The Dying Cinders

The Dying Cinders Chapter 3

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3. INTERSTATE 25, PART 1

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I can't believe what I've done I only wanted some fun, some fun I'm not young and I'm not foolish I don't know quite what made me do this

And now I feel I have to run Now I feel I have to run And it feels like my heart's on fire I should've shut my mouth and walked upright

She burns, she burns...

-    Joe Goddard & Mara Carlyle

**********

"It's a quarter to twelve and you're going to die at midnight. How would you spend those last fifteen minutes?"

That's the credo behind Octavia Wilkes' movement.

Some people think her proposition is about freedom. I think if they thought more deeply about it, they'd see that this corpse of a world's overflowing with freedom – freedom to rob, freedom to rape, freedom to main, freedom to kill. Her credo was about viewing the collapse of civilization as a last best opportunity for a better freedom – truth-to-self. It was a freedom that defied the moral pretences of the 55ers or the fundamentalists. Their calls to arms were always declarations or orders dressed up in old world concepts; "join us and help us restore America in God's grace" and the like. Hers was a call for comity amongst outcasts in a dying world – `here's your last chance to be true to yourself'. Although I admit that I didn't hear the call the way Parker and her other pilgrims did, that's the part that always held weight for me.

Understanding the weight of that ethos was difficult back then -- when we were fresh out of Polk and frightened as fuck by the bloodbath that the 55ers made of our hometown. I saw the merit in rejecting old world polities and creeds – Government, Christianity, Capitalism, etc. God wasn't real, and money couldn't replace him. And yet I wasn't quite ready to replace Wilkes' teachings for my own... even though Parker already had.

Keep that in mind, whoever you are, as you listen to this. It's going to help you understand the boy I fell in love with.

**********

Jay's eyes were fixed on a broken window sealed up by duct tape. A cold night wind howled outside, hard enough to rattle the rotted wooden sill. If that window breaks, it'll be cold as hell through the night, he thought. It was chilly enough as it was (which was why Parker let Jay keep his shirt on).

"Arch your back," said Parker.

Jay complied. He was on his knees. He rested his face on his sleeping mat. He had a grey pillow folded beneath his stomach and crotch. Parker unbuckled Jay's denims, yanking them down to his knees. It was so nippy the younger boy felt his ass cheeks goose-pimple, but he tried to block out the cold by not thinking about it. He closed his eyes and pictured his living room hearth back in Polk. He recalled distant images of an old night by its warmth; him curled up in his jammies with Huckleberry Finn for company, the smell of mulled wine and pipe smoke in the air, his father humming Silent Night as he threw kindling into the fire.

"Your asshole is winking at me," said Parker.

Jay giggled. Then he overheard the older boy spit into his hand and his giggles became a sigh. Spit made for shit lube, but they didn't have any oil or jelly. One of the few things Parker forgot to pack on their little fucking road trip to Mexico. A pair of strong, rough hands spread open his ass cheeks. Parker spit on that too. Jay felt it ooze down his crack. He shivered. And then came that mushroom-shaped cockhead, pressing against his rosebud hole.

"Go slow, okay?" Asked Jay.

Parker didn't answer. The younger boy cried out "oh!" when the older boy's cockhead popped open his puckered pink ring of flesh, and over a long, gradual moment, the thin length of Parker's seven-and-a-half inches slid deep inside Jay until his hips clamped down over his ass. ...Fuck! Jay exhaled a deeply held breath through gritted teeth, grabbing handfuls of his sleeping bag into his fists and spreading his legs wider to accommodate Parker's weight. Parker, growling with delight, grabbed Jay's hips and told him how fucking tight he was. "Try not to jizz early," Jay spat back with a grin. In retaliation Parker snatched Jay's wrists behind his back and stopped going slow. He pulled back an inch or two before thrusting it back in, deep and hard, rocking Jay forward with each stroke, until a rhythmic series of grunts and fleshly slaps filled the warehouse up to its rusted metal rafters.

"Ugh!" Groaned Jay. Fuck! He thought. "Ugh! Ugh! Ugh!"

Parker pushed Jay's face into the pillow. "Be quiet! You sound like a fucking whore sometimes, you know that?"

He moaned `I can't help it' into the fabric, but it came out as muffled garble of vowels. And it was true. He couldn't help it. No single pleasure in Jay's world competed with the pleasure of Parker fucking him; of spreading his legs and letting that long, warm cock split his asshole open; of holding on for dear life as Parker's thighs came thundering down on his own; at those guttural grunts of ecstasy Parker crooned with each thrust or at his horny, possessive touch grabbing at his body wherever he so pleased; snatching his wrists, pushing his shoulders, clutching his throat. With his wrists now trapped behind his back Jay couldn't sneak a hand down to touch himself but even better – as Parker humped him, Parker's weight made Jay hump the pillow underneath him. The soft friction felt so good, and the cock pushing in and out of his rectum was even better. The Mixon boy grit his teeth as he hit his climax and let out a long, delirious moan. Threads of thick white spunk shot into the pillow. Huffing and spent, he collapsed into his sleeping mat. He always had his hardest, most tiring orgasms when Parker cornholed him.

"I'm coming!" Grunted Parker.

The pastor's son ploughed into him with one final stroke. Jay's brain was so numb with delight he barely noticed four days' worth of seed emptied out into his anus. Parker shivered and trembled with each pump of sperm his prick spent. He groaned and gasped, wiping the sweat from his brow, then rolled off the younger boy's back onto his own sleeping mat. They caught their breaths together in the darkness. Jay took a towel out of his backpack and mopped up his brow. There was a can of Bush's Best warmed over by their campfire. Parker spooned some into his mouth.

"Where to next?" Asked Jay, pulling his jeans back up. Nearby him was one of the Colorado maps that Parker seized from his father's supply room back in Polk. He rolled it out over the stone floor, brushing away the mustardy weeds sprouting from its cracks.

Parker pointed his spoon at the I-25. "It's a straight shot from here to Denver by the interstate. We just follow it south through Colorado Springs then Trinidad and into Raton. From there Albuquerque down to La... I dunno how the fuck you say that name... La Cruses...? After that we just go over the border to El Paso."

"You really think Denver is safe?" Asked Jay. "When the Black Bandanas went on their supply runs, they never went that far south, did they?"

To spare fuel, the Black Bandanas only ranged Colorado as far as a two-hour drive would take them. They typically went no further east than Briggsdale and no further south than Loveland; everywhere north of Norfolk was 55er country and they never ventured west into the Rockies – word was that psychotic bands of excommunicated 55ers infested the mountains and preyed upon travellers of Route 14. Those four compass points represented the sphere of Polk's reach – beyond them the world was one giant question mark. But there were constant rumours about Denver. Wanderers passing Polk by were typically northbound towards Cheyenne via the I-25, away from the state's capital, and when referring to Denver they often bandied about terms like "war zone" and "bloodbath", but since most outsiders were forbidden to enter town, no one really knew what that meant. There was only a consensus – Denver was dangerous.

"We ain't going through Denver," Parker's spoon pointed out a road running the city's circumference. "We'll take the E-470 and drive around it... then loop back onto the I-25 south of the city. From there it's another straight shot to Colorado Springs," He spat out an orange loogie. "These beans are cold, fuck!"

Jay stood up.

"Where're you going?" asked Parker.

"To deuce and leak. Where did you say that restroom was?"

Parker pointed to a balcony on the east wall. "Right there, next to the office. And take your piece too, Pee Wee."

Brother Abner's Beretta m9 sat peacefully by Jay's sleeping bag. "Why? We checked the place out before we made camp, right?"

"Can't be too careful on the outside," said Parker. "This might be virgin territory for you, but I've been doing this for a long time. Just keep it close."

I know, thought Jay, I've been reading the Cook Book long enough to know that. Burning shit inside Polk could get Pumpkinhead caught. Burning shit outside Polk was a whole new freedom. There wasn't any doubt that his experiences with the outside might be the best resource they had to get them south to Mexico. But he doesn't have to be so fucking smug about it... Jay slipped the Beretta beneath his belt. It still had the weight of a full magazine. While Parker put his can of Bush's Best back over their cookfire of old Playboy mags and twigs, Jay turned on their torchlight. He aimed the beam a metre in front of him and allowed it to guide him across the derelict warehouse floor, directing himself around broken glass, weeded fissures, cigarette butts, old bones, needles, dead mice and thousands and thousands of their little rice-shaped black droppings. Over by the east wall was an aluminium stairwell leading up to the second floor. He found it wobbly when he climbed it, just barely holding onto the framework nailing it to the wall, but it held his weight. Beneath his sneakers crunched the flakes of frost-coloured coloured oxidation that had encrusted the stair treads. That's a cool sound, he thought stupidly.

The restrooms were right where Parker said they were. Jay opened the thin plywood door to a boxy rectangular lavatory with moulding lino flooring and cracked tile walls. The toilet bowl was old and rank, flowering up to the rim with grubby, moss-like fungal growth. Oh shit! Jay pinched his nose – it's smell was sulphurous and repulsive. He didn't even bother to turn the faucet, he knew no water was running. Shit.

Luckily enough he didn't really need to take a shit on that thing. Instead Jay put his 9mm down, unzipped his jeans and squatted down to his haunches to fart Parker's gooey cum out of his anus. Normally he liked to fall asleep with it still inside him (Parker called it breeding) because there was an intoxicating feeling to it. It made him feel like... like he was being laid claim to, like he was being owned or possessed. Jay loved it. They used to do it all the time back in Polk. Although Parker liked getting blowjobs more than he liked cornholing, he seemed to get a kick out of it too. `You feel me deep in there, Pee Wee? Is it warm?' It was like a game with no losers. Most nights the cum leaked out when he was sleeping, and Jay woke up to a cold little puddle beneath his ass. Parker would tease him about it or make stupid jokes about getting him `pregnant' but he didn't mind. He liked the feeling. He liked to think of himself as something that belonged to Parker, that no one else could have.

But playing those games out here was risky. The outside was a dangerous place. The 55ers who ransacked Polk were only a few miles behind them. We can't be stupid kids out here, thought Jay. Not anymore.

They didn't have toilet paper in Polk, just re-washed rags, but here Jay didn't even that, so he cleaned up his asshole with his shirt cuff, then he pinched his nose shut as he un-zipped his now flaccid cock and cut a stream of piss into the musty toilet bowl. It was as he was peeing that he heard the noise; a kind of yawning. Stiff and wooden and circular. Constant. Odd. And it was coming from the next room. Curious, Jay emptied his bladder, zipped up, tucked the Beretta m9 back into his belt, then left the lavatory. As he passed by the balustrade railing he checked on Parker. He dozed atop his sleeping bag, having doused out the cookfire. Jay then turned to the office door. It was slightly ajar. The noise was even louder. He carefully pushed the door open.

There was a body hanging from the ceiling.

Shit...! "Parker!" Jay yelled. "Get up here!"

Jay waved his flashlight at the corpse. It hung from the ceiling fan by a taut noose that still swung in slow, stiff and consistent little circles. Beneath its exposed toenails, turning sallow and green with decomposition, a good 20 inches separated its feet from the floor, the same height as an overturned stool nearby the desk. It wore a sterile white coat like the ones scientists would wear in those old sci-fi comics he and Parker used to read. And there were no signs of a struggle, no bloodstains. This wasn't an execution. It was a suicide.

"What it is?" Parker, shirtless and armed with his father's Luger, came rushing in. "Look," Jay said, shining his light on the dead body.

Parker sighed. "Is that it? I thought you were in trouble!"

"Look at it," Jay said. "His fucking eye sockets are full of maggots! So creepy... do you think he's been here long?"

"Who cares? He was probably just a wanderer who gave up. Let him rot," Annoyed, Parker tucked his pistol away. "Are you coming or are you gonna stare at him all night?"

The Pastor's son stalked out of the office. "I'm coming!" Said Jay, his torchlight passing over the corpse's chest pocket as he followed his friend outside. There was a badge emblazoned on it that read;

Dr. Ennis Musgrove

USRP

**********

You might remember me mentioning these guys before? Back when I explained to you how the world went to shit. I suppose now is as good a time as any to tell you more about them. But first I need you to understand something. In a very twisted way... the only reason I'm even recording this is because of the USRP. Can you wrap your head around that? No? I suppose not. That comes later in the tale. Let me pace myself.

The USRP stands for United States Refertilization Project. It was (is) a branch of the old US government's Department of Health and Human Services. Its goal was to discover the cause of the Global Fertility Crisis and find a cure before it was too late. As a left-leaning surgeon, my father was very familiar with the politics behind its creation; "Originally it was called the `National Institute for Fertility and Pre-Natal Care'. President Buchanan announced it in 1992 so I'm guessing that the original plans started with the Bush Administration, but most people took it as part of his campaign promise to investigate the Global Fertility Crisis. In '95 the New York Times did an investigative piece revealing that the NIFPNC consisted of six researchers in a small lab in Annapolis. The President defended himself by saying there were provisions for a larger project in his original '94 budget, proposals he stripped out to get it through the Senate. By '96 the HHS Secretary, Donald Saulpaugh (Don Saul we used to call him) unveiled the USRP in Arizona, with at least 20 labs with over 450 researchers. But they never found a cure."

My father never spoke highly of the organization. He thought of them as a placebo, something the government cooked up to make people think that they were on their feet with the Fertility Crisis. "I doubt they were any closer to finding a cure than the dozens of other research orgs across the world," Father had said, "Britain, Israel, Russia, China and Japan all had their own versions of the USRP. None of them succeeded."

Danny Mixon believed that science's failure to come to grips with the GFC was what drove America full steam ahead on the crazy train of Fundamentalism and the militia movement – in a world without hope they gave up on a dying future for the immediacy of the present and the romantic lie of heaven. What I would realize in the coming weeks was that the USRP never gave up.

This would've been a very different testimonial if they did.

**********

They woke up and broke camp at first light. They cleared the ash from last night's fire and hid their bean cans away in an old garbage bin outside the broken fire exit doors. The Ford was where they'd left it, hidden behind a stone outcrop of the building which housed its old (and derelict) generator. Once they packed everything away in the trunk, Jay and Parker climbed into the car and reversed down the slightly sloped gravel track leading down onto the main road. Jay watched the factory go from the passenger's side. It was a good find for the night. Off road, empty, and secluded from view 3/4ths of the way by a wall of tall boxelders. And someone was kind enough to kick down its signpost on the highway. They passed it by last night at about half a mile off from downtown Fort Collins (blocked off on all inbound roads by abandoned military blockades dating back to the Occupation). It might be a while before they found somewhere else as safe to sleep in.

It was a warm day, but the air was cool. Jay rolled the window down and leaned out, letting the winds whip his hair. To their right was an amazing view of the Rockies. The hilly, snow-covered peaks loomed over Fort Collins' skyline and its surrounding fields and forests. You didn't really get a view of the mountains in Polk because they were too far off. From there they looked like brown bumps on the fringe of your panorama. From here they were beautiful and imposing. I've never seen them so close before... he thought. It's so peaceful.

"Before she died," said Jay, "my Mom and my Dad used to go camping up there in the mountains. She was an asthmatic smoker and he said the air would be good for her lungs – that was his excuse anyway. They went during the summer, it was an annual thing. They'd fish in the morning, then bake s'mores by the campfire and drink two bottles of wine in the night. He said they fell in love up there."

"Your mom died when you were born, right?" Asked Parker.

"Yeah," said Jay. He used to wonder if his father blamed him for that. "Giving birth."

"That's the thing about Moms," Parker flipped a tape into the dashboard cassette player and pressed play. He kept an eye on the road though. "One way or another they find some excuse not to stick around."

It wasn't music. It was Octavia Wilkes, in another of Parker's secret recordings. He turned the volume up.

"Didn't they used to tell us lies about ourselves and what we feel?" She asked in that husky, Creole-tinted voice. "And didn't we trick ourselves so well into giving in? That's their greatest weapon – not their ability to deceive us but their ability to let us deceive ourselves. They invoke God and preach hate on everything that makes us human. Humanity is a sin in the Christian eye and I know that `cause I still got the scars from where my Daddy whipped me when he caught me doing things to myself he didn't approve of. His morality, their morality, is immoral. Well here's the time to spit on it and believe me, you won't ever feel so liberated as the day you burn your first bible. Don't let them shackle you anymore. Come south, all y'all who hear me."

"I ain't ever heard a woman talk so much sense before," said Parker. He'd grown up around women that were taught from an early age to be subservient to the men around them. It was their job to cook and to clean for their husbands. "And she's fucking right, Jay. Cunts like my Dad used to think they knew it all, but they didn't. They make us be things we're not, so they can control us."

"I'm not disgusting, and neither are you. Don't let anyone tell you that you are. Now's the time to reject their thinking. It's sad as hell that it took the end of our world for us to realize what we were doing to ourselves but there's no better time than now to wise up. Break your mental chains. Open your eyes."

There were still some Newports left in his pocket. Jay took two. He gave one to Parker, put the other between his lips, and lit them both with a match. "Where in Mexico does she say we have to go?"

"Y'all remember the turn of the century, right? Remember gluing y'all's eyes to the television screen watching the 55ers rob banks, shoot up churches, and bomb federal buildings, right? Remember the riots in 2001? Atlanta in flames. New Orleans a bloodbath. The lynchings in Montgomery. Bombs blowing holes in Boston..."

"She doesn't," said Parker, gruffly, exhaling fumes through his window. "I only taped three broadcasts before her signal died. We'll figure it out when we get there."

"Yeah, y'all remember. We all do. My Daddy loved him some Gil Scott-Heron. Whoo-ee, he could've worn out the vinyl on Winter in America_! But Gil Scott-Heron was wrong. The revolution really was televised, and we sat it out not knowing. We let the psychos and bushwhackers lead the way on life's last lap like good, loyal, Christian dogs."_

Fuck, he hasn't thought this out at all... There were moments were Jay felt like screaming at Parker. His plan only got them as far as the Mexican border? Nothing else to go on?

"If there's anyone out there and you hear me what I'm saying, then come south with me and share this new revolution, this revolution of thoughts. Put down your prayer book. Step outside. Know your worth. Claim your last breath. Define `you' as you for you, don't hear them telling you different. It's only one life – here's your last chance to really live it."

"Hey, you smell that?" Said Parker, stopping the cassette. "It's water."

There was no gull song or rime, just the scent of babbling waters rushing through a rocky concourse. Jay kept his head out of the window until he spotted a glint of sunshine sparkling off distant waters beyond the interstate. Without even talking it over first, Parker span the wheel at the nearest off-ramp and turned into an eastward dirt track, driving through dust and underbrush past an old abandoned state patrol building all the way to the mossy banks of an offshoot of the Poudre River.

"I need a swim," Parker shut off the engine to spare the gas. "Are you coming with or what?"

Jay smiled.

He followed the older boy out of the car to the bank where the peeled off their shirts and jeans and shoes and boxers and socks until they were completely naked, then plunged headfirst into the water, giggling. It wasn't particularly deep, the currents weren't very strong, and it was clear and white and refreshing, especially with the hot sun's rays above glimmering off it. It was perfect for swimming. Jay was ecstatic. It was years, maybe as many as ten, since he and Parker last went swimming. There was creek not too far from Polk that Danny Mixon used to take them to (before the Occupation ended and Pastor Evans took over the town). Those were some of the best summers of his childhood. Jay smiled to himself recalling those days as he practiced his long-underused back stroke against the river currents, wheeling his arms overhead and kicking his legs through its waters like fins. Parker paddled near the western river bank, dipping his head in and out of the water and scrubbing it clean of the soot and dirt it'd picked up during their escape from Polk. He did this until his kinky black curls were clean again, then cringed, gripping his ribs tight. Jay waded over to his side. The pebbles felt cool and smooth beneath his bare feet.

"You okay?" He asked.

"I'm fine," seethed Parker through clenched teeth. "Guess I ain't 100% yet."

The swelling around his lip, cheeks and eye had gone down since his fight with Pastor Evans five days ago, but the purple-coloured bruising around his ribs hadn't cleared up yet. They took off his bandages the night before, since they were getting dirty, but Parker didn't want to replace them. We need to go light on our meds, he'd said, until we get to Mexico. Jay watched Parker's wet, glistening pecs bob up and down in the water. All was in his mind to press his lips against that plum-coloured bruise. There isn't an inch of you I wouldn't kiss, he thought, thoughts that pressed on even as the older boy flipped backwards, balled himself up, and dove below the water. Jay didn't notice where Parker went until he emerged behind him with a heavy, rising splash. "Hey!" Cried Jay.

"I ain't 100% but I'm still faster than you," grinned Parker.

Jay grinned back. "Wanna race me and prove it? Last time, I kicked your ass."

"Oh yeah, and what do I get if I win?"

"A blowjob," said Jay.

"I'm gonna get that anyway," said Parker. "Gimme your Schwinn, you can have my Litespeed."

Jay scoffed. It wasn't the first fucking time Parker proposed switching bikes to him. It seemed almost stupid for him to care about that now, now that they were riding a damned Escort through the backbone of old dead America, but he serious as an aneurysm. And so, when Pumpkinhead suggested that one lap, from the car to craggy overhang forty yards south of it, Jay swung his arm across the surface, spritzed a haze of water into Parker's eyes, then shot off ahead of him. Screaming that he was a "fucking cheater" Parker swam after him in pursuit, but to the crag and back he couldn't make up the distance, which left Jay a smirking idiot when he made it back to the embanked car with Parker tailing him by three metres. He wasn't even out of breath.

"Man, I think we've finally found the only think you suck at," said Jay.

"Fuck you," spat Parker. "What do you want, Pee Wee?"

Kiss me, he thought. Just kiss me once before we die. "I'll think about it, loser."

All the swimming made him hungry. If he remembered right, there was a good spot for trout fishing up river that the Black Bandanas used during their old supply runs, and Parker was smart enough to steal a fishing rod from their supplies before they left Polk. He didn't snag any bait but there were more than enough green drakes and red quills buzzing around their ears to make up for it. The thought of a cutthroat or rainbow trout sizzling over a campfire made Jay swim over to the east bank and climb out of the river. But as soon as his feet found the slope, Parker's fist clamped around Jay's ankle and dragged him back down. "Hey!" Jay toppled belly-first onto the wet, pebbly, mossy ground. Parker, launching out of the water, took him by the shoulder and flipped him onto his back. "What the fuck, Parker?" he mouthed out, but when he tried to get up the older boy grabbed his wrists and pinned him back down. Their slickened, naked bodies wrestled for position atop the river bank. Jay, now immobile, watched Parker's stiffening cock flop up and down as he climbed over his legs and sat down on his thighs. Their wet chests rose and fell together... even their breathing was in tandem.

"I was only teasing," Jay watched Parker's eyes burn. "I didn't mean it."

Parker didn't smile.

"I'll kill anyone who hurts you," he said. "You're mine, Jay. And I'll never let anyone take you from me."

Kiss me, thought Jay. Oh god, Parker, please just kiss me...

Parker spread Jay's long legs apart. He was stern-faced and quiet, but his molten copper eyes screamed something his voice couldn't put into words. He didn't bother spitting on his hand for lube. The Pastor's son grabbed his stiff cock head to line it up with Jay's puckered hole. And then the younger boy shut his eyes and moaned as all seven and half inches plunged deep inside his ass.

**********

In the end they only caught one rainbow trout, so they decided to take it with them in a cool bag and cook it wherever they next made camp. A few hours later when the sun rose noon high, Jay and Parker dried each other off with a towel before putting their clothes back on, throwing the cool bag inside the trunk, climbing into the Escort and then reversing back onto the dirt track. Parker turned the car around then drove up through the underbrush towards the old state patrol building. But he stopped in its shadow and switched off the gas when he heard something in the distance.

"What?" Jay said. "What is it?"

Parker held a finger to his lips ("Shush!") with one hand and pulled out his father's pistol with the other. Jay went quiet and for a few seconds the car fell into silence... until Jay heard what Parker heard eight seconds earlier – Ride the Lightning – belting out over loud in-car speakers against the whoop and holler of the cadre of deep-voiced men singing along to it.

GUILTY AS CHARGED,

BUT DAMN IT, IT AIN'T RIGHT!

THERE'S SOMEONE ELSE CONTROLLING ME...

Through the driver's side window Jay spotted a red, white and blue painted pick-up truck cruising along the long, dusty highway of the interstate. As it rolled by the abandoned state patrol building, he saw a road crew of eight sweaty, muscular men packed into its rear wagon; men armed to their yellow teeth with AK-47s and sawed offs, holstered 9mms and sheathed Ka-bar knives. Two flags flew from its roof. One was the Star-Spangled Banner. The other, pale blue and decorated with fifty-five white stars, was the flag of the 55ers.

DEATH IN THE AIR, STRAPPED IN THE ELECTRIC CHAIR

THIS CAN'T BE HAPPENING TO ME!

WHO MADE YOU GOD TO SAY,

`I'LL TAKE YOUR LIFE FROM YOU'...?

The pick-up drove up from the northward side of the building and rolled past it towards the south. It didn't break speed as Jay and Parker watched it steam away through the passenger side window as the roaring music and crazed hollering ebbed into the distance.

FLASH BEFORE MY EYES, NOW ITS TIME TO DIE

BURNING IN MY BRAIN, I CAN FEEL THE FLAME

WAIT FOR THE SIGN, TO FLICK THE SWITCH OF DEATH

IT'S THE BEGINNING OF THE END...

SWEAT, CHILLING COLD

AS I WATCH DEATH UNFOLD

CONSCIOUSNESS MY ONLY FRIEND...

They were safe. But Parker didn't dare restart the engine until the 55ers were gone. "Bastards didn't stop to scavenge the state patrol," he told Jay. "We're still in their territory."

**********

I wish we never left that river.

At time, I didn't think much of it. It was just one moment in a bunch of other moments that seemed like our new life now. He and I together, roaming the naked American spinal cord, having fun where we could and keeping safe where we couldn't. Playing and fishing and swimming together as naked as our days of birth, full of reckless abandon, and not a care for the world crumbling around us as we made love upon the river bank. Those were joys I thought would never end. Come whatever Mexico might bring, I had Parker and he had me. We were each other's strength in the world no matter what.

Looking back now, I wished I'd pressed him more. He had more to say, I know it. Even I had more to say, I was just so cowardly I couldn't bring myself to do it. But in that moment, that moment when he pinned me down on the river bank, God, I'd never wanted to kiss someone so badly in my life. I wanted his lips up against mine, I wanted to feel him breathing, to taste the beer and canned beans and Newports on his breath, to caress his tongue with mine and make him moan into my mouth like a whore. I wanted him to make me feel like a virgin again, like some Southern belle lost in the corn fields with her handsome soldier.

Sweet Jesus, Parker. I'm only half a fucking man when I'm around you. But damn... it's such a powerful fucking feeling, to want, especially when your wants go unanswered.

If I told him I loved him, maybe he would've said it back.

My heart doubts it.

But my head wishes I gave him the chance to hear it – after all, you can't win if you don't play. Maybe losing isn't the word `no', maybe losing is never knowing how it all could have gone. Maybe I'm crazy. Maybe...

No...

...let me continue.

We waited for that pick-up full of 55ers to pass us by before we drove back onto the Interstate and followed it south. It was such a hot day, as I remember it now, an unusually hot day in an unusually cold spring. We rolled the windows down and tuned the radio from frequency to frequency, hoping we might pick up a spare note from some old station, giving us a hint that some hint of civilization was still out there waiting for us. All we got was static and fuzz. So, Parker popped in a cassette full of Alice in Chains (Dirt) but kept the volume low as he exchanged glances to the road ahead with the rear-view mirror. We drove until the road beneath the Escort started cracking. The towering highway turned bumpy beneath the wheel from old potholes and fragments of rubble broken off over time.

I remember Parker yelling, "What the hell?" numerous times (and loudly!) as struggled to keep the Escort from knocking them out of their seats. "The fuck is up with this goddamned road?" He'd say. But he wasn't paying attention. And when I saw what was ahead of us I screamed.

"Oh God!" I said, "Parker, stop! Stop! STOP THE FUCKING CAR!"

My screams made him punch the break hard. The wheels screeched to a stop. The two of us rocked forwards then slammed back into our seats. We paused, gave ourselves a minute to catch our breaths, and then Parker not so calmly asked me what the hell my problem was. Rather than tell him I showed him, pointing ahead to the interstate highway... or what remained of it. Parker's eyes bugged.

Something had smashed the overpass into two.

There was a chasm, wide for about six yards, a huge chuck on the interstate highway broken clean out off the bridgework. A piled mound of rubble, crumbled cement and broken iron poles and dust, sat more than fourteen feet below the fissure between the two halves of the bridge. And as we looked around we saw something. Signs. Battle signs. They were here and there and everywhere. Bullet holes, spent cartridges, empty smoke canisters, bloodstains, and long decomposed cadavers dressed in military fatigues – there was even a rusty tank marooned in the ditch of a cattle field just a few yards from the pile of broken bridgework. At first, I wondered if it had something to do with the 55ers we saw earlier, but as I looked more closely I realized that the signs were old. The battle dated back to the Occupation, probably during the army's pull out from Colorado. Not that it mattered.

"We're fucked!" Parker yelled. "We're cut the fuck off from the interstate! God-DAMN-it!"

He spent a lot of time banging the wheel. Okay, maybe not a lot of time, maybe just a couple of seconds. But I guess he looked so funny doing it that I like to remember his temper tantrum lasting longer than it did. And then I took one of his maps out of the glove compartment and asked him to stop beating up our car.

"There has to be another way," I said, analysing the map. "Why don't we double back to that turn off into Route 34? We go west into Loveland and take Route 287 – it runs as far south as Lafayette and from there its just a straight shot east onto the highway around Denver."

Parker shook his head. "Fuck that, we'd be going through too many towns. Loveland, Longmont, Lafayette... out here it's better stay away from people."

"So, what then?" I asked.

I watched him plot our course with a fingertip. "Here," he said. "Right here. We take Route 34, but we take it east, not west. We follow it past Garden City, in Greeley, and from there we drive down Route 85 straight to the E-470 around Denver."

I didn't question him. The more I looked at the map the more I realized he was right. His way hit fewer towns which meant less people which meant it was less likely we'd bump into 55ers or bandits. And not just them either. Travellers like ourselves were scavengers, often desperate – and desperation always brings the savage out of people. A starving wanderer with a gun was just as dangerous as a slave-trading militiaman.

With our plan set, Parker reversed along the bumpy road until it was level enough for him to turn the car northward and drove us back towards the turn off into eastbound Route 34.

**********

The Ford Escort was maybe halfway up to Greeley from Interstate 25 when the sun started to fall. Parker tutted. The way he'd planned it they could've at least made it as far as Kersey before finding somewhere to pull over and camp for the night, but they'd lost more time than they thought at the river and doubling back from the shattered overpass hadn't helped either. Fortunately, there was shelter up ahead. Jay spotted a wooden sign knocked into the dirt that said; "Mill Spring, ½" and sure enough, half a mile later, Parker slowly wheeled the Escort into its 10-space parking lot. It wasn't a town – it was a pit stop on the way to town – with a gas station and drug mart to their left, a two-storey motel up ahead, and an old restaurant with a broken blue sign that said "IHOP" to their right. Parker shut off the engine.

"Get your gun and torch out," he said.

Jay nodded, pulling the Beretta M9 out of his belt and the spare torch out of the glove compartment. Both he and Parker climbed out of the car with their guns and battery torches held the way Pastor Evans' survival training taught them to; pistol arm forward and balanced off the wrist of the torch arm, pistol and torch facing forward. As Jay crept up the gravel track and curb towards the motel door, the Pastor's smoky baritone voice echoed in his mind -- "Secure your position, wherever you hole up."

The motel door rotted off its rusty iron hinges. Parker carefully pushed it open, making as little noise as possible as his torchlight led the way inside. "Always tread lightly," Jay recalled. "You never know who's waiting in the shade."

They checked every room. Every bedroom suite, every closet, every toilet and bathroom, they even checked the four dumbwaiters. "People will hide anywhere they can when they're scared, and anywhere they should if they're trying to get the drop on you, so don't take anything for granted."

Everywhere they went they looked for signs of life that didn't predate the American collapse – empty cans, fresh fruit rinds or fish bones, recently burnt kindling, clean towels, abandoned shoes, defensive furniture rearrangements, anything. "Travellers without a plan tend to hole up in the first place that looks safe," the Pastor once said, "and they don't cover their tracks well. You can use that."

From suite to suite Jay's torch illuminated no signs of recent travellers, all he saw was dusty unmade beds and rotting rattan furniture, upturned drawers, scattered clothing, dirty towels and occasionally, human bones. "Don't worry about skeletons, look out for corpses. If you see one, check for signs of murder. Murders mean murderers..." Lack of fresh air lent the motel a musty old stink -- from its mouldy mauve carpets and peeling chequered wallpaper to the motionless ceiling fans and worn-out air conditioning units riddled with cobwebs. Dust coated everything.

"All clear," said Parker, emerging from the last suite. "Let's go check the stores."

The gas station/drug mart and the IHOP were much the same as the hotel. Empty and derelict and looted of all their worth (but long ago). "Take whatever you can find that's of value to you – food, clothing, meds, tools. God's laws don't apply to the outside world anymore," The cash registers were empty, the shelves were empty, the storage units were empty, and anything left behind was useless – mainly expired food. "You're God's chosen children – do what you need to do to survive and come back home to Polk where you belong."

Mill Spring was secure. Jay and Parker tucked their guns back into their belts but kept their torches out. There was nothing but fields and telephone poles as far as the eye could see, no other buildings around the stop for a looter to ambush them from. The only danger was the road – and who else might drive by and decide to spend the night there. Parker rolled up his sleeves and pointed to a wide but secluded alleyway between the motel and the IHOP. "Help me push the car into that alley," he said. Together they rolled the Escort over the crackled tiles and hid it in the shadows of the pancake restaurant, then covered it up with a sheet of tarp they'd stolen from the warehouse back in Fort Collins.

They set up camp in the motel lobby.

Most of the rooms stank like death so they avoided sleeping in them. Instead Jay dug up some old but (relatively) clean sheets for them and pulled the soiled cases off two feathered pillows. While Jay rolled out the sleeping mats, Parker broke some chair legs with a hammer, put them into a pile, heaped that pile with some paper and ash, then set it alight. Jay skewered the rainbow trout they'd caught that morning and let it sizzle over the fire. That night they ate bowls of trout and Bush's Best, shared half a bottle of rum (pilfered by Parker back in Polk) and smoked the last few Newports they had left.

They sat around the fire in silence. Parker had something on his mind. Jay didn't want to ask him what (even though he really wanted to know) he just watched the older boy stare into the flames with his bright and smouldering eyes. He hasn't burned anything worthwhile since we left Polk, Jay thought. Maybe he's feeling the itch again.

"We have to torch this place," said Parker.

Jay froze. "...W-why?"

"Maybe it's nothing, but..." Parker bit his thumbnail. "...I think someone's following us."

What? Thought the younger boy. "Who? Those guys by the river? Wuhrer's men?"

"I don't know who. It's just a feeling. Fuck it," Pumpkinhead leaned back into his sleeping mat propped up by the feathered pillow and old bedsheets. He folded his hands beneath his head. "Maybe I'm wrong. First time I'd like to be. Heh!"

Jay, who lay upon his belly, perched his chin atop his folded arms and watched Parker laze by the fire. He didn't look worried, but he did look distracted – he wasn't bullshitting. He wanted to torch the gas stop and cover their tracks east. "Let's get some sleep then," said the Mixon boy. "Get an early start tomorrow."

Parker grinned at the flames and said, "...I don't want to sleep..."

Maybe you don't, but I really need some shut-eye, Jay had already rolled over onto his side when he thought this, wrapping himself in the white and black bedsheets and dropped his head like a weight onto the pillow – he was more tired than he realized, probably from pushing the Escort into the alley. Sleeping wouldn't be hard since the motel was so quiet (save for their snapping camp fire and the drone of the cicadas nestled in the shrubbery borne out of the cracked tiles along the parking lot and motel entrance). Jay was already halfway asleep when Parker pulled his shoulder down and rolled him onto his back. Jesus, he can't be serious?

Parker grinned like a fool. He climbed over and straddled the younger boy's waist and then slowly unzipped his jeans. He pulled his boxers down. And then that swinging seven-and-a-half-inch club of cock shot free from his denims. Jay was tired. But the smell of pre-cum dripping off Parker's cock did make him hard. "Parker, I pushed your car around and everything... I'm tired."

"Your mouth ain't," said the older boy. "Open up."

Suppressing a slight smile, Jay wrapped his lips around Parker's mushroom-shaped cockhead. He began the day taking Parker's cum up one end, why not end it taking his cum down the other?

**********

We woke up the next morning and started setting tinder all over the gas stop. Broken chairs, loose drawers, coffee tables, bedding; anything we found that was light enough to lift with two hands we dragged over to the entrances and dumped in piles. Inside the motel we left trails of dirty old clothes from one room into another, always close to the walls and skirting boards. Dousing the place in gas would've been easier but we couldn't spare what we had in the Escort (and the station was tapped out). Makeshift kindling would have to do. I remember wrapping a thin towel into a tight cord – I knotted the end and lit the knot with my Zippo then threw it into the motel lobby. It landed just shy of the tinder stack. The fire started slowly but once it spread, it spread wide. First the lobby went up, then the service desk and the stairwells, then as the flames climbed up to the second floor the ground floor windows imploded, splashing glass and embers across the lot, which lit up the shrubbery growing through the cracked pavement. Whilst I was watching my handiwork Parker set the IHOP ablaze. Roaring red flames blackened the restaurant into a silhouette, and I beheld the man I love before his devices. He turned and grinned at me like a child who'd found his long-lost favourite toy. He was so child-like in his mania.

He grabbed my wrist and yelled, "Come with me!" as he led me back to the Escort (which we pushed back into the lot an hour earlier). We climbed inside, slamming the doors behind us, then Parker reversed onto the road, drove up by about thirty yards, then reversed again and shut off the engine. From there we watched Pumpkinhead's work rip through the gas stop. The IHOP roiled in black smoke as the motel fire spread along the line of kindling we'd left leading towards the gas station. We didn't think there was any gas left but we were wrong, because once the fire found the pumps, a gigantic explosion tore the earth apart. Parker and I fucking jumped in our seats. The whole of Mill Spring went up in a huge black fireball that bloomed into the sky and shat charcoaled debris across the fields. I felt the rumble in my teeth, it was so fucking strong. It was like watching a movie in real life, I can't describe it any other way. It was so amazing. And when I looked over at Parker (who sat watching the show like a wide-eyed toddler) for the first time I saw what he saw in this. I didn't feel it as intensely as he did – no one could – but I wanted to be the one to provide it for him, the destruction and the spectacle, and then we could share it together. I wanted to spend the rest of my life putting that stupid sociopathic smile on his face.

He didn't notice me unbuckling his belt or unzipping his jeans – his eyes burned in tandem with the gas stop inferno. I didn't care. All I wanted to do was make him feel good and keep him near me. I took his stiff cock in my hand and jerked him slow and smooth, and watched his face light up with delight. He bit his lip and groaned "fuck" under his breath, then leaned back into the head rest like he'd had the hardest fucking toke of his life. Even though he throat-fucked me hard the night before he still shot another huge load. It spurted up all over my hand and wrist. "Holy fucking shit," he whispered to himself, his chest pumping beneath his Led Zeppelin t-shirt, "that was awesome..."

Don't think you can't find love in destruction.

Looking back on it now, blowing up Mill Spring was our first big mistake. But hell, it didn't feel like one when we did it. When Parker's horny or wants to burn things, nothing stops him – not even reason. And when he has those boiling urges I can't help wanting to please them. He's mine. All I want to do is make him happy.

Neither of us was thinking clearly that morning.

We watched the black fumes and smouldering rubble for what felt like another hour before we decided to keep moving. We drove on from the rubble of Mill Spring to re-join Route 34, and like we planned, avoided most of the town of Greeley by taking 83rd Ave onto 37th Street and then onto Route 85. The road was boring. Driving was fun (Pastor Evans taught all the Fruit of God how as part of our survival training) but Parker was always the one at the wheel. When I asked him if I could drive for a bit he told me to keep the map in my lap and "stop whining". We'd smoked out all our cigarettes and we barely had any liquor left, so, like always, the road bored me. I occupied my time staring out the window and watching dead America roll by – abandoned water towers and rusty silos and barren farmland and ditched tractors and empty factories and so on. Boredom. We were still making our way around Greeley when I noticed a huge thunderhead to the east, a big black motherfucker looming low over the fields. I didn't pay it much mind or bother to worry Parker about it because I figured it would pass us by. But it wasn't even 9am when the skies around us turned grey and the storm in our rear view caught up to us, not even half a mile out from a tiny town called LaSalle. The roar of thunder came first. It boomed loud over the countryside. Then, as the black clouds passed over us, a torrent of rain hurtled down so hard it struck the windows like tiny little bullets.

The front window turned into a rippling puddle. You could barely make out anything ahead, aside from the gravel. Parker turned on the windscreen wipers, but it was no use. "I can barely see in this shit!"

I asked him to double back to LaSalle. "Let's wait out the storm there," I said. He frowned, clearly not wanting to waste anymore time, but if we totalled our ride out there in the boonies then we were fucked – and he knew it. He rolled down his driver's side window, stuck his head out into the storm, then carefully reversed, spun and drove back towards LaSalle. We drove into the same residential area we left from earlier then pulled into the driveway of the first garage we could find. Parker climbed out of the car with a hammer, yelling at me to get into the driver's seat (I did). I looked out the window and watched him smash the white painted shutter door's padlock off in the pissing rain. He rolled it up.

"Come on!" Parker yelled. "Inside!"

Nodding, I drove the car inside and he pulled it back down once we were safe.

**********

The storm only lasted about an hour or two. Jay listened out for the thunder and rainfall as he and Parker dried off inside the car by turning up the heat. When it finally ebbed away, moving south, Parker climbed out of the car with his 9mm. "Lets keep moving," he said, "Help me check for supplies and then we go."

There wasn't much there to steal anyhow. Like most towns and villages you came across nowadays (according to the Black Bandanas) looters had already picked it clean. Jay went through two toolboxes but only found a broken claw hammer inside one and a collection of empty instant noodle packets in the other. Everything else was junk too; an old playmobile and toy car, gardening tools like trowels and cane grippers, a rusty pitchfork, an old snow shovel, etc.

There's nothing useful here, Jay shrugged. "It's all just shit, Parker."

"Fine," he belted his Luger. "Lets just get out of here."

The Pastor's son stuck his fingers underneath the white aluminium shutter and yanked it up. The sun after the storm was so bright that Parker had to shield their eyes from it, but a huge black shadow obscured that light from Jay's side. When the shutter rolled up all the way they both saw why. It was an oak tree. It was huge, perhaps a yard thick and fifteen yards tall. The storm ripped it from its roots in the weed-ridden strip of grass alongside the driveway and it fell directly into the upper level of the house, smashing open the roof and what looked to be a child's bedroom. What made it worse was that the tree truck completely blocked off the garage entrance.

"Fuck...!" Jay swore. "Oh fuck!"

Parker growled angrily. "What the fuck?! Fucking hell! What the fuck are we supposed to do now?!"

Jesus Christ, thought Jay. He crawled underneath the tree trunk and backed up down the driveway to see how bad this was. It was bad. The trunk was thick and undamaged and too heavy to push out of the way, especially with the crown stuck in the wreckage of the roof/bedroom. If they even tried to drive the Escort into the tree it wouldn't budge, probably they'd just end up wrecking the hood and fender. This was really bad. "All our fucking supplies are in that car," yelled Parker. "And it's at half a tank! Fuck!"

"We need a chainsaw. Or a hacksaw. Maybe if we search the other houses we'll find-"

A loud scream cut Jay's sentence in half.

It came from across the street. The Mixon boy turned on his heels and watched as the front door to another townhouse swung open and out ran a frantic, bloodied up middle-aged man, naked from the belt buckle up and handcuffed behind his back. He ran until he stumbled over one of the loose cobblestones in the weedy driveway and fell flat on his face. And then, from out of the same front door, a tall dark-haired boy ran out with a baseball bat in his hands. Jay and Parker ducked beneath the tree trunk to hide and watch. The young man (who looked no older than eighteen or nineteen years of age) caught up to the fallen middle-aged man who then begged him for mercy, "Please! No! Don't! Don't do it!"

With one swing of his bat, the boy cracked his skull.

Jay winced, Parker looked on. The boy with the bat screamed out furiously and rained down blow after blow on the man's head until it split open like an egg, spilling sallow grey yoke and rich red albumen all over the driveway. After the 22nd strike the boy backed away from the corpse, completely out of breath. He fell onto his ass and dropped the blood-soaked bat; his shoes, shirt and hands all speckled with brain matter and skull fragments. He caught his breath. Then he smiled.

"Hey you two!" Yelled the boy. "Come on out! I won't bite!"

Is he talking to us? Jay thought. He watched Parker pull out his pistol.

When the boy caught his breath he clutched the bat, stood up, and swung it onto his shoulders. He fixed his gaze firmly on the fallen tree across the road – or more likely the two boys behind it. "You two kids, I see you guys. Come on out, it's cool. I don't want trouble."

Parker popped up with his Luger outstretched and propped up with his free hand. The older boy grinned. There was a playful, nonchalant air to him as he spoke. "You're not gonna shoot me."

Frowning, Parker flicked off the safety. "You sure about that?"

He nodded. "Sure am. If you wanted to kill me you would've done it while I was on the ground or when I was brain-bashing that fucker over there," he said. "And you don't know who I'm with. I could have a whole fucking road crew out here, ready to come running the second they hear a gunshot."

"You're bluffing," said Jay.

"Maybe. Maybe not. Who knows? I guess we're just going to have to trust each other, huh?" The boy (slowly, now that a gun was on him) put his bat on the floor and carefully kicked it down the driveway. It rolled into the puddled street. "If it makes you feel more comfortable, why don't you two hold on to that for now? Call it a sign of trust, spud."

Parker whispered for Jay to go get it. There was a lump in the younger boy's throat. He looked to the boy across the street smiling softly at them, then at the headless corpse by his feet. "What are you waiting for?!" Seethed Parker. "Go get it!"

There was no choice. Jay nervously crept into the street to collect the boy's bloody, walnut-coloured baseball bat. It was sticky with goo and hair.

"My name's Dodge," he said. "I know, I know. Dumb fucking name, huh? My dad was born in LA, so I'm lucky he didn't call me `Laker' ...do you two have names, spud?"

Parker waited until Jay was back by his side before he spoke. "Cut the bullshit. How many people do you have with you?"

"Just one," said Dodge. "He's inside waiting for me."

Jay (resisting the urge to barf) looked at that corpse again. "Who was that guy and why did you kill him?"

For some reason that question made Dodge pause. He frowned for a second, then smiled, a smile that seemed a bit more honest than the one before it. "Finally, one of you starts asking the smart questions. I don't know his name. He was a 55er and I killed him because he tried to steal something that didn't belong to him."

"What was that?"

"My friend," Dodge nodded towards the door. "Come inside and you can meet him, spud."

Parker sneered. "Why should we trust you?"

"Look, I'm tired, I'm hungry, and I'm filthy. You've got my weapon and you've got a gun on me. And if you look closely, you'll see a shadow in the window upstairs," Jay and Parker both glanced up and spotted a figure hidden behind the silk curtain of an open attic window as Dodge continued, "Right now he's got a Glock in his hand and if either of us wanted to kill you he'd have done it the second you reached for your pistol. I need a wash, a beer and some food. Come inside, peacefully, and we can share what we've got... or we can shoot each other up in the street and be done with it. Make up your mind."

That made Parker grin. "You're gonna let me decide, huh?"

"Well, I'm just assuming you're not a moron," said Dodge, "It's up to you if you wanna prove me wrong."

The last kid who called Parker a moron walked away with a broken arm, back in Polk. But this wasn't Polk. And this kid wasn't Curtis Stanfield. Parker paused a moment, then flicked the safety back on and slipped the pistol behind his belt.

"I'm Parker," he said. "This is Jay. Lead the way."

Jay, feeling relieved, followed Parker across the street (and past the remains of the dead 55er) into the townhouse. Jay gave Dodge back his bat. When they went inside Dodge's friend from upstairs came down. He was a pale-skinned Hispanic boy, roughly the same age as Jay and Parker, short and petite and skittish. Despite its dark roots his hair was tow-coloured and very faint (almost ghost-like) tumbling over his ears and forehead in wavy snow-blonde bangs. That Glock that Dodge was talking about was real, but the younger kid held it uneasily – which straight away told Jay that he'd never even fired it before. Dodge was bluffing, thought Jay. In his own way.

"It's okay, Silver," said Dodge. "Put it away, they won't hurt us."

The boy looked frail, but he was smart – he kept a sceptical eye on both Parker and Jay as he tucked the Glock beneath the band of his summer shorts. His name was Silver, and he and Dodge led them into the lounge. The townhouse wasn't cosy. Dust sheets covered all the furniture and there were no photo frames or valuables around except an old black and white television. Dodge (who peeled off his bloodied shirt) and Silver sat in one of the lounge's two sofas. Jay sat in an armchair. Parker stayed on his feet.

"Want a beer?" Said Dodge.

Jay refused, and Parker asked for water instead.

Without being asked, Silver climbed off the sofa and walked into the conjoined kitchen unit on the other side of the room. There was a hatch beneath the panel of an old garbage disposal. Silver opened it and pulled out a bottle of Coors Light and an old Evian. It was when he bent over to get them that Jay noticed something on the back his neck: "55". It seemed like a tattoo at first but when he looked more closely at it Jay realized it was something else. "That mark..."

Dodge noticed Jay noticing it. "It's a brand, spud. That's what the 55ers do with their slaves."

"He's a slave?"

Silver came back into the lounge with the two drinks. He gave the water to Parker then gave the Coors Light to Dodge. Then, like a kitten, Silver climbed onto the sofa, folding his legs and bare feet beneath him, and lowered his head on Dodge's smooth, hairless chest.

They're lovers...? Thought Jay.

"He was a slave," Dodge popped the cap off with his teeth and took a swig. He sighed. "Damn, I never thought I'd taste beer again, wish it was cold though," He swallowed another. "The 55ers like to call them `cattle'."

"You stole him?" Asked Parker.

Dodge frowned. "He wasn't theirs' to steal, spud. I'm from Broken Bow, in Nebraska. My Dad bribed some soldiers to bring my mom and me up north from LA during the Occupation and we set up in my granddad's cabin. He kept us safe for years. The townsfolk were smart too. They found generators, built log fences around the town to keep out bandits, raised their own cows and pigs and horses. We survived the end of America. Then those fucking 55ers came..."

Suddenly (angrily) Dodge threw the empty beer bottle at the hearth. It smashed into pieces. "Hundreds of them. AKs, ARs, 9mms, sawed offs and machetes, they even had fucking RPGs on them. Their Humvees mowed down our fences like paper. They killed anyone who defended themselves and looted each house one by one before they set everything on fire. They killed my daddy. They killed my mom too, when she wouldn't stop screaming, the bastards shot her in the face. They killed everyone that wasn't worth making a slave, spud."

The nineteen-year-old then lifted his left arm up to show them the branding beneath his armpit. It said "55", just like Silver's. "They didn't even wait to take me to the market in Cheyenne," he said. "They took about 20 of us, women and any kids younger than 20, which wasn't many, just me and two others. They threw us into a convoy with about 40 other slaves. That's when I met Silver."

The boy cuddled Dodge tighter when he heard his name.

"That was where they were taking us -- Cheyenne. Back during the Occupation, right at the end of it all, the soldiers used to blow up interstate bridges and roads to slow down the militias. I guess they must have taken out the I-80 too, because it was a wreck when the 55ers took us there, so they took the I-76 into Colorado instead. When the convoy made it to Fort Morgan for a supply stop, I stole a key off one of the guards and escaped. And I took Silver with me. And then we went west. And now we're here, spud."

"What about that guy?" Asked Jay.

Dodge spat a wad of phlegm that still had the 55er's blood in it. "Scum. He was a scout. They send them out to look for runaway slaves. I caught him when he tailed us into LaSalle, but he got free during the storm. I couldn't let him get away. The 55ers don't give up easy."

Parker drank the water and spat it out. "Ugh! Tastes like shit!"

Dodge smirked. "The beer's better, trust me. Still stale, though. So, that's our story. What's yours, spud?"

"The same," Jay said. He didn't know why but he knew Dodge was telling the truth. It wasn't their slave brands or the minor details (like the demolished interstate bridges, they'd seen evidence of that first hand) it was his candour. Parker was more cynical, the way he stood scowling by Jay's armchair with his arms folded, but he was willing to listen too. That was why Jay didn't mind sharing their own story. "We're from a town up north called Polk. We protected ourselves for a long time, like you guys in Broken Bow. But-"

"But...?"

"But it was all a lie," said Parker. "My father was in bed with some 55ers. He fed their captain, Wuhrer, with our meds in exchange for `protection'. Then when someone stole the tithe, Wuhrer sent his men in to wipe us all out. Only me and Jay made it out alive."

There was a lot more to the story than that but none of it mattered out here. It was certainly nothing that Dodge and Silver needed to know. And for the most part neither of them seemed to care. Maybe there was more about them in their past that they weren't willing to share too.

"It's a hard world out there," Dodge said, "and pretty soon we'll all be dead. I said that to my best friend once and he asked me... `What's the point then...?', and to tell you the truth I didn't have an answer. Then."

Parker frowned. "And now?"

"...There's a lady in Mexico called Octavia Wilkes," said Dodge. "She put out a radio message a few weeks ago calling people to her compound in Mexico. And it's not just us. There's others out there who've heard her message, outcasts looking for a place they can call home again – and not live in fear. I've met dozens of them on the road, spud. They're pilgrims to her cause and they're all heading for the border – and we're going with them."

**********

·      Thanks for reading! Comments and constructive criticism are always welcome, feel free to e-mail me at stephenwormwood@yahoo.com.

·      Please see my other story on Nifty, Wulf's Blut (gay/sf-fantasy).