The following seven or eight days in Cinder Town unfolded for Michael with a serene, cyclical rhythm that felt almost decadent. He was, as he reminded himself, not a machine. The frantic hustle of his sales job back in the other world was deliberately put on hold. The skewed flow of time between the dimensions was a perk he'd learned to exploit; a brief pause there bought him a solid fortnight here. It was a holiday, paid for in existential strangeness.
He spent the majority of it in cultivation. The process of nurturing the Foundational Combat Aura seed in his core had become an obsession. The sensation of tangible, incremental growth—a slow-burning sun gaining mass in his belly—was profoundly addictive. More than that, the act itself was a deep, cellular pleasure, a warm immersion that made the cheap thrills of his old life seem hollow. In the quiet hours, he feared he was becoming a hermit, a monk in the faith of his own potential.
He broke his trances only for necessary appearances. He would tour the deepening well-shafts, the rhythmic thunkof picks a testament to the full-belly economy he'd instituted. He'd share a crude, laugh-filled game of 'Landholder's Poker' with Lynda and Faye, the rules scribbled on scavenged cardboard. He'd banter, he'd plan, he'd lord. It was, in its own gritty, surreal way, an idyllic interlude.
The only fly in the ointment was the scarcity of scavengers after the toxic rain. The few who straggled in carried nothing but the usual detritus. His hopes, therefore, were pinned on a scheduled event: the arrival of the fabled Hock Caravan. Its estimated window had come and gone, and each dawn brought a fresh flicker of anticipation.
On this particular morning, the equilibrium was shattered not by his own hunger, but by a sound that began as a distant murmur and swelled into a roaring wave of pure, communal relief. It surged from the central square, through the dusty lanes, and finally beat against the walls of the tavern: "THE CARAVAN! THE HOCK TRADERS! THEY'RE HERE!"
Michael, jerked from a deep meditation where he'd been visualizing his Aura as a small, diligent star, blinked owlishly. It took a full ten seconds for the meaning of the shouts to penetrate. When it did, a sharp, predatory grin split his face. Showtime.
He assembled his honor guard—John, still wan but steadier, and a dozen of his best, now looking marginally less ridiculous in their assorted promotional t-shirts and board shorts. They took position at the town's main gate, a ragged line of defiance and hope. Michael squinted into the shimmering heat-haze of the badlands.
What emerged from the mirage was less a mercantile expedition and more a traveling monument to post-apocalyptic absurdity. The Hock Caravan was a procession of corpses. A dozen vehicles, ranging from a skeletal school bus to hulking, long-nosed freight lorries, formed a lumbering line. They did not move under their own power. Each was harnessed, like a grand, mechanical plough, to a pair of enormous, shaggy beasts that resembled yaks fed on nuclear steroids. Their humped backs swayed, their hot breath pluming in the dust, as they hauled the dead weight of the Old World across the living one.
Flanking this central train of automotive relics was the real muscle. Forty-odd guards pedaled sturdy, fat-tired bicycles with a grim, mechanical efficiency. Another twenty or so perched on the roofs and hoods of the hauled vehicles. The sight of armed men on bicycles, rifles slung across their backs, should have been comical. It wasn't. The glint of well-kept steel, the casual assurance in their posture, the clear ratio of firearms to melee weapons, spoke of serious, mobile power. It was a militia on wheels, escorting a museum.
Michael's initial urge to laugh died in his throat. He issued quick, quiet orders. The town's meager defenses were to be manned, but discreetly. The message was to be readiness, not provocation.
The caravan ground to a halt fifty yards out, a respectful but firm distance. From the cab of the lead lorry, a man dropped down with the easy agility of a much younger person. He was whip-thin and leathery, his age indeterminate under a lifetime of desert sun. He wore faded blue denim trousers, a checked long-sleeve shirt, and—the detail that screamed his status—a pair of dirt-scuffed but intact Nike sneakers. In a world of rags and hides, clean, woven cotton and synthetic soles were the insignia of a king. This was Old Man Hock.
Hock's pale eyes scanned the gate, the guards, lingering on Michael. His voice, when it came, was a dry rasp that carried easily. "Where's Andrew? Has the fool finally grown so arrogant he can't be bothered to greet his suppliers? Or has the dust finally swallowed him?"
Before Michael could form a reply, Old Gimpy, seizing his moment, piped up. "Andrew's feeding the worms! The new master of the Cinder wastes, the Lord of this town, stands before you! The esteemed Harry Potter Michael!" He gestured with a flourish that was mostly tremor.
Michael, seizing the cue, drew himself up, channeling every terrible corporate middle-manager he'd ever endured. "Cinder Town welcomes the Hock Caravan," he called out, his voice steadier than he felt. "Your journey is long. Please, Mr. Hock, bring your captains in. Rest. I have… a bottle. A '82 Lafite. I'd value your opinion on its preservation." The lie about the vintage felt appropriately grandiose.
A flicker of genuine interest crossed Hock's weathered face. "Andrew's trophy bottle? I'd heard tales. Very well."
The negotiation of hospitality was itself a dance. Only half of Hock's men entered, a deliberate show of force and caution. The rest remained a vigilant perimeter around their precious, beast-drawn hulks. The rank and file were ushered into the tavern's main room, bestowed with watery gruel and broth seasoned with precious powder from Michael's instant noodle hoard.
Hock and his three most lethal-looking lieutenants were escorted upstairs to the office. Michael played the part of the generous, slightly eccentric magnate. He laid out a feast of pre-Collapse wonders: unopened packets of 'Wei-You' strips, a jar of suspiciously luminous pickled fowl feet, individual bags of dry noodle snacks. A pristine roll of toilet paper was placed with ceremony near Hock's elbow. Then, with a theatrical sigh, he produced Andrew's half-bottle of rusty-looking 'Lafite,' pouring a careful measure into a chipped but intact wine glass.
The performance worked. Hock's aura of condescending, city-slicker calm evaporated as he inspected the goods. A tiny, almost imperceptible nod sent one of his lieutenants from the room on an errand. As Hock sampled a spicy strip, his eyes closed in brief, genuine appreciation. Michael could practically hear the clink of gold coins being mentally counted.
The peace was punctured by Old Gimpy, who scurried in, wringing his hands. "My Lord, the men below… they complain the broth is weak. They thirst for more."
"Then water it down further and add another packet," Michael said, waving a dismissive hand. The cost was trivial.
Gimpy returned minutes later, more agitated. "My Lord, they grow restless. They ask for entertainment. For the girls. They want to see them dance."
Michael's jaw tightened. "Fine. The junior attendants. Not Lynda or Faye. Dancing only. Is that clear?"
The third interruption was the charm. Gimpy's face was ashen. "My Lord, they are not satisfied. They demand to know why the prime cuts—the rabbit, the fox—are withheld. They speak of disrespect."
The charade was over. This was a pressure play, crude and effective. Michael looked at Hock, who was taking a small, contemplative sip of the foul-looking wine, his eyes alive with cold amusement over the rim of the glass.
"Mr. Hock," Michael said, his voice dropping all pretense of warmth. "Will you rein in your dogs, or must I?"
Hock set his glass down with a soft clink. "Lord Michael, you must understand. Caravan guards are… simple men. Brutish. Their blood runs hot after a long trek. Even I struggle to control them at such times." He spread his hands in a mockery of helplessness. "Perhaps your own militia could… encourage order? Though, I note they seem somewhat outnumbered."
The threat was now explicit, wrapped in false sympathy. Michael saw it all: the shakedown, the demand for tribute, for preferential trade, for access. Rage, cold and clear, washed through him. He would not be bullied in his own damn town.
He turned to the open window. No grand speech. Just a name, bellowed with all the force of his new, Aura-enhanced lungs. "ZACH! FAYE! Our guests require a proper welcome!"
The response was immediate, and earth-shaking. From behind a dilapidated shack, a mountain of scarred muscle and improvised plate armor erupted. Zach the Ogre, a dented truck door strapped to his chest, a manhole cover vambrace on one arm, hefting his railway axle club, let out a basso roar that silenced the murmurs from below. He was a force of nature given form, and his single eye glowered with simple, direct menace.
But it was the sound that followed that truly changed the calculus. A deep, grinding, metallic groan, the shriek of protesting steel tracks on hardpan. From around the corner of the tavern, grinding its way into the main street with a terrifying, slow inevitability, came the resurrected Sherman tank. Old Gimpy sat proudly in the commander's hatch. The long barrel of its 76mm gun, empty but horrifically persuasive, was not pointed at anyone. It didn't need to be. Its presence was the argument.
The color drained from Hock's face, leaving his skin the colour of old parchment. He drained his glass of 'Lafite' in one gulp, the vile liquid apparently suddenly palatable. He was on his feet in an instant.
"A misunderstanding!" he declared, his voice suddenly brisk, all traces of languid power gone. "A bit of roughhousing, easily corrected. I'll speak to the men at once." He was already moving towards the door, his lieutenants falling in behind him. "We shall make camp outside the walls. A trading fair, at dusk. You will honour us with your presence, Lord Michael. I have… many interesting things to show you."
And with that, the Hock Caravan withdrew, its bristling confidence noticeably diminished. The immediate crisis dissolved, not with a bang, but with the retreating grumble of diesel generators and the soft, ominous clink of tank tracks settling into dust. Michael watched them go, the taste of cheap wine and cheaper power on his tongue. The real negotiation, he knew, was only just beginning.