Carter Nash followed the long taillights of the self-navigated semi-truck. The beast was heavy, loaded with crates of unused gas station merchandise. It cut through the ice and sludge of Joe’s Jiffy Stop roundabout, leaving a trail for him to follow. He synchronized into the network, tagging the semi as lead. He was merely a hippie tonight, on a snowstorm cruise from the Rocky Mountains to the edge of the Great Plains.

“Hey, you guys, can you hear me? LJ here, if you don’t mind calling me by my handle? I thought it’d be cool if we all used them. You know, like a real spy movie. The truck is Max. Van, I got you down as Van. Do you read? Over.”

Nash picked up the radio. “Van here, loud and clear. Boys, I hope yer listenin. This is how you do a gidaway.”

“Max here, roger roger.” It was Ty. The boys’ giggles picked up over the static of the microphone, a tin can flash of joy splashed out onto the radio waves of the foreboding night.

Nash felt more than saw the tension leave the man sitting next to him when he heard his son’s laughter. He gave Bridger a moment to compose himself.

“Sorry.” Bridger coughed and beat his chest.

“Ain’t nothin to be worried about. What do you say to a little road music?”

“What you got?” asked Bridger.

“Normally, I’d play my recordings of Francis, but as an uninitiated, you wouldn’t hear anything. For instance…” Nash cued up one of the Spokane songs from Francis’s first concert. That was two years ago, the moment that changed his life. When the strings came in, he almost cried. “Hear that?”

“What? The best of background noise?” Bridger said.

“Exactly. Don’t worry. Francis will give you some new ears soon enough.”

“So, I can’t hear the music until—”

“Until you are in the concert, and he does his thing. And then, boom! Baptized!”

“The hell? Seems a little unfair.”

“Don’t blame the Maji. Blame the magic system.”

“You call that a system?”

“Close as you’re ever gonna get.” Nash hit a few buttons on his control deck. “There’s this internet radio station. It runs on the dark web, so it’s all like, anonymous and shit. They broadcast somewhere out of the Free City in Vietnam. It’s Builds A Fire covers twenty-four-seven, live streamed. I admit, it ain’t the same thing, but it’ll give you a taste until—” Nash snapped his fingers.

“Until the concert,” said Bridger.

“Yeah, you’re gettin it, dude!”

A man’s roughened voice came over the speaker in heavily accented English. “This is Ly-M and Kee Kuu in studio. Here’s AlphaWave’s rendition of ‘Windy Windy.’‘Windy Windy,’ for those who may not know, is a song on Builds A Fire’s jailhouse record, Builds A Fire Brings the Rain, smuggled out of capitalist clutches to reach the back channels of the internet.”

The acoustics of a guitar flitted in the air. A young girl’s sweet voice rose up, singing Francis’s lyrics. It was pretty good for a cover. It tugged on his heartstrings, and pulled him down into memory. The song made him think about time. It had been a rough few nights, and it was time to get back to work. It was time to call his daughter and tell her he missed her. It was time to figure out the riddle, the mystery he’d been working on since he’d first heard Francis sing.

The song faded away.

“Thank God for a quiet night here in the Free City,” said the DJ. “Looks like the storm is over for now, and the nightmare has left town. We endured a battle tonight. We lost friends. This next song is in their memory. From the same album, we have ‘River Nights.’ We will always remember. I hope everybody is safe wherever you are out there in the big old world. Sit back, relax, and listen to this. The Maji are rising!”

A woman’s voice harmonized with a man’s voice, and the duet filled the van, edited and tweaked by the DJ artists.

He looked over at Bridger. Tears were rolling down his cheeks.

“It’s okay. Save it for the concert. You ain’t heard nothin yet.”

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

“That was the first time I’ve heard my son laugh in at least a year,” Bridger said.

“Then it’s good you made that trek all the way out here,” said Nash.

“We have nothing to go back to.”

“Maybe so, but you have everything to look forward to.”

“We’re on our own. I’ll have to find a way to make some money.”

“Well, I been known to sell a sachet d’herbe now and again. Goes like hotcakes up in these red states. You want to chip in, let me know.”

“You’re a drug dealer?”

“Surprise! Weed, my friend, is hardly a drug. And I consider myself a facilitator of good vibrations.”

“How much do you have to sell?”

“Twenty keys, baby, right under here.” Nash stomped on the floorboard.

“Oh, Christ. I’m going to prison.”

“Is that a pass? Well, keep me in mind. You’ll manage. But, I gotta say, hangin with this crew has the potential to put you into some pretty hairy situations.”

“I knew that the moment we pulled up to the gas station and Ty said, ‘Dad, this is it.’”

“Francis is the Maji,” said Nash. He felt the reverence in his own voice. “What he does for people…”

“And that’s why they want him dead? The whoever, whatever they are?”

“They will stop at nothing,” Nash said, knowing it was so.

They cruised down Highway 93, the music falling softly from the speakers. Snow pelted the windows. Before them, through the sleet, was only the amber fuzz of the semi’s taillights.

“What’s your story, Carter Nash of the Florida Panhandle?” asked Bridger.

“My story…” said Nash. He put his hands on the wheel, though it navigated under the AI’s uncanny ghost. “It’s uncomplicated. I am today sixty-seven years old. I was a latchkey kid. Grew up on the mean streets of the Florida washout. Avoided the gangs, for the most part. Finished high school with straight As. Didn’t bother for university. Readin books was easier and more honest, cheaper too. My parents worked hard, but like most kids, I didn’t appreciate them. I had an uncle who used to visit. He was a professor of some sort, somewhere once. He used to leave me boxes of books. Real radical stuff, mind you, mechanical engineering, science fiction, Plato. Kept me off the socials and out of the metaverse. Next thing I know, I enlisted, and I’m standing at a gas station on the Eastern Front.”

“So, you’re more than just a pot-smoking hippie. That what you’re saying?”

“I’m not sayin that at all. I’m sayin what you’ve already learned with your boy: looks can be deceiving.”

“So how did you find yourself in this?” Bridger gestured with his hand to their surroundings.

“This whole fucking situation?” Nash said. “I know what you mean.”

“Riiight.”

“You makin fun of my accent?”

“Naaaah.”

“Hand me that little box in the glove compartment?”

Bridger handed him a small tin from which Nash produced a fat joint. He flicked a lighter, put the tip to the flame, dragged deep, held his breath, and then released a sweet, pungent cloud of smoke.

“Ere.” He held out the smoldering joint.

“It’s been a while,” Bridger said.

“Then just take it easy, man.”

Bridger took a short hit and held it in his lungs. Then he took a longer hit and started choking and coughing. He pushed the joint back to Nash, and when he could breathe again, he said, “That’s good shit.”

“Betsy, dim the lights,” said Nash. The cab began to glow in a soft amber. The man reclined in the seat. Bridger did the same. “This strain is called Paranoid Fever.”

“God, I hope you’re kidding,” said Bridger.

Nash laughed loud and deep and took a swig of bottled water. “Nope. The rednecks are gonna love it.”

The CB cut in. “LJ here. Hey guys, first checkpoint up ahead in two miles. Remember the plan.”

“Van is roger that,” said Nash.

Bridger gripped his seat like he was on the top of a Ferris wheel.

“Max is roger that,” Ty squeaked over the radio. He sounded happy. The father gave a great sigh and reclined.

“What’d I tell ya? Yeah, let it melt ya. It’s paranoia of the self, the way I see it. That ain’t good. You got to deal with it on its own battleground,” said Nash.

“I think it’s the nationwide manhunt that’s getting to me,” said Bridger.

“A little strategic distraction goes a long way.”

“By now, back at home, he’d be haunted by demons. I could never find them, but in the mornings… his poor body. His poor mind. That young, and to think you’re going insane.”

“That’s intense shit, man.” Nash held the doobie up as the flashing red lights of the roadblock came into view.

“Fuck, dude! We’re about to go through a checkpoint.”

“I know, ain’t it cool? I love doin this shit stoned.” He glanced in the rearview. “Don’t move, Sister.”

The Greta was all but invisible, a pile of dirty clothes on the rear bench seat.

“You’re fucking crazy, man.” And then Bridger got the giggles.

“Dude’s gotta make a livin,” said Nash, catching the giggles from Bridger. The blue, red, and white lights of the roadblock grew alarmingly near. The van slowed then pulled to a stop a few yards behind the Mac truck.

“We gotta pull it together,” said Bridger.

“Right, just take deep breaths,” said Nash.

“LJ here. I’m going to leave my radio on.”

In the background, Nash heard muffled voices. Then, the officer spoke directly to Little Joe.

“Sir, what’s your business? You know there’s a travel advisory?”

“My business is my business,” Little Joe said.

“Sir, we’re conducting a vehicle search for fugitives on the run. Are you traveling alone?”

“Do you see anyone else?” Little Joe said. “I’m tribal. This is tribal land. I want tribal authority up here now.”

“You don’t have to cop an attitude. I’m just doing my job.”

“Right, right, just doing your job. I’m sorry. I always forget how you’re always just doing your job. Native lives matter!”

“Alright, sir. You can carry on.”

“Fuck off,” said Little Joe. There was the sound of the window rolling up and the crunch of tires as Little Joe rolled away from the stop.