re heading to Charleston on business. We could try to use some leverage to get you a break.”
Rita’s face brightened.
“You’d do that?” she asked excitedly.
Adam nodded. But he knew that if Charleston was full of the kind of people he was beginning to imagine were there, then there would be little anyone could do to stop an attack, if it was indeed an attack they had in mind. Adam thought it’d be more like a slaughter.
+
Adam was sleeping soundly when suddenly he sat up stiffly. He stopped, listening, but all he could hear was the oppressive silence around him. He was beginning to lay back down when he heard a strange noise carried on the wind. At first he couldn’t place it, the strange rhythmic thumping. Something in his head recognized it, though, and that something, after struggling for a moment or two, broke free. It was an engine. It was a dirtbike engine.
He swung his legs off the couch and began to pull his boots on as he looked around for his shirt. He had slept in his jeans. Suddenly there was another noise overtop of the engine, and this time he recognized it instantly: gunfire. He quickly looped his gunbelt around his waist, went to his bag, grabbed three extra clips, and jammed them in the back of his pants.
By this time George had come out, clutching a terrified Rita’s hand.
“What’s going on?” he rasped.
Adam shrugged apologetically and opened the door.
The town was ablaze. Men in dirtbikes zoomed through the town, kicking up great plumes of snow. Some tossed Molotov cocktails, while still others sprayed the area with Uzis. Through the flames, he saw Skivvy emerge from another house, his hair in a tangle, also naked from the waist up. They met eyes. Adam pointed to the maintenance building in the center of the town and Skivvy nodded. They went separate ways.
The maintenance building was made of brick and steel, and therefore was safe from all but the luckiest cocktails and bullets. They had to get everyone in there.
“The building! Get in the building!” Adam screamed to the panicked citizens. Bullets raked through the snow toward him. He rolled sideways and fired, dropping the biker. “Come on!” he continued.
With Skivvy doing the same, occasionally firing back with his MAC-10, it was only a matter of minutes until everyone had made it inside the buildings. Skivvy and Adam met up just inside the door.
“We’ve got to get back to our rifles,” Skivvy panted. Adam nodded.
“Let’s go.”
It took him ten seconds at a full sprint to make it from the building to his hut, but he managed to discharge the remaining rounds he had on his person, dropping two. Skivvy dropped another three with his machine pistol, which brought the remaining bikers to about seven.
Adam burst into the hut to see George and Rita had not left yet.
“I can’t find her!” Rita was screaming. “Why would she hide?”
“She’s scared,” Adam said, not looking at her as he grabbed his gear and threw it out the open door. He picked up his carbine and yanked the action.
“I’m sure she’s around--” A cocktail crashed into the side of the hut, engulfing the entire wall in flames.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” Adam said softly.
“But Maddy . . .” George threw up his hands dejectedly. Rita was sobbing.
“She probably already got out,” Adam said a bit more strongly. He felt sick to his stomach. “Come on.” He grabbed both of them by the arms and dragged them out of the house before they could respond or fight back.
He barely had them out when something in the house caught fire and burst (propane or something like it, Adam thought) blowing out the wall entirely. The house tilted, and then collapsed straight down.
Rita was screaming, and George was pale and slack-jawed. A bullet whizzing by Adam’s ear, though, brought him back to the matter at hand. He dropped to a knee and begun firing. Coordinated with Skivvy’s fire from his AK, they managed to kill another four. The rest rode off, defeated.
Adam turned back to see George and Rita trying desperately to reach into the fire on the other side of the remains of the house. The fire was too hot, though, and neither of them could get their hands into it. Adam circled around and saw what they were reaching for.
Sticking out of the rubble was a blackening hand, a child’s hand, and beside it a burning teddy bear. Adam turned away and vomited.
+
It had stopped snowing and the sun had come out. It was back above freezing, thankfully, as Adam and Skivvy walked the lonely highway towards Charleston. Adam could not have been more unaware of the weather, though.
Amidst the burning, screaming, dying, there was promising: Her death won’t go unpunished. I swear it.
Including Maddy, only four people had died. From a statistical standpoint, the battle was a resounding victory. Most of the intended victims had survived, and most of the intended attackers had died. In addition, there was a working bike left, which had been rigged to run on vegetable oil. But none of that mattered when you considered that the dead were parents, siblings . . . daughters.
He had told Skivvy about a mile out of Charleston that he intended to avenge Maddy and the others who had died. He told Skivvy that he’d understand if he couldn’t help him. But Skivvy only nodded. We’re in this together.
They didn’t have a precise plan, yet, and they wouldn’t until they could see the layout of the city. But there were two things they had agreed upon: no innocents would die by their hands, but the whole city would feel their wrath nonetheless.
They had been walking for hours, now, and finally the city of Charleston crested the horizon. The community didn’t encompass the entire ruined city, only a section of it. The rest, as far as Adam could tell, was ghost town. Adam spotted something out of place for a city skyline.
“Silos,” he murmured.
“That must be where they keep the food,” Skivvy said. “The government’ll really feel the pinch if something were to happen, wouldn’t you say?”
Adam was smiling, and it didn’t make Skivvy feel entirely comfortable.
+
“I’ll need to see your papers, please,” the stone-faced guard said. There was a wall of junked cars surrounding the city, the spaces filled with concrete. The single break in the wall faced the highway, and was where Adam and Skivvy stood face to face with about a half-dozen guards with automatic weapons.
Adam pulled his identification out of his back pocket, unfolded it and handed it to a guard. Skivvy did the same, handing his to another. Adam wasn’t really sure what they’d be looking for, since this was the first official contact they’d had, and the guards wouldn’t know their official ID from a page of the dictionary. Nonetheless, the guards seemed satisfied and handed back over the papers.
“Go ahead in. I’ll have a man take you to the commissioner.”
“Thank you,” Mike said. Adam smiled and nodded curtly. They were pointed towards a guard with an Uzi, who gestured for them to follow.
The city wasn’t as big as they’d originally thought, but it was still bigger than the Roadhouse was. It took them nearly ten minutes to reach the commissioner’s office.
“In ‘ere,” the guard grunted, jerking his head towards the door. Adam and Skivvy entered.
“Well hello!” a plump man sitting behind a beat-up desk said. He stood and circled the desk, and shook their hands vigorously. “I assume you came to investigate the bikes, eh?”
“Yes sir,” Adam said dryly. “But if it’s all the same to you, we’ve been walking all day, and we’d really appreciate a little food and a good night’s sleep.”
The man’s smile faltered, but he quickly recovered.
“Of course, of course! I’ll have an aid show you to some rooms right away.” He rang a bell, and a few seconds later a meek-looking woman entered the room.
“Rebecca, dear. Please show our guests to some rooms, and see that they’re fed properly.”
“Yes sir,” she said quietly with a bow. “If you’ll follow me . . .”
“Seems like we’re doing an awful lot of following,” Skivvy whispered to Adam.
“For now,” Adam replied. “But you know that’s not our style.”
+
The room they were shown was very sparse and utilitarian, but it was comfortable enough. The food they were served wasn’t very fresh or very good, but it was filling. And the attention they received was decent, but mostly they were ignored. Which was perfect for their plans. Adam had had no desire to speak about the bikes, since he already knew what they ran on, and since he planned on riding one home tonight.
Adam sketched out as best he could the general area between the two main silos and their room. They had gone on a walk earlier in the evening, and managed to locate the garages for the bikes (which were heavily guarded) and an armory, which was in actuality very lightly guarded. The plan was to leave their rooms at approximately midnight. They would proceed to the armory and sneak in, if at all possible. Adam thought it would be; Charleston’s government seemed to be mostly concerned about their precious motorcycles. Adam supposed they thought no one would ever try to attack Charleston without the proper weapons already in their possession.
After getting plastic explosives from the armory, they would proceed to the silos. There they would set the explosives, get close to the garages, and detonate it. Adam hoped the guards would be distracted enough for them to steal two bikes. Vegetable oil was easy enough to find to not worry about fuel until they put the burning city far behind them.
“Seems like a good plan,” Skivvy said. “Did you account for the Skvarla factor?”
“That’s why we're starting so early.”
“What about the Mason factor?”
Adam held up his weapons.
“Then let’s be off, shall we?”
+
Adam cracked the door. The streets were empty in front of their building. He half-expected there to be a guard posted, but it seemed that they didn’t really deem the two wandering diplomats to be much of a threat.
“It’s clear,” Adam whispered. They ran out into the street, turned left, and ran towards the garages.
They stopped a few blocks away behind a wall, and Skivvy did a quick head count as he peeked out.
“There are four guards, all armed with automatic weapons.”
Adam nodded.
“Is there anywhere for us to stash our gear?” he asked.
“I see a few dumpsters a block down, but that’s about it.”
Adam wrinkled his nose.
“I suppose it’ll have to do.” They stole down the alley and quickly located the dumpsters. They were about a
hundred feet away from the garages, and completely shielded from view. Perfect. After they tossed their bags in the dumpsters (mobility was capital for this operation) they retraced their steps back toward the street.
A perpendicular street led them away from the garages and towards the armory, and beyond that the silos. They stopped a good distance away and surveyed the situation. There were two guards, one on either side of the door. And there were Adam and Skivvy, no silenced weapons.
“Piss,” Adam muttered.
“Do you know how to throw a knife?” Skivvy asked.
“Kind of, but even if we get right up on them, that’s still like fifteen yards.”
“Well, I don’t have any other ideas, do you?”
“No, not really. But that still leaves the issue of the second guard,” Adam replied.
“I’ve got a plan for that, I think. I’ll take off across the street and get around the corner from them. Then, if you can draw them out and take one with the knife, I can get the other one.” He spun his butterfly knife open.
“Okay.” He clapped Skivvy on the back. “Let’s rock.”
+
Adam watched Skivvy sprint across the open road. The guards had both turned to look at something that Adam couldn’t make out, and Skivvy took the opportunity to book it. Now the guards were starting to turn back, and Adam wasn’t sure if Skivvy could make it. He put his hand on the butt of his pistol.
Skivvy put on another burst of speed, moving faster than he ever had before, to Adam’s best recollection. Still, it didn’t seem like enough. Skivvy dropped to the ground and baseball-slid the remaining five feet and up against the wall. The guard turned back and looked over his shoulder, confident that all was quiet tonight.
Now came Adam’s part. He picked up a stone from the ground and tossed it to himself a few times. He put it down and selected a larger one. He positioned himself with his back pressed to the edge of the wall and threw the rock blindly around. It landed in the middle of the road with a dull knock.
“What the . . .” he heard faintly. Now he could hear footsteps. He readied his knife, twirling it in his fingers of his right hand. He still wasn’t entirely sure he could make the throw, but if he didn’t, he and Skivvy were up shit-crick. The footsteps stopped. The blade stopped in its arc, and Adam snatched the grip (he had learned a long time ago that holding the tip only made the knife less stable). He spun his body around his left shoulder, stepping out into the street. His arm was trailing behind him, and now he whipped it around as hard as he could, hurling the knife sidearm. He felt his shoulder pop, but the knife flew true. The guard looked up towards Adam just in time to catch the blade fully in his throat.
The guard dropped, attracting the attention of his partner, who immediately began to run toward his fallen comrade. Skivvy stepped around the corner, catching the man with his hand over the guard’s mouth and jammed his knife under the guard’s arm twice in quick succession. The second guard slid to the ground.
Adam was already at the first guard, searching for anything useful. He found a ring with a half-dozen keys on it, the guard’s ID, and of course his knife buried to the haft in the guard’s throat. His shakedown finished, he grabbed the guard by the boots and dragged him to the door of the armory. Skivvy did the same. Adam quickly tried the keys and found the one he needed, opening the armory. They dragged the bodies in and closed the door.
Skivvy felt around for a lamp, and, feeling none, tried the light switch on impulse. Halogen bulbs flickered to
life.
“They must have gennies running on vegetable oil, too,” Skivvy muttered.
Adam didn’t hear him. He was too busy rummaging through boxes of weapons.
“Hell yes,” he said after a minute. “Here we go.” He pulled out three blocks of C4 and detonators. He dumped out an ammo bag and filled it with his findings, and then grabbed a few grenades, both smoke and fragmenting. Skivvy put a few in his pockets.
“Think we should take some better weapons?” Adam asked.
“Not really. If it comes to the point that we have to use them and we’re not already leaving, we’re pretty much fucked.”
“Fair enough.”
They left the armory and crept down the empty streets toward the silos.
+
They met no more guards until they reached the buildings a block or so away from the silos. After a quick count, there were easily a half-dozen, but it was impossible to be sure with their erratic paths that often took them out of their line of sight.
“I was afraid of this,” Adam whispered.
“Yeah.”
“Yeah.” Adam closed his eyes for a minute, thinking. He reopened them and dumped out his ammo bag. There were six fragmenting grenades and four smoke. He set one of the smokers aside and put the rest of the grenades into the bag. Then he picked up the C4 and detonator, studying them for a moment. He remembered DPM explaining to him a long time ago how C4 worked. You set the timer on the detonator for how much time you wanted, then stuck the prongs of the detonator right into the C4. Adam was fairly sure he could do that much. Piece of cake.
He smashed the bricks of C4 together, molding them into a lumpy ball about the size of a cantaloupe. He pressed an entire detonator into the side of the ball, and then took the loose wires and jammed their prongs in as well. He set the timer for thirty seconds (but was careful not to trigger it yet) and placed the ball inside the bag along with the grenades. He smashed the other two timers.
“Okay,” Adam breathed. “Here’s what’s going to happen. One of us—and I mean you, you’re stronger—is going to hammer throw this bag, hopefully getting it in between the silos. Before that happens, I’ll set the timer and prime a smoker, and toss that in. Then you take the bag and do your thing. Da?”
“Da,” Skivvy said. “That’s pretty far, man.” He squinted. “I’d have to be out in the road to get a clean shot.” Adam nodded, pulling an extra grenade from his pocket.
“Diversion, anyone?”
Skivvy smiled.
“Let’s get crackin’.”
+
Skivvy strode out into the street, counting backwards in his head from twenty-six. He was at twenty-three when he heard Adam grunt and an object whiz over his head. He began to spin in a circle, centrifugal force lifting the bag.
At twenty, he heard a shout as a guard noticed either Skivvy or the metal sphere that Adam had thrown. He wasn’t sure which. Smoke began to seep out of the bag. At seventeen the grenade went off, and the guards were momentarily diverted. By fifteen he was content with the force of his spin, and prepared to let go. He knew the greatest danger was releasing the hammer (in this case, a bag) the wrong way. He took an extra second to get his bearings, and by thirteen he released the bag. After a three-second arc, smoke trailing, it thankfully landed squarely in the ten-foot gap between the silos. Skivvy booked it back to wear Adam was hiding.
“I hope the detonator didn’t get fucked,” Adam said.
“I guess we’ll know in ten seconds,” Skivvy replied.
+
Ten seconds later, the guards frantically trying to discern what was in the bag, there was a blossom of fire, followed by several secondary explosions as flaming grenades detonated. The bases of the silos peeled back and crumbled, and the silos fell inward. They struck each other and collapsed straight downward onto the flames. Something must have been combustible in the debris, because seconds later there was a second fireball rising into the sky.
“Hell yes!” Skivvy whooped, smiling. Adam laughed and they shook hands. Guards ran past the alleyway they were hiding in, from the direction of the garages.
“Alright,” Skivvy said. “You get our shit, and I’ll see about wrangling up a few bikes.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Adam said. They stood and ran down the alleyway. Skivvy doglegged to the left into the
street toward the garages. Adam continued straight until he hit the main road and then turned right, heading for the dumpsters a few blocks down.
Adam skidded to a halt as a man with a handkerchief around his throat stepped out into the road. He was grinning at Adam. He had a leather gunbelt slung across his hips, and a revolver hung in the holster.
“Howdy,” the man said. “Name’s Connors.”
+
Adam smiled back.
“Well Connors, I certainly hope you’ve got something to back up all the theatrics.”
Connors scowled.
“You better stay in line, boy. I’m the fastest around here. Faster’n a punk like you, at any rate.” Connors smiled again. “But hell, you’ll find that out soon enough.”
“I bet,” Adam said. For some reason he knew that this man was dangerous, but he also knew that Connors was underestimating him.
“You’re dealin’ with the top dog here, my friend. I’m in charge of all this, you know,” he said, extending his arms to the city. “Maybe not directly, but when you control the military--”
“The military,” Adam interrupted.
“Yes, the military,” Connors mocked.
“Starksville . . .” Adam couldn’t get his mouth to speak any more.
“You mean 12-D? So, you ran into ‘em. They had it comin’, you know. They needed us, but they got cocky. I hear they got a coupla regular gunslingers protectin’ them. We’ll just have to--”
“Fuck you, Connors. I hope you can haul iron as well as you can work your Goddamn mouth.” Connors recoiled as if struck, but quickly regained his composure.
“Well let’s just get to it, then,” he sneered. He reached down and loosed the catch on his holster.
Adam reached around to the holster at the small of his back and did the same. He turned, putting his right leg forward, the butt of his gun facing Connors.
They were still. Connors snarled at Adam; Adam stared daggers at Connors. Somewhere in the distance
there was another explosion, but it was far away. The world lacked any meaning aside from Connors and the familiar weight at Adam’s back.
Connors’ fingers danced beside his holster. Adam remained still. He had regained his composure, but he still had his face twisted in disdain. He wanted Connors to underestimate him more. It would make killing him even better. The thought never crossed his mind that he was underestimating Connors; something inside of him told him exactly what Connors was capable of. Killing civilians, maybe. Killing children, maybe. But he didn’t have what it would take to beat Adam.
Connors’ shoulder tensed and his hand shot up the side of his holster, gripping the butt of his revolver. That was as far as it ever got.
The second he saw Connors tense, his arm automatically swung back. His hands latched onto the grip and he hopped backward slightly as he brought the gun up to bear and fired.
The bullet tore through Connors abdomen, and he reeled backwards and fell. Adam began to walk towards him. Connors’ revolver had slid from his holster, and he reached for it. Adam put a bullet into his elbow; Connors roared in agony.
“Scream, fucker, scream; it won’t save your soul.” Adam had reached the supine form of Connors. He planted his boot in Connor’s throat. The scream cut off in a wet gurgle.
“This is for Maddy,” Adam said, and squeezed off three more rounds into Connors’ face.
+
Adam dashed to the garage, his bags and rifle slung across his shoulders, Skivvy’s gear in his hands. Skivvy was already sitting astride a dirtbike in front of the garage, another propped up against a wall.
“What kept you?” Skivvy asked.
“Later,” Adam said as he thrust the gear into Skivvy’s arms. The guards were starting to gain control of the fire.
Skivvy slung his gear on his back and kicked the engine to life. Adam mounted his own bike and was momentarily overcome by the complexity of the machine. He took a deep breath, and the old adage proved true. He started his bike.
“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Skivvy yelled over the roar of the engines.
Adam nodded, twisted the handgrip, and they left the burning city of Charleston.
Skivvy had actually pulled the tail of his coat up over his head, and held the corners across his chest, forming a miniature tent over his head.
The temperatures had gone from a comfortable fifty down to below freezing in a matter of two days. It had begun snowing the morning before, and hadn’t let up since. The snow collecting on the freeway was now almost eight inches deep and beginning to become a hazard, and in many places snow drifts had collected to waist-height. They had found shelter in an old van the night before, and neither of them was much looking forward to another night outside, but their options were looking slim as dusk quickly approached. They had consulted a map, but there were no charted settlements between them and their target, the town of Charleston, which was at least another six hours. It wasn’t going to happen tonight.
Apparently Charleston had discovered some way or another to power their motor vehicles (at least the smaller ones) and now it seemed that every commune in the tri-state area wanted to open up channels of communication with them. Which included the Roadhouse, hence why Adam and Skivvy were stuck wading through the snow in these frigid temperatures.
He heard Skivvy’s crunching footsteps beside him stop. Adam stopped, somewhat annoyed (if it’s another goddamn pressed penny machine, he thought) but Skivvy was looking down into a gully beside the road. There were lights.
“Hot damn,” Adam stuttered. He thought he had never been so relieved in his life.
+
As it turned out, picking their way down the steep slope had a whole slew of issues all its own. There were plenty of slips and trips and near neck-breaking plunges (Adam was reminded of his father’s professed dislike toward taking busted-up kids to the hospital) but after twenty harrowing minutes they stood at the bottom of the gully.
They approached the town, which was really more of a hamlet; there were a few dozen huts in rings around one larger building, which Adam presumed to have originally been a highway maintenance building. The presence of the maintenance building meant that there was probably a maintenance road as well. They’d look for that on the way back out.
There was warm orange candlelight coming from the windows of the huts, creating a comforting glow in the graying evening. A man emerged from the opposite side of one of the huts. He had a hunting rifle in his hand, but he never pointed it at them.
“Who goes there?” he demanded.
Skivvy suppressed a snicker at the cliché line. Adam smiled and stepped forward, his arms spread out beside him in what might have been surrender or bravado.
“My name is Adam. This is my companion, Michael. We’re traveling diplomats, and we’d appreciate it if you could just put us up for the night.”
The man took a step forward.
“C’mere into the light where I can see you two better.” They did. The man, an older fellow who looked like he could handle himself, gave them each a once over. He seemed to have found whatever he was looking for and nodded. He stuck out his hand.
“Name’s Rick. Welcome to Satellite Community 12-D.”
+
Rick heated up some water in his hut for tea. It was surprisingly luxurious for such a modest exterior. There was a main living space, decorated with rugs and pictures and featuring a sofa and an armchair, a little table off to the side with two chairs, and in the back was a bedroom. Adam assumed there was an outhouse somewhere around town.
“Now, you said this was a ‘satellite community’?” Skivvy asked as Rick handed him a mug.
“Yes sir, that’s the official story. But we like to call this place Starksville. Because, well, you know.” Rick handed a mug to Adam.
“Thanks. What exactly is this place a satellite of?”
“Technically Charleston.” Adam and Skivvy looked at each other.
“You know, that’s where we’re headed,” Skivvy said.
“Oh. Really now.” Rick was studying his tea.
“Yeah,” Skivvy continued. “Isn’t that a bit far?”
“Closer than anything else.” Rick looked markedly uncomfortable. They finished the rest of their tea in silence.
“Well,” Rick said, standing after they had finished, “As you can see our homes are a bit small, but I can house one of you here if the other doesn’t mind coming with me to my neighbor’s.”
Adam looked over at Skivvy, who had already drifted off to sleep.
“I’ll go,” Adam said, stood up, and shouldered his bag and his field surgeon’s kit.
+
Rick knocked at the door. After a brief pause, there were several clicks and sliding sounds as bolts were thrown. These people are scared, Adam thought. The door opened and there stood a man who couldn’t have been much older than Adam was. His brow furrowed slightly and he glanced at Rick.
“He’s a traveler, needs a place to crash. Is it alright if he stays here with you for the night?” Rick said.
The man looked Adam up and down the same way Rick had. After a moment he smiled and his body loosened; Adam hadn’t realized it had been tense at first. The man stepped aside and allowed Adam to enter his home.
Adam looked around. It was somewhat sparser than Rick’s place, but it was very cozy and well-kept. He realized he was probably staying with a married couple. Rick and the new guy were talking quietly by the door when a little girl rushed into the room. She looked to be maybe four.
“Daddy, who’s at the--” She stopped when she saw Adam, clutching a stuffed bear tightly to her chest. Adam smiled and crouched down. He took off his bags and set them aside. He was now at her eye level. She looked a bit uncomfortable, but no longer scared.
“Hello there, miss. My name’s Adam.” He held out his hand.
“I’m Maddy,” she said quietly. She took his hand.
“Well it’s very nice to make your acquaintance, Maddy. Let me ask you something. Do you like candy?” he asked as he produced a chocolate bar from his jacket’s inner pocket.
Her eyes widened as she reached out for the candy bar.
“Make sure you let it last, so you can share it,” Adam said as he placed the candy in her hand.
“What do we say, Maddy?” her father asked from behind Adam.
“Thank you thank you thank you!” she said, hopping up and down. She ran back into the back. He heard her talking to Mommy, now.
Adam had been aware of the man standing behind him, probably ready to bash him with a chair if he posed a
threat to his daughter. Adam gave Maddy the candy as much to pacify her as the man behind him. He turned.
The man’s hand was extended, and there was a pleasant grin on his face.
“My name’s George,” he said.
“Adam. You have a beautiful daughter.”
“Thanks. She gets it mostly from her mother. And I really appreciate you giving her some candy. It’s so hard to find nowadays, and, well, I don’t recall if she’s ever had any more than once.” George’s voice cracked slightly.
“It’s no problem,” Adam said. “I don’t really eat it much. So you guys farm, then? I noticed a lot of empty space behind the town.”
“Yeah, we do. Just pulled in our crops a week ago. None too soon, I’d say, from the looks of things.”
“You can say that again. It’s not exactly conducive to my profession, either.”
“I can imagine,” George chuckled. “You missed dinner, but we have some leftovers if you’re hungry. We can talk while you’re eating.”
“That would be delightful,” Adam said, his stomach growling.
+
George’s wife, Rita, had joined them at the small table while Adam ate. Maddy had gone to bed.
“When I first met Rick,” Adam said between bites, “he said that this town was ‘technically’ a satellite of Charleston. Why only technically?”
Rita and George looked uneasily at each other.
“If you don’t want to get into it, I’ll understand.”
“No, no,” Rita said. “It’s not that. It’s just that we’re a little unsure. We’ve never really liked the way Charleston did its business, which is why this community sprung up out here. However, while we were setting up, we still needed protection. So we paid what was basically a tribute, some of our crops, to Charleston, in exchange for protection. We’ve been paying for nearly nine years now, but this year . . .” Rita trailed off.
“This year we decided enough was enough,” George finished. “They pulled their guards out and left. We . . . we don’t think it’s for good.”
“What, you think they’ll attack you?” Adam asked.
“Not attack, per se. That’s never been their style. They tend to only harass you if they don’t like you, but that could entail any number of things. Maybe just torching our storage, maybe our homes. I really couldn’t say.”
“How long ago did the troops leave?”
“About a day after we reaped our harvest and informed them we wouldn’t be sharing this year,” George replied.
“Well, I’m sure you know that we’re heading to Charleston on business. We could try to use some leverage to get you a break.”
Rita’s face brightened.
“You’d do that?” she asked excitedly.
Adam nodded. But he knew that if Charleston was full of the kind of people he was beginning to imagine were there, then there would be little anyone could do to stop an attack, if it was indeed an attack they had in mind. Adam thought it’d be more like a slaughter.
+
Adam was sleeping soundly when suddenly he sat up stiffly. He stopped, listening, but all he could hear was the oppressive silence around him. He was beginning to lay back down when he heard a strange noise carried on the wind. At first he couldn’t place it, the strange rhythmic thumping. Something in his head recognized it, though, and that something, after struggling for a moment or two, broke free. It was an engine. It was a dirtbike engine.
He swung his legs off the couch and began to pull his boots on as he looked around for his shirt. He had slept in his jeans. Suddenly there was another noise overtop of the engine, and this time he recognized it instantly: gunfire. He quickly looped his gunbelt around his waist, went to his bag, grabbed three extra clips, and jammed them in the back of his pants.
By this time George had come out, clutching a terrified Rita’s hand.
“What’s going on?” he rasped.
Adam shrugged apologetically and opened the door.
The town was ablaze. Men in dirtbikes zoomed through the town, kicking up great plumes of snow. Some tossed Molotov cocktails, while still others sprayed the area with Uzis. Through the flames, he saw Skivvy emerge from another house, his hair in a tangle, also naked from the waist up. They met eyes. Adam pointed to the maintenance building in the center of the town and Skivvy nodded. They went separate ways.
The maintenance building was made of brick and steel, and therefore was safe from all but the luckiest cocktails and bullets. They had to get everyone in there.
“The building! Get in the building!” Adam screamed to the panicked citizens. Bullets raked through the snow toward him. He rolled sideways and fired, dropping the biker. “Come on!” he continued.
With Skivvy doing the same, occasionally firing back with his MAC-10, it was only a matter of minutes until everyone had made it inside the buildings. Skivvy and Adam met up just inside the door.
“We’ve got to get back to our rifles,” Skivvy panted. Adam nodded.
“Let’s go.”
It took him ten seconds at a full sprint to make it from the building to his hut, but he managed to discharge the remaining rounds he had on his person, dropping two. Skivvy dropped another three with his machine pistol, which brought the remaining bikers to about seven.
Adam burst into the hut to see George and Rita had not left yet.
“I can’t find her!” Rita was screaming. “Why would she hide?”
“She’s scared,” Adam said, not looking at her as he grabbed his gear and threw it out the open door. He picked up his carbine and yanked the action.
“I’m sure she’s around--” A cocktail crashed into the side of the hut, engulfing the entire wall in flames.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” Adam said softly.
“But Maddy . . .” George threw up his hands dejectedly. Rita was sobbing.
“She probably already got out,” Adam said a bit more strongly. He felt sick to his stomach. “Come on.” He grabbed both of them by the arms and dragged them out of the house before they could respond or fight back.
He barely had them out when something in the house caught fire and burst (propane or something like it, Adam thought) blowing out the wall entirely. The house tilted, and then collapsed straight down.
Rita was screaming, and George was pale and slack-jawed. A bullet whizzing by Adam’s ear, though, brought him back to the matter at hand. He dropped to a knee and begun firing. Coordinated with Skivvy’s fire from his AK, they managed to kill another four. The rest rode off, defeated.
Adam turned back to see George and Rita trying desperately to reach into the fire on the other side of the remains of the house. The fire was too hot, though, and neither of them could get their hands into it. Adam circled around and saw what they were reaching for.
Sticking out of the rubble was a blackening hand, a child’s hand, and beside it a burning teddy bear. Adam turned away and vomited.
+
It had stopped snowing and the sun had come out. It was back above freezing, thankfully, as Adam and Skivvy walked the lonely highway towards Charleston. Adam could not have been more unaware of the weather, though.
Amidst the burning, screaming, dying, there was promising: Her death won’t go unpunished. I swear it.
Including Maddy, only four people had died. From a statistical standpoint, the battle was a resounding victory. Most of the intended victims had survived, and most of the intended attackers had died. In addition, there was a working bike left, which had been rigged to run on vegetable oil. But none of that mattered when you considered that the dead were parents, siblings . . . daughters.
He had told Skivvy about a mile out of Charleston that he intended to avenge Maddy and the others who had died. He told Skivvy that he’d understand if he couldn’t help him. But Skivvy only nodded. We’re in this together.
They didn’t have a precise plan, yet, and they wouldn’t until they could see the layout of the city. But there were two things they had agreed upon: no innocents would die by their hands, but the whole city would feel their wrath nonetheless.
They had been walking for hours, now, and finally the city of Charleston crested the horizon. The community didn’t encompass the entire ruined city, only a section of it. The rest, as far as Adam could tell, was ghost town. Adam spotted something out of place for a city skyline.
“Silos,” he murmured.
“That must be where they keep the food,” Skivvy said. “The government’ll really feel the pinch if something were to happen, wouldn’t you say?”
Adam was smiling, and it didn’t make Skivvy feel entirely comfortable.
+
“I’ll need to see your papers, please,” the stone-faced guard said. There was a wall of junked cars surrounding the city, the spaces filled with concrete. The single break in the wall faced the highway, and was where Adam and Skivvy stood face to face with about a half-dozen guards with automatic weapons.
Adam pulled his identification out of his back pocket, unfolded it and handed it to a guard. Skivvy did the same, handing his to another. Adam wasn’t really sure what they’d be looking for, since this was the first official contact they’d had, and the guards wouldn’t know their official ID from a page of the dictionary. Nonetheless, the guards seemed satisfied and handed back over the papers.
“Go ahead in. I’ll have a man take you to the commissioner.”
“Thank you,” Mike said. Adam smiled and nodded curtly. They were pointed towards a guard with an Uzi, who gestured for them to follow.
The city wasn’t as big as they’d originally thought, but it was still bigger than the Roadhouse was. It took them nearly ten minutes to reach the commissioner’s office.
“In ‘ere,” the guard grunted, jerking his head towards the door. Adam and Skivvy entered.
“Well hello!” a plump man sitting behind a beat-up desk said. He stood and circled the desk, and shook their hands vigorously. “I assume you came to investigate the bikes, eh?”
“Yes sir,” Adam said dryly. “But if it’s all the same to you, we’ve been walking all day, and we’d really appreciate a little food and a good night’s sleep.”
The man’s smile faltered, but he quickly recovered.
“Of course, of course! I’ll have an aid show you to some rooms right away.” He rang a bell, and a few seconds later a meek-looking woman entered the room.
“Rebecca, dear. Please show our guests to some rooms, and see that they’re fed properly.”
“Yes sir,” she said quietly with a bow. “If you’ll follow me . . .”
“Seems like we’re doing an awful lot of following,” Skivvy whispered to Adam.
“For now,” Adam replied. “But you know that’s not our style.”
+
The room they were shown was very sparse and utilitarian, but it was comfortable enough. The food they were served wasn’t very fresh or very good, but it was filling. And the attention they received was decent, but mostly they were ignored. Which was perfect for their plans. Adam had had no desire to speak about the bikes, since he already knew what they ran on, and since he planned on riding one home tonight.
Adam sketched out as best he could the general area between the two main silos and their room. They had gone on a walk earlier in the evening, and managed to locate the garages for the bikes (which were heavily guarded) and an armory, which was in actuality very lightly guarded. The plan was to leave their rooms at approximately midnight. They would proceed to the armory and sneak in, if at all possible. Adam thought it would be; Charleston’s government seemed to be mostly concerned about their precious motorcycles. Adam supposed they thought no one would ever try to attack Charleston without the proper weapons already in their possession.
After getting plastic explosives from the armory, they would proceed to the silos. There they would set the explosives, get close to the garages, and detonate it. Adam hoped the guards would be distracted enough for them to steal two bikes. Vegetable oil was easy enough to find to not worry about fuel until they put the burning city far behind them.
“Seems like a good plan,” Skivvy said. “Did you account for the Skvarla factor?”
“That’s why we're starting so early.”
“What about the Mason factor?”
Adam held up his weapons.
“Then let’s be off, shall we?”
+
Adam cracked the door. The streets were empty in front of their building. He half-expected there to be a guard posted, but it seemed that they didn’t really deem the two wandering diplomats to be much of a threat.
“It’s clear,” Adam whispered. They ran out into the street, turned left, and ran towards the garages.
They stopped a few blocks away behind a wall, and Skivvy did a quick head count as he peeked out.
“There are four guards, all armed with automatic weapons.”
Adam nodded.
“Is there anywhere for us to stash our gear?” he asked.
“I see a few dumpsters a block down, but that’s about it.”
Adam wrinkled his nose.
“I suppose it’ll have to do.” They stole down the alley and quickly located the dumpsters. They were about a
hundred feet away from the garages, and completely shielded from view. Perfect. After they tossed their bags in the dumpsters (mobility was capital for this operation) they retraced their steps back toward the street.
A perpendicular street led them away from the garages and towards the armory, and beyond that the silos. They stopped a good distance away and surveyed the situation. There were two guards, one on either side of the door. And there were Adam and Skivvy, no silenced weapons.
“Piss,” Adam muttered.
“Do you know how to throw a knife?” Skivvy asked.
“Kind of, but even if we get right up on them, that’s still like fifteen yards.”
“Well, I don’t have any other ideas, do you?”
“No, not really. But that still leaves the issue of the second guard,” Adam replied.
“I’ve got a plan for that, I think. I’ll take off across the street and get around the corner from them. Then, if you can draw them out and take one with the knife, I can get the other one.” He spun his butterfly knife open.
“Okay.” He clapped Skivvy on the back. “Let’s rock.”
+
Adam watched Skivvy sprint across the open road. The guards had both turned to look at something that Adam couldn’t make out, and Skivvy took the opportunity to book it. Now the guards were starting to turn back, and Adam wasn’t sure if Skivvy could make it. He put his hand on the butt of his pistol.
Skivvy put on another burst of speed, moving faster than he ever had before, to Adam’s best recollection. Still, it didn’t seem like enough. Skivvy dropped to the ground and baseball-slid the remaining five feet and up against the wall. The guard turned back and looked over his shoulder, confident that all was quiet tonight.
Now came Adam’s part. He picked up a stone from the ground and tossed it to himself a few times. He put it down and selected a larger one. He positioned himself with his back pressed to the edge of the wall and threw the rock blindly around. It landed in the middle of the road with a dull knock.
“What the . . .” he heard faintly. Now he could hear footsteps. He readied his knife, twirling it in his fingers of his right hand. He still wasn’t entirely sure he could make the throw, but if he didn’t, he and Skivvy were up shit-crick. The footsteps stopped. The blade stopped in its arc, and Adam snatched the grip (he had learned a long time ago that holding the tip only made the knife less stable). He spun his body around his left shoulder, stepping out into the street. His arm was trailing behind him, and now he whipped it around as hard as he could, hurling the knife sidearm. He felt his shoulder pop, but the knife flew true. The guard looked up towards Adam just in time to catch the blade fully in his throat.
The guard dropped, attracting the attention of his partner, who immediately began to run toward his fallen comrade. Skivvy stepped around the corner, catching the man with his hand over the guard’s mouth and jammed his knife under the guard’s arm twice in quick succession. The second guard slid to the ground.
Adam was already at the first guard, searching for anything useful. He found a ring with a half-dozen keys on it, the guard’s ID, and of course his knife buried to the haft in the guard’s throat. His shakedown finished, he grabbed the guard by the boots and dragged him to the door of the armory. Skivvy did the same. Adam quickly tried the keys and found the one he needed, opening the armory. They dragged the bodies in and closed the door.
Skivvy felt around for a lamp, and, feeling none, tried the light switch on impulse. Halogen bulbs flickered to
life.
“They must have gennies running on vegetable oil, too,” Skivvy muttered.
Adam didn’t hear him. He was too busy rummaging through boxes of weapons.
“Hell yes,” he said after a minute. “Here we go.” He pulled out three blocks of C4 and detonators. He dumped out an ammo bag and filled it with his findings, and then grabbed a few grenades, both smoke and fragmenting. Skivvy put a few in his pockets.
“Think we should take some better weapons?” Adam asked.
“Not really. If it comes to the point that we have to use them and we’re not already leaving, we’re pretty much fucked.”
“Fair enough.”
They left the armory and crept down the empty streets toward the silos.
+
They met no more guards until they reached the buildings a block or so away from the silos. After a quick count, there were easily a half-dozen, but it was impossible to be sure with their erratic paths that often took them out of their line of sight.
“I was afraid of this,” Adam whispered.
“Yeah.”
“Yeah.” Adam closed his eyes for a minute, thinking. He reopened them and dumped out his ammo bag. There were six fragmenting grenades and four smoke. He set one of the smokers aside and put the rest of the grenades into the bag. Then he picked up the C4 and detonator, studying them for a moment. He remembered DPM explaining to him a long time ago how C4 worked. You set the timer on the detonator for how much time you wanted, then stuck the prongs of the detonator right into the C4. Adam was fairly sure he could do that much. Piece of cake.
He smashed the bricks of C4 together, molding them into a lumpy ball about the size of a cantaloupe. He pressed an entire detonator into the side of the ball, and then took the loose wires and jammed their prongs in as well. He set the timer for thirty seconds (but was careful not to trigger it yet) and placed the ball inside the bag along with the grenades. He smashed the other two timers.
“Okay,” Adam breathed. “Here’s what’s going to happen. One of us—and I mean you, you’re stronger—is going to hammer throw this bag, hopefully getting it in between the silos. Before that happens, I’ll set the timer and prime a smoker, and toss that in. Then you take the bag and do your thing. Da?”
“Da,” Skivvy said. “That’s pretty far, man.” He squinted. “I’d have to be out in the road to get a clean shot.” Adam nodded, pulling an extra grenade from his pocket.
“Diversion, anyone?”
Skivvy smiled.
“Let’s get crackin’.”
+
Skivvy strode out into the street, counting backwards in his head from twenty-six. He was at twenty-three when he heard Adam grunt and an object whiz over his head. He began to spin in a circle, centrifugal force lifting the bag.
At twenty, he heard a shout as a guard noticed either Skivvy or the metal sphere that Adam had thrown. He wasn’t sure which. Smoke began to seep out of the bag. At seventeen the grenade went off, and the guards were momentarily diverted. By fifteen he was content with the force of his spin, and prepared to let go. He knew the greatest danger was releasing the hammer (in this case, a bag) the wrong way. He took an extra second to get his bearings, and by thirteen he released the bag. After a three-second arc, smoke trailing, it thankfully landed squarely in the ten-foot gap between the silos. Skivvy booked it back to wear Adam was hiding.
“I hope the detonator didn’t get fucked,” Adam said.
“I guess we’ll know in ten seconds,” Skivvy replied.
+
Ten seconds later, the guards frantically trying to discern what was in the bag, there was a blossom of fire, followed by several secondary explosions as flaming grenades detonated. The bases of the silos peeled back and crumbled, and the silos fell inward. They struck each other and collapsed straight downward onto the flames. Something must have been combustible in the debris, because seconds later there was a second fireball rising into the sky.
“Hell yes!” Skivvy whooped, smiling. Adam laughed and they shook hands. Guards ran past the alleyway they were hiding in, from the direction of the garages.
“Alright,” Skivvy said. “You get our shit, and I’ll see about wrangling up a few bikes.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Adam said. They stood and ran down the alleyway. Skivvy doglegged to the left into the
street toward the garages. Adam continued straight until he hit the main road and then turned right, heading for the dumpsters a few blocks down.
Adam skidded to a halt as a man with a handkerchief around his throat stepped out into the road. He was grinning at Adam. He had a leather gunbelt slung across his hips, and a revolver hung in the holster.
“Howdy,” the man said. “Name’s Connors.”
+
Adam smiled back.
“Well Connors, I certainly hope you’ve got something to back up all the theatrics.”
Connors scowled.
“You better stay in line, boy. I’m the fastest around here. Faster’n a punk like you, at any rate.” Connors smiled again. “But hell, you’ll find that out soon enough.”
“I bet,” Adam said. For some reason he knew that this man was dangerous, but he also knew that Connors was underestimating him.
“You’re dealin’ with the top dog here, my friend. I’m in charge of all this, you know,” he said, extending his arms to the city. “Maybe not directly, but when you control the military--”
“The military,” Adam interrupted.
“Yes, the military,” Connors mocked.
“Starksville . . .” Adam couldn’t get his mouth to speak any more.
“You mean 12-D? So, you ran into ‘em. They had it comin’, you know. They needed us, but they got cocky. I hear they got a coupla regular gunslingers protectin’ them. We’ll just have to--”
“Fuck you, Connors. I hope you can haul iron as well as you can work your Goddamn mouth.” Connors recoiled as if struck, but quickly regained his composure.
“Well let’s just get to it, then,” he sneered. He reached down and loosed the catch on his holster.
Adam reached around to the holster at the small of his back and did the same. He turned, putting his right leg forward, the butt of his gun facing Connors.
They were still. Connors snarled at Adam; Adam stared daggers at Connors. Somewhere in the distance
there was another explosion, but it was far away. The world lacked any meaning aside from Connors and the familiar weight at Adam’s back.
Connors’ fingers danced beside his holster. Adam remained still. He had regained his composure, but he still had his face twisted in disdain. He wanted Connors to underestimate him more. It would make killing him even better. The thought never crossed his mind that he was underestimating Connors; something inside of him told him exactly what Connors was capable of. Killing civilians, maybe. Killing children, maybe. But he didn’t have what it would take to beat Adam.
Connors’ shoulder tensed and his hand shot up the side of his holster, gripping the butt of his revolver. That was as far as it ever got.
The second he saw Connors tense, his arm automatically swung back. His hands latched onto the grip and he hopped backward slightly as he brought the gun up to bear and fired.
The bullet tore through Connors abdomen, and he reeled backwards and fell. Adam began to walk towards him. Connors’ revolver had slid from his holster, and he reached for it. Adam put a bullet into his elbow; Connors roared in agony.
“Scream, fucker, scream; it won’t save your soul.” Adam had reached the supine form of Connors. He planted his boot in Connor’s throat. The scream cut off in a wet gurgle.
“This is for Maddy,” Adam said, and squeezed off three more rounds into Connors’ face.
+
Adam dashed to the garage, his bags and rifle slung across his shoulders, Skivvy’s gear in his hands. Skivvy was already sitting astride a dirtbike in front of the garage, another propped up against a wall.
“What kept you?” Skivvy asked.
“Later,” Adam said as he thrust the gear into Skivvy’s arms. The guards were starting to gain control of the fire.
Skivvy slung his gear on his back and kicked the engine to life. Adam mounted his own bike and was momentarily overcome by the complexity of the machine. He took a deep breath, and the old adage proved true. He started his bike.
“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Skivvy yelled over the roar of the engines.
Adam nodded, twisted the handgrip, and they left the burning city of Charleston.
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