Dark Blue Monstropolis

The tunnel, wide enough to allow for large service vehicles, dipped down to what must have been the first sub-level of I-75 and then began to slant back upwards again. The four walked in the middle of the space.

Argo noticed that they had sealed off the rest of the sub-level, which was for the best. If you grew up anywhere near an interstate that was still standing, you couldn’t help but go exploring. He had heard some of the old stories about how people used to believe that houses could be haunted. His friend Rik had even found half of a shit-quality video on a simputer–some television special on the subject.

Interstates were easy replacements. When the Exodus happened, most interstates were positively packed with vehicles, the slower ones going in excess of eighty miles an hour on the higher levels. When everything Heavy decided to get the hell out–either in one way or another–the passengers in these vehicles found themselves travelling in a system that was no longer smart enough to maintain the three-foot safety space between each vehicle. These were people, of course, who didn’t have implants which had already committed suicide deep within their skulls, taking most of their involuntary physical systems down with them.

As a result, the interstates were a graveyard of twisted metal guaranteed to make children piss themselves, nowhere moreso than below the ground. The lower levels were self-contained and designed for those making the long haul cross-continent. You could drop down and push your speed up to two hundred miles an hour easy. You could take a nap and let your vehicle drive itself, waking you up just to inform you that your destination was coming up at the next exit. If you could get down to such a level, you could easily find crumpled vehicles still carrying the jumbled and fractured skeletons of their occupants. The meat was all long gone, of course, and very seldom did you find anything other than fragments, but it was an experience you never forgot.

The ten-year-old Argo had managed to get a door open on one moss-covered grayish-green vehicle, only to have what must have been three skeletons tumble out and become dust at his feet. In the light from his electric torch, he saw that the upper half of a skull’s face had remained intact, with both of the empty sockets staring up at him…

Argo shook his head. No need to keep thinking about that.

He did wonder absently if anyone still thought about haunted houses anymore. He thought probably not.

The whole world’s fucking haunted now, he told himself. Why bother?

As they started up the slope, Argo heard a pinging coming from his pack. He reached back, slipped on his visor and saw that his firewall was holding steady, but being positively savaged. A quick glance to Mayster showed the same thing happening there.

Welsh was watching them both, one eyebrow cocked, smiling. “Firewalls, right?”

Argo nodded.

“Well, they should be fine for the short haul,” he said. “We’ll upgrade you when we get home. That way it’ll go from denial of service levels to a dull roar. But you never get rid of it.” He spied a piece of masonry lying in the dust and snatched it up. As he placed it in his left trenchcoat pocket he remarked, “Some of it’s just Sneakernet traffic and harmless. Most of it’s spam, though. Just for fuck’s sake don’t accept any pop-ups or attachments if anything gets through.”

At the end of the tunnel was a large metal door with a ring in the center of it.

“Well, boys,” Welsh said, “welcome to civilization. Or the closest thing we could approximate.”

Then he pulled the door open and the lights came streaming in.