Chapter Text
The sleet started before he'd even gotten to the rendezvous, but by then, he was on rutted old section-line roads and could turn the headlights on and stop trying to drive by the eerie green of night vision goggles.
The sounds of the half-frozen rain hissing against the glass and the swish of the windshield wipers were his only company for the moment. It didn't take long for the adrenaline rush to fade -- maybe ten miles of neck-achingly bad roads -- but even without the giddiness of mischief, he felt pretty good and knew he would until they were properly away and the exhaustion kicked in.
The truck's GPS tracking unit had been thrown out the window into some marsh long since. By Arnie's best guess, the troops had probably scrambled half-heartedly in pursuit, but would have given it up by now. That wouldn't be the case at one of the larger bases, or in more populated areas, but there had to be a certain degree of 'acceptable loss' built into the Fourth World program on the fringes, where the waste of fuel and time chasing a single truck made the response lackluster. While there was no official confirmation of that being the case, it kept playing out that way.
They tended to count on that, within reason. No single mission was the same as any other mission, and complacency could get you killed, but unless they happened to get an Ahab-type after them, it was a fair guess that the base wouldn't put themselves out in a long-running chase.
Up by the Mackinac bridge, the response would have doubtless been more harsh. Sault Ste. Marie was a guarded border crossing both ways; on the Canadian side was one of the strongest military presences that the Canadians could afford to post and on the former US side, there was a constant rotation of Fourth World battalions. Thanks to the complicated shoreline and difficulty guarding it, there was a perpetual stalemate. Both sides had heavy artillery aimed at one another, and on the Canadian side there was an air base at the old Sault Ste. Marie airport ready to scramble a handful of aging fighters at a moment's notice.
The situation up there was intense; the area was relatively free of fallout and hot spots, and because Green's people relied on the UP for clean lumber, the Mackinac Bridge was heavily defended as well. That was why ShadowKnight teams kept braving the fallout zone around Sarnia and Detroit to cross the border.
Arnie had asked Nance at one point why, when there was a wide open land border out west, that Green and Canada put so much effort into Sault Ste. Marie. Her answer had been simple: Infrastructure and protecting access to Ontario. Out further west, trying to move troops and heavy artillery on small rural roads was pointless, especially since all they could really do would be to harass farmers and the few handfuls of ranchers who had survived the war. There had apparently been some skirmishes before the western half of both sides settled into a cold war, absent some occasional saber-rattling, but no real run on it for logistical reasons.
The US's paranoia about undocumented immigrants had them fortifying their side of the border well before the war, dismantling roads and blocking off others, which ultimately made Green's job much harder after the US fell. Arnie appreciated the irony of that.
Their own flight back to Canada would be more harrowing because of it, and because the radio was much faster than pursuit or trucks, but no sense worrying about it yet.
The drive ultimately took him an hour and a half, since he had to skirt past the hydro dams on the Ausable River and avoid the main roads and small towns where soldiers or civilians could see him. Just because he could, Arnie kept the heater blasting the whole time, warming up in anticipation of having to get out and help offload cargo, then ditch the truck he'd just stolen into a lake.
Still, even knowing he was going to have to go out into the sleet, he was glad when he pulled off the slightly better road and back behind a garage on the outskirts of a small town called South Branch to find their own pickup and trailer waiting for him. An old, weak security light on the back of the garage gave them just enough illumination to see. He did a quick three-point turn on the gravel to line them up and then shut down the motor with a relieved breath out.
Not much further now.
"Right on time," the Reverend said, after they were out of their respective trucks, giving Arnie a grin as he offered over the waxed-cotton field coat that Arnie had been wearing since before he'd even been dropped into this timeline.
Arnie shrugged it on quickly, while Tom brought the sledge-hammer from the pickup and knocked the handle and lock off of the box truck. "Didn't have any trouble getting here, aside the usual whiplash of driving a box truck on bad roads. The suspension's clapped out," he said, moving to help Tom lever the door up. "Made for a rocky ride."
The Reverend went and opened up their trailer, then came back over. "You just went and stole a truck from a military base and you're complaining about the suspension on it?" the man teased, though with such a good-natured tone that it was impossible to take offense.
"Well, if I'd known it was a wreck, I could have picked a better one," Arnie shot back, shaking his head, with a bit of a grin. "Still, it'll be in the lake shortly, to rot in box truck hell for however long."
"C'mon, gimme a hand and let's get this over with," Tom said, grabbing the first crate and managing to drag it out enough for Arnie to get up on the truck and help him lift it down.
They fell quiet then as they offloaded the cargo, fitting it into the trailer like a game of Tetris. Whatever didn't fit there and in the bed of the pickup, they would leave in the garage for the insurgency down here to distribute; Adala would have someone there in the morning to retrieve it. It was a fairly well-oiled system by now; different details here or there, but the same premise.
It was halfway funny that this was the most physically demanding part of the night. As they got towards the last few boxes, Arnie's shoulders were burning and his back was getting sore, and he knew he'd be feeling it the following day. He kept fit, but it had definitely been a long night.
"Got to talk to those boys just before we came here to rendezvous," the Reverend said, resting his arm against the trailer and palming the water off of his face as Arnie and Tom transferred the last box and packed it into the bed of the truck before moving to lash down the tarp. "Will and Jim."
It almost figured that one of them had to be named Jim. Arnie didn't look up from where he was tying off the anchors for the tarp. "Oh?" he asked, mostly succeeding in sounding casual about it, though as hard as he tried, he couldn't seem to snuff the spark of hope that flared up there. Even as he was anticipating a let-down.
"Yeah." There was a kind note in the Rev's voice that made Arnie a bit uneasy, but then the man added, "They said give 'em a year, maybe two, and they'd probably take you up on that offer."
There was no guarantee they would even be alive in a year or two, especially with their audacious black-market scheme and their relative proximity to one of Green's bigger operations to their north; with their reckless courage and hope driving them, and the perceived immortality of youth. And yet, if they were--
For a moment, he thought about maybe getting to teach them some of the skills he'd picked up over all these years. ShadowKnight's aging base could use the new blood. And-- they would maybe live, maybe get to have whole lives, unaddicted and unconscripted. Maybe get to keep some of that chaotic brightness they had now.
Dangerous as it was to get emotionally invested, he wanted that for them.
"I think you impressed them," the Reverend said, smile in his voice.
Arnie finished tying off the tarp on his side. "I'd best get the truck ditched; I'll be back as quick as I can be," he said, and he wasn't quite able to stuff down a smile of his own as he turned and went to do just that.
"--looks like you'll be south of it in an hour or so," Nance was saying. "I can't get any visuals on the area you're currently in, so stay safe, but you'll be in the clear soon. Radiation check?"
"Still in the green," Tom answered, from the back seat. "I've been keepin' track, boss."
"All right. I'll see you all soon. Good work, guys."
"Thanks. MT6D, out."
Just as anticipated, the sleet had turned to snow; dawn had broken in monochrome.
After most of a pot of cold cream and some scrap rags to get the paint off his face and neck, and after some jerky and a cup of mint tea from the thermos Adala had sent along, Arnie had crossed his arms and dozed intermittently in the pick-up's passenger's seat. Whenever a pothole or some other disturbance pulled him back to the waking world, he'd glance around and make sure all was well, then rest his head back against the window and watch the snow fly past until he drifted again.
Tom calling in their status had gotten his attention, though he didn't bother picking his head up from the window. Just listened as he peered into the near-winter landscape and let his thoughts roam drowsily.
None of the snow was sticking yet, at least. And the Reverend had been a lorry driver in a past life; if anyone could drive the fully-loaded pickup truck and trailer over bad roads in the snow, it was him. It was one of the reasons the man was still in the field despite his advancing age; that, and his leadership skills.
The ride home, despite their cargo and the possibility of interception, was somehow more peaceable than their outbound trip. Even Tom was apparently feeling merciful; none of their interactions since the rendezvous had any bite to them. Arnie didn't know why they were currently under a flag of truce, but he was grateful for it anyway. This trip had been more of an emotional roller-coaster than he'd expected it to be, and he didn't really feel like trading insults right now.
So, he drifted back and forth between the snow and maybes -- maybe those boys would become ShadowKnights someday, maybe these tiny dents that ShadowKnight was putting in the body count of starvation and desperation would tip the scales the right way, maybe there was a life here somewhere -- and balanced on the tightrope that hope often was.
Still, it wasn't the worst place. Hazy, indistinct, but not the worst place to be.
"Do we have any spray paint?" he asked, the first time he'd spoken in hours, though he still didn't bother with picking his head up.
He could feel the Reverend glance over in surprise, though. "There are a few cans under your seat. Why?"
Arnie wasn't really sure how to answer that; he worked his jaw as he thought about how to explain the impulse, then after a few long moments, he only replied, "I have something I want to say."
Like Nance had predicted, they were out of the snow; the sunlight as muted as ever, south of Sarnia, and the wind had a sharp bite on it that wasn't pleasant, but the billboard blocked most of it. Thankfully, the billboard itself was low to the ground. Reaching up to add to the graffiti on it wasn't much fun after hauling crates of ration bricks between trucks, and Arnie was wincing the entire time he did, but he still made quite the effort to keep the writing as neat as he could. Spray paint was a new medium for him, but he was only going to get one shot at this. There wasn't a lot of room left, but there was enough.
Sort of like the whole world around them: Not a lot. But maybe enough.
On his wrist, his watch gave a little buzz, silent but notable against his skin; his ten-percent warning. It wasn't an urgent thing -- that would involve alarms -- but a reminder that he was pushing his yearly limit for exposure. Given Nance's seriousness about such things, this was definitely his last trip outside of any safe areas this year and probably a few months into the next year. Might as well end the raiding season on a good note.
The Reverend had been bemused but willing, when Arnie had asked they stop. Even Tom hadn't kicked up a fuss. Both of them would have been well within their rights to complain, but they hadn't. It was a whim without a whole lot of purpose; it wasn't like this was some well-traveled corridor. Even the soldiers who guarded this crossing were stationed deeper into Ontario, where Detroit's fallout wouldn't make them sick.
Eventually, though, the fallout would decay far enough to present no danger. And eventually, people might start coming this way again.
He finished adding the meticulously neat letters and then stood back for a moment rolling his right shoulder, debating on how to sign it. Obviously, signing it with anything related to ShadowKnight was a bad idea; he knew they had various symbols throughout Toronto directing people to aid, but none of those were easily tied back to them as an organization. But just leaving the words unsigned didn't seem right, either.
When he hit on it, he grinned a lopsided little grin to himself and reached up again, carefully sketching the outline and then filling it in. Once satisfied, he headed back to the truck, stuck the cap back on the spray paint and rolled the can back under the seat as he buckled up. "Thanks."
"That's a bleak presumption, that first half," the Reverend said, gravely, though the man's eyes were smiling anyway.
"I'm still an atheist," Arnie answered, shrugging.
"I like it," Tom said thoughtfully, after a beat, leaning up enough to snap a shot of it on the phone. Once he'd done that, he added, "Nice work, Ghost."
Arnie blinked in surprise at the fist that was offered over the back of the seat; it took him a few seconds to recognize the gesture, but when he did, he reached across himself to knock his knuckles against Tom's, then settled in for the ride to the checkpoint as the Reverend pulled them back onto the road for Toronto.
Behind them, the sign receded into the distance, its newest addition in bright red...
GOD MIGHT BE GONE, BUT WE'RE STILL HERE.
...and signed with a maple leaf.
