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.