Decoy and Retrofit: Chapter 2

Ashcroft, crossing from the north to the south side of the Thompson River, happened to be the unofficial end of Atlas’ influence. Not that it meant much when the gang had a very mobile fleet of trucks at their disposal.

They were driving up to the bridge when Griffin whipped an arm out. He slapped his hand across Noel’s chest, catching him off-guard.

“Is that a tank.”

It wasn’t a tank–at least, not a tank the way Noel remembered them from informational videos about World War I. It looked like a Jeep, if a Jeep had been reconstructed by the hands of weapon fetishists who had survived the apocalypse. It was covered in armor plating, bolted and blow-torched into place, tagged with obnoxious Atlas logos. Every spare surface not covered with plating was adorned with armored guns, cannons, or a mobile turret.

“Noel, reverse,” Griffin said quietly, his hand pawing at Noel’s shoulder. “Reverse, now.”

Noel didn’t waste time arguing. He slammed the gearstick back, stepped on the accelerator, and they were lurching backward, swerving down the gravel path, coughing up dust and dirt.

They drove back the way they came, veering around the corner and back to the main road, away from Ashcroft. They drove in silence for ten minutes until Noel swiped his hand through his sweaty hair, and let out a massive gasp of air that he had compressed inside his chest.

“Well,” Noel sighed. “Ashcroft is out. Get the map.”

“You mean the ‘visitor’s guide to Okanogan wineries’?” Griffin asked, fisting the pamphlet inside the glovebox.

“I guess.” Noel sighed. “Just find us another crossing that’s not going to be overrun with Atlas homemade tanks.”

Silence filled the air, the truck shaking along on the uneven road, as Griffin lowered the map in his hands.

“How do you feel about Spences Bridge?” he asked.

***

The road that led into Spences Bridge went over the town’s namesake: a narrow bridge over the Thompson River. The roadblock was set up right at the bridge’s mouth, guarded by two men in body armor with hunting rifles slung over their backs.

Noel had passed through Spences Bridge before. It had been a sleepy small town five years earlier, now reinvigorated through an influx of refugees. Big cities were dangerous, and people were bringing their families to the tiny towns in the country that could be protected by barbed wire and bridges. Spences Bridge kind of fit that “safe haven” image.

Spences Bridge also hated gangs. Unfortunately for everyone involved, Noel was driving a tagged ice cream truck.

“What’s the plan?” asked Griffin. He was tying his hair back up, scraping it into a ponytail. “Were you planning to just floor it across the roadblock, or threaten them?”

Noel leaned against the upholstery, catching a glimpse of Griffin’s neck from the corner of his eye. “Preferably neither,” he said.

Griffin let out a snort. “Well, that’s not going to happen. They’re going to see the tags and turn us away unless we get the jump on them.”

Noel didn’t say anything. He was looking at Griffin, his bouncy ponytail, his beardless face, the skirt bunched around his thighs. One whole day of rolling in the dirt and sleeping in the truck hadn’t done anything to make him look different from when Noel had first caught sight of him through binoculars.

“What?” asked Griffin, glaring at Noel in a very unfeminine manner.

Noel shot him a weak smile. “Wanna try being the decoy again?”

They waited until one of the roadblock guards went for a piss before they rolled the ice cream truck forward. They got within ten meters before the other guard whipped out his hunting rifle and aimed at the windshield.

“Turn around, mercs,” he boomed. “You’re not welcome here.”

“Wait–wait a sec.” Noel whipped his hands off the steering wheel to place them on the outside of the truck. “I’m so sorry, sir, but we’re defectors,” said Noel hurriedly. “I’m looking to pass through with my wife and child.”

“Your wife and child?” the guard asked, leaning to look over Noel’s shoulder.

Noel knew what the man was seeing: Griffin sitting in the other seat, cloaked in his coat, his knees daintily together. He gently rocked a cloth bundle in his arm, cooing convincingly at a brick of C4 wrapped in a t-shirt.

With an enormous sense of satisfaction, Noel watched the guard’s expression soften.

“Is that so?” asked the guard, lowering his gun. “You kids managed to bust out with this hunk of junk?”

“Somehow,” Noel babbled breathlessly. “We took advantage of the first opportunity we had to make a break for it. We’re on our way to Vernon, my wife has family there that we’re reconnecting with.”

Noel could see over his shoulder that the other guard had come back from his bathroom break. He walked toward the truck, suspicious, but the first guard waved him away.

“Couple of kids, Kenneth. It’s all right–they have a baby with them.”

The man turned back to Noel, and gave the truck door a pat. “Well, we don’t want to hold you kids up, but we have to check the back of the truck first. You know, for inspection–”

Before Noel could consider a clever way out of this, Griffin surged from his seat, lunging over Noel’s knees and shooting out the arm that wasn’t cradling plastic explosives. He seized the inspector by his collar.

“Look, sweet cheeks,” Griffin said, his voice low enough to drop any pretense of femininity. “I’m not gonna lie, we’re heavily armed.”

The guard’s expression took about a millisecond to turn from shocked to horrified.

Well, this is great. “Griff,” Noel said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Shut up.”

Griff didn’t shut up. “We have absolutely no interest in your shitstain of a town,” he growled. “So forget the inspection unless you want this place turned into dust.”

Noel looked between the guard (terrified, agitated) and Griffin (dumb, angry) and smiled weakly.

“Look, we just need gas,” said Noel. “Ten minutes?”

***

Every eye in Spences Bridge was on them when they drove across the bridge. Noel couldn’t blame them. If he lived in a barricaded, family-friendly community, he would be concerned about the entry of an ice cream truck covered in gang signs.

He drove through slowly, watching people peek out from around corners. They were pulling their children close, hands curling around their holsters.

This was not looking good.

“That was unnecessary,” Noel said at last. “To blow the disguise like that.”

Griffin let out a noise, turning to the window. “You’re unnecessary.”

Noel gritted his teeth and kept driving.

The gas bar was located near the end of the main street, across from a grocery, an auto shop, and the derelict shell of a Burger King. Unlike most of the buildings on the street, the gas bar looked like it was in full use: the sign was in good repair, the pumps looked clean.

Noel parked the truck, leaned back in the seat, and closed his eyes.

“All right,” Noel said, massaging his eyelids. “All right. You can get gas without getting shot, right?”

Griffin whipped his head around from where he had been drawing lightning bolts on the glass. “Why?” he asked. “Where are you going?”

“Get diesel.” Noel snagged a quarter out of the cigarette tray before sliding out of the truck. “And I’m going shopping.”

“Buy me some fucking pants, then,” Griffin yelled after him.

Noel didn’t have to go shopping. He went straight across the street, right to the dilapidated Burger King. He had seen a payphone here as they’d driven in, tucked against the side wall of the building. And even though most payphones had been out of service for years, Noel had the slight suspicion that this one was working.

He peeked out from around the corner of the building. The ice cream truck was still on the other side of the street, untouched.

Noel slid the quarter into the payphone and dialed the number he knew from his sort-of-memory.

He wasn’t especially concerned that Griffin couldn’t handle himself. Griffin had been rolling with mercenary crews for a long time, as well as the army, judging by the tattoo on his shoulder. But he was different now, in a disjointed, angry way. Noel didn’t know how much he could rely on him.

Noel had promised not to do this, but he also wasn’t dumb enough to put all his eggs in one basket.

“Tourist hotline, how can we help you today?”

Noel curled in tighter against the headset. He glanced up. Griffin was slouched in the truck window, an older man was setting up the pump outside.

“Uh yeah,” Noel said, covering his mouth with his hand. “Can you put me forward to adm–”

“Press one for all about us,” the happy voice interrupted. “Press two for mission statement and goals. Press three for a local listing of all your Tourist offices and hours. Press four to speak to a representative–”

Noel aggressively jabbed the “four” button.

“All our representatives are busy at the moment. Please leave a message and we’ll get back to you as soon–”

Noel heard a gunshot.

He whipped his head back to the street. The ice cream truck was still in front of the gas bar, but Griffin was gone from the passenger window. There was a crowd of four men rushing the back of the truck, swarming like ants.

“…please leave your message after the tone.”

“NOEL!”

And that was Griffin, from the cab.

Noel slammed the receiver against his mouth. “This is for Susan Wells, aboard the Fortunesetter,” he said as fast as he could. “This is Noel Phan. Please contact me in the Outlie. I found a wardog.”

Noel dropped the phone and ran.

He could see what was happening as he charged across the road. The men around the back of the truck were struggling with the doors, trying to break into the back of the truck.

“Noel, get the fuck in here!”

Griffin was in the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel and the other on his smoking rifle, his neck craned to the back of the truck. He, of course, had been the one to fire a warning shot, but it didn’t look like it had worked. Noel leapt into the passenger seat as he heard the telltale sound of the back doors being wrenched open.

Griffin slammed the accelerator to the floor, and the truck lurched forward. They chugged down the street, Griffin yanking the gearstick into second and third, when the sound of something impossibly heavy grated against steel, screaming through Noel’s ears.

The truck bucked forward as an enormous crash echoed from the back.

Griffin slammed the breaks. “The fuck was that,” he heaved.

“Wait.” Noel was crawling over the back of the truck bench, kicking through the divider.

The back door was open. The freezer had slid completely out of the truck to shatter open on the ground five meters away from the car, ejecting the cryogenically frozen wardog into the middle of the road.

Noel stared at the dog, the small crowd gathering, and then to the completely destroyed freezer.

“Noel?” Griffin called from the cab. “What happened?”

Noel didn’t answer. He jumped out of the truck to sprint around the side, and his stomach dropped.

The crowd had formed out around the dog, people peering curiously at the alien creature lying on the road like a hunk of freezer-burned chicken being thawed for dinner. “Is this Tourist shit?” Noel heard one of the men yell, bending down to poke one of the claws with the barrel of his gun.

That was probably the moment Noel knew he had to do something stupid.

He whipped his gloves off his hands, rolled his sleeves up. “GET OUT OF THE WAY!” Noel yelled, barrelling into the crowd, his alien arm glowing like a disco ball. “OUT OF THE WAY!”

The townspeople took a single look at Noel before they were shrieking and running for safety, scattering from the street and charging away from Noel as fast as their feet could take them.

He didn’t waste a second. Noel hauled up the ice-cold, claw-endowed, lizardly creature in both arms, awkwardly hobbled backward as its massive body dragged against the ground, and heaved it into the truck.

“Drive,” Noel yelled, scrambling in after it. “Drive!”

Then they were swerving down the road, blasting through the roadblock and careening away from Spences Bridge.

Proceed to Chapter 2, page 3–>