Ain't Talkin'

The remainder of the way to Sacramento was a straight shot down the 80 West. No turns, no changes in elevation and barely even any civilization along the way.

By the time Sacramento was in sight, a city appeared on the caravan’s left. Citrus Heights, the signs said it was. But somewhere after the catastrophe, during the nuclear fallout between the Russians and the Americans had seen to it that Citrus Heights was a smoldering wreck. All that was left of the buildings were steel skeletons slowly eroding away in the sand and dust and wind. The streets were chalk-lines that barely registered as anything remotely unnatural, except that they were completely straight. Nature didn’t work in straight lines. Given another ten years the entire memory of Citrus Heights might have just withered away into nothing and been forgotten by all of history.

It was all very sad. What was sadder was that Roche could not have given less of a damn.

Sacramento was on the rise. An actual city. One that hadn’t been blown to hell and wiped from the map. It was structures of still-standing wreckage that was still inhabited.

Whatever it was about Sacramento that kept people coming and staying and coming back was as well known in the East still as it was a fact here in the West. When folks tired of the world, they went West, seemed an old genetic memory of the pioneers and their manifest destiny.

The Resistance approached Sacramento slowly, with rounds chambered and eyes up.

It was the evening of December eleventh. It was time to take a couple hours rest, but wasting time was the furthest thing from Miner’s objective, and the last thing on his mind.

Pushing through Sacramento meant keeping to the 80, and avoiding the walled city all together.

Ages ago, when men had decided to remain in the city, they’d thrown up walls of rubble-stone, metal, sandbags and anything else they could lay their hands on.

Twilight only made the city gleam a little brighter. If there was ever a time that any broken, run-down city in the wastelands could look inviting it was at night. Torch light mingled with artificial light, the city still had coal and gasoline generators, enough to keep the street lamps and some of the public buildings lights on all night long. That was the way of walled cities, everyone did their piece for the sake of the city, and they got to drink at the pub all night long.

Roche let his gaze linger over the city as they rolled by along the clear asphalt of the 80 West. It had been many years since he’d visited Sacramento. Too many years to actually have kept track. Who could say how long it had been. Twenty? Fifty? Did it matter?

Within an hour Sacramento was a memory. Only the vague light pollution behind them to the north and east kept the stars from shining as brightly thataways. Trotting along on Lucky’s back, Roche swigged heavily from the handled whiskey bottle, keeping his heels down in his stirrups and his shoulders over his hips. If he caught some shuteye in the saddle his heels had at least be down, and some shuteye wouldn’t be the worst thing. The horse could follow the others. And some shuteye. . .well it might even be kinda nice.