 
Men of Truth

(The Wasteland Soldier Book 4)

By

Laurence Moore

Copyright © 2016 Laurence Moore

1st Edition 2016

All Rights Reserved.

The use of any part of this publication without prior written consent of the publisher or author is an infringement of copyright law.

**Also by Laurence Moore**

The Wasteland Soldier Series

A Fractured World

Escape From Tamnica

Drums of War

Men of Truth

The Atlanta Mission

The Kina McKevie Series

Wiping Out Guilt

Chasing Answers

For more information visit:

<https://www.facebook.com/authorlaurencemoore>

**About The Author**

Laurence Moore has been writing since the 1970s. He enjoys fast-moving books with complex main characters taking the lead.

The Wasteland Soldier series is set in a post-apocalyptic America and features Stone, a no-nonsense fighting man looking to restore balance in a dangerous world.

The Kina McKevie series is set in modern-day London and features an ex-convict turned investigator, getting elbow deep in solving crime.

Men of Truth

Stone is back – angrier than ever, and determined to bring violent justice to those around him.

Stranded in hostile territory and burdened with the mission of a dead man, he will have to be at his most ruthless to survive.

Six months have passed since the collapse of the Place of Bridges and Stone strikes a deal that could reunite him with his companion, Nuria. Only the deal is cloaked in lies and soured by murder leaving Stone to pick up the pieces.

But as lies unravel into truths he learns that the first-world still has an iron grip around the throat of the second one.

And whilst justice is always worth fighting for – Stone discovers that some things might just be worth dying for.

**PART ONE**

ONE

The girl danced and the men clapped.

They clapped because she was a city girl with the verve and energy and daring that only a city girl could possess.

The girl danced and the men cheered.

They cheered because she was lithe and shapely, skin glistening with perspiration, body moving in a way they had not seen in a long time. They whistled as she flicked aside the flaps of her loose shirt, exposing a pale and taut midriff. They opened their arms and declared love for her as she pouted lips that were full and dark, breathlessly parted. They pumped fists as she flashed legs that extended from an incredibly short skirt, sparkling in the flickering light of the old lamps.

The girl danced and the men stared.

They stared because it was tonight and by tomorrow she might be gone and they would never see the like of her again. They desperately needed to memorise every curve, look and nuance, and capture it in a bubble, protect it, so they could summon it later in a drink-fuelled moment as they laboured between tired, married legs and saw only the painted eyes and painted lips of the dancing girl.

Some men stared more closely, as only men of that kind can, and maybe someone should have pointed them out and warned her. But no one did, because she was a city girl and city girls can handle themselves.

But one man sat apart, alone at a small fire in a corner. He did not clap or cheer or stare. He was obviously a tall man, despite his folded posture, wearing rough clothing of fur, wool and leather. A fleece, a battered tunic, a heavy shirt, thick trousers and worn boots. He was hunched forward as he cleaned a revolver, careful and precise with his work.

Satisfied, he flicked open the chamber of the weapon and dropped in six bullets. They were little more than conical-shaped projectiles. He had not loaded _real_ bullets for some time, but they packed enough of a punch to toss a man from this life into the next.

He snapped back the chamber and put the gun down. He picked up a mess tin filled with meat, vegetables and chunks of bread. He ate slowly, prodding and stirring with a spoon, lost in thought. He unhooked a coffee pot from the fire, refreshed his cup and sweetened it with whiskey.

He was lifting it toward his lips when he became aware of the white-haired man.

"She's something, ain't she, fella?"

Stone raised his brooding eyes. His beard was full and bushy. His hair was long and wild. His face was unsmiling, dominated by a scar that crossed from one eye toward his chin.

He picked up his revolver and angled the barrel toward the old man who saw it but showed little concern.

"I bet you've never seen a girl dance like that, have you? Young girls, what can you do?"

Stone said nothing.

The hall in which she danced was a nameless and forgotten building in a nameless and forgotten first-world town. It had witnessed torrid arguments and tender passion, brave declarations of love and even braver confessions of adultery. It had been present at recitals, film nights, spelling bees, poetry nights, concerts and end-of-year school plays packed with those tear inducing moments and awkward parts when everything stops as a solitary child waits for the next line. The hall had resonated with people and their lives had filled it to the rafters.

But in an epic finale, the curtain had been lowered on the first-world. This would be a performance to eclipse every performance that had come before. The sky burned, the people vanished and the old hall trembled in the wrath of the mushroom clouds. It remained upright, though sick and weak, and watched its companions taken one by one - the seats and the curtains and the pulleys. Until finally its oldest and dearest friend, the wooden stage, was ripped out and sacrificed on blazing fires, memories of cushioned feet and joyous choirs crackling into nothing.

For centuries the old hall was silent, in mourning, crumbling bit by bit, pitted walls and dusty corridors, until the Brotherhood arrived, bringing faith and hope and, more importantly, tools to work with and clean with and make ready for a new generation, a second-world generation, who knew nothing of recitals, film nights, spelling bees, poetry nights, concerts and end-of-year school plays. They knew of simple melodies and the hall chimed with them. There were flutes and hand drums, bells and stringed instruments, and bouncing amongst the notes of the six-piece band was a percussion of excitable squeals as young children chased around the refuge, stopping once in a while to mimic the dancing girl, and the old hall knew that all was not lost, and all was not without hope, and that one day the heart of the second-world would beat as fervently as the first one had.

"They pick it up in the city. The League of Restoration is pretty good at getting the old tech working. Big screens, loud music. For the right ones, of course, and always at a price. You understand me, right? Course you do, a fella like you."

The old man had twenty years on Stone. He was in his mid-sixties, leathery skin and narrow blue eyes, thinning white-cropped hair revealing a scalp of brown spots.

He held a bottle of whiskey.

"Mind if I join you?"

Stone gestured with his revolver. The old man sat across from him, uncorked the bottle and took a cup from his pocket. Stone finished his coffee, shook out the last drops. The old man extended the whiskey. Stone nodded and the copper-coloured liquor flowed into his cup.

"I'm Jeremiah Cartwright. Got here a few days ago. Then you already know that. A fella like you misses nothing, am I right? That's Cali. Girl belonged to my daughter, Eileen. She's dead now. She was a cleaner, back in Kiven. Got an infection that killed her."

He went silent. The band played with passion. The wives and mothers loved the music and adored the musicians. They appeared young and handsome to them, and for fleeting moments the women were only women and nothing else. But the dancing girl had sullied _their_ thing because the musicians now played for her.

The women became more infuriated. A few of them said she was asking for it and others said she deserved it.

The children bounded around the hall and one man plucked his daughter into his arms and twirled her around.

"Cali reckons that's how the young ones danced during the Before. Don't get it myself. I'd rather sit on my ass and tap my foot. My Eileen used to dance. Not like Cali, not showing bits. She was slow and sorta glided all graceful. You ever see a woman dance like that? Upright and neat and such? Cali couldn't dance like that. She wouldn't have a clue. So she does her thing and I guess it makes the kid happy."

Stone looked at her. The girl was no kid. She was possibly eighteen or nineteen years old, older than he'd first thought when she'd arrived two days ago. She was fairly tall, about five-eight, and he watched her jerk from side to side, hair swishing about. Her painted eyes flitted in his direction. Then the look was gone and her focus was on the men gathered in the centre of the hall. She rotated, thrust, strutted, dipped, tossed, stroked and flashed. The men cheered but Stone saw it in her dark eyes; they were invisible.

The dance was for her. Not them.

It was late and the women fussed over the children whilst glaring at their men who were loud, misty-eyed. The men ignored the tongues that flapped with poison. They knew they would pay for it later. But it would be worth it. For one night it would be worth it.

Jeremiah leaned in close.

"I know _who_ you are but I only care about _what_ you are. And _what_ you are is what I need."

He topped up his cup.

"You're the one Cali and me heard about; the stranger from across the sea, the one the League of Restoration sent the death squads after in retaliation for wiping out their top man."

Stone whipped the barrel of his revolver into the man's throat.

"But I also heard you're dead. That the gangs got you and collected the bounty on your head."

He cocked the hammer.

"Be glad you still have air in your lungs," said Stone. "That's more than most get with me. Who are you?"

"I told you already. And you ain't the monster they say you are."

Stone grunted.

"You ain't even the monster you think you are. Listen, do you think Cali's out there creating a distraction so I can grab you? How could I take you? I've got no weapon on me and the drink ain't tainted because I tasted it as well. I'm no bounty hunter, mister. Besides, there's no bounty because you're dead. Look, she likes to dance. That's all."

"Last chance, old man."

"You ain't gonna shoot me, son."

"You reckon?"

"Muscane Brotherhood don't allow killing in the hall. That's the rules. That's how you get to stay."

"Piss on their bullshit rules."

But Stone had no intention of squeezing the trigger and Jeremiah knew it. The hall belonged to the Brotherhood and this was his corner and he didn't want to be out there trudging through the snow. From here, he could observe all the doors, corridors and alcoves. Two men had slept here before him but he'd encouraged them to leave. This was his spot now and had been since the blizzards swept the Black Region nine days ago, forcing him to take shelter. He was mostly left alone to clean his weapons and drink coffee and whiskey and brood. A woman had attempted to broker conversation with him once but he'd merely stared at her and she'd melted into the shadows. He had no words for any of them. A few of the young ones would offer a tentative smile now and then and he'd growl at them, in a half-playful manner, and they'd run off, laughing.

He lowered the hammer, snatched the whiskey bottle and filled his cup.

"I'm looking to trade, fella. That's all. Just a trade. The obvious skills of a dead man for information."

"What information?"

Jeremiah smiled. "The Pathfinder."

"Why would that interest me?"

"Now listen, fella, there's time for Cali to dance but not us. The clock is ticking and I need to get where we're going and get there fast. We both know you're hoping on bumping into the Pathfinder. Reckon he can help you find your way back to Ennpithia. But he's a ghost, ain't he? You keep searching and hitting brick walls. The man keeps moving. He doesn't want to be found. Not by you, not by no one."

Stone listened, saying nothing. Jeremiah was typical Kiven, or so it seemed. He had a lazy twang that bounced here and there with a sprinkle of confidence blending with arrogance. But Stone was a good listener. He picked at the strands of Jeremiah's accent, and pulled hard until it unravelled. The man was no more Kiven than Stone was and he wondered what Jeremiah wanted in the Black Region because there was nothing here to want.

Jeremiah was still talking but Stone had stopped listening because the old man had spoke of Ennpithia and his thoughts now drifted to that fateful day of the quake. He'd stood at the Place of Bridges, a giant canyon stretching from one horizon to the next, a leftover from the first-world, an open wound. The shattered bridges lay thousands of feet below. Kiven and Ennpithia had fought a bitter civil war a decade earlier and that long hot summer they came within a heartbeat of fighting a second one.

But the quake had sealed a tentative peace between the two states. It was pretty hard to wage war with no way across. It also condemned him. Nuria's blue eyes had pulsed with tears as she saw him one last time. The bridges were gone. The wasteland was strung with impassable mountains. There was no way back. Stone had run, run hard, as soldiers from the League descended upon the area. He had infiltrated the city of Kiven, wounded, low on ammo and looking to disappear.

After six months of hiding and fighting, he'd fled the city, with every low-level street gang and bounty hunter believing he was dead. It had been more than one hundred and sixty days since he'd seen Nuria and he knew he would never see her again. She was the price he would pay. He understood it. He accepted it.

"You left someone over there," said Jeremiah. "Someone you care about?"

Stone looked at him, harshly.

"The Pathfinder is the man you need."

"I can't find him."

"His real name is Chan-pu. He was a spy. Enlisted into the League of Restoration. Drifted when the civil war came a decade ago. There you go. That's what you call a gesture of trust. One man to another."

"What does he look like?"

"I'm old, but I'm not stupid."

"Do you know where he is?"

"You got that right, son."

The musicians were taking a break. Cali was curved between two of them, talking in whispers.

"You know what I am?" said Stone.

"Sure do."

"I could cut you to pieces for that information."

"I don't think so."

"I've done worse."

"You wouldn't torture me. Or Cali."

"Much worse."

Jeremiah raised his cup, but his confidence had ebbed a little. He drank, erratically, and poured another.

"In the city we heard stories about you. People ain't stupid. They know all about the missiles and the cover up by the Alliance. That crazy bastard almost triggered a fourth war."

"A _fourth_ war?"

"I mean a second war, a second war between Ennpithia and Kiven. But you stopped it and paid a heavy price for stopping it. In the city folk talk of you with a fond smile and brightness in their eyes. They say you killed men that needed killing. Fella's that were rotten to the core. You made things right for people who couldn't do that kind of thing. There's always an asshole that needs killing. And Cali and me, we heard you killed plenty of assholes good and proper, righted a lot of wrongs. And I guess a man like that doesn't hurt innocents."

"No one's innocent."

"Cali is."

"No one. Not me and not you."

"I'm an honest man, son. Always been an honest man."

"Then where are you from?"

"Kiven. Why'd you ask?"

Stone snorted.

Jeremiah cleared his throat. "I need a man who ain't afraid to do the killing and we know that's you. Now you need information on the Pathfinder and that's me. I just want Cali settled away from that city, from the drugs, the gangs, the factions."

Stone eased his back against the wall. The object was in his pocket, anchoring him to the spot. He would carefully hold it tonight and imagine Nuria's scent upon it. She had bought it at the festival in the village of Great Onglee, a gift for them. She had one half. He had the other. The old man was still talking and it was all lies. Stone listened to the crackle of the flames and glanced at Cali. She was alternating kisses between two band members. There would be no more music or dancing tonight. Jeremiah didn't seem to notice or mind. The bullshit stories he'd lifted from bars and on the road just kept coming. It was all shit. So much shit that Stone was tempted to shoot him just to shut him up. And if the Muscane Brotherhood were unhappy then he'd gladly shoot them as well.

His heart was rust and broken glass, a clenched fist and the blast of a revolver. His veins screamed with the urge to deaden life, payback, bleak and primal. He'd been torn from someone very close, very special. He might die and never hear the tone of her voice or watch the curl of her mouth. He couldn't think of her without the spike in his chest. She had coloured his breath. She had reached into his black soul. She was everywhere inside of him. In a long life of violence he'd finally found a calmness, a peace, a sanity, but it had been taken, wrenched away, and he was trapped, with only bodies, and he was alone. And alone frightened him. Alone made him face himself. Alone was the place of voices.

He knew the old man was lying, and the old man knew he knew, but the Pathfinder was Stone's last hope, which meant Jeremiah's deal had to be worth the gamble.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"Escort us to Silver Road. It's a second-world town. Place families can start again. It's near Jackson, a first-world city. We won't go near there. Nothing but craters and bones. Quickest route is to hug the fifty-five. I need you to protect us on the road."

"What's the fifty-five?"

"A highway from the Before. An interstate. I've got a map we can follow."

Stone allowed himself a wry smile. "That explains a lot. Assholes with maps love the sound of their own voice."

Jeremiah waved a dismissive hand. "Get us to Silver Road and I'll tell you where the Pathfinder is. And I won't mention to anyone how I'm having a conversation with a dead man."

Stone leaned forward. "I'll get you there. But if you're playing me, old man, I'll gut you and the girl in the blink of an eye."

TWO

A large fire crackled beneath the stone hearth inside the washroom. Shutters rattled in the wind and splinters of grey light peeked though fraying black curtains. There were basins and wall mirrors, steel baths and barrel baths, wooden benches, toilet buckets and large baskets filled with folded towels.

Stone spotted Brother Finley slumped in a wooden chair, mouth gaping open. He was the youngest of the Brotherhood, possibly thirteen or fourteen years old, and had been given night duty in the washroom. Stone usually came across him asleep because hardly anyone used the washroom during the night or the early hours of the morning. He placed a firm hand on the boy's shoulder and gently shook him.

The boy suffered from incurable flushes and his sallow cheeks pulsed with a pink hue. He looked around, noting there was only the two of them, and smiled, thankful it was not one of the Elder Brothers. His skin was ravaged by spots and combined with the nervous flushes he was glowing brighter than the open fire. He scampered to his feet, awkward and gangly. His head was oddly-shaped and his brown eyes appeared too large for his face. Some of the men poked fun at his appearance but Finley had taken an oath of silence, one that was to be maintained until adulthood, so he was unable to respond to the cruel jibes. Stone doubted the boy would've answered back anyway; he appeared soft-natured.

Adulthood, mused Stone, as he stood at a basin whilst the skinny kid heated up the water. In the Muscane Brotherhood, adulthood was mastered in the eighteenth year, once the journey of _physical remodelling_ had been completed. In the western state of Ennpithia, a boy was deemed an adult at the age of twelve. For Stone, a child of the southern wastelands across the sea, manhood began once you balled your fists and were taught how to use them.

The Brotherhood had beliefs that were identical from refuge to refuge, similar to the knee bending Priests he'd encountered in Ennpithia, but the Muscane's faith was in _humanity_ rather than an invisible _deity_ that jostled men. The Brotherhood had no Holy Houses and possessed no visible trappings of wealth enjoyed by the Ennpithian religion. They had nothing and chose to embrace those with nothing; men and women at the end of long and winding roads. Stone had first heard of them in the city, whilst chasing down information on the enigmatic Pathfinder. It had led him to a refuge of weak and desperate people. The man he sought was a hard drinking lowlife, reviled on the streets but accepted by the Brothers, and a handful of coins had loosened the man's tongue. During that time, Stone had observed the Brothers and found a pocket of respect for their selfless work.

He put down his coat, backpack and ammunition bag. He propped a carbine against the wall. He saw Finley glance at it. It was a superb close combat impact weapon, Kiven made, constructed from metal and wood, a pump-action reloading mechanism, an internal sling and steel ball ammunition. It didn't have the range of a rifle or the punch of a shotgun but it was an adequate firearm; faster and more deadly than a crossbow - and he'd had plenty of practice with it.

He placed his revolver beside the basin, close at hand, unbuckled his belt and coiled it to the floor, a sheathed machete hanging from it. He took out his flask, opened the cap and drank a mouthful of whiskey. He bunched his fists, leaned against the basin, and refused to look at his reflection in the grimy mirror. He didn't need to. He knew what he looked like.

He usually came to the washroom at this hour, before dawn. It was always empty and he enjoyed the solemn peace. The men of the refuge were a rowdy bunch once in here, telling inflated stories of women and repeating jokes with booming laughter, and he wanted no part of them or the past they clung to.

Snoring echoed through the refuge and Stone thought of the deal he'd struck with Jeremiah, wondering what the old man's angle was but not really caring.

Finley carried over the bucket of water, droplets slopping over the rim. Basin filled, he fetched Stone a towel and washcloth.

"Thanks."

There would be no other words. There was no need. Stone took an open razor from his pack, wet it and hacked at his wild beard, peeling away thick clumps. He dipped the blade in the water, shook it and began to tidy the remaining hair. He set the razor down, dried his chin and ran a lined hand across the short coarse hair. He glanced in the mirror. His beard looked better. Picking up the flask, he drank several mouthfuls of whiskey before taking the razor to the long hair gathered around his stern-looking face. He sawed through it, cutting it back until there was only a short crop of brown and grey.

Finley refreshed the water in the basin, then took his broom and began to sweep the floor, glancing up as the older man stripped. His skin bore the tale of a fighting man, scars old and new, and Finley had even seen branding, symbols scorched into his arm, the like of which were stamped on criminals. But if the man had a criminal past it didn't frighten Finley because this man was not like the others. He was dour but never cruel with his words or actions, and the young brother was awed to be in the presence of a great warrior.

Stone closed his eyes as he washed and imagined Nuria's hands gliding over his rough skin. Nightly, he saw her in the flames of the fire, looking across at him, eyes forever changing, fear and courage. He held the curve of her lips, the lines of her body, the flick of her hair and the tilt of her nose, and he carried them into his dreams. Only the dark had plans for men, especially men like him. He'd foolishly believed that the grip had been relinquished, that Nuria was the gatekeeper on the path of redemption. But she was gone and there was no gate and Stone doubted there was even a path.

He wrung out the washcloth. Water dripped into the basin, each plop a loud clang in his head.

Ennpithia had been hope; forests and hills and fresh water rivers. They had hurled themselves off the sand-blasted continent of Gallen, crossing the torrid Metal Sea and into a land of the brave, a land of the free, a land beneath the sign. But people were not free and many were not brave and the sign was the cross and communities had been suppressed and divided by it.

Stone dried himself, pulled on his trousers, and sat on one of the benches, lacing up his boots.

He sighed, he had no idea what was happening there now.

Finley's brush nudged the dusty floor. The boy yawned. The wind howled, shutters rattled.

Stone reached for his shirt.

The scream was high-pitched; it shredded the silence of the refuge, tore along the corridors.

Finley gasped, raised his awkward eyes.

Dropping his shirt, Stone grabbed his revolver and burst from the washroom, darting quickly to his left. It was Cali, later than he'd anticipated, but it was always going to be her. He passed a hanging lamp, glowing behind blackened glass. The pair of them slept away from the main hall in one of the side chambers. He'd figured she'd have a problem tonight. He'd suspected several of the men would attempt to take her. She would've been irresistible to them. There were men who drew no lines in the dirt. He had sensed it on his first day here and should have put them down there and then but the Brotherhood forbade violence.

He could hear the struggle.

He was getting closer.

Another scream.

"Where is it?" shouted a voice. "Where is it?"

The words made no sense but there was no time to think. Stone crashed into the chamber. One of the men must have been leaning against the door because he was catapulted across the cramped room. The door splintered and clattered against the floor. There were four attackers in the withering lamplight. One was pressed against Jeremiah, the outline of a triple-bladed weapon in his fist, repeatedly jabbing into the old man's stomach. Stone fired, one shot, a loud bang, the chamber rolling, lining up the next bullet. The man jerked, the force of the bullet slamming him against the wall, spraying blood. Jeremiah slumped to the floor and rolled onto his side, face pale. The man Stone had hit with the door sprang forward, a similar looking weapon in his grip, but Stone smacked a bullet into the knifeman's head, dropping him cold.

A third man had Cali pinned to the wall, his face pressed into her shoulder, his trousers around his ankles.

The last attacker brandished a knife. It was the same weapon, a thick round handle with three blades entwined. Stone had no intention of wasting ammunition on him or drawing his own knife from his boot. He plunged into the room and nimbly ducked and swerved the wide slashes and jabs of the deadly weapon. He timed his moment, stepped forward and ploughed a fist into the man, hard and fast, doubling him over. The man struggled to breathe. Stone struck him with a thunderous right, his meaty fist pounding into the man's temple, sending him sprawling and the knife skittering across the floor. The man dived for it, dazed and with little co-ordination, but Stone grabbed him, wrestling him into a choke-hold. The knifeman sweated and desperately tried to escape, the seconds of his life ticking down.

Stone snapped his neck, and let the body drop.

Cali pushed away her attacker. He slumped on his back, a triple-bladed knife buried in his chest.

She stared at Stone, breathing hard, long hair hanging around a face scrubbed clean of paint.

Stone ignored her, and crouched beside Jeremiah. The old man's stomach had been ripped open.

"Oh, shit," he said.

Jeremiah hissed through clenched teeth. "I'm sorry. We should have been smarter. I'm sorry."

"Where's the Pathfinder?"

Cali was astonished. "Help him."

"He's not going to make it. I need that information."

Stone cradled the old man's head.

"Listen to me," he said. "I'll get the girl to Silver Road, I swear it, but tell me about Chan-pu."

"Leave him alone," said Cali.

"Where's the Pathfinder?" said Stone. "Tell me, you old bastard. Tell me where I can find him."

"Step off him, cocksucker."

Jeremiah wailed through gritted teeth. "You, you have... you have to stop it... the fourth... get... our nation..."

The corridor became noisy with shouting and running footsteps. The old man was fading fast.

"I won't see it, Eileen... but I'm coming, sweetheart... your Dad is coming. It's going to be beautiful, Eileen... it will..."

Blood coated hands slapped against Stone's bare chest.

"I was so close. You can take my place. Trust Cali, she knows. Cali, come here, girl."

She dropped to one knee, tears in her eyes.

"Trust him. He's a man of honour... and truth. I know it... I know it... I know it..."

Brothers filled the doorway. But the robed men were too late.

* * *

Icicles hung from roofs and windows.

Stone looked up at the blue sky, ripped with streaks of red. The sun whimpered beneath low hanging clouds as winter continued its stranglehold. The days were short and the wind was freezing but it was no longer snowing. It had been the snow storms that had driven him into the refuge. It was time to leave and he intended to move fast, covering plenty of miles before nightfall. He thrust his arms through the loops of his battered pack of supplies and pulled it onto his back. He strapped the ammunition bag across his chest and slung the carbine over his shoulder. He dug out fingerless gloves, and pulled them on, eager to start walking.

He had no map, there were few of those in the world, but he knew if he continued south he would one day reach the mountains that bordered southern Kiven. Beyond the mountains lay the Metal Sea that fed toward Ennpithia and Nuria. He had no idea if there was a way through or how he would navigate the sea. But now he had a name, Chan-pu. He wasn't any closer to locating the elusive man but it was a beginning and that was often enough.

Only something was troubling him. Something was crawling around the back of his head.

It wasn't the old man's death, though he was angry he hadn't gotten into that room sooner, and it wasn't the girl, he would leave her to make her own way in the world. It was something, though, and he wasn't shaking it off lightly.

Where is it? Where is it?

The word replayed in his head. He glanced around.

There was no movement in the first-world town. It was a dead place in the middle of a dead wasteland.

He started south, walked a few yards and stopped.

He turned back into town, searched and discovered the tyre tracks. They curved in from the northeast and disappeared into a half-collapsed building, wedged behind a rusted grain silo.

Stone took the carbine from his shoulder, pumped the ribbed slider. A single steel ball rolled against the tensed sling. He pushed the stock into his shoulder, and curled his finger around the trigger.

He advanced, half-crouched, boots crunching in the snow.

Taking a deep breath, he swung the weapon into the building, and spotted only the vehicle parked inside.

He cleared the area, and lowered the carbine once he was certain he was alone. He studied the ground and counted four sets of adult prints, all heading in the direction of the refuge.

The vehicle was a buggy with tyres adept at handling rough terrain. Spikes jutted from its rims and the lower body was mesh panels and razor-wire. The upper frame was exposed and mounted with four spotlights and a heavy machine gun, its long barrel ribbed and black.

The hood was painted with a triple blade emblem. Stone put his hand against it. It was still warm.

THREE

He threw open the hall door, marched back inside.

Women stood in small groups, furrowed brows and coffee, the blame squarely on the painted girl. Strutting around with her skin exposed, talking with that city attitude, flirting with the musicians and driving childish men stupid with lust. It was all down to her. A lone voice of balance was crushed. Only bile mattered. The men knew to keep silent. They nursed hangovers, scratched at bearded jaws and stared with bleary eyes, wondering if they would be fed any breakfast.

The old hall looked on, and reflected with a raised eyebrow.

Dozens of eyes turned on Stone, instinctively, but when they saw who it was they looked in another direction. He weaved around the cooking fires and women stripping off bedding. A tiny girl with unruly red hair poked her tongue at him and ran off. Two men blocked his path and muttered that he was no longer welcome here. They were unable to make eye contact and Stone shouldered through them. The two men shrank away and several women shook their heads with disgust.

A hanging lamp burned weakly in the corridor. He passed the male washroom. It was silent. He reached the chamber Jeremiah and Cali had shared. The Brotherhood had removed the old man's body but the four dead attackers remained. He guessed they would be disposed of soon enough. There was blood on the floor and splashed on the walls.

"What do you want?"

There was venom in the words. She was kicking around in the corridor and came out of the shadows to confront him. There was no flesh on show and no paint on her lips or around her eyes. Her skin had looked flawless last night, sparkling in the lamps that hung around the hall, but this morning it had a raw look, with rashes of pimples, and there was a brown spot close to her mouth that Stone understood was known as a beauty spot.

She was dressed for the road with her long black hair tucked into the hood of her coat.

"Yeah, I'm outta here, just like you. Why didn't you save him? You were supposed to protect us. They said you were dead. You pretty much acted it. What the fuck am I going to do now?"

He said nothing, stepped into the room. There were rumpled blankets, the remains of a small fire, a piss pot, empty bottles and food stained bowls. He crouched beside one of the bodies. The man was in his twenties, eyes open, a gaping bullet hole in his skull. He wore fingerless gloves with a triple dagger emblem stitched into them. Stone lifted up the man's shirt and saw gang ink across his torso.

"These men are from Kiven."

"And?"

He picked up the weapon; a long round handle, three entwined blades.

"Triple Death."

He got to his feet, discarded the knife.

"A street gang."

"And?"

"They dominate the drug trade in your city. I learnt that much when I was there."

She jutted out her chin.

"And?"

"What did they want with you and Jeremiah?"

Cali folded her arms. "You know what they wanted. They saw me dancing and wanted to rape me."

"They weren't here last night."

"How do you know? You weren't even watching me. Sweetness is what they were after, man. They saw me, thought they could grab it."

"I don't think so."

"You don't think so? You _don't_ think so?" Her head rocked, hands flared. "What the fuck do you know about anything, mister? I stuck that motherfucker and he died with his cock hanging out. They wanted me. You said you would do the killing for us so where were you? I'm talking to you, asshole. Don't look away from me. He wanted you to protect us. I can't believe this has happened. You're a fucking asshole, man, a fucking ..."

He slapped her.

Cali lifted a hand to her stinging cheek.

A knife flashed. Stone had to admire her speed. The weapon must have been inside her sleeve because in a blink of an eye it was there in her palm. She slashed toward his face. He jerked back, snapped out a long arm, caught her wrist, and twisted her around, pushing her arm up her back. She stamped against his shin, rammed an elbow into his gut. He grunted but she wasn't strong enough to stop him from levering the blade out of her grip. It clattered on the floor. He spun her around and she threw her left fist at him. He took the punch. He'd let her have that for the slap. Words spilled from her mouth, hate and pain, until the rage burned out and tears bubbled against her eyelashes.

"What am I going to do now?"

"Jeremiah had a map to Silver Road. Follow it. That's what you're going to do."

She shook her head. "I don't want to go there."

Stone picked up her knife, handed it to her. He couldn't help but feel sorry for her.

"Maybe Triple Death came for you," she said.

"The gangs think I'm dead."

"Why?"

"They just do. Besides, Triple Death is the one gang the League of Restoration has no dealings with."

He thought for a moment.

"Did Jeremiah tell you about Chan-pu?"

"Who?"

"Chan-pu. The Pathfinder."

"He told me shit."

Stone looked into her eyes.

"What are you hiding?"

"My grandfather is dead. You feel me? Back up from me, man."

"Your grandfather? Bullshit."

"Just shut up. Shut the fuck up. I don't care about any of it. He promised me it would be OK. I can't do this. I can't."

She was tightening, winding herself inward.

"Where is it?" said Stone. "That's what I heard. What were they looking for?"

"Get away from me."

"Why don't you tell me...?"

She screeched. Her voice fetched the Brothers rushing into the corridor for the second time that morning.

There were mysteries in the second-world. Stone had seen healers save lives with touch. He'd seen men survive the cutting edge of a sword blade and vanish into thin air. He'd seen metal weapons that flew through the sky. But he was a solid, practical and even thinking man, happy to ignore the unfathomable. The Muscane was one of many puzzles in the second-world. When they urged him to leave he did so, without fight or protest, and that was strange because he wanted to fight and he wanted to protest.

When a hand pressed against his arm, he shook compliance from his thoughts, and rage overwhelmed him. He swung for the man, grasping him around the throat and flinging him against the wall, squeezing down.

Brother Finley's oversized eyes stared back at him. Stone immediately released his grip.

He whispered, "I'm sorry."

"You have to leave. Both of you."

The order came from one of the Elder Brothers.

Finley watched the great warrior trudge away, followed by the dark-haired girl, and he drove his teeth into his lips.

It's not fair, he thought, it's not fair.

* * *

Cali stared, nearly open-mouthed.

The landscape was ruined, flattened and rusted, skulking beneath untidy layers of white. She'd arrived at night with Jeremiah and the nameless town had been shrouded in darkness. In the glare of daylight she saw how bleak and without possibilities it was.

Stone watched her for a moment.

"You have two choices," he said. "You can go back inside and beg the Brotherhood to let you stay. They might now that I've gone. But tonight, without Jeremiah around, without me in there, you'll be raped. You might take a few of them out but the men will keep coming. And it will happen again and again until the women get sick of it and they'll slit your windpipe and throw your body out into the snow."

He reached into his pocket, took out a short telescope, expanded it, swept the snow-packed northern horizon.

"Or you can head back to Kiven. It might take five or six days on foot. Or more. You'll probably die of cold or hunger. But if that doesn't take you out there are gangs of marauders between here and the city. They survive on people. You'll be captured. You'll be raped. And then you'll be eaten."

She clasped her hands against her cheeks, in mock fear.

"Oh, no. I need a third choice. Will you be my third choice, Mr Hero? Will you take me with you and protect me?"

Her black eyes burned at him.

"Motherfucking asshole. Go fuck yourself."

Stone pocketed his telescope. "What did Jeremiah mean about me taking his place?"

Cali laughed. "Nah, not you, man, never a dude like you. I sat in _all_ those bars with Jeremiah and listened to _all_ those stories about how this great soldier waved his balls at the League. Maybe you ain't him. Maybe the real soldier is _dead_ because you're just a nasty fucked up... you just... you ain't him. You ain't a protector of weak people. I was wrong about you. You ain't..."

Her insults tailed off as she looked around once more.

"I'm making a third choice."

This time her voice was devoid of bitterness or teasing. She appeared genuinely troubled by the stark surroundings.

"What's that?" he asked.

"I'll go with you."

"No."

"You'll protect me."

"I'm an asshole. I won't."

"I'll honour Jeremiah's deal if you take me to the town of Silver Road."

"You have nothing to trade."

"I have two things to trade. One, I can tell you where the Pathfinder is."

"You don't know where he is."

"Jeremiah told me."

Stone looked into her eyes.

"You're lying."

"Take me with you. It's what you do."

"Not anymore."

He walked away and she shouted after him. "I told you I sat with Jeremiah and listened to all those stories about you."

He called back. "Never trust bar stories."

"You did things you didn't have to do. You killed men who were wicked and cruel. You protected people. No motive. No agenda. You just did the right thing."

He left his prints in the snow. Cali shook with rage.

"What is it with you?"

She stamped after him. He whirled round.

"What was number two?"

"Two," she said. "Two is that I know you're alive and I'm happy to keep that information to myself."

"You'd never make it back to Kiven to tell anyone otherwise."

She glanced at the revolver tucked into his belt.

She narrowed her eyes. "Would you use that on me?"

He ignored her question. A chill went down her spine.

"Who was Jeremiah? Who was he really? And who are you?"

She wet her lips. It was her turn to fall silent.

"What's so damn important about Silver Road?"

She shrugged.

"A safer place for me than Kiven."

"Right."

Cali's eyes suddenly lit up. She pointed at him. "You found the vehicle they came in, didn't you? Sweet."

She offered him a half-smile.

"I met Chan-pu once. He was in the city. I know what the fella looks like. You need me."

He let out a frustrated grunt. She had a manoeuvre for everything. She played every card, rolled all the dice, bluffing or not. But he was no closer to getting back to Nuria than the day the bridges had fallen. He beckoned with his head and she followed him to the buggy. He tossed his equipment onboard, climbed in, and gunned the engine to life.

She scrambled in beside him.

"But you don't hit me again. Or it'll be me cutting your throat in the night. You feel me, old man?"

"It was a slap."

"You like slapping girls?"

Stone put his foot against the gas pedal.

"Only girls full of shit."

FOUR

Nuria opened her eyes, and didn't move for a few minutes.

Shafts of daylight filtered through the shutters of the small cottage. It was way past dawn and she could hear the groan of cattle outside. The village was alive. There were voices and footsteps, the grind of wagons and distant hammering. She propped herself on her elbows. She was a mess of blonde hair and tired blue eyes. She wrinkled her nose. The cottage was stale and musty. It was hardly surprising because it had stood empty for six months. The cottage belonged to Quinn who was still asleep, lightly snoring beneath a jumble of blankets, one stray foot hanging loose.

Nuria swung her bare feet onto a cold floor, stretched and then covered her mouth as she coughed. Her bones ached from long days of riding. Only twenty eight years of age, she felt more like one hundred and twenty eight at that moment. She lit a fire, put on fresh water and cycled the cramp from her legs. She emptied her bladder, replaced the circular lid on the bucket, and then stripped off her shirt and poured out the water. She washed the grime and dirt from her skin.

Once dry, she put the coffee on, and quickly dressed, pulling on woollen trousers, a heavy shirt, thick socks, a fleece, and heavy boots. Quinn muttered, and rolled onto her side, facing the wall. Nuria grabbed her coffee and turned her attention to the bed she'd slept in.

There was a brightly painted wooden object on the pillow. It resembled one piece of a heart, the left half. She plucked at its colourful contours before smothering it with her palm and bringing it to her chest, hand clenched. She thought back to that soggy and wind swept morning in Winshead. There had been a storm the night before. The ground had been marshy and she recalled the mournful drip of rainwater amongst the trees. Stone had been stunned by the gift. She'd suggested they carry a piece each, a sign of the bond they shared, the bond of friendship. And when he'd kissed her, not then but later, passionately, urgently, she'd known that friendship would only be the beginning for them.

Until the bridges had fallen. She would never give up on him even though she knew it was hopeless.

She poured her second cup of coffee. Today would mark a new step in the search for him. They had travelled the eastern borders of Ennpithia for the past six months, deep in the mountains, trying but failing to carve a route into Kiven. All the trails and paths led them to the canyon and there was no way to cross it. They rode north, into an arid land known as the red zone. No one lived there, nothing grew, and there was nothing to hunt. Several of the men who rode with them died from sickness. But even there, as the mountains became hills and the hills stretched into open wasteland, there was still no way across the canyon. They journeyed south, leaving behind unsettling outlines of once great cities half-buried in the scorched soil.

The Ancients had truly ruined the world.

Nuria slipped the wooden keepsake into her pocket. She feared it would become all that was left of him.

He was still the first thing she thought of in the morning and the last thing she thought of at night.

Quinn had told her she experienced the same thing, about her own family, who were all dead.

"First thing in the morning. Last thing at night. Despite all the stuff I went through with them."

She had a tight voice, boxed-in, and she spoke fast, with no inflections, word after word rattling at speed. She had grown up in the state of Ennpithia but her family came from another place and the accent appeared to have followed.

"There was a lot of bad – a real lot of bad. But nothing is ever all bad, not even what they did. It's hard to explain. People don't get it. They think I'm making excuses for them. I'm not. If my mother was here now I'd put a bullet in her head. I would. I'd probably have a chat first. About stuff, things. And then I'd kill her. I doubt I would feel a thing. But none of that stops me thinking of them. People who have an impact are always in your head, whether you want them to be there or not."

Quinn's father had died of illness when she was ten years old. Her mother, a devout knee-bender, had fallen to the same disease, but much later and only after the damage had been done.

"With my father dead, she was the only voice. I hated her. I wanted her to die. And I wanted her to hold me when I was sick. Family is fucked up."

Her mother had come upon Quinn with another girl, arriving home unexpectedly early from her chores at the Holy House. Quinn was already displaying a lack of faith in the word of the Lord and her mother now realised with horror that her daughter was truly different, perverted and deviant. Her mother's influence within the Holy House allowed her to press for the girl and her family to be banished. With her gone, she set about cleansing her daughter of sin. Her son, Daniel, Quinn's older brother, would be the natural instrument to restore balance. Though he refused, he was beaten until he complied, and eventually he complied without the beatings.

"Clarissa was born, a beautiful little girl. Even in the foulest moments, Nuria, I was able to find something pure."

"But she never knew."

Quinn drank with regret. "That will haunt me until the end. It's the Lord's final punishment for me. My damnation for hating the cross and pissing on my mother's grave. Sometimes I'm glad my father died when he did."

She loved her father, and missed him dearly. Her memories of him were becoming hazy and that troubled her. He had been dead for sixteen years and she was beginning to struggle with his features, the lines around his eyes, dimples on his cheeks, white and curly nasal hair, thick hands stained with tobacco. She showed Nuria the pipe he'd smoked until death.

"I'd chase around the herb garden with a wooden sword. Fighting Shaylighters. I always wanted to fight Shaylighters. My father would be on his bench. Smoking this big pipe. He made that bench himself. I watched him fell a tree and carve it day after day. That was before they fetched in the timber laws. Now you can't do anything without violating a law. He would smoke his pipe and watch me run wild amongst the herbs."

She paused. "I must have trampled over half of them. He didn't mind. I killed plenty of Shaylighters."

Nuria often saw her smoke it with a wistful look in her eye, sometimes even a tear that was quickly wiped away. Quinn was a woman who accepted little weakness. Her shoulders were broad, her spine straight. She also held Clarissa's hairbrush and her loss had been the hardest to cope with. It was the only time Nuria saw Quinn bend and fold. She was only slowly coming to terms with the knowledge that Clarissa was missing from this world. The men who had betrayed her were dead. But that was scant consolation.

"Stone was right. What he told me in Touron."

"About what?" said Nuria.

"You feel nothing when you kill them. You take vengeance to them, you push them violently from this life into the next but nothing changes. The sun still comes up. The rain still falls."

Quinn shrugged.

"People climb into your life, into your heart. What can you do?"

Nuria nodded. She had never known the caress or cruelty of her mother or the look or scent of her father. Training and discipline had been her family. Abandoned in an orphanage, she had found her way in life surrounded by strangers, progressing into military school, working hard and following orders, until she attained a high-ranking position within the Red Guard of Chett, the city of her birthplace. Her rise had been carefully mentored, and possibly manipulated, by a retired officer, a man who would become chancellor. But it had been a dark period for her, brightened only by encountering Stone.

She smiled wryly, thinking back on Quinn's words. There was a sudden knock at the door, jolting her from the past.

"Quinn?"

Captain Duggan. Nuria recognised his gruff voice. He knocked again. She kept him waiting and lingered with the coffee pot. She poured out her third cup but left it on the table. He was a more recent part of her past, but no less unpleasant. She had not seen him since the summer, when he served her with a banishment order, later quashed by Governor Albury. She combed her hair with her hands, loosening knots and tangles, and swept it into a ponytail before opening the door.

"Where's Quinn?"

"Sleeping."

"Wake her."

"No, we only rode in last night. She's exhausted."

"I have to discuss these orders from Touron."

Nuria fixed him with a stare. "There's nothing to discuss. Governor Albury signed all the papers."

Duggan fumed. He had little patience, even less tolerance, but orders were orders, and when Touron issued them he had to obey.

"I still need to talk to her."

His stocky frame filled the narrow doorway. He wasn't backing down. A man in his mid-fifties, bearded and rugged, he was a veteran of the civil war. He had lost his son during the conflict, _after_ the peace treaty had been signed but _before_ the killing had ceased on the frontline. He stood ankle-deep in snow, wearing full armour, his tunic emblazoned with a cross. A helmet covered his grey hair and a sheathed sword hung from his belt, gloved fist resting on the pommel.

Nuria went inside and left him in the cold, the door ajar. She was hoping he would leave because she didn't quite have the heart to slam the door on him. She picked up her pistol, lying with her coffee cup, and ejected the magazine. It was nearly empty. She scooped a handful of bullets from a leather pouch and began to load it, watching Duggan as she pushed each one down.

He bristled, knowing she was attempting to provoke him. Ennpithian law stated that all tech and weapons from the Before were forbidden and that included firearms. Faith promised a peaceful future but only by rejecting the sinful inventions of the past could it be assured. Possession of such weapons was punishable by death though Nuria and Quinn were exempt, with documentation to prove it. At least one man recognised the sacrifice Stone had made in protecting Ennpithia and would bend any rule to repay the debt.

Duggan was sickened by the situation. Stone could rot as far as he was concerned.

"What do you want?"

It was Quinn.

He was silent for a moment.

"What did you do to your hair?"

"That's none of your business."

Her thick ropes of blonde hair had gone; yellow fuzz covered her scalp.

"You look like a man."

"I don't need your approval."

Quinn climbed from her brother's bed. She had slept in her clothes. She arched her back, grunting from the pain around her lower spine. It had been nagging her for the past few days. She was in her mid-twenties, muscular arms and legs, a large nose with flared nostrils and a curved upper lip. She picked up the coffee Nuria had poured for her.

Duggan shuffled in the doorway. The cottage was growing cold with the door open.

"Why are you still here?" said Quinn.

"I wanted to see how you were."

" _We're_ alive."

"Ossie had a girl. We called her Annie."

Quinn was Quinn. Even her father had called her Quinn. But Quinn was the family name and her birth name was Annie.

"Is that it?"

"No, that's not it. I've seen these orders that you left at the barracks last night. You're taking the trawler east along the coastline?"

"That's right."

"I can't spare any men."

"We don't need any."

"You took Marshals with you into the mountains."

"That was Commander Eddis," said Nuria. "It was his recommendation. He offered us men with mountaineering experience."

"Well, I can't offer you any Churchmen," said Duggan, directing his words at Quinn, and blanking Nuria. "They're soldiers, not sailors."

"We won't need them," said Quinn. "We're taking a minimal crew. Read Albury's letter."

"There's nowhere to land in Kiven."

"Then we won't be long."

"Do you realise that going onto their soil is an act of war? Has Governor Albury considered this?"

Quinn slammed down her coffee cup.

"They fired a missile at us, Duggan, and over fifty men were killed at the Place of Bridges. I'm sure that evens it out."

"I'm not happy about this, Quinn."

She put her hand against the door.

"You don't have to be happy. Just follow orders, Captain. That's what you're good at."

She closed the door, waited for a moment. Nuria eased back in her chair, and said nothing.

"None of this is your fault," said Quinn.

"Mind reader."

"No, that's not one of my skills."

She smiled, and dropped down into a chair. She took a loaf of bread and broke it into two pieces.

"He's an asshole. He's forgotten what you did in the summer. No, he knows _exactly_ what you did. That's why he's pissed."

She had admired Duggan through childhood. He had been a role model for her. But Quinn would never forget and it was unlikely she would ever forgive. When the time came to make a stand, Duggan had shunned her and aligned himself to the law, not with what was right, because in his eyes there was only the law, and nothing else. He had banished her from the village, with Stone and Nuria, and taken the side of a child abuser.

Despite all that, Nuria almost pitied him as he trudged from the snow-covered garden and back toward the barracks.

"Don't feel sorry for him," said Quinn. She chewed on the bread. "I can see that look in your eyes. He was happy to bend the law when Daniel firebombed the Holy House. Why was that? To impress me? The man is a rodent. He treats you like shit. He has from the moment you arrived. He has a problem with strong women."

"You got on well with him before we got here."

Quinn grinned. "I don't count. He looks at me as another man. He always has. If I wasn't... _different_... then he'd treat me like you. And creeping around me with that shit about his new baby. How could he do that? Name her after me? Bastard."

She tore off a strip of crust, popped it into her mouth.

"Do I look like a man?"

"No, of course not."

"Why do you think it happened?"

Nuria was quiet for a moment. She looked at Quinn's head. "I don't know. But we should have seen Trinity before leaving Touron."

Quinn shrugged.

"I wasn't prepared to wait two weeks to see her. Besides, I'm not sick."

"You have back pain."

"Too much riding."

"And a bad cough."

"It's winter."

"You let the girl heal you before. When you were shot."

A gloom descended. Quinn chose to break it. "Maybe the Lord intends to change me into a man. I might wake up in the morning with a cock."

"I'll finally have some use for you."

They laughed. It had been a long time since laughter had reverberated around the cottage.

"You could have walked away from all this," said Nuria. "I won't forget the help you've given me."

"I owe you both. You know that."

Quinn blinked back tears as ghosts of the past began to crawl through her, leaving footprints.

Breakfast was finished in silence. They began to gather their weapons and supplies.

"Will you come back here?" asked Nuria.

"I swore in the summer I wouldn't and here I am again. But I don't think so."

"They're rebuilding Winshead. Filling it with the survivors from Great Onglee. Would you think about staying there?"

Quinn shrugged and lifted her crossbow. It was heavily customised, rapid fire with a lever action. She slotted a wooden magazine box onto the shaft.

"I don't know," she said. "The Shaylighters will always want me dead." She shook her head. "I can't see how I can live amongst them. What about you and Stone? It's the same for you. Will you come back to Ennpithia?"

Nuria tucked her pistol into her waistband, and hesitated. "I don't know what we're going to do."

"I'm confident we'll find him," said Quinn. "Once we get into Kiven. Then you can decide."

The wind ached around the cottage.

"I still believe he's alive," said Nuria. "I have to. But he's been over there since the summer, on the run. We spent all that time in the mountains and it was a waste. Eddis was right. They'd tried to find a way through ten years ago and failed and we didn't fare any better."

"This will work," said Quinn. "We take the trawler along the coast. The canyon is the marker. Once we pass it we know we're south of Kiven. Then we drop anchor the moment we spy a cove or a beach or anything."

"But we could spend years wandering the Black Region."

Quinn shook her head.

"We just follow the trouble. That's where Stone will be."

FIVE

The world was white, forlorn.

Naked forests dotted the expansive flatlands, snow-capped mountains fringed the horizon.

They saw no one.

In the back of the buggy was a canister of lightly-coloured bio-fuel. It stank. Stone covered his mouth and nose with his scarf. He'd encountered all manner of fuels that powered vehicles but this was the foulest of them. He'd once laboured inside a prison that had produced fuel and sold it to the predatory gangs of his homeland. Nuria had been with him. They still bore the scars, she more than him. He wondered if Tamnica was still standing.

As the fuel slopped from the canister, topping up the depleted tank, he stared at the leaden sky, deeply gouged with red slashes, and then allowed his gaze to wander over the frozen land.

Cali, shoulders hunched against the biting wind, had said nothing since they'd left. That suited him.

Late in the afternoon, following the highway south, he slowed at a remote filling station. The fuel would have expired centuries before. He was not here for that. But the day was shortening and it would be an ideal spot to make camp.

Weeds grew through cracked asphalt, curling around the snow-covered gas pumps. The frame of a canopy roof, stripped of metal panels, had collapsed into a brick built mini-market. He listened. There was only the wind. He studied the ground. The snow was unbroken. No tracks. Neat and smooth in places, ridged in others.

Stone placed a hand on his revolver, lines appearing around his eyes, and slowly backed away.

He pushed against the gas pedal and the buggy snarled along the empty highway. A moment later, he stamped on the brake. He turned in his seat. It was a shame. It would have been a suitable place to take shelter. But it had been compromised. The ground had been too perfect. He had no idea how many were in there or who they were.

Cali watched him, with a sour look on her face, wondering why he'd stopped for a second time, though she had no intention of asking him and he had no intention of telling her.

That night, and every night that followed, they parked away from the highway and he built a large fire. He put on a pot of coffee, measured out rations, cooked the food, and tipped it into two mess tins, handing one to her. The meat was chewy. The pulses soft. He offered her a spoon but she dug in with her hands and smacked her lips as she ate. She poured the last of it into her mouth, ran her tongue around the tin. She tossed it on the ground and sucked the grease and mush from her fingertips. She slurped her coffee, took a nip of whiskey and thanked him for nothing.

Hunkered down against the cold, he watched her take a battered notebook from the pack and saw a pencil in her gloved hand. She began to scratch at the pages and then stopped and glared at him. He didn't turn his head, not at first, but grew tired of her disdainful look and chose to scan the surrounding darkness. Sometimes, Stone heard her whispering, often accompanied by a tilt of the head, or a nod, or a grin, and then the pencil would work feverishly across the page. He shrugged and said nothing and did what was required. He fed her. He protected her. He took her from one place to the next. Not that she was helpless. She was far from helpless. He'd watched her kill one of the four men who'd attacked Jeremiah in the refuge and that hadn't been her first kill. He'd seen it in her eyes. No shock. No elation. Nothing. The man had been an obstacle and had been removed without fear, question or remorse. She wasn't weak. But she accepted his assistance and he was obliged to give it.

On the morning of the fourth day, the fuel tank ran empty. Stone took a pair of bolt cutters from his pack and snipped away at the mesh panels covering the lower body of the vehicle. Cali stamped her feet and idled with growing impatience. Stone lashed the mesh panels together, creating a makeshift sled. There was no jack so he took the spare tyre and sliced it into smaller pieces with his machete, creating runners which he tied beneath the sled.

He tested it across the snow. It wasn't perfect but it would hold up. He began to make a harness.

"You can put your pack on it."

They were the first words in four days. But Cali shook her head and kept the pack on her back. He shrugged, and loaded the sled with blankets and bedding from the buggy. He unscrewed the heavy machine gun. It was a fearsome looking weapon with a single belt of bullets. They started off in a southerly direction. The rubber supports allowed the sled to glide smoothly across the deep snow. The temperature was sub zero, and the sky was stark blue with gnarled red streaks. Stone raised his scarf over his mouth and nose but kept his hood lowered because it blocked his peripheral vision.

Cali was slow. Much slower than he'd anticipated or expected. The snow was deep and challenging but he was more than twice her age and dragging the heavy sled and still she trailed behind him.

"We can cover more ground if you put the pack on the sled."

"No."

"Then get rid of the shit you're carrying."

She flashed him the finger.

"You don't keep up," said Stone. "I'll leave you behind."

But he didn't. There was no effort from her. She was headstrong, stubborn and annoying and he doubted he was any different so he reduced his speed and the gap grew less and less.

Dusk plunged the land into greyness, night tilted it into blackness. Stars glittered, the first ones they'd seen since leaving the refuge. The temperature dwindled even further and the landscape mocked them.

They made camp beside the shell of a half-buried construction vehicle, discoloured with rust, stripped of useful parts. It was an immense machine. Maybe it had built the first-world. Maybe it had helped tear it down. Stone had no idea. It was too long ago to know or even care. Men claimed knowledge of history but Stone found there was always doubt, always room for conjecture. No records existed. No papers. It was all speculation and bar stories. The Before was gone. Maybe one or two centuries ago, maybe ten, as his own father had believed, but it was gone, that was the only certain fact and that was all that really mattered.

He built a fire in the crook of a metal arm and put the coffee on. He placed skinny strips of meat in a pan and measured out a handful of pulses. The food sizzled. It was the last of the meat. He'd seen nothing to hunt and nowhere to scavenge. He turned to discuss it with Cali but she'd dozed off. He poured whiskey into his cup, swallowed it down and thought of Nuria. He wished for her warmth beside him, her friendly voice in his ear.

Cali was wrapped in blankets, head tilted to one side. He couldn't make her out. He couldn't read her at all. He had a good instinct with people but she was a blank wall. He nudged her with his boot, handed her a mess tin with a spoon. She took the spoon out, as she did every night, and wolfed it down. She put the spoon in the empty tin and handed it back to him, without a word. Stone chalked that up as an improvement.

"There's no more meat," he said.

She nodded, but didn't comment. She drank a single coffee and drifted into a light sleep, roused only by the wind whistling through the construction vehicle. She stared at him during one of her half-awake moments. He was hunched beside the fire, face glowing in the flames. He cradled the carbine, nursed a cup of whiskey. She opened her mouth to say something but then changed her mind and closed it.

Stone put away a few more swigs of whiskey and held the wooden heart piece for a long time before pocketing it.

There was only the wind and the sound of Cali snoring.

His hooded eyes focused on the pack beside her.

* * *

"Cali."

A half-moon shone bright across the drifts of snow. She looked around, frantic, and then quickly realised there was no danger.

Stone tossed a wrapped coin roll in his gloved hand. Her pack was beside him, the flap open.

"You and Jeremiah robbed the biggest drug gang in all of Kiven city."

He shook his head, unwrapped one of the rolls.

"And these are no ordinary coins. Not like the ones I saw in Ennpithia. These have a much higher value. This amount of money could last you a hundred lifetimes."

She rubbed her tired eyes. "I only need it to last one, man, just one."

"But it should've been two, right? Was it really worth Jeremiah's life?"

He threw it into the pack. It struck a dozen more rolls with a loud clink.

"Ditch it. All of it."

He prepared himself for a volley of abuse but it didn't come.

"No," she said.

"It's only money."

She got to her feet, took down the coffee pot, poured. "It's a fortune."

"Not if you're dead."

"But I'm alive."

"You know they won't stop."

"I need it."

The fire crackled.

"We were lucky at the refuge," said Stone. "There were only four of them. Next time it could be more."

"The man who stopped the missiles," she said, toasting him with her coffee cup. "Scared of a few pussy gang bangers."

"I didn't stop all the missiles."

He could still see it streaking through the sky across the Place of Bridges. He had no idea what had happened to it.

"Tell me about Jeremiah. Was he your mentor? Business partner? Lover?"

She grimaced. "Gross, man."

"Did you work for Triple Death? Is that how this played out? Did you rip them off from the inside?"

But he didn't wait for answers. He rummaged deeper into the pack, picking through her clothing.

"Cocksucker," she said.

He lifted out a bag of small tubs.

"Is this the shit you use on your face?"

"Put it back."

"Why did you dance that night?"

"Are you serious?"

"I'm serious."

"What kind of fucking question is that? Why did I dance? What? That's like, man, why do I breathe?"

"Didn't you realise how dangerous that was? In a place like that?"

"What are you, my Dad? The band was sweet, mister. That was it. I enjoy life. I _know_ how to enjoy life. Do you know what I'm saying? I ain't like one of them losers back there. Do you want me to be like them? That it? Fuck all that. I ain't going out that way."

"I don't care what you do."

"You say that but it sounds like you do. You think those people are better than me? Is that what you think? I'm going to make something of myself. Better than what they have. Better than what you have. Once this shit is done with."

"What shit?"

She saw the battered notebook in his hands and threw aside her coffee cup.

"Put that back, it's private. That's fuck all to do with you. Don't you dare look in it, man. I'm warning you." She gave him a slow hand clap. "Yeah, that's it, keep going, asshole."

Stone raised his eyes, as his fingers thumbed the pages. He stripped away the bite and saw the person behind the persona. He thought of Nuria's gift that he carried, how much it meant to him, how personal it was, and he immediately regretted his brutish intrusion into the girl's world. He'd glimpsed drawings but he didn't study them any further and closed the notebook. He pushed it back into the open pack. She reflected on his action but said nothing.

A piece of paper had slipped to the ground.

He leaned forward, picked it up.

It had been folded down the middle but now lay open. It was a primitive sketch of the sky, like a child's unfinished drawing, a handful of stars and streaks and no moon.

He put it away and spotted a tattered looking map.

"Did this belong to Jeremiah?"

"Yeah."

He spread the map across his knees. It was held together by strips of grey tape.

"A first-world map. This is from the Before. The Map Maker had one of these."

"Who?"

"A friend of mine."

"Did you look through all his stuff?"

"No," said Stone. "I took it."

"So you're more of a thief than me?"

His brow creased.

"I can't find it."

"What you chattin' about?"

"Jeremiah said there was a highway called the fifty-five. He said it led to Silver Road but it's not on here."

She came out of the gloom. There was still anger etched in her eyes. "Never touch my shit again."

"I didn't look in your notebook."

"You flicked through it. That's enough. Not everything in this life is for you to put your hands on."

"If you and Jeremiah had left out the bullshit things might be different right now."

She shook her head.

"Silver Road is a second-world town. That's a first-world map. It ain't gonna be on there, dummy."

"I know that. I'm talking about the highway. Not the town."

His gloved finger traced across the crumpled paper. She chuckled at him. "Can you even read?"

Stone slowly raised his eyes.

"Did you see Jeremiah use this map?"

But she wasn't interested. Not anymore. He slipped it into his pocket to examine in the morning.

He edged toward the fire and pulled a blanket around his shoulders. He drank and stared into the flames. Now he knew some of the truth. He wasn't sure if he cared enough for the rest of it. The black sky cloaked him and shoved him into the dirt. He shook the gloom from his thoughts, cleared his mind. He would leave her here in the morning. It was the best thing to do. She was slowing him down with the coins and he had his own share of problems. He didn't need her shit as well. She knew nothing of the Pathfinder. Jeremiah had known but Jeremiah was dead and Cali was useless. She wasn't even worth protecting.

Stone had travelled across rock and sand. He'd seen the weak and the innocent bullied and brutalised by powerful men, through the iron fist of aggression or the written word of law. And he'd put things right, his way, the only way, no matter the cost, no matter the threat. It was a subconscious reaction. Restoring a fragile balance. Setting things back in place. That was what he cared about. But Cali didn't want his help and probably didn't need it. She'd survived this long. He wouldn't stick around to see how much longer she lasted.

"He wasn't my grandfather."

She dropped beside him, as if reading his thoughts.

"It was his idea, alright? I'm sorry, OK? He thought we'd be more appealing to you. Heard all those stories in the city, reckoned it was a shame the League got to you. But when we walked into that refuge we couldn't believe our luck. I spotted you right off. I said that has to be him. He fooled those motherfuckers good. Jeremiah said we had to be careful. He said we should approach you as a small family, on the run, that way you'd be more inclined to help."

She picked up her discarded cup, refilled it.

"Do you want one?"

He shook his head.

"He did have a daughter called Eileen. Least he told me he did. She was a cleaner. Got sick and died."

She drank.

"Thank you for not looking in my notebook. Those drawings are personal to me. It's something I like to do."

"Why?"

"I don't know. I just do." She shrugged. "That's what I like, man. You understand where I'm coming from? I mean, you know what kind of city Kiven is, right? Those who have and those who don't have. What the fuck do the factions do? They don't do shit. You gotta do your own thing. See, I draw stuff that's real, what's going on in the street. That's where it's at." She paused. "There's this club called the Central. The place is hooked up with power. I mean real power, no candles and shit. Proper lights, man. And the League, those fuckers know how to salvage stuff. They got big screens and they run music and movies. You can watch how people were. How it all looked. I used to get in there a lot, see how they danced and sang and everything."

She let out a whistle.

"Some fucked up shit knocked the Before clean out of the park. Man, it was a paradise."

"Where was Jeremiah from? I know he wasn't from your city."

She was silent for a moment. "He'd been in Kiven since the summer. He knew how to blend. He was old but damn smart." She cracked out a stuttered laugh. "I thought he was Ennpithian, like a spy or something, but he said he came through the red zone. You know where I mean?"

Stone nodded.

"They put the flags down in northern Kiven because there's nothing there. The soil is poison. There were tribes that migrated north. You know, looking for something better than Kiven. Maybe even a way around the mountains and into Ennpithia where nature is kicking some serious ass. But who knows what happened to them. Jeremiah claimed he came through it and he had no reason to bullshit me. No reason at all."

"But did he say where he came from?"

"I'm getting tired."

She dragged her bedroll toward him, and squatted down.

"I'm going to sleep."

"It was a death wish taking it from them. Why did you steal it?"

She shrugged. "Maybe I ain't that smart."

"No," said Stone. "You're very smart."

"I know you're thinking of leaving me, I can see it in your eyes. Will you still be here in the morning?"

"I don't know."

"Ah, you will, mister."

"I don't trust you."

"Don't matter none. See I trust you. I reckon nothing can go wrong when you trust a dead dude."

She grinned.

"You and me, Stone, we all we got out here, you feel me?"

He watched her eyes droop and close. He was frustrated but he knew he wouldn't leave her despite the smear of lies. He still needed to shake the rest of the truth from her. Sighing, he eased his back against the metal arm of the vehicle, placed his hand against his chest, feeling the shape of the wooden heart piece. He caught his breath and pain arced through his chest.

"What's her name?"

The girl was propped on one elbow, staring at him, apparently not so sleepy after all.

"You can tell me. Jeremiah reckoned you left someone behind over there, someone keeping it sweet and ..."

He sprang to his feet.

Cali gasped. "Hey, look, I was just messing."

"Quiet," he hissed. "Listen."

She couldn't hear anything at first. Then it became clearer, like persistent rolls of thunder.

"Kill the fire," said Stone.

SIX

It wasn't thunder.

Stone took the heavy machine gun from the sled. He threaded through the trees and scrambled up a verge beside the road. He crouched in the shadows. The guttural snarl of vehicles was distinct, coming up the highway from the south. He saw headlamps and heard men cheering.

Someone was screaming.

It sounded like a woman but it was hard to tell with the howl of the wind and the rumble of engines.

The vehicles powered along the road, tossing up clumps of mud and snow, three of them, coming into view now, out of the dark, a pickup and two jeeps. They swerved from side to side, driving slow, bright beams illuminating the way ahead and picking out a young woman.

She was on a bicycle, pedalling furiously. There was fear in her eyes and her face glistened with sweat. The pickup jerked forward, like an animal snapping at prey, and she must have felt the heat from the engine on her back. She almost lost her balance and screamed, plumes of vapour escaping her mouth. The men laughed and whooped. They could have easily captured her but the marauders were enjoying the hunt and the prize that sat at the end of it was worth the wait.

Stone looked over his shoulder. The campfire was in darkness. Cali waited with her knife drawn.

He hurriedly set up the heavy machine gun, opening the bipod mounted at the front and feeding in the ammunition belt. He lay flat in the snow, legs splayed. He pushed the stock into his shoulder, drew back the bolt and curled his hand around the worn pistol grip, finger on the trigger.

He took a deep breath, tasting exhaust fumes.

The woman grew closer to the line of trees.

She shrieked as the bicycle slipped from beneath her and she went down onto the road in a tangle of limbs. The vehicles slowed and Stone glimpsed the Triple Death emblem painted on the hood of the pickup. They would have come from the north and must have bypassed them somewhere in the wasteland. But something in the south had made them turn around and head back in this direction. Maybe it had been the girl.

She was on her feet now, nothing of her, short and skinny, running for the trees, waving her arms and screaming.

The vehicles accelerated after her once more.

Stone narrowed his vision, aimed for the nearest jeep.

He squeezed the trigger. The muzzle blazed. The belt jerked and flopped. The stock recoiled into his shoulder.

Bullets hammered the jeep, perforating the metal armour. It flipped onto its side and skated through the snow with an ear-piercing screech.

Stone kept firing, the muzzle spitting bullets, until the vehicle exploded in a great fireball, sending black smoke into the air.

A screaming man sprang from the vehicle, engulfed in flames. He threw himself on the ground and thrashed in the snow. Within seconds his frantic jerks were reduced to small twitches and then nothing.

The young woman had disappeared into the gloom of the trees. Now the fun was over for the gang. The pickup lurched from the road onto rough ground, tyres slicing fresh lines through the unbroken snow. The second jeep swerved around the flaming wreckage of the first one.

Stone rose to one knee and lifted the heavy machine gun from the ground, creating a better angle to hit the second jeep. He opened fire, raking the metal panels covering the tyres.

The vehicle skidded but the driver skilfully wrestled the wheel straight and kept the jeep from flipping over.

Marauders leapt out and let loose a salvo of bullets and iron bolts. Stone blasted along the tree line, the ammunition belt almost spent. He spotted a submachine gun in the hands of one of the men and took him down before he could fire a shot. The man was hurled back, peppered with blood-spatters.

The pickup swerved back onto the road. It was mounted with a rapid fire bolt gun. The gunner wore a steel helmet and goggles. His gloved right hand cranked a handle and the multi-barrelled weapon began to spit iron bolts into the trees.

Stone ran, abandoning the heavy machine gun. Handguns cracked and the bolt gun chattered loudly. Bullets and bolts hissed all around him. His left hand knifed with sudden pain. He glimpsed blood, ignored it, and continued to flee, losing them in patches of darkness, drawing them in.

Half-crouched, hidden in the swirling black smoke, Stone curled around them and reached the burning jeep, three charred bodies inside, a fourth on the ground.

He raised his neck scarf around his face, drew his revolver.

The men of Triple Death were shouting after him, menacing voices in the whistling wind, hoping he would be stupid enough to answer and expose his location.

Fuck-heads, he thought.

The gang had stopped firing, and so had the gunner on the pickup, and they were beginning to push into the trees to hunt him down.

One of the men found the abandoned machine gun. "You should see this fucking piece he used."

Another called back. "We'll grab it once we bury this cocksucker."

Stone hoped Cali was staying hidden behind the construction vehicle.

He crept forward, hugging the shadows, revolver steady, and lowered his finger to the trigger.

Two marauders with pistols and razor-covered wooden bats had been left behind on the road.

Another voice in the trees "You see the bitch?"

"No."

"Come out, girly, we only want to be friends."

Ragged laughter.

The gunner on the pickup swept the trees with his spotlights. A marauder pointed at the construction vehicle.

Shit!

Stone emerged on the road, keeping low, and cut loose at the two men watching the dark tree line. Bodies went down. The gunner reached for the bolt gun but realised it was pointing in the wrong direction and would take too long to adjust the angle. He grabbed for a pistol in his belt. Stone dipped his shoulder and planted a single bullet in the man's forehead.

The remaining four marauders in the trees whirled round at the sound of gunfire behind them.

Stone rushed for the cover of the truck, putting down fire with his revolver until it clicked empty.

Bullets and steel balls pinged off the vehicle as he scrambled onto the flatbed and took the carbine off his shoulder.

There was fighting in the trees. He pumped the slider, aimed across the roof of the cab, and saw Cali tackling one of the marauders, blade glinting and slashing in the moonlight. Stone honed in on another target, fired, reloaded, fired again, and the man howled, his chin erupting bright red. His pistol blasted but the bullet shattered dead bark. Stone narrowed his eyes and hit him again, the high-velocity steel ball shattering the man's jaw and ploughing through bone, teeth and flesh.

The man went down, and he didn't get up.

Stone pumped the carbine with his left hand, wincing as blood trickled through his shredded glove.

He lined up another shot but a small figure barrelled from the dark and rushed across his sights. It was the girl, screaming banshee-like. She piled into the man and raked her nails across his face. He tried to throw her off but suddenly he was the one screaming, and much louder than her. Stone saw in the glare of the spotlights the man drop to his knees, the girl's thumbs curled into his eyes.

Cali slashed her blade. The marauder clasped his throat with both hands, blood spewing through his fingers.

There was only one man left, holding a crossbow.

Stone leapt from the truck, slingshot in hand.

Cali stepped around her kill, blood-stained knife in her fist.

The young woman was on her feet, shaking, cheeks stained with tears, hands smeared with gore.

The marauder took one look at them and ran, heading back along the road to Kiven.

Cali whistled after him. "Long way to run, man."

The young woman stared at her hands, threw up.

Stone raised his carbine and looked along the barrel.

* * *

Black smoke snaked into the night sky.

Bodies lay red against white.

The young woman sat in pale moonlight with a dazed expression. She could hear the wind and the flames. She could see the shapes of men in the jeep and the filth on her hands. She had shocked the marauder with her determination and shocked herself with her ferocity. She had been instructed on how to attack a man but had never done so and had never wanted to and had always thought of herself incapable.

Her teeth were chattering. Her shoulders shook. Mucus ran from her nose. There were scrapes on her bare forearms from falling off the bicycle and her cheek stung from where a branch had whipped it.

Stone fetched whiskey, uncorked it with his teeth, offered it to her. His hand was bandaged and gloveless. He waited but the girl didn't acknowledge the bottle. She didn't even acknowledge him.

He shrugged, gulped a mouthful, set it down between her ankles.

"You got a name?"

He reloaded his revolver as he waited for her response. He tucked the firearm into his belt.

She lifted her head. "Are you going to hurt me?"

Her voice was tiny, words neatly placed.

"No."

She was short, roughly five-three or five-four, around that mark, and in her twenties. She had olive skin, a small nose and black hair that framed a flat face. Her dark eyes flicked nervously in his direction, now seeing him clearly. She shrank back into the gloom at the sight of him and turned her head away. Stone followed her line of vision. She was looking back along the road she'd travelled. Then her gaze settled upon the charred bodies in the jeep and the smell of cooked flesh was in her nose. She twisted her head toward him, abject pleading in her eyes.

Is it going to be OK? What's going to happen to me? What have I done?

She shivered violently. Her clothes were windblown against her small frame. No hat, no fleece, no coat, no gloves. She saw his brooding eyes on her body and folded her arms over her small chest, puckered hard against thin fabric.

"What's your name?" asked Stone.

"Yuan."

"Where did you come from?"

She bit her lip, clamped her jaw.

"Is there a community nearby?"

"I can't tell you that."

He pointed. "I hurt scum like that. Not people like you."

Tears bubbled in her eyes.

"They would've..."

"But they didn't," said Stone.

He plucked up the whiskey bottle, pushed it into her small hands. "This'll smooth the nerves."

He went to the nearest body and stripped the man, dumping the clothing in a pile beside her.

"Get these on."

Yuan watched him walk away. He seemed calm but angry. She couldn't understand how both emotions existed at once. She looked at the clothes and the whiskey bottle but didn't move toward either of them. Her heart raced. Her chest rose and fell. The world was collapsing in on her and there was no will in her arms to hold it back. She knew what happened beyond the fences of her community. That the world was mostly feral. She wasn't _that_ naïve. But her life had been lived as a shadow. She had been protected and over-protected, moulded into someone who knew little about anything, until this moment.

She picked up the clothing. The garments were oversized and blood-spattered. She edged into the trees

She was alone.

Her fingers shook. Her teeth rattled. Her hair bristled in the icy wind.

She began to pull the clothes on, tears streaming down her face.

SEVEN

Cali sauntered toward him, grinning, hand extended, ready to celebrate the kills, but Stone brushed past her, leaving her standing, and set about gathering ammunition and weapons and supplies.

He picked through blood-stained bodies with limbs twisted at awkward angles. He rifled through pockets, satchels, packs and boots and took possessions that had been stolen many times over. He went back to the camp beside the construction vehicle and dragged the mesh sled onto the road. He lowered the tailgate of the pickup and loaded everything onto the flatbed.

Yuan emerged from the trees as he was pulling on a pair of fingerless gloves, ones without the Triple Death emblem. He was thankful she was wearing the clothing he'd given her. The blood-spattered fleece almost reached her knees. He watched her take a drink of whiskey and shake her head, grimacing as it burned. But she didn't spit it out and raised the bottle to her lips for a second time.

She seemed decent, innocent and she'd be OK. He allowed himself a tight smile, no more than that.

He went back into the trees, snow crunching beneath his boots. He'd missed one of the bodies and wanted to search it before they took off.

The man had worn a scratched metal helmet covered with coils of wire but it hadn't protected him from Cali's blade. His throat was slashed open, folds of skin flapping in the wind. The snow around him was dark. His hair was long, wispy and grey. His left eye was a milky-white orb. His fingerless black gloves bore the three blade symbol of the Kiven drug gang. Stone wondered how many more of these assholes were in the wasteland hunting the stolen money.

A large roll of paper jutted from an inside coat pocket. Paper was uncommon. Only the powerful had access to it. Only the most influential understood its true worth.

Stone unfurled it. There was a face with writing beneath it. He nodded, unsurprised, and let the paper roll back. He concealed it in his coat and stepped from the trees. Cali was beside the pickup, hefting her pack onboard with a loud grunt.

She nudged Stone.

"Just been chattin' to her. Her name's Yuan."

He ignored her.

"She told me she's from a first-world city. Not far from here. These assholes were tearing the place up."

Her mouth curled into a smile. "You were pretty hardcore with these fools. You took 'em out without breaking sweat."

Stone leaned against the tailgate.

She saw the look in his eyes. She cleared her throat. "What I mean is..."

"What you mean is nothing. I did what needed doing."

He put his face close to her, nose to nose.

"This is why you and Jeremiah wanted me, right? I put men down and they stay put down."

She held up her hands, backed away. "OK, I didn't know you had a conscience."

"I don't, but this isn't a game, Cali. We could all be dead right now."

"Listen, I ain't..."

"How many more of these assholes are there?"

"I don't know."

"Well, you should know. You take from a man and that man is going to hunt you down and keep hunting until you're dead or he is."

"Then you'd better keep your eyes open."

"Why the fuck did you steal it?" He slammed the tailgate, bolted it. "Look around you. What good are coins out here? They're worthless metal. You can't eat them. You can't trade them. You can't even spend them."

She shouted at him. "It was Jeremiah's deal, man. Not mine. I didn't want to mess with those cocksuckers."

"Yeah, blame the dead man."

"Climb off my back. He came to me with this crazy plan. Fuck all this shit. I don't need it."

She paced, muttered under her breath.

"Are you telling me your shit never cost no one their life?" she said.

His fists clenched.

"It has."

"Yeah, well we're the same, it's all good."

"All good? It should have been you, not Jeremiah."

Her mouth gaped open. "Hey, fuck you, Stone." She gave him the finger. "Fuck you."

Yuan approached. Her eyes were red-rimmed.

"We get this girl back to her community," said Stone. "Then you find your own way to Silver Road."

"Fine. Dump me. See where it gets you. Just remember I know what Chan-pu looks like."

Stone took the bottle from Yuan, swigged it. "You know shit. Just keep your mouth shut from now on."

He stamped to the front of the truck and dragged out a body, shoving it onto the snow. There was blood on the worn vinyl seat. He ignored it and climbed in. Yuan clambered after him, shuffled across. Stone gunned the engine. Yuan's hand clutched the edge of his coat. He frowned. Cali took her sweet time, a swagger in her walk. She pulled the door hard behind her, slammed her boots against the grimy dash.

She picked at the upholstery with her knife.

Stone didn't drive away.

The engine ticked over. The wind whistled. The knife gouged.

Yuan swivelled her head. "What's wrong?"

He didn't answer. He continued to stare in the mirror. One hand on the wheel. One hand on the gear stick.

The tip of Cali's knife hesitated.

Stone narrowed his eyes.

"What's happening?" said Cali. She looked over her shoulder. The road back north was gloomy, empty.

"Are there more of them?" asked Yuan

He ignored them and pushed down on the gas pedal.

* * *

The truck disappeared. The bodies began to freeze.

Slowly, two men emerged.

"This stranger is good," said one of them. "He is very good."

He was in his mid-twenties. He was an even six-foot tall, muscular build hunkered down inside a thick coat. He wore a scarf of fur around his throat and a hat covered his cropped hair. A pump-action shotgun was strapped across his back and a holstered pistol hung from his belt.

"He sensed us at the gas station. This man has good instincts."

He stood before the carnage and rooted a tin from his pocket. It was small with a decorative flower on its hinged lid. He took out a rolled cigarette, popped it between his lips and cupped a hand around his mouth to light it. He put the tin away, fingers brushing thoughtfully against the lid.

"And the girl is travelling with him now. Not Cartwright. But he is not one of them. I do not understand this."

He funnelled smoke through his nose.

"He is not one of you, is he?"

His companion stared blankly. There was movement behind them. A woman stepped from the trees.

"He does not understand your words, Timo," she said. "Leave interrogation to me. Cartwright is dead. That is the only conclusion. Jeremiah would not play games at this stage. This stranger has taken the mission of a dead man."

Her voice was clipped, abrupt. She was a little shorter than her male companion, about five-feet nine, but several years older. Lean, athletic, she wore a belted jacket, heavy trousers, and a scarf of fur. Her hair was black, cut in a bob, a hat pulled down over her ears. Her face was pinched, nose narrow and pointed, cheeks gaunt. Brown eyes nestled beneath a thin and continuous eyebrow. Her mouth was clenched, and she was scarred from her scalp to her left cheekbone. A semi-automatic assault rifle hung across her back, a holstered pistol from her belt.

She turned to the second man, lowered his gag. His hands were chained behind his back.

His left eye was closed, his head caked with blood.

"Who is the stranger?" she asked.

The beaten man drew back his head, and ran his tongue along bruised and shaking lips.

"Is he a mercenary?"

His shoulders folded inward.

"Fuck you, bitch."

Timo drove the glowing tip of his cigarette into the man's cheek. The man cried out and twisted his head.

He spat at them. "Fuck you."

"No more," said the woman. "This man is beyond torture. Search, Timo. See what has been left."

Timo nodded and started forward, boots cutting through the deep snow, weapons and equipment padding softly as he moved.

The woman watched the prisoner. He sniffed, and winced, and shivered as the icy wind tore through him, but remained stoic and she knew he held no more secrets.

"No weapons," said Timo, returning. "No rations, no ammunition, no possessions, nothing. They even took the clothes from one of them."

She nodded.

"The second jeep is useless," he continued. "The tyres are filled with bullet holes. We are still on foot.

"The stranger is efficient."

"Why is he helping them, Pavla?"

"Maybe he does not know that he is."

The prisoner began to laugh. It was a thin and hoarse laugh, more of a choking cough than anything else. Pavla was intrigued by his bravado. She kicked behind his knees and dropped him onto the snow. The muzzle of her pistol pressed against the man's head.

"Go ahead, you bitch," he said. "Get it over with. There are too many of us. You can stop me but you can't stop all of us."

He stiffened his back, waited for the last bullet.

"Why is the stranger helping the girl?"

"Something you'll never understand."

Pavla thought for a moment.

"Cartwright is dead. You know this. Or he would be here with the girl. You are the last one."

"You keep spinning that lie."

She gripped his chin, and turned his head. She opened a leather bag, and shook its contents.

He heard the unmistakable jangle and saw inside. His eyes flooded with tears.

"You fucking cunt..."

"Take this knowledge with you as you die," said Pavla. "We killed them all. All fourteen of them. We hunted them and we executed them. You are the fifteenth, the last one. We were better than them and we are better than you. Your mission failed. We did not."

Timo saw her finger hesitate. He had never seen her finger hesitate before.

"What is it, Pavla?"

She took her pistol away. The prisoner continued to cry, but now he began to laugh as well.

"There is a name missing from the list," she said. "I saw it in his eyes. He could not hold the secret any longer. There is a sixteenth one to kill."

"What?" hissed Timo. "But the list?"

The kneeling man twisted his head.

"We knew about the list."

Timo looked at him, shocked.

"Yeah, I can understand you, fuck head. Not so smart now, are you? I understand every word. It was too late to stop the operation but we knew. You haven't cleaned house just yet. We've still got one in the game. One last ace in the..."

The gunshot echoed through the trees. His body slumped against the snow.

She leaned forward, snatched the metal dog-tag from around his neck and dropped it into the bag.

Timo shrugged. "Then we have one more to kill. It does not matter, Pavla. What is one more?"

"Think," she said, jabbing a finger against his head. "Think before you speak. We had all the information on these others. That is why they were easy to hunt. We do not know the identity of the last one."

Timo gestured along the highway. "Then it must be the stranger. He has the girl. She is the key. It must be him."

"No, I do not think so." She looked down at the body of the prisoner. "The stranger does not look like them. He does not act like them. He is someone different."

Timo flicked away his cigarette, its glow instantly snuffed out.

"Then he is a mercenary, as you said."

He nodded toward the vehicles and bodies.

"I have seen this three knife emblem before, Pavla. In the city they call Kiven. These men are a long way from home. Do you think they know? They might stand in our way."

"The stranger was more than capable of dealing with them."

"But if there are more of them in the wasteland they might present a problem for us."

She did not respond to his words or allay his concerns. She would think as they walked and devise a strategy for this new factor. The fifteen men and women were dead but the agent had failed to supply them with all the names. There was now a rogue element out there. She would enjoy the fresh challenge.

"Are you certain Cartwright is dead?"

She nodded. "He would not have abandoned the girl. He should've stayed out of this. He was too old."

"Why does the girl and the stranger help?"

Pavla reached into her pocket, retrieved a rare piece of paper. She smoothed out the edges and they studied it in the fading moonlight.

It was a primitive sketch of the night sky, like a child's unfinished drawing, stars and ribbed streaks but no moon.

"The reason is not important."

Timo nodded.

"The stranger is good," he said.

"Yes," she replied, folding away the paper. "But we are better and we will catch up with him soon enough."

EIGHT

Stone asked her what had happened, and where she'd come from, but the girl had no voice.

Her lips parted, breath escaped, but there were no words. The pickup rattled along the highway and Stone drove in the ruts made by the Triple Death convoy. He was thinking Yuan had covered a hell of a distance. He glanced at her. She was staring through the windshield, still holding onto his coat, and he saw pain in her dark young eyes. He was patient enough to wait. He thought of hot food and hot coffee. He was always hungry after a killing. And filled with other desires, too, but it had been a long time since any of those had been satisfied and there was no one here he wanted to be close to.

There were only enemies and victims in Kiven.

He wondered where that left Cali. She was hardly a victim but he couldn't quite stack her up as an enemy. She was untrustworthy and he was pissed at cleaning up her mess. He couldn't read her very well, either, and wondered if that frustrated him more. She was leaning against the truck door, arms folded, sullen looking. Her head dipped forward at short intervals as she half-dozed. The pickup bounced over a pothole and she jolted sharply in her seat, drooping eyelids snapping open. She matched his gaze with a hateful look. His words had hit harder than any slap.

She hadn't danced since she'd met him and she hadn't really smiled much and he hadn't heard her laugh. She hadn't painted her cheeks or her lips or her eyes and he tried not to reflect on those things but there was little else to do as the snow-covered asphalt stretched into the distance.

Faint light creased the horizon and the land gaped as the truck motored across a bridge, its metal crash barriers rusted but intact.

He looked at Yuan, wondering if she was ever going to talk, and looked at Cali, realising he'd made it so she never would.

He let out a deep sigh.

"Cali."

"What?"

"You alright?"

"Like you care, cocksucker."

"I didn't mean what I said back there."

"Ah, you meant it, man. I saw it in those dead eyes of yours. I know you wish I was lying on the floor of that refuge, my guts ripped open, all those beaky-faced women gloating that I got what was coming me. Ain't that right? You're no different to them. You think life is shit, life is hard. Fuck, no. Life's what you make it, man. You feel me? Life's whatever the fuck you make it."

Cali saw Yuan nodding and turned on her. "What the fuck do you know about anything?"

Her fist punched the door. Yuan shrank closer to Stone.

"You don't know how to talk to people," she continued. "Especially me. That's your problem, Stone."

He said, "I wish I could've saved Jeremiah. Is that enough talk for you?"

"Maybe. Maybe not. But you still wish I was dead, ain't that the damn truth?"

"I'm glad I saved one of you."

"Sure."

"Not that you needed saving."

She paused. "Got that right."

"I'll still help you get to Silver Road."

"Sure."

"Not that you need an escort."

She paused, again. "I don't, but you can tag along."

"That's settled then."

Her lips found a grudging smile.

"Ain't no thing, old man. I know you were just being hot-headed. Maybe you know how to talk after all."

Stone nodded. "Sure."

Yuan looked at him. "What's Silver Road?"

He was relieved to hear her voice. He'd seen violence turn victims mute. Before he could ask her anything, Cali began to talk. She spoke with enthusiasm. It was a place of hope and new beginnings. The words didn't belong to her. She hadn't been there. Stone drew parallels. In the summer, he'd urged Nuria and the Map Maker across the Metal Sea to find the promised land of Ennpithia. Only now his companions were scattered, possibly forever. Silver Road was reminiscent of the dream he'd been sold. But where the Ennpithians were dogged by endless laws only one law existed in the second-world town.

"You take nothing from your neighbour," said Cali.

Yuan nodded.

"Nothing."

Stone remembered his father saying the same thing when he was four or five years old.

A lifetime ago.

" _You never take anything from your neighbour."_

He couldn't remember his father's face or touch; only those words, and a blurred image of a hacked body.

"Not money," Cali was saying. "Not sex, not possessions, not even life; you take nothing. That's the only law down in Silver Road. One law. That's why the place rocks, you know?"

The story might have belonged to Jeremiah or someone Jeremiah had met but the ownership was unimportant. Yuan was attentive like a younger sibling, glassy-eyed and dazzled, despite being several years older. The faraway place formed and it was a picture of beauty, freedom.

"How far to your people, Yuan?" he asked.

"We're close. A few more miles. We need to come off the highway."

"You rode a long way."

She half-smiled. Cali had smoothed out the wrinkles. Now the girl was talkative.

"I cycled for hours. My legs are still aching. I didn't know what I was doing."

"How many people are there?"

"Between two and three hundred. I'm not sure exactly."

"Do you have lookouts?"

"Why do you need to know that?"

"Booby traps? Explosives?"

"What?"

"Guns? Do you have any guns? Or long ranged weapons?"

The girl didn't answer.

Stone spotted an exit ahead. There was a rusted metal sign: EXT 246. He stopped the pickup.

"The tracks go off here," he said. "What defences does your community have?"

"Why are you asking all these questions?"

Cali groaned. "'Cause we're driving the truck that was chasing you down. Some fool might be hiding behind a tree ready to open up on us."

Dawn light unpicked the gloom. Stone killed the engine and turned in his seat, the worn vinyl creaking. "Tell us exactly what happened last night. We need to know everything before we turn off."

Yuan rubbed her hands against her thighs.

"Deshi put me on a bicycle and told me to get away. I lost my cousin, Suyin, five months ago. She disappeared into the city. He thought it might happen to me. People vanish from time to time and they never come back. Deshi didn't want to lose me. We're only a small community. We really can't protect ourselves. There are other communities scattered through the city but we never really have anything to do with them. Our people have been here for generations. We build on what we have. Things have been peaceful for a long time. But it's changing. _We_ can see it. The older ones refuse to. Deshi is different. He's older but he knows things are becoming dangerous."

She chewed her lip.

"He was supposed to be working late in his trailer but I was with him. The vehicles came off the highway like an angry storm. All noise and smell. It was terrible. Deshi's trailer is on the far side of the compound. Everyone was outside... including his wife. She was holding their little girl. He wouldn't let me leave through the front because his wife would've seen me. I told him I would hide but he was scared what might happen if the marauders searched the compound."

She laughed.

"He was more afraid of his wife than the marauders. He smuggled me out the back window to where the bicycles are stored. We have fences but there are gaps here and there. He told me to cycle a few miles down the road and stay hidden. But I was in a terrible state. I was crying and I was cold and I kept pedalling. I don't know what the men wanted with us. We don't have much of anything."

Cali glanced out the window.

"Just before I rode away I heard my father urging our people not to fight. He is an important man in our community. People listen to him. Maybe we listen to him too much. I know I do. He is a peaceful man. He refuses to fight. He _always_ thinks things are going to be OK. When Suyin disappeared he argued that she'd run away and we shouldn't go looking for her. Travis and a group of men had volunteered to do so. But my father stopped them from leaving. He said Suyin would come back. But she hasn't and sometimes I watch him staring off into space, on the verge of tears. He knows he is wrong but he is too stubborn to admit it. My cousin didn't run away. No one runs away. Why would they? There is nowhere to run to. There is our compound and the city and that is it. But that's my father. He won't believe bad things happen so no one searched for Suyin. He hides from it. He's afraid... like I am... like we all are... because we're not strong enough."

"You killed a man," said Stone. "You're strong enough."

"How does that make me strong?" She stared at her hands. "I was running away. I was so tired when they caught up with me. I kept thinking this is my punishment for sleeping with another woman's man. That isn't being strong."

She studied his face; the long scar, the leathery skin, the haunted eyes.

"You're strong."

"I never had a choice."

She let go of his coat for the first time and ran her fingers through her hair.

"There are no lookouts. Some of the men have weapons, a couple of handguns and Dennis has a bow for hunting wild animals. Travis has a rifle. He is a good shot. He practises with it all the time. He has been trying to organise a fighting group, a militia that can protect the compound. But my father keeps it from happening."

"Have you ever seen these men kill anyone?"

She seemed shocked by the question. "No."

Then these are the worse kind, thought Stone, men with weapons who would be nervous and unpredictable.

"Deshi said he would come looking for me."

"That dude went back to his wife's honey pot," said Cali. "Forget about him, girl."

Stone reached for the ignition but the engine didn't fire. He tried it again, and again, and nothing.

"We walk," he said. He headed for the rear of the truck. "Grab a weapon."

He pulled on his pack and ammunition bag and picked up a submachine gun one of the Triple Death marauders had carried but never fired. It was lightweight and small in his large hands. Its black steel barrel was perforated, the wooden stock scratched and worn. There was a curved stick magazine that was fully loaded. He flicked off the safety and switched the weapon from full-auto to semi-auto.

He spat a few bullets at a line of trees, spraying bark. It was punchy and he nodded, impressed.

Cali helped herself to a slingshot carbine. She was a Kiven girl and it was a weapon she'd been around all her life. She discarded the first one, noting the sling was frayed and near to breaking, and the barrel looked gummed, and the trigger was loose and unresponsive. The second one she picked up was spotlessly clean and she realised it was probably the one Stone had been carrying. It didn't matter. She filled her pockets with steel ball ammunition. Stone picked up a handgun, checked the magazine and passed it to her.

Yuan looked on wide-eyed in the keening wind as they distributed weapons and ammunition in such a matter-of-fact way. The tools they held would spill blood and take lives in the blink of an eye. Her father's voice was in her head. She let out a deep sigh. Thin rays of sunlight touched her clean olive skin. She thought once more of the men who'd invaded her community and chased her along the highway and it angered her that no one, especially Deshi or her father, had protected her. Her father's words had not saved her on the highway last night but Stone's weapons had.

She reached onto the flatbed and took one of the triple-bladed knives. She hung it from her belt.

"What about the rest of it?" asked Cali.

"Leave it for now. We need to keep mobile."

He glanced ruefully at the weapons and supplies being left behind but he had no plans to drag the sled into the city. Seconds wasted in ditching it to lift his gun might cost him his life.

He raised his scarf around his face and trudged ahead, one hand on the submachine gun hanging from his shoulder, eyes shifting left and right.

Wind drove against the three of them. A weak sun pushed through frayed looking clouds. Stone could hear the light jangle of steel balls in Cali's pockets. The single lane road slanted from the highway and angled toward a crossroads. The left hand turn led to a tunnel beneath the highway but the supports for the bridge above had spider-webbed and the four-lane highway had imploded. A shower of asphalt, metal and concrete had speared the road below.

Yuan pointed at a rusted sign: BATESVILLE.

"It's not far," she said.

Stone read the name and took out his telescope. The landscape was wide open and cratered. Patches of brown showed where the snow was beginning to thaw. He saw ruined filling stations and truck stops with windows blasted out and signage curled and bubbled. He saw a rusted tanker on its side, the rig half-buried and frozen in the soil. He saw giant billboards corroded with the passage of time, discoloured imagery reflecting nothing in his existence. He saw flattened industrial estates with buckled chain-link fences and rusted cars melted into the asphalt of parking lots. He saw tarred poles and metal pylons collapsed or leaning at peculiar angles, cables swaying. He saw mangled satellite dishes atop scattered rooftops and a mass of buildings that bled into the horizon. There was a sapping emptiness to the city, a preserved stillness as if the thousands who had died centuries ago had passed only a few days earlier.

"There," said Yuan.

But Stone already had his telescope trained on it. There were low brick buildings with reinforced doors and hangers with large metal shutters. There were trailers with curtained windows, panel trucks utilised as storehouses, sheds stacked with materials and long greenhouses dripping with condensation. There was even a freshly swept, oblong-shaped court with basketball hoops.

The compound lingered on the outskirts of the city. Hundreds of years ago it had converted from a multi-national business hub into a survivor's community. The forefathers had owned houses and taken fishing trips and drank beer and shopped at the mall. They had been responsible for millions of parcels distributed through the air and across the sea. It was impossible to imagine how or why. Few here had ranged beyond the city limits and no one had seen anything in the sky except the clouds. In the age of the second-world the concept was laughable.

A black man was pushing a barrow of soil-smeared vegetables. A short-haired man in a cap was at the top of a ladder, unclogging guttering. A grey haired man with olive skin was leaning on a cane and smoking a hand-rolled cigarette, sharing conversation with another man of a similar age. There was a burst of laughter from a hanger and a small group of grubby-faced women emerged, overalls and boots and tools. Two men with rifles looked across at them. One of them nudged the other.

Stone watched life unfold and painted Nuria across it, his thoughts momentarily clouded.

Get a grip, he told himself.

He passed the telescope to Yuan.

"Is that your people?"

She scoped the compound. The corners of her mouth curved upward.

"I can see my father, Shen."

She beamed.

"He's OK. Thank goodness he's OK."

"Who are the two idiots with rifles?"

She didn't answer at once. "That's Henry and Trevor. They're good boys."

He took the telescope from her. "They're patrolling inside the compound. Not the gate or the fence. They're idiots."

The fence ringed the compound and was unguarded. They had used wooden poles, plastic pallets, metal spikes, crates, tyres, barrels and corrugated iron - anything that could be lashed together with rope and wire. Stone couldn't see where Triple Death had breeched it. But if Shen was as weak as Yuan had described then perhaps he'd invited them in through the front gate.

He spotted a firebombed buggy, further down the road. It bore the markings of the drug gang.

He frowned. "Maybe your people know how to fight after all."

"Not idiots then?"

"We'll see."

He swept the city of Batesville. It was wide open, deserted. He saw no movement anywhere.

"I cannot believe my people fought back," said Yuan.

Stone glanced at her.

"Let's get you home," he said.

NINE

Eighteen-year old Bobby Reardon stood at the boarded up window, staring through a crack at the snow-covered park across the street.

He was five ten with a shaggy mane of dirty blond hair hanging around his long face, curling onto bare shoulders. He was naked, skin pale and freckled, and his hand scratched idly at a long scar on his hairless chest.

Outside, it was a little after dawn and trees bent in the wind. He saw a branch snap and skitter away. He didn't like it when stuff died and left him. He couldn't wait for the time of flowers and warmth. That was when he enjoyed going into the park. This time of year it looked miserable and bare, a lumpy blanket of dirty white hiding the walkways and swathes of grass. He thought back to balmy summer evenings riding along the parched canal with his brother, Chuck, shadowed by a fringe of maple trees. They would spend all day together. But they were no longer children, the canal was clogged with old rubbish now, and the grooves from their tyres had long since worn away.

A wood burner crackled, flooding the room with heat. He lit a hand-rolled cigarette and the tip glowed as he filled his lungs. Cigarette hanging, he closed his eyes, began to flog his semi-aroused cock. His head jammed with fond times of gatherings in the park. He could see huge cooking fires and hear laugher. He was surrounded by family and friends once again. Everyone was an aunt or uncle or cousin, even if they weren't. There was drink, nakedness, food and brawls. He must have been six or seven years old when he'd first glimpsed tits and bush. It was a vivid memory. They didn't belong to his Ma because she had died giving birth to Chuck. The big lump must have torn her open getting out.

He couldn't remember a single thing about his Ma. But there were always women around, always a substitute Ma if needed a hug or deserved a clip. The woman he saw naked might have been one of his aunts or adopted aunts. He had no idea. She had tits that were small and pointed up toward the sky and a bush that was ginger and wild. She had marks on her, across her belly and her tits, like the marks he had on his chest, only more of them. She had a mark around her neck as well. Like a red ring on her skin. It looked weird.

Da had been nailing her. He dragged her onto her feet and made her stand before him. Small tits and ginger bush. Bobby had run away. Da had found him later that night and beaten him black and blue. Looking or running away, it didn't really matter why. One beating was the same as the next. Bobby knew from an early age he could take a beating from anyone because no one could ever match the beating your Da gave you.

But the civil war came. He had been seven or eight.

Kiven had chosen to annexe its neighbours and seize the green fields and fresh water rivers of Ennpithia. They intended to smash the Holy Houses with the huge crosses and kill the Holy Soldiers. But war wasn't only an idea, Bobby realised, it was an actual thing, a living thing. And things that lived needed feeding. The trucks came and Da and the other men were recruited into the ranks of the League of Restoration. They were driven away, handed weapons and banners, and ordered to kill.

There were no more fires and no more parties.

The fighting dragged on for years until the belly of the living thing called war got full and swollen. Documents were signed, leaders strung up and men returned.

Da came back but not the Da that had left. He no longer lit the huge cooking fire in the park. He no longer sat on the old benches singing and telling stories. He no longer laughed when he drank. Bobby remembered getting beat more than he'd ever been beaten before. Da had left a bad man and returned a cruel one. But Bobby got it and took his beatings. He understood. War was a thing and when they sent your Da back home he came back as the _thing_ itself.

He sat on the edge of his bunk, thinking of the woman with the small tits and ginger bush.

She left when the war came, dumping the boys with Michelle Creagh. _Fat God_ they called her. She loved the cross despite being Kiven born. She made them kneel. She made them pray. She stank of piss and sweat and farted like a man. She humped in the bedroom. They all heard her groaning and crying out. He'd see her naked and wanted to puke. She was shapeless with giant white rolls of flesh and tits that swung toward her knees. He couldn't see her bush. The fat hid it. She had two boys, the same as Da. There were wee ones as well. It was a noisy house of noisy children.

Bobby fought with the brothers all the time, bare-knuckle. But no grudges were ever held. It was a family thing. They ate around a table, cleaned floors, picked up the leaves in autumn. Michelle took them to Panola Avenue and taught them how to steal, and cut, and what it took to survive amongst the hustlers, dealers, whores, hired guns and gangs.

He opened his eyes. Released his hand. He was ready. His brother was sprawled in his bunk, arms and legs akimbo.

"Chuck!"

There was a groan.

"C'mon, Chucky boy. It has to be now."

He spoke fast, a lilt to his words.

"C'mon, you shite."

"No," said Chuck, eyes shut.

Bobby grinned, pulsing with excitement.

"Chuck."

"I'm tired."

"C'mon, Chuck, get up. C'mon, wake up, you half-wit."

His cock strained. He didn't want to lose it.

"Get your fucking ass outta that bed, you lazy fucking cunt, you. Or I'll batter the fuck out of you."

Chuck snapped open his eyes.

"Put that away, Bobby."

"Aye, aye, you're just jealous, that's all."

"I'm not."

"You fucking are, baby brother."

Chuck giggled. "Aye, baby is right, Bobby."

Bobby slapped him. "Move, you bastard."

Chuck smacked his dry lips together. Throwing back the covers, he shuffled toward the piss bucket and let out a loud yawn as he relieved himself. He started for the door, dragging his grubby feet. He was heavier than his older brother and taller, but with the same pale complexion and shaggy blond hair. He wore trousers several sizes too big but no shirt.

He stopped at the door, looking worried.

"Are you sure, Bobby?"

"Aye, I'm sure."

"Da will be pissed."

"He's always pissed."

"I mean, he'll be pissed at us."

"And I mean he's always pissed at us. Go, baby brother. Or I'll sing to you."

Chuck grimaced.

"Not singing."

"I will."

"Bad enough waking to see that scrawny maggot. Not singing as well."

"Bastard," said Bobby.

Chuck grinned, and disappeared through the door. Bobby lit a fresh hand-rolled cigarette.

He hummed. "C'mon, Chucky Chuck. See me, Chucky Chuck. I'm the best, Chucky Chuck. You're the..."

* * *

Chuck passed through a sliding door into a kitchen with a high ceiling. There was a table and scattered chairs. The air was damp and reeked of stale tobacco. Haphazard splinters of grey light filtered through a boarded window. Chuck could no longer hear Bobby singing. He wished his older brother would shut his mouth and stop making so much noise. The idiot would wake _him_ if he wasn't careful. He sighed. His stomach was uneasy.

He knew what they were doing was wrong. Da would be furious. He'd batter the life out of them.

This was a lousy, shitty idea. But what Bobby wanted Bobby got and Chuck tagged along.

There was another sliding door at the end of the kitchen. It had a cracked panel. He rolled it open. The room beyond had bare brick walls. There was a blocked doorway that led into the yard and a narrow window covered with iron bars. A metal fan hung from the ceiling. It had a dirty cord dangling from it and made a clicking sound when pulled but nothing else happened. There was a workbench scattered with material and rusted tools. More rusted tools were hanging from a warped peg board and there were tubs of small rusted things covered in dust. Along one wall were several block-shaped metal things. One had a round door and one had a lid. There was lettering across the front and dials and grimy-looking cables. There was a gummed vent in the wall and narrow metal pipes travelling into the floor. None of it made any sense. None of it interested him.

He heard a creak somewhere in the house and looked around, his heart suddenly racing.

No, no, no, he didn't want to be here. But what Bobby wanted Bobby got and Chuck tagged along.

He stood before an oblong-shaped thing wedged in the corner. It had dull panels that were cracked and chipped. There was a faded picture of a red metal can on the front with writing across it.

Chuck could handle a few words and letters but he couldn't read this word.

"I can read," he'd tell Bobby.

"Then what does it say? Eh? Eh?"

"I don't know that word."

"Aye, that's 'cause you're stupid, Chucky."

"I'm not stupid."

"You are."

"I'm not."

"You fucking are, Chucky Chuck Chuck. You're a big useless dummy. You can't fucking read."

"I can read. I just can't read _that_ word. You're the idiot, Bobby. You can't read _any_ words, so you can't."

Bobby would slap him for that. And then Chuck would slap him back and they'd brawl for awhile, battering each other and spilling blood until they grew tired and collapsed on their bunks. There were never any apologies or reassurances afterwards because none were needed; they were brothers. They would smoke dope and sift through the large amount of treasure they'd taken from townhouses and apartment lofts and department stores when Da let then out on raids. They had boxes with cables and smaller boxes with worn buttons and flat boxes with faded pictures that snapped open, holding shiny discs inside that spun wild through the air when thrown.

The treasure was hoarded beneath their bunks. Sometimes they stacked the boxes that had contained the shiny discs. They built skyscrapers with them and took on the roles of wrecking machines from the first age. They watched the world crumble wide-eyed and breathless. They played cards for the treasure, drinking and smoking and cheating and arguing. Sometimes they owned a market stall, taking turns at being the stallholder and the customer. Da used to call them his little treasure hunters. _My little bastard treasure hunters, so you are._ He would grin and slap them on the back. Chuck wondered when the grins became sneers, the slaps became punches and they became only _bastards._

He sighed and thought back to last night's conversation with Bobby, long after supper and deep into the night.

"He'll never know," said Bobby.

"I'm not sure."

"Shut up, Chuck, you're doing my head in, so you are."

He blew smoke toward the ceiling. Chuck sat up on his bunk.

"Why are you like that with me? Why do you always make me feel shit when I talk about things?"

"'Cause you're acting like a wee one."

"I'm worried, Bobby."

"Aye."

"I'm just saying..."

"You're just saying. I'll tell you what you're saying. Wah wah wah. That's all you're fucking saying."

Chuck laughed.

Bobby laughed

"Will it be OK?" asked Chuck.

Bobby hugged him.

"I swear it."

Chuck replayed the words. _I swear it._ He took comfort from them. Bobby never lied to him.

He turned his attention to the oblong-shaped thing in the corner. It was a giant white box. A giant white box with a faded red can on the front. The hinges of the lid had rusted to nothing so it was weighted with a small engine. Some nights they forgot to place the engine on the lid. Some nights they even forgot to put the lid on the box. But they never forgot to tie the lead to the iron hook. It was high up on the wall, out of reach.

He lifted off the engine, propped the lid against the wall and untied the lead.

It was a length of rope. They'd used a piece of chain before but rust had eaten away at the rings.

The rope fed into the box and was attached to a collar.

He gave it a gentle tug.

Obediently, a girl climbed out of the box.

He caught her chin, tilted her head back. Her face was numb. She refused to look at him. He shook her head from side to side.

Slowly, she met his eyes. There was nothing in them. He placed a finger against his lips.

* * *

She wore a coat and boots.

They took off the coat but left her boots on. She had no other clothes. The room was gloomy. The air was rank with unwashed bodies. She didn't cry out or fight. She didn't make any sound. She hadn't for a long time now. She no longer thought about escape or resistance. They were only words and she had no use for words. There was life in the box and life outside the box and nothing else.

She had no idea that she would never see the box again and that only two words remained for her and they would be the most important words of her life.

Only that wasn't now.

That was later.

* * *

The brothers dressed. She put the coat back on and waited. The collar was around her throat. The rope draped limply across the floor.

Chuck said, "We're in so much trouble."

"No, we're not."

"He always goes first."

"Not today he didn't."

"But you know how he gets."

"I don't care."

"Aye, you do, Bobby. I don't like it when you say that. You do care."

"Stop being a fucking pussy," said Bobby. He ran his hands through his hair. "I'm getting sick of his rules. It's always his way. What about me and you?"

"I don't know."

"Don't put her back."

"We have to."

"You said he'd know."

"What are going to do then?"

"What if we get him a new one?"

Chuck nodded.

"That's a good idea. But he'll still know you went first."

Bobby grinned.

"Then we'll recycle her to the Junk Men. Get Da a new one on the way."

"I'm not sure. I don't like the Junk Men."

"You don't have to like them, Chuck. Go fetch the sign. Gotta make sure everyone knows."

Chuck nodded.

Because what Bobby wanted Bobby got and Chuck tagged along.

TEN

"You turned down an offer of breakfast for this?" said Cali.

He ducked inside the ruined store without a word, leaving her standing alone in the melting snow. The sun lazily climbed in a washed out blue sky streaked with swollen ridges of red. One half of the avenue was bathed with insipid warmth whilst the other had been left in the shade. Cali was in the cold gloom, hemmed in by rows of empty one-storey and two-storey buildings with grime encrusted signage. She wrinkled her nose. This sucked, they were only a few blocks out from the compound and she was tempted to spin on her heels and head back. Yuan's people had offered hot food and shelter but Stone had declined and urged her to leave.

"We ain't gonna find shit in here."

No one was listening. Vapour escaped from her mouth.

"This makes no sense. You don't throw away that kind of invitation. Not for a dump like this."

She trudged inside, shrugged off her heavy pack and put down the carbine. She looked around, shaking her head.

"What the fuck, man?"

There were broken tables and broken shelves, mangled baskets and mangled chairs. There were cracked ceiling titles and cracked floor tiles, exposed beams and exposed joists. She didn't want to be in a place like this. It reminded her too much of the poor districts in Kiven, where she'd grown up. Things might have worked out differently if she'd been born a few blocks over and fallen under the umbrella of the Ministry of Progress or the Society of Souls. But she hadn't. She'd been born in the district of the League which meant she lived in a slum. The League put the most in and got the least out and she knew from a young age that life was all about the taking and never about the waiting.

"Nothing given in Kiven," her old Grandma would say, recycling an old Kiven expression with a sparkle in her eyes.

Cali could picture her in the kitchen, on her favourite stool, peeling vegetables with the window open. Summer or winter it was always open, letting in the noise of the block. She'd told Cali the noise reminded her she was still alive and that she hated the sound of silence. Her exact words. Cali told her silence had no sound.

"Silence is the noisiest sound in the world, girl," she would say, and Cali would laugh, confused.

She missed her Grandma the most, missed her because she was always right.

"What are we doing in here? You gonna try something on me?"

Stone was behind a dirty looking counter, his pack and submachine gun propped against the wall.

"Try something?"

"Yeah, you know."

Stone frowned. "What?"

"Forget it, man. What's happening?"

"It wasn't safe at the compound."

"A big fence and plenty of people seem pretty safe to me. Even if they're mostly lame."

"Did you see the way Yuan's father looked at you?"

"What do you mean?"

"And the men with the rifles?"

She wet her lips. "All I saw was Yuan smack that motherfucker Deshi. He got what he deserved. That dude chucked her on a bike and slung her out just to cover his ass. Damn, that little girl has got fire after all."

She looked at Stone.

"What? Guys like to look at me. You know that. _Right?_ Man, can we get out of this hole?"

"This isn't so bad."

But it was. It was damp, foul and there were the remains of something in the corner crawling with black flies.

Stone took the roll of paper from his coat and spread it across the counter.

"What's that?"

"I got it from one of the Triple Death crew."

She marched over, nodded.

"I look good."

"You think so?"

"I've never been on a wanted poster before. Hey, have they got one of you, Stone? You still look pretty healthy for a dead dude."

He said nothing.

"Look, this ain't nothing you didn't already know."

There was no mistaking her eyes and the sassy curve of her mouth, and her long hair was spot on. But the sketch artist had drawn her cheekbones a little high, made her teeth oversized and the nose was a bit off.

But it was her.

He began to read aloud, his voice stilted. "This bitch is wanted for the murder of Triple Death soldiers."

She folded her arms. "I had to take a few of them out to escape with the coins. So what?"

"This bitch is wanted for robbery," he continued, in the same flat tone. "She stole from Triple Death."

She shrugged.

"This bitch..."

"Man, you don't have to read it word for word."

Stone briefly raised his eyes. "This bitch is Cali Lopez. This bitch is wanted dead or alive... blah blah blah."

He let the paper curl back and plucked it from the counter.

"Cali Lopez."

"Yeah. That's me."

"I reckon they were showing this poster around the compound last night. That's why Yuan's father and the men with the rifles were giving you odd looks."

She was quiet for a moment. "You think they recognised me?"

"Maybe."

"So that's why you didn't want to hang?"

Stone nodded

"Were you looking out for me?" She smirked, playfully. "Then you don't wish I was dead in that refuge?"

"No."

"So why are you so pissed about the robbery? You've killed and stolen to survive."

Stone was silent for a moment.

He said, "You took something and ran. That never works. They were always going to come after you. Then, now, later."

"What would you have done?"

"Killed them all. Top to bottom. Wiped out the gang and took everything."

"You're serious, ain't you?"

"You asked."

"Oh, I did."

There was an awkward silence.

"Are you looking to cash me in?"

"No."

"So we're stuck with each other, right?"

"Until we reach Silver Road. I gave Jeremiah my word. Then you tell me how to find the Pathfinder."

Her eyes lowered.

"All comes back to that with you, doesn't it? I mean, like, if I don't know where he is you're gonna walk right out that door this minute, ain't you? You don't want me with you, I get that."

She took a deep breath.

"I don't know where the Pathfinder is."

"Did Jeremiah know?"

"Nah, man. Are you kidding me? The Pathfinder is a slippery dude. He likes the nomadic life. Jeremiah was pulling a fast one. But get this, and this is the truth, I _do_ know what the dude looks like. So if we run into him I'll know. I can point him out to you."

She danced her fingers along the counter.

"Are you going to dump me here?"

"What's so special about Silver Road?" he asked, and she opened her mouth to reply. "But not the bullshit you sold Yuan in the pickup."

She closed her mouth.

"Why are you really heading there? Is it only to get away from the Triple Death gang?"

Her dark eyes flashed at him.

"What did Jeremiah really want with me? You could have handled all this shit so far."

"Jeremiah couldn't have wasted that convoy."

"But I fired on them. They didn't know we were there."

"It's not as simple as that."

"He wanted me to replace him. Replace him as what? Your business partner? It's time to end all the lies. I don't care what you did or who you stole from. But lies can get you killed on the road."

Cali puckered a smile.

"I'll tell you my truth, Stone, but I want yours first."

He was silent. She swatted away a fly.

"Why does the League think you're dead?"

He said nothing.

"Well?"

Nothing.

"Did you give them a body?"

The driver had his foot on the gas pedal, revving the engine of the pickup. The body was in the street...

The men cheered and fired guns into the night sky...

"You find someone who looked like you? Had your build?"

"It's not as simple as that."

"Never is, man. But hear this. You saved people in Kiven. You stopped the League in the summer. Can you imagine what a second civil war would have done? You snuffed out those cocksuckers and spared so much misery. I reckon whatever you did to cover your tracks is balanced out."

Stone reached into his pocket for the map.

"I want to know exactly where we are."

Cali shuffled beside him.

"You ain't gonna tell me shit, are you?"

"No."

He traced a finger over the crumpled pages.

"You're a long way from home."

"What do you mean?"

"That ain't where we're at."

"We're about here, I reckon."

"Nope."

He pointed.

"North Gallen. This channel is the Metal Sea. This land mass is Ennpithia so we're..."

"You need to look at it all."

She guided his hand across a swathe of faded blue to another continent.

"That's where my folks were from. California. That's how I got my name. They were part of the Movement. You ever hear that story? All those quakes out west drove everyone across the land. The world just fell away. This is where we are."

She stabbed the map.

"America, man. Land of the Ancients."

Stone looked stunned.

"But that doesn't make any sense. Where's the sea I crossed? The Map Maker put us over here."

"Dude was wrong."

He brooded, thoughts filling with a fresh crop of first-world names.

He lifted his head, suddenly, and then Cali looked toward the street at the sound of footsteps. The map no longer mattered. Names and places no longer mattered. It could all wait. Stone moved his hand toward the butt of his revolver. Cali placed her pistol flat on the counter, muzzle angled at the doorway.

A young man came into view, alone, half-whistling, half-humming, walking with a casual swagger, head turning left and right, checking out his surroundings.

He stopped abruptly.

They looked out at him.

He was five-ten, scruffy blond hair and a sallow complexion. A hand-rolled cigarette hung crooked from his mouth.

The tip glowed as he took a drag and lowered it with his left hand.

He stepped inside.

"Morning," said Bobby Reardon. "Damn cold, ain't it?"

ELEVEN

He spoke fast with a curling lilt to his tone. His right hand hung from his belt where Stone glimpsed a holstered gun and a sheathed knife. He wore a jacket, a shirt and a pair of trousers. The clothes were homespun. The same material and style they'd seen worn by most of the men and women in Yuan's community. It was possible he was from there but a more than casual glance showed the sizes were a little off. The jacket was short in the arms, the trousers short in the leg, the shirt tight across the chest. The guy was either an idiot or the clothes had been stolen in a hurry.

"Just out stretching my legs." He drew on his cigarette. "Thought I'd stop and greet you both."

He paused.

"You don't see many new people in Batesville. Least I don't. I'm not bothering you none, am I?"

"No," said Cali.

"Good, good. I'm Bobby. You got names? Yes? No? Ah, well, no it is. Never mind, eh?"

"Cali."

"Hello to yourself, Cali. You've a damn pretty name for such a pretty girl, so you have."

He let out a stream of smoke, winked at Stone.

"Tagged a decent one there, mister. Fair play to you, big man."

He chuckled.

His right hand twitched.

"Aye, well I'd best leave you to it. I'm going for my breakfast. You know, down at the compound."

He glanced around the ruined store, licked his lips.

"They have eggs. And meat. I'm not sure what the meat is but it's definitely meat. They serve the best breakfast in Batesville. And the best coffee. Mind, it's the only breakfast in Batesville, so it is."

He chuckled once more followed by the twitching of his right hand.

"You live at the compound?" asked Cali.

"No, miss, no, no, I don't fit in there." He grinned. "I'm not the right colour. Do you know what I mean? I'm a bit pale, so I am. No, I'm only messing with you. They accept anyone down there. They host a big breakfast thing and everyone in the city is invited. They put up signs, you know, trying to encourage us all together. Generous of them, so it is. But not that many show up."

Bobby cleared his throat.

"Why don't you join me?"

"Nah, that's OK, man."

"Come on, it'll be grand. You can bring your Da, if you like."

Cali half-smiled.

"They're a friendly bunch, you know. I always eat on my own, so I do. Be nice to have some company."

"She said no."

Bobby stared at Stone for a short time. Then came the chuckle and the right hand twitch.

"Ah, well, I understand, I understand. I'm the same. Going off with strangers isn't a wise thing. You should listen to your Da, Miss Cali."

"He's not my..."

"Always listen to your Da. Have to careful around strangers."

"You know it," she said.

"Aye."

He dropped his cigarette, twisted his boot over it.

"Are you from one of the other communities?" he asked.

"Sort of," said Stone.

"Batesville has a lot of folk scattered around in little groups. Would be better if they were all together, I suppose. Safety in numbers, eh?"

There was a pause.

Bobby let out an exaggerated sigh.

"Well, I'd better get going."

"You do that," said Stone.

"Aye, otherwise those yellow fuckers will eat all the good stuff."

He took a few paces back.

"I mean, they might run out of food and want to eat me."

Chuckle and twitch.

"Better get off then."

Stone narrowed his eyes. "You really should."

"Aye, aye, I should."

There was a pause.

He still hadn't left.

The wind whistled along the avenue. The sun climbed in the sky.

"You'll die first, Bobby," said Stone. "And then Cali will kill your partner out back. Walk away, boy."

Bobby stared back at him. The smile drained away. Spite filled his eyes. Cali saw the outline of a younger man creeping at the back of the store. It was Chuck.

She tensed.

"Is that what you want?" said Stone.

Bobby grinned, flashing a row of brown teeth. "Give us the fucking whore, old man, or you'll be ..."

Stone didn't wait for the chuckle or the twitch. He drew his revolver, squeezed the trigger and shot him. But Bobby knew the old man was going to take him down and shifted his feet as the bullet angled across the tight space. It missed his head by inches and burrowed into the meat of his shoulder. Blood spurted and ran down his arm. His own gun was in his fist, his mouth twisted in a pain-ridden snarl. His revolver flared and the bullet chewed into the wall behind where Stone had been standing.

There was a boom from the back of the store, the unmistakable blast from a shotgun. Wood and plaster shattered.

Cali slammed against the counter, pistol held with both hands, lined up the second man in her sights and fired off a volley of shots.

"Chuck," shouted Bobby, seeing his brother punched flat on his back, the shotgun skating from his grip.

Cali could see someone else out back, possibly a third gunman. She dropped, rolled around the side of the counter and aimed her weapon.

"Oh, shit," she whispered. "Stone."

But Stone still had Bobby to finish off. He shot the blond-haired man twice more, drilling both bullets into his chest. Blood erupted and Bobby staggered and squeezed off a shot. The handgun bucked and Stone rocked backward, slammed into the wall, his scalp erupting with fire. He slid to the floor. Rivulets of blood trickled down his face. He threw himself sideways, onto his left side, and fired a fourth bullet into Bobby. The young man jerked and folded against the floor, wretched sobs escaping from his lips.

Stone crawled forward and pushed himself onto his feet. He bore down on Bobby. The young man was taking short raspy breaths and dragging himself toward his gun. Stone lifted his boot and stamped down hard on Bobby's hand, grinding flesh and bone.

He howled, and pulled his hand back. Stone raised his revolver and placed a shaky finger against the trigger.

Then a voice cried out.

Two words.

"Let me!"

Only it wasn't Cali.

An olive-skinned girl emerged, dark-eyed and black-haired, and she reminded him of Yuan. She wore a long coat and large black boots and a leather collar was fitted around her throat with a length of rope tied to it, dangling loose on the floor. There was a sign hanging around her neck.

A scrawled word: WHORE.

"That asshole was holding onto her," said Cali. She saw Stone's face dripping with blood. "Oh, fuck."

His breathing was laboured. He was sweating heavily. But he held his ground and wiped the blood from his eyes. The dark-haired girl extended her hand and he guessed she had to be the missing cousin. What had Yuan called her? The name eluded him for the moment.

Her eyes pleaded with him. _Let me!_ The coat gaped and Stone saw she was naked and starved beneath it.

He nodded, stepped back. The girl scooped up Bobby's handgun.

"No," said Bobby, lying in a pool of blood.

"Take that fucker out," yelled Cali.

Bobby choked.

His eyes flooded with tears.

He began to plead for his life.

"I'm sorry. It was me Da. He told us what to do. We're his boys. I'm sorry. _We liked you the best_."

But the girl had no answer for him because she had used her last two words and they had been the best words because they'd belonged to her and her alone and now she was in control.

She unbuckled the collar with her left hand and it snaked onto the floor. She lifted the sign over her head, threw it at him.

"Chucky Chuck," he sobbed. "Chucky Chuck Chuck."

"What are you waiting for?" shouted Cali. "Shot that cocksucker."

The girl suddenly thrust the muzzle into her mouth.

"No," screamed Cali.

Blood and tissue sprayed the wall. The revolver clattered loudly as it fell. Bobby blinked, stunned.

She lay a few feet away, eyes wide open, staring at him.

He began to laugh.

Cali fired but Stone pushed her arm away and the bullet smacked into an overhead beam.

"What the fuck, man?"

He growled. "Get the rope from my pack."

Stone took out his flask, feeling nauseous, and drank until it was empty, whiskey spilling onto his bloodstained beard.

Cali rushed to him, holding the rope.

"We need to stitch that head."

"It can wait. Tie his hands."

Cali pinned Bobby's arms behind his back and belted his wrists with the collar that had been used on the girl. Stone made a noose and tightened it around Bobby's neck. He dragged the young man onto his feet. Bobby kicked out but he was no match for them. He was ashen-faced and dying from the gunshots wounds and his boots slipped in his own blood. Stone dragged him outside and Cali followed, clutching the sign in her hand.

The red-scarred blue sky was intensely bright after the store. Stone was feeling dizzy but he had to finish this. Batesville had to know the taste of violent justice. He scanned the avenue and spotted a rusted iron post. He tugged Bobby across the snow-smeared asphalt, leaving a trail of blood.

"I need me Da... get me Da... you fucking bastards... you killed Chuck... Chuck, Chucky!"

Stone tossed one end of the rope over the post. Cali stood with him. They pulled together.

Bobby's boots lifted off the sidewalk. "Me Da will gut you... you're dead... you're fucking dead."

Blood streamed from his multiple wounds. They tied off the rope. He twisted and turned.

"Write the word," said Stone.

Cali turned the sign over and plucked out her thick pencil. She wrote and hung it around his neck.

Bobby fought it, for a few seconds, and then his head drooped forward and his boots stopped jerking.

Stone leaned against Cali. Desperately, she said, "We need to get back to the compound."

"What about the wanted poster?"

"Fuck worrying about that," she said.

She guided him along the avenue. Behind them, the sign flapped in the wind.

One newly scrawled word: RAPER.

TWELVE

It was dark when Pavla and Timo reached Batesville.

They observed the flat urban landscape before silently moving through the outskirts, hugging the shadows with weapons drawn. Pavla took point, the unfolded stock of her assault rifle thrust against her shoulder. Timo followed, armed with a pump-action shotgun. They moved unseen, deftly exploiting what minimal cover the city provided, knowing where the other was at all times, knowing when to drop down and wait and when to pitch forward.

But the city appeared de-populated, except for the compound. The activity within its walls had quickly punctured the night and was the only disturbance. They flitted across rubble-filled lots and skirted large buildings with roofs that had collapsed inward through the passage of time. A patchy ripple of voices and slamming doors became more prevalent as they drew closer to the compound. Pavla gave a signal and the two of them climbed to a high spot, crouching beneath a star-drenched sky.

"One gate," said Timo, utilising night-vision binoculars. "It doesn't appear very strong."

He furthered his gaze.

"No lookouts. There are two men with rifles patrolling the grounds. But they walk only between the buildings and stay in the light, ignoring the outer perimeter. There are dark areas. It would be very simple to scale the fences and remain concealed."

Their faces turned numb as they were buffeted by the ferocious wind.

"There is a firebombed buggy outside. I count three charred bodies. This was recent, Pavla."

He paused for a moment.

"The vehicle bears the same emblem we saw on the convoy. The three knives."

He passed her the binoculars.

"They are a weak community," he said.

She scouted the corralled buildings, a mixture of first-world and second-world structures.

"Too weak?" she asked.

"It's possible."

"A deception to lure travellers inside? Perhaps the guards ignore the perimeter because it is booby trapped."

"Perhaps, but I don't think so this time."

"Luckily, you don't need to think," she said. "You need only to follow, Timo."

"Yes, Pavla."

He knew his position. He knew his duty. He did not need her to constantly remind him of it.

"Let's go," she said.

She selected a three-storey building for infiltration, ideally placed on a corner close enough to the compound. Its brickwork was mostly intact, the window frames covered with corrugated iron, the long sheets mottled with rust and streaked with faded writing from the past.

Cautiously, they flanked a side door.

Pavla switched on the torch fitted to the barrel of her rifle. Timo hung the shotgun across his back, took his pistol from its holster and fished a small black torch from his coat pocket. They had cleared many buildings together but this was still the moment their heart rates began to accelerate.

Twin beams of light speared a hallway with a dirty cement floor. The air was foul. There were doorways, corridors, an elevator with a broken hand rail and a stairwell.

They heard only the wind.

Pavla gave the signal.

Seamlessly, with half-crouched movements and further signals, they cleared every square foot of the building, room by room, floor by floor.

The interior had clearly been a business during the first age. There was a reception area at the front with a curved desk sheared in half. There was a kitchen area with hanging cupboards that had been ransacked and a ceiling blackened by indoor fires. There was an office where large-framed pictures had been torn from the walls and smashed on the floor. There was a workshop with shattered overhead lights, benches lined with aged tools, broken electric points, old filing cabinets and a belt of metal rollers lying on its side. There was a brick-walled room with rusted generators and overhead ducts gummed with grime. There were small offices where men and women would have sat at desks with screens and spoke into plastic headsets. But the screens and headsets were gone and the desks had been used as firewood. The carpets had been ripped up and the blinds ripped down and everything had been burnt. There was a room with an unlocked mesh cage containing empty shelves and a room where the furniture had been piled in one corner to create a shelter.

Timo shone his torch, wrinkled his nose.

They both recognised the smell of death.

Pavla stepped forward, finger around the trigger. She circled the piled furniture, rifle angled.

The single torch beam illuminated the rotting body of a young child, neatly laid out in a dress and shoes, long blonde hair fanned out behind her skull, eyes closed, hands folded over a hand-knitted doll.

Pavla leaned forward, lips clenched, and took the doll.

"Clear," she said. "We'll make camp on the third floor."

She handed the doll to Timo.

"Put this with the trades."

She walked away, expressionless, and now that the building was secure her pulse normalised and the tension ebbed away.

"Set the traps and take inventory. I will build a fire."

Timo nodded. It was the same order every night. Laying booby traps was slow and repetitive work but it had kept them alive on numerous occasions. He finished and returned to the third floor. The fire was built and a pot of coffee hung from a metal tripod. They would occupy two rooms. Pavla was in the second room with the night-vision binoculars wedged in a narrow opening. Timo stood at the fire in the first room and peeled off his fingerless gloves, flexing his hands toward the crackling flames. He breathed out deeply as his body became infused with heat.

"Timo, inventory," said Pavla, not looking.

She was sat on an old chair, hands on her thighs. He said nothing but immediately began to count everything out in a neat row on the floor. Soon, she stood with him and her eyes reflected on their dwindling supplies.

"Trade or assault?" he asked.

"If we attack there will be a massacre. Even in such a barren place as the Black Region it will attract attention. I will establish trade."

"We do not have much left," he said, prodding at a small collection of items. "These horrible coins they value so much are running low."

"They might not even want them. The last community we visited laughed when I presented them."

Timo plucked one between his fingers, flipped and caught it. "They are worthless pieces of metal, Pavla."

She unhooked the coffee pot, poured two cups, handed him one.

"Thank you," he said.

"This building has a strange feeling to it." She drank. "Like a mummified corpse. I don't like it."

"The whole city feels like that. What we've seen of it so far."

"Do you believe in ghosts, Timo?"

"No."

"Good. Nor do I. Ghosts are for old women and broken men."

"You are not old and I am far from broken."

"You are not funny, either" she said, her voice flat. "Always remain focused."

Timo lit a hand-rolled cigarette. The tin with the flower on the lid was in his lap.

"We have two days of rations," he said. "Four if we go onto half rations."

"That is not as bad as I thought. But it will not be enough."

She thought for a moment.

"I will take the toys," she said. "And the doll. They have high value amongst these people."

"I thought you wanted to take the toys back with us?"

"Silver Road is three or four days away, Timo. We need to remain strong."

"We can survive without rations. We have done so before. I thought the toys were important to you."

She leaned a hand against her holstered pistol. "Are you questioning decisions once more?"

"No," he said, lowering his head. "But what if they are pretending to be weak? Can a community be this stupid?"

"I have already factored that in. Have you forgotten who I am?"

"No, Pavla."

"Good. If it is a trap then you can rescue me and be a hero. Our people will make up songs of you."

He laughed at her words, for a moment, but saw there was no humour or warmth in her face and hurriedly suppressed his light-hearted reaction. She went into the second room, coffee in hand, and peered through the binoculars. He understood but could not accept her bitterness. Two years before she had uncovered a plot to assassinate the President and single-handedly prevented it by killing a four-man cell. Other men had claimed the victory, men with influence, and her name had remained largely unknown. But soldiers knew the truth. The President was saved and surely that was more important.

"Are you certain about the toys?"

"Yes."

"And the doll?"

"Yes."

He smoked.

He stared into the fire.

"We're not going back, are we?"

"We have an objective to complete."

"That wasn't what I asked."

She leaned back in her chair.

"You do not ask questions, Timo. In this place or back home, it is the same. You do not ask questions."

"I understand."

"You do not seem to."

He said nothing.

"Our objective is to return home once we have it. But if we are compromised it is to be destroyed."

"Yes, Pavla."

He knew of her family back home, a husband and a six-year old son with sightless eyes who'd never witnessed the face of his parents or the twist of autumn leaves. But he had loved ones, too. His father did not recognise those around him and lived in a hospital with other sufferers of the same illness. It was painful to visit him but Timo still enjoyed the old man's company. His sister, Oxanna, was excelling in science with a bright career ahead of her and his younger brother, Jerek, was a labourer in the city rebuild crews, with a family of his own.

He flicked his cigarette onto the fire, stepped into the adjoining room.

"I apologise. I am not questioning your authority or the mission."

Pavla nodded.

"We both know there might be no return from this. We have left a trail of bodies and that trail will lead to Silver Road."

He stiffened.

"I am willing to die for the mission. Whatever it takes."

He lit another cigarette. Pavla watched his thumb shift across the lid of the metal tin.

"That tin means something to you, doesn't it?"

He looked up, surprised by her question.

"Yes."

"Tell me."

His cheeks grew red. "It belonged to my mother. She gave it to me before she died."

"What did it mean to her?"

"It seems stupid in the middle of all this."

She took it from him. "What did your mother keep in it?"

"Teeth," said Timo.

"Teeth?"

"Baby teeth. Mine, my brother, Jerek, my sister, Oxanna."

"But now you carry your tobacco and papers inside it?"

"I gave the teeth to my sister. She has a chest for personal family things. But I like to keep the tin with me. I am carrying part of my mother. She is watching over us and she is proud."

He chewed his lip.

"I told you it was stupid."

She handed back the tin.

"Empty it, Timo, and put it with the other items. I will trade it in the morning."

THIRTEEN

Cali spotted the blond-haired guy in the food line and her opinion of the community ramped up a few notches. That piece of shit Bobby had remarked that he was the wrong shade for the place but she'd seen a real mixed bag since spending the day with Yuan's people. In Kiven, it was hunger that divided, not colour. There were those that felt it and those that didn't, so the rest was all shit to her. Jeremiah would have liked this place. He would've fitted in. He was an expert at it. She didn't blend. She wasn't another face in the crowd. She stuck out. She caught a few men looking at her but then she was used to that.

She'd already told the story a hundred times over; the girl's suicide, the shootout, the hanging.

A place like this was what she needed right now. Since the refuge, she'd carried more than the heavy weight of the coins. Jeremiah had left her a great burden and although her shoulders were strong they were sagging a little. His words had inspired her and she wanted to hear them once more. The world saw one side of her but Jeremiah had seen more, tapping into thoughts and dreams she never realised existed within her. She knew Stone was beginning to see a different side to her as well and she wondered if the crazy dude was going to live. He'd taken on the mission of a dead man without even knowing it. Cali was a fighter and she knew it would come down to that but Stone was a warrior and that would make all the difference. He'd wiped out the Triple Death crew twice now, without breaking sweat. Only the two gunmen from the store had got one up on him and that worried her.

Stone had to pull through. She couldn't do this shit alone. She needed him. But she _wanted_ the blond-haired guy. She was nineteen years old and there were urges that had to be sorted.

Cali leaned from the line, swept back her hair with one hand, and finally caught his attention. She grinned at him. The young man flashed a sheepish smile. Then his blue eyes went past her and his smile widened.

Cali realised he was looking at Yuan.

"What's his name?" she asked.

"Who? Oh, that's Travis."

"Travis," repeated Cali.

He was a few years older, hair cropped, beard trimmed, with an easy going manner about him as he shifted from one foot to the other, waiting patiently in the food line, not grumbling like most of them. He was tall and muscular and clearly worked on what he had, that much she could tell, and definitely appreciate. He wore a plain shirt buttoned at the throat and tucked into plain, loose-fitting trousers and a short jacket with wooden toggle buttons. There appeared to be a community dress code and Travis wasn't one to rebel against it. A bolt-action rifle was slung over his shoulder and the tray he carried looked child-sized in his large hands.

The line shuffled slowly toward a makeshift kitchen area. There were brick-built fires with hot plates and grills. Utensils banged, conversation buzzed, and the cook had a gunshot voice. The spacious hangar was filled with the sound and taste of food. A large number of adults sat at scattered tables, already tucking into an evening meal.

Travis suddenly laughed as something was said to him. His laugh was deep, from the stomach. Cali shut out the moans and groans all around and ran her eyes over him, roaming across his cropped hair, firm back, strong looking legs and that fine ass in those dull trousers.

He glanced back for a second time, offered her a half-smile, and then looked past her once again and directly at Yuan. The dark-haired girl was too consumed to even notice.

"You and Travis got a thing?"

The words came out harsher than she'd meant them. Cali regretted her tone but a shake of the head from Yuan wasn't answer enough.

"Are you sure?" she asked.

"How many men do you think I'm sleeping with?"

Yuan had spoken too loud. A woman glared back at her. Yuan twisted her head, knowing the rumours had spread fast through the day. Cali kept her eyes firm and the woman backed down without a word.

"I didn't mean nothing like that," said Cali.

"Then what did you mean?"

"Look, I just wanted to know..."

"Please, stop talking. I am so tired of all this."

_She was tired?_ Cali suppressed the urge to erupt. The line nudged forward a few more paces.

"What is it with you?" said Cali, her voice a low hiss. "You should be happy that wasn't your cousin we found out there this morning. You should have seen that poor girl. That cocksucker was pulling her along on a fucking lead. She'd been beaten and cut and..."

"I am glad it wasn't Suyin. But I still knew her. Her name was Jia. Her parents are devastated by this."

"Then maybe this lot should have looked for her when she disappeared."

"That isn't my decision."

"Perhaps it should be."

Cali looked away. She swore about the slowness of the food line. It edged forward a touch more.

"Was she your friend?" she asked, over her shoulder.

"I know everyone."

"Yeah, but was she your friend?"

"No."

Cali whirled round. "And she wasn't your cousin. So it's all good. For you I mean. Girl, you need to buck the fuck up."

"Buck up? Jia killed herself. That's terrible."

"I know. I was there." She paused. "Take what happened today as a lesson."

Yuan stared at her, incredulous. "A lesson? What do you mean?"

"I mean that life can go just like that." She snapped her fingers. "So you need to do shit and not wait around feeling sorry for yourself."

Yuan pushed out of the line, dropping her tray against the cement floor. It clattered loudly and all the talking ceased. Travis jogged after her. He grabbed hold of her arm before she could leave. She flattened herself against him, her racking sobs echoing through the hangar. Cali looked around and saw the shame. These people _were_ weak, getting picked on by any group that rolled through. They were hurting but content to sit around and do nothing about it.

Travis raised a hand, mouthed a silent _she'll be OK._ He led Yuan to an empty table, sat her down and trotted back to fetch two cups of coffee. The patter of conversation steadily rose. Cali looked on unsmiling as he held Yuan's hand across the table. She turned her back on them, filled her plate without interest. She took the table behind them, sliding onto the long wooden bench with an agitated grunt.

There was a couple at the other end, a man and a woman sitting opposite, tucking into pan bread and eggs served sunny side up. A man with wrinkled olive skin and jet black hair sat beside them, sipping coffee, his plate already empty. The three of them smiled as she sat down but she looked at them blankly.

She wondered if Travis knew that the girl from the wanted poster was sitting right behind him. Had he been one of the men to fight back when the Triple Death convoy turned up? Had he torched the vehicle out front? It was strange because no one she had spoken to was claiming responsibility for it.

Her plate was empty. She didn't remember eating the food. She licked it clean and sucked her greasy hands.

A man with a cup of coffee stared across at her, a ball hammer and a pair of gloves beside him.

Did he recognise her?

She flashed him the finger.

Fuck him and fuck Travis.

The man shook his head, got to his feet.

She'd rushed back here without even thinking of the consequences. She owed Stone that much for getting her this far. But he still carried the wanted poster in his pocket and as the day had dragged on, and he'd remained out cold from the gunshot wound, she began to wonder about someone finding it and realising who she really was.

_Cali Lopez, the wanted girl._ But what would they do? Yeah, nothing...

She was alone at the table. She burped, wiped her mouth on her sleeve, and tried to push away the image of the girl taking her own life. She heard the gunshot, banging inside her skull, over and over, the spray of blood and brain.

She sought refuge in the conversation between Travis and Yuan.

"Thank you, Travis, but I'm OK."

A pause.

"I have something for you," he said.

Another pause.

"It's an hourglass. Do you like it?"

"Yes. It's very nice."

"I want you to have it."

"But it's yours, Travis."

"I got it for you. It's a gift."

"Deshi wouldn't like me taking gifts from you."

"I thought you were done with him, Yuan."

"I am. I don't know. I don't know what to do. I keep thinking of Jia."

"He was just using you. Look, I want you to have it."

"Will Suyin turn up one day looking like her?"

A pause.

"Don't you like it?"

"Yes, it's beautiful. But I can't accept it."

"Why not?"

"I don't want you think it will be more than friendship between us."

"I know. I don't. I promise. But I'd still like you to have it."

"There are other girls my age that are fond of you."

"I'm not interested in them."

"Then you do want more from me?"

"But you don't, Yuan, and I respect that."

"Hmm."

"Please take the gift."

"I will. Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Cali heard Yuan get to her feet.

"I have to go."

"Please, stay. I missed you today."

"I need to check on him."

"Right, I understand."

"Do you?"

"Sure, I get it. You've made your choice, right?"

"I haven't made any choice. The man saved my life."

"Fine. You go to him then."

"Travis, it isn't like that."

"He's twice your age. But then Deshi is twice your age. Is that your scene?"

She left without another word.

"Hey, dummy," called Cali. "Travis, man."

His head twitched. He spun around on the bench.

"Fella, I need to teach you some shit."

FOURTEEN

Nuria was in his dreams.

He ached for her smile, ached for her touch.

But it was stupid to think of her and he grew angry. The dream tormented him and laughed at his futile attempts at reuniting with her.

He pummelled his fists until they bled. He blackened the dream with fury, driving her away, and suddenly she was gone and he was back on the streets of Kiven, the bustling and noisy half-ruined city governed by the Alliance.

There was a population of one hundred thousand where once it must have been five times that. But even amongst all those faces there was still nowhere to hide. He had fled from one place to next, grabbing a few hours at a time before being tracked down and forced to run again. The death squads were drawing the noose tighter and tighter, and they would have revenge for the bodies he'd dropped that fateful day he crossed the Place of Bridges.

His hands were black. He could smell the smoke. He stood in the dark and stared at the firebombed building. Impossibly, Cali stood with him, nodding, patting him on the back and giving him the thumbs up. A convoy of vehicles arrived and they hunkered down in the gloom, both of them recognising the tan and black uniforms of the League of Restoration. A cluster of masked men carried a half-burnt body from the ruins. Cali was patting him on the back once more but no matter how hard he tried to shrug her off she would not stop.

Blood flowed into his eyes. Cali was laughing. Stone was shouting at her to tell the truth.

The masked men crouched and studied the half-burnt body and began to cheer. A few of them fired pistols into the night air.

A chain was lashed around the man's ankles and a pickup revved its engine, ready to drag the body of the wasteland soldier through the streets.

Then one of the men stumbled from the building, pulled off his mask and doubled over.

The driver of the pickup took his foot off the gas pedal...

* * *

Stone turned his head, and winced at the sudden flare of pain. He blinked, rapidly, and found himself looking into Yuan's pensive eyes. He was lying on a bunk and she was sat beside him on a folding metal chair.

His thoughts clicked into gear. He remembered the shootout, and the girl taking her own life, and putting a noose around Bobby and stringing him up. _Shame the bastard hadn't suffered for longer._

Yuan saw alertness in his eyes and her mouth curved upward, her cheeks flushed with colour.

He sat up and opened his mouth to speak, but she pressed warm fingers against his coarse lips.

"No, first you drink." She poured water from a jug. "In here, I give the orders. Not you."

He nodded, saying nothing, and drained the cup. His face glistened with sweat. His beard was damp.

"Nianzu stitched your head. He has experience with wounds. He said the bullet was not in your skull. You were very fortunate. You could easily be dead. He said you will have bad headaches for a time and you might suffer with dizzy spells."

Gingerly, Stone touched his bandaged head.

"I helped him. You will need to rest here. I will take care of you."

She poured another cup of water.

"My father is very angry with you for the violence this morning."

Stone croaked. "Fuck him."

He was inside was a makeshift medical hut with ridged metal wall panels and a wooden plank floor. There was a stove glowing brightly and throwing out plenty of heat. He saw scattered bunks, all empty, and a locked metal cupboard. There was a window in the roof. It was black outside.

"How long have I been out?"

"Since this morning."

"Shit."

Pain shot through his skull as he attempted to rise. He gritted his teeth. Yuan took a wet cloth but he caught her wrist, slim and warm against his leathery skin.

"I can do that."

"I want to help you."

"I can manage."

He wiped his sweating face, tossed the cloth. He swung his boots over the edge of the bunk, leaned forward.

He spoke bluntly. "We found your cousin. She shot herself."

"That wasn't Suyin."

"What?"

She explained it to him.

"Jia was outgoing, confident. She is like, I mean, she _was_ like Cali. She would explore a lot and go beyond where my father says we are allowed to go. Her parents want to speak with you."

"I don't want to speak to them."

"They want to thank you."

"For what? I watched their daughter die."

"But you freed her."

Stone shrugged.

"Cali told us what you did. Travis got some men together. They brought Jia's body back here. She was buried this morning. The story is all around the compound of how you hung one of the men who hurt her."

Stone said nothing.

"People are happy. You did a brave thing this morning."

"Some men deserve to die, and die badly. That's all that happened this morning."

"I'm not my father, Stone. I'm glad you hurt those men. Jia was so thin. She must have suffered."

"Where's Cali? Is she around?"

"She was eating in the main hangar. I don't know if she's still there. I couldn't eat. I was worried about you."

He frowned.

"I'm glad you're OK."

"I've been shot before."

She patted his arm, allowed her hand to linger. "You're a good man."

"I'm not."

He noticed she'd changed her clothes. She now wore a drab looking, ankle length skirt with a broad belt and a shirt worn loose beneath a thick fleece. He didn't see many women in skirts. Her waist was slender. Her skin was cleanly scrubbed. Her hair was washed and brushed.

"Where are my things?" he asked.

She pointed.

He nodded, but didn't rise. Fresh beads of sweat popped onto his face. She picked up the cloth, dipped it into the water basin, and wrung it out. This time he allowed her to help. He was light-headed, feeling weak. She gently dabbed his skin.

"How did you get that scar?"

"Which one?"

She noticed he was half-smiling.

"This one."

She touched it.

"A prison warden took a whip to me."

"Is that where you were branded? My father saw the marks on your arm. He said it means you are a criminal. Are you?"

"What do you think?"

She set down the wash cloth. "I think what you did today matters more than what you've done in the past."

He got to his feet, without a word, and picked up his coat. She rose from the chair and stood with him as he checked his revolver.

"My people have really taken to Cali. They've been very kind toward her."

Stone listened.

"They want her to stay."

Stone continued to listen.

"You shouldn't shout at her so much. She has a good soul. She helped you back here."

"Well, I need to talk to her."

"Look at what she gave me earlier today."

Yuan produced a small tin from her pocket. She opened the lid. Stone glimpsed a kind of paste, dark green in colour.

"Look." She fluttered her eyes. There was paint on the lids and lashes. "It makes my eyes look pretty, doesn't it?"

He rooted out a bottle of whiskey from his pack and took out the cork.

"Maybe you shouldn't drink so much. Not this soon."

"It'll numb the pain."

"My father is angry with me as well. Not just you. I'm not impressed with your behaviour, Yuan. Those were his words. _I'm not impressed with your behaviour."_

Stone lowered the bottle from his mouth.

"I've met a hundred men like your father. Somehow they're always in charge. He should be impressed that you're alive. You handled yourself with guts and took down a man who would've hurt you."

He offered her the bottle.

"I shouldn't. My father doesn't approve of drink."

"He'll get over it."

She grinned, swigged from the bottle. She wiped her lips with the back of her hand.

"You carry a lot of guilt."

He slung the submachine gun onto his shoulder, ignoring her comment.

"You were talking in your sleep."

"I wouldn't take any notice of me."

"You saved my life. All I can do is take notice of you."

He took another swallow of whiskey.

"You really should rest, Mr Stone."

"Just Stone."

"Do you have a first name?"

He began to walk away. "I need to find Cali."

"You kept saying you were sorry. Over and over. _I didn't know. I didn't know. I'm sorry._ "

Stone hesitated at the door.

"What are you sorry for?" asked Yuan.

Cold air blasted his face. She came after him and placed her hand on his chest.

"What did you do that gives you so much pain in here?"

* * *

Pavla looked through the night-vision binoculars.

"The girl is here."

Timo got to his feet.

"Are you certain?"

"Yes."

Light spilled from an open hangar doorway. It was Cali, bold and confident, bathed in green light from the binoculars. She was a beacon amongst the bland and the dull; walking with her shoulders back, hands thrust into her pockets, coat open, swinging her arms around as she skipped across the snow, her long black hair blowing in the wind.

"Is the stranger with her?"

"No, she has the company of another man."

"Could he be the sixteenth man? The name missing from the list?"

Pavla watched.

"He carries a rifle. It's possible."

Timo fetched his shotgun. "What is happening now?"

"There is conversation. The girl is smiling at the young man. She wants him to go with her. She is clearly offering herself but he appears reluctant. Now something has caught his eye. He looks angry." She paused. "The girl has looped her arm though his and now he is going with her."

"We found the pickup around dawn," said Timo. "Why would the stranger waste a day in this place instead of being on the road?"

"Wait," said Pavla.

She turned the binoculars.

"The stranger is here, Timo, and he is wounded. His head is bandaged. This is why they have remained here."

"Let us take him now."

Pavla got to her feet.

"We have focused too much on the stranger. The girl was Jeremiah's partner."

She picked up her assault rifle.

"She is the key and she is vulnerable."

They both heard clumsy movement outside and looked at each other. Pavla went back to the observation post.

"There are armed men in the street, Timo." she said. "They are advancing on the compound."

* * *

"Who do you think I am?" said Stone. "There's nothing more."

"I want to go with you."

"No."

"I want to see Silver Road. With you. It sounds an incredible place."

"You're staying here."

"With a father who has no respect for me? He won't even listen to anything I say. It's his way. Always his way."

"I don't care."

"Or should I stay for Deshi who used me the way those men used Jia? And what about Deshi's wife? She wants to rip my eyes out. The community will look at me differently now."

Stone shrugged.

"I don't like it here. _I've never liked it here._ I don't want to stay."

"It's your home," he said. "Be glad you have one."

* * *

Cali tasted his tongue. She cupped the front of his trousers.

"That's the good stuff."

Travis wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. She dipped her head back, a feathered cloud of breath escaping over her wet lips. She smiled at him and travelled his face with her eyes. She leaned into him once more, damp and aching. She chewed his lower lip, kissed his chin, and nibbled his ear.

Her hand slipped into his trousers. He groaned and half-stiffened inside her palm.

"That _really_ is the good stuff, Travis, I'm impressed, man."

He buried his face into her shoulder but his hands were loose and he really needed to get with it.

She moulded one around her breast, placed the other between her legs.

Travis shook. Cali blinked. "What?" She freed her hand from his trousers and stepped back.

Tears were barrelling down his face. He looked crushed, broken-hearted.

"I love her. Why can't she see how much I love her? I can't stop thinking about her."

Cali fumed. "For fuck's sake, man."

Then the shouting started up.

FIFTEEN

Stone heard it and ran from the medical hut, heart pounding.

Pain lanced through his skull as his boots hit the asphalt. He saw no lookouts on the fence or guards posted on the nearby rooftops.

These people were useless.

Yuan jogged behind him, calling after him.

Doors hesitantly opened, pools of light catching his eye. Men and women stumbled into the cold night, looking troubled, indecisive.

"It's happening again," someone said, as he sprinted past. "The men in the vehicles are back."

"Give them the girl," said a second one. "That's who they want."

It was what Stone had feared and warned Cali of. The community had recognised her from the wanted poster. Yuan had told him they were encouraging her to stay and it was obvious why. She was collateral and they would hand her over the moment the gang returned. But there was no roar of engines and no exhaust fumes lingering in the air. _Something was out of step._

Stone searched with his eyes as he ran. He couldn't see Cali and guessed that was good because it meant they didn't have her.

The gate was where the trouble was going to be. It was made of tarred poles and held together with crossbeams and rope and Stone was heading straight for it. Ragged shouts drifted up and over but no one had reacted. They stood around debating and deliberating.

He was a few yards away when his nostrils flared. His run stuttered and he wheeled away as fire engulfed the bottom of the gate. It began to spread and he dropped to his haunches and covered his head, waiting for the imminent explosion. But it never came. No explosive element had been ignited. The gate would burn until it fell apart. Out on the street men cheered and yelled as the flames licked high. There were loud cracks as handguns were fired.

It wasn't Triple Death, thought Stone. He could feel it in his gut. Behind him the grounds of the compound were rapidly filling. Some ran or walked fast, some only stared and pointed. Stone grew more frustrated at them as the gate blazed. This was their community but they were still inactive and had meekly accepted whatever was coming, even if that meant death. They idled with weapons but he doubted they knew how to use them or would do so.

He scanned the crowd one final time but still couldn't see Cali anywhere.

He took the submachine gun off his shoulder and cocked the weapon.

This was going down only one way, his way, and they'd better get used to it pretty damn fast.

* * *

Hands in her pockets, pulling her coat around her, Cali paced, making fresh tracks across the grey-coloured snow. She was alone, lurking in the shadows of the buildings. It was the way she wanted it. She'd been humiliated. She wished the ground would open up and swallow her.

There had never been a steady guy for her. No one she could depend on. No one who depended on her. She wasn't sure she really wanted one. She certainly didn't need one.

Stop lying, girl, she told herself, reel in that shit. No, fuck Travis, fuck 'em all.

But the world was growing around her, getting bigger and more dangerous by the second, and her circle was smaller than ever. Travis was a cute looking guy, even if he was a bit on the soft and dumb side. The kind of guy she'd imagined being with once this was all done. Only he was a guy and that meant his head was pumped with how he thought the world was, rather than how it really was, and he couldn't see that a girl like Yuan just wasn't interested and a girl like her was. Had she come on too strong with him? Like there was time for anything else. What the hell did he want?

The snow crunched beneath her boots. She stayed out of the moonlight, wiping her cold nose on her sleeve.

She could hear the shouting from the street and frowned. _What the fuck was going on?_

She looked between the buildings where people were starting to crowd. She saw Stone streak by, head bandaged.

She whispered his name. There was a guy you could depend on, a guy who didn't give up, no matter what. She began to walk forward when the hackles on her neck rose. She realised, too late, that she was being tracked. She whipped out her pistol as Timo surged from the darkness. He collided into her and wrestled the gun from her hand. He buried a fist into her stomach, chopped the nape of her neck and put her down.

Cali choked, stumbled, rolled. The man loomed over her. She sprang onto her feet, holding her knife.

She saw him clearly. He was tall with cropped hair and mean eyes. He carried a shotgun on his back and a pistol on his hip. There were no gang markings on him. He was nothing to do with Triple Death.

Which meant...?

She realised who he was. She was in deep. She couldn't fuck around. She dropped her shoulder and flicked with her blade, underhand, aiming to slice open his windpipe. She was fast but fear had made her less accurate. She tore a line across his chin. Timo snarled. He lifted his left hand and held it against the wound. She hadn't stopped him. His right hand went to his holster. She saw her pistol lying in the snow and knew he would cut her down before she got to it. She had only one chance. It was risky but she had to go for it. She had to surrender the knife.

She pitched forward, diving for the pistol, angling her body and hurling the knife at him in one fluid movement.

The blade struck his chest and lodged in something that wasn't flesh. He tugged it free, unharmed, and stalked toward her, his pistol drawn.

She grabbed her gun and swung her arm, finger moving to the trigger.

There was a sudden explosion of shocking pain as something hard and heavy struck her head.

Cali slumped against the snow without firing a shot. Pavla stood over her, holding the assault rifle.

"Take her."

* * *

The shouting was getting louder. Children were crying. Stone heard the tears and his mouth twisted into a hate-filled grimace.

It was time to end this.

Old scaffolding had been assembled behind the fence, flanking the burning gate, with wooden platforms at different levels. They were patched with rust and dirt but looked sturdy enough. The community had been mindful to assemble it but neglectful in using it.

He sprinted toward the left hand side, away from the fire that had now spread onto the right hand fence, slowly losing intensity as it burned unchecked.

He found a ladder and began to climb.

Yuan's father, Shen, hobbled after him, an angry looking expression across his lined face.

"This is because of you." His cane poked holes in the snow. "Do you see how frightened our people are?"

He gestured furiously, white hair tumbling onto his creased forehead. Stone ignored him. He scrambled off the ladder and rolled toward the fence, weapon in hand. He nudged his throbbing head above and spotted a single man loitering near the gate, grey-haired and roughly-dressed. He was carrying a satchel on his back, the flap open. There was a flaming torch planted in the snow. His hands were cupped around his mouth and he was barking threats and insults. He swayed as he cried out. He was not Triple Death and there were no vehicles of the Kiven gang anywhere in the street.

Stone saw movement in the shadows. He counted at least three men and several horses.

"Look at what you have done." The words hissed from Shen's mouth. "You are a wicked man."

Stone glanced down at the old man. He should have been ashamed at leading such a poorly organised community. It had taken an eternity but, finally, the men and women standing around afraid were beginning to show some initiative. They gathered buckets from a storeroom, filled them with snow and headed for the blazing gate. It was all in vain, though. The gate would be down in a few minutes. Weapons were nervously readied.

Children continued to cry.

Stone's head ached and spun. He could've picked off the man shouting outside with one bullet from his revolver. But he'd been shot. And he was in a foul mood. And he wanted them to know, whoever they were, that if they stayed and took him on then it would be a bloodbath.

He had to hit hard.

He switched the submachine gun onto full-auto, emerged at the top of the fence and spat a volley of bullets. The grey-haired man jerked. Pockets of blood erupted across his body. He was tossed onto his back, arms splayed.

There was a moment of hush.

Stone flicked the weapon onto semi-auto and twisted his aim. His targets were well concealed in the darkened street. He opened fire. Horses cried. Rifles and handguns cracked from broken buildings in retaliation.

He dropped from view and crawled along the platform as gunfire sprayed the top of the fence.

Timber exploded. Bullets whipped over him.

His skull spiked with pain. He spat a mouthful of bile and wiped the sweat from his drenched brow.

He dragged himself further along the scaffolding, then broke cover and fired again, the muzzle blazing, spraying bullets. He heard an anguished cry and saw a man drop from his saddle. He hit the snow-covered asphalt, riddled with blood patches.

"Stone."

A blond-haired man stood at the bottom of the scaffolding. It was Travis, holding a bolt-action rifle.

"What can I do?"

Yuan called up at him. "Is it Triple Death?"

"It's that girl's fault," shouted a voice, in the distance. "Give her to them."

"Shut up," shouted Travis, over his shoulder. "Stone? Tell us what to do."

There was rapid movement in the street, a man with two pistols. Stone opened fire. Bullets pinged all around him, forcing the man back. The submachine gun clicked empty.

"You have opened up hell for us," shouted Shen. "I will never forgive what you have done."

"Stone," called Yuan, pointing. "The gate."

It made a terrible wrenching sound as it began to collapse.

Stone barked. "Get everyone with a weapon into a line. You have to stop them from getting in. Hit them with everything you have."

The young man sprinted away.

"Yuan, get the children inside."

She hesitated.

"Now."

Stone glared down at Shen.

"And you, you old bastard, go and find Cali. I need her with me."

"I will not be..."

The gate splintered and buckled. Stone pulled out his revolver and took a deep breath.

"Get Cali," he roared.

A man with a rifle fired from a broken doorway. There was a cry from inside the compound and a woman hit the ground, her face covered with blood. Stone fired twice, pushing him back into the shadows. Shots erupted in his direction. Keeping low, he edged back along the platform toward the ladder. He almost lost his balance as he landed with a heavy thud.

Hurriedly, he skirted the simmering remains of the gate, sought out the location of the rifleman and aimed his revolver.

He held his breath.

The rifleman sprang from cover and Stone squeezed the trigger, dropping him with a single headshot.

Travis herded a dozen armed adults toward the gate area and formed them into a nervous line, waiting for the assault.

But it didn't come.

Stone peered along the street. The gunfire had tapered off. The raiders appeared to have fallen back for the moment.

They don't have enough men to take the compound.

A voice suddenly called out, dry and scratchy.

"Let's talk, big man."

Stone recognised the accent. Fast, with a distinct curling lilt.

"Will you let me come out and talk?"

"Come out and I'll put you down," said Stone.

"What is happening?" said Shen. "Does he want to talk? I will talk to him. I am in charge here."

Stone growled at him. "Go and find Cali."

"I do not take orders from you."

The man in the street cried out once more. "I just want to talk this out, so I do. Man to man."

"You should have tried that first," said Stone.

"Aye, well I told Connor not to torch the gate... but what's done is done, big man."

There was laughter from nearby. The horses stirred. Stone guessed there were two or three of them remaining.

"I only want to talk. Smooth out all this carry on."

The fire was out but the gate was down, blackened and charred, and the compound was horribly exposed.

"I'm not a bad man. Sure, none of us are. We just get a wee bit excitable from time to time, so we do. Who do you think torched that vehicle, eh? Who do you think drove off that road gang? I'll not have the likes of them coming into Batesville and picking on us locals."

There was another peel of laughter.

"Well, big man? What about it?"

"OK," shouted Stone.

"I will negotiate with him," said Shen, defiantly, and strode forward. "I will reason with this man."

Yuan rushed back, her face flushed.

"Stone, the children are safe inside."

"Good, now get your idiot father out of here."

She grabbed hold of him.

"Father, you must leave this..."

"This man does not speak for our people, Yuan. I was chosen to..."

"Let Stone handle this. Please, he is better at ..."

"No, I will..."

"Stop being so stubborn and get ...."

His hand flashed, her cheek stung. There were gasps. Yuan held her face. Travis broke away from the group he'd assembled.

"Travis," shouted Stone. "Find Cali."

The blond-haired man stood his ground. "He shouldn't hit her."

"Get Cali."

"Have you forgotten about me?" said the man in the street. "Do you want me to kill the hostages I have?"

Yuan turned pale. "Hostages?"

"What is he saying?" said Shen.

She abandoned her father, ran toward the street. Stone held onto her and rolled her out of view.

He watched a man emerge from the shadows, walking slowly, a wide-brimmed hat perched on his head. The snow crunched beneath his boots and his left hand tugged at the reins of a horse, leading it forward.

He was tall and narrow, a good ten years older than Stone. He had stringy grey hair tied in a long ponytail and swept onto his chest. His face was heavily-lined and his beard was grey and white.

He tilted back his head, revealing red-rimmed eyes, and held up his right hand. It was empty.

"I'm unarmed, big man."

Stone wiped the sweat from his bandaged head and kept scanning the surrounding buildings. Yuan huddled behind him, frustrated and impatient. She leaned into him. He could feel the warmth of her body pressed against him.

"Bring out the hostages," shouted Stone, lining up a shot.

"Gerry," said the man in the hat. "Bring the wee fuckers out."

A second man appeared out of the gloom, rugged and grey-haired and armed with a double-barrelled shotgun. He gestured with it and two shapes stumbled into a pool of moonlight.

They were children, only just, cheeks gaunt, bodies hollowed out. The boy had pale skin and light hair. The girl had olive skin and black hair. But the marks of cruelty, both old and new, looked the same.

Ankles and wrists manacled, they stood shivering in thin clothing, with no coats or shoes.

Rage surged through Stone.

"Suyin," cried Yuan. "Stone, that's my cousin, Suyin. That's her, Stone. No, no, no. Suyin, no."

Tears fell from her eyes. Stone pushed her back once more.

"Joe," wailed a voice, and a fair-haired woman in her late thirties pushed her way forward. "My boy, Joe. _Joe_."

She swayed on her feet.

"What have they done to my son?"

Stone looked around. Heads had dropped.

The woman raged at Shen, venom in her eyes. "I told you he didn't run away. He was kidnapped. Damn you, Shen, damn you."

The man in the hat took a few paces forward.

Stone saw two bodies draped across the horse he was leading. It was _Bobby and Chuck._

"Aye, I'm Robert Reardon," he said. "You'll get your hostages in exchange for the bastard who killed my boys."

**PART TWO**

SIXTEEN

Timo wound her long hair in his fist, jerked her head back and slapped her until she roused.

Cali mumbled. "Asshole."

He let go of her hair, stepped back. She coughed, spat, looked around.

The shape of the fire-lit room came into horrible focus. A dusty floor, grimy walls, boarded windows.

"Who the fuck...?"

She tried to move but she was tied to a chair. She raised her dark eyes. It was the man who'd attacked her at the compound. There was a square adhesive taped to his chin.

"Cocksucker."

He slapped her.

"Give me the name and location of the man missing from the list."

Her head throbbed. She could feel something sticky in her hair. She was guessing it was blood. On the street she had all the moves, Kiven was a playground for her, but this wasn't the stoop or the corner, this was as nasty as it got. His voice was an ugly rattle. He looked into her face and the words flowed angry and blocky and bunched together and it was scaring the shit out of her because she couldn't understand any of them.

Was he brain-damaged?

Was she?

Cali strained against the ropes holding her to the chair. She rocked from side to side, pulled and thrashed until her skin burned.

Timo watched her curiously as her efforts amounted to nothing.

But Cali still had one more play, one more weapon; her mouth. She ran at him with it, spewing endless hate, one insult following the other, calling him every name under the sun, making threats on him and the bitch lurking in the other room and promising that they'd pay for this and die horrible...

Timo slapped her back handed. It was brutal hit. Cali's tongue went silent. Blood dribbled over her busted lips.

"We do this all night," he said.

She still couldn't understand him. Her second captor, the hard-eyed woman with a scarred face and dark hair, leaned in the doorway, arms folded, watching and listening.

"All night," he said.

There was a nasty shine in his eyes.

He hit her again.

"What is his name?"

And again.

"What is his location?"

He punched her in the stomach. It was a hammer blow. She struggled to breathe as the wind was pushed out of her.

"Tell me."

The floor surged quickly toward her as the chair toppled over. He dragged her up by her hair.

She wailed. He yelled.

"Who is the sixteenth man?"

"I don't understand you. Please, stop. What are you saying? Why are you doing this to me?"

The man looked at the woman. In a moment of clarity it dawned on Cali that not only did _she_ not understand _him_ \- _he_ did not understand _her._

The man waited. The woman shook her head. Cali saw the knife in his hand. She understood that clear enough. It was time for payback. Greasy fear washed over her and took control.

Her stomach churned, her pulse raced, and sweat poured down her face. The pain came, sudden and worse than anything she had ever experienced in her life. It seared white hot across her face. Blood pulsed, rolled toward her jaw line.

Cali screamed.

He put the knife down beside the fire, pushing the blade into the flames. She turned her head, tears misting her vision.

Cigarette smoke tickled her nose; the bastard was taking a casual smoke break. She saw a pump-action shotgun propped against the wall, out of reach. There was a stack of items beside it; a knitted doll, a small decorative tin and...

"They are all dead," he said.

He snapped her head back.

"All dead except the man who was not on the list. Who is he? Where is he? Answer me."

He let out a stream of smoke. Cali whimpered.

"What are you saying?" she gasped. "I don't understand your words. Please, oh, fuck, it hurts, it hurts so bad."

Timo picked up the knife.

The tip of the blade glowed.

"No, please, I'm begging you, what do you want? What do you want?"

"Wait," said Pavla. "She does not recognise your tongue, Timo. I am certain now."

The man stepped back, lowering the blade. Cali held her breath. The woman came into the room.

"Do you understand me?"

The words were broken and spoken fast but Cali nodded.

"Timo," said Pavla, reverting to her garbled native tongue. "She does not have our language."

"It is a trick," said Timo. "Like the one before. Pretending he could not understand us."

"Not this time," said Pavla. "Look into her eyes. You have already broken her. She does not understand you."

He looked and saw fear and confusion.

He nodded, stepped back.

"My name is Pavla," she said, taking a seat opposite. "I will ask questions and you will answer. If you do not answer then Timo will hurt you. Do you understand?"

Cali nodded.

"Where is Cartwright?"

"He was murdered."

"By the men with the three knives?" said Timo.

Cali flinched at the sound of his voice, even though she didn't understand his words.

"Be silent, Timo."

Pavla turned to Cali.

"Was it the men with the three knife symbol?"

"Triple Death." She nodded, repeatedly. "Triple Death. They're from Kiven."

"Why did they kill him? Are they looking for it?"

"They're after the money we stole."

Pavla hesitated. "What money? What are you talking about?"

"Triple Death is a drug gang. We robbed their HQ. Took their money. That's why they came after us and killed Jeremiah."

Pavla eased back in her chair.

"I do not understand. Why did you rob them?"

"We just did," said Cali, averting her eyes.

"I do not ask twice."

She nodded at Timo. He lumbered forward and clamped a hand over Cali's mouth. The chair rocked from side to side as he pressed the tip of the heated blade against her hand.

"Enough," said Pavla.

"What... what do you want me to say?" said Cali. "Tell me what you want me to say."

Timo covered her mouth a second time, burning her other hand with sharp jabs.

Once more, Pavla called for him to stop.

Cali sobbed. "It was Jeremiah's plan."

Her nostrils flared with the smell of singed flesh. She thought of her notebook, her precious notebook, her stupid notebook, and all those precious and stupid drawings. What did they mean now? _Her vision of life on street corners?_ No, her vision of nothing. This was reality. This dank smelling room and the giant with the burning knife. She looked at her hands. She was nineteen years old. She would never reach twenty. Jeremiah had promised her. Stone had promised her. They were not men of truth. Pain was the only truth. She cried, she cried hard.

It would be a slow crawl toward death. She feared it and craved it. She should have told Stone. He would have made it. He would have been strong enough. It lodged in her throat, indigestible, and unwound in her stomach. She was exposed, the bravado had crumbled. She was a girl who liked to paint her face and dance. She was a girl who wanted to be held. She was a girl who needed kind words. It was trickling away, all of it, grains of sand through her fingers, like the hourglass Travis had persuaded Yuan to accept, turning it over, one way and then the other, trickle, trickle, that big dummy, that big good-looking dummy. Death was close. She wept and pleaded and told them of her life and her Grandma and begged them to untie her. She wouldn't tell anyone. She wouldn't identify them. They could trust her to say nothing. They could trust her to tell no one. It would be a secret, their secret.

She would disappear and have nothing more to do with any of it.

* * *

There was a hush in the community. They'd all heard the words.

You get your hostages in exchange for the bastard who killed my boys.

Stone checked his revolver, glared at Shen. "I'll make the decision for you."

"No," said Yuan. "You can't go out there."

"Joe," sobbed the woman. "Bring my boy back."

"This is the price of violence," said Shen, in a lecturing tone. "What you did this morning caused all of this."

He rattled his walking-cane. There were a few nods in the crowd.

But Yuan rounded on her father. "What you _didn't_ do caused this. I blame you for all this trouble."

Stone stepped around the gate and walked into the dark and cold street, revolver loose at his side.

There was Reardon and Gerry and he could see a third man lurking at the back with a rifle.

He couldn't see any other gunmen.

"We keep to our areas," said Reardon. "Aye, and no one bothers no one. It has always been this way, so it has."

Stone calmly stepped over the body of Connor, the fire starter, lying prone in a pool of blood.

"His name was Connor McLaughlin. He was my friend, you bastard. You'll fucking pay for him as well."

Stone said nothing, kept walking.

"Get fucking rid, Gerry," said Reardon.

Gerry shoved the hostages forward.

They began to shuffle, chained feet bare in the snow.

The girl shook.

The boy wept.

"You got a name, bastard?" said Reardon.

Stone said nothing, kept walking.

"Real big man we got here, boys," said Reardon. "Like the old days. I'm gonna enjoy taking you down."

Gerry sniggered and began to edge sideways, shifting to his right, eyes never leaving Stone. His finger slid off the trigger guard on the shotgun and slowly curled around the trigger. Reardon gripped tightly at the reins of his horse, the arms of his sons dangling toward the ground. He gently began to steer the beast, measuring his steps, inching backward, creating a wall of cover, his right hand flexing, moving toward his open coat where Stone guessed his weapon was holstered.

The hostages went past Stone. He didn't look at them. He could hear gasps and cries from behind him.

Stone whipped his revolver off his hip and squeezed the trigger. Reardon jerked his head. A jet of blood spurted from his ear. He swore. A pistol came from beneath his coat, concealed in a shoulder-holster, and he began firing. Stone shifted onto his right foot, dropped his shoulder and shaped his body as the shotgun boomed. He swung his revolver and buried two rounds in Gerry's chest. The man staggered, his legs folded, and he went down, firing off the second barrel.

Stone darted to his right, racing for the cover of the ruined buildings, his revolver bucking, bullets streaking toward Reardon, smacking into the bodies of Bobby and Chuck.

Reardon's horse had had enough; it kicked and scattered. The grey-haired gunman sprinted for cover, gun blazing, left hand cupped around his bleeding ear.

The third gunman picked at Stone with his rifle, taking his time with each bullet, looking for the killing shot.

Stone threw himself into a building. He rolled across a rubble strewn floor and coughed dust from his lungs. He saw blood trickling down his arm. Gunfire raked the doorway. Slugs peppered the building. There was shouting and the clatter of hooves as the remaining two men gathered up the horses.

The bastards weren't getting away from him.

He pushed through the building, vaulting collapsed walls, grimacing at the pain in his arm and head. The snow-covered street flashed past him on his left. He dropped in fresh bullets as he ran and snapped back the chamber of his revolver with a violent flick of the wrist.

He edged around a doorway, sighted them and opened fire, blasting round after round into the gloom.

Both men twisted in their saddles to return fire and Stone recoiled into the building as bullets pinged all around him.

He leaned out, putting down fire until the hammer of his revolver clicked empty.

The horses faded into the darkness.

He went into the street, gun loose, and shook his head.

* * *

Yuan and Travis were waiting for him. He was carrying his coat and Gerry's shotgun.

She saw a strip of cloth binding his left arm. "You are wounded again."

Stone ignored her, turned to Travis.

"Did you find Cali?"

"I found these."

He held out a pistol and a blood-stained knife.

SEVENTEEN

"It doesn't have to be this way for you," said Pavla. "The world will change but things will not change for you."

She unsheathed her own knife.

"You are at the bottom in this world. Like thousands of others. Jeremiah plucked you from nowhere and threw you into this."

Calmly, she sawed through the ropes around Cali's ankles and gently massaged her rutted skin.

"But you can walk away from it. Tell us about the robbery and the identity of the sixteenth man and you will leave here."

"I don't know who he is."

"Is it the stranger?"

"Stone? No, he doesn't know anything. Jeremiah hired him for protection."

"Then who is the sixteenth man?"

"I swear I don't know."

"Then tell me about the robbery." Pavla freed her wrists, once more caressing the skin. "You are not innocent. But you can be again, if you are truthful."

She carefully lifted Cali out of the chair and lowered her onto the floor.

"Look around you, child. This is a horrible place to die. I do not want you to die for a man of lies. They are all men of lies where he comes from. I want to know why you stole that money. Please talk to me. What was the purpose of a robbery in the middle of all this?"

Cali ground her teeth, and looked away.

"I thought the beating and the burning had broken you. I was wrong."

She directed words at Timo, speaking in her own tongue. She left Cali on the floor and poured a fresh cup of coffee. Timo lunged at Cali and yanked off her boots. She flailed at him, realising his intent, but he smacked aside her weak hands and tugged at her trousers.

"No, no."

"Yes," said Pavla. She drank a mouthful. "Timo will rape you until you talk. It is a very effective method of warfare."

"It's in Silver Road," she cried. "Jeremiah found it. It's in Silver Road. I swear. It's a town... a second-world town, down south..."

Pavla spoke in her own tongue. Timo waited.

"You can find it off the fifty-five. It's in Silver Road. In the town bank... the plan was to put the money in the vault, a payment, a con. I could get the layout, work out the security, and then we'd settle there, in town, take up rooms like regular folk do. I would rob the bank and no one would suspect us because we would've lost the most. We'd wait a week or so before disappearing with it."

Pavla stood.

"It is real then?"

"It's real. That's why he recruited me. He needed a thief."

On her back, face bruised and bleeding, Cali stared into Pavla's eyes. There were acres of death. The woman had a black soul. Horrified, Cali knew the slow crawl was over. She had reached the end.

A solitary tear rolled over her cheek.

"Stone will find you both. It's what he does."

"Stone? This is the man you travel with? He is not that good."

"You're right," she choked. "He's not good. That's why you cocksuckers will die ugly when he catches you."

"I am better than him," said Pavla. "I am better than all of you."

She thought for a moment, and then reverted to her own tongue.

"Enjoy her, Timo. Then execute her. We will evacuate in thirty minutes."

Cali whimpered.

And then the building was rocked by an explosion.

* * *

Stone had looked for volunteers. There was only one. Travis led him to the spot where he'd found the knife and the gun. Stone examined the prints on the ground. There had been two attackers and Cali had been carried. They hurried across the perimeter and through a recently made hole in the fence, the tracks leading to a building with a perfect vantage point of the surrounding streets.

There was no one on the rooftop, no sign of any lookout. The tracks led to a side door. No attempt had been made to conceal them. An unsettling feeling washed over Stone. He told Travis to wait but the young man reached for the door. Stone heard a distinctive ping, yelled a warning and threw himself to the ground.

The door blew outwards. Travis was hurled off his feet. He landed on his back, blistered and smoking. Stone rushed to his side and felt for a pulse. The kid was dead and his rifle was mangled.

Stone left him in the snow and edged into the building, sweeping the shotgun before him.

It was gloomy, dank, and thick with smoke.

He raised his face scarf, waited and listened.

The wind curled inside, whistling through the eaves. There was a dripping sound, snow melting from the roof, finding gaps.

He took a few paces forward, intensely vigilant, eyes left and right, up and down, seeking out more traps.

The stock of the shotgun pressed into his shoulder. His heartbeat accelerated. He'd left his coat and pack at the compound. His shirt was loose, hanging over his trousers, his head and upper left arm bandaged.

He crouched at the stairs and identified a trap on the third step, wired into a device he did not recognise.

Cautiously, he stepped over it.

The stairs climbed to a small landing. Stone reversed himself, slowly taking each worn step, cold brickwork whispering against his left shoulder, fanning the shotgun as he moved.

The landing came into view.

Empty.

He waited and listened, breathing hard behind his face scarf.

He heard a creak.

He dropped into a half-crouch.

Nothing.

There were dark corridors with water bloated walls, side rooms where he glimpsed old rubbish.

The dripping was louder, a steady plop from the pitted ceiling above.

There was a second creak.

Stone fired instinctively, letting rip with a single barrel, the blast shockingly loud in the cramped space, the hammer driving into the shell, expelling mangled fragments of lead and metal. He rolled toward an open doorway as a burst of automatic fire lit up the landing. Bullets raked the floorboards and gouged holes in the walls. Stone swung around the door and fired the second barrel, hitting nothing.

He broke the shotgun, popped out the spent cartridges, slotted in two more, and snapped it back.

He heard another creak. He already knew there were two of them from the tracks he'd followed, and now they would attempt to flank him in this warren of rooms and corridors that they knew and he didn't.

A second burst of gunfire shook the landing. Stone hunched his shoulders and ran forward into another room, bringing himself closer to the shooter. There was barely any light. He moved through the gloom, stumbling against the remains of an old fire. Footsteps flashed nearby. The shooter had located him. Stone hit the floor as a line of bullets punched through the wall.

He fired twice with the shotgun, ripping holes in the wall. He drew his revolver and let off three rounds blind through the ragged openings. He jogged back, out onto the landing, right arm extended. The floor was scattered with spent casings. The shooter was gone.

He tucked the revolver back into his belt, reloaded the shotgun, and quickly moved deeper into the building.

There was the scrape of boots above. He blasted the ceiling. A shotgun fired back at him, showering him in plaster and tile.

Stone glimpsed a flash of movement nearby. There was a ping and a grenade rolled out of the blackness.

He hurled himself into another room. The explosion ripped through the floor. The building groaned. He got to his knees, coughed, and saw rooms and corridors fold and disappear in clouds of dust.

He heard footsteps from above once more and fired a second time. There was a cry, a thud and then movement again.

Panting hard, nose and mouth covered, pulse racing, head throbbing, Stone hung the shotgun from his shoulder and powered along corridors, tracking the abductors as he ran.

An assault rifle rattled on full-automatic. He took cover as bullets sprayed along a corridor dappled in moonlight.

He pushed into more derelict rooms and found a jammed door. He forced it open and stepped into a cramped stairwell. Wind howled through shattered windows. He swept his revolver up and down, gripping it with both hands. No one. He climbed at speed, finger on the trigger, arms extended. He reached the top floor. There were gaps in the roof and the sky was star-drenched. At the end of the landing was a single door.

He knew one of them was behind him, down below, and he guessed the second one, the one he'd wounded through the ceiling, was waiting for him on the other side of the door. He'd thought he'd got the upper hand on them but they'd manipulated his route through the building and placed him on the stairwell. He was boxed in, about to be caught in a cross-fire. But they'd have to do a lot better to take him down. He'd been in this life a long time now.

He released his left hand from the revolver and unsheathed his machete. He crept toward the door and kicked it wide open. There was a man with a bleeding leg and a pump-action shotgun. The muzzle lit up. Stone pulled back, cracking off two shots with his handgun.

The gunman pumped the weapon, spat an empty cartridge and fired again. Stone ducked from view. He jogged back along the landing. The other shooter was several floors down, an angular woman with a scarred face and dark hair fixed in a stubby ponytail. He pushed his gun hand through the grimy railing and fired down at her, bullets spearing the blackness. She unleashed a barrage of automatic fire and Stone jerked back.

The shotgun boomed once more, keeping him pinned. He heard the pump-action mechanism, a click and a loud clatter as the weapon was discarded. Stone grabbed the moment and rolled around the doorway, pouring lead into the room until his revolver was empty.

Timo was down on one knee, panting, a bullet lodged in his gut. He flapped at the side holster on his belt. Stone caught a split-second glimpse of Cali at the back of the room, slumped against the wall.

Clutching the machete with both hands, Stone tore into the room, howling. Timo drew his pistol and the muzzle began to rise but Stone hit him with all his force. He booted the gun from his hand and slashed down with the machete, tight and fast. The blade hacked into man's neck and a fountain of blood spurted out. Stone chopped him again and again until Timo slammed against the floor in a rapidly spreading pool of blood.

Stone grabbed the dropped pistol, cocked it, and ran for the stairwell, blasting into the darkness.

The woman had gone.

He looked through the gaping windows. He could see the lights from the compound and the sprawl of Batesville.

She was nowhere.

He ran back to Cali. She shook her head, eyes wide open. Her cheek was slashed, her face was bruised, her hands were burnt. There was blood on her clothes, blood matted in her hair, blood on the floor around her.

They'd taped her mouth, tied her wrists and ankles.

Stone looked into her eyes.

* * *

Pavla waited in the gloom, staring up at the building. The assault rifle hung from her shoulder.

Timo had still not exited. She had given him explicit instructions. The plan was to eliminate Stone but if that failed they would draw him to the stairwell, in reach of the girl, and strategically withdraw. They had the information they required. They knew the location. There was no need to take further risks. Pavla continued to wait. It was clear to her that Timo had engaged and was dead.

She spoke aloud, in her native tongue. "I salute you, Timo. Peshkin will honour and..."

The explosion drowned out the rest of her words. The top floor of the building was engulfed in a giant fireball, scattering bricks and mortar. It began to collapse, going down in dust and flames, a huge black cloud of smoke coiling into the night sky.

A thin smile spread across her lips.

"I told you I was better."

EIGHTEEN

Storm clouds surged, thunder rumbled, lightning flickered. The trawler cut through the ragged sea, waves crashing against the hull.

Nuria gripped the metal rail, shrouded in darkness, a hooded rainproof coat keeping out the worse of the foul weather. She stared into blackness, rainwater trickling off her nose. The wind was harsh and she knew she should go inside and sleep, but sleep wasn't coming easy, despite the tiredness in her limbs. She was growing increasingly reckless and self-destructive. But she had a sharp enough mind and could recognise the signs. There had been a heavy increase in drink and tobacco consumption and an alarming decrease in food and rest. She had connected with Stone. More than any man she'd ever known and she simply couldn't turn that off.

The pain of not knowing if he was even alive was becoming more unbearable by the day.

Quinn shivered beside her, saying nothing. As lightning cracked it illuminated the northern shore. There were no inlets or coves, nowhere safe to drop anchor. Craggy mountains speared into the heavy black sky. The rain poured down, cold and filthy. This was the southern reaches of the Place of Bridges, where no Ennpithian had ever travelled before. The mighty canyon that split the two lay beyond the mountains, a giant hole in the ground that cast brothers and sisters as bitter enemies.

By dawn, they would be in the eastern waters of the Metal Sea, hugging the Kiven coastline _._

"The Place of Bridges," she said.

Nuria nodded. They both had stark memories of that fateful day during the summer.

"I wonder if Touron will rename it," said Quinn.

It was a half-hearted comment. She assumed they would but it wasn't important to her and she would never know because there was no going back now. This voyage, she realised, marked more than a renewed search for Stone. It was a fresh beginning for her.

Perhaps she would become Annie once more, no longer Quinn.

She smiled thinly.

"What is it?" said Nuria.

"Nothing."

"Go on. Something made you smile."

"It doesn't matter."

Nuria wiped the rain from her face.

"I could do with something to make me smile."

"I won't be going back."

"You said that before."

"Before I had no choice. When we find Stone..."

"If we find him," said Nuria, her voice flat.

"When," said Quinn. "When we find him, I won't be returning to Ennpithia."

Nuria said nothing.

"But then the boat isn't going to stay," said Quinn. "So we'll be stuck over there anyway."

"Better the Black Region than Ennpithia."

"Yes," said Quinn. "I won't argue with you on that. Goodnight, Nuria, I'm going below."

Nuria watched Quinn disappear below deck. She'd been invaluable, a rock. She had stuck with her through thick and thin. It had been a miserable journey, a miserable six months. Stone had saved Quinn's life in the forbidden and devastated city of Mosscar, and he had served up the killer of Quinn's daughter. But he wouldn't have expected her to stay and help. He didn't stack up debts, he was just doing what was right, doing what he always did, protecting and saving those he could, and never stopping, never standing still... always running.

She knew the past chased him, his short-lived childhood, the massacre of his kin, the terrible things he'd done to survive. She knew it haunted him, and galvanised him, too, driving him to live this nomadic life, righting wrongs, and hoping one day to claim a semblance of peace amongst the craziness.

They'd sailed under a cloud. She'd spotted Shaylighters mingling with the locals and it sickened her to the core.

"Look at the bastards strolling around without a care."

The warriors were offering to work, seeking trade and even catching the eye of a few women – and in a village they had marched upon and threatened with a thousand men.

She spat on the ground, balanced her right hand on her holstered pistol.

"Don't," said Quinn. "Not here. There are plenty of places where the fighting is still going on."

She casually leant against the low stone wall surrounding her cottage, smoking her father's pipe.

"Revenge killings for what happened at Great Onglee. Duggan and the Holy House are suppressing word of it. Once again we have another worthless peace treaty."

She shook her head.

"Ennpithia's problem is too many treaties, too many laws. Not everyone is happy with this."

Nuria wasn't happy. She wasn't even Ennpithian but she wasn't happy. She'd been born in the city of Chett, a long way south, across the burnt deserts of Gallen. She had a military background, she knew soldiering, so a ceasefire or permanent truce should have pleased her, but she was angry, and bitter, having fought against the Shaylighters at Great Onglee and Winshead. She had witnessed burnings and hand breaking and beheadings, and yet here they were, accepted, as if nothing had happened during that long hot summer.

She wanted to put a dozen rounds in them.

"I see they're still painted with the inverted cross. I thought that was banned in the villages and towns."

Quinn shrugged. "I don't give a shit about the cross. Whatever way around it's painted."

"I think Duggan picks and chooses what laws he enforces. Like he always has done."

"I used to idolise him, Nuria, and all he ever wanted was to be between my legs. Like Jeremy."

"Assholes," said Nuria.

"The peace won't last."

"I never want to come back here. I hate this place. I'm sorry, Quinn, I know you grew up here but I hate it."

Quinn squeezed her arm. "I had a complicated childhood here, remember? I have no love for the place. Look, we sail in one hour. Focus on finding Stone and nothing else."

Nuria had spent that final hour inside the Holy House of Brix, the oldest building in a land that nature had reborn, sprouting forests and rivers and meadows. She only had faith in Stone. Not a cross or a deity.

She sat on an uncomfortable wooden pew, alone, and stared at the altar ahead. Holy crosses stared back at her, offering her no answers, no comfort. The Map Maker had worn one. He'd adopted the religion the moment they believed he was the Second Coming. The old priest, Father Devon, had filled the Map Maker's head with rubbish. The Map Maker was an enigma of a man and one thing he didn't need was any more nonsense spinning around inside his scrambled brain.

Now the Ennpithians spoke of him in hushed whispers, talking of the day he'd saved them from the Shaylighters and the missile that had fallen from the sky, using Godlike powers. Nuria smiled, wryly, he would've loved that, his ego would have swollen beyond all measure.

She had heard only the stories. She had been fighting at the Place of Bridges at the time, watching Stone disappear from her life, possibly forever. She had not witnessed the so-called miracle the Map Maker had performed. He'd vanished that day, never to be seen again, travelling with a new woman, Shauna, a pretty young thing. She smiled. Map Maker or Miracle Man, he was still only a man and a man with an eye for young women. She almost laughed. She'd clashed with the Map Maker at almost every turn but she still missed him.

They were all gone _._ She walked out of the Holy House, feeling nothing but dead inside.

* * *

The cabin was in darkness. The storm was passing but the rain still fell. The trawler rocked in the sea.

Quinn was already in her bunk. She had slept for a few hours, waking as the door creaked open and the waft of drink and tobacco tickled her nostrils. Nuria stumbled across the confined space. There was too much time spent with the aged crew, hard men of the waters with stories of how the Metal Sea was once land, long ago, during the first age, until wars ripped away pieces of the world and sunk them forever. The stories had been passed down through generations of mariners but were doing little to inspire any hope of finding Stone, even if they were able to make their way ashore. It was already becoming unspoken that this attempt would fail.

She stared painfully at the woman who knew all her secrets and was untroubled by them. There was no judgement from Nuria, only acceptance. Yet Quinn was sitting back and allowing her to disintegrate.

Nuria staggered.

"Let me help you," said Quinn.

She pushed aside the covers and climbed from her bunk. She wore a loose shirt and thick socks. Her legs were bare. She undressed Nuria, peeling off sodden clothes and dumping them on the floor. She would wring them out and hang them later. Nuria shivered, goose bumps erupting along her trembling arms. She had grown thin and gaunt. There was branding along one arm from time spent inside Tamnica prison. Quinn guided her to the bed and slipped her under the covers. She turned to pick up the wet clothes when Nuria reached out a hand in the dark and curled it around her wrist. She tugged. Quinn hesitated, knowing that Nuria was drunk and possibly stoned as well.

She sat down on the edge of the bunk. Nuria pulled her beneath the covers, placing Quinn's arms around her and folding against her. Quinn knew there would be nothing more than holding each other through a torrid night at sea. But it had been a very long time since a naked woman had been in her arms. Six years ago. A working girl from the village of Great Onglee. Deep and suppressed desires stirred and ached. She could feel her own heart hammering in her chest. There was sudden and crushing sadness at the emptiness of her life. An aunt to a daughter fathered out of incestuous rape had broken her heart a thousand times over and only the road had saved her mind, fighting and killing to escape the pain.

Nuria snored, muttering in her sleep, stinking of drink and dope.

Quinn held her tight. Her eyes closed. Her hands glided, caressed.

Maybe it _was_ over for Quinn and time for Annie to breathe.

She lifted a hand from Nuria's spine, ran it over her near-hairless scalp, thinking on the men who'd died in the mountains.

She wondered if Annie's time might be running out, too.

* * *

It was dawn when the cry came from above. Quinn clambered from the bunk and dragged on her clothes and boots.

Nuria turned over, still snoring, the longest she had slept in months. Quinn had no intention of waking her and rushed up onto deck. The grey sea was choppy and loud, the air was stiff and cold. She expanded her telescope, scanned the mountains and saw where the crew were changing course for. There were ragged gaps with water flowing through them and glimpses of rock-covered beaches beyond.

She looked for a long time and a faint smile formed on her lips.

They had found a way into the Black Region.

NINETEEN

The sun hung in a bluish-red sky, burning away the dawn mist.

Stone resented its clarity and anger swelled inside him. He preferred the dark, so adept at hiding the twisted contours of the world. Daylight brought starkness and reminders of those who had suffered.

Leaden clouds blanketed the skyline, attempting to push the sun away, and rain soon fell, coming down in shimmering waves, loud on the leaking metal roof of the shack.

It was the first morning in six months he had not thought of Nuria. His thoughts were elsewhere.

His strong arms were wrapped around Cali. She was trembling and had been for nearly an hour. He lightly stroked her blood-caked hair. He'd missed the first trap and it had cost Travis his life. He wasn't about to make the same mistake. He'd seen it in her eyes as he'd moved to cut her free.

The explosive had been wired to her back. Sudden movement would've caused it to detonate. He'd carefully disconnected it from her, his brow thick with sweat, his heart thumping, and they'd only just made it outside before it had blown. He had no idea what caused it to explode.

He patched her up the best he could, with barely any supplies, and told her they would need to return to the compound, but she shook her head, and held onto him tightly. She didn't want to go anywhere. She was a pale shadow of the loud-mouthed girl he'd first encountered at the refuge, flinging herself around, daring and pulsing with life and energy. They had come to him cloaked in lies, and those lies had cost Jeremiah his life, and it had nearly cost her everything.

There had to be truth.

"His name was Jimmie," said Stone, his voice almost a whisper. "He was a gambler with big debts. He sold his nine-year old daughter to pay for them but the guilt ate him up. So he did what men do - he drank even more, gambled even heavier, got into even more shit with the kind of people you don't owe to. Gangs like Head Smash and Red Dog. But Jimmie had heard there was a man in the city, taking on the scum, and he figured he could put it all right. He came to me and offered up a deal."

Stone paused.

"Jimmie was dying. He kept having these bad headaches and was coughing up blood. He wanted redemption, wanted to die knowing his daughter was safe. He hired me to get her out of the city. His payment would be his life. The plan was to trick the League of Restoration, like you guessed, Cali. He was a tall guy, a little shorter than me and not as much lean muscle on him, he was ravaged from the drink, but he was passable, and he had a scar on his face from a bottle in a bar brawl. It was the wrong side of the face but it would have to do. I was out of ideas. The bridges were gone. I couldn't find the Pathfinder. I couldn't even get a working vehicle. I knew it would be crazy to flee into the Black Region with the League chasing after me. They'd hunt me down easily out there. This was the only way. They had to believe I was dead."

Stone listened to the rain, heavier now.

"Only I knew the League weren't stupid. They'd recognise him. So I told Jimmie I'd torch his body. I found his daughter easily enough, she was a year or so older now and I got her to the outskirts of the city. I gave her some coins, a gun, but I reckon she didn't split. She probably sold the gun and used all the money for drugs. Jimmie had condemned her. But it was done. I met with him. He was living in the ruins near the production factory. It had been an old gambling den, one of his favourite haunts, but half the building had collapsed sometime before so the place went out of business. Jimmie stayed. He lived amongst the rubble, couldn't afford to rent a room."

Cali eased into an upright position. His grim eyes held tears. She gingerly put her fingers to his face. Her palms were bound with cloth, covering the multiple burns. He drew her close. He was too ashamed to look at her.

"Jimmie was there. I thought he would betray me to the League but he hadn't. For such a scumbag he came through in the end. He kept his word and I put a bullet in his head. I didn't feel anything when I shot him. He'd given his daughter a chance – even though I doubt she took it – but it was there for her. He knew redemption as he died. That was what he wanted. I started a fire. I needed him to burn. It was only a small fire. I'd left word in a few places that I was sheltering in the old gambling den. I knew it would filter back to the League within a few hours. But the fire spread, got out of control, and I had to go back in there and drag Jimmie's body to the front, like he... like I was trying to escape."

The rain continued to fall.

"What I didn't know... what neither of us knew... was a family had taken shelter there. Jimmie didn't always go... _home._ He hadn't been back for nearly a week. It was night. They would've heard the gunshot, stayed silent. The fire was wild. Bits of the building collapsed. It must have trapped them. I didn't know. I stood in the dark waiting for the League, not realising those people were in there, suffocating from the fumes. The League got there a little while later. They dragged Jimmie onto the street, put a chain around his ankles and tied him to the back of a pickup. They were going to parade him... me... around the city."

Stone lowered his head.

"But then one of the soldiers came out of the building, throwing up his guts. And the celebrations stopped. They took the chain off Jimmie's ankles, dumped his body in the back of the pickup and drove away. I waited until they left and then went back inside."

"You didn't know," she whispered.

"There were four bodies. Nothing can balance that out, Cali. I'm not a good man. I told Jeremiah. I'm telling you."

Cali pulled away from him.

"I don't need a good man. I need you, Stone. Jimmie found redemption with you. Maybe you can find it with me."

She stepped away from him. The floor space of the shack was packed dirt, cold and damp.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"Innocents get hurt when you make a stand, sacrifices are made. They have to be. Jeremiah was a sacrifice for what he believed in. I was almost one for believing in the same thing. That bitch ordered Timo to rape me and he would've done if you hadn't set off one of their traps. They would've killed me because that's what they believe in. Do you know what I'm saying?"

"So what did Jeremiah believe in? What is it that you still believe in?"

"All this," said Cali, snorting, and waving her arms around. "Yeah, look at it. It sucks, right? But this is what the fight is for, man."

Stone frowned.

"It wasn't a random snatch," she said. "But you knew that already, right? They were a professional team. I mean, booby-traps, grenades, an automatic weapon. You had a feeling in your gut we were being followed and you were right. Jeremiah knew they were out there. I should have told you. That's why he hooked up with you. There was a list of fifteen men and women, the soldiers he'd sent. Those fuckers who took me executed them all. They had a copy of the list. Someone betrayed Jeremiah but it was too late to recall them. There's a rogue sixteenth dude out there. I don't know shit about him and nor does the woman, Pavla."

Stone was silent.

"Jeremiah found out where it was. He needed a thief to get it. That's why I was travelling with him."

"What was he looking for?"

She held out a piece of paper with her bandaged hand.

"I've seen this before. When I searched your pack. Stars in the night sky. I don't get it."

"No good asking me, man."

"But you drew it."

She shook her head. "I draw in my notebook. I didn't draw this. Jeremiah did. He gave it to me."

"Why?"

"He said it was the future."

Stone handed it back.

"I guess this thing he wants you to steal is at Silver Road, right?"

She stuffed the piece of paper into her pocket. "It's sitting in a bank vault."

"Why did you complicate things by stealing from Triple Death?"

She laid out the story for a second time, piece by piece, the robbery, planting the coins in the bank, getting the layout.

"We didn't give a shit about the money. The coins were our way in, that's all. The only danger Jeremiah saw was Triple Death. He didn't count on them figuring out so quickly who'd ripped them off. He was hoping we'd get further from Kiven. Then the blizzards came and messed things up. But lucky that they did, otherwise we wouldn't have found you."

"Did you tell the woman all this?"

Cali nodded. "I told that cunt everything."

"Why does she want it? Whatever it is."

"Jeremiah said that anyone else but his people would destroy it."

"Why haven't the people of Silver Road destroyed it?"

"I dunno."

He grunted with frustration.

"Pavla has two languages, Stone. She spoke fluent to me, but kind of not, if you know what I mean? She could, like, say the words, but it wasn't natural for her. They came out all choppy and shit. When she spoke to the man, Timo, she used her own words."

Stone narrowed his eyes. "What was Jeremiah planning to do with it?"

"Carry it home back to his people with me at his side."

"Home?"

"New Washington. That's where he said he was from."

The name meant nothing to Stone.

"The third war ended the age of the Before. Jeremiah reckoned our world couldn't survive a fourth one. Said this thing would save thousands of lives."

Stone allowed time for the words to settle. He thought back to his conversation with Jeremiah at the refuge. The old man had mentioned something about a _fourth war._

"I thought he was talking about the civil war between Ennpithia and Kiven, getting his numbers scrambled."

"Nah," said Cali, shaking her head. "This is bigger than that. He said it was coming and this thing would help pull the townships together."

She paused.

"Here it is, Stone, your shot at redemption, your chance to bury the memories of Kiven. We go to Silver Road and follow Jeremiah's plan."

"So who was he really?"

"He told me he was military. Major Jeremiah Cartwright. 2nd Rangers, URA."

"URA?"

"United Republican Army."

"He had his own army?" Stone shook his head. "So we're looking for a weapon, right?

"I reckon so. He wouldn't tell me what, though. Look, you took down the missiles. Help me solve this shit, whatever it might be."

He studied her. "Why do care so much?"

She suddenly let out an anguished cry. "You think I got anything else?"

Stone grabbed her and she cried it out. Questions bounced around his head but they would have to wait.

_A Major? The URA? 2_ nd _Rangers? A secret weapon? He didn't like the sound of any of it._

But she had talked of saving thousands of lives and he couldn't, he wouldn't, turn his back on that.

"We can follow through with the plan. Put the coins in the bank, then rob the place and see if we can find this thing."

"Are we going to New Washington?"

"One thing at a time."

"What about Pavla?"

"We'll take that bitch down. You can count on it."

"But she's no longer behind us and she knows about the bank."

"Yeah, and she thinks we're dead."

Cali stopped crying, sniffed, and peeled away from him, embarrassed. He got to his feet, flexed his left arm, sore from the bullet wound.

Gingerly, he approached the door of the shack.

"Yuan is out there," he said. "Let's put her out of her misery and tell her we're still alive."

* * *

The dark-haired girl was fifty yards away, skulking in a half-ruined building. The area was covered with rubble and Travis was somewhere beneath it. The sky was grey and gloomy and matched the despondent expression on her face. She glanced at the packs of equipment beside her, belonging to Stone and Cali. She touched Stone's coat. She had not given up on them. They might have made it out of the building before the shocking explosion. But if they had then where were they? Her mood descended. The rain continued to fall.

She thought of Suyin and Joe, recovering in the medical hut, deeply traumatised and surrounded by relatives. She was delighted her cousin was safe but she could not be there for her.

There was a poisonous atmosphere inside the community and she could not stand another minute around her father.

She folded her arms, sighed.

She wore an ankle-length, homespun dress with a belt around her narrow waist and a heavy coat with wooden toggle buttons. She paced, boots echoing across the cement floor, waiting, hoping and praying.

Her heart stopped as Stone and Cali emerged from a nearby metal shack.

"I saw the explosions and then the building went down. I was so..."

She saw Cali, battered and slashed, and her words stuttered. Then she bombarded them with questions none of which they wanted to answer. She also told them she'd made a decision. She was leaving her community and coming with them. Stone told her she was staying put.

"Then I'll walk behind you, I'll follow you both."

Stone abruptly raised his hand. "What did you bring?"

She was stung by his manner. "I have food, water and medical supplies. I know what you'll need."

Stone spun her around. There was a pack on her slim back. He rooted out a needle and thread.

"We need wheels," he said, turning her face forward. "Do you know anywhere in this city we can find a working car?"

Yuan thought for a moment.

"Panola Avenue. It's a taboo place. There is a community there. Deshi and some of the other men go there to trade. We grow our own food and produce water from..."

"Do they have vehicles?" barked Stone.

Cali placed a bandaged hand on his arm. "She's only trying to help. Just rein it in a bit, OK?"

"It's not OK," said Stone, looking at her slashed cheek. "None of this is OK."

He sat Cali down, dug out the whiskey, and offered it to

"Drink," he said.

"It's too early for me, man."

"Drink."

She took the bottle, gulped it down. The three of them retreated deep into the building. Cali gritted her teeth as he sowed her wound, carefully knitting the skin together. He told Yuan to talk. She explained it was a single street, hundreds of people occupying buildings and shacks and hundreds more passing through.

"My father doesn't approve of our people going there but he is happy when Deshi brings back tobacco and papers for his smelly cigarettes. There is a lot of trade there. Weapons, drugs... people."

Her ex-man, Deshi, had once told her of a garage where they stripped down old cars and mended them, making them work again.

"He said he wanted to own one. He couldn't even drive. I think he was trying to impress me."

"That dude ain't worth shit," said Cali, wincing. "You should have got in with Travis. He worshipped you."

Stone lowered the needle and covered her cheek with a large adhesive.

"Why do we need a car?" asked Yuan.

"We're going to Silver Road and we don't have time to waste walking."

"You're not leaving me behind. I'm coming with you."

His eyes sharpened.

"Do you still have that knife?"

She opened her coat. It jutted from a deep pocket.

"Good, you'll need it, because we're going to kill anyone who gets in our fucking way."

TWENTY

Reardon galloped onto a deserted avenue, rain hissing against the asphalt.

His ear was bandaged and he carried a pistol in his gloved right fist. He warily surveyed the scattered houses. They were mostly broken down and surrounded by bare trees. He slowed his horse and trotted toward a clapboard dwelling where smoke curled from a stone chimney. It stood on an overgrown lawn, the original paint having long since peeled away, its boards mismatched as rotten ones were replaced down the years. There was a covered veranda with wooden benches and a battered looking crate half-filled with rubbish.

It had been a good few years since he'd been here. He really shouldn't have left it so long.

The closer they are, he mused, the further apart they are.

"Michelle, are you in there?" He waited, keeping his gun ready. "C'mon, you wee bitch, it's Robert Reardon."

His horse snorted, twisted her head. He soothed her and glanced at the graves to the left of the house, each one marked with an outline of stones and a wooden cross.

He grew impatient. His gnarly voice barked. "Michelle?"

A wooden frame window slid upward and a round-faced woman appeared. She was in her forties with dark hair and small green eyes. She smiled broadly at the sight of him.

"I'm hardly fucking wee, am I? Can't a woman take a shit in peace without a man interrupting her?" She regarded him for a moment. "Well, what about you, Robert Reardon? What's going on with you, big man?"

He holstered his pistol, took off his rain-soaked hat, and placed it across his chest, a solemn expression upon his lined face. A second rider, Danny Sullivan, emerged from the rainy gloom, leading a horse with two drenched bodies roped to it.

"My boys are dead, Michelle," said Reardon. "A big bastard from across the water took them down, so he did."

The smile slipped away. She called into the house. "Donal, Declan, go and help Mr Reardon. Now, boys."

Her boys were strapping young men. Donal was seventeen, Declan was twenty-two. They came through the front door, smartly dressed in matching shirts. Donal had shot up in height, now shoulder to shoulder with his older brother, Declan, and he was growing a wispy-looking beard. They were stocky and muscled with fists suited to brawling.

Heads ducked against the rain, they hurriedly loosened the ropes holding Bobby and Chuck.

"The Lord have mercy on them," said Michelle, fervently crossing herself. "Come on in, soup for breakfast."

The window slammed shut. Reardon and Sullivan wandered into the trees for a piss.

"I told you, Bobby," said Sullivan. "She'll start all that fucking religious shite with us. You mark my words. _Lord have mercy on them._ The Lord wasn't watching over those poor wee boys. I don't want to hear that crap from her. My own Da was full of it, so he was."

Urine splashed on fallen pine needles. Sullivan shook his head with frustration. The rain was heavy and cold, dropping through the branches and running off the brim of his hat. The snow had turned to slush. Reardon looked into the face of his oldest and most trusted friend, saying nothing, and Sullivan nodded.

"Aye, I'm sorry, Bobby. I know you don't want to hear it. You're a man of grief."

"No bother," said Reardon. "You need a woman, Danny, that's all. You're wound like a spring."

"You know me too well."

Reardon glanced at the house.

"The Creagh family have always helped us. Michelle and her boys will ride with us. If you're lucky, she'll ride you."

Sullivan laughed. The families had been close, back in the day, those special nights in the park. Drink and cooked food, children running wild, dancing and singing, long before the shadow of civil war fell upon them, before Kiven decided to make a greedy grab for Ennpithia's land, like a spoilt child.

"Let her have her God and her cross, Danny," said Reardon. "And you get to shaft her big ass before we go."

"Good, because I need a fucking release. You know, I still can't believe Connor and Gerry are dead."

"I did the right thing last night."

"You don't have to convince me."

"But we lost Mickey and..."

"Fuck Mickey," said Sullivan. "I never liked that bastard. Worm-faced cunt, so he was."

The two men sauntered toward the house.

"It's her house. Let her do her thing."

"Aye, OK, OK," said Sullivan.

They gathered in the front room. A fire blazed and it was noisy with a handful of children. The two men were greeted with hugs and a chorus of questions. A newly made wooden cross hung from the wall and Sullivan glared at it. He'd never seen one that big before. Reardon's eyes were on him and he nodded, agreeing to keep his mouth shut.

Bobby and Chuck, bullet holes and bloodstains, were given the best chairs Michelle owned. Declan and Donal angled them toward the front window, with a view of the rain swept lawn.

A twelve-year old girl with freckles and dark hair ushered the little ones into a back bedroom, closing the door on her way out.

"Now who are you, miss?" said Reardon. "Will the Lord forgive me, is that you, Molly? That can't be you. Look how tall you've become."

Michelle watched Reardon. She saw his eyes linger.

"Molly, this is for grownups, away with you."

"I'm grownup," said Molly. There was an even defiance in her voice. "I can shoot, hunt, and kill."

She made a pistol with her hand and shot Reardon. He staggered back, clutching his chest and laughed.

"In the bedroom," said Michelle. "Now, girl."

Reardon patted her head, stroked her cheek, squeezed her shoulder. "Best do as your Ma says, Molly."

"She's grown," said Sullivan.

"That she has."

With the children gone from the room, Michelle fussed over her guests as if they were replacements. They would be well fed and cared for under her roof. She said prayers and made the sign of the cross, for the hundredth time, thought Sullivan. They ate soup and bread, and drank coffee laced with whiskey, and smoked cigarettes and pipes.

The rain slanted against the house, and Michelle listened closely as the story of the shootout was recounted and the dead men named. There was nothing much said for a short time. Reardon slumped in his chair with glazed eyes.

"Never seen him before," said Sullivan, breaking the mood. "That fucking gun he used on Connor. Split him open and put his guts on the snow, poor bastard."

Michelle drank, called over at Reardon's boys. "Don't you worry now, lads. We'll do you right and take this bastard down. You hang on a wee while."

Sullivan rolled his eyes.

"Don't you start your shite with me, Daniel Sullivan." She pointed across the table at him. "Not in my own house. This is a house that respects the Lord and you'll be mindful of that."

"Aye, aye," said Sullivan, holding up his hands. "Have it your own fucking way, darling."

He winked at her.

"And don't you be trying to sweet talk me, you dirty scumbag. My legs are not parting today, not when there's business to get done."

"He's a little tense," said Reardon, suddenly grinning. "Ain't that right, _Daniel_?"

"A little is right," said Michelle. "Maggot cock."

She laughed. It sounded as if she was being choked. The men cringed.

"Declan will come," she said. "Donal will stay behind."

"The boy should be on the road," said Sullivan.

Michelle shook her head. "Donal is no fighting boy. The Lord gave him muscles in his head."

"Are you fucking kidding me? Look at him. Sure, he has bigger arms than me. Like a boxer, so he is."

"He's staying here, Daniel," said Michelle.

"What about Molly?" asked Reardon.

"I need her to watch the wee ones."

"Can't you give them to one of your neighbours?" he asked.

"We have no neighbours," said Michelle. Dead or driven out, she thought, but kept silent.

"Why can't Donal take care of them?" asked Sullivan. "If he's staying..."

Michelle's voice boomed. "Molly stays here. That's an end to it."

Reardon took his eyes off the closed bedroom door and stabbed out his cigarette.

"Four will have to do." He turned to Donal. "You still collect the posters, son?"

"Yes, sir, Mr Reardon, I do, sir."

"Fetch 'em."

Declan watched his younger brother smile from ear to ear, proud his collection of posters was suddenly important.

"He's a good boy, Michelle," said Reardon. He looked at Declan. "They both are. You got any kills, son?"

"Yes, sir, Mr Reardon, I killed one of them brown bastards down at Panola Avenue only a week ago. Cut him from here to here."

Michelle crossed herself. "Declan is good with a blade."

"You got one of the brown ones?" said Reardon. He reached into his pocket and flipped a coin. "Fair play to you, Declan. Remember, son, the world is a better place when you take colour from it."

The young man pocketed the coin. "Aye, sir, it is. Thank you, sir."

Reardon turned to Michelle. "Brown skins on Panola Avenue?"

"Aye, but not organised. We think they were only passing through."

Reardon nodded, thought on it. "Good to take no chances. It was brown skins that cut Bobby."

"Aye, poor Bobby," said Michelle, crossing herself.

Sullivan jerked his thumb toward the bedroom, where Donal was retrieving his collection of posters.

"You reckon he might be amongst them?"

"Worth a look," said Reardon. "Depends how long he's been in Kiven. He's not local. I'm certain of that."

"You said he was from across the water?" said Michelle. She refilled the coffee cups.

"Aye, he has that shifty look about him, you know the fucking type, bastards all look the same, so they do."

He stared into space.

"He's good, make no bones about it. Look at my fucking ear. He put a bullet right through it. If I hadn't moved he'd have popped out my eye with that shot. He came down the street bold as brass, fucking balls on him, knowing full well he'd taken my boys from me and willing to front me up like that."

The rain tumbled down.

The children squealed in the back room.

Donal returned with a heavy looking crate, home to his prized collection of posters. They were different shapes and sizes, some of them more than a decade old. Most of the men and women depicted on them were long since deceased, handsome rewards claimed and spent. He had collected the majority of them in Kiven, when his Ma took them on trips to buy and steal. He would take the posters down from walls and notice boards and carefully roll them up. He never folded them. He couldn't abide creasing one of his posters. They had been sketched by the same artist, Aidan Foster, an expert in capturing likeness. He was a well-known figure in the city, and Donal had always wanted to meet him. People who had never met Foster spoke of him as if they had, and elevated him above them, making his life more valid than their own. Donal knew he was no different. He did the same thing and always wanted to hear stories of the man, outrageous bullshit or not.

He carefully emptied the contents on the table and Reardon went through them one at a time, dumping them back into the chest once he was satisfied the poster bore no resemblance to Stone.

Donal winced as Reardon handled them. Declan thrust an elbow into him and told him to grow up.

"Look," said Reardon. "Connor."

It was the grey-haired fire starter Stone had cut to ribbons with the submachine gun.

"God rest your soul, Connor McLaughlin," said Michelle. "Let the Lord watch over you."

Sullivan had reached his limit. This was Kiven. Not Ennpithia. Those fucks over the Place of Bridges had Holy Houses, Holy Men and Holy fucking Laws and it was seeping into Kiven like water through a dam. He couldn't take the crossing, blessing and knee-bending shit anymore. He let rip. Michelle took him on man-for-man and they threw insults back and forth. Reardon had heard the argument a hundred times. It was foreplay, plain and simple. He told them to get it over with because they had shit to do. They didn't move from the table but the ranting ceased and he continued to sift through the posters, occasionally laughing at some of the rewards the Alliance offered for men that were his friends. He hesitated at one poster, and they all looked at him expectantly, but he shook his head and carried on.

"C'mon then," said Michelle. "Let's get you straightened out, Daniel. You can't ride all agitated and stiff, so you can't."

They used the bedroom next to where the kids played, brimming with stolen and salvaged items.

Declan listened red-faced to the creak of the bed. It was not the first time. He hoped it would be the last.

"Mr Reardon, sir?" asked Donal, seemingly oblivious to the laboured grunts that everyone else was listening to.

"What's bothering you, son?"

"Will you bury Bobby and Chuck here?"

Reardon stared at him.

"Our Da is buried out back. They could lay with him. He was fond of them, wasn't he?"

Declan wished his brother would be quiet. He was overstepping the boundaries of familiarity.

But Reardon looked at Donal fondly.

"No, boy," he said. "Bobby and Chuck will come on the road with me. Won't you, boys? They don't go into the ground until the bastard that killed them is dead. Then I can send them on their way. Proper and decent. But not before, son, not before."

He got to his feet, scattering the remaining posters.

"Danny. Michelle. Get the fuck out here."

Sullivan roared. Michelle cried out. A moment later they emerged, flushed and half-dressed.

Reardon held up a poster of a long-haired man with a scar down his face.

"The long hair has gone and he has a bandage round his head, but it's him."

He handed the poster to Donal.

"Read the words, boy."

Donal gripped the poster between his fingers. Michelle noticed his hands were trembling.

"His name is Stone," he said. "Known as the Tongueless Man and the Wasteland Soldier. He's wanted for killing Governor Omar... and more than thirty soldiers from the League of Restoration."

There was a long silence.

"So he fancies himself a hard bastard," said Reardon, walking over to his dead boys.

He crouched, gabbed each one by the leg.

"I promise you this, boys, we're gonna find him, and we're gonna hang him for what he did."

He drew his pistol, kissed the cold steel barrel.

"Let the Lord be my witness."

"A-fucking-men," said Sullivan.

He grabbed his rifle, and Michelle thumped him around the head.

TWENTY ONE

Greasy and fast moving, Panola Avenue had a reputation and squarely delivered.

A wide two-lane roadway, it had been a mix of residential and commercial during the age of the Before, and on that front nothing had changed, with people still living here and still selling. But the asphalt was heavily-potholed and weed-ridden and some areas were flooded with gurgling water as first-world drainage failed its second-world successors. And the road no longer swelled with dozens of brightly-coloured metal vehicles grinding through the gears to the gas station or the grocery store or the school district. There was no pumping fuel and no filling brown paper bags and no letting out on the sidewalk. It was now swollen with a transient population, a vacuum of rain-drenched men and women, drifting in from different quarters of the city or from the shanty towns and camps on the outskirts. Some were scarred or covered in ink. Others were missing limbs or were sickly-looking. Many wore masks, helmets or hoods. And they were all jostling for space, looking to get down to it and sort out business.

Stone pushed forward into the crowds with Cali and Yuan beside him, watching them as much as he watched those around him.

There were single-storey buildings with boarded windows and faded signage above mended doors. This was second-world business. No branding and no finesse. No neon, no deals and no pithy slogans. There were only hand-scrawled signs, sometimes not even that, offering WEAPONS, DRINK, DICE, WOMEN.

Men lounged outside on easy chairs, weather-beaten skin, steely eyes, controlling all the action, like their father's before them. They wore big coats with turned-up collars and wide-brimmed hats and gun belts, and tucked into hot food from across the street, eating with their hands and licking the grease from their fingers as they told stories with bursts of laughter. They were aware of everyone and everything. Only the control they held changed hands door by door. There was no single boss and no crew exerting overall power, only an understanding that easy money could be made and every one could enjoy a piece of the pie as long as no one got too big for their boots.

Ragged lines of food stands were shunted together beneath awnings. Grills sizzled, pots bubbled, pans smoked; there was stirring, chopping, slicing and peeling. Smells filled the air, rich and sharp, bitter and tangy. There were junk stalls and weapon stalls and voices yelling back and forth. Further on came much larger trade areas, tents and wagons belonging to the Junk Men, true scavengers of the wastelands, men with skills and equipment and a long history of unearthing the unfathomable from the soil.

"Stay close," said Stone. "Don't wander off."

Cali gave him an insulted look. "Why?"

"Because we don't know who runs this place and I'm in a foul mood already."

She laughed, but it was fake and nervous and drew layers across the pain and fear that swirled inside and checked every foot she placed on the wet ground ahead. The past hour had been like walking through mud as her experience at the hands of Timo and Pavla had surged into her head and refused to let go. Her heart raced, thumping so hard she was certain her chest would explode and she'd drop dead on the spot.

Stone could see that Panola Avenue was no place for taking risks. Jeremiah was dead and Cali had been slashed and nearly raped. That was the fallout of risks and lies and there would be no second chances from here on out. He carried the shotgun that had belonged to one of Reardon's men. He also carried Timo's pistol, nestling inside his coat, and his own revolver was tucked in his belt, his hand never straying too far from it. Yuan was talking to him but her soft voice was inaudible in a place such as this. He wasn't too concerned. Whatever it was it could wait.

His clothes were soaked, and he was angry and vengeful, knowing that Pavla was ahead of him, and Reardon most likely behind him, and he wanted to bury rounds in both of them. But he had to shut that out for now and focus on finding a vehicle that would take them to Silver Road and take them fast. He couldn't connect the dots of the drawing and the weapon Jeremiah had sought. But he knew that Kiven had used missiles in the summer and who knew what other weapons were hidden in the town of Silver Road.

In that moment, he craved the clarity and freedom of the highway, his boot on the pedal, hands curled around the wheel, nostrils tingling with the stench of fuel, and a land of unending craters on all sides. The wasteland had always been his home. He'd been born in it and would end in it. He needed to get away from Batesville, a chance to think on the mission he was undertaking with Cali, not knowing if it would take him further from Nuria or closer to her. But Cali had spoken of thousands of lives at stakes, and that meant he had to reach Silver Road and put his hands on whatever the second-world town concealed.

He'd warned them to tread carefully here, to keep with him and avoid confrontation, until they worked out what was what, and who was who, although it seemed people were more wary of _him_ than the other way around and once again a man shuffled away to avoid his long strides.

He guided Cali and Yuan onto a less crowded sidewalk, constantly alert, his eyes roaming from side to side, memorising faces, catching snatches of conversation. The numbness in his arm was fading but his head was beginning to swim once more after the long walk here, and the noise of the place wasn't helping. He suppressed the urge to pick a fight with any one who looked at him a little off. His bandaged head and Cali's bruised face drew scant attention. They were anonymous. Every other person seemed to have something missing or was inherently damaged.

Yuan was fascinated by Panola Avenue. Deshi had told her of this world but captured none of its energy and intensity. It was intoxicating and she couldn't help but stop and stare. There was a heartbeat, a vibrancy that resonated in a way that her life did not. She wanted to remember the sounds and smells forever. She glanced at Stone, unsmiling and determined looking, and was so thankful for him; he'd shown her how to stand and fight, and how to walk and live.

"I wish Travis could have seen this place," she said. "At least once."

Cali rolled her eyes.

"Girl, I can't work you out."

* * *

"Yeah," shouted Kody, slamming his fist into the wall.

The bed shook. The girl cried out.

"That's what I'm about, baby. Ah, yeah. That's it. That's the good sweet stuff for you."

He squeezed out every last drop. Sweat dripped from his beard onto her back. He jerked free and stepped naked from the bed, red-faced.

"Girl, you put some serious _black_ in the Black Region."

He slapped the rounded cheeks of her ass.

"You're a pretty hot thing. You don't fuck like no Kiven whore fucks. Respect to you, ma'am. Black chicks rule."

Tisha rolled onto her back and sat up cross-legged. She lit a cigarette, skimpy on the tobacco. She was eighteen years old with long black hair, dark brown eyes and an oval-shaped face. Cigarette hanging from her lips, she wrapped a blanket around her shoulders. She had worked Panola for two years. It wasn't so bad, she told herself. She earned a good wage and no one beat her or forced drugs on her. Her cut to Big Red, the whoremaster, was small and he kept all his girls safe. And it helped when the dude she had to bang wasn't old and stinking of piss and liquor. This one was pretty decent looking and he hadn't treated her rough.

She fixed her hair in a ponytail. "You got a name, man?"

He was pulling on his shirt. He stopped, looked at her. "Why the fuck do you want to know my name?"

She swallowed, realising she'd been stupid to think there might have been anything more than a customer and client relationship.

"It doesn't matter."

"Fucking right it doesn't. You don't ask me shit, girl."

She shuffled to the edge of the bed and smoked her cigarette. There was groaning coming through the wall.

Kody shouted. "Finish up, cocksuckers. Shot your puny loads. We got important shit to do."

He pulled on his jacket and left without a word. He sauntered into a corridor that led into a square-shaped room with a dirty tiled floor. The windows were shuttered. Dead cables hung from the ceiling. Dusty light filtered through gaps around the front door.

Three men sat on chairs. One of them was wiry and old, eagerly waiting for Tisha to become available.

A busty girl in a low-cut top was perched on a stool behind the front desk, handling the business.

She smiled at him.

"What the fuck are you grinning at, retard?" he said.

The girl held onto the fake smile but lowered her eyes. The wiry old man shuffled to his feet and stepped forward.

"Tisha?" he asked the busty girl.

"Sit back down," said Kody. He pushed his hand into the man's chest. "That bitch is wrecked. Ain't nothing left for you."

He laughed, nudged open the front door with his boot, and stepped into the glare of daylight.

There was a sign above his head: REDS GIRLS.

Beneath it was scrawled: Best Fucks in Batesville.

The rain was still coming down in heavy grey sheets. Red, the whoremaster, was in his late forties, bright red beard and a milk-white left eye. He sat with three other men, big coats with turned-up collars, wide-brimmed hats and gun belts. Kody gave him an appreciative nod.

The young man took a few steps along the sidewalk, leaning back against the wall of the building. The sloping roof above kept him dry. He reached into his pocket, took out his gloves and slowly pulled them on.

They were black, fingerless and bore the symbol of Triple Death.

TWENTY TWO

Yuan hardly blinked, not wishing to miss a thing. Panola Avenue thrilled her and she almost danced on the spot, clapping her hands.

It was a whirlwind of noise and sights that eclipsed the dark moments of the past few days.

A man limped by on crutches. He had saggy skin, a bushy grey beard. There were pieces of shiny metal and ribbon pinned to the front of his coat. Men tipped their hats at him as he passed and Yuan wondered why. She turned her focus toward the Junk Men, rugged faces half-concealed beneath grilled helmets, crossbows hanging from their shoulders. She had heard stories of them, even in the stifled community she had been born into, but never seen them. There were customers who argued heatedly with the Junk Men over the valuation of lumps of Tech and other relics but they took no nonsense and the prices demanded were the prices paid or the customer was moved on. She listened in, undecided at what was more fascinating; the scratched pieces of first-world oddities, with names and purposes she did not understand, or the Junk Men, whose existence was shaped around digging in the wastelands.

Two young men rode through on bicycles, squeaking wheels and rusted frames, and a man howled and rattled a cane at them as his foot was almost crushed. She watched as a man lifted something from a trade table and slipped it inside his coat. She gasped and in the blink of an eye he had melted into the crowds. The stallholder hadn't even noticed. She swivelled her head at the sound of young children squealing and saw a large group gathered beneath a rain-battered tent, entertained by a man with puppets on strings. He was skinny and long-limbed and almost as comical as the puppets he was operating. She had never seen anything like it before.

She turned once more to Stone but he appeared less engrossed with Panola Avenue. He must have seen a hundred places such as this on his travels.

Then a young girl came into view, possibly five or six years old, and Yuan's smile began to fade. The child was pale-skinned, sitting upright in a handcart, wheeled by an adult. There was a flimsy canopy offering her some protection from the rain but she was still getting wet. She wore a sleeveless dress with frayed edges. She had no legs and no hair and her face was heavily pock-marked.

Yuan sucked in her breath. She couldn't help but stare. The handcart leaned from side to side, its wheels worn and uneven. The adult pushing the cart was an angry looking woman with lank hair bundled inside a hood.

Her mouth twisted into a snarl as she saw Yuan staring and she shouted words that were incomprehensible.

A few people looked over.

Stone grabbed Yuan by the arm.

"Stop drawing attention to us."

He stared into the crowd for a moment.

"Cali," he said, his voice suddenly quiet. "Take Yuan and go order some food."

He gestured toward a half-empty food stand a little way ahead.

"Wait for me there."

Yuan ducked her head, cheeks blazing red. She followed Cali, glancing once over her shoulder, and saw a bearded man swear at the woman with the legless child as she almost rolled over his boots. Yuan wondered how a little girl ended up like that. It seemed terribly sad, unfair and cruel. Had she been born that way? Or had she been in a tragic accident? Hospitals were primitive in the second-world. She'd heard a story once of healers with magic hands but that was only a story. There were no healers in Batesville or anywhere in Kiven.

She looked at Cali. Her lips were horribly swollen and her left eye was battered. She wasn't hiding any of her wounds. She was the same as the girl in the handcart. Adhesive covered her cheek but once removed she would be scarred for life, like Stone, like the little girl, and all at once Panola Avenue lost its shine and colour. The rain seeped into her clothes, and she felt the chill of the wind, and a piece of light inside dulled and hardened.

"Don't stare at me," said Cali. "Alright?"

"I wasn't..."

"You were, like you were staring at that little kid. People don't want your damn sympathy. It don't do shit for no one."

"I can't change the way..."

"I don't want you feeling sorry for me."

"But I do feel sorry for you." Her voice trembled. "Look at what happened to you."

"I know what happened to me. I was there. Fuck all that shit."

"You're just angry because...

"Shut the fuck up, Yuan. You feel me? Just shut the fuck up."

They sat on round stools. Rain beat against the awning overhead. A young man and woman waited for their food, talking in low voices. Yuan saw them glance at Cali but she was looking elsewhere, into the crowd, probably seeking out Stone.

"Why has Stone left us?"

Cali didn't answer. Yuan sighed.

Balls of pink meat sizzled in a pan. The food vendor hummed, his voice deep, and added finely chopped peppers and a pinch of powder. He handled the pan with his left hand, kept a large spoon in his right, constantly turning and rolling the meat. His sang as he cooked, his eyes sparkling. The rain continued to flood down. The wind rattled through the street. The vendor scooped the food into bowls and tipped in a portion of shredded vegetables from an open tub.

He slid the bowls toward his customers.

"Eat, enjoy, and come back."

The food smelled good. The young couple began to tuck in. The vendor turned to Cali and Yuan, smiling.

"Can I help you, ladies?"

It was Cali who answered him.

"Three of the same," she said.

"That's all there is, miss."

He pointed at a hanging piece of chalkboard with one price scrawled on it. Cali reached into her pocket and counted out the last of her low value coins. She did not want to flash around the high value ones from Triple Death. They would draw too much attention and Yuan had that covered already.

The vendor slid the money into the front pocket of his apron. He put on wax gloves, grabbed a tub of meat and prised off the lid.

"Only one dish with me. No choice. Just get what I'm serving. Eat, enjoy, come back. That's my slogan. I cook the same shit. You pay, you eat, you come back. It works. I give you something different and maybe you don't enjoy and don't come back."

He laughed, winked at Yuan, speedily rolling the meat into balls.

"I'm Josh. First time in Panola? What are you after? I can point out the stalls you want to avoid."

"Thanks," said Cali.

"That's all good. Lot of business in Panola. That's what it's all about."

The meat went into the pan, followed by the peppers and a nip of powder.

"We need a vehicle," said Cali.

* * *

A few minutes had passed since Kody had witnessed the freak-faced, legless mutant in the handcart.

The grimy-haired bitch pushing her had barked a gutter language, unique to the Black Region, broken down from the Kiven tongue. _Broken down?_ He laughed. The words had been pulverised and slewed around in the mud. He understood a smattering of it. Kody reckoned there was nothing funnier than someone missing limbs or a loon shouting for no damn reason. The Black Region was full of them. He'd never seen so many messed-up halfwits. It was a seriously crazy place and he couldn't wait to get out of the wasteland and back to the streets of home.

He continued to lean against the wall of the building, growing impatient as he was kept waiting. He drew his pistol, carried in a shoulder holster beneath his jacket. He ejected the magazine, studied the bullets inside, slammed it home. He thought about the whore. What was her name? Tisha? That was it, Tisha. He knew her name. Who was he trying to con? Himself? He'd liked her from the first moment he'd seen her. He'd never tasted skin so dark and so sweet. She had a fine ass and a fine body, and he was tempted to go back in for a second dip. She also had great eyes. And a light, soft voice that he imagined would send him to sleep. She wasn't a hard bitch, like some he'd bedded. Why hadn't he told her she had great eyes? Why hadn't he told her his name? She'd only wanted to know his name and he'd blown her off with the hard man routine.

"You're a dickhead, Kody," he muttered.

He glanced back at the whorehouse.

"Come on, you assholes. I ain't standing here all day."

But something scratched at the back of his brain and Tisha and his companions were no longer in his thoughts.

He cocked his pistol and moved into the crowd. The men with the turned-up collars and steely eyes watched him closely. A few heads turned at the sight of a raised gun but it wasn't the most dramatic event in the history of Panola. Kody shouldered his way through the rain-drenched rabble, thinking back. The loud-mouthed loon with the legless kid had been spewing her gutter words at a girl with dark hair and olive skin, a pretty hot girl. But she hadn't been alone. There had been another girl with her, a girl with long dark hair and pale skin, a girl that someone had recently beaten up, a girl he hadn't recognised at first.

"Cali Lopez," he whispered.

She was there, straight ahead, sitting at a food stand, rain sliding off the awning, no doubt spending the stolen money, ripe and ready, without a care in the world.

"Fucking bitch," said Kody.

An arm curled around his throat and his boots came off the ground. Kody couldn't breathe. The pistol slipped through his fingers and clattered on the ground. No one rushed to help. Kody gasped, spluttered, his legs jerking, boots scraping the rain-slick asphalt.

His neck snapped, and Stone let the body drop.

The men in the big coats with the turned-up collars and wide-brimmed hats rose from their seats.

Big Red looked at Stone. He had a split-second choice where to place his loyalty; the crew inside or the brooding man with the scar.

He beckoned his head toward the whorehouse, held up three fingers.

Stone nodded and Big Red and his crew slowly backed away, one step at a time.

TWENTY THREE

Stone stood in the rain, waiting for the killing to begin.

His breathing was calm, his head was clear. He was focused, prepared. His reliable six-shot was in his right hand, loose on his hip, the pistol in his left. There were eyes on him. There were whispers and mutterings and even side action. He wondered what odds had been pegged on him surviving. The crowd was thinner now. People knew what was coming and not everyone wanted to be around when the shooting started.

The seconds ticked by.

Kody lay on the wet ground, rain drilling his body. Cali and Yuan watched from the food stand, bowls untouched, appetites gone. Cali had made her intention to fight alongside him but Stone had held up his hand and warned her off. He'd made Triple Death his fight. She wasn't alone against them, not anymore. They were his enemy and he wanted her in the shadows where she wouldn't be seen and couldn't be harmed. His clothes were soaked. The bandage around his head was soggy. The men in the big coats with the turned-up collars had cleared away the easy chairs and were gathering a safe distance from the building.

Stone heard one of them grumbling under his breath and guessed he might need to take care of him afterwards.

There was the whine of hinges as the whorehouse door was half-opened, followed by the sound of excitable voices and a burst of laughter.

The crowd hushed as three youthful men with beards and long hair stumbled out, shoving each other around. It took less than a second for them to sense that something was wrong. The laughter tailed off and they saw that Kody was nowhere and the crowd appeared to be staring at them in nervous anticipation.

There was a body lying on the ground, and it was Kody, oh fuck, it was Kody, and there he was, Kody's killer, an outline in the pouring rain, a tall and bearded bastard with a bandage around his head and a scar down his face and two handguns loose in his hands and, oh fuck, he was lifting the pieces.

Muzzles flared, the bangs were shockingly loud. Stone took out the first one with a headshot. The man was thrown off his feet and slammed into the half-open door. The remaining two Triple Death gunmen split, one left and one right, drawing pistols and firing off rounds. Stone shifted, firing back, swinging his extended arms, blasting with both guns. Bullets ripped into a leg and lodged in a rib cage, spraying blood, and one of the gunmen spun and hit the ground. He crawled forward, spitting blood, his pistol shaking. Stone finished him off with a round into his skull.

A bullet speared past Stone's head. There was no cover on the street, only people, and they were beginning to fan out. The last gunman had seen two of his crew cut down and Kody, the crew leader, had been wasted. He wasn't stupid. The emblem of Triple Death was a life commitment but he was a long way from Kiven.

He ran, disappearing between two buildings, firing off shots as he sprinted along the alleyway. Stone flattened himself against the side of the building, edged forward. A woman was shouting at him. He ignored her.

The men in the big coats grew agitated. Blood and bullets were never good for business.

Stone peered around the corner.

There was a volley of bullets. He ducked back. One zipped into the crowd and a man screamed, blood jetting from his chest.

People began to scatter. All bets were off. A bystander getting shot wasn't any part of the deal.

Stone glimpsed a flicker of movement from the corner of his eye. It was the man he'd heard grumbling earlier, slowly raising his rifle into a firing position.

"Stone," yelled Cali.

He was already turning but she burst through the crowd, gun in hand, and slammed four bullets into the rifleman. The man arched. Blood streaked down his big coat. He slumped to the ground, rifle skating across the asphalt.

Big Red and his men hurriedly raised their hands.

"We don't want any trouble, mister. Deano was hot-headed. We got no quarrel with you."

"Go," said Cali, her gun still pointed at the three men.

He looked at her bandaged hands and battered face.

"Nail that fucking asshole," she said, urgently. "Time's running out. I got this, man."

Stone nodded and ran, bandaged head bobbing up and down. He threaded a trail from Panola Avenue into winding alleyways littered with rubbish. He weaved past rusted ventilation units, leapt across overturned trash cans, scattering mangy-looking vermin. He glimpsed the fleeing gunman ahead. The man's pistol barked and Stone went to ground, returning fire with rapid bursts from both handguns. He lost sight of the man and almost slipped on the rain-soaked ground. He came into an empty street dotted with bare trees and ruined buildings.

No sign of the gunman.

Trees swayed, rubbish blew.

Half-crouched, weapons ready, Stone moved along the sidewalk, alert, combing every building.

There, less than a hundred yards away.

He quickened his pace.

The wind rushed against him, the roar of his beating heart filled his ears. The last Triple Death gunman burst from cover, firing off shots. Stone's revolver cracked and the gunman yelled as a bullet sliced through his hip. He hobbled on and Stone fired again, bullets pinging off the asphalt. The wounded man was heading for a large brick building surrounded by a high chain-link fence. He limped toward an open gate and disappeared through it.

There were two masked men on the roof of the building, armed with crossbows.

Stone heard an engine gun to life.

"Shit," he said.

A buggy burst from the building and skidded wide onto the road, tyres squealing. It was covered in mesh and razor-wire. Stone thrust the handguns into his belt and took the shotgun from his shoulder. He looked along the twin barrels, sighting the gunman who was pale-faced behind the wheel. The vehicle shot forward, sliding from side to side. Stone fired, blasting a hole in the windshield. The driver ducked the blast and leaned around the wheel, pistol in hand.

Bullets streaked through the rain, Stone took cover in the nearest building, landing in dirt and rubble. The buggy screeched past. He came back onto the street and lined up the shot, hooded eyes unforgiving. He squeezed the trigger and tore a hole in the back of gunman's head. The man slumped forward and the vehicle spun out of control, crashing into a ruined house and igniting.

He took a deep breath as Cali and Yuan emerged onto the street.

* * *

They reached the gate and surveyed a parking lot filled with salvaged wrecks.

"This is the place the food vendor told us about," said Cali.

Yuan glanced nervously at the armed men on the roof.

A dark-haired, clean-shaven man stood beneath an open metal shutter, keeping dry. He was five-eight, mid-thirties, slim build, legs slightly apart, arms folded, one hand holding a mug of steaming coffee.

A faint smile hovered on his lips. His blues eyes sparkled as he uncoiled his arms and gestured at the rising black smoke.

"That was a waste of a few hours work."

He sipped his coffee, put one hand in his pocket and looked them over, remaining silent for the moment as they huddled in the rain.

A faded sign on the wall above read: ANDERSON TIRE & MUFFLER AUTO CARE CENTER.

Stone walked toward him.

"You Anderson?"

The man glanced up at the sign. He shook his head, grinned.

"I'm Weaver. I'm guessing Anderson is long dead. What do you reckon?"

The man wore city clothes, hand-stitched and neatly pressed, not patched together or frayed. The trousers were loose in the leg and around his waist was a leather belt with a decorative buckle. His shirt was shiny, a material rarely seen, the flaps tucked into the waistband of the trousers. It was open at the throat, revealing a curl of dark chest hair, and the sleeves were rolled back over forearms covered with wiry hair. His hands looked smooth, untroubled by manual labour. His skin was unblemished. No scars, no ink, no defects. There was an aroma to him, a pleasant one. He didn't smell as if he'd been rolling in landfill. Even his teeth were unnaturally bright.

He swayed gently. "Why don't you all come inside?"

Stone glanced at the masked crossbowmen on the roof.

"Sure."

"Do you have a name?" asked Weaver, his back turned.

"Cartwright," said Stone, adopting Jeremiah's surname.

Weaver stopped, and turned on his heel. He looked even more pristine now he was surrounded by grubby mechanics. The workshop was hung with lamps, illuminating cars and stacks of parts. It was noisy, with men drilling and welding, hammering and beating and tightening. Stone could feel a faint vibration through the cement floor. He guessed there was a generator nearby, powering the tools.

"Mr Cartwright," said Weaver, raising his coffee cup in a toast. "I'm pleased to meet you."

He extended his hand but Stone ignored it.

"We're looking for..."

But Stone didn't get to finish his sentence. The man had spotted his companions.

"Good afternoon, ladies. I'm Weaver."

He offered his hand once more.

"Yeah, we heard," said Cali, matching Stone in ignoring the gesture.

Unperturbed by a second dismissive response, Weaver moved in on Yuan, his smile never faltering.

"There truly is a Lord in the Above. You are a light amongst the dark. Do you have a name, miss?"

"Yuan."

He lightly kissed her hand.

"Yuan, that's such a beautiful name. And unique. Do you know it means _Lady of the Heart?"_

Yuan's mouth gaped. "Does it?"

"I think so." He smiled. "It should."

Stone prised Weaver off. "We need a car."

"For driving or blowing up?" He laughed, patted Stone on the arm. "Let's have some coffee first."

Stone watched Weaver closely as he handled the coffee pot, making sure nothing extra was being added. A spiked drink was a clever approach at taking down a man as aggressive as himself. Weaver handed out the cups but Stone made sure their host took the first drink. Satisfied, he took a mouthful, enjoying the rich taste and the warm glow that spread slowly around his damp body. Weaver appeared to take no offence that the coffee might have been drugged. He was cocky, and smug, and oozed shiny charm, and the veiled implication rolled lightly off his shoulders. There was always a place for a man like Weaver, even in such a cut-throat area as Panola Avenue. The man had his own skill set and it was clearly transportation. Stone counted seven cars and one pickup but only two of the cars looked anywhere near roadworthy.

"This is what I have for you," said Weaver, indicating a four-door. "Reinforced panels, steel covered wheel arches. We'll be adding a few more defences before it's ready."

The hood was raised and a mechanic was fiddling with the engine. "I can have this up running in..."

He left the sentence hanging and clapped his hands at the mechanic. The working man put down his tools and straightened. He was in his fifties, his brown skin heavily lined. His hands and arms were smeared with grease. Weaver made a simple gesture with his hands, imitating driving. The mechanic thought for a moment and then held up a single finger.

Weaver smiled at the mechanic, gestured for him to return to work.

"One day, let's say this time tomorrow. I can give you a full tank of bio-fuel. The stuff stinks but it keeps the wheels turning."

"Too slow," said Stone, lowering his coffee. He strode past him. "What about this two-door?"

The windows were grilled. There was a hatch in the roof. A mechanic was behind the wheel, revving the engine.

"Sounds healthy," said Cali. "Hook us up with this one, man."

"The two-door is already sold. I'm sorry." He didn't sound sorry. "I can't go back on a deal. I've never gone back on a deal."

"Don't bullshit us, man, we need wheels and we got the money."

"I can't break a deal. Can you imagine what would happen to my reputation and that of Panola Avenue? _Even if you paid double._ " He laughed. "Not that you would, of course. Why would you? You can come back tomorrow and take the four-door. I'm not about to dilute the reputation of my business."

He turned to Yuan.

"Do you understand my predicament here, Yuan? I want to sell you a vehicle. That's what I do. I sell vehicles. And I will sell you a vehicle. But I can't sell you something that has already been sold. That wouldn't be right, Yuan, would it?"

"No," she said. "It wouldn't."

Cali rolled her eyes.

Stone put down his coffee.

"You see," said Weaver, opening his arms. "Yuan understands. She is an intelligent woman. And a very attractive one."

He winked at her.

" _Heart of the Lady_ ," he said.

Yuan blushed.

"Wasn't it _Lady of the Heart_?" said Cali.

"We need wheels now," said Stone. "We'll pay double what your customer paid. That's what you're angling for, right?"

Weaver crunched his knuckles. "You don't understand, Mr Cartwright. It is Mr Cartwright, isn't it?"

"It is," said Stone.

"Well, as I said before _... Mr Cartwright..._ Panola Avenue has a reputation and that reputation is built on honouring deals."

"I said we'd pay double."

Cali could sense that Stone was growing frustrated. Weaver was making a play for more money, she understood that, respected it, but it was time to cut to the chase and name the price. The clock was ticking. Time was being wasted. They needed to get to Silver Road and then onto New Washington before a shit storm erupted across the townships. They had to find the weapon and get it there and this asshole didn't realise the kind of man he was messing with.

She shut out Weaver's voice. The dude was too pleased with himself. She watched the men working on the vehicles, noticing how most of them were Jeremiah's age. The world seemed a sadder place without him. Major Cartwright. _Major Cartwright._ Shit, she'd known an important person. He'd opened her eyes. Kiven thought it was so damn important. It was a speck. It didn't get it. But she got it. He called her a name once. She didn't really understand its meaning but it seemed to carry a lot of weight with him.

" _You're a patriot, Cali."_

" _What's that then?"_

He'd smiled fondly. "Get some sleep."

Those had been his last words before the Triple Death crew broke into their room, blades drawn.

She rotated her head and massaged her neck. She stared absently at exhaust pipes, exhaust boxes, brakes and tyres. There were rolls of wire, metal panels, and boxes of pads, brackets, hinges, discs and spikes. Her head was beginning to spin and she could hear Pavla's voice. Sweat ran down her face. She screwed her eyes tight and gritted her teeth. Timo was above her, pulling at her clothes. The bastard was dead but he would suffocate her whenever he chose to.

Her coffee cup smashed against the cement floor. Heads turned.

She rushed outside, bent at the waist and retched. Stone beckoned at Yuan but Cali was having none of it. She shoved the girl away. She was ashamed. Her marked skin would forever be a reminder of how they'd crushed her in that room.

She wiped her mouth, spread her arms. "What the fuck are you all looking at?"

No one replied but she saw Stone half-smile. He could see right through her. He knew she was hurting and not just physically. The dude knew everything. She took deep breaths and wandered as he continued to pressurise Weaver into selling them the two-door car.

She found a gloomy corridor with closed doors and a metal stairwell winding to an upper floor.

There was no one around. She could hear the hum of the generator.

She tried the first door on her left, wandered into an office with a row of windows that looked out across the workshop.

Weaver was still messing Stone around. The automobile dealer was a fool. Stone would just as easy kill the man for the vehicle.

"Asshole," she muttered.

Her eyes dropped toward a desk cluttered with items. She saw a torn book, a bag of plastic shapes...

Her pulse quickened.

Weaver glimpsed her out of the corner of his eye. "Hey, what are you doing in there?"

Cali came back into the workshop, heading for Stone. She was holding a tin with a hinged and decorative lid.

"Pavla," she said.

Stone looked at Weaver.

The clean-looking man shrugged.

"She never gave me her name."

"When is she coming for the car?"

"An hour or so."

"Give your mechanics the afternoon off."

Weaver chuckled.

"You're not serious. Are you serious?"

Stone grabbed the front of his shiny shirt. "What do you think?"

TWENTY FOUR

The workshop was eerily quiet. The throb of the generator was clearer now, chugging away in an adjacent room.

Weaver fidgeted, hopping from foot to foot. He glanced ruefully at Stone.

"I hope you're going to make this financially worthwhile, Mr Cartwright."

Stone drew his revolver.

"I already have."

"My pockets are not feeling any heavier with coin. Do you want to elaborate?"

"You're alive."

"That isn't funny and you know it."

"Remind me again what she promised you."

"I told you, I accepted coins and goods as part payment."

"And the other part?"

Weaver cleared his throat. "Well, she would spend one hour with me in my private room upstairs."

"That was never going to happen," said Stone. "She would've killed you and your mechanics and took the car."

There was a whistle from the rooftop.

Stone turned to Cali. "You OK?"

"My stomach feels like shit."

"This time we spring the surprise."

Weaver sidled across to Yuan, who was crouched in the shadows. "When this is over would you like to see my private room? I have a bed with a beautifully stitched mattress and paintings from the city of Kiven. Have you ever seen a painting? I have one called _Lady of the Heart_. It's stunning. I'd love to..."

She hissed at him. "Shut up."

Pavla crossed the parking lot, boots clicking.

The footsteps stopped, abruptly.

"Mr Weaver?"

The voice was cold, blunt. Cali shivered.

Weaver emerged from the gloom.

The rain had eased off. The clouds were shifting, leaving behind a stark blue sky, streaked with red.

"Good afternoon," he said.

He was the perfect salesman. Oily, confident and annoying. His voice betrayed nothing of the trap.

"Is the car ready?"

He cupped a hand over his eyes as the sun blinded him.

"It's ready. I'm looking forward to our time together. Come in and have coffee with me. Then we can..."

"I want to see the car. I want to hear its engine. Have one of your mechanics bring it out here."

"We have the matter of your outstanding payment."

"I will see the vehicle and then conclude my business with you. Do not worry. You will have your one hour between my legs."

Stone cocked his revolver.

"Fetch the car. I will not ask again."

Weaver hesitated, for less than a heartbeat, but Pavla did not miss it.

Her eyes tightened.

"You made a terrible mistake," she said.

Weaver dived clear as Stone broke from cover. He fired but she was already on the move and the bullet whistled past her head. There was no shock in her eyes. She had seen the burning vehicle and known it was him. _He left them dead or left them alone._ He had survived the booby-trap. He was still in the city with the girl.

Stone fired again, several rounds, bullets missing. Her right hand clasped the pistol grip of the semi-automatic assault rifle hanging around her neck and she squeezed the trigger, muzzle snarling as she retreated into the wrecks jammed around the parking lot. Crossbow bolts whipped from the rooftop, bouncing harmlessly behind her. Stone glimpsed her lean frame snake a path through rusted cars. He fired, gouging a hole in a windshield.

As Cali emerged from the workshop, pistol in hand, there was another burst of automatic fire, more concentrated and focused, the muzzle spewing bullets, casings pinging against the hard ground. Stone ducked behind a large sedan and pulled Cali down with him. They were pinned as bullets erupted all around them. They fired back, Stone's revolver clicking empty. He tucked it into his belt and pulled out the pistol he'd taken from Kody.

Pavla angled her weapon and took out the crossbowmen on the roof, two bullets apiece.

Stone signalled to Cali. They would attempt to flank her. He moved to the right, powering forward as she reloaded her clip, taking the fight to her, his gun barking off rounds. The bright sun picked at his injured scalp. He gauged his shots, desperately low on ammunition, covering Cali as she carved a path around to the left, nipping between the cars.

There was a horrible _ping_ and a grenade rolled toward him across the hard cement ground.

Stone hurled himself behind a car and hooked his arms over his head as the grenade exploded. Vehicles flew into the air. One car somersaulted and crashed into the chain-link fence, tearing it down. His vision blurred. His heart was thumping. He got to his feet, off balance, half-deaf, his face filmed with perspiration. Cali was firing a volley of ragged shots into the swirling smoke.

He saw Pavla, a blurred outline, and his finger went to the trigger.

Empty.

"Fuck," he roared.

She disappeared. Everyone was shouting. But Stone couldn't make out a thing. He lumbered across the flattened chain-link fence, yanking out his revolver. He dug out his last three bullets, dropping them in as he ran. He snapped back the chamber with a violent flick of the wrist.

He picked her out, on the street, running at full speed, heading for a row of deserted buildings, the assault rifle hanging from her shoulder.

He dropped to one knee, looked along the barrel, narrowed his eye and took her down with two shots to the back.

She was slammed forward but rolled onto her side and came up with her pistol, firing back at him. She must have been wearing body-armour. He'd seen it before, during the summer, a simple vest that could absorb gunfire. He was light-headed, his legs suddenly weak, angry he was down to his last shot. She was on the move again, but running stiff, the impact of his bullets had hurt her. He saw her cut into a building and a moment later he glimpsed her scrambling across overgrown backyards and then she disappeared from sight.

Stone caught his breath, wiped sweat from his eyes and saw the back of his hand was smeared with blood. He dabbed his scalp. The stitching had opened up.

Cali raced into view and went past him, firing her pistol at nothing. The magazine emptied and the final casing struck the road, landing with an ominous sound, defining their failure in taking Pavla out.

Grimacing with pain, she lowered the gun, and Stone saw trickles of blood weeping through the bandages covering her burnt hands.

They were in no shape to give chase.

* * *

Yuan washed the blood from his cropped hair and forehead. She used fresh stitches and covered the wound with an adhesive. Weaver looked on, the colour drained from his face. Stone had expected him to be pacing up and down, loudly complaining about his business, but there were bodies on the roof and burning vehicles in the parking lot and he'd almost bedded a woman who would've slaughtered him and his workers for the sake of four wheels. The day had warped into a surreal place and the automobile dealer had been stunned into silence.

Stone drank, and then handed Cali the whiskey bottle. She gulped hard, licked her wet lips and grudgingly offered it to Weaver.

He shook his head. "I don't drink."

She dug out a coin roll from her pack and tossed it at him.

"That should cover the car."

He didn't even count it.

"The keys are on the dashboard. You have a full tank. Please don't come back. I really mean that."

Stone ignored him, took Yuan by the arm and steered her outside.

"This is how it is," he said.

"All of the time?"

"Enough of the time."

"I'm not afraid."

"You should be."

"Stop trying to frighten me, Stone, I'm OK."

"Look, we drive out of here and we don't come back. Do you understand that?"

She nodded, gravely.

"I want to go with you and I think you need me at your side."

"You'll never see your family again."

She bit her lip.

"I can drive you back there. It's the least I can do."

She tried to hide the spark of indecision. She was tempted by the familiarity of the daily breakfast, and a bunk to sleep in, and greenhouses with freshly grown fruit, and systems that filtered drinking water from moisture, and giant hangars to sit around in with faces she recognised. It was a trickle, at first, then a rush, pouring rapidly into the same thought process, one against the other.

No, she had to breathe and this was her only opportunity of something more and she needed more. Her heart ached for Stone and she was certain he felt the same. She could not turn her back on this man who had saved her life. She had been a trophy girlfriend for Deshi, a secret that he exposed when he needed to reaffirm his fading libido amongst the older men in the community, baiting his wife and tempting other women he sought. He had been a poor choice. She loved her father, despite his many faults, and hoped that one day he would understand that it was him that _allowed_ her to rebel rather than _made_ her.

Her voice trembled. "I've never felt more alive. I'm coming with you."

Stone patted her shoulder.

"Keep that knife with you."

She glanced at the triple-bladed weapon, nodded.

"Are you finally leaving, Mr Cartwright?" said Weaver. "Good, I'll warn all my friends to avoid doing business with you. I'd hate to see them blown up."

He thrust his hands into his trouser pockets, grinned, the cockiness slowly returning.

"You have nice clothes," said Stone. "Kiven?"

"That's right."

The front of his shiny shirt was dirt-stained. He began to brush at it.

"Are you kidding me? Do you know how much this cost? This is rare material. Look at this, I only bought it last month."

His hand tensed in mid-stroke.

His raised his eyes.

"Why are you pointing your gun at me?"

TWENTY FIVE

Weaver drove.

Batesville faded in the rear-view mirror. He'd lived in the city for five years and wasn't sure if he would miss it or not. He doubted he would be returning to it anytime soon. It would require all his diplomacy to ensure he went _anywhere_ after this journey. He hadn't planned on ending his life at the wheel of a crummy two-door with a grim assassin. It wasn't how he'd planned on ending his day. He should be in bed right now, hammering Pavla. OK, she had cruel eyes, and a mean-looking mouth, and a hard face, and had thrown a grenade at them, but that body, oh boy, that tight, firm body. He bet it was all muscle. He'd tasted all colours and all flavours the world had to offer but it was never enough. That was the way to go. In bed with a woman, or two.

The deserted highway stretched before him, brightened by sunlight.

Stone was engrossed in an old-looking map.

"That's a rare thing," said Weaver. "I've never seen a map of the Before. Is it genuine?"

"Yeah, it's genuine," answered Cali, from the back. "It ain't no kid's map, asshole. That thing came all the way from New Washington."

"From where?"

The car went silent.

"Where are we going?" asked Weaver.

No one answered him.

"Are we going to this New Washington?"

Nothing.

"Look, I'm a hostage, I'll accept that. I'm not going to cause any trouble but I deserve to know where we're going."

He adjusted the mirror, ran a hand through his hair, and studied his teeth.

"At the very least."

"Keep your eyes on the road," said Stone.

"You have a serious attitude problem, Mr Cartwright. You need to develop more of a warm personality."

Stone raised his head. "I think we can ditch that name."

"No, Mr Cartwright is fine with me," said Weaver, brightly. He stared across the wheel. "If anyone asks I sold a car to a Mr Cartwright and his companions. Mr Cartwright. That's the only name I know you by. Mr Cartwright."

Stone looked out of the window. The terrain was flat with dilapidated ranch houses sitting at the end of long rutted tracks. There was a rusted tractor alone in a dead field with a broken well and a solitary swing, the plastic bucket seat hanging askew from a length of frayed cord.

His mouth tightened. He lowered the window a fraction, allowing cold air to brush his rugged skin.

The car moved in the same direction, barely a curve in the road. He didn't need to keep his gun on Weaver. The man was no fighter. Besides, he had only one bullet left and he wasn't wasting it on him. Weaver had complained but that was as far as he was prepared to take it. Stone knew his ruse of _Mr Cartwright_ had not convinced Weaver for a single minute. The automobile dealer was a regular to Kiven. He was a man of money with connections. It was conceivable that he had never seen Stone's wanted poster but why take any chances?

He focused on the map and traced his fingers across it. Weaver fiddled and fidgeted. The man had the attention span of a child.

Grinning, Weaver drummed his fingers on the wheel as the car motored along the four-lane highway, swerving once to avoid a crashed wreck. One door hung open and there was a smear of dried blood. Stone noticed arrows protruding from the deflated tyres. Now Weaver was tampering with the dashboard, pushing buttons, turning dials. He opened his window, then raised it, and then opened it again. He began to hum for a short time until that progressed into an annoying whistle, and Stone shifted in his seat, letting out a frustrated grunt.

Weaver went back to humming, though in a deeper tone than before, with more variations, and finally he began to sing, looking around the car as the words crossed his lips, seeking praise or confirmation he was bugging the hell out of everyone.

Even Stone couldn't deny the man had a decent voice. But he didn't care for words that were sung. He wasn't that keen on spoken ones, either.

Why did some men always need to fill a silent space? He went to open his mouth but Cali beat him to it.

"Man, will you shut the fuck up and stop bouncing around like a little kid."

The singing tailed off. Weaver looked over his shoulder. Her bandaged hands held her notebook.

"What are you doing?"

"What the fuck does it look like I'm doing? Stop disturbing me."

She was quiet for a moment. Her pencil scratched the page.

"I'm drawing you and it's killing my fucking hands so get your eyes back on the road and stopping messing up your profile."

Weaver said nothing for a minute or two, clearly humbled. But then he started up again.

"I want to know where we're going."

"Drive," said Stone.

"No, you have to tell me."

Stone didn't answer him.

"You have to tell me where we're going."

He drove around a small bus. It was rolled over on its side, windows smashed, bodywork peppered with arrows.

"Are you going to kill me? Is that it?"

"Hey, sit still, man," said Cali.

"Answer the question, Mr Cartwright. Are you going to kill me?"

Stone continued to ignore him.

"No one will hurt you," said Yuan.

"I'm sorry, Yuan, you have a kind and beautiful soul but you shouldn't promise what your companion has no intention of delivering."

He slammed on the brakes. The tyres squealed. The car snaked across the lanes. Everyone was thrown forward.

"Look, I've had enough of this. You stroll into my..."

Stone opened his door, then lunged at Weaver and dragged him across the seats. He pulled him from the car and threw him on the road.

"You fucked up, man," said Cali, picking up her dropped pencil and drawing a line through Weaver's half-drawn sketch.

The automobile dealer scrambled onto his feet, and bunched his fists.

"Is this what you want? OK, OK, enough's enough. I'm a businessman. But if you want me to..."

Stone cracked him across the jaw. Weaver spun and slammed against the hood of the car, groaning.

"Oh, fuck, oh, fuck. What was that?" He kept his face against the metal. "You hit me with something."

Stone peeled him from the hood. Weaver held up his hands. "OK, OK, I'll drive. I'm sorry, alright?"

But Stone wasn't finished. He clamped a thick hand around Weaver's neck and marched him past the two-door car.

"What do you see?"

Weaver looked back north. "What do you mean?"

Stone rattled him like a doll. "Open your eyes."

"The road, I mean, what? I can see the road, a few wrecks, trees... what do you want me to say?"

"Two vehicles only a few minutes apart with the same arrows taking them down."

Stone dragged him back toward the car.

"That means this highway isn't safe. It could happen at any moment. Or it might not happen at all. So you drive and I'll fight. Do you understand me, Weaver?"

The man rubbed his jaw, smoothed out his rumpled shirt.

"I understand," he said, meekly.

Stone expanded his telescope, swept the landscape, a full circle. "Nothing," he said. "For now."

The two men climbed into the car.

"You drive until I say otherwise. And when we're a long way from Kiven you can take the car and go running back and tell them who you saw."

Weaver stepped on the gas.

"I don't know what you mean."

"I think you're pretty switched on."

He looked offended. "I'm not a member of the League. I was born into the Society of Souls."

"One Kiven faction is as bad as the other," said Cali. "All liars and murderers, all out for themselves."

"The Society believes in peace." He grinned at Stone. "We're lovers."

"That was a tap," said Stone. "You keep talking and I'll hit you like a man."

"The Society is part of the Alliance," said Cali. "And you fucks sat back and let that lunatic fire off missiles in the summer."

"What missiles?" asked Yuan.

"The Society isn't perfect," said Weaver, battered from all sides. "But we do not agree with the direction the League wishes to take the city. Why do you think I live in Batesville? There is no government, no alliance, just communities making their own rules and living by more simple codes. I'm not a trouble maker. I swear it. I don't care about Kiven politics or who they have on their posters. I'm not going to rat you out."

He shook his head.

"Did you have to hit me so damn hard?"

The highway stretched ahead, bleak and flat. The car rocked in the sharp wind and Weaver noticed it had grown rapidly cold and gloomy as clouds thickened overhead, blocking out the sun. His passengers didn't remark on the change in temperature or the imminent threat of rain so he said nothing. The three of them appeared consumed in thought and he let out a sigh, the miserable weather compounding his depressing situation.

The car threaded past thinly-grassed verges dotted with bare trees. The soil was dark from the heavy downpour of the day. He yawned. There were four lanes, evenly divided by a strip of rough grass and he hugged the left hand ones. He glanced at the empty lanes to his right and recalled an intriguing conversation he'd had about how men drove in days gone by.

"Do you know we're on the wrong side of the road?"

Cali had her eyes shut. Yuan was holding the hourglass Travis had given her, trying to close out the image of his body beneath the rubble.

"What do you mean?" asked Stone.

"In the Before there used to be laws about what side of the road you could drive on and how fast you could travel."

They crested a low rise. Weaver twisted in his seat.

"We should actually be on the other..."

And Stone shouted at him.

Cali opened her eyes. Yuan dropped the hourglass, startled.

Weaver slammed on the brakes.

"Oh, shit."

The car skated forward. Stone held onto the door.

"Shit, shit, shit," shouted Weaver.

It ground to a halt, with only seconds to spare, and the four of them peered through the grilled windshield.

* * *

Weaver was pinned to his seat. His armpits streamed with perspiration. Dark patches showed through his shirt. The steering wheel was locked in his hands. He couldn't turn it or work any of the pedals. His mind was blank. He refused to accept what he was looking at, but he couldn't deny it because the front tyres were only a few yards away. He attempted to regulate his breathing and tried to clear his head. He wasn't a man who built fires, hunted wild animals or faced down men in a gunfight. He wasn't Stone. He was educated, raised by a family with a moral compass. He knew how to survive this world with words and charm and an eye for a deal. That was all this was, he told himself, a complicated deal and he needed to remain calm, and to smooth out the wrinkles and reach the endgame.

"What's wrong with your breathing?" asked Stone.

White panic flew through Weaver. His temple of inner calm had been shattered. He began to pant harder.

"The road," gasped Weaver.

The fifty-five had gone. The land had swallowed at least four hundred yards of it and the car creaked on the lip of a sinkhole.

But the devastation wasn't only ahead. Ravines snaked off in all directions, jagged black lines of varying widths and lengths. They had torn through verges, uprooted trees and spread far and wide into the rough scrubland, claiming the old farmsteads.

There was a sudden and faint vibration beneath the car. Pieces of road crumbled away.

Stone had experienced his share of quakes in Ennpithia. Thinking men in quiet quarters believed that it was a trade-off with nature, that she was taking her sweet time in settling down her roots. Nature had to be a woman, they guessed, and the aftershocks were a consequence of the newly born forests, pastures, and rivers that flourished within their borders. They had to be guarded with such views because the Holy House had a much grander version of the rebirth. The Lord had forgiven the sin of the Cloud Wars, the ultimate sin of man, and granted a paradise for those who bent the knee and bowed the head, and the rest of the land could live in shit and dirt and sand. Stone wasn't so sure on either count, and didn't care at this moment, knowing only that he'd rather face down a score of men with his bare fists than butt heads with nature.

Weaver was sweating profusely, hands clamped around the steering wheel. Stone reached across to the man, gently placed a hand on his arm.

"I'm going to put us in reverse," he said, quietly. "Then you ease down on the gas, OK?"

There was fear in Weaver's eyes.

"You can do this. Nice and easy, OK?"

Stone cranked the gear-stick. Dead leaves twisted in the wind. There was another tremor beneath the car, lasting only a few seconds.

"Push down gently on the pedal."

Cali moistened her lips.

Yuan clenched her thighs.

"Take us back," said Stone.

Weaver loosened the cramped muscles in his leg. Pieces of asphalt disappeared into the vast hole.

He eased against the gas and the car slowly began to move backward. There was a spasm in the highway and the spot they'd been on fell away.

He sucked in air, sharply.

"You're doing fine," said Stone.

The car continued to wind its way back.

"I'm doing fine," he said.

"That's right."

They reached an exit road, peeling away to the left. It was a single lane with a gradual ascent but was heavily pitted.

"Did you see that?" said Weaver, awed. He looked around the car. "I've never seen anything like this before."

"Yeah," said Cali, nonchalant.

Stone pushed open his door, stepped out, keeping one foot in the car. He scanned the landscape with his telescope.

"Shit," he whispered.

"What's that noise?" asked Yuan.

Cali could hear it as well but she couldn't make it out. It sounded like people in the distance.

A lot of people.

"Can you see a way around?" said Cali.

"Yeah," said Stone. His mouth tightened. "I'll drive."

TWENTY SIX

Stone crashed through a line of splintered trees and sped a short distance across the rugged scrubland, crushing tangled undergrowth. Branches whipped and scraped at the bodywork and one became wedged in the grilled windshield. He reached around and tugged it free. The suspension groaned as the car bounced and shook and Weaver cried out more than once. Stone steered the car away from the sinkhole and the exit road and then swung the wheel violently to his right, skidding to an abrupt stop in a shower of dirt.

He left the engine idling, waiting for the dust to clear.

The car was perched at the top of a crater. The slope was heavily-pitted and dotted with stunted trees.

"Down there?" said Weaver.

Stone nodded.

"Through them?"

Cali leaned forward. "Oh, man."

The engine ticked over.

"Who are they?" asked Yuan.

The exit road had once led to a first-world city, a city with a name and a history, an identity. There had been streets, avenues, and a long boulevard named after a famous man. There had been a railroad network rattling with freight wagons, and power lines that fizzed overhead, and water pipes beneath the asphalt that pumped clean water into homes. A twist of the faucet and out it sprang for drinking or bathing or washing the damn car. There had been houses and apartments and motels with lives played out, school and careers and babies and track marks. There had been a fire department and a police department, but the lights no longer flashed and revolved and the sirens no longer wailed at 3am – whatever the hell that was.

There had been truck stops, depots and grocery stores with handguns beneath the register. There had been diners with coffee-stained aprons over black skirts, thrift stores with rails of junk that would make you king in the second-world, and bars with flashing neon where a spent wage packet solved all your problems and created new ones. There had been parkland for pushchairs and teenagers and couples drifting hand in hand. There had been churches with a faith for this man and a faith for that man, until the bombs dropped and it all counted for shit.

Man had perpetuated a heinous crime and his wanted poster had never been taken down. He'd stabbed the sky and ruptured the ground, consuming a population and the tightly-knitted infrastructure around it. The land had opened and thousands had died instantly whilst thousands more had clung on for seconds, minutes, hours or even days – bodies pinned, organs failing; crying out and growing weak, scrabbling and hoping and still believing in the rescue stories they saw on CNN.

The crater had spread for ten or twenty miles, at least one hundred feet down, and in the years that followed there was only rubble and corpses and winter. But survivors had emerged, horrified at what had passed, horrified at what it would take to move forward, to carve a new generation. More perished, and more after that. Wretchedness became the new markers in society with misery upon misery and shame upon shame. The powerful rose, then fell and rose again only to fall once more. Then a beginning was cultivated, a grain of hope. The city had gone, and so had its name and with it the history, the identity, but the spirit pulsed, vibrant, and the survivors refused extinction. The work begun and brick by brick they carried away the first-world and built a new one and it bore a new name, a new history and a new identity.

There were mountains of metal and brick and concrete that scaled above the rim of the crater and within the miles of open space stood a proud, second-age settlement. It had dirt roads marked out with rocks, wide enough for one vehicle, though nothing down there was motorised. It had mud huts and timber shacks, log cabins and rusted vans that had been recycled into homes. It had animals, children and laundry blown stiff in the wind.

A smudge of wood smoke hung in the gloomy sky.

Bare-chested men wheeled barrows brimming with the debris of the past. The work had begun centuries before but no one had clocked out yet.

That was who they were.

"Look at those people, they're probably cannibals," said Weaver. "You know that, right?"

"They have animals," said Yuan, pointing hesitantly. "You're wrong, Weaver."

She paused.

"Is this the right thing to do?"

"What if these fuckers turn on us?" said Cali.

"We're not stopping," said Stone. "We go straight through."

"Man, you only have one bullet."

"No choice," said Stone.

And there was no choice. The scrubland was ripped with holes and the car wouldn't last five minutes on that terrain. They had to go down, come back up and rejoin the highway south.

Stone nosed the car forward, leaving deep ruts in the ground as it crunched and half-slid down the side of the crater.

A tall and long-limbed man emerged from the undergrowth, his face obscured by a cotton hood with holes for the eyes and mouth. He carried a bat wrapped with coils of razor-wire. A bone whistle hung around his neck. He put it to his lips, blew and yelled out a single word.

"What did he say?" said Yuan.

"He said _Uppers_ ," said Weaver, more tuned in to the varying dialects of the Black Region. "I don't know what that means."

"I have never heard of _Uppers_ ," she said.

The back end slammed hard as the ground evened out and Stone nudged the mud-spattered car onto the dirt road.

"React to nothing," he said.

The hooded man watched them, the bat resting on his shoulder.

Stone kept his speed low, nudging the car along the dirt lanes and keeping within the misshapen markers. There were children scattered all around and the last thing he wanted was to collide with one of them. He drove by the primitive homes, mountains of metal and concrete providing a grim backdrop a few miles in the distance. A small population began to emerge, summoned by the shrill blast of the whistle. There were men dressed in colourless clothing, armed with wooden bats and lengths of metal and axes.

They were horribly outnumbered and this wasn't a fight he wanted.

There was a foul stench in the air and a low murmur as people began to talk and grunt loudly. The crowd followed the slow pace of the car and Stone continued to look for a clear run, a place to floor the accelerator and burst out of the claustrophobic crater, but the lanes were becoming tighter and the homes more compact and he wondered if he was driving into a dead-end. The children pointed and some threw mud that bounced off the car.

Stone reached the middle of the new world city, still without confrontation despite the large number of armed and hooded men trailing behind and alongside them. A few more missiles were thrown. Then a rock was hurled and the back window cracked and Yuan gasped.

A red light appeared on the dashboard beside the fuel gauge.

"What's that?" he said, frowning, but Weaver didn't answer.

Stone continued to negotiate tight bends, as the number of men swelled around the car.

He jabbed Weaver.

"What's that light?"

"I don't know. It's nothing."

"Is it the fuel?"

"Just keep driving."

"The gauge is showing the tank is only half-empty."

"It'll go off in a minute," said Weaver, wiping his hands on his thighs.

Stone narrowed his eyes.

"What did you do, Weaver?"

"Nothing."

Stone lunged across the seat, thrust a hand into the man's lap and cupped his balls.

"What the fuck did you do?"

Weaver winced. A few more stones skated off the car.

"I didn't do anything."

Stone twisted. The man's eyes watered.

"I forgot about it," he said. "OK? I forgot. Please, let go. I wouldn't have left it like that. With all the excitement it slipped my mind... it's not everyday someone comes into my business tossing grenades."

Stone released him. Weaver laughed, nervously.

"What is it, man?" asked Cali, as the car stuttered.

"This asshole rigged the gauge. We're out of fuel."

"What?" said Cali and Yuan, in unison.

"Look, I have overheads," said Weaver. The car stalled. "Do you know how much it costs to truck the fuel in from Kiven? No, you don't, OK? I have men to pay. Costs keep rising in the market, OK? So they need more and I give them more because men with skills are hard to come by. I work my ass off in that garage. We put in half a tank of fuel and tamper with the gauge to show a full tank. No one ever comes back..."

Weaver stopped complaining. The crowd swarmed around the car. Hooded faces pressed toward them.

" _Uppers_ ," shouted the children.

"One bullet," said Cali.

Stone nodded, grimly. "I'll make it count."

* * *

The car began to rock from side to side. Men were shouting, thrusting weapons into the air. A hardcore group clambered onto the roof and hood and began to jump up and down and kick the windshield.

Stone pushed open his door and forced his way into the hostile crowd. They edged back a little, intimidated by his tall frame and menacing face and the handguns in his belt.

He growled. "Get the fuck away from us."

The hardcore group weren't afraid. A bat swung, a window shattered and Yuan screamed.

"You get one chance before I start killing," said Stone.

One man came forward, laughing, and pointed a bat at him. " _Uppers_ take no shit. Fucked up coming. Ain't scared."

The crowd roared.

He was the ringleader of the hardcore group. He was black, his face hidden behind a grubby hood. His throat was mottled. His threadbare clothing stank.

_Uppers_ take no shit, thought Stone. As in, we're _Uppers_ and we take no shit from no one?

But then Stone ran it through his thoughts a second time, in less than a second, and translated the true meaning of the words, so he hoped.

These people were not _Uppers_. It was the _Uppers_ they feared.

"We're not _Uppers,_ " said Stone. "We were running from them."

The words had no effect. Men crushed against the car. Children threw mud. A hand grabbed Stone and he put the man down, busting his jaw.

"Fucking _Uppers_ take no shit," said the ringleader. "Not this fucking time."

He punched the air with his bat. Stone drew his revolver, lightning fast, and lodged his last bullet into it. The bat spun from the man's grip and hit the ground. The crowd gasped and backed away. The gunshot had punched a hole in the noise. A few men whispered at how fast he'd drawn and how he could have dropped Remy on the spot.

Stone stood with both guns empty.

"You Remy?"

The man gingerly picked up his bat and studied the bullet hole.

"My name is Stone."

He swept his weapons across the crowd.

"I'll say this only once. We're not _Uppers_. We're travellers. We're going south. We're not here to take anything or anyone. But if you stop us I'll keep shooting and put you all in the dirt. Men, women, children, babies. I'll kill you all."

The hardcore group bristled, ready to fight.

"How'd we know you got any bullets _, Upper_?"

Stone whirled around at the voice and thrust his revolver against a hood. He cocked the weapon.

"Only an asshole would play that game. Look in my eyes. Do I look like an asshole to you, fuck-head?"

He slipped his finger onto the trigger.

"Well?"

"No."

A path began to clear through the crowd and Stone saw a heavily pregnant woman waddling forward. She was round-faced with scrunched together features. One hand cradled her enormously swollen belly. One hand leaned against a metal staff, decorated with dangling pieces of black plastic.

She was not much older than twenty but Stone noted how respectful the crowd had become in her presence.

"I am _Carrier_." She shook the staff. "I am Gemma Rae. _Uppers_ good and fucked. You bitches come here to die bad."

"Reckon they ain't _Uppers_ ," shouted one of the hardcore.

She thoughtfully stroked her belly.

" _Carrier_ knows lies and truth. Punish like the old days. _Uppers_ come in and take, damn _Uppers_ , think they got it all – take, take, take."

"We're not _Uppers_ ," said Stone. "We were running from them. They were chasing us, shooting arrows."

Remy marched toward Stone, gripped his bat with both hands and drew it shoulder height, ready to swing.

Stone lowered his guns, tucked them into his belt.

"We're not _Uppers_."

He looked into Remy's eyes. There was hesitation and puzzlement. The bat didn't move.

"Why'd you do that?"

"We have the same enemy," said Stone.

The hardcore group swayed and murmured. They looked toward Gemma Rae for guidance.

"That right?" said Gemma Rae.

She jabbed the staff at the car.

"Out or we get."

Stone banged on the dented car roof. The three of them climbed out and bunched up behind him.

"The _Uppers_ turned back when we reached the sinkhole," he said. "They must fear you."

The hardcore cheered.

"They wanted to take us, they take everything. Took down two vehicles, dragged people away."

"He's right," said Cali, stepping out. "We've had run-ins with _Uppers_ before. Look at the shit they did."

She peeled off her adhesive, showed the raw knife wound. Remy shook his head and swore.

"Ain't right. _Uppers_ do bad shit to girls. Rape and eat them. We don't eat girls here."

He jerked his thumb toward a pen of livestock. A goat bleated.

"We came here to get away from the _Uppers._ We know you stand up to them. Word gets around on the road."

Gemma Rae patted her belly. " _Carrier_ getting a boy. Gonna stand strong, not let _Uppers_ take no shit from us."

Stone nodded. " _Uppers_ take no shit."

* * *

An hour later, they were beyond the second-world community, striking out beneath dark clouds.

They moved across rain-sodden scrubland, hugging the fifty-five, the wide lanes empty, vegetation snaking through cracks.

Stone navigated with the old map of the Before. He thought on how simple it must have been to move from one place to another. Metal on the ground and metal in the sky. He wondered how it would have looked and sounded. There would have been so much noise and noise irritated him, jammed his head. He studied the map once more. Jeremiah had marked the first-world town of Canton and scribbled beside it the words SILVER ROAD followed by a question mark.

Was it the location of the town Jeremiah had been uncertain of or the credibility of the information concerning weapon?

What if the information was wrong? What if the weapon didn't even exist? What if this was all for nothing?

He twisted his mouth, concerned and frustrated. He flexed his left arm, sore from the bullet wound he'd suffered in Batesville.

He wanted to talk with Cali but he had no intention of discussing things with Weaver around.

He kept walking.

The landscape was scattered buildings and old vehicles half-buried by centuries of ash and dirt, water-starved lakes and hills crowded with trees. No one spoke. No one wanted conversation.

No one except Weaver.

"I want you in the rear," said Stone. "You need to watch behind us."

"I don't care about any of that."

"You should."

"Well, I don't. How will I get home without the car? You left it with those people."

"You can walk."

"That's not funny, Stone."

"Have you seen me smile? Have you heard me laugh? You can walk and you can start now."

Weaver stopped, placed his hands on his hips.

"That's impossible and you know it. I'll never survive that highway on foot."

Stone halted, turned.

"You stranded yourself by rigging the fuel gauge."

"Yeah," said Cali. "That was a nasty con to pull. What if Stone hadn't been able to dig us out of that place?"

"We all need to calm down," said Yuan.

"That's another thing," said Weaver. "Can I ask you a question about that, Stone?"

"No."

Weaver fumed, but he was proud of his roots within the peaceful Society of Souls, and had to ask anyway. "You talked our way out of that place only because you had no bullets."

"That isn't a question," said Yuan. "Stop getting at him."

"OK," he said. "But this is important. Would you have done the same thing if your guns had been loaded?"

The question was ignored but Weaver saw the look in Stone's face and turned away, horrified.

He was suddenly very afraid, and dropped to the back of the line, behind Cali and Yuan.

Stone continued to walk them south, saying nothing.

TWENTY SEVEN

A few lonely stars sparkled in the rain-drenched night sky.

Stone led them across fields no longer marked by fences. There were broken down buildings that had once shaped a farm and half-buried ancient machinery. The ground was sodden and there was the smell of sewage in the air. They made camp inside a silo, its curved metal sides patched with rust. It was cold and damp and the floor was bare. Spindly vegetation had crawled inside to escape the winter months and curled around joists and rafters.

Stone went back into the rain to hunt for something to burn. He returned shortly and built a meagre fire. Yuan opened her pack and portioned out the rations she had taken from home; hard biscuit and dried out vegetables that could be eaten raw. They had a spiky kick to them and tasted better than they looked. Huddled beside the fire, they ate without conversation, the silence fuelled by what had not been said, rather than by what had.

Once the meal had finished, Stone began to strip and clean his weapons. Yuan bunched herself against the wall of the silo. Her mud-spattered legs peeked from beneath her long dress. She watched Stone through the flickering flames, wanting to sit with him, but her limbs were thick with tiredness and she could not move. She glanced at Weaver and found him staring at her legs. She tugged at the hem of her dress, pulled her coat around her and shifted herself out of his line of sight.

The rain plopped against the metal panels of the silo and the hollow rhythm sent her to sleep.

Weaver moved away from the fire, stretched his legs and stood at the door. It was black outside.

"You go your own way in the morning," said Stone, not lifting his head.

Cali looked at him, then at Weaver. The automobile dealer nodded, hands in his pockets.

"I was thinking of doing that anyway."

He suddenly spun round, anger in his face.

"Thanks for ruining my life, Stone. There's no safe route back to Batesville from here. I can't travel that highway."

"Yeah," said Cali. "The _Uppers_ will get you, man."

"Shut up, girl. No one is talking to you."

Stone got to his feet.

"Leave it, man, it's all good. This asshole has been nothing but bad luck for us. Why don't you leave now, Weaver?"

Weaver glanced over his shoulder.

"I don't think..."

Stone hit him with his open palm, square in the chest. Weaver reeled, arms flailing, and stumbled through the silo door, landing in the wet soil. Yuan woke, startled by the commotion.

Gasping, Weaver scrambled to his feet. Stone stepped into the pouring rain and grabbed hold of him.

"You shouldn't have recognised me."

"I wouldn't have done anything about it."

"You would've sold that bit of information. I could've dropped you in Batesville but I spared you, Weaver. Don't make me regret that."

"What gives you the right over life and death?"

Stone shoved him away.

"Get the fuck out of here."

"You think you're this self-appointed judge of the wasteland," shouted Weaver. "But you're not. There's nothing good about you, Stone, you're trash. You would have killed those people back there just so you can get to where you're going."

Yuan and Cali looked on, silent.

"You're right," said Stone. "But I didn't have to."

"Only because you didn't have any bullets." Weaver was drenched. "That's the only reason you spared them."

"We'll never know."

"I know. I saw it in your eyes. I saw that look."

"You shouldn't have messed with the gauge."

Weaver widened his arms, bowed.

"Goodbye, Mr Cartwright."

He trudged away.

"You can't let him leave," said Yuan. "Stone, make him come back."

"Forget about him," said Cali. "Asshole brought it on himself."

"No," said Yuan, and stamped into the rain-soaked field. "You didn't abandon me. We can't abandon him."

She began to run after him.

* * *

"Last bottle," said Cali.

He was still at the door of the silo. Weaver hadn't gone far. He'd found a dry spot in one of the leaking barns and Yuan had followed him inside.

"Do you think I should go after them?"

"No," said Cali.

Stone wandered back to the fire.

"Are you thinking about what Weaver said?"

The fire crackled.

"Guy's an asshole with a big fucking ego that could do with getting stamped on. They're all like him, you know."

"Who?" asked Stone.

"Society of Souls. Always gotta see shit from another point of view. Sometimes things are just the way they are but those Society folk always gotta analyse and make life more complicated. That's one fucked up faction, man."

Stone gave her a wry smile.

"I wasn't thinking about Weaver. I was thinking about Jeremiah."

"He would've been impressed with how you handled it back there. You gave those people a chance."

Stone said nothing.

"Don't be coy, man. _Uppers._ " She snorted. "Anyone from up top, right? You know you could've turned it into a bloodbath but you showed compassion. That was cool."

Stone waited for her to finish.

"Yeah, that's it." She washed her hands together. "All done with the praise."

"How are your hands?"

The bottle hesitated at her swollen lips. "Painful. But thanks for asking."

"You said Jeremiah was a major in the URA," said Stone. "And that someone in New Washington betrayed him, right?"

"Yeah, they gave Pavla and Timo a list of the rangers he picked for this mission."

"So what happens when we find this weapon? We have to think carefully about who we hand it over to."

He locked eyes with her.

" _If_ we hand it over."

"But they need it. He told me the townships are pulling in different directions. This weapon will help unite them."

She handed him the bottle.

"Did he tell you anything about the threat to New Washington?"

"No."

"That troubles me."

"Why?"

"What if there is no threat? What if this is all a play to obtain weapons from the past?"

"Hmm."

"This is what I stopped, Cali. The League of Restoration armed with weapons of the Ancients. This is why they wanted me dead. I saw a missile in the sky, watched it shoot into Ennpithia. It was terrifying."

"This ain't the same, Stone. Jeremiah never had that vibe about him. He was, like, passionate, man, about saving lives."

"OK," said Stone, holding up his hand. "Let's peg him as a man of truth. We still don't know who we can trust in New Washington. We don't know if we can trust _any_ of them."

"I thought you were going to help me steal it?"

"I am."

"So what are you talking about?" She twisted her mouth. "Are you going to _destroy_ it?"

"Is arming a township we know nothing about with a weapon we know nothing about a good idea?"

She chewed over his words. "A lot of soldiers are dead, Stone. They were fighting for something, like you do."

"What do you think the weapon is?"

"What the fuck do I know about weapons of the Ancients? I'm a Kiven girl, man, blades and slingshots."

"You know drawings." He showed her the piece of paper of the night sky. "What do you make of it?"

Cali was silent for a moment.

"It resembles the sky, all the streaks and the stars, but that doesn't make any sense. The night sky ain't a weapon. So I reckon it's a code, a code for something else."

Stone nodded.

"Did Jeremiah talk much about New Washington?"

"A bit. It doesn't sound that different to what we got here. Only..."

"Only what?"

"I guess it did sound better. More kinda organised. He said something once. What was it? Yeah, New Washington is... _all about_ _rebuilding our nation from the ground up._ "

"Our nation?"

"Yeah, that's what he called it."

Stone took out the map.

"You said to me I was looking in the wrong place on this and I think you're right."

She shuffled around the fire, beside him.

"I think the Map Maker was wrong."

"The Map Maker? That dude you ripped off?"

"Yeah, that _dude_ I ripped off. But he put us here, on this land mass. In a land called Spain. He believed Spain was the Ancients word for Gallen."

"Do you miss him?"

"No."

"I think you do."

Stone said nothing more and continued to examine the old map in the flickering flames.

"All the learning gets unlearnt. Jeremiah told me that. People forget and sometimes they want to forget, because the stuff is bad, it needs forgetting. That's how he put it, anyway. He was cool for an old dude."

She looked at him.

"A bit like you."

"Old?"

She elbowed him, let out a stuttering laugh.

"This was how it all looked." She stopped, awed by her own words, allowing the gravity of them to settle. "But I told him there ain't any Kiven on there and he told me Kiven is a second-world name. That the first-world name for Kiven is Kansas. So I ain't no Kiven girl, Stone, I'm a Kansas bitch." She laughed. "Who the fuck cares?"

Stone pointed at the map.

"He might be right because Kansas is on here, and the fifty-five, and the city of Batesville. It's all here."

She leaned against him, tired, wanting only to listen.

"Kansas City," he said. "Which puts the Place of Bridges roughly here, along this strip, I reckon. Touron, Ennpithia's capital, would be about... here, Dallas. But then Ennpithia reformed and Touron is built on grass."

"No more Dallas?"

"No more Dallas," he said.

"Good, I like the name Touron better," she muttered, yawning.

He guessed at more names, picking first-world cities and pairing them with second-world equivalents, ticking off Brix and Mosscar, Winshead and Great Onglee.

"But if this map is right," he said. "Then we're a long way from New Washington."

Cali heard the glumness in his voice. She sat up, rubbed her eyes and looked at the map.

"Oh, fuck," she said.

"Yeah."

"That's a long way to travel."

"And Washington, or New Washington, takes me even further from Nuria."

He folded the map.

"But what part of this is Gallen? There's land where I know there's sea because I crossed the damn thing."

"Maybe the land fell away like on the West Coast?"

Stone pinched the bridge of his nose.

"My father told me our tribe travelled for years before settling in the deserts of Gallen."

"Jeremiah was a bit obsessed with that map. Don't go the same way. Does it really matter what places are called?"

"No, but we can't get anywhere unless we know exactly where we are."

Cali dismissed the comment.

"Talk to me about Nuria. Not maps."

Stone said nothing.

"You ain't dodging me."

He picked up the whiskey bottle, sloshed around the last of the copper-coloured drink.

"C'mon, man, what's she like?"

He drank, wiped his mouth.

"She makes everything mean something. That's what she's like."

"Yeah, I get that."

"Get some sleep. You've had a rough day."

"Ain't nothing truer than that."

He waited for her to settle but she didn't budge. She stared at the adhesive covering his head wound, the scar down his face.

"Why'd you do what you do? Most dudes work, get drunk, whore around. Why'd you risk everything?"

"Why'd you draw?"

"I couldn't imagine not doing it. That bastard almost fucked up my hands but it ain't gonna stop me." She sighed. "My biggest fear is running out of stuff to draw with or finding stuff to draw on."

"There's your answer."

"That ain't the same thing and you know it. When I draw I'm creating something. You're taking lives and shit."

"That's the best answer I have."

"You mean the only one you're gonna give, right?

He half-smiled

"You know, I was raised by my Grandma," said Cali. "Did I tell you? I never knew my old man. My mum is just a hazy memory. My Grandma told me that California was sunny all the time. I doubt it. Probably just a big shit heap like Kiven, or Kansas, or whatever the fuck it's called. World got to falling away. They had to come east. They all did. Grandma used to say she could close her eyes and hear the sea. She was a star. I still think of her. Always in our kitchen, poky slum kitchen. I'd come home when shit had gone wrong, bitchin' about this and that, and she'd put me on a stool with a pot of vegetables and told me to get to it. That was her answer to everything. Peeling and chopping."

Her eyes were glazed, tiredness or memories, or both.

"I wish I'd known my folks."

She reached into her coat, tugged out a knitted doll.

"Where'd you get that?"

"I lifted it from Weaver's place. Once a thief, right? It was with the tin. I wonder who Pavla killed for it."

Stone watched her closely. He could see the hurt in her eyes.

"My sister had one of those," he said. "Or something similar."

"She dead a long time?"

He poked at the fire. "I was eight when she was killed. She was a year younger. I trick myself into thinking I can remember her face... but that's all it is... a trick."

Cali patted his arm, clutched the doll, and drifted asleep.

TWENTY EIGHT

Tisha loosened her robe, nudged it off her shoulders and let it bunch on the floor. She padded across the candle-lit bedroom, naked, eighteen years old, gliding toward the bed, letting him see everything she had to offer, and giving him time to decide what he wanted and how he wanted it.

The man watched in silence, leaning back in a folding chair with his legs spread and his hands calmly resting on his knees. It had stopped raining but the wind still swirled and whistled. The adjacent rooms were silent. The girls had finished and gone home. It was the early hours of the morning, Panola was getting quiet, and he was the last customer of a long day.

He was an old man, wrinkled skin and long grimy hair in a ponytail. His clothes were dirty, his old boots mud-spattered and he carried the smell of liquor, tobacco and sweat. His eyes were red-rimmed. He had asked for her, and waited, even when other girls had become available, because she had come highly recommended.

Tisha sat on the corner of the bed, a few feet from him, and tried not to wrinkle her nose at his foul odour. She ran a hand through her brushed hair and trailed her fingers down her oval-shaped face, pouting. One finger caught her lower lip, exposing her teeth and the pink tip of her tongue. Her hands went lower, cupping her pert breasts, circling her nipples with long nails.

The man cleared his throat and took off his wide-brimmed hat, revealing a bald patch. She parted her legs and caressed her inner thighs, never taking her eyes from him. Her bush was dark, tangled. Her hand roamed further and she let out a sudden gasp as a finger slipped inside. She flicked out her tongue, offered him a sultry smile and gasped once more, waiting for him to undress or touch himself or even reach for her - but he was inert.

She rose, turned around and arched her back, displayed her fine ass, knowing it drove most of the men crazy. The old man did not respond. _What the hell was his problem?_ It was time to whip it out and get to it. He'd wanted her. He'd waited for her.

Her hands danced across her curvy hips, then slapped her ass and clutched both cheeks.

"Aye, you're a true beauty, so you are." He does have a voice, she thought. "You have a fine body. But sit down for a moment."

"Would you like me to sit on your lap?"

"The bed is just grand, girl."

She leaned back on her arms, legs wide apart.

"You asked for me?"

"I did," said the old man. "You see I was having some food earlier and I heard about this big shootout today."

He rubbed his hands. "Shame I missed it, sounded very exciting."

She looked at him. "It was horrible. Deano was killed."

"Aye, well, I can understand a whore thinking that way."

Tisha said nothing.

"I'm sorry, have I offended you? Dear God, I hope not. May the Lord forgive me for calling a whore a whore. But you are a whore, ain't you, girl? Eh? Eh? You are a fucking whore, right?"

"Yes."

He wiped a hand over his head, replaced his hat and smoothed back the flaps of his coat.

There was a shoulder-holster with a pistol slotted into it and a sheathed knife.

"Aye, that's right girl, I have a gun and a knife. I want you to remember that. OK? Can you remember that?"

Tisha nodded.

"You saw it happen, didn't you?"

"Yes."

He took a wanted poster from his coat, held it up.

"Was this the man who did all the shooting?"

She stared at it.

"Is this him?"

Tisha straightened her back, covered her chest, and nodded.

"He likes a bit of blood that fella. His name is Stone. Big bastard from across the water. You know where I mean? Of course you fucking don't. Have you ever been out of this room? You don't look like you have."

He laughed.

"You see I have a score to settle with him. He murdered my sons. Bastard broke my heart, Tisha, so he did. He took the last of my family from me."

Reardon stood.

"But I'm not sure one of your kind can understand the hurt I'm feeling."

Her heart skipped a beat. "My kind?"

"Aye, girl."

"A whore?"

"Colour kind, girl. See you're very beautiful, so you are, but just not my particular shade. A bit too dark. I prefer the dusky ones. All said and done, mind, the fewer colours in the world, the better I feel about my day. Do you get what I'm saying, whore?"

Tisha blinked.

"I'm sorry?"

"Don't be, love, don't be."

He stroked her hair, grinned a mouthful of black and brown teeth.

"It's not your fault. The dice was rolled long ago. You can hardly stand in the rain and hope it washes off, can you?"

A chill raked her spine. Goose bumps erupted over her skin. She reached for her robe but he snatched it from her. He lifted her off the bed and roughly pushed her into the middle of the room. She had met his kind before. Men whose pleasure was to hurt. It didn't matter what was said or what was done because a whore was only a whore and everyone knew they were not _real_ people.

"I'm protected," she said, defiantly. "Big Red will put his gun on you."

"Aye," said Reardon. "Well, I think Big Red might have problems of his own right now."

* * *

The rain-spattered lamps swung and creaked in the wind. The flickering lights caught Big Red's attention as he sat in his easy chair, frustrated. The dark-haired woman with the squat nose was pointing a pistol at him, eyes never leaving his craggy and agitated face. Big Red looked at her gun hand. It had not wavered once. She was a killer. He looked at the large wooden cross around her neck. She had a bloody nerve wearing that and playing a part in this mischief.

His partners sat either side of him, passive. The three of them could have taken her but she wasn't alone. A stocky young man, obviously her son, stood at the end of the sidewalk, another gun on them. A third one was at the front door, a much older man, rough-faced and grey-haired, and holding a rifle.

Big Red reckoned the odds on getting at the three of them without blood was zero. He'd already seen Deano killed today. He didn't want to lose anyone else. This gang knew what they were about. The ringleader had arrived first, asking for his best and most popular girl, Tisha, and more than patient to wait his turn. Big Red had been a little suspicious of the man then, there was something familiar about him, something nagging at the back of his head that wasn't his wife's voice, but by the time he came to realise the real identity of the old man it was too late; he and his partners had been ambushed and stripped of their weapons.

The Reardon gang had a terrible reputation on Panola – killing, raping, kidnapping and robbing – but they hadn't been around for a time.

Big Red cursed himself and prayed for Tisha.

It was the early hours of the morning and Panola Avenue was ragged and jumbled and tired-looking. The stalls were long closed, even the Junk Men did not sell at this hour, but plenty of the food stands were still open for business, steam rising from pots and pans, lamps hanging from awnings, picking up the trade from the drinking houses and gambling dens. A few men were asleep in doorways and one man had collapsed drunk in the middle of the road. Someone was singing, badly, and a small group of men were having a heated confrontation that amounted to little more than posturing and finger pointing.

A knot of men and women stumbled by, talking loudly.

Big Red fidgeted and Michelle scuffed her boot to grab his attention, gesturing with her pistol.

"The Lord will decide when it's your time," she said.

The group went past, without stopping, and a woman pointed back, intrigued by the two bodies draped over a horse.

Big Red could hear the buzzing flies and smell the stinking corpses from where he sat.

* * *

Reardon hooded her. The rough material stretched across her face but there was a line of light at the bottom and Tisha glimpsed her feet on the floor. Her heart was beating fast. She had to calm down. She had dealt with men like him before and she wouldn't be bullied or intimidated. But her stomach gurgled and she had the sudden urge to pee. No, she had to fight the fear, she wouldn't be terrorised. He could ask his questions and fuck off.

He moved behind her, rough clothes scraping her bare skin. He pinned her arms, used a belt around her wrists.

"That's a lot better."

He slapped her arse. Hard. Her chest rose and fell. She continued to fight the urge to pee, squeezing her legs together. He was fiddling with something on her dressing table and her nostrils suddenly filled with the smell of tobacco. He had taken one of her hand-rolled cigarettes. A shiver went down her spine. Nakedness was increasing her sense of vulnerability. He knew what he was doing. He had done this kind of thing before.

She tuned into his footsteps. He was circling her, slowly, saying nothing, inhaling smoke. It made her feel a little off balance. She focused on the slim strip of light at the bottom of the hood.

"Your man of colour on the stall said the boys that got shot were in here. The girl outside told me your man, Kody, got first pick. That makes him crew leader. And he chose you."

He paced around her.

"Did you fuck Kody?"

His voice was horrible.

"I didn't know his name. That's the first time I've heard it. I asked him his name but he didn't..."

"Shut up," shouted Reardon.

He was moving around her quicker. She hoped he would get dizzy, keel over and have a heart attack.

"The crew leader was named Kody. Why did Stone kill Kody?"

"I don't know. I don't know these people."

Round and round.

"You don't know."

Drops of urine squeezed out, trickled down her leg.

"You don't fucking know."

Round and round and...

"We were fucking," she said, raising her voice. Her bladder emptied. "We were fucking."

He stopped.

She heard him drag on the cigarette.

"That's quite a mess, girl. Are you OK?"

She knew it was a trick.

She kept silent.

He moved toward her.

"Are you OK?"

His rough hands scraped around her neck. The bag tightened. The light disappeared.

She breathed hard, tasting stale fabric.

"OK?"

"Yes."

She heard a creak, he was sitting down. Her thighs were sticky. She was shaking again.

"Did you know the four boys were from Kiven?"

"Yes."

"Why were they in Batesville? Were they looking for Stone?"

"I don't know."

"Stone is a wanted man. There's a reward on his head. Were the boys hunting him down?"

"I don't know anything about Stone. I don't know why this happened. Please, I'm sorry, I don't know."

Silence.

She waited.

The silence continued.

Had he gone? She hadn't heard him leave. No, it's a trick. She strained to hear and picked out his breathing.

"Kody came in and we had sex. He said he was in charge of a dozen vehicles and had sent them off in different directions across the wasteland. They were hunting for some people. Then he left."

There was another patch of silence.

She took a deep breath.

"Please untie me. I've told you everything I know."

Silence.

"I don't know anything else."

She wanted Big Red to barge right in and put a few rounds in the old bastard's head.

Where was he?

"Aye," said Reardon. "You don't know anything else."

The chair creaked. He was on his feet again.

"You colour bitches are born fucking liars, so you are. Are you the scum I went to war for? They put a slingshot in my hands and a fucking uniform on my back and told me to kill. And for what? For the likes of you?"

She heard the squeak of his shoulder-holster, the cocking of the pistol.

"I don't know anything."

She was crying now.

She took a step back, feet in urine.

"Wait, he mentioned something about where they were going."

"Did he now? And where would that be?"

"Silver Road."

She tensed, lip quivering, limbs shaking, ready for the gunshot. But then he spoke, softer this time.

"I've heard of that place. Special town down south. Just for special people. Not for the likes of me or colour like you."

"Kody said they were heading there after Batesville. He said they were on the hunt for a guy and a girl who'd ripped off the gang."

"Ripped them off? What are you talking about?"

"He said they stole money and Kody had come into the wasteland to track them down."

Reardon scratched his beard, holstered his pistol and loosened the belt around her wrists.

"Stolen money, eh? So that's what the shootout was about. Now that is very interesting, so it is."

He took off her hood, patted her bare ass.

"Much obliged, darling. May the Lord keep you well."

* * *

Sullivan opened the door for him. "Anything?"

"We'll talk on the road."

Reardon dropped to a crouch beside Big Red.

"Your whore was very helpful."

"You bastard, Reardon. Did you hurt her?

"I didn't have to. She did it all herself. But you..."

He lunged forward, driving his blade into Big Red's neck. Declan fired, two shots, taking out the man on the right. He tumbled from his chair. Michelle swivelled and shot the one on the left, a single round between the eyes.

Reardon twisted the knife, eyes calm, face showing nothing. He yanked it free and Big Red dropped, arms flapping.

Michelle made the sign of the cross. Reardon wiped his blade clean on one of the big coats.

"The good old days," he said.

Laughing, they rustled up the horses and melted into darkness. Tisha heard them gallop away and nudged open the front door.

She screamed.

TWENTY NINE

The dawn light was raw, unflinching.

They collected Yuan and Weaver and pressed south through scrubland, once more keeping parallel to the highway. Yuan looked cold, tired. She didn't have much to say except to ask Stone to allow Weaver to travel with them. He nodded, agreeing not to abandon the automobile dealer to what would be certain death. Weaver didn't want to be around but there was no alternative. An uneasy truce broke out.

Weaver scowled as he walked, dry-mouthed and hungry, his clothes filthy and unsuitable.

They moved in single file, Stone taking the lead, Cali behind him, then Yuan, with Weaver at the rear. They crossed waterlogged fields and saw ruined buildings. Yuan opened her pack and handed around pieces of hard biscuit. They ate as they walked. There was no point in stopping. They had no coffee, no meat, no whiskey, nothing except the hard biscuit.

Stone kept his eyes peeled for something to hunt. The hours drifted, the weak sun climbed high in the sky and still he saw no tracks or detected any movement. He had listened to stories of the Black Region and heard it was a place without hope. That it would haunt a man and end him. But Stone had been born and raised in the deserts of Gallen and that was pretty much how his homeland was described to strangers.

He studied the map, kept them walking.

Weaver grumbled a few times but no one spoke, wanting to channel every grain of energy into keeping up.

It was dusk when they heard the snarl of car engines.

Stone whipped out his machete as they took cover. He'd hoped they were beyond the Triple Death gang. The noise grew closer, barking across the silence. Remaining flat, they waited.

Two heavily-customised cars burned into view. Stone raised his head and saw no gang markings.

The vehicles flashed by, pushing north, toward the craters and sinkholes. He let out a sigh of relief and urged them on.

The landscape was bleak, dead vegetation and dry creeks, and his thoughts turned to Pavla, wondering how close she was. She had the edge. She had the location of the weapon and was armed with bullets and explosives.

Darkness was less than thirty minutes away. A stiff wind drove the clouds from the rippled sky.

He stopped, told them to break for ten minutes, and then explained how they would move through the dark, keeping in single column but with one hand on the person in front.

"I'm exhausted," said Weaver.

Stone shrugged. "We're not stopping."

"I'm beat as well," said Cali. "But Stone knows what's what. He says we walk at night then that's the deal, car man."

Weaver glared at her.

"We should drink," said Yuan, opening her pack, and retrieving the last of the bottled water.

There were a few stumbles and once or twice Stone whispered for them to stop and hold still but the night passed without incident. An hour before dawn, he guided them to the base of a low hill and told them to rest.

They collapsed. Within seconds, Weaver was asleep. Yuan drew her knees against her chest, rested her head, and closed her bleary eyes. Cali yawned, her head nodding forward.

Stone nudged her with his boot. "Keep your eyes open."

She nodded, yawned once more.

Shrugging off his pack, he took only his machete and telescope, and weaved a path up the hill. He found a shallow depression fringed with wildflowers, dropped to one knee and expanded the telescope.

There was an exit road from the fifty-five, cutting through featureless scrubland and winding toward a tree-covered hill. It went over the hill and dipped toward a dry creek. Stone rose onto both feet, wiped the grit from his eyes. The creek was spanned by an old bridge, wide enough for two vehicles. The asphalt was scarred and marked with fresh tyre tracks, the crash barrier on the left hand side mangled.

Beyond the old bridge was Silver Road, huddled within a valley, shielded by pine trees, the faint smell of wood smoke in the air. Light picked at the horizon, revealing buildings of wood and brick and tidy looking dirt roads.

It was a second-world town, unmolested by the horrors of the Black Region.

There was a solitary man at the top of the bridge with a wide-brimmed hat and a blue armband.

In the forests, Stone saw spotters in wooden watchtowers. The bridge wasn't the only way in and out.

He collapsed his telescope, relaxed the tension in his arms. He sucked down the fresh air, watched the town and listened to the wind, allowing himself a tight smile, but nothing more. He carried the mission of a dead man and it was only part complete. They would need to plan the robbery with care. There could be no suspicion or blame directed at them. They would need an individual to take the fall for it, a patsy. Weaver flicked into his thoughts but he was too close to them. It would have to be someone from the town.

But the half-smile drained away because Stone knew that once they obtained the weapon concealed within the bank, he would face an agonising choice between Cali and New Washington or his unsuccessful search for the elusive Pathfinder and a way back to Nuria. Jeremiah had been right on that score – the nomadic man was a ghost. He didn't want to be found. Stone guessed the sea was only six or seven days to the south and that could be his route back. But he had no supplies and no assurance he would find transportation to cross it. And he couldn't abandon Cali and the weapon and condemn the township of New Washington to whatever lay beyond its borders.

His head ached.

His heart ached.

He pressed his hand to the wooden memento Nuria had given him and allowed her face and voice into his thoughts for a moment.

And then he said goodbye to her. What he was doing came first. It always had. It always would.

Stone picked up his machete and telescope and trudged back down the hill to get the others.

**PART THREE**

THIRTY

They crossed the bridge, cramped and windblown, and Stone glimpsed two wrecked vehicles at the bottom of the creek, one peppered with arrows. It appeared the road gang stretched this far. Not that he had even seen them. He wondered what defences were in places to repel motorised attackers. He would have to know. He would have to know everything before they tackled the bank.

Loitering on the outskirts of town, grimy and dishevelled, they saw population ahead.

Men, women and children bustled in and out of wood and brick buildings. It was a second-world settlement. There was no asphalt and no towers reaching fifty-storeys into the sky. It might have been the site of a former first-world town but there was no evidence of it now.

A man stepped before them. He had known they were coming for the past two hours, the moment they left the cover of the hill.

"I'm Sheriff Rawles," he said.

He was the first obstacle. He was in his fifties, roughly six-foot, silver hair curling onto his shoulders and an old scar down his neck.

"Do you have names?"

He had a warm voice but there was firmness to it and it was a question he wanted answered or they weren't going anywhere.

They were here to steal, maybe even to kill. But it wouldn't be on the first night, or the second, it would take time, as much time as they could spare, so they had to adapt, blend.

Stone told him his name and extended his hand. He couldn't think of the last time he had willingly offered his hand to another man. Rawles had a meaty grip and blue eyes that probed. He shook Weaver's hand next, almost crushing it, and greeted Cali and Yuan with a polite tip of his wide-brimmed hat. He wore regular clothes and old looking boots that needed stitching. Around his waist was a tan-coloured belt with a faded buckle and a revolver holstered on his hip. There was blue armband around his left arm, stitched with the letters S.R.E.O.

"Silver Road Enforcement Officer," said Rawles. He was fully aware of Stone's observation. "It means I can enforce the law by peaceful arrest or with my weapon. Now we have only one law here in Silver Road and it works well for us. If you're passing through, or you want to stay, then you need to follow it."

"Yeah, we know about the law you got, man," said Cali.

She sounded half-asleep.

"I'm sure you do, ma'am. But Mayor Jefferson pays me a wage and part of my job is to lay out the law to any strangers."

The voice was still relaxed and easy-going but there was no mistaking the grit behind his words.

"We're listening," said Stone.

"You take nothing that isn't yours," said Rawles. "Well, that's it, simple enough for most folks, though some still don't get it. There are no big books here filled with the law. We know our history but it's not the way we work down here. There are no trials, no juries, no appeals, no sentencing, no parole. Silver Road law is a black and white thing. If you take something that isn't yours – food, coins, weapons, a woman or even the life of another – then I arrest you. You draw on me and you end up dead."

"We're not looking to cause any trouble," said Yuan, and Rawles smiled sweetly at her.

"Ma'am, I doubt you are, but the law is the law and it's best you know it from the outset."

"We're looking for a bit of quiet," said Stone.

Rawles considered his words, ran his eyes over them.

"I don't know what your plans are and you don't need to tell me, either. We let people have their privacy here. You have seven days in Silver Road. No more than that. You keep out of trouble, show you want to be part of our town, that you have something to offer and compliment the honest family living we have here, and we allow you to stay for good. The final decision belongs to Mayor Jefferson."

Stone nodded.

"We're looking to stay."

Rawles half-turned, flanking them, his right hand on the grip of his revolver, left hand pointing into town.

"I had a gut feeling you might. You people look done in. The Black Region is a harsh place. Anyway, motel is there, always rooms available. You need to stay there for the seven days. You can get food in the diner across the street. We have a general store, it's well stocked, and a bar that's even better stocked." He chuckled. "There's a school, a bank, thrift store, a Holy House, you name it."

He jabbed a thumb.

"You got any bullets in those guns?"

"No."

"Figures," said Rawles. "Well, come and see me later and I'll see what I can do for you."

He signalled to another man, in his mid-twenties, unshaven and narrow-faced with a shock of brown hair.

The man wore the same blue armband with the same stitched lettering.

"This is Carlton."

Rawles introduced the four of them. Carlton nodded, but didn't offer his hand and said nothing.

A woman shouted from down the street, leaning out of an open doorway, and both men turned.

Rawles patted Carlton on the shoulder. "You deal with that, Carlton."

The man strode away, head ducked.

"You'll have to excuse Carlton. His best friend, a fellow enforcement officer, was murdered two days ago. It was a terrible shock. Silver Road isn't crime free but there hasn't been an enforcement officer slain in nearly three years. People have respect for the blue armband."

"That's horrible," said Yuan.

"It is, ma'am. Young fella is still coming to terms with it."

"You get the fool that did it?" asked Cali.

"Oh, sure, he's locked up, but what difference does that make? Nicky's still gone and Carlton has lost his friend."

There was a moment of hesitation.

"Well, enjoy your time here in Silver Road."

There were no sidewalks. They walked in the road, kicking up loose dirt and saw horses and carts, and plenty of people on foot. A few took notice of them but no one openly stared or stopped and pointed. Yuan was smiling, from ear to ear, despite the tiredness she felt. The sun was weak, the wind brisk, the temperature hovering close to zero, and her home in Batesville was a lifetime away from this place. But she was happy.

They reached an intersection, clustered with single-storey stores. They stopped as a horse drawn wagon loaded with tied down crates rumbled past. Pausing for a moment longer, absorbing the calmness of the town, they moved off, sensing little trouble or threat from the people around them. A young man strolled by, crossbow hooked onto his back, heavy satchel in his hand. He greeted them with a tip of his hat and a quiet _good morning._

There was a strangely surreal atmosphere. Stone was guarded, prepared for the façade of normality to slip, exposing the true nature of Silver Road. Only it didn't happen.

People busied from one place to another. Stores opened. Life carried on. With or without them.

"Rawles is smart," said Stone. "He doesn't miss a thing. We'll need to be careful around him."

"I hear you, man."

They followed a road away from the busy streets. The ground switched from dirt to stone. There was a square-shaped building with a hand-carved wooden sign above the doorway.

It read: MOTEL.

A stream meandered through pine trees, gurgling over rocks, sparkling as it was caressed by the sun.

Beyond, the land rose steadily toward watchtowers and men with telescopes and rifles.

The wind whispered through the trees. A hanging chime of rusted cutlery jangled.

"This place is wonderful," said Yuan.

Death and violence had shocked and challenged her, had dulled the edges a little, but the shine was still there, in long vibrant streaks, and her belief that the world was a place of wonderful things was far from destroyed. She saw beauty, hope, brightness and kindness and her mood was infectious. Stone looked at her fondly and worried for her, knowing that the higher you climbed the more painful the fall was. He hoped he would be around to catch her.

"So this is my life then?" said Weaver. "I don't understand how this has happened. What am I doing here?"

He stood apart from the three of them, no bonds. His hands were spread across his hips.

"This is a good place," said Yuan. "Tell me where in Batesville you can find a _sanctuary_ like this?"

Stone understood the word and thought it was pretty apt. Pathways snaked around lawns where winter wildflowers grew. There were rows of wooden cabins in blocks of four with front porches and sloping roofs.

"Yeah, some sanctuary," said Weaver.

He nodded toward a man sprawled on a chair outside one of the cabins. His stubby legs were stretched out and spread wide, his ink-covered arms folded behind his head. A hat was perched across his face and he wore a short-sleeved undershirt and loose trousers. His feet were bare, thick with dark curls of hair.

"I recommend the view here."

"You have to give this place a chance. I'm going to. We all are. And I already feel safer than in Batesville. They have law here."

"They have law in Kiven," said Weaver. "I wouldn't call Kiven a sanctuary, or a paradise, or whatever the hell you want to call this place."

"We have only just arrived. You might like it."

"Look, you chose to come here. I didn't. I was kidnapped."

He looked around, repeated it.

"I was taken at gunpoint, forced here. I was kidnapped."

Cali jutted her chin at him. "If you hadn't fucked with the gauge you could be driving..."

"Oh, will you shut up," said Weaver.

Stone rounded on him.

"The world owes you nothing, Weaver."

Weaver stood toe to toe with him.

"Perhaps I should march back down there and speak to the sheriff. Tell him the type of man he's just admitted into his perfect town. A murderer, a kidnapper..."

Stone glared at him.

"I'm not afraid of you, Stone."

"Then you're an idiot."

The man in the chair let out a short chuckle. He eased forward, took the hat from his face, and yawned. There was a shirt and a gun belt hanging on the back of his chair, a pistol jutting from the holster. He got to his feet, stretched. His head was squashed, giving him the appearance of having no neck. He shuffled into one of the cabins and came back out a moment later, liquor bottle in hand.

"Can I help you people?"

But it wasn't the man who spoke. The voice came from behind them and belonged to a woman. It was a functional voice and nothing more. They turned and she stood in the doorway of the motel office, tall and slender. She had red hair streaked with grey, shoulder length and straight, her fringe a perfectly neat line above thick eyebrows that curved over brown eyes. Her freckled face was long and her lips were unsmiling. She was in her forties, a sour and unwelcoming manner about her.

Stone hesitated. For a moment he thought he knew her, had encountered her once before and then it passed.

She didn't wait for an answer, and went back into the office, allowing the door to close behind her.

THIRTY ONE

The air was filled with the smell of coffee.

She wore an ankle length skirt with a roll neck sweater and a knitted cardigan, long sleeves bunched around her wrists. Her long-fingered hands tapped lightly against a wooden desk with a scratched plastic surface.

"We need rooms," said Stone.

She nodded toward a blackboard with prices written in chalk. Cali handed him a coin roll and he tore open the wrapping. He kept one back and filled his pocket with the rest. He spoke again, explaining they required two cabins; one for him and one for the two girls. She looked at him harshly and he wondered if he'd offended her. Maybe she would've have preferred the word _women_ and not _girls_. Maybe she thought it wasn't correct or appropriate for a man of his age to be travelling with two young women. He didn't give a shit either way. Yuan politely reminded him of Weaver, and that he would need a room, and Stone grudgingly asked for a third cabin as he handed over the solitary coin.

"You'll struggle to spend these in town," she said. Her voice was flat. "I can accept it but a lot of the businesses only handle low value coins. Go to the bank and change your coins there."

The woman took a metal tin from beneath the counter, unlocked it, and deposited the single coin inside, handing Stone back a small amount of change. A row of keys hung from metal hooks on the wall behind her, each with a number fob, and she took down three of them.

"If you're accepted there's cheaper accommodation available in the centre of town, if that's the sort of thing you want."

"I'm sure your place will be fine," said Weaver.

He smiled, cocky and self-assured. The woman looked at him blankly. Cali allowed herself a wry chuckle.

"I'm Jodie," she said, finally making an introduction. "I run the motel. If you need anything you ask me."

Stone was thinking he wouldn't be asking her for anything. He'd never encountered such a morose person. Jodie began to explain a few rules of her own, imparting all her words in a monotone voice, but Stone was already heading for the door, key in hand.

He stepped out into the cold, silencing her voice, and stood for a moment, deep in thought. He washed a hand over his face and glanced back at her. He had never come across her before, he was certain of that, but there was something unsettling about her, something familiar.

He picked and scratched at his brain, found no answers.

The man in the metal chair was dangling a bottle between his legs. He looked up, squinting as the sun went into his eyes.

"What number you want, mister?"

He spoke incredibly slowly.

"Fifteen."

"Behind me, mister. Right behind. That row there. Just there."

He pointed with the bottle. It was half-filled with orange-coloured liquor. He took a swig, laughed.

Stone began to move off, but the man spoke to him again.

"First day, right? I'm Duane, mister. Call me Duane. Fifth day already for me. Not going to be more, no. I'm out on day seven, day seven, out on seven."

"Why's that?"

"I don't mix well, no. I'm not what they want. I don't break the law. Out on seven, I am, mister."

The wind whipped around the motel. Duane seemed untroubled by the cold, despite the goose bumps on his arms.

"You want a drink, mister?"

"Sure."

Stone wiped the rim, drank and tasted tequila. It was good. He passed the bottle back.

"Where'd you come from?" asked Duane.

"North."

"I came from the east. Real wet east, mister. I didn't like east, no. All water. What's north?"

"A few communities."

"Like this? Places like this? 'Cause I'm out on seven, mister." He drank. "No votes for me."

He laughed, knuckled his forehead.

"Might go north. You reckon I should try north, mister?"

"Sounds like you don't have a choice."

"Yeah, you're smart. I'm out in seven. Reckon I got no choice but to try north. Jodie don't like me, no."

"I don't think Jodie likes anyone."

Duane laughed.

"Good luck getting accepted. You'll need it. I'm out on seven, day seven, out on seven."

* * *

Stone closed the door.

There was a bed made from wood, and a mattress with crisp sheets, and blankets and pillows.

There were walls, four of them, and a floor that creaked beneath his dirty boots, and a ceiling that kept out the wind and the rain.

He perched on the corner of the bed, and made no movement for several minutes, no gestures, nothing, until he finally unclenched his left hand and placed it onto the mattress, palm down.

It was soft.

There was a plain rug on the wooden floor, smudged with a fresh muddy boot print, and an unlit stove in one corner, with a pipe that fed into the roof. There was a wicker basket piled with logs, a rocking chair, a dresser with a basin and jug, and a storage chest with an open hinged lid.

Stone massaged the bridge of his nose. He was filthy and hungry, carrying wounds yet to heal. He had no supplies or ammunition. He slipped off his pack and set it down with the unloaded shotgun.

A large wooden cross hung over the bed.

He'd encountered it for the first time in the state of Ennpithia. It had left a bad taste back then. They had called him faithless. He had watched them bend, bow and plead.

He took the cross off the wall, placed it inside the storage chest and closed the lid.

"I don't think so," he said.

Then he went outside.

Cali and Yuan were talking to Jodie. Weaver was nowhere to be seen.

"Got directions for the diner," said Cali. She slapped her stomach. "Man, I need feeding."

Stone nodded, told her to come straight back once she was done.

"Hey, don't play the old man role now. Why don't you come with us?"

He shook his head and ignored his gut. He went looking for Rawles. He didn't want food. He wanted bullets.

* * *

Stone arrived back at the intersection, his scarred face and wounded head drawing the attention of a woman who suddenly spun on her heel and disappeared hurriedly in the other direction. There were children on the street now, lots of them, loud and rowdy, pushing and shoving, all coming from the same direction. Stone assumed lessons were over. Excitement spilled into teasing and then a fist fight broke out in a flash. A circle formed and there was jeering and yelling until a number of adults rushed from stores and it was quickly broken up.

Deputy Carlton was on duty at the bridge and carried a rifle slung over his shoulder, hand gripped tightly around its strap.

He glared from beneath his wide-brimmed hat.

"Help you?"

"Rawles?" asked Stone.

"Sheriff is in the barracks."

"Where's that?"

Carlton ignored the question, nodded at the handguns tucked in Stone's belt.

"You any good with them?"

Stone said nothing.

"Did you hear me?"

"I heard you."

Carlton loosened his grip around his rifle strap, flexed his fingers. A holstered pistol was worn on his right hip.

"Then answer the damn question, citizen."

Stone regarded him.

"Men who boast are usually only that."

Carlton sneered.

"Yeah, ain't that the damn truth."

He pointed onto the bridge, toward the tyre tracks.

"That's where it happened. It shouldn't have gone down like that. Nicky didn't deserve to die."

Carlton took his rifle from his shoulder, cradled it across his body.

"Rawles tell you what happened?"

"No."

"Nicky was too slow to be an enforcement officer." The deputy tapped the side of his head. "Up here. We got a lot of them. Good people get accepted but you take a gamble on the generation they bring through."

Stone said nothing.

"Our spotters saw the trouble coming down the fifty-five," said Carlton. "A single car was tearing its way along with a shit load of bandits after it."

_Uppers,_ thought Stone.

"We got snipers in the trees and watchtowers. Protects us from the wrong kind of people sneaking in. We took a few long distance rifle shots, and knocked out one of the cars, sent it crashing down into the creek. They gave up once they knew we had rifles on them. Then this fella, the one they were chasing, his cars skids and flips, and he rolls out, gun drawn, all jangled up from the chase. Nicky went to him, didn't mean any harm, but simple Nicky had his weapon out. He didn't stand a chance. Fella killed him with one shot, threw down his gun once he realised what he'd done."

Carlton kicked at the ground.

"Nicky is dead because one guy got spooked. That's the kind of shit that can happen when people don't know how to handle their weapons. So I'll ask you again and this time you'll answer. You any good with them?"

"I know how to handle them."

"Reckon you do and all." He pointed. "Barracks is on Main Street."

As Stone began to walk away, Carlton called after him. "Ain't just Mayor Jefferson you have to impress, Stone."

Stone halted, turned.

"What do you mean?"

"Sheriff Rawles gets a vote, and so does Jodie. You need two out of three to stay in Silver Road."

"I'm sorry you lost your friend."

Carlton chewed his lip, spat.

"No need to soap me. I don't get a vote."

"I don't care about votes." He looked around the town. "Seven days of somewhere decent is more than I've had in a long time."

"I get that. How'd you find Jodie?"

Stone said nothing and Carlton sneered.

"Yeah, I thought so."

THIRTY TWO

Sunlight winked through a tree-covered hillside, lighting up a half-empty Main Street lined with single-storey buildings.

Stone walked at a casual speed, neither hurrying nor dragging his heels. His eyes roamed, scoping out storefronts and rooftops and doorways. He was aware of every individual ahead and behind. His only weapons were his fists, his machete and knife, and they were more than enough for a town like this. He'd seen nothing to fear. But he was no fool.

There was an absence of gates and fences but the town was no less a prison. He'd busted out of a few of those in his time. Getting out of Silver Road would require cunning or a blunt cone of violence. He hadn't decided on which option. A robbery the week they arrive might be one coincidence too many, despite Jeremiah's plan. It was important they dug out a patsy to take the fall. They would have to work fast on that. Stone thought on what the weapon might be, concealed down in the vault, and who in the town knew of its existence.

He passed a liquor store. An older man and a much younger girl were cleaning the inside of the window. They wore brown aprons. The girl had pale skinny arms. The man squeezed out his cloth and they both stopped and stared. There was a store filled with salvaged goods, arranged on rows of wooden shelves. Stone saw two Junk Men inside, inked faces and hooded clothing. Junk Men were not settlers, planting roots was an extremely rare thing for them to do. He guessed the town had a unique charm if it was able to lure their kind from the wastelands in exchange for this. A large door ahead was flung open and a bleary-eyed couple emerged. Arm in arm, they stumbled off down the street, weaving. Stone glimpsed a smoky, lamp lit interior. He heard voices and laughter, and then the door eased slowly shut, muffling the noise.

Rawles was waiting outside for him, steam rising from a cup of coffee.

The barracks was plain brick with razor-wire coiled on the roof. The windows were barred. There was a driveway of loose chippings and no vehicle. Stone had not seen a single automobile since arriving.

A hand-carved wooden sign was thrust into the ground.

It read: SILVER ROAD BARRACKS. Law Enforcement Office.

Rawles held open the door, motioned for him to come inside.

The room beyond was box-shaped and heated by a wrought-iron stove. The walls were plain brick and there were several closed doors with large aluminium handles. There was a waiting area with a bench and a wooden rail with a swing-gate. There were scattered wooden desks, metal chairs, a notice board, a blackboard and a locked weapons cabinet with a couple of rifles, a shotgun and a flare pistol.

"I saw you talking with Carlton. He can be a bit edgy. Pay him no mind. He's a good man. He's trying to keep a brave face on his feelings. Poor fella is hurting bad inside."

Stone nodded, said nothing.

"Did you settle in at the motel?"

"Yeah."

"You eaten?"

"No."

"I'm having a late lunch. My wife sends me off with too much food. This belt won't fit if she keeps it up."

He tugged at it. It didn't budge.

"You drink?"

Stone nodded and pulled out a chair. Rawles poured whiskey and took a plastic tub from his desk, prising off the lid. There was meat, sauce, crackers, and fruit. The two men got stuck in.

"How long have you been here?" asked Stone.

"More than fifty years. Left once. I was young, thought I knew everything. Ran away with a travelling circus."

"A what?"

"A circus." He paused. "Do you know what a circus is?"

Stone shook his head. Rawles laughed.

"Nor did I. Not really. I figured it would be drink, women and fun. But once you break it down it was just hard work. We had entertainers who did tricks, and a few animals who did better tricks. Travelled north beyond Kiven city and saw the land they call the red zone. We got raided. Not many of us lived."

He reflected, and then raised his cup.

"Here's to running away with the circus. And then coming home and getting married."

"How old is the town?"

Rawles thought. "I'm not sure. A century or two. Give or take. A lot older than me and that's saying something. Mayor Jefferson is the history buff."

He nudged the food box. Stone shook his head. His stomach was full.

"Do you trade with any settlements?"

"Redwater, Walnut Grove, Starkville and a few others. But not with Kiven. Where are you from, Stone?"

"Gallen."

"I thought as much. You look and sound a little different. Only to an observant old man."

"You're defiantly that."

"Ah," said Rawles, filling both cups again. "Carlton told you about the votes. No good praising me, I'm not a man easily corrupted by compliments. Circuses are my downfall."

"I wasn't trying to."

"I know that." He grinned. "Do you know what they used to call Gallen in the old days?"

"No."

Rawles lifted his cup but didn't drink. "Central America. Gallen was once different countries, different cultures and lots of borders. We don't get many from across the sea. Do you know what part you're from?"

He shook his head. "My father said we came from the coast but I only remember sand and rock."

"Is he still alive?"

"No."

"I lost my old man when I was young. He was a builder. A floor collapsed on him. He never got to see me wear the armband. I've been at this job for more than thirty years, Stone. After all that time, watching hundreds, maybe even thousands of people cross that bridge, I tend to know which way I'm planning to vote before they even reach me and open their mouth."

"I won't ask."

"You can. But I won't tell you. Jodie will be a hard one to convince."

Stone nodded. "What's her story?"

"Have you tried asking her?"

"No."

"Figures. I doubt she'll tell you. She came here a long time ago. During or after the war, I can't quite remember."

It was gloomy inside the barracks. Rawles got to his feet, arched his back, and went around lighting lamps.

"You need to stay here for a moment."

He took a ring of keys of his belt, unlocked one of the doors at the back. He pushed down on the aluminium handle. The door popped outward. He went through, closing it behind him.

Stone set down his whiskey, brushed food crumbs from his coat and began to look around. The blackboard was covered with names and areas in the town. It appeared to be a rota for the deputies. There was no mention of the bank.

He went across to the notice board. There was a town map pinned to it. The roads were replicated as single lines with names. There were plenty of them, grid-like and symmetric. Between the lines were neatly drawn squares and rectangles, hundreds of them, each with a number. The numbers were duplicated for different streets. Stone took a moment, grasping a quick understanding of how the map worked. He noticed that some of the drawn buildings had numbers _and_ names. Hastily, he found the one he wanted.

One word: BANK.

14th Street, Building 7.

He tapped his finger against the coarse paper, allowed his eyes to flick left and right, up and down, memorising as many relevant aspects of the map as possible.

Rawles came through the door. Stone was back in his chair.

"That your jail through there?" he asked.

"Holding cells."

"What will happen to Nicky's killer?"

"Same thing as any other criminal we arrest. Stay here until they get shipped out. The truck from Starkville is due in about five days."

"Starkville?"

"A town with a prison camp. It's where we send them all. Murderers, rapists, wife beaters, thieves, all those who want to ruin Silver Road."

Stone nodded.

"Can you set me up with some ammunition?"

"I can, and I will, but I've also got a proposition for you."

He unlocked another door. It was a box-shaped cubicle. Only enough space for one man. There were wooden shelves stacked with boxes of ammunition and crates of handguns. Rawles explained that the town pressed their own bullets in a concealed location and that they were subsequently sold at a very high price. It was an attempt at reducing the number of men running around with loaded guns.

"Has it worked?"

Rawles shrugged, poured another whiskey. "Shootings are down. The use of bottles, knives and bats are up. What can you do?"

Stone loaded his handguns. He was impressed with the workmanship. He took extra bullets for Cali.

"You got any shotgun shells?"

"I sure do."

"How much for all this?"

"Nothing this time."

Stone narrowed his eyes. "Nothing is free."

"This time it is."

"You're arming a man you've known less than a day. Who do you want me to kill?"

"No one, I hope. Not unless you have to."

"Then what do you want?"

Rawles nodded at the weapon's cabinet. "That flare gun was used on the battlefield during the civil war. Signalled retreat from the Place of Bridges when the treaty was signed. Different purpose for it now. Ten years ago a lot of ex-soldiers went back into the city, finding work as paid killers. They'd tasted blood. They were wound up like jack-in-the-boxes. But not all of them went back there. Others came south, looking to escape politics and violence. Some made it here. Found faith in our Holy House. The Church of Jacob. They sought the love of the Almighty and tried to start again."

"What went wrong?"

"Something always does, doesn't it? More men came. Men who were angry, bitter and damaged. The town became overrun. Feuds were settled on Main Street, in full view of women and children. Can you imagine what that was like?"

He shook his head.

"We have a young deputy named Guzman. He saw his father crippled because he wore the armband. Now Guzman is all grown up, following in his father's footsteps. The old man is proud of his boy."

Rawles leaned against his desk.

"Mayor Jefferson struck a deal with Starkville and we began to round up the troublemakers. A life sentence of hard labour. Slowly, it deterred them from coming here. It was a rough time, chaotic, and lasted around two years. That was when the seven-day rule was introduced. We built the watchtowers, employed men as spotters, and snipers, and began to take ourselves more seriously as a town."

"You cleaned up."

"I suppose we did."

Rawles levelled his eyes at Stone.

"You're a travelling man. I can tell that. I envy you in a way. The freedom of the road and the open land. But I'm a little too old for that now. I'm a family man. I love home cooking and the sound of my children. I love the familiarity of Silver Road and the daily routine of work. The world is changing, Stone. You must see it. There are less of men like you walking around. Generations are staying settled. Past and present are getting to be the same. Why are you here? Why are you _really_ here?"

He spun the lie. "It's for the girl, Cali. A place for her to settle. Somewhere safe."

"And the other two?"

"Strays. They seem harmless."

Rawles picked up a blue armband from his desk.

"But you're not and that's OK. I need someone good with a gun to wear one of these. I need a man not afraid and not reckless. I'm guessing you don't live the life you've lived by being any of those things."

He pressed it into Stone's palm.

"I've taken on non-approved citizens before. It always worked out. Think it over. Get back to me."

Stone rubbed his lined fingers against the stitched lettering. The old sheriff had surprised him.

"I will," he said.

THIRTY THREE

"Aye," said Robert Reardon. "This'll do just grand."

It was the shell of an old vehicle, once a school bus. Its bright paint and lettering had faded. The windows were broken, the side door missing, the rear door mangled, the seating ripped out.

It was half-sunk into the ground. They had to crawl to get inside. It was impossible to stand.

Declan was to take care of the horses whilst a fire was lit. But first he had to deal with Bobby and Chuck. He raised his neck scarf over his mouth and nose and untied them, laying them on the ground, one at a time. The bodies stank and were crawling with black flies.

With that out of the way, he could tend to the horses. They were exhausted, filthy. He fed them, and cleaned them, and brushed them down before tethering them for the night. He spent hours with them, brutish hands working patiently. He talked to them, and gave each one a name. He was fond of the horses, respecting and admiring their strength and beauty and power, but he wasn't that keen on other animals, especially chickens. It was the strange jerky walk, that hideous clucking noise and those weird feet. The Devil had made chickens. His skin crawled at the thought of them.

Exhausted, he crawled into the bus.

Michelle handed him a mess tin of meat and soggy vegetables and a cup of strong coffee.

"It must be true," said Sullivan.

He kept his rifle across his lap, whiskey in his hand. "Triple Death wouldn't come this far south for nothing."

"Aye, I reckon not," said Reardon. "Means not only can we hang the big bastard we can get rich."

"What if that colour bitch was lying?" said Michelle. "Those are born to lie."

Declan finished his meal, refilled his coffee cup.

"That's true," he said, wanting to impress and become part of the grown-up conversation.

"That whore wasn't lying," said Reardon. "She pissed herself. I was surprised she didn't shit herself as well."

They all laughed.

"Still, it doesn't matter, coins or not, we take out Stone."

"What about the girl he's with?" asked Sullivan.

Reardon shrugged.

"Give her to the wee man." He nodded at Declan. "For looking after the horses."

"Thank you."

"My boy," said Michelle, and curled an arm around him. He shrugged her off, his cheeks blossoming red. "The Lord gave me such good children, so He did."

Sullivan rolled his eyes. It would soon be time for evening prayer.

"Can you not, for one fucking moment, leave out the religious shite?"

"Danny," said Reardon. "Remember what I said."

"What did you say?" said Michelle.

Reardon glared across the fire at Sullivan.

"I told him to let you have your cross."

"Oh, aye," said Michelle. She pointed at Sullivan. "You like the cross when it suits you, don't you, Daniel?"

His face darkened. "Shut up, Michelle."

"No, no. You give it, big man, time for you to take it."

She turned toward Reardon.

"Do you know what he gets me to do, Robert?"

"Quiet, Michelle."

"I'm talking to Robert now, Daniel, not you. So you just mind your manners."

Reardon grinned. "What does _Daniel_ like?" He enjoyed them fighting. It eased the pain.

"Well," said Michelle. "You know he hates religion, so he does."

"Aye," said Reardon.

"I don't hate it," said Sullivan.

"You do," said Michelle.

"Aye, you fucking do, _Daniel_."

"I just don't like it rammed down my throat," said Sullivan. "That's all."

"When he does me," said Michelle. "He likes me starkers, likes all my bits and pieces wobbling all over the place. But he makes me put the cross on. Naked except for the cross."

She rocked back, laughing.

"That's how he likes me. Wearing it when he's putting his seed in. The cross he has no respect for."

Reardon laughed. Declan blushed. The jokes went on for nearly thirty minutes and Sullivan took it well. But then the tormenting ran out of steam; they had ridden all day, and were cold, and tired, and half-drunk. It was time to plan for Silver Road, to work out how to snare a dangerous killer and put his head in a noose. Reardon lit a cigarette, dragged hard, and blew out a column of smoke.

"I want Stone alive. He gets fucking hung. Like what he did to Bobby Junior."

"Going to be hard taking a bastard like that still breathing," said Sullivan, leaning forward with his cup as Michelle poured whiskey.

"Aye," she said. "You heard Donal. Stone was the one who killed the governor of the League."

"I don't care about a fucking governor. Did you vote for him?" said Reardon. "I didn't vote for him, so I didn't."

"Ma means he'll be tough to catch," said Declan, whiskey flowing through him, loosening his tongue.

The two men looked at him. Reardon dragged on his cigarette. Sullivan nodded.

"The boy's right, Bobby. This isn't a man of colour, easy to pin down. He's gonna be tough to get hold of."

"I suppose," said Reardon. "But we have a bigger problem. How the fuck do we get into Silver Road?"

They were silent for a time, nibbling on leftovers and listening to the wind. Slowly, they tossed out ideas, one after the other, but nothing sat right, nothing fitted, nothing covered every angle.

"Are we sure he'll be there?" said Michelle.

"Bastard's probably there already," said Sullivan. "He took a car from Batesville."

"He's miles ahead of us," said Reardon, peering out at Bobby and Chuck on the ground.

Declan listened, saying nothing, eager to chip in once more, but afraid. Reardon and Sullivan were legends, hard men and war veterans, wanted for murder, rape, and robbery. He did not want to step out of line with them. Ma could only protect him so far.

He drained his cup. Picked up the bottle. Poured, spilling a little. His hands were shaking.

Reardon flicked his spent cigarette onto the fire.

"What's on your mind, Declan? I can see the wheels turning."

Declan swallowed hard, looked at the two men, and then his Ma. She nodded and the young man took a deep breath.

"Well, I was thinking of a story Donal told me about a place called Starkville. See, they have this truck..."

* * *

Stone lit a lamp and sat in the rocking chair. Cali was cross-legged on his bed, back against the wall.

It was dark outside.

"What'd you think?" he asked.

"Ain't no thing. Triple Death HQ was more of a challenge than that place."

"How will you get in?"

"Ah, don't you sweat it, man. I'll be in and out before anyone takes a breath."

She unfolded her legs, stretched and crossed her ankles. She ran a hand through her hair.

"You got me here, Stone."

He nodded, gently rocked.

"Took care of me."

He said nothing.

"Thank you."

"We never did find the Pathfinder, did we?"

She creased her mouth, looked away.

"No, we didn't."

"It doesn't matter now."

"No?"

"No."

He drank, stared.

"What are you going to do once we get this weapon?" she asked. "Will you be done with me?"

"I'm done with you once I get you and the weapon to New Washington."

Cali moistened her lips.

"What about Nuria?"

"She isn't here."

"I know that, man. I meant, what are you going to do about her? You care for her. I know that much."

He rested a hand against his revolver.

"What can I do?"

She left it a time before asking him anything else.

"When do you want to hit the bank?"

He lifted the blue armband from his pocket – S.R.E.O.

"Let me wear this first and work out the right time. We don't want a trail following us from here. Not like with Kiven."

The rocking chair creaked. Cali picked at the adhesive covering her slashed cheek, looked at the burns on her hands.

Stone glanced at the cross on the wall.

His chair stopped.

"What is it?" she asked.

* * *

Jodie was in the back room when he came through the office door. She heard it slam, heard his boots.

She took her time and stood with her arms folded.

He looked at her.

She looked back at him.

"I cleaned the rug as well," she said. "You left mud on it."

He watched her eyes.

"I don't like crosses," he said.

"I'm not trying to convert you. It's there if you wish to pray."

"I don't."

"OK, I'll let you decide where it goes."

"Why don't you have it back?"

"I'm past praying. They belonged to the family who ran the place before me."

He nodded, scrutinised her face.

"Where are you from?" he asked.

"That's none of your business."

"Ennpithia? Gallen?"

She didn't answer. He had no more words for her. She had none for him. She watched him march away through the darkness. She went into the back room and drew her cardigan tight. The fire was lit. There were candles on a table beside the window.

She sat, picked up her coffee cup, drank, and unrolled the poster she had stolen from his cabin.

Cali Lopez.

Wanted for robbery and murder.

* * *

Pavla leaned forward on her elbows, night-vision binoculars sweeping the trees.

She was on the outskirts of town, in a covered foxhole, observing the towers since nightfall. She suddenly thought of Mizon, her six-year old boy, at home with his father. Mizon could not see anything. He never had. There was no medicine or magic in this world to give him vision. He had been born blind. He would die blind. He would never know her face. But he would know of her deeds.

There was a manual security system protecting the town from infiltration and she had been analysing it for several hours. A code was sent from tower to tower. They used marked boards, illuminated by lamps. She could not cover the entire town and would have to rely on the assumption that the code was passed to the towers she could not see.

She marked time in her head. The code came back. There was a pause and then the sequence began again, moving from tower to tower. It returned for a second time and once more there was the pause. And then it began again. The method unchanged. The symbols unchanged. The elapsed time unchanged.

She poured coffee, ate bread, and thought about the towers. If she took out a single tower then the cycle would break and the town would be alerted to her within a matter of minutes. It was clever.

But she would continue to observe. And continue to think.

And then she would penetrate Silver Road, locate the weapon, and end it once and for all.

She was better than them. She was better than Stone.

THIRTY FOUR

The diner was near the bridge, family run, brick walls hung with salvaged first-world metal signs, jokes that no one understood. They were a little mangled at the edges but not enough to spoil the colour and character they brought to the place. It was the sixth day. It had been light for several hours. Stone and Cali were in a booth. She had eggs and beans, slices of bread and rolled meat. The food was good. The service was good. They didn't have to hunt or steal. The food was cooked and brought to them and they paid before leaving.

There were a handful of regular patrons.

The sky outside was light blue, marred by the ugly red streaks that had clung to the roof of the world for centuries.

Stone plucked a piece of meat from her plate, chewed, and washed it down with coffee.

She swore at him, half-heartedly, and told him to order something but he said he wasn't hungry.

"Yeah, not now. " She forked egg into her mouth and swallowed, rolled her eyes and groaned with satisfaction.

"The food is so good here. I want to live in this place."

He nodded, glanced out of the window, and watched the town sluggishly rise.

She leaned forward, talking low as she ate. "I've got a spot to stash everything once we clean out the bank. It has to be tonight."

"It will but you might not need a hiding place. We may have to change our exit."

"You thinking of going out tonight?"

"Jeremiah told you there was no time to waste. Besides, we haven't found a patsy to dump this on. We can't hope that the suspicion won't point in our direction."

"What about Weaver?"

"Too obvious."

"What are you going to do about him?"

Stone shrugged. "He's still breathing. He should be thankful for that."

"What about Yuan?"

"She seems happy here."

"But she'll get the blame the moment we bust out of this place with the weapon."

Stone sipped his coffee and said nothing.

"Is she the patsy?"

"No."

"She came in with us, man. They'll tag her as a... what do you call it? They'll think she had something to do with it."

She wiped her sleeve across her mouth. "What about...?"

"I don't have all the answers, Cali," he said. "But the longer we stay here the more suspicious they'll get. They'll pin the robbery on us in the end."

"They will if we run. Jeremiah thought this through, you feel me? The plan is solid, man."

Her cutlery scraped against the plate.

"How will we get past the towers? Have you thought that out? You said they ring the town like a fence, snipers and shit."

"I've got an idea for that."

She sliced up the meat, wolfed it down. She looked angry.

"Are you telling me I lugged those motherfucking coins all the way from Kiven for nothing?"

"I told you to ditch them."

"Yeah, you did that."

"The coins gave us a way in," he said. "Now we know what we're up against. Pretty much."

The stolen drug money had been sitting in the bank vault since the morning of the second day. The teller had tried to conceal her surprise at the value of the deposit. It was more coins than she'd ever seen but it didn't matter what she thought. The coins had allowed them access beyond the lobby with the cement floor and the plain walls and the grilled windows. They had been given a guided tour by the bank manager and now knew the layout. A corridor, two offices, a restroom and a hallway with stairs to an underground viewing room and extended vault with iron gates and long racks filled by numbered boxes.

"I still got a big problem with this," said Cali. "How do I identify the right box?"

He eased back, took out the drawing, and smoothed it flat; stars in the night sky, no moon.

"I wish he'd told you what this meant."

"You're not the only one," she said, tossing down her cutlery. "Yeah, do you see that, Stone? I've upgraded from eating with my hands."

He ignored her comment. "I'm hoping you'll recognise it when you see it."

"What the weapon is don't mean shit. There are hundreds of motherfucking boxes in that vault."

"Then open all of them."

"Simple as that? Open all of them? Man, don't come at me with that. There are too many. What if I run out of time?"

"Then the mission fails."

"Yeah, thanks, no pressure on me then. What the fuck, man? Can't you think of something?"

"This is why I put the armband on."

He folded away the piece of paper.

"I thought there would've been a bit of resistance but it happened twice before, appointing a non-approved citizen as a deputy. People trust Rawles and he seems to enjoy my company."

"Really? Maybe the old dude got shot in the head as well."

"He likes chatting guns."

Rawles loved his weapons and so did Stone. The old sheriff was fascinated by the range of makeshift weapons Stone had used and come up against in the wastelands. Rawles told him he had an old lever-action rifle that was deadly accurate and was keen for them to go into the woods and shoot with it.

"You like the old dude, right? Is this a problem for you? Ripping off his town?"

"No."

"Are you suspicious of him?"

"It crossed my mind," said Stone. "That he's only keeping me close for a reason."

"Friends close, enemies closer, right?"

"I asked him outright."

"What'd he say?"

"Choosing a good enforcement officer is about a gut feeling. His words. Reckons he has a good feeling about me."

Cali thought for a moment. "What if you have to take him out?"

"Thousands of lives are at stake. We get that weapon out of this town. No matter the cost."

She understood. The table was silent for a moment. Two men got up, paid and left.

"Ain't no sign of that bitch Pavla. What'd you think her next move is?"

"Sneaking in isn't easy," said Stone. "The spotters in the watchtowers are more than just lookouts."

She tilted her head. "What do you mean?"

"They operate a signal system that's changed daily. It means Pavla can't take down one lookout and expect to slip right through into town."

"What about the bridge?"

"There haven't been any strangers since us."

A waitress stopped at the table, cleared away crockery. She was of a similar age to Cali, the eldest daughter in the business, brown shirt and brown trousers with a brown apron and a wide smile. She had no scars, bruises or burns. They waited until she had left.

"I could do this alone," he said. "Leave you here in Silver Road. You could start again with the money, a clean slate."

"Damn, why are you always trying to dump me?"

"I don't want to see you dead, or worse."

She extended her arms, drummed her fingers against the table. He noticed she'd painted her nails.

"What's worse than dead?" she asked.

He didn't answer.

Children streamed by the diner, loud and unruly, heading for school. Stone watched them, unblinking.

The youngsters messed around, bright faces capturing all that was innocent in the second-world, leaving all that was shit far behind.

He was suddenly very tired, and Cali saw the weariness in his face.

"We've got this far," she said. "We're finishing this thing together. Feel me? For those in New Washington. For Jeremiah. For the fifteen dead rangers."

"The prison truck from Starkville is due tonight. That will be our way out."

"But we still don't know what the weapon is. Or what box it's in."

"We will by tonight."

"How'd you reckon?"

"We've been invited to meet with Mayor Jefferson before I go on patrol. Yuan and Weaver are going tomorrow. He'll know what box that weapon is in."

"Are you sure?"

"He's the mayor. He'll know."

"Good, but we got another deal to sort out before then."

Stone frowned. "What?"

"I'm being followed."

"It's a small town."

"I get that."

"You'll end up seeing the same faces."

"I get that, too. I wasn't sure at first. But now I'm certain. Dude is on me, Stone."

She folded her arms.

"Means I can't go anywhere near that bank."

* * *

They left the diner, and went in opposite directions.

Stone turned left, heading toward the bridge. Cali crossed the street, now on the same side as her stalker, and started walking to the right, mingling with the swarm of schoolchildren.

The man was bald-headed with a thick beard. He was loitering beside a dusty store that repaired and made footwear. There was a workbench and an open toolbox with expanded drawers. There were boxes of cotton reels, buckles and cuts of leather and a cubby hole against one wall, half-filled with shoes. It was a family business, they were all family businesses, but it wasn't open and wouldn't be for some time.

The bald-headed man was lousy at tailing. He continued to stare through the grilled window of a store no one would show interest in at this hour.

Cali sauntered, relaxed, fully aware of him. Her long black hair was loose and the wind caught at it. Her hands were thrust in her coat pockets and she swung her arms from side to side as she walked.

The bald-headed man pushed off, and mirrored her steady pace.

Stone was already on his way back. He slotted in behind.

The man lumbered forward, flexing his arms as he walked, trying to look anywhere but directly ahead.

Cali weaved through the schoolchildren, stopping to shout down a clutch of boys who eyed her and made gestures.

The bald-headed man stuttered, glanced up at the sky. Stone pressed forward, his pace much quicker.

Cali moved off once more, and crossed the dirt road, back on the side of the diner, and started off in the other direction, toward the bridge.

The bald-headed man came to a standstill, and loitered outside a closed bar. He was half-turned, watching her from the corner of his eye, hands in his pockets, long arms bent at the elbows. He idly kicked at the dirt as she drew level, going the other way, out of his line of vision.

He watched the throng of schoolchildren for a few more seconds and then slowly turned.

He didn't even see it coming.

Stone clattered him with a right hook around the head. The man cried out and lost his footing. The schoolchildren whirled around and rushed back to watch. Stone hit him again with two rapid blows to the stomach and sent him sprawling in the dirt.

The schoolchildren looked on with anticipation. He wore the blue armband. He had a responsibility.

"He broke the law," said Stone. "Took something that wasn't his. This is what happens."

Adults came onto the street, quickly admonishing the children and shooing them off to school.

As Stone herded the battered man in the direction of the barracks a woman patted him on the arm. "You're alright by me, deputy."

A voice shouted out behind him. "Well done, send him to Starkville."

Stone reached the brick building and smacked his groaning prisoner through the front door.

Carlton was at the stove, making a pot of coffee.

"You don't have to be here yet, Stone."

"Keys."

"Sure," he said, and tossed him the ring. "What'd he take?"

Stone didn't give him an answer because he didn't have one. The law was much simpler where he was from and he'd never had to explain or justify himself for taking a man down.

He unlocked the door with the aluminium handle and hustled the bald-headed man into a corridor. It was tight and airless and went a short distance before bending to the left into a much larger room.

Daylight streamed through a high-barred window. Dust motes floated and twisted.

There were four holding cells, side by side, floor to ceiling iron bars, a bunk, a lidded bucket and nothing else.

A man occupied the furthest cell. He was black and shirtless, grunting against the cement floor as he performed push-ups. Stone ignored him, opened the furthest right hand cell, and tossed his prisoner inside.

The bald-headed man shook his head.

"You don't know who I am."

"No, but you're going to tell me."

THIRTY FIVE

All men broke.

Stone had tortured men in the past, he'd been tortured himself, and he knew there was only so much pain a man could take, a limit they would go to, no matter how well trained or hard they were. Some men lasted for days. Some lasted only seconds. With some it was all about the threat. He never enjoyed torture; it was a tool, nothing more than that.

Cali climbed into his head, burnt hands and slashed face. He wondered if Pavla and Timo been faced with the same dilemma, knowing that only torture would unpick the answers they needed from her.

He didn't like the way his head was turning things around. He shut out all the noise.

But he bore the blue armband and that was a noise that demanded to be heard. The situation here in Silver Road was different. A few years ago he would have marched into town shooting anyone who crossed his path, and taken the bank by force before shooting his way back out until he was beyond the trees, leaving streets drenched in blood. That had been then, and this was now, and he did not want a civilian massacre. He needed a more subtle approach.

Besides, he was heavily-outnumbered by enforcement officers and forest marksmen.

Stone knew he had to follow their way of things to get answers. He kept his guns tucked into his belt, his knife and machete sheathed, his fists unclenched. The man sat on the edge of the bunk and answered every question with a sigh, an arrogant shake of the head or an overly long yawn. Once he even cupped a hand around his ear, as if not hearing the question.

Stone gritted his teeth, held the urge to take out his knife and whip off one of the man's ears.

"The prison truck comes tonight."

The bald-headed man gave a slow hand clap.

"Well done, it does."

"That means you're going to Starkville."

The shirtless man in the end cell was on his feet now, wiping his glistening upper torso with a towel.

"A life sentence of hard labour," said Stone. "Unless you talk."

The bald-headed man stifled a fake yawn. "I don't think so." But Stone had chipped away a little. "I'm not going in any damn truck. Go and get Rawles. Right now. Hurry up."

"You have a tongue then?"

"You're making a big mistake. You're non-approved. Get Rawles."

Stone glanced at the other prisoner. He was shadowboxing; two punches, lean, two more, step back, four, lean, two, lean, another four.

He turned his focus to the bald-headed man.

"Why were you following her?"

"You've got your head screwed on wrong. I don't know what the hell you're talking about."

Stone got to his feet, looked around. There was a metal rack of wooden shelves against the wall, loaded with large square-shaped tubs, and an empty office with a large window, door closed.

He headed for the corridor.

"You don't have a clue what you're doing," said the bald-headed man. "Get back here."

Stone stopped, came back toward the cells but ignored his prisoner and headed for the cell at the end.

He growled at the black man. "You want something?"

The shadowboxing stopped. The man looked back at him. He was round-faced with cropped hair and a goatee beard, a solid mouth, clenched and unsmiling. He was in his late twenties, early thirties, his eyes stern and filled with bile. He had plenty of bulk on him and wore only black trousers. A dark green shirt was draped on the bunk with a pair of boots neatly arranged beneath.

Stone continued to stare at him.

The man never broke eye contact.

"You took an interest when I was talking to that asshole. Do you know him?"

The man lowered his clenched fists and shook his head.

"Don't worry. They're throwing you in the truck tonight as well. You can get to know him then."

There was no reaction, nothing. Stone walked away, scraping a hand against his short beard. He moved quickly toward his prisoner. The bald-headed man looked up sharply as Stone thrust the key into the gate and yanked it open. Stone clubbed him with his revolver, dropping him to the ground, putting him out.

"Now we can talk."

The black man said nothing.

"You got a name?"

"Palmer."

"I'm Stone. Sheriff Rawles reckoned you killed that deputy by accident."

Palmer said nothing.

"Doesn't matter if you did or didn't because they're going to truck you out of here to Starkville."

"We'll see."

"Do you know about Starkville?"

"I killed a law officer. We both know how that plays out."

"What do you mean?"

"Do you think these people will stand by and let me get driven away?"

Stone nodded.

"Why are we talking... _lawman?_ "

"I as much a lawman as you're just a regular prisoner. You're the sixteenth man. Why the fuck didn't you stick with Jeremiah?"

Not a flicker.

"I can see it in your eyes. URA. United Republican Army."

"I'm not in any army. You've got the wrong man."

"You're a soldier," said Stone. "Like Jeremiah _was._ "

Palmer's dark brown eyes caught hold of word _was_ and realised its terrible implications.

"Yeah, he got himself killed by a drug gang."

Nothing.

"I know where the weapon is, Palmer. But I don't know what it is. I'm guessing you do."

Nothing.

"I was told there are thousands of lives at stake."

Still nothing.

"Listen," said Stone. "I've been that side of the cage more times than I can count. I've never stood this side."

He took the piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and pressed it against the bars.

"It's a code, isn't it? What does it mean?"

Palmer nodded toward the unconscious prisoner. "What did that fool do?"

"He was following Jeremiah's friend. Why did you leave him when you knew his list of rangers had been compromised?"

There was no answer.

"Timo is dead. I had two chances to take Pavla down. She beat me both times."

"You know a lot of information, Stone." He flexed his arms. "Open the cell and we can talk some more."

Stone hooked his thumbs into his belt.

"Do I look like a fucking idiot to you?"

The man grinned.

"I'm not that stupid, either, Peshkin."

The door in the corridor opened. Stone heard voices approaching.

"Peshkin?"

Rawles and Carlton marched into the holding area.

"Stone," said Rawles.

* * *

"In here."

There was a desk, and two chairs, and nothing else in the room. Rawles closed the door and dragged out one of the chairs.

Stone stood at the window, bristling with frustration as Carlton roused the bald-headed man.

The man straightened his jacket, tugged at his cuffs and looked over at Stone with a sly grin.

"Who is he?"

"I don't know his name," said Rawles.

Stone turned around.

"How does that work?"

"I don't ask questions like that."

"He was following Cali. He freaked her out. He broke the law."

"He didn't take anything. It's not a crime to walk the streets of Silver Road."

Stone fumed. "This is shit."

"It is. But if you want to be approved to stay then you leave it alone. The decision is tomorrow."

"Why do you allow a stranger to walk your town?"

"He's not a stranger. He works for Mayor Jefferson. But I don't know who he is. Do you understand me, Stone?"

"Yeah, I understand."

"Good."

Rawles got to his feet, slid the chair back under the table, and leaned against it.

"I like you, Stone, that's obvious. We have a lot in common. We like talking guns and drinking whiskey, and we like doing the right thing. I might be a little less... robust... but I still want scum put behind bars and shipped out. This is a good town, a clean family town. There was a time it was bloody and ugly. But that's in the past and we're building something here and Mayor Jefferson is a huge part of that. Sometimes you have to suck it down, no matter how bitter the taste."

He jabbed a meaty finger at the armband Stone wore.

"I chose you for that because you have the right skills and commitment. I know you're a bit rough around the edges, your people skills need a lot of work, but I've put my reputation on the line because I have a good feeling about you. Now, I told you to take the day off. Go back to motel, get some rest. And don't forget your meeting with the mayor tonight."

Stone nodded.

"What does Peshkin mean?"

Rawles shook his head.

"I don't know. I've never heard of that word."

THIRTY SIX

It was late in the afternoon and the sun was dropping behind the trees.

Stone watched the barracks from a nearby bar. He had been loitering for roughly an hour now. People drifted by, this way and that, important errands to run. Rawles and Carlton were nowhere to be seen. He saw other men with the blue armband but he couldn't recall any of their names. He pushed himself from his chair and walked to the bar, setting his glass down for one last drink. There were only a few men on stools and they had been there since he'd arrived, and probably most of the day by the look of them. They reeked of stale beer and pipe smoke and were giving off angry opinions about the labouring jobs being offered on 24th Street, putting down slabs that would form the town's first ever sidewalks. The main gripe seemed to be the rate of pay. The second gripe was about the _type_ of men who'd quickly snapped up the work.

The barman poured Stone his whiskey. "I saw that business earlier. You did a good thing."

One of the drunks climbed from his stool and bumped into Stone. He apologised, his eyes fixed on the blue armband, and then trotted out back where the buckets were lined up for men to take a piss.

"Even the drunks have respect for the men and women who enforce the law," said the barman.

He leaned forward, grinning.

"Not that there are any women deputies. Not for a time now. Mayor Jefferson put a stop to that."

Stone sank his whiskey and said nothing.

* * *

A deputy looked up from his desk as Stone came into the barracks. He was cleaning his weapon and drinking coffee. Stone still couldn't remember his name but it didn't matter because the man wore the blue armband and so did he. He went to the stove, picked up the coffee pot and poured a cup. He took a sip. It tasted good. It had all week.

The keys were on the deputy's desk. Stone casually picked them up, saying nothing, and unlocked the door to the holding cells.

The deputy paid him no attention, kept on with his cleaning and drinking.

The door eased shut behind Stone with a sluggish hiss.

He took another mouthful of coffee as he walked the corridor. Palmer looked up but Stone ignored him and went directly to the shelves stored with large plastic tubs. He put his cup down and began to pull at them with both hands. The first two were empty, as were the next two. It had dropped into his thoughts shortly after he left this morning. It was a procedure the enforcement officers followed before locking a man or woman in one of the holding cells. All prisoners were to be frisked and all items confiscated and placed inside one of the tubs. Once the prisoner was shipped off to Starkville, the possessions, after Rawles had inspected them, were to be handed over to the Junk Men.

"Hey."

Stone ignored him, and kept searching.

"Hey, man, how long until that truck arrives?"

Stone didn't answer.

"Get me out of this cell and I'll tell you what I know."

It was Stone's turn to play hardball.

"You know they're not letting me on that truck. You leave me in here I ain't seeing tomorrow. You feel me?"

Stone pulled at a tub but it refused to budge. There was a considerable weight inside it.

Palmer came off his bunk and stepped up toward the bars. "I'll tell you about the weapon, Stone. Just let me out this damn cage."

Stone hefted the tub from the shelf, and slammed it onto a nearby desk.

"Open this gate, man."

"I don't think so."

He sipped his coffee and rooted through Palmer's possessions. A change of clothes. A kit with bandages and needles and thread. A kit with an open-back razor and a hand mirror. More clothes. A torch. A black sheathed knife. A semi-automatic pistol. Three spare magazines. A leather thigh holster. A suppressor. An oblong shaped wallet with a shiny clasp.

He snapped it open and thumbed through notes, lists and maps until he saw what he was after. He fished out the drawing and paired it with the drawing Cali had given him.

"A perfect match," he said. "What is it? What's the code?"

Palmer studied him.

"Why'd you keep asking, man?"

"Because I don't know."

"Peshkin wouldn't ask. They would know."

"I'm not Peshkin, Kiven or Ennpithian. Jeremiah found me in the Black Region. He wanted me to get him here. But he spun a pack of lies. I would've never left his side if he'd told me the truth that he was being hunted because of this mission."

Stone folded away the pieces of paper.

"So what about you, Palmer? Are you going to feed me more bullshit like your major did?"

Palmer held the bars, remained silent.

"The weapon is in the town bank," said Stone. "They have a basement stacked with hundreds of numbered boxes. I'm hoping to get the box number tonight. But if I can't then hitting the bank will be for nothing unless I know what I'm searching for."

Palmer walked away, cycled his arms, crunched his hands.

"Man, the fact that you don't know what you're looking for almost makes me want to trust you."

"I'll make sure you don't end up in that truck, Palmer. Maybe that'll convince you."

"You could always beat it out of me. Or try, anyway."

"I have a meeting with the mayor. I don't want to turn up covered in your blood."

Palmer gave a half-smile.

"Make sure I don't end up in that truck, or dead, and then we'll talk."

"Answer me one more question. Who are the Peshkin?"

"Mercenaries," said Palmer. "Ex-military, ex-special forces. A private army for hire."

"And Pavla is Peshkin, right?"

"Right."

"So who sent her all this way?"

"People who send others into the ring to fight whilst they keep their hands nice and clean."

Palmer grinned.

"Old enemies, Stone, old enemies."

THIRTY SEVEN

Jed Nalby rolled down his window as the prison truck bounced along the highway. The crisp air was shot through with a fine spray of rain. The tan-coloured countryside had turned grey now that darkness had fallen. He switched on the wipers and reached for the headlamps. Twin beams speared the highway, illuminating the bike ahead, the scout rider wearing a large helmet and a crossbow strapped across his back.

The truck crash through another pothole and Jed almost dropped his fat sandwich of paste and leaves. There was a squeal of tyres and he checked his mirror. The escort car behind him swerved back into view. The highway was treacherous but the smaller roads were not even worth consideration. This was the established route. He had to suck it down and get on with it.

The convoy was past the town of Redwater and Jed ignored the turn-off to Walnut Grove. A message had been left at Redwater that there was no prisoners or produce to collect. Jed got a little frustrated with Walnut Grove. It was none of his business, he knew that, he was only the driver, but they seemed slack down there. They took their sweet time in preparing goods for transportation, holding up the vital exchanges that kept _all_ the small communities in the Black Region thriving. As a working man, their attitude bugged him.

He was looking forward to Silver Road. There were never any delays with them. It was his favourite spot. It was a better looking town than Starkville, where he lived, a few miles from the labour camp. He was often tempted to up sticks and move there. But his family was from Starkville and he had no one in Silver Road and if he did move it would mean forfeiting the truck run and the string of women he flirted with and sometimes bedded. Starkville was his home. He guessed it always would be.

Redwater was long behind them. The highway running west out of there was the shortest route to Silver Road but it had been devastated by the wars of the past. The land was buckled and poisoned and there was no way through with the truck. It had been attempted once, realising how much precious fuel could be saved, long before Jed drove, but it had ended badly at the hands of savage marauders who haunted the once great interstate. So now they looped around it, taking the longer route, down to Sand Hill and across the reservoir with the houses on stilts.

The families who lived on the water bore no external allegiances. They traded with no one but had never shown hostility toward the convoy and that was all that mattered to Jed. He wondered if the city of Kiven even knew such communities existed deep in the Black Region. He doubted it. The north didn't care about the south.

The highway was flanked with reeds and choppy grey water. The wind buffeted the truck. He passed a cluster of houses with rowboats tied to a dock. Candles glowed and flickered behind slatted shutters. The sky was growing increasingly dark and the rain was much heavier. Giant plops erupted along the potholed highway.

Jed rolled up the window. The wipers jerked back and forth.

Two children appeared in his headlamps, wearing tin hats and slickers, pedalling one-handed on rusted bikes and holding fishing rods.

Jed hit the horn for them and smiled pleasantly as he drove by.

Ahead, the scout bike was beginning to slow.

He frowned.

The red taillight glowed. The rider raised his hand.

Gradually, the bike came to a stop.

The rider climbed off, pulling the crossbow from his back.

Jed's radio crackled into life. It was the escort car. "Why are we at a standstill?"

He unclipped the handset from the dashboard. It had a curly wire hanging from it.

"Not sure, Hab. Can't see much."

He peered through the rain-spattered windshield.

"I can see a couple of horses loose on the road."

Jed kept looking. He could see the body of a man sprawled face down, a woman bent over him.

"Got a fella flat out, big lump of a woman kneeling over him. Maybe he got thrown from his horse."

Jed waited for a reply.

"Hab?"

There was a burst of static.

"Hab?"

The scout rider had reached the woman. She got to her feet, a large cross hanging around her neck.

"Yeah, I hear you," answered Hab. "Damn radio keeps shorting out. I'm going to come down and..."

Gunshots.

The scout rider staggered, riddled with bullet holes. The woman with the cross had two pistols and the man on the ground was up on one knee, holding a gun.

"Hab..."

Jed dropped the radio and reached for his shotgun. Bullets raked the windshield. He rocked in his seat, his face and chest erupting with blood.

Michelle and Declan flanked the truck, dropping into half-crouches.

There were three men in the escort car. One of them climbed out half out. That was as far as he got.

Bullets punched through the windows as Reardon and Sullivan fired from the reeds. Michelle and Declan came forward and began to unload rounds.

Men screamed. Bodies jerked. Glass shattered.

The two kids with fishing rods skidded to a halt, watching open-mouthed.

They spun around and began to frantically pedal. Sullivan popped two bullets into his rifle, took them down.

The young bodies smacked onto the rain-drenched highway.

"Good shooting, Danny," said Reardon.

Declan was breathing hard, grinning from ear to ear. Michelle clapped him on the back, a proud expression on her face. Sullivan took a few steps forward, and balanced his rifle over his shoulder. His grey hair was plastered to his skull.

"Now _that_ was like the good old days," said Reardon.

He ejected the empty magazine from his pistol and slammed his hand against the truck.

"Let's pay that bastard Stone a wee visit."

THIRTY EIGHT

Clouds drifted in, the rain began to fall, a gentle patter amongst the trees. The spotters and snipers and watchtowers were in the distance, etched against the dark skyline, the night code underway, one tower to the next, no breaks in the pattern and no gaps for infiltration.

Stone stood on the porch, waiting for Cali. It was a cold evening. He listened to the steady fall of the rain on the roof above and the hiss of the nearby stream. His hand was balanced on the grip of his revolver and he carried a pistol inside his coat. The shotgun hung from his shoulder.

He was deep in thought when he heard the cabin door creak open but it was Yuan, and not Cali, that greeted him.

"Can I talk to you for a minute?"

He nodded, and waited, but she didn't say anything. He realised she wanted more privacy than the porch and hustled her back to his cabin. He lit a lamp. Rain streaked against the window. He closed the shutters and she sat down on the corner of the bed. She could see his pack was propped against the wall. He had no possessions about the cabin. He was preparing to leave.

Her dark eyes looked into his scarred face and she thought back to the night he'd saved her life. She had rehearsed this moment for days but now it was here she didn't know how to begin. He wasn't an easy man to talk to. She realised whatever she said would have no impact because she saw the determination in his eyes and was crushed by it.

She steeled her nerves, took a deep breath and opened her mouth to speak but he got there first.

"I'm leaving tonight. I won't be coming back. I think you should make a life here."

He offered her no more words.

"What if they don't accept me?"

"They will. You've done nothing wrong."

"Are you planning on doing something wrong? Is this why you came here?"

The lamp flickered. He listened to the rain.

"Is Cali leaving with you? Is that it? You and her?"

"This place is better than Batesville. You'll be OK here."

"But what if I want to leave? Or have to?"

"You wanted to come here."

"You don't know what I want."

She got to her feet, held his hand. "You're what I want. From the moment you saved me from that gang."

He prised her fingers off. He had no idea what she wanted him to say so he said nothing and left.

As the cabin door closed, she began to cry.

* * *

She was waiting for him beneath the porch, mouth twisted at the rain, and she was the dancing girl once more.

Her black hair was washed, combed through, and platted down her back. Her eyelids and eyelashes were painted, a shade of green, and her lips were shiny and sparkled dark red. She'd removed the adhesive from her cheek. Stone knew it had taken a lot for her to expose the knife wound. The skin was more pale pink than red and the swelling had reduced. The blade had cut deep and long and she would be left with a two-three inch scar.

She saw his eyes on her cheek, and turned her head, attempting to hide it, but he caught her chin, and angled her head around.

She wore her long coat and beneath it flashed boots and bare legs, her skirt riding high on her thighs. Her shirt was shiny and tight and slashed, exposing the sloping pale tops of her breasts. A small satchel hung over her shoulder and Stone assumed it contained her tools for breaking into the bank.

She became suddenly conscious of her appearance. "I thought with us meeting the mayor I should make an effort."

She waited for him to say something but he simply smiled at her and she saw it in his eyes. He got it. Her appearance wasn't for him or the mayor or any other man in Silver Road. It was all about chipping away at her experience at the hands of Pavla and Timo. She wasn't going to be forced to hide in a hole and cry like a baby.

She tossed her hood over her head, wrapped the coat around her body, and followed Stone into the rain.

* * *

Yuan nudged open the shutter and watched the two of them leave.

Her tear-smeared eyes dropped.

She saw his pack once more.

He would be coming back for it later. There was still hope to persuade him to stay or for her to go with him.

She set about lighting the stove, knowing there was only one thing left to do.

* * *

Weaver closed the office door behind him. The rain was loud against the roof. He strode toward the desk, picking and arranging his hair and gliding his tongue over his teeth. He stood with his legs apart, arms outstretched, hands clutching the edge of the desk with the scratched plastic cover. He could hear the wind chimes jangling in the trees. He drummed his fingers, waited. He cleared his throat, waited. She was quite unappealing, on so many levels, which made her more attractive and a challenge. He liked a challenge. His life was filled with easy girls, swayed by his charm and good looks. He pushed himself off the desk, and paced, and looked at the dark trees, rain slithering down the window.

Restless and impatient, Weaver licked his lips and rounded the desk. There was a single door leading out back.

It creaked on old hinges and he saw a gloomy room cluttered with furniture.

"Jodie?"

There was no reply.

"Jodie?"

He stepped through the doorway, listened.

It was clear she wasn't around. He glanced about the room and then trudged outside into the watery gloom.

He dashed toward his cabin and stuttered to a halt as something caught his eye in the rain-drenched trees.

He swivelled his head. Water cascaded off the high branches.

A lithe figure emerged out of the ground, wearing soil-stained black clothing and a balaclava. Only the eyes were visible, cold and dead looking, and Weaver knew in an instant it was the woman who'd tried to kill them in Batesville.

He raised his hands and called out but she was already angling her body, widening her stance and bringing up both arms, gripping a black pistol fitted with a suppressor.

She sighted him and fired twice, the muffled rounds burrowing into his chest.

Weaver sagged, legs buckling, mouth falling open. He slumped, choking, random images flashing through his thoughts with no time to arrange them or make any sense out of them. She came forward, the assault-rifle wrapped and strapped to her back. He twitched and coughed and tried to force out a few words but the pain in his chest was intense. He couldn't seem to connect anything. The gun was still raised and he looked up at her as she squeezed the trigger once more.

His body went still.

Pavla moved toward the motel, the darkness behind her concealing the shallow tunnel.

* * *

Yuan heard the crunch of boots and opened her eyes.

The wood stove crackled and the cabin was warm and cosy. Her clothes were in the storage chest, neatly folded, and she was cocooned in his bed, goose bumps erupting along her skin. She couldn't believe he had already returned. She must have slept and allowed the hours to slip by. She sat up, letting the blankets slip around her waist, and waited. Her olive skin glowed in the lamp light. He would soon be between her legs and there would be no more talk of leaving.

Her heart thudded. Her body trembled. Her nipples stiffened.

His footsteps stopped at the door.

She wet her lips.

Then she heard shouting, in the distance, a male voice, and the boots turned and changed direction.

She slipped from the bed, confused, and padded naked to the window. She nudged the shutter and recoiled, shocked. It was Pavla, pistol in hand, and there were bodies on the ground.

It was happening all over again. He had warned her. He had tried to stop her. She should have stayed behind. She should have listened. _Why hadn't she listened?_

Pavla moved between the cabins, suddenly out of view.

Yuan grabbed her dress, pulled it over her head and stepped into her boots. She rushed back to the window.

Pavla was nowhere.

She put a shaking hand against the door handle, bit her lip and pulled it open.

Rain sheeted down. She could hear shouting and muffled screams and running footsteps.

She pushed herself forward, heart hammering, boots sliding on the wet ground, and ran for the trees.

She didn't dare look back.

THIRTY NINE

It was a modest estate for a town mayor.

A one-storey brick house with a picket fence and a hand-carved wooden sign set in the lawn out front. There were scattered wooden outbuildings, dark and bolted. There was no visible external security. Jefferson was extremely arrogant or realised that no amount of guns and defences would stop the most determined of men.

The front door was opened by a tall man with a beard. He was smartly-dressed and wore a pistol on his hip. He gave a short nod and held the door open, glancing down at Cali's chest. Stone hit him, jabbing his right fist into the man's nose, all the power from his shoulder and torso. There was the crunch of bone and a spray of blood. Stone hit him again, around the head, rendering him unconscious.

A second man appeared, the same attire, and reached for his pistol. Stone whipped out his revolver, cocked the hammer.

The man's hand hovered.

"Take it out," said Stone. "Finger and thumb, nice and slow."

He stepped into the hallway and Cali moved around him, drawing her pistol from the back of her skirt and holding it with both hands. She closed the door with her hip, looked along the barrel and licked the perspiration from her upper lip.

Gingerly, the man lifted the gun from its holster.

"Drop it," said Stone. "Kick it over."

The man stubbed his boot against it and it skated across the cement floor.

"On your knees, face the wall, hands behind your head."

He complied without protest. There was a painting hung above his head, a coastal scene, foamy waves crashing against a beach, people with blurred faces.

"How many more?" said Stone.

"Two more."

Stone clubbed him across the head. He slumped sideways onto the floor. There was an open doorway at the back of the hall. A figure dashed across it, male, bald-headed, a bruised face. Stone recognised him at once. A muzzle blazed and the gunshots were shockingly loud in the narrow hallway.

Cali rolled through a doorway, bent around it, firing. Stone shouldered through the door opposite, slamming it wide, an empty room with rugs, paintings and bookshelves.

A second man appeared, armed.

Bullets whipped along the hallway.

A hanging lamp shattered, spraying pieces of glass on the floor.

Stone caught movement out of the corner of his eye, behind Cali, and swivelled. It was Rawles and his pistol was drawn.

He planted it in the back of Cali's head.

"No more," he said.

She twisted her mouth with disgust and eased her finger off the trigger. Her tongue flicked across her painted lips.

"Motherfucker," she said.

"Put it down, miss. Get your hands up."

She did and slowly lifted her arms. Rawles took a step back into the room. Stone kept his revolver on him.

Rawles called out to the mayor's men. "Boys, hang back. I'm still the sheriff. Out there and in here. This is under control."

"Get that fucking piece off me, man."

"Just keep calm, Cali. I don't want to hurt you."

He stared across the hallway.

"Throw down the revolver and shotgun, Stone. You're done here."

"Shot that cocksucker, Stone."

"Be quiet, girl." said Rawles, sternly. "Stone? I don't want any more shooting."

Stone could hear the two men in the hallway, to his right, moving cautiously.

"Don't give up it up, man," said Cali.

He tossed out the revolver. It clattered loudly. Cali swore.

"Now the shotgun," said Rawles.

Stone eased the strap from his shoulder.

The bald-headed man was a few paces away, his companion tucked in behind.

"Please, Stone," said Rawles.

Stone looked at Cali.

She looked back at him. Rawles sensed it.

"No," he whispered.

Stone dropped, twisted and fired along the corridor. The shotgun boomed, tearing off the face of the bald-headed man and hurling him back. Cali whipped out her knife, lightning fast. She spun and slashed at Rawles, the tip cutting along his hand and wrist. Stone let off the second barrel and the last of the guards flopped down in a heap. Cali wrestled with the sheriff. The blade plunged into his gut.

He cried out through gritted teeth. She yanked the knife free with a splash of blood. Stone clubbed him with the shotgun and Rawles tumbled into a large room with a fire burning beneath a stone hearth, blood leaking through his hands.

Stone thumbed the lever to break open the shotgun. He tipped the barrels up and the empty shells popped out. At the same time, he fished into his pocket for two more and quickly dropped them in.

He followed the wounded man and suddenly became aware of more people in the room.

He snapped the shotgun, thrust it into his shoulder and swung round. He glimpsed the occupants and his finger eased off the trigger.

She had to be seventy or eighty years old. Her hair was white, skin gaunt, eyes dark brown. _He hadn't realised the mayor was an old woman._ She was frail looking and in a wheelchair. A hand-rolled cigarette was clamped between discoloured fingers. She had trouble breathing but there was steel in her eyes as she dragged on the cigarette. She wasn't alone. Jodie sat beside her, the two of them at a plain wooden table. They appeared calm, untroubled by the violence of the past few minutes.

Keeping his shotgun trained on them, he retrieved his tossed revolver and tucked it into his belt.

The white-haired woman sucked on her cigarette. A wisp of smoke curled around her thin lips.

"I'm Mayor Jefferson. I summoned you here tonight and you responded how men like you always respond."

She wheezed, fought to catch her breath. Stone could barely hear her. She dragged on her cigarette, held within crooked fingers.

"Maybe you shouldn't have had one of your men following me," said Cali. "What the fuck was that all about?"

Jefferson lifted her arm and revealed the stolen wanted poster.

"Because of this. You're a thief and a murderer. How do you benefit us? What part of our future will you be? You thought you could come here and march off with whatever you wanted. Did you think we're that stupid? That ruse with the coins was pathetic. Silver Road has been here for centuries. We watch. We listen. We work people out. We are not naïve. We know all there is to know about people like you."

"Calm down," said Jodie.

But Jefferson was alive. The fire burned in her eyes. She focused her attention back on Stone.

"Your friends have loose tongues. We've heard all about the people you killed and the ones you would have killed had you had the means to do so."

She cupped a hand around her mouth, coughed heavily. Her eyes began to water.

"You are no different than the monsters we send to Starkville."

Rawles began to struggle to his feet, ashen-faced. He was clutching his bleeding stomach. Stone nodded at Cali and she pointed her gun at him.

"They're not all bad," he said, and grimaced. "Stone is a fair man. I've got to know him since he arrived."

The two women ignored him. Blood pulsed through his fingers. Cali stared along her gun and saw Jeremiah, dying the same way at the hands of Triple Death. A wave of regret washed over her. She wanted to crawl inside herself and wished she hadn't worn these clothes and painted her face.

Stone stepped toward the table, barrels pointed at the two women.

"You know what we want. Tell us the number of the box."

Jefferson was silent.

"We want the weapon," said Cali. "Or it'll be the end of everything, including Silver Road. Don't you bitches get it? This is for you as well."

"Weapon?" said Rawles. "What weapon? What are they talking about, Mayor Jefferson?"

Stone looked at the sheriff. He chewed his lip and lowered the shotgun, grabbed a chair and forced the old man onto it. He ripped at his torn shirt, exposing the knife wound.

"Not this time," he said.

He spun round, pointed at Jodie.

"You, help him."

She didn't move.

"He's wounded. Get on your fucking feet."

Jefferson nodded, and Jodie rose from the table, expressionless. Stone tracked her movement with the shotgun. There was a cabinet slotted into the corner with a vase standing on top of it. She opened it and took out a half-bottle of whiskey and a small black bag.

"Toss it over," he said.

She threw it at him, folded her arms. He poked inside and saw bandages, adhesives, creams, needles, and thread.

"You ever stitch a wound?"

She nodded.

"Do it."

She crouched beside Rawles, talking to him softly. Cali kept her gun on the pair of them as Stone confronted Jefferson once more

"Tell us the number."

"I'll never help a man like you."

"Then we'll tear the bank apart until we find it."

Rawles fidgeted as Jodie rinsed his wound with whiskey. "What are we hiding in the bank? What is this weapon?"

Jefferson chose to ignore the sheriff's question.

"That's right," said Stone. "Like all good politicians and people with power."

She looked at the shotgun.

"Are you really going to shoot me, Stone? Is that the legacy of the proud wasteland soldier?"

"Your guards are dead, your sheriff is down and I don't give a fuck about legacy. There are thousands of lives at stake. That's all that counts. I don't have time for your bullshit. Right now, there's a woman in the wasteland, a trained killer with explosives and an automatic weapon. She's coming here and wants the same thing. Only she plans to destroy it and won't care how many innocents die in the process."

He stared at her.

"Deal with me or deal with her."

Jodie looked over her shoulder, hands bloody.

"Stone?"

He didn't look round. "What?"

"It's deep, I can't stop the blood."

He'd seen a fireplace with a brick surround at the front of the room, a low fire crackling.

"Cauterize it," he said.

"Are you sure?"

"You know an alternative?"

Rawles drank from the whiskey bottle. He knew what was coming. Sweat poured down his face. He desperately wanted to become a grandfather. Cali handed over her knife and Jodie sterilised the blade with the last drop of whiskey before placing it on the fire. Cali kept her pistol on her. She didn't trust any of them. The tip of the knife began to glow. Jodie twisted a cloth round and round and Rawles bit down. Cali had never seen a wound cauterized before. She wasn't too sure she wanted to see it but couldn't tear her eyes away. Jodie picked up the knife. Her hand was steady. Rawles kicked and squirmed. Cali grimaced. She looked away. She was with Pavla once more and Timo was burning her hands. She ducked out into the hallway, bile in her mouth, the smell of burning flesh in her nostrils.

She put her hand against the wall, bent her neck and threw up.

She panted, tried to catch her breath.

Her face was covered with a cold sweat.

There was sudden movement. It one of the two men Stone had knocked out. He stirred, dived across the hallway and snatched up one of the dropped pistols. Cali fired, drilling the bullet into his eye. The round popped out the back of his head with a spray of blood.

She swore, angry, and fired a second time, and then a third, and a fourth, and a fifth, and then she lost count.

His body crumpled, riddled with bullets.

"Cali?"

A pool of blood spread across the cement floor.

"It's all good." She dropped her voice to a hush. "It's all good."

Stone looked down at Rawles. His eyes were closed. "He passed out," said Jodie. "I don't know if..."

"Go and sit with the mayor."

She shuffled past him but Jefferson shook her head as she reached for her seat.

"Show him," she said.

She wheezed, pressed a hand into her chest.

Jodie shook her head. "No."

"Show him, Jodie. Then he will understand and he will leave us. I will not allow him to take it."

She looked at Stone, mouth straight, eyes empty. He frowned as she reached for the buttons on her cardigan. She slipped it off her shoulders, hooked it around the back of her chair.

She wore a ribbed jumper, long sleeves, roll-necked. She reached for the hem.

"What the fuck are you doing?" he asked.

Her fingers stopped.

"I will not surrender it to you, Stone," said Jefferson. "You will understand."

"Keep your damn clothes on."

"Show him."

Jodie peeled off the jumper. Her skin was pale white, freckled, and pinched against her bones. He could see her ribcage. Cali came back into the room, pistol in one hand, a painting in the other. She saw Rawles on the floor, stomach black, and Jodie at the table, exposed, hands at her waist, eyes blank.

"Oh, fuck," she said.

The multiple scars criss-crossed her breasts and her stomach, long lines, curling, like the ruptures in the sky.

Stone lowered the shotgun.

"I'm sorry that was done to you," he said.

She stared straight through him, picked up her jumper and pulled it over her head.

"A soldier like you did this, Stone," said Jefferson. "A fighting man. Ten years ago. I will never surrender that weapon to fighting men."

FORTY

Stone was silent for a moment.

"I thought I'd met you before," he said, quietly. "But I hadn't. Only I know why I thought that. The family likeness is there. The boys took after their mother, not their father."

"I wasn't their mother. I was their aunt. He was married to my sister."

Stone nodded.

"Mary died giving birth to Chuck. A few months after she passed he took me. He put a collar around my neck and led me about on a leash. He was forty three, an old man, and I was twenty nine, a prize for him. He hung a sign around me. _Whore._ He kept me locked in a house in Batesville. One of the townhouses. At night he would put me in a box. I was his prisoner for four years. When the war came, the League looked for men to fight against the Ennpithians. He volunteered."

No one spoke.

The rain fell against the house.

Cigarette smoke curled toward the ceiling.

"When he left I ran. I put my nephews with a woman named Michelle Creagh. I never looked back. I have been here for more than ten years but there isn't a day I don't see him walking the streets of our town."

Jodie gulped.

"I know you killed them."

"I did."

"They would've had become like him."

"They already had."

"I know." She lowered her eyes. "Yuan told me everything about her friend who shot herself and her cousin."

"Wait," said Cali. "Are you talking about Bobby and Chuck?"

Jodie nodded.

"Is Robert still alive?"

"There was a shootout in Batesville. But he escaped. I know they're following us."

"How long before he gets here?"

"Soon, I reckon."

Jodie nodded. "Everyone dies and he lives."

"Not for much longer."

"But you've already tried to kill him. He got away."

"That won't happen again."

Jodie scrunched her forehead.

"What about the prison truck? It will be here soon. Why don't you capture him and send him to Starkville?"

Stone shook his head.

"A man like Reardon ends up in the dirt. Not a labour camp."

Jefferson rolled her wheelchair forward.

"How do you know the monster that hurt Jodie?"

"The world is a small place, Jefferson. You go round it enough times and you meet the same people."

"Your sister was Robert Reardon's wife?" said Cali. "Oh, man, this is seriously fucked up."

"Reardon is after me," said Stone. "So you need to stay hidden. He doesn't know you're here or he would've come after you years ago. He isn't your problem. He's mine."

He faced Jefferson.

"But there's an assassin out there looking for the weapon and that is going to be your problem and, trust me, it's not one you want. This is your last chance. Let us take it to New Washington."

Jefferson chose silence. Stone shook his head. He wasn't going to kill her and he wasn't prepared to torture her. There were lines in the sand he was unwilling to cross, despite what they thought of him. He was the monster from the wasteland, the killer with the black soul. The fire in Kiven flared in his nostrils and choked him. He saw bodies, four of them, locked together in a charred embrace, a family out of luck, and it sickened him.

"Cali, we're leaving."

He glimpsed the painting in her hand.

"There's no time for lifting stuff."

"You need to see this."

She tossed it onto the table. It clattered loudly, startling Jefferson. The meaningless wanted poster sailed to the floor.

"It's the weapon, Stone. Look. Just look."

Stone narrowed his eyes. The painting was a landscape, quite old, the frame a dull yellow colour, thick dust within its fancy swirls. The colours were a little faded but still vivid enough so that none of its poetry had been lost. There was a green hill with soldiers wearing uniforms and helmets. Together, they were pushing a flagpole into an upright position.

Stone took out the piece of paper and placed it on the painting beside the flag that billowed in the wind.

"A flag?" he said. "This is what we've been fighting for? A flag?"

Jefferson's withered hand clutched the painting.

"It's more than a flag," she said. "Which is why you will never possess it, Stone. Never."

There was sudden vigour in her, a swelling of strength and pride, eyes shiny, her voice stoked with reverence.

"It is a symbol of what is right, true and honest. It was the flag of our once great nation when all the townships and communities and tribes were bound beneath it. It was the most powerful image of the first-world." She paused. "And the most deadly. And that is why it will remain here, hidden from the world, until the time is right for it to fly once more, in schools and on playing fields, store windows and front porches. But that time is not yet."

Stone traced his coarse fingers across the red, white and blue.

"Stars and stripes," he said. "Not stars in a rippled sky."

He looked at Cali.

She looked at him.

"It is the flag of the former United States of America," said Jefferson. "The flag of the Ancients."

"And you have it?"

"Not that particular one," she replied. "But I have the last remaining one from the Before. It is the most valuable relic there is. It is the flag that flew during the Battle of New York City when the Ancients fought the Third War. Men like you, Stone, men like you and men like Reardon. You ignited the sky and burned the first-world until only dust remained."

She coughed, steadied herself.

"Silver Road is more than a second-world town, Stone. We are redemption for the horror of the past. We are a beginning for the innocent and the enlightened. For every Batesville there is a Silver Road. One day there will be more towns like Silver Road and we will have risen from the ashes. There is no place for a man like you in this world. You are a thing of the past. Something extinct. We are settlers now. The age of drifters and vagabonds living off the land is dying. I know I will not see the flag in my lifetime. But one day we will be ready and then it will be raised into the air once more and we will be a nation again."

Seconds passed, seconds that seemed like hours. Jodie turned from Jefferson and looked at Stone. She glimpsed the veneer slip, momentarily, and saw a man crushed by mere words. Cali flared and tore into the old woman, angrily waving her hands and jabbing her pistol. She retold what had been drummed into her by Jeremiah. But the mayor closed her ears.

Stone placed a hand on Cali's shoulder, calmed her.

"I cannot expect you people to understand," said Jefferson. "You are no different from the man whose sick mind found pleasure in hurting Jodie."

Rawles, now conscious, struggled to his feet. He was shocked by the cruelness of her words.

"They're different."

"You are not thinking straight, Rawles," said Jefferson.

"No, he is," said Jodie. "And he's right. They are different. I have watched them for six days. They are not like us but they are not monsters."

"Why do you want to take this flag?" asked Rawles.

Cali laid it out for him, told him of the communities beyond the red zone, and the threat from the north.

"Jeremiah, Major Cartwright, believed the flag would unite the people, make them strong."

"So they can fight?" said Jefferson. "So more wars can be waged?"

"We want the flag to save lives," said Cali. "Not to kill. Jeremiah told me that an army had been mobilised. It's only a matter of time before they attack. And it won't stop in New Washington."

Jodie crouched beside Jefferson's wheelchair.

"Can you not hear the conviction in them? Tell them where it is. Surely, they can do some good with it."

A siren sounded.

Stone and Cali tensed.

"The prison truck," said Rawles. He leaned against the wall. "Carlton will need help with the handover."

"Your prisoner isn't going into any prison truck," said Stone. "We're taking him with us."

"He killed a deputy."

"He's here for the flag. We need him."

Rawles nodded, weakly.

"I'm sorry you got hurt," said Stone. "But I need you to come with me. I don't want to kill any of your deputies."

Stone turned to Cali.

"At least you know what you're looking for. Go through every box in the vault. Then clear out and hide until I come with the truck."

He looked at Jefferson and she stared back at him, closing her lips around a fresh cigarette.

FORTY ONE

Stone splashed through puddles, arms and legs pumping, eyes on the rooftops above and the alleyways ahead. He hated letting Cali take the bank alone but it could take her hours to locate the flag and he couldn't be in two places at once. Palmer was the sixteenth man Jeremiah had gone into the wasteland with. He needed to bust him out before he was killed. He didn't trust him, not yet, but he was the only connection to New Washington.

Lightning crackled through the black sky, illuminating shuttered buildings. Seconds later followed a boom of ground-trembling thunder.

Rawles trailed behind him, gasping as his boots hit the ground.

"I didn't know Jefferson was planning to turn on you," said Rawles, as he caught up, breathing hard. "I didn't know until tonight."

He clutched his stomach, and winced.

"You played me all week long," said Stone.

Rawles fumed. "Were you doing anything different with me? You came here to break our only law."

"I don't give a shit about your law."

"Then the mayor was right about you, about what you are."

Stone tensed and whipped out his revolver. Someone was in the shadows.

"Get back."

Rawles ducked into a doorway, without a word, glad of the respite. He mopped his drenched brow and fingered his blistered skin. He thought of his wife, his children and his future grandchild growing inside his daughter, Andrea. His head began to spin and he grew nauseous. He was glad Cali was not around. He couldn't bear to look at her or hear her voice. She had driven that knife into him without hesitation. He couldn't believe he was standing by and allowing her to rob the bank. He felt the past was crawling back into Silver Road, unravelling his wonderful town.

But he was in no condition to take out the man responsible. Not yet. He would have to see how the night played out.

* * *

Carlton turned up his collar, hunkered down inside his coat, and stood unmoving as a jagged arc of lightning split the sky. Through the pouring rain, he could see the blink of headlamps as the prison truck followed the road through the trees, heading for the bridge.

The creek below was black. He thought of Nicky, simple and kind and never really suited for this job.

Rawles should have been on duty tonight, with Stone, but the sheriff had told him there might be a delay in returning from his meeting with the mayor and that he was to proceed with the handover. Carlton looked over his shoulder toward the barracks. A group of men walked toward the building. It was unlocked. They went inside with hammers, pick handles and a length of rope. The handover was going to happen, just not the way the law stated.

Carlton kept his back to them.

A rain-drenched figure sprinted toward him from the bridge.

"Carlton?"

It was Guzman, six months a deputy, gangly and black-haired, light brown skin, a thin moustache, nineteen years old.

"Shouldn't we fetch the prisoner?"

"No."

He said nothing else. The rain dripped off the rim of his hat.

"But the truck is here."

Guzman frowned, and pointed at the barracks. "Who are those men? What's going on?"

Carlton grabbed the young man by his shoulders and forced him around, facing the bridge.

"What's going on is there's no one for the truck tonight. And I'll have to live with that."

* * *

Palmer stared at the ceiling, thinking out his moves. Rain hammered against the roof. He'd been in worse places.

Rawles had not lit the lamps and no one had brought him food but that was because they intended to ship him out tonight. It would be the first time he had left the cell since the shooting. There hadn't been a single opportunity since he'd tossed his gun on the bridge and been taken into custody. He no longer thought about the man he'd killed. He'd killed before. That wasn't the problem. But he'd overhead the man had been named Nicky and was considered backward. That left a tang of guilt. It was like killing a child.

But Palmer was an expert at compartmentalising. Nicky had been moved into a box with the lid shut for good.

Tonight they would _have_ to open the cell gate, the first time since his capture, and that was all he needed. He had been chosen for a reason. This was what he had trained for. This was why they should have come to him and his unit first, not entrusted it with Major Cartwright and the 2nd rangers. The death of fifteen men and women from the ranks of the URA spiked his gut - this was the kind of work Palmer's unit existed for. Those lives could have been saved. They _should_ have been saved. Only Jeremiah had sought glory, calling in favours and coveting a place in history as the man who would rebirth a nation.

Lying on his bunk, legs outstretched, boots on, he looked across at the wooden rack of plastic tubs and his thoughts turned to Stone. The man intrigued him. The brooding stranger had seen through him within seconds. That wasn't an easy thing to do. There was no scent of the enemy on him. He didn't look or sound Peshkin and he'd asked all the wrong questions to be working for them.

A door creaked and the corridor splashed with lamplight.

Palmer swung his boots off the bunk.

He heard footsteps, whispering.

Here it comes, he thought, payback.

He got to his feet, shadow boxed, jabbing and swinging.

Lightning flashed through the barred window as a group of men filed into the cell area, holding weapons.

A hare-lipped ringleader stepped toward the gate, jangling a ring of keys in one hand.

"Nicky was a dumbass but he was our friend. Even if he wore the blue. You had no right to take him."

The group of men whooped and jeered.

The ringleader stared at Palmer and raised a coil of rope, a swinging noose at one end

"Hanging time, colour man."

* * *

Declan held his breath. He was the only one who knew how to handle a vehicle but he sorely wished he wasn't.

The storm was unsettling him. It was turning his stomach in circles. The wipers swiped furiously at the rain and the tyres slid about on the greasy surface of the forest track. He was terrified the truck was going to flip over or skid off into the creek. The wind rocked it from side to side. He could hear the others moving around in the back. He could hear his Ma's laughter above the ragged storm.

Rain sprayed through the splintered windshield.

Gripping the wheel tight, he bounced onto the bridge.

The headlamps shone over a large pothole, gushing with rainwater, and he swerved, jerking the steering wheel sharply, his palms sticky with sweat.

Sullivan yelled out as he was slammed about. _Aye, serves you fucking right, thought Declan._

He righted the truck once more and stared ahead, not daring to look down.

Silver Road nestled in the belly of a huge canyon, streets and low buildings ringed by tall trees

There were two men waiting for him.

* * *

Stone twisted his revolver as Yuan burst from the darkness, arms wide. She rushed toward him and he lowered the hammer.

"What are you doing here?"

Her cheeks were stained with tears. Her black hair was plastered to her skull. She threw her arms around him but he peeled her off.

"I told you already..."

"Pavla is at the motel. Weaver is dead. She's killing them all. All the people in the cabins."

Rawles stumbled forward, placed a hand on Stone's shoulder, pointed toward the barracks.

There were two men loitering outside, sheltering beneath the overhanging porch roof.

"They're not deputies," he said. "Something's wrong."

Stone grabbed Yuan. "Go to the bank. Rawles will tell you how to get there. Warn Cali that Pavla is in the town and tell her to make for the barracks once she's done. She mustn't wait for me there."

"What is she doing at the bank?" said Yuan.

"There's no time for questions," he shouted.

He pressed his revolver into her hand.

"Forget the knife," he said. "If anyone comes don't hesitate with this."

FORTY TWO

The cell gate creaked outward. The hare-lipped ringleader stepped back.

"Gonna string you up, colour man, then give you to the Junk Men when you're good and dead."

There was another flash of lightning. Palmer bounced and rocked on the balls of his feet. The gloomy outline of two burly men ambled toward the open cell, thick-necked and thick-armed, one with a pick handle, one with a ball hammer. He wouldn't step out just yet, but he had to make sure they didn't box him in. It wasn't the worse place to stand and fight, not great for movement, but great for keeping the numbers down and he needed an edge because he was outnumbered nine-to-one.

The man with the pick handle gripped it two-handed and thrust, using it like a spear, his body half-turned as he jabbed, barring teeth. Palmer angled and avoided it, shifting back as the ball hammer swung from the other direction, bouncing off the cell bars with a clang that echoed through the holding area. The men cheered. One of them ran a baton along the bars of the empty cells, spitting insults and threats.

Palmer moved forward, and both men prepared for his attack, trying to guess where it would come from, fist or boot or even head, but Palmer used none of them and grabbed hold of the gate, bringing it round hard and fast and clattering into the man with the pick handle. He howled and went down, twisting his ankle as he fell and rolling in pain. The pick handle came loose across the dusty cement floor and Palmer flicked out a wrist and curled his fingers around it. He rolled and ducked as the man with the ball hammer tried to crack his head open with rapid, overhead blows. Palmer lashed out with his left boot, scooping the man with the hammer off his feet.

He twisted, rammed one end of the pick handle into the man's groin, and burst from the cell.

Seven-to-one.

Palmer readied himself as the group swarmed at him.

* * *

Hanging the shotgun across his back, Stone drew his pistol and put one in the pipe.

He moved fast. The dirt road was mushy and soggy beneath his boots. He held the gun in both hands, safety off. His trigger finger was ready, elbows bent, eyes peering down the sights, lining up the killing shot. The two men outside the barracks saw him coming and tossed away cigarettes. One of them yanked out a revolver, snub-nosed with a taped grip. The gunman hesitated, debating whether or not to take cover or start blasting at once but he got caught in the middle of both and did neither.

Stone fired twice, planting both rounds in the man's chest.

The second man ran.

Stone swivelled his body, aimed and fired, bringing him down with a slug to the back of the head.

The man slumped forward into the rain-soaked dirt road, spread-eagled.

* * *

"Where's the bike and escort car?" said Guzman.

Carlton was deep in thought, feeling the chill of his conscience, going ten rounds with it. He knew the prisoner was taking a hard beating. He would be swinging from a tree by the end of the night before being handed over to the Junk Men. There were no burials in Silver Road. No flesh and bone stinking up the dirt. Bodies went to the Junk Men and they gave you back weapons, tools and all manner of items. It wasn't good dwelling on it.

The truck came off the bridge, huge tyres driving ruts in the road.

"Keep the truck here," he said, suddenly. "There'll be a prisoner transfer tonight."

He started to move off, heading for the barracks, but Guzman called out his name as the truck slowed to a stop.

Carlton turned around. He shielded his eyes from the glare of the headlamps and saw the bullet holes.

"Oh, shit."

* * *

Palmer had bulk but moved fast, perfectly balanced on his feet, able to bend and flex his body as blunt weapons jabbed and swung at him.

They shouted names he'd heard before, and a few he hadn't, but he remained silent, focused on the job of reducing the odds. He'd taken them from nine-to-one down to five-to-one.

The hare-lipped ringleader was at the back, arms thrust in the air, the rope in both hands, showing Palmer the noose, but his confidence was waning a little because the floor was getting crowded with groaning men nursing busted limbs.

Palmer spun his body, his leg flipped out and his boot cracked a jaw and a man reeled backward, blood and teeth spraying from his mouth. The baton he carried clattered against the floor and rolled away

The hare-lipped ringleader glanced nervously along the corridor.

"Fuck it," he said, throwing down the rope.

Then he heard gunshots and a moment later the door at the end of the corridor was thrown open.

* * *

Rawles stood in the rain, looking down at the body.

He shook his head, sadness in his eyes. The dead man was Mitch Coulter, a thirty nine-year old labourer, good-humoured and generous in the bar. _How the hell had he got himself mixed up in this?_ He would leave behind a wife and a grown up son who worked as a spotter, developing into a fine shot with a rifle. Mitch had been part of the crew building the town's first ever museum. Most of the exhibits would come from the mysterious Junk Men. There was set to be a grand opening with a holiday declared and food and good times. Now there would be one more widow with a plate of cooked meat.

He thought about the flag for a moment, a mythical piece of cloth from the Before, the cause of all this bloodshed.

Was it worth it? Killing to take it? Killing to hold onto it?

As pain swelled through his stomach and chest, he looked toward the bridge and noticed the truck was idling a long way from the barracks.

He frowned.

Something was wrong.

Carlton approached the cab and Guzman wandered to the rear door.

"No," he hissed, reaching for his gun.

There was an explosion of shots and his deputies were flung back. Rawles watched with horror as Reardon and his gang spilled from the truck.

* * *

Stone lowered his pistol, the floor around him strewn with bullet-riddled bodies.

"You're pretty serious," said Palmer, lightly swinging a blood smeared pick handle in his fist.

There were busted bodies all around him.

"Do you trust me now?" asked Stone.

Palmer shook his head.

"No."

"Good, get your shit."

There was a rapid burst of gunfire from the street. The two men looked at each other.

* * *

On an adjacent rooftop, crouched in the shadows, Pavla swept the building with her night-vision binoculars.

The brick walls were soaked and rain sloshed along metal guttering, flooding into barrels fitted with taps. But the building looked still and intact. It was poorly defended without a fence or razor-wire or lights or traps. The girl was an experienced thief. This would be child's play for her.

Pavla scanned the ground floor once more and wondered where Cali had forced her way in.

She adjusted her line of vision, focused on the roof and her forehead creased with frustration. She had followed the girl from the house, alone, with Stone and another man moving in the opposite direction. It had been tempting to kill Stone there and then but she needed the girl to lead her to the bank and she would take care of Stone later.

She was still unable to find the access point. That was where the girl would leave once the flag had been obtained. Pavla would have preferred to bomb the building but her superiors demanded the relic be returned. There would be a ceremony. The flag would be burnt. Thousands would cheer, punching the air as the flames licked the stars and stripes. There would be no saving the townships. It would end swift and brutal and bloody and she would deliver vengeance for her people and this time they would know her name.

She grew agitated, curled on the gravel-covered roof. Her boots were leaking. Her feet were sodden.

She lowered the night-vision binoculars.

The girl had been unaware of her, sprinting from the house with the outbuildings and the picket fence. She was not skilled enough to have detected her. Pavla had seen her reach the bank and disappear.

Her skin crawled.

Gravel crunched.

The girl had known she was being followed...

Pavla rolled, hurling the binoculars and snatching her pistol. Cali kicked out and it flicked from Pavla's grasp.

She slashed with her knife. "I'm gonna fuck you up."

Pavla lunged, hit her twice, and then drew her own blade, forcing Cali to the edge.

Cali punched and cut her way out, raw knuckles colliding, her knife skimming off Pavla's arm.

"Yeah, you feel me now, bitch?"

* * *

"I'm helping you," said Palmer.

Stone shook his head.

"Pavla is in the town. Help Cali."

He showed Palmer the town map. "That's the bank. The flag is in the vault. Wait until I'm out there and then slip out."

Palmer looked onto the street.

"Those are shitty odds, man."

"You just keep low and get to that bank." He suddenly thought of Jeremiah, dying in his arms. "And take care of Cali. She's a good kid."

"What about...?"

"This is my war, Palmer. Go fight yours."

FORTY THREE

Stone came out of the barracks, gun in hand.

The storm was overhead, miserable grey rain shimmering in the wind. A ribbon of white cracked the sky followed by an instant bang of thunder. He saw Rawles on the ground, crumpled in the road, head turned, arms splayed, half-submerged in a puddle of rainwater spotted with blood.

The four of them were shadows in the gloom, strung out across the road, waiting for him.

It would all come down to this, he realised, one barrel against four. Palmer could have made it two against four but there was more at stake than Reardon and his gang understood. Stone brought violent justice to an uncertain world, a world once stable and aligned, now off kilter by men far worse than him. There was a chance to push it back right. Thousands of lives were on the line. His was only one. Cali's mission was everything now. She was resourceful, determined and had found something in her life to fight for. She would carry it far from here and she would need Palmer at her side, protecting her in the journey to come. It might have been crazy to dream that a length of rippled cloth might pull fractured communities together but Cali believed in it, and so had Jeremiah, and so did Palmer, and Stone reckoned it was worth a shot.

He looked through the pouring rain and clenched his jaw at the maniac that had slashed Jodie to pieces.

He marched into the road. The blue armband he wore meant nothing because he was about to dish out his own brand of law – straight from the wastelands.

Reardon whistled. A wide-brimmed hat was wedged over his long grey hair.

"Are you grand, Stone? Are you well, now?"

The truck was behind him, doors hanging open, bodies on the ground.

"Aye, what'd you think, Stone? You didn't see that coming, so you didn't. That was a canny way into the town, eh?"

Stone began to move slowly across the road, shaping his body, working out his angles.

"You murdered my cousins," shouted Declan.

"Aye, son," said Michelle. "And he's going to pay, as the Lord is my witness, so he'll pay."

"Will you stop with that," said Sullivan.

He raised his rifle.

"If the Lord wants part of this he can get off his fat arse and bring his own gun down here."

"The Lord forgive you, Daniel Sullivan," said Michelle, making the sign of the cross with her pistol.

"Careful, Danny," said Reardon. "Just wing the bastard. I want a rope around his neck."

Sullivan looked along the barrel and curled his finger around the trigger. Stone dropped, slamming his knee into the flooded road and bringing up his pistol with speed. He squeezed off two rounds and Sullivan groaned as the slugs punched into his chest. He fired a single shot and Stone swerved his body as the bullet whistled past him.

The rifleman hit the muddy road, blood pumping from twin holes.

Michelle roared and her pistols blazed. Bullets whipped around him. Stone threw himself against the shuttered door of a building, barely any cover. He glanced down at Rawles, convinced he'd seen the old sheriff twitching. _He couldn't worry about him right now._

Reardon shouted as he fired, spitting hate through clenched brown teeth, coming down the road – murderer, rapist, war veteran, father. The citizens of Silver Road huddled behind locked doors and closed windows, young children weeping as older ones grew desperate for a peek at a real-life shootout.

Stone put down fire on the three of them. Sullivan was still in the middle of the road, bleeding heavily, rifle in the mud, but the others had scattered, widening the target for him, making it harder for him to ping all three of them without getting taken down himself.

Ducking, weaving, leaning forward, jerking back, Stone fired until the magazine was empty.

He ejected it, rummaged in his pocket for an oblong-shaped spare, and slammed it home.

Bullets chewed into the wall above him.

He glanced down at Rawles, and this time he saw the old man shift. He was trying to turn his body and face Stone. He wasn't trying to crawl away. He knew he'd be shot to pieces if he dared budge.

He twisted in the mud, his eyes flicked open. He panted, mouth moving slowly, the same shapes, the same words, over and over.

Stone couldn't make out what he was saying.

Another volley of bullets ripped around him.

He drew back into the doorway and coiled his arm around, pistol barking off three more rounds.

Rawles was still twisted in his direction, mouth moving.

Reardon and the woman were getting closer. Stone was boxed in, no other guns to rely on. He thought of all the men in the watchtowers, snipers and spotters, listening to the gunfire and failing to respond. It suddenly dawned on him the message Rawles was trying to send him and why no help was coming... _fire the flare... fire the flare_...

He remembered what Rawles had told him earlier in the week. He thrust his pistol into his belt and the shotgun came off his shoulder.

He sprinted into the road, opening up the first barrel at Reardon.

There was a deafening boom and a window shattered. Reardon howled as he was sprayed with glass. Michelle squeezed ferociously at her triggers, bullets spearing the falling rain. Stone swerved, ready to hit her with the second barrel, when he heard a gunshot from behind and pain erupted in his left leg. His run stuttered, his left leg fell away and he dropped onto his right knee.

Declan had flanked him, gotten onto the roof. He leapt down out of the darkness, pistol in hand.

Stone rolled onto his back, grimacing in pain, and fired.

The boom tossed Declan off his feet.

She ran forward, screaming, arms raised, guns blazing. Stone crawled through the mud and rain, clasped his pistol with both hands and fired. She barely noticed the first bullet. He put another slug in her chest but hatred and the cross kept her moving. He let off four more rounds. She went down, one knee at a time, pistols rolling from her fists, shaking fingers reaching for the cross.

Breathing hard, he struggled onto his feet and limped toward the barracks, throwing himself against the door.

He could hear Reardon, yelling as he came after him. Stone dripped blood across the floor.

He rammed his elbow through the glass door of the weapon's cabinet and snatched out the flare gun, cracked it open, picked up a round and slotted it home.

He limped to the doorway, pistol in his right hand, flare gun in his left, and turned his weapons on Reardon.

The bastard had his pistols on Rawles. "Give it up, big man. Or this old fucker gets it."

"You're bleeding," said Stone.

"Aye, you fucking pegged me with that shotgun, you bastard. Now throw down your fucking guns."

"Shoot him," said a voice, out of the dark and the rain, and both men, barely able to stand, twisted around.

It was Jodie, clothes soaked through, a satchel over her shoulder. Reardon couldn't breathe. He was looking at a ghost.

He swallowed, wiped his beard with the back of his left hand. There was a spear of lightning.

"Please," she whispered.

Reardon nodded, still stunned by her appearance. "Aye, sweetheart, I will. Then we can..."

She shook her head. "Not you, Robert."

Reardon turned and Stone fired.

His eye turned to mush as the bullet spiralled through his brain and tore open the back of his head.

His legs buckled, his body folded, he went down.

Jodie opened her mouth but before she could say a word an explosion rocked the town and thick plumes of smoke filled the air.

Stone fired the flare gun into the night sky and collapsed onto his knees.

FORTY FOUR

The town swarmed with armed men from the watchtowers as black smoke pumped into the sky.

The fire had spread from the bank into several residential buildings. Windows had blown out, doors buckled, possessions disintegrated. Families were being evacuated, children wailing, adults filled with questions and anger, once more witnessing horrors they had thought long past.

Jodie helped Stone into the barracks, he could hardly walk. She pushed him into a chair. He ripped open his trouser leg. There was no exit wound. He rooted in a desk drawer, dug out a half-empty bottle and spat out the cork. He drank and then washed his hand.

She looked into his dark eyes. He stared back at her as he dug his fingers into his flesh.

Sweat streamed down his face.

He gritted his teeth, twisted his head, and then gasped as the blood-stained bullet popped onto the floor.

Citizens came out of houses. Their beloved town was being assaulted. They were angry and afraid but began to help. Rawles was carried inside and Jodie cleared a desk and ordered him to be laid on it. She had no idea if she could save him this time.

He was white-faced, his breathing shallow, asking for his wife and his children. He had been shot only once and the bullet had gone through but he'd lost a lot of blood. She snatched the whiskey bottle from Stone, who was drinking from it now he'd tied off his leg.

The rain eased.

The horizon brightened.

Stone stitched his leg wound, grimacing as the needle pierced the skin, and stared through the windows of the barracks as sunlight picked at the carnage from the night before.

His eyes were grim, face unsmiling, leg numb. He was filled with frustration and kept his pistol ready.

Horse drawn wagons rumbled by loaded with barrels of water and pumps. There was no sign of Cali. No sign of anyone he recognised. He continued to sit, leaning against a cluttered desk. He ground his teeth, and then swept his arm across the desk, scattering everything onto the floor and banged his fist, startling Jodie.

She went outside, held a short conversation with several men and then came back into the barracks.

"I've told them to check for your friends at the bank. I didn't tell them they had planned on robbing it."

"I can do that myself," said Stone.

"You can barely walk."

He pushed himself onto his feet and hobbled forward, losing his balance. She caught him, his heavy frame pushing against her.

"Fuck," he said.

She kept an arm around his waist, guided him toward a chair.

"Sit."

An hour passed before he saw Cali, emerging amongst the crowds that thronged Main Street. She sauntered with her head back, black hair flowing in the wind. She was grubby and battered, short skirt twisted. The door to the barracks was wedged open, allowing the Junk Men to carry out the bodies from the holding cells, one at a time. She hovered in the doorway, breathing hard. Palmer followed behind her, gun out, aware of the eyes on him, still the man who'd murdered an enforcement officer.

"Did you get it?" asked Stone.

Cali shook her head. "Bitch shoved me off a roof."

Stone nodded.

"I went toe to toe with her. Cut her a few times. But she blindsided me and threw me off. Then Yuan showed up, shaking like a motherfucker, and unloaded into her. She definitely plugged her. I saw Pavla bleed, Stone, but Yuan... man, she should have stayed in Batesville."

She saw the look in his face.

"Oh, she ain't dead, shit, she's back at the bank still, she got her arm broke when it blew and they're trying to fix her up."

"Pavla was in the vault by the time I got there," said Palmer. "I saw her get out. I tried to take her down but she'd rigged the building with explosives."

"Did she have it?"

"I couldn't see. I don't think so. I reckon she didn't even attempt to find it. You said there were hundreds of deposit boxes. Her orders would've been to take it back but I reckon the fallback plan was to destroy it. So she blew the bank. She won. She was better every step of the way. A lot of people are going be pissed with us. Here and in New Washington."

"I think we should roll," said Cali.

She looked down at Stone's leg.

"Reardon dead?"

"Yeah."

Jodie took the satchel from her shoulder, hesitated. She looked at the three of them.

"I don't understand it. But I do know about war. If this can help then you should go as quickly as possible."

They looked at her.

"Mayor Jefferson had the flag removed from the bank several years ago. She feared men would come for it. It was in the back of the painting." She nodded at Cali. "The one you took down from the wall. You had it in your hands."

Jodie unbuckled the satchel.

"And you knew?" snarled Cali.

"Not until you'd left." She glanced at Stone. "I went for help, to get the bodies out of the mayor's house, but there were no deputies around so I went back. When I got there the painting was cut open and she was planning to move it to another location."

She offered them the satchel. "I don't think this belongs in Silver Road. This isn't what our town is about."

Wiping her palms, Cali gingerly reached inside, and slowly unravelled the flag. It was ragged, musty and there were two bullet holes in it. Palmer holstered his pistol and pressed his fingers against the fabric, almost cradling it like a baby. Stone saw rippled stripes and dull-coloured stars.

Jodie hastily rolled the flag back into satchel.

"Take this and go. Mayor Jefferson is... resting... it's only a matter of time. They will come for you."

Cali frowned.

"Why are you helping us?"

"Jefferson is a good mayor, a good woman, but her health has stolen the wisdom she once had."

Stone struggled onto his feet. She turned on him. "You're going nowhere. You can't walk."

"I'm fine," he said. "But you need to leave as well."

Jodie shook her head. "I have a motel to run."

"Your guests are dead."

She glanced at Rawles, half-dozing, his breathing a little more even, his wound plugged.

"I'm needed here."

"You took something that didn't belong to you," said Stone. "Once everything gets back to normal they'll nail you for that."

Jodie allowed her eyes to linger on him. Loose strands of red and grey hair fell into her emotionless eyes.

"No one can hurt me anymore."

He nodded, limped to the door. A hoarse voice called after him.

"Stone."

It was Rawles, face covered with perspiration.

"Leave the armband."

Stone tossed it on the desk.

"Go before I have to do my job and arrest you. Jodie will escort you to the bridge. She'll give word you're allowed to leave. Don't come back, Stone. You can never come back."

Stone nodded, limped from the barracks into the harsh light of day where Cali and Palmer waited for him.

Jodie walked a few paces ahead of them, holding her knitted cardigan tight around her narrow body.

"Stone's right," said Cali. "You should think of leaving. That wheelchair bitch will fuck you up as soon as she can."

They glimpsed Yuan as they headed slowly toward the bridge. Her busted arm was in a makeshift sling. An older woman guided her toward the motel where men carried bodies and loaded them onto a wagon. She must have sensed them and stopped to look round, focusing her eyes on Stone. She lifted her good hand, offering him a small wave, knowing she would never see him again.

He nodded goodbye.

Six armed men were stationed at the bridge, shuffling around, under orders to let no one enter or leave the town.

"Who's that coming over the bridge?" said Palmer.

He drew his pistol off his thigh. The men at the bridge stiffened but then Jodie went forward, arms raised, pointing at the riders behind them.

Stone cupped a hand over his eyes, shielding the sun. He couldn't breathe. He dare not blink.

"More of them?" said Palmer.

Stone pushed down his gun arm.

"Friends," he said.

Cali saw the hint of a smile on his face. "Oh, man, is that her?"

Nuria rode behind Quinn, horses trotting across the bridge, the town spread before them. There were bodies on the ground, smoke in the air, dozens of people gathered in small groups.

"This looks like the kind of place we might find him," said Quinn.

Nuria said nothing. Blonde hair tied back, face pale, cheeks hollow, she would allow no glimmer of hope to enter her thoughts. The goat farmer they'd encountered in the southern hills had told them of the land they were in, pinpointing towns and cities to avoid, especially for women, and the safe settlements that had population. His directions had led them here, a place he called Silver Road, but he cautioned them not to reveal they had come from Ennpithia. Nuria questioned him about a man named Stone but the old man had said he'd never heard of him. She couldn't forget the twinkle in his eyes.

Stone hobbled toward the edge of the creek. His leg throbbed. Palmer and Cali waited beside him whilst Jodie went to speak with the men guarding the bridge. There were respectful nods and the rifles were lowered.

Quinn saw him first, and a relieved smile filled her face. She leaned in her saddle and shoved Nuria.

Nuria turned her head and Stone saw the straightness of her mouth, the anger in her blue eyes, and the sickly pale colour of her skin. She kicked her horse, trotted forward and slid down from the saddle. She stopped in her tracks, breathing hard. He saw the rise and fall of her small chest. The memories of that day flashed through her head and she held onto the four-legged beast, afraid, as if taking a step forward might see him disappear.

Stone took a few more paces forward, grimacing in pain. Nuria ran her eyes over him, his stitched head and wounded leg. Her heart crumpled. She quickened her pace and stood with him. Almost nose to nose. Relief filled her eyes. Her mouth curved, shaping into that familiar and irrepressible smile; tilting at one end, almost lop-sided.

She reached for him. He reached for her.

"You've cut your hair," she said

And then the world slowed down.

And stopped.

Stone glimpsed movement in the trees that lined the creek. She was in there, trying to make her escape. His hand grabbed Nuria by the arm. The assault rifle rattled and Pavla sprayed them with bullets.

Blood spots ripped through Nuria. She was flung into him. He lost his balance, hit the ground.

Pavla kept firing and one of the men guarding the bridge cried out, bullets lodged in his throat.

She ran into the creek.

Palmer was flat on his belly, gun out. He yelled a warning as a grenade flew high into the air. It hit the bridge, scattering bodies in a deadly explosion. Men screamed and coiled in the dirt, limbs severed. Jodie clamped her hands over her ears. Quinn sprang from her saddle and ran into the smoke, firing her crossbow, loud cranks as she reloaded. She had no idea who the woman was or why she was attacking. Palmer streamed alongside her, pistol in both hands, and the two of them threaded into the creek.

Stone struggled onto one knee, pistol drawn, and started firing at Pavla's fleeing figure.

But she was quick. She weaved and ducked and he knew she wore body armour. He would require a head or leg shot to bring her down. He fired, and kept firing, but his slugs found the dirt. Pavla took cover behind the wrecked vehicles, a formidable defence, and she began laying down heavy fire. Deputies went into the creek, rifles and blue armbands.

There was shouting.

And gunfire.

And more shouting.

But the sounds were fading. Cali watched him put down his gun. He cradled Nuria in his arms. Blood leaked from half a dozen wounds. She opened her mouth, unable to form any words, and spat out a glob of blood.

Jodie dropped onto her knees and tried to stem the flow but Nuria angrily pushed her hands away. She grabbed Stone and held onto him, shaking, tears flooding her eyes.

Stone saw her terror and anger.

He held her hands, fingers slippery with blood. Gunfire still erupted along the creek, muffled and no longer important.

Nuria found her breath, calmed it, swore, and swore again, and beat the ground with her clenched fists as the pain ripped through every fibre of her.

"All this... I... you were... "

He stroked her hair, her cheek.

"I was dead before you," he said.

She gritted blood-filmed teeth.

"No, you were alive, you've always been alive. Don't stop... don't stop..."

She pressed a blood-stained hand against his cheeks, nails grinding into his skin.

"You were worth it."

Her head rolled against him.

FORTY FIVE

There were no burials in Silver Road. Stone didn't care. He dug a grave and he dug it alone.

The Junk Men arrived to recycle her body but Quinn aimed her crossbow at them and the hooded men backed away.

He took Nuria's pistol and moulded her fingers around it, and carefully placed her arm across her body. He drank whiskey, and kept drinking. And when the bottle was empty, he tossed it into the creek and stared down at her. Pale skin and blonde hair streaked and caked with dried blood.

He sat on the edge of her grave, looked out across the creek and then back at the town of Silver Road.

The town was shell-shocked but stores opened and horses trotted and children went to school. The day continued to cycle. The wheel continued to turn. There had been no hint of impending violence. Now friends and family were dead. The bloodshed had resurrected memories of the post-civil war years. Heads were a little low, eyes were downcast, the bars were quiet and without humour.

Stone sat all day with Nuria, until the sun began to fall away on the horizon. The wind picked up and he felt a chill.

He leaned into the open grave and placed the wooden heart piece on her chest.

Shadows were cast across the ground, and Stone saw it was Quinn, with Jodie, Palmer and Cali, carrying shovels and fresh whiskey.

They buried her without words or ceremony.

* * *

Palmer built a fire and they drank. The moon and stars filled the sky. Stone sat with a numb expression.

It was after midnight that Rawles struggled toward the bridge. His shoulder was bandaged, his arm in a sling. There were deputies with him, holding lanterns and rifles.

"Do you know how many deputies and civilians are dead? Everyone is touched by what happened. You opened up hell on us. I've never been so wrong about someone."

"Hey," said Cali. "Climb off his back, cocksucker."

Stone put his hand on her arm, gently squeezed.

"Mayor Jefferson wants the flag back."

Palmer's hand snaked toward his pistol. Jodie sucked in her breath.

"But I don't. Take it and fly it wherever the hell you want. Only make sure people know it's no longer here."

He wiped his soaked brow.

"None of us know how to drive the prison truck. I want it gone by dawn. With all of you in it."

He stared at Jodie.

"That includes you. I've put Yuan in charge of the motel. Once her arm is healed. I think I can trust her."

"Silver Road is my home."

"Not anymore."

"I've been here for ten years."

"It's over for you."

He shuffled away, taking his men with him. The snipers and spotters were back in the watchtowers, and the codes were being sent, and once more Silver Road would be safe. The bars would sell liquor. The sidewalks would be built. The Junk Men would fill the display cases in the museum.

"He can't do that," said Jodie. "He can't throw me out. Not after all these years."

No one had any answers for her. The old bridge creaked and the trees swayed in the night wind.

Quinn sat beside Stone. His eyes were red-rimmed.

"Her biggest fear was never seeing you again. That didn't happen."

She paused.

"I won't be coming with you. There isn't much point. I'll take my chances here."

She glided a hand over her head. Stone suddenly realised her hair was missing.

"It happened in the mountains. I went into a cave area with a few Marshals. They died shortly after. I reckon the Lord has had a lot of fun with me. Just dealt me one shit hand after the other."

She rolled up her sleeve. There were blotches on her skin.

"I don't know what it is. I'm just glad Nuria got to see you again."

She leaned against him, for a moment.

"Some things are worth dying for, Stone. You're one of them. I'll never forget what you did for me."

She got to her feet, faced everyone.

"Let's take a look at this truck."

Palmer and Jodie followed. But Cali stayed with him.

"I'm so sorry, man. I really am sorry."

She pursed her lips.

"You were going to sacrifice everything so I could get this flag out of here. It ain't fair."

He nodded.

"Stop smelling those flames, man."

She got to her feet as Quinn and Palmer wandered back, leaving Jodie standing beside the truck, staring down at the stinking bodies they'd dragged from it. The air buzzed with flies.

"Oh, shit," said Cali. "Did Reardon bring them with him? Man, that fucker was off the scale."

"We better get out of here," said Palmer.

Gritting his teeth, Stone struggled onto his feet and got in Palmer's face.

"Where will Pavla go?"

"She thinks the flag was destroyed. Her mission is complete. She'll go to Atlanta. She has contacts there."

"Contacts? What kind of contacts?"

"The people she works for. The old enemy."

"You said that before. Who the fuck are they?"

Palmer looked at him evenly.

"Take your pick. This time it's the Russians."

The name meant nothing to him.

He looked down at Nuria's grave.

"Then we head for Atlanta," said Stone. "There are scores to settle and I intend to settle all of them."

THE END

Thank you for reading Men of Truth. I hope you enjoyed the book.

The story continues in... The Atlanta Mission

