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Prologue
Rev
With the vehiclelights off, the overpass is dark as pitch. Rainclouds blocked out the moon hours ago, and the pavement of highway 87 is slick beneath my boots. Aside from the rain, which has dogged us since Denver, the drive has been smooth and easy. The roads and surrounding land as far as Bernard could see are dead quiet. Not a survivor in sight.
Makes sense. The best safety measure when there’s no organized law is keeping to oneself. The less you interact with other survivors, the easier your life will be. Especially if you don’t have a Judge handy to weed out the good from the bad.
The guys are milling around the vehicles, draining their snakes and munching on snacks. I’m on the shoulder with night-vision binocs trained on the city of Amarillo. On the drive, I found myself wondering how many groups of survivors there are like ours. In the northwest quadrant of the former United States, it’s just us and a few lone entities eking out a living as best they can.
If there’s an organized group in this part of Texas, they’re not advertising themselves. I scan the wide, flat area and see nada. No lights. No movement. No flags hoisted high to announce a settlement. That doesn’t mean the city is empty of survivors. It just means they’re not looking for interaction.
Fine by me. We’re not looking to interact, either. There will come a time for that, for reaching out and working together to build a new society. But right now, we’ve got other priorities. If it doesn’t help us find our leader and get him back, it’s not on the agenda. Period.
Heavy footsteps sound behind me. I’d know that ground-shaking gait anywhere. Brawn.
“How’s our girl doin’?” I ask when he comes up alongside me.
“Sleeping.” Man of few words.
I lower the binocs. “Alone?”
“Grim’s with her in the missile truck.”
“Good.”
He squints into the distance, where the city center sits dead and defeated. The skyline is nothing but a shadowy silhouette against the night sky. “That our destination?”
“Don’t know,” I admit.
He huffs a frustrated sigh. I can’t blame him. Jud’s missing. Raptor’s doing who-knows-what to him, and we’re driving aimlessly around a whole other state than the one he’s likely in.
“We should go to New Orleans,” Brawn says.
“Not according to the Working.”
“Well, the Working needs to shit or get off the pot,” he grumbles and stalks away.
He’s not wrong. I’m impatient, too. Antsy. Ready to throw down with Raptor’s crew and get Jud back. But the Working doesn’t want us charging into the enemy’s turf unprepared. There’s a plan at work. I just don’t know the details yet.
Now would be a really good time to learn the details.
Binocs resting against my chest, I close my eyes and spread my arms wide. Slanting drops of rain prick my face as I tilt it to the sky.Show me where to go. Show me now. Protect Jud. Let us find him soon and get him home safe. Show us where he is. Please.
Then I wait.
Nothing happens. No visions. No Knowings.
The Working is silent.
Could that mean this is the place? Have we reached our destination?
I mean, the Working showed me coming to Texas. It showed me the whole state, like I was looking at a map of pastel colors and finely-drawn boundaries. I figured the northern panhandle was the most logical touchpoint and that the Working would show me the next step when we arrived.
Well. We’re here.
We left Bozeman at six a.m. It’s now a few minutes after midnight. Without cops and traffic to worry about, it turns out you can speed right along. We made great time. But now what?
I don’t feel settled, as if our journey has reached its end. I feel like we need to keep driving, but I have no idea which road to take.
