Covenant will not be
able to identify our gathering place. We are the Sons of Liberty, and we will
take this country back. Please find your way to our base. Drive, walk or
crawl and bring any that wish to resist the Covenant. Find the Temple of Doom
where the sun sets on the Old West. This is where we gather.
“This message will repeat for as long as the Covenant cannot
find the broadcasting tower. We are not ready to die under ‘God’s hand’. This
is our country and we will fight for it to our dying breath.”
John pulled the truck to the side of the road, and killed
the engine and the lights. They reached an on-ramp to route 271.
“I know where they are.”
“The Jigsaw Saloon?”
“Has to be. ‘Temple of Doom where the sun sets on the Old
West’. The Jigsaw is on the west side and books stoner rock and doom bands all
the time.”
“What were the chances that two stoner-rock fans end up in
this together?”
John smiled.
“How do we get there?” Alex asked.
“If we take the highway, we’re less likely to stick out,
especially at seventy or eighty miles an hour. But of course, if we are
recognized, all they need to do is block the highway ahead and we’re toast.”
Alex looked at John, looked at him truly as a person rather
than a patient, took a good long look for the first time.
“They were calling you ‘John the Revelator’. Apparently
they think you’re some Pope-approved leader of the new apocalypse.”
John nodded.
“I guess if I were part of the Church I’d understand what
the hell that means, but for now, we need to keep moving.”
Alex shrugged his shoulders with indifference.
“You’re behind the wheel.”
John brought the greasy diesel engine to life. Exhaust
fumes snuck into the cab, delivering the bitter taste of fossil fuels. They
took deep breaths from the windows and staved off the nauseous attack. John
accelerated down the ramp and onto 271. Corpses of cars were piled seven high
on each shoulder, reaching the top of the sound barrier. From above, the scene
looked as if a child had been playing with Matchbox cars and stacked them when
he was done. Black skid marks snaked across the pavement, even in the dim
light of the fading November sun. An arm or leg hung out of some of the
wrecks, painted in deep shades of red. Alex found a rusty searchlight in the
truck and positioned it on his window. The painted pentagram appeared every
hundred feet on the sound walls.
Twice in the first ten miles on 271 military vehicles sped
past them going the opposite direction, but neither bothered to communicate or
stop the renegade Humvee. John slalomed through the abandoned cars at seventy
miles an hour until he approached the intersection of 271 and route 480.
There, the 480 westbound looped around and underneath 271. At the point of the
bend, a massive pileup, dozens of cars, stretched across all three lanes. John
slowed their vehicle to a stop, killed the engine, and let the head lights
illuminate the grisly scene.
Both men stared into a wall of twisted, charred metal.
Blistered paint bubbled on panels of steel, making the cars look like the scaly
skin of a dragon. Doors flung aside revealed darkened interiors where people
once talked, laughed and sang together on the way to work or home from a
party. Alex got out and stood next to John. They looked to the right side of
the metal mountain at an opening extending three feet in width.
“There. Can we force our way through that?”
John put his hand over his forehead and squinted.
“Maybe. Let’s see if it’s open through to the other side.
If it is, we can get a running start.”
The men walked closer. They put their arms up to their face
as the unmistakable scent of burnt hair forced the men to pause and cough.
Alex stepped down and picked up a pink teddy bear dressed as a ballerina. One
eye had fallen out and the bear had dried blood on its foot. Alex
able to identify our gathering place. We are the Sons of Liberty, and we will
take this country back. Please find your way to our base. Drive, walk or
crawl and bring any that wish to resist the Covenant. Find the Temple of Doom
where the sun sets on the Old West. This is where we gather.
“This message will repeat for as long as the Covenant cannot
find the broadcasting tower. We are not ready to die under ‘God’s hand’. This
is our country and we will fight for it to our dying breath.”
John pulled the truck to the side of the road, and killed
the engine and the lights. They reached an on-ramp to route 271.
“I know where they are.”
“The Jigsaw Saloon?”
“Has to be. ‘Temple of Doom where the sun sets on the Old
West’. The Jigsaw is on the west side and books stoner rock and doom bands all
the time.”
“What were the chances that two stoner-rock fans end up in
this together?”
John smiled.
“How do we get there?” Alex asked.
“If we take the highway, we’re less likely to stick out,
especially at seventy or eighty miles an hour. But of course, if we are
recognized, all they need to do is block the highway ahead and we’re toast.”
Alex looked at John, looked at him truly as a person rather
than a patient, took a good long look for the first time.
“They were calling you ‘John the Revelator’. Apparently
they think you’re some Pope-approved leader of the new apocalypse.”
John nodded.
“I guess if I were part of the Church I’d understand what
the hell that means, but for now, we need to keep moving.”
Alex shrugged his shoulders with indifference.
“You’re behind the wheel.”
John brought the greasy diesel engine to life. Exhaust
fumes snuck into the cab, delivering the bitter taste of fossil fuels. They
took deep breaths from the windows and staved off the nauseous attack. John
accelerated down the ramp and onto 271. Corpses of cars were piled seven high
on each shoulder, reaching the top of the sound barrier. From above, the scene
looked as if a child had been playing with Matchbox cars and stacked them when
he was done. Black skid marks snaked across the pavement, even in the dim
light of the fading November sun. An arm or leg hung out of some of the
wrecks, painted in deep shades of red. Alex found a rusty searchlight in the
truck and positioned it on his window. The painted pentagram appeared every
hundred feet on the sound walls.
Twice in the first ten miles on 271 military vehicles sped
past them going the opposite direction, but neither bothered to communicate or
stop the renegade Humvee. John slalomed through the abandoned cars at seventy
miles an hour until he approached the intersection of 271 and route 480.
There, the 480 westbound looped around and underneath 271. At the point of the
bend, a massive pileup, dozens of cars, stretched across all three lanes. John
slowed their vehicle to a stop, killed the engine, and let the head lights
illuminate the grisly scene.
Both men stared into a wall of twisted, charred metal.
Blistered paint bubbled on panels of steel, making the cars look like the scaly
skin of a dragon. Doors flung aside revealed darkened interiors where people
once talked, laughed and sang together on the way to work or home from a
party. Alex got out and stood next to John. They looked to the right side of
the metal mountain at an opening extending three feet in width.
“There. Can we force our way through that?”
John put his hand over his forehead and squinted.
“Maybe. Let’s see if it’s open through to the other side.
If it is, we can get a running start.”
The men walked closer. They put their arms up to their face
as the unmistakable scent of burnt hair forced the men to pause and cough.
Alex stepped down and picked up a pink teddy bear dressed as a ballerina. One
eye had fallen out and the bear had dried blood on its foot. Alex
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