Onto the Next Hunt

At another time, with other circumstances, I might have spent the effort going after the cowardly cannibal. His actions had been deplorable. He deserves my vengeance, to be sure. But he’s also basically harmless. If Alex is upset about the cannibal leader’s actions, she’ll hunt him. She might even enjoy it, the monster. And if she isn’t upset, without his crew, without his equipment, the next group he tries to ambush for food will kill him. So, while he deserves my vengeance, it would be a waste of effort. I’m not sure how much self I have left in me, so the more of that I put towards fixing our problem, the better for the world. For the fragmented remains of my soul. I head back to the road, instead.

When I told Alex she would only slow me down, I wasn’t lying. My suit slides out from my forearm, covering my bandaged hand with a formal glove. The suit itself returns to its standard color scheme. Navy blue suit with a salmon shirt. Ever since Jim’s friend got us these things, I must admit, I’ve enjoyed looking good. I climb onto yet another relic of my past. Once upon a time, we all rode them into our final battle. And we all died. But, enough parts of those not turned into a bomb remained that I could cobble together, with a bit of aid, a single bike. Climbing onto it, I grip the handles and start the engine. The near-silent hum and vibration of the seat tells me it’s ready to go. And so I hurry off, riding into the soon-to-be setting sun.

The roads these days aren’t what they used to be. And, if I’m entirely honest, they weren’t that great to begin with. I am quite thankful that, when rebuilding this one of our Missiles, I chose to take some shocks from an off-road bike in that bike shop in Cancer Row. The owner was fleeing from the whole Hole in Reality thing, so I got a good deal. Even so, I avoid taking her to full speed. Wouldn’t want to lose control and make everyone within fifteen or so miles to think someplace in the world was put together enough to bomb them. Besides, I’m not sure the rushed job we did on the bike would hold up too close to the top speeds. That said, just having reliable mechanical transit meant I generally go faster than anyone else on the roads. At least around here. Once I get up to the Dakotas, I wouldn’t be surprised if there were more gas vehicles around. I know when I was down in Texas there were. Not so many that they’re common or there’s real traffic, but enough that there is some actual regular interaction between enclaves. Maybe the Dakota’s will be similar. Not that it matters much to me.

As I hit my turn off to head north, it’s starting to get dark. Traveling at night is ideal. Legitimate people are generally asleep at night, or camped out somewhere. Navigating in the dark isn’t particularly easy. And, because predators tend to hunt while their prey are awake, the bandits and their likes sleep and stay in as well. A silent roar humming through quiet nature, a single bright point of light in overwhelming darkness, I speed through the night on my Missile, heading north.

My best estimate puts it around midnight when I reach the remains of Sioux Falls. If I remember right, my turn is somewhere around here. I slow down a bit and look over the city as I keep an eye out for the exit signs. It looks like a nice enough city. I don’t know it well, I tended to be sent out from our HQ towards more the Rust Belt part of the midwest, rather than whatever this area of the midwest is called. Unfortunately for this lovely little city, it happened to have a Knight base somewhere in that mess. So, one of the factions decided to take care of a possible problem. Didn’t care about the ramifications. Didn’t care about collateral damage. I don’t know what sort of method was used, but looking out over the empty, crumbling city, I can tell the method was an effective one.

As I turn off onto the last interstate in my trip, I have myself a dark thought. See, in case you don’t know, Sioux Falls is where like a quarter of the state’s population used to live. And it’s now empty. If the rumor is true, if there really is a proper cultist base with a protective power base of the dead, there’s a chance I won’t find a surviving enclave. Not one that’s friendly to strange outsiders riding motorcycles into town, at the very least.

As I ride through the night, I pass by quite a few towns. Or, more accurately, quite a few groups of buildings that, when they used to be occupied, were generally considered towns. Now, they’re just empty. Or, without power being prevalent, they felt empty. I’d have to go into the towns to know more, but I’m not doing that. Too much time, and if they haven’t found a way to get power, it’s likely not worth it. While places this isolated might seem secure simply because it’s the middle of nowhere, they aren’t. Think about it. Whatever wrecked Sioux Falls was still around after that city wasn’t anymore. Something that powerful doesn’t just go away. So if any of these towns were once inhabited, without some additional defensive elements. So, any town without something of post-Quiet War make.

Eventually, I make it to a town on the river. The Missouri River, I think. Rivers haven’t been much of a problem as of yet. Not really. Generally, if one bridge is out, there is another bridge near enough. Here, the bridge is out. Sure enough, like everywhere else, I can see a bridge further down. Unfortunately, that bridge is also out. That is, at the very least, unusual. As I begin to head north, I look at the buildings. Something happened here, a while ago. Something violent. As I ride north, I’m starting to suspect the bridges aren’t out accidently or accidentally. There was an intention to it. I’m following a path that something else, something terrifying, made back during the Apocalypse. I’m not sure whether I like it or hate it, but perhaps this too might be a hunt.

The road north isn’t as stable and clear as the interstates. Probably because it’s smaller, so the rough spots are more difficult to avoid. Because of this roughness, I need to slow down a bit. Not so much that it isn’t significantly faster than a good paced jog, but enough that I can tell. Enough I suspect it’ll be pressing dawn before I’m even close to the Hills, especially if any of the roads ahead are like this one. I’ll either need to find a good, secluded camp spot, or hope for an enclave.

As I approach what appears to perhaps have been a town once, I see a way across the river. I also know what happened here. Or at least, I suspect I understand. A battle. The bridges to the south had been blown up to prevent something from easily crossing. Not the dead, water is of no consequence to them, but likely something more sculpted. Like whatever destroyed Sioux Falls. The thing clawed its way north, hence the poor road quality and destruction along the path. And came to this town. And what appears to have once been a hydroelectric dam. Have been because the non-monstrous combatants, whoever they were, used said dam to probably trap the thing and definitely overload it. That caused an explosion out the side of the dam, making a new hole that water from upriver now flows through.

Fortunately for me, the roof of the dam along with the road behind it, seem to remain mostly intact. I might need to walk the part by the hole, but otherwise. There is a chance, then, that with whatever destroyed the city gone, an enclave could exist on the opposite side of the river. Crossing the first bridge, a concrete structure that feels about as safe as a concrete wall in the water and uncared for in decades can feel, I make my way along the island towards the dam.

Just like the roads coming from the small city to this place, the island’s main road is ripped and torn, as though the creature’s body was made mostly of claws that could rend asphalt. And as I made it to the dam, I saw the tear-marks skitter off the road, heading down towards an open area below. It wouldn’t have done that without significant goading, not if it was well made. And judging by the damage it had done, I’d guess it was well made. Whoever was on the other side of this river must have sent many people here to die, just to kill the beast. Either very brave or very cold, depending on how they pulled it off. Ignoring the signs of battle below, I cross the dam’s bridge.

Once past the partially exploded bridge, the roads are much less rough than before. Not just the lack of the clawing in the recent roads, but even compared to the highways. As though these roads were once as well taken care of as the interstates, but also have had much less use in the recent years. It probably isn’t actually more clear than the interstates, but given that I can finally let loose once more, get back up to speed after so long riding at such a comparatively slow pace, it certainly feels that way.

In no time, I’m back on the interstate heading west. I keep an eye out for anything that might hint at an enclave. Instead, I begin to see behind me the telltale lightening of the darkness that shows me dawn is about to start. Which means, I need to be somewhere not by a highway. Just in case of bandits. I turn off the highway around some tiny airstrip I’d never heard of. It’s in a small town, still intact though uninhabited. I would stay here, where I could probably find a relatively secluded and secure location, but I notice something odd. Tracks. Some kind of hooved animal came through town in the last couple weeks. Less if there’s been recent rainfall, though without satellite weather or knowing the environment well, I can’t be certain of either. Normally that wouldn’t cause the itch in the back of my skull, as without herders cattle wandered far afield after the end of the world began. But something’s different about these particular tracks. It isn’t a wild mare or bull wandering around a forgotten town. It feels almost ordered. Intentioned. So, rather than stay in this town, I follow the tracks towards their source. North.

The road rapidly became worse. Eventually it turns to dirt. Makes tracking the hoofprints much easier. Makes riding a bit rougher and slower once more. I can feel the slipperiness under me, and am very glad the roads over here are so unnaturally straight. I pass by small farming communities. I’m curious where these tracks are taking me, but at this point, there’s not a chance that the tracks aren’t guided by a person. That means I’m either going to a ghost town or an enclave. Or the undead filled enclave I’m tracking. Two out of those three are places I’d be able to find secure shelter for today. And the other, well, if it is what I’m tracking, I should run into some dead folks trying to kill me soon enough. Other dead folks trying to kill me, I mean.

Eventually, I can see rising in the distance a set of makeshift walls atop a small hill. An enclave. I stop following the tracks and head to those walls. Pulling up to the gates, the sun begins to rise. I need a place to rest and restore myself. I knock on their front gate. The force from my suit’s glove echoes the sound around the enclave. If anyone remains, they’ll have heard that. So I wait for a response, be it polite or less so.