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.
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