Part1:
A Pit Stop, the Road, and a city.
1
¶The wind whipped around the desolate and barren landscape. The overbearing heat of the sun charred anything and everything. The hardened asphalt had cracks along the outsides of the guard rails, causing small tufts of weeds and detritus to build up. As far as the world was concerned, it was just another day on a very large and lonely stretch of road. Small chunks of gravel and asphalt danced to an unknown beat—jumping around, rocking from side to side—and in some cases rolling into the never-ending sand. The rumble reached a crescendo, followed by a steady thumping, something large and mechanical was getting closer. The small stretch of abandoned highway had its first visitor for the day. Small bits of the world came alive once more. The menacing, multi-trailer vehicle surged through the small, picturesque location. It kicked up yards of dust on its way through. Then, before the small slivers of grass and gravel had time to stop moving, the large vehicle was already gone. Leaving nothing but several sets of tire tracks in its wake.
Briggs downshifted again, the large engine under his body vibrating the deck plates as the gear assembly took hold of the lower gear. He mumbled to himself, passing the small, exposed guardrail behind him. He always seemed to forget that one small deviation in the road when he did this route. Like the fog of a dream, it always came back to him a little too late.
“One of these days I might hit the dang thing,” he mumbled just barely audible over the light engine rumble. He checked one of the many gauges that were dotted around the instrument panel in front of him, making sure that no needles were dancing where they had been still but a moment ago. He looked at the inside of his Rig, cavernous by most standards. There was more than enough room for several amenities, none of which could have fit in a smaller vehicle. He often joked that his scavenged parts, electronics, metal, and small creature comforts made the space more hospitable. On the other hand, even though he could have easily thrown a party with as many as 20 guests, they could have all fit in this space with room to spare. He took a breath and sighed to himself, all this room, and it was just him. With his small trip down his self-pride rabbit hole, he turned back to the more daunting task at hand. Driving.
He stared off into the horizon making sure that his field of view was unobstructed by incoming dust. It was no mean feat living to almost forty in this line of work. The world was thrown into this fresh hell for as long as Briggs could remember. One day he was a happy little kid, going to school, learning about the world. Then…well, he still wasn’t quite sure how it all came crashing down, but it was death by inches. It seemed small at first, certain foods became harder to come by, then medicine became just as scarce. He remembered his parents picking up extra jobs to make ends meet. After that he only remembered the military, or martial law they called it. He’d thought that humanity would pull themselves out of this slump; he'd read about it before.
Governments all over the planet tried to stop these problems. Combatting shortages of food, electricity, clean water to drink, but as soon as one problem was fixed three more arose. In less than a decade, humanity descended into chaos. Fighting for the most basic of supplies and amenities, it was just baffling. Then when all the fighting seemed to slow down, there was more misfortune, then the final nail in the coffin, that super virus. No one knew where it came from. All they knew was it caused widespread mutation on a cellular level. If it didn’t outright kill you, it changed you in bizarre and interesting ways. Maybe your legs would fuse into an elongated snake tail, maybe you might grow horns and the ability to survive in extreme heat. It was a total roll of the dice. Briggs sighed, remembering all the looting and killing, then it was truly quiet for almost a year. He had holed up in an abandoned mining facility just off the I-40 at the time. He had enough supplies to last him years after all the scavenging and looting. It was so peaceful, just him, and those ancient machines.
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A large pothole jarred Briggs out of his reverie, a record needle scratching off a vinyl, he pulled himself back to the task at hand. Sometimes the new world was a lot better than the old one. The world had given up, but that did not mean humanity, and to the same extent the aberrant races took it lying down. The city-states kept the world going, and hauling precious cargo for them was one of the better-paying jobs out there. It came with risks, sure; everything in the world had a risk factor. Briggs had been at this for several years now and was getting good at his job. His CB radio crackled to life just as he exited a large outcrop of limestone. Static blared across the speakers, and he reflexively turned the volume down to a more manageable level. He took his eyes off the road for a second to dial into a more stable frequency, the static being replaced by soft country music. He took a deep breath, then let it out slowly.
“I guess it’s better than nothing,” his hands went back to the wheel.
He decided to check around his cab, to make sure nothing had jostled loose. With a quick glance, he was satisfied to note his shocks reduced the effect of the pothole. He slowed his rig down, and shifted to tackle a small rise in the landscape. The slower speed allowed Briggs to examine more of the surrounding space. He’d built everything in here, and he swelled with pride. Several large pieces of machinery were welded and put together, and he fondly tapped the steering wheel. It was a real patchwork monster, that was for sure. Below him was the deck plating where one machine stopped, and another began. The “brains” of the driving compartment was where most of the steering took place, a large spacious area, comprised of the hot seat, where Briggs was currently sitting. The area was riddled with monitors, knobs, displays, gauges, and his CB radio just overhead. The gear shift was to his right, sticking out of a panel in the floor. It was a solid affair, consisting of a black knob with various gear locations etched on the knob. It counted from one up to six, the large R at the bottom leftmost position.
Down from his sitting location was the secondary navigator’s area. It had a seat like his, not as large mind you, but it could fit most all humanoids. Around the navigator’s area were a few different screens, as well as a chart map to the right side, marking out most of the interstates that were still in use between the city-states. Briggs had taken the time and effort to cross-reference most of the major highways and byways that were still in operation. Leaving the map looking like a well-put-together cartographer’s nightmare. Areas were crossed out, redrawn, and sometimes altogether erased.
There was the side door to his left, leading out to a small observation platform to overlook his surroundings. Then there was the hatch behind the navigator’s area, it went to the top of the rig, and it had the best view if you didn’t mind all the wind. Briggs still marveled at the work he had put into his mobile bastion, and pondered the fact that some of the more superstitious people in the wastes thought there was a soul in most machines. He could sometimes understand that logic, one day your vehicle or farming implements were doing its job just fine. Then the next day, it would fail to turn over or forget something basic in its programming, so naturally, people started to equate that to a soul in the machine. Briggs shifted the rig again into a higher gear. He knew this stretch of road on the I-70 was both flat and long, giving him plenty of space to make up some lost time from the mountains. He did not have the largest rig on the old highways, but it made up for it in pure speed, fuel efficiency, and comfort. Not to mention this beast was armored like it was going to war, which given the state of the world, was not far off from the truth. The radio started to change its tune, from country to some sort of trance techno beat. Briggs smiled at that, adjusting his worn-out cap. All music was a gift from the old world, sure some people made new music, but the oldies were always appreciated.
The hours went by, and Briggs saw no real change in scenery, just flat, desolate lands. Then he saw it, a small pillar of smoke, no more than a wisp off in the distance. It ran almost perpendicular to the highway. Briggs squinted at the smoke, trying to make out if it was a campfire, wreck, or maybe something worse.
The fun just doesn’t stop out here, does it?, Briggs thought.