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“Uh huh.” He sucks his teeth and jerks his head back. “What have you got in the dumpster?”
For fuck’s sake. I have Justice hiding in the bed area, and Rage’s body doing what bodies do in the dumpster. I have no intention of submitting to an inspection right now.
“Garbage, mostly.”
His eyes light up, like he’s caught me in some kind of lie. “Why are you driving garbage from New York to West Virginia?”
“Police business.”
“Uh huh. You got any paperwork? It’s not exactly legal to dump garbage across state lines, and I don’t have any reason to believe…”
“How about you talk to my boss,” I say, dialing my cell phone. I hand it to the cop before the chief answers.
“Yep. Hi. Got one of your so-called detectives out here playing garbage lady. Any paperwork for that, or…”
He doesn’t get to finish the sentence. I can hear the chief tearing strips off him from all the way up here in the cab.
“Alright. I think he wants to talk to you,” the highway patrolman says, handing the phone back up to me and making a quick exit. Thank god. I was counting on the chief’s temper to get the guy off my back, but I know he’s not going to be happy with me either.
“Sir, I can explain,” I begin to babble.
“Listen. Holmes. There’s been a lot of shit going on lately, and I know you’ve been doing it hard. When you come in on Monday, I don’t want to fucking know why you were driving a dumpster to Virginia. We clear?” Chief growls down the line.
“Crystal, sir.”
He disconnects the call.
“I am so lucky to work for that man,” I say to myself before raising my voice a little. “You alright back there?”
A light snore answers me. Justice fast asleep, trusting me completely. That’s quite sweet in a way, considering the full context of this visit, and the fact we were very nearly just busted.
10
“Welcome to the vault,” Justice says as the brakes of the truck squeal to a halt in deep forest a long way off what feels like a main road. Night has fallen and our plan has gone off without any more hitches.
I glance around at the signage that meets us. Affixed to a large metal gate are rust-marked warnings from long ago, lit by floodlights. Insects swarm the lights and dance about madly as we come to a halt at the gated perimeter.
There’s nothing terribly welcoming to be seen here, though the signs have a great deal more artistic merit to them than modern signage tends to have. The fonts are cheerful and thick, and the military badging is bold and bright, with teal and red accents.
MILITARY PERSONNEL ONLY
KEEP OUT
TRESPASSERS WILL BE EXECUTED.
The last sign is accompanied by line art of a man with crosses for eyes and his tongue lolling out of his mouth dangling from a rope.
“I am experiencing feelings of foreboding,” I tell Justice. He smiles, as if my feelings are understandable but unnecessary. I notice that his antennae are both angled forward right now, almost as if eager to return to his home.
“Pull up to the speaker box,” he says, gesturing to another anachronistic piece of technology assailed by time. I had assumed there was no way it would function, but it crackles to life when I edge the truck another foot or two forward.
Justice leans over me, which gives me all the excitement of wings in my face.
“Justice returning,” he says.
There’s no verbal response, but the big imposing gate cranks open, allowing us access to an even more overgrown and imposing road. The gate moves smoothly, suspiciously so. Someone has been maintaining select parts of this compound while deliberately keeping a derelict air.
Every instinct I have is telling me to put this thing into reverse and get the hell out of dodge. We are no longer in the world as I know it. This is like stepping back in time, or maybe out of it completely. Behind these gates, Boomers are still babies. Nothing of the last seventy years has happened. Some would consider this a paradise.
