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FNBS
Raven Maddox: And to end on a happy note tonight; this just in: President-elect Jane Allgood is in good health aboard one of John Taylor's private jets, now in the airspace of allied territories. An impromptu visit to the front line turned into an international incident when her convoy drifted into FEEN territory and was intercepted. Her press secretary says that the FEEN faction in the area treated her to a very comfortable long weekend. She dined on steak tartare, rice, spiced salmon curry, nuts and berries, and a selection of fine cheeses and wines. And for dessert, coffee and cookies.
Being held hostage isn't quite what it used to be, is it?
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Bug Out
Little Joe cut the lights, plunging the utility yard into darkness as they prepared to leave. The break-action twelve-gauge loaded with buckshot gave Gwen a sense of calm. She stood guard while the others piled necessities from the Jiffy Stop into Ol' Betsy. They had packed three crates of supplies that, if rationed, would last them for a week without having to "figure somethin out," as the old hippie had put it.
Little Joe was going to lead the way to Billings, but once there, he would have to leave them to see to some urgent business elsewhere. He refused to say more on this matter. His sister had agreed to let them lie low in her basement for as long as they needed, or as long as they could stand it—whichever came first. Her name was Katelyn, and she "knew things," Little Joe said. Upon the style of questioning that cops were good at, Gwen was able to determine that though he loved his sister, he had not spoken with her for years and that she refused to have him at her house. "She's difficult," he had said, "but she knows about Maji stuff. Knows more than I do."
She squinted to see the edge of the parking lot through the blowing snow. She had that feeling there was something out there, something coming, and they were just getting the jump on it by packing and leaving now.
There! Was that movement just beyond the charging stations? There it was again, by the barbed wire fence line that cordoned off the lot from the ditch. She stepped off the sidewalk into the shin-deep snow and ventured forward a few yards. God it was cold. Something was out there. Or was she seeing things? The tragedy at the station haunted her yet. She carefully put her finger over the trigger. Waited, her breathing shallow. Nothing. It was nothing, she determined, only the snow mixed with the wind and the murky night and her own nerves. She would feel a lot better when they were on the road.
"All done!" hollered Nash. The hippie was loud. He checked the crates in the back of his van and slammed the doors.
Alan, followed by the boys, exited the Jiffy Stop and helped them load into the self-drive semi-truck. Little Joe had allowed them all one backpack and told them to stuff whatever they could take in them. Ty had loaded up on two boxes of candy bars before his father stopped him and told him to choose clothes, a large bottle of water, and a first aid kit.
"I think we're ready, boss," said Little Joe.
"We should take the gun," said Gwen.
"If we're stopped, it'll cause more problems than it's worth. Besides, it's heavy as hell, and you only got two shots."
"That's two shots more than none," she said as she relinquished the weapon.
He put it inside and locked the door. "Guns and cops never turn out well. Don't have silver ammo, either. You can't kill a werewolf without silver ammo."
She climbed into the big rig. A memory of her dad taking her on one of his runs flooded in. He was wearing his green and black flannel, a cigarette lodged behind his ear. He smiled and was speaking, but his words were lost to time. She should have gone in Ol' Betsy.
"Gwen." Alan touched her arm—she jerked it away.
"What?"
"Everything okay?"
"Yeah. It's good."
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The semi-truck followed Little Joe's Chevy pickup. Nash, Bridger, and the Greta took up the rear in Ol' Betsy. Their caravan made a tidy fugitive sandwich locked in formation and synchronized to the self-drive grid.
She adjusted the driver's seat. It felt stiff and unsuitable for human use. There was no steering wheel, but there was still a control panel where she could adjust an array of cameras. She flipped on the monitors at the front and scrolled through the settings until she had a 360-degree view spread across the windshield monitor. The satellite map indicated low traffic congestion. A red warning flashed: Travel Advisory!
The boys settled in the sleeper compartment and played on the phone Little Joe had given her. Alan rested in the passenger seat, staring at the monitors as the powerful truck plowed through the snowy night.
Despite the demise of actual human drivers, the truck companies kept outfitting their rigs with two seats and a sleeper, an uncanny reminder of a world that was no more—just in case this whole AI thing was a fad and humans were to someday rise to take all their jobs back from the machines.
The one-horse town of Ronan was quiet. Its traffic lights blinked orange, signaling through traffic not to bother stopping—nothing doin' here. She scanned every angle for any sign they were being followed, by either automobile or bi-form creatures running in the snow beside them. She allowed herself a sigh of relief as they passed a sign that read, Now Leaving Ronan, and they started to pick up speed.
She was lulled by the sounds from Francis and Ty behind her—giggles, whispers, at times a partial conversation.
Do you see that?
{whispers}
Yeah. It's so crazy.
Just let it dance.
{laughter}
What is it?
The Veil, I guess.
{whispers}
They can't find you anymore, so you can touch it.
White Owl says it's what connects us.
Okay, next stage. Boss level.
{whispers}
It feels funny.
{laughter}
I know.
Not hot, not cold.
"You want to talk?" said Alan.
"You a shrink now?" she said it as a joke, but the sentence sounded jarring in the front of the cab under the lights of the control panel.
Alan smiled. "Touché. I guess what I mean is, all else being equal, you seem a bit..."
"Nervous?"
"I was going to say reflective."
On the monitors before them, she saw the taillights of Little Joe's pickup and the round headlights of Ol' Betsy. From left to right, there was dark and snow. Now and then a yard light shined through.
"I told you my dad was part of the Highwaymen movement. It instilled a healthy disrespect for all things AI. I get it. It's a losing battle. There's nowhere to run."
"You're not very plugged in, are you?" said Alan.
"I've never used a headset," she said.
"You're joking."
"Nope. No personal assistant either. If I had my way, I'd buy a farm and grow corn."
"Even farmers use drones."
"I guess it's a moot point now. If I'm lucky, I'll be able to just sit on my prison bunk and read. Your turn, Mr. Confessionalism."
"Since you're a cop," he said.
"Ex-cop," she corrected him. "Early retirement due to extremely weird circumstances."
"Close enough," he said. "I've felt like a fugitive my whole life."
"You can confess. Unfortunately, I won't be able to arrest you."
"I failed," said Alan. He gazed into the monitor, watching the taillights in the snow.
She had seen this gesture before. Sometimes she would book a drunk who beat his wife, a druggie who killed his mother, a perverse reprobate; they would sit unspeaking in the interrogation room because the act of verbalizing would be their undoing, no longer willing or caring to play the game of charades. They eventually spoke, but with the same hopeless exhaustion she felt in Alan, a fatigue that embraced incarceration.
After a few miles, he did speak, "I remember reading a case study when I was in school. This happened a long time ago. A nonchalant suburban man got sucked into dealing back in the early generation of the Escape drugs. The guy was an English teacher, and it started with one of his students who needed help or was going to flunk out of high school. The night he was set to tutor him was also the night the police stopped by, because the kid had a warrant out for his arrest. The teacher hid him until the cops left, then told him to get lost and fix his problems. The next thing he knows, the kid's handler comes by and says he needs something delivered—all you gotta do is drive. Things just compounded, right? Well, six months later, his suburban house is has become one of the largest transfer hubs for Escape west of the Mississippi."
"Jesus," she said. "What a life."
"Right. Thing is, during all this, he's undergoing psychoanalysis at a Jungian clinic out in Santa Barbara. The drugs pay for it. At some point, the shrink asked him, why do you risk it all? He said that as the stakes get higher, he finds a new normal. He said he just goes with it. The deeper he goes down the rabbit hole of crime, the harder it is to find his way out." Alan stopped talking.
"So? You're just going to leave me hanging? What happened to him?"
"They found his body in a motel room in Modesto. Bullet hole between his eyes."
"Christ." She started laughing. "Are we in the rabbit hole, Dr. Smith?"
Alan shrugged. "We've passed the point of no return."
"Our fates await," Gwen said. "We find a way to make this concert happen." She held out a fist for him to bump, and he took it, and they returned to the murmurs in the back.
{whispers}
It feels strange.
Strange how?
Dunno, like something's gonna happen.
That's your chant?
I don't understand.
You'll figure it out. Don't worry, kid.
{laughter}
Kid?
{whispers}
Are you scared?
Yeah. But a little excited.
Yeah. Scared and excited. Me too.
Francis?
Yeah?
I'll never leave you. So don't be scared, okay?
Okay.