Shepherd

THIRTEEN

The road had become too familiar. The grey, cracked ribbon of death grinned every quarter-mile as time came and went, passing the seemingly endless void between themselves and the Canadian border. In truth, the journey hadn't taken as long as Shepherd had anticipated and he hoped that that was a good thing. Having Martha babble on next to him as the I-15 rolled away under his wheels was a help to the reluctant hands of the clock. Deep down he knew that it'd been too easy so far. Even the loss of the other drivers to negligence and attack hadn't fooled him into thinking the hard work was done. On the contrary – as the border at Sweetgrass came into view, he knew that his own battle was about to begin.

"Here we go," he said both to himself and to Martha as she leaned forward to see better.

"Oh fuck," she groaned.

Up ahead the narrow lanes leading to the concrete checkpoints were choked. A single road with wrecked cars and trucks formed a deadly bottleneck to the one opening into Canada. There the lone maple leaf of the country's flag was defaced with black spray paint and above were the words 'DEATH TO ALL'.

"How welcoming," said Martha with a tremor in her voice.

"Looks like it's down to us now," he said. "Nobody else got through."

"How do you know?"

"Because that gate ain't big enough for this trailer."

"What do we do?"

"We stop."

Shepherd brought the rig to a halt near the car park with its low grey walls and shut off the engine. Above the sky was overcast with only a few splashes of blue to break up the miserable canopy. The sun was nowhere to be seen, perhaps only as some vague warm spot behind a wall of dust and ash.

He waited. The rig settled beneath him as hot metal and boiling oil began to sigh with relief. He could see nothing in the cameras, nothing on the rooftops or in any of the windows. The place appeared to be dead, void, and empty.

"Well?" she whispered.

"We wait," he replied. Then, climbing out of his seat, he found the rifle and the ammunition and began loading a chest rig. He shrugged out of his sweater and put it on, tightening up the clips and straps until it fitted him better. On his thigh he buckled a pistol holster and loaded a Glock 19, sliding it into the rig and adding three extra magazines. Then, unlocking a compartment under the sink with a key from his pocket, he dragged a metal case into the middle of the kitchenette and took from it a SPAS 12 auto-loading shotgun.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" cried Martha. "Are you going to war?"

"Yes," he replied, adding a bandoleer of red cartridges to his gear. Then, loading up the shotgun, he took both it and the rifle and made for the door.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"Outside. Stay here and keep the door locked. If I don't come back, you still have the pistol, right?"

"Yeah."

"Use it."

"I'm no fighter, Shep."

"It's not to defend yourself with, Martha."

She gasped and her hand clasped over her mouth. Shepherd said nothing. He gave her a final nod, unlocked the door and began to climb down the ladder. Before she closed the door behind him, he tried to smile.

"This is what I do," he said. "I'm good at it."

"I hope so, Shep. I really do."

Then he vanished and she slammed the door shut.