The engine popped and sputtered as the truck bounced across the rocky wastes. Rocks, bits of metal, and some black stuff that supposedly was once used to build a road all littered the Badlands. The transport rolled right on over them, its pilot more concerned with the setting sun and, the sand in the wind, and the names coming out of the ancient radio.
"Isabella Gomez," the solemn woman in the radio continued, voice crackling and fading intermittently.
"Benedict Keeswood. Eddie Marlow. Amy Nabahe. Eduardo Sanchez. Zachary Tailor. Jaquisha White. The ashes of these twelve brave heroes will be interred tomorrow in the Canyon City Catacombs. It was only a week ago that--"The driver pressed a button, flipping to the only other channel on the radio. The chords of a soft, slow guitar rose in the air, just barely audible over the whistling wind, the noisy engine, and the mess the truck ran over as it sped across the desert. She adjusted her goggles and wiped some grime off her cheeks with a gloved hand before flicking on her one good headlight. It was getting hard to see.
Day waned. Night grew. The red sky slowly turned purple. The woman in the white truck raced the setting sun an hour longer when she finally saw the first sign of civilization: a barely visible but familiar billboard that was made illegible by the ages. She drove on.
Eventually, she came to a small, enclosed settlement nestled in a Badlands canyon, a cozy place named Second Chance. The walls were made of wood and reinforced with old tin roofs in the front. The men on watch peered on down and waved the truck on through, and she started driving on into the town, turning her music off as she did.
The canyon provided great shelter from the hell beyond its walls. The quiet conversation of soldiers around a fire was far better than whipping sand and the cold night air. One nodded to her as she drove on by, and the other stared like a man that hadn't seen a woman before. The driver nodded back and carefully maneuvered through the narrow streets until she came to a cave with a door. Smoke rose out from a chimney in the rocks. She off her truck, listened to the engine as it sputtered out a few more gasps, and then stepped out of her truck and into the cave, passing under a painted wooden sign that simply read "Beds & Booze."
Warmth greeted her, a welcome change. The cave walls sprouted a little moss. The light inside came mostly from a fireplace to the left. A few hanging lamps over the bar helped, but they flickered often. There were some tables, none of them matching, with some chairs, only a few of which were comfortable. A short series of sofas with long, plastic tables in between made booths of a sort. As for the bar, it spanned the length of the room, functioned also as a kitchen, and was manned by a short man with dusty black skin. He grinned as the woman entered.
"Diane Keyoni!" he called out, his voice overpowering the radio in the room. "My favorite customer
and the bearer of all good news! You
do have good news?"
"I've brought your rations and your booze," Diane answered, and there were several cheers, claps, and relieved laughs from the occupants of the room. Diane pulled her goggles up off her swarthy face and reached into her jacket. "I also have the mail," she added, setting a thin stack of worn out papers onto the bar. "Now, let's start unloading the-"
"Oh, no!" The bartender reached out and put a hand on the Navajo woman's arm. "
You sit on down. I'll get you a drink. Let the boys handle it."
Muttering a thank you, Diane did just that. There was a short argument between the black man and the other men in the room, but some of the workers and soldiers got on up and went out to fetch the goods. Before long, the metal barrels and wooden crates were being brought on in, and Diane had a cup of rice milk and another of
mezcal in front of her. Red corn and roasted goat were also presented, and she took that plate with a very grateful smile.
"Max," she said between gulps, "there's raiders about. I'm alone because two of my men took bullets. I left them and the medic at Fort Browning."
The smile on the barman's face turned a little flatter. "Ah. Not good news, then. Well..." He refilled her cup of
horchata just after the downed the last of the rice milk. "At least nobody died. When are you leaving?"
"Not leaving until I find wherever they're hiding." Diane grabbed the
horchata again, but didn't drink for a moment still. "They're going to hit the border towns now that you're resupplied. We need to stop them before that happens."
"Ah." That sound escaped Maxwell's lips again, and he took a seat himself. "We. So, you're drumming up our militia, then."
"It has to be done. There's maybe six or seven soldiers here besides myself, and we need to leave one of the marksmen here. If we don't..."
"I know, I know," said Max. "I just wish it wasn't happening so soon again."
"The worst of it is over," assured Diane, gulping down another mouthful of her rice milk. She wiped her mouth with her fingers. "Winter's done. Planting season is here. Once we drive these raiders off, you shouldn't be seeing many more. They'll be too busy worrying about their own crops and herds. But until then, I'm going to need every man this town has to spare, and we aren't going to finish this without a fight."
There was a pause. Max nodded. Behind him, the music from the radio was replaced by words yet again.
"Hello, my friends," it began.
"The setting sun marks the end of a season of troubles..."
"...and the beginning of one of hope. God and our ancestors have preserved us from the evils of the world yet again, long enough for us to enter a time of...""Why do you listen to that evangelist?" asked Bill's freckled friend, rubbing his face. "It's not like he ever says anything worthwhile."
"He offers encouragement, Evans," Bill answered as he studied the map on the wall. He scratched at his neck as he considered the neighboring states and the forts on the map. "People need encouragement. He's also a source of some very aggressive rhetoric, and his name has been chanted by more than one murderer."
"It's not murder in the United Pueblos," Evans reminded him, pulling the small pipe in his hand away from his mouth. He blew out smoke.
"It should be," Bill grumbled, folding his arms over his chest. "They're no less human than anyone else. They did not choose to become mutants." He turned his head and raised an eyebrow at Evans. "Peyote?"
"What about it?"
"You're smoking it."
"I'm feeling religious." Evans smiled innocently up at Bill. Bill sighed. He wouldn't chastise the President of Utah any further, but it always bothered him a little when Evans smoked peyote like that. He didn't do it for any sort of ceremonial or spiritual reason. He just wanted his high.
Bill focused his attention on the map. "Turn off the radio," he said, and was satisfied to hear a small 'click' behind him as Evans acquiesced. The Secretary General had already gone through all the important files (which were scattered across his desk) and had finished eating his dinner (and had left his plate on the end table). The room was a bit of a mess.
"We need to reopen negotiations with these nations," he said finally, tapping his cane against the map. "The ones occupying the rest of New Mexico and Arizona. The raiders coming out of Arizona represent a threat to everyone in this region, and New Mexico..."
"...is sandwiched between us and Texas," finished President Evans, tapping his foot against the floor. "They could end up suffering the brunt of someone else's expansionism."
"Which is why we should offer them a chance to join the League once again," Bigishie added. He lowered his simple wooden cane back to the floor. "We would be better off working together should Texas become aggressive. They know that and we know that."
"But they don't want to help
us should we be attacked ourselves," said Evans with a chuckle. "What is that called again? Oh, right: fair-weather friendship."
"Which is why we can't settle for less than their membership in the League."
"They always ask too high a price," Evans replied. "That won't change."
They both went silent. Evans took a long puff from his pipe of peyote, the redheaded man looking rather relaxed. Secretary General Bigishie looked toward the eastern side of the map. The tall Navajo man drummed his fingers against his arms.
"I'll send the message anyway," he decided. "And I'll send diplomats to the non-League nations in Arizona and New Mexico. And... We should keep ourselves aware of what's happening in the East."
"Why is that?" asked Evans curiously. "Are you worried about something in particular?"
"The last time we heard of Patriot's army, he was going East. He most likely won't stay there too long, and we need to be prepared for... whatever happens when he finally heads West again." Bill eyed the southern half of the coast, too. "And any wars that happen in the southeastern part of the continent may send refugees our way. Not all of them will be eager to settle peacefully."
"You talk about that Patriot fellow a lot," observed the pale President, leaning on back in his seat. "What's got you so enamored with him?"
Bill scoffed, then brought his cane in front of him and leaned on it. "Nobody knows what he wants," he answered. "Nobody knows why he does what he does. For all intents and purposes, he is both a leader of refugees and the commander of an army. He and his people must be desperate, and might be a little mad." Bill paused, then sighed. "I am both scared of him and for him. What more can I say?"
"Well," began Evans slowly, a grin creeping up his face, "you
could always ask him on a date."
Bill groaned, then walked on over to the President and snatched the pipe from the smaller fellow's hands. Pale fingers grasped wildly at the smoking pipe, but to no avail.
"I think you've had enough religion for the day," he told his friend as he emptied the stuff into an empty cup on his desk. "And we both have a lot of work ahead of us tomorrow."
"Spoilsport," grumbled a very resigned Mr. President.
