​At Jesse’s insistence, I grabbed my backpack, hastily packed with essentials salvaged from the wreckage of my rental: a change of clothes, toiletries, my Discman, and a couple of CDs. I also added the book on dreaming and the notebooks Jesse had given me the night before. I wasn’t surprised to see The Book of Oneiroi  settled among them.

As we left the house, Jesse handed me an old leather jacket that had belonged to his mother. “Don’t worry about it,” he said, seeing my hesitation. “She was about to donate it anyway.”

​

We stopped by my house on Benhan Court to pick up my motorcycle. While I inspected it for fire damage, Jesse casually dropped his backpack into one of the saddlebags, clearly prepared for a long ride cross-country. I had no intention of joining his adventure, but I looked forward to the drive to the city limits. After a handful of terrible days, I relished the thought of a carefree morning on the road. I’d enjoy the ride, let him show me what he’d found, and then I’d buy him a nice lunch when we got back.

​

Jesse grabbed a helmet off the rack while I donned my own and snapped the chin strap in place. Swinging my leg over the seat, I kick-started the engine and glanced back at Jesse with a bit of trepidation, hoping he wouldn’t pull some machismo bullshit about taking the pillion seat. It was MY bike. He didn’t say a word as he climbed aboard and settled in.

​

If you took a left off the North Road from Richland to the Loop, you’d find a graveyard for old combustion technology from the days before the discovery of the magnetrine effect: ancient cars, construction vehicles, and rusting machinery. For mechanical engineering students like me, it was a playground. I discovered the old BMW R90S there during my sophomore year while searching for spare parts for my robotics class. She was resting under a tarp, sandwiched between an old bus and a haphazard pile of tires. 

​

To most, she was a wreck: engine dead, parts missing, cracked fairing glass, and seats in dire need of reupholstering. But I saw her potential. Over the next few years, I tinkered away and rebuilt her: a new engine, reinforced frame, an updated Energon-fueling system, new wheels, breaks, spark plugs, and gaskets. The final polish included glass and leather repairs and a fresh coat of paint.

​

She was glorious but expensive to run. The Energon cube that fueled her was a gift from my uncle; an otherwise unaffordable luxury. This clean, powerful fuel, developed by Maryland Loop scientists, was a closely guarded secret. Fortunately, the single cube Uncle Henry gave me would last for years, maybe even decades.

​

“Ever done this before?” I asked, hoping my question carried over my shoulder above the rumble of the engine.

​

“Yeah, my dad took me for rides when I was a kid and taught me how to drive when I turned 15,” he leaned into my ear. “He took his bike when he left.”

​

“Okay. Then you know. Stay close. Arms around my waist or hold my belt. Follow my lead, and lean in with me on the turns. One wrong lean, and we’ll end up smeared across the road.” 

​

I felt him nod behind me, and his arm snaked around my waist as he leaned forward. “Ready.” I forced myself not to react to his touch and relaxed in my seat. I was self-conscious, but I didn’t need him to know that. 

​

The roads were clear of pedestrian traffic at this hour, and I reveled in having them all to myself. I took a circuitous route through the Tri-Cities, enjoying the rush of the wind as we sped through the neighborhoods. I had to take any opportunity I could to enjoy my bike, as my uncle didn’t approve of any unnecessary use of Energon. Too many lively loops around the city, and people would speculate that I was taking joyrides instead of test runs. The news would undoubtedly get back to him, and I didn’t need yet another lecture on responsible living.

​

I enjoyed every magical moment. But there are only so many roads in Tri-Cities, and too soon, we crossed the bridge to Pasco, the river below glistening in the morning sun. Moments later, we were at the old Highway 285 on-ramp heading east across the city limits, and I pulled over to the side of the road. Yards away, the “Welcome to Pasco” sign marked the boundary of Tri-Cities and the rural businesses and homes dotting the grasslands beyond.

​

Jesse climbed off the pillion seat and stood at the front of the bike, flicking up his visor. “Ok. I’ll take us the rest of the way if you don’t mind.” He rested his hand on the left handlebar of my bike.

​

I did mind, but I tried not to let it show on my face. “Where are you taking us?” I pulled my eyes from his hand to the on-ramp ahead of us, hoping he wouldn’t take us too far.

​

“There’s an old bus station just on the other side of the city limits. I have a couple of things stored in a locker there that I want to show you.” I owed him but felt trapped in a commitment I hadn’t fully understood.

​

Swallowing a lump in my throat, I was silent as I surrendered the driver’s seat and took his place on the pillion. I’d driven my bike dozens of times, but this was the first time I would ride as a passenger. Settling into the seat awkwardly, I held onto his belt loops rather than wrapping my arms around his waist, hoping to maintain some space between us.

​

He leaned his head back and peered at me over his shoulder. “Heather, do you trust me?”

​

Uh oh. Has anything good ever followed that question? 

​

“… sure.” It was hardly a roaring endorsement, but it seemed to reassure him. I swallowed my doubts and tried to focus on the road ahead. 

​

Turning his face forward, he shouted over the engine, echoing my words, “Stay close. Hold on. And follow my lead.”

We were only yards onto I-182 when the panic set in. A dreadful wrongness blanketed me, and my heart pounded. Unclear where the feeling was coming from, I hoped it would pass, but my agitation only increased as the bike approached the city limits. 

​

Attempting false composure that I did not have, I spoke casually into his ear, “Hey, could you pull over for a minute?”

​

Jesse gave no indication he had heard me above the wind and the engine. My breathing became irregular, and I took in the air in pants and gulps.

​

“JESSE!” I yelled into the wind. “STOP!” But he didn’t reply.

​

I leaned my head forward, accidentally bouncing my helmet off of his. Wincing at the jarring clatter, I grew increasingly light-headed. One at a time, I untangled my thumbs from his belt loops and curled my arms around his middle, embracing him tightly and bracing my center of balance against his.

​

“Please.” I whispered and squeezed my eyes shut. My mind was a useless whirlwind of thoughts that I could not hold. While I grappled with the confusion and fear, the wind whipped by, snagging the edges of my jeans and new jacket. The deafening howl of the air joined the engine’s roar, isolating me in a bubble of sound. Something was desperately wrong, but Jesse couldn’t hear me above the noise. 

​

There was nothing I could do, so I did what he asked; I trusted him and let him take the lead. I leaned as he leaned, shifting my weight to follow his. The ride was interminable. With my eyes closed, I lost my sense of direction as he weaved through obstacles and turns. “It’s ok. It’s ok. It’s ok. It’s ok.” I repeated to myself, hanging on to the rhythm of the words as an anchor in my fear.

​

Gradually, I forced myself to match my breathing to Jesse’s steady rhythm. With each breath, the weight on my chest lifted, the panic ebbed away, and a cautious sense of trust took its place. I took several deep breaths but kept my eyes closed.

​

Jesse had slowed and was pulling off the road. 

​

Once we were idle, he turned his head so that his voice carried over his shoulder, “Hey, you ok?”

​

It was moments before I replied, my pulse still pounding loudly in my ears, “Yeah.” 

​

With another few breaths, I lifted my head, opened my eyes, and frowned. The sky above us was roiling with dark clouds, blocking the sun and casting an unpleasant red filter over the world. I knew there must be an enormous fire nearby, but how the ash clouds had rolled in so quickly, I could not guess.

​

“Are we here?” I shouted above the engine. 

​

When I received a nod in return, I climbed off the seat, released the clip on my helmet, and pulled it off. As I ran trembling fingers through my damp hair, I stepped away from my bike to collect myself. My eyes searched the buildings and grasslands beyond for the fire polluting the sky. Behind me, the motorcycle engine shut off. “Did you see where the fire was when we rode in?”

​

Jesse stepped up next to me, his eyes flicking nervously to the sky above a neglected strip mall across the road. “I haven’t seen a fire. I don’t know if there even is one; it’s always red and hazy and cloudy like this. As far as I know, that’s how it always is.”

​

“But just a few minutes ago, it was fine.” 

​

“Once you pass the city limits, everything changes.” Jesse’s eyes gleamed with steely intensity, his face transforming with anger. A bitterness laced his tone. “They don’t want us to know the truth. It’s like the world is on the brink of disaster, and they want us to stay oblivious.”

​

“What? Who?”

​

As quickly as the rage appeared, it vanished behind a casual smile. The abrupt shift made me question if I had seen it at all. He took a deep breath, his shoulders relaxing, and reached into his pocket, pulling out a folded piece of paper and handing it to me.

​

“The answer is here. This is what I wanted to show you, what I wanted to talk to you about. It arrived last week.”

I looked at him, still uncertain. He pointed at the letter, “Read it.”

​

I unfolded it, revealing a page of precise, hand-written script.

 

Dear Son,

​

Don’t let your mother see this letter. This message is just for you. Follow the instructions below as soon as you read them. 

​

Go to the attic and find the package I left for you in the box labeled “Grandpa’s Closet.” Wrap the leather band around your wrist. Keep it there, but keep it hidden. No one must see it. Go now. You must do this immediately.

​

Once you’re wearing the crystals, take the radio to the location I marked on the map. At that location, you will find a four-digit number - it is a frequency. At 9 am, tune in to that frequency on the radio, just like we did when you were a boy. Follow the Wizard’s directions. He can help you, but no matter what you do, don’t trust him. Remember that anyone you meet can be one of their agents. 

​

You’ll understand more once you’ve followed my instructions.

​

Most of what you think you know about the world is a lie. I had hoped to rescue you and your mother from our situation, but if you’ve received this letter, I have failed.

​

Come back for your mother when you find someplace safe for her. You will have a difficult time extracting her. Once they draw people in, it’s almost impossible for them to escape.

​

I’m proud of you, Son. Keep her safe, and tell her that I loved her to the very end.

​

Love,

Your dad

 

I read the letter with raised eyebrows and an exaggerated twist of my lips. This can’t be real, I thought. It read like something out of a cliché dystopian novel. I had a hard time believing anything so sinister might be happening in Richland. But as I glanced at the angry red sky, doubt gnawed at the edges of my disbelief. Could it be true? 

​

No. There was no way. This was ridiculous. Completely ridiculous.

​

“What the fuck?” I snapped, “Why couldn’t you just hand me this nonsense back in Richland?”

​

He looked stunned and stumbled over a response, but I couldn’t focus on his words. My eyes were locked over his shoulder, taking in the bus station, mini-mall, and every building within sight. They were all boarded up and aged. There wasn’t a single living thing to be seen. Shouldn’t we have been told about this? Shouldn’t we have known?

​

One realization after another clicked into place. My Uncle and I had never left town once we’d moved here ten years ago, not even once. There was never any news of the world outside of Tri-Cities, and we never questioned it. And there was that strange, gut-wrenching terror as we approached city limits - I’d never felt anything like that before, but I’d also never left the Tri-Cities.

​

It all added up to something just as alarming as the note implied. “Oh shit, Jesse. What are we going to do?”

​

“We should get inside.” Jesse’s response was far more gentle than I deserved. But, go inside? How was that going to help anything?

​

At my blank look, he continued, “We can talk more in the bus station. Last time I was here, I saw one of Cyberdyne’s prototype tanks on patrol. They’ve been incorporating magnetrine tech, so the tanks aren’t landborne anymore. And they’re driven by some sophisticated AI that they’re integrating into their new neural network. They’re calling them Terminators. They’re inhuman, and they’ll shoot us on sight if they spot us. It’s some scary shit. We should take the bike in too.”

​

I followed where he led me, my mind still focused internally. I had too many questions. My mind crawled through the recesses of my memories, uncovering indications of problems that I had never been able to evaluate before.

​

Inside the dim confines of the closed bus station, the air was thick with dust and the faint scent of mold and mildew. He took me to a cold metal bench in what was once the waiting area before heading off down a hallway. After a few moments, he returned with a large, heavy backpack and what appeared to be a radio.

​

He noticed my attention and held the radio up. “The station that the letter mentions: it’s a shortwave station. Shortwave frequencies have the benefit of being able to be projected long distances—far longer than FM stations. They bounce the broadcasts off the atmosphere and can send them thousands of miles.” He paused. “Dad and I used to look for bootleg music stations.”

​

He set the device down on the bench opposite me and turned the dials.

​

“What do you know about all this?” I asked quietly.

​

He continued working with only a brief glance at me. “Something happened in the 80s,” Jesse began, his voice low. “I’m not sure what, but the world we know died back then. I’ve listened to some broadcasts in the last week, and I think there are groups of people out there working together. But they’re struggling to survive and seem to be at war. Maybe with one another.”

​

He paused, “I don’t know exactly what’s happening at home. I don’t think they were doing anything specifically terrible to us. I think they were just harvesting talent. For all we know, their intentions could be noble.” He shrugged, “I don’t particularly like the means to their ends.”

​

Jesse’s eyes met mine. “I tried to tell you about it all, you know. Back when we were in town. But it was like you’d forget just as soon as I told you.”

​

“I thought you were being very strange.”

​

He smiled at that, a warm grin filled with shared humor, “I’M strange?”

​

“I admit it’s not very fair. Wait, how did you manage to remember?”

​

He held out his arm and gestured at a pair of leather laces tied around his wrist. Each of the strands had crystals connected to the ends. “This has something to do with it.” He tapped one of the crystals. “I think they contain some type of micro-technology that emits a field that interferes with whatever signal the Loop is using to transmit their… well, their mind control.” He almost seemed embarrassed saying those words. It all sounded so far-fetched. He paused, tapping his fingers on the radio in agitation. When he spoke again, bitterness suffused his voice, “I wasn’t able to learn much.”

​

This was the second crack I’d seen in his generally warm and affable facade since we left town. The last week must have been incredibly hard. And incredibly lonely. 

​

“I don’t know, Jesse. You seem to have figured out a lot in just a week.”

​

“It’s surprising what you can get away with when you have power over people’s memory. One well-placed word about the current apocalypse, and they’d forget I’d been there.” He was quiet for a time, his thoughts turned inward, and his work on the radio forgotten, “I tried to get Mom out. It wasn’t like it was with you. There was nothing I could say to convince her to come here. Anything I said, she’d immediately forget. You, at least, remembered what I told you about Dad.

​

“I wanted to dismantle the whole network generating that field, but I couldn’t figure it out. It has to do with altering light patterns in their video transmissions: TV, movies, news, everything. But I wasn’t sure how they were doing it. It was taking days, and Dad said I needed to get out as soon as possible.” He knocked his knuckles repeatedly against the top of the radio, eyes unfocused.

​

“We’ve all been stuck there, held prisoner, not even given the freedom of our own thoughts, for years. I should have somehow known, been smart enough to figure it out. Then maybe Dad…” He trailed off and rapped the radio one last time before he hit a switch.

​

The radio came to life with loud static.

​

“Alright, that’s the right channel. It should be starting any minute now. This guy broadcasts over many frequencies at various times throughout the day. Each message is different. But the show at this time hasn’t changed since I started listening.”

​

The Wizard announced himself with the fanfare of a short electric guitar solo.

 

“Good morning, revolutionaries, freedom fighters, insurgents, and agitators. It’s 9 AM, and THIS is thirty-three seventy-five kilohertz, the heartbeat of the rebellion. 

​

“They say that Rock n’ roll is about truth and attitude, so let’s kick things off with a track that captures the vibe of the day. This is R.E.M. with ‘It’s the End of the World as We Know It (And I Feel Fine).’” 

 

The broadcast cut over to the familiar, frenetic rhythm of the song. The contrast between the upbeat tempo bouncing off the concrete walls of the empty bus station and the desolate reality outside made the moment surreal, almost disorienting. 

​

“Are you sure this is the right one?” I asked, breaking the silence after a minute. Jesse nodded, holding a finger to his lips. The music ended, leaving behind an eerie quiet before the DJ’s voice returned. 

 

“That was ‘It’s the End of the World as We Know It,’ friends. 

​

“Ready to face the apocalypse? If so, listen up! Head to 7 degrees, 26 minutes, 3.15 seconds east, and 14 minutes, 22.29 seconds south of your present location. 

​

“From there, tune in to the station that’s rocking this dystopian nation at 9 PM.

​

“Until then, I’m the Wizard of Rock, and this is Radio Free Oz signing off. Stay safe, stay sharp, and remember, ‘We’re not in Kansas anymore.’”

 

Jesse had a naturally upbeat temperament, and all signs of his prior frustration had disappeared by the time the broadcast was finished. “It’s a good thing Dad left this for me.” He said, unfolding the map. “I’d be lost without it.” I couldn’t bring myself to laugh, so I groaned dramatically, assuming he’d be just as satisfied with that response. He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye and chuckled as he took out a pencil and paper to calculate the location of the first safehouse and then work out the best route. 

​

I called him out on his enthusiasm, and his eyes twinkled, reflecting his relief and satisfaction, “We got out of Tri-Cities, and we’re on our way. Yesterday, I didn’t think we’d get this far.”

​

“I haven’t thanked you. I owe you one. I guess three, if you’re keeping track of my IOUs.” I’d been pretty self-absorbed over the past few days, but in addition to being smart as hell, Jesse’d been a better friend than I deserved.

“Oh, I’m keeping track.” He managed to infuse his response with a certain level of theatrical malevolence. He was dealing with this with far better equanimity than I could muster, but I suppose he’d had a few weeks to adjust to the idea that the end of the world had come and gone, and we’d never noticed.

​

I began to rethink my joke, “Well, we’re using my bike, so maybe that’s worth one.”

​

He stroked his chin and squinted his eyes in exaggerated consideration, “I’ll allow it.” Then he cleared his throat, his expression turning serious, “I’m really sorry I didn’t stop the bike back there. How about we call it even?”

​

My heart dropped. I guessed he’d noticed my panic attack after all. “Yeah,” my voice was weak. “Don’t worry about it. I understand.”

​

In addition to the location of this bus station, his father’s map contained a number of notes written in the uniform block letters one would expect of an architect, not a journalist. They appeared to indicate significant changes in the landscape, new settlements and cities, and hazards. “Raiders,” it said in one spot; “Canyon,” it said next to a hand-drawn line; “New Columbus” was a third note next to a small dot. Chicago was circled with the word “Don’t” written in the center, with a neat underline and an exclamation mark to add emphasis.

​

“Looks like we’re headed to Butte, Montana.” He folded the map and notes away carefully. “Should be about seven straight hours if the roads are good and we minimize stops, but we’ll have to pass through Spokane. Any other road will take us days out of our way.”

​

After repacking the saddlebags, we wheeled the bike back out of the station and carefully checked the roads and skies for patrols. The way seemed clear, so we saddled up and prepared to take to the highway headed east toward the Rocky Mountains. 

​

Richland was nestled between three mountain ranges on savanna-like plains that should have been replete with lush grasses and low shrubs. The natural dryness of the local ecosystem and progressive global warming had left what few plants were left brittle and dry. Some unknown terrible conflict had left vast burned gashes crisscrossing the grasslands. Red light filtering through the ever-present ash clouds above lent the whole region an apocalyptic quality and, at times, made distinguishing colors and objects difficult. 

​

Despite that, a glint of light off metal drew my attention between a pair of buildings to a stand of trees in the distance. The filtered red light and smokey haze made it difficult to make out details, but the shadow I spotted breaking through the trees was so enormous it was hard to mistake it. Similar to the ED-209, the T-1 “Terminator” featured twin Gatling guns, one mounted on each side of a robot torso with a single middle “eye.” But where the T-1 had utilized large tank-like treads to support maneuverability over rough terrain, this beast hovered on a platform of magnetrine discs.

​

“Oh, shit.” The back of my neck tingled as a hint of foreboding blanketed the spark of adventurous spirit that had only just ignited within me.

​

Jesse followed my gaze and rested his hand on my shoulder, raised his visor, and muttered into my ear. “That’s the T-2 model I was telling you about. It’s fully autonomous now and uses sound, heat, and motion sensors to identify targets.” Before I could start the engine, the motorcycle shifted as Jesse dismounted. He rested his hand over mine on the handle. “We need to stay quiet. Follow me.” He paused, his eyebrows arching apologetically, “You’ll have to push the bike.”

​

Pushing the bike was the least of my worries. I turned my eyes back to where I’d seen the T-2 but it had moved on somewhere behind the buildings and out of my view. 

​

The parking lot in front of the station was dense with rows of abandoned buses; their windows cracked, and their bodies thick with rust as nature worked slowly to reclaim them. Jesse moved stealthily between and then behind them, keeping the buses between us and the watchful eye of the T-2 before turning into an alley.

​

As I pushed my bike behind him and into the shadows, he gestured to a field on the far side of the alley. “There’s a cement flood channel back there. If you get into it and follow it toward the highway, you should come to a culvert pipe that runs beneath the road.” He gestured with his hand to indicate the direction the channel would follow. “Get yourself and the bike into the culvert. All that asphalt, soil, and concrete should mask your heat signature until I get back. Stay quiet and out of sight, and you’ll be alright.”

​

I grabbed his forearm as he began to move away, “Wait! Where are you going?”

​

He halted in his tracks and turned back to me, something new reflected in his eyes that I had never seen. Was it fear?

His voice was a bit on the breathless side, more winded than a walk across the parking lot warranted. “It’s like in all the best action movies.” He cracked a stiff smile that looked false, even to my eyes, “I gotta create a distraction. Some heat and noise to draw its focus so that we can get away. Otherwise, it’s bound to spot us as we head down the highway.”

​

I was stunned, never having considered such a tactic. I knew what I had to say next, though I didn’t want to. “I should go with…”

​

I hadn’t completed the sentence before he shook his head. “If you come, that doubles the heat, doubles the noise.” He rested his hand where mine still lay over his arm. “Don’t worry. I have a plan.”

​

His eyes, alight with determination, flickered with uncertainty. Beneath my fingertips, where my hand rested on his arm, a faint tremor betrayed his brave front. He was holding it together for both of us, shouldering the weight of everything. And in that moment, I vowed silently: I won’t let him carry it alone.

​

I let my gaze linger, feeling something shift between us. His eyes softened, delivering a message I wasn’t ready to receive.

​

I looked away, wrestling with conflicting thoughts. No part of me wanted to be involved in such a risky undertaking, but something in me couldn’t bear to let him go.

​

I took a deep breath. Then, finally, nodded.

​

His fingers tightened briefly around mine, then let me go. My hand slipped from beneath his, falling back to my side. 

​

With that, he turned and disappeared down the alley, leaving me alone.

​

If I were the protagonist in one of my novels, my eyes would have followed him to his destination, my heart pounding with worry for his safety. But I had my own problems to contend with. Taking a deep breath to center myself, I glanced over my shoulder to assure myself that the T-2 did not have me in its sights. I couldn’t see it, but I knew it was out there. Drawing on my limited courage, I pushed the bulk of my heavy bike forward, every nerve on edge. Each moment I lingered increased the risk of discovery.

​

The yard behind the station was littered with parts of old combustion bus engines and the aging detritus of an abandoned city. Navigating my 300-lb motorcycle through the maze of trash was a physical challenge that would have been easier if I had not turned my head back every few heartbeats to ensure I had not been discovered. 

​

It wasn’t hard to find the flood channel - ten feet across, concrete-lined, and now a muddy bog due to years of sediment. The real problem was getting into it. My motorcycle was heavy, and the five-foot drop was too steep to push the bike down gently. I scanned the area, struggling to focus, but my mind kept dragging me back to the bus park. Was it hunting us?

​

After what felt like an eternity, I spotted a bordering fence that had collapsed into the channel. I tested it briefly with my own weight, then pushed the bike onto it, praying it didn’t collapse beneath me. My luck didn’t hold. Halfway down, I had a fraction of a second of warning as the fence groaned with strain, and the aging wood collapsed under the weight. Fearing being crushed, I pushed myself away and landed flat on my back, at least a foot deep in mud. The thick, squishy clay cushioned my fall but now clung to my clothes, shoes, and motorcycle. Under other circumstances, I’d be mourning the hours I spent polishing her to perfection. Now, I just prayed I wasn’t about to die in the mud.

​

There was no time to waste; the noise may have drawn the T-2. Attempting to pull myself up, I scrambled for purchase and finally got my hands underneath me, granting me the leverage I needed to pull myself upright. I grabbed my bike’s handlebars next, righting her with a great heave, pulling her with all my weight against the mud. Finally, with a great lurch and an audible muddy slurp, it jolted upright. 

​

A nearly inaudible metallic creak from the direction of the bus station signaled to me that the noise of my fall had not gone unnoticed. I froze in place, listening for more, and was met only with the faint wind rustling in the surrounding trees and branches. Should I keep going, or stay in place? If I stayed, eventually, Jesse would find me. But what if the T-2 found me first? A rustle in the bushes behind me was too close.  I shoved forward, quickening my speed as my momentum against the bike increased.

​

My strength was failing me, and by the time I reached the culvert, I had lost my footing twice as I pushed my bike through the heavy clay. I was nearly covered head to toe in wet dirt; my hair a thick muddy mess, and water dripping from my jacket. Underneath it all, I was drenched in sweat.

​

The channel narrowed rapidly as it approached the highway, ending at the entrance of a pipe that ushered the water beneath the road. At five feet in height, it was far larger than any other pipe I’d ever seen, yet still required that I duck to enter. There was no time for hesitance, though. Stilling my shaky breath and urging my aching muscles into motion, I pushed my bike through, ignoring the spider webs and the feint squeaks of what was likely a rodent.

​

Exhausted but relieved to have made it to our meeting point, I crouched low, sitting on my heels and resting my head on my crossed arms. As the minutes drained away, my depleted mind spiraled into worries about Jesse and fear of discovery. Shivering in the damp, I zipped my new leather jacket up to my chin, instantly regretting the sharp hiss of the zipper. The throbbing whirr and deep whomp of a magnetrine vehicle announced that the T-2 was nearby. With my heartbeat rising in my eardrums, I didn’t dare peek out. There was nothing to do but sit and hope that the concrete between me and the T-2 would be enough to keep me hidden. But would it be? 

​

Sudden inspiration struck. I allowed myself to slip off my heels and sit fully in the silt. I took handfuls of the vile slick, spreading it over my face, neck, and hands; covering the areas my previous falls had missed. My hands trembled violently as I worked, and my breath came too fast. But I was well past the point I could control it. Of all the ways I had imagined the deaths of characters in my stories, this had never been among them: cowering in a pipe, covered in mud, shot through the head by a giant autonomous robot. Of course, science fiction wasn’t my genre of choice.

​

The deep thrumming whomp of the T-2 grew louder, and moments dragged by like hours. I could make out its enormous shadow on the far side of the culvert, beyond a pair of gnarly bushes growing on the channel’s embankment. The machine’s torso slowly turned as the single, ominous red eye between the Gatling guns glowed.

​

I slipped lower still into the silt, flat on my stomach, with my head barely lifted above the mud. It was painfully cold, but I barely noticed. The T-2 had stilled. The hum at its core slowed as if listening. Then… click. The head swiveled, and its eye locked onto the culvert. A weight dropped in my stomach. Every instinct within me screamed that I should run away, but I held on, locking my joints and freezing my muscles in place, scarcely breathing. I was sure that if it couldn’t sense my heat, it could surely hear my heartbeat, as loud as it pounded in my ears. 

​

Outside my hiding spot, the T-2 floated with astonishing grace, its magnetrine discs gliding just above the ground. The whirr of its inner mechanisms grew louder, and I was certain it had spotted me. Panic surged through me, and my pulse raced. But just at that moment, a series of loud, percussive bangs drew its notice. The eye and guns swung away, and it began to move toward whatever distraction Jesse had set in motion. The thrumming whomp gradually diminished, and silence descended.

​

I exhaled slowly, my breath shuddering from fear and cold, my muscles aching from the tension. I heaved myself out of the mud into a sitting position and rested my back against my bike. My mind was numb with shock. I was still alive. I let it sink it. Somehow, against all odds, I had survived.

​

When Jesse ducked into the culvert sometime later, he took one look at me, ass-deep in mud, my face a clay mask, and cracked the widest grin I’ve ever seen. “Well, hello, Dutch!”

​

I was confounded: relieved, confused, happy to see him, terrified. It was all too much. “Dutch?” I asked, unable to comprehend what he was saying.

​

“Yeah, Dutch. You know, from ‘Predator’?” His eyes were alight with expectation, but they soon became comically serious as his voice morphed into a terrible accent, “If it bleeds, we can kill it.” There was something incredibly forced about his humor. We all coped in different ways, I supposed.

​

He raised an eyebrow, but his face fell as no recognition entered my expression. “I’ll tell you about it another time. The T-2 is back at the mini-mall, but we should get on the road while it’s focused on the fire.”

​

I carefully extracted the bike from the culvert with Jesse’s help, doing my best to stay quiet. My thoughts still raced, my hands shook with adrenaline, and I couldn’t stop checking back behind us for any sight of the T-2. “Are you sure it’s safe now?”

​

Jesse nodded, “For now. But we should move quickly.”

​

We pushed the bike for another mile before we finally mounted up and rode away. The silence between us was heavy, filled with unspoken thoughts about the road ahead and the weight of everything we had learned in such a short period of time. And yet, ahead, the mountains were majestic, even through the red haze. In my mind, a mix of fear and anticipation circled one another like a pair of ravens on the wind.