Dark Blue Monstropolis

The border to the Atlantic Union was never supposed to be I-75. For that matter, there was never supposed to be an Atlantic Union. Until the Exodus, the thought that the United States of America–which had weathered many threats, both internal and external–might one day collapse virtually overnight was fairly laughable.

But it had, and something had to be done to keep the riff raff out of what had risen in its place. And there weren’t many other eight-story structures running the length of the continent to fall back on. Thus, I-75 found its second life.

As the van tottered east, eventually the interstate became visible. This was nothing new to any of the vehicle’s passengers. Threnody and Welsh had come from here, of course, and Argo and Mayster had both seen I-75 before–at least this side of it.

Both of them, as kids, had wandered far and wide, spending as much as a week travelling out of Indianapolis in all directions. The dojo where Mayster had studied had been built inside a collapsed ramp structure several miles north of here.

What they had not done before, however, was what Welsh did: drive right up to the gate. Two guards, both lizardmen, stood watch. A small ramshackle enclosure sat against the wall of the interstate, underneath the faded red and blue shield that still bore the weathered numbers “75.” Next to it sat a large pile of what looked to be compost and other junk. Argo thought to himself that the stench from that area must be nearly visible.

One of the guards made his casual way over. Lizardmen were a perfect fit for this job: strength and love of heat all in one package. This one had stripped to the waist, wearing only a pair of beaten khaki shorts.

“Welsh,” the guard said, “took you damn long enough.” He nodded to Threnody in her place on the passenger side, then looked in the back to see Argo and Mayster. “These your guys?”

Welsh nodded, “That’s them.”

Lizardman nodded again. “Mind if they step out so we can check them for their shots?” He gave a shrug. “You know I gotta.”

Welsh smiled, “Mickey, I would never dream in standing in the way of your job.” He leaned back. “Gentlemen, Mickey here is just going to check you out. No worries.”

The door slid back and Argo and Mayster stepped out. As they did, there was the sound of a gunshot careening off the interstate. A small puff of dust indicated where the bullet had hit. Argo and Mayster winced, ducking. No one else seemed to pay any heed.

Another lizardman came out of the shack and called out, “Welsh, you bastard. You said you’d just need my van for just a day.” This one was wearing a pair of black shorts and sunglasses. The orange lenses looked strange on his face.

“I’m good for it, Geoff, you know I am,” Welsh called back. “Quit your bitching.”

Mickey, in the meantime, had pulled out a small device and asked Argo and Mayster to offer up their wrists. “This is going to feel odd,” he cautioned, “but it’s harmless. Just checking to make sure you’re not carrying anything nasty inside with you.” He pushed it against the inside of Mayster’s wrist first, and Mayster’s eyebrows went up.

Argo was next and as the device began humming against his wrist, another gunshot rang off the concrete structure behind them, far high and to the right. He tried to duck but Mickey put a restraining hand on him. “No, no, don’t jerk around–it’ll screw up the reading.”

Mayster looked around at them. “Um, are we being shot at? Or is it just me?”

Welsh chuckled. “I was wondering that myself. I thought the mosquitos out here must be huge and pissed off.”

Geoff strode over, his tail dragging behind him, “We were waiting for your ass to get back. I forgot I left Betty in the cargo hold.”

Mickey let go of Argo’s wrist. “You’re good. You’re both good. Thanks for your patience.” He gave a salute with the device and slipped it away again.

Another gunshot, this one pounding against the roof of the shack.

“What a dumbass,” Geoff remarked, pulling open the back of the trawler.

“Who?” Argo asked.

“Every once in a while some idiot will find a rifle in the Bowl and decide to start taking potshots at us,” Mickey remarked as another gunshot screamed into the concrete about thirty feet up. “Usually it’s some asshole who got denied entry. Normally we take them out pretty quickly but this guy’s a ways out. We don’t have the range on anything here to get him and we’re not about to get close enough to let his aim improve. Because at this range, he sucks big time. So we needed Betty.” He jerked a thumb towards Geoff. “But numbnuts over there left her in the van.”

Geoff grumbled something under his breath, felt around in the hold and knocked twice, hard, against the metal floor.

Mayster looked out and shielded his eyes a bit. “How long has been doing this?”

Mickey shrugged. “Sixteen, eighteen hours. He doesn’t get bored easily, apparently.”

Mayster considered. “Not much else to do out there, though.”

Mickey smiled. “Point taken.”

Geoff came out from behind the trawler with Betty. Welsh got out of the van to take a look himself.

“Betty is gorgeous,” Welsh commented, whistling.

“What is it?” Argo asked, “Fifty caliber?”

Welsh nodded his head before Geoff could answer, “Oh yes. My friend, this is a Barrett M99. Anti-personnel with unbelievably sweet range. Kicks like a son of a bitch but it’s all right if you know what you’re doing. May I?” Welsh held out his hands.

Geoff handed Betty over, beaming with pride of ownership.

Welsh hefted the weapon and turned it over, its slate black metal gleaming in the sunlight. “You don’t see many of these anymore. Especially not in this good a shape.”

Geoff nodded out towards the Bowl, “We keep Betty around to deal with mosquitos like that jackass.”

Welsh considered for a moment. “May I?”

Geoff looked at Mickey. A shot rang high off of the wall behind them and they both shrugged. “Go for it,” Geoff said.

Mickey brought a pair of binoculars from the shack and handed them to Welsh, who had extended Betty’s bipod and laid it down on a chunk of concrete that appeared to have been set up for just such an occasion. Welsh nodded thanks and then scanned the distance. “There’s the son of a bitch,” he breathed. “I make him about sixteen hundred yards out. The sun’s winking off of his scope.”

“He’s shooting like this with a scope?” Mayster asked.

“See? What a jackass,” Geoff remarked.

Welsh handed the binoculars to Geoff who trained them on the target. Welsh then setup Betty on the chunk of concrete, crouched behind the gun, leaned into it and took aim. He looked up after a moment at Argo, who was standing five feet to one side of the muzzle. He motioned for Argo to step back. “The shock might hurt if you stand there,” Welsh explained.

Argo did not need to be told twice.

Welsh crouched down again, and after three seconds, squeezed off the round, bracing for the recoil. In the boxed in area by the interstate the sound was like a thunderclap.

Welsh looked up at Geoff who gave a thumbs up after a second. “Mosquito swatted. Nice shot.”

Welsh smiled. “Thanks for letting me use your Betty.”

“Well,” Geoff smiled, “she’s an easy girl, but we love her out here.”

They walked back towards the interstate. The guard by the gate opened it up for them to pass through. Argo and Mayster grabbed their gear while Threnody finally stepped out of the van. She carried a rucksack over one shoulder.

Mayster looked at the guard and nodded over towards the heap of trash. Argo had been right, it was pretty rank now that the wind had kicked up. “What’s the deal with the above ground sewage?”

The guard grinned. “Attracts rats,” he said simply. And then when Mayster gave no reaction he grinned more broadly. “Finger foods.”

Mayster nodded as Threnody walked up to join Welsh.

“Done playing man games?” she asked him.

Welsh had drawn out a cigarette and now lit it. “For the moment.”

“Can we go now?” she asked.

“But of course,” he grinned and blew smoke from his nostrils.

“Good,” she said, a smile sneaking in at the corners of her mouth.