It wasn’t until they were back on the highway that Bridger Washington let out a conscious breath. It felt like he’d been holding it the whole time.

“I can’t believe I did that stoned,” he laughed.

“Speaking of which,” said Nash. The old hippie turned the station back to the encrypted stream of the underground radio.

Bridger decided he liked the man he’d met face-to-face with a shotgun. Sure, he was a rube, smoked too much pot, and spoke English like he crawled out of a swamp, but he understood the Maji, which meant he would understand Ty.

Nash took out another joint from the metal tin and lit up. The lights dimmed, the heat kicked on, and the men reclined in their seats.

“It worked. That was genius,” Bridger said. He took the offered joint and inhaled. The weed tasted sweet and light and made him want to sing or recite a poem.

“Deception is the subtle art of playing the part. The look is very important,” said Nash with a pedantic air. “Ain’t that right, Sister?”

Bridger looked in the back. The Greta was sitting up. She wore a green head scarf and a red veil over her nose that hid the rest of her face, leaving an opening for her eyes. He offered the joint. She maneuvered past the crates of supplies and took it, turned her head so they couldn’t see, lifted her mask, took a long, deep drag, and passed the joint on to Nash before releasing a gossamer plume through the mesh of her shroud, as if somewhere beneath an ancient fire smoldered. She squeezed the shoulder of one man, then the other, and returned to her wordless repose in the rear.

Nash started laughing. “Now that is what I’m talkin about. Let us take a moment to get right in the head! Slough off these heavy burdens and relax the nonce as we sail through the night.”

“You’re a poet, my friend,” said Bridger.

“Nope, my MOS in the service was electrical engineering,” said Nash.

“I guess you saw some crazy stuff over there?” He felt Nash cringe at the prompt. “Sorry, you probably don’t talk about that stuff.”

“To talk about that stuff is to talk about death. I don’t like death. I saw some action—anyone who goes over there sees action. Bloodiest war in history, they say. Been goin on so long you can’t find anyone who actually knows why we’re doin it. I don’t support the Security Party. They’re a bunch of fascists, racists homophobes, but if Allgood can bring a stop to this goddamn war, it might have been worth it. Sorry, kid, dangers of doing AMA with a vet.”

“Thank you for your service, old man.”

“It was a long time ago, but yer welcome. Now pass that dank shit over.”

“And the Maji? You know more than you’re letting on.” Bridger took a hit and passed the weed.

“I’ve done some research. It’s a long story.”

“A story shortens the road.”

“Indeed. You asked for it, kid. After my divorce, I ended up in this van. Ol’ Betsy and Mary Jane have been my only mistresses ever since. How does that work? I don’t know. I guess one day you wake up and you’re feeling a little sad. Next day comes, and it hasn’t gone away. You stop keeping in touch with people, not because you don’t love them but because you think it’s better for them if you don’t contaminate them with your presence. Then, after a while, say a decade or so, your depression and self-loathing has reached its own escape velocity, and you can’t backtrack cause there ain’t no back to backtrack to. The past has built its future without you. And you’re a relic of your own history. You know how to get on by yourself. You laugh at your own jokes—that’s real dangerous. You’re at the end. You got the gun, the pills, the knife, whatever you’re gonna do it with. And then…” Nash trailed off. He reclined and stared out the window.

In his heart, Bridger was grateful. He had lost everything, but he still had Ty. And that meant he still had a purpose.

The music had grown quiet, just the plucking of strings and the hum of the singer.

“And then some fool,” continued the hippie, “glues a poster to your classic van, and that really pisses you off. It’s the last straw, the one that breaks the turtle’s back. Builds A Fire Builds a Fire. That was the name of it. Hell, there you are, you’re goin out anyway, might as well get some vengeance in the process, make your pain palpable, so to speak…”

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

Nash was looking off into the dark passing night.

“What do you mean?” asked Bridger.

The other man looked down at his lap where his hand had taken the shape of a gun.

“You were gonna shoot up the concert.”

“I’m not proud of it. It was in the most rundown, Escape-infested neighborhood in all of the massive shithole that is Spokane. Literally, spinner zombies walking into the trees, staring into the sky at some invisible bliss, their screams, their hallucinations breaking all around them.

“I got there early. Had the gun in my pocket. At first, I was disappointed. Ain’t nobody gonna care if I take out a bunch of gangsters and drug addicts. What can a man do? You go to hell with the entourage you’ve earned. But then other people started showin up. I remember a father, like you. He had three kids. They were scared shitless, wonderin if they were in the right place. Then a group of friends looked like they skipped work at the mall. A businessman in a nice suit. All sorts of people from all walks of life. I waited, and I waited, and the night came on, and it got dark.

“I kept hearin whispers of ‘Maji, Maji.’ I thought, Christ, I’m gonna mass shoot a fuckin cult. A great capstone for a pathetic fuckin life. I almost did it then, but I thought, you know, just wait a few more and see if this Maji shows up, and I’ll take out their ringleader. Make a real messiah out of him.

“God, it’s so vivid in my mind. It was in some abandoned parking lot, you know, the type, the gravel crunches under your shoes. And it was hot, and there were mosquitos everywhere. Then suddenly, a hush fell, and the crowd parted, and this old woman dressed in white with feathers in her hair walks in. And I’m thinkin, fuckin hell, it is a goddamn cult. Behind her, I see this boy, scared shitless little thing carryin a blue guitar. And behind him, taking up the rear, the muscle. You know what I’m talkin bout?”

“You mean like Pastor Tony’s Boys?”

“Yeah, the muscle. Every damn cult’s got em. This guy, beard and long-ass hair, looked like a fuckin Viking. He’s haulin this mean lookin sword, got tattoos up and down his arms, and the expression on his face means business. In my mind, he’s gonna be the first one that gets a bullet, then the crazy woman, then the kid. Hell, I’d be doin him a favor.

“So they go to the center of the crowd, and everyone makes a circle around them. People are pushin, tryin to get a view, and I’m shoved right to the front. And the Viking, he’s lookin at everyone. I can tell he’s real nervous, like he’s expectin somethin. And there’s me, sweatin bricks holdin the gun in my pocket.

“Someone gets a milk crate. Probably stole it from one of the homeless people. And the boy sits down. And he says in this squeaky voice, ‘Thank you for coming.’ And the crowd just erupts. Everyone is calling out to him, ‘Maji, Maji.’ The old woman in white raises her hands, and the crowd hushes. Dead still. You could hear a fly fart. And I’m getting angry. I decide I’m gonna kill that bitch first. Then, the Viking. Maybe I’ll spare the kid. But I need one bullet… I’m gonna shove it in my mouth and…

“Francis sits down on that milk crate, his black hair falling over his face the way it does, and he starts to sing…”

Nash held his face in his hands. He was shaking.

“What’s it like, the music?” Bridger asked.

The hippie wiped tears away. “I can’t explain it. You have to know it for yourself. But I’ll tell you this. I changed. Or I was changed.

“At first, I was like you. I couldn’t hear anything. And then gradually, slowly, or maybe it was suddenly, I don’t know, but there it was. There was the music. I looked up at the sky and fire was falling into my eyes. I tell you, Bridger. Fire was falling into my eyes. The rest… I don’t wanna talk about… It was my own vision… I don’t think it would translate.

“All of a sudden, the music stopped, and the old woman shouted, I’ll never forget the horror in her voice: ‘Run! Run!’”

“The hunters?”

“Yeah the fuckin hunters. They came out of the night like the shadows themselves had taken form. And I was frozen in place. I saw it—must have been the size of a horse. Fangs as long as my hand. It went straight for Francis. But the Viking moved like lightning, like a dancer. I’ve never seen movement so fluid, so deliberate. His sword went through that thing’s neck like a hot knife through butter. The head fell at my feet. It was a nightmare, jaws still gnashing, eyes locked on me as its brainwaves died off. They ain’t werewolves, and they ain’t human. They’re other things altogether. Then another one jumped in the fray. The Viking’s back was turned, and like a gunslinger, I put the bullet I was saving for that man right through the beast’s heart. It didn’t kill him, but it gave the Viking time to slit its throat and drive his blade up and through its thick, monstrous skull.

“That was the end of my ten seconds of adrenaline-fueled slow motion. Everything sped up after that. I got lost in the crowd. The old woman, Francis, and the Viking vanished into the night.”

“Me and a group, including that father and his children, a woman named Connie, and a dentist named Albert, fought our way to my van. One by one, the bullets I had intended for innocent people were expended into those demons—if not killing em, then givin us precious moments of survival—until we made it to good Ol’ Betsy here, and one round remained. It was the chunk of lead I had planned to end my own miserable life.

“I got them all into the van, and just as I was gettin in, it came out of nowhere and threw me on the ground. Without thinking, my aim guided by some force or ability I didn’t understand, I put that final slug into that bastard’s brain. I must’ve hit it just right, cause the thing dropped like a sack of potatoes. I jumped into Ol’ Betsy, and we were gone into the mean streets of Spokane.”

“Shit, now that’s a story,” said Bridger.

“Well, maybe one of these days I’ll write a book about it. Call it the Book of Nash. But I got my friends safely out of there, and I’ve been wrestling with the mystery of the Maji ever since.”

“You’re one of the faithful,” said Bridger.

“I am,” said Nash.