Between the Quiet

Date: 9.8.2224

Location: I-10 East | Between Winnie and Beaumont, Texas

Today felt longer than the miles I walked.

The interstate stretched ahead in broken ribbons of concrete, cutting through marshland that has long since reclaimed what people once fought to build. There wasn't much to hear today. No traders. No gunfire. No Brahmin bells. Just insects, birds I couldn't name, and my own boots reminding me that I was still moving.

Funny how silence works.

When danger is close, the mind narrows. Water. Shelter. The next meal. The next mile.

When nothing happens...

Everything else catches up.

Dalton's house stayed with me.

A note on a refrigerator. Baseball cards in a shoebox. A bus ticket that was never used.

Funny how a stranger's family can remind you how much you miss your own.

Mama.

Darryl.

Naomi.

Jalen.

I wonder if anyone ever came back looking for me.

The radio signal is stronger today.

The static is thinning out. Brass pushes through every few miles, cleaner than before. Not music. Not interference.

There's a repeater... or a radio tower... somewhere ahead.

Whatever's transmitting, the signal is active.

Late this afternoon I came across an old roadside clinic. A RobCo Protectron stood outside the entrance, rusted nearly beyond recognition. One eye was dark. The other still burned amber.

As I approached, it came alive.

Protectron: "Citizen... medical assessment available... please remain still..."

It rolled toward me before one wheel locked.

A scanner swept across my body.

Protectron: "Multiple abrasions detected... dehydration probable... medical assistance recommended..."

"I'm alright."

The robot paused.

Protectron: "Medical assistance... declined..."

Its optics flickered.

Then flashed red.

Protectron: "Threat... detected... initi..."

The words broke apart.

Its arm twitched once.

The speaker crackled.

Protectron: "...I'm... sorry... Dave..."

Its head lowered.

Silence.

"...Who's Dave?"

The machine kept its answer.

I sat beside it and opened a can of Cram.

Cold.

Salty.

Still edible.

The signal grows stronger.

The road grows quieter.

Tomorrow...

Beaumont.

— Big Chief Mike Marcel