Rain hammered the bluff face like gunshots. Arlen pressed deeper into the shallow cave, water streaming from his jacket. The horses stood miserable under the overhang, ears pinned back against the storm.
Joel appeared in the cave mouth, rifle first. He scanned the darkness, then lowered the weapon. Water dripped from his beard.
"Trail's washed out," he said.
Arlen spread his gear across the dry stone. "Storm'll pass."
"When?"
"When it passes."
Joel propped his rifle against the cave wall. Pulled out his revolver and began fieldstripping it without comment. The clicks and whispers of metal on metal filled the space between them.
Arlen hung his lantern from a rock outcrop. Drew his maps from their waterproof case. The paper crackled as he unfolded the largest sheet—a hand-drawn survey of the southern approach. He traced their route with one finger, marking corrections in the margins.
Thunder rolled across the canyon. Joel's hands never paused on his weapon.
"Creek's running high," Arlen said, more to fill the silence than inform.
"I noticed."
The revolver came apart in practiced motions. Cylinder. Frame. Trigger assembly. Joel cleaned each piece with a torn cloth, his movements automatic.
Arlen sketched new contour lines around a rockfall that hadn't existed on his original map. The familiar weight of pencil in his fingers steadied him. Maps didn't lie. Maps didn't change their minds.
"You always draw when you're nervous?" Joel asked.
"I'm not nervous."
"Right."
Rain drummed harder. Arlen folded away the survey, pulled out a tactical map of the cache area. Blank spaces marked unknown terrain. Question marks dotted the margins—routes he'd never verified, shelters he'd only heard described.
Joel reassembled his revolver in reverse order. Each piece clicked home with mechanical precision. "What made you walk away from FEDRA?"
Arlen's pencil stopped moving. "Who says I walked away?"
"Tommy. Said you defected."
"Tommy talks too much."
Joel spun the cylinder, checked the action. Satisfied, he holstered the weapon. "Route goes bad, convoy dies. That about the size of it?"
The cave walls pressed closer. Arlen kept his eyes on the map, sketching meaningless revisions. "You ever look at a map and see every wrong choice screaming back at you?"
"No."
"Then you don't understand."
Joel was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke again, his voice carried no heat. "I understand plenty."
---
The storm eased near midnight. Rain became drizzle. Wind died to whispers.
Arlen sat against the cave wall, knees drawn up. The cold had settled deep in his bones. Joel hunched over a small camp stove, heating water for instant coffee.
Arlen pulled a flask from his pack. Half-empty, bronze-colored, dented along one side. He unscrewed the cap, took a careful sip, then held it toward Joel.
Joel looked at the offering for a long moment. "What is it?"
"Whiskey. Real whiskey."
"From where?"
"Does it matter?"
Joel accepted the flask, tipped it to his lips. His eyebrows rose slightly. "That's... good."
"Jackson trader. Cost me three days' wages."
"Why share it?"
Arlen reclaimed the flask, took another sip. The alcohol burned away some of the chill. "Cold night."
They passed the flask between them. Neither spoke for several minutes. The horses shifted restlessly under the overhang. Water dripped from the cave mouth in steady rhythm.
"Woman in a convoy used to hum under her breath," Arlen said finally. "Couldn't carry a tune to save her life. Did it anyway."
Joel stared into the darkness beyond the cave. "They never stop humming."
"What?"
"Nothing."
The flask passed again. Joel held it longer this time, rolling the metal between his palms. "What happened to her?"
"The woman? Wrong route. Wrong intel. Wrong everything." Arlen drew his knees closer. "My fault."
Joel handed back the flask without drinking. "You can't map around everything."
"I can try."
Thunder rolled distant now, moving east. The storm was dying.
---
Dawn leaked gray light across the badlands. Arlen woke stiff and cold, his maps scattered around him. Joel was already up, checking the horses.
"Rain stopped," Joel called.
Arlen folded his maps, packed his gear. The flask sat empty in his hand—when had they finished it? He tucked it away, shouldered his pack.
Joel stood motionless near the cave mouth. His hand rested on his sidearm.
"What is it?" Arlen asked.
Joel pointed toward the muddy ground outside the shelter. "Footprints."
Arlen crouched beside the prints. Small boot, light tread. The mud held the impression clearly—maybe six hours old. Someone had approached during the storm, circled the shelter, then retreated.
"Scavenger?" Arlen suggested.
"Maybe."
Joel's eyes swept the surrounding terrain. Rock faces. Sparse trees. A thousand hiding places. "Or bait."
Arlen studied the print pattern. Deliberate steps. No drag marks. Whoever left these had moved with purpose. "They didn't approach the cave."
"Smart."
"Or cautious."
"Same thing."
They mounted the horses in silence. The trail ahead cut through broken country—scattered boulders, dry washes, stands of dead timber. Good cover for anyone wanting to remain hidden.
Joel took point again. Arlen rode ten yards behind, eyes scanning their backtrail.
The prints worried him less than Joel's reaction. The older man had shifted into full alert mode—weapon ready, senses heightened. A man expecting trouble.
*What does he know that I don't?*
---
The derelict checkpoint appeared near midday. A burned guard tower leaned against a collapsed concrete barrier. Beside it, a civilian bus lay on its side, windows blown out, rust eating through the frame.
Joel reined up short. "FEDRA?"
"Was." Arlen studied the wreckage. "Overrun maybe ten years ago."
"By who?"
"Does it matter? They're dead."
Joel dismounted, approached the bus with careful steps. Arlen followed, leading both horses.
The bus interior was gutted. Torn seats. Shattered glass. Bullet holes peppered the walls. Someone had tried to use it as a shelter—blankets rotted in the corners, empty cans scattered across the floor.
Arlen found the patch near the driver's seat. Torn fabric, maybe four inches square. The Firefly symbol had faded almost to invisibility, but the outline remained.
He pocketed the patch without comment.
Joel stood at the rear of the bus, studying something scratched into the metal wall. Names. Dozens of them, carved with knife points or bullet casings. A makeshift memorial.
One name near the bottom was barely legible: *Tess.*
Joel traced the letters with one finger. His face revealed nothing.
"Someone you knew?" Arlen asked.
Joel's hand dropped. "Maybe."
They remounted without further discussion. The checkpoint fell behind them as they climbed toward the ridge.
---
The trail crested near a runoff stream. Clear water tumbled over polished stones, the first clean water they'd seen since leaving Jackson. They stopped to refill canteens.
Joel broke the silence first. "Next time you lie, make it shorter."
Arlen capped his canteen. "Next time you follow, stay behind."
Joel studied him for a moment. Then he reached into his pack, pulled out a second canteen. Full. He held it toward Arlen.
"Emergency supply," Joel said. "In case."
Arlen accepted the canteen. The gesture caught him off-guard—not the water, but the implication. Trust. Or at least the beginning of it.
"Thanks."
Joel mounted his horse. "Don't thank me yet."
They rode forward in silence. The mistrust remained—Arlen could feel it radiating from Joel like heat from a forge. But something had shifted. A recognition, maybe. An understanding that they were both walking toward the same fire.
The cache lay somewhere ahead. Whatever secrets it held, whatever dangers it promised, they would face them together.
Not as friends. Not as allies.
But as two men bound by necessity and haunted by their own ghosts.
The pact was unspoken but understood: *We both walk toward this fire. Just don't stab me in the back before we get there.*
Thunder rumbled distant, following the storm east. The trail wound higher into the mountains, toward Salt Lake and whatever waited in the ruins.
Arlen touched the torn coordinates in his pocket. The numbers that had led him here. The numbers he couldn't remember finding.
*40.7589° N, 111.8883° W.*
Behind them, footprints in the mud marked where someone had watched them sleep.
Ahead lay the wasteland—and whatever truth it chose to reveal.