2

As he closed the distance to the smoke, he fiddled with the CB radio, switching to the transport channel. It was a heavily encrypted channel, so he felt safe using it this close to one of the larger city-states. Better safe than dead he mused. His hand found the receiver and pulled it off its hook, the long spool of wire coming with it. He clicked the faded red button on the side, clearing his throat before speaking.

“This is hauler 104-BAV, can I get a copy from anyone on Interstate seventy? I have what looks like a possible wreck. Need to know if anyone has salvage rights. Over.” He clicked off the receiver. Static rolled by for almost twenty seconds, with no response, he decided to clarify his message.

“This is hauler 104-BAV, eastbound from the mountains, en route to city-state Horizon Visions. Is there anyone on this stretch of highway, over?” Nothing but static followed the second declaration. By the rules of the road, it was fair game then.

Briggs rolled up to the smoldering wreck of a vehicle, not ten minutes after his attempted communication with his fellow haulers. He looked over the side of the highway, with his vehicle staggering at a forty-five-foot height, seeing over small depressions as well as hills was child’s play to Briggs. The wreck itself was nothing special to look at. It was some sort of rebuilt buggy, dual suspension, with a carrying capacity of four people, tops. The one thing that caught his eye was the pair of feet he saw sticking out from the rear of the vehicle. It was too far off the highway to see if there was a person attached to those feet. Briggs pressed a few small buttons on the console in front of him, causing the constant rumble of the engine to tone down to a low hum. His left hand pressed another release lever on the left side of his seat, allowing him to turn around facing away from his driving station. The seat clicked into place as he rose, causing small motes of dust to fall from his faded Levi jeans. He never seemed to be able to fully air seal his cab, no matter what he did. No matter what he welded, or patched, small bits of the outside always found their way in. He walked a short distance to the stairs leading down to the back of the cab. He turned to face the ladder, using the railing to help guide himself down the not quite ladder, not quite stairs he installed. It was only three steps, but you could hurt yourself if you fell. He reached the back door, pressing a small red button. The door slid open on hydraulic hinges, recessing into the wall.

He was through it and into the next room before it closed behind him. He had installed sensors in most of the rigs for all the doors. It made closing them easier, and they registered people going through the opening. Then its system counted down for five seconds, closing the door behind you. If there was an obstruction, the door would stay open until it was removed. Or the emergency override was triggered. The door hissed closed behind him, leaving him in a smaller room behind the cab of his hauler. He took a left into another sealed room—this one was the armory. He had managed to scavenge a good deal of weapons from the wastes, nothing to shake a stick at the city-states. Those places were armed to the teeth, so not many people decided they wanted to try to test those places’ patience.

He stared around at his little armory, all the weapons were in organized lockers, both vertical and horizontal in orientation. He reached for his belt, pulling out a small ring of keys attached to a retractable wire line hooked onto his belt. With only a few wrong key choices, the main box in the far corner of the room opened with a click. He pulled out his trusty semi-automatic trench shotgun, complete with a walnut stock and sling. Putting that onto the table bolted in the center of the room, he removed the rest of his kit from the box. One FNX-45 with two spare magazines, a boot knife, and his vest knife, both of which were made from the finest black steel. He pulled both knives out of their respective sheaths to study the blades. They glinted in the overhead lights, the black surface reflecting a deep purple hue. It was said that black steel was one of the better products the city-state Elohim put out. It had something to do with one of the many calamities that befell man. It changed parts of the world in ways that were unexplainable by science, the upside being that some of the metals in the earth somehow changed as well.

Thus, we have access to black steel, mused Briggs.

He opened a vertical storage locker next. He only needed a few more things, then he would be ready for the outside world. He pulled on his armored trench coat, the billowing material reaching below his knees. Next were his goggles, followed by his yellow and black checkered scarf, which he wound around his mouth and nose. Then there was his armored helmet, replacing the ball cap that he wore most of the time he was in the driver’s seat. He strapped on his leg holster, followed by a few small armor plates for his legs and then a vest for his chest. The rest of the preparations were second nature to him by now, his body on autopilot. He exited the room fully locked and loaded. His last stop was the supply room next to the kitchen. He left the armory and went down one more set of stairs. He was on the same level as the engine now, though it was still behind a few bulkheads. After a few seconds, he went straight back towards the rear of the rig, opening another door into the supply room/ kitchen area. Briggs rummaged for his trusty canteen, he thought he had misplaced it, until his gloved hand bumped against a smooth rounded container. Smiling, he pulled out his dented water storage device, and slotted it into his pack. He filled it with cool clean water from a dispenser installed next to the pantry, then strapped it to his side.

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Briggs blinked as the unfiltered sun pierced his eyes as one of the main exits to his Rig opened. It was a two-part affair, the upper portion of the door retracted inward, towards the interior of the rig, stowing itself in the wall. While the lower portion slid down towards the dirt, the ramp folded into sections to give him stairs. He modeled the ramp to something he read out of an old magazine he had picked up a long time ago. It said that airplanes were large commercial vehicles that used systems like this to make an airtight seal. He chuckled in his mind, since he still could not keep all the dust-out. Before he left his Rig, he grabbed the small first-aid tin that was attached to the wall. You could never be too sure.

The person he spotted near the wreck might need medical attention. He pocketed the first aid kit in his inner trench coat storage, and stepped down the six evenly spaced metal steps. His boots finally touched the soft soil that ran along the outside of the highway. He prodded the soil at his feet cautiously, “When in doubt, get out,” his old mentor’s words crawled into his mind. Feeling safe that there was no shifting soil, he calmly started to walk towards the wreck. It only took a few minutes to get to the smoking remains of the buggy, by the halfway point, Briggs had drawn his shotgun. He made sure that there was a round in the chamber, the last thing he wanted was to pull the trigger and hear a *click* instead of a *boom*. That would get you killed out here, every second mattered.

He came up to the wreck, the sun was almost directly overhead. At this distance, he could tell smaller details that were lost to him from his Rig. The buggy had a flecked coat of yellow paint covering it, it was already starting to flake off, most likely due to the heat from the smoldering fire coming from the engine compartment. He saw the symbol of two swords surrounded by a red circle.

It’s a courier buggy from Horizon Visions, that’s the next city-state on the highway. How did it break down, these things are supposed to be nearly uncatchable? Briggs pondered. He tapped his shotgun as he considered what to do next.

He slowly started to circle the buggy, the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He’d been doing this for a long time. This all felt wrong. Something this close to the city-state, one of their own couriers no less. He should go back to the Rig, radio this into the city-state, and play it on the safe side. That would take time though, and in broad daylight, the last thing you wanted to do in this part of the world was to waste time. He rounded the backside of the buggy, the feet coming into view from the corner of the wreck. He rounded the last five feet quickly, his feet crossing to get an unobstructed view of the right side of the buggy. His shotgun raised to his shoulder, he took a glance at the person lying alongside the buggy, then he lowered his shotgun.

It was the body of a Hund woman. He had only seen a few Hunds in his travels, but they were considered the most common of the aberrant races. They mostly resembled a human, except their features most closely related to canines. She had an upturned muzzle, covered in dark brown fur. Her eyes were almost closed, she wore a simple pair of overalls with a dark green shirt underneath. Her digitigrade legs looked mangled from the wreck; spots of blood stained the lower half of her overalls. His eyes were drawn toward the upper part of her chest. She was very curvy considering how short she was. He mentally cursed himself and told himself not to stare. His eyes trailed down to a dark stain of blood just below her chest. He missed it at first, her hand had curled over the wound protecting it. He stepped closer, getting down on one knee while slinging his shotgun over his shoulder. He placed his index finger and middle finger on her neck, trying to feel for a pulse. It was faint, but it was still there. He opened one of her closed eyes, the one eye was a vibrant shade of gray, with flecks of gold around the edges, she stirred a little at the contact.

“Easy now, you were in a wreck,” Briggs said soothingly through his face wrap. “I just need to see how badly you are hurt; I am going to get you to a doctor.” He was not sure about that last point, but he wanted her to be calm. He moved her hand from her abdominal wound. The blood oozed further into the front of her overalls. The blood itself was dark red, almost black in color. She must have been hit in her liver, a nasty and fatal wound.

“Mrmmpp” she said as he touched the outside of the wound, almost whimpering.

“It’s ok, I just need to check the wound, I know it hurts,” he said, sympathy clinging to his words. “I am going to try to patch you up, be brave.”

“Erreeg,” she moaned in response.

Briggs looked at her more closely. Her words had not sounded slurred, yet, he could not make out a single word she tried to say, it was closer to a groan. So, he took a chance, he opened her muzzle slowly, making sure not to cut himself on her sharp canine teeth. He almost wretched in horror; someone had cut out her tongue. Then they cauterized it at the base of her throat, it must have been agony. It all made sense now, this was a trap, and he had just walked right into it.