Raxx rolled out from underneath his truck. He got up and put away the wrench he’d been holding, then grabbed a rag and wiped the grease off of his hands.
He kneeled down by the back end and inspected the shot-out taillight. “Don’t know where I’m going to find another one of those,” he said to himself. Running his hand over the cargo door he traced the circles where bullets had punctured the metal, “Ah, it gives you character girl.” He stood up and patted the vehicle lovingly.
“Oh, I forgot my duvet. I can’t forget that. Are all the preserves packed up? I hope we can find a good place to set up shop once we get there. Did you make sure that Raxx will meet us on time? I don’t—”
“Sweetheart!” Vince grabbed Maria by the shoulders and planted a kiss on her forehead. “You’re worrying too much. We’ve got everything in hand.”
She sighed, and smiled at him. “I know. But I’m just so excited and nervous. I’ve never been far outside of Hope — you know that! Are you sure we’re going to be alright?”
“We’re going to be just fine, Sweetie!”
The sun had set but still she hadn’t turned on the lights. The bottle of whiskey was almost empty. She downed the shot in front of her and refilled it. She looked up at the prewar posters and caressed her glass. “Oh, Iain…”
The tears wouldn’t flow.
He’d done the full pre-driving inspection on his cycle and she’d checked out. Oil, coolant, everything was topped off and she was in perfect driving condition. Outside of Hope’s perimeter wall he sat on her, fully kitted up, rifle strapped to his back, with the bike humming underneath him, burning through the fuel.
His arms were crossed over the handlebars and his head resting on them as he watched the sun clear the horizon. The dawn winds had picked up and they were cool against his exposed skin. Red, pink, and black, the sky filled with colour as the shadows of lone trees and ruined structures spread across the land towards him. His goggles polarized with the light and tiny dust devils swirled around his feet.
By the time the sun had risen and turned the sky light-blue he heard the rumble of Raxx’s truck coming out the city gate. He pulled over next to Wentworth. Vince and Maria were in the cab with him, the back was piled high with goods under a tie-down tarp, and a trailer was hooked up to the rear.
“Hey buddy, been here a while, eh?”
“Just listening to the open road.”
“I’ve been dreaming about it all night. What do you say, ready to get going?
“Fuel tank’s full.”
“Right on. Let’s get out of here while the getting’s good, and maybe the pot-holes will leave us alone today.”
Wentworth nodded, did up the chinstrap of his helmet, and shifted the bike into gear, closing the kickstand in the process. With a roar he throttled up the cycle and Raxx followed, racing onwards, eating up the highway which stretched on endlessly in front of them.
They were still alive and the future was full of possibility. There were so many places left to see.
Interlude II
Henry grunted as he hauled the urn in from outside. It was made of orange plastic and ribbed like a beehive. He’d picked it up from a passing merchant a few years back, and after filling it at the water pump it had grown heavy. He wrestled it through the door, onto the back shelf behind the bar, and wiped his brow. The damned boy was supposed to have done this after close, but he’d probably been drinking again.
There was no time for him to dwell on it. The customers across the street at Mel’s Flophouse would be waking soon, hungry for their breakfast. One of them had woken already; he’d seen him while he was filling the urn. The old man had been wearing a long coat and a wide brimmed hat, just standing there smoking a pipe, waiting for the bar to open.
He went back to work cleaning up the mess from the night before, wiping down the tables, making sure there was fresh sawdust on the floor, and lighting a few candles. The windows were high on the walls, they didn’t let much light in. The building had been a warehouse when it was built, and back then there had been electrical light to fill the interior. It had made a decent bar, though, the tin roof reflected enough light to keep it cool during the summer, and during the winter body heat was enough to keep it warm. On the exterior he’d painted ‘Henry’s’ in two-meter tall orange letters with a black background, that and the ‘Open’ sign were enough to tip off travelers as to what lay inside.
Finally he was done, or at least close enough as to make no difference. He opened up the heavy wooden door and hung his ‘Open’ sign on the screen; soon enough there was a steady trickle of business coming in. For the next few hours he was kept busy serving drinks and frying eggs.
His place and Mel’s were the only occupied buildings at an otherwise barren crossroad; enough traders, merchants, and wanderers came through to keep them in business. It was more dangerous than the place where he’d grown up, but he liked it better, paradoxically because it was both more and less isolated than his hometown. He was free of nosy neighbours, but there was always someone new to talk to. Some of the wanderers were a problem, but for the most part they knew well enough to leave the bartender alone.
The breakfast rush finished and was replaced with sporadic travellers. He took the opportunity to tidy up the last few things the boy had left undone. A couple of working girls from the Flophouse came in and he nodded at them.
When the boy finally arrived mid-afternoon he was both late and hungover. Henry cuffed him before setting him to work cleaning the sink full of dishes and refilling the urn. The stream of business had picked up and there was much to do. It was then that he took note of a customer who’d come in an hour before, who was now standing at the bar. He was slight, with wispy black hair, a thick beard, and a broken demeanour. It took him a second to respond when Henry asked what he wanted, and he hesitantly asked for a bottle of beer. Henry gave it to him and was almost tempted to over-charge the man. He might of got away with it, but that was that sort of thing that would get you knifed out here between the cities.
He charged him a fair price.
The man took the beer and moved to a table. He slumped in his seat, looking broken, slowly nursing the drink. Despite his odd behaviour he wasn’t a threat; not to himself, anyway, and he wouldn’t attract any predators looking the way he did. His dark clothes were tattered, and he didn’t look to have anything of value.
The derelict slipped from Henry’s mind. He didn’t order anything after the first beer, and the traffic was getting heavier as the afternoon wore on. The boy was in the back puking into the piss trough.
Henry tried to think of a punishment before deciding that puking into a piss trough that hadn’t been cleaned the night before was punishment enough.
The bar grew quiet and Henry looked to the doorway to see what was blocking the light. A huge man stood silhouetted in the frame, scanning the room. He was wearing a loose robe to keep the sun off of himself, but it did nothing to conceal his massive shoulders. His eyes alighted on the old man Henry had noticed earlier, and a brief look of surprise passed between them.
The din of conversation in the bar resumed once everyone had looked. The giant strode over and sat down with the old man, ignoring Henry completely, and the two of them, odd couple that they were, dropped out of his thoughts; it was busy and he had people to serve. Half-an-hour later he was filling up a pitcher with luke-warm beer when the bar quieted again. The giant was speaking with a rising tone, silencing those around him.
“…you gave rise to a race of monsters! You created us in your own image — and that makes you think you’re a prophet? You’re more deluded than any of us — at least we knew what we were! But you… listen — you were never in control. Never. You’re just a broken little thing that thinks his dreams are the reality. I was using you. And I was going to kill you.” There was a silver flash. “Like this.”