

The Bomb Boy  
Steven Lombardi

Published by Steven Lombardi at Smashwords

Copyright 2012 Steven Lombardi

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

### Contents

Prologue

PART 1: THE WORLD HAS ENDED  
Chapter 1  
Chapter 2  
Chapter 3  
Chapter 4  
Chapter 5  
Chapter 6  
Chapter 7

PART 2: DADDY'S HOME  
Chapter 8  
Chapter 9  
Chapter 10  
Chapter 11  
Chapter 12  
Chapter 13  
Chapter 14  
Chapter 15

PART 3: THE LAND WHERE NO GREEN GROWS  
Chapter 16  
Chapter 17  
Chapter 18  
Chapter 19  
Chapter 20  
Chapter 21  
Chapter 22  
Chapter 23  
Chapter 24  
Chapter 25  
Chapter 26  
Chapter 27  
Chapter 28  
Chapter 29  
Chapter 30  
Chapter 31

PART 4: IT'S ONLY THE END OF THE WORLD  
Chapter 32  
Chapter 33  
Chapter 34  
Chapter 35  
Chapter 36  
Chapter 37  
Chapter 38  
Chapter 39  
Chapter 40  
Chapter 41  
Chapter 42  
Chapter 43
Prologue

What Happened In Libson

A full day had passed and still the fires danced in the city skyline. The smell of it was terrible; it stunk of sulfur and smoke, and beneath it all Michael could faintly detect the scent of seared meat. The burnt soil crunched like charred toast beneath his feet. Pieces of warm glass nestled in the ash, the sight of which churned his stomach. He couldn't understand how his pals could touch the glass and put pieces in their pockets, because for all of the glass and ash there was not a body in sight.

A firebomb couldn't have done this. Hell, twenty couldn't. Whatever did this to Libson was something terrible.

Michael unscrewed the top of his canteen and poured half a sip of water into his mouth. He let the water dissolve on his tongue without swallowing any and then shook the canteen to feel its weight. The canteen was about a quarter full. Though his thirst was strong, he put the canteen back into his backpack knowing his tongue would likely crack before he could get another fresh drink.

The 454 walked until they reached the city's square, and when they stopped the sound of crunching earth fell silent.

"Would you look at that," Hampton Walker said.

Hampton pointed at a melted down flagpole. The heat bent it into a large metal hoop. It stood, a corroded nail, framed between a broken stonewall and the remains of a building's corner. A Droodge flag had somehow escaped the fire and fluttered against the ashy ground like an injured animal.

Hampton tsked and shook his head. "Strength through fire," he said, reciting his unit's motto. He limped over to the flag, putting his weight on his good leg.

"Careful," Michael called out to Hampton.

Hampton waved him off as he walked towards the flagpole. He stepped over the melted remnants of a mailbox and then picked the Droodge flag off the ground. For a moment, Hampton held the flag over his head with a glimmer of hope and pride twinkling in his tired eyes.

The black flag with three red triangles blended into the smoky sky. Hampton folded the flag in half and then tucked it under his chin while he folded the rest of it up.

Hampton had a smirk on his face as he walked back to the others. He tucked the flag snugly beneath his arm and gave it a hearty pat. He couldn't help but laugh when he made eye contact with Michael. It was then Michael realized his mouth gaped open. He shut it.

"What's the matter, ladies?" Hampton yelled out. "You all look like you've never seen a city before!"

He let out another short sadistic laugh. The laugh ended when they heard a pop crack off in the distance. Not a half second later, Hampton's helmet froze in the air framed by beads of red. He fell stiff on his face, the back of his hair wet and oozing.

Everything became automatic.

Michael drew his rifle.

He ran for cover.

Bullets flew, chipping away at blackened walls, melted metals, and soldiers.

Michael didn't think. No time to think.

Daniel was to his left. They hid behind a waist high wall that had been blown to half its size during the first firebombing.

"Those bastards!" Daniel screamed. "They bombed the place and came back for more!"

Michael could only see his lips moving. No sound.

Daniel glanced over the wall. He laid on the small of his back and checked his gun.

His lips began to move again. Michael just watched.

"Did you hear me?" Daniel yelled. "I said they're in the church across the square! Michael, snap out of it, damn you!"

Michael swallowed a dry lump. He nodded at Daniel. You're right; it is time to fight again.

He laid his rifle on top of the stonewall and looked down the sight. The church was in front of them, one hundred yards in the distance. It was the only building that still stood, as if a divine umbrella had opened and shielded it from the baby bomb. The fire of guns in the church's dark windows illuminated blackened faces.

Michael blindly popped off a shot. A bullet whizzed by his ear. Its high-pitched squeal was deafening. He retreated behind the wall and sat down low. His bowels turned to water. Just ahead of him, he saw a young soldier named Sean stumble after a bullet hit his shin. Spots of blood. More bullets found their mark, one after the other, until Sean was on the ground. Motionless, without breath, more bullets hit.

Mike. It sounded like it was miles away. Mike. Getting closer.

Two hands came down on Michael's shoulders. He looked up, started, as if awakened from a horrible dream to find himself in this living nightmare.

"Give me some cover fire!" Daniel called out. He opened his vest to reveal three fetal bombs hanging from the vest's inner hooks. The brass bombs were small enough to fit in a palm. They were smooth and cool to the touch, and looked like babies nestled in a womb.

Michael propped himself back on his knees and fired into the church's windows. His eye focused enough to see his bullets hitting too wide. He emptied his clip and reloaded.

Daniel held a fetal bomb. He twisted the baby's head until he heard a stiff crack. The detonation set. Daniel took a step back and threw the bomb with all his might.

Daniel watched the bomb soar in the air while Michael watched Daniel. A bullet whizzed by and caught Daniel in the throat. Daniel fell onto his back.

"Oh damn. Oh damn it," Michael said. He crawled on all fours until he was over Daniel. Blood gushed out of a small hole in Daniel's neck. He began to choke.

Michael held his hands over Daniel's neck. He put pressure on the wound. Daniel's cheeks reddened.

The dying man gritted his teeth. His red eyes bulged and looked as if they meant murder. He hissed and spit and made shapes with his lips.

Michael knew what Daniel was saying. You did this to me. You didn't cover me. You're a coward.

The explosion of the fetal bomb rocked the entire city and sent a vibration that shook Michael's very bones and made his palms and knees go numb.

A wave of black smoke crawled up and over the wall. Michael's vision blotted out in an instant, his lungs choked. Guns continued to fire within the charred smoke. Men were screaming commands and moaning in pain and dying.

Black smoke faded to gray.

Daniel laid between Michael's arms. His eyes lolled behind his head and the tension left his shoulders and arms.

A flurry of bullets pummeled the wall beside Michael. Bullets cut through the Droodge soldiers. Michael grabbed a fetal bomb from Daniel's vest and huddled as close to the small wall as he could.

Men were dying around him. His friends were dying. He watched young John hop a wall and charge the enemy with nothing in his hands except his helmet. He watched Brad wandering out in the open listlessly searching through black charred rubble for his hand. Lou huddled right up against a wall looking down at his shoes, making sure his laces were tight, not paying any attention to the bullet hole in his shoulder.

As Michael looked down at the fetal bomb in his hands, the gold ring on his finger caught his attention.

"Veronica," he said.

Tears formed in his eyes. He would give anything to see her one last time and hold her in his arms. The smoke was still choking, but the smell of her hair filled his nose. His eyes stung and his vision blurred from the floating debris, yet he could see her as clear as day, under bright blue skies. When he realized he would never see her again, the tears fell.

He cradled the fetal bomb in his arms as if it were his own child. He brought it up to his lips and kissed it on its shiny bronze forehead. His hand wrapped around the baby's head and twisted it hard.

Crack.

He stepped away from the wall to prepare his throw. The bomb felt heavy in his hand. There was no way he could hurl it one hundred yards to the church, but it didn't matter. Everything was automatic and without rhyme. He hurled the bomb with all of his might.

A great sense of relief came when the bomb left his hands. He huddled close to the wall and placed his hands over his helmet.

When he looked up, his heart turned to stone as a bronze head of a baby bomb peeked out from the side of his wall. The baby bomb was much larger than his fetal bomb. It crawled on all fours, its solid tin eyes searching. Painted on its back was the blue and white flag of the enemy.

At this distance, they were all doomed.

A weight and a burden were lifted. No longer fighting to gulp air, he sighed. The war was over for Michael. He would not see Veronica again in his lifetime, but he may yet see her again.

The baby bomb made a soft coo and giggled softy before detonation.

Michael didn't feel a thing.
Part 1: The World Has Ended

Chapter 1

The fort's main-clock kept his attention throughout the night. The thunderous sound of the secondhand filled his body. He stared blankly at the tiled ceiling, only occasionally tracing the intricate swirling patterns with his eyes. He rested his hand on his chest and tapped his finger to the tempo of the clock.

It's just like a heart, he thought.

He flattened his hand against his chest and felt the stillness within. Nothing. He could not feel a heartbeat, yet he had felt his teacher's. She let him touch her chest just yesterday. She felt so warm and soft and the weak heartbeat within her chest grew faster and stronger the longer his hand pressed against her.

He wanted to see his teacher, but she was probably sleeping. That's what most of them did at night.

He looked at the portrait that hung over the bedroom's only window. It was a tall portrait drawn on a slab of thin steel and bound by twisting copper. The man pictured in the painting had a long, handsome face, fierce eyes, and a beakish nose that curved over a twirling oiled mustache. His chest bulged like a pigeon's, proudly showcasing colorful awards and medals.

He pushed against the mattress and swung his feet over the side of the bed. He walked across the room, taking care not to make too much noise. They didn't like when he wandered at night and if they found out that he had gotten out of bed, he would surely be disciplined.

He tiptoed towards the portrait. Just beyond it and the window, the moon and stars hid beneath smog and ash. The only light came from the fort's spotlights, which busily swept the surrounding red sands.

Even in the black of night, he could see the medals painted on the portrait. They shimmered on the thin steel like tears on skin.

His hands went searching, one finding his chest, the other touching the medals on the painting. His chest and the cold steel felt the same. Something was wrong.

"What's wrong with me, dad?" the little boy said to the portrait. He waited for a reply, as if one would come.

His fingers lingered and moved over to the wall, which was riddled with thin notch marks. He fingered a notch to feel its curves and deepness. There were too many to count at a glance, but he knew exactly how many had been carved.

A message had been written in the paint above the notch marks. The dried paint drippings gave the impression that the wall was eternally weeping. It read: Days Daddy's Been to War.

The boy wanted to see his father now. He made a fist and hit the wall. The punch split the wall and formed a crack four feet long. The floor shook from the impact. Shaking his head, he stretched his fingers and placed them gently on the wall, as if to reconcile with it. Too loud, he thought. He hoped no one heard.

With one fluid motion, he dug his finger into the wall's wood and peeled another notch. That would make the 354th notch. It was nearly a year since he last saw his father.

He let out a mechanical sigh and walked back to his bed, shoulders slouched, feet carefully dragging. The Bomb Boy laid down in his bed and waited for morning.
Chapter 2

Veronica Hedgeworth quickened her pace through the hall, feeling her messy honey-colored hair brush against her shoulders. She reached the room and pushed past the door. Bomb Boy sat in his chair with his hands folded the way she had taught him. His eyes went to the clock that hung over the chalkboard as she closed the door behind her. It was fifteen past nine.

A weak smile formed on her unpainted lips, beneath black-rimmed eyes. She hadn't bothered to tuck in her shirt and wore her loafers instead of her heels. Veronica would otherwise be devoid of color if it weren't for the golden ring that hung around her neck, resting on her chest. She looked at Bomb Boy, and then busied her hands fixing her hair.

"Sorry," she muttered, rushing to the chalkboard. She set her leather bag down at her desk and undid the buckle. She pulled out a few books that were covered in dry brown paper.

"You've been late eight days in a row," Bomb Boy said.

"I know. I'm sorry. It's very unprofessional of me," Veronica said. She picked up a piece of chalk and approached the dry, filthy board. The chalk squeaked as she wrote the words, "Droodge Infantry Arms: Desert Pistols."

Bomb Boy mocked a yawn and fanned his hand over his mouth.

"We already went over this lesson," he said.

"Did we?"

"Two months ago! I could tell you every model of desert pistol, every part, proper maintenance procedures, the bullets. All that stuff."

Veronica nodded.

"You're right. How silly of me. We're going to take our lessons into the greenhouse today."

"Again?" Bomb Boy asked.

"Yes."

"Why do we always have to go back there?"

"Because I like it better. Don't you like it?"

"It's okay."

"Do you prefer being in here?" she asked.

"No."

"So you prefer being around the plants?"

Bomb Boy took a moment to process an answer. "I guess so."

"Good," Veronica said.

She scooped up books and walked over to Bomb Boy. She extended her hand and helped him out of the seat. The metallic hand felt cold against Veronica's flesh, and the rivets of his fingers pinched her skin as his grip firmed. Still, it was good for Veronica to hold onto something.

They walked over to the door, then Veronica turned and returned to her desk. She picked up an old framed photograph from the desk and carefully set it on top of her books as if it were as thin and frail as an eggshell. She didn't bother erasing the board. Let them see today's lesson, she thought. They walked out of the classroom hand-in-hand.

The rusted corridors of Fort Clockwork were like the throat of a tremendous ancient beast that was starved of men. They passed empty outposts and abandoned stations, and an old guard who had found the time to lean against the wall and pick his fingernails clean with a knife. The guard saw Veronica and Bomb Boy holding hands. He made a face, but Veronica didn't concern herself with him.

They walked through the winding halls until they reached the emerald glass door of the greenhouse. The doorknob had rusted from lack of use over the years. Veronica gave it a jiggle and threw her hip into the door. It opened slowly, its hinges screaming from stiffness.

A fine layer of red sand covered the greenhouse's glass ceiling; winds trounced the tiny glass room and added ash to the veil, yet the filtered sunlight was enough to keep some flowers alive. The light that came through looked poisonous and painted shriveled greens and drooping petals in red and orange sunglow. Caked up ash on the walls of the greenhouse blacked out the light and the greenery unfortunate enough to be in the ash's shadow had turned brown and crisp.

These plants are survivors, just like us, Veronica thought.

Veronica removed the cover of an old wooden crate and produced a blue and white knit blanket. The blanket was clean - a rarity in these times - and the brightness of the blue's hue was probably the last that remained in the burned country. It reminded her of what lakes used to look like. She fingered some of the holes in the fabric, toying with its softness, cracked it out, and let it fall to the floor. She set her books upon the blanket, sat down, and tapped the space beside her, inviting Bomb Boy to sit.

He did, and pulled his feet over his knees. It was called the Lotus position and, according to Veronica, sitting like that would make him feel better. He mentioned that it didn't, or if it did, he did not notice; he simply sat that way out of habit and to make Veronica happy. She noticed that he liked making her happy.

"We're going to learn about plants today," Veronica said in a hushed voice. She moistened her finger and turned the pages of one of the books. Bomb Boy had never seen this book before. His yellow, cylindrical eyes made a quick scan of the book's content. He nodded.

"This is a botany book," Veronica said. "It discusses the biology of plants, different plant specimens, and tips on caring for the plants."

Some of the pages were in full color. Veronica spun the book and presented it to Bomb Boy.

"Are we going to take care of these plants?"

"We could, yes."

She turned the pages carefully, watching his mechanical eyes sweep past the words one line at time. His eyes clicked and whined as they came to end of each line.

Within five minutes, Bomb Boy read the book.

"What do you think?" Veronica said.

"They're very weak," Bomb Boy concluded. "Father told me that weak things die out to make room for stronger things. That is natural selection. That's why our soldiers train so hard - to keep them strong."

"Yes, but we're not speaking about soldiers now. You must certainly have more thoughts on plants than that. How do you feel about them?" Veronica asked.

Bomb Boy didn't answer right away. A weeping plant, he noticed, was draped over his shoulder. A row of tiny purple buds sprouted from the plant, yearning to flourish. Bomb Boy fingered a bud. His metal fingers touched it too hard, and it popped off of the branch.

"Be careful with it," Veronica said. "They're very delicate."

He tried again, this time gracing the bud ever so gently with the flat of his finger.

"I don't understand why we have delicate things. If they can't survive outside, why should we try to keep them alive in here?" Bomb Boy asked.

Veronica plucked the bud off the floor and held it in her palm. She held it tenderly and with care, as if it were a newborn son.

"Because they hold beauty. Because they are endangered and can't help themselves. It is up to those who are strong to protect the weak. I want you think of your father's words; weak things die out to make room for stronger things. Where does that put us?" Veronica asked.

"It puts us at the top as strongest because we're still alive," Bomb Boy said.

"For now. Your father is a strong man, too, yes?" Veronica said.

"He is the strongest."

"Is he the strongest man in the world?"

Bomb Boy placed a finger on his rounded metallic chin. The data in his archives raced through his processors.

"He's not..." Bomb Boy said. "Statistically, he's in the top five percentage of men his age within the country. Compared to 25-30 tier, he is within the top fifteen percent."

"Then according to your father's logic, he should be killed off," Veronica said.

She watched the small boy's eyes flash different shades of yellow and frantically whiz from side to side. She calmed him by touching knee.

"I'm not saying that your father is going to die, okay? The strong must protect, not kill. Do you understand why I'm saying this?"

He nodded.

Bomb Boy reached and touched a frail yellow flower that all but disintegrated at his touch. He looked down at his metal hands, examined them thoroughly.

"Delicate things are beautiful?" he asked Veronica.

"Yes."

He snapped his hand closed with a loud clank.

"Does that make me ugly? Do you think I'm ugly?"

"No. Not at all. I think you're beautiful."

"Thank you," Bomb Boy said. "I think you're beautiful, too."

Veronica touched his back and smiled.

"You're a good boy, too," she said after a while. "Good boys do good things."

She tucked her covered botany book under the pile and took up the next book. This book was unlike the rest. Though covered in brown paper, it was bound by a hardcover and was much thinner than the others.

"I want you to learn more about something else that is just as fragile and beautiful as plants," Veronica said.

Withering plant parts that the stems could no longer support and gave up for dead laid on the floor.

"What is it?" Bomb Boy asked.

Veronica turned the book towards him and opened it to the title page. Bomb Boy's eyes scanned the page for the inked words.

Romeo and Juliet.

He read through it in a moment. Veronica picked up the old photo in the frame and held it tightly against her chest.

"Did you enjoy it?" Veronica asked.

"Yes," Bomb Boy said.

"That's a good boy," Veronica said.
Chapter 3

The war books in the study were covered in a thin film of dust. Veronica didn't have the strength to do anything outside of her given duties lately, let alone clean. She would wake in the morning, shower (depending on her mood), and teach Bomb Boy. And then lunch would come and go, and it was time to teach again.

At least Veronica could say that she loved what she did. That was more than most people in the country could say.

From the study at the top of the fort, Veronica had a perfect view of the large blood orange sun as it sneaked beneath the lingering smoke and shone for minutes before dying beneath the horizon. She leaned against the windowsill, remembering what the sky looked like before thick black clouds choked it.

It was a bad night around the fort. The sands spun in small twisters that danced into the high stonewalls. Beneath the sound of the roaring wind were the light thumps of rocks hitting against fort. After a while, the noise became meditative.

It was the whining click of Bomb Boy's blinking eyes that drew her attention. The blinking mechanism had been installed for use in sand storms, when the sand could get into his ocular sensors and distort his vision. He hadn't set foot on sand yet, though, and Veronica was smarter than to think that something was in his eyes.

He was seated in the middle of the study on a faded brown carpet; his legs sprawled, feet pointing up like a child's.

"What's on your mind?" she asked him.

He blinked again, eyes searching the room. His gaze stopped on her brown wrapped books, on the dust-covered books, on Veronica's face, on the picture frame she carried everywhere.

"Things are changing," Bomb Boy said to Veronica.

"Things always change."

Bomb Boy looked to the floor, thinking. Something wasn't right and hadn't been for some weeks.

"Do you think father is still alive?" Bomb Boy asked.

"I would bet my life on it. You shouldn't be worrying about that. Is that what you're thinking about?" Veronica asked.

Bomb Boy shook his head.

"Then what's wrong?"

Bomb Boy approached Veronica. His hand moved towards her neck. She did not flinch as the powerful claws drew for her throat. He fingered the gold ring that hung around her neck. As Veronica looked at the ring, a heaviness in her chest nearly choked her.

"I want to learn more about love," Bomb Boy said.

"This is about the book that I showed you yesterday?"

He nodded. "Have you ever been in love?"

She carefully took the ring from Bomb Boy's hand. Holding it, she looked at the indentation it left on her finger. She wondered if her skin would ever be healed of the dent, if her heart would ever heal.

"Yes."

Bomb Boy nodded. He blinked.

"I'm sorry if that upsets you," Veronica said.

"It doesn't. It's just... I have never been in love," Bomb Boy said.

"You're still very young."

Bomb Boy placed his hand flat against his chest. He grabbed Veronica's hand and placed it on his chest to study the movements occurring within him. Swooshing and clicking. It didn't seem right to him. He placed his other hand against Veronica's chest for the beat of her heart. It was soothing, normal.

"I don't think I'm capable of loving," Bomb Boy said.

"You are. I know you are."

"What did it feel like when you were in love?"

Veronica drew away from Bomb Boy's touch. She walked over to a burnt cedar desk where she had stacked a few books, each one wrapped in brown paper. Beside the stack of books rested the picture frame. She picked it up and studied it for a moment.

The photograph within was in shades of white, black, and gray. It had been so long since she had last seen him. So much time had passed that her memory of him, too, began to lose color. The photograph pictured a handsome young man. He had a jaw that looked like it was carved from rock, a smart Roman nose, and light-colored windswept hair. He stared out of the photo and at Veronica. His eyes were the one aspect of his face that she would never forget. Every night when she laid in bed, she would see his crystal blue eyes. Blue like lakes, like the sky once was.

"It's indescribable," Veronica breathed.

"What was his name?" Bomb Boy asked, looking at the photo.

"Michael."

Bomb Boy leaned over and examined the photograph. It was the first time Veronica let someone look at it since the battle. She normally held it close to her, protecting it from others and never allowing them a good look.

"He was in the 454th," Bomb Boy said, touching the photo just over Michael's shoulder, where his badge shown.

Veronica nodded.

"They went into Libson," Bomb Boy continued.

Veronica lowered her head. Just hearing the word made her stomach and eyes burn. Libson. She blinked and silent tears fell down her cheeks, caught at her chin. She dabbed them up before they could fall onto the photo.

"Oh," Bomb Boy said. "I'm sorry for your loss."

"Thank you," Veronica said. "We were supposed to marry after his tour. We made all the arrangements."

Bomb Boy stood up and placed his arms around Veronica. She welcomed the cold, hard touch. She tightened her arms around Bomb Boy's shoulder and held him as tightly as she could.

No one ever hugged Bomb Boy so tight.

Veronica hugged him until she no longer felt the need to cry.
Chapter 4

Veronica awoke tired. Dark purple bathed the morning sky. The outside winds were acting up and bombarded her windows with bits of salts and sands. She played with the idea of going back to sleep, of closing her eyes and drifting away to the sound of the light taps against the window, but that would result in severe consequences.

Her body was heavy today. She ached. She blamed the pains on her stiff bed, on her soft pillow, on the harsh winds that kept her awake all night, and on her haunting dreams that came when she did sleep.

She stood under the showerhead and found comfort in the hot water. She stayed in the shower until the steam filled the bathroom. The drain was slow and the water pooled at her ankles, and she cried and pattering water drowned the sounds.

Veronica wiped the steam off the mirror and studied her face. She still looked tired and unclean. Her eyes were cherry red and the skin beneath was so dark that it looked bruised. There was a time not long ago when Veronica moved as gracefully as a swan, but now, injured, her movements no longer had spirit or grace. It wasn't a limp or wound that staggered her, but a dream killed. Her skin had since lost color and the bones of her cheeks became more prominent with each passing day.

Her hands explored her naked body, moving down and touching her flat stomach. Flat and fertile. Flat and begging for life. She turned and studied her side profile. She looked so thin that it was painful.

She and Michael had plans. They were going to have a child. If it was a girl, they were going to name her Veronica, because Veronica was the prettiest name Michael had ever heard. If it was a boy, he would be named Michael, because Veronica had never heard of a finer name.

Veronica dressed and did her hair but when she finished it looked like she hadn't even tried. It hurt her ego. The men in the fort would take her in a second regardless of how she looked, but she didn't care about any of them. She thought herself ugly.

She finished her outfit by placing two long pencils into her bun to keep it in place and securing a cameo pendant onto her lapel. She flattened out the wrinkles of her brown dress with her palms for what little good it did, and then left her quarters.

Veronica walked in long strides down the fort's halls, keeping in beat with the ticking of the main-clock. She had begun to hate the clock because it made her so aware of the passing time. Each tick erupted like a bullet and shook her very bones. The clock made it impossible for anyone to daydream for too long before the ticks drew her back. Veronica often wondered if General Clockwork had placed his clocks in the fort for that very reason.

The men in the fort smiled at Veronica as she walked past. She observed as their eyes undressed her and could only imagine to what dark places their minds wandered. Veronica returned a smile as best as she could, but it ached her cheeks to do so.

With every polite nod, she could hear Michael's voice.

We'll escape the ash and find a new world.

Michael was a dreamer. That was why she fell in love with him in the first place.

We'll find the Outer Quadrant. We'll sleep on fields of green grass, under clear star-filled skies. The air will taste like spearmint and the water will taste like sugar.

There were no more dreamers in the burning country. There was no one to recite poems to Veronica or to whisper sweet half-truths into her ear at night.

Bomb Boy was seated in his chair when Veronica arrived in the classroom. She glanced down at her watch and saw that she was three minutes late.

"Good morning," she said to Bomb Boy.

"Morning," Bomb Boy said.

Veronica placed her paper-wrapped books on her desk. She picked up the long piece of chalk and thought about what she should write on the board. She settled with:

Droodge Footman Tactics during Urban Warfare

When she turned around, she saw Bomb Boy sitting up in his chair, eyes glowing. His hands moved around the desk with nervous excitement.

"We've never gone over this topic before," Bomb Boy said.

"Let's go back out to the greenhouse."

"And then we'll learn about footman tactics?"

"And then we'll learn," Veronica said.

She saw Bomb Boy glance over at the stacks of books that had gathered dust. They were all of topics that he knew well, and was interested in. On the top of the pile was a book on human anatomy. He read the entire book two months ago. The book clearly outlined all of a human's vitals and taught the reader the opportune places to slice and cut to make an enemy bleed out. Veronica wish she knew how that reading made Bomb Boy think about his own inner workings.

"Why don't we read those books anymore?" Bomb Boy asked, motioning towards the dusty stacks.

"You're done with learning those lessons," Veronica said.

"But there's still so much I don't know."

"That's why I'm here to teach you."

Veronica took Bomb Boy's hand and walked him through the halls towards the old greenhouse. They sat on the soft blue knit blanket. She picked up a book and flipped it open. The glossy pages were in full color, displaying beautifully vibrant photos of birds. "Today I'm going to teach you about birds."

"Birds?" Bomb Boy said, tilting his head to a side. "What about Droodge footman tactics?"

"You'll learn about that another time. Today we'll learn about birds. Okay?"

"Okay," Bomb Boy said.

Veronica put her lips together and whistled. Bomb Boy's eyes flashed at the tune. He clapped his hands.

"That's the call of the Southern Cardinal. They used to nest on top of my parent's garage when I was younger. They nested in early spring and would sing their songs until June." She continued to whistle.

"Why would they call?" Bomb Boy asked as he studied each photo.

"They called to find the one they love."

"And they could fly?" Bomb Boy asked. He flipped through the pages, scanning the text, and found the answer for himself.

"They could," Veronica said.

Bomb Boy craned his head and looked up at the greenhouse's ceiling. Past the amber glass, the black skies swirled. His yellow eyes zoomed and focused, scanning the tarred clouds.

"What happened to the birds?" Bomb Boy asked.

"They died when the firebombing started," Veronica said. She retrieved an old record player from her large leather bag. The bronzed horn had been dented along its bell and the player's silver colored sides were spotted with rust. Veronica retrieved a small blue vinyl, blew it clean of dust, and placed it onto the record player. The player made a zip noise as the needle hit the record.

The songs of different birds filled the room. Veronica closed her eyes and listened.

Bomb Boy's mind spun and processed, whining and clicking as it processed.

"Are you okay?" Veronica asked.

Bomb Boy's eyes rolled up and looked at the ceiling.

"Tell me what you're thinking," Veronica said.

"I'm surrounded by tall men. I'm scared because they're so much bigger than me. The men are wearing long white coats and thick black goggles. They're holding clipboards and are frantically jotting things down. I look out the window. The sky is blue and clear. It looks so nice and I want to go outside.

"A hand grabs my face and pulls me so that I'm looking at the largest man. He is wearing a blue officer's uniform. As he stares at me, a wide smile forms on his face, and that makes me feel good. He likes me and I like him.

"I look down now for the first time and I see that my chest plate is open. There are sprockets and tubing running all along the inside of my body. Something that is bright and orange throbs in my chest. Lava-hot napalm.

"A man puts a screwdriver to the side of my head and turns it.

"I can hear. There is noise. I hear birds chirping and am overwhelmed by their sounds.

"Then the voices come and drown the outside noise. They read off statistics. '500-mile radius. Instant incineration. No other bomb in history can compare.'

"They all laugh. There is a loud pop that startles me, and I see a champagne bottle foaming and they begin to drink.

"The man in the blue uniform's face hovers over mine. He says he's my daddy and that he loves me so much. I love my daddy.

"Outside the window, the sky is blue. I want to go outside. I want my daddy to take me outside.

"There is a blue bird and a red bird on a tree branch. They've been singing the entire time. They make me the happiest of all."

Veronica placed her hand on Bomb Boy's head.

Bomb Boy looked down at the photo of the Southern Cardinal and brushed his fingers against the glossy prints.

"They sang me awake," Bomb Boy said. "I remember. The first thing I heard when I was born was the birds. Listening to them was the happiest moment in my life."

"Mine, too," Veronica said.

"They're all dead?" Bomb Boy asked.

"All of them in this country. They weren't strong enough to survive the war."

"I would like to see them again," Bomb Boy said.

"Me too," Veronica said. "We can."
Chapter 5

The sands claimed most of its dead within the first seven days of exposure. If you could outlast the first week, there was hope for you yet. You were a survivor.

To say Leone Blisterstone and the men of the 223rd were survivors would be an understatement.

The troop marched under the hot black clouds as listless and damned as breathing corpses. Their uniforms took on the color of the ash, giving them a wraith-like appearance. Sturdy cloths wrapped around the men's appendages and faces, and all exposed skin bubbled like rotted flesh.

Leone wore a thick officer's trench coat over a stained gray tank top and several scarves. His hands were protected by leather gloves, which he brought up to his lips to keep the sand out of his mouth. Farmer's goggles covered his upper lip to his forehead. They were a good pair, made of black leather and polished aluminum. Strands of the previous owner's blond hair still stuck out of the goggles' straps.

A soldier in the troop pulled a dried cow's bladder to his lips and sucked out the water, coughing afterwards.

"Easy with the water, asshole," a soldier decorated in animal ribcages said.

"I'm trying."

"Try better."

The men in the back of the troop supported large spits on their shoulders. On the spits were hacked bits of cow. The sand had all but covered the cow, making the meat look more like stone.

Leone raised his hand in the air. The troop halted behind him.

He sighed and peered out of thick black goggles.

The barrens before them stretched on, harsh, endless and riddled with faint reminders of civilization. The edge of a faded red stop sign poked at his feet. He knew if he dug a foot down into the ash, he would find remnants of a charred road.

He reached inside his trench coat and retrieved a paper map. He clumsily removed a rubber band from the map and unrolled it.

"How's we looking, boss?" said a soldier who wore feathers on his helmet.

Leone licked his lips with a dry tongue and studied the map, then looked out at the barrens. He looked up at the sky, where the faintest white orb of a sun hung dead among the ash. His finger tapped a small purple dot on the map.

"Should be a day's way from here," he said, with the slightest hint of uncertainty.

Feathers walked beside the leader and studied the map, then looked up at sky to confirm what direction they were heading. He tsked.

"Now why you suppose there's a mountain range off to the north, but it ain't chartered on this here map?" Feathers asked.

"You show me an accurate map, I'll show you home," Leone said.

Feathers gave the leader a hardy pat on the back that produced a cloud of sand. "We got a days walk in us yet, boys, eh?"

The men moaned and muttered. They would walk for a day. They walked too far to give up now. Such was the nature of the barrens.

Leone rolled up his map and placed it back into his trench coat. They walked the way of the setting sun, towards a twisted mound of browned metals that had once been a train. As they walked, Leone gestured with his hand. One of his men gave Leone his rifle. It was a pump action shooter.

Leone pumped a bullet into the chamber, aimed down the site, and popped off a shot while still walking. The pill sized .22 bullet whizzed across the sands and struck the shining glass of the train's last remaining window. It shattered and fell into the twisted wreckage.

Not a second passed before a pack of SOTS leapt from the wreckage and ran in circles, wet chops snapping. Whether wolves, dogs, or coyotes, Leon couldn't say. The sandy winds and fire had burnt away the animals' fur, leaving only raw, scarred skin. For that reason, the men took to calling the animals SOTS, short for survivors of the sands.

Twelve of them circled, hairless beasts with tough skins that looked like cracked sand. Big boys, about fifty to eighty pounds a piece. It was odd to see SOTS this heavy and, glancing around, Leone couldn't see anything that remotely suggested a habitat for small game.

"Not a bad bunch," Feathers said.

"They must have been feeding on the corpses in the train," Leone said. "Looks like we'll have ourselves fresh meat before we get to Clockwork."

He took aim down his sight and popped off one round at a time, taking care that no bullet went to waste.
Chapter 6

"You said we could see them again," Bomb Boy said. His mechanical voice lurched through the mess hall, echoing in the large empty room. They sat at a table, isolated in the corner of the mess hall, far away from the soldiers and civilians who occupied the fort. No one wanted to sit next to them. They would glance at him only when they found the courage to do so.

"Shh," Veronica said. She leaned over her hot bowl and lifted a spoonful of tomato and barley soup to her lips. "This isn't the place to talk about it."

"Why not?" Bomb Boy asked.

"Because it just isn't," Veronica whispered. She looked over her shoulder. Some of the soldiers stared at her. She flashed them a faint smile and huddled back over her bowl.

"I'll tell you later," she whispered. "When we're alone."

Bomb Boy's yellow eyes flashed with satisfaction. He sat with his hands folded, as he had been taught, and politely nodded at the soldiers whose wary eyes lingered in his direction.

After lunch, they went to Veronica's quarters. She closed her door, locked the latch and stuffed blankets into the wedge of the high doors to mute the sound. When she was satisfied, she sat down on her bed beside Bomb Boy.

"It's only a rumor. I think that it's true," Veronica said.

"I'm listening," Bomb Boy said.

"We... Michael and I, we used to call it the Outer Quadrant. That's what we overheard the mint dealers calling it. People call it different things: Nirvana, Heaven, Paradise, The Greens. It exists to the North, bordering the country of Bruize. Some say the bombs scorched the entire earth, but... they couldn't have destroyed everything. There has to be land untouched by flame."

Bomb Boy's eyes flashed. His processors spun, generating thousands of images in his mind in a second. He saw the current map of the country in his head, the map that showed where bombs had landed, and a map of the country prior to the fire bombings. The information didn't add up. There were lakes that had vanished and mountain ranges that had seemed to grow overnight. The country itself had seemed to shrink, as if it had shriveled in the fire. His processors worked harder. Bomb Boy placed his hands against his heads, as if the strain of thinking was too much for him.

"There's not enough conclusive evidence," Bomb Boy said.

"Living in the ash for so long, it seems like a legend. We used to tell each other stories about it to make the nights go by easier. I still believe it's real. It has to be real," Veronica said.

"If it's real, I'd like to see it," he said.

"One day we'll travel the world," she said, placing her arm around Bomb Boy. A sudden sadness struck her then. She listened to the words she spoke and realized how foolish they were. The only traveling Bomb Boy would do would be into Skallion territories and that's it. He would be the next Big Bang. The thought made her shudder. She wrapped her arms tightly around Bomb Boy and held him close.

He hugged her back. It made Veronica want to cry, but she had vowed to herself that she would not cry anymore. Just as the fire had taken away her one true love and the life of the soil, it would now take her tears. Every time a tear would form in her eyes, she would imagine the fire that killed Michael licking the whites of her eyes, stealing their waters.

"Oh dear," she said. She blinked and the dryness of her eyes made her eyelids sticky.
Chapter 7

It was midday when a sandstorm warning blared throughout the fort. "This was going to be a bad one," Charlie Hopbuckle told Veronica.

"You could see it forming five miles from the observation tower," he said. "Couldn't even see the sunset, it was so bad."

Veronica busied herself by nailing boards across the windows in her quarters. All the fort's occupants were charged with securing neighboring quarters if they were vacant. Veronica tucked a pile of wooden planks under her arm and carried a tin of nails and a hammer into the next room.

The room was spacious and smelled like stagnant air and mothballs. Four sets of bunk beds lined the walls. Chests rested at the foot of each bed, unlocked, opened, and emptied. Veronica moved through the room as quickly as she could, as if anticipating the touch of invisible hands. She placed the wooden boards against the windows and hammered in the nails.

When the task was completed, and she made sure that it was in little time, she hurried out of the haunting room. The next room held the same, and the room after that, and the room after that. The day was at its end when she walked into the last room.

She leaned against the wall, her chest expanding for breath, lungs burning for it. Veronica couldn't remember the last time her muscles ached so badly. It wasn't the labor of hammering boards and lugging around the wood and nails that had been taxing on her muscles; it was something else. Something deeper. It was the stillness of the rooms, the loud banging of the hammer against wood that echoed in empty corners. It was the smell of the uninhabited rooms, and the memory of the men who once slept in the perfectly made beds that had gone stiff from lack of use.

The men were all gone now. Dead or dying. And when the slightest inkling of that thought of them came to her, she could see shades of white and gray whisk past her through her peripheral vision. Shades and wraiths lived in this fort, Veronica thought. They didn't want to leave in the first place and now they'd come back to the fort, to the safest place they ever knew.

A cold chill crept down her spine. This room only had one window, unlike the other rooms, but it was far larger than any other window in the fort. It was positioned between two abandoned bunk beds. Veronica looked at the wooden boards in her hands. They were too small.

The ashy window looked ancient. Twirling curved bars positioned outside the window cast horrible barbed shadows against the beds of dead men. Under the churning purple skies, the window looked like a door to hell itself. Perhaps it could be, Veronica thought. All it would take is a good running start to leap right through. The rusty bars had long been exposed to the torturous winds and ash and wouldn't be able to support her weight.

Veronica walked towards the window as if it meant to hurt her. She carefully laid the boards on a stiff bed and retrieved her hammer and a nail.

Calm down, Veronica thought to herself when she saw how her hand trembled. Being scared is nothing to break a finger over.

She retrieved the first piece of wood and held it over the window. The length of the board only covered three-fourths of the window's length. She steadied her hands and gently hammered the nail into the board, taking care to avoid missing the mark. With the first board secured, she reached for the next. Her fingers grazed a dead man's blanket. It brushed her hand like old skin. The sensation raised the hairs on the back of her neck.

"Nothing can hurt you here," Veronica assured herself. She shook her head and quietly cursed herself for being such a coward. If Michael were there, he would have laughed loudly, touched her back and told her that there was nothing to be afraid of. When Michael was by her side, nothing could frighten her.

But now Michael was gone.

As Veronica looked out the window, her heart jumped. The horrible shades and wraiths scuttled towards the fort. Unlike the ghosts in her mind that vanished as soon as her eyes fell upon them, these remained as her eyes saw them true.

The group of ten to fifteen things walked through the spinning sands and harsh winds as if the elements were calm and still. They did not bow their heads to the wind, nor did they cover their eyes, nostrils, or mouths from the sands and ash.

Veronica could feel her heart beat like a drum. Her breath came heavily in through her mouth and out the same way. She placed her hands on the windowsill, supporting her weight, and squinted her eyes.

The prickling intensified on her neck. The room began to sway ever so slightly, yet uncontrollably.

"No, no, no," Veronica said, shaking her head in short abrupt motions.

The things came closer,revealing the ash and the bones stuck to each man.

"No," she said once more. The dead men that slept in stiff beds were back.

The room spun quicker now and her peripheral vision was all but gone. Her vision then gave up entirely to the black, and the warmth of sleep took her.

\---

Veronica awoke with the strong taste of iron in her mouth. She touched her lips. Wet. Red on her fingers. The sight of the window reminded her of the last horrible image she had seen, yet now it all seemed like a bad dream.

Veronica pushed herself up and looked back out the window, seeing nothing but the endless expanse of the barrens.

She sadly smiled, fearing that she was losing her mind. It was an easy thing to do nowadays. Stories ran rampant every other week or so about how someone in a nearby settlement would go mad and kill themselves in a most brutal fashion, or worse, take out his insanity on others. That's what happened in Spearhead just three months ago; a traveling mint merchant entered the settlement and found no people, only splotches of blood and shredded meat.

Veronica refused to succumb to that. She took a deep breath and relaxed her shoulders. She let her mind go to tranquil places. She thought of Michael and the touch of soft blue cotton, and felt at ease.

Overlapping voices came from the hall. Something wrong. Veronica retrieved her hammer and held it tightly at her side. The moment she began to hear the yelling, the tranquil thoughts fled her mind, replaced with her anxieties. Her muscles tensed until she could hardly move. Each step was a battle.

Veronica peered out of the door and looked up the corridor.A thin layer of ash covered the floors and crawled about a quarter's way up the wall. Yellowed lights hung down from the ceiling every five feet or so, and provided light to the spaces directly beneath them. Slivers of shadows hugged the walls and floors like slender crescent moons.

At the corner of the corridor, shadows took shape against the wall and moved erratically, like men on fire.

The voices were loud, yet the overlapping of sounds muffled any particular voice.

The spit dried up in Veronica's mouth. When she swallowed, she swallowed stones. There were so many voices - too many. She could hardly imagine that many men left in the fort. And with so little men to protect the fort, could intruders have gotten in so easily?

Both hands wrapped around the hammer. She held it up and let out a pathetic sigh. A hammer would do nothing against the men. They would surely have guns, but even if they hadn't, they could easily overpower her.

Veronica walked up the hallway, towards the voices. The men could kill her, but maybe that would be okay. Maybe then she could hold Michael in her arms again.

The edges of light split at Veronica's chest as she pressed herself against the corner of the wall, painting her breasts with slender semi-circular shadows. She took a breath, held it to steady her nerves. In a quick motion, her head moved around the corner for a glimpse.

Adrenaline filled her. Her ears began to ring from the fear. Veronica's head quickly retreated and she pressed herself against the wall, looking down as the rapid breath moved her chest.

They're here, she thought. The dead men have come.

She closed her eyes and touched the golden ring around her neck. There must have been a rational explanation for all of this. Dead men couldn't walk, couldn't talk, no matter how hard they tried.

She focused on particular voices.

"Not done? I'll show you not done!" a man yelled.

She plucked another voice from the commotion; a calmer, withdrawn voice. "Orders are orders. We're not trying to shit on you, but you know the rules."

Soon she was pinpointing the different voices and getting somewhat of an idea of what was happening. "We've been in the sands for eight months," one said. "Eight months." He said it over and over again, yelling louder until his was the only voice heard.

Veronica looked down at the hammer. With one last deep breath, she dropped it on the floor and let its sound echo out.

She walked around the corner, shoulders straightened, one foot placed in front of the other.

"What's the meaning of this?" Veronica said in a hard voice.

The men's skins, Veronica noted, looked as if they had been permanently stained the reddish-orange of the barrens. Some of the men smiled at her, flashing teeth discolored from neglect and ash. Some men had long dusty and impossibly tangled hair. The bald men bared clusters of scars on their heads.

The man who stood out in the front of the group gave Veronica the once over. Of all the vagabond soldiers, he was the only one who wore no bones on his leather trench coat.

"Are you in command here?" the leader asked.

"I'm the highest ranking officer in Clockwork, yes," Veronica said.

"I don't see any badges on you."

Veronica showed him her back. She reached into the neck of her sweater and pushed the clothing away, revealing three red triangle tattoos on her back over a pluming red fire that revealed her rank. It wasn't often that a high ranking officer had the honor of tattooing their status on their skin because most weren't allowed the opportunity. Like the ink that seeped into their flesh, the tattoo promised that the officers would stay in their position for life.

"I see..." the leader said. "I'm sorry, Major." He searched for a name, but none came.

"Major Hedgeworth. State your name and your reason for being here," she said.

The leader stood at attention, slapping his hands at his side before saluting. Every harsh movement caused a cloud of ash to puff off his clothing.

"Sergeant Leone Blisterhop of the 223rd at your service, Major. My men have humped the barrens for the past eight months with only the supplies we could find in the sands. Our orders were to secure a line of communication between Homefront and the Sunset Commons. We... never made it to Sunset. The maps were all off and the terrain was treacherous. We got spun around a bit and landed our asses in Skallion territories more times than any living Droodge could admit. We got through the shit for the most part. Lucky for us we passed by the ruins of Haggarn two weeks passed and managed to track down this fort."

Veronica had only half been listening. She couldn't focus.

"You're the 223rd?" she said.

"What's left of it, yes," Leone said. He was too tired of war and living to address her formally, but she didn't mind.

"Your men saw Libson," she said.

"There wasn't much to see," Leone said. "We arrived shortly after the firebombing to support the 454th. That was back when we were eight hundred strong. Back when we thought we were invincible. Libson was a major wake up call for us. They fucked us good. We had our orders but followed 454 in because taking Libson to the Crimson Pass would have been the shortest way to go."

Leone glanced back at his men and saw a sea of blank faces. They were reliving the moments right there as he spoke. They were hearing the woeful screams a man makes right before he dies. They were seeing the bombs fall and watching the bullets pop into the blackened soil. They were walking amongst ghosts and friends.

"We left Libson with a third of our men," Leone absently said. "We retreated and went west to get around the city. It was hell getting around. When we finally got to the Crimson Pass, it had been blocked off. It was blocked the whole time. If we knew that... if I knew that, two hundred of my brothers might still have been alive."

He fell silent then.

"You saw the 454 fight?" Veronica said, the words choking in her throat.

Leone nodded.

"Did they put up a good fight?" she asked.

"I've seen too much war to know what a good fight is," Leone said.

"I see," Veronica said. "What is it that we can do for you?"

"My men and I have been traveling without shelter for the past two months. You don't know how it is out there. Each night we lay down to rest, not one of my men can close their eyes long enough to sleep. There's history in those barrens, do you understand? Those sands are haunted. At this point in the war, both sides are too unorganized to do any more real damage. It has become tribal warfare. We stay up all night because none of us dare go to sleep. The ones who do close their eyes never open them again. Major, could you please house us for a few nights and give us fresh equipment?"

"Yes," Veronica said, much to the fort soldiers' surprise.

\---

In passing, the soldiers in the fort told her that she could be tried for treason for housing these men. They were on a mission, they said, and shouldn't be allowed back into the fort until they had finished. If General Clockwork were present, he'd have taken a digit from each man and sent them on their way to Sunset Commons.

Veronica ignored them. It was all she could do. It wouldn't have done her any justice to say that she owed these ragged soldiers something. These men saw Michael die. They shared in Veronica's grief. There was an unspoken bond with these sand worn soldiers, and giving them warm meals and beds was the least she could do. The meals tasted burnt, even when still cool, and the men themselves told her they wouldn't sleep within the safety of the fort, for every time they closed their eyes they saw nothing but war and death – but it was all a comfort nonetheless.

At noon, Veronica led Bomb Boy out of the greenhouse and into the mess hall. She had been quiet during the walk and her muscles were tensed. Bomb Boy reached for her hand and lightly kneaded his thumb in her palm. As they neared the mess hall, she squeezed his hand harder, felt the pinch of the crevices between his knobby metallic fingers.

There was hesitation before she opened the door to the mess hall.

"I know they're here," Bomb Boy said. "I heard them come."

Veronica nodded her head.

"They're not going to hurt you, are they?" he asked.

"No, of course not," Veronica said.

"Okay. Are they going to hurt me?"

"No. I'll never let anyone hurt you," Veronica said. With those words, she wrapped her arm around his shoulder. She held him closely and briefly imagined what it would feel like to see anyone hurting her little Bomb Boy. It made her stomach twist. Ill feelings washed over her.

"I'll never let anyone hurt you," she said again, looking into Bomb Boy's flashing yellow eyes. She bent on her knee and wrapped her arms around Bomb Boy.

The sounds within the mess hall - the harmonic buzz of men telling tales over tales - grew louder and then quickly died down until the only noise was the ticking of the main clock. Veronica looked up, realizing that the door to the mess hall had opened, and was open while she hugged Bomb Boy. There were tall legs that cast long shadows up the floor and across Veronica's body, crossing her like imprisoning bars. A sudden jolt came within her and she felt shame and regret as dozens of unwavering eyes continued to stare.

Veronica stood up and dusted off some ash that had gotten on her long dress.

Bomb Boy clumsily twiddled his fingers and nervously shook. She placed a reassuring hand on his back and guided him into the mess hall.

Veronica's flats and Bomb Boy's metallic feet clicked against the mess hall's floors, echoing through the large room. Leone's men huddled over their foods, worshiping the slop on their plates. It wasn't much, and before the war it would be hard to classify the curdling brown mush as food, but Leone and his troop shoveled it down greedily. None spoke, not one man dared to speak a word. With slop in their mouths they watched the pair proceed to the far end of the mess hall, where they sat at an empty table.

There were some who dared to break the silence with whispers. Though quiet, Veronica could hear their every word.

Look at the size of it.

She kissed that thing?

The one that did Libson was a quarter that size.

We're dead, we're fucking dead, man.

It's the Big 'Un.

Fear glazed the men's eyes, a glint of insanity. It was a wonder how they remained in their seats, even though the doors were calling and had been calling from the moment they saw the bomb. Running would do no good, though. Leone's men were experienced enough to know that. If something had gone wrong and the bomb detonated, they wouldn't feel a thing. It would go off and dig a hole half way to hell, burning everything within a 500-mile radius, and they wouldn't be any the wiser. Blink, and your lights were out - no pain, no suffering.

When Veronica found her seat, she touched Bomb Boy's thigh under the table.

"Don't listen to anything they have to say," Veronica said.

"I won't."

He had felt the men's approach on his sensors, but this was the first time he saw them up close. The sight of the worn, half-dead saddened Bomb Boy. The grandiose air of the soldier had been the common theme throughout all the diverse lessons and tales that he had heard. But, as he could see, there was nothing glorious about these men. They were crude creatures with blackened teeth and skin permanently stained from sunburn and ash. Any resemblance of these soldiers to the men he heard stories about was lost.

Then, a fear.

"Do you think Daddy's become one of them?" Bomb Boy asked Veronica.

"Something tells me that your father will come back looking the same as he did when he left," Veronica said.

Bomb Boy sat beside his teacher while she worked on her meal. Throughout their entire time in the cafeteria, Leone did not look away from Veronica. She ignored him and continued to eat.

Leone pressed his ashy hands against his table and pushed himself up. He walked over to Veronica and stood over her and Bomb Boy.

"You belong to the General?" he asked Bomb Boy.

The small boy nodded his head.

"Tsk." He looked over at Veronica. "You know what this thing is capable of?"

"I'm fully aware of what he's capable of," she said, placing her arm around Bomb Boy's shoulder.
Part 2: Daddy's Home

Chapter 8

The morning came in shades of purple. The light came through the window and broke on the metal portrait of General Clockwork, surrounding his frozen features with a hellish glow. Bomb Boy sat up in his bed and stared at the rays of black light that outlined the metal. His legs swung off the bed and he walked towards his father's portrait.

He had never thought to look past the painting before, but something called for him beyond the window. He wanted to see the light of day, the browns of the earth. He wanted to see trees and blue skies. He wanted birds.

Clumsy fingers pried themselves between the portrait's metal and the wall. Bomb Boy carefully pulled on the picture, hoping to loosen the single bolt that secured it to the wall. When it didn't budge, he pulled with more strength. The metal bent, causing the beautiful paints of his father's medals to blemish and chip.

"Oh no," Bomb Boy muttered. The bend in the metal transformed the painted man. His stomach no longer held its fit triangular flatness, but was now rounded and distorted. The picture's alterations changed Bomb Boy's perception of his father. For as long as he could remember, his father was a rigid, stern man made up of sharp shapes. His face and shoulders were comprised of triangles, his arms, hands, and fingers were strong rectangles. When he walked, his legs were stiff and would goose step in quick spurts. Yet now, as he looked at the painting, he saw a soft, rounded man who no longer commanded a strict intensity.

He forgave himself for what he did and peered around the bent portrait. The fort's searchlights were still lit, sweeping across the early morning sands. It was odd that they were on. Bomb Boy checked the large clock that hung on the wall over his bed to make sure that it was truly morning and then shrugged.

Bomb Boy dragged his finger across the wall, making another notch mark in the wood. The 365th notch mark he made. Looking at the distorted painting of his father, he longingly sighed and looked out the window at the dead sky.

\---

Veronica stirred from her slumber. A thin line of sweat clung to her forehead,her hands moist. She reached for a small leather bound book that rested on her nightstand and flipped through its thick pages. The first few pages had notch marks on them, followed by some empty pages. One notch for every night after the Droodge tried to reclaim Libson. One notch for every night her fiancé went without breath.

Most pages were spotted with old tears. About a third of the way through the book, her dream diary began. She scribbled a notch mark on the front of the page with a fountain pen and then flipped through the book to a clean page. The dream she had awoken from had been awful, yet writing it down gave her a feeling of relief and release.

In the dream, she had been on a cold metal table somewhere deep beneath the surface of the earth. There were no lights except for the one that hung over the table. Her naked body was the only thing exposed to the light. The table was framed by a thick blackness where an unknown amount of enemies stood, staring at her through the endless dark.

Veronica felt kicking coming from within her stomach. Her belly was bloated and full of life and bubbled when the baby kicked. She yearned to place her hands over her stomach, to cradle the tender life that grew within her, yet her hands would not follow the command. No ropes or bounds kept her in place, yet she was trapped.

A sudden fear gripped her. In her dream, she screamed, cried, and yelled threats. Something wicked was coming for her.

Thin white fingers pierced through the darkness, squirming wildly in all directions like maggots. They came towards her, these endless fingers, and touched her in places. The dirty pads of the fingers caressed while the sickly thick-yellowed nails scratched at her skin.

The invisible force that held her clamped her jaw shut, choking the screams in her throat.

The nails scratched at her stomach.

"No," she weakly pleaded through clenched teeth. "No, don't touch him."

The nails scratched and prodded. Fingers tickled her between her legs. They poked her stomach hard.

"Please." Her voice was a whisper.

The fingers tangled together into a thick braid, forming what looked like a decayed anaconda. They floated over her knees, anticipating the plunge. Veronica could only shake her head. She wanted to close her eyes, look away, but she could do neither.

"Don't take my baby boy."

The fingers plunged into her. They writhed and wriggled, to form tunneling indents on her pale skin. Inside her, she could hear her baby screaming. She could hear her baby dying.

When Veronica finished recounting her dream in the diary, she set the book back down on her nightstand and took a shower. The warm water felt heavenly when it hit her clammy skin.

"It was just a dream," she said aloud. She laughed and felt foolish and angry with herself. To be upset at a dream while there were people killing and dying beyond the fort's walls felt selfish and weak. "It was just a dream," she repeated, forcing all of her ill feelings away.

Veronica toweled off and got dressed. She couldn't wait to see Bomb Boy. She flirted with the idea of hugging him and kissing his forehead. It would be a very inappropriate thing for a teacher to do and if anyone saw, they would think her mad, but Veronica was beginning to feel that she was more than just Bomb Boy's teacher and she would make sure that no one saw.

Veronica combed the knots out of her honey-colored hair and painted her lips. With her teaching materials in her arms, she walked out of her quarters and up the fort's halls. The books nearly fell from her arms when she heard the alarms. The sirens bellowed so loud that Veronica could hear her ears ringing between alarms.

Veronica had never heard this siren before. Her entire body went numb. Her knees nearly buckled together. There was no feeling inside her. She knew exactly what the alarm meant.

General Clockwork had returned to the fort.
Chapter 9

Veronica had never seen Bomb Boy so excited. It broke her heart. The way his eyes flashed wildly, arms fidgeting with anticipation. Bomb Boy had never been that excited to see Veronica.

Bomb Boy rushed through the halls, running with his arms extended like wings. The soldiers in the fort looked ill as they watched him, each one cringing as he bounced. Idiots, Veronica thought. Jumping around won't cause him to detonate. The delicate explosives rigged into Bomb Boy's chest could withstand a battering ram. But the touch of a button would disintegrate everything within a 500-mile radius.

Veronica followed in Bomb Boy's wake, making up ground with long strides.

"Does that thing gotta run?" a wide-eyed soldier asked her in passing.

"Boys will be boys," Veronica answered.

\---

The General and his men settled in the fort's main corridor, beyond the gates. It was a wide-open space decorated with deep red carpets and bare black walls. The room had high ceilings and fixed into the ceiling was the tremendous, red main-clock that was the fort's pulse. The sound of the clock's second hand was explosive in the hall. When the minute or hour hand moved, anyone in the main corridor could feel the vibration cut through them like a sharp knife.

The year was good to General Clockwork. His face was rugged with stubble, and drooped from lack of sleep, but he bore no scars.

"Where is he?" the General asked, peeling sun-dried leather gloves off his massive hands.

The General struggled to remove his vest, thrashing his arms as if it were a straightjacket. Something was different about the General. His bloated waistline spoke of how well he ate during his trip. It wasn't just the General's appearance though, he moved like a different man; his once powerful rigid movements and gestures were now anxious and clumsy.

Officer Armand Antilles approached the General.

"Sir, let me-" he began, reaching for the General's vest.

"I can do it myself," Clockwork said, spinning on his heels to avoid Antilles. In a loud, thick voice, he shouted, "I want to see my boy!"

"That can easily be arranged," Antilles said in a small voice. He gestured at the doorway, where Bomb Boy's head poked out from the hall.

Clockwork's lower lip stiffened. In three long strides, Clockwork's popsicle-thin legs took him to Bomb Boy. There was a look of disbelief in his eyes, of fear. Shadows painted the General's face, revealing slivers of frowns and furrowed brows. The mixed emotions were unsettling to Bomb Boy.

"Daddy," he finally said.

In a flash, all animosity vanished. The General dropped to his knee and placed his massive hands on Bomb Boy's small, round shoulders. They looked like marbles in the General's hands. The General's fingers tightened and he shook Bomb Boy ever so slightly and with great care.

"I forgot how big you were," the General said.

Bomb Boy's face beamed. His mechanical arms rose and wrapped around flesh, and Bomb Boy pressed his cold, metallic head against the General's jaw.

That was a good day. General Clockwork was a happy man.
Chapter 10

The General and his men had been in the barrens for nearly a year, yet they were dignified in both appearance and conduct, unlike Leone's men. The General's hair was freshly waxed and his hands and nails were scrubbed clean of dirt and ash. His linens finely pressed to a crease, saving the sharpness of his once edgy features that had become round and unimpressive. As far as Bomb Boy was concerned, Clockwork was straight out of the stories. He could ride into battle and slay a thousand men without spilling a drop of their blood on his clothes or misplacing one of the hairs that was perfectly stuck to the sides of his head.

Veronica could see the admiration in Bomb Boy's flashing yellow eyes, yet she did not share it. When she looked at Clockwork, she didn't see his perfect nails, his unwrinkled uniform, or his perfect hair. Veronica saw the expanded waste line, the puffy cheeks, and the pale skin that had been untouched by sun and ash.

"It must have been hell out there," Veronica said.

"You don't know the half of it," the General replied, working his fingers around the curves of his waxed mustache. "About half of the settlements are gone and the farm subsidiaries we have in Marblerun are operating at 40%. We heard stories of how the Skallions overran the big cities, like Riverside and Libson, and how their scouts took out settlements one by one. They do nightmarish things, really. You can't feel bad for what they have coming to them. Isn't that right, boy?"

Bomb Boy flashed a smile and eagerly nodded. "That's right," he said. His words felt like swords through Veronica's chest.

"I would like to see how you've progressed during my absence. I'm sure Hedgeworth proved to be a worthy teacher," the General said.

"Yes, daddy. She's been a great teacher," Bomb Boy said.

"Good. I would like to give Bomb Boy an assessment tonight before sunset to see his progress. I trust that the bomb has been thoroughly informed of all aspects of urban combat, travel, and social interactions to blend seamlessly in Skallion cities," the General said.

Bomb Boy looked at Veronica for a moment, mouth ajar, eyes whining as they frantically blinked. Bomb Boy's mouth opened to speak, but Veronica spoke quickly to cut him off.

"We've gone through everything. You'll be very surprised at his progress," Veronica said. She was only half lying. Veronica's face was as still as a pond's water. Her muscles were loose and relaxed, and beneath her tranquil exterior, a red heart was beating fiercely.

"I knew I could trust you," the General said to Veronica. The fierce liveliness in the General's eyes left, extinguished by a world of burden. "This war has gone on for too long. Too many good men and women have died for it. We have to end it."

"I agree," Veronica said.

"And soon - very soon. I made arrangements with my most trusted spies. They provided me with a visa for myself and for a Minor Laboring Unit. We will be transported to Acton Capital via sandcrawler, where I will sell Bomb Boy as an MLU to a local vendor. After I'm clear from the blast zone, I'll detonate and this war will be over." The General made a subtle gesture with his hand, revealing a leather strap loosely wrapped around his wrist. Attached to the strap was a long, see-through tube, and within was a rectangular metal detonation device that had a large, amber button fixed into its face.

Veronica couldn't breathe; yet she tried to suck the air in through her nostrils and out the same way. The amber button was all she could see. It dangled in her vision like a cat's plaything. It laughed at her, mocked her, threatened to take away the only thing she loved.

"You plan on detonating him so soon?" she said Her voice cracked. She heard it and quickly diverted her eyes swallowing something hard and nonexistent.

"Of course. This war has gone on too long and it can't go on any longer. Is everything all right, Hedgeworth?" the General asked.

"Yes, yes it's fine. Better than fine, really. It's just, I'm in disbelief is all. Like you said, it's gone on too long," Veronica said.

She watched as Bomb Boy's head frantically looked from the General to her. He didn't fully grasp what they were talking about, but it was all very exciting.

"The war's going to end soon?" Bomb Boy asked the General.

"That's right, son," the General said.

Bomb Boy's eyes flashed yellow. He was so proud of his father for ending the war that he didn't even notice the way that Veronica began to shake. The shaking started in her legs and slowly moved up to her shoulders, like an icy chill that crawled up her flesh.

Bomb Boy couldn't wait for the war to be over. Maybe then the ash would subside. Maybe then the birds would come back home.
Chapter 11

Armand Antilles, while helping the General settle in the fort, told him of Leone and his stray soldiers. The General stacked his rifles onto his rifle rack, wiping them thoroughly with an oiled rag before placing them down. He took care when wiping down the metal, but when he cleaned the barrels with a wire brush, he was as savage as a jealous lover.

The General's forehead had a gloss of sweat on it that shone like the metals of his cleaned guns.

"Say it again?" he said. He was out of breath from cleaning and breathed heavily through his mouth.

"I said remnants of the 223rd are currently occupying the fort," Armand repeated.

"I thought they were all dead," the General said. He held his rifle up and admired the side profile of his face through its shine.

"It would appear as if some survived. They have completely disgraced their uniforms, deserted their mission and, from what the men at the fort told me, they act like savages," Armand said.

"They are savages. No better than those SOTS running around the barrens. Why are they here?"

"Hedgeworth let them in. I'm not sure what her intent was."

"Neither do I. I wonder about her. She's giving off a strange vibe. I wonder if staying in this fort for so long with that awful bomb broke her," the General said. He sniffed and wiped his nose, then worked the gun oils into his mustache.

"I believe her husband died in Libson when it was taken a few weeks ago. I can give her a psyche evaluation, if it'll please you."

"No need. She's done her duty, or at least I hope she has. Regardless, I'm taking the bomb to Acton Capital and ending this war. The city will burn hotter than Libson and it'll be up to us to rebuild our country. Hedgeworth will get better after she leaves this fort."

"Perhaps," Armand replied. "And of the savage men?"

"How many are there?"

"Not more than fifteen, sir," Armand said.

"Have them killed for desertion. Do it as you see fit, it's all the same to me," the General said. He took his rifle up to his face and looked down the oiled sight, as if to see an imaginary foe in the distance. He feigned a shot, popping his lips and lifting the gun ever so slightly to mock the recoil.

"I'm not sure that's a wise decision, General..." Armand said with care. "We don't have many men left. We only outnumber Leone's men by four-to-one. There will surely be opposition."

"I'll do it myself, if you're so afraid," the General spat. He unloaded the clip from his rifle and estimated how many bullets were packed within. Enough to get the job done, he reckoned. The General angrily slapped the clip back into the gun and pumped a bullet into its chamber. "I haven't met a man who couldn't be killed. And I never met one who could kill me."

"As you say, General," Armand said. "It's only you have to recognize the skill of these men. They've been in the barrens for nearly as long as us with little previsions. They don't want to die and they don't die easy. They can be useful."

The General gritted his teeth in a flash and turned away from Armand. His temper was a thing of legends, something Armand had firsthand experience in dealing with, and was known to have been the demise of many men over trifle things. The General's anger had a different nature within the fort. The clicks of the main-clock did something to his mind, hypnotized him much like how a flute hypnotizes a viper. After a few deep breaths, he was soothed and clear of thinking. They were fighting a different war now, though. It was a game of numbers.

"We'll send them back on their way," the General conceded.

"Excellent, sir," Armand said. "I'll tell them to ready their things now for immediate departure."

With a salute, Armand spun on his heels and made for the hallway. He stopped suddenly when the General called out his name. As Armand turned, he could see all the way down the barrel of the General's rifle. Fear filled Armand; he wanted to run, duck, hide, yet was too afraid to move, too afraid to cause any sudden movements. It was a staring contest that Armand was destined to lose. Guns didn't blink.

"If you ever undermine me again, I'll kill you," the General said with a thick voice.

"Duly noted, General," Armand said.

Clockwork lowered his gun.

"Get out of here," he said.
Chapter 12

Veronica stole moments after her meeting with the General to spend time alone with Bomb Boy. She took him by the hand and led him to her quarters, where she locked the door, fell to her knees, and collapsed into him, holding him tighter than she ever had.

Veronica didn't even think about the assessment that the General was going to administer. It would become painfully obvious that Bomb Boy hadn't learned most of the combat lectures in his curriculum, but that didn't concern her. Clockwork would surely put her to death for failing in her mission and teaching Bomb Boy about the frailty and beauty of life, but she did not care. If Bomb Boy was going to die by exploding in the Skallion city of Acton Capital, Veronica didn't want to live.

"I'm so glad daddy's home," Bomb Boy said. She could feel the words stab at her. The hate and depression rose within and became something toxin. She could spit acid. The entire while, Veronica wanted to open up and tell Bomb Boy everything about what was going to happen, but she hadn't the strength to repeat the words.

You're going to die. Oh, how Veronica wished he could read her thoughts. Flee from this place. Hate your father. Fly like a bird.

The thought of losing Bomb Boy was more than Veronica could bear, yet her cheeks remained dry. She promised herself that there would be no more tears.

"Did you see how great daddy looked? He was so clean and he didn't have a wound on his body, not like those other soldiers who came. Daddy's just like the stories, isn't he?" Bomb Boy said.

Veronica managed to shake her head.

"Your father and Leone's men are different," she began. "Leone's men actually fought." She tried to leave it at that, but could tell from his flashing eyes that Bomb Boy wanted to know more.

"Some men lead, some men follow. Some men fight, some die, some do neither. Your father leads and he does not fight and he does not die. He makes other men march to their deaths."

The words affected Bomb Boy. He gently pushed her away. He staggered back slowly, trying to comprehend it.

"He's a good man. A hero," Bomb Boy said.

"In no one's eyes but yours."

"You're wrong! He is a good man! He's my father!" Bomb Boy yelled.

"And what am I?" Veronica said, stamping her foot. The room was quiet, and grew darker as the fleeting sun pulled the dark shadows from the corners of the room.

Veronica yearned for his answer. She wanted to hear Bomb Boy call her a friend, a caregiver, a mentor, a mother. She wanted him to belong only to her.

After a long while, Bomb Boy answered. "You're my teacher."

"I'm sorry you see me as just that," Veronica said.

A silence fell between them. It was interrupted by shouts. Their voices echoed off the walls in the hall, coming from deep within the fort. It was odd that the voices had traveled so far -- the men must have been shouting.

"Stay here," Veronica told Bomb Boy. She made her way to the door, but not before touching her waist, where she kept a blade hidden beneath her skirt. Before exiting the room, she left Bomb Boy with these words: "No matter what happens, I want you to know that I would never do anything to harm you, and that I'd do anything to keep you safe."

She could see that he couldn't make sense of her words, but a small smile formed on his face all the same.

Veronica walked through the halls with her hand pressed against her thigh. She felt the hard wooden handle of the knife through the thin fabrics of her dreary colored dress. She touched the ring around her neck for confidence. She need not be afraid now. Fear was what killed men. Deep within the bowels of the fort, men who had walked the line between life and death – men who had given themselves fully to war and had lost themselves in the sands – men who had nothing to lose, were arguing. She would stab them if it came to that. Veronica had been trained to kill, although one wouldn't know it from seeing her in her teacher get-up and dresses. She just had to flip the switch and it would be as if she were back in training.

The voices were clearer now.

"You'll just shoot us in the backs!" she heard a man yell. It sounded like Leone's voice. More voices echoed his, but he told the others to remain quiet. She felt the heavy tension lingering within the halls, growing heavier like a thick musk as she walked closer.

The voices were quieter now. They spoke quickly. With her hand pressed against her blade, Veronica hurried down the hall and around the bend. The hall opened up in a large auditorium where the savage men had been staying. The men's sour smell filled Veronica's nostrils. They smelled like dead men, looked like dead men; it was a wonder that blood and breath still circulated through them.

"You have to understand that you are all sworn to your positions and have yet to complete your mission. That is why the General has commanded you to return to Sunset Commons to establish communication with our colleagues," Armand said in a calm, collective voice.

Armand was a tall man who had the build of a phone booth. There was a touch of elegance in everything he did; from delicately placing and molding the strands of red hair over his balding cranium, to waxing his dagger sharp chin hairs. He was, like General Clockwork, a strong believer in personal hygiene.

Armand's elegance was lost to him now, though. He stood with his hands behind his back, with one hand gently cradled in the next, and his nose pointed upwards. There was a waver in his stance, and shakiness in his legs that diminished any perception of power.

"There's no need to establish contact with Sunset Commons," Leone said slowly.

"Of course there's need. We don't know if our men are dying out there or if they're in dire need of supplies," Armand retorted.

"Do I look like an asshole? Answer me. Please," Leone asked.

Armand swallowed hard spit and rocked on his heels for a moment.

"You do not look like an asshole," he said finally.

"Then why are you talking to me like I'm an asshole?"

"I'm not talking to you like you're an asshole. I'm talking to you like you're a soldier! We all have duties that need to be completed! You're not above your duties!"

"Let me tell you something," Leone said, "We've been out in the sands long enough to know how things work. If you can survive for a week with no supplies, you can live through the apocalypse. See us, we lived through the apocalypse. We saw the shit and we felt the heat. You and the General have not seen the shit or felt the heat. I ain't never seen a man go into the sands and get fatter! I ain't never seen a man go into the sands and come back with white skin! You can't live the war in a tank and tell men who've done their time to march back to hell!"

Leone's men exploded in uproar. Their voices put Veronica on edge. She tightened her grip on her blade, for whatever good that did.

"I understand that you men have been through a lot, and I'm thoroughly impressed with your performance so far," Armand yelled over their screams. Their voices quieted, more out of curiosity for what the spoiled officer had to say, not out of courtesy. "But you have to do your time. You haven't done it fully."

"Fair enough, but answer me this," Leone said. There was a crazed grin on his face, a murderous glare in his eyes. "We've seen the bomb, you bastard. We've also seen bombs a tenth his size kill hundreds of people. What's he for?"

"That's classified information," Armand said.

"Will you cut the crap, already? There's only one thing that bomb can do. We want to know where you're sending that hellish thing," Leone said. "See, the way we figure, you can send him down to the Skallion mint fields, or you can send him to their water filtration plants, or, hell, if you've got the balls, you can send that bomb to an actual city! I want to know where he's going because I have a funny feeling that the place is going to be suspiciously close to the Sunset Commons. No, sir, me and my boys been through too much to be taken out so cheaply."

"You're being paranoid," Armand said. He shifted, twitched, and brought his arms back over his front, tucked his hand neatly beneath his belly.

"Yes. That's what keeps us going. Every noise is an opponent, every shadow's an enemy. Now I can see through you like water. You're all by yourself here-" Leone paused and waved a curled finger in Veronica's direction. She hadn't realized that she walked so far down the hall. "- you and the Major here. We'll skin you two alive if you lie to me right now. Is that bomb's detonation going to take out the Sunset Commons?"

After a moment, Armand answered, "Yes."

"You want us dead?"

"I don't benefit from your deaths. Hell, I'm saving you right now. The General would have you all shot for abandoning your mission. I convinced him to take this alternative!" Armand said.

How yellow, Veronica thought. She wondered how sweetly Armand would sing if he had been taken by the Skallions. He would sell out Bomb Boy's location in a moment. For his cowardice, Veronica felt nothing but disdain for him.

From the look of disgust Leone's face, Veronica could see that he felt the same way.

"Gather your things up, boys," Leone said. "We're out."

The sandy men grunted and grumbled, gathering whatever possessions they had on their persons. They looked lightly equipped – the rest of their belongings were probably in the empty rooms beside the beds of dead men.

Leone buried his shoulder deep in Armand's chest as he walked past, knocking the officer back and causing him to lose his footing. Armand caught his weight and recovered his balance with a well-placed step and stood very still as the swarm of Leone's ragged brigade blocked him from Veronica's line of vision.

Leone's eyes burned into Veronica's. She touched the knife on her thigh, but doing so drew Leone's attention. He looked at her thighs hungrily. Veronica's legs were smooth, soft, and thin, and looked a pleasure to touch. Leone moved in long strides, walking directly towards Veronica. She didn't move. She looked over his shoulder to see if Armand was still looking, but saw naught but a sea of skin and sand.

It was now or never, she thought. She had nothing to lose. If she did nothing or failed, she would die, but if she were successful, both her and the one thing she loved in this world would live. They would be survivors.

Veronica's red lips puckered out. "We can get even," she whispered.

Leone grabbed her by the arm and pulled her next to him, simply saying, "Walk."

"We'll talk in private," Veronica said.

"I wonder what wicked little things are brewing in that pretty head," Leone said. Veronica had never seen a genuine smile grace Leone's face. It looked very handsome.
Chapter 13

Leone led Veronica through the halls of the fort, beyond where the other sandy outcasts went. He led her around corners and up corridors until he was all but lost. As they walked, Veronica pushed a door that opened up into a cool, dark, cozy room that looked very inviting. It was a good room, Leone decided, far away from spying eyes.

They entered the room and Veronica closed the door.

A glance revealed many things: volumes of study guides and teaching materials, the portrait of a young soldier positioned with tender care so that his eyes would be aligned with the bed's pillow. The distinct scent of a woman lingered in the air. It was then that Leone realized that, even though his grip was strong and his steps were quick and dominant, it was Veronica who had lead him to this very room. He couldn't help but smirk. He would not underestimate this woman.

"Nice room you've got here," Leone said. "Do you mind if I sit?"

"Sit," Veronica said.

Leone tucked his pants up and lowered himself onto the corner of the bed. It felt good to feel something soft. He wondered if this would be the last soft thing he would ever touch. His calloused and sun-stained hand came down on the sheets and brushed against the cotton, as if to freeze time to experience the moment for as long as he could.

"So what'd you have in mind?" Leone said, smirking.

"I want to talk."

"Talk?" He raised an eyebrow.

"Yes. I want you to do something for me," Veronica said.

"That's a tall order. See, the way I see it, we done more than our fair share. Don't ask a favor of me."

"You may like it."

"There is something I'd like," Leone replied. He bit his lip and focused on her soft curves. The hard look in Veronica's eyes curbed his urges. "I'm smarter than to think you invited me here for that, though."

"I want to plan against the General. If you agree to help me, I can guarantee that you and your men will have justice for the way the he mistreated you," Veronica said.

"How do I know I can trust you?"

"I can only give you my word that I will do nothing to get you and your men killed. What I plan on doing, I do out of the love in my heart. I'm sure you've noticed my actions with Bomb Boy. Your men probably think I'm strange for interacting with him in such a way. The thing is, you don't know me and you don't know what I've been through, so please don't try to judge me or understand my intentions. I'm running away with the bomb. As long as the blood courses through my body, that bomb will not detonate. He means too much to me," Veronica said. She exhaled and her body went at ease, as if an overwhelming sense of relief poured out of body for stating her love for Bomb Boy.

It all sounded crazy to Leone. He sat quietly on the bed, thinking.

"You're serious," he finally said.

"I'll do anything to keep him alive," Veronica said.

There was more silence.

"You'd get killed for saying what you just said, even if there weren't any truth in it," Leone told her.

"Then you see that I have nothing to lose. You can trust me and I have no choice but to trust you. We can both be disposed of very easily now, but if we work together, we can leave this fort and leave this war behind us."

"Okay, I'm listening."

"Me and the boy are leaving. We have to leave before nightfall. But before that, it's imperative that we take the detonation device that the General keeps around his wrist," Veronica said.

"Tall order, Major. Tall order."

"You'll save hundreds of thousands of lives."

"I'm numb to death. Saving lives means nothing to me," Leone said.

"You don't mean that. I know that deep inside you, there's still a decent, warm-blooded man who wants to put his gun down and live his life like he used to."

"That part of me died with the rest of the country."

"So you won't do it?" Veronica said.

"Dropping that bomb can end the war. Keeping him at your side won't," Leone said.

"Oh, don't be so stupid! Do you know what that bomb is capable of? We'll likely blast ourselves into the next ice age!"

"Calm down. I didn't say I wouldn't do it. I'd put a knife in the General's throat if it meant that me and my boys would get off scot-free, but it don't." Leone rested his arms against his knees. "I got a boy named Sylvester who's good at lifting stuff. He could steal the bra right off your chest without you feeling a thing, if he lacked the manners. Which he don't. I'll talk to him about it."

"You'll only talk?" Veronica asked.

Leone sighed.

"I'll tell him to do it. Fuck, we're dead either way. After this all goes down, if we get out without a fire fight, I mean, where are we going meet?"

"Do you know where the Red Rivers divide?"

"Naturally."

"Let's meet at the river's fork at night fall."

Leone nodded his head and pushed himself up off the bed. Before leaving the room, he gave it the once over. He nodded at the picture of Michael.

"The 454th, eh?"

"He fought bravely to the end. I'm sure of it," Veronica said.

"I'm sure he did," Leone said. After a long silence, he said, "I'm sorry for your loss," and left Veronica's room.
Chapter 14

Veronica found Bomb Boy alone in his quarters. He was standing in front of the General's portrait, staring at it as if to find some hidden meaning in the painting.

"Hello," Veronica said.

Her voice made him turn in a start.

"Are you okay?"

"I didn't hear you come in," Bomb Boy said.

"You look like you have something on your mind."

"I'm just nervous. I hope I'll do well on daddy's exam tonight."

"About that, I wanted to speak to you," Veronica said. "Come sit down and we'll have a small talk."

"Am I in trouble?" Bomb Boy asked.

"No, no. The opposite, in fact. You've been such a wonderful student that I wanted to reward you," Veronica said.

She sat down at the foot of Bomb Boy's bed and patted an empty space beside her. He sat and let his metal fingers tap against his kneecaps, too bashful to look up at Veronica's face.

"What I'm about to say is only for our ears. You can't tell anyone else, do you understand?" Veronica asked.

"Yes."

"We're going to leave the fort tonight. Just you and me. You're not going to go on that trip with your father."

Bomb Boy shook his head. His fingers curled wildly out of nervousness and anticipation.

"I don't understand," Bomb Boy said.

"Me and you are going to live long, happy lives. We're going to leave this war behind us and find the place where there's grass and blue skies and birds. You want to see birds again, don't you?"

"Yes, but what about daddy? Does he know about this?"

"No, he can't know about this... I want you to listen to me. You know I would never lie to you, right?"

His metallic head nodded, eyes flashing.

"And I would do anything, anything, to keep you safe," Veronica said.

"Yes."

"If your father found out about this plan, he would kill me. This trip he wants you to take is not meant to be a pleasant one. He is going to leave you in an enemy city, escape as fast as he can, and detonate you."

"Detonate..." Bomb Boy muttered.

Bomb Boy spread his fingers across his cold hard chest and felt his inner workings swish and click. The noises within him swelled and filled him with dread and anxiety. He could not escape them. The workings were part of him and they meant to kill.

"I'm sorry," Veronica said. "You have explosives inside you that can kill you and hundreds of thousands of people."

Bomb Boy made a small, pathetic noise and threw his arms around Veronica for support. She hugged him ever so tenderly, cradling his head within her arms. Bomb Boy placed his hand on Veronica's chest and felt the fast beats of a living heart. He envied her for what she was; flesh, water, breath, and love. He thought himself a monster. But these feelings weren't new; no, he always knew he was different. The sounds his body made, the way the guards would look at him. He was a monster.

"Don't ever leave me," Bomb Boy said to Veronica.

"I swear on my soul and the soul of my husband."

"Thank you."

"I... I love you," Veronica said. She leaned over and kissed his face.

\---

Veronica brought everything she had at hand given the short notice: a heavy coat, goggles, scarves, her revolver, a small box of bullets, flares, matches, a thin blanket, sturdy leather boots, and a canteen. She wished she had had more time to prepare and regretted all the time she had wasted in the past crying in the shower. That time was valuable -- she wouldn't get it back.

She packed all of these things into the old leather bag she used to carry her teaching supplies. It looked much bulkier than normal, but no one would question it.

As she walked into the hall, her heart nearly leapt into her mouth as she watched Armand Antilles hurriedly march towards her. He walked until his reddened face was hovering over hers, so close that she could see the veins lining his eyes. Armand's labored hot breath puffed onto Veronica. She could feel the hairs stand on her neck. She bit down and stiffened her jaw, trying to hide her fear.

Veronica shifted her bag on her arm and touched it on its side, where she could feel the outline of a six-gun.

"What's the meaning of this?" Veronica asked, feigning annoyance.

"This is absolutely unforgivable! Once the General hears about this, there will be blood!" Armand said. His face reddened even more and the veins swelled on his meaty neck.

Veronica wished it wouldn't have come to this. They must have bugged her room and overheard her plans. Her hand dipped into the bag and grabbed the revolver's handle. She carefully aimed the gun at his chest, making sure not to lift it out of the bag or to reveal it in anyway.

Her finger was on the trigger.

Veronica could feel Bomb Boy's touch as he wrapped his arms around her leg, hiding behind her for support.

"You wouldn't believe what those savages did to me!" Armand said.

Veronica swallowed a sigh and allowed her muscles to relax. Her hand released the gun, exited the bag.

"To think a soldier of such low ranking talking to me like I was some filthy commoner! We wouldn't have put up with that during the beginning of the war. The whole lot of them would have been cut down and hung on the walls as an example. What's worse is that I tried to save them! The General would have them killed, but I suggested we simply send them back on their way," Armand said.

He clearly hadn't seen Veronica standing in the hallway during the confrontation, which was good for her.

"What's the difference between sending them back out and shooting them? Either way, they're dead," Veronica said.

"Oh no. No, no, no, not these men. I've seen their likes in the sands. SOTS is what they are. I've seen people with charred skin riddled with legions -- and they were more fit than soldiers. If you can last the first week in the sands, nothing out there can cut you down."

Armand made a small, irritable noise that shook his loose chin skin. It was troubling to see a man of war bottle up his anger in such a way. He bit the bullet and swallowed it down, eating away at the stress until it no longer seemed to affect him. His red eyes met Bomb Boy's, and it was as if he was never mad in the first place.

"Why hello there! Excited for your little test later, are you?" Armand said.

Bomb Boy clutched Veronica's leg, sinking further behind her for cover. She placed her hand on his back.

"He can hardly wait," Veronica said.

"He seems very bashful. I would think those war lessons would toughen him up," Armand said.

"Trust me – he's extremely knowledgeable in the art of war. However, a unit like this needs a certain human grace. He needs to be unthreatening and unnoticeable so he can blend in the city just long enough for our men to clear out," Veronica said.

Armand beamed brightly. "How correct you are, Hedgeworth. I never doubted Clockwork's decision to appoint you to this mission. You've made the Droodge proud," he said.

"Thank you for the kind words," Veronica said. "But we must be going now. I want to brush up on a few things before tonight."

Veronica patted the side of her leather bag and nodded at Armand, who returned the gesture, and walked back up the hallway.

"Come on," she whispered to Bomb Boy, grabbing him by the arm.

They quickly walked through the winding halls of the fort. The halls seemed longer today, emptier. They seemed to wind endlessly, curling into darker places that Veronica never knew existed. She felt as if she were lost in her own home. Focus, she thought, now is not the time to be afraid. Now is the time to be strong.

Leone and some of his men were standing at the fort's main entrance. They yelled at two of the fort's guards, who stood at attention with white fingers wrapped around the bases of their rifles. It was all the guards could do to keep calm. As Veronica entered the hall, as thin and silent as a ghost, Leone saw and gave his men the cue. They became raucously loud, stomping their boots and clapping their hands in front of the two lonely guards.

The bolder of the two guards pressed the butt of his rifle against a ragged soldier who wore the feathers of birds. With a heave and grunt, the guard knocked the feathered soldier onto his back, causing Leone's other men to explode in protest.

"Now wait a second," yelled Feathers. "We're just playing around. See, if you've seen the stuff we've seen, you'd go nuts if you didn't make some fun."

"This isn't fun and you are nuts," the guard said. He turned his gun around and aimed the barrel at the feathered soldier's eye.

"You win," Feathers said with great humor. He threw his hands up in defeat and motioned for the other soldiers to stand down. "We know when we're not welcomed. We'll just be on our way then, but I think our boss still wants a word with the General. It's the least he could do to give ol' Leone the time of day."

"The General doesn't have to speak to anyone," the guard said.

Two large, brass sprockets spun and pulled heavy chains that lifted the fort's main door. When the red light from the outside spilled onto the fort's floors, bits of sand and ash blew inside in dark twirling waves.

All at once Leone's soldiers surrounded Veronica and took her by the arms. She saw a burnt soldier's scabbed finger press against his cracked lips and he uttered a small sound. Shhh.

She was moving within the crowd of howling, hooting men, her hands moving frantically at her side in search of Bomb Boy. When her fingers touched his cool hard metal, she felt an ease in her heart.

"You tell them that the 223rd gave them hell!" Feathers yelled. "You tell them we marched through this entire fucking war twice! And the only thing we got to show for it was ash."

Nestled deeply within the company of men, Veronica and Bomb Boy were unseen by the guards.

The heat hit her immediately. The winds were harsh and viciously blew the sands and ash. The sands felt like thousands of minuscule daggers slicing her cheeks, forehead, neck, and hands. She reached into her bag and retrieved her goggles and scarves, and quickly worked the scarves around her hands and face. When she was fully clothed and completely unrecognizable, she worked a few extra scarves over Bomb Boy's head, saying, "Don't be scared."

When the scarves were tightly wrapped around his face, he looked almost like a human. His small head looked up at her, blinking. He looks very cute, Veronica thought. It was a positive thought that came with many others: she was outside, they were going to escape, this was going to work.

The men stared off into the distance, grumbling and kicking the sand as they walked. At the head of the group, Veronica and Bomb Boy met with the man who wore feathers. He had a tight black leather mask that covered his face from the nose up secured tightly around his scalp. The nose was protected by a crude hunk of discolored leather, and the eyes were protected by black mesh. Colorful feathers plumed from the mask's cranium like a bizarre Mohawk.

"You know?" Veronica asked, motioning down at Bomb Boy.

Feathers let out a hardy laugh and said, "Every damn one of us knows. There aren't any secrets among us."

"You won't tell anyone, will you?" Veronica asked.

"What's the motivation in ratting you out? Money? There ain't no shit to buy. Fame? Ain't no people around to recognize you. To make the General happy? Fuck him. You're secret's safe with us, lady. The only worry I have is if the Skallion get their hands on this bomb of yours. That I don't like." Feathers gave a big shrug. "Then again, I'm on borrowed time. I should be dead right now. If we go off to the Sunset Commons, we're dead. If we stay here we're dead. If we go off into Skallion territory, we're dead. And if we hang around in Droodge territory against orders, guess what; we're dead. So you know what we're going to do?"

"What's that?" Veronica said.

"We're going to appreciate the day. You stay safe out there, Miss. I hope to hell you make it," Feathers said. He gave a loud laugh.

Veronica took Bomb Boy by the shoulders, and left the group. She cautiously glanced back at the fort. She could feel eyes upon her. But as she looked towards the fort, she saw nothing but a cold, empty husk of a building that was surrounded by tall walls. The main clock was clearly visible to her now; she saw the time. It was 6:32. The General would be expecting to test Bomb Boy in less than a half hour, giving them little time to distance themselves from the fort.

"Let's go," Veronica urged, taking Bomb Boy by his hand. Through her gloved touch, she couldn't feel the cold hardness of his hand, nor could she see the crude workings of a metallic mouth and nose on his face. All she saw was a little boy. Her little boy.

As they walked side by side, their feet kicked up the ash and sand. Veronica had heard stories of the sand fatigue, but she didn't think it would affect her so quickly. Every step was an effort, every piece of ash weighed down on Veronica's feet and legs. As she pushed through the sands, up a steady hill of burnt ground and dried plants, she felt the hard winds assault her back.

This is madness, Veronica thought. It had only been minutes, yet the efforts of moving in this terrible environment had exhausted her. She could hardly believe that anyone could survive in the barrens on foot.

The hill was just that – a lazy slant of a terrain that dipped up towards the churning, blackened skies. Veronica struggled to climb it. With one hand, she held Bomb Boy, finding inner strength from knowing that he was there at her side. With her other hand, she clawed at the ash, hoping that it would make her ascent easier.

When she reached the top of the hill, she could feel the breath choke in her throat. The hilltop gave Veronica a view to the sprawling deserts that stretched endlessly in all directions. It was overwhelming to behold.

Behind her, she could hear the yells, screams, and whistles. Or, rather, she thought she had heard it. The wind was whipping viciously, cutting through skeletal trees and pounding at ravines of sand, generating haunting sounds. Whether the noises were of man, or just her mind distorting the winds, she did not know, nor did she turn to look.

"I want you to do as I do," Veronica said.

She laid on her side with her arms tucked over her chest. As Bomb Boy followed suit, Veronica allowed herself to roll down the sands. She tumbled with great speed, feeling the sand and ash pour into her clothing. As Veronica reached the bottom of the hill, her body slammed hard into the ground, knocking the wind out of her. She quickly found her footing and watched as Bomb Boy rolled down, and caught him up before he did any damage to himself.

"You're all good," she said, as she helped him up and knocked the ash off him. "The river is only up ahead. We can be there before nightfall."

As they walked on, the adrenaline left Veronica's body, and she began to feel the pains of her descent. Her forearms had been rubbed raw and bled. She had a large welt on the side of her left leg. The welt made it hurt to walk, but she tried to push it out of her mind.

The only thing she focused on was keeping her "child" safe.
Chapter 15

Leone made it a point to walk out of the fort with his back to the General. He had two armed men walking backwards at his sides in case the General tried anything funny.

"You're fighting the good fight, men!" the General yelled.

Leone couldn't help but smile. The General, the most powerful man in the army, was sugar coating the words of his death march. A figure of authority in these Godless times was trying to make nice with hardened soldiers spawned by the hellish fruits of war.

Fifteen minutes before Leone had been at the General's throat. With a gasp and a gag, Leone had the General by the buttons, pulling him down with exaggerated pleas for water.

"You can't send us back out there," Leone said. "You can't!"

"Pull yourself together, soldier. You're disgracing yourself!" the General said, trying to puff his shoulders out and wriggle out of Leone's grasp.

There was a loud crack as the butt of a rifle smashed Leone's cheek. He felt a sudden eruption of pain and wetness in his mouth. His tongue explored and found shifting teeth. He bit down on his teeth, hoping that would stick them back in place.

Leone couldn't help but laugh. He spat blood at the General's feet, and while the General's eyes discreetly looked down at the blood, one of Leone's men – a slender thing with sunken eyes and a piggish nose – pressed himself against the General, pushing him to the side in his way to help Leone to his feet.

More of Leone's men crowded around the General and him.

"You savages are going to stand down," the General growled in a low voice.

None moved.

"I say you stand down now or you face the consequences!"

"You heard the General," Leone said, his teeth never coming too far apart. "We're out of here."

The General exhaled, his puffed chest deflating. He nodded his head and extended his hand to help Leone off the floor. Leone refused the General's hand and stood on his own strength.

The blow from the gun had been awful; as Leone stood, he huddled over himself, arm wrapped around his stomach for support. He let the blood drip out of his mouth and savored the sensation of wetness. He knew it would be his last drink for a long time.

"You're wasting a very valuable resource, General," Leone said. "Humans are an endangered species. Shame to throw them away like this."

The door to the barrens was opened, and speckled on the dark sands were Leone's soldiers, his friends, his brothers. The winds lifted sand and ash that pelted the men in waves, yet no man flinched. Leone walked out into the sands and he could see bright, white eyes staring at him, defiant of the sharp pieces of sand.

Leone walked off the fort's hard floor and felt the uneasy sands beneath his feet. The cloud's shadow overhead brought a certain coolness to his skin that seemed unimaginable in this heat.

Leone's arms rose and he patted the shoulders of his companions who stood beside him with eyes trained on the General, fingers on triggers.

"You did good, Sylvester," Leone said to the one with the piggish nose.

Sylvester nodded and wrapped his scarf around his face, revealing only vacant, sunken eyes.

"S'all in a good day's work, boss," Sylvester said.

Leone placed his hand against his stomach and felt the small detonation bracelet through his clothing.

With any luck, the General wouldn't realize that it was gone until they were out of sight.
Part 3: The Land Where No Green Grows

Chapter 16

Veronica's tongue was as dry as stone when they had arrived at the dried riverbed. She had never in her life experienced such a thirst. Within, her life's blood dried up and the fear of death gripped her, yet it was the astonishment of knowing that people survived, thrived, in these conditions that kept her steady.

They walked a narrow path that the winds had made, between two raised walls of sand.

"We're going to stay here until they come," Veronica said.

"Okay," Bomb Boy said.

They sat quietly for some time.

"I've been doing some thinking and I think it's time for you to have a name," Veronica said.

"I have a name. It's Bomb Boy. You know that."

"That's not a very flattering name," Veronica said. Not to mention that if I call you that out here, we'll both be taken. "You're such a good boy - you deserve a nicer name."

"Like what?"

"I think the name Michael would fit you well."

"Michael," Bomb Boy said, feeling how it sounded. His mechanical mouth made a smile. "I like it."

"I like it, too, little Michael," Veronica said. She touched his face.

Bomb Boy surveyed his surroundings. A long, discolored plot of dirt crept up in a serpentine pattern, splitting into a fork that eventually faded away into the ash and sand. There had been a river here once. Small, shiny rocks stuck out of the ground as evidence.

"What happened to this river?" Bomb Boy said.

"I don't know," Veronica said. "The terrain just seemed to change."

"No one questioned why it changed?"

"We did, but we didn't have the resources to research."

"Why not?" asked Bomb Boy.

"Because we were too busy making food, medicine, ammunition, and vehicles," Veronica said.

"Oh," Bomb Boy said.

Veronica bent over and touched the darkened soil at the bottom of the dried riverbed, yearning for its moisture. Removing her gloves, she could feel nothing but dryness. Dry like old bones. So dry, her fingers felt an odd discomfort. As she wiped her fingers clean against her pants, the thick ash stuck to her thigh.

In the distance, thin metal coils protruded from the ash. Veronica could make out bright objects half submerged, eaten by burnt earth.

"Wait here a moment," Veronica said.

As she walked towards the clutter, she took care when placing each step. The leveled ground was far more treacherous than hills. There were more dips and debris hidden beneath the ash, making it easy for one to twist an ankle. If it came down to that, Veronica wouldn't stand a chance.

Veronica wrapped her fingers around the metal and gave a tug. It came up easier than she had expected, as if the ash added no weight to the buried treasure. With another strong tug, she pulled up an entire shopping cart. Within the cart were some long expired sweets, a backpack, an oil powered lantern, and a baby's doll.

Veronica could see no footprints around the waste, no indication of life. They're long dead, Veronica thought. Mother, father, and child.

With legs calf deep in the ash, Veronica prayed that her foot wouldn't come down on the dried, meatless husk of a person.

She reached in and took the lantern in her hands, looking it over. It wouldn't be useful to her; the ash had filled and stained the lantern's glass. Veronica tossed it aside and examined the box of sweets. A faded picture of a young girl smiled at her through a thin layer of ash. She ripped the box open and felt the cakes within her hand. They didn't feel as hard as she thought they would. She placed the welcomed treats into her pocket and returned to Bomb Boy.

They sat on the cool riverbed.

"Why are we waiting for those soldiers?" Bomb Boy asked. "Are they going to protect us?"

"Yes."

She wrapped her arm around Bomb Boy and pulled him close to her bosom.

As they waited, Veronica hummed a nameless song softly into Bomb Boy's ear. The winds had grown strong and roared deafeningly across the terrain.

As the sun hung in the horizon, just under a blanket of black clouds, Veronica erected a tent. The winds whipped the tent's canvas, causing it to flutter madly in all directions.

"I need help," Veronica said to Bomb Boy.

Bomb Boy snapped the corners of the tent into his hands and deftly drove the spikes deep into the ground, past the ash and into the forgotten soil beneath. He carefully took the tent's poles and looped them through the canvas with great care and efficiency.

Veronica marveled at how well he worked. It was in that instance that she remembered why he was created – to keep soldiers alive and to kill. It unnerved her to no end, but she kept calm and watched him work.

Within a minute, he had made the tent.

It felt good to sit inside the tent. Bomb Boy pitched the tent so that its opening faced south-west and no wind would get in. Veronica's face was red and sore. She firmly pressed her palms against her cheeks and cringed from the pain.

"He's probably looking for you right now," Veronica said aloud, mostly to herself.

"Daddy?" Bomb Boy said.

"The General."

"The General," Bomb Boy said, weighing the words. In his mind's eye, he could see nothing but the General towering over him, holding the detonation button. There's only one thing a bomb can do, he heard someone say. Bomb Boy shuddered. He had never shuddered before and immediately thought something had gone wrong inside in. He placed his hands against his chest and felt for anything out of the ordinary.

"Are you okay?" Veronica asked.

His metal hands moved around his chest, feeling. There was a tension within him. He could feel things inside speeding up.

"I feel funny," Bomb Boy said. "I think I might explode."

Pins shoot through Veronica's neck. Adrenaline filled her.

"You're not going to blow up," she said. She prayed a long, silent prayer. "Just hold me tight and focus. You're not going to blow up."

Bomb Boy wrapped his small arms around Veronica's chest and rested his head against her. He could feel her fast, pounding heartbeat. Bomb Boy knew she was frightened.

"I'm sorry," Bomb Boy said.

"You have nothing to be sorry about."

"Yes, I do. You should leave me somewhere and go far, far away. If I die...I don't want you to get killed," Bomb Boy said.

"You're not going to blow up," Veronica repeated with a new courage in her voice. She placed her hands on his head, cradled him close to her.

"I wish I wouldn't blow up."

And then there was a rustling outside the tent. Bomb Boy heard it first. He looked up at Veronica, whose black eyes widened, searching the sands.

"Footsteps," he said.

"Quiet now," Veronica said, placing a finger over her lips. She reached into her pocket and retrieved her revolver. A quick check revealed six bullets in its chambers. Nothing was going to make it into that tent alive.

The rustling grew nearer and with it came dry hoarse gasps and coughs. A thin figure formed in the distance, its shape distorted by the wild winds. His arms flailed over his head as if his skin was being consumed by flame. His wraith-like head moved erratically, looking in every direction. The figure stumbled, tripped, and rolled along the sands.

"Stay," Veronica ordered Bomb Boy.

She pushed the tent door open and walked out into the sands. Her gun hand was exposed for better control; Veronica could never shoot a revolver well with a gloved hand. She needed the feel of the metal, and the feel of the trigger. Her hand was beet red and in pain from the bombarding winds.

The figure shivered on the sands, trying with all of his might to prop himself back up onto his feet. His clothes were ragged and looked as if they belonged to a soldier. As Veronica walked closer, pistol drawn on his head at all times, she saw remnants of bones on his sleeves.

"You're one of Leone's?" she said.

Sylvester's blackened face looked up, eyes like oily pools staring vacantly into hers. The leathery skin on his face was red and spotted with blood. It twitched and stretched as the man smiled. His lips were dry as sin and opened at the cracks as he smiled.

"I never ran that fast before," he said. His voice was painfully dry.

His eyes widened and searched the black sky above. A great unease overtook his features. Pained twitches and awful exclamations.

"You hearing it?" he yelled. "They're right above us! They're coming closer!"

Veronica looked up. "Nothing's there," she said.

"Are you deaf woman? Don't you hear the choppers? The sound's cutting through me! They found us!" the man said.

"Choppers? There haven't been any flights since the Great Firebombing. The ash is just too thick," Veronica said.

The thin man laid in the fetal position. Skeletal fingers, so thin they looked like burnt branches, clogged his ear.

"They're coming," Sylvester whimpered.

"Who's coming? Tell me what happened! Does Leone have the detonation box? Was he caught?"

"Yes and yes. We got out with the ol' button. They sent me out ahead as a scout, cause I lifted the thing and I always did run the fastest, and when I looked back I saw Leone and the boys on their stomachs. Clockwork had his men search them, digging the barrels of their guns into my boys' backs. I just kept running, though. I ran and ran and then I started to hear the screams and the helicopters are flying over head!" His face twisted and a harrowing moan escaped his crooked mouth. "I think they sprayed me with something. Some kind of nerve gas or something."

"I don't detect any helicopters," Bomb Boy said in a small voice.

"Go back in the tent. I'll be right there," Veronica said.

"They sprayed me with something and now my skin feels like bugs. My brain is peeling. Little ants all over. Oh God, oh God, it's so loud. CAN SOMEBODY SHOOT DOWN THESE HELICOPTERS," the man said.

The gun felt heavy in Veronica's hand. Sylvester was so delirious he hardly noticed the revolver trained on him. He sat with his legs tightly tucked across one another, itching his arms wildly.

"Did Leone escape with the detonation box?" Veronica repeated.

Sylvester's eyes rolled behind his head and let out a long moan. "Yes," he said with labored breath.

"Where is the detonation box now?" she asked.

Sylvester's hands dived into his shirt so quickly that Veronica almost popped a bullet into his body out of sheer fright. Hands searched beneath his thin shirt. He found something and pulled it out for Veronica to see.

"You have it..." Veronica said. She lowered her revolver.

A sudden exhaustion overtook the man, sucking the insanity and anxiousness out of his body. He sat very still, a husk of a person, and placed the detonation box beside his feet. He looked up at Veronica with large, sad eyes, and said, "Do you have any water?"

"I don't," Veronica said.

A single tear formed and fell out of Sylvester's eye.

"You won't last more than a few days out here without water," he said. Then he spotted the discolored soil of the old riverbed, took a handful of it and placed it into his mouth. He chewed on it for a moment, hoping that some of the moisture would wet his mouth. It was dry and sucked up the last bit of spit in the man's mouth. When he realized his mistake, he opened his mouth and let the sand fall out of his lips. He breathed out sand, coughed it up.

"I'm going to die," he said. He laid down on his back and closed his eyes.

Veronica cautiously approached him and grabbed the detonation box at his feet. She felt as if she held the very key to the gates of heaven; a heavy burden in her hands that she dare not touch, but could not imagine parting with.

Veronica backed away from the still man and moved into the tent.

"We can't stay here overnight. This man compromised our position. We'll have to start walking."

"I don't have any trouble walking in this," Bomb Boy said.

"Good. Could you please break down this tent while I gather our things?" Veronica asked.

"Sure."

"Thank you."

And as Bomb Boy collapsed the tent, Veronica squeezed her eyes closed and asked a favor from a high power to deliver Sylvester to the most perfect place in paradise.
Chapter 17

The night saw winds so powerful, Veronica and Bomb Boy could hardly walk against them. Veronica could feel the impeding danger in the darkness grow closer, yet she could not make her legs move, could not flee to safety.

There will be no footprints to trail, she thought. That's good. And these winds would make visibility very hard for the sandcrawlers.

The sands whipped the front of Veronica's body. Between the wind, that would knock the air out of her mouth, and the sands, that would fill her mouth, she was forced to tilt her head down every few feet to catch her breath.

"Can we stop?" Bomb Boy asked.

"Just a little further," Veronica said over the roaring winds.

"You've been saying that for the last hour." After a long silence, Bomb Boy said, "We can't keep going at this pace. I can dig a burrow for us in that hill over there."

Veronica looked in the direction that Bomb Boy was pointing, but could see nothing.

"It'll only take me ten minutes. I can dig five feet deep, four feet wide. We can set the tent across it like a tarp to keep the winds out."

"Just another mile or so."

"At this rate you'll suffer from heat exhaustion within the next five hours. The extra calories that you're expending could sustain four times the distance of travel during the day. I estimate that the closest food source to here is within one-point-four miles."

"Stop," Veronica said. She stopped walking and fought to keep balance. As she looked at Bomb Boy, she saw he stood quite easily, as if the wind was a gentle breeze. "It's my job to protect you, not the other way around. That's how it works."

Bomb Boy said nothing. He stared off towards the hill in the far distance. The winds, sands, and color of the night blinded her. She felt something take her hand, squeeze.

"We have to look out for each other," Bomb Boy said. "Please come with me... Please."

Defeated, her legs moved on their own accord, as Bomb Boy's flashing yellow eyes lit the path towards the hill.

Bomb Boy's arms pierced through the hill and moved in sporadic blurs as he dug. From the back, he resembled something between a badger and a boy. After a few minutes, she heard his voice.

"Come," he said.

She nestled in the hole, touching the cool walls and squeezing the moist soil at the bottom to wet her hands. What a difference it made. Even without a tarp covering them from the winds, Veronica could breathe easier. Her skin felt better, although the bombarding sands left her body stinging and tingling.

Bomb Boy secured the tarp by driving long spikes into the ground. He set the spikes' hooks and gave the tarp a light tug as a test. When the hooks didn't budge, he entered the hole and secured the opposite side of the tarp.

There was little space in the hole once Bomb Boy entered. His body, soft with clothing, leaned against Veronica. The hot weather warmed him and made it feel as if he were giving off body heat. Veronica cuddled close, and in that moment all of the thoughts of Bomb Boy's mechanic nature vanished. He wasn't a bomb any longer; he was just her little boy.

The wind ripped across the tarp, causing a constant roar that fluttered the canvas. The sound vanished with Veronica's fleeting consciousness. The fatigue of the day had caught up to her so quickly, she didn't even feel herself slip into sleep.

\---

Veronica came to when Bomb Boy touched her face. It was quiet outside, calm. Her eyes opened in a start and quickly surveyed her surroundings.

"I fell asleep?" she asked. Looking up, she saw Bomb Boy's bright, yellow eyes. They blinked affirmatively.

"It's first light," Bomb Boy said. "The winds died down about thirty minutes ago."

She sat up in a start and looked out at the sands. Her eyes weren't well adjusted to the light and she couldn't see more than fifty yards. Every burnt structure in the distance looked like the enemy; every collapsed house the devil's pawns.

"How long was I asleep?"

"Seven hours."

"Seven hours," she said sadly. Too much time wasted.

"That's more than enough sleep to make it to the midpoint of Basin Commons."

Basin Commons, Veronica thought. I didn't even realize we were so close. Shame washed over her. Was it really her who was protecting Bomb Boy, or was it the other way around? Was she just slowing him down? The doubt gnawed at her. Her fingers touched her ring and gun for support, for strength, but as they touched the cold metal, she realized that the gun was probably filled with sand and useless by now.

"Let's get the tarp packed and start walking," Veronica said.

"I think you should eat something first. You won't make it far without calories," Bomb Boy said.

Veronica took the gun out and began to examine it. She opened the chamber and stared down it. Some sand had collected in the barrel. It could have been an easy fix if she had thought to bring her gun cleaning kit.

"We'll start walking to Basin Commons now. I'll try to find some food along the way," Veronica said.

Bomb Boy said nothing, just blinked.

"Don't worry. I'll snack on sweets along the way."

At first light, a glowing orb of red flame dipped above the horizon, destined to crawl and die within the ashy clouds overhead. It provided good light for Veronica and Bomb Boy to work with.

The barrens were overwhelming to behold. The ash knew no end and revealed only subtle signs of indistinct landmarks: charred car frames, eroding highway signs, and blown out houses. The spacious sea of whites, grays, and reds were speckled with glittering stones and pieces of glass, where the ground had gotten too hot. From the top of the hill, the glittering pieces of white glass looked like shimmering mint. It reminded Veronica of the countless stories of young mint hunters who braved the barrens never to be seen again. How many of them drove their shovels into glass?

"Let's cover as much ground as we can while we have light," Veronica said. She studied the direction the sun came, and looked to the southwest. "In this direction, yes?"

"Yes."

"Good, let's go," Veronica said.

\---

By noon, the sun was at its highest point in the sky. The clouds,thick as a canopy, blotted out all light, except for the spot directly overhead. The churning clouds glowed like blazing embers. The light looked like veins of lava coursing through the clouds. It was dark everywhere, save for off in the far, far distance, off in the horizon, where there was no ash at all. Veronica looked yearningly at that sliver of clear sky that appeared in the horizon as if it had been cut with a thin knife.

It was so close, she thought. Why hasn't anyone found the Outer Quadrants yet? Perhaps they had found it and fled, leaving no word of their escape.

The heat produced by the layers of clothing was inescapable, yet she would not risk exposing her skin to the winds. The scarf over Veronica's face soaked through with sweat, and the moisture kept her face cool.

The worst heat and pain radiated in her legs. Walking on the unsteady sands had proved to be much more difficult than walking on solid ground, yet she knew how hard the walk would be and how little water she had. She knew the initial symptoms of heat exhaustion, yet she did well to push them out of her mind. Veronica felt a weakness and lightlessness within her head, while her legs carried the ever-growing burden of her weight.

"We can stop soon," Bomb Boy said every half hour or so. Whenever he said that, Veronica would touch her symbols of strength: her ring, the gun, and the edge of the detonation box.

"Just a little further," she said.

It was around 3 o'clock in the afternoon when the wind awoke from its slumber. Like a great beast sluggish from a long night's rest, the wind moved with a labored sense of apathy. The ash drifted in swirling waves that caressed Veronica's knees. How heavy it felt. How heavy her arms became.

Her swollen fingers wrapped around the mouth of her canteen and unscrewed the cap. She fumbled to get the scarf away from her mouth. Her fingers felt like thick sausages wrapped in tight leather. They betrayed her as she worked the fabric from her mouth. Her arms felt as if the bones had been switched for granite.

"Do you see that?" Bomb Boy asked.

Veronica took a mouthful of water and let it simmer in her hot mouth. A pounding pressure in her temples. She squinted, trying to make out the shining shapes in the distance. The ash acted like a thin barrier that skewed her vision. Uncertainty gripped her. Who did the vessel in the distance belong to? Could it be Skallion men, Droodge, or worse, the General?

"Can you get an ID on that sandcrawler?" Veronica said.

"It's not a sandcrawler, it looks like... a caravan. It's a civilian model," Bomb Boy said.

"Are you certain?"

Bomb Boy nodded.

She took a step . Her body went numb. An unknown force pulled her to the left, causing her knee to buckle. Her peripheral vision faded to black and the darkness crawled and consumed her.

Just a little further, she pleaded with herself.
Chapter 18

Time slowed to a halt. It felt as if someone compressed a spoon against the top of Veronica's brain. Her body weighed as much as a feather; her deepest burdens were far away, buried in the sand. She wondered if she had died. She had read a lot about death after Michael's passing and could only assume that this freedom of emotion and pain, this blissful tickle of worriment abandoned was brought on as a side effect of fleeting life. As the body dies, the mind can only calm to relax that little voice of consciousness within.

I can't die. My baby is in danger.

A sudden rush of sounds and sensations broke the black silence. Veronica tasted an awful, thick spit in her mouth. Her ears filled with wind and ash, the fine grains tickling the inside. As her eyelids parted, she beheld the steady, black clouds above her. They moved ever so slightly...or perhaps it was she who was moving.

Her eyelids closed. Darkness again consumed her. No taste in her mouth, no feeling on her skin. It would be so easy to let it go now, to slip away and reunite with her beloved Michael. He was close to her now. She could feel his presence lingering over her. She could feel how happy and excited he was to see her.

I'm sorry, my love. My baby is in danger.

The ash was in Veronica's ears again and it tickled and irritated her to no end. Veronica wanted to move her arms to swab her ears with her fingers, but she could hardly feel her arms, let alone use them.

"Michael," she whispered.

"I'm here," she heard a voice say. "We're almost there, please hold on."

Veronica tried so hard to look around, but her eyelids fell like iron curtains. With one last spurt of strength, she opened her eyes and looked towards her legs. Veronica's legs were in the air, in Bomb Boy's grasp. He was pulling her.

"Michael," she said.

\---

Veronica awoke at last when water touched her lips. The water felt so cold it ached her mouth. She took it in greedily, raising a hand blindly to the cup to tilt even more in. The refreshing liquid coated her dry mouth and felt as cool as ice as it traveled down her throat.

Her eyes snapped opened when she realized she was no longer outside. She laid on a metal table inside a large room. The walls were lined with a beautifully finished brown wood that shone with an oily gloss. It had been carved by hand with motherly care and a lover's devotion. Along the walls twirled white tubes that disappeared into holes. Mint flowed through the tubes, providing the room with light and cool temperature.

Veronica's training kicked in immediately. Her hand touched her thigh, only to find that her gun was no longer on her person. She touched her pocket, and to her relief found the detonation box. A quick scan around the room revealed cabinets of books and brandy, a roll top filled with pens and maps, some dirty shovels that looked out of place in the otherwise immaculate room, and compasses.

Michael, please be safe.

Veronica swung her feet off the table and hopped down.

"Excuse me, Miss, but Lincoln said you'd better stay off your feet for a while," said a woman's voice. Her voice sounded like it was broadcasted through an old, crackling radio.

Something cold touched Veronica's back. She turned and spotted a tall woman with glossy skin that had the same shine as the wood. She wore an old, flowing gown, the type Veronica saw in photos of her grandmother. The dress was immaculately white with a green leaf and blue flower pattern that covered from shoulder to knee. In her hands was a silver pitcher with small bulbs of water lining its rim.

How could I have missed her? My body is so fatigued.

"Where's my boy?" Veronica asked. She took another quick glance around, trying to pinpoint where she was.

"Your boy...? I'm sorry, Miss, but we didn't find any boy with you. It was just you and your robot. Had he not brought you when he did, Lincoln says you would have died. The winds pick up this time of day, you know," the woman said in her crackling voice.

She's a robot. Veronica marveled at the craftsmanship. She had never seen such a product before. The robot's skin looked convincing. Veronica felt her breath catch in her throat; she would surely have known of this technology if the Droodge had it. And while nothing in the caravan suggested anything of Skallion culture, Veronica couldn't be sure.

"Where's my robot?" Veronica said.

"He's just outside with the rest of the crew. We didn't see any boy, though. We even ran a scan to see if there were any other life forms stranded within your vicinity, but..." The robot paused. "We didn't find any other life. I'm sorry to tell you that, Miss."

"I just want to see my robot, okay?"

"That can be easily arranged." It placed the silver urn of water onto the metal table and gestured at a pinewood door. "This way."

Veronica cautiously followed the robot out of the room.

Everything about the robot's walk was perfect. Her shoulders had a sultry stride, her hips subtly bumping back and forth. It's every fluid motion and gesture was sex. The robot walked to the door and opened it, revealing a carpeted hallway that stretched ten feet, with decorative walls where brilliant swirls of red wallpaper stretched across the glossy wood. Fine wooden doors were fixed into each wall, and at the far end of the hall was a door that looked grossly out of place; it was old aluminum, with an ugly mesh screen darkened from the ash. The color outside made Veronica ill; it was nighttime, which meant she had been asleep for a long while. Her mind raced and created scenarios, each worse than the last. She imagined hands on Bomb Boy, fiddling with his screws and fingering his vitals – she saw men dragging him out to the sands, kicking and screaming, to discuss his make with sand dwellers. She saw them taking him apart, piece by piece, and selling the scrap for mint.

"Miss, I'm sorry to bother, but could you be a doll and take off your boots before you walk out," the robot said. "Lincoln just hates it when his carpet gets a mess. He carried you in and left your boots. He left you as you laid."

Except he took my gun, Veronica thought. She worked to pull off her ashy boots and held them in her arms, noting how they blackened every piece of clothing that touched her. How filthy she felt. The robot's gown was immaculate, the carpet looked as prim now as it did on its first day. Veronica wondered how these people could avoid the grime of war as well as they did.

"Lincoln's this way," the robot said, pointing at the door to the left.

Veronica followed behind the robot and waited for it to open the door. Her pulse sped up.

The door opened to reveal shiny wooden floors. A king sized bed was positioned between two large black pillars that ran up the middle of the room. Bomb Boy sat sheepishly on the bed with his legs hanging off the side, rocking himself slowly back and forth. Beside him sat an old man in an older wicker chair. His head was bald and, much like everything inside, had a mirror shine. He had a hooked nose that bent over an unkempt, bristly mustache. The man's eyes were hidden behind oiled black goggles, and his entire body, neck down, was fully concealed beneath sagging clothing. The only characteristic that Veronica could make out of his body was the large hunched back.

Veronica felt an overwhelming sense of relief when she saw Bomb Boy. She wanted to run to him, feel him in her arms, but that would only arouse suspicion.

"Here she is, Lincoln," the robot said.

"You're alive? That's good. I hope you don't eat too much," Lincoln said, flashing a large white smile that crinkled his face.

"Thank you for helping me," Veronica said in a small voice.

"You'd be dead if it weren't for this little robot of yours. Good build, I'd say." Lincoln sniffed the air, nostrils widening. "Droodge build. I could smell the oil on both you and him."

Veronica studied the old man's gesture, his cool indifference. She sensed a deep serenity in the old man.

"What does it mean to you if we're Droodge," Veronica asked.

"Means nothing," he said.

"You're not Droodge, but you're certainly not Skallion."

Lincoln's old head turned until he faced Veronica. A beam of white flashed across his goggles. "You're assuming."

"I believe I'm correct," Veronica said, crossing her arms.

"How do you know and to what consequence is it if I'm affiliated with one house or the other?" Lincoln said.

Tread carefully, Veronica thought.

"You're right, I'm assuming. I apologize if I came off blunt. It doesn't matter where your alliance lies. The only thing that matters is that you saved my life." She bit her tongue. More importantly, you saved Michael's life.

"Like I said before, this little guy here saved you. I just provided a roof and some water," Lincoln said. He folded his old leathery hands and rested his weight on his knees. His movements were slow and comfortable. "What's your name, girl?"

"Michele," Veronica said.

"That's a nice name. What about your real one?" Lincoln said. He leaned back in his chair; let the wicker crack under his weight.

Silence, and then, "Veronica," she admitted.

"Veronica, eh? That's better. I like old names. Betsey here," he pointed at the robot, "got an old name, too. From the moment I laid eyes on ol' Betsey, I knew she was a Betsey. I overheard y'all talking so I know you have my name, but allow me to kindly introduce myself. I'm Lincoln Daggersmith."

His voice carried a heavy sense of pride as he stated his name. Veronica wished she could place the name, his history, anything, but nothing came. When Lincoln saw that Veronica didn't recognize him, he frowned.

"No bother," he muttered. "We fed you about a liter and a half of filtered water. Your robot here was given a quart of oil too and a thorough joint cleaning from my associates-"

"You didn't harm him, did you?" Veronica interrupted. She looked to Bomb Boy, "They didn't hurt you, right?"

"I'm fine," Bomb Boy said.

Lincoln loudly cleared his throat. "If I may continue. I broke my back to carry you approximately twenty feet. Your weight, I estimate, is about one hundred and fifteen pounds, your robot here is about two thirds that. At these estimates, we've expended an extra half ounce of mint per ten miles that we've been traveling. Mint ain't easy to come by out here. When I add up all costs for materials and labors, I'd say you owe me around two hundred and ten civil credits. Would you say that's an accurate price, Betsey?"

"Yes, Lincoln."

"Thank you, dear."

"I'm sorry," Veronica began, "But I don't have that many credits on me."

A wide, wet smile grew on Lincoln's face. He leaned back further on his chair and let his folded hands rest on his bony stomach. "You have fifty credits on your persons," he said.

A chill ran down Veronica's spine. She touched under her left breast, where she kept her money, imagining the old man's hand as it fondled her unconscious body, fingering her pockets and counting her credits.

"You can pay me the fifty credits, but you'll have to work off the rest of your debt," Lincoln said in a thick voice. He showed more teeth, skin creasing as his smile grew wider. She could see the spit shine on his teeth and the sides of his mouth, as he salivated like a hungry dog.

He took my gun. I'll have to play along, Veronica thought.

"I'm afraid there isn't much I know how to do," Veronica said.

"You lie so well. That's a skill that can get you far," Lincoln said. "I'm sure it has. But let's be frank, Veronica, I'm a simple man with simple pleasures. I see what I like, I take it. If I can't take it, I buy it. There is one thing around here that I've been in want of since the fire rain started."

Veronica felt a large lump in her throat as she swallowed. Lincoln's eyes focused on her curves, undressing her body.

"What do you want?" she said. She felt his eyes burn holes in her dress.

"What every warm blooded man wants," Lincoln said. "Good cooking."
Chapter 19

Veronica had to get beside Bomb Boy. She needed to touch him and feel that he was in her protection. As she hurried to the robot's side, she looked to Lincoln long enough to see him shrug. He tried to push himself up from his chair. Giving up, he said, "Betsey, dear. Come help daddy up."

Betsey strode towards Lincoln as smooth as a fin across water. She bent over to help him up, her monstrous cleavage exposed through the conservative cut of her dress. The large white smile reappeared on Lincoln's face as he stared deeply into her breasts. Betsey took the old man's hands into her seemingly delicate ones, and pulled his weight off the chair.

"Thank you," Veronica whispered to Bomb Boy. She stole a moment to plant her lips on the top of his head.

"You'd have done the same for me," Bomb Boy said. His hand came up, searching, and Veronica took it and pressed it against her chest.

"We're going to be okay. Don't you worry," she whispered.

With a mighty grunt, Lincoln was on his feet. The old man placed his hands beneath his hunch and leaned back, spine cracking. He grabbed his arm and pulled it, stretching out his muscles, and then rolled his neck, cracking the bones as he did.

"You two come a long way?" asked Lincoln. Veronica didn't offer a reply.

"I've been from the Woods of Arden to Ellington," Lincoln said. "I've seen the new mountains and the spaces where the old lakes used to be. I walked on the ruins of Jefferson, Libson, Jamesburg; you name the city, I've inhaled its ashes. This old caravan probably crawled across every square inch of this country. I've seen kids born, kids die. I've seen things I would have never thought I'd see ten years ago."

"A lot has changed," Veronica said.

"Yes, it has," Lincoln agreed. He placed his arm around Betsey, got intimately close to her. "Help me outside, ol' Betsey. I want Veronica and her robot to meet the boys."

Lincoln and Betsey led them into the hallway and towards the old aluminum door. Veronica noted the slouch in Lincoln's shoulder and the way he dragged his foot as he walked. She wondered if a wound had taken away use of his leg, or if age or a stroke had left his left side weak.

"Huh, my manners must have gone to shit," Lincoln said. "I've talked with your robot the whole time, but never got its name."

"His name is Michael," Veronica told him.

"Michael, eh? He's a good robot. Never saw that model before. Must have cost you an arm and a leg," Lincoln said.

"I got him for a good price," she replied. "He belonged to an old water transporter who passed away shortly after the Libson bombing. His daughter sold off the robot to help pay for the funeral arrangements."

She paused for just a moment, studied Lincoln's movements to see if she could distinguish any suspicion.

"You call it a 'him.' That's cute," Lincoln said.

Relief, he bought the story.

"We've become very close. He's all I have left," Veronica said.

Lincoln pulled himself off Betsey, grabbed the door's handle, and pulled it with all of his might. He let out a pained groan that was masked by the rushing winds outside. Dark red light spilled into the caravan, painting the ornate carpet a deeper red.

"Come on, let's go. Chop chop," Lincoln called back as he hobbled out into the dimmed light.

"Lincoln hates when ash gets on the carpet," Betsey said in his defense.

Veronica placed her hand on the small of Bomb Boy's back and pushed him along. He looked up at her, his bright yellow eyes blinking in flashes.

"It's okay," she assured him, and they walked out of the caravan and into the small sunroom outside.

The sunroom felt tight with all four inside. Lincoln leaned against the wall, slid down to pick up his old ashy boots and pulled them on. Veronica saw this as her cue to put her boots on, and did so.

"We got about two and a half hours before the winds get bad," Lincoln said. "So we better make this quick."

"Make what quick?" Veronica said, afraid to hear the answer.

Lincoln replied with a wrinkly white smile, and pulled the sunroom's door open. He led the group down old metal stairs long stained by ash.

Veronica surveyed her surroundings, but didn't recognize anything. Ahead of them was a raised lump of land, a pimple on the surface of the earth. The curves of the hill reminded Veronica of the grassy knoll where she and Michael had spent lazy summer nights. In that moment, she could feel the touch of the grass between her fingers; feel Michael's warm lips touch hers.

She shook away the memory, angry that she even allowed the thought to come. She needed to be strong now.

"What is this place?" she asked Lincoln.

"Astor Commons. Bustling little settlement. Its population grew five percent in the last quarter. Makes you hopeful," Lincoln said.

Where does the new population come from? Veronica thought. Wanderers, army deserters, babies.

In the distance, Veronica saw three small figures dressed in long, black cloaks walk around the corner of the mound. Through her training, she noticed slight oddities in the men's walk. Heavy on the left foot. Right arm guarding their faces, left arm stiff at their sides. They must have been carrying pistols on their left thighs. The figures turned and disappeared into the mouth of the commons.

"Are we here to pick up supplies?" Veronica asked.

Lincoln let out a short, abrupt laugh. "From Astor?" He laughed again. "Hell no. I wouldn't take anything from this shit hole if they gave it to me for free. I'm just here to conduct a little business." He tapped something in his pocket and smiled at Veronica.

It was hard to make out through his baggy clothing, but Veronica could see the outline of something long and cylindrical fastened to Lincoln's thigh.

"Were those men with you?" she asked.

"Hmph. That's right, they are. How'd you know?" Lincoln asked, and before she could answer he said, "You got some good eyes on you, Veronica. Let's go. Give them some space, though."

An prickly chill crawled up her back. She wished that Lincoln wouldn't smile the way he did. That smile spoke of ill content; she could feel it. Something seemed very wrong. If only Veronica had her gun.

Lincoln and Betsey took the lead, Lincoln still being helped along by Betsey. They walked towards the mouth of the commons, and once ten feet ahead of them, Bomb Boy pulled on Veronica's arm to follow.

Veronica glanced around her surroundings once more, understanding why Bomb Boy pulled her. The Astor Commons were surrounded by an endless expanse of leveled, ashy earth. The remains of homes and cars revealed themselves as lumps of charred black against the burnt ground. To flee in any one direction would put them in a wasteland with no resources. She knew that to escape would mean to forfeit her life.

Then a thought: "Do you still have your credits?"

"Yes," Bomb Boy said.

"I'm going to need them," Veronica said.

Bomb Boy bent down, reaching for his feet, and slid a hidden door on his right foot open. His metal hand dipped in, retrieving a small roll of credits. Veronica took the roll and peeled away the first bill, and handed the rest back to Bomb Boy.

"Keep this safe. Don't let anyone have it. You might need it in an emergency," Veronica said.

Bomb Boy nodded.

Huts made of earthen colored fabrics were erected over an open space. High walls of dirt, ash, and whatever wreckage was at hand surrounded the settlement, and a flat tarp was pulled taut overhead to keep the wind out. Lights reflected off the blue tarp, painting the settlement with a calming glow. Veronica marveled at the structures; they looked so delicate, so poorly made, and yet they withstood the weather.

"Here!" she heard Lincoln shout. He stood at the outskirts of the settlement, waving his curled, arthritic hand over his head.

Veronica pulled Bomb Boy close, guarding him with a protective arm as they walked toward Lincoln.

"We've never been in this settlement before," Veronica said. "Is it okay if we explore?"

"Not much to see," Lincoln said.

"Are there any stores close by? Perhaps I can buy food to prepare for later," Veronica said.

"Yeah, okay. You can do that. There's a general store along the eastern wall. Here are some credits to cover a meal. Don't spend them anywhere else, got it? We have to move fast here, though, so be quick about it," Lincoln said.

"We will be," Veronica said.

"I'm serious, woman. If you're not done in ten minutes, I'm gonna look for you," Lincoln said.

Calm, stay calm, Veronica thought. No one had ever talked to her like that. She placed her other arm around Bomb Boy for strength. Stay calm for Michael. You need to see him through this.

"Ten minutes," Veronica said with bite in her voice.

She took Bomb Boy's hand and pulled him quickly alongside her. "Come, Michael."

It was difficult to tell the tents apart; they were all made of the same fabric and had all been stained the same earthy color. The methods in which they had been built were the same and though having a seemingly primitive quality to their construction, they all appeared very sound and secure.

The people, Veronica thought. Where are all the people?

There was an eerie silence within the settlement. The tarp overhead had been strung so tight that it did not waver or crack in the wind. There was no sound of movement, no sound of talking. It unnerved Veronica, caused an uneasy feeling to creep through her.

"Is there anyone around?" Veronica asked.

"Yes," Bomb Boy said, his yellow eyes flashing. "They're all over."

Veronica paused, took a moment to close her eyes and lent all of her concentration to her sense of hearing. There, she thought. She could hear the light padding of feet against the burnt, crunchy ground. The awareness of another brought some comfort, but what did it mean? She hadn't spoken with a barren dweller in years. How the years must have changed them; distorted them.

As they walked past a quiet tent, Veronica saw something move from the corner of her eye. Looking away, she saw the three men in black cloaks sweep across the ground and disappear behind some tents. Veronica paid attention to the way they displaced their weight on their left legs as they walked. Lincoln's men. She continued to walk, eyes trained on the space where the men had disappeared. She spotted movement in the slit of a tent as she walked by. It was a quick, frantic movement; someone wishing to advert spying eyes.

"They're hiding," Veronica whispered to Bomb Boy. It must be because of Lincoln. What has he done to these people? What is he planning to do?

She took Bomb Boy's metal hand within her own and hurried towards a large tent built into the side of the settlement's wall. Aside from the tent's sheer size, a faded, circular piece of wood hung over its door.

As Veronica pushed aside the tent's flap, the aromas of spices and leather overwhelmed her. The inside of the tent was quaint and homey. Dirty pelts and animal heads hung along either side of the wall. A brownish red carpet had been laid out along the floor and was beginning to turn white from constant use. Tables of all sorts: wooden, plastic, picnic, and dining room, were positioned around the store with their wears presented on pelts of what might have been dogs.

Veronica felt the dead animals' eyes upon her, knew that her presence was known.

A familiar clicking sound came from deep within the tent.

Shick-shick.

Veronica froze, her eyes searching in a hurry. She found what her training had called for; a table that was just thick enough to catch shotgun spray. With a quick kick, she sent the table on its side and pulled Bomb Boy onto the floor beside her. The fear and adrenaline numbed her body and sent pins down her neck. She could only feel Bomb Boy heavy against her, his face pressed against her chest, feeling the quick beats of her heart.

"We're not here to cause any trouble," Veronica called out.

She heard someone stir, the clanks of a flimsy shotgun being moved around. Veronica took a chance and glanced over the side of the table. A man stood up from his chair at the far end of the tent, shotgun aimed at the table. He looked like an old leather shoe in dire need of a shine. Two eyes were half hidden by sulking eyebrows, a pouted under-lip protruded out too far. Puffs of white hair did what they pleased on top of his head.

"Ain't never seen you before," the man grunted.

"Is this how you treat all the newcomers in this settlement?" Veronica said.

"Ain't no newcomers who aren't first announced."

"We just came here to purchase some items."

"Looks like you're traveling light. What do you got to trade? I'll give you a good deal if you're here to trade that robot of yours," the old man said.

Veronica could hear him place the shotgun down on his counter and felt it safe to stand up. The bullet is still in the chamber, she thought.

"He's not for trade," she said, holding Bomb Boy by his hand. She scooted him behind her for protection, should the shop keep decide to whirl his gun at them. "I do have credits, though."

The old man's eyes widened, his drooping eyelids lifting to almost expose the entire white of his eyes. "Where'd you get your hands on them?" he asked.

Veronica could feel his eyes absorb every feature about her; her eyes, her hair, her lips, the curves of her body. And though a man in the fort would look at her in relish, and undress her in their fantasies, this old shop keep held his suspicions.

"Where are you from?" he asked.

"We've traveled from the north," she said.

"But from where?" he asked.

"I don't have an allegiance with any army, if that's what you're asking. I really don't want any trouble and I don't have much time to get supplies," Veronica said.

"Leaving quick, eh? We don't get many people coming and going here except for the bandits and the mint dealers. Which one does that make you?" the shop keep said.

Bandits. Veronica thought about the long items that Lincoln's men concealed. Would she hear gunfire soon?

"I'm neither. I'm just traveling," Veronica said.

The old shop keep's brow quivered. He picked up his shotgun and placed it out of sight beneath his counter. "Where are you going?"

"You ask an awful lot of questions," Veronica said.

"You give shit answers," the shop keep said. "Like I said, we don't get many people here. 'Specially not those kick tables over. And just look at you. Looks like you've been in the sands for a day."

"I try to keep clean," she said.

The shop keep let out a short, hoarse laugh. "We all try to keep clean. Hard thing to do when the water comes out like mud. No, you look the way girls looked before the firebombs. You got water in your skin. Got shine in your hair."

Veronica tried to divert his attention and looked at the produce that was stacked up on one of the tables. She found some muddied up roots and what may have been lettuce.

"Do you have any meats?" Veronica asked.

"I got a litter of pups out back. Too young to sell, though. And I only sell them to residents," he said.

Veronica nervously calculated time. She had been away from Lincoln for eight minutes. She examined some of the produce and picked up a few pieces at random.

"How much for this?" she asked.

"For credits? I'll give it to you for, uhm... three credits," he said.

"Good. I also need a knife and a good map. Do you have that here?" Veronica asked.

The shop keep reached back under his counter and produced a hooked blade that was black on black. At the base of the black blade were splotches of red, an image of the Droodge symbol that had been smeared and blemished from combat and the elements. Veronica walked over to the shop keep and took the blade into her hand. She placed the blade against her fingernail to test its edge. It was as sharp as it had been on the day it was cast.

"Good steel," Veronica said.

"That's a Droodge knife," the shop keep said. "Droodge are known for their metals and their robots. They don't got anything like that strange robot you have, but I've seen some really sturdy types before."

"How about maps?" Veronica said, cutting the conversation short.

"I wish I knew where you were from, lady," the shop keep said.

"I just need a map," Veronica said.

The shop keep let out a small laugh and then sighed. He walked out from behind the counter, revealing his stained boots and pants, and legs that bowed out. His hand touched his chin, rubbed at the scruff.

"There are plenty of maps, but none of them'll do you any good. The ground keeps shifting." A sad smile formed on his face. "They say the land's getting tired of this war so it's trying to move away." He let out a laugh that was short lived, then looked at Veronica. She set her eyes stone cold.

"I can sell you a few different maps, if you want," he said. "None of them match, none of them actually map out the terrain."

"How much for everything? The food, the knife, and the maps?" Veronica asked.

The shop keep's eyes rolled up at the ceiling as he did some quick math. "I'll give it all to you for twenty five credits."

"Here's thirty. If anyone asks, I didn't buy anything. Got it?"

"Thirty credits...," the shop keep said in disbelief. "Thank you, miss. Thank you. You've got my word."

Veronica quickly concealed her goods. She strapped the knife to her inner thigh and padded her bra and the back of her pants with the maps. After adjusting her chest, she felt comfortable enough to travel.

Veronica could sense a sudden tension within the tent, as if all movement stopped, all sounds quieted, and the air grew heavier. With her back to the tent's entrance, she only had the shop keep's reaction to confirm her feeling. The old man seemed to shrink down within himself, his eyes becoming like olive pits dropped in warm tar. He jerked, but kept his hands on the counter, as if he were too frightened to reach for his shotgun.

He's here, Veronica thought.

"How do you do, Lincoln? Didn't know you were in town," the shop keep said.

Lincoln slouched in the doorway, his weight leaning on an erect Betsey. Veronica noticed his exhaustion, and how Betsey's "skin" appeared to glisten, as if she were sweating.

"Don't give me that shit. You know my schedule damn well," Lincoln said. There was steel in his voice, a flicker of annoyance in his brow.

"I hope you didn't keep my associate here with that mouth of yours," Lincoln said.

"She's with you?" the shop keep said. He shook his head, "No! No, of course not, Lincoln. She was going on her way. Tell him you were on your way."

Veronica lifted up the produce, showed Lincoln. "We were just leaving now, actually."

"I got a strict schedule to abide by!" Lincoln barked. "Every second counts. Let's get going... Now!" With that, Lincoln turned and, with surprising youth, stomped out of the tent.

Veronica took Bomb Boy by his hand and followed behind. She stopped briefly when she heard the shop keep's voice, "I knew you came here with Lincoln."

She paused.

"You're from the Outer Quadrants, aren't you? That's why you look so clean and got that strange robot with you. That's why you want them maps." There was pure relish in his voice. "The crazy old coot finally found it. I knew he would."

Veronica tugged on Bomb Boy's hand and they hurried back to the caravan.
Chapter 20

The blue tarps over Astor Commons brightened as Veronica and Bomb Boy looked back. Veronica couldn't tell if there was actually a power source beneath it, or if her eyes were readjusting to the outside light.

Then they saw smoke puff out of small holes in the tarp.

Fires, Veronica thought, but she wondered about the nature of the smoke, whether it was from a pillage that had gone unnoticed to her, or if it were from burning mint.

"You must be a damned good cook if you could make a meal with that," Lincoln said, looking at the contents in Veronica's hands.

"I'll make a stew for you," she said. "We can enjoy a nice dinner when the day's done."

Lincoln's leather lips split his face, exposing long, white teeth. "That real nice," he said. His voice had a gurgle to it, as if there was phlegm caught in his throat. The sound made Veronica's skin crawl.

As the group walked towards the caravan, Veronica saw the three figures, clad in black robes, walking towards her. Shadows consumed their faces and hands. They walked confidently and steady footed on the uneven sands. Veronica noticed a lightness to their step, the tubes beneath their robes no longer there.

"These your men?" Veronica called to Lincoln, knowing the answer.

"That's right," Lincoln said, turning back.

"What kind of business do you run?" Veronica asked.

"We keep the world running," Lincoln said.

\---

The caravan's engine awoke with a low hum, causing the inside to vibrate, and the wood to thunder as it shook. Veronica and Bomb Boy retreated to the back room. She closed the door to steal a moment alone, and fell to her knees, wrapping her arms around Bomb Boy's neck. It felt like so long since she had last held him.

He allowed her to kiss his face, yellow eyes blinking as she did.

"The old man knows the barrens well," Veronica told him. "I think he may even know the way out of the country."

"Nobody knows that," Bomb Boy said.

"Nobody at the fort knew. These men have survived the war and the weather. They are rebuilding society. It would be very foolish to underestimate what these people are possible of doing," Veronica said.

Bomb Boy blinked, nodding his head. "You're right, I didn't think of it that way."

"We'll get as much information from these men as we can tonight during dinner. I want you to stay with me at all times and stay very quiet," Veronica said.

"I will."

"That's a good boy."

At that moment, Veronica could feel the detonation button in her pocket dig into her skin. It felt as heavy as the world, too heavy to carry. She would sooner bury the button a thousand feet underground or throw it high into space than to have it on her body, but for a task as severe as this, she didn't trust the earth or the stars. She would carry the burden until the day she died.

The door burst opened and Lincoln entered. An unlit cigar hung in his mouth, bouncing in his lips as he spoke. "I don't like closed doors."

"We were just getting ready for supper," Veronica said.

"There ain't nothing you can do to prepare for dinner that you couldn't do with the door open," Lincoln snarled. Though the cigar was unlit, it's aroma still filled the room.

"You hungry, boy?" Lincoln said. He let out a hoarse laugh and turned his back to Veronica and Bomb Boy. "I want you in the kitchen in the next two minutes to start making food, you got me?"

"I understand," she said, suppressing the anger in her voice.

"Good," Lincoln pointed absently to the door at the right. "That's the boys' room. There's some kitchenware and a countertop to work on."

Lincoln made a subtle gesture with his finger, beckoning Veronica to follow. She walked behind him, smelling the intense scent of the cigar. "The robot stays with me. I want to learn more about him," Lincoln said.

"No, he doesn't leave my side," Veronica said.

Lincoln flashed white teeth that delicately held the cigar in place. He pulled the cigar out of his mouth and nodded. "You did it again," Lincoln said.

"Did what?"

"Called it a 'he.'" He placed the cigar back into his mouth and pushed the door to the boys' room open. A twisted finger pointed inside the room. "That's where you're going."

"My robot is coming with me," Veronica said.

"It's not. If you want, I can drop you two off right here. From the look of your skin, I can tell that you were in the barrens for less than a half-week. We're a full week's walk from the next settlement. You think you can make it?" Lincoln said.

"He doesn't leave my side," Veronica said. Lincoln flashed his white teeth again. "Why do you think that's so funny?"

The door to Lincoln's room opened and Betsey appeared. She sheepishly smiled at Veronica and Lincoln, and slipped into the hall. Veronica didn't know what to make of it, nor did Lincoln. She watched as Betsey's silky smooth hands ran down Lincoln's arm, took his hand. She bent over to his ear and whispered, "Just let them be together."

Lincoln bashfully looked down, and placed his cigar in his back pocket. "Okay," he said. To Veronica, "I want my food to be ready within the half hour."

With that, he turned and entered his room with Betsey, closing the door behind them.

There was an allure there. Veronica could see it. Betsey had a sort of power over Lincoln. It was only a matter of using that power to her advantage.
Chapter 21

The boys' room was unlike the other parts of the caravan. It favored cold steel, ash, and grime. The floor was stained with footprints that had covered each tile and the sheets looked as if they had been unchanged since the start of the war. Pillars were positioned within the room and hammocks hung from them.

They expect me to prepare food in a place like this, Veronica thought.

When she noticed the shapes move, she jumped in a start. Figures shifted, camouflaged darkness against the ashy black room.

"I didn't see you there," Veronica said to them. She touched Bomb Boy on his shoulder, moved in front of him as if to act like a shield. She pressed her legs together and felt her knife against her thighs.

The figures shook, allowing the caked up ash and sand to drop off their robes. One by one, their hands came up to pull away their hoods. The first face was thin and white, with an upturned nose, flared nostrils, and eyes as green as spring leaves. The next had the same upturned nose, yet fuller. He had a pencil thin mustache that grew over his lip and a white face, except for his cheeks, which were rosy, as if he had been slapped. The last had small, hard eyes, thick brows that looked like birds' nests on a furrowed forehead. It was he who spoke to Veronica first, in a harsh tone.

"Why are you here?" he snarled.

"Lincoln told me I should cook you all dinner for tonight," she said.

"Tomas, you must mind your manners. When was the last time you've been in the presence of such a lovely woman," said the one with the rosy cheeks. "Please don't mind him. He's been in the ash too long and I fear it has gotten into his brain and clouded his judgment. My name is Spencer. These are my friends, my brothers, and my colleagues, Franklin and Tomas."

Spencer bowed to Veronica, while Franklin nodded modestly, his green eyes looking to the floor only briefly before finding Veronica's again.

"My name is Veronica. This is my robot, Michael," she said. Bomb Boy bashfully waved before retreating behind Veronica.

"What a charming little thing," Spencer said. "I can't say I've ever seen that make before. Who's the manufacturer?"

"I'm actually not sure. I bought him in the barrens for cheap, no questions asked," Veronica said.

"A heavy loss for the previous owner, I'm sure," Spencer said, adding, "If he were alive, of course. A lot of robot owners die. It isn't that uncommon to see robots wandering around in the barrens, searching for purpose. Lincoln says there are even packs of orphaned robots that travel in the desert."

Veronica imagined what would happen if she were to pass away and leave Bomb Boy alone in the barrens. The thought of him alone and confused in an endless expanse of ash and desolation crushed her.

"I'm his new owner now, and I'll make sure nothing happens to him," Veronica said.

"That's a good fire in you, Veronica. That's the fire that keeps people breathing," Spencer said.

"I've seen the ash put out many fires," Tomas said in a low growl.

"You won't act civil, then, is it? This woman is providing you with a warm meal," Spencer said.

"As she should," Tomas said. He pushed himself off the wall and quickly strode past Veronica, making sure that his robe hit her upon passing. His smell filled her nostrils: sour, dirty, smoky. The scent nearly gagged her. As he left the room, he made a spitting sound and slammed the door shut.

Franklin's leafy eyes danced up at Veronica, then at Spencer. "I really hate when he yells," he said.

"Yes, but we must not let him get to us. Children come in all shapes and sizes, but they whine all the same," Spencer said. "Please accept my apologies on behalf of my brother, Veronica and Michael."

Veronica nodded and started towards a small metallic table in the corner of the room. The table was riddled with hatchet indentations and specks of ash. Barbarians cook and eat here, Veronica thought. She set her vegetables onto the table and searched for a knife to clean the food.

"Under the counter," Spencer said, as if reading her mind. Veronica looked below and found a large metal carrier. She undid its latch and opened its top, revealing an assortment of culinary tools.

She spotted knives that were much larger than the one strapped to her thigh.

"Thank you," Veronica said. "So where is this caravan heading?"

"Next stop is Jacksonville. Then we're going to Dongan's Pass, and then Black's Region," Spencer said.

Black's Region, Veronica thought. The largest Skallion base in the country. The shock of it sent her heart racing. She tried to fight the adrenaline and slow her breathing, but even then Spencer could tell something was amiss. He eyed her suspiciously, his eyes widening slightly every time hers' twitched, every time her cheeks trembled.

"Where was it you said you were from?" Spencer asked.

"I never said."

"You have the Droodge look to you, there's no doubting that," Spencer said.

"And if I was?"

Spencer showed her his palms and exaggerated a shrug. "We don't take alliances. A credit's a credit, no matter whose hand it's paid from," he said. "I'll tell you this much, though, as far as I'm concerned, you're one of the crew. I look out for my crew. You won't have to worry about anything when we're in Skallion territory."

Maybe not me, but Michael will, Veronica thought. She looked down at the robot, saw how small and innocent he stood. His eyes flashed nervously from Spencer to Veronica.

"Veronica..." he said.

"We'll be fine. We can trust these men," Veronica said.

Spencer flashed a modest smile and politely nodded at Veronica, who returned the gesture. She then diverted her attention to the table and began preparing the food.

All the while, she felt the knife's weight against her thigh, and imagined the faces Lincoln and his men would make if she ever had to stick them with it.

Chapter 22

The air tasted grainy like ash. The bland flavor was inescapable, even in sleep, and even in the rare instances when they found a pool of water to drink from. The air dried out the men's tongues and left them in dire want of fluids. But finding no source of water, they decided to rest.

"We have to keep our eyes peeled," Leone said. They searched until they found shelter from the winds beside a burnt farmhouse. Leone placed his fingers against the black husk of a wall and looked at his stained fingertips.

"Dale, you get first watch," he said.

"I'm tired, boss," Dale said.

"We're all tired."

"Let Clive get first watch," Dale said.

"Fuck that," Clive said.

"Dale, you've got first watch, damn it. All right?" Leone said.

Cursing, Dale threw the strap of his gun over his shoulder and climbed up the house. He settled on a sturdy beam and looked out into the haze of ash. He had the best eyes in the bunch and was always getting called for watch duty.

The men cooked some dust-encrusted meat over a fire on a spit. Leone sat by the edge of the flames and watched the pink meat show through where the dirt cracked.

"Cut off a piece and let Dale get the choice meat," he said to Feathers.

Feathers grinned widely. "After he refused orders like that? Beside, Croner gets choice meat. He's the one who killed the damn thing."

"Orders? What orders? We're not army men no more. There's no orders to give," Leone said.

"There are orders. Army men or not, you're the one stringing this lot together. You call the shots. For now, anyways. I just don't think you should be rewarding stubbornness"

"We're brothers in arms and fugitives together. Why we do things for one another is deeper than any military affiliation."

Feathers kept grinning and shrugged. "You tell Croner he ain't getting choice meat."

As night came, the black sky darkened to a starless pit that was as pitch as tar. The men pulled wood off the farmhouse and used it to build a fire. Eventually they went to sleep, however lightly. Jobs, who had the night watch, was perched up on top of the house. The boys said he had eyes like an owl, and it might even be true, so he would always pull night watch and have half his wits during the day.

Leone couldn't sleep. He thought on Feathers' words. You're the one who calls the shots. For now, anyways. The words didn't sit right with him. He sat up and walked away from the fire and his sleeping men.

"Psst," Jobs whispered down. "You okay?"

"Just gotta piss," Leone said.

He ventured out towards a forest of burnt trees and found a small shack in the woods. He walked into the dark shack and placed his hand against the wall to feel his way through. The place had been ransacked and anything useful was long gone. On the counter were some dirty towels and a broken radio. There were utensils, broken plates, and other odd bits on the floor that crunched under Leone's boots.

He walked out into the living area and sat down on a soiled couch. The smell of mildew was powerful. The walls and floor ached for light but received none.

He laid back on the couch and put his feet up and thought he might be able to get some sleep.

Why is it that I can sleep easy when I'm not around my men, he thought. 'You're the one who calls the shots. For now, anyways.' Will someone get pissed at me and try to kill me in my sleep? Take my spot as leader? No, it doesn't make sense. I'm fair. I love them and they love me.

And yet he felt his eyes grow heavier and, be it the softness of the pillow, the walls around him, or the distance between him and his men, he felt comfortable.

He wasn't sure what woke him up in the middle of the night. He sat up in a start and looked around but could see nothing but blackness around him. The wind howled outside and crashed against the front of the shack.

His men would be mostly shielded from the winds, but Jobs wouldn't be so lucky.

If he dozed off on the roof, the winds may have knocked him down, Leone thought. He got off the couch and felt his way out of the shack. The wind wailed loudly.

He left the shack and fought the wind and when he returned to camp, he looked up at the roof but did not see Jobs. The fire that the men slept around had died in the wind. In the pure dark, Leone could not see who laid sleeping.

Jobs is probably fine, he thought. He'd know better than to nod off up there.

Leone considered waking his men to tell them about the shack in the woods. He felt guilty for not telling them earlier, weighing the pros and cons of having his men sleep with him. He wondered why Feathers' words affected him so.

As he turned back towards the windy darkness, he froze as he saw gleaming eyes staring out in the distance. Two at first, then six, then eight. More were coming still. The eyes shone like sunlit amber and would disappear and reappear in different spots.

They were coming closer.

Leone walked backwards until his shoes hit the stones of the fire pit.

"Feathers," he called out, but his voice could hardly be heard over the wind.

"Feathers!" he said again. "Jobs!"

The things in the darkness came rushing towards him, their shining eyes bobbing up and down as they sprinted.

Leone kicked the nearest man towards him with his shoe to wake him. It was too dark to see his face, but from the bulk of him, Leone thought it could be Sisal. Sisal turned over and looked up at Leone with sleeping eyes.

"Get up, wake the others," Leone said.

Just then the eyes were upon him and he saw long white teeth flashing in front of his face. The claws dug into his chest and knocked him onto his back. He held the beast by the dry, naked skin of its neck and held it back as its jaws snapped in his face.

The beast was strong. A wolf or a mountain cat. Low growls beneath the high whooshes of wind.

Just beyond, he saw two of the things jump on Sisal and bite down on his arms and shoulders. His screams were but a whisper in the wind. He could only imagine that the other men were being attacked in their sleep.

He cursed himself for not being able to reach the rifle slung on his back. The beast snapped and bit Leone's forearm and wrenched its head back and forth. The skin ripped and the black blood flowed rich.

"Fuck you!" he screamed.

With his free hand, he grabbed it by its protruding ribs and knocked it onto its back, pinning it down with his weight. He reached around, pulled his knife out of the back of his belt and cut into the beast's stomach. He drove the blade up until its jaws released his arm.

The blood poured down his arm and dripped off his fingertips. For a moment he thought the wound would kill him -- if not now, then eventually -- and then he realized that it didn't matter. What mattered were his men.

He ran to a sleeping body and shook it awake. He saw it was Feathers.

"Wake the fuck up!" he yelled. "Get a fire going now!"

His eyes glazed, his mind in half a haze, Feathers nodded and crawled to the fire pit. He tried to ignite the burnt wood.

Sisal had got it bad and was screaming when Leone got to his side. One SOTS had him by the left shoulder and the other had his right leg. They pulled Sisal as if they meant to tear him in two.

Too dark to take a shot with his rifle, Leone drove his knife into one of the beast's back and then went for the one by Sisal's legs. The beast released the leg and showed Leone its red, soaked teeth. Bits of meat dripped out of its mouth. It lowered its head and pounced on Leone.

He tried to catch the beast but the force was too strong and soon Leone laid on the ground wrestling it. The beast bit down on Leone's blood covered hand. It wrenched its head. He thrust his blade up but missed, and tried again and cut it on its shoulder. Then he went to work stabbing it repeatedly in its side until it finally keeled over.

Sparks ignited the burnt wood in the fire pit and eventually there was some light. Leone could see that Dale had one of the SOTS pinned down on the ground with his arms and was driving his knee into its head. Tyler was bloody around the neck with two red knives in his hand, backing towards the fire with a dead SOTS at his feet.

The light was just what Leone needed to hit his marks. He took his rifle in his hands and lined up his shots.

He steadied his breath, moved his rifle methodically.

He got one SOTS that was wrestling with Bill in its hindquarters and Bill finished it off with a rock to the head. Croner had one at his feet that he kept away with powerful kicks, and Leone shot it in the neck. Feathers took a flaming branch and shoved it into the face of the last one, and Leone sent a bullet through its spine.

A sense of stillness fell over the camp; a silent tension. The ground was littered with dead wolves. Their fur was missing in clumps that revealed scratched and scarred skin from exposure to the winds and sand.

Through it all, Jobs didn't even wake up.

Leone went to Jobs and hit him hard on the chest. When he woke up, Leone told him to help carry Sisal.

"There's a shack not a hundred yards from here. We're sleeping there tonight," Leone said.

He helped Jobs carry Sisal and the men ventured further into the darkness.
Chapter 23

The caravan came to a rest atop an ashy hill. Tomas watched the fiery red sun dip beneath the black clouds of the horizon and disappear. How he yearned to be like the sun, to vanish in a great blaze and escape this ashy hellhole.

"Why won't Lincoln just leave this place," he muttered in disgust, though he knew the answer.

Money.

The desire for money burned in Tomas just as it did in Lincoln. Maybe even more so. It was an insatiable thing, an eternal longing. Money was power and power wielded the guns. And in the burnt land, the law was written in bullets and blood. He often wondered when he would have enough money, but the answer never came to him.

Tomas slid the caravan's back compartment open and pulled down the stepladder. He climbed up, taking care not to slip on the ash that had settled on the steps. A quick glance revealed the compartment's contents: mint harvesting equipment, the shovels, extra maps, pumps, generators, and lights. A grill was tucked along the corner of the compartment.

Tomas sighed, then cursed.

"Who the fuck organizes this place," he said, and then the answer came. "Franklin should be doing this grunt work, not me!"

Tomas reached for a light on a tripod and pulled it out of his way. He had misjudged his anger and pulled the light too hard. It tilted on its tripod and came crashing down. The glass shattered and covered the compartment's floor.

Tomas cursed and kicked the fallen light. Its replacement would come out of his pay, no doubt.

"God damn you, Franklin!" Tomas barked. He kicked the light out of his way.

Rummaging through the supplies became torturous. It began to eat away at what little patience Tomas had. The equipment was heavy, and only got heavier the further into the compartment he went. Sweat began to form.

All this for cooking supplies, he thought. He spit onto the equipment. This better be a fine meal.

With a mighty yank, he had freed a cauldron from its twisted entrapment and carried it out. The work reddened his cheeks, a side effect of his heavy labor and boiling blood.

If Veronica had never come, he wouldn't be doing all of this useless work. Tomas could not understand why Lincoln had taken her in. She was attractive, yes, but Lincoln's carnal pleasures were easily satisfied by his robot, no matter how adamantly he defended his celibacy.

Lincoln is showing this girl off like a breeder dangles meat in front of his dogs. This is a contest or a reward for our labors. Or perhaps he put the woman here to pit us against each other? Tomas thought. Spencer is certainly the most charming, and Franklin has the best looks. What do I have to offer? He tightened with rage, his thoughts forming quick and hot. This has become a contest to win the girl. If it's a contest he wants, it's a contest he'll get.

\---

The lights generated a low hum. Bright light poured from the lamps, drenching the surroundings with a mint-white hue. Veronica stood before a cauldron, gently stirring its contents over a heavenly flame. She looked at the flame and marveled at how Lincoln could permit the mint to be burn so freely.

Bomb Boy sat beside Betsey, which put Veronica at ease. Though she was a robot, Veronica sensed that she could trust Betsey. She suspected that Betsey was a maternal robot developed to help a wealthy couple raise their children. If that were the case, Betsey's programming called for her to be affectionate to all whom she came in contact with. It certainly showed through her interaction with Bomb Boy.

The brothers sat in a tight circle, while Lincoln stood off to the side, watching everything in silence. Veronica could sense his eyes on her and looked up at him.

"It should be done in a moment," she said.

He nodded and continued to stare at her. She could feel his eyes burning. She felt unease, felt that she should fill the silence.

"You burn a lot of mint," she said.

"We've got enough," he told her.

"A lot of people would kill for this amount of mint."

"They do," Lincoln said. Veronica felt the bite in his voice, and thought back to the long cylindrical tubes that the brothers concealed, and the smoke that appeared over the settlement after they left. They are killers, Veronica thought. They steal mint and kill anyone who stands in their way.

Her mind flashed back to Lincoln's words, "We keep the world running." Nothing added up.

"You know these deserts well, I take it," Veronica said.

"They're my backyard," Lincoln said.

Veronica dipped the ladle into the soup, took a sip.

"He's being modest, of course," Spencer chimed in. "Lincoln knows this land better than he knows his own liver spotted face."

"When you get around like me, it's all you can do is remember," Lincoln said.

"So you've seen this country border to border? I mean, after the war, of course," Veronica said.

"Borders? Ain't no borders," Lincoln grunted.

"There has to be borders," Veronica said.

"Well there ain't none."

"Maybe you just haven't seen them."

Lincoln lit his cigar and took a mouthful of smoke. He arched his head back and blew out a cloud of silver, then studied the red embers at the cigar's edge. He tapped off some ash and watched it get lost at the ash by his feet.

He showed Veronica the cigar, and then placed it back in his mouth.

"Fire changes things, you see. It burns things up, consumes it entirely. Look at this ground. I used to walk with my granddaughter on this ground." He paused, dug his boot deep into the ash and kicked it up. "What makes you think this war didn't start spreading? What makes you think that other countries saw what came of this stupid little civil war and thought, 'Oh, who cares? Let them burn themselves up.' No. Revolution is contagious. They saw what we were doing and they started to develop firebombs. Mantog had diplomatic issues with Crayne for the past five decades, what makes you think they didn't firebomb the shit out of each other?"

"I never heard of any other wars..." Veronica started.

"There are no broadcasts! The towers have been melted down. We're the gossip! We go around and tell people what's what. We're the news, the eyes in the desert," Lincoln shouted. "We see the shit and then we speak the shit."

"So you've seen war beyond the border?" Veronica asked.

Lincoln scoffed. "Border. Everybody always talks about borders. Look down at the ground. Look around you. What do you see? Shit and ash, that's what. Do you recognize any of this?"

Veronica shook her head.

"Exactly. Everyone looks for the border like it's some kind of line in the sand that separates the ash from the green grass. Listen to me right now -- we can be a mile away from the border right now. We could be standing on it. We could be ten miles out of the country right now. No, it's not the border that disappeared, it's the grass. And human decency." Lincoln gathered some spit in his mouth and spat it on the ground. He walked over beside Betsey and sat in a chair. She sat down on his lap and rubbed his leg to calm him down. He was tense all over, but it was most visible in his face: the firm jaw line, the beating temples, the thin lips.

"If you ever mention the Outer Quadrants... no, if you so ever think about it when we're around militants, I'll gut you. You got that?"

Veronica felt a lump in her throat as she tried to swallow. In the heavy silence that followed, Veronica poured soup into some bowls. The ladle tapped against the edge of the bowl and the sound of the metal clinking against glass sounded loud to her sensitive ears. They can probably hear my heart beat in this silence, Veronica thought.

She cleared her throat. "The soup's ready."

She brought Lincoln the first bowl. Lincoln raised a hand and said, "No. My men eat first."

Veronica nodded and brought the soup to the brothers.

It was Tomas' hands that shot up first and took the bowl. "Thanks, doll," he sneered, allowing his hands to grab at the bowl, then grope Veronica's hands, and her wrists. He smiled, showing off teeth that had been blackened by chewing tobacco.

Veronica withdrew her hands, touched her wrists.

"Must you do that?" Spencer said to Tomas.

"She likes it."

"It's quite obvious that she doesn't," Spencer said.

"Ahh," Tomas said. He waved Spencer off , brought the bowl to his lips and sipped down the soup.

Veronica returned to her pot and poured soup into a few more bowls, then distributed them to the brothers and Lincoln. There was silence while they took their first few sips.

"Could use salt," Lincoln said.

"Salt is the last thing you need," said Betsey.

"Don't talk to me like you care about my health," Lincoln jested.

Betsey smiled, and Veronica thought of how well Betsey was made. She had never seen a robot appear so human before. Veronica returned to Bomb Boy and sat beside him. She placed her arm around his shoulder and pulled him closer to her. He felt warm from being out in the sun all day. She imagined what Betsey's skin felt like, and how it would feel on Bomb Boy.

"Where did you get Betsey?" Veronica asked.

Lincoln slurped down his soup and burped. He wiped some dribble off his lip. "Custom made. I had a guy I know do it," he said.

"Where is he?" Veronica asked.

"It doesn't really matter where he is, darling," Lincoln said. "Why do you ask? You looking to trade in yours for a new one?"

Veronica could feel Bomb Boy's hands clutch at her legs.

"No. I would never get rid of him," Veronica said.

She heard someone scoff behind her and turned to see that it was Tomas. "That robot isn't a him. It's an it. It can't think or feel," he said.

"You don't know anything about him," Veronica snapped. She felt herself heat up, and took a few breaths to calm herself down. Keep it calm, Veronica. You're giving them too much.

"She's right about one thing," Spencer said. "We don't know anything about that robot. I can't even spot a serial number anywhere on the thing."

"I never checked for a serial number," Veronica said.

"Why would you? It's not like you would turn it in if you had the chance. That's a good robot," Spencer said.

"He saved my life," Veronica said.

"You love a machine," Franklin said, his voice a whisper beneath the burning flames. "That is strange."

"It's not that strange," Lincoln said. He shoveled down the rest of his soup and allowed his bowl to drop out of his hand and onto the ash. With his legs sprawled far apart, he patted his thigh, inviting Betsey to have a seat on him. She flirtatiously blinked at him, and then sat down, slowly crossing one leg over the other.

Lincoln smiled, showing off his large white teeth.
Chapter 24

In the morning, the caravan's screeching brakes awoke Veronica. The shrieking noise was ear piercing and inescapable. She lifted her head, finding that she was in the back room on the metal table. Everything that happened after the dinner seemed like such a blur, she could hardly remember laying down to go to sleep.

She remembered the way Tomas looked at her the night before with his hungry eyes that made her skin crawl. As she pressed her thighs together, she could feel the knife that she kept between her legs.

A pained stiffness kept her neck and back still. She sat up and her eyes darted to the corner of the room. Bomb Boy stood watching over her.

"How did you sleep?" Bomb Boy asked.

"As well as I could."

"You didn't stir all night."

"I can feel it," Veronica said, stretching her neck.

She swung her legs off the table, walked over to Bomb Boy and kissed him on his forehead.

"Have you heard anything while I was asleep? Do you know why we've stopped?" Veronica asked.

"I overheard Lincoln say that they were doing a run. I'm not sure what that means exactly," Bomb Boy said.

"Me neither."

She pressed her knuckles against the small of her back and leaned back into them, feeling her bones pop in the nicest ways. She almost preferred sleeping out in the barrens, exposed entirely to the elements if not for a dainty tarp that fluttered madly in the harsh winds. But in the caravan, cool, moist air constantly pumped through the ventilation shafts, providing a temperate condition that reminded Veronica of a pre-war spring.

"I want you to stay in this room," Veronica said.

Bomb Boy nodded.

Veronica left the room, closing the door behind her. She moved silently to avoid any attention. She felt the caravan come to a complete halt, and the engines' vibrations became still. She walked out the front door into the bright sunroom and crouched beneath the weathered old window.

She could hear deep voices outside the door. Serious at first, then grumbles and laughter, and then they were serious again. The voices came from all sides, surrounding the caravan. Veronica closed her eyes, trying to pinpoint the different voices to decipher the number of men.

As she closed her eyes and focused her attention to hearing, the voices became crisper and their words took form.

"You gave the stack to Union for a fifth of that," she heard a raspy man say.

"Now let's not start on the wrong foot. I don't like doing business that way." And this was Lincoln. Veronica could hear that demand and confidence controlled his voice.

"Fine," the raspy voice said with abandon. "I'm telling you right now, Lincoln, if I find out that you're dealing to Skallion for a better deal, I won't think twice about putting a bullet through that big head of yours."

A moment of silent tension, and then hearty laughter. Veronica recognized it as Lincoln's. In a thick voice he said, "How long do you really think you'd last if you killed me?" The humor left his tone. "How long do you think it'll take for every mint-loving barren squatter to come find you and rip the skin off your bones?"

"You said you'll sell for 3.50 a pound?" the raspy one said.

"And not a cent less."

"Damn. Let me get 200 pounds then. That's all I can afford."

"You got yourself a deal. Talk to my associates in the back. They'll load up your mint," Lincoln said.

Something clicked in Veronica's head. Yes, of course. He's a mint dealer. Veronica sighed in relief. The tubes that the brothers held beneath their black robes weren't weapons, but mint tubes for individual use. And the smoke that emerged from the settlement wasn't caused by any destructive fire, but rather from burning mint. Being a mint dealer explained the lavish caravan and Lincoln's knowledge of the barrens' landscape.

Veronica pushed herself up off the ashy sunroom floor and supported her weight on the balls of her feet. Curiosity burned within her. She wanted to know whom Lincoln sold the mint to, and how many men were surrounding the caravan. She allowed herself only a glance, and prayed that the men outside wouldn't see her face through the oxidized glass.

She saw the colors red and black. Her breath froze within her throat. It was only a glance, but she had the men's numbers, their outfits, and their equipment branded into her memory. She saw a 250 gallon water distiller in their ranks and rationalized that the troop probably had an officer within its ranks to justify such splendor in the dry barrens. She also noted the armored sandcrawlers. The troop packed enough firepower to render the entire caravan into ash, leaving behind no evidence of a massacre.

She quickly crawled into the caravan and ran into the back room to Bomb Boy.

"What's wrong?" Bomb Boy said.

She ushered him into the corner towards a tall wardrobe. Hiding him would do nothing -- the men would certainly find him within moments. But, placing Bomb Boy into the wardrobe might buy her some time.

The knife strapped on her thigh felt heavier than ever. Veronica did a quick scan of the room; it was a ten by ten space, fairly cluttered. That was good. Veronica was efficient with a knife in close quarters.

"There are ten sandcrawlers outside with about fifteen Droodge soldiers to a crawler," Veronica said. "There intentions may simply be to purchase mint, but I don't want to take any chances."

She took the detonation box that had been pressed deep against her skin and handed it to Bomb Boy. "I want you to hide this on you for the time being."

Bomb Boy nodded and placed the detonation box into his foot compartment. His eyes whined and his processors clicked in a fury.

"Fifteen armed men, aged 21-45, with heavy experience in marksmanship, close quarters combat, and tactical assault against one officer armed with a knife," he said.

Veronica opened the old wardrobe and pushed aside the four pressed outfits that hung stiffly on their hangers.

"Come," Veronica said, pulling Bomb Boy by his small hand.

"I don't want you to fight them," Bomb Boy said.

"They're Droodge. If they find us, we're as good as dead."

"But still."

"Just get into the wardrobe now. We'll talk later."

"No, Veronica, I don't want you to fight them if they come in. Please, you have to promise me you won't fight."

"Okay, I promise," Veronica said, but Bomb Boy knew she was lying.

"Please! Please!" he begged, stamping his foot. "Please don't leave me alone."

She felt a flutter in her chest. Her arms rose and wrapped around the small robot, and she whispered, "I'll never leave you. I swear it."

She released Bomb Boy when they heard a bang outside of the room. She pushed him into the wardrobe and closed the door. She heard a pair of voices from the hallway, one belonging to Lincoln, the other to the man with the raspy voice.

"You got soot on your socks," she heard Lincoln say.

"I got soot to my ass crack and even further than that," the man with the raspy voice said.

"Yeah, well just don't touch anything."

Light on her feet, Veronica walked flat-footed across the shining wood floors and towards the closed door. She bent down low, hovering above the space between the door and the floor and listened. Her hand disappeared down her pants and came back with the knife.

She could hear Bomb Boy's voice in her head. I don't want you to fight them.

Me neither, she thought. But if that's what it comes down to...

The raspy voiced man coughed. He rubbed his finger against his stubbly mustache, making a light scratching sound. "Never seen a place so nice like this before."

"From the looks of you, that doesn't surprise me," said Lincoln.

"Hmph. You might watch that tongue."

"My house, my mint, my rules," Lincoln said, adding, "Don't touch that!"

"Sorry," the Droodge said.

"Whatever, just get on with it. I don't even know why we have to do this behind closed doors. Your men know what price I'm offering the mint for."

"I don't want them to see my credits," the Droodge said. "You've been around. You've seen the shit. There are only two kinds of people in the barrens that carry credits. Mint dealers and officers."

Officers? Veronica thought. Her hand came up and touched the pocket where she had carried her credits.

"My men'll kill me if they knew how much I had," the Droodge officer said.

Veronica tried to focus on the man's raspy voice to pinpoint his identity. She surely knew him, which meant that he would be able to recognize her by sight. She couldn't be seen.

Veronica glanced around the room and spotted the metal table. It wasn't much, but it was the only chance she had. She ran light footed towards the table and strained to lift it. Slowly, she brought the table towards the door. Lift, drag, push, lift, drag, push. The table was much heavier than it looked, and moving it tested Veronica's strength and endurance. The blood rushed to her head, the pressure and lightheadedness. She wanted to whimper as she strained, but to do so risked detection.

With great relief, Veronica placed the table against the door.

"Here are your credits," the Droodge officer said.

Veronica heard the paper shuffle in Lincoln's hand as he counted his payment. "You're a good man, Donovan," Lincoln said.

Donovan Treadspire? Veronica thought. The last she saw the man, he was clean cut, young, and full of life. His voice was smooth, demanding, and confident. She wondered what had become of him, what he had experienced in the barrens to transform him so drastically.

"You're a thief," Donovan said.

"You're right. Here, take your credits back. Why don't you go and find a better mint dealer?" Lincoln said.

There was an uneasy silence, then Veronica could hear shuffling. Donovan nervously paced back and forth.

"I wish I had a place like this," he said. "Clean and fresh. You got that robot with the legs looking after the cleaning?"

"We all do our part. I don't like when things get dirty," Lincoln said.

"That's all things get out there in the barrens," Donovan said. He paced around some more, then let out a long sighed. "I'm hearing talk from HQ. Something big happened."

"I'm listening," Lincoln said.

"You'll keep that trap shut?"

"Do I ever tell you anything?"

"You don't tell me shit," Donovan said.

"And I've got tons of shit to say. Secrets are secrets to me. And you bet your ass I wouldn't say anything that would prolong this damned war," Lincoln said.

Donovan sighed again. Veronica heard a scratching sound; a finger rubbing against his mustache.

"I don't have a definite word on it yet, but one of our weapons has gone missing. I don't know if the Skallion took it or what, but the General is flipping his shit. I've never seen him like this before. The man's gone berserk. If you see him, you don't stand around and wait for him to ask questions... you just run, you hear me?"

"I hear you," Lincoln said.

"I'm serious here, Lincoln. He'll kill you for playing both sides."

"It's my job. I serve with no prejudice."

"I'm only telling you this because I can stand you, Lincoln. There ain't many men I can stand."

"I appreciate the concern," Lincoln said.

Veronica could hear the scratching of money, then silence.

"What's this for?" asked Donovan.

"It's a tip for telling me that bit of info," Lincoln said. "I find it quite intriguing, actually."

Donovan looked at the money for a moment without moving, and then took it.

"I didn't do it for the tip," he said. "But with the prices you charge, I don't mind taking some back."

Lincoln laughed and patted Donovan hardily on the shoulder. "You're a good kid," he said. "Maybe one day when this war is over, I'll take you around the barrens in this caravan."

They slowly walked through the hallway, the shining, well maintained floorboards creaking under their weight.

Dovonan let out a long sigh. "When the war is over," he mused. He cleared his throat. "Would...you mind if I took a look around the place now?"

Veronica's heartbeat rushed within her throat. She climbed off the table, praying for time and serenity. Deep breaths, Veronica. A steady hand guides a steady blade. Veronica concentrated on her breathing and focused on the pulse within her. She could feel the heartbeats slow, eventually, and continued to suck steady streams of air through her nose.

"I don't know," Lincoln said. "I'm on a tight schedule."

"Doesn't look like there's much to this caravan. It's got to be fifty wide," Donovan said.

"Oh no. There's a whole lot to this caravan. And you'll see it. But just not today."

Lincoln patted Donovan on the shoulder and led the way back outside. Donovan couldn't help but give one look back into the caravan, noting the door at the far end, and the shadows of something that seemed to be barricading the door in the space between floor and door. Strange, he thought. Maybe some day he would learn what was behind that door. Maybe on the day the war ends.
Chapter 25

The Droodge's crawlers started with deafening roars that spoke of the culture's reverence and devotion to power and machinery. The troop left. Veronica carefully pulled the table back to its place so as to not scuff the floor.

"It's safe to come out," she said.

The door to the wardrobe opened and Bomb Boy's head appeared, eyes blinking. He clumsily stepped out of the wardrobe, and ran into Veronica's arms. As he held her, his embrace tightened until Veronica couldn't breathe.

"Michael," she whispered, and he realized his strength and loosened his grip.

"I was so scared," he said.

"It's okay now. They're gone," Veronica said, but the confidence in her voice betrayed her. We were lucky, but there's no telling what will happen next time.

Veronica walked over to the wardrobe and fixed the placement of the outfits inside. She pushed the wardrobe side to side, trying to imagine its original positioning. Lincoln would know if something was moved, and there was no reason to give him more reasons to suspect her.

She heard Donovan's raspy voice in her head: There are only two kinds of people in the barrens that carry credits. Mint dealers and officers.

Veronica wondered if there was truth in this statement. Regardless of whether Donovan's words held any merit, she knew that she and Bomb Boy could not stay with a caravan that had so many relationships with militants.

Each new day is a day closer to death, she thought. If we could just get out of the barrens, nothing could cut us down.

She could hear the men enter the sunroom, noisy and laughing, and rubbing their feet clean against the caravan's welcome mat. Veronica opened the door a sliver and watched Lincoln walk into the hall, his chest puffed like an alpha gorilla.

"I see you there," Lincoln said.

Veronica opened the door the rest of the way, allowing the reddish light that shone through the oxidized glass to paint her legs.

"You must be a popular mint dealer," she said.

Lincoln smiled, exposing long white teeth. "General Clockwork is popular. What I am is a legend."

Veronica betrayed her emotions enough to smile, even though the General's name pierced through her like a knife. She never saw Lincoln in such good humor.

"You," Lincoln said, pointing his finger at Veronica. "You're coming with us. This room right here. We need to talk."

Lincoln led the way, and Betsey and the brothers followed. Veronica watched as the men entered the room, each one staring at her before disappearing beyond the door.

They couldn't have figured us out, Veronica thought. There's just not enough evidence against us.

She immediately regretted giving Lincoln her real name. What was she thinking? She was unable to summon the courage to lie, and even if she had kept giving him false names, Lincoln would have known. He was a smart man, one who dominated the barrens, and he had a way of seeing through lies.

Veronica cleared her throat and walked into the room. She felt the weight of her burdens as she walked. Her legs felt thick and heavy like lead. The men had already gotten comfortable. Lincoln leaned against a wall with his arms crossed over his large chest. The brothers sat in their hammocks, crouching over their knees. All eyes were on Veronica. She felt exposed and naked.

She feigned a smile.

"What did you want to talk about?" she asked.

"Down," Lincoln said, pointing at a chair.

Veronica moved towards the chair and sat. She felt like she had when she was in school, so small, innocent, and afraid.

"There's no doubt that you overheard what the Droodge officer and I were talking about. I could see you hovering by the door the whole time," Lincoln said. "You tried to barricade the door with the table."

Veronica felt her cheeks get warm and red. She was ashamed of herself. She had been trained by the greatest instructors of her time. What would they have thought if they saw her press a table against a door? Such a stupid move, she thought. I should have escaped through the ventilation system. Why didn't I think of that? He would have never saw me. All of this stress is making me act foolish.

"So you did hear us, didn't you?" he said.

"Yes," Veronica said.

Lincoln's brow furrowed and his lips pursed. He nodded gravely, staring at Veronica.

"Everything that me and my boys here do, we do it for credits. There's no right and no wrong. We let the money talk. If we see an opportunity to make credits, we jump on it. There are only a few very, very, rare instances where we would not act upon a potential profit," Lincoln said. The boys nodded, each unblinking somber face staring at Veronica.

He's figured us out, Veronica thought. They're going to sell us to the Droodge. We're done for.

"You must think I'm very silly for barricading myself in," Veronica said in a small voice.

"No. It's not often a commoner sees a Droodge officer," Lincoln said.

Hmmm, Veronica thought.

Lincoln uncrossed his arms and walked towards Veronica. He stood over her like a giant, bending so the angle of his head could comfortably align with Veronica's. His long fingers dipped into his pocket, retrieving a small bundle of credits. Lincoln looked at the credits, and then threw them into Veronica's lap.

Veronica studied the credits, unsure of whether she should take them.

"What's this for?" she asked.

"Everything we do is for credits," Lincoln repeated. "That's your cut of our last sale."

"I don't think I did anything to deserve these credits," Veronica said.

"You cooked for us and kept us company. As far as I'm concerned, you're part of our crew now," Lincoln said. "We look out for our crew."

He didn't suspect Michael or I after all, she thought. A smile graced her lips. She took the roll of credits and peeled the bills apart, counting $20 DGC. As she looked up, she saw the faces studying her every movement. Franklin and Spencer smiled brightly, nodding their heads in approval of her admittance to their crew. Even Betsey had a small smile on her face, as she computed that this gesture would be most satisfying for the current situation.

The only look that unsettled her was Tomas'. His face was stone, his eyes hard and small within an unmoving skull. He stared at Veronica with a face that she could not read. There was an involuntary stare from Veronica, a tilt of her head as she tried to uncover Tomas' hidden motive. Tomas was aware of the stare and smiled, licked his lips.

She looked away when she heard Lincoln's voice.

"We move out in ten. I want everyone to tend to normal duties. Veronica, you start cooking for tonight." He pointed at the brothers. "I want us to be at Alladale in five hours."
Chapter 26

Veronica had a hard time concentrating as she chopped vegetables. The name Alladale trapped in her mind. She knew little of the place only that it had once been a beautiful town resting beside the raging Tedis River, but the town had since lost much of its beauty to the ash and char, and the river, though still running, had mixed with the burnt earth to form a slow moving pillar of mud.

She had only heard these things in briefings, and knew of the town's location from the maps that were present in the battle room.

Alladale, a Skallion town. It was close to Droodge cities. Veronica was reminded of the horror stories the elders would tell the Droodge townspeople to keep them away from the enemy village. They said the ground around the town was covered with burnt bones and feces to keep SOTS away, while the constant smell of burnt flesh kept strangers at a distance. "They'd catch you and cook you," the elders had said. "Stick you onto their pyres that have been kept burning since the Great Firebombing and eat your flesh, but leave your innards to cook and smolder."

I am with this crew, Veronica thought. I will do as the crew does and the Skallion will be none the wiser. They didn't know of Bomb Boy's existence to begin with, let alone that he's escaped. We're safe for now.

The caravan crept at a steady pace through the dimmed morning into the dark noon. The sun sat at its highest point, consumed completely by the black clouds, save for where the clouds thinned and burned cherry red. Veronica stood beside Lincoln in the sunroom, sharing a silent moment as the caravan approached the settlement. Thick plumes of black smog churned from the settlement and blended into the dark sky.

Burning bodies, Veronica thought. "Have you been there before?" she asked Lincoln.

Lincoln smiled, showing off his long teeth, and then laughed.

"Your problem is that you worry too much," he said. He patted Veronica once on the back and entered the caravan.

\---

An armored sandcrawler parked beyond the settlement's gates. Before it stood two men, both thin and clad in tattered blue clothing that hung loosely on their bodies. The path between them was crossed by their bolt-action rifles, which looked fragile and ancient. At the approach of the caravan, the men drew their rifles and aimed for its tires. This was protocol. This is what Veronica convinced herself as she waited inside the caravan as it drove to Alladale.

Alladale.

The elders' whispers were in her ears, haunting her thoughts. Veronica felt a sense of shame knowing that old men's urban legends could affect her so much. And yet, as the caravan drove closer to the town, Veronica could not help but notice the tremendous, black charred bones that looked like they belonged to a dinosaur surrounding the settlement.

Veronica looked back to find Bomb Boy sitting quietly on the ground, playing with a ball that Lincoln had given him. He bounced the ball so innocently, with such concentration.

Why do I let them take you to this place without a fight, Veronica thought, but she knew there was no other way. The barrens would kill her – if not from the weather itself, than from the natives. At least in Alladale, she stood a chance of survival, so long as she stood with Lincoln.

The sweet smell of burning meat filled her nose and made her mouth water. She denied her desires and pushed the smells out of her nose. Burning people, she thought again. A flash of a thought came to her, so crisp and vivid that it seemed to have re-sparked from a past life. She saw bodies on hooks with all of the appendages removed, slowly rotating as they hung over the flames.

Veronica stood up, shook her head to remove the thought. In doing so, Bomb Boy stopped playing with his toys and looked up at her with those large, yellow eyes.

"Are you okay?" Bomb Boy asked.

"I'm fine."

Bomb Boy turned his attention back to the ball and began bouncing it.

"I can tell when you're lying," he whispered.

At that moment, the Outer Quadrants felt so impossibly far away. Veronica went to Bomb Boy's side and threw her arms around him, pulling his head close to her.

\---

Bomb Boy could feel the strong pulse within her chest. His hard metal fingers came up and brushed her before he placed his palm flat over her breast.

How Bomb Boy yearned for a pulse.

"I hate that I'm not like you," he whispered.

Within his chest – deep inside beneath his coils and gears – he could feel the potent hyper-napalm mixture swish within its vials. I'm a time bomb, Bomb Boy thought. He felt Veronica's heartbeat and thought, She's a time bomb, too. Ticking down to destruction. Yet she will take only herself with her, while I will take a country.

"We are the same, you and I," Veronica said. She ran her fingers across his head, wondered if he could even feel it. "We are beings of love and compassion."

"I'm scared," Bomb Boy said.

"I'm scared, too. But we must be strong."

\---

A simple smile from Lincoln unarmed the riflemen who guarded Alladale's gates. Lincoln descended the caravan's metal stairs with an arrogant, royal air, his hands floating up by his shoulders. Veronica observed how he walked – the cool, slow stride of his steps and the utter indifference in his face. He wore a smile, but it was merely a mask. She wondered what his eyes looked like behind his tar black lenses, and if they revealed how he truly felt.

The Skallion soldiers lowered their rifles and, when Lincoln was within ten feet of them, slung the rifles over their shoulders.

"You didn't recognize me, boys?" Lincoln snarled.

"Security's tight these days," the rifleman on the right said.

"Tight security, eh? You want me to empty my pockets? Maybe you'd like to come into my caravan for a looks see? How about I drop my pants for the cavity search?" Lincoln spat on the ground and turned his back to the soldiers. "Maybe I should just keep on moving. Head north to Cheseborough. I wouldn't want to be a security issue."

"No, sir. We're sorry, it's just... we have our orders. Please don't leave," the rifleman on the right said. He turned over and made eyes with a watchman who stood on an outpost on top of the main gates. The guard signaled the watchman to open the gates.

Veronica watched in marvel. They fear him. He has power wherever he goes.

The gates let out a howling screech as they slowly swung open, scraping against a swept piece of exposed concrete. Shiny brass sheets were angled along the inside of the gate, fastened in place by ugly soldering work.

Lincoln called up to the brothers, who were seated at the controls, and the caravan lurched forward into the gates.

Veronica remained very still.

Don't be scared. Fear is the killer.

And yet the smell of burning flesh was even more potent within the settlement, and the aroma made her think only of death.

A guard signaled for the watchman to close the gates once the caravan was inside Alladale. The screech of the closing gates sliced through Veronica, making her feel ill and sapping her of her strength.

"Be strong," she muttered to herself. That's all you have to do.

Veronica entered the brother's room, walked over to a window and peered out at the settlement. The buildings were constructed mainly of brass and brass colored metals that had begun to corrode. The people were rat-like in appearance, and thin as dead branches. They each wore the white and blue of the Skallion. The Droodge people don't care enough to wear their own colors, she thought. These Skallion people must be nationalist fanatics.

A slanted piece of brass topped each structure. As the wind picked up, Veronica watched the ash and sand sweep from one building top to the next until it cleared out of the settlement.

Veronica waved Bomb Boy over. He glanced out the window, his eyes curiously blinking as they observed the settlement.

They heard Lincoln scream an order from the sunroom, and the caravan came to a complete halt; its old gears whining as the wheels locked. Veronica could see tents from the window – each one nestled closely to another.

"We're in the market," Veronica said.

Talk spreads quickly in markets.

She moved away from the window and took Bomb Boy into a corner, where they sat together.

"Lincoln shouldn't be that long," she said. "The transaction should be like the one he did before. He wouldn't risk showing one side more time and friendship than the other."

"I hope it goes better than last time," Bomb Boy muttered.

"They wouldn't come into the caravan. Not here in a settlement," Veronica said.

Veronica looked out the window and saw three figures donning black robes. The brothers, she thought. They moved as if they were gliding on the ash, concealing glowing vials of mint beneath the thick black fabric. They each went their own direction, disappearing behind tents and structures, and demanding that everyone make way for them using solely their haste.

"Veronica!" Lincoln called out.

She found him standing in the doorway beside Betsey. He had walked there so quietly that Veronica couldn't pinpoint how long he had been listening to their conversation.

"You and the robot are coming with me," Lincoln said.

"Is something wrong?" Veronica asked, using control to steady her voice.

"You tell me," Lincoln said. "Your legs feel good?"

"They're fine."

"How about those tootsies?" he asked.

"My feet are fine, too."

"Then nothing's wrong. Come on, let's walk," Lincoln said. He stepped out of the doorway and gestured for Veronica and Bomb Boy to enter the hall.

"Where are we going?" Veronica said.

"To show you off to the locals," Lincoln said. "I doubt they'd seen a girl as clean as you in years." Lincoln showed off his white teeth as he smiled.

"Does my robot have to go? I would hate if anyone tampered with him or tried to rob him."

Lincoln's teeth disappeared behind clenched lips. He walked over to Bomb Boy and placed a hand on his small shoulder. He stared intensely at Bomb Boy, and then at Veronica.

"If anyone of these locals so happens to look at your robot the wrong way, so help me God I'll make them regret it," Lincoln said.

"Thank you," Veronica said. But are these threats enough to protect us?

Lincoln took Bomb Boy by his tiny hand and led him out of the caravan. Veronica followed closely behind.

The smell of meats and char was heavy in the market place. The aromas made Veronica's mouth water, which shamed her. Human flesh, she reminded herself, and yet every taste bud on her tongue yearned for the flavors.

The market bustled with vendors and buyers. The Skallion mentality, Veronica noted, was very strong here. All of the men and women donned the white and blue clothes. The men walked rigidly, with arms tightly against their sides. The women walked with their eyes to the floor, never daring to hold eye contact for longer than a second at a time, except when making purchases, when it was of the utmost importance to maintain eye contact and not blink.

"You okay?" Lincoln asked Veronica.

She snapped out of her daze, realized that Lincoln had been staring at her.

"I'm fine," Veronica said.

"You look like shit. Don't you worry about these folks, okay? They're harmless."

"I'm not worried," Veronica said, but as she looked around the market place, she could see soldiers peppered into the crowd. Their white and blue uniforms were smeared with soot, ash, and blood, and Veronica could see that each gun was worn from the elements and from use. These guards were seasoned fighters. Veronica made a quick mental note of each of the soldiers' location. She counted twelve at a glance; three along the north side of the market, three at the east, one to the west, and five to the south, where the caravan came.

Her eyes went to the floor. She looked at her boots and, for the first time, allowed herself to focus on the blistering pain that she felt in her feet from trudging the ash. Her feet had gotten so swollen that she could hardly wiggle her toes. Like sausage meat in its skin, she thought. Now that the pain was apparent, it was the only thing Veronica could feel or think about. Why did I do that to myself? she thought, but the answer came as quickly as the question. I'm distracting myself from the soldiers. Focus on the pain. Make them and everyone else in the market think that my feet are my biggest concern.

And as she stared down at her feet, she saw two small mechanical feet walk right beside hers and a small mechanical hand come up and softly take hers. Bomb Boy came into her view. He looked so innocent, so angelic, Veronica thought.

"It's going to be okay," Bomb Boy said to her.

"It's just my feet. They're starting to hurt."

"Why didn't you tell Lincoln?"

"I'll buy new boots. I have the credits," she said.

A large figure moved beside Veronica, grabbed Bomb Boy's hand, and pulled him away from Veronica's side. Her training kicked in – no thought involved. Her hand dropped into her pants, gripped the handle of her black blade, and she performed a forward roll that positioned her directly in front of Bomb Boy. As she looked up, she saw Bomb Boy and Lincoln's face, wide from shock, looking down at her. Veronica's hand was still on the knife, yet she didn't reveal the blade. She released the handle and retracted her hand from her pants.

"You little spitfire," Lincoln muttered under his breath.

As Veronica arose, she realized that her maneuver had drawn a lot of unwanted attention. Vendors and patrons were watching her now, but she didn't care about them. Veronica was worried about the fifteen soldiers now watching her every movement.

They saw me reach into my pants. Will they search me for weapons? Veronica thought. She nonchalantly dusted off her pants.

Lincoln burst out in laughter, his white teeth dancing within his gaping mouth.

"This is my new girl," he exclaimed to the crowd. "You'd all be best to stay on her bright side. She's a firecracker."

The eyes weighed heavy on Veronica, observing her with a sort of crushing presence. She saw smiles in the crowd. People were smiling at her. Lincoln continued to laugh in his boisterous, obnoxious manner, and people smiled at Veronica as if they wanted to be her friend.

Skallions, she reminded herself. These are the people who murdered the love of my life. They are only smiling at me because they fear Lincoln.

"Where are you taking Michael?" Veronica said.

"I'm taking him around the settlement to show him business."

"I'm going with you."

"You're most certainly welcomed to come. But not until you go and get yourself a pair of new boots. Don't think I didn't see you staring at your feet. You've got trench foot, don't you?" Lincoln said.

"My feet are fine."

"Bullshit, your feet are fine. You've been walking like you've had barbs between your toes until you did that pretty little roll. I'm not going to sacrifice the quality of my work because one of my workers is playing mommy to a robot instead of looking out for her own health. You're getting new boots now. I'm not asking you – that's an order," Lincoln said.

"I'll be okay," Bomb Boy said. His eyes flashed and blinked, and looked at Veronica's feet. His moisture sensors picked up on the small pools of blood at the bottom of Veronica's boots. "Please get new boots. We can meet up in a few minutes."

"Just be careful," she said to Bomb Boy, her eyes tracing back to Lincoln's.

"We'll be all right," Lincoln grunted. "Look for us over there." He pointed towards the south, where the guards stood watch. He tugged at Bomb Boy's hand, prompting him to walk beside and guiding him further into the market until they vanished among the commotion and the tents.

There was an empty pit in Veronica's stomach – an annoying presence of pain and worry. Let me just get this done with, she thought, and scanned the tents to see the vendors' wares. The Skallion sold scrap metals, leather goods, random knick-knacks, and smoking meats. Bitterly, Veronica thought of the Skallion's scavenging nature. She saw scraps of metal and recognized the Droodge metalwork techniques that had been used when making the now twisted slabs of scrap.

One vendor had an entire sky-slicer laid out on a worn, green blanket.

Veronica found herself gravitating towards the slicer. She touched a dented side panel. The pilot's leg would have been behind this piece, she thought. An icy chill crept down her spine and she shuddered. A rage swelled within her. Her eyes hardened and became fixed on the vendor. He was in his mid twenties and had ash caked on his face, save for the white rims of his eyes. He smiled uncertainly and looked around to avoid eye contact.

"It's a good piece," he said with a nervous chuckle. "I'll trade it for a deal."

"What am I going to do with this junk?" Veronica said.

"There's plenty of things you can do with scrap," he said. He opened his mouth to speak, but Veronica interrupted.

"I need boots," she said.

"I can't help you with that."

"Who can?"

The merchant pointed to the west, where a thicket of ashy tents appeared to grow out of the ground. He said, "It's the tent right there."

Veronica followed the path of his finger until she saw a tent with a large copper sign of a foot.

This is so silly, she thought. I don't need boots. I need to be by my child's side. But as she stepped, she could feel the cracks widen on her feet, and the blood soak into her crusty socks.

The smell of leather was heavy inside the tent. An old woman with dried out, browned skin sat in the corner. She barely moved except for her mouth, which gaped open and close like a fish. A few bare bulbs hung over the display tables, showing off the same, tired looking boot in different sizes. Veronica examined the boot, touched it to get an idea of its quality.

"We do boots right," the old woman hissed.

Veronica looked at her.

"You're not from around here," she said. "You got the smell of oil on your skin."

The old woman's face lit up and she craned her head slightly. There was a glow in her eyes, a realization. She looked at Veronica in a way that made her feel uneasy. She knows I'm the enemy, Veronica thought.

Veronica diverted her attention by picking up a boot and examining it. She pulled the boot's tongue down and saw a large "5" branded into the leather.

"Do you mind if I try this on?" Veronica said.

"My boots aren't cheap. What do you have for it?"

"I've got credits."

The old woman continued to stare, her eyes widening.

"Five credits," she said.

"That's not a problem," Veronica said.

Veronica bent over and undid the knots in her laces. Sand and ash was caked in the boots, and became impacted beneath the palms of her feet. She felt an almost orgasmic feeling as she took off each boot, a great release and chill that comforted her swollen feet. The socks that Veronica had been wearing were crisp and black from the dried blood. She didn't even realize it had gotten that bad.

"Would you do four credits if I threw in this pair?" Veronica asked.

"No," the woman said. "Skallion don't wear boots like that." There was a coldness in her voice that made Veronica's stomach tense. She ignored the old woman and pulled the new boots onto her feet. They felt like socks going on, and were padded in all of the places where she had experienced pain.

"These feel amazing," Veronica said, mostly to herself.

"Boots, clothes, and meat. That's what Skallions do best," the woman grunted.

Veronica paid the woman her credits and left the tent.

Eyes were still on her – a sea of white eyes looking out of filthy faces.

They know I'm a Droodge, she thought. No, it's impossible. I'm creating these delusions and making myself feel uncomfortable. That's why everyone is staring at me.

She took a deep breath and quickly walked. She imagined Lincoln's arthritic finger pointing towards the south, past the guards. As she looked at the guards, she could feel their eyes burning into her. They weren't looking at her the way the civilians did; they looked at her with a blood lust in their hard eyes. She had seen that look before on the troops who had seen shit and came back to the fort. Some of Leone's men had the look when they left Clockwork.

She kept pace as she walked south, weaving through the dense crowd of robes. Skallions' sniffled as she walked past, and heads turned in her peripherals. Never in her life had she felt so out of place.

They smell the oil on my skin, she thought. She couldn't detect the scent on herself, and could only smell the burning meats in the distance and the smoky scents that lingered on their robes.

Veronica could feel someone following her. She cautiously glanced over her shoulder, only for a second, only to entertain the thought that she was being pursued. Within the crowd, she could see five soldiers who towered over the civilians. They wore dark blue Skallion helmets with their charred black visors down. They pushed their way through the crowd as they walked towards Veronica.

"Hey, you there! Stop!" a soldier shouted.

Veronica huddled down low and pressed through the crowd as quickly as she could.

Chapter 27

The touch of a man's hand was strange to Bomb Boy. It lacked the delicate nature and careful touch of Veronica's grasp. Lincoln's fingers were curled from disease, and his palm was massive. Bomb Boy felt as if he could clamp down on Lincoln's hand with all of his might and not hurt him – not that he would try.

He's watching me, Bomb Boy thought. Lincoln's eyes were hidden beneath the thick, black lenses, but the positioning of his chin and the way he jerked his head revealed that he was looking at Bomb Boy the entire time.

"You ever been to a market, boy?" Lincoln asked Bomb Boy.

"This is my first time."

"Ahhh. You'll love it. You can find almost anything here. People trade everything. You'll see some of the crazy things people trade. Once, I saw a man try to trade his own mother." Lincoln's white teeth flashed in his mouth and he laughed boisterously. "Nobody would touch the old hag!"

Bomb Boy glanced around and surveyed the things in the tents.

"These items all seem practical enough," Bomb Boy said.

"Practical, eh? What's practical?"

"Things that are necessary to survive in the barrens."

"And who's to say what's necessary?"

"It's common knowledge."

Lincoln smirked and rubbed a finger across his bottom lip. "How old are you?"

"Eleven years old."

"No, that's what they want you to tell people. I mean how long ago were you created?"

"A year ago," Bomb Boy said.

"Ahh. During the real bloody days of war, eh? Do you know how this whole war started? It's a lesson in practicality."

Bomb Boy nodded his head.

"So tell me."

"It was started the day the people of Droodge felt their liberty and freedom was threatened."

Lincoln laughed long and hard. Something in that laugh made Bomb Boy wish he had kept his mouth shut.

Lincoln wiped away a tear and caught his breath. "That's one side of the story. Half of it, anyway. But here's a secret. When someone asks you why the war started, you tell them that it started for too many reasons and that you don't got time to explain them all on account of the fact that robots tend to expire after eighty years. You don't want to spend all that time talking. Here's a brief view so that you know – from both sides. The war started during a depression caused by a depletion of our natural resources. That's the real reason that boys fought and died; for energy. Energy is power, and power was the first thing man fought for, and it'll be the last thing he'll fight for.

"Now which side the boys fought for depended on which side's bullshit smelled sweeter. Did you think that the Skallion's communist way of life was an attack on your liberties and that renewed resources could be shipped in from Bruize? Then you'd fight for the Droodge. If you thought that the Droodge were soulless, power hungry savages who would scorch the soul of this very earth just to keep warm, then you'd fight for the Skallion. Throw in a few assassinations and assassination attempts and you got yourself a war.

"How's that load of shit for practical?" Lincoln said.

Bomb Boy tried to process an answer, but merely shrugged.

"Let me show you something, boy," Lincoln said. He tugged at Bomb Boy's hand, leading him between tents and further into the labyrinth of the market place. There he saw red meats hung on hooks, robot cemeteries, leather goods. There was a common theme with the items-- everything offered was animal based or scrapped from Droodge parts.

A wide tent stood proudly in an opened area. Slabs of golden metal reinforced the top and sides of the, and thick steel made up the doors. Two guards in blue robes stood to the side. They wore helmets with their black visors down, dehumanizing their appearance. Bomb Boy didn't have to touch the tent to know that the inside walls were reinforced, unlike the other tents in the settlement.

"What's up, boys?" Lincoln said to the guards. He waved his hand, almost as if to dismiss them. "I want to show the robot some things."

"You know the rules," one of the guards said. He produced a wand and approached Lincoln. With a sigh, Lincoln raised his arms and allowed the guard to search him. The wand whined and screamed as it moved past his arms, chest, and back. Lincoln smiled innocently.

"I got some items on my person that I would like to trade. I'm sure Smithy would love it," Lincoln said.

Bomb Boy heard the guard sigh behind his visor.

"We have to search everybody who go through those doors," the guard said.

"You don't trust me?"

"It's just our policy," the guard said.

"Hmph. I've been lighting the fucking lamps for years and this is the thanks I get," Lincoln said.

"It's policy," the guard said, adding, "I'm sorry. I just need to take a glance, is all."

With a shrug, Lincoln undid the buttons of his coat one-by-one and opened it, exposing his chest. Bomb Boy stole a glance and saw the leather straps and the layers upon layers of blades and rubber handles. The blades overlapped one another so tightly they looked like scaled, metal skin. There were fifty blades fastened on his chest and stomach alone; ten running across his body going five rows down. It was a wonder how the old man could even walk without sticking himself.

"What do you think?" Lincoln asked. He closed his coat and hastily began to do up the buttons.

The guards were speechless, staring at Lincoln through their black visors.

"Come on, boys. I brought them to trade. No man in his right mind would carry around this many blades with the intention of using all of them," he said.

"It's not that, it's just... God, man. You've got to have about sixty pounds of metal on you!" said a guard.

"It's a wonder what walking can do for your muscles. I walk five miles a day, did you know that?" Lincoln said, flashing his white teeth and laughing.

The guards stepped away from the metal door, granting Lincoln and Bomb Boy access. Bomb Boy assessed the guards' posture; the way their muscles relaxed. They were foolish, he thought, because although they thought Lincoln to be an innocent old man, Bomb Boy analyzed Lincoln's voice and breathing patterns.

Lincoln had lied. He had every intention of using each one of his blades, should the situation arise.

Beyond the metal door was a well lit opened area. The walls and ceiling were immaculate white; a white that seemed extinct in this land of fire and soot. The floors were white, although ashy footsteps covered nearly inch of tile. Steel tables were lined up along either side of the store, with an armed guard standing behind each table. At the furthest end of the store was an old man with a curling white beard and white hair that grew out in tufts around the sides of his head. He had a fat nose that was covered in boils and lime green eyes that were too small for his face.

Lincoln smiled at the old man and waved. The old man waved back, a twinkle of a smile flashing in his small eyes.

Lincoln took Bomb Boy by the hand and led him to the first table. The table was covered with bolt-action rifles that had bayonets attached. At the edge of the table were more bayonets.

"How's this for practical stuff?" Lincoln said. He picked up a crooked bayonet that had sharpened barbs sticking out from all angles. "You know what this thing does?"

"That thing is a 3rd Edition Barista Mara bayonet. It went into production right after the Siege of City Hall and was discontinued three months after due to its lack of efficiency," Bomb Boy said. He picked it up and held the blade at eye level. "It was the favored bayonet of the Droodge Lieutenant Shingle. Shingle had one of the highest mortality rates among the Droodge forces, and was killed in combat seven weeks after he made the Barista Mara a mandatory piece for his troops. Many believe that it was this weapon that led to his downfall."

"Holy shit," Lincoln said. He placed the bayonet back on the table and reached over for another one. It wasn't anything spectacular, just a long piece of metal with a point.

"What's this?" Lincoln said.

"That's a standard issue WM9A bayonet. It is the choice of Skallion soldiers, especially for the regiments who favor .22s over the old M16s," Bomb Boy said.

The man who stood guard behind the table interrupted. "That's a pretty good robot," he said. "I've never seen one like it. Where did it come from?"

"I don't know," said Lincoln.

They left the shop and walked out into the market. Neither said a word, but Lincoln kept his hand tightly clasped around Bomb Boy's. Bomb Boy could feel the heaviness of the silence, could feel the anticipation within Lincoln. The old man wanted to ask him questions, he just couldn't pick his words the right way.

"Why did we go there?" Bomb Boy asked.

"I wanted to show you the difference between something that's practical and something that's impractical," Lincoln said.

"Oh," Bomb Boy said. "Are weapons practical?"

"You're the expert. You tell me," Lincoln said.

They walked on in silence.

"I don't think they're practical," Bomb Boy finally said.

"Says who?"

"Says me," Bomb Boy said.

"Well. I agree with you. I wish I knew who programmed you to say that."

"I wasn't programmed. I learned from reading books. To read is to be human," Bomb Boy said.

Lincoln looked down at the boy through thick black lenses. He looked at Bomb Boy the way Veronica looked at him when he did something wrong. Another silence fell between them.

"You sure know a lot about weapons to think that they're impractical," Lincoln said. Bomb Boy didn't offer a reply, and Lincoln never pressed him to answer.

They walked through the crowd, pushing themselves between blue robes until they came to an opening in the settlement. Lincoln pulled Bomb Boy to a spot out in the open and turned to face the crowd.

"Veronica should be coming any second," he said, and the two waited.
Chapter 28

Tomas walked through the crowds with ease. His black robe attracted attention. People recognized him and knew who he was. They would move away from his path and maintain eye contact while they smiled at him.

"Wonderful day, today," they would say, and he would say, "There are no more wonderful days."

There were guards in his path with muscles and guns that could punch a hole through hell, and they moved out of Tomas' path, too.

Tomas had the tubes under his robes. He could feel the cool glass against his skin. It felt like chilled water.

They have their guns, but I have this, Tomas said. Guns don't win wars. Power wins wars.

He never grew tired of the feelings he felt as he walked through the settlements. Tomas felt power beyond power. He was a god among men. No one would dare look at him the wrong way, or attempt to attack him, for they would risk losing their mint, or worse...

Tomas often fantasized about what he would do if attacked. He could defend himself with his mint or his knives. There were two deep slits within his robes that held two long blades. They rested against his thighs and tapped against his legs as he walked. He wasn't as proficient with knives as Lincoln or Franklin, but he could easily hold his own against a few settlers, so long as they weren't armed with guns. If they had guns, he would simply break the mint over their heads and watch the poisons do their thing. Maybe he would even light the mint on fire and set the whole settlement ablaze. The explosion would surely kill him, too, but sometimes he thought it would be worth it.

"Fuck'em all," Tomas muttered. All around him were faces stained with ash. White eyes and white teeth glowed out of filthy skin. Faces stained with the color of war.

"Pigs. Filthy pigs."

Tomas pushed a random man onto the floor and stood over him, staring out of his dark hood. The man was in his late fifties. As he fell, his arm reached out to break his fall. The arm twisted behind his back under the weight and cracked. The man looked down at his limp, dangling arm with wide eyes. His mouth was ajar, but he didn't make a sound.

A crowd gathered around Tomas and the man.

"You got in my way," Tomas said.

"My arm is broken! Someone call a doctor," said the man, only now feeling the pain.

His arm was covered in filth and ash. A small piece of red and white bone protruded out of his skin.

"That's going to get infected," Tomas said. They'll probably have to chop it off.

He turned away from the man and walked through the parting crowd. He could feel their burning stares as eyes peered out from beneath sagging blue hoods. Just beyond the thicket of people stood a guard with a twelve gauge in his hands. Tomas knew the guard was staring at him through his thick black visor.

Tomas tilted his head to a side like a curious puppy and waved at the guard. The guard's head shook, and he pressed his way into the crowd and to the fallen man's side. The blood had started to come out of his wound. It mixed with the ash and filth and pooled onto the floor beneath him.

Tomas laughed. He imagined that God had laughed when He saw the Great Firebombing.

We're two and the same, Old Boy, Tomas thought. Untouchable.

As he continued through the thinning crowd, he could feel the euphoria and adrenaline create a sweet, swirling mixture within his blood, bones, and soul. He was swimming through the settlement, his feet barely touching the ground.

And as his hands reached down into his pants, gripping the long and chilled vials of mint, he caught a glimpse of a vision that stopped him dead in his tracks. Up ahead, Veronica had stumbled on someone's robe.

Tomas could only see how clean and beautiful she looked. Her skin so white and fresh it seemed to create its own light. She was a pillar of light, a walking star in a settlement inhabited by septic filth.

Tomas dragged his thin tongue across his dried lips. He looked at Veronica's ass and her legs and imagined how white her skin would look after he'd rip off her clothes. All it would take was two knives; one pressed against her throat, and the other working its way across the seams of her pants. The knife was sharp and would cut through the fabric as if it were paper.

Tonight, he promised himself. He could feel his sex swell in anticipation.

Tomas noticed Veronica's legs buckle. She stumbled, found her balance, and then rushed ahead, where she embraced her little robot. Lincoln was standing beside them, looking down at the two hug. Even though Lincoln's glasses hid much of his face, Tomas could tell that he wasn't pleased.

Got to get back to work, Tomas thought. He prayed that Lincoln wasn't upset for something that he had done. Tomas regretted pushing the old man. It was a stupid move; too loud.

Tomas turned around and walked away. He was scared. For though he was a god, Lincoln was something much greater.
Chapter 29

In the brothers' room, Lincoln and Betsey divvied up the wages. They had been paid in credits. Lincoln and Betsey held the credits, and Veronica marveled at how much money was packed into the thick stacks of blue paper.

Lincoln pocketed two stacks for himself and divided up a third stack, giving the brothers equal portions and Veronica a smaller wage, twenty-five credits. Twenty-five credits for doing nothing.

He wants something from me, Veronica thought. It could be my company, my friendship, my body... I don't know. But he wants something.

She smiled at Lincoln as she took it, and left the brothers' room to spend time with Bomb Boy.

"Don't go too far now," Lincoln said in a low voice.

"There's nowhere to go," Veronica said.

They spent the rest of the day in silence. Veronica felt uneasy. She heard Lincoln's voice in her head. Don't go too far now. Was it a warning?

\---

Bomb Boy wrapped his arm around Veronica's shoulder and gently pulled her closer to him, feeling the warmth of her body as she drew near. He lightly placed his head against Veronica's chest and felt her heart beat. Though her body was still and calm, her heart clattered.

"Is everything going to be okay?" Bomb Boy asked.

"Yes."

He pulled her closer and hugged her tighter.

"I know when you're lying," he whispered.

\---

It was about 8:00 at night. The sun had set an hour and a half past, leaving the sky black and muted of its lava red flare. The caravan traveled smoothly along the sands and ash, its mechanisms clicking and popping as it went. It sounded like a lullaby; a type of white noise that made Veronica's muscles relax and her eyes grow heavy.

The lights in her room were off as she laid on her makeshift cot. The soup that she had made for dinner sat warmly in her stomach.

Veronica was on the cusp of sleep, having a wild lucid dream that made little sense. In it she saw wild fires and bird feathers and heard a noise that seemed to swell in her head to an almost excruciating loudness, but she paid no attention to that madness. She allowed the lucid dream to take her somewhere deeper.

The door opened slowly, causing light to spill in. Veronica's hearing heightened; she heard the soft creeks of the door's hinges. She tried to wake herself up, but she was trapped in her lucid dream. That had happened to her before when she was younger. It is called sleep paralysis. She would try to awake from sleep but would be paralyzed, and all the while she would imagine that some dark, shadowy figure in the corner of the room, waiting.

The door opened further and a slim figure slipped in and closed it. Veronica moaned and tried to move her arms, but they felt like lead. She could hear it come closer to her, and then felt its breath against her face. Warm lips pressed against hers, and then an intrusive tongue jammed into her mouth. The tongue searched the inside of her mouth, and then retreated.

The feeling returned to Veronica's body. She sat up and pressed her hands against the figure's chest. Its hands wrapped around Veronica's and pulled her arms down to her side. It rammed its chest into Veronica's head, making her drowsy.

"Don't you make a sound. You make one sound and I'll cut you," he whispered.

Veronica felt something cool and sharp press against the bottom of her chin. He twirled the blade ever so slightly, until a bulb of blood appeared and dripped down her neck.

His free hand searched her body. It moved up her flat stomach to her plump breasts and squeezed them hard. A pain swelled in Veronica's chest and she uttered a small cry. He bent over her and began kissing her neck and cheek.

"Don't make a sound," he said between the kisses.

"Get off me," Veronica hissed.

She felt a cold sensation quickly flash across her face. Something wet ran down her cheeks, and then pain swelled.

"I said don't make a sound," he said.

"Veronica?" Bomb Boy said.

The man froze for a moment and then dug his knife deeper into her neck.

"Shut up, robot, or I'll kill her."

In the room's darkness, Veronica could see Bomb Boy's yellow eyes flash. The light cast a sickly yellow hue across the room. Shadows distorted and elongated, like twisted, arthritic fingers. Is this Lincoln, Veronica thought. Was the horny old man unsatisfied with his Betsey?

Tomas' yellow face hovered over Veronica's in Bomb Boy's light. She saw him in yellow flashes, beads of sweat clinging to his forehead and cheeks, and half of his face submerged in shadows.

Bomb Boy's eyes flashed, and Veronica saw the expression on Tomas' face as he dry humped her. There was a lustful rage in his eyes, as if he meant to do nothing but destroy Veronica for his own sexual pleasure.

A second cold blade pressed against her leg and moved up. The sharp steel cut through her pant fabric with ease and ran up to her thigh. She could feel the fabric give way, exposing her naked skin to the cooled air. The blade was taken away for a moment and replaced by Tomas' firm hand. He touched her calf, felt the hard muscles beneath her skin.

Tomas moaned an ugly, low moan, and wedged his hand up Veronica's leg, tearing her pants further as he did. His fingers were so close to touching the blade on her thigh.

"Your skin's so smooth," he said.

Veronica bit down on her lip. She tried to turn away, but she could not escape. The yellow lights flashed and all Veronica could see was Tomas' twisted face, and his arched back that lustfully moved up and down. If she fought, she knew Tomas would kill her.

All it would take was a quick jerk of the wrist, and Tomas' blade would be through her chin, past her tongue and half into her brain. With one motion, Bomb Boy would be all alone with no one to depend on. All alone with an army feverishly searching for him.

Please give me strength, Michael, Veronica said. She clenched her eyes shut and envisioned her late husband. He was looking at her with those brilliant blue eyes. Eyes like pools of fresh water, like a blue jay's feathers. Michael smiled and Veronica saw the dimples form at his cheeks. She remembered what the dimples felt like when she would finger them, so soft yet define in his skin and his curly hair that felt like strands of cotton when she ran her hands through it.

Veronica grabbed Tomas by his face. His body tensed and the blade dug deeper into her chin.

"Shhh," she said, and her face moved closer until their mouths met.

His tongue was thin, worm-like, and tasted like old salted meat. It moved around her mouth in excitement, exploring all of the crevices and flavors.

Veronica moaned and arched her back slightly, so that her sex aligned with Tomas'. He grinded into her very hard. He placed his knife down to touch her body all over. He felt the sides of her torso, her chest, her neck and hair. Tomas gave her hair a hard tug that caused Veronica to cry out softly in pain.

Her eyes clenched tight, but a large smile formed on her face. Tomas saw the smile. He could tell that she liked it rough and pulled on her hair again.

"You like that," he said.

Veronica didn't answer. Her hands went down to his waist and explored his button and zipper. She toyed with it for a moment, and began to touch herself. Tomas looked down at her hands and saw that she was massaging her own thighs and in between. He gritted his teeth. There was hunger in his eyes.

Veronica undid her pants and pulled them down, revealing the two slender muscle lines that ran down her midsection and towards her crotch. Tomas pushed himself off her slightly to get a better view of the show.

"I'm going to show you how a real man does it," Tomas said. Veronica touched Tomas on his sides.

She reached into her pants and began to feel around. Her eyes closed, her head tilted back. Her wet, red lips were slightly apart, revealing an eager tongue and white teeth. She felt his weight press onto her again. It made it very hard to breathe. Veronica placed her left hand on his chest and pushed him away.

"Michael," she moaned. "Michael." Her voice hardened, "Michael!"

"Yes?" Bomb Boy said.

"I don't want you to see this. Leave the room and close the door," she said.

She saw Tomas' yellow grin widen as Bomb Boy's eyes flashed. Bomb Boy quietly pushed himself up and walked out of the room, giving Veronica one last look with his wide yellow eyes before closing the door behind him.

In the complete darkness, Veronica told Tomas to stay quiet. She liked doing it in silence. She said it added a sort of intensity.

Her hands were deep in her pants. Tomas could feel her arms as they moved and worked. He imagined what those fingers were doing.

"I can't wait any longer," Tomas said.

"I'll give it to you," Veronica said.

Veronica retrieved the long black knife from within her pants and drove it through his chest. She felt the blade bite on his ribs as it cut through his flesh. Tomas made a quiet, sad noise that was quickly muffled by Veronica's hand.

She flipped him onto his back and pinned his arms beneath her knees. She worked the blade around inside of him, nipping at his heart as she did, and held her hand over his mouth until she no longer felt his breath.

Veronica withdrew the blade and wiped it clean on Tomas' sleeve before sliding it back into her leg. Her heart raced in her chest a she fought to steady her breath.

She opened the door to get some light in the room. When she did, she saw Bomb Boy standing outside of the door, staring up at her with his flashing yellow lights.

"What happened?" Bomb Boy asked.

"Shh," Veronica whispered. She placed her hand on his head and realized that it was shaking. "Everything is fine. I need some time in this room to prepare. We're going to leave the caravan tonight. We must prepare better than we did the last time we left."

Veronica found the light switch and turned it on. The light hurt her eyes and it took a moment for her to adjust to the brightness. As she closed the door, she turned around and looked at Tomas' body laying on the table. He wore the black robe he'd donned when distributing mint.

The robe was dark all over except for the feet, which were faded from the ash. And the splotch of blood on his chest made the fabric an even darker, richer black.

You've killed men before, Veronica told herself. Be strong.

As she patted down Tomas' pocket for any useful knickknacks, she felt a burn in her eyes. Her vision broke and became blurry, and before she knew it, a steady stream of tears fell silently down her cheeks. She reached into his pockets and retrieved a compass and then took a knife and tested its edge against her fingernail. It was sharp steel, but soft. Her knives were far superior.

Veronica wiped the tears from her face and retrieved the maps she had purchased. She unrolled the old paper and smoothed it out with her palms on the floor, wondering if she could make it up to the caravan's control room. There would certainly be some kind of GPS system at the controls.

If only I can get up there and take it, she thought. The room must be guarded, though. Either Betsey or one of the brothers is there, or they rigged up some sort of security system.

As she looked down at the map, the tears continued to come. She wiped them away and pressed her finger down on the map, where she estimated the caravan currently was. If her calculations were correct, they were only three miles away from the closest settlement – a place called Riverbed.

It's a neutral settlement, she thought. We should be safe there. We'll buy a room for a few days until things blow over and then buy our way out of this country. Someone has to know a way out.

Her eyes ached from the tears and as she looked at Tomas' body, she felt an uneasy pull in her stomach.

You've killed men before, she thought again, but now was different. More tears came as she thought, What would Bomb Boy think if he saw what I did? Everything I've done after Michael died I did to preserve life.

Veronica worked only to eliminate thoughts of hatred and death from Bomb Boy's mind, but now all of that was in jeopardy.

He's just a baby, she thought. He's...my baby; the baby I've always wanted. The baby that was robbed from me the day Michael was killed. Don't look at what I did. Your mother is better than this. I had no other choice.

Veronica felt a rushing sensation in her throat as hot bile burned its way up. It spewed out of her mouth and landed on the middle of the map, distorting vital trails. Veronica cursed and picked the map up by its sides to let the bile run off the sides, but the drippings only further ruined the map. The tightness in her stomach was now accompanied by a tightness in her head.

Stop, she told herself.

She placed the map down and breathed through her nose and out her mouth. Veronica could feel her muscles relax, and the pain leave her stomach. She counted to ten to quiet her rushing thoughts, and then stretched the muscles in her neck to relax.

She left the map where it was, beside the bleeding corpse. The maps were no good to her anyway. The land was changing. The very mountains were moving, as if in an attempt to flee the burning country.

Veronica wiped her mouth clean with her sleeve and retrieved a bag. She packed the bag with water, a tent, a compass, knives, tarps, and an old snub nose revolver that she found in one of the drawers. Veronica walked out into the hallway, taking care to be quiet. She slipped out of the door and closed it behind her, so that Bomb Boy wouldn't be able to look inside the room.

"What happened with Tomas?" Bomb Boy whispered.

Veronica placed her finger against her lips. She motioned for the front door. They walked softly so that the floors wouldn't creek under their weight.

The night winds pressed against the door, making it nearly impossible to open. Veronica pressed her weight against it and pushed with all of her might, and even then it only opened a foot.

"Help me," Veronica said.

Bomb Boy's metallic hands pushed against the door. The winds roared like a jet engine and whipped into the sunroom. There would be no comfort in the barrens, no sense of safety. It would be freezing cold at night and blistering during the day. And there was always the threat of raiders or SOTS.

But there was no looking back now.

Veronica slipped out of the door and felt the bombarding winds. The winds knocked her off balance and sucked the very breath out of her mouth. She quickly worked her scarf around her face and extended her hand to grab Bomb Boy's. Bomb Boy reached out and took her hand and the two walked west to Riverbed.
Chapter 30

Sisal trembled until he fell asleep. During the night, his breathing became shallow and eventually stopped. When the sun shone in the sliver of blue in the horizon, Sisal was as white as paper and his blood had soaked through his bandages and the couch.

When the men awoke, they held a moment of silence for their fallen friend. Sisal was the largest of the men, with a fat belly and a saggy chin. His size made the others think he was sneaking extra rations. On days when their hunger gnawed at them, they would pick fights with Sisal. He always swore that he never ate more than the others, and that his size was attributed to genetics.

But all of those fights felt as if they happened lifetimes ago, in a different world.

Leone ordered the men to lift up Sisal and carry him to the front of the shack. They found a plot of land for him, swept away the ash and dug a hole. Leone, Bill, and Clive, who was exhausted from lack of sleep, carried Sisal into the hole and all of the men said a prayer. When they were finished, they pushed dirt over the body.

"There's no use to put good meat to waste," Leone said. "Let's go back for the wolves."

As they walked, Leone felt a disquieting sense of insecurity. The men whispered behind his back. When he slowed his pace to overhear what they were saying, they would slow down too and keep the same distance.

"Come on, guys," he said, and they kept up.

Leone walked beside Feathers and put a hand on his shoulder. "I've got a bad feeling," he said.

"We all got a bad feeling," Feathers said. "We buried a brother today."

"No, not just that. I don't know, might be I'm paranoid, but I think the men are talking bad about me."

Feathers looked around at the others. "What makes you say that?"

"It's just a feeling I got. If they were plotting things, you would tell me, right?"

"I'd tell you everything," Feathers said.

"So? What are they talking about?"

"Eh, most of them are pissing themselves about Clockwork's bomb boy. They want to put as much distance between us and it as possible, and they're always saying that we're in range. I'm not saying their wrong. It's just, we're living each day with this threat of instant death hovering over us. It's driving some of the boys to the brink," Feathers said.

"Do they think I don't feel the same?"

"Nah, we're all in this together," Feathers said.

"They would have come to me to talk if that was the case. There's gotta be something else."

"Well, there is something that the boys are talking about. I think it's just piss in the ocean. Nothing you should worry about, but-" Feathers leaned closer to Leone and whispered, "It's mostly Dale. Don't know what's gotten into him lately. He's saying that he thinks it's weird how you knew that there was a shack nearby. He's making up stories saying that you were probably sleeping in it all nice and cozy before the wolf attack. He said that if you would have opened your mouth and invited us in, Sisal wouldn't be dead and a half of our other guys wouldn't be all bitten up."

"What's his angle?" Leone said.

Feathers shrugged. "We've all just been in the barrens for too long."

I've got to set Dale straight, Leone thought. Piss in the ocean is one thing. A drop of poison in a well is another.

When the men returned to the withering farmhouse, they found one of the wolves' corpses half eaten while others were nibbled. Croner bent over the half eaten husk and studied the bites.

"Looks like small dogs had a feast. Chihuahuas, maybe," he said.

"Fucking Chihuahuas ate half of our wolf? That's bullshit," said Clive.

"Yeah, my old lady used to have one of those rats," said Frank. "Thing couldn't even bite through a burger, let alone a wolf."

"Maybe it wasn't a Chihuahua then," said Croner. "I don't give a shit." He took out his knife and cut through its pelt. He cleaned the meat and Tyler went over to help pack it.

Leone looked at the wounds on Tyler's neck. The skin around the bite was discolored and a yellow film was growing around the cut. Then Leone looked at his own wounds and saw much the same.

"How many people got bit last night?" Leone called out.

Tyler raised his hand and so did Dale, revealing a large bite mark on his palm.

"That doesn't look so good," Leone said to Dale.

"Yeah, no shit," Dale said. "Have you gotten a look at Tyler? Yours don't look so hot, too, I'm sure."

"It doesn't," Leone admitted. "We need to clean our wounds up."

"I don't see no running water anywhere," Tyler said.

"I don't see no health spas," said Dale.

"I'm serious, guys. We need to take care of ourselves," Leone said.

"So what do you say we do?" Tyler asked, sawing some meat off the skinless wolf. He placed the meat in a bloody plastic bag, sealed it up, and put it into his backpack.

"We're in Pine Hill now. I grew up not too far from here. There's a hospital about twenty miles up the highway. We can go there and –"

"Oh, no," Dale interrupted. "I ain't going to no hospital. The place is probably ransacked and crawling with raiders."

"We don't know what we'll find there, but it's worth scouting out. And it's due south, so we'd be heading away from Clockwork's bomb boy," Leone said.

"You don't know where that bomb is," Dale said.

"I spoke with Major Hedgeworth before she left. I do know," Leone said, sternly.

"I say we head that way," Dale said, pointing due east.

"Why's that?" Leone said.

"Just because, that's why," Dale said.

Feathers walked between them and put his hands up to ease the men. "Come on, boys, we don't need this bickering," he said.

"Who's bickering?" Dale said.

"You are," said Feathers.

Dale looked at Clive and said, "Does it sound like I'm bickering?"

"I don't hear no bickering," said Clive.

Leone had just about had it. His anger surged and his veins bulged and framed his neck. "Now just shut up everyone!" he yelled. "I don't know when you all started playing teams or why, but I want it to stop! Dale, you got five minutes to explain yourself."

Dale smiled and looked back at the men, then at Leone. "Ain't nothing to explain," he said. He patted the empty space on his sleeve where his Droodge patch used to be. "I'm nobody's warrior no more."

"That's bullshit," Leone said. "You're our brother and you're a warrior to each of us! For God's sake, it's just us against the world. We don't have any allies, and yet you guys want to try to divide us? What the hell is going through your heads?!"

Leone saw Clive swallow and then look away, unable to maintain eye contact, but Dale still had a smirk on his face.

"There you go again. Trying to tell me what to do. You're not my king. If it were up to me..." Dale said.

"Yeah, if it were up to you then what? What would you do so different?" Leone said.

"I'd have done nice with Clockwork. I would have followed orders, not burned my bridges," Dale said. "You can't keep us safe. Fucking Sisal is dead now. You're probably next, by the looks of your arm."

"What about me?" Tyler asked. He just finished sawing off a ham and let it drop into a gory bag. "It don't take a genius to know I'm worse off than Leone. You think I'm going to die?"

"You look rough," Dale said, after awhile.

"Well then I say we go to the hospital to try to fix ourselves up. And if you don't like that, then I'll do us all a huge favor." And with that, Tyler pointed his bloody knife at Dale and then drove the entire blade into the wolf carcass up to the handle.

After a brief silence, Leone sighed. "This is just what I didn't want," he said. "I want us to hold together."

"We're together, right Clive? Right, Dale?" Feathers said, with a grand smile on his face. "You guys would like to come with us to this hospital, yeah? We got no intentions of leaving you behind without food and all."

"Right, I'm ready to go," said Clive.

"Yeah," said Dale.

The men traveled east until they found a road dusted in ash and then followed it down south. Along the way, Croner walked beside Leone and told him that he would have been better off tying Dale and Clive up and having them follow like dogs.

"That'll do us no good," Leone said, and then he continued walking. He couldn't help looking back to see what Dale was up to. Each time he saw Dale trailing at the back of the group with Clive. Bill gravitated by them, too. Sometimes he would walk in close to Dale and Clive and whisper something that would make them all laugh.

I'd take their guns if I could, but the world's already got us outgunned.

They walked nonstop from morning to noon and then sat down to eat. Nobody spoke as Croner and Tyler prepared the wolf. Leone ate the meat. It was gamy and tough. They ate and chewed loudly.

It was around 3 o'clock in the afternoon when they arrived at a curve in the road. The curve hugged a large mountain that stood high and pierced the veil of black clouds.

Leone stopped walking.

"What is it?" Feathers asked.

Leone stared at the mountain and sighed. His soiled hand attempted to wipe his eyes clean. "Growing up, I'd been up this road a thousand-thousand times and there was never a mountain here," he said.

"You sure about that?" Feathers asked.

Leone smiled sadly. "I'm not sure about anything anymore."

"That's not something a leader should be saying," Feathers said. "You keep that talk to yourself."

Leone doubted this was the road his family used to drive up and down to reach the local town, but those doubts left him once they turned the corner and saw the remains of Pine Hill. The small stores were hollow blackened shells that had been blasted by firebombs long ago. On the eastern side of the street stood the old convenience store, a liquor store, a deli, a pharmacy and a barbershop, and across the street stood the hospital.

When the wind blew the ash, Leone saw it come out of the broken windows of the hospital. The electricity had long been extinguished, rendering the windows deep black.

"There's a pharmacy up there," Leone said.

"Which one is it?" Jobs said.

"That one." He pointed at the fourth building. They were all black and broken beyond repair.

"Don't think we'll find anything good there," said Tyler.

"Perhaps not," Leone said. "I'm going to check it out. I want you guys to stay back."

"I'm coming with," said Feathers.

"Okay, but that's it. The rest of you should get off the road and hide in the dunes across the way," he said, pointing to the land opposite the mountain.

Leone and Feathers kept low and ran into Pine Hill to the convenience store. The window had been smashed. No one appeared to be inside, so Leone stuck his head through the window and had a better look. He saw some cans of coffee on the ground and some spoiled boxed dinners.

The liquor store had been completely emptied. The carpet was coated with ash and the shelves were bare and slanted. The deli was just as empty, although there were lots of lottery tickets and other small things of lesser use.

The pharmacy was deep and the far corner was as black as pitch. There were some greeting cards in the vestibule that had somehow escaped fire damage, but the rest was black char. As Leone walked past, he saw some of the cards' messages: Welcome Back, and Get Well Soon. His mind went to thoughts of his burning hometown and the terrible wound on his arm and it became too much to bear. He stopped walking and took a second to catch his breath.

"You okay?" Feathers whispered. He had his gun drawn and was aiming it at the darkness.

"Yeah. I'm fine," Leone said.

"This place gives me the willies," Feathers said. "People moved out of the towns and into settlements for a reason, you know."

"I know," Leone said. He slung his rifle off his shoulder. "Stay on guard."

"You don't got to tell me."

The pharmacy was dark and empty. The shelves had collapsed and the fixtures were turned on their sides. Leone wished he could see the opposite end of the pharmacy, but it was too dark.

They'd have shot us dead by now if there was somebody back there, he thought.

"Easy," Leone said as Feathers hurried into the back.

"I'm okay," Feathers said.

"I got a bad feeling is all."

Feathers disappeared into the shadow of the dark and there was silence. No footsteps. No labored breaths.

"Feathers? How's it looking?"

In the darkness, there was no answer save for Leone's beating heart. He inched towards the back. His boots crunched discarded pill bottles.

"Feathers," he whispered.

Silence. Leone felt a pull at the back of his neck and was startled until he realized it was just his nerves getting the best of him.

He walked into the back and let the shadows swallow him. His eyes took some time to adjust.When they did he saw white pill bottles that dully glowed in the dark along the floor. Feathers was on his knees picking up the bottles. He shook each one. Silence.

"Empty," Feathers said. "They didn't leave us shit."

They gave up on the pharmacy and walked onto the sidewalk. They weren't two steps out the door when a bullet cracked in the distance and smacked the blackened bricks of the pharmacy by Leone's head. Leone cursed and they both ran back into the pharmacy and took cover behind the window. His heart raced, and yet it all seemed normal to them.

"Did you see where it came from?" Leone asked.

"No."

"I think it came from the right side -- our right."

"Want me to take a look?" asked Feathers.

"Wait it out."

They waited until they heard the guns of their own men. The group took cover behind the shops, running around the back of the stores and trying to secure positions on the roof.

Dale was right, Leone thought. Place is filled with raiders.

"I don't want to fight here," Leone said.

"What?" Feathers said.

"Hold your fire!" Leone yelled out. "Hold your fire!"

Leone showed his hand in the window and waited, unsure if he would feel a bullet go through it or not.

"Hold your fire!" he yelled again, and he stood, exposing himself fully.

"Are you crazy? Get the fuck down!" Feathers said.

"No more of my men are going to die," Leone said.

He walked out of the pharmacy and placed his rifle down in the ash. He raised his hands in the air and walked towards the hospital. He walked onto the ash-covered parking lot and stopped about ten feet shy of the entrance. Nearly all of the hospitals windows were broken and pitch black. There was no telling where the bullets would come from.

And yet Leone wasn't dead, and that was something.

"We don't want to fight," he said. "We came through to see if there was any medicine. We've got wounded. We can trade."

A man's thin, old voice was heard through one of the windows. He said, "How'd you get wounded?"

"Wolves attacked us. We've got their meat to trade, if that's what you want," Leone said.

"Show me the meat," the voice said.

Leone turned around and saw Croner's head poke out from the side of the convenience store. He nodded at Croner and, reluctantly, Croner came out holding a few bags of wolf meat. He walked to the middle of the street and held them up. It was obvious that he wasn't comfortable out in the open.

"That could be any meat," the voice said.

"It's wolf," Leone said.

"You men with an army? You look like Droodge to me," the voice said.

"We take no side in this war," Leone said.

There was a silence and a harsh wind came that blew ash up into the windows of the hospital.

"Tell all your men to put down their guns," said the voice.

"Not until we know you got medicine, asshole!" Dale screamed. He was on the roof in prone position using the edge of the building to steady his gun.

Leone stiffened, and gestured for Dale to be silent. "Put your guns down, guys. Nobody has to die here today," Leone said.

One by one, the men appeared from behind their cover and placed their rifles on the ground. Dale was the last to put his weapon down. He cursed to himself and spat, leaving his gun on the edge of the building as he walked away to pace.

When Leone was satisfied, he addressed the black windows. "We're unarmed. Do you have medicine?"

An old man emerged from the black door. He sunk into himself with drooping skin that hung and ill-fitted baggy clothes. He emerged slowly from the black crypt of a hospital, supporting his weight with a cane. He walked until he stood not five feet away from Leone.

"There's not much left," the old man said.

"We just need some antibiotics," Leone said.

"Give that meat here and I'll see what I can do," he said.

"I don't feel comfortable with the idea of giving you anything without seeing the medicine," Leone said.

The old man sighed and looked back into the black windows of the hospital. Leone tried to follow the old man's gaze but couldn't see anything in the shadowy windows.

"How many people you got in there?" yelled Dale, pacing on the roof.

Inside the pharmacy, Feathers muttered for him to keep quiet.

"We got more than you," the old man said, but his voice was so low that only Leone could hear.

"Like I said before, we don't want to fight," said Leone.

The old man's eyes wandered from Leone to the meat that Croner held. His sunken cheeks were hollow and begged for fat to fill them.

"You don't hunt?" asked Leone.

"We conserve our ammo for more important things," the old man said.

"Please let me know if you have medicine," Leone said.

The old man licked his ashy lips. "We have medicine."

"I can't believe you. I want to see it."

"Bring the meat over."

Leone called back for Croner to come to his side with the meat. Croner shook his head but walked to the hospital anyway. He held the meat out at his sides with his arms extended like a crucifixion.

"Bring the medicine out," Leone said.

"You'll have to come in for it," the old man said, adding, "Just you two."

It didn't sit well. Leone looked at Croner's vest and could see his knife tucked in its sheath and the bulk of his 9mm stashed beneath his clothes. The two made eye contact and Croner nodded subtly, knowing that Leone knew he was armed. Croner took a deep breath and exhaled.

"Let's go," Leone said.

As they walked towards the black entranceway of the hospital, tattered figures emerged from the shadows of the windows holding guns aimed right at Leone and Croner. They had the look of raiders – wearing mismatched clothing that hardly fit and probably plucked off corpses. Their hairs tangled into ashy, sandy dreads from lack of wash, and their faces had grotesque piercing on their lips and cheeks.

"Leone!" Feathers called out.

Whether the men in the hospital's intentions were to kill or to keep a watch on Leone and Croner as they entered, none in the company could say. Dale dived for his rifle and had a gunman in his cross hairs. Dale didn't give the man a chance. He squeezed the trigger and the gunman in the hospital took a bullet in the cheek and fell back, consumed by the darkness inside.

The old man turned wide-eyed and cursed at Leone. "You devils!" he said.

He raised his cane and pointed the bottom of it at Croner. The cane was hollow and lined with metal. A great fire erupted from its bottom, causing a cloud of black pellets to fly at Croner. He took the shot badly and fell on the floor. He was red and wet from the neck up, one white eye clean and pure around the gore.

The gunfire began, but Leone could hardly hear it. The fighting seemed like it was miles away. He looked at Croner on the ground. Croner lay motionless; his leg twitched.

The old man staggered back when Leone looked at him. Leone's eyes were hard, his jaw taut. There was a look of fleeting sanity on his face. He could hardly feel the ground beneath him as he walked, nor could he feel the battering winds. Leone paid no attention to the shouts and the groans of dying men. His entire world was the old man.

"Stay back!" the old man said, waving his cane.

Leone saw the man's lips move, but didn't hear the words.

"Stay back!"

The old man pointed the cane. Leone ripped it out of his hand with a wicked strength that nearly knocked the old man off his feet. With a mighty swing, Leone smashed the old man's head with the cane. The old man fell on the ground and Leone swung down. Slow, methodic blows, until the old man was red pulp.

Hands grabbed Leone's shoulders and he stopped swinging.

"We gotta get the fuck out of here," Feathers said to him.

Leone looked from Feathers to the red old man on the ground. He marveled at his own work and felt a sickening pull in his stomach when he realized what he had done. Hot bile surged up his throat but he kept it down.

The next thing he knew, they were all running. The winds had picked up in a whirl that offered some coverage from the raiders' bullets. The raiders unleashed magazine after magazine, and with each step the men cringed at the thought of a bullet catching them in the back of the head.

The wind was thick with ash that battered the men as they ran. When they huffed for air, the ash filled their mouths so no air would go in until their lungs ached for oxygen. They had managed to run about half a mile until they had to stop.

Black tongued, Leone called out to his men to gather. They formed a tight circle with their back to the swirling winds.

"Look there," Feathers said. He pointed to a nearby mountain, barely visible through the storm. "Let's see if we can find any cover on the rock."

"It's a sheer wall, we won't be able to scale that thing," Bill said.

Leone looked at his remaining men. Feathers, Dale, Clive, Bill, Tyler, and Jobs.

"Croner," Leone said.

"He's dead, man!" Dale said.

"Where's Frank?" said Leone. He and Feathers looked around and when they didn't see him, they tried to look through the winds and the ash but couldn't see anything past the gray haze. "Shit, we left him behind!"

"No, no, we didn't leave anybody behind," Clive said. It was then that Leone noticed the bulbs of wet blood on Clive's shoulder, neck, and face. His eyes were wide and watery and he had a hard time keeping himself from shaking.

"Where's Frank?" Leone asked.

"He got shot," Clive said.

"Shit. Are you okay?" Leone asked.

Clive nodded and then touched the blood on his shoulder. "He was right next to me. He couldn't have been more than five inches away. He got shot in the head. That could have been me, man. I'm sorry that Frank died, but that could have been me," he said. Clive was the youngest in the group and in that moment his age showed. A few weeks shy of his nineteenth birthday, his macho exterior had been broken, revealing the innocence of a teenaged boy. "That could have been me."

Leone placed his arm around Clive and held him tight.

"You're all right, Clive," he said. Clive began to cry.

"Let's get to that rock. Might be we can find a crevice to crawl into," said Leone.

They walked towards the mountain and the winds picked up fiercely. The wind had gotten so bad that they could hardly walk. It all reminded Leone of a nightmare where something evil approached and he was helpless to escape. Leone wanted to put one foot in front of the other and walk to the mountain, but the winds held him still.

\---

The men made it to the mountain and when they did they were exhausted and in pain for fresh air. Leone fell to his knees and put his head between his legs to get away from the wind. It helped only for a moment until the ash began to scratch the back of his neck.

"Fuck this shit!" Dale screamed. "Fuck this!"

Rushing in anger, Dale walked to the mountain and kicked the rock. His leg, however, moved right through it. It caught him off guard and he lost his balance and fell into the mountainside. As his body fell through, the brown stony wall wavered and pixilated into a bluish hue.

"What the hell?" said Feathers. "Dale! Dale, can you hear me?"

Leone moved to the mountain and tried to touch it, but when he did his hand passed right through.

"It's a hologram," he said.

"Hologram? I know damn well that the Droodge don't have this technology. Do you think it's Skallion?" said Feathers.

"No clue," said Leone. He called out for Dale, "Hey, can you hear me? Are you okay?"

Dale's voice came through the mountain: "You guys won't believe this shit!"

Leone carefully stepped through the holographic mountain. Beyond the hologram of rock, he saw fields of glowing white minerals that emitted cool air. A soft fog rose up from the minerals and the place looked like heaven. The smell of it was tangy like citrus and sizzled the nose. Dale was spread out on the white mineral, which had broke under his weight. It felt so cool and soothing against his skin.

"Holy shit," Leone said.

He stepped back through the hologram and saw the real world of black ash, soot, and death.

"What's back there?" Feathers asked.

"Mint," Leone said. "A fuck ton of mint."

Chapter 31

In the early hours, Spencer awoke sweating. He glanced at his clock and cursed. He had woken an hour before he should have. There would be no more sleep, he knew, even though his eyes burned for it.

Franklin laid in his cot. He snored softest of the three brothers. Tomas' snores usually woke him, but this morning the roaring winds disrupted his sleep.

Spencer felt bad for his brother Tomas. He was a tormented man, a man who, even in sleep, was subjected to his own inner rage. He would snore like a growling wolf and kick at his blankets until they laid in tangled clumps on the floor beside his cot.

Only, now the cot was empty and the room was oddly quiet.

Spencer sighed and closed his eyes. Tomas was probably taking a piss. It wasn't like his brother to get up for a late night piss, but they were getting older. Hell, Lincoln was up almost every other hour to have a night leak, and he was younger than their father.

Ten minutes went by, and then another ten. The morning sun illuminated the black shrouded skies, allowing deep red light to paint the floors with a hellish glow. Tomas' cot looked still fresh and his blankets laid without a wrinkle or indentation.

"Tomas?" Spencer whispered. In the silence, only Franklin snores answered him.

Spencer got out of his cot and walked towards Tomas'. He placed his hand on the cot. The blankets felt cool. No one had laid here last night.

He left the room and went into the bathroom, but it was empty.

"Oh, that bastard," Spencer said as he looked at the closed door at the end of the hall. He shook his head. It made sense, he thought. He saw the way that Tomas looked at Veronica at suppertime. Spencer only hoped, for Veronica's sake, that it was consensual. Spencer knew how aggressive Tomas could get if he didn't get his way.

Spencer tried the knob and found that it had been left unlocked. He gave a quick courtesy knock and then called into the room.

"Veronica? Are you awake?" he asked.

There was no answer, so he knocked again.

"It's Spencer. Have you seen Tomas?"

The third knocked opened the door slightly. A cool wind escaped from the dark room, which sent a chill down his spine. The room was dark, darker than the sky's clouds or the blacks of an eye.

"Michael, are you in?" Spencer said, but there was no answer. "Huh. Michael?"

He swung the door open and searched the wall for the light switch. With a click, the light went on, revealing all of the room's secrets.

Spencer felt all of the energy leave his body. He could no longer feel his knees, and so they buckled, spilling him to the ground. A burning pain in his chest worked its way up to his face and eyes. His mouth opened automatically to cry, but no sounds came out.

As quickly as he had fallen to his knees, he was back on his feet and rushing to his brother's side. Spencer touched the wet robes and looked down at his red stained hands. His fingers went searching for a pulse even though he knew none would be there, for Tomas' eyes were open and his skin had turned white.

Spencer was paralyzed by his emotions. He could not move, could not think, could not force himself to look away from his brother's dead body. A sadness so deep it choked him. When he felt that he had a control over himself again, Spencer cried out in anguish, waking everyone in the caravan.

\---

Franklin didn't cry as they buried Tomas in the ash. His face was cool and placid; his eyes wide and innocent.

He kicked his shovel deep into the ash and dug until he hit the soil. The soil was a bit tougher to work through. Betsey had offered to lend a hand when he began to dig, but Franklin simply raised his hand to stop her and, without saying a word, continued to dig.

"We shouldn't have let her come with us," Spencer blubbered. He sat ass deep in ash, with his back against the caravan. "Who do you think you are bringing killers along with us?" he said to Lincoln.

Lincoln didn't say a word. His face was as hard as stone. In the reflection of his black goggles, Franklin tirelessly shoveled clumps of black soil onto the ash.

"You knew something was wrong with her. Why'd you keep her here?" Spencer said. His face was wet with tears and mucus. "You gave her our money and our food!"

Lincoln's hand came up and fixed his goggles.

"She reminded me of the people in the Outer Quadrants," he said. "So clean and hopeful."

"She is a murderer!" Spencer said.

Lincoln let out a long sigh and walked over to Spencer. Spencer's eyes were wide and his nose ran like a child's. He looked up at Lincoln.

"I can't believe he's gone," Spencer said.

"I could," Lincoln said.

Franklin was satisfied with his hole once it was five feet deep. Wind came and swept the ash into Franklin's face and hair, but he did not flinch. Franklin climbed out of the hole under his own strength and walked over to Tomas, who was wrapped in a tight bundle of black sheets.

"Come," Franklin said. His voice was as sweet as an angel's.

Franklin carried Tomas by his shoulders while Spencer supported the legs. They gently lowered him into the hole.

A moment of silence was held while the men and Betsey stood around, looking down at their brother's corpse. Spencer blubbered and placed an ash-covered hand over his mouth to quiet himself. Franklin placed his hand on Spencer's back and rubbed it. Spencer turned into his brother and hugged his arm, letting the tears pour out.

"We should say something," Lincoln said, looking down at the twisted heap of black cloths.

Franklin cleared his throat.

"Tomas lived hard and played hard," he said, and kicked some of the ash down into the hole.

Spencer released his brother's arm at once and looked at him, studying the calm lines of his face.

"You can say something nicer than that," Spencer hissed.

"Say your peace so I can bury him," Franklin said, and so Spencer did.
Part 4: It's Only The End of The World

Chapter 32

When Veronica and Bomb Boy arrived at Riverbed, they met two boys at its gate. They were no older than thirteen years, and wore fatigues and armor that were meant for men twice their age. The smaller of the two had faded blond hair that jutted out of his lopsided helmet. He fumbled with his rifle, placing its butt into the ash and leaning the barrel against his chest as he pushed the hair out of his eyes. The other boy was a head taller and built thick. He had wiry red hair that formed tight curls under his helmet. In each of his hands was a .357 revolver. How he planned on dual wielding a revolver that powerful, Veronica had no clue.

"Never seen you, lady. You have to go," said the blond boy.

"We got orders," said the red head. He gestured Veronica away with a wave of a revolver.

"But we've been traveling for days. We need rest and supplies," Veronica said.

"No new comers," said the red head.

"No new comers, no new problems," said the blond.

"How does your settlement trade, then?" Veronica asked.

"Traders have to stand right there," said the blond, as he pointed to a large metal surface that had been swept and marked with a large red X. "Traders can't stay for too long, though. Or else," the blond cocked his gun.

"I don't suppose that I could trade with your settlement," Veronica said.

"Looks like you don't have much, except that robot. We don't take robots, anyway. Not after those Droodge soldiers came," the red head said.

"Shut up," said the blond.

"Oh, who cares," said the red head. He waved his revolver again and said, "Lady, you have to leave or I'll shoot you. I shot a person before, you know. I got him in the side of the throat. He died not long after."

Veronica thought back to her training. She could have charged the red head and broke each of his wrists with a quick twist, and kicked the blond's rifle down and out of harm's way long enough to plant her knee in his neck. But they were only children. And Veronica dared not harm anyone in front of Bomb Boy, especially not after what happened with Tomas. She would be the model of humanity for Bomb Boy and, through her actions, he would know not to harm.

"What do you suppose I do?" Veronica asked them.

They both shrugged.

"It don't matter to us," the blond said.

Veronica reached into her shirt and peeled a few credit notes from her roll. She showed each of the boys a five credit note.

"Would you boys please let me in?" she asked.

They studied the notes, eyes wide and mouths agape, then looked at one another.

"No, no, we can't," the blond moaned. "No robots can go into the settlement. They were serious about that."

Veronica peeled two more notes free and showed them to the boys. "Get me clothes for him. I can dress him up and nobody would be the wiser."

The boys looked at one another, and then looked back at the closed gates of the settlement. Veronica wondered what they were looking at, and if unseen eyes were watching her through the gates. She pulled a few more credit notes from her large roll and showed it to the boys.

"This is all I have," she said. "Please help me get in."

The blond looked at the red head and said, "I'm going to get some clothes." The red head bit on his lips and nodded.
Chapter 33

"Don't blink," Veronica said after she had fastened the goggles over Bomb Boy's head. He wore a tattered cream-colored shirt that had been beaten thin from the wind and ash. Beneath his goggles were thick scarves that consumed his entire face, and over his head was a tight leather cap with a chinstrap that closed over his scarves. Thick leather gloves cracked from heat and use covered his hands.

Veronica was impressed with the outfit. There wasn't an inch of Bomb Boy's metal that was exposed. Just so long as he didn't blink, they would be fine.

They had dressed in a closed off space that was off at the settlement's northern wall, and then returned to the front gates. The boys nodded them in and called out over the fence.

"Open up!" the blond yelled, banging on the walls.

Gears beyond the gate turned. Metal links clinked and cracked under the weight as the gate lifted from the bottom, like a garage door, and then pulled back in a heavy armored corridor.

The path ahead was dark. The stench of dampness and rust lingered.

"Well, go on," said the red head. "We have to close up quick."

"Okay," Veronica said, nodding at the boys. She took Bomb Boy's leather clad hand into her own and squeezed it. The leather felt like soft skin, and his metal digits felt like bones. If only, she thought. If only he were flesh; my flesh. She walked with him through the corridor.

The walls were lined with small circular windows, corroded and yellowed. The sickly light from outside poured in the windows, painting the inside with pillars of ill yellow that reminded Veronica of Bomb Boy's eyes. The walls were staring. Vents along the ceiling spat out warm air while long lines of cobwebs danced in the warmth and clung in place.

It was hard to breathe. The sweat formed on Veronica's brow almost instantly. Her body heated up and beads of sweat began to fall down her armpits and along the side of her body. As she walked through the dark passage, she thought, would it ever end?

Veronica caught movement in the corner of her eye. It looked like a black sphere that had eclipsed one of the windows. A curious head. Bomb Boy looked up at it, too, confirming what Veronica had seen. Neither said a word.

They had walked about twenty yards and still could see no end to the tunnel. Another sphere appeared in one of the windows, preventing the decaying yellowed light from entering. Veronica looked at the sphere and realized that it was looking back at her.

She tensed up and held Bomb Boy's hand harder.

"They're watching us through the windows," she whispered very quietly.

She looked back towards the corridor's entrance and estimated how long it would take to run out if things got foul. As she looked at the bright opening, gears began to spin. The sound of moving chains and screeching hinges filled the corridor with deafening echoes. The bright entrance began to close like a mouth.

It felt hotter now. The air was even staler, and yet the vents continued to pump in dead air.

"Don't be afraid," said a small voice. "Just keep walking."

Veronica held Bomb Boy in her arms as they walked. They walked ten feet and stopped when they heard the loud hiss of escaping gas. Veronica took a deep breath of air and held it as she covered her mouth with a scarf. She cautiously sniffed the air, snorting after she did, trying to detect any airborne poisons. In her training, she had been exposed to twenty different poisons, five of which she became immune to.

And yet, she could not detect any foreign agents in the air. The air stank of old, forgotten places, and nothing more.

"Keep walking," a voice urged.

The sound of hissing gas, which Veronica realized was from the hydraulic door, ceased. Rusted hinges screamed as a small door at the end of the corridor opened. In contrast to the dark, the light looked as pure and white as it had before black clouds conquered the sky. A silhouette stepped into the doorway, her shape outlined in the wall of light. Her hand came up and she gestured for Veronica and Bomb Boy to come.

As they walked into the light, the form that stood at the other side of the door came into view. She was a young girl, no older than nineteen. She had shiny red hair that framed a round and rosy face. Her eyes were wide and pale, and her lips were full and red. She was slim and tall, and threw her hip out to a side with careless flair. Veronica could not recall seeing a more beautiful girl.

"We don't get many visitors," she said. "And there's a reason for that. How'd you manage to get in?"

Veronica noticed that the girl's hand, which was casually supported on her hip, held a pistol.

"My baby and I needed a place to rest," Veronica said pathetically.

The girl grimaced and looked down at Bomb Boy.

"That's not a baby," she said. "Hey, kid, how old are you?"

"I'm eleven years old," Bomb Boy said, stepping behind Veronica and clutching onto her leg.

"Oh God, you are a baby," the girl said, sighing. "Well, come in. Trade what you got, then get stepping. There's no telling when the boys will be back."

The settlement looked as if it had been put together with gray electrical tape. Everything was washed of color, save for the rare pieces of fabric that had been used to patch together tents. Of the settlement's inhabitants, Veronica couldn't see one man.

"Did the men leave to go hunting?" Veronica asked.

The girl scoffed. "You can trade for food in that tent there," she said, pointing at an unremarkable gray tent. "Whatever supplies we can spare for trade can be found in the tent right next to it. Looks like you two don't got much, though." She looked at Bomb Boy. "I'll trade you a pistol for those goggles and scarves, little baby."

"Nothing he's wearing is for trade," Veronica said. "He can't breathe without his scarf. He's asthmatic. And the wind hurts his eyes."

The girl shrugged. "Sucks. One of the little pukes has the same goggles. Been trying to get them for the past few weeks. They're pretty bitching."

"Thanks," Bomb Boy said. The girl smiled.

Veronica heard an insistent rattling in the settlement's square that grew louder and fiercer as they approached. It sounded like a snake's tail.

An elderly woman with a bent spine danced in the square. She wore a fearsome wooden mask painted sky blue with thin red stripes along its cheeks. The mask's eyes were large and yellow, and they seemed to stare through Veronica and see her very soul. In each of the old woman's frail hands was a maraca.

The mask's yellow eyes never left Veronica, no matter how she danced or spun. It was as if the mask knew Veronica's secrets; it knew of the murder and the devastating bomb that walked at her side. The bright yellow eyes were judging her, eating away at her soul.

A cool shiver crept down Veronica's spine.

"Where was that trade tent, again?" she asked.

"Right there," the redhead said. "Renee!"

A pudgy woman who had rolls on her chin, arms, and sides emerged from the tent. Her skin was white, like curdled milk, and her lips were painted a vivid shade of blue. Her hair was jet-black and fell in tight curls, save for the few strands that broke free and stood as they would.

The inside of the tent reminded Veronica of how her mother's kitchen used to look like, before the first firebomb. The floor was made of white tile that was actually clean, and the walls were covered with floral print wallpaper.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Renee asked. She had a smoker's voice and smile.

"I wanted to trade. I need some food, water, and supplies, and a transport," Veronica said.

"No, no, no. I mean what the hell are you doing inside this settlement? No newcomers allowed, that's the rules." Renee bit down on her lip and angrily shook her head. "God, if they see you, we're all likely to get beat."

"Who?" Veronica said, but Renee ignored her. She rushed out from behind her counter and stormed out of the door.

"Jenine!" Renee called out. The beautiful redheaded girl looked up. "What the fuck?"

Jenine shrugged, her pistol lazily held in her hand. Behind her, the old woman in the mask continued to dance, the mask's bright yellow eyes fixed on Veronica.

"You're a dumb bitch," Renee said.

"The boys let them in, not me," Jenine said. "If you got beef, take it up with them."

Renee grumbled, causing the loose flesh on her cheeks to jiggle. She gave Jenine a hard look.

Veronica interrupted. "You're worried about the Droodge soldiers?"

Renee glanced over her shoulder and looked Veronica up and down. She had a sour look on her face.

"Why are the Droodge harassing this settlement?" Veronica asked.

"This settlement? Try every settlement!" Renee said. "They're taking a head count of all of the people living here and are drafting all of the men to fight their war! They're very strict about the new rules: don't break curfew, don't have any interaction with robots, and most importantly don't let strangers into the settlement." She looked at Jenine.

Jenine smiled faintly and threw her hands up in the air in defeat. "I told you, I didn't let them in. But if the Droodge do find her and they don't like what they see, well then..." Jenine cocked her gun, loading a bullet into its chamber -- "They'll just have to answer to me."

Renee shook her head. "Stupid girl. Don't think they won't kill you because you have a pretty face and perky tits."

"Just give me a reason to fight. I'm not going to take their shit anymore," Jenine said.

"You need a reason to fight? Look around you!" Renee said. She pointed a hard finger at Veronica. "You and your boy have to leave right now. The mint traders come between now and six, and they're usually accompanied by a Droodge guard. If the guard does a head count and sees that we've taken on more people, we're in trouble."

"That doesn't make sense. Why would the Droodge care about how many people are in a settlement?" Veronica said.

Ahead of her, the old woman in the wooden mask shook her maracas.

"They're spooked now," Renee said. "From what I understand, they lost something. Something really important. If they have any reason to think that we're harboring fugitives or smugglers, they'll wipe out this entire town. They wiped out New Hampton just three days ago for that very reason... All of those people are dead."

Veronica noticed that Renee was getting red in the face. Her eyes widened and shot in all directions as her breath became more rapid. Veronica recognized the symptoms; Renee was having a panic attack. Her fingers curled and touched her black, curly hair. She wanted to run, escape the settlement, and yet she knew that there were no more safe places. Defeated, Renee let out a moan and tried to reclaim her breath.

"You have to leave now or so help me God, I'll kill you!" Renee said.

"Christ, chill the fuck out, will you?" Jenine said.

"Nobody values their life anymore," Renee said. She turned and silently walked back into her tent, throwing the flap closed behind her.

"How often do the Droodge check up on the settlement?" Veronica asked.

"It doesn't matter," Jenine said, and she would speak no more about it.

They wandered further into the settlement until they came upon the dancing woman again. Veronica couldn't help but stare. She had never seen anything like it in her life.

"Don't mind her, she's just crazy," Jenine said. She chewed on a long piece of ashy wheat and spat out gray spit. "I'm not sure how the story came up, but I first heard it about two years ago. Now that I think about it, I remember one of the mint traders told us it. Mint traders," Jenine scoffed, "They're all full of shit. They said that the clouds are black because they're filled with water. Do you believe that? And they said none of the water comes down because of a thermal pocket that was caused by all of the firebombs. Rain falls down, hits the flying thermal pocket in the sky, and evaporates back into the clouds."

"People actually believe that?" Veronica asked.

"I mean, it doesn't sound that crazy. It does kinda explain why we haven't had any rain since the Big One. But what people like that are doing," Jenine pointed at the elderly woman with the wooden mask, "That's crazy. Rain dancers," she said. "Old lady Clifton is going to dance until the rain comes or until she dies. I'm betting on the second. They say that when the rain does come, it'll be so torrential that it'll wash away all of the sand and ash."

"This new world has warped many minds," Veronica said. "I have credits." She took a moment to study Jenine's reaction, but she had none. "I'd like to buy a transport."

"There aren't many laying around, and the ones that are would probably cost you an arm and some." Jenine said. "Where are you heading?"

"I don't know," Veronica said.

"If you're going to aimlessly drive around the barrens, you're as good as dead," Jenine said. "If you have a destination, your best bet is hitching a ride with a trade caravan."

"No trade caravans," Veronica said.

Jenine couldn't help but smile. "Yeah. They're all just a bunch of horny dudes who are trying to get it in. That's how I made it to this settlement, actually." Her smile saddened. "This war killed all of the men. Now there are only animals."

"I know."

"You may find someone willing to sell a transport by the settlement's back exit. Look for the hungry ones. They will be more willing to sell," Jenine said.

\---

They walked up a windswept path. A light layer of ash covered the concrete walk, telling a story in footprints of the children and animals who played in the settlement. Veronica could see them running and playing in her mind's eye and could imagine their joyous yells and laughs.

The footprints took her back to a simpler time, a time before the country had divided. She would chase alley cats with her friends, never wanting to scare the cats, and never meaning to actually catch them. Veronica knew the price she would pay if she did manage to snatch up a cat by its tail. Of her old friends, it was a boy named Paul who never seemed to learn his lesson. His arms bore the scars from their scratches until the day a firebomb melted his skin.

Veronica heard the young ones shout in the distant, but they didn't sound as amiable as she had imagined. She saw two dirt-encrusted kids chasing a cat with sticks in their hands. They swung the sticks wildly, barely missing the cat with each swing, until one of their sticks connected with the back of the cat's head. The cat let out a shrilled cried that raised bumps on Veronica's neck, and it dropped to the ground. The kids beat it dead while Veronica shielded Bomb Boy's eyes.

"How far?" Veronica asked.

"It's not far now. You mind if I ask you something?" Jenine said.

"Depends. What is it?"

"How'd you do it?" Jenine asked, pointing at Bomb Boy.

"I don't follow," Veronica said. She glanced at Bomb Boy to see if any of his metal was exposed, but she couldn't see anything. He looked like a real boy.

"There's something about your kid. He's not like the others I've seen. He reminds me of how kids were before the war. I can't tell you when the last time I saw an innocent person was."

"I did my best to raise him," Veronica said. She placed her hands on Bomb Boy and massaged his shoulders. He felt so real beneath the layers of clothing that it ached her chest and stomach.

"You did a great job," Jenine said. "Still, I hope you know how to use one of these," she said to Bomb Boy, waving her pistol in the air.

Broken down caravans and old cars with rubber street wheels were parked in the remains of a municipal parking lot. The tires of the old cars were brown with rust, but the bodies and glass were well restored. Walking past the first car, Veronica noticed blinds inside the windows. A pillow and some blankets were set out in the back seat, and various cups and food scraps littered the front.

"This is it?" Veronica asked.

"It's not much, but I reckon that a half dozen of these sand crawlers have at least five hundred miles left in them."

"You know who's selling?"

"Hell if I know," Jenine said. "Everybody's got a price."

Veronica saw two caravans that looked promising. One was a Droodge built 3AT model. It was painted in civilian colors, a dusted robin egg's blue with an ember red stripe painted down its side. The other model was a backyard hybrid. It had an ugly nose like a humming bird's beak that was dented at its tip. Veronica overlooked the damage and looked at the vehicle's well-maintained and polished wheel gears and tracks.

She approached the Droodge built and jumped onto the wheel track. She gave the door a knock and said, "Anyone in there?"

She cleaned the ashy window with her palm and looked inside the caravan. The inside was completely dark.

"Any idea who owns this one?"

Jenine shrugged.

Veronica jumped off the caravan and saw a preteen girl emerge from behind the hybrid caravan with a bucket and a rag. The girl's hair was the color of ash and smoked every time her head moved too quickly. She had a blunt, wide nose and sunken eyes that would look well placed on a flat-faced dog. She dipped the rag into the bucket and began to wipe down the wheel gears.

"Hey," Veronica said to the girl. The girl looked over her shoulder.

"Hey," she said.

"Is this caravan yours?"

"Who wants to know?"

"I do. I'm interested in buying. I have credits," Veronica said.

The girl's flat, ugly face scrunched up, as if she smelled something sour. She turned her attention back to the wheels and scrubbed the gears.

"How much would it take to give up this caravan?" Veronica said.

As the girl spoke, she never looked at Veronica. "This caravan is the fastest machine in the country. My father and I built her a few years ago, when he was still in the settlement. It's not for sale."

Veronica retrieved a stack of credits from her shirt and held them in front of the girl's face. The girl did her best to ignore the money, but her curious eyes couldn't help but to glance up at it.

"I'll give you everything I have," Veronica said.

"You probably only have a grand there. If I was to sell, and that's a big if, I'd want at least fifty grand."

"Fifty grand?" Veronica said. "That's absurd! With that cash, you could buy twenty military transports."

"That's my price. I'm not budging."

Veronica sighed. She curled the credits into a tight roll and placed them back into her shirt. Veronica noticed that the girl's eyes followed the credits as they disappeared behind cloth. She's hungry, Veronica thought. Hungry and proud.

Veronica shrugged and they walked towards the next car.

The girl threw her rag into her bucket and dried her palms against her thighs. She pushed herself up to her feet and stretched out her back. "I might have something that you'd like," she said.

She gestured for Veronica and Bomb Boy to follow and led them past the old caravans, and towards an old barn along the settlement's wall. From the look of the barn, it had been old and dilapidated even before the firebombs. Its walls had been reinforced with perforated sheets of copper that revealed termite-infested redwood beneath.

"Sturdiest thing we have in town," the girl said, thumbing at the barn, "Except for my Hummingbird, that is."

Above the barn's door was a bucket shaped canopy where a young boy sat. The boy was no older than ten, and wore a pot on his head for protection. He held an old .22 rifle in his hands that was in dire need of a cleaning. Veronica wondered if the boy could even lift the gun, and if it would fire if he could.

"I'm going in," the girl shouted up to the boy.

"Why?" the boy said.

"To see Night Dancer, that's why!" the girl said, not in a kind voice.

"Who are they?" the boy asked, nodding at Veronica and Bomb Boy.

"Some people, just open the door, come on!" the girl said. The boy gave her a look and the girl sighed and stomped the ground. "They're not going to steal anything! They might want to buy Night Dancer! Just open up!"

"Fine, fine!" the boy said. He disappeared into the barn and pulled a long lever, which released a loud latch.

As the girl pulled the barn door open, the smells of fresh manure and filthy fur emerged. It was a scent that reminded Veronica of her childhood, yet one she had not smelled since the ground turned to ash.

A sad black horse stood inside the barn, its tail nervously flicking at air. In its company were two pigs, a dog and her litter, and a young goat that could disappear in the ash, if it were to lay in it.

"Neddy's a pain because people are always trying to come in and steal the pigs," the girl said. She pointed at the horse. "That's Night Dancer. She's mine."

"I'm impressed that you can find food to feed that thing," Veronica said. The barn was lined with stacks of clean, fresh hay.

"It's not easy, but I've found some spots with Hummingbird. That's what I do most of the time, harvest hay."

"Seems like a waste," Veronica said. As she spoke, Bomb Boy pulled away from her and cautiously approached the horse. His head tilted in wonder, his fingers curled in anticipation.

"It is not a waste!" the girl said. "You won't find a better horse than Night Dancer."

"I wouldn't doubt that," Veronica said.

"Listen, I'll sell her for 500 credits," the girl said. "Take it or leave it, I don't care." But Veronica could taste the desperation in the girl's voice. She was hungry, and all of the hay in the world couldn't fill her.

This horse is a burden. She must be keeping it alive out of some sort of guilt. She can't kill it, but she doesn't have the strength to care for it.

"I wouldn't pay that," Veronica said. "I wouldn't know what to feed it or where to keep it when the winds pick up at night."

\---

Bomb Boy reached out for the horse. The horse's black eyes watched as the hand approached its nose. There was tranquility in its eyes that Bomb Boy had never before seen. He was impressed by the creature's calmness and, instead of touching its nose, placed his hand against the animal's rib cage. He could feel the powerful beat of the horse's heart. Bomb Boy could feel warm blood surge through the horse's veins, even through his gloved hand. Its heartbeat was far more peaceful than Veronica's. Veronica's heartbeat had quickened ever since that first night in the barrens. Even when she slept, Bomb Boy could feel her heart beating like a war drum.

\---

"I'll set you up with hay and a tent," the girl said. "Night Dancer didn't always live in a barn. She can hold her own in the barrens."

"I don't like it. It's impractical," Veronica said.

As Bomb Boy petted the horse's stomach, Night Dancer nuzzled her soft nose into his chest. He laughed. Veronica had never heard Bomb Boy laugh before.

"What are you talking about? You want to talk impractical; you know how much mint I have to feed Hummingbird to get her going? I pay out the ass!" the girl said.

"I'd just like something that could offer us more protection," Veronica said, but her voice sounded distant. She watched Bomb Boy's hands scratch the horse's sides, causing puffs of jet-black hair to fall to the ground. He laughed some more and then hugged the horse.

"Caravans don't offer that great protection, really. They draw a lot of attention and if you get caught out in the barrens with no mint, you're as good as dead," the girl said.

"Okay. I'll buy the horse," Veronica said.

"Wait... really?" the girl said.

Veronica pulled the roll of credits from out of her shirt and handed some to the girl.

\---

Night Dancer was in dire need of a brushing. She wore her saddle heavily and walked with an odd limp. Between the saddle rubbing against her back and the limp, hair dropped off her by the pound. The girl didn't seem to mind, as she pulled the horse out of the barn.

"Night Dancer has a lot of hair," she said to Veronica. "It's always falling off."

"Strip Dancer," little Neddy said from the barn balcony.

"Shut up!" the girl said. "They think she's going to go bald soon, but she's not. She's actually really healthy."

The horse trotted along with stacks of hay hanging on its side and rear. The hay alone seemed enough to weigh down the large animal. Veronica wondered if the sad thing would support her and Bomb Boy's weight.

"Isn't she great?" Bomb Boy asked.

"Yes. She's wonderful," Veronica said.

Bomb Boy ran out ahead and took the reins from the girl's hands. He gently led the horse towards the caravans, by the settlement's back exit. It seemed quieter, he noticed. There was no one in sight. Even the old woman who had been dancing for rain was gone.

As Bomb Boy looked over shoulder at Veronica, they heard a gunshot at the settlement's entrance.

"Shit," the girl said. She quickly ran to Hummingbird, climbed up the ship's tracks, and jumped into the hatch on top of the ship.

There was smoke coming from the entrance now and the smell of burning chemicals was faint in the air. Veronica immediately remembered the scent. Fetal bombs, she thought. The kind that destroyed Libson. She remembered how the palm-sized bombs hung off Michael's uniform. He had three dangling off of a belt that crossed his heart, each bomb frozen in its pose. The bombs looked like crawling golden infants.

The three that Michael carried on his uniform had the power to destroy half of the settlement, and yet...

The fetal bombs are only a fraction of a percent as powerful as Bomb Boy.

In her pocket, she felt the weight of the detonation device; the smooth wooden finish and the bright amber button. At night, she would look into the amber and see her face's reflection. The curvature of the amber would distort her reflection and make her look like a hideous demon. She often thought that it was the Devil who looked at her through the amber.

Another shot exploded, its noise piercing the silence of the afternoon. A boy cried and screamed out in pain.

"My stomach. Help me," he said.

Veronica recognized the voice. It was the small blond boy. There was another shot and the boy stopped crying. The familiar pins pricked at the back of Veronica's neck. She felt the twitch inside of her, the adrenaline.

"Come," she whispered.

Veronica grabbed Bomb Boy by the arm and pulled him towards the back of the settlement. Dancer's reins tangled in Bomb Boy's hand, prompting the horse to clumsily trot beside them, stacks of hay swaying uneasily from side to side. As Veronica ran, she saw slivers of faces in the small openings of tents. The women and children of the settlement were waiting, the shining steel of their guns anticipating what came through the doors.

Behind her, she could hear the roar of the Hummingbird's engine as the caravan revved up.

The air stank of that familiar chemical stench that preceded the fires, a smell of rotten eggs mixed with lemon. It was only a matter of time before the fires started. But why? she thought.

Veronica studied her surroundings. There were caravans along the wall that she and Bomb Boy could hide in, but she opted against it. Most of the caravans were too corroded to function. Plus, the militants would be sure to check the caravans before they checked the tents.

"This way!" Veronica said.

As they ran, Veronica could see little Neddy sitting on the balcony, half bathed in shadows. As they drew closer, he shimmied further back.

"Please open the door," Veronica said, when they reached the barn's door.

"Get out of here," Neddy whined. There were tears in his eyes that broke Veronica's heart.

"Please," Veronica repeated. "You don't have to go through this alone. Just please let us in."

"This is all your fault!" Neddy said. "No newcomers, those were the rules!"

The smell of rotted eggs and lemon intensified and nearly choked Veronica. An explosion devastated a section east of the square. The ground trembled and the heat of the fire burned Veronica's neck and back.

Dancer bucked onto her back legs and kicked the batches of hay off her hindquarters. The horse cried out as the settlement's inhabitants screamed and ran into the streets.

The dismal reality of war came back to Veronica like an old nightmare remembered. Time began to play its tricks and slowed itself to an unnatural leisure. A woman who had caught fire ran through the streets while trying to bat the flames out with her arms. Veronica could see each new flame lick up from her torso and kiss the back of her body as she fell to the ground and rolled.

Blink. Breathe.

A group of settlers headed by Jenine took to the streets and popped off shots. Jenine rushed into the fray, her long red hair trailing like a comet's tail. She held a pistol in her outstretched arm that she shot in haste.

"Neddy, open this door now!" Veronica said.

The boy's eyes were slick with tears as he watched Jenine's troop disappear between tents. His hand absently moved towards the lever and pulled the lock open.

Inside the barn, the animals nervously panted and paced. A lot of straw, Veronica noted. This place will burn up quickly. There was something she had seen, or at least thought she had seen when they had come to get Night Dancer. She rushed into the middle of the barn and began to kick away straw.

"Get in here and close the door," she said to Bomb Boy.

Bomb Boy tugged at Night Dancer's reins using all of his body weight to pull the horse inside. The stubborn horse didn't want to budge. Bomb Boy could see the fear in the horse's black tarry eyes. Fear and licks of flame.

"It's got to be here somewhere," Veronica said to herself. "I saw it. I know I did!"

She dropped to her knees and swept the hay away with her hands. Beneath the hay, feces, and piss was a gray stone floor that was cool to the touch. "Where is it?"

"Come on, Night Dancer," Bomb Boy said. A few stray bullets flew through the air and hit the barn. They were .22 shells, from the sound of them, and weren't powerful enough to break through the barn's metal shielding.

"Michael, come here now!" Veronica shouted.

"Close the door," Neddy called down. The boy was completely inside the barn, allowing one leg to swing off the canopy in search of the ladder while the other leg was exposed in the balcony's door.

A stray shot came through and grazed Night Dancer's rear, sending specks of blood and fur onto Bomb Boy's shirt. He looked down at the blood on his shirt in wonder. He had read all about blood and had seen plenty of photos. The pictures had depicted dead and dying soldiers bathed in the red substance, but he had never been this close to it before. He wanted to touch it. He wanted it to course within him.

Night Dancer bucked onto her hind legs. The reins tangled around Bomb Boy's arms and he was lifted into the air. His legs kicked frantically as he tried to pull himself free. The horse landed on its fore hooves with a mighty force, slamming Bomb Boy onto the hard stone ground with devastating strength.

"Michael!" Veronica screamed.

As she rushed to Bomb Boy's side, the horse bolted out of the door and into the burning town. She had just kneeled down beside Bomb Boy's twisted body when the scent of spoiled eggs and lemon filled her nose.

"No," she muttered.

A plume of fire burst with an astounding vigor outside of the barn. The long column of fire lasted for only a moment before turning into an expanding mushroom of red and yellow flame. The heat dried Veronica's eyes and mouth instantly. Her face burned so that she thought the skin would melt while she still lived. The very air she breathed burnt her mouth and throat, all the way down to her lungs.

Run, she told herself.

She wrapped her arms around Bomb Boy and lifted him up with newfound strength. Veronica ran towards a corner, watching as the fire filled the barn. The heat and pain were upon her. She could feel the flames lick her back and burn away her hair. The skin that had been exposed to flame swelled with pain.

Her strength fleeting from the overwhelming pain, Veronica dropped to her knees and crawled around the fire towards the barn's wall. Veronica could feel the heat of Bomb Boy's metal as she pressed her flesh against him to protect him. During the frantic rush, Bomb Boy's goggles had come undone. His flashing yellow eyes looked up at Veronica as he muttered, "Mom."

Each moment that passed felt like a lifetime. Time was no longer a uniform thing, but rather a perspective that was strewn and stretched throughout all of eternity.

The pain left Veronica's body. She felt a sense of utter serenity that relaxed her to her very soul. As her eyes opened, Veronica saw that her clean and white hands were pressed against blades of green grass. She could feel the moisture in the grass and squeezed the soil for its cool texture.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" she heard a deep, handsome voice say.

It had been so long since she had heard his voice, and yet it was unmistakable.

"Michael," she said.

A pleasant smile graced his hard jaw line. His blue eyes looked upon her gently as he extended a hand to help her up.

"I've missed you," Michael said.

"Oh God how I've missed you," Veronica answered. The emotions swelled within her. She held back her tears, fearing that if they started, they would never stop falling.

Veronica extended her hands to take Michael's, but hesitated.

"What's wrong?" Michael asked.

"I'm sorry, but I cannot come with you, yet. I still have so much to do," she said.

"You've done enough. Now is time to rest," Michael said.

Veronica looked away from his eyes and smile and up at the blue sky. It looked clean and beautiful.

"No. I have to take him to the Outer Quadrants. I have to show him the blue sky," she said.

"I love you so much," Michael said. His face twisted in anguish as his apparition faded to black.

Veronica gasped for air when she awoke and tasted smoke. She coughed in fits. Her clothes had disintegrated along her back, revealing burnt flesh. Every moment was agony, every movement torture. Veronica pushed herself off Bomb Boy. She felt the heat when she touched Bomb Boy's metal and wondered if he felt pain.

The inside of the barn had been devastated. The stacks of hay caught fire and burned fiercely, the flames kissing the barn's walls and ceilings. A pig had lived, although its back and rear had been burnt black. The pig snorted quietly to itself, as if the pain had sapped all of its energy. It laid on its stomach with its head between its hooves, ready to give up on life.

A small black bundle of charred flesh laid beyond the barn's door. Its arms and legs were broken and twisted from the fall. A blackened rifle lay a few feet away from the poor thing. Not more than five feet away from the black body, the hay on the ground had burned away, revealing a hatch to the basement.

The heat continued to be unbearable. It dried out Veronica's eyes. She fought to find her footing, moving up carefully as to not agitate the wounds on her back.

"Are you okay?" Veronica said to Bomb Boy.

The small boy's eyes flashed. "Are you?" he said.

"Yes," Veronica lied.

"Let me help you," Bomb Boy said. He got up and offered his hands to help Veronica walk. As his small metal hands grabbed Veronica's, the hot metal made her squirm.

"Please let go," Veronica said, trying to pull her hands free. "You're hurting me."

Bomb Boy released her hands and looked down at his own. Though his face was frozen and expressionless, Veronica knew he felt ashamed. Ashamed of what he was, of being less than human, of hurting Veronica.

"It's okay," Veronica said quietly. She touched him on the shoulder and pulled him towards the hatch. "Come, we need to hide until it's safe to leave."

They opened the hatch and descended into the barn's cool, damp under compartments. There, they waited in silence, listening to the shouts and gun shots coming from above and praying that no one would come down to find them.
Chapter 34

Doghead was an old resort that overlooked Lake Mawhaw. Before the war, back when Lake Mawhaw was a shimmering body of water, the resort had been called Deer Run. When the bombs fell, the ash had mixed with the water that hadn't evaporated to create a murky mixture. The thick layers of ash that settled over the still waters made the lake look like solid ground.

Franklin knew better than to drive through the lake during his first pass. He spotted a crawler half submerged in the water, jutting up like a half-buried monolith. He steered the caravan around the lake and up towards the main gates. The two Droodge soldiers who stood watch at the top of the gates gave a call back. Within seconds, a line of soldiers appeared.

Franklin pulled back on the accelerator as the caravan climbed up the narrow hill. He noted the stiffness in the guards' arms, the subtle way their thumbs rubbed at their rifles' releases. He compressed the brakes until the caravan came to a halt. Like clockwork, Lincoln yelled up at him.

"What'ya stopping for?" Lincoln's voice echoed through the floor.

Franklin rolled down the side window, grabbed his flag, and waved at the soldiers. The light green flag, with a white piece of mint stitched into its center, not only signified power, but served as a warning. The mint they carried was so flammable that it made napalm look like matches. If even one of the soldiers' bullets hit the caravan's tank, everything within a mile would burn hotter than hell.

When the soldiers' failed to yield, Franklin waved the flag harder and said, "Mint here!"

\---

"Oh, for Christ's sake!" Lincoln yelled.

The caravan's door screeched as it opened, and Lincoln barreled down the steps. As he marched up the hill, Betsey ran out to keep up with him.

"Who do you think you are intimidating with those pea shooters!" Lincoln called out to the guards.

"Stay where you are, civilian!" a soldier ordered. The soldiers looked motley, some with the furs of SOTS fixed to their shoulder pads or helmets. They reminded Lincoln of the groups of soldiers that had defected from the war and wandered the barrens for sustenance and purpose.

Lincoln stopped walking. "Who the hell are you calling 'civilian'? I'm Lincoln Daggersmith! I sell you mint so that you don't die! Do you get that?"

The motley soldier pulled the hammer on his rifle. He wore a fox's fur on his helmet. The fox's eyes had been replaced with pieces of coal, and its teeth had been laced and tied around his neck.

"What the hell are you doing? Who's in charge here?" said Lincoln.

"Stop!" called a familiar voice from behind the line.

"Donovan?" Lincoln called out.

The solider that wore the fox furs was pushed aside by a large gloved hand. In his place walked Donovan Treadspire. "Lower your weapons, men. This group is okay."

The walls of Doghead were decorated with the skulls and rotting heads of SOTS. After the firebombs destroyed most of the animals' natural habitat, it became hard to distinguish one ash-covered beast from another. There were fox heads, dog heads, coy-dog heads, and deer heads, to name a few, but each was so mangled that they all came to resemble some kind of awful looking dog.

As Lincoln and his men exited the caravan, the smells of smoked meat filled their noses.

"You boys sure know how to eat," Lincoln said to Donovan.

"The meat's a little stringy, but otherwise I didn't find a better meal outside of Clockwork," Donovan said.

The two men grabbed forearms and embraced to hug. Lincoln could smell Donovan's stink through his thick padded armor. Lincoln's own skin smelled like soap.

"Your boys have a hell of way of saying hello," Lincoln said.

Donovan shook his head. He frowned and rubbed his nose. A spot of black dirt clung to the side of his nostril.

"Things changed," Donovan said.

"Fuck me in the ass, I can't stand anymore change," Lincoln said.

"What, you like things as they are?" Donovan said, smirking.

"I know things aren't changing for the better, is all."

As the two walked into the old resort, Franklin and Spencer tended to the mint. The brothers donned their gloves and black robes. As an addition, Spencer wore a strip of black cloth that he had ripped from Tomas' robe around his head. He tied the cloth around his head the night they buried Tomas, and hadn't taken it off since.

The inside of Doghead looked haunted and abandon. The floor was hopelessly covered in ash, the walls lifeless and dull. The wallpaper had turned a sickly brown color that curled and peeled. When Lincoln looked at the wallpaper he saw the dead skin of men who had laid in the barrens for too long.

Dead eyes of SOTS followed Lincoln as he walked deeper into the room. He took a seat on a warn green leather couch. Donovan sat beside him.

"It's about that weapon you were talking about, isn't it? That's why your boys are up in arms," Lincoln said.

"You're blunt."

"I'd like to think of it as cutting through the crap. I hate crap, Donovan. You know that," Lincoln said.

"Some information got into one of my boy's hands. Tom Lorenzo was his name. He worked the gun on one of Clockwork's personal sandcrawlers. He was green as baby shit, plucked straight out of a water depot. Snotty little kid, always had his nose where it shouldn't be. When he found out about this little weapon, he went out to Ellington and got shit faced in a whorehouse.

"Apparently he went wild on this cute blonde, pulling her hair and slapping her ass while they screwed. She loved every bit of it. Tommy didn't, though. He was crying the whole time. All of the boys in the house could hear him. And then he screamed, 'We got a bomb! We got a bomb!' Some of the pretty girls started running out and the boys got a little worried.

"I mean, yeah, we had a bomb. We had tons of bombs," Donovan's fingers seemed to unconsciously touch the baby bombs strapped along the right side of his vest. "Then you know what he said? He said, 'We got a bomb boy.' A bomb boy." Donovan leaned back into the old leather and looked at the peeling wallpaper.

"According to that cute blonde, he put a gun to his head and blew out his brains. She didn't seem all that fucked up about it, so it might have been her who pulled the trigger." He shrugged. "But a bomb boy?" Donovan looked at Lincoln. "Clockwork's engineers made a bomb boy."

"That's war for you," Lincoln said.

"No, you don't get it." Donovan realized that his fingers were still touching a baby bomb and quickly drew his hand away. "I did some digging around after I heard that news. A lot of the boys did. Nothing is confirmed, but they say that the bomb boy is about four and a half feet tall. It weighs about ninety pounds. Lincoln, have you ever happened to come across a town called Libson?"

"Course I have," Lincoln said.

"Libson fell after five baby bombs. Five. Things are a pound apiece, if that. Can you imagine what ninety of them could do?"

"Like I said before, this is a war, Donny. You know that as good as I do. All wars have to come to an end, and when they do the best thing you can pray for is that you were on the right side of the border," Lincoln said.

"We don't know where the right side of the border is. The bomb boy was stolen. He's out in the barrens with some psycho traitor named Veronica Hedgeworth. We think she's going to sell his technology to the Skallion."

Right then, the feeling seemed to leave Lincoln's face. He felt a heavy pressure within his chest, as if he had been punched, and a squeeze in his arm. He had a harder time breathing. He bent over and leaned his arms against his legs. "You seen this girl before?"

Donovan nodded.

"Let me ask you something, what does she look like?"

"Pretty thing. About five foot six. Pale skin, wide eyes. Messy light brown hair. She used to be the hottest thing I ever laid my eyes on, but I hear she fell apart after her husband died. You see anyone like that?"

"There are a ton of girls like that in the barrens," Lincoln said.

"But there aren't a ton who travel with a ninety pound robot that can carve a hole into the earth like this world's never seen," Donovan said. "You let me know if you see her, okay? In this country of soldiers and raiders, she's by far the most dangerous person."

"If I see her, I'm going to turn tale and run, is what I'm going to do," Lincoln said. He allowed himself to catch his breath. The pressure in his chest subsided the more he ignored it. The squeeze in his arm went away. He leaned back on the couch and took time to appreciate the softness of the cushion.

"This is a nice couch," Lincoln said.

When he returned to the caravan, Spencer and Franklin were finishing up their transactions. Lincoln studied the way they interacted with the soldiers; Franklin speaking openly with the men while Spencer brooded in silence. Look at how they have changed, Lincoln thought.

Lincoln placed his arm around Franklin's shoulder and walked him to the back of the caravan.

"They don't have much, besides animal heads," Franklin said. "We got twenty credits out of them, fresh meat, salted meat, and a few rifles."

"We did good then," Lincoln said, not truly interested in the transactions. "How's Spencer holding up?"

Franklin shrugged. "He hasn't taken off that headband yet."

Lincoln sighed and rubbed some tension out of his left temple. "Do you think he can be a danger to us?"

"Spencer? No, not at all! He'd never hurt a fly." Lincoln studied the brother's face. "I'm serious," Franklin said.

"Okay."

Franklin took point in the caravan and reversed out of Doghead's narrow driveway. The driveway was lined with gray tree husks that had barely any limbs remaining. When the tall caravan brushed against an exposed tree limb, it crumbled to ashes.

"Lincoln," Donovan called out.

Lincoln turned to see his friend running out of the resort. Betsey stood beside Lincoln, expertly rubbing a knot out of his shoulder with her right hand.

"What's up?" Lincoln asked.

When Donovan was near Lincoln, he said, "The Skallion don't know what this robot looks like, okay? They're scanning for all humanoid robots."

"Let them scan, the bastards."

"Word has it that they're shooting people with robots on the spot. I'd watch out with her," Donovan said, pointing at Betsey.

"Nobody kills the mint man," Lincoln said.

Donovan's face twisted. "I'm serious," he said, for whatever good it did. "It's a different game now. Kids are getting capped out there."

"It's a shame."

"They'll get you, too, if you're not careful," Donovan said.

"I'll be careful." Lincoln walked up the stairs of the caravan and opened the door to the sunroom. "You stay alive, Donovan. I'll see you around."

"You too, Lincoln," Donovan said. "You're the only person in this world who's got color."

As the caravan pulled out of Doghead, Lincoln climbed up the ladder into the driving compartment. Franklin looked over his shoulder when he heard the latch open.

"I want you to head due west," Lincoln said.

Franklin glanced at the caravan's navigation. "That's the way we came from."

"And that's the way we're going now," Lincoln said.

Franklin looked at the navigation again. They were heading north to replenish their tanks in a mint patch that Lincoln called the Whores' Lips that was just five miles up before heading to Riverside. Franklin shrugged and steered the caravan due west.

"Thanks," Lincoln said, before descending down the ladder.

Lincoln entered his room and looked out of the window. Though the caravan was traveling fast, the endless expanse of indistinguishable ash and sand gave him the impression that they were standing still. The blackened sky churned in plumes of gray and red. It looked like the heavens were ablaze.

Veronica couldn't have gotten too far.

He turned and stared at the closed door to the brother's room. Spencer was in there brooding, no doubt. After Betsey, he was always the first to approach Lincoln for some friendly talk. But now he took his meals alone in his hammock and spent too much time staring down at the ash, his eyebrows furrowed as if in deep thought.

Things changed, he heard Donovan's voice say.

"Betsey, can you go into the brother's room and gather up any weapons that they might have in there? I want all of the guns and knives to be locked away," Lincoln said.

"Okay," Betsey said.

"Also, make sure you check Spencer for weapons. Don't do it outright, maybe you can give him a massage or something to feel him out. I don't want Spencer to be around anything that can shoot or stab," Lincoln said.

"Anything you want," Betsey said.

"Thanks, dear," Lincoln said.

He looked back out the window. I'm going to find you, Veronica. You and that bomb of yours. When I do, I'll try my best to keep Spencer from killing you.
Chapter 35

The compartment beneath the barn was a flavor of dark that only the dead could enjoy. Veronica couldn't tell whether her eyes were opened or closed when she blinked. She held Bomb Boy's small head against her stomach and squeezed him. The harder she squeezed, the less she minded the unbearable pain she felt on her back.

This wound may kill me, Veronica thought, tears forming in her eyes. I can't die now. Not while they're so close to my baby.

The floorboards above them creaked. They heard steps that were slow and widely placed. People walked to the middle of the barn, and paused.

Please don't look down here, Veronica thought. She hadn't the strength to fight or run, if it came to that. Please just leave this barn.

Bomb Boy stirred in her grasp and gently worked his arms around her body, as to not agitate her wounds. His bright, yellow eyes flashed once, nearly blinding Veronica, before they slowly dimmed to black.

He's trying to tell me something.

Bomb Boy looped his arms around Veronica's thighs and slowly lifted her into the air. The movement brought great pain to her back. It felt as if someone were dragging knives down her skin.

Veronica bit down on her lips and tried her hardest not to scream. Her mind went to a hidden place that was safe from pain and torment, a green grove under a black sky that nursed no stars or moon. Though the sky was devoid of all light, the tops of the trees glowed emerald green. The green light painted the bark of the trees, and made the green grass below look even more vibrant.

She focused hard to stay among the glowing trees, but the harsh realities of her flesh were slowly pulling her away. The trees were vanishing, as if being sucked to oblivion through a black hole. Veronica began to feel the faintest tingle on her back.

No, she thought. Beat this pain. Don't let it take you.

She thrived to keep the pain gone, but it had overwhelmed her once again. All at once, she felt every sensation of her skin.

Forgetting herself, she cried out in pain.

Bomb Boy's hand quickly muffled her mouth. He held her in place, very still, his black eyes looking up at the dark floorboard above.

The man in the barn shifted his weight and the floorboards screamed. They heard him cock a bullet into the barrel of his shotgun, and Bomb Boy ran.

Veronica bounced in his arms. The pain was so intense that she nearly fainted. He ran as quickly as his legs could carry him, his metallic feet thumping lightly against the hard cement floor.

The man fired two shots into the floor that splintered and burst the wood. The sickly dull light from above came into the underground compartment in pillars where the gun's spray had made its holes. It was all Veronica could do to look up at the hole and see the soldier's feet nervously shuffle.

"Who's there?" he called, his voice growing thinner as Bomb Boy ran further down the dark tunnel.

The soldier knelt beside the hole and stuck his head in to have a look. He wore no helmet and had young features, though they looked aged from the ash, sun, and the stress of murder. The sparse showings of black hair along his jaw revealed that he was a young teen, but he could have passed for a thirty year old. He was thick and well fed, and filled out his Skallion uniform in ugly ways. The white and blue striped shirt was taut against the rolls of fat on his side.

His lazy, dumb eyes strained to look into the darkness. He aimed his shotgun into the tunnel and pulled the trigger.

The pellets sprayed down the tunnel, catching wall and floor, a few pellets tinging as they hit Bomb Boy's feet.

The wood of the barn's floor screamed and gave way under the Skallion soldier's weight. He muttered a nervous cry as he fell, and landed hard on his shoulder. A crack resonated in the dark tunnel before his body went limp on the floor.

Bomb Boy did not stop running. He ran further into the darkness.

"How deep does it go?" Veronica asked weakly.

Bomb Boy's eyes flashed momentarily. "It's deep," he said. "We have another quarter mile before it turns out to the right. I'm not sure how much further it goes in that direction, though."

"What is this place?" Veronica said, mostly to herself. Are we heading towards a bomb shelter?

They heard shouts come from the barn. The voices echoed through the tunnels, carrying the men's words.

"Who's down there?" a hoarse voice said.

"Is that Benny? Holy shit, it's Benny! Hey guys, he looks hurt," said a younger voice.

Bomb Boy's foot went searching and found an empty crevice. He gently placed Veronica into the wall's crevice, taking care as to not cause her any pain.

"They won't see you in here if they look in," Bomb Boy whispered.

"What?" Veronica said.

"Shh," Bomb Boy said. "I'll see if there's another place where I can hide until they pass." And with that, Bomb Boy vanished into the darkness. Veronica listened as his soft footsteps became lighter and more distant.

No, don't go. You're not safe down there. You're only safe by my side. Veronica tried to sit up, but the pain nearly caused her to cry out. She carefully undid her scarf and placed it into her mouth to muffle any sound. She tried to sit up again. It felt like a blanket of knives draped and dragged along the skin of her back.

"Benny, you dumb shit," the hoarse voice echoed. "Step away from the hole or you'll end up dead like this asshole. Hey you -- check that little kid's body for any ammo we can save. Marc, you got a flashbang? Give it here."

A light canister dropped into the tunnel, its metal lightly bouncing off the cement floor. Flash grenade, Veronica thought. She attempted to close her eyes, but it was too late.

The deafening roar of the flash grenade echoed through the tunnel. The explosive sound was full and painful, entering Veronica's ear like lava. When the bang faded, the pain stayed, along with a terrible ringing that nearly matched the grenade's roar. The flash of light lit the tunnel only for a moment, and in that moment, Veronica saw old sketchings carved onto the wall. There was a monkey wrench, a star, crossroads, a wagon wheel. The images stayed with her, even when she closed her eyes.

Flashes of light erupted from down the tunnel accompanied by thunderous explosions.

What is that? Veronica thought, half drunk from the pain and sensory overload. She clumsily leaned to one side, allowing her to see up the tunnel. Men stood beneath the hole, their bodies bathed in the dim light from above. Veronica counted three of them, each one standing with his legs bent and guns at the hip, pumping bullets into the tunnel.

She retreated back into the wall's crevice.

They're going to shoot Michael, she thought in a panic. Her brain felt swollen within her head, her thoughts muddled and foggy. I have to shield my baby from getting hit.

Veronica scrambled to her knees and ran into the tunnel. With her back to the gunmen, she spread her arms out into the air and waited for the bullets.

"Assholes!" a hoarse voice from above called. "You want to keep pissing ammo away like that, I'll shoot you in the fucking heads. Get Benny's piece and his bullets, and then get up here. The dead kid up here's got a .22. Might be we can find some bullets in this dump, too."

Trembling, Veronica lowered her arms and looked over her shoulder. One by one, the three Skallion soldiers climbed up the ladder. Veronica breathed again once they had left, so eagerly that she had wondered how long she had held her breath.

She shook like a clinging dead leaf in an October gust. Her eyes tried to adjust to the darkness again as she looked up into the tunnel. She imagined seeing Bomb Boy laying face floor on the ground, dead and laying in a puddle of his own blood.

My baby in his blood, she thought. She felt foolish, then. No, no, he doesn't have blood. Why am I getting so confused?

She staggered blindly down the tunnel, her arms extended at her sides in search of a wall to guide her. After a few steps, two hard knobs pressed themselves against her chest.

Little hands, she thought. Little metal hands.

Bomb Boy allowed his eyes to flash dimly in the darkness, and then gently took her hands.

"Can you walk?" he whispered. "I can carry you."

"I can walk," Veronica said. I should be the one carrying you. I'm supposed to be your protector. I've grown so weak.

They took a few steps before Veronica's strength gave. She fell to her knees, panting from the pain. Two small, metal arms slid up her sides as she knelt. Slowly, she was lifted in the air until naught but her toes dragged along the ground.

"Don't worry, mom," Bomb Boy said. "I'll keep you safe."
Chapter 36

The red filled Jenine's mouth and dripped down her lips. She could taste the iron in her own blood as her tongue went searching for loose and missing teeth. So much blood, she thought.

"I'm only going to ask one more time. Where is the robot?" He had wild orange hair, curly and unruly. His teeth were a sickly off yellow color that matched his complexion, and his eyes were colored from too much liquor. The smell of rum lingered on his breath and overwhelmed Jenine every time he exhaled.

There was too much blood to swallow, so Jenine spat it out onto Rum's knee. She looked up at him with her pretty eyes and flashed a red smile.

Rum's hand moved so fast that Jenine didn't see it. She felt the harsh crash of it across her jaw. Rum had hit the magic spot that almost knocked her out, but she dizzily clung to consciousness.

"I'll ask you again. Where is the robot?"

Everything looked dark and fuzzy. "There's no robot here, asshole," Jenine said.

"My entire life, radar never lied to me. Girls, on the other hand." Rum laughed and grabbed Jenine's cheeks with his gloved hand. "If I had a BJ for every time a girl lied to me, I'd be bruised black. This is the last time I'm going to ask. Where is the robot?"

"Fuck you and your dipshit soldiers. I already told you what I know," Jenine said.

"Have it your way," Rum said. He peeled his gloves off his hands and began to undo his belt. When his belt was off, he undid his pant buttons and unzipped himself. His pants dropped to his knees, revealing underwear that had been stained the same color of his skin.

Rum made a slurping sound and cupped his hand around his crotch.

"Now don't you nip or I'll kill you slow," Rum said.

Jenine's vision was slowly returning. She looked past Rum and saw a brownish red lump on the floor. Her name was Melissa, Jenine thought. I wonder if she even felt that bullet go into her head. Rum walked into her line of vision and jiggled his crotch in front of her face.

"I'll bite your dick and balls clean off. And while your stumbling around, trying to find your gun, I'll knock you on your ass and bash your face in with my knee," Jenine said.

The smile on Rum's face vanished. He pulled up his pants and redid his belt, and then he gave Jenine a stiff punch in the temple that knocked her out.

\---

Nothing was going according to plan. Captain Bernard Stenshwell told his men very specifically that they were in a very fragile environment and they were not to fire their weapons unless the situation absolutely called for it. And what did they do?

He saw one of his men standing over a pretty redhead, staggering like a drunkard.

"Let's see how you like waking up with a dick in your ass," the drunkard said. The soldier grabbed the redhead's arm and dragged her body to a nearby shed that had escaped most of the fire damage, except for some charring.

"Where the hell are you going?" he barked.

"Captain," Rum said. "I was looking for a few minutes to myself."

Stenshwell stood just over five feet tall, with enough muscle to bend steel in his thick, calloused hands. His face was as red as a cherry and he had a thick black bush of a beard that grew in thick around his jowls and neck. Some said his beard was so thick that it strangled the voice in his throat.

Stenshwell dug a circular copper device out of his pocket and pressed a button on its interface. Neon green lines formed on the device's black glass while a red dot pulsated.

"Our bomb's within fifty meters of us and you want to shag?" Stenshwell screamed, white foam spraying from his lips. "I should put you down myself like the dog you are! You put that girl down now and get to searching!"

"Nobody knows shit about this bomb," Rum said. "The radar's probably picking up some random caravan part, like what happened in the Skids."

Stenshwell closed the space between himself and Rum faster than Rum expected and clenched his hand.

"I ain't risking killing myself and everyone else in this half of the country because you needed to get your dick wet," Stenshwell growled.

The bones in Rum's hands crunched as he tightened his grip. Rum cried out in pain and released the redhead's arm, allowing it to flop to the floor. Rum tried to rub the pain out of his hand.

"I think you busted my bones," he said.

"I'll bust your other bone if you don't get off it," Stenshwell said. He looked around. "Good God, where the fuck is everybody?"

A wave of dizziness came over Stenshwell as his stress intensified. I tell them not to fire guns and they kill everyone. I tell them not to use fetal bombs and they scorch the place. Stenshwell felt a pressure in his temples. These idiots were like to blow the bomb up themselves.

"I told the men to rendezvous at this meet up point. Where the fuck are they?" Stenshwell said again.

Rum looked around dumbly, cradling his broken hand. "Fuck if I know," he said.

These men have gone rabid.

"Find everyone and tell them to get here within the next two minutes, or I'm going to be pissed," Stenshwell said.

"Yeah, sure," Rum said.

"Yeah, sir," Stenshwell corrected. As he watched Rum lazily sulk off into the burnt remains of the settlement, he fought the urge to draw his gun and shoot Rum in the back of his head. It's the only way to deal with rabies. I would if I weren't in such need for men.

When he was alone, he stole a moment to survey the damage they had caused. At a glance, he counted five bodies. Three were laid out on the street, one dangled half out of a window, and the last had been shot on a roof. All of them were women.

Most of the dead couldn't have been older than Stenshwell's daughter. The redhead that was still alive was probably the same age.

"You wouldn't have fought if you didn't have something to hide," he whispered, trying to justify his actions to the dead. An awful pit formed in his stomach.

Stenshwell turned his back to the dead and brought the radar closer to his eyes. He squinted as he read the small type. The bomb should be twenty meters ahead of me. When he looked up, he saw only the charred remains of a wooden hut that had collapsed. Blackened splintered logs jutted up from the ruin, nursing small flames.

As Stenchwell approached the fallen hut, the red orb on his radar grew brighter. It's here, he thought. Buried under this pile of burning wood because of my rabid men.

He pulled hot pillars of wood from the mess, feeling the heat of the flames through his leather gloves. Thick plumes of white smoke arose from the agitation and choked Stenchwell. He placed his arm over his mouth and coughed until his lungs were clear.

"Fucking animals," he called over his shoulder.

One by one, he pulled the hot wreckage away until his brow was soaked and his pits were damp from the heat and heavy lifting. When he was just about to give up, he saw what looked like a small arm clothed in a dark green sweater that had been darkened from soot.

Can that be it, Stenshwell thought, but as he bent over to touch the arm, he could feel the soft flesh and bony arm beneath the fabric.

With a mighty heave, he removed the large pillar that had crushed the small girl. She laid face down, her thick, bloodied black hair shrouding her face. Stenshwell liked it better that way. He didn't want to see her face.

She couldn't be more than eight, he thought. His mind couldn't help but to wander to a simpler time, a time before the Great Firebombing, when Darleen was still eight years old and innocent. He imagined what it would have felt like to lose her the way some poor souls lost this young girl. It was crushing to think about. Her parents are probably already dead, he thought. If the war didn't kill them, my men probably just did.

He touched the Skallion badge on his arm and felt his eyes get hot with tears. I just want to get this bomb and end this fucking war, he thought. I want to get back to Darleen and Maggie.

"Hey, asshole," he heard a voice say.

Startled, he turned around and saw the barrel of a revolver aligned with his right eye. Just beyond the revolver, the redhead's face was a haunt of ugly bruises and smeared blood.

Stenshwell managed to open his mouth and make a small noise. In his head, he was confessing his innocence and talking with his wife and reliving every wonderful moment he ever shared with his daughter. He didn't get one word out before she pulled the trigger. His body fell back and landed beside the little girl's, amid the burnt and burning wood and wreckage.

Jenine didn't give him a second look. She ran out of the settlement as fast as she could.
Chapter 37

In the darkness, Veronica couldn't tell if a few minutes had gone by or if days had passed. Veronica and Bomb Boy had kept quiet in the shadows until Veronica's stomach was in pain for food and her tongue was as dry as ash.

After a long bout of silence, Bomb Boy opened his mouth to speak. His voice was but a whisper that Veronica's damaged ears could not hear.

"Huh?" she said.

"The Skallion soldiers left the town," Bomb Boy repeated.

He placed his small hands under Veronica's arms and gently propped her to her feet. As he guided her through the darkness, she noticed that the pain in her back wasn't as bad as it had been. I must be healing well.

She walked through full black, listening to the echoes of their footprints as they moved.

"There's writings on the wall," Bomb Boy said to her. "Arrows are pointing us down this tunnel. There's a ladder further up. We may be able to exit through it."

Veronica nodded. Her head and her legs felt triple their usual weight. Her strength failed her and she grew weaker with each step.

I'm so sleepy, she thought. It would feel so wonderful to go to sleep now.

"Keep your eyes open, Mom," Bomb Boy said. "We're almost there."

"I need to rest," Veronica said.

"You can't rest here. We'll rest when we get to the surface," Bomb Boy said.

"I don't think I can climb the ladder."

"You have to climb the ladder. You don't have any other choice," Bomb Boy said, a hint of desperation clinging to his voice.

"I can't even lift my arms," Veronica said.

Veronica's body stopped moving. Bomb Boy's hands move across the edges of her torso, to her arms. Her arms dangled like boiled spaghetti. Bomb Boy kneaded his thumbs into her bicep muscles, hoping to stimulate some strength.

"Is this helping?" he asked.

"I don't think so," Veronica said.

He gave up rubbing her muscles and continued to pull her towards the ladder. It was in the near distance, not twenty feet away. When they reached the ladder, Bomb Boy guided Veronica's hands to a low rung. The brittle ladder was made of dry wood that felt hollow to the touch.

"Will it support our weight?" Veronica asked.

"Yes," Bomb Boy said. "We have to go up it now. We have to."

There's no way I can climb it, Veronica thought. "Okay, I'll go first," she said.

Veronica pulled herself up the ladder one rung at a time. It took all of her strength to pull her weight up, and she often paused to think of what would happen if the ladder were to break. I'd fall down onto my back, she thought. The pain alone would kill me. But as she pulled herself up the ladder, she was strengthened by the thought of her little Michael, staring up at her with his flashing eyes. I must go first to test the ladder. If it can support my weight without cracking, Michael will be able to ascend with no worry.

Her wounds burned like hell fire when she was halfway up the ladder. She faltered for a moment, allowed her body to hang off the ladder as she waited for the pain to subside. The pain won't go away, not here, she realized.

"How much further?" she asked, looking down at two flashing eyes.

"It's only five feet further. There's a valve you have to turn, and then we'll be at the surface."

In the darkness of the tunnel, her hand searched for the next dry rung and she pulled herself up another foot, and then another, until her hand reached up and grabbed a cool metal valve. She could feel the rust that had formed on the metal, and felt it grind into her skin as she tried to turn it.

"It's rusted shut," she said.

"No it's not," Bomb Boy said. "You just have to turn it a little harder."

Veronica turned with all of her might, until her muscles burned and the wounds on her back felt like they were being bathed in fire. She did her best to hold in her screams of pain, but they came, as if welcomed by the screeching metal of the opened valve. With a mighty heave, the door opened and the dull light and ash from outside poured into the tunnel.

The winds blew harshly, carrying the ash and dirt into Veronica's mouth, nostrils, and eyes. She squinted, her eyes not yet adjusted to the dark, muted sky. There was a heavy aroma of smoke in the air that made Veronica feel queasy.

It's quiet.

Veronica cautiously looked around. The opening allotted her clear view of her surroundings. They were on top of a hill, overlooking the burnt husk of a settlement that was still smoking from the dying flames of the pillage. Veronica hadn't known how long they had been in the tunnel, but it appeared that enough time had passed for the Skallion soldiers to leave the settlement.

"It looks clear," Veronica called down. Strenuously, she clawed at the ash and pulled herself out of the hole and onto her stomach. She fiddled with her scarf and fixed it so that it covered her nose and mouth. She felt a cool sting at her back.

Bomb Boy slowly ascended the ladder. When Veronica saw his head appear, she crawled over and helped pull him out of the hole. Veronica gasped as the light revealed bullet holes on Bomb Boy's body. His feet had gotten the worst of it, and looked mangled from the small dents. He suffered from two shots in the right arm and one awful shot that hit him in the forehead.

Veronica felt her eyes sting with tears as she looked at his forehead. The metal of his face had been bent backwards, exposing the sprockets, bolts, and red hot glowing coils that made Bomb Boy function. Each dent and bullet hole mocked Veronica.

You really think this thing is your child? She heard a voice in her head say. You're crazy, Veronica. Crazy. And yet she still felt a love for Bomb Boy as if he were her flesh.

"No!" Veronica said, reaching to embrace Bomb Boy. She brought him close to her body and felt the jagged metal parts as they poked her soft skin. It hurts, she thought, but the bullet wounds must have hurt him worse. They must have.

"My baby," Veronica cried. "My poor little baby."

"It's okay," Bomb Boy said. As he placed his hand on the back of Veronica's head, the burnt brittle hairs fell off. "We'll both be okay."

He helped her to her feet and surveyed their surroundings. Sandcrawlers left tracks headed due north that had not yet been swept away by the winds. Off in that direction, a thin plume of black smoke rose and disappeared amid the thick clouds that coated the sky. As Bomb Boy's eyes focused, he saw that the smoke came from the Hummingbird, which had been reduced to a sweltering twist of metal.

"We have to go back to the settlement," Bomb Boy said.

"No," Veronica said. "It's too risky."

"Maybe we can find a transport," Bomb Boy suggested.

"What they didn't take, they destroyed," Veronica said. She grabbed his hand and pulled him towards her. "Come." As she tried to pull him along, a shock of pain swelled in her back, bringing Veronica to her knees.

"Veronica!" Bomb Boy said. He gently wrapped his arms around her thighs and lifted her into the air. "Please don't try to move. We have to go back to the settlement to tend to your wounds."

"No...we have to push on. We have to reach...the Outer Quadrants. They're so close...I can feel it. I can just feel it," Veronica said.

"And we'll get there. After I tend to your wounds."

He hurriedly walked her towards the settlement, taking great care to make sure not to cause any further injury. If I don't move faster, he thought, Veronica is going to die in my arms.
Chapter 38

In truth, people didn't know much about the mint. It just sort of appeared in the wake of extensive firebombings like a fungi that grew out of the dung of a dying world. Scientists weren't even sure if mint should be classified as a fungi or an ore, since most of the labs were non-operational after the Great Firebombing. All they knew was that it burned hotter and slower than any other fossil fuel and could be used to power most gas engines, after certain modifications -- and that direct exposure to mint was harmful to living organisms.

Leone and his men, too, knew that exposure was harmful, and yet they stayed in the mint field. Not one among them suggested to leave the field, for it looked as pure and brilliant as the plains of heaven, and chilled to a comfortable temperature. The winds weren't fierce within the field either, but whether that was the work of the hologram or the mint, the men did not know.

But perhaps the real reason why the men chose to stay was out of greed. The mint stretched out about three acres and, if harvested, could easily fetch the men over a million credits. Thinking of so much money was a dizzying thought that kept them giddy and happy, despite their wounds. Or perhaps it was the poison of the mint that made them dizzy.

At the edge of the mint field, bright blue machines generated a gentle hum and a thin cotton-like fog. Beams of bright blue light came out of the machine's tops and sides, which Leone expected created the hologram's illusion.

"Who made these machines?" he asked Feathers.

"Skallions?" Feathers said.

"No. If they had this kind of technology and access to this much mint, we'd be long dead," Leone said. "All those new mountains that appeared across the land, do you think they're holograms, too?"

"Don't you think somebody would have said something if they were?" Feathers asked. "A mountain pops up in your backyard, you're probably not likely to just stare at it. You'd go in and check it out."

"And if you do explore it and find all of this mint, what'd you do? Tell somebody or keep it all to yourself?" Leone said. "Or do you wait around for the person who set up the holograms to come and harvest the mint?"

The idea of mint dealers coming and finding the troop in the field was unsettling to Feathers. He shivered and huddled over to blow warm breath into his hands. He turned back and looked through the hologram at the black winded world that swirled like an oily snow globe.

"The mint dealers set this shit up," Feathers said. "This technology wasn't made in our country. Those fucking mint dealers must be going in and out of the country selling mint to Bruize. Holy shit, those fuckers in Bruize are probably sitting around watching us burn ourselves down and scooping up the mint that grows off our corpses."

"Damn it," Leone said, and then he didn't speak for a while. He spent time thinking about whether or not Bruize was profiting off their country's war. He decided that the holographic equipment was, without a doubt, not Droodge or Skallion made. Whether it came from Bruize, or the Outer Quadrant as people so fondly called it, he did not know.

After a few hours of lying within the field, the drowsiness and dizziness the men felt grew more intense. The white, foggy world was spinning before Leone's eyes. He felt nauseated. His stomach turned to water and large acidy bubbles crept up his throat. He attempted to stand up, but the world seemed to turn around him and he fell onto his rear. Not soon after, he passed out.

When he awoke, a day had passed, the winds had died, and the sun hung in the sky, shrouded by a sheet of black. The nausea had subsided, but his head was still spinning and he was still exhausted.

"You have to bite it," he heard Bill say. "Bite it, like this."

The world spun quicker as Leone turned his head to find Bill on his knees, stuffing pieces of mint into his mouth.

No, don't do that, you idiot, Leone wanted to say, but in his exhaustion he couldn't find the strength to speak.

"You have to chew it, too," Bill said and he chewed with his mouth wide open, showing the white bits on his tongue. Bill swallowed it and began to cough. It was a hoarse continual cough. It was loud. It was the only thing that Leone could hear. It filled his ears and shattered his world.

"Shut up," Feathers moaned.

The coughing continued. It was a pounding sound that pained Leone's ears.

The others were lying on their backs as if drunk, moaning for Bill to keep it down. Tyler laid just next to Leone. The bite marks on his neck turned black and most of the skin looked bruised among a web of black veins. His open eyes stared up at the sky. There was an unsettling stillness to him.

Leone bent over and lost his balance. He fell on top of Tyler and, in his dizziness, tried to push himself up. He pushed down on Tyler's ribs and his stomach to get up and then looked down at Tyler's face.

"He's dead," Leone said, though his weak voice was drowned by Bill's coughing.

"He's dead!" He said louder. Feathers fought to sit up, looked at Tyler and said, "Shit."

On his knees, Leone rolled up his sleeve and looked at his own wounds. His skin looked like stained cloth. The infection was spreading.

"Dale, how's your wound look?" Leone said.

And then there was quiet. The coughing had stopped and was replaced by a gentle hiss that came and went. Bill laid twisted on the ground with his eyes wide open and mouth ajar, an ooze of white mint dripping from the corner of his lips.

"Dale," Leone said.

"We need to get out of here," Feathers moaned.

"Dale, how's your wound?" Leone said.

"Leone, we need to get our asses up and leave this place," Feathers said.

"I like it here. There's no wind," Jobs said.

"We're all gonna die if we stay here," Feathers said.

"Dale, is your hand okay?" Leone said.

"My hand's turning purple," Dale said. He laughed. "It's freaking purple."

"Leone, are we gonna die?" Feathers said.

Leone tried to steady himself, but his head swam and he felt very drunk. His vision slowly began to split. He saw Dale in doubles, laughing at how his hand had turned purple. It was all very wrong and Leone recognized the dangers of the mint field, but like a drunk in a stupor, Leone was unable to stand and walk out.

"Do we eat the mint?" Clive asked.

"No, don't eat the mint," Feathers said.

"I saw Bill eat the mint. He said we should eat it," Clive said. He bent down and broke off some pieces of mint.

"Don't eat that mint," Feathers said. "Or you'll be as dead as Bill!"

Clive shrugged and bit into the mint. Feathers yelled and stumbled towards the boy, smacking the mint out of his hands and hitting him in the face. In slurred speech, he yelled, "Spit it out! Spit it out!"

Clive smiled with bits of mint stuck in his teeth. "It feels so cool," he said, smiling dumbly. He coughed and pieces of mint flew out of his mouth and onto Feathers. Feathers stumbled behind Clive to wrap his arms around Clive's stomach and began the Heimlich maneuver.

"Throw it up, you idiot!" Feathers said.

Leone looked down at Bill's body. He almost forgot that he had died. He wondered why he had forgotten that Bill died. Then he saw Tyler and remembered that he had died, too.

"God damn it," Leone moaned.

Feathers gave Clive the Heimlich maneuver while Clive coughed nonstop. Clive's face turned red and he gasped for air, but he couldn't catch his breath between the coughing and the Heimlich maneuver. He turned as red as a cherry and his eyes bulged as if they would pop.

"Feathers," Leone said, "Stop it."

"Throw it up!" Feathers said. Clive stopped coughing and went limp in Feathers' arms. He slumped down, brushing against Feathers' plumage, and fell onto the floor with a few black feathers.

Leone found his strength and stumbled towards Feathers. He reached out to grab him but missed the first time. He closed his left eye for the second attempt, which corrected his double vision, and grabbed Feathers by the vest and pulled Feathers towards him.

"You killed Clive," Leone said, although he wasn't completely certain that Clive was dead.

"Clive killed Clive," Feathers said. "And we're all as good as dead if we keep sitting here."

"We have to get out of here," Leone agreed.

Dale had been laughing the entire time and now he laughed even harder. He stumbled towards Leone and Feathers and patted them on the shoulders with his purple hand. Dale pointed out into the distance and said, "Look," and then laughed some more.

In the distance, the men saw a mint caravan drive through the hologram wall and into the mint field. The caravan's black, ash stained bottom was illuminated by the glowing mint, and the spots where metal showed produced a shine that looked like glimmering stars in a dark sky. The caravan's door opened and out came a man dressed in a heavy black mint suit. On his head he wore a thick helmet, which wrapped around his face and was fastened securely to the suit's shoulders.

Leone and his men scrambled to their feet. Fighting to find their balance, each of them stumbled towards the edge of the field. Leone turned his head, and when he did, he lost balance and fell onto the ground. He saw that Dale had started to run too, but he was running towards the caravan, laughing and waving his purple hand. And just beyond Dale, on the other side of the field, the man in the black mint suit pulled out detonation disks and threw them into the field to cook the mint.

"Dale, come back," Leone said, but his voice did not carry.

Feathers grabbed Leone under his arms and helped him to his feet.

"The mint warped his brain, man," Feathers said.

Feathers face was all blurry and didn't look right. Leone saw Feather's face in double vision, one face was bright and white like an angel's and the other looked black like a demon made of tar. Leone shook his head to try to correct his vision, but nothing worked. His brain felt numb and compressed and he struggled to focus.

"Are they going to kill him?" Leone asked.

"They're not going to kill us, that's for sure," said Feathers and he pulled Leone with him.

They ran through the field until they got to its edge, and just before they passed through the hologram they heard a huge explosion. Though Leone couldn't see that far, Feathers still had his wits about him and saw pieces of Dale rain down from the sky. Dale had gotten too close to the mint harvester's detonation device when it ignited. The mint where Dale's limbs fell glowed a ripe white color that signified that it was perfect temperature for harvesting.

"What was that?" Leone asked.

"Go, go, go!" Feathers said, urging him on.

As they passed through the holographic wall, the heavenly white images faded into hellish dark mounds of ash and soot. The wind was strong and blew ash into the men's eyes and mouths. Their eyes had adjusted to the bright light and now their vision was dark and blurry.

The remaining men walked onto the road and continued south. It was slow going, with Feathers being the only one among them with the strength to carry on. He walked with Leone under one arm and Jobs under the other. Jobs' night vision proved to hold out even after being exposed to the mint, and he told Feathers what was coming up the road.

"There's an old house on the right," he said. It was nighttime now, and the winds had grown even fiercer.

As they arrived at the house, Feathers set Leone down on the ash-covered lawn and explored the outside. It was an old farmhouse that had been painted white but was now completely black with ash along its right side. The ash swept across the front and back of the house, leaving a lingering spray that stained the wood. The door and windows had been bordered up.

"Looks empty," Feathers said.

Feathers went back for Leone and he and Jobs helped him onto his feet and walked Leone to the left side of the house. The wood was still white there, as the wind rarely hit it.

"I don't think we can get inside tonight," Feathers said.

"Why not?" Leone asked.

"I don't have the strength to pull the boards off the wall. I need time to rest," said Feathers.

"That's okay," said Leone. He was in half a daze and couldn't make out the house from the burnt husks of trees that surrounded it.

"Let's just sleep here for now," said Feathers.

"Let's just sleep," said Leone.
Chapter 39

A thick veil of smoke colored the inside of the settlement in smoldering shades of black and gray. The black was thick and rich, and lifted and mingled with the dark clouds above. The scent of the smoke was choking, and the heat of the flames dried Veronica's eyes and mouth.

Why are we here, Veronica thought. Though the blinding smoke had shrouded most of the settlement, the damage was apparent. There was nothing that they could salvage, no one to give them aid. And why should anyone? If they had not entered the settlement, would it have been attacked?

We're responsible for this, Veronica thought. Death and the scent of roasted flesh and gun smoke lingered. All I want is to put an end to the killing. All I want is for me and my little Michael to escape this madness.

As Veronica looked down at her hands, she saw hardened ruby blood that glistened under the muted light of day. She hadn't been cut, she thought, so whose blood was it? It could have been Tomas' blood, which ran black out of his heart and down his chest, black in the pitch of the dark room. It could have been the blood of the settlers, of the Skallion soldiers who died confronting the armed women and children. It could have been Michael's blood, her beloved husband who had died in the ruins of a city, only to be buried in an unmarked grave on the city's border.

"Blood," Veronica muttered.

"I'll tend to your wounds as soon as we find a good place to set you down," Bomb Boy said.

\---

Bomb Boy carried her through the village, past a burning husk of wood that had once been a medical outpost. Some of the structure had survived, but no supplies or equipment could be salvaged.

"We just need to find some shelter," he said.

"We need to leave this place. There's nothing here but the dead."

"That's better than what's waiting for us out there," Bomb Boy said in a quiet voice.

They walked in silence until they came upon a small shack that was nestled between two piles of collapsed wood. The shack looked out of place in the charred village, its wood still retaining a moist shine. Bomb Boy cautiously approached it, and scanned its insides for any signs of life. When he found none, he entered.

Bomb Boy gently laid Veronica on her stomach and examined her wounds.

"Oh my God," Veronica said, only now noticing her back.

"It's okay. I can fix you."

"Oh my God."

"Just please stay here. I'll be right back," Bomb Boy said.

He left Veronica to go into the shack's eating area. It was dark and damp, and the walls cracked allowing the ash to flow in freely. Some iron pots hung on the wall above a slaughtered dog. The blood and meat were still fresh and warm. Beneath the table, he found some sponges and bottles of liquor beside the icebox. The liquor was a potent homemade brew.

He brought the liquor and sponges to Veronica and found her sitting up on the table, staring at her shoulder with wide, white eyes. The flesh was black and the blood was thick and crystallized.

"I can sterilize your wounds," Bomb Boy said. "The liquor has a strong enough alcohol content to clean. It's not the best method, but it's all we have."

Veronica continued to stare at her shoulder, as if she had not heard Bomb Boy.

"After I'll dress the wound," Bomb Boy said.

"The wound," Veronica repeated. "The way you say it makes it seem so minor. How am I alive? I don't understand."

"Do you not want to be alive?" Bomb Boy asked, his voice small.

"No, no, no. I want to live. I need to live. We both do," Veronica said. As she spoke, Bomb Boy approached with his supplies and laid them on the table. Veronica laid down on her stomach. Her fingers curled in anticipation of the cool sting of the liquor. She hissed as it touched her back.

"It won't be long now," Bomb Boy said as he poured the bottle on the cooked flesh. The hiss that had escaped Veronica's mouth escalated to a cry.

"I'm sorry," Bomb Boy said.

"Don't be," Veronica said. "You've saved my life."

After her burns had been cleaned, Bomb Boy wrapped Veronica's torso with white linens, which quickly stained in shades of red and brown. She staggered when she found her footing, squirming to find the position that would cause her the least pain, but as she soon learned, the pain was unavoidable. Veronica limped towards the door.

"Where are you going?" Bomb Boy asked.

"Out of this house. Out of this settlement. Come," she said.

"We can't leave just yet. You have to give your body a chance to heal," Bomb Boy said.

"It'll heal in the barrens."

"No it won't," Bomb Boy said in a quiet voice. His eyes flashed briefly as he processed the metrics again, but he came to the same result: if Veronica were to venture out in her current condition, there was a 5% chance of her surviving in the barrens for three days. The percentage of surviving after was even worse.

"Please don't go," Bomb Boy begged.

"We have to. We can't stay here," Veronica said. "They found us once, they'll find us again. At least we have a chance of hiding in the sands."

"You're not thinking clearly," Bomb Boy said. "Are you even planning on bringing supplies with you?"

Veronica swayed in place as she stopped to look at the bottles of liquor and the fresh meat in the kitchen. She didn't even know about all of the fresh water in the kitchen, she hadn't even checked.

"I'm bringing supplies," she said.

"You are now, but you didn't even think of it."

\---

Veronica removed a grimy old pillow from a stained couched, undid its zipper and pulled out its stuffing. The wet cloth was thick with dirt. Clumsily, she dropped a few bottles of liquor and some sponges into the pillowcase. Almost by instinct, she went to place some pieces of corroded wood into the sack, but dropped the pieces when she realized what she was doing.

"There was meat, you say?" Veronica said with a thin voice.

"I'll prepare it for you now so you can eat," Bomb Boy said.

"No, let's pack it and move," Veronica said.

Bomb Boy picked a silver plate off the floor and held it in front of Veronica's face. The reflection she saw within the shining metal was not her own. What is that thing, she thought. Dark, sullen eyes rested deep within black sockets, like coals drowning in tar. The skin around the jaw and cheeks was taut, revealing the bones beneath. The lips pained to part, revealing teeth that were the color of sand. It wasn't until a skeletal hand reached up and touched the goblin's chin that she realized that the hand and the face were her own.

It's my reflection. How silly of me for having forgot, she thought, a touch of anxiety sending a tingling sensation down her body.

"I haven't eaten since we were with Lincoln," she remembered.

"Let me prepare the meat for you," Bomb Boy said.

"Okay."

While Veronica sat on the couch, heavy in body and drifting to sleep, the smells of roasted meat filled the small shack. She tried to fight off the sleep, but the darkness slowly seeped in and consumed her.

She awoke to Bomb Boy lightly shaking her. Between his two bright eyes, she saw the bullet hole that had ravaged his head. Her back felt stiffer than it had, and the slightest movement pained it.

"It's done," Bomb Boy said.

\---

Veronica dragged the filthy pillow sack through the ash as she walked. She could hear the bottles of liquor and water clink against one another inside the bag. She couldn't say how long she had slept after she had her fill of dog meat, whether it was minutes, hours, or days, but even now the settlement was lit from low crackling flames.

Beyond the shack she saw a twisted, blackened husk huddled on the floor and beside it was a wooden mask that had miraculously escaped the fire damage.

She was going to dance until it rained, Veronica reflected. Now that she's gone, it'll never rain again. She looked up at the black clouds overhead that may have been filled with cool water, and yearned for the touch of rain.

She heard Bomb Boy's feet hurriedly crush against the ash behind her. She did not turn around to look at him.

"Where are you going?" he called out.

"Into the barrens," Veronica said flatly. She knew Bomb Boy was going to argue and tell her to stay in and rest. She could only pray that he would follow her when she left. She knew he would – he just had to.

A half burned house stood on a charred foundation with two dead women hanging from its windows. At the house's base was a soldier who had been shot several times in the torso, each wound blossoming like a crushed cherry. Just beyond it, a SOTS nibbled on a charred arm, testing its taste. It seemed to enjoy the flesh, but bared its teeth and ran off as Veronica approached.

This is all my fault, she thought. I cannot stay here any longer. I need to escape.

As Veronica approached the rear exit, where the ruined sandcrawlers laid beneath a thick gate that had been blown down, she caught a glimpse of something black move quickly in her peripheral vision. There was a thumping noise over the sound of crackling flames. In the haze of heat, framed by the billowing smoke, was Midnight Dancer. The horse bucked, as if to kick the smoke away from its face.

"My God," Veronica said. She left her bag where she stood and slowly approached the horse, careful as to not frighten her away. Showing it her opened palms, she made kissing noises and soothingly said, "Midnight Dancer. Come here, pretty girl."

The horse snorted and spat, swinging its head back and forth. It didn't mind Veronica's approach, not as much as it minded the heat and flames.

"Shh," she said. She placed her hands on the horse's soft black mane, and stared into its black eyes. Its eyes were wide and the skin on its face was tight with lines of fear drawn into its muscles. She could buck any second. Veronica took hold of the horse's reins and carefully led her over a corpse.

"Come, Michael," Veronica said. Pain shot through her back as she lifted her bag. She fastened the bag to Midnight Dancer's saddle and stepped up to seat the horse. It nearly killed her to pull her weight up onto the saddle.

As Bomb Boy approached, Veronica extended her hand and helped pull him up. He swung his leg around the front of the saddle and sat in front of Veronica. Bomb Boy bent over and petted the horse's neck.

"Do you like her?" Veronica asked.

"Yeah."

She gently kicked at the horse's ribs and squeezed her legs, and they rode out of the settlement.
Chapter 40

The horse's hooves were muted against the ashy ground. The only noises it made were the occasional gasp and snort, as the winds carried the ash into the beast's nose. Dancer shook her head time to time to alleviate the sting in its eyes, nearly shaking Veronica and Bomb Boy off her back.

Poor thing, Veronica thought as they pushed forward. But as the winds came from the rear to pelt Veronica's back, she was grateful for having found the horse. I wouldn't have stood a chance walking through the barrens. Michael was right.

Bomb Boy was as ill prepared for the barrens as the horse. He kept one hand tightly clasped over the bullet hole on his forehead to prevent dirt from going in. When Veronica saw him holding his wound, she felt ashamed for not protecting him better. She should have thought to bring a hat or scarf for him, but her wits had failed her.

When the winds subsided, and Veronica and Bomb Boy had a clearer view of the barrens, they saw ashy twisters, red rocky mountains, and plumes of black smoke. There was nothing around them but destruction, death, and desolation.

"We'll head to that mountain," Veronica said as she huddled over Bomb Boy's shoulder. She pointed at the largest mountain within a range that formed a vast wall across the land. The mountains stood tall and sharp, like decaying fangs of clay within the jaw of the earth.

As they continued in their travels, Midnight Dancer neighed miserably, and continued to shake her head and snort.

"We have to do something for her," Bomb Boy said, and he was right. Carefully, Veronica dismounted the saddle and undid her desert scarf. Her skin burned as the sands and ash pelted her face. She tied the scarf around the horse's head beneath two large dog bones, which she placed above the horse's eyes to act as visors.

As a sign of good faith, Veronica fed the horse some hay.

Please stay strong for us, Veronica prayed, petting the horse's neck.

They mounted Midnight Dancer and continued towards the mountain range. Along the way, Veronica noticed that the horse's path had not been as straight as she had wanted, whether it had been from the shifting ash floor or the blowing winds. When the winds had subsided, Veronica saw that the black plumes of smoke were now directly ahead of them.

She took the reins and steered Midnight Dancer away from the smoke and towards the tallest mountain.

"You don't have to worry," Bomb Boy said, looking up at Veronica. He pointed towards the black smoke. "They're all dead or as good as dead."

"That gives me more of a reason to worry," Veronica said. She steered the horse away from the smoke and rode on. Every hour or so, Veronica realized that they were headed straight towards the smoke again, as if the horse was drawn to it. Veronica tried to steer the horse away, until they were close enough to see the wreckage up close.

Bomb Boy had been right. A sea of dead and dying men surrounded the destroyed sandcrawlers. SOTS were nursing on the dead, nibbling on limbs and the bits of exposed flesh on their faces. The men who still clung to life moaned for help or called out names. One man sat up and supported his weight with his arms, and looked at Veronica as she passed without saying a word. His legs were gone, and his blood pooled in the ash.

"They didn't salvage the good equipment," Veronica said. This was equipment that could no longer be built in factories due to lack of resources.

As they trotted beside the wreckage, Veronica spotted the endless zigzags of tracks in the ash. The sheer number of tracks and the eccentric way they covered the ground hid the attackers' numbers. It could have been five transports that led the attack, or it could have been fifty.

"Look," Bomb Boy said, pointing to a dead body. He was a teenage boy with a face like a weasel. In his stiff dead hands was Neddy's .22.

Veronica felt a pull in her stomach. She placed a hand on Bomb Boy's shoulders and urged the horse on. "Come on, don't look at them. We're almost at the mountains."

Stupid horse, she thought. Why does it have to ride so close to this.

Bomb Boy's finger still pointed at the weasel faced boy. "He was the one in the tunnel. The one who shot at me."

"It's only your imagination," Veronica said. "Don't think about it. Just think about those mountains up there. They can't be more than ten miles away."

They continued in silence until they passed the wreckage. After some time Bomb Boy said, "I think I know who killed them."

A large fleet of Droodge destroyers that were stocked enough not to salvage any equipment.

"Don't think about that now, baby," Veronica said.

"You once told me that soldiers weren't all clean and noble like the stories I heard growing up," Bomb Boy said.

"War warps men. The barrens can warp them worse."

"But some of the soldiers I've seen looked like the ones from the stories. They were strong and healthy and always looked freshly groomed. You said men like that didn't fight, didn't you? You said that others did their fighting for them."

"That's right," Veronica said. She could feel a dry lump forming in her throat.

"Who ever ordered those men to die didn't do any of the fighting himself, did he?" Bomb Boy said.

"He didn't," Veronica agreed, her voice but a whisper.

"My dad killed those men."

Deep down, Veronica knew that this was the truth, but hearing Bomb Boy say the words tingled her nerves. Her body felt numb, which was a welcome escape from the intense burn wounds on her back. Veronica's hands grabbed Bomb Boy's shoulders for support.

"He's not your father. Not really."

"I know," Bomb Boy said. "But he is around here somewhere."
Chapter 41

Veronica surveyed the barrens when the winds died down, but saw nothing but ash, wreckage, and the mountains ahead. The setting sun shone in the horizon before disappearing beneath the dead black earth, cueing the night's heavy winds. They found a pre-war van that had been turned over and half buried in ash. The metal that hadn't been melted was corroded with dark brown rust, which made the material brittle. About four feet off the van was exposed over the ashes and would provide Veronica and Bomb Boy with shelter over the night.

The horse, however, would be mostly exposed to the winds.

"Thank you, Midnight Dancer," Veronica said to the horse as she tied it to the van. Veronica bent over and kissed the horse on its soft nose. You served us well.

Veronica retrieved what little hay the horse still carried and fed it to her. Then she took the raw dog meat out of her sodden bag and gnawed on it, washing it down with her warm water.

"How far do you think those mountains are?" Veronica asked.

"I can't tell," Bomb Boy said.

"I feel like we should have reached them by now."

"Me too."

As the winds picked up, Veronica laid down on her side with Bomb Boy cradled against her stomach. The pain in her back swelled as she settled down. The cloth that covered her wound was wet with blood and heavy with the sand and ash that clung to the moisture. The wind howled as it blew over the van, and ash bombarded Midnight Dancer. The horse cried as it tried to pull itself free of its reins.

I'm sorry, Veronica thought. She wished she could have done more for the horse. Bomb Boy fidgeted on his side as he watched the horse suffer. Veronica placed one hand on his forehead wound, and one hand over his eyes. Despite herself, she fell asleep.

She awoke to urgent jabs at her stomach. Bomb Boy stood over her, his ruined, bullet riddled feet tapping her awake. Just beyond him, Midnight Dancer laid on her side with her pink tongue hanging out. The horse had stopped breathing.

"We have to get out of here, mom," Bomb Boy said. "Now."

"What's wrong?" Veronica asked.

Bomb Boy pointed over the van. Veronica crawled to her feet, defying the painful blisters that formed along her back, and looked. She saw several black sandcrawlers combing the barrens through a veil of ash just a few miles off in the distance.

"How long were they there for?" she asked.

"My sensors aren't working properly," Bomb Boy said. "I'm sorry for not telling you sooner."

"No, it's okay, baby," Veronica said.

She placed her arm on Bomb Boy's shoulder and urged him in the opposite direction of the sandcrawlers, towards the mountains. Veronica crouched down low, instigating an unbearable burn in her back, as she and Bomb Boy ran. Every step she took in the deep ash was a struggle. At some points, the ash was about a foot deep, in other parts it came up to her thighs. They weren't running five minutes before she was winded.

Five miles, she thought. Five miles until we reach the mountains. Although in truth, the mountains looked no closer to now than they did when they set out on Midnight Dancer, the poor horse.

Veronica could only imagine what full exposure to the elements would do to her body, what she would look like once the meat of her face was shaved off by the winds.

"No matter what happens I want you to keep running until you get to those mountains. Okay?" Veronica said.

"Okay."

"I'm serious! Promise me you'll go there no matter what."

"I promise."

Her shirt was moist all the way through from sweat. She pulled her collar over her mouth to block the sand and the damp cloth made her labored breathing more difficult. The ache for air burnt her lungs intensely. Her thigh muscles weakened and she became lightheaded.

Bomb Boy kept turning to look back at her. His bright eyes flashed yellow, the glow seeping out of the bullet hole in his head.

"Mom..." he said.

As Veronica turned around, she saw a tall caravan advancing at high speeds. The caravan's belts spun quickly, churning the earth to form walls of sand at its flanks.

Those mint tanks, Veronica thought. Could it be?

With a quick tug at Bomb Boy's shoulder, Veronica tried to run for cover, but stumbled into the ash. It came up to her elbows and buried her legs from the knee down. It was too hard for her to stand. The ash felt as heavy as clay.

It was all Veronica could do to watch the caravan as it sped towards her. While Bomb Boy danced nervously at her feet, reaching out for her hands to help pull her up, the caravan slowed. The spitting sands at its side receded as it came to a halt.

This is it, Veronica thought. Lincoln is going to kill me for what I did to Tomas. She wondered if she would have a chance to defend herself. Perhaps if she told him the full story, he would understand. The thought brought a sad smile to Veronica's face. Maybe he'll let me live, she thought. She couldn't help but laugh. Yeah right. You've been in the sand too long if you think these men will let you murder their brother and get away with it.

She turned to Bomb Boy and said, "It's time for you to run."

"I'm not going without you!" Bomb Boy said.

"You promised."

And for an instant, Bomb Boy looked completely lost. His body turned, poised to run as his eyes lingered from Veronica to the caravan.

"Go!" Veronica barked. She pushed herself up to her feet, and clapped the ash off her hands. The pain in her back prevented her from standing up, but she still worked to push her spine straight. If she were to die, she would do it with dignity.

The door to the caravan opened while the vehicle was still in motion. Lincoln's head stuck out of the window. The wind was caught in his loose lips, revealing low rows of perfect white teeth. The long straggly hairs that still clung to his head were in a frantic dance.

Bomb Boy ran, his legs sinking deep within the ash. Lincoln stretched his arm out towards him.

"Don't let that thing get away!" Lincoln shouted.

They didn't come here for me, Veronica thought. A new fear formed and the adrenaline shoot through her body. They know what my little Michael really is.

Veronica's hand came up and touched the golden ring around her neck and the small detonation box for strength. With a burst of renewed might, she ran to put herself between the caravan and Bomb Boy.

"You can't have him," she said to Lincoln.

"If I don't get him, they will!" Lincoln said, pointing back at the black fleet that combed the barrens. Even now, two crawlers had separated from the pack and were heading towards the mint caravan to investigate. The Droodge's flag, the three red triangles, appeared as shimmering blisters on the front of the crawlers.

"Nobody will have him!" Veronica said.

"What, do you think he'll outrun a God damn sandcrawler? You crazy bitch! You're fucked in the head if you think I'll let the soldiers take that bomb of yours. Get out of the way or I'll run you down!" Lincoln said.

Her muscles relaxed.

"You're not going to give him to the Droodge?" she said.

"No!" Lincoln yelled.

"Or the Skallion?" she asked.

"I don't want the kid to blow up! Hasn't this country seen enough?" Lincoln said, voice quivering. The blue veins swelled at his temples as the stress creased his skin. He's panicking. Veronica never thought she'd see the powerful mint man, the man with no enemies, panic.

I think I can trust him...

Stumbling, Veronica ran towards the caravan. At its slow pace, she lept and climbed up the first steps. Turning, she called, "Michael!"

Bomb Boy's yellow eyes flashed as they looked to Veronica for a moment. He looked behind the caravan. Around the side of the caravan, Veronica saw the entire fleet of Droodge sandcrawlers heading towards them.

As the mint caravan sped towards Bomb Boy, Lincoln descended the stairs and reached out his arm.

"Steady!" Lincoln yelled up. The roaring engines of the caravan quieted to a low hum as its tracks slowed. Lincoln reached his arm towards Bomb Boy. He grabbed his arm and pulled Bomb Boy up the stairs as if he were a rag doll.

"Hit it!" Lincoln screamed. The front end of the caravan lifted into the air at the engines' screams. The jolt made Veronica, Lincoln, and Bomb Boy stumble back towards the door.

"They're going to follow us!" Lincoln yelled. His voice was all but drowned by the engines' noise.

And if they catch us, that's it, Veronica thought.

Although the dead world was framed through every window, the inside of the caravan was still as clean and perfect as it had ever been. Betsey was seated on a wooden wicker chair with her legs politely crossed, hands resting on her knees. She had a dreamy, welcoming smile on her face that reminded Veronica of how inhuman the robot was.

Veronica wrapped her arms around Bomb Boy and she pulled him close to her.

My Michael is more human than those soldiers chasing us, she thought. He doesn't deserve this.

Bomb Boy gently touched her arm for assurance.

"It's going to be okay, Mom," he said.

"Mom?" Lincoln said.

The furniture had been tied down to the floor. It shook wildly as the caravan dipped into crevices and launched over small dunes. Lincoln held the wall for support as he moved towards the back room. Veronica's nerves were on end as she watched him enter the room where she used to sleep. The room where she murdered a man.

"We need to lighten our load," Lincoln said. He waved his hand for Veronica to come, but she didn't move.

You can't make me go back in there, she thought.

"God damn it, woman! I know you're hurt, but if you don't lend me a hand, we're all dead," Lincoln said.

A dark man in black with a black bandana tied around his head moved quickly from the brothers' room into the back room with Lincoln. He cast a long shadow, the color of pitch that seemed to emanate coolness. Which one is he, she thought. Briefly, the brother turned around and looked at Veronica with cold, hard eyes.

Spencer, she thought, somewhat relieved. He had always been her favorite, but now his stare unsettled her. Spencer darted towards her with his fists in knots. Lincoln's hand shot out and touched his back, taming him with a touch.

"We need her," Lincoln said.

"I'm here to help," Veronica said.

"Me too," Bomb Boy said. He stepped in front of Veronica and walked into the back room first. There was no turning back now – Veronica would have to go in. She took a breath and tried to clear her mind. Don't think about anything, she thought. Just work.

But as soon as she entered the room, her eyes fell upon the cold silver table. She imagined her back on the table as Tomas' body pressed against her. The feelings and fears of that night came rushing to her. No, she thought. She looked to Lincoln. He and Spencer held sacks and were filling them with small black devices.

"Help us gather these blast discs," Lincoln said.

Veronica walked beside Spencer and began to help him fill the sack with things she pulled from the cabinets. Black plates with glass over their tops. There were small buttons on the bottom of them and digital docks beneath the glass.

Although Veronica and Spencer stood only three feet apart from one another, she felt ever so much more distant. There was an impenetrable wall between them.

Bomb Boy lent Lincoln a hand and stuffed supplies into the sack. The entire time they worked, Lincoln couldn't seem to look away from the bullet wound in Bomb Boy's head.

"How's it work?" Lincoln asked.

The caravan rocked hard to the left.

"How does what work?" Veronica said.

Lincoln threw the fold of his sack down and approached Veronica. His hand moved quickly – much faster than Veronica expected the old man to move. He grabbed her collar and gently pulled her shirt back. Beneath, the skin was red, black and ruined. But in the stretch of burned skin, there was a slight indication of a tattoo.

"Three red triangles over fire," Lincoln said. "How's about we stop playing dumb, Major." He released her shirt and went back for the sack. With a mighty heave, he swung the sack over his shoulder. As Lincoln left the room, Spencer gave Veronica a harsh shove to follow.

"How's the bomb work?" Lincoln said. They went into the brother's room and opened the window. He retrieved a few of the black blast discs, hit their buttons, and threw them out the window. The discs hit the ash rolling and disappeared beneath mounds of devastation.

"There's a detonation device," Veronica said.

Lincoln gave a curt nod. He looked back out the window to where the discs landed, and then at the approaching crawlers.

The caravan was fast approaching the mountains when it made a hard turn to the right. It traveled parallel to the mountains.

"They're going to catch up to us if we keep at this angle," Veronica said.

"We can lose some weight out of the back hold," Lincoln said. He gave one last look out the window. "They wouldn't risk trying to shoot us. We can outrun'em."

They quickly walked into Lincoln's room towards a slender white door in the corner.

"How many detonation devices are there?" Lincoln asked.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Can you cut the crap?" Lincoln yelled. He cringed and brought his hand to his chest. "It's too late for lies. I know there's gotta be at least one detonation device. Are there others?"

Veronica hesitated. "There's just one."

"Do you have it?"

"Yes."

"Well that's good, I suppose," Lincoln said. He pulled the white door open. It was rusted at its hinges and scraped against the floor as it opened with some effort. The metal hallway was as thin as the door and led back to the back compartment. It was there that Lincoln had most of his minting equipment.

"Come on," Lincoln said. He pointed at Bomb Boy. "He stays here."

When they were in the storage room, Lincoln urged everyone to tie themselves to the clips on the wall. "It'll be a bumpy ride."

The old man bent over, grabbed the lever at the base of the door and pulled it open. The muted dark light from outside poured into the compartment. The dead world seemed to rush away from them. There was ash as far as the eye could see peppered with charred tree husks and melted metals.

"Give me a hand here. This one's heavy," Lincoln said.

The cylindrical metal tank had a thick base lined with copper wiring. It was used to purify the mint after harvesting. Veronica couldn't tell how heavy it weighed by looking at it, but it took all of her, Lincoln, and Spencer's strength to inch it out of the compartment. Pain shot down Veronica's back from the strain. When the purifier was out of the compartment, she could feel the caravan pick up speed.

"There's about fifteen hundred pounds of equipment here," Lincoln grumbled. "All of it expensive."

They worked to push out another purifier, and when that was out in the ash, Lincoln threw some more black discs.

"These will detonate if they pass over them," Lincoln said, tossing another disc. "We use them to cook the mint. Implosive electric shocks that heat up mint without it catching on fire."

"I've never seen this technology," Veronica said.

"It's not from this country."

Veronica noticed how calm and methodical Lincoln worked. He's throwing away his entire life's work right now, she thought.

"This helped us find the mint in the early days," he said, holding a heavy saucer-looking device. It was his way of saying goodbye to his equipment. He and Spencer lifted it together and threw it out with great effort.

"This was my first drill bit," Lincoln said.

It was hard to move around in the compartment because it was so cramped with heavy supplies. As the inventory was flung, Veronica began to see the heavier equipment that was on the bottom. She spotted something under a dusty tarp tucked off in the corner. The shape beneath the cracked black tarp was long and wide and came up to her hip. It was tied all the way around with a thick piece of rope. She went to grab it after more things were thrown out, but Lincoln stopped her.

"That stays," he said.

"What is it?" Veronica asked.

"It stays," he answered.

More things were flung from the compartment. The pain in Veronica's back was constant and brutal from the lifting. It felt like salted hell fire licking her open wounds.

In the wake of the caravan was the priceless mint equipment that could never be repaired, and never be recreated. Though the thick goggles shrouded Lincoln's eyes, Veronica could see the hurt in his face.

"That's it," he said. He placed his hands against the small of his back and stretched out his old bones. "That's all the equipment."

"Doesn't seem to have sped us up all that much," said Spencer.

"It's done enough," Lincoln said. He gave his harness some more slack, walked out to the edge of the compartment and looked down at the ash as it hurriedly passed under the caravan. He surveyed his wrecked equipment in the barrens and the empty compartment. Except for the machine beneath the black tarp and some cooking supplies, the compartment was empty.

It looked as if the old man was going to fall off the edge of the caravan. Just let himself go to join his abandoned equipment.

"Lincoln," Veronica said.

His head jerked, as if he had just been woken.

He pulled a few discs out of his pocket, set their detonations, and flung them into the ash. Veronica could see the Droodge sandcrawlers in the distance, a black wall rushing forward.

"We've done all we can do," he said. "Now we go in and see what comes of all this."

There was defeat in his voice.

He doesn't think we can outrun them, Veronica thought.

"I didn't come this far to lose," Veronica said.

Lincoln nodded his head and looked back out at the fast approaching sandcrawlers. He looked back at Veronica. "Trust me, Toots, I don't want it to end this way."

"We can take a hard left at any time," Spencer said.

Looking out the back of the compartment, Veronica saw that a hard left would steer the caravan towards the mountains.

Is that your plan, she thought.

"If we crash into the mountains, the bomb will destruct," Veronica lied.

The men ignored her.

"We're not going that path. Not with the Droodge so close," Lincoln said.

"But we're so close to the border," Spencer said. "Do you really think they'll follow?"

"Yes, I do," said Lincoln.

"You think if they see a caravan disappear out of thin air, they'll follow?" Spencer said.

"Yes, I do," he repeated.

"What are you talking about?" Veronica asked.

The caravan took a hard dip that rocked the entire transport. The few remaining contents in the compartment shifted. Veronica was flung and nearly fell to the floor. The harness took right before she fell, knocking the wind out of her. Lincoln teetered at the edge of the compartment, his arms swinging like windmills. His harness had enough slack that if he were to fall, he'd be dragged behind.

Spencer quickly found his footing and grabbed Lincoln's harness and yanked him back in. He rushed to the old man's side. Lincoln pressed his hand against the center of his chest. He was breathing heavily.

"Are you okay?" Spencer asked.

Lincoln's face was filled with pain. "I need to go in and catch my breath."

"All right," Spencer said. He looked to Veronica. "It's time to go in."

Veronica nodded. She turned to undo her harness. The machine that was under the black tarp was nearly on its side. The tarp had been tucked under the machine's flat bottom nearly all the way around. In the small slit where the tarp parted, Veronica could see thick, ash encrusted steel tracks.

A personal transport.

Her heart jumped into her throat.

"Come on, I said," Spencer called.

Veronica undid her harness and walked back into the caravan, Spencer following right behind her.

Lincoln walked frail and tender, and took a seat on the edge of his bed. His face was pale and cringing. Betsey walked beside him and gently rubbed his back as he gasped for air. Lincoln touched her on the thigh and held her tightly, biting down on his lower lip.

"I always liked you in this dress," he said, his voice a low hush that scratched the air. "It brings out your baby blues."

"Thank you," Betsey said, smiling brightly. She bent over and kissed Lincoln on his bald forehead.

"I'm not going to make it, Betsey. I've seen a lot of action in my life," he told her.

"We'll all be just fine," she said, her voice as cheery as a songbird's.

"I've seen a lot of action in my life, and I don't think I have the heart for any more," he said.

"I know what'll make you feel better," Betsey said. She grabbed his shoulders and kneaded the tight muscles underneath while Lincoln gasped for air.

"Lincoln?" said Spencer.

The old man replied with a pained look while Betsey hummed songs. His hand gripped the middle of his chest.

Doesn't she see that he's dying? Veronica thought. Is she oblivious or is she just trying to ease him in his pains?

A huge explosion sounded from behind the caravan, jolting the transport forward. The light from the flames flashed bright yellow in the windows, then faded.

Spencer muttered a curse and stuck his head out the window. Another explosion rang true. The light was so bright that Spencer had to squint.

"Eat that, you bastards," he yelled out the window.

Another explosion.

A docile little smile graced Lincoln's thin face. The light from the destruction outside flashed off Lincoln's goggles and made them as white as teeth. He subtly nodded his head in approval. He reached his hand back and pulled his goggles off of his face. His eyes were calm pools of blue, the windows to a tranquil soul. Looking at them, Veronica knew there was a part of Lincoln that was like unspoken poetry, and there was a part of him that was twisted and wrong. His smile slowly vanished, and he cringed one last time before his head went limp. Betsey still sternly massaged his shoulders.

Spencer was too busy looking out the window to notice Lincoln's labored breathing vanish. Veronica slowly approached the limp man and placed her hand against his sweaty head. Her fingers found his neck. The black soot of them stained Lincoln's clean white skin. They pressed down, searching for a pulse.

"Mom," Veronica heard. Bomb Boy stood in the doorway, staring at Lincoln.

"Their sandcrawlers are faster than this caravan," he said.

Spencer looked at Bomb Boy, then at Lincoln. His head slowly gravitated sideways, his eyes pruning into little slits.

"Lincoln?" he said.

"I'm sorry," Veronica said.

For a moment, all was quiet except for the continual roar of the caravan's engine. Spencer's fists tightened until they were white. He punched the wall with all of his strength and screamed from the pain of it.

"No!" he yelled. "No!"

He shoved Veronica away and held Lincoln's head in his hands. Thick leathery hands against a frail skull wrapped taut with old white skin. Spencer silently sobbed, his back expanding and inflating erratically. He leaned over and kissed Lincoln on his forehead and then wrapped his arms around Lincoln's head and pulled it close to his body.

"This can't be happening," he said.

Betsey massaged Lincoln's shoulders, but Spencer waved her off him.

Veronica and Bomb Boy moved towards one another until Bomb Boy was close enough to hug the back of Veronica's leg. She placed her hand on his cold hard shoulder.

"I'm sorry," Veronica said to Spencer.

Her voice seemed to awaken a demon within Spencer. He looked at her with hard eyes that squinted until they bled tears.

"This is your fault," he said.

"I didn't ask for you to come and get me. Lincoln made that choice himself," Veronica said.

"You killed my brother and you killed the man who was a father to me!" Spencer said.

Explosions sounded far off in the wake of the caravan.

"I'm sorry for Lincoln. I didn't want this for him," Veronica said.

"And Tomas?" Spencer yelled.

He let go of Lincoln and the old man fell onto the bed. His hand went into Lincoln's coat and came out holding a knife.

"Spencer, calm down," Veronica said. She showed him her open palms. She could feel her knife's weight against her thigh. The knife she killed Tomas with. The knife that started this conflict. If she went to grab the blade, it would be her death. She couldn't hope to go toe-to-toe in her current condition.

"You don't deserve life," Spencer said.

Spencer took a step forward and Bomb Boy came out from behind Veronica and put himself between the two.

Spencer growled. "I don't care if you're a bomb or not. I'll kill you too if it meant that she'd die in your explosion."

"I'm not going to hurt you," Bomb Boy said. "I don't want to hurt anybody – not Veronica, not Betsey, and not Franklin."

"You're a bomb! The only thing you can do is hurt," Spencer said.

Spencer yelled and charged at Veronica with his knife. He came at her too fast, knocking Bomb Boy to the side with his hip. One hand wrestled at her collarbone while the other tried to stick her with the blade. Veronica had two hands on Spencer's knife hand and fought to keep the steel's point away from her. The sharp tip of it hovered just inches away from her ribs.

"Get away from her!" Bomb Boy screamed. His metal fingers closed around Spencer's wrist and with a twist, the wrist cracked and the knife fell to the floor.

Spencer cursed and staggered.

"I'm sorry," Bomb Boy said.

"Sorry?" Spencer couldn't help but smile. "You're just doing what you were made to do."

Spencer's leg lashed out and hit Bomb Boy in his head, sending him onto his back. He quickly dropped and grabbed the knife. Veronica stepped down on the blade as Spencer tried to pull it up. He punched her leg with his forearm and the impact bent his wrist. Veronica could see the bone sticking out where Bomb Boy broke it. Spencer screamed and kept trying to pull the knife free.

"Betsey, help me!" Veronica said, but the robot did not look away from Lincoln, as it smiled like a crazed widow.

A thick darkness blotted out the dull light in the window. A wall of shadows crept into view. The ash and sand outside churned up and fell.

"Oh my God," Veronica said.

When the darkness eclipsed Spencer, he stopped fighting for the knife and looked outside. The side of the Droodge crawler was just beyond the window. Full black with three red triangles burning brightly at its side.

"They caught us," Spencer whispered.

The Droodge sandcrawler veered hard to the right and crashed into the side of the caravan. The impact knocked everyone onto the floor and shook the furniture that was strapped in place. Veronica was thrown onto her back and the pain was so intense that it left her breathless. She could see Bomb Boy lying on his side, wounded, frail, and defenseless. Veronica pushed herself up off the floor and crawled towards him.

As the crawler moved away, the shadows receded back towards the wall.

They're going to charge again.

The second impact was worse than the first. The entire caravan swung sideways and teetered from side to side, nearly tipping over.

The roar of the engines died down to a light hum. The lights flickered.

Veronica crawled over to Bomb Boy and placed her hand on his back.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

The light receded to the far corners of the ceiling as the sound of a howling engine grew closer. The Droodge crawler charged the wounded caravan head on. Veronica grabbed hold of Bomb Boy and held him close, bracing for the impact.

"I'm sorry it had to end this way," she said.

The jolt of the crash sent Veronica flying into darkness and then all was still and black.
Chapter 42

Consciousness came in fleeting moments accompanied by the stiffness and pain of the crash. Veronica could not tell how long she was out, but each time she awoke she fought to stay awake only to be taken by the comfort of dreamless sleep.

The engines of the crawlers had died down and only the noise from outside remained, the whistling wind and the light tapping of ash against the broken caravan.

And then a man's voice sounded on a loud speaker.

"... we know you're in there..." said the scratchy voice.

Sleep came and went.

"... don't try anything stupid. We just want the bomb..."

Her head felt thick and heavy and she hadn't the strength to keep her eyes open.

"... Hedgeworth, come out now or we'll enter by force..."

Veronica awoke finally to Bomb Boy's gentle touch. His hands were at her sides, urging her to sit up. It was so quiet, so dark. A foreboding air weighed down heavily on the pair. When Veronica pressed her hands against the floor to push herself up, her hand touched an arm. It felt soft and warm. When her vision returned, she saw that the arm wasn't attached to a body.

She gasped.

Sparks flew out of the arm's socket. More sparks appeared a few feet away, where Betsey's torn body laid. She was on her stomach, wide eyed with a smile on her face.

"Hedgeworth, this is your last chance to come out here," she heard the voice on the loud speaker.

"That voice," Veronica said.

"It's Clockwork."

There was rustling above and the sound of heavy weight falling onto the hardwood floor in the caravan's hall. Feet shuffled and there were gasps of breath. Franklin appeared in the doorway with a gash above his right eye that blinded him with blood. He surveyed the damage -- Lincoln slumped beside the bed, Betsey torn to pieces. Spencer was face down in a ball with a puddle of blood pooling underneath him.

"No," Franklin said.

He rushed to Spencer and turned him onto his back. A shard of wood that had broken off the ceiling was lodged between his ribs. Black blood oozed out of his shirt. He gasped and blood came out of his mouth. Franklin cradled his head as his hand hovered over the wood, debating if he should pull it out or not. The damage was done.

"I'm so sorry," Franklin said. Tears formed.

Spencer hadn't the strength to lift his hand to Franklin's face, but he tried. His lips mouthed words. End it. Spencer gurgled blood and his eyes lolled back and his body went limp. Franklin wrapped his arms around his brother's head and hugged him tightly.

"Hedgeworth! Come out now!" boomed Clockwork.

Franklin turned to Veronica.

"I didn't mean for any of this to happen," she told him.

He nodded and gently laid Spencer onto the floor. He looked around the room.

"My family is dead," he said.

Bomb Boy helped Veronica up to her feet. Pain coursed through her body, dizzying. Carefully, she walked to the window and looked out. The sandcrawlers had parked and their fronts were open and dozens of soldiers were pouring out into the ash. There was a stir among the soldiers, and then they slowly parted as Clockwork walked through. He had one hand holding the megaphone to his mouth, the other lifted in the air. He walked towards the caravan slowly, gently.

"Veronica, we just want to talk," Clockwork said.

I've got the leverage, Veronica thought. I've got the bomb.

"Please come out and we'll do you no harm," Clockwork said.

"Do you no harm," Franklin echoed. "It's more than you deserve."

"We need to work together or they'll kill us," Veronica said.

"I'm already dead," said Franklin. "And so are you."

His hand moved to grab her but she evaded his grasp. He came at her quick and hard, with his hands opened and pawing at her clothes. When Bomb Boy tried to intervene, Franklin took him by his mangled head and threw him to the floor.

"Boom," he said, as Bomb Boy crashed against bloody carpet. His hands grabbed at Veronica again, touching her wrists, her arms, her breasts.

"Get off!" Veronica yelled. Her leg swooped up and hit Franklin in his groin. He huffed and fell to his knees, his hands still searching, still touching Veronica's waist and thighs. Veronica dug her fingers into his eyes and as he screamed, he grabbed her hard around the waist and threw her onto her side.

While she laid, he was on her again, grabbing. His fingers wrapped around her necklace and plucked the wedding ring from her neck. His palm felt the soft curves of her waist, and the hard handle of her knife. He grabbed her between the legs.

Bomb Boy's fist moved like a blurred flash of brass that connected with Franklin's temple. He was knocked out before he hit the floor. Veronica pushed his weight off her and then rose to her feet with Bomb Boy's help.

"Come on," Veronica said.

Veronica took Bomb Boy by his hand and pulled him into the back compartment. Her hand touched her chest where her wedding ring used to lay. She wanted to go back for it, but knew she couldn't. There was no looking back.

The door of the back compartment was half torn open. Light flooded in and painted the floor and walls a bland red. The wind caught and blew ash through the red light and into the compartment. The supplies that were left in the compartment were scattered.

"Where are we going?" Bomb Boy asked.

Veronica found the machine wrapped in the black tarp in the corner on its side. She went to it, untied the rope and pulled the tarp off. Beneath, she found just what she had expected. A military issue sand-cycle. Its handlebars were rusted through and its leather seat had tears. The cycle's guns had been removed and were replaced with saddles.

"Help me stand it up," Veronica said.

Together, they pulled the cycle onto its tracks and Veronica mounted it.

"You can sit up front, in my lap," she said.

Bomb Boy didn't move.

"Come on, they're going to come in any second. We need to get the jump on them."

Bomb Boy looked through the punctured door and out at the expansive dead sands that stretched out endlessly and the sandcrawlers on the sands.

"There's the Skallion's mark," Bomb Boy said, pointing at a blue and white flag painted along its side.

"It doesn't matter. Come on."

"You're not going to survive, are you?" Bomb Boy asked.

"Yes, I will," Veronica said.

"You wouldn't lie to me," Bomb Boy said.

"Never. I would never lie to you."

"You think we're going to escape?"

"Yes. We have to escape. There's no other way."

Bomb Boy slowly approached the sand cycle and spread his hand against his chest to feel the swishes and clicks that came from within him. He placed his hand gently on Veronica's chest and felt her heart beat. Weak, yet fast. He envied her for her beating heart and cursed himself quietly in his own head for what he was.

"I love you," Bomb Boy said to Veronica.

She could feel the tears burn in her eyes, but she quickly wiped them away. She placed her arms around his neck, drew him close and kissed him on his face. If he had lips, he would have kissed her back.

"Are we ready?" Veronica asked.

"I'm ready."

Veronica tapped the space in front of her. "Hop on."

"No, I want the back."

"You can't hold onto my back," Veronica said.

"I'll sit on the back and grab onto the sides. I'll be fine."

Bomb Boy mounted the seat backwards, his back almost touching Veronica's. He wrapped his legs tightly around and grabbed two bars that ran along the side of the cycle.

"Ready," he said.

Veronica started the sand-cycle's engine.
Chapter 43

I've left something behind.

The cycle's engine roared to life. The tracks spun on the floor and kicked up sparks. The cycle was hard to handle on the metal floor. It spun out at the back, but Veronica muscled it ahead and drove it through the tear in the door.

The strong winds kicked up the ash and sand into Veronica's face. She gritted her teeth and chewed on ash. The wind and ash got into her eyes, which stung, but she kept at it.

The cycle swam through the ash and around the crowd of soldiers, who shuffled and drew their rifles. Veronica looked down to shield her eyes and could only see the legs of soldiers as they ran away from the charging cycle.

Hold, baby.

Over the noise of the cycle's engine and the rushing tracks, Veronica could hear Clockwork yell, "Fire!"

The gunshots sounded at once. Bomb Boy had shifted in his seat and used his body and head to shield Veronica's right side. He spread his arms to protect her leg and arm. The bullets came and hit him and sounded like pellets being shot through a can.

"Stop!" yelled Clockwork, and the firing ceased.

The cycle zipped around the first sandcrawler and then a second. Crawler doors whined as they opened and were accompanied by the cranking spit of the Droodge EVAC buggies. Veronica glanced back over her shoulder and saw the doors of the crawlers open like gaping mouths, black buggies pouring out into the sands.

The buggies weren't as fast as the cycle, but they road steadily and could easily outmaneuver. Veronica looked ahead to the tall mountains. They were almost there.

"How many are following?" Veronica called back.

"Twenty now. There are more coming," Bomb Boy said.

"Are they gaining on us?"

"Some," he said.

She looked around again and this time saw Bomb Boy's face. "Oh my God," she said. Her eyes burned hot and she couldn't hold in the tears.

The bullets transformed Bomb Boy's face into a twisted heap of scrap brass burnt dark from the bullets' heat. His face no longer looked like that of a child's, and instead resembled a ravaged mockery of humanity.

"What have they done to you?" she asked.

One of Bomb Boy's yellow eyes shone through a pinch of metal and the other hung out of its socket. He looked down at his arms, which had been flattened by the bullets. Though misshapen, Veronica could see in his face that he was ashamed of how the bullets had changed him.

"I'm sorry," Bomb Boy said.

"No, baby. Don't be sorry. You don't have any reason to be sorry. Mommy's going to take you to a safe place," she said.

Veronica's eyes and back burned and the sensation that she had lost something gnawed at her. Something was gone. The world was over and it was plain to see but she bit those ideas and swallowed them until nothing showed.

The buggies were keeping pace and some even gained ground. The mountains were close ahead -- a steep wall of stone that looked pale and washed of life like dead men's fingernails. Veronica negotiated the incline and decided that the cycle wouldn't be able to crawl up it. She looked left and right, trying to find a narrow pass that could provide a steadier trail, but couldn't find any.

To her left, the dry ash exploded and flew into the air where a missile hit, raining ash down on her. The blast threw the back of the cycle into a wobble. Then a blast to the right. Then another to the left. The ash came down in a black blizzard that coated Veronica, Bomb Boy, and the cycle. It got into Veronica's teeth and eyes. She tried to wipe her eyes clean on her shirt, but it too was completely covered in soot.

"They're not stopping!" Bomb Boy yelled.

Veronica looked over her shoulder and saw the buggies on her trail. Soldiers were mounted on the top of the buggies behind the cannons. They aimed at the cycle's flank and fired more rounds. The sound the shells made when they hit the scaly earth was disorienting. Veronica's senses were numbed. Sounds began to run into one another and images blurred until all of reality seemed to transform into one solid awful thing that made little sense.

"Veronica!" Bomb Boy yelled.

His mangled hand grabbed her hard on the back, causing a great pain to radiate throughout Veronica's body. She nearly screamed out in pain when she saw it ahead of her; the mountain wall was not twenty yards away, and at their speed they couldn't hope to stop in time.

Behind them, the buggies' engines died and the brake pads compressed. The buggies slid on the ash, causing waves of black and filth to rise and fall. The soldiers cursed and some watched with mouths opened wide, muttering their father's prayers for an impact that wouldn't cause the bomb to explode. Further off, Clockwork was yelling something unintelligible through his loud speaker.

Veronica didn't bother to hit the brakes. She let the cycle ride and reached back to grab Bomb Boy's hand.

The cycle's front track hit the rock wall. The mountain became light and grainy. Blue sparks leapt out of the stone as it faded and revealed a neon blue gridlock pattern that stretched up into the sky.

There was no crash. Veronica felt a sudden awakening inside of her, an adrenaline that was so pure it felt unreal. Her body was numb, her mind swam in bliss. The cycle continued to travel within the mountain when Veronica found her senses again and began to look around.

There were bright blue machines that hummed and generated a cool white fog that settled above the brown earth. Earth that was untouched by flame and ash. Brown soil that looked dried and dead, yet had the potential to bear life. The machines were set in a grid pattern some twenty feet apart from one another. Thick beams of blue light shot up through the fog and into the cloudy sky, a sky that looked a shade paler than usual.

Veronica did not recognize the machinery.

"It's alien technology," Veronica said to Bomb Boy.

He shook his mangled head, lifted his arm and pointed a crooked finger off into the distance. "It's the technology of the northern country."

Veronica followed his finger into the horizon and saw brown dirt and yellowed grass that blended into sprawling green blades. Ahead, the sky was blue and pure. It was bright and ached to look at. The sky behind her was black and churning with smoke.

"They set up holograms to keep themselves safe," Veronica said. Or to keep us at war. A long fence stretched across the green lands in the distance. Tall metal outposts were set up along the fence, and in the outposts guards watched Veronica and waved their arms frantically. A siren went off.

"Holograms," Veronica said. "That's why the terrain was always changing. That's why the mountains grew and moved."

Veronica looked over her shoulder and saw the Droodge buggies pierce through the holographic veil and crush the machines in the path. As the machines broke, the illusion faded; the mountains melted away like icebergs on fire.

She looked up at the blue sky above and the green grass in the distance and thought, can we keep nothing sacred.

It was only a matter of time before the large sandcrawlers broke through the fading shroud of a mountain. Their tracks were heavy with ash that covered the brown earth as they rode.

"What is it?" Bomb Boy asked.

"It's Bruize," Veronica said. "The Outer Quadrant."

Bomb Boy supported his hanging eye in his twisted hand and looked out at the blue skies. He saw fragile white clouds like whispers of cold breath that swam in a sea of blue sky. There were tall trees that proudly displayed their autumn colors, a wash of oranges, reds, and browns unlike those that Bomb Boy had ever seen.

He tapped Veronica urgently on her shoulder and pointed.

"Look," he said, as a murder of crows flew eastbound, keeping away from the smoldering sky to the south.

"It's beautiful," he said.

"It is," Veronica agreed.

"Can we stay?"

"Yes."

The sound of gunshots rang freely, mixing with the sound of the blaring siren and the roar of the buggies to create a symphony of chaos. The men on the fence were firing.

Veronica quickly veered to the right and tried to control the cycle as she traveled in a zigzag. The cycle's tracks were made for the sand and ash, and did not steer well on the dead grass. The cycle bucked and Veronica did her best to steer it straight but she couldn't. It spun out sideways and flung Veronica and Bomb Boy off its seat.

As they rolled along the ground, the pain overwhelmed Veronica. She could hardly bring herself to move. Pathetic and broken. She lay with her burnt back against the dead grass and looked up at the clear sky. In that moment, she remembered a time long ago when she and Michael laid in the grass of a park and told one another promises that would never come true.

"Michael," she whispered, looking up at the white clouds.

The nagging feeling that she had forgotten something came back to her then. She touched her pocket and felt nothing.

Panic.

The detonation device was gone. She looked where she had fell, but the device was not in sight. Jerking in pain, she lifted her head and looked out in the distance to see if it had fallen where the cycle laid, but there was nothing there.

Then Veronica remembered Franklin's hands patting down her body. Did he lift it off me, Veronica thought. She didn't know, and she may never know.

A few buggies circled Veronica and Bomb Boy while others returned fire at the men on the fence. Veronica pushed herself up and crawled to Bomb Boy's side. He lay motionless in the grass. She placed her arm under his back and lifted him up. His eyes gently glowed yellow.

"Are you okay?" she whispered.

"Yes, Mom."

"Everything's going to be all right."

Veronica bent over and kissed Bomb Boy on his creased forehead. He placed one hand against her chest and the other against his own and compared the sensations. Veronica's heart beat like a drum, while Bomb Boy's chest clicked and swished.

But then there was a new sensation. He felt a loud pop followed by warmth dripping within him. Something had changed in his chest.

"Is this what a heart beat feels like?" Bomb Boy asked. "Is this what it feels like to be human?"

\---

Far off in the caravan, Franklin sat in the corner of Lincoln's room with hot tears streaming down his face. He whispered apologies to Lincoln, Spencer, and Betsey. Could they hear him where they were now? He did not know.

It felt smooth in his hand; light, but solid. The button was black and cool to the touch. Will it hurt, he thought. Probably not. I probably wouldn't feel a thing. A quick bang. The big bang, and then the Droodge general will be dead, and the war will be over. How many people will die? he thought, but he knew the answer would never come.

A decimation of people. A chaotic act that mixed parts vengeance with insanity and grief. A final act of volatile murder to give the world the long overdue wakeup call it needed.

"No reason to live," he said to himself, "Good luck, world. I hope this helps."

He pressed the button on the detonation device and waited for something to happen.

\---

"We did it, baby. We reached the Outer Quadrant," Veronica said. She felt the pop in Bomb Boy's chest and knew what it meant. She kissed him one last time on his lips and his skin became so hot that it turned liquid.

Warmth filled her body and she saw nothing but white light. She heard a terrible rumble that sounded suddenly and became muted just as fast. Then there was no sound. All white, warm feelings. A blissful departure. Happiness that she hadn't felt since she was a child.

And at that moment, nothing seemed to matter much and all Veronica could wonder was, "When can I see Michael?"

A world far away, fast approaching. A war ending by opening more doors to destruction.

\---

Leone sat in the ground with the ash half covering his hips and thighs. He supported himself up on his hands and tried to catch his breath. He was hyperventilating, he realized, and quickly tried to slow down his breathing.

His head still swam from the mint, but his vision was returning. The world around him seemed darker; the sky, the ash, his clothes.

In the far distance, a great fire ignited that whited out the sky. A huge roar of wind came and blew the ash and sand away with a force that competed with the nighttime winds. The entire northern horizon was filled with red and yellow flames as wide as the eyes could see. Flames rose up so high that they touched the black clouds. And as far as Leone was to the explosion, the heat was still intense enough to dry out his skin.

Feathers and Jobs were at his side and they all held hands for some time and said prayers. They sat in the ash and watched the flames burn and after awhile wondered if they would ever die down. After a few hours passed, they thought the flames would burn forever.

