Ain't Talkin'

From the peak of the mountains Roche could see the valley of the California basin slipping out towards the ocean. The highest point of the 80 West trailed off downwards and rambled through the remaining mountains. Roche could see now the point in taking the 80 rather than another route. They spent less time in the mountains, it was less direct, and probably took longer, but the mountains had the possibility of rock slides, washed out roads and broken trails. Roche had forgotten what it was to have to worry about such things. In his world the clock was never ticking or running out. Time was a novelty that he didn’t appreciate, distance and difficulty could be passed by slipping through the white, or just walkin’ and walkin’, you got there eventually. Been a long time. And now it seemed time was something Roche would have to keep tabs on. Though how much or how little he had was anyone’s guess. So it didn’t really bear to think about, did it?

The hunter had ridden ahead a mile to reach a vantage point. Two soldiers on synthetics - clicky, awful, mechanical beasts - came up behind him, checking the road with binoculars.

“Look clear enough for you boys?” Roche asked, flipping open his lighter with a metallic sound and lighting a smoke.

“Small choke point about seven, . .eight miles up, caved out road. Might be a little tight for the bigger transports, but we send them over last and we’ll be fine.”

“Briggs, right?” Roche recognized the soldier.

“Yeah. You’re the walker?”

“As if that wasn’t a common-knowledge fact.”

“Sorry. Meant no disrespect.” The soldier got smart real quick and wheeled his synthetic around, followed closely by the second uniform. Roche guessed he must give off an I-don’t-wanna-chit-chat vibe. Oh, well.

Roche spurred Lucky with a squeeze of his bootheels. The mare nickered and walked on, well ahead of the Resistance caravan and making good headway through the remainder of the Sierra’s into the basin where New San Fran waited.