I remember the wolves in the timber...
“What the fuck is the purpose of Ohio, anyway?”
It’s already been a long day.
“Breadbasket,” Hobbes said promptly, stretching his neck. It had been god-awful sticky summer heat the past few days and he felt like he hadn’t showered in months. They’d spent the better part of the summer driving across the midlands, chasing one dead end after another, ending up where they’d started over and over again. ‘Think of this as a break, a vacation’ Hobbes told himself, hoisting himself over a tree that had fallen across the path. Pinocchio had said the smell from the engine was nothing, and for once, Pinocchio had been wrong. That in itself was no little thrill. Now they were chasing after car parts instead of Santiago’s men. No one had tried to kill them in days.
Possibly, this should have been taken as a sign.
“Fucking fields, fucking forest. This place this boring in the real world, Hobbes?”
Hobbes didn’t bother answering. Sometimes with Mike, it was better not to. Now, Hobbes just whistled at Dexter to keep up with them as they made their way slowly through the badlands about two hours north of where Cleveland should have been. This part of the Realm more or less looked like it hadn’t ever been touched by human hands, slow hills and distant mountains and no sign of Santiago anywhere. Mike’s informant had sworn there was a junkyard up here somewhere. Cars and parts for acres, is what he had said.
“Maybe we should just pick up a new ride,” Hobbes said.
“Hey, yeah, how about I eat your dog and replace it with a miniature fucking poodle?”
“Fair enough,” Hobbes muttered, shouldering the MP5K as they came up on an innocent looking clearing where the grass had grown waist high. They’d found old tire marks from Republican Jeeps not far from here. Mike stopped behind him, hesitating. That other field, already two years ago, had looked innocent too.
”We’ll go around the edges,” Hobbes said. He didn’t have to turn around to know the look that Mike was giving him, gun in hand, eyes rolled, god what an idiot frown.
“What are you laughing at?” Mike muttered.
“If I say you, are you gonna ask me if you look like a clown to me and shoot me in the head?”
“At least one of those.”
Now he was laughing. They hadn’t had much time for that lately. They’d been getting closer to Santiago all summer, but all that meant was that Santiago was that much closer to them. The world was such a damn, dangerous place. With a guilty shock, Hobbes realized he hadn’t even thought of home in weeks.
“Hey, you hear that?”
“What?”
For a second, Mike didn’t say anything, but out of the corner of his eye Hobbes saw light reflecting off something in the bush ahead of them and Mike cursed, “Shit, they’re -”
That was when the first shots were fired, not fifty yards away. It was always like this, muscle memory and the world turning loud and slow. Hobbes could clearly see bullets hitting the dirt-dry trail by Mike’s feet, sending up little puffs of dust and Mike was screaming “Sniper! Fucker set us up. Get down, Hobbes! Get the FUCK down.”
Hobbes didn’t listen. Hobbes never has. He swung the semi down off his shoulder, lined up the sight, and - shit - sputtered when Mile kicked him hard in the breast bone, driving the wind out of him and knocking him down the bramble and pricker strewn hill at his back.
”I fucking TOLD you,” he could hear Mike yelling over the sound of his graceless, ass-over-teakettle fall down the hill. Hobbes had just about enough time to think, “fucker,” with fervor before he rolled through something with spines the size of his thumb and then it hit him. Going through a glitch always felt like full body pins-and-needles and just a touch of blue around the edges. Hobbes rolled through the hole in the program cursing and got a mouthful of fine, white sand.
“What the…” he gasps. Beside him, Dexter cocked his head expectantly before making a sound that was a canine equivalent of Pinocchio’s eye roll. He took off down a near by path without so much as a backward glance.
“Dexter! Goddammit.” Spitting sand, Hobbes got to his feet, gun still drawn. “Mike?” He waved his hand in front of him, jabbing his gun forward into the empty air, grasping for the glitch.
“Pinocchio! God damnit, what the hell is this?”
It’s already been a long day.
“Breadbasket,” Hobbes said promptly, stretching his neck. It had been god-awful sticky summer heat the past few days and he felt like he hadn’t showered in months. They’d spent the better part of the summer driving across the midlands, chasing one dead end after another, ending up where they’d started over and over again. ‘Think of this as a break, a vacation’ Hobbes told himself, hoisting himself over a tree that had fallen across the path. Pinocchio had said the smell from the engine was nothing, and for once, Pinocchio had been wrong. That in itself was no little thrill. Now they were chasing after car parts instead of Santiago’s men. No one had tried to kill them in days.
Possibly, this should have been taken as a sign.
“Fucking fields, fucking forest. This place this boring in the real world, Hobbes?”
Hobbes didn’t bother answering. Sometimes with Mike, it was better not to. Now, Hobbes just whistled at Dexter to keep up with them as they made their way slowly through the badlands about two hours north of where Cleveland should have been. This part of the Realm more or less looked like it hadn’t ever been touched by human hands, slow hills and distant mountains and no sign of Santiago anywhere. Mike’s informant had sworn there was a junkyard up here somewhere. Cars and parts for acres, is what he had said.
“Maybe we should just pick up a new ride,” Hobbes said.
“Hey, yeah, how about I eat your dog and replace it with a miniature fucking poodle?”
“Fair enough,” Hobbes muttered, shouldering the MP5K as they came up on an innocent looking clearing where the grass had grown waist high. They’d found old tire marks from Republican Jeeps not far from here. Mike stopped behind him, hesitating. That other field, already two years ago, had looked innocent too.
”We’ll go around the edges,” Hobbes said. He didn’t have to turn around to know the look that Mike was giving him, gun in hand, eyes rolled, god what an idiot frown.
“What are you laughing at?” Mike muttered.
“If I say you, are you gonna ask me if you look like a clown to me and shoot me in the head?”
“At least one of those.”
Now he was laughing. They hadn’t had much time for that lately. They’d been getting closer to Santiago all summer, but all that meant was that Santiago was that much closer to them. The world was such a damn, dangerous place. With a guilty shock, Hobbes realized he hadn’t even thought of home in weeks.
“Hey, you hear that?”
“What?”
For a second, Mike didn’t say anything, but out of the corner of his eye Hobbes saw light reflecting off something in the bush ahead of them and Mike cursed, “Shit, they’re -”
That was when the first shots were fired, not fifty yards away. It was always like this, muscle memory and the world turning loud and slow. Hobbes could clearly see bullets hitting the dirt-dry trail by Mike’s feet, sending up little puffs of dust and Mike was screaming “Sniper! Fucker set us up. Get down, Hobbes! Get the FUCK down.”
Hobbes didn’t listen. Hobbes never has. He swung the semi down off his shoulder, lined up the sight, and - shit - sputtered when Mile kicked him hard in the breast bone, driving the wind out of him and knocking him down the bramble and pricker strewn hill at his back.
”I fucking TOLD you,” he could hear Mike yelling over the sound of his graceless, ass-over-teakettle fall down the hill. Hobbes had just about enough time to think, “fucker,” with fervor before he rolled through something with spines the size of his thumb and then it hit him. Going through a glitch always felt like full body pins-and-needles and just a touch of blue around the edges. Hobbes rolled through the hole in the program cursing and got a mouthful of fine, white sand.
“What the…” he gasps. Beside him, Dexter cocked his head expectantly before making a sound that was a canine equivalent of Pinocchio’s eye roll. He took off down a near by path without so much as a backward glance.
“Dexter! Goddammit.” Spitting sand, Hobbes got to his feet, gun still drawn. “Mike?” He waved his hand in front of him, jabbing his gun forward into the empty air, grasping for the glitch.
“Pinocchio! God damnit, what the hell is this?”