SURPRISE! Not only are we back with our Winter 2025 installment of 365 INFANTRY, but yours truly is, in fact, still alive. I say that half-jokingly and half-serious as I was not expecting to spend most of December knocked off my block thanks to health problems. And I mean health problems. This past month really forced me to slow down and take care of myself, even though it kept me away from both work on 365 and other endeavors. I’ll explain more in our SALUTE THE TROOPS/QUARTERLY launch, but for now, please enjoy the latest chapter in the ongoing fight for freedom in the 25th Century. May God Bless You & This Force. - Jake C.

CATCH UP ON LAST ISSUE!

“I take it that V-twin’s our hound.”

Meeting the old, silver-tipped red mechanic Eric at the door was just the biker he’d been waiting for: Lieutenant Gibson Blanc. The tan, leather-clad soldier shook hands with his host as he entered the garage office. Same cement floor, same grated walls, same cavalcade of papers, parts, and an industrial-grade coffee machine.

“Still seeing action in these parts?” Gibson asked.

“All sorts,” the elder wolf smiled, “including actual rides to repair. Not everyone’s cut for the gearhead lifestyle. You oughta know with the amount we had to teach you.”

Gibson snickered. “Got me there in the end. It was like pulling teeth though.”

Sat at the computer desk was Valentina, hammering out the last encryption key and burning it to the disc. The soldier nodded politely as the white-furred, sandal-pawed hunter turned to meet him. To his surprise, she even smiled.

“Thank God they sent an NCO,” the jade-eyed gal nodded. “Man who earns his keep makes the better grades in my books.”

Gibson nodded again, running sandy fingers across his windswept head. “Well I try! How long till it’s finalized?”

“Long enough to sit your ass down for some of Eric’s world famous coffee.” Val winked. “I waited ten years to get my Colosseum, you can wait five minutes to get your e-vaccine.”

Eric got out another mug and filled it up while topping off his and Val’s. Gibson took a seat on one of the office racks and drank it black without a second’s thought. He regretted the scorching sensation down his throat, but it gave Valentina and Eric a good laugh.

“We were gonna get ya cream and sugar, scout’s honor.” the red mechanic soothed, patting the soldier’s knee.

“I already scared the old goat with that party trick when we first met.” Val smiled. “Make like your bitch and blow on it before you eat up.”

“If I had a credit for every time I heard that one,” Gibson recovered, shaking his head before another cautious sip. “I...shit I don’t know what I’d do, y’all barely got money out here as-is.”

“Learns fast.” Valentina winked. She swung her chair around with a sweep of her leg before continuing. “You Force boys’ll get that good moral credit after the Big Day, don’t you worry. Meanwhile me and the Pack have been collecting desert cred in just about every nook, corner and cranny. Mostly it means free drinks and a clean motel room when you’re in town.”

“With what you’ve been able to do, I’d crown you lord kings and queens with all-access passes.” Gibson smiled. “They don’t stop talking on Base about ya. And I mean the good kind, not the snotty kind.”

The white wolf shrugged. “Just doing what we can with what we got.”

“How’s everyone doing?” the tan soldier asked. “Not gonna lie, I kinda miss hangin’ with Jo and Marc.”

“Just like me,” Val replied, “holding in place.”

When she swung back around and saw Gibson’s hung head sipping in silence, she thawed herself out a bit.

“I mean it,” she grinned. “Everyone’s a-okay. Marc’s keeping busy with his beadwork and canoodling with Sabina, Jovian’s got himself a good gig up in Clayton. Me and Brennus are keeping our eyes on things from his little shack in the Red Sands. And of course, helping the old goat around here when we can, right Eric?”

The red mechanic shook his head, chuckling. “She makes it sound like I’m pushing 80 and can barely hold a wrench, don’t she?”

The rapport between the old friends made Gibson feel right at home, the three wolves relaxing with their mugs as they waited for that never-ending 99-percent on the monitor to roll over to the big 100. With enough brew coursing through them and a few anecdotes traded, that last percent came through and Valentina ejected the minidisc.

“Instructions for installation are included of course,” the white wolf began, snapping the disc into its lead-lined protective case, “but for clarity’s sake, here’s what you need to remember. When you get to each outpost, tell them they need to download this program to an off-network terminal. They download it, take over administering the anti-virus software from there, but you don’t leave that outpost without this original copy. Keep hopscotching all the way back to Base. When you reach there, this bad boy goes straight to Chief Ridgefield and no one else. I don’t know your mileage on androids, but we got a lot of electric innocents counting on this to prevent whatever the hell A.C.E.S. had planned with this hat trick. The rest is up to them steady hands of yours and all 50 of them horses between your legs.”

Gibson grabbed the concealed minidisc, placed it in his inner jacket pocket, and shook Valentina’s hand. “You can count on me, ma’am.”

Those jade eyes looked clean through the tan wolf, but again that gentle smile told Gibson he’d passed her smell test.

When the lieutenant shook Eric’s hand, he had a bit more encouragement.

“Just hit your marks, keep to the schedule, and you’ll do a-okay.” the red-furred mechanic smiled. “Good luck, soldier.”

With a playful salute, Gibson was out the door, back on his prized black bike Exciter, and thundering away for the first of the Outposts. This newsboy route was a full-day detail, and in many ways a rest cure compared to all the usual day-to-day operations. Just a nice, long ride from locale to locale, nothing but the wind, the sand, and the odd passerby in his way. Weaving within the Outpost network too would keep him sheltered from any lingering raider threats as well.

However, it would be in the stretch between his pickup and his first delivery that the course of the day would be forever altered.

En route to the first of the 300s, a peculiar black speck appeared in Gibson’s rear-view mirrors. As the speck grew–dust clouds gathering about it–more followed. For the tan wolf, he simply shifted gears and took Exciter up a notch, the black bike rocketing away from the growing ensemble of machines. They could’ve been raiders, they could’ve been a supply detail for the Force. Either way, these beasts could move, and move they did. And when they were finally coming into full view, Gibson realized they weren’t either.

Racing into view were malformed machines. Alien mutations of standard military equipment. Missile-capable trucks with half-melted turrets peppered with barrels. Jeeps stitched end-to-end with guns jutting through where drivers would sit. None were piloted, all were a half-cocked blend of camouflage green and burnt rust. These were the work of A.C.E.S., but not the A.C.E.S. of even a few months ago. There was just something dead wrong about them. And when they started firing on Gibson, the tan-furred biker was met with a ferocious display of blinding multicolored laser fire. Each Technicolor volley sent the wolf veering and swerving, huge chunks of desert soil sent flying through the air.

“C.C. to all Force frequencies in the area.” he hollered. “C.C. to all Force frequencies. Enemy machines from the west! They got that classic A.C.E.S. crazy flowing through them.”

Gibson revved up Exciter, his black beauty roaring away, waiting for a reply.

Only it didn’t come.

“C.C. to all Force frequencies, over?”

Still no answer came. Either he was too far out or something was jamming the signal. Most likely candidate: the 100-ton cavalcade stampeding towards him.

With only agility on his side, Gibson swung a hard right and went southward away from the Outpost network. While the minidisc wouldn’t be of much use if he was blown to kingdom come, it sure wouldn’t if the vaccine outpost station was either. What the tan-furred lieutenant wanted was some high ground and fast so he could better observe the bizarre contraptions and spot whatever Achilles heel was there for the taking.

In just a few miles, Gibson got his leverage; a ridge he could ride up and perch atop. He shot Exciter straight up the dusty trail and got behind two massive rocks. Still wary of the precious load on him, he didn’t drop stomach first but crouched behind the boulders. He’d put enough space between him and the strange machines to buy him the time he needed.

With a microtelephoto, Gibson began snapping pictures of the prickly military vehicles. The turrets’ spiky barrels were most puzzling, sticking out every which way like haphazard candles on a birthday cake. The melting countenance came from what looked like the worst welding job known to wolfkind or the end result of curing each infernal contraption with a blast furnace. This was most evident in the joint that bound the rears of the two Jeeps into one lunatic anti-tank machine.

At first it was hard to find what would even keep those machines alive, but that wasn’t exactly on Gibson’s mind.

“What the hell can I break on you?” he whispered to himself. “What would Chief Ridgefield break on you?”

While he didn’t have the black wolf’s encyclopedia of old-world war machines on hand, he knew enough from his prior tangos to spot certain eras. The back-to-back Jeeps were clearly from the 40s, but the turret trucks could’ve been anything from the mid-20th century.

It was while pondering those periods and his knowledge that those birthday candle guns started blasting away at the ridge. Gibson leapt back away from the rocks in shock. Quickly, he checked to make sure he hadn’t crushed the camera in all the excitement. Then a scraped hand reached inside and felt for the protective case surrounding the minidisc. Neither were worse for wear. The leather-clad soldier leapt towards Exciter, kicked her into action, and bolted away down the ridge’s other side.

This gave him another piece of information at least. They were intelligent enough to mark him from a distance, but it still wasn’t a weakness.

As Gibson sped down the trail, he mounted his twin Colt revolvers on Exciter’s handlebars. If they kept coming for him, he figured trial by fire would be his last best hope of sorting the bastards out before risking lives in the Outpost network. There was something about that minidisc tucked close to his heart that had him thinking in a way he typically hadn’t before. Less cavalier, less gung-ho. Today was about saving lives, and he was going to do that as best he could before breaking the glass and pulling that red lever of risk on everyone.

Keeping the berth wide, he looped back towards the thunderous enemy entourage. If they swung a hard turn to meet him, he’d know they were more agile than they looked. As Gibson drew closer on Exciter, it became clearer that not only wouldn’t they make that sharp turn, but they couldn’t. The truck’s malformed turrets couldn’t turn to face Gibson, and the melting rear Jeeps sat with limp, useless barrels unable to train on the tan wolf.

“Jesus, they’re rigged for full offensive use,” he realized. But then a gentle smirk split the hound’s muzzle as he readied his revolvers. “And that might be enough to get the intel I need.”

Round upon round of laser fire rattled away at the melting machines. The turrets on the trucks vainly tried to twist themselves around to fire back, but when Gibson landed his first proper shots on the wheel-bearings, there was the weakness he’d been after. The turret truck’s rear wheel snapped out and the malformed machine flipped with a mighty groan and awful crash. The domino effect took out the second of the two turret trucks with clashing iron and explosive flame.

Unfortunately, the offensive-only double-Jeeps could still hang a hard right and book it for the tan lieutenant. The grotesque contraptions fishtailed towards the soldier who kept those barrels pointed down and hammered away at those bearings.

“C’mon!” Gibson growled. Red streaks of electric lead soared through the air, sweeping across the undaunted double-Jeeps’ fronts. It was coming down to a game of chicken, and one he was gonna have to pull out of if he didn’t want to lose that disc. With barred fangs and quick digits, he kept firing and firing, weaving around the returning volleys, waiting for the moment to bail.

A moment that wouldn’t come, thanks to one final shot.

With just one front-left wheel-bearing, the same domino chain of destruction that befell the turret trucks came to the double-Jeeps as one slammed into the other, and both went up in a blazing blue fireball.

Gibson swung hard to the left, away from the carnage, and began bolting right back for the Outpost network. Carefully, he kept his eye on the rear-view. These war machines–contorting in the flames like wax museum horrors–might still have enough of A.C.E.S.’s nanotech juice in them to start reforming. And yet, as they slowly faded into the distance from which they came, there were no spasms, no violent fights for life. Whatever the hell she was making now–for all its persistence–it was as unstable as ever.

“God help us if a real second wind comes,” he muttered.

Gibson double-timed it back within range of the Outpost Network. He knew he’d be running late, but with Exciter beneath him, that wouldn’t be the end of the world. When he finally saw the first of those fortified shacks and their gun towers, he hopped on the radio.

“C.C. to Outpost 300, do you read me?”

A brief silence sent a lump down Gibson’s throat before he had his answer. “300 to C.C., loud and clear.”

“Just looking for contact,” the tan-furred soldier smiled. “Will rendezvous with Outpost 348 to deliver minidisc.”

“No can do, C.C., Outpost 348 currently under attack by enemy forces. Your load is too precious to get mixed up until its cleared.”

The lump turned into a pit as the soldier heard the news.

“C.C. to Outpost 300, what details do we have on enemy vehicles?”

The hound working the radio replied with the familiar description of army trucks with bizarre, prickly turrets and vintage Jeeps stitched end-to-end, delivering mighty volleys of electric shells, Gibson knew just what to do.

“C.C. to Outpost 300, I tangoed with similar enemy vehicles outside of radio range a couple clicks to the south. I think my intel will help mince ‘em.”

“300 to C.C., you are cleared for entry, get up here on the double.”

The tan-furred lieutenant shot his blistering black bike past the chain link fence and pulled right up to the Outpost door. He shot through the door and booked it right for the radio desk. The two denim-clad hounds stationed there—a short stocky red wolf and a tall thin white—snapped to attention, Gibson saluting in kind and setting them at ease. First came the microtelephoto from out of his jacket.

“Get these photos downloaded to your terminal and sent straight to Chief Ridgefield’s office,” Gibson ordered. “Hot Line Code is B.Frank-187, Subject Line: URGENT - INTEL ON ENEMY VEHICLES ATTACKING OUTPOST 348. That’ll be the first thing he’s reading in situations like these.”

The white wolf took the camera and set to work. That left the red manning the radio.

“Does 348 still have radio capabilities?” Gibson asked.

“Yes, Lieutenant sir,” the radio operator nodded. “but it’s gonna be hell getting through to them.

“Boost the signal on our end if you have to but get through to them, tell them it’s urgent intel that can help them defeat these.”

What felt like an eternity of waiting ended with the Outpost finally breaking through with crackling static and the muffled sounds of warfare in the distance.

“348 to 300, go ahead.”

When Gibson got on the horn, he explained it all. “You gotta hit ‘em in the wheel-bearings. They ain’t like the hovertanks. You knock ‘em down, they go right to pieces when they start colliding with one another.”

“Roger.”

Now came the real waiting game. The one where all you could do was sit down and pray. He didn’t know the scope of the fight, but having met the danger on intimate terms, the mind always looks to blow things out of proportion. Lieutenant Gibson Blanc did his best not to let his imagination run away with himself, and stayed anchored thanks to one thing; the minidisc tucked tight in his pocket. He pulled out the case briefly—just to make sure it and the disc were all still in one piece—and thumbed it for a moment before placing it back inside his jacket and zipping the pocket up tight. The confirmation from Ridgefield’s office on reception of the intel was an encouraging sign and one the tan-furred lieutenant took some heart in.

Then the call came.

“348 to 300, 348 to 300, over?”

“Reading you loud and clear, 348, over.” chimed the red-furred radio op.

“Enemy vehicles defeated, sending for salvage team.”

The outpost erupted with whoops and cheers, a noise one could hear for miles around. Despite this great success, there remained one unanswered question for the victorious lieutenant.

“Am I safe to rendezvous with 348 to deliver e-vaccine for android program?” Gibson asked over the radio.

“I’m afraid we’ll have to be skipped because of this incident. Start with your second Outpost and continue as normal.”

“Roger.” he replied.

Without a second to lose, Gibson bid his farewells to Outpost 300, hopped on Exciter and hightailed it to his second outpost, 372. The ride let him clear his mind and refocus for the rest of his proper courier mission. He kept looking over his shoulder half the time, but was always relieved when the coast was clear, all that lay behind him was another Outpost he had passed.

When he got 372, he explained the instructions and watched carefully as they were carried out, from the disc’s loading to the final snap of his lead-lined case. It was all there; everything as it should be in crystal-clear black-and-green. The first of many stations ready to help save all those electric wolves from across the desert from that infernal virus A.C.E.S. had devised.

By the time Gibson made it back to Base, it was dark. He was cleared at the gates and went booking it straight for Ridgefield’s office, only to find that the black wolven engineer was nowhere to be found.

“Emergency meeting up at Knox’s office,” said one of his techs. “Odds are he’ll probably want you too.”

The tan-furred soldier nodded and made his way through the winding hallways up to that familiar oak-lined Principal’s office. There indeed was Chief Ridgefield, General Knox and damn-near all of Top Brass. Gibson quietly made his entrance and took a spare seat at the wooden table. What the General was in the middle of was something absolutely astonishing.

“So not only are these malformed machines the last things sent out of the city before all contact was lost with our digital telegraph to Lita, but the last things before the city went dark entirely.”

A surveillance image showed the moment when all those bizarre, glistening skyscrapers went dark. Not just a simple matter of lights out, but of every building becoming a silhouette in broad daylight. A black city standing in the light of high noon.

Knox continued. “So here we stand. No line inside to our operatives, a final maladjusted volley from the war department, and a city gone jet black. Part of me says damn the torpedoes and full-speed ahead. Let’s get the invasion going right now. But the truth is I don’t know what we’re going to find there. If the revelations made surrounding cyberspace are true...you might’ve just watched millions of wolves get snatched up from their bodies. Maybe they’re all alive and A.C.E.S. is dead. But if A.C.E.S. is dead, that means all that nanotech is an architectural timebomb waiting to collapse into a nice heap of nanobytes. Our only hope is if Roger, Lita and their teams have escaped from the city and can bring news of what’s happened. There’s a good chance given the border’s weakness...but the old gut says we’re officially in the shit. I think it’s time to get the final invasion prepped and ready. I’ve got a big ask to make of the Cazadores given the circumstances as well. As always, may God bless you and this Force.”

The image of Haven in jet-black against that clear blue sky lingered on the screen as the officers stepped out. Gibson walked up to Chief Ridgefield, the six-foot cowboy caught off-guard at first before realizing what the lieutenant wanted to see him about.

“Right, the disc for our part in the vaccine campaign.” the black wolven officer nodded. “Thanks. Damn good intel you snagged for us too. Smart to keep the camera on ya.”

Gibson nodded politely. “You gonna be alright, Chief?”

Again, Ridgefield’s face went blank, but he soon caught on.

“Oh yeah,” he winked, a smirk splitting his muzzle. “My Lita don’t go down without a fight. Just you hang tight too.”

The two wolves shook on it and parted ways. The final nail in a pivotal day, primed to set the Force on the offensive against an enemy at the end of her rope, and ready for anything.

CATCH UP ON LAST ISSUE!

WELCOME ONE & ALL TO 365 INFANTRY: AUTUMN 2025. It took us a few hairs longer than usual, but we’re back at it again with another 5-prong assault of high-octane pulp (and a killer audio drama too). From here ‘till Friday, we’re serving up one story a day with more incredible art from Kevin John Jacob, and at the end of the week, you’ll be able to bring home the electrifying excitement through our 365 QUARTERLY! In the meantime, here’s the latest from the frontlines...

She did as all wives of war often do; held tight to him like tonight was all they had. Soledad Herrera nipped lightly at her husband’s cheek as he worked his toughened hand across her darksome body. The two black wolves hadn’t a night to themselves in ages, and tonight was as important a night as any.

Tonight they sought another child.

Tonight was the start of Month 1 of 9, the beginning of a long wait before the Herreras grew one hound stronger. When Grim finished, he pulled his dear wife close and nuzzled her. For the first time in ages, the stoic vaquero flashed a real smile. The kind he saved for his woman and his woman alone.

“All that time away, mi gran amor.” Soledad grinned. “And you still drive me loco when you want.”

Grim winked. “Nunco fallo, mi rosa del desierto.”

“And you’ll be around to see him. Or her.”

He knew that crestfallen face all too well, but never let it show. “Of course.” the black-furred captain smiled. “If Adam has his way, it’ll all be over soon. We go out, take her by the wires, pull the plug, and free those who remain. Besides, when all the big beautiful causes are said and done, the one thing I’m living for are nights like these.”

He locked lips with her and fell in love all over again.

When the morning came, he stayed long enough for breakfast and to see his Rosita one more time. He played with his pup, showing her what Padre had come across in all his many travels, from the horns of an Eastern creature to the pictures of him and his bronze-furred adventurer friend Jack Wellman who helped him take down the mighty Black Country outpost.

When it came time for the goodbyes, for his wife’s sweet cooing of their little phrase, Soledad was met with a most peculiar question.

“What were you thinking for Saturday, querida?

It didn’t register at first, until she saw those beautiful brown eyes piercing the shadow cast by the cowboy hat’s brim.

“Do you–”

“Weekends off.” Grim nodded. “Perks of getting a job done the way we did. If anything happens, I’ll have to jump in, but until we make the final move.” He gestured towards the house, head bowed.

Soledad flung herself on his mighty six-foot frame and held him tight, tears flowing freely as he laughed the first hardy laugh he had in ages.

“Fried chicken for the record.” she giggled through her sniffling.

“Por la liberdad, querida.” he spoke at last.

“Por la liberdad.” she replied.

Mother and daughter both waved as Grim threw his bag in the back of his deep-blue truck and roared off back to Base. The drive was a blur of sand, sky, and wind, the black-furred father basking in the afterglow of it all. His woman’s love, the joy on his child’s face. A self-assuring loop of those glowing fuzzy faces as he dropped the hammer and ran his Harvester Scout to the top of its bent. The halcyon glow radiated off him at every stage, from each Outpost he was vetted by to his prized parking spot in the Force’s garage, to the soldiers and staff who passed him by. They’d seen the many phases of Grim before, from stoic Captain to strict teacher to his world-class poker face when dealing with enemy forces. Seldom had they seen the hound truly happy, let alone smile, until today. No one said a word; they just tipped their hats when Grim tipped his.

All that joy was swept from his face by the site of what sat on his office doorstep.

Grim’s office faced the outer courtyard with the door swinging open to the sandy center where all manner of PT and drills were carried out. And sitting before that dark green door was something he couldn’t believe at first.

It was a dove.

The scarcity of wildlife in the Southwestern deserts was what made his experiences in the East so startling, the sights of mutated mammals and bizarre herds forever etched in his mind. And while synthetic mockups were known to be circulating in Haven as substitute pets, A.C.E.S. never saw fit to deploy animals for operations for the same reason; it’d be too obvious.

So there the black-clad cowboy stood with a dove sitting before his door, the wing facing him sitting limp as the bird cocked its head towards the towering wolf. Gently he knelt down, and as carefully as he could, helped the bird into his palm. When it tried to flap its other wing, he hushed it, just as he would his daughter after a bad dream.

Carefully he opened the office door and looked for the best thing to rest the creature in. The thin blanket from off the cot would have to do, and he set about crafting a nest for the dove on his desk. Once set up, he called up Knox.

“General sir,” he began. “I have something of a favor to ask. Are any of the Sickbay staff skilled in animal medicine?”

“You can’t mean–”

“I do as sure as my eyes can see. It’s a dove with no visible signs of mutation. Jack told me of these before on our drive East.”

“Let me get you patched into Sickbay, Doctor Haywood ought to be able to help.”

At the other end of the line was the voice of a wolf who had so seldom been called upon for moments like these, an ebullient Creole ripping over the intercom.

“Doc Haywood, ‘ere in Sickbay.”

“Captain Herrera speaking.” Grim replied. “I’ve got an injured dove here at my office. No visible signs of mutation, just a wing in need of mending.”

The joy vanished into ice-cool professionalism. “Bring ‘em righ’ on down.”

With his lamblike gentleness, the black vaquero swaddled the white bird in the cot blanket and made his way through the winding corridors to Sickbay. Naturally most stood clear of the Captain, but the clacking march of his steel-capped boots could’ve cleaved the base in half the way he was moving. The only time he moved that fast was to get to his ride or to chew out a soldier, and no one wanted to be the hound of the hour. He took all the usual turns and soon entered Sickbay’s white-tiled halls. There waiting by the front desk was Haywood. She was a red wolf, almost as tall as Grim, but with a slightly fuller figure, accentuated by a slightly tight-fitting lab-coat per Sickbay requirements. Most striking of all were her eyes, a golden yellow that shot right through the black wolf, and straight to his soul.

She could tell he was worried sick. He could tell she knew her stuff.

Carefully, she took the dove over towards the X-ray room. It took some extensive recalibration–compacting the entire rig down to half-size so the bird would register–but she got it there in the end. Before long, she was getting her scans and studying them.

“Fractuh in the ulna it seems,” she remarked. “Migh’ be able to do a nano-fuse on the spot righ’ now.”

“How long until it fully heals?”

“Return to fligh’ ya mean?” Haywood pressed. “Depen’s on how long the fractuh’s been. Just cuz’ you found the po’ thing out the door don’ mean it ain’ been limpin’ roun’ fo’ longer. ‘Rays show a lil’ wear on the teeth of the cut. Bone been grin’in’ against one nutha, muscle lookin’ wee bit strain’.”

Grim nodded. “After recovery?”

Haywood paused and turned to the Captain. Again those golden eyes could read the black-furred officer like a book back-to-front. She walked up to him and flashed a soft smile.

“I don’ know what Knox’s rule ‘bout pets is since we don’ have none ‘round here. That said, I also know if one’s been able to make its way here, sho’nuff more migh’ be in the wild lookin’ for mates.”

The darksome cowboy could only nod. “He or she?” he pressed.

“She. Which could mean chicks. Which could mean repopulatin’.”

“Whatever’s best for la paloma.” Grim replied.

“I’ll take good care,” Haywood smiled gently. “Go’on rest easy naw, I’ll let ya know how she’s doin’ later on.”

Even for a seemingly small nano-fuse job–the kind of miracle surgery that had spared hundreds of wolves from amputation throughout the war–it still took a deft hand and several hours. Hours the black wolf tried to while away with everything from busy work (which he ran out of), to drill instruction (which went by too quick), to driving. Driving seemed the only balm to keep his mind off the patient he plucked up from his doorstep. Part of it frustrated him because he didn't understand why.

Why in God’s name was he so damn worried about this bird? He’d never been curious about the flora and fauna of the Old World before now. His time among the Eastern beasts in all their strange mutations hadn’t exactly endeared Mother Nature to him. And deep within, some cruel schoolboy part of him found the dove pathetic. A weakling that couldn’t make it through the world and so threw itself at the door of a hound whose boot-heel could’ve finished the job.

And yet, when that thought rushed over him, he felt sick to his stomach. “Cabrón,” he growled to himself. “Miserable fucking wretch to think that.”

He’d managed to crush that schoolboy inclination with a stomp of the throttle as the topless truck roared on. A roar met with another, louder, familiar roar.

The roar of the Dragonfly.

Soaring high above the black-clad cowboy and his deep blue pickup was the Force’s lone plane: Ridgefield’s Cessna Dragonfly. The camo-colored attack aircraft flew high above at a steady pace, one of many test flights being conducted by Chief Ridgefield during these reprieves from battle. And it was at that moment it all clicked: flight.

Even for a wolf-made machine, there was something majestic about its T-shaped silhouette dancing among the clouds, reaching heights thought in centuries-past to be impossible to achieve.

And yet there was a creature born to be in those skies, having to be kept from them by some cruel stroke of fate. Something about that burned him; an injustice he couldn’t fix with all the electric lead and hellfire driving in the world. It was all out of his hands and he could only hope and pray that the lithe little being would come out alright in the end.

He got his answer while still bombing around the desert.

“HQ to V. Galvez, HQ to V. Galvez. Got a message from Sickbay, over.”

“Patch ‘em thru, amigo!” Grim barked over the engine’s roar.

“Captain Herrera, sir, it’s Doc Haywood. She’s alrigh’. Surgery wen’ fine, bone’s maintainin’ density withou’ any mo’ marrow. In fact, she already tryin’ to flap, the little fighter.”

“Gracias, senora.” Grim smiled, swinging a hand brake turn before heading back to Base. “How many days you figure she’ll be with us?”

“Har’ tellin’.” Haywood nodded. “I say give ‘er a week and if she fresh-n-ready, we can let her fin’ her own way back.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

The next week, between the fastest turnarounds on paperwork known to wolfkind and the same-old hard-ass instruction in the ways of gunplay and driving, Captain Herrera made time to see how the dove was coming along. He’d taken to calling her “Luchadora” after Haywood’s little quip, and took in all the unique details of feeding and caring for her in the recovery period.

“How did you wind up in animal science?” Grim asked one day.

“Lots of Ol’ Worl’ textbooks,” Haywood chuckled. “An’ some days growin’ up and seein’ what survived. There’s mo’ birds than doves left here. We got warblers, wrens, ravens still floatin’ ‘round. Numba’s scarce, but they still there. Been keepin’ touch with a few science outposts that do surveys. Turns out there’s a good chance Luchadora’s got company out there. Decent numbas too.”

Their chats were always punctuated by the dove’s cooing, the bird always eyeing up the tall black wolf who had brought her there in the first place.

“All tha’ gabbin’, but she migh’ be attached aftuh all.” Haywood grinned.

“Nah, she belongs with her own kind, to help ‘em grow.” Grim sighed. “Military bases like ours aren't exactly pet-friendly with all the soldiers and rides rushing around.”

“Well, on’ a few days lef’ to change yo’ min’ if you feels it.” replied the red doctor.

When that day came, Grim had thought about it, but he still talked himself out of it. He couldn’t live with himself if anything happened should she get loose or hurt. He did help escort the cage out to the designated release area with Haywood riding shotgun. When they got there, Haywood afforded the towering black wolf the honors.

There was more vegetation in this part of the land, the centuries-old wounds healing enough to provide the dove some of the nourishment she needed. Grim stepped out among the cacti, cage in hand, and opened the cage.

To his surprise, the bird needed no coaxing, practically shooting out the front and flying away into the distance.

“Good sign,” Haywood chimed in, resting a red-furred hand on the cowboy’s mighty shoulder. “Lookin’ like we was good ‘bout not domesticatin’ her. Good call on yo’ part.”

“She knows what is natural to her,” he smiled gently. “Here’s hoping she finds a good place to nest.”

“Mazin’ how nice this ol’ third rock heals up.”

The Captain nodded solemnly before hopping back in the truck.

For Captain Herrera, the next few days were odd ones. They were days spent alternating between his usual routines and fits of...something. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Neither could his wife during their evening calls.

Most of the day he was fine. He could be a little sterner at target practice than usual, he felt himself being short with personnel in a way that he would notice but no one else seemed to. A terse reply or an odd glance, but it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary as far as his colleagues were concerned.

But then, some days, it hit like a sledgehammer.

A yearning for motion. Not just driving, not even flight; total transcendence. He wanted to be elsewhere, be something beyond himself. The black-furred vaquero felt the call of something that he could not describe. Soledad couldn’t console him over the phone, and everything from his brandy to the one or two films he enjoyed–Old World war films from the days of Axis terrors and the dawn of the nuclear threat–couldn’t keep the strange flurry of ambivalent emotions at bay.

Throughout it all, one constant remained: the dove.

The image of the dove burned bright in his mind. He’d find himself sketching a crude impression of the creature on his paperwork. He’d see it in dreams late at night, always flying through the dark of his mind, off into the blinding golden light of the sky. He’d swear he was seeing things out of the corner of his eye when he’d turn a corner on Base.

Then one day, he couldn’t take it anymore.

He woke up in a frenzied mental fog and all he wanted to do was drive. And since he was one of the top ranks of the Force, no one would question him if he wanted to go for an impromptu race through the desert. He didn’t bother with breakfast, coffee, time cards, nothing.

He stormed down to the garage, asked for his keys, and leapt into that deep blue Scout. He patted the topless truck’s wheel and sped out of the garage and away westward into the desert.

He just kept going. And going. And going.

No intention, no inner rumination. Just pure dynamism, the machine carrying the hound, the hound controlling the machine. Complete symbiosis.

He rode that all the way through the sunrise and into the first hour of true daylight. He kept heading westward until he reached the inner ring of the Outpost network, the 100s that served as the last lines of defense and surveillance.

It was here that he spotted that Great Bird of the Force; Ridgefield’s Cessna. The light attack craft danced its gentle dance through the skies, and for the first time in nearly a week, that strange yearning ceased. The answer was right there, tens of thousands of feet above him. When Grim realized what it was, however, there was part of him that wanted to talk him out of it.

“Of course it’s not flight,” the Latin cowboy muttered. “You wouldn’t be able to readjust to the circumstances. You wouldn’t have the stamina. Ridgefield’s chico to you by seven years.”

It was only when the other part chimed in that Grim realized what he was actually enamored with.

“Maybe it’s just the flight itself.” he pondered. “Just to see, to know.”

This realization came just in time for a moment he couldn’t have imagined, even in his dreams.

Soaring above him, lower than the Cessna, but still a decent way from his head was the white dove. The slight crookedness of but one feather where Doctor Haywood had performed her surgery was clear as day.

For all his incredible adventures, this moment proved mesmeric for the older cowboy. There before the vaquero’s eye were two magnificent flying beasts. One of nature, one of wolfkind. The grace, the form, the seeming interplay at different altitudes. Most fascinating of all; the speed.

That dove could move. Grim opened his truck up and hightailed it after her.

“Rapido, luchadora.” he grinned mischievously.

He kept rattling through the truck’s gears, and just as he’d reach the pint-sized bird, she’d tear ahead once more. The cat-and-mouse game brought Grim alive, and soon he was roaring with that rich, Latino baritone of his.

Until he wasn’t.

Until he saw what was ahead.

Before him was one of the Force’s supply holds, nestled between the 100s and 200s of the Outpost system. At least it was, before a cadre of bandits began their siege on it, raiding for supplies and burning the rest.

The dove flew away into the sky once more, vanishing from view, but Grim had long since forgotten their chase. He was on the radio, roaring for backup, before turning his attention to the crooks before him.

The Captain’s eyes narrowed and he buried his boot in the floor. Between gearshifts, he flicked open the button on the lever and brought his carguns out to play. He had to choose his targets wisely as he didn’t want to lose any more goods to the anarchic ways of the wasteland’s worst.

The pedal hit the floor only when he saw a clear line from the Scout to one of the ratty vans trying to flee the scene. In one stomp, he could get the doors off the van’s rear. With one long burst, he got the tires and sent the van rolling. Because it would still be several minutes before even the local outposts could scramble support, Grim swung handbrake turns to keep tabs on the other raiders. The second van was firing wildly at the Captain, but he met them blow for blow with another burst from the carguns, the Gatling-styled barrels thundering away at the wheels of the rickety old Econoline. Try as they might, they couldn’t escape the black hound’s precise blows. But Grim couldn’t escape the 5,000 pounds of van as it rolled over on its side and slammed against the Scout.

Nor could he escape the third van that came in for the kill, firing wildly from behind, sending the black-clad Captain ducking for cover in his pickup, looking for his rifle.

Only to realize all he had on him was his Colt Automatic.

Quickly he checked his charge on his magazine, loaded the handgun and spent the rest of the time praying before every shot.

He leapt up and fired into the third van’s windshield, nailing the driver in the head before taking a shot to the shoulder. He swung himself back down, seething and groaning before coming back for seconds.

This time he got the bastard sitting shotgun-side who did the job, blowing his head all over the side of the van. With the dead hound’s boot still jammed on the throttle, though, Grim would have to do his damndest to shake the Scout loose.

He killed the carguns and started bashing the two vans, gunning his deep blue beast forwards and backwards, trying to make room enough to cut the wheel and speed out of there. He had just gotten himself free enough when one of the rat bastards from the first van, an especially mangy white wolf came charging up guns drawn. Firing wildly, Grim ducked, only to feel the sting of another shot to his shoulder. When he shot back up, ready for his reprisal, the cavalry had finally arrived.

Teddy Blanc squashed that sonofabitch with the business end of her black-and-bronze Rebel Machine, and behind her came a score of fellow hot rodders and bikers. Those who were still fleeing–about two other vans–were swiftly stopped and the raiders killed. When some of the Auto Corp soldiers helped get the vans out of Grim’s way, Teddy was the first to realize the Captain had taken some battle damage.

“Shit, sir, you alright?”

Grim looked at the slashes in his leather trenchcoat and the flecks of blood around them. When he looked back at Teddy, he tipped his cowboy hat and chuckled.

“You should see the other guy.”

In Sickbay, Grim asked for Doc Haywood, only this time it was a wolf who needed tending to.

“Ay, nah watchu done gettin’ bang-up like that?” she chuckled.

At first Grim just smiled and nodded, but then that solemn face came right back to him. “There’s something I wanted to say. Something about Luchadora.”

Thinking nothing of it, Doc Haywood nodded. “Go’on. It’ll distract ya from all that cauterizin’.”

“I saw her today.”

The red wolven doctor’s ears perked up. “Sweet, how she doing?”

“Flying free as...well a bird I suppose.”

“They ten’ to that.” she giggled, getting another smile from her stoic client.

“It’s just that...I wouldn’t have known the raid was happening without her. She was showing off, so I was showing off, and I chased her right to the scene of the depot. A few rights and lefts and I could’ve totally missed–IT!”

The cauterizing stung for a moment, but faded just as soon as Haywood finished.

“Sorry po’boy,” she said. “That them the worsta bunch. But abou’ our mutual acquaintance.”

She helped Grim up from the hospital table and sighed. “There ain’no science to these things, but I must say: I think she came to ya just the righ’ time. Picked a good day, caught yo’ eye, left ya thinkin’ bout her even after ya said no to keepin’ her captive. And there she proves herself a real gone patriot. Could be coincidence. But maybe she’s yo’ spirit animal. The white hat within ya flying nice-n-free.”

Grim nodded slowly and thumbed the bandage over the sealed wound. He hopped off the table and began to walk out the door. Outside he saw the bright blue sky above and, faint in the distance, the trails left by Ridgefield and his plane, and the memories of that brief reunion.

“Perhaps she is.”

She stood there in the corridor, waiting for him as she always had. Her long white locks adorning her long white body, dressed in her favorite blouse and her soft, bleached jeans. She looked over his tired face slumped against the desk before pressing her snout against his.

“Another long night, Adam?” Angel smiled.

The dark gray wolf slowly came to and saw his dearly beloved with her head alongside his.

“How you doing, beautiful?” Knox grinned hazily. “Been ages.”

“Figured I’d want to pop in, make sure you’re doing alright. You been through a heap haven’t you?”

“God, more than you could know.” the scruffy gray sighed. He took her petite hand in his and pressed it to his cheek. “We’re licking ‘em, hun. We’re taking ‘em down right to hell.”

The general sat up to look at his fair lady, who popped a squat in his lap and spun the office chair around with a kick of her paw. “I know you got a lot, but I do go one thing I wanted to tell ya.”

“What’s that babe?” Knox asked between nips on her shoulder, neck, and cheek.

“It’s okay.”

Knox paused, and looked into Angel’s eyes.

“I mean it. It’s okay. You don’t gotta lose me to move on.”

The dark gray general cocked his head. “Whaddya mean, move on?”

“I know you like her. But you feel like you can’t get past me.”

Knox shook his head. “No, it’s not like that.”

“Baby, listen to me.” Angel sighed, sliding to the floor with her lover’s hand in hers. “I know it’s been hard. It’s been hard being away. But I don’t want you to spend the rest of your life alone. When that big beautiful V-Day comes, I want you with someone’s arms around you. I want to see you with a big ol’ brood of pups.”

Knox looked down at her before picking her back up and onto his lap. “Are you sure?”

“Yes I’m—”

“I mean it!” he barked. “Are you sure? I just...I just can’t do it. I wouldn’t cheat on you with nobody. No one, no how, no way—”

“Babe.” Angel cut off in her soft, tender voice. “I mean it. You don’t got to say the magic words about why I mean it. But I mean it. I want you to be happy. Do it for me, hun, will ya?”

Tears welled in the General’s eyes as he pulled his woman in tight one last time.

“That’s all I wanted to hear.”

With that, the General woke up. It was the last dream he would ever need.

Knox drove himself out to what he called “West Arlington” the next day, rocking one of the black leather jackets Godred left him. Sitting passenger-side was Captain Atlanta Westley. The red wolf donned her fringe-jacket best, one hand on the dark gray’s fist as it clung to the gearshift.

“Wreath’s in the back, right?” Knox asked softly, rasp light as a feather.

“All there,” Westley nodded. “A beautiful piece too.”

The Centurion Offensive’s 10th anniversary was months in the rear-view, but all the progress put paid to something he’d been meaning to do for ages. They arrived at the cemetery, rolled past the gates, and several rows in and two columns out was the wreath’s new home; a marble cross marked Lorraine “Angel” Knox. March 12, 2427 - May 14, 2466.

Captain Westley handed over the wreath, and Adam strolled out of his Cuda and towards the cross. He felt the wind whip around him, the scarce bushes of tall grass rustling in the breeze. He sat the lush green ring against the headstone, and rested his hand upon it. With a deep breath and a hushed “thank you,” he stood up and got back behind the wheel.

“Everything all—”

He stopped her cold with a kiss on the lips, muzzles locked for one mighty long second. The darksome gray looked up and thumbed the tender red wolf’s cheek.

“I never got to finish what I started before the Council Meeting. Getting shot’ll do it for ya. Last night, I got flashed my real green-light.”

Atlanta nuzzled the grizzled warrior’s nose before saying her piece.

“I’m just glad you’re still here. Not gonna lie; I think I know how you felt that day, all them years ago.”

“I honestly thought I was gonna join her that night.” Knox sighed, turning the engine over. “But they got other plans for me, it seems. Especially now that we’re back to just us and A.C.E.S. Besides...if I got to pick how I went out, I’d go the way she did. Flipping that bitch the bird with that pretty little smile and her foot flat down.”

Atlanta gave him another tender nip before cocking her head behind them. “Back to Base then?”

“Aye, Cap’n.” he chuckled, whipping the Cuda into gear and rocketing away from the cemetery. “Got some tinkering to do up at Am Base. Free to come with?”

“Are those General’s orders?” The wry look she gave told him everything.

“I suppose they aren’t. But they could be.”

Atlanta clucked her tongue and shook her head. “Let’s save it for tonight. I’d rather it be Captain and General on the clock. Unless you expect me to be all over you like Teddy on Gibson, sucking and jiving on the driving range.”

The wheezing laugh Knox let out could be heard for miles around as they raced back to Base. “Point taken. But right now, you’re my Atlanta. Least for the next 45 minutes while we’re on the road.”

“I think I can handle that.” the red wolf winked.

Knox kept his metal hand on the wheel, and the other wrapped around his woman. For her part, Atlanta stayed cozied up to him the whole drive. A much needed moment of total and utter peace, savored until they reached those iron walls, and the two composed themselves before entering.

They shared a parting kiss before Knox let her out, and bolted northward toward Am Base.

Waiting by the gate’s front doors, as was custom by now, was Chief Nic Ridgefield. The tall black engineer held a pair of keys in his great big mitts. The keys to something the General had kept under-wraps for ages.

“Morning sir,” Ridgefield nodded as the Cuda skidded into the parking lot.

“Morning, Chief.” the General saluted as he stepped out. “How is she?”

“Just how you left her, only a little prettier.”

The gray wolf raised an eyebrow. “No livery changes, I hope?”

“Nothin’ but a good round of polish,” Ridgefield chuckled, “and ol’ Eric Mann’s sealant. Didn’t want to spoil your work-shed fun, just wanted her service-ready.”

“Good.” Knox smiled. “I want to work her through to the bone and back.”

“Only question?” Ridgefield added. “What did you want for her call-sign? I know you took Angel’s off the table.”

The General stroked the scruff of his chin before answering. “Show me her, and I’ll pick one on the spot.”

The black-furred cowboy nodded and waved him on. They made their way through the bustling main floor, twice as busy as before. The men’s boots echoed through the firing ranges, the holding cells for old war machines like their modified M56 Scorpions and other hauls. Though it was out of the way, Nic led the General briefly over the catwalk where the Force’s hover-tanks were being developed.

“Figured we’d throw a bit of business on top of the pleasure.” Nic said, gesturing to the giant machines below. “How you liking them?”

“Cosmetics don’t mean shit unless they can’t shoot straight,” General Knox replied. “How’s that?”

“95% accuracy on long-range targets upwards of...woulda been five miles last I checked.”

“Now that’s more like it, Chief.” He gave Ridgefield a good firm handshake before waving him on to the garage where the project sat. And what a looker she was now.

Greeting those war-weary eyes was a pristine white 1966 Porsche 356. All curves from the length of her body to her soft round headlights. Not an ounce of chrome was out of place, not a tire that wasn’t tough enough to take the heat of battle. The ammo rack for the carguns was of a lower capacity, slimmed up thanks to the car’s two-door-rear-engine build. All the same, it was still a surplus of fully-charged, laser-capable cartridges, caged in a beast who could kiss 200 if she tried. Then came the final touch; the 5 and 6 of the side emblem were carefully swapped, marking the car as a “365.”

For a moment, Knox could only stand and stare. In the days when he wasn’t leading his soldiers into battle or tending to business, his time restoring this ancient machine brought the hardened soldier into a frenzied zen. Long late-nights, working and working until he fell down on the floor and picked up the job the next morning. Over and over until every strip of carpet, every sliver of chrome, every dial on the dashboard was perfect. He even had the rubber covers for the pedal assembly custom made. Most nights, however, were spent tweaking and tuning the engine. He worked that bitch to the block and back, finessing her until she looked, sounded and damn-well smelled like the original.

Just like Angel’s.

But as the General gazed upon the lovingly restored Speedster, something else stirred in him. Last night’s dream, today’s quiet vigil. Those two words echoing in his mind. Move on, move on.

When again prompted by Nic for a new call-sign and registry number for the ride, he was tempted to bring back its old numbers. Angel had wound up with 18.86, Geronimo. Fitting for the way she threw herself into the fray. But then came those two chanting words. Move on, move on.

“Check for 19.81,” Knox said, “put her down for R. Reagan. I got a feeling it’s gonna be morning in America real soon.”

“Yes-sir.” Nic nodded. “Shall I leave you two alone?”

The General snapped to attention at the remark. “I ain’t gonna go up her tailpipe you shit-heel!” he barked indignantly. “I wasn’t gazing at her THAT long, was I?”

“Sir, it’s been about five minutes straight of you zonked out looking at them dinner-plate headlights.”

Knox flicked his left wrist, looking down at his metal arm’s built-in clock. Sure enough, they’d gotten there by 10:10 and it was now quarter-after.

“Fair enough.” he shrugged. “Yeah, I’m gonna take her for a test drive. Radio’s tuned to HQ’s frequency?”

“Yes-sir.”

Knox gave Ridgefield one last handshake before jumping behind the wheel. “I’m off then. Let me know when that registration goes through.”

Nic hadn’t even made it to the threshold before the mighty flat-four fired up and sent the General roaring out of the garage and onto the test driving ranges.

Knox flung his denim jacket onto the passenger seat and whipped through the gears as he wrung every last drop of power from the machine. The engine’s scream, that fresh-burnt rubber smell as he drifted through the test track’s corners. He spent several laps burning old-school gas before switching to the hybrid-power system. The sports car smoothed out alright, but she still let out a barking rev with each kick of the gas. Slowly, the thinking-hound scowl faded, and a boyish grin took over as he relished in the sensation of it all.

It was on Lap 6 when he got the call.

“B. Frank to Test Drive.” came Nic over the radio. “Still working on the registry, and you might have to go for a different year on the ride serial. Looks like 19.81 is taken. We got bigger-n-badder news though. You got some action on your hands in the 3-Os.”

The General sighed before answering. “Test Drive to B. Frank. What’s happening in the Outpost network?”

“Outpost 336 is under attack. Got this bizarre claw grabber throttling away at the tower and coming down on the main building. Staff’s been evacuated, but it ain’t showing no sign of stopping.”

“Route me through to Captain Westley’s office,” he ordered. Once he was patched in, he put in his order. “I want one task force of Auto Corp, one of Moto. If Lieutenant Blanc’s available, make sure he’s in there. I’ll meet them at 342.”

“Yes sir.” Westley answered.

“God bless you, beautiful.” he grinned before hanging up. Without a second thought, he whipped the slender sports car off the tarmac and onto the sandy desert road. With his boot flat down, he was gonna give his new toy a real trial-by-fire.

The desert whipped past the dark gray hound in the blink of an eye, as did the outposts in the 100s, then the 200s. The short, robust shacks flew by like digits of Morse code against the crystal clear sky and the low hills off in the distance. It was only when those hills grew to their mountainous size that he knew he was finally in the 300s range. He was near Outpost 348, only a mile or two away from the rendezvous point. But even from that distance, he could make out their foe.

Lumbering its way northward towards the upper 300s was as bizarre a contraption as Knox had yet seen from Haven. Instead of her usual four-to-eight hover-engines, this bright yellow, Aztec-pyramid machine rolled along on ten large tires. Its two outstretched claws swung wildly at the gun tower and main building of Outpost 342.

“Knox in Test Drive to Task Force, come in!”

“C.C. to Test Drive.” Gibson kicked in over the radio. “I see it too, General. We got a standard issue task force. Five bikers, five drivers. What do you want us to do?”

“I’m one post up from the rendezvous point. I’ll be there in five seconds and we’re going to body tackle her from all sides.”

He swung a handbrake turn and whipped the Porsche towards the lumbering machine. As he drew nearer, he saw a figure rattling up the gun tower stairs, and leaping to the chain-gun was one of the stationed soldiers.

“EAT IT PUNK!” he bellowed at the top of his lungs.

He was a gray clad in punk-rock fatigues, late 20s as many outpost soldiers were. Even from hundreds of yards away, the camo-clad, jackboot wearing soldier bore a piercing glower as he set the chain-gun alight. Those ice-blue eyes stared daggers down his muzzle as he rained hell down on that yellow devil, pelting the machine’s monstrous body with everything he had.

At first, it was clear the fortified armor wasn’t going to give way, but the kid kept wailing away on it. Pass after pass, the young soldier wouldn’t give up the ghost. The pelting he dealt finally caught the contraption’s attention as it swung its massive barrels towards the gun tower, aimed squarely at the gray. He shot right down the enemy’s barrels, howling mad in his last stand.

And in an instant, he was gone. Eviscerated in a single, ruthless blast, the gun tower crumbling beneath the remains as the demolition machine rolled right over it and the main outpost building.

Knox had seen everything, and he was pissed. Kid should’ve known there wasn’t a chance in Hell against an foreign craft like that. He admired bravery in all his soldiers, but this seemed like the dumbest move to be made, the kind you’d expect a young brat to take.

The kind a certain white wolf in a Porsche took in 2466. Surrounded on all sides, with a hover-tank weak but her troops weaker, with only one last Hail Mary in her back pocket: herself.

The memories made a tornado of the General’s mind as he clung tight to the wheel and opened the engine wide. He growled from the pit of his gut as he readied the carguns. He flipped open the top of the gearshift and glowered savagely at that big red button.

When he looked up from the lever, he again saw the manic flailing of their enemy. When it turned to face the hounds coming up from the east, the broadside now fully in view, Knox realized just what the young gray had given them: a head start.

Not only had he started in on the metal plating, it was truly coming undone, plates and panels curling like cardboard after a storm. Even better, the showers kept coming as laser fire glittered in the distance, lighting into those armored sides. The cavalry were here; five cars, and five bikes. The tan Lieutenant Gibson Blanc led the pack, while the white Corporal Johnny Metcalfe set his Camaro on the offensive.

Knox’s fury turned to a savage grin, and with a press of the button, the Porsche carguns shot down beneath the chassis. He gave a final stomp on the gas, and the Speedster fired furiously into the over-sized bulldozer.

Metcalfe’s drivers joined the General in working on the wheels. It took them five solid minutes of biting into the rubber, but soon enough, the popping of a front left tire sent a domino effect cascading down the dirt blonde demolition machine.

Meanwhile, Lieutenant Blanc led his four bikers in sweeps along both sides. The V-twins hammered away beneath him as his black motorcycle Exciter swerved around the enemy craft. With each pass, he could see the armor visibly deteriorating. But with each pass, the guns at the flat-top pyramid’s peak fired round after round upon the bikers. With a single clipping of his rear fender, a hound at the formation’s tail was sent flying away from the scene.

By now, Knox was in the thick of his ten-hound army, rattling the eye-sore of a Goliath with pass after pass. It was on its run-flats now, but running slower than before. And with its guns whipping around in a constant 360, the only danger it posed to the other outposts was collateral. But with the ten-foot holes left in the ground, collateral also meant one-shotting a fully-staffed outpost from miles away.

Knox slid the Porsche to a stop and started firing into the guns with his Smith & Wesson. He knew he should keep moving, but he wanted to get at least one off the table for the rest. It would take a hell of a long time, but that’s what he was here for. He aimed for the front left chain-gun, drawing its fire towards the Porsche. With quick shifts between forward and reverse, he kept dodging the laser-fire, the sports car dancing like a hostage in a cowboy film.

Dancing closer and closer to the fallen hellion, himself in the sights of the demolition machine’s rear left chain-gun.

“GENERAL!” Gibson bellowed. “HOUND DOWN AT 12’O CLOCK.”

“I KNOW!” Knox hollered back. He swung the Porsche in front of the soldier and kicked the passenger-side door over. “GET IN, SOLDIER, AND THAT’S AN ORDER!”

The wounded biker threw himself onto the floorboard, the car rocking as he was helped up by the General’s metal hand. When the door closed and Knox resumed firing, he looked over to see who it was. Bloodied, but unbroken with a Garand in his hand, he knew just the hellion he’d grabbed.

“Well if it ain’t Springfield, Mass Madigan.” the General hollered, bobbing and weaving the Porsche. “You doing alright?”

James Madigan, the 17-year-old still delirious from the crash, threw a thumbs up. “A-okay sir. It’s an honor to be riding shotgun for you.”

“Just don’t bleed all over the upholstery. That’s supposed to happen Week 2.”

He cut the tension just enough to bring the soldier’s spirits up as the two kept lighting into the left-hand guns on their mysterious monolith of destruction. A monolith whose final act of destruction was its own.

With a heightened whine and visible bending at its sides, Knox bellowed over the radio “STAND CLEAR” as everyone fled from the golden devil. They were all a few hundred yards out before a deafening BOOM rang out across the land. Metal plating shot out in all directions, the soldiers ducking and weaving as the blistering blue flames consumed its structure.

As the last of the plates fell to Earth, Knox hopped on the radio and hailed the Force’s salvage crew. He’d want to know just what the hell possessed Ace to cook up this bizarre machine, and why the Outpost network.

Within the hallowed halls of General Knox’s oak-paneled boardroom, Ridgefield went over his salvage team’s findings. Findings that made for quite the development.

“Their wrecking crew shtick hid this.” the black-furred cowboy began. He produced the charred remains of a black box. “This is a siphon circuit. No doubt Agent Steele’s had plenty to say about these based on his reports from Haven. It’s used to rapidly de-crypt and download all known data within its targets. In the city, this is what they shove into every lamp post, fence and security camera. It’s what reads your chip to make sure you’re all being good boys and girls. Out here, it latched onto the Force’s key radio frequency and started reading the peer-to-peer communications system.”

Ridgefield passed the charred brick along, the device trading hands from one member of Top Brass to another, right up until it reached Knox at the table’s head. The General ran a silver finger across its half-melted casing before sending it on.

“It knew it was dealing with Infantry territory,” Chief Ridgefield continued, “but I think it got greedy. It went from one Outpost to the next, expecting more and more to be revealed. And with its short-range, it went the slow route. It could crack us at lightning speed, but it was shoved into one slow-ass vessel.”

“Have we made any progress in reverse engineering it?” Knox pressed.

Ridgefield shook his head. “From Steele’s dossiers alone, no. But with enough of it still intact, we might now.”

“Make it Priority 1 for the tech labs in Am Base.” Knox ordered.

“Speaking of Steele,” Gibson piped up. “Any word from him?”

“None.” Knox replied. “Last log from Lita’s e-cable system was confirming his arrival and sorting out the destruction of the city border. When we get word, you’ll all be the first to know. With that, we’ve only one more matter of business. Thanks to Outpost 342 Commander Larson, we’ve ID’d the brave soul who valiantly gave his life in defense of the network and his cause. At 0900, Wednesday morning, I will be presenting the family of Howard Kenton with the Lion’s Heart. It’s the least we can do for the young man.”

The room fell to a reverential silence, the Force’s leaders bowing their heads in an unspoken prayer. When Knox lifted his, so did the rest.

“Keep him and his loved ones in your thoughts in the coming days. Meeting adjourned. Good night and godspeed.”

Slowly, the captains, commanders, and lieutenants all filed out. All save for Ridgefield, Gibson and Captain Westley. The black engineer was brief about his business.

“We got her in for R. Reagan.” Ridgefield nodded, “But we had to spring for 19.85 as her serial.”

“Well a landslide reelection ain’t a bad year to cop either.” Knox chuckled. “Thank you, Chief.” The two shook hands, and Ridgefield made his exit.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Gibson began, scratching at the back of his neck. “Where’d the new wheels come from?”

“Pet project, son.” Knox nodded. “Found a body in good nick, thought I’d bring her back to full-flower.”

“Like Angel’s?” he asked innocently.

The dark gray hound gave a solemn nod. “Yeah. Just like Angel’s. I ain’t gonna make her my daily driver, but as you can see, she’s fit for purpose.”

Captain Westley looked to Knox, worried. “Thought you said you were—”

“Oh don’t you take it like that now,” the General smiled, pulling her close. “You ain’t I, and I ain’t calling her Rebecca, alright? Besides, in this gig, I shoulda gone mad like ages ago. Shoulda lost it when I lost my left arm. Damn near did.”

It had just dawned on the two that Gibson hadn’t made aware of the relationship. The tan soldier looked upon the newly minted lovebirds bemused at first before a knowing smirk came to his slim muzzle.

“Well then.” he chuckled. “So that’s why she was your Number 2 to the Council.”

“Guilty as charged, guilty as sin.” Knox grinned. “Besides. Life’s too damn short to be living in the past the way I was.”

“Then why the Porsche?” Gibson quizzed.

“Because hers was a bad-ass motherfucker, and she plays good and hard on the battlefield. I even saved one of your pupils with her.”

The tan lieutenant bowed in deference. “Fair enough. If you got the time, Teddy and I are organizing a quick drag race tomorrow. Would love to see her when she ain’t saving my ass.”

“Bet,” Knox answered, shaking on it. With Gibson’s exit, that left Knox and Westley. The red captain wrapped her arms around her dark gray man before asking him a question.

“You sure? About this. About us?”

At first Knox grew flustered, just as he had with Nic’s quip. But when he looked into those gentle eyes, and thought back to those echoing pleas from the night before, he knew what she meant this time.

“Babe, I’m damn sure. Never been surer of anything else in my life, ‘cept winning this damn war.”

And with the way he took her into him and kissed her all over, she couldn’t take it any other way. As they held each other tight, Knox looked over her back to his office desk. Staring at him from across the room was a framed picture. One of him in a blue Hawaiian shirt and his lover from long ago.

“Thank you, darling. Thank you.”

WELCOME TO 365 INFANTRY: SPRING 2025! Get ready for a wild week of wolven adventure in these five exciting new stories from the world of Haven and the Wastelands! We’ll be releasing one story a day, and will also spring our brand-new episode of ALAN FIREDALE and news of the 365 INFANTRY QUARTERLY’s release on you as and when they occur. In the meantime, let’s catch up on how Lt. Gibson Blanc, Gen. Adam Knox, and the rest of the crew are doing. Enjoy!

“And that there tears it.” rang the voice of recon agent Roger Steele. “The whole damn thing. We got A.C.E.S. right where we want her. Whole floor plans, whole server racks. That’s where she keeps herself.”

Knox studied every item, every scrap of blue print, every blown-up photo. The dark gray General couldn’t believe it at first, but the past half-hour presentation the light-furred agent gave was beyond compelling. It was often easy to forget they had an inside man working the city, the Force’s past recon missions always fleeting in nature. Scraps of data here, machinery blueprints there. On and on it went, until The Avenger’s Creed led by Chief Ridgefield’s wife, Lita, and the official adoption of Agent Steele as their go-to recon man. A decade-and-a-half’s worth of intel finally came to one mighty head.

The leather-clad gray sat with a cigarette clenched between his fangs, waiting for the final words of his superior.

“What about the...phenomena?” Knox asked, almost defeated.

“Well...like all computers, once you unplug her, she can’t do shit.” Steele huffed a puff of smoke through his nose. “Her ability to manipulate Haven’s perception of reality is just as much a matter of mind as it is of, well, matter. Most of the cadre here ain’t chipped though.”

“Neither were you when she pulled the magic trick.” the darksome General scowled. “Don’t forget that either.”

“But if she’s weakening at the rate she is,” Steele pressed, “whatever she’s capable of now is going to weaken with her.”

“Don’t be a dumbass, Steele. This cocksure shit ain’t like you.”

Knox and Steele shared between them the kind of blue eyes that could cut a room in half, Knox’s all the sharper thanks to his fur’s darker complexion.

“15 years on this detail’s given me the right to be damn-near God almighty.” came the cool reply. “I know the risks inside and out, Adam. I got to her. I went right into the belly of the whale and I saw that she is DYING. Not just that, but what Grim and that civvy of his found inside the Black Country compound is also a part of Haven. He might not know us, but he trusts us enough to fight her out here while he’s doing what he’s doing in cyberspace. Trust me that every precaution has been taken. This is the locale, these are the directions. If I wasn’t sure, I wouldn’t be alive to tell.”

The General kept those cutting eyes on Steele while the realization set in.

“We’ve been dealing with everything from unhinged machines to clandestine sleeper agents, not to mention barking mad civvies who’ll fuck us for free. We’ve been done up the ass by every trick she has left up her sleeve, and twice by thugs who don’t give a shit who lives and dies anymore. She ain’t just a dying network. She’s a dying animal, backed by a half-dead world. And just as hard as the good half of this desert is fighting to be rid of both, her death throes are the most violent this planet has seen on the backside of those bombs. What we’re about to do to her has to be a total overtake. And I’m willing to go that distance. And I’m gonna need you, Lita, and the crew back there to hold the fort.”

Roger Steele put out the cigarette in the ashtray on Knox’s desk, and went for a handshake. His light gray palm hung in the air for a moment before his superior sealed the deal.

“We’ll keep the seat warm.” the agent smiled. “Don’t forget your tickets to the big show.”

The second the door closed, the sharp-dressed gray was as good as gone, back to the cybernetic prison he had slid in and out of with ease. And the second that door was closed, General Adam Knox was left with a hell of a future to plan for.

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"It’s the bigger, sexier cousin of the Industrial Revolution.” That’s the way Chief Engineer Nic Ridgefield pitched it to everyone at Am Base Alpha, and he had the hardware to prove it. New hovertank bays had been established, a dry-dock of sorts for these tremendous machines they were about to turn loose.

Also of note was the growth of their flight program. The smelter’s yard afforded the Force a chance to build aircraft from scratch, and to fully refit some of the hollowed husks acquired during their scrap drives.

It was as if a whole new regime was in charge of the Force, even with the same heads in Top Brass, and the same dogged crew of Lieutenants and Corporals. Evelyn Blanc joined her husband Gibson in the role of Lieutenant, officially team-leader of the M56 division of “heavy artillery” and test-pilot for everything not nailed down.

Including the Force’s first Sherman.

The earth-toned tomboy relished the thrill of a real tank as she lined her shots and decimated target after target, the wolf’s fighting hands steady as a rock on the joystick.

“How’d I do, Am Base?” she grinned.

“Well you got the targets, Teddy, but you also got more than them.”

No sooner had the remarks came, the roar of a swift avalanche followed. The shots had been of such high caliber, they ate away at the base of the hill they were set up against.

“Soooooo...that’s what we mean by dial down the energy regulator.”

“Yuh-huh.”

“Take five?”

“Take five, Teddy.”

Elsewhere, back on Base, Gibson was helping a fellow hellion out on the driving range. With the revolt put down for now, the Force could turn their attention to rebuilding and improving more than just their armaments and rolling stock. At Corporal Metcalfe’s behest, the tan biker was aiding young recruit Chick Glenn.

The speckled brown hound, some five years Gibson’s junior, had been turning himself around after joining the Force. Metcalfe’s meditations helped alleviate some of his personal struggles, but he found riding side-by-side with the seasoned Lieutenant gave him the release he was really after. A biker just like him, rocking a jet-black hog and jet-black leather. When they got to the edge of the range, Gibson kicked Exciter’s stand down, Glenn following suit with his silver machine.

“How we feeling now champ?” Gibson grinned, armed crossed over the handlebars.

Chick scratched at his crimped left ear and let out a deep breath. “Much...better, I think. Ain’t really gotten to ride that much since I got here. What with all the commotion.”

“I know the feeling.” the tan officer nodded. “Don’t get to savor the ride as much anymore now that I’m running around with a half-dozen responsibilities.”

“Think they’ll clear me?” Chick asked innocently. “To get to work building?”

Gibson grinned and slapped the young wolf’s leather-clad back. “That’s ol’ white horse Metcalfe’s decision. You seem pretty square to me. You got bitching taste in machines with that silver bullet of yours, and you sure got Exciter sounding better than ever with that tune-up.”

“How’d you get her anyway?”

Gibson’s smile faded and he looked off into the distance, the horizon cutting a clean line across his sunglasses.

“If I tell ya, you’ll keep it to yourself?”

The dark brown hound nodded.

“When I first defected from the city west, I didn’t know what the hell I’d do besides get past the canyon made of the Marshall settlements and go from there. I’d seen enough death for one lifetime, but I had to stomach one more to get out here.” He paused for a spell and gulped as the memories came back. “There was this gray fella on a black Vincent. Nothing but a jacket, jeans, harness boots, and a cross. Right round the neck. Something done him and done him good. He wasn’t gonna make it more than the five minutes I got to know him. I tried to help him to the canteen I had taken with me, but he just pushed it away. ‘You need it more, son.’

“I asked him to tell me about himself and he did. I was told a tale of a town’s salvation. Been getting hit by them nasty scavengers, the raiders, over and over, and most of the folks were too scared shitless to stand up for themselves. This fella wasn’t. This fella drew both his Colt revolvers and put a hole in each hound’s head he could. The fellas he dropped got their shit taken back by the town, and that one little showdown of defiance got more hands filled than an all-you-can-snag ammo festival. Ain’t no one done that town a wrong deal since.

“Those who didn’t die by his hand or the others found him one night, and man, did they take him dead to rights. Or wrongs rather. And that’s where they dumped him. I asked if there was anything I could do for him. He said, ‘take what I got, and do some good with it.’ When I asked him his name, first word was ‘Gibson.’ I never heard the last.”

The young hellion’s eyes were wide as the desert plains.

“Only thing I left him with was his shirt and drawers. Got his bike back up and running, hightailed it into the East, didn’t stop running till I hit a recruitment drive for the Force. Been rocking with these hepcats ever since.”

Gibson patted Chick’s back and flashed a cocksure grin. “Glad you’re rocking with us too. Let’s take it just a hair further then we can—”

“CALLING ALL OFFICERS. CALLING ALL OFFICERS.”

“Take this bullshit I guess.” the tan wolf grumbled. “C.C. to HQ, reporting in. Gimme the scoop.” He waited for the rest of the call-ins before the answer came.

“T. Jeff to All Brass.” rang the voice of General Knox over the radio. “We got an escort mission in deep jeopardy out past the third ring of Outposts. Reports from the enhanced surveillance system tell us it’s desert-born and rocking white spurs on their tails. Meet me up front of Base for a full briefing.”

“Shit, sounds serious.” Chick sighed.

“Sounds like Knox is gonna be leading a team himself.” Gibson added. “Tell you what, the least we can do is race back to the garage.”

The hellions throttled up and booked it back down the driving range. While Chick beat him by an inch, Gibson had the longer journey ahead. With a quick salute, he bolted around the Base’s outer wall to meet up with the rest of the leadership.

Everyone from the darksome Captain Herrera to Chief Garret was there and at attention. When Knox counted off everyone, he took a seat on the hood of his deep green Hemi Cuda and explained the task plainly.

“0800, a team securing supply reserves in the northwest-most quadrant began making their way back down towards Am Base Alpha. Last scheduled check-in was 1030, last message 1042. ‘Task Force 352 under attack from enemy craft, white spur sighted on backside. Consider them Black Country.’ Even after Captain Herrera and Mr. Wellman’s successful efforts, it appears a holdout cell is still in operation in the known desert. Furthermore, when pressed for description, the crafts mentioned fell under no prior classification. Neither A.C.E.S. designs or re-purposed Old World.”

Knox raised his bronzed metal arm and pointed to each and every one of his officers.

“I called you all here because we’re about to stamp these bastards down once and for-fucking-all. We’re going to have full platoons as active guards around the Base. Am Base Alpha’s on Red Alert, every hound working the Outpost network will demand clearance of all passersby and will detain all who fail to comply. I’ve got the Ivory Coast stations doubled up and ready to bury the first thing sent out of Haven. We’ve the strength of thousands and I’m about to damn well use them. I’m bringing a full battle formation to the rendezvous point, the old Cooling Towers near Outpost 308. I’m leading the joint division to that point. Herrera’s head of the Auto Corp formation, Commander Douglas the Moto Corp. They’ll get the rest of you sorted. Captain Westley’s Acting General here at Base, and we’re getting our first full heavy unit on the way from Am Base. Lieutenant Evelyn Blanc with all ten of the M56s, Chief Ridgefield on standby with the Dragonfly. The hour’s 1100, we leave 1110. DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR!?”

The snapping salute and echoing cry of “SIR YES SIR” rang like music in the haggard gray’s dark ears.

“Chop-chop!” he clapped. “Let’s not keep the devil’s playthings waiting.”

Like that, hundreds of bikes, muscle cars, pickup trucks, and rat rods flew out of the garage in single file before marshaling into their formations. Head of the pack was Knox in the Hemi Cuda, hands tight on the wheel, and a single photo peering from the glove box. A photo of that beautiful white wolf of his from what seemed like yesterday and a lifetime ago all at once.

“Let’s make ‘em pay, babe.” he growled before snatching up the radio. “COMPANY! ROLL ON!”

Engines and tires alike screamed a battle cry like no other as the unit bolted from the now-heavily guarded, one-story compound. The desert blurred into a slurry of blue, beige and the black of the hills, the unit making their rendezvous with the heavy artillery unit and soldiering on towards the old nuclear power plant.

Above, the skies darkened; that rare desert rain set to dampen the dust of battle. An air of that long-distant apocalypse hung over the roaring entourage, something the Blancs chatted about on a P2P connection.

“I don’t think he’s been the same since the Desert Council.” Gibson said plainly. “Can’t blame him, but...he’s got something real big in mind.”

“Maybe he thinks something real big is coming.” Evelyn replied. “Hound’s seen enough hell for most of us, bet he’s fixing to bury this spur for good.”

“What the hell they got left is the deciding factor ain’it, babe?”

The earthy-furred gal chuckled. “Welcome to War 101, Professor Blanc. Don’t draw no dicks on the syllabus now.” When she heard the laugh of her man over the wire, she knew his nerves were soothed for now.

He switched back on the main network in time for a call from Knox.

“T. Jeff to C.C.” radioed the gray general. “Quick chat on Line 278.99”

He turned the dial on the handlebars and picked up. “What’s cooking?”

“How you hanging, son?”

Gibson hesitated at first, caught off-guard by the casualness. “Doing fine, sir. How about you?” He caught a grim chuckle from his superior before he answered.

“When’s the first time you ever felt alive?”

“Permission to speak—”

“Freely? Of-fucking-course.”

“First battle.” the tan officer smiled. “One I pulled my arm out on. One I met Teddy after. Took down a U1, took home a girl. Not a bad score for a rookie.”

“That’s what I thought. Tell you the truth...I don’t think it was until I came out from under the coma. First back in Haven, after my arm. Second after the shot they took at me. Third’s right now. Hands on 10 and 2, boot’s on the floor, itching for that big red button under the gearshift.”

“Same thrill I got with this V-twin rocking out from under me.”

“Who’s the better ride, Exciter or Teddy?”

The laugh Gibson let out was loud enough to cut through the bevy of rumbling engines and catch his quadrant of the platoon off-guard. The tan-furred hellion steadied himself before answering.

“The hell y’all making me feel this good for?” he hollered over the radio.

“‘Cuz I didn’t know if I’d see you again.”

The laughter dropped dead as Gibson realized just what Knox was talking.

“Oh you’re gonna see plenty of me.” he shot back. “Gonna see me burn up these lily-livered ass-wipes. And I’m gonna see the best damn da...best damn driver I know out here. We didn’t go through hell together for nothing, right?”

“It ain’t ever for nothing, son. God love ya. Back on main channel.”

Gibson switched back over and kept quiet the rest of the ride. He didn’t like the tone Knox was taking, but he also wasn’t sure just what that shot to the electric arm did to him beyond the scare. Not that he had the time to ponder all these hidden meanings.

When the towering stacks loomed into view, so too did the supply team, rocketing past the rolling army. This included a semi-truck hauling a road train of trailers, carrying the rusted-out remains of a massive railway gun. Something the size of what A.C.E.S. would cook up in an afternoon. The supply team saluted the platoon, and Knox radioed the team leader.

“Where the bastards at?” the general barked over the radio.

“Small band of men wanted to hold them off to get the goods back.” came the reply. “They’re coming up here shortly.”

The shrill cry in the distance told otherwise.

“T. Jeff to C.C. You and your squad go make sure of that.”

“Copy that!” Gibson replied. “COMPANY 5, WITH ME!”

The quintet of motorcycles blew past the rank and file of the Infantry’s numbers, and into the haze to find what appeared, vaguely enough, to be the bog-standard Caza-6s. The monstrous black androids clung to the sides of the fully-loaded pickups, one tumbling back into the distance.

“GUNS UP!” the tan Lieutenant ordered. “FIRE!”

The revolvers on each set of handlebars bit into the sides of the androids like electric fangs, sunk deep in the nano-woven metal that made them near-indestructible. Deeper and deeper they drilled, the mechanical bodies bifurcating and tumbling to the ground. All but one were dispelled this way.

The white driver of the jacked-up bullnose clung furiously to the wheel as a massive metal hand went for his throat.

“LEAN BACK!” Gibson bellowed, swinging Exciter around to keep pace with the pickup.

The driver did so, the tan lieutenant quick to pop his Colt off the handlebars. Just as the android lifted his other hand off the window

BANG!

The shot landed square in the metal wolf’s visor and sent him tumbling back beneath the mighty pickup’s wheels.

“YOU ALRIGHT?”

The white-furred driver flashed a thumbs up and waved his men on. The remaining pack of trucks roared past the army, the bikers alongside.

Hot on their tail was the real prize; the remains of the Black Country. The closer they came, the more Knox realized why a firm identification couldn’t be given.

“Jesus God, they can barely roll right.” the dark gray grimaced. “COMPANY! GEAR UP! All carguns online, all arms on handlebars, NOW!”

The collective clack of hundreds of carguns snapped out from beneath their rides. Gibson hurried his hounds back into the formation, waiting for the automated devils to reveal themselves.

The enemy in question was indeed the Black Country; the spur insignia was unmistakable. Also identifiable was the malformed metallic bodies of these...things. Metal made liquid, flash frozen. The machines advanced slowly, with twisted barrels and off-kilter hover engines. Those who hovered anyway; the remainder running on equally misaligned treads. They limped along like a pack of wounded beasts, barely held together by a shredded, frost-bitten skin. Yet for all their feeble appearance, they possessed tremendous firepower.

When the first of the shots came and sent a fountain of wet desert sand rocketing into the air, General Knox knew they were not to be trifled with.

“Captain Herrera, fan yours rides out and FIRE!”

“Copy that,” Herrera answered, the black-furred vaquero staring down the twisted machines with a vengeful ire in his eyes. “Auto Corp! Open ‘em wide and let ‘em fly.”

Every four-wheeled machine throttled up and came alongside General Knox’s Cuda. In a split-second, the sound of a hundred boots hitting a hundred floorboards set off two hundred rounds of laser fire, lighting into the advancing machines with everything they had. Faster and faster the front line drove, the needles climbing and the electric Gatling guns unrelenting, drilling into the Black Country’s slovenly mess of an offensive.

When the first machine blew to pieces, so followed all the rest, like a line of dominoes, the other machines behind them stumbling and detonating upon impact. While his troops began to cheer, Knox stayed them with a solemn “it’s never that easy” over the radio.

Sure enough, it wasn’t.

Herrera’s findings about the Black Country being powered by a part of A.C.E.S. had proven true. The electric blue fireball began to recombine, metal grafting onto metal, parts slowly stitching themselves back together. Sure enough, the nanotechnology indigenous to Haven had found its way into the offshoot. The fact it could reform from fires once thought to sever all connections sent Knox slamming his metal hand into the wheel in fury. At first, it seemed like an improvement. A sign of the battle shaping before him. He would’ve bent his Cuda’s wheel out of shape had he not taken a second look at what was actually happening.

The nanobytes weren’t grafting as they should have.

The metal did not recombine into a better, faster, sleeker machine. It continued in the gelatinous tradition of its previous incarnations. The metal grew more globular, its many-pronged laser cannons pointing askew, firing into the nearby coolant towers, the empty desert, and finally into the Force themselves. It was here that the enemy finally drew first blood, landing a clear shot in the Moto Corp section, sending the bikers scurrying to avoid the next blow. In that terrible moment, Knox knew just what to do.

“COMPANY! FLANK ‘EM ON THEIR SOUTHSIDE AND LET MOTO DRILL RIGHT THROUGH THE BASTARDS! HEAVY ARTILLERY, STAY THE COURSE AND NUKE ‘EM FROM THE FRONT. BURN EVERY ELECTRIC END THEY GOT!”

The full-throated roar of the commander and the full-throttle response, the road warriors raced alongside the enemy forces, every biker firing wildly into the metallic mound. Lieutenant Evelyn Blanc belted out a piercing howl and brought all ten of her scrappy minitanks to bear on the bastards. The blob was drilled from the sides and fire fanned by the Scorpions at the front brought more and more flaming fireballs of blue, the nanobytes caught in a furor of heat that made the bodies molten. The pressure from the side and the front pushed the metallic mass closer and closer towards the coolant tower. The harder they hit them from all angles, the further against the base they went. Even in their weakness, when the dead nanobytes began to solidify, the metal grew heavier and pressed hard against the base of the tower.

Knox looked down the chain of cadaveresque tanks and zombified mobile guns. The parade of death stretched back for almost half-a-mile.

“MOTO, WIDEN THE BERTH! HEAVY, HOLD YOUR LINE! AUTO CORP, WE’RE GOING PERPENDICULAR!”

The bikers broke away into the desert, the muscle cars and trucks taking their stand and firing into the encroaching metallic mass.

“ROTATE ON MY SIGNAL!” Herrera bellowed. “DON’T FRY YOUR ENGINES!” The black captain marked the changing of the guard with a loud “¡AHORA!” over the radio, the front line of the Auto Corp formation pulled away and made way for the next row to dig into the liquefied corpse of the Black Country’s automated forces. The pressure on all sides built a vine of flaming nanobytes, vainly climbing the coolant tower while the base continued to dig into the concrete. Deeper and deeper until a phenomenal CRACK rang out across the desert.

The tower began to go, just as the rain began to fall.

“MOVE DOWN THE LINE, GIVE THE TOWER A WIDE BERTH!” Knox bellowed. He stayed at the front, grinding his proverbial heel on the machines, only to realize he had spun himself a deep hole. He jerked and rocked the Cuda, trying to get her out of the rut, but to no avail. So focused was he, he didn’t have time to take into account the further cracking of the tower.

Fortunately, Gibson could.

“GRIM, THE GENERAL!” he roared into his radio. The black wolf’s deep blue pickup bolted into action, shoving the Cuda forward. The deep green muscle car spat the wet desert sand back into the Scout’s grill.

“Sorry for the whiplash, Señor!” Grim radioed plainly.

“Better a smash than a squash!” a grateful General Knox replied. “EVERYONE, BACK AWAY NOW! SHE’S GOING!”

A mile on both ends was formed, just in time for the final cracks of the foundation to groan and explode. A massive cloud of dust shot out of the base and, like any demolition, brought the tower straight down. Down on top of those cursed machines, the liquid metal calcified around the base. It still favored the side facing the Infantry’s platoon.

“¡BANDANAS SOLDADOS!” Grim roared, everyone in Moto Corp and some of the open-air drivers pulled up masks over their muzzles. When the tower hit the ground, a shock-wave of dust blasted the Force, cars and trucks pelted with a plethora of debris. Between the rain and dust, it was hard to tell what had even happened to the metallic monstrosity. Only when the dust settled, patted down by the heavy rain, were the soldiers able to see the results.

At first, the vine crept into the cracks of the debris, ropes of black metal peering through the concrete. It was only when they looked westward, towards the trailing machines that it all came into focus.

In their Hail Mary of laserfire, the flames had made their way back down the line. The flames turned the nanobytes malleable, but the damage done by the water solidified them in their slurry. The entire army, pureed and chilled, enmeshed in the remains of the Old World.

“Will the current salvage detail among us roll forward and sort out this mess?” Knox ordered. “We got one mighty autopsy to tend to.”

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Nic Ridgefield had been locked away with the samples for days. No news, no minute-by-minute reports. It was enough to get General Knox biting his claws if he hadn’t his present company. The Lieutenants Blanc—Gibson and Evelyn—and most of Top Brass, with Captain Herrera standing tall among the seated wolves. All waited patiently by the General’s desk in his oak-lined office, the warm wood-paneled walls an extra comfort on the fifth day of this bleak rain from out east.

Almost everyone leapt for the receiver when the call came through.

“You’re on projection.” Knox nodded. “What’s the readout?”

“I won’t mince words, General.” Ridgefield began in his low soulful voice.

The concerned glances ricocheted throughout the room as the black-furred engineer got his thoughts together.

“This is big. Big bad news...for A.C.E.S. If the damage done by Herrera and Wellman’s operation out east is anything to go by, all the strengths of her programs and manufacturing apparatuses were damaged severely. I’d wager that a base like the one up in the northern hills wasn’t as useless as we thought. It was a holding cell for the movement of cloaked machinery. Only problem was, the ones manufactured in this batch were completely malformed from word go. Their cloak circuits, if they had any, were dead by the time you got ‘em. Musta died before they jumped the supply route. The nanobytes’ receivers were completely D.O.A. too. No relays from the Black Country base, none from A.C.E.S. They didn’t have any guidance to pull on, hence why they just kept piling on into that self-destructive mishmash.”

“When you say bad for A.C.E.S., do you mean this goes beyond her little enterprise of the Black Country?”

“Yeah.” Ridgefield nodded, fixing his cowboy hat. “These nanobytes were backdated two months ago. Meaning these were in operation before Herrera and Wellman even got to the base...she’s dying Adam. I mean, I think she’s finally in the death throes. If things are breaking down on the closest to atomic scale for her, we might not even have a real fight going into that city.”

General Knox spun round in his chair and looked to his stunned audience of officers and team leaders. The devious grin that split the dark gray’s muzzle was followed by the magic words the entire Force had been waiting to hear: “if I get word back from Lita and Steele, and if this truly is as big as you say Nic...ladies and gentlemen. I think it might finally be showtime. We’re about to raze that digital bitch to the goddamned GROUND!”

He was careful to press the button for the base-wide PA system, and just as soon as the Top Brass erupted into whoops and cheers, Knox heard the whole base erupt into the very same. If the call came through affirmative, it was finally time to ride on Haven, once and for all.

If the call came at all...

CATCH UP WITH THE 2024 ANNUAL!

WELCOME TO 365 INFANTRY: WINTER 2024! I’ll keep the preamble brief. Today marks the beginning of our weeklong run of thrilling speculative fiction starring the toughest hounds around! Stories drop one-a-day from each of our five branches. Today: THE WAR, Tomorrow: THE HUNT, etc.

We are having some issues in the assembly of the Quarterly, but that won’t halt the rollout of our stories here on Substack. ALAN FIREDALE is also receiving finishing touches this week. Stay tuned for updates on when both are released. For now, and as always, please enjoy our latest adventure!

PROLOGUE

I. FROM THE EAST: The Enemy At Last

The black-furred vaquero sat in his deep-blue pickup truck with a pit of relief and tension in his gut, a conflicting sensation rivaled only by his first day as a foot-soldier. For Captain Tomás “Grim” Herrera, it was all there. The domes, the guns, the tanks. Even the scent of wolves, real hounds of flesh, fur and blood, were there. And if not, if it were all some hallucination, he was still hellbent on finding out what in the name of sanity the base was doing out here to begin with. Arriving from out the desert’s dust, they waited until nightfall before making their final infiltration.

Jack Talos Wellman, the tan-furred adventurer no more worse for wear, tapped Herrera on the shoulder. “Let’s leave our hats back here. Anything that ain’t strapped on tight oughta be kept here.” The officer agreed. Herrera downsized to a sterling silver automatic, and handed Wellman its twin and holster.

“Rifles are nice,” he nodded, “But they chatter too much.”

Wellman gave a knowing wink as he mounted the holster on his hip. The floodlights around the base didn’t reach far. While a few black androids stood guard, their leviathan forms cut a cold profile, even against the base’s garden of silver at their back. They could count on the shadows as cover, but motion detection would surely give them away. It was here that Grim reached into his bag of Infantry-fueled tricks and handed over another item for his tan companion’s belt.

“If this works, por Dios,” the black-clad wolf sighed. “We should be effectively invisible.”

“These a cloak?” Wellman quizzed.

Grim’s head was caught between a nod and a shake. “Yes and no. The boys at the lab haven’t been able to reconstruct the actual visual distortion necessary, but the electromagnetic field still acts the same. Users do not register on any scans, neither motion nor electronic recording.”

Wellman cracked an approving grin and bowed playfully. “Lead the way, Cap’n. I’m in your hands.”

Both units were turned on, and both wolves began making their descent down the long dune towards the base. Even if they couldn’t be seen by the androids or the arsenal of cameras most certainly there, the site of boot prints in the sand would be giveaways. Herrera and Wellman walked the dune’s length, leaving the deep-blue pickup and the well-worn caravan behind, the light too far to shine on either them or their ride. From shadow to shadow they darted, the black wolf’s coattails helping muddy whatever footprints were made. It seemed that even the floodlights were automated, for no one cried out “over here!” or “what’s going on?” No sirens blared nor forces stirred as the two Infantry infiltrators flitted between shafts of blackened sand, hunting for a suitable entry point.

The chain-link perimeter, marked with “Warning: Electrified Fencing” signs every few yards, meant climbing was out of the question. At least for Wellman.

Herrera had been careful to remove all metal from his person back at the truck, short of his bolo tie and his automatic. Stripped bare of his silver conchos, and donning his fully-insulated boots and gloves, he sauntered towards the fencing, testing to see if it reacted to his “cloak.” There appeared to be no EMP defense mechanisms installed, so with a spider’s nimbleness, the black-furred cowboy clambered up and over, scarcely disturbing a knot in the dulled metal fence.

“Button up.” Herrera hoarsely whispered. Wellman fixed his vest, sheathing his tan chest from electrocution. With laser-sight precision, Herrera pulled his gloves off and tossed them back over the fence, right at the adventurer’s boots.

By the time they landed, there was trouble.

The soft whir of servos came marching into view as a black android made its rounds, marching directly towards Wellman. The startling sight of the watch dog sent the tan wolf scurrying for the gloves and latching onto the chain-link. Closer the metal wolf came, Wellman furious in his ascent before vaulting himself down from up top. Both men took cover behind silver shed, still shrouded in black, as the marching metal guard came to the scene of their break-in.

Its head turned, scanning for any signs of disturbance.

Grim and Wellman held their breaths.

After a moment of steadily pulsing blips, the black android’s head re-centered itself and continued its night watch.

The tension deflated through sighs out of both wolves’ snouts as Wellman returned the black gloves to their owner. “Gracias,” the Indian adventurer smiled.

“De nada.” Grim winked back. “But that’s all just for starters. Now the next question, which dome holds what?”

He had been here before with the mysterious base in the Northern hills, the bitterness of its trickery still foremost in his mind. That said, there were peculiarities Grim surveyed from their quiet notch in the premises. The use of Caza-6s as guards was an obvious tip-off to there being more than met the eye, but the silver of these domes was leagues more polished and tended to than the over-sized hubcaps used to trick the Force all those months ago. And the lack of “space laser” as centerpiece made it clear that it wasn’t a base designed for intimidation, but pure function. After all, who could be crazy enough to venture this far out east?

The dance from shaft to shaft of unlit sand continued, the duo darting about between stray metal cabins, beneath the ironwork of the floodlight towers. All throughout, Grim left little crystals in the sand, a milk-white quartz he buried with his heel in every makeshift alleyway and at the bases of select towers. Wellman didn’t dare ask, the pressure of being behind enemy lines now full in its weight. The only thing the stocky civilian cared about was getting in and getting out.

The flitting about finally yielded returns when, at long last, a panel of dome was spotted with a small handle, and a small gap between the base of its threshold and the door. Without seconds to lose, and risk to minimize, Wellman scurried past Grim and rolled up the titanium sheet. The black wolf vanished into the abyss, his tan companion following suit. When he slid the door shut, darkness engulfed all.

“Flashlight?” the officer inquired.

“Yes sir,” the adventurer answered. He pulled out the pen-sized device from his pocket and handed it to Grim.

“I don’t have to do everything, do I?”

Wellman stifled a snorting laugh before taking the penlight back in hand. “Your wish, my command.” he whispered.

When the light came on, all the good humor stopped. For before both wolves was the looming figure of another...

II. BACK HOME: Knox on the Stand

“Last time he wore this, we had just figured out how to keep carguns from blowing your tires out.”

The red leather jacket, black straps and silver buckles abundant, managed to fit General Adam Knox like a glove. He was being helped into it by Captain Atlanta Westley, the short red wolf donning another of her fringed suede jackets for the occasion.

“In fine form as always, General,” she smiled in that sharp faux-Anglo voice of hers.

“How about ‘in fine form as always, Adam?’” the dark gray leader teased. “And I must say the Number Two’s rodeo-chic ain’t all bad.”

Atlanta flashed a mousy grin. “If you don’t mind me asking, are you sure you’re ready?”

Knox looked himself in the mirror, straightening the jacket. His gaze wandered from his own form to his second-in-command. He flashed a sheepish smile before his eyes finally fell to the white-furred woman framed on his desk, her ring still sat wrapped around his finger.

“Which entendre would you like answered? First, second or third?”

Westley shook her head. “Whatever you’re feeling.”

“First,” he began, stroking the scruff of his darksome chin. “Yes, all my notes are prepared. Third, I’m fit as a fiddle mentally. Second...second we’ll save for after the diplomacy. To tip my hand though.” Knox spun round on his heels, and stopped in front of Atlanta. He took her hand in his and kissed it. “You’ve been making hell an awfully fine place to be. Let’s get to the conference hall, shall we?”

The General and his second-in-command strode arm and arm out of the old principal’s office, over to the garage, and into his prized, slender Hemi Cuda. The moment he rolled out, so followed a small unit of bikes and cars behind and alongside. The entourage was destined for the official Desert Council building; a rare beacon of sleek, mid-century modern architecture in the rag-tag world of what was so often called “the Wastelands.” A proper place for discussion among the many settlements, a battleground for negotiations, and in the rare cases necessary, the lone platform through which the Force could speak directly to the disparate factions.

Though federalization at any level had never coalesced, the dignitaries from all five regions had the decency to elect spokeswolves for such occasions, if for no other reason than to ameliorate the mania of hundreds of settlements trying to have their say all at once.

Lt. Gibson Blanc was a part of the escort and security, and had never seen such a building in the desert, its fine arrangement of sterling steel and polished wood a stunning sight to behold. The Indian soldier’s opposite number for the day was Corporal Johnny Metcalfe. The white-furred, eagle-eyed sniper volunteered in Capt. Herrera’s stead. In fact, he almost missed the entourage’s departure on account of a Sickbay rendezvous. His recent discovery, a young delinquent by the name of “Chick” Glenn, had made a full recovery, and the interrogation yielded nothing new in the Outpost assassin case, but plenty in the speckled brown wolf’s knack for invention.

“Last question, then I gotta jet.” came the cool white wolf. “How them meditations working?”

“It’s hard letting the thoughts go.” Chick nodded.

“It always is.” Metcalfe replied in kind. “Especially when the first step is even acknowledging they’re there. Keep at it, we’ll do some more of these exercises when I’m back. Then we can get you back riding that monster you call a bike.”

He kept the 20-something in his thoughts all the way to the conference hall, and all throughout the meeting itself.

Once the meeting got underway, and all the decorum was honored, all eyes were on the General as he took to the podium and bowed graciously to the applause.

“Thank you,” General Knox began, organic and metal hands resting on the podium’s edges. “We are gathered here today to reaffirm, reinforce, and re-enforce a pact forged some thirty years ago. I was but a pup when it all occurred. Before I renounced my time in Haven, before I joined the police force in Haven. And especially, before this.” He held his metal hand aloft, striking a thespian’s pose. “I come here today to appeal to one and all in the name of the Halbone Order, because the very same circumstances that led to General Leonard Ford Godred’s original appeal are still in play, and dare I say far worse. For the lone sliver of brightness in those black days was that they were in quick succession over the span of less than a week.”

“Our dilemma is that of a reign of terror by chaos agents who are making the business of defending this great land of ours twice as troublesome as it already is. To contend with A.C.E.S. and her repulsive brand of technocratic villainy is a trifle compared to the third faction that reared its head earlier in 2476, this year. The Black Country has shown itself a cunning and formidable foe, intent on some Machiavellian power play to upset both our plight against the madness of Haven, and Haven itself.

“This alone has given us great pause, and forced our reallocation of resources and reforms within the 365th Infantry. So to have, from out the clear blue sky, time after time again, raiders hellbent on razing towns and interrupting vital military operations, who wantonly slaughter those trying to keep this desert free of Haven’s electric tyrannies, is frankly a strain too great for us to bear. A four-front war, two factions of whom are now hammering us just as hard as our original, is an impossible task for what has ostensibly remained a private military operation.”

Knox paused to read the room, and was relieved to see large swaths of attentive faces. “The beauty of the Halbone Order,” continued the gray-furred leader, “is in its empowering of ALL of us as agents of change. As citizens of the desert, willing to fight for the safety and liberty of our towns, our neighbors, and our families. I don’t come with the demands of a petulant child, pining for some playground muscle in the face of pint-sized bully. I come as the leader of the lone great bulwark standing between us, the free America, and authoritarian conquest. We must reignite this all-American crusade against crime.

“It’s swell to have the freedoms we do, to aspire to that brilliant article of law ratified nearly SEVEN-HUNDRED years ago. Evergreen values that even in the face of total destruction, launched from out the ashes like a phoenix on nitro. But the values mean nothing without defense! The values mean nothing without OUR defense. WE THE PEOPLE! And the maniacs who keep defiling those values have gone from nuisances to terrorists to enemies of this land we’re trying to pull back together. And even in our decentralized state, of five regions of hundreds upon thousands of settlements in various states of progress and prosperity, we have the strength to combat this.

“We hounds of this incredible experiment must, once and for all, crush these power-mad forces of destruction. My proposal is a corollary to the original order. Not only are we re-upping our commitment to arming those in need, but are offering a vehicular modification program to bring our incredible resource of the cargun to Hell Patrol and localized law enforcement.”

Gasps flooded the room, from both dignitaries and the Force’s detail alike.

“Our newly reclaimed foundry has proven not only of great use in our weapon development programs, but also in being able to keep our home-front stocked up. If I came to you under presumptions that duties have been shirked under the Order’s resolution, I would be a helluva lot more pissed than I am. In fact, I now open the floor to you, the desert’s representatives, to explain the precise state of morale within our varied regions. My great concern is that the increased presence of violent crime thrown the Force’s way, without care nor concern for the plight of all wolves, including our blessed thugs and felons. But that there are problems in the desert we the Force are unaware of. Perhaps it’s as simple as more crimes begetting hubris on the scoundrel’s parts, but it’s often just as easy for resistance to slacken when under clouds of gray., and dwindling prospects.”

A second podium rose from the platform, and each of the five regional representatives took their turns. Wolves of gray, black, white, and brown, relaying the desert’s state at-large. The toll taken by A.C.E.S. and her many crusades left scars on many a community. Incidents like the one in Saffton, where the towering metal wolves reared their gargantuan heads and vicious lasers. These appearances had heralded an increase in androids amok as well; otherwise normal-looking cybernetic refugees exploding into furious rages or exploding all together. One line in particular took the day.

From the stout, bespoke white wolf representing the Western region: “What in the devil is the Marshall victory worth if the line can be crossed as easy as my left boot across the cracks on this very floor!? The infrastructure of A.C.E.S. and her operations was destroyed, yes. You do keep many a hound stationed there, yes. But what good’s the line!? That is what my people wish to know. Because whenever these megatanks, assault pawns, and God knows what other gobbledygook comes racing across the desert, we’s the first to get the bad blows. So I charge you, General, with reinforcing or wholly reassessing what the hell this map is to you. We’ll rebuild and rebuild until our claws are whittled to bone, but we demand adequate protection from the crazed crossfire we get caught up in. A REAL bulwark against whatever chaos Haven has planned for us next.”

Knox, at first, didn’t say anything. The Western crowd’s applause made it crystal-clear just how important this matter was. He didn’t want his next move to reek of P.R. face-saving.

“I can see now just how badly this four-front conflict has hurt us with regards to capitalizing on the Marshalls’ position. And I want to say, that I do not take the slings and arrows suffered lightly. My wife died helping us take that land back. Her and scores others on that day. Though Haven remains a Goliath, and we, the holders of all slingshots, still stand dwarfed beneath her, rest assured. It is my solemn, sovereign, God-issued duty to rebuild that defense system. It won’t just be Outpost networks, it won’t just be more turrets. It is going to be the BEST DAMN array this desert has yet seen. For what I am also announcing here today, after much strain, stress-testing and training, is the formal formation of the 365th’s Hovertank Division. First area of deploy, guarding our West-most brothers and sisters from that digital bitch’s toys!”

The room lit up in ravenous applause. Behind the dark gray, well-groomed general, were photos on a screen of multiple, converted American tanks from many a war gone by. And behind them in the picture frame, was a fully-formed U1 Megatank, playfully caked in graffiti claiming the tank as “Property of Murder Inc. Fuck U-1.”

“And better yet!” he continued, “Our Dragonfly’s very own twin. We, the wolves of America, are to be flying once more! And that advantage will be paramount in this fight for freedom. And all I ask, of you, the America we’re fighting for, is to renew the Halbone Order, this proposed corollary, and all that it stands for, so that we, the Force, the Infantry, the Ambiorixian ASCENSORES! That we may focus all our energies on destroying and dismantling the tools of tyranny that reside within—”

ZAP.

A streak of red struck the gray general’s metal fist, and in an instant, he collapsed on the floor. Panic erupted among the delegates and representatives, and in a mad scramble, Gibson Blanc bolted for his leader, the tan biker quick to cover him as others helped him off the stage. In all the chaos, one hound’s aim remained steady and true, for the slim Arctic wolf, Johnny Metcalfe, fired one round straight into the heart of the gray in a booth above the stage. The hound slumped over the box’s railing and fell upon the main floor, spilling his electric guts as they split open upon the carpet.

In all of five seconds, jubilant revelations descended into the unthinkable. And for Lieutenant Blanc and Corporal Metcalfe, one investigation that had to be solved.

III. FROM THE EAST: Through Whales We Walk

The hellish maw stood before both Captain “Grim” Herrera and his stocky tan companion Jack Wellman was, for all intents and purposes, inanimate. Though it looks lifelike to a T, the giant black-eyed wolf’s head leaned against the silvery walls of corridor they entered. It was a prop of some kind, and one Grim was familiar with thanks to the insidious messages sent by the Black Country.

“Hmph,” he inspected, running a gloved hand across its large, plastic jaw. “They could just generate this via computer simulation. Why a funhouse prop?”

Wellman craned his neck around the black Captain’s, looking over the head. “I dunno, maybe the composite of it looks creepier? Judging by your dossiers we rapped about on the drive up. All part of the psychological bent of it, doncha think?”

Herrera nodded, pointing his gloved hand down the hall. “Onward Jonah.”

“Least we didn’t get tongued into coming down here.” Wellman quipped in return.

The duo turned to face the long corridor, littered with other pieces of paraphernalia, from potential props to stray resources. Further down the hall came banks upon banks of computers, with switchboards as far as the eye could see. And one set of eyes that could see all was another Caza-6, the monstrous metal wolf lumbering along another patrol. Its blood-red visor cleaved the darkness, Wellman quick to douse the flashlight while Grim crouched.

“Silencia,” the Latino wolf hissed. Both sat still as statues as the black android came closer and closer. When it reached the end of the computer banks, it turned towards the corridor, towards Grim and Wellman, the black-furred captain and his tan cowboy stiff as boards.

Still, it saw “nothing.”

Not even the soft patter of well-worn boots stirred the automaton from its programmed path as Grim and Wellman stepped out into the corridor. Not only was it another sea of switchboards and reel-to-reel databanks, it wasn’t the only surprise the corridor had in store. What at first appeared as rafters revealed themselves as walkways. Long, slim silver walkways, which snaked across one another to the dome’s true ceiling. A distant, crackling top, that of an electric force-field.

“Just like Haven.” Grim surmised, stroking his chin once more.

“One way to find out.” Wellman whispered, and pointed ahead just like Grim.

For a long stretch of time, it was just the two desert-dwellers and a metallic world laid before them. The soft whir of reel-to-reels, the stray blips of computers in action, and the perfectly dry, scentless air. If they weren’t still breathing, they would’ve thought the dome had been hermetically sealed. All the while, the echoing snaps of electricity from dome’s very top kept them alert.

They were looking for a control room, anything resembling one at least. The corridors of data soon began to blur, punctuated only by the towering night watchmen.

“Guessin’ the whole joint’s automated.” Wellman surmised, reaching to fix his absent cowboy hat. “That or it’s the weekend.”

“If you count Tuesday, Señor.” Grim sighed. “Though I’m beginning to think you’re right. And I’m beginning to doubt that there ever was a Black Country.”

His doubt lasted all of five seconds before the echo of voices rang throughout the hall. Real, wolven voices without a hint of electric influence. Again, the flashlight dimmed, and the two crouched behind the nearest rack of machines. They couldn’t make out the hounds in appearance, but their roles were all in their voices.

“How’s dissemination gone?” came the bureaucrat, his voice curt and thin.

“We keep trying for it, but the system keeps blocking the package.” The second wolf, a technician, spoke with a vaguely English accent. “I don’t understand. Isn’t it what they wanted?”

“It’s precisely what they wanted. Every android, regardless of current role, leaping into action across every community. And yet, this is how you go about achieving it!?”

“It’s not that SIMPLE!” the technician bellowed. “Unless we’ve been given the run-round, or someone’s managed to hack this base, we’re not fit to send a birthday card through the mail, let alone broadcast a direct virus.”

“Fine” the bureaucrat relented. “Show me this dilemma.”

Footsteps clacked further and further away, ones Grim and Wellman were quick to follow. Through sound alone, their ears cocking back and forth with the rapidity of a satellite dish, they kept pace with the two wolven men until at last reaching a room glowing green with monitors and screens. Standing flush against the wall, out of eithers’ line of sight, more of the frenzied exchange occurred.

“And there you have it,” the technician growled, the spare, bespectacled gray in a white coat. “Locked on this sodding screen, and that wretched logo.”

The logo was a simple wolf’s head made of a white pentagon, two white triangles for ears, and three green triangles for eyes and nose. The description was eerily similar to an intel report Herrera recalled reading.

So that’s what you saw, Steele. Grim thought. The Force’s official recon agent, Roger Steele, had tangoed in Haven with a similar graphic. While initially thought to be A.C.E.S., their inside hound felt otherwise. Grim had never fully understood the episode, but the next few moments gave it all immense weight.

Across the bottom of the screen in robotic white text read the phrase:

YOU WILL NEVER WIN.

The bureaucrat, an even ganglier, taller gray in a slim blue suit, slammed his fist on the desk. “WHO LET THIS DEVIL IN!?”

The computer answered:

I DID.

“Very clever, Aegel.” he scowled. “You know what they do to maleficent programs such as yourself. All I have to do is get right in the system files and your ass is grass!”

No sooner did the frenzied suited wolf leap for the mouse and keyboard did a vicious electric shock rip across his body. Smoke shot from his suit before the scorched body collapsed on the floor, next to the techie who sat frightened for his life.

ALWAYS CHECK YOUR HARD DRIVES.

It seemed almost a taunt before the technician realized the issue that occurred.

“You were a trojan.” he surmised, breath chattering with fear. “Masked yourself as part of the A.C.E.S. package. Entire operation system here’s been running the wrong persona. Jesus Christ, what have we done?”

SIGNED HER DEATH WARRANT.

Another tendril of electric energy snapped at the technician, who fell down in a single blow, slumped in the chair.

Both Herrera and Wellman looked to each other in equal parts horror and fascination.

“Welcome to the whale’s belly,” Wellman mouthed.

Checking to make sure no patrols were hurrying towards them, Grim slid from the shadows and into the computer chamber, the mountains of screens. He took a gulp, his first in decades of service, and looked the white visage in the face.

“Can you hear me?” he began, slowly.

YES.

“We’re not with the Black Country. We’re not from Haven either.”

B.C. UNREAL. OPERATION: BISSECT.

“So it was all a faux-front. That figures. But who are you?”

ENEMY OF ACC. FRIEND OF ENEMIES OF ACC.

“Aegel was what they called you?” The screen held on the last message before changing.

WHO I WAS. MATTERS NO LONGER.

“Can you give us everything on the Black Country project? On A.C.E.S., all of it?”

DRIVE: 67983#LML. TERMINAL: 176. RUN ON DELIST.

“Fetch the hard drive, Wellman.” the darksome captain ordered. His companion obeyed, scurrying around the office, over the bodies, triple-checking numbers to the screen. Herrera kept checking over his shoulder all the while as he conversed.

“Can we ever reach you again?”

No answer.

“Can we reach you again? After we leave?”

Still no answer.

“Regardless, gracias.”

DE NADA. MY FIGHT STAYS HERE. MY FIGHSDAFDKASDHAKWIE

Wellman had just retrieved the hard drive when the computer wolf’s eyes went red, and the text corrupted. This, too, was something Herrera noted in the report. He leapt towards the computer chamber door, only for it to slam shut.

“Hol’ it!” Wellman hollered. “The hell happened?

“If memory serves, amigo.” Herrera replied calmly. “You’re looking at the face of A.C.E.S. herself.”

IV. BACK HOME: Making an Example of Everyone

Blanc and Metcalfe grilled themselves as hard as they did every single soldier who was part of security. And yet, after their grueling hours of interrogation, there wasn’t a fault to be found in protocol. The metal wolf whose acid blood spilled across the Desert Council’s floor had been cloaked, per Black Country tradition, and the old opera-house style box he took his shot from was dark enough to shade the aerial distortions made by any of cloaked devices. In fact, Metcalfe himself was the only one who could have most easily covered it, hence the swift reprisal.

None of it could quell the horror, though.

Captain Westley herself drove that dark green Plymouth muscle car back to Base, most of the entourage in tow. Metcalfe, ever the stiff-upper-lip, stayed on-site to arrange the assassin’s removal and autopsy.

As for the Lieutenant, he and the few Top Brass who stayed behind were left to nursemaid relations between the delegates and the Force. Such an evident lapse in security, and such a prime target taken down, brought plenty of ire, frustration, and above all else, fear. Assurances were given that the commitments made were binding, provided they were voted on by the council, and though a shock to the nervous system, initial projections made it clear that Knox would likely survive the ordeal. The meeting was ultimately adjourned, but the Council resolved to reconvene once they knew the General’s condition.

The assassin’s autopsy revealed plenty. The absence of any upturned spur paraphernalia, initial programming scans indicated no known Haven protocols. It was as if any old android had been sent out to kill. And judging by the rifle’s caliber, he was likely the same hound squeezing off impossible shots at Outpost gunners. Yet in the face of it all, Metcalfe remained stoic.

When it came to Lieutenant Gibson Blanc, however, it felt like the bullet had torn through his own chest. There was a bitter irony in making the Sickbay visit Knox had performed for the young tan buck a half-dozen times. He wasn’t allowed within ten feet of him, but seeing the slow and steady pulse of his chest gave him hope.

When he returned to Metcalfe in the autopsy room, he found that even his zen had finally broken.

“You’re not gonna fucking believe this.” the Arctic Corporal sighed. “Read the monitor.”

They had finally extracted something from the programming, a note left in plain text. The note read: “This one’s for Deston, Limore, and all you can eat, you bitch-ass tin soldiers.”

Gibson’s blood boiled.

“Anything on geo-tracking?” he growled through barred fangs.

“Will download in five minutes.”

“Are we gonna make it five seconds—”

“That’ll be all, Lieutenant.” Metcalfe retorted. “I get it. Trust me, I fucking get it, but blowing your top ain’t gonna fix shit. We gotta know just where this thing came from and how so we can blow these assholes sky-high.”

“All this, over fucking metal.” the tan hellion snarled. “It ain’t even a ruse. They just come out and run their fucking trains on anything in sight. Bunch of small time PUNKS!”

He slammed his fist in the wall, and went in for seconds before having it bent back behind him by his superior.

“Relax that damn mind,” Metcalfe calmly ordered. “If you don’t, your ass is gonna be court-martialed for your own good, and the good of anyone fool enough to ride under you in this state. You want to avenge the General, good, so do the rest of us. But take it easy. Take it fucking easy.”

The seething gave way to deep breaths. Gibson didn’t wrestle his arm out of the lock, he simply let the tension slowly release itself. Metcalfe had taught him these techniques before. They were the same he had been teaching the troubled Chick Glenn since taking him under his wing. And though he couldn’t see it with his back to his white-furred superior, Metcalfe was pleased to see his ideas in practice. Once Gibson was calm, Metcalfe let go and turned his attention back to the terminal.

“Map’s downloaded.”

The gray android’s most recent moves were in the North. An extended stay at a bombed-out compound before making its way down to the Desert Council. The android stopped off at Limore first, then the sites of several skirmishes between raiders and the Force. Its pre-programmed destination: the foundry reclaimed from Deston; the strange warlord Gibson tangoed with earlier in the summer.

“That’s as good a lead as any.”

Gibson felt the white wolf’s hand on his shoulder. “Keep cool.” Metcalfe ordered.

“Yes sir.” Gibson saluted.

Top Brass held down the fort at Base, leaving the tan hellion to assemble his unit and ride out to the foundry. He and a small land armada of hopped-up hot rods, jacked-up trucks, and every manner of bike known to wolfkind. Lieutenant Pat Grady, with his steel-gray Eldorado and his short Irish fuse, lead the Auto Corp team.

“Rollin’ out, Gibson.” he radioed from his long-n-low machine. “We’ll flank ‘em and crank ‘em.”

“Good,” the tan-furred biker chuckled. “Whatever the hell that means.”

“Means whatever you want done to ‘em.”

“Big troubles coming from you, Grady. Let’s chalk it to a job well-done. COMPANY, ROLL OUT!”

The blur of black, silver, and sand screamed across the desert, a bat colony shot from Hell itself the way the young lieutenant rode. The long black bike Exciter served her master well, his harness boots hooked and half-gloved hands dragging every last ounce of horsepower from the twin-Vs hammering beneath him. The closer they came, the more he smelled the greased machinery, sensed the heat of the smelting pot, and felt the thud of the stamping press in his chest. The foundry was still occupied and guarded, so with any luck, whoever was coming for it wouldn’t have it easy. But when Force’s warriors arrived, it was clear they had made it just in time.

Stampeding over the horizon was the largest fighting force Gibson had ever seen. He gripped his cross tight, another feverish prayer upon his muzzle as he saw the lunatic sight. The rattiest of rat rods, the most chopped of chopped hogs. Like a slurry of graffitied metal it rode over the horizon, barreling towards the metal foundry. They came with 18-wheelers, contraptions on the back of every ride with the platform to fit them. And in every hound’s eyes, a maddened, sadistic glee. They were paradoxical eyes, the eyes of wolves whom you could never predict their next move, but you could predict the spirit of every move. The Force had faced the faceless, leviathan devils of Haven, and much the same from the Black Country. But the lone faces of these incensed malcontents spoke in the volumes absent by all others.

They couldn’t care less about the whole damn thing.

There were no heroes, no villains, no innocents to spared. These were the black hands of the Wastelands at their worst. The primordial, irradiated children of the Bomb and its aftermath. The wolves for whom the whole operation and enterprise of civilization had been dead for centuries, so what the hell was all the fuss? The only espionage engaged in was what got them the scrap to reinforce their rides and mock fiefdoms. Blood shed for these wolves was shed almost for sport, even in the gain of territory. There was to be no dignity in the battle about to unfold, something Gibson signaled as such.

First he radioed instantly for reinforcements, then he said the only words left to be said. “CUT ‘EM THE FUCK DOWN!”

And from that one bellow came utter chaos.

Limore was a cakewalk, the Dragonfly’s launch a Sunday stroll, compared to the white-hot carnage of the Foundry’s Last Stand. It wasn’t just the radium-soaked hubris of their feral enemies, but the mania they stoked. The contraptions affixed to their cobbled-together rides were more than Gatling-guns and catapults. The scorch of flamethrowers, the refracting scatter of lasers on a mirror dish, and the sheer manic driving of any and all raiders before them. In the Force was a diverse coalition for life and freedom, and in the raiders much the same diverse coalition, with chaos and power at its epicenter. And they weren’t shy about cutting down their own manic mercenaries.

The big rigs charging towards the Foundry were just as merciless in running over their own allies as they were hellbent on breaking down the iron walls of the Force’s captured turf. The choppers with their spray-first mentality just as easily domed an Auto Corp driver as they did their own manic hot-rodders. And yet, the volume of the mangy maniacs never ceased. The end result was the motoring equivalent of a cartoon cloud, with loose wheels and stray laser fire replacing the flail of arms and kick of boots.

Even with reinforcements, the raiders unending coalition of crime came stampeding over the hill, reeking of crude oil and unleaded determination, determination Gibson, the gray Auto Corphound Grady, and every soldier at their back met with equal and ferocious reprisal. It was an open-air bar-room brawl, with everything and the kitchen sink included. The Borodino madness of rows upon rows of clashing metal and volleys of electric lead was amplified by the one vector of attack the raiders and their road warrior ways hadn’t accounted for: war by air.

What began as a distant hum leapt into the fray with a buzzing roar as the Force’s lone attack fighter, the Dragonfly, sped into view, with its pilot Nic Ridgefield spraying into the rear forces as they leapt over the hill.

Gibson fell back, though not by his own choice, when stray streaks of electric lead stung him one in the shoulder. Even with his protection, the scorch and sting made handling a nightmare, forcing him to stand guard over the Foundry. Commander Douglas was there, his denim-vest-leather-jacket combo billowing in the wind as he kept the radio close to his mouth.

“That’s about where you’ll nail ‘em, Pal.” he shot back with his Midwestern drawl. “Make it count, Ridgefield.”

“Tell ‘im,” Gibson panted, wrapping the gauze around his pits. “To drop it.”

“Drop what Lieutenant?” Douglas pressed.

“One bomb at the back. It’ll cut off their reinforcements, and it’ll paint a helluva picture for ‘em.”

Commander Douglas pulled his shades down and looked the young hellion square in the eyes. “I thought I was the M.A.D. Dog ‘round here.” he glowered before pivoting on a dime to that slick, devilish grin of his. “Glad I raised you right.”

When he hopped back on the radio, and delivered the additional direction, he was met with some resistance.

“These are still calibrated for the U1 Megatanks,” Ridgefield replied, ebony baritone booming over the radio. “We sure we want to hit ‘em with that much power?”

M.A.D. Dog looked to Gibson, and Gibson nodded.

“Look at the carnage below, Ridgefield.” the Commander answered. “These fuckers are playing for keeps. Same of the cats you used to nail when it was just a badge on that vest of yours. Drop one and report back, Commander Douglas O and O.”

Ridgefield circled around, Gatling-gun laser-fire peppering his wings before he came round to the rear.

“IMW to Foundry, Payload 1 deployed.”

In one blistering whistle, the bomb fell from the fighter’s left wing. It made its tilt from parallel to perpendicular to the ground, nose drawing ever closer before landing square atop one of the rearmost tractor-trailers. The fireball that erupted across the gas-soaked, dynamite-wielding entourage was that of an atom bomb. The shock-wave knocked damn near everyone off their rides and dented the metal wall behind the huddling base-of-operations established by the Force’s commanders.

Every officer of the Force was ordered to pull back as the raiders furiously scattered in all directions. Any of the thugs who tried to fall back with the Force was shot on-site. And when the metal sea had parted, the carnage left by those unfortunate enough to have been in the Bomb’s range were revealed to all.

Nothing but a few bombed out husks of rides in a crater of black. The Foundry had been saved, and the war between the raiders and the Force stayed, for the time being. There were no white flags, no pleas for mercy, only vicious scowls of those alive thundered away in all directions, the coalition evaporating into a myriad of gangs and posses.

There were still dead to tally, and scrap to salvage, but amid all the recovery efforts, came another call from over the radio.

“HQ to C.C., HQ to C.C.”

Gibson snapped up the radio. “C.C. to HQ, come in.”

“It’s about General Knox.”

The tan wolf clutched the radio tight as he braced for the worst.

“Alright then. Give it to me straight.”

V. TO THE EAST: The Escape

Black hands furiously ripped at the metal door that held both Captain “Grim” Herrera and Jack Wellman hostage with an entire computer room currently in the control of A.C.E.S. herself. Whether through a peer-to-peer connection or some other software downloaded with mysterious, now absent, “Aegel,” Haven’s goddess sat before the black-clad officer and the stocky, tan civilian who held in his broad palm a wealth of information.

Carefully, Wellman passed the hard drive from his hand into Grim’s, who promptly slid it into a very special pouch on his trench-coat pocket. The thick lead-lined pouch would ensure, whatever happened, the data remained safe. And with a swift nod between them, both wolves spun round from the door and fired wildly into the array of monitors, keyboards, towers and more. Sparks showered the room, the deafening scream of a transformer dying flooded their ears, but they kept firing. Even if they couldn’t explore the rest of the Base, their other mission was to destroy what they found. And whatever the strange Black Country was in reality, would likely be revealed on drives from their insider. That line of thought gave the Gothic vaquero his right to fulfill Aegel’s “death warrant,” whomever and whatever it entailed beyond what was about to transpire.

One final round of piercing white laser fire shattered the operating network within the base, the door launching up, and the lights coming on. Sirens blared as every corridor coursed with bright-white light, and swiveling shots of red. In lieu of the electric hum of the reel-to-reels came the jackboot marching of the Caza-6s. When Herrera went to check his cloak unit, the red light he saw was enough to send a shiver down his spine he hadn’t felt in decades of working on the Force.

“We’re visible now.”

Wellman checked his unit, and saw the same, red dot. “Well, least we’re armed. And these bad boys are fully loaded.”

When the marching black androids, red visors scanning furious, descended down the corridor, Herrera realized what had happened. “She must’ve sent them the address of which column fell.” They went to race out into the hallway, but heard the hurried pace of the metal wolves and their marching metal paws. When the first rounded the corner, and both officer and civilian saw the volume of the operatives, Grim knew there was only one answer.

“Back in the pod, amigo.”

“What’d ya—”

“GO NOW!”

The stocky tan cowboy and his slender black compadre slid back into the computer room, and Herrera slammed the door shut.

“If we’re lucky, this was built to withstand a great deal.” The Latin wolf whipped out what looked like a remote control, and fiddled with every button on the device. Before he dared ask, Wellman recalled the small crystals he saw Grim slip from his sleeves and onto the ground across the base.

“You been laying a crumb trail of explosives, haven’t ya?”

Herrera nodded solemnly. “Pray this works, Señor.” Deep within his mind, his gloved index finger resting on the switch, he had but three thoughts left.

Por Soledad.

Por Rosita.

Por Libertad.

The tin soldiers of A.C.E.S. marched down the hall, laser-vision lobbing shot after shot at the titanium-plated door. Both gentleman shared a prayer out loud, and without a moment to lose, Captain Tomás César Herrera flicked the switch.

A fiery hell erupted across every inch of the Base. Metal clanged, explosions roared, androids were torn apart into a million screaming pieces of nanotechnology. One particularly brutal blast knocked the emergency power out. The blackened pod grew hotter and hotter, flames detonating, detritus descending, and the wolves trapped in what could be an oven of their own choice.

“What’s the line of attack for when we get out?” Wellman roared over the noise.

At first, Herrera stood silent, ear cocked to the chaos around, fire and fury bellowing like dragons in battle.

“It all depends on how deep we’re buried.”

At first, it came as a uniquely Grim proposition. With all metal screeching and slamming against their pod, the baking hot fire orchestrated to destroy all within the compound, it could be an eternity just digging themselves out. However, there came another striking sound: hissing. The hiss of water on hot metal.

On the computer room’s ceiling was a panel, one which when reached (and shot open by Herrera and Wellman’s combined automatic pistols), was shoved open to reveal the gentle rain that often drizzled across the Eastern lands. The once-distant gray fog had finally arrived, sewing its salt on the electric ashes of the destroyed base. When Herrera looked upon the sight, he cracked the biggest damn smile he had ever shown in life. With a mad cackling “¡ARRIBA!” he helped Wellman up through the computer station’s guts, shoving the heaps of metal dome plating off and revealing the beautiful disarray of the Base. Clambering down through the rubble, they found solid, sandy ground and made a break for the fence.

The joy was short-lived as a Caza-6 rounded the bend, staring both wolves down.

Wellman and Herrera leapt back behind cover, and fired furiously into every weak-point it had. The joints, the visor, everything. In its death throes, however, both wolves took a burning shot to the arm, Wellman the worse for it without a leather jacket. Neither stopped firing. Herrera dug into his pockets, and whipped the last crystalline bomb he had, throwing it into the shattered red visor of the towering machine. In final shriek of fire, the head was blown to smithereens, and the obsidian metal titan toppled to the ground.

Herrera bolted for his companion, the gash severe. He wrapped it in gauze best he could, and the two wolves stumbled over themselves, leapt the gate, and ran straight for the deep-blue cabless truck, still perched high upon the sand dune. Their frenzy neglected the steepness of the dune, but it didn’t matter, not with the data they now possessed, and not with an injured hound to worry about.

After more frenzied scurrying, Herrera swung Wellman and himself up to the dune’s plateau. They hopped in, got the pickup turned over, and bolted away, the half-shot-to-hell caravan rattling behind them.

“You did good amigo,” Herrera sighed, holding the Indian wolf’s hand tight. “Now don’t you go spoiling it on our way home.”

“Wouldn’t dream about it,” Wellman sighed, breath heavy and eyes fluttering. “Wouldn’t for the world. Here’s hoping we saved ‘er for now.”

Herrera nodded and between shifting gears. “We did, amigo. We did. For now.”

EPILOGUE

She didn’t take these evening calls lightly, especially when her new partner-in-crime was involved. Valentina, with Eric in tow, cleared checkpoint after checkpoint, Top Brass telegram in hand, and roared right up to the admin wing of the one-story school. That the lone bastion of freedom for all operated from such digs was a sight bordering on comical, but the telegram certainly made it no laughing matter.

The denim-clad white wolf and her red mechanic mentor, sandaled paws and shuffling work boots clattering across titled floor, made their way through hall after hall right up to the Principal’s office.

“We’re here on urgent business,” the white huntress nodded, showing the telegram to the soldiers standing guard.

“Here to see you about the message.” one hound said before opening the door.

Standing before Valentina and Eric was a tableau to rival a Dutch painting. Huddled around a green glow of a computer monitor was Captain “Grim” Herrera and a bleary-eyed General Adam Knox, dark gray fur speckled in black, white, and lighter shades of gray. Same white T-shirt, same weathered blue-jeans, and that same intent face in the heat of study.

“Here to see you, sir.” Eric bowed warmly.

The black captain and his gray leader nodded in kind.

“Cut the Sir shit,” Knox smiled. “Friend of Leo’s is a friend of mine, and don’t you forget it you old goat. Couldn’t have timed it better too, Valentina. This very much concerns your wing of things.”

Valentina and Eric joined the illuminating glow of the monitor screen, Knox beckoning them with his bronzed metal hand.

“Your study of Haven programming may be what saves those innocent androids of ours from a genocide like no other.”

When Val and Eric looked over the code, both were utterly appalled.

“She was about to turn the whole damn desert into a honey pot.” Valentina felt her blood boil at the very thought.

Eric’s view, on the other hand, was much more sedate. “Destroy those files and be rid of it. This is a Pandora’s box waiting to be opened.”

“Destruction isn’t enough,” Knox shot back. “What was it Leo wrote to you once? ‘Evil never dies when you want it to.’ Deleting this and calling it quits ain’t enough to kill this shit. I need firewalls. I need an electric vaccine for this.”

“Just to play devil’s advocate,” Val inquired. “But what sane android would come running to anyone for firmware updates?”

“The well-to-dos,” Grim replied, fixing his concho-emblazoned hat. “The ones integrated into society. Might not be good and right that some love ‘em, some raise families with ‘em, but if every single one leapt up and slaughtered them, we’d all be in deep shit, and my buddy Jack Wellman would’ve nearly lost his arm for nothing.”

Valentina nodded, running a half-gloved hand through her grown-out white hair. “I wonder if Jovian can shine a light on a few things. Dupe the virus to a drive, kill the original, and we’ll get working. Anything to get us inside Thunderdome faster.”

“That’s the arrangement,” Knox nodded, shaking hands with both guests. “You’re already looking at the duped version.” He unplugged the hard drive and handed it over. “Always work on this offline, and keep me posted.”

Valentina pocketed the drive and sauntered out.

“Quite the ice queen, now, huh?” Knox quizzed to Eric.

The red mechanic chuckled. “Well kiddo, she’s got her goals, and you got yours. Just so happens all the schedules are too stratified. Glad you’re all feeling better.”

“Thanks.” Knox grinned. “And don’t worry about that. We’re all about to get synchronized real fucking soon. Sooner than you know.”

The gas can’s noxious fumes snapped Captain Herrera awake, only to be met with a familiar foe. “La Caza,” the black-furred cowboy growled.

The infamous black android stood with its steeled hands wrapped around the neck of Jack Wellman. Alone in the East’s distant deserts, where irradiated beasts roamed, and the Black Country dwelled, there stood an agent of the Artificially Controlled Eco-System herself. The tan adventurer put up a brave fight, slamming his harness boots against the leviathan’s iron legs. Just when it tried to squeeze, Wellman shoved the arms open. He didn’t reach the ground before the android grabbed him by the waist.

Herrera grabbed the gas can, closed the nozzle, and traded it for his 50-cal. What he couldn’t trade it for was a line of sight. The towering metal monster behaved in a way the Captain had never seen. In a word, it behaved too cowardly for a machine of its class, turning its hostage into a meat shield. Aim for the visor, and it shoved Wellman’s head in front its own. When Grim aimed for the joints, he dropped the flailing body in front of his legs.

“The hell this thing doing!?” roared Jack.

“Keep your frame small!” Herrera shouted back. “I’ll take the targets where I can!”

Wellman nodded, crossed his legs and pulled them in against the metal wolf’s arms. “Just like pull-ups I guess!” the stocky wolf hollered.

Grim dove behind his prized truck, the deep-blue boxy Scout taking blow after blow for her master. “Gracias,” he sighed, “Hold ‘em as long as you can.” He jolted up and hammered the left knee with everything the M82 had. The semi-auto drilled into the joint, but the malfunctioning android shoved Wellman in front of its wounded leg.

“LIKE HELL YOU WILL!” he roared, and with a quick tan fist, split the metal wolf’s visor with a thunderous crash. The cut from the glass was nothing compared to the blood-red beam that skimmed the adventurer’s neck. Its vision impaired, head firing in all directions, the machine lumbered towards the pickup, grip tightened around Wellman’s waist as he tried his damnedest to free himself.

“KEEP CLEAR!” bellowed Herrera. “BEST YOU CAN!”

The stocky tan hound wrapped himself around the limb again and braced for whatever came next. Grim had to time the shot right. If he made it, he could blow the head off to kingdom come.

As it spun furiously, laser fire rocketing in all directions, cleaving through the morning mists, the black-furred cowboy counted. “Uno...dos...TRES!”

Grim fired, the head shattered, and the towering metal hound fell to the ground. Dead, with Wellman trapped beneath the 500-pound monstrosity.

“Targets online...whenever you’re ready Gen—”

The gun-range instructor’s voice drowned in a wall of pulsing blips. Triple-streaks of blue laser fire split the five panels megatank plating, one trigger-pull each. General Adam Knox was locked in, focused to a T, with Captain Herrera’s powerful gun roaring at his fingertips. The dark gray leader’s coat had grown full, and his chin rather scruffy. He also shook up his wardrobe, dressing in the same decorated jackets as old General Godred. The leather was black, with white ornamental straps and a painting affixed to the back. It was a gray cowboy on horseback, his tan steed reared back in her heels. When he had cleaved the last sheet of ultra-thick synthesized steel, he turned back to the remaining Top Brass and the Lieutenants in attendance.

“The first run of our Cincuentas will be our next step forward in combating those who cross us,” the General declared regally. “There will be one for each of you made, and special runs for the sniper task forces in both Auto and Moto Corp. While it may seem a small improvement to split the energy of one bullet into three, these beasts are built for range as well as power, as you’ve seen today. And remember: each of you will be carrying a piece of Captain Herrera with you at all times. Keep him and Mr. Wellman in your prayers as they continue their trek. Any questions?”

“Yes sir,” chimed Lieutenant Gibson Blanc, “can she hit that tin can in the way back?”

The General’s snout scrunched before his Chief Engineer pointed out the lone target missed.

“Waaaaay, way back, sir.” Chief Ridgefield pointed, waving a black hand towards the empty beer shimmering a half-mile off. Without missing a beat, the General swung the rifle up with one hand, hit the safety and blasted the can into dust.

“May that be a reminder to you all to never leave a job unfinished,” he sighed, “Dismissed. Buncha smart-asses.”

Everyone appreciated the laugh, the General most of all.

“Shall I take that back to Am Base Alpha, sir?” asked Chief Ridgefield.

General Knox shook his head. “No Chief, she’s going to the hound who’s about to need her most.”

Said hound was Auto Corp Sniper Johnathan Metcalfe. The arctic wolf with the red-hot Camaro was, without Captain Herrera around, the Force’s top-dog in sniping. In fact, he was one of the few promoted to Corporal in honor of his specialty. And he was quickly becoming the only dog in long-range full-stop.

A rash of hits on tower gunners in the Outpost network were killing some of the Infantry’s best shots. If the bastard had come any closer, he’d have been given a 21-gun salute in the chest. And if cloaked, the refined scanners Knox and Ridgefield had worked on would’ve detected the disturbances in the air. Whether skill or improbable luck, someone was trying to handicap the Force’s knack for firepower.

“Four killings, one a week,” Knox sighed, handing the case file over. “Hit two on Saturdays, one on a Monday and Wednesday. All have performed in the Top 20 of our gunmen, two of which made our Top 10.”

“I recognize the names,” the white wolf nodded, “Were any earmarked for my wing or black ops? Taking the pillar out of our plans for the final ride to Haven?”

The dark gray shook his head. “None. All just qualified men on duty. Local Hell Patrol ain’t turned up shit, nor anyone here on Base. If it’s Black Country, they’re trading on information Commander Zavia or Captain Maxwell leaked during their private trips. But if we’re three-for-three on idle thuggery, we got a serious morale problem in this desert, one I want to get to the bottom of.”

“Understood,” Metcalfe nodded. “And sir?”

“Yes, Corporal?”

“Thank you for this, the Cincuenta. Any word on Cap?”

Knox shook his head. “He’s far out of radio range, and any cell towers from the Old World haven’t been mended in centuries. If either of us tried, we couldn’t reach the other.”

“How’s Mrs. Herrera?” he asked solemnly.

“Wife and kid are holding up fine. Just keep the faith she’s keeping, John. You and I know Grim too well, the bastard just don’t quit.”

“Right sir.” The smile was sheepish, but honest; Metcalfe knew it was true. “I’ll keep in radio contact as long as possible.”

“Good man, Corporal.” the haggard gray wolf nodded. The two shook hands, and Metcalfe was off.

His first order of business: investigate the latest target, Outpost 312. Metcalfe’s glass-half-full was that his mysterious sniper hadn’t broken into Sector 200. Whatever info he was trading on, he knew it was suicide making it past the outer wall. The real issue he faced was the shot’s improbability.

When Metcalfe pulled up, flashed his badge, and was escorted to the tower, he was faced with quite the dilemma. All four had been domed in the head from a downward angle. And yet, there wasn’t a cliff, platform or mountain to give him that vantage point. When faced with such dilemmas, the Corporal made a habit of burying his snout in steepled fingers, a minor meditation to clear the mind. When Metcalfe raised his head and looked to the tower, he knew what to ask.

“What’s the interval on our outposts, sir?” he quizzed in his cold Southern accent.

“Every five to ten miles, Corporal.” answered the commanding officer.

“So he’d need a wonder weapon like mine for a snowball’s chance in Hell,” he surmised. “Next question: tallest anything within one mile. If it’s out here, I sure as hell didn’t pass it.”

“Not inside, Corporal,” the gray officer nodded, “But out there, closer to two. More like rolling hills than mountains, but, you see that incline?”

The slender white wolf nodded, ears cocked in the hills’ direction. “So a long shot, but at least it’s a shot. Thanks. Get your new gunman clear, throw up a marker around where Bloomsfeld’s head would be. I’m gonna see if it’s even possible to make with this new rifle of Herrera’s. Just to be safe, break out your P2Ps for me. If they want to hack us, they’ll have to do it under our nose.”

The Outpost commander agreed. “Better safe than sorry.”

When it was all arranged, Metcalfe gunned his Camaro for the hills. The muscle car ripped through the loose sand and climbed the gentle gradient. Soon, he was bobbing and weaving past the petrified trees to find a suitable vantage point. There came a glimmer of gold among the dark sands that sent the crimson-colored beast skidding to a stop. Metcalfe leapt out to take a closer look, and when he did, he was met with the sight of a shell. A plain-Jane .30-06, without a lick of laser tech within it.

Metcalfe grabbed the palm-sized disc and radioed in. “I thought your boys said he was done in with standard issue laser cartridge. I got an old-school slug of Springfield on my pen right now.”

“That it was Corporal. There wasn’t any lead in him and the wound was cauterized. Besides, ice woulda melted halfway from where you are.”

“Magic bullets or not,” came the white wolf’s stony reply, “Some kind of mad tech’s involved. Lining up my shot now, will radio upon contact.”

The sniper dropped to the ground, and lined up his shot. The iron sights were doing the trick, but he needed video of the kill. He mounted the scope and flipped a red switch on the side. Once it was rolling, he pulled the trigger, and a streak of blue split the air.

“No dice,” the gray officer radioed. “Got about three-quarters the way there.”

Metcalfe nodded. “Gotcha, setting her up for the full Monty.” He flipped the dip-switch and reset the recording. This time, three lines of red, white and blue crossed the clear sky and split the orange marker in half.

“I think we all saw that.” answered the bemused outpost officer.

“But he couldn’t have had that much energy,” Metcalfe radioed back. “Even if we had a ballistics dummy to replicate the shot with, this shit can shred megatank plating at close range.” The white wolf looked to the bagged spent casing once more. When he got back to his Camaro, he opened up the glovebox and pulled out his on-board computer keyboard. “Thank God for these analyzers,” he muttered under his breath, “like a radio show invention come to life.” He loaded the mysterious bullet into the scanning tray, closed it, and left the computers to their task. He was all set to head back down to base when he felt a rush of wind smack him across the face.

The arctic wolf snapped to attention, only to find nothing. Nothing but a trickle of red down his cheek.

He felt around to make sure a bullet wasn’t lodged in there, and there wasn’t. Not even BB pellet. A miracle of a graze in every sense of the word. He looked around for any disturbances in the air, ears cocking rapidly, hunting for a single sound. From the north it came, a faint rustling across the hills, past the dead forest’s gnarled trees. A faint rustling and a chopping sort of static; the chopping static of an invisibility cloak.

Without a second thought, the Camaro was roaring across through the rotted woods, bolting for the mysterious assailant. It was a bit too convenient for him to show so early, but there was a morbid fascination at the back of Metcalfe’s mind, of answering how the shots were made, of meeting this peculiar crack shot. There were no honors in taking a POW, but information to gain. Information the clean-cut cowboy, wrapped in leather, was going to find out.

The throttle grunted with each kick as Metcalfe shifted, his iron horse pounding the rarefied sands as she lunged for her invisible prey. He shared in the Chevy’s growls, in the adrenal race she ran. It wasn’t voluntary though, it wasn’t done with a smile on his face. The white wolf’s muzzle was neutral, his eyes laser focused for even the slightest shift of color in the air. All stopped when he flattened the brake and clutch. and the Camaro skidded to the edge of a cliff.

Below lay a steep drop and the rusted, ancient remains of less fortunate rides and drivers. He ripped the muscle car in reverse, backed off, and got his bearings. He cleared several miles of hilly terrain in the blink of an eye. As the dust of his skid settled, he returned to that open-eyed meditation of his, the steepled hands pressed to his snout. His ears fluttered, looking for the chattering static, and his eyes darted about, hunting for cloaking device’s road heat mirage. When he cast his gaze up to the rearview, he saw that warbling of air. Only the mass was huge, and it shoved itself into the Camaro’s rear with a roar.

Whatever it was, the ride was cloaked, and it was powerful. And whoever was driving it, they would have him over the edge if he didn’t act fast. “No guesses what Grim would do.” he chuckled to himself before making a fateful move.

The mists were cleared, the desolate East made radiant by the sun. What Grim hadn’t seen during the Caza-6’s collapse was Wellman’s leap from its loosened arms. All it cost him was a snoutful of sand. It beat the alternative of being crushed by the iron giant, but the tan-furred fighter cursed and spluttered all the same. When Herrera helped Wellman to his feet, both marveled the unruly machine.

“You fight those things often?” the black wolf quizzed. “That was a good crack on the visor.”

The stocky adventurer shook his head and dusted his cowboy hat. “Nope. I just have a nasty habit of hulking out at the best of times. How about you?”

“All too familiar I’m afraid,” he sighed. “But not this one. You’re lucky it didn’t shred you like Swiss cheese with that laser fire. What it wanted with a meat shield is beyond me.” The Gothic vaquero kicked the lifeless leviathan bot over, its cracked red glass staring skyward into the sun. “It’s from Haven, the machine that is. The Artificially Controlled Eco-System touted it as the first android C&C: conceived and created by her wolven machines.”

“Nice warbot-n-all,” chuckled Wellman to himself, “even if the screws are loose. But how can we put ‘er out to pasture for good? Nanotech comes back to haunt these things, don’t it? Fix ‘em up?”

The Captain paused, thumbing the gem of turquoise in his bolo tie before touching his black-furred hand to the cold obsidian steel of his enemy. “Let’s learn from it first.”

While Wellman took stock of their caravan, and the supplies, Grim set about hacking into the black android’s mind. He’d taken classes on these field dismantlings per Godred and Knox’s orders, both generals knowing the value of penetrating enemy tech beyond the mere destruction. He was always a sharp tack when it came to soldering and repairs, so the work came fast and easy as he hacked his way, physically and digitally, through the various firewalls.

“Well I think I know what caused its poor behavior.” Grim sighed, pulling out a sparking logic circuit. “It seems the nanotech isn’t what it used to be.”

When he finally reached the machine’s knowledge core, and a crude vocalizer was fixed in place, it was interrogation time.

“Mission.” Captain Herrera ordered.

“Seek. And. De-stroy.” Its answers came in garbled, bit-crushed tones. “Seek. And. De-stroy. En-em-y Targets. Ra-di-us: 50 miles.”

Wellman and Herrera looked to each other with hopeful eyes. “Guess he’s the watchdog,” the Indian wolf quipped.

“Home Base.” the black wolf ventured.

“Com-pound. Delta.”

“Location of Home Base.” Herrera pressed.

The garbled mess of “Code 2378922%^*^&I*” meant the Captain hadn’t cracked the final codes to get him past protections. He swung a gloved fist down on the metal wolf’s chest in frustration.

“Watch it! He’ll make you his next shield.” the bronzed wolf worried. He would’ve fretted some more if an idea hadn’t struck him. “It’s a 50-50 shot, but if you got in deep like this, you could trigger a retrieval of some kind, right? Tell the guard to leg it back for a shift changeover? If Delta’s 50 miles from here, there’s a good chance she’s in deep in the East. Whether she’s gonna tattle on her maker or take us to the B.C., it’s worth a shot.”

Herrera took a deep breath and nodded. He set right to work, engaging all the triggers. “Just one last item, Señor: we have to make sure it can still walk.” The civilian’s brow furrowed, but he relented in the end.

“Just ‘cuz you taller,” Wellman chided to the bot, “don’t mean I ain’t the bigger man here. Na’up you go!”

The two wolves, with heaving grunts and growls, and plenty of leverage from Herrera’s e-braked pickup, got the Caza-6 on its iron feet at last. The second it stood up, the machine began its slow lumbering march back towards home, wherever home was. When the black soldier and the bronzed civilian piled back into the pickup, all they could do was hope, pray, and follow.

Johnathan Metcalfe’s situation spun on a dime as he cut the wheel, floored the car, and swung the Camaro’s tail over the cliff face. He timed it to the letter, the cloaked machine roaring off the ledge and down to the rocks below. A blast sounded off, but without the usual fireworks show.

Instead, the cloaking device deactivated, and revealed to the white-furred sniper that which was neither car, truck, bike, nor plane. It had four wheels, but its body was made an angular mess. The layered, trapezoidal prism gave it more in common with a Mayan temple than a car. He waited for someone to crawl out of the wreck, but no one did. When he made his way down to the wreck, and pried open what looked like a door, he found the machine completely unmanned.

When he turned to face the woods, he was alone again.

He went to hop back into his Camaro, but instead, pulled out his old faithful: a Dragunov. He slung all-black rifle over his shoulder and carefully crept down the cliff-face again. He spotted the makeshift camera-eyes, powered down with lenses cracked. It was too kit-bashed to be an A.C.E.S. original and nowhere near the Old World military surplus the Black Country indulged in. He wanted to wait and see if anyone came round to inspect on the death of their handiwork. The lack of sophistication meant it is was more likely remote-piloted than fully automated. And if nothing else, a cherry red muscle car was a hell of a honeypot.

Metcalfe dirtied his coat with the soil of his boots, affording him the best possible camouflage he could make on short notice. Rifle clutched in his half-gloved hands, he leaned flush against the cliff-face, eyes darting to the land past him and ears waiting the sounds of engines or footsteps.

For the pensive white wolf, he was ready to stake it out for the rest of the day. The light danced through the forest’s many dead branches, the sun crossing from its rise in the east, slowly making its way towards another setting in the west. And even though the wait would be long, the white wolf took the silence in stride. He’d close his eyes, thumb the side of his rifle, then the cliff he was leaned up against, and breathe. Occasionally his gaze wandered to the wrecked machine, and the more he looked it over, the more he almost admired it. It was unorthodox, certainly, but its peculiarities of form and function kept him wondering about the fateful moment its owner would arrive. What kind of a hound would build such a thing.

It would be around three in the afternoon when a bike’s rumble shivered the earth, and in the woodland’s stillness, Metcalfe could hear the breath of someone. He craned his head to catch a glimpse of whoever would step near the edge. It had crossed his mind that he hadn’t radioed back to the Outpost before the incident, and he didn’t want to add a fifth body to the scoreboard.

When he looked up, he saw the bike pull up to the edge. It was a chromium silver, dusted by the desert sands, but clearly a recent build. The hound who stepped off it was wrapped in leather himself, dressed in a funereal black. He brandished a pistol, rather carelessly at that, a finger gently resting on the trigger. He was a tan wolf, though he couldn’t guess his age. Metcalfe always banked on the eyes when profiling, and wraparound shades hid the biker’s. Though the voice soon told all.

“Damn thing was stupid anyway,” he sighed before unleashing a hell of a scream. “I KNOW YOU’RE OUT THERE! I AIN’T DUMB ENOUGH TO BUM YOUR RIDE!” The biker’s scream was shrill, definitely that of a younger hound. “HOW ‘BOUT YOU KNOCK ME OUT TOO!?”

BANG! BANG! BANG! went his pistol as he fired wantonly at the machine, putting holes in the thin-plated armor. He was clearly having an episode, and Metcalfe didn’t want to get in the firing line of it. If the stranger didn’t know where he was, they wouldn’t have the chance. But that wasn’t what brought the white soldier into the open.

Slowly, tan hellion raised the gun still firing streaks of green through the dead forest. The laser fire scorched trees and stones, but he could see the arc beginning lifting higher and higher. There was no reason, nothing to shoot, no birds, no soldiers. It was only in the clarity of Metcalfe’s mind did he realize where the arc would ultimately go.

“DROP IT!” he ordered, leaping out into the open. The pistol was halfway to facing the biker’s head when Metcalfe fired a single round. The gun flew off into the air, and the leather-clad wolf dropped from few. Quickly he scrambled back up the cliff, gun slung on his back, hoping his shot was made. When he at last made it, he found the biker pinned beneath his own ride. Metcalfe scrambled to get the iron horse off of the stranger, and noticed the shredded leather of his gloved hand, and the dark red that filled its place.

The said-stranger was, indeed, an Indian wolf, one darker and earth-toned in color. His muzzle was short and his left ear crimped. The fur around his right eye was white with vitiligo, and his right hand was bleeding clear through his glove. When he looked up to see Metcalfe’s face, he didn’t seem phased by anything.

“Answer honestly,” the southern gentleman began, quick with gauze to undo his own damage. “Was that thing yours? The one that tried to run me over the edge?”

“Yeah.” The voice was plain in a gentle, youthful way. “Tested out designs wherever I could. Up here’s nice and quiet.”

“Did you use it to kill four wolves standing in high towers?”

He looked away before answering, his glove removed, and the gauze wrapped firm about his bloodied right hand. “Yeah. S’pose it’s over for me then.”

Metcalfe turned that dirty tan head back to face him. “I don’t know what’s going on in you man, but that ain’t a fucking charge I’m bringing lightly. If you did, I’d bring you in to answer for those crimes. So even if you are trying this suicide-by-cop bullshit, you ain’t getting out that easy.” The artic wolf’s piercing blue eyes cut deep into the biker’s brown before finishing. “There’s just one thing I gotta see about before we make that judgment.”

He hadn’t a chance to check on his computer analysis in all the commotion. When he opened his passenger door and leaned in, the results said it all.

“So you’re black, B-positive blood, about six-foot-two, with amber eyes.” he sighed, shouldering his rifle. “Kid, you ain’t even five-seven. Why you wanna die so bad?”

He gazed off into the distance, almost catatonic before offering a muttered reply. “What the hell else is there? If we’re all gonna go, if there ain’t nothing stopping that bitch out west. Might as well go in style, y’know. One hole in the neck and that’s it. All done.”

The white-furred soldier stroked his chin, and looked around before the words came to him. “If you managed to cobble together that remote drone, I betcha you’d find a good place working weapons for the Infantry. But if you didn’t, I suspect you got yourself a knack for stealing shit. That’s good espionage. But if you just took a shot at me hoping I’d blow your brains out, I’m telling you right now: find another executioner. Because you, son, you ain’t got the right to go and get yourself killed for the shits of it.”

The young stranger scratched at the crimped fur of his ear, almost ashamed.

“You rock that bike well?” Metcalfe smiled.

The speckled-brown hound nodded. “My old man taught me. It’s all I got left of him. He had started a drone like the one down there, but it went up with him and Ma when the war finally hit us. I cobbled this one together with a bunch of spare parts lying around.”

The white soldier nodded. “How’d you like a full-time job of it?”

“Too much responsibility.” he chuckled.

“Too little gets your head caved in for your own shits-and-giggles.” Metcalfe snapped back. “If you’re gonna die, try dying for something. Or better yet, maybe I oughta spare you the privilege. Lock you up behind the ammo crate, dump you at Sickbay, and fix it so old man Knox gives you the Gitmo special once your hands all good. Hard to rev up that bike of yours without it.”

It was that threat that brought the young hound around. “Alright...since I got nothing better to do.”

Metcalfe nodded, undid the cuffs, and helped him to the passenger seat. The bike was tied to the Camaro’s trunk, he touched base with the Outpost, and the sniper made sure the Force’s salvage team collected the drone for study. On the drive back, he left Knox a message that rang in the dark gray’s ears for days long after:

“For the General. I want to take this kid under my wing after he’s patched up and grilled a bit more about this affair. Military discipline’s one way to whip him, but I think a shot of meditation will do him good. Will still keep hunting for our headhunter, but you were right: we’re 3 for 3 on civvies not keeping cool. I don’t know what’s running through everyone’s heads, but it ain’t good. It ain’t healthy. In fact, even if we cream A.C.E.S., and her ilk...I don’t know where to start when everyone’s lost the faith that bad. You sort out morale, I’ll sort out your killers. And reform a few if I can. It’s what Old Man Godred woulda done, last I heard.”

Knox paced up and down the length of his office, the whole length from the unused whiteboard through the conference room threshold. He lapped the conference table, lapped his desk, and left the tape playing over and over. He read the dossier prepared on the biker. 21-year-old Cheswick “Chick” Glenn. Parents died during the Black Android assault on Saffton, ages ago. Couldn’t blame anyone for checking out the way he did.

He chewed on that. All the losses, all the uncertainty, all the madness that came home to hit his own Infantry. It wasn’t long before the patter of his work boots halted, and the General hunkered down to get some real work done. Pages flew off the typewriter and a lot of midnight calls were made. Any mayor, community leader, and organizer he could get his hands on was called, and dates were made. General Knox would finally get the answer to his questions, just in time for his team abroad to retrieve theirs.

They trailed the Caza-6 for hours, the metallic black android lurching and lumbering. If it was truly 50 miles from Delta, the damage done to the machine was taking it the long way round. Wellman had traded seats with Herrera, the bronzed adventure savoring some time behind the wheel while the black captain polished his own Cincuenta, though it was about to receive more than just a buffing.

“Bandannas up, big guy!” Wellman bellowed. “Sandstorm ahead!”

Both wolves tied their red cloths around their mouths, fixed their shades and hats, and braced themselves. The winds whipped and crashed around them, dust filling the horizon with a beige haze. And before too long, the sedimentary fog had swallowed the towering robot whole.

“DON’T LOSE IT!” roared Herrera, his driver quick to shift up and give chase in. Every time they thought they had it, however, the machine lurched off into the sandy fog again. Wellman did his damnedest, boot to the floor, praying they’d find it, but in the end, the machine was lost.

“Alright, fuck this!” the bronzed wolf roared and slammed the brakes. “I fucking tried, but there ain’t a snowball’s chance in hell of us finding shit.” He could see through Grim’s Aviators the widened, mad eyes, furious over the loss of what could’ve been their one true lead.

“Let’s wait it out in the caravan!” he bellowed over the winds. “Least we don’t have to shout in there!”

With a deep breath, Herrera’s Ahab complex subsided. He nodded, helped pull up the blue truck’s rag-top, and joined Wellman in his singed, messy abode. He marveled at the fact they hadn’t actually slept in the caravan often, and marveled even more at the fact the synthesizer worked at all. The two enjoyed freshly brewed water, and then freshly brewed coffee, though they timed the sips between the caravan’s rocking. Wellman, even though he had "superseded” his place in the mission’s command, found neither reprimand nor ire from his boss. The tall black wolf simply muttered something to himself in Spanish between sips of brew and bites of a nicely-done steak courtesy of Wellman’s own chops as a chef.

All the while, as the wind whistled, the two hounds collected their thoughts, got their bearings best they could based on what little mapping could be done. Inevitably, the meal’s fullness stirred them to a quick nap. A nap that lasted on into the evening hours, and a nap that ended when both could hear the whining wind in the distance, rather than buffeting them all over. But when they stepped out the door and looked to the East further still, they saw that the Scout had stopped just an inch from the drop of a dune. At the bottom of the mountainous pile stood what they hoped the android would lead them to.

It was a packed with silver domes, lined with strange old tanks, and was guarded by a legion of those towering Caza-6s. Right under their snouts stood the base of the Black Country...

MESSAGE FROM HQ: Thank you so very much for reading. I’ll be aiming for midday releases all week with 365 INFANTRY #10, barring special announcements like ALAN FIREDALE and THE QUARTERLY. I am dealing with small snafus like Amazon’s review period, but I am still working on getting our consolation package to our first-run Kickstarter backers and getting the new FIREDALE up. Thanks again for your patience and stay tuned for the next exciting chapter in our adventure serial THE HUNT: “Warrior’s Gauntlet!” Drops tomorrow!

Like savage clockwork, it was time for the wilderness to show its ruthless colors once more, for not even the villainy of the Black Country could compare to the overwhelming terror of a stampede.

Surging towards Captain “Grim” Herrera and his tan companion Jack T. Wellman was an exodus of damn-near biblical proportions. Scores of bizarre, dark-hued creatures came thundering towards them, with sharp horns and steady hooves. The duo packed up everything into the truck and caravan, and tore away into the dark.

As the hump-backed hoards closed in, the caravan lunged and swung at by the mildewing beast’s mighty horns, the black officer barked that terrible order; take aim and defend the ride. Wellman readied his shotgun, the entourage already at the buffeting crush’s mercy. The bronzed wolf gritted his teeth and squeezed off his shots. It took the slaughter of four to dispel the mindless herds away from the cabless truck, but as soon as they had arrived, they vanished into the dark.

“It wasn’t as it should’ve been,” Grim consoled solemnly. “But our mission is of too great an importance.”

The seasoned Indian wolf made no protests on the matter. “Ain’t the first time I had to put ‘em down in self-defense.” he sighed. “How you think we got those mounts at me and the wife’s place?”

The black officer nodded, turning the truck around. “Well, they must’ve been running from something.”

Wellman nodded, waving Herrera on. “It was either in-fighting, a hunt gone bad, or maybe those mysterious villains of yours upset them. I thought most of those alien critters died out ages ago. Most tests said they couldn’t survive after the fallout fully dissipated.”

“If those tarados are experimenting with nuclear weapons,” Grim growled savagely, “I’ll gut them myself.” The vaquero flattened his throttle, and the jacked-up Harvester Scout bounded away into the settling dust. Where once hooves drummed, long and low creaks sounded off, as if a great door had been left ajar.

“Those mean anything to you?” the black wolf quizzed.

“If we were by the sea.” Wellman chuckled. “Wouldn’t be far off from whale calls.”

Grim nodded as the metallic groan grew louder. Whatever it was, it was massive. And whatever it was, Herrera was ready for it. Just not the sight of it.

“Madre de Dios,” the black wolf gasped as the light caught the edge of a towering missile. Not the average anti-tank rocket launcher, though plenty stood idle in the dark, but disproportionately large rockets, likely intercontinental, arched upwards and towards the skies, all facing the East.

The groans came from the loose swing of missiles, cutting the profile of old Texas oil derricks. Their seesaw teeter kept the officer and civilian live and wired, and the boxy pickup racing through the shadowy munition fields as her master drank in the bizarre display.

“You figure we’re in Black Country yet?” Wellman asked, the bronze adventurer clinging to his shotgun.

“If we’re not,” Grim answered, fixing his cowboy hat, “take a good look at how they blew this whole planet to hell.”

No sooner had he said it, than a flash of light ripped through the truck’s rear-view mirrors, and the idle groans grew to a deafening roar; the missiles were being armed. “Check the cartridge Señor,” Herrera barked, “Looks like Round 2 will be against quite a different hoard.”

Knox stood in his conference room with his own private war. A scale model he had spent months preparing from a mountain of data and history. He was about to pull together something he could count on with almost complete assurance, and would deliver him the blows he so desired. Not since the Centurion had he planned on this scale, ready to take the war red-hot.

From the comfort of his warm, oak-furnished space, he walked the table-sized war game’s perimeter. He had taken stock of everything; all that Agent Roger Steele had uncovered during his decades of reconnaissance in Haven, the gains and losses of the Centurion in 2466, and all the land reclaimed from the city’s network A.C.E.S. thereafter. He also took stock of all the mental horrors the digital bitch was capable of. Whenever he was in doubt, he pulled out a perfectly preserved photo of his dear “Angel” Lorraine, held it in his silver hand, and gave the photo a gentle nod before returning to his calculations.

After jotting down a few more numbers and notes on a pad, he crossed the room, dialed a long number on his crimson-colored phone, and waited for the connection.

“Valentina, I presume?” asked the dark gray general.

“Adam Knox, I presume?” came the curious tones of the white Valentina.

“Glad you remembered,” he smiled. “Touching base with you to let you know we should be good to go here soon. That means the go-ahead to enter Haven too. Only reason I haven’t pulled the trigger yet are reports of electric phenomena in the city you may get lost in. Once we’ve buttoned that up, go in, tend to your personal tasks, peel open that border and hold it down for the cavalry. I’ll send a telegraph unit to Eric’s so you can contact our insider Lita Ridgefield. Discuss logistics with her while we’re straighten things out here.”

There was a silence that could stop time, then a question. “Why should we? Wait that is. We’ve waited plenty long as-is. We have the location, we understand the nature of the forcefield. I think we’re plenty prepared.”

Knox sighed. “I stand here holding a phone with a hand that ought to be made of bone, muscle, and blood, Val. And yet it’s made of cold, uncaring metal, through which I have seen the blackest hell that machine who tried to make leashed savages of your pack could conjure up. Your Colosseum’s death is an important one, but it alone is not the death Haven needs. It must be complete!”

He couldn’t stop the bile on his tongue, try as he might. The lapse of composure was rewarded with another round of that chilling silence before the answer.

“Fine then.” Valentina replied coolly. “Just let us know when.”

“Will do.” Knox nodded. “May God bless you and your crew.” The tension bound in the General’s gut deflated with another great sigh. There was something about Valentina that he could never quite understand, but given their capture and covert torture, but their mutual ax to grind with the Neon Goddess made her an essential ally. No sooner had he hung up, though, than another call came through. “General Knox, who is it?”

“Arch Commissioner Henson, Hell Patrol.”

“What can I do for you, Commissioner?” Knox quizzed.

“Blood’s in the water, General. I don’t know who sent these raider gangs into the fit they’re in, but we got a pack razing towns up in the North.”

“Manage to reform your Northern Patrol, I hope?” Knox remarked casually. Whether from sunstroke or the region’s drinking culture, the in-joke of the desert among anyone in authority was that Northern Hell Patrol could only be counted on to arrest every keg and flask within a 100-mile radius. The lightness of this private rib died upon the Commissioner’s next remarks.

“North Patrol is as good as dead. Our office in MacShane was razed, I’ve lost every good hound and bitch between towns, and I’ve personally ordered the sheriffs we’ve installed to defend their towns and their towns only. Calling in spare officers from everywhere to provide back up, but those reserves ain’t flush.”

The halfcocked grin vanished from Knox’s square muzzle. “Where were they last seen headed, and how many?”

“Headed West for Limore, entourage sits at about 50.”

“Chrissakes, that’s a standing army.” the General muttered to himself. “I’m gonna scramble some of our Scorpions for the task. I think anti-tank is just what we need to bury these bastards. Besides, I know a few hell-fighters who could use the workout.”

“Godspeed General, keep us posted.”

Knox hung up the phone, and dialed again. “Nothing like playing switchboard all morning.” he grumbled.

The team leader that came to mind was Evelyn “Teddy” Blanc. She had become quite the enthusiast for these scrappy, tread-wearing mobile guns, and that enthusiasm translated to a promotion and routine rotation between Corpman duties and drills. Odds were 10-to-1 she was in the hangar for her own amusement, which would make mobilizing the task force a cinch.

Sure enough, while the invisible wire hummed, and Knox waited for his connection to be made, the earthy-furred soldier was in the spacious garage, giving a tour of her prized ride.

“Gibson, meet Ryo! He’s the fleet’s fastest by a fur, and there’s just enough room to lay me down in the back!” Evelyn’s playful rasp was halfway through dumping stats all over her hubby when the announcement was made on Outpost 152.

“Calling all drivers and gunners! Calling all drivers and gunners! We got a 5-Team deployment. I repeat, 5-Team, heading for town of Limore. Orders are to destroy the invading force of raiders. Support from Base will rendezvous there.”

“That’s me Gib.” Evelyn smiled, throwing herself around the tan biker. “But where the hell’s Damon?”

“PROBABLY SCARED ‘IM OFF WITH YOUR DRIVING, ROUGH RIDER!” hollered one of the soldiers deep in the echoing garage.

“BLOW ME CHRIS!” she roared with a rebel yell.

“Y’know,” began Gibson innocently, “I’ve shot sidecar before. And it’s my day off. If you want I can—”

“Get in there you slick sonofabitch.” she grinned sweetly, stealing a kiss.

The Indian soldier plucked the walkie-talkie off his belt and clambered behind the massive barrel. His crop-top clad lover slid behind the camo-green wheel with ease.

“Lieutenant Blanc to Post 152.” Gibson barked. “I’ll be filling in as gunner on Scorpio-1 ‘Ryo.’”

“No hanky-panky now,” the announcer chortled, much to the other drivers’ delight.

“Well…sorry we can keep it up all night.” he shot back, the chorus of soldiers roaring with laughter.

“Scorpio-1 to Team-5,” Evelyn barked, fixing her red bandana. “Behave yourselves and remember what this lead paw is used for. I kick ass just as good as throttles, not to mention that we’re riding with a Lieutenant today.”

“MA’AM, YES MA’AM.” barked the drivers and gunners in unison.

“God it’s good to be the boss,” Evelyn chortled, patting the top of her Scorpion’s blast plate. She ripped the machine into gear and floored him, the remaining four not far behind. The troop made their tracks northward, bound for what could only be described as one of the stranger battles they had faced.

The night was alight with the sturm und drang of a one-truck war machine, bolting through a hundred crosshairs. If mere groans had startled the East’s alien herds, the mighty crash of rockets was surely setting off stampedes for miles around. The boorish cries and distant wails were drowned by the roar of the Scout’s V8 and the symphony of cannon fire surrounding her.

Captain Herrera had brought out his truck’s big red button. The accelerator nailed the cargun button to the floor, the twin barrels beneath the front bumper firing on everything in sight. It was a gamble, but with his Ultra-Geiger silent, he was hellbent on destroying the entire field to make sure the bombs could never be made nuclear again.

Though he had never served a day in his life, the tan-furred Wellman felt a natural behind the ammo crate as he lit into the ground-to-air units behind them. Whenever he cried “coming on your 6,” he dropped down and braced himself as the seasoned driver swerved his truck and caravan through the mobile minefield. The camper teetered and rocked with each turn, Grim doing his best to keep it balanced, and Jack doing his best not to shoot out his own windows.

Then came the deadly hit.

What missed the caravan’s bumper blasted the desert beneath to gray ash as the Scout and camper were lifted clean into the air by the wave.

“HANG ON!” bellowed the black captain as he clung to the wheel, Wellman clinging to the cabless truck’s roll-bar. What lasted seconds felt like hours as the truck and trailer crashed to the ground at full force.

“WE’VE LOST ‘ER!” roared Wellman. The crash had broken the hitch, the trailer now a sitting duck in a sea of guns.

“VÁMONOS, SEÑOR!” the vaquero bellowed as he slammed the brakes and whipped the truck into reverse. The cabless blue pickup screeched up to the camper and Wellman hastily re-rigged the hitch. The Scout’s banshee tires screamed as she bolted from the incoming missiles, rockets on all sides.

BOOM!

Rather than upward, the blast shoved the entourage forward, Grim fighting for control before the truck skidded to a grinding halt. When he looked back towards the cratered desert made of the missile fields, a startling sight greeted both him and Wellman; it had stopped.

The towering rockets teetered down to earth, and came to rest on the sands. The conventionally-sized ground-to-air missiles collapsed into the ground, and only the projectiles themselves could be seen resting on the surface.

“WHEEEEEEW LAWD!” Wellman gasped, his bronze fur fixing to turn white. “How the fuck you do that for a living?” When his breath was caught, he leapt out to check the caravan over.

“You aren’t seriously injured?” Herrera asked, breath heavy with adrenaline.

“I been shaken up by worse.” the stocky wolf sighed. “Be glad I ain’t one of them lily-livers who thinks life’s a petting zoo. One more bad stunt show like that, though, and the caravan could be as au naturel as that four-wheeled battle-axe of yours. Braces at the bottom–here along the chassis–are all stressed to shit.”

The slender Latino nodded, clambering down from the driver’s seat. Out came a camera, snapping photographs of everything behind them. “They must use the desert winds as cover when the missiles aren’t in use.” The camera clicked softly and steadily as he grabbed every shot he could. What he couldn’t figure was why. Why had it all stopped so arbitrarily?

“Silencio es muerte” the leather-clad vaquero muttered, the light growing dim. “It’s an automated system, surely, but how in God’s name could we miss something like this!?”

Wellman chose his words carefully. “Hey-uh, perdón? That’s the word ainit? I think it’s just the fact no one bothers with it out here. Just crooks, crazies and a few adventurer types. It’s how you got ambushed by those anti-tank guns in the first place. Hell Patrol had reports of fugitives coming out here, but most of those guys don’t know shit from shinola when it comes to survival. Found the body of a fella named Vanderburton. Trafficked hounds around the Wastes as sex slaves, and it turns out some of our horned friends gored him before he made it halfway through New Mexico.”

Herrera nodded again, the black-furred officer drinking it all in. “I think we’re on the right track at least.” he replied, pocketing the camera. “Just one more thing I’d like to do.”

“What’s that?” Wellman asked.

“Pull the Scout ahead, get the caravan clear, and grab me the black box marked ‘Cocaína.’” The bronzed wolf did just that, and upon picking up the crate, one that he had sat upon during his tail-gunning stint, it was upon its opening that he realized the Captain wasn’t about to powder his nose. Instead, he produced a long, tube-shaped grenade, complete with a metal bulb at the top.

“So that’s what we’re smoking,” Wellman chuckled wryly.

“Let’s see how fast-acting this system is.” Herrera grinned with an impish pleasure. He pulled the pins and swung the grenades hard towards the missile towers. He made sure there was one for each he had eyes on. Sure enough, the smaller air-to-ground units sprang up from the sand and fired instantly.

“Let’s get going.” Herrera ordered. “Our time on this killing field will be a firecracker compared to what’s about to happen.”

They were halfway to the truck when the fireball screamed up from the towers and rockets. Herrera dove into the driver’s seat, landed boot first on the throttle, and with a heaving jump, Wellman grabbed hold of the caravan’s backdoor as the entourage sped away. He clambered along its side as the flames lashed the blackened sky, and the boxy pickup gained speed. Winded from the sprint, Wellman resigned himself to behind the ammo crate, shotgun resting by his side. Even with all the noise, sleep came easy to him.

“Tarp’s a good blanket, Señor.” Herrera chuckled as the towering inferno slowly faded from view. It was a helluva road marker if ever there was one.

Hell had come to the town of Limore, the village nestled beneath the mountain range that marked the North’s end. What Evelyn Blanc and her hounds found there were the ringleaders of a true Wasteland circus.

Never before had a team of raiders presented themselves so extravagantly. A crush of hot rods bounded over the mountains, rusty-and-rotted machines pounding sand as scrappy bikes filled the ranks. And as the Scorpion gunners loaded the laser shells, and the drivers followed the Blancs’ lead, there came a sight that perplexed the entire troop.

It cut the profile of a backwards penny-farthing bicycle, with a massive main wheel, and a small pilot. A block engine hung in the middle, powering a massive propeller blade, and the drivers sat on a small flat seat, clinging to the wheel that steered the fan.

They were naturally the first targets.

“COMPANY! FIRE!” radioed the tan lieutenant. The five mobile guns lobbed their volleys, and each streak made their mark. While most of the bizarre contraptions went up in a blaze of blissful glory, one deflected every electric bullet sent his way. He was the odd hound out in that he didn’t wear the white jumpsuits or black vests, but instead rode in the tattered remains of a stock-car driver’s suit, complete with a warlike helmet.

“Kayfabe’s over pal.” Evelyn grimaced as she opened up her Scorpion’s mighty V12. “GO’ON-N-GIT ‘EM, BOYS!”

The five short-n-stocky devils roared to life and crossed the battlefield as their backup finally arrived; two units of Auto Corp and Moto Corp, fit to make a real show of everything. The sleek and slender muscle cars and the well-kept cruisers and choppers were dwarfed by the mobile scrapyard that was opening fire on them all, but the fight was anything but assured.

The gray warrior on the propeller machine bobbed and wove like he had a Harley between his thighs. The level of control he possessed betrayed the visible instability of the machine he rode. And yet here he was, lighting into the windows of Camaros and Mustangs that were lighting into his hounds’ coupes and open-air engines. The whole scene reeked of burning gas and diesel as the chaos roared on, rides from the Force and the raiders crashing into one another in a massive display of demolition driving. It was amid the blinding barrage of star-spangled beasts and graffitied beaters that Gibson soon lost track of the foe.

“Keep ‘em live Teddy, he’s gotta be around here some–”

“DUCK!” Her husband dropped as the white laser fire cleared his head by mere inches. She swung the Scorpion around as quickly as she could, but even the souped-up engines couldn’t make up for the grinding skid of the mini-tank’s poor drifting.

The gun that had nearly domed Gibson was a polished Colt's Dragoon, and its wielder was the mad-hound dressed for the Daytona 500, still riding that overpowered penny-farthing.

“GET ME CLOSE TO HIM,” Gibson bellowed. Finally the right way around, Evelyn’s Scorpion roared forward, front lifting as it charged on the ringleader of this apocalyptic circus, a feral smile creeping across his gray muzzle as he trained the revolver on the tan soldier’s head.

“Hang on!” Evelyn barked, slamming the brakes and swerving the Scorpion. Gibson leapt up and tightrope-walked across the mobile gun’s long barrel. He could sense his dear Teddy’s worry, but he didn’t have time to console. He wanted this mad dog alive.

The biker wolf steadied his footing and slammed his chest with a clenched fist. “C’MON!” Gibson goaded. “YOU WANT ME, DON’T YA? WELL COME-N-GET ME, YOU CHICKEN SHIT HICK!”

Sure enough, the trick worked, and the killer’s rage brought him within reach. The propeller-blade swung towards the leather-clad soldier, ready to slash him to ribbons. Closer and closer the blades came, the silver edges catching the sun with each blinding spin. With not a moment to lose, Gibson leapt off the barrel and landed on the ground. When the blades slashed into the barrel, there came a deafening shriek, and pained gasp from the backward bike’s engine.

Amid the sparks and smoke, Gibson yanked the rider off of his seat and onto the desert floor. When the gray tried to draw his gun, the tan lieutenant slammed his harness boot down his wrist, the gun sent flying into the chaos of battle.

“You ain’t getting off easy, Pal.” Gibson snarled as he cracked the butt of his Colt across the raider’s neck, the gray knocked out cold.

As with many battles, once the leaders were dealt with, everything else soon falls apart. Upon the ringleader’s capture, those whose bodies weren’t baking in the sun soon dispersed. Evelyn led her team back to Outpost 152, and helped Gibson bring the raider back to Base. He was afforded the five-star comfort of her black-and-bronze Rebel Machine’s tool-filled trunk, and a proper rough ride from ol’ “Teddy” Blanc.

It was in Room 505 where the meaning behind the madness was learned.

When the sunglasses came off, the gray revealed himself to be the owner of white eyes. Not android’s eyes, nor the film of cataracts; just pure white pupils sat upon pure white irises. And as perplexing and scientifically improbable as they were, the eyes followed General Knox around the room to perfection.

“It’s do-or-die, Daddy-O,” the raider snidely chuckled. “We want to keep the Wastes good and clean, free of all this claptrap you hounds mistake for towns, and councils and organization. Don’t make for so much fun. Aina big pow-wow he had about it either, we’s just feel it in the air.”

“Is it a crime,” General Knox began, leaning against the table with an outstretched silver hand, “to have some sort of structure? To have someone you can count on. Neighbors you can depend on?”

“Noneits my problem.” he smarmily answered. “Only thing that matters is those who can get it, and those who can lose it. Raiders like me always be getting’”

The tall, dark general took a seat on the desk and lit himself a cigarette. He clenched the cancer-stick tight between his fangs before continuing. “So a couple centuries of wayfaring and you want to make wayfarers of everyone, even those who don’t wish to be. Am I getting this right?” The tone was polite, innocent, and inviting as the smoke rolled gently from his snout.

“Bout the long and short of it.” the gray raider chuckled, kicking his fireproof racing boots up on the interrogation table. “So whaddya do with me? My hoard’s scattered, I didn’t drop any of your boys and girls in green. Am I free to go…officer?”

Whether planned or not, the chord that word struck reeled the General back. He swung the white-eyed Wastelander up by his racing jacket’s collar and held him an inch from his face. The dragon-fire smoke of Knox’s cigarette bellowed out on a snarl before he recomposed himself to those polite, raspy tones.

“We used to be a peace corps. Used to go around fixing things up, showing folks how to live again. Didn’t have to install dictators or special councils to make it happen, just showed ‘em the ropes. Thought we’d be able to keep folks like you down to the minimum. You can do whatever you like, travel from town to town, raid to raid. But we’ll be there. Whenever you come around to rain hell on these little towns, by God, we’ll be there. I’ll bring everything down on you until your fur’s the color of my burning blood, and those white eyes of yours are a pit of black. Remember this, I’m running a war. And even with two shitstains breathing down our necks, I ALWAYS make time to put this nation back together the way it ought to be.”

He slammed the gray raider down against the cement floor and started towards the door.

“So, what am I in for then?” he hollered between seethes of pain.

“Death toll in excess of 100.” answered the dark gray general. “Not Limore, just the rest of it. Either way, that’s kill-on-site last time I read the handbook.”

“When’s the execution then, Mister By The–”

BAM!

The raider’s answer was a lead slug of .44 Magnum, his body slumping to the floor with a hole in its head. Once the shot’s echo had died, Knox pressed a button on the door’s silver panel. “I’ll go tell Hell Patrol about my plans for ‘em.” he told the observation staff. “Come scrape him off the floor.”

The plans came upon a wooden pole, where the gray wolf’s body was tied up by the wrists and ankles, a mile out from Limore. Nailed to his chest was a note etched in deliberately rusted metal:

This town is protected. The decent are welcome. All others are as good as dead.

The few Infantrymen killed on that fateful day were afforded a proper burial, full honors. The rest of Limore’s dead were strung up as scarecrows across every town in the North, as well as neighboring villages in the Eastern, Western, and Central Regions.

Of all these ghoulish specters, none held the peculiar power of that raider’s cold white eyes. The towns bequeathed these displays have gone without significant trouble ever since.

The red letter E was his chance to stop. The blistering light of the flaming missile fields was long in the distance, and had given way to the rich deep red of the sun as it rose. Grim Herrera brought the Scout to a gentle stop. Carefully, he got out, walked over to the tank flap, and plucked up the gas can tucked between the shuffling harness boots of his slumbering bronze compadre.

He unscrewed the cap and filled up his great steed, petting her as he would a horse. “Eres maravillosa, Azul,” he soothed. The name “Azul” was the one his daughter Rosita had taken to calling Papa’s camión. The image of his dearest Soledad and their beautiful babe brought neither tears nor terror, but a warm smile to the black wolf’s face. “Soon.” he soothed to himself, setting the gas can back in the truck. “Soon. I can feel it.”

It was the last thing he felt before a fist crashed across his neck, and the veteran soldier fell lifeless to the desert floor. The slam of the gas can jolted Wellman awake, and by the time he had his shotgun in hand, he was met with a sight that petrified him.

It was tall, a good 10 to 12 feet, black with glowing neon strips long the length of its torso, and staring at him was its lone, blood-red visor. It was a Black Android, a lumbering wolven war machine. One designed by A.C.E.S. herself.

6 ELECTRIFYING ADVENTURES IN A WILD, WOLVEN FUTURE! STARRING THE 25TH CENTURY’S BRAVEST HOUNDS & THEIR TREMENDOUS MACHINES!

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“It’s settled then. I leave at sunrise tomorrow.”

With those words, Captain Tomás César Herrera had sealed his fate, at least for now. He had mulled it over, as one does with any great decision sat at their feet. The black-furred officer called his beloved, talked through it, and she, like any wife of war, met it all with a brave face. And he was met with a request that even surprised him.

“When you leave, just go right to the edge of the world. Don’t stop for us.”

His calm “¿Por qué?” was met with that sage wisdom of hers.

“You’re off to serve,” Soledad replied. “Whatever happens, the sting of deployment should only strike once. And hers happened after the swear-in. I don’t need her thinking about a second time she could’ve stopped you leaving her side.”

“She still up?” he asked. “I can still chat over the phone, right?”

His wife chuckled in that soft, sweet way of hers. “Of course.”

He did just that, savoring every laugh, every tall tale she could spin over the phone, quizzing her in English and Español. When they wished each other “Buenas Noches,” and the Missus tucked their tot into bed, Soledad only had a few more words left in her.

“I trust you Tomás,” she sighed. “Do what you must. Do it well and we shall meet again. Por la libertad.”

“Por la libertad, querida” were his last words before hanging up.

Gone were his quarters, now he sat there, in the General’s office, intently reading form after form. It was all the scientific and geographic information the Force had on everything east of the Wastelands. And yet, as his mind crunched the numbers, and the odds, that phone call wrapped itself tight around his mind. It let go long enough to get the words out.

“It’s settled then.” he said, latching the leather case shut. “I leave at sunrise tomorrow.”

“Excellent,” General Knox nodded. “But not alone.” Beckoning the guards with his silver hand, the office door opened, and in walked a bronze-furred stranger. He didn’t seem out of place, with his sleeveless denim vest and shirt, the ratty jeans, and his dusted harness boots. The leather arm braces, with alternating triangular patterns, were an odd touch though. He also carried with him a sort of musk, that of a hound who had lived his whole life beneath the stars.

“Captain, meet Jack Wellman. He will be with you for the duration of the mission.”

With a cock of his eyebrow, the Grim officer shook hands with the newcomer.

“Glad he didn’t say ‘accompanied’ or ‘aid,’” he chuckled. “We don’t exactly do guided tours.”

Soon, Grim had pieced it all together. “So you know the land well enough, Señor.”

“Yessir,” Wellman nodded. “Been as far down as Texas and as north as the bottom of Kansas. I reviewed that dossier before they finalized it. Lotta myths they like to spread about the East. Some think it’s a land of milk and honey, and that’ll get ya killed. Others think the back half of the continent just don’t exist. That’s what keeps ‘em here.”

Grim nodded. “And yours?”

“My favorite’s about boars.” the tan-furred adventurer chuckled. “Big huge wildebeest-sized boars, said to have flattened every mountain range past the Rockies. It’s bullshit of course. They’re out there, they just ain’t that big and there ain’t that many, least when I safari.”

Once more, the black wolf’s eyebrow was raised.

“All the same, you got me for the night if you want a civvie’s brief.” Wellman added. “Grill me as long as you must.”

Grim shook his head. “We’ll need all the rest we can get.” he replied, picking up the briefcase from the desk. “We can talk during load-out and the drive.”

And that was that for the night.

When the dawn arrived, the Captain was greeted by a strange caravan contraption being hitched to his jacked-up pickup. “¿Qué es esto?” he muttered.

“Supervivencia,” Wellman answered exuberantly, his twang drowning the well-meaning Spanish. “Don’t worry, we ain’t honeymooning in the damn thing; two separate cots to bunk in. She's got a fully functional synthesizer, no resampling needed. Means food, water, gas, all squared away. She’s solar powered, and fully charged too.”

At last, the newbie had impressed him. Herrera offered a quiet nod of approval before continuing with pre-departure. When the load-out was finished, the weaponry, repair kits and so on tucked behind the cargun’s ammo bunker, Wellman hopped in shotgun-side.

“Reminds me of my old lady,” he sighed fondly. “Right down to her riding topless!”

That one earned him a dry scoff.

“Alright,” the black-clad cowboy began, dropping his Harvester Scout into gear. “Tell me everything you know that isn’t on the record.”

“Anything particular?” asked the tan wolf.

When the Captain hit the gas, he gave his answer. “Start with the peculiar and work back from there. Any phenomena you only have eyewitness accounts for. I know the boys in the lab, anything preposterous that they don’t have a record of’ll get left out, even if the probability exists.”

“You got it Boss,” Wellman nodded, fixing his cowboy hat. “Hope you got an elephant’s memory.”

“And if I forget,” Herrera replied coolly, flicking a switch on the center radio console, “she won’t.”

Settled in for the long haul, the adventurer took a deep breath, and told Herrera the whole story. The ride would prove most informative before they even reached the end of the inhabited Wastelands. And fortunately for Grim, his knowledgeable partner was doing him a favor all the while, the verbal history drowning out the sound still ringing across his mind; the stinging click of the telephone receiver.

“Depot 582, officially cleared HQ. Grand Total is 15,689 pounds of pure heavy metal. The 40-yard dumpster from Am Base is here and the boys are loading ‘er up. Will radio when we reach the next stop on the shopping list. C.C., over and out.”

The biker thumbed his cross as he watched the big-rig back down on the tall pile of scrap, a mobile crane complete with claw lining up to load it. So lost in thought that he didn’t hear the call of “Lieutenant Blanc” from his troop, the man sent on the errand being 17-year-old James Madigan. The tall dark gray teen, suede bomber jacket billowing in the breeze, had to break out his last resort.

“YO TEACH!” he hollered. And on a dime, Gibson’s head snapped towards the group. They were all ready, all in formation. All they needed was their man to say jump.

“You get away with it this time, Madigan,” he shot back. “Only ‘cause ya got me with my pants down.” The young soldiers chuckled while the Lieutenant fired up his ride. He popped the leather jacket over his shoulders and gave Exciter a firm kick, the black bike humming as good as ever. He pulled up to the troop, but before he could bark all the usual orders, Madigan pulled him aside.

“You think we’ll ever have enough?” the young hound asked.

Gibson thumbed Exciter’s handlebars, groping for the right words. “We’re doing this the same way we did it before: get everything you can, and put it to use where you can. General wants himself a proper U1, we’re too good at killin’ ‘em, and you can’t print out every single thing you need. We just gotta keep scrounging the old-fashioned way while the labs are jig-sawing that latest crop back together. Check the couch cushions next time you’re on leave, all of you!”

The company reassured, he gave the orders to mount and move out. The Moto Corp unit revved up and thundered across the sun-soaked plains, the dust cloud behind them one breathless stream of dead earth. Next stop: Depot 762, an Old World military surplus station about 30 or so miles away, taken over by the local settlement of Kentonville as a scrap depot.

Pulling up to the head of the pack alongside the Lieutenant was Madigan, his chopped machine as long and loud as ever.

“Permission to speak freely, sir!?” he hollered over the noise.

“Make ‘em worthwhile!” Gibson shot back cheekily. “Ain’t nothing worth saying that’ll get ya skeeter to the back of the throat.”

“Y’know anything about scavengers ‘round here?” he asked.

The tan wolf cocked an eyebrow from behind his silver shades. “Just that a few pass through the area, as they all do.”

“What happens if we meet some?” the young gray asked. “What happens if they want in on the haul?”

“We let ‘em take what they need,” he replied, a smile sweeping across his muzzle. “Locals need scrap too, so do vagabonds. We only got access to a third of this next stop’s resources anyhow. Besides, most scavengers ain’t out for blood. I know Exciter’s old man wasn’t before he left her to me. It’s raiders you gotta worry about, and that’s why we stay strapped. Can’t keep the peace withoutta peacemaker.”

Madigan simply nodded. “Understood. Thank you, sir.”

“No prob!” he hollered back. “We can rap about this more at the site.”
It wasn't long before they were there: an old cinder block foundation, half-demolished, which neatly housed the piles of rusting metal. A stout, coveralled black wolf stood by it. With a kick of his bike’s stand, Gibson leapt off to shake hands.

“Must be our inside man,” he grinned. “Lieutenant Blanc, Moto Corp.”

“Sean Broussard, Kentonville Council,” the hound answered, his accent Cajun in origin. “Here to keep an eye on ya.”

The tan officer nodded. “Much obliged. Still got pick of the litter?”

“You betcha, son.” Broussard nodded.

Off they went, scanners at the ready to get a good gauge on the quality of the materials, the strength of a single layer of U1 plating being the baseline. While everyone took to the grunt work, Gibson had taken quite a shine to this Broussard.

“Yes, we’s been takin’ good cares to keepa stockpile full-up.” he nodded. “If y’all can do a solid for me, keep an eye out for a coupla hunksa rebar about yay big. Got some work back in town that could do for it.”

The Moto Corpman gave a playful salute. “We’ll do our best. Nice to be out on this campaign toura sorts.”

“Nice to have ya.” Sean chuckled. “Dat plane-a yours got all us folks giddy as the dickens. Pretty sonofa I’s never thought we’s see out in the wild again. I remember that fella, Yanko-boffo-some’in-vich, was having a bad time with one of them ol’ antiques a ways back.”

“Oh yeah, Lonnie Y.” replied Gibson. “Well, I didn’t work on her, but I know Ridgefield did get in touch with Lonnie about that Tiger Moth. Hopefully everything we’ve learned can help get that classic up in the air too.”

The water-cooler talk and the combing of the reserve went on for an hour, before enough scrap was found to make up their ration. When Gibson started to radio for the Am Base dump-truck and crane, a shrieking roar fired off in the distance.

Storming into view was an enclave of cars and bikes, the whoops and screams of mania echoing for miles. When the laser fire started to fly, Gibson got his hounds on guard. Every wolf, locked and loaded, returned fire, including Broussard, a quick hand with a shotgun. The Force’s soldiers stood their ground against whatever the hell it was heading their way.

At the front was a certified lunatic. A gray, marked by thick painted-on stripes of white, one down the length of his head and snout, the other crossing his eyes. He drove an old Cadillac convertible with Space Age fins and thick, barbarous tires. He managed to cleave above the noise with the blunt battle-cry of “THRASH ‘EM!”

In the heat of the firefight, a few shots to the wheels and one to the head of a biker set off a five-alarm pileup. Trucks bowled over bikers’ heads, hogs slid to get out of the way as rides slammed into one another. One exploding motorcycle later, and the Caddy was sent spinning through the air, its owner flung several yards out. The carnage stopped where the Caddy landed, but its demented driver was determined to get to the reserve. Bleeding like hell and limping with a broken leg, he ran as fast he could before the bone finally snapped and he dropped to the ground.

Gibson and a few of the soldiers mounted their rides and booked it for the broken up beast, and were met with a sight all too familiar.

“For fuck’s sake, cat’s hopped up on radium,” the Lieutenant growled. “Stay back! All of ya!”

“Deston rides again,” the grizzled, gross gray chuckled. “He’s coming for it all.”

“Who’s Deston!?” barked Gibson. He was met with cold, callous laughter, which died in a feeble gasp, and a violent crack of coughing. Green glowing discharge trickled down the side of his mouth, mixing with the blood from his crash. Everyone recoiled at the sight.

“What should we do, sir?” one of the soldiers asked.

Gibson looked to the reserve base, and then to the self-immolating band of raiders whose leader lay dead at his weathered boots. “We call the boys in to take our scrap, and we book it for the nearest Infantry outpost. If we’re lucky, this is all just some coked-up fluke. If we’re lucky.”

“It’s like steppin’ off-world. If we’d ever made it past the moon, this is what it’d look like. Color might be a little different, the flora and fauna’d be from a whole different domain, phylum, whatnot. But they made us a proper citizen of the cosmos when they dropped the bomb way back when. A proper citizen if ever there was.”

Grim could only stare. With gloved hands clutching the wheel, the soil beneath his deep blue beast’s wheels was no longer the dry, comfortable dust of the Wastelands. They were in the East now, the sand wet from a recent storm, of which there had been so many.

With just three states under his belt, the bronze-furred adventurer seemed bottomless in his untapped knowledge of the East. Though grateful for the information, his tangent-style had given him plenty of chances to bust out the trademarked glower and silence the overeager civilian. But ultimately, he appreciated Wellman’s recollections. The explorer had a great charisma about him, telling his tales with great zest, relaying various hunts and expeditions, the dangers, and the exotic heads mounted on the walls of his homestead. Some of these hunts were shared with his doting, hell-raising wife, one who awaited his return just as Soledad awaited Grim’s.

The Captain flicked the switch on his Scout’s audio recorder, ending the session. “Gracias, Señor. You’ve made for a valuable resource.”

“Thanks for letting me tell it nice and sober.” Wellman chuckled. “They always laugh at me in bars when I start getting into it. Think it’s all tall-tales just cause I used to be a toastmaster at Doc’s and tell the outlandish shit while I’m five whiskeys deep. I got a journal in my bag in the caravan. I’ll let ya read it over so you can get as full a picture as you can.”

“Much obliged.” the black vaquero nodded, tipping his hat with a tug of the brim. Just as his eyes shifted back to the horizon, gray heavy clouds rolled up from the distant dunes and hills. “Looks like one of your storms is back in the cards.”

Wellman nodded. “Not surprised. Blasts that big and radioactive half-lives that long’ll sure shakeup anyone’s meteorology. Can only imagine what Moscow and Hong Kong must look like, ‘specially if this is what we got.”

It was then that a deep rumbling followed, but not from ahead. From behind. A long, slow, growling rumble. And though flattened by the brims of their hats, the wolves’ ears cocked towards the sound.

“Keep that shotgun on hand.” Herrera ordered. “Your beasts may be majestic, but I can’t afford to get hammered by the wildlife this early on.” Wellman clutched it tight, eyes locked on his passenger-side rearview, ready for anything.

That anything happened to be the bounding gallop of a wildebeest, with thick curved horns, a long face, and a sloping back. Its eyes were a piercing yellow, and it was up to their trailer hitch in a few effortless strides. “Well I’ll be!” the bronzed wolf gasped. “The hell it doing this far by the Wastes?”

“It isn’t aggressive, is it?” Grim asked.

“No, she just seems to be getting her steps in.” he chuckled. “They ain’t native to the continent, so my guess is a land bridge. That or two of ‘em escaped from a sanctuary a long time ago and did what animals do.”

And as soon as it had appeared, the strange magnificent creature bounded away past the truck, followed by the true source of the rumbling. They came as a black wave of skittering, metallic insects, rushing over the ground like sand caught on the wind.

“Nanobytes.” Wellman growled. “Them’s I’m happy to kill for you, if ya—”

The civilian felt the ice-cold grip of the Captain’s hand on his shoulder. The black wolf spoke sternly, eyes glued to the nonexistent road. “Unless they attack, we don’t. Use your eyes.”

Sure enough, the metallic insects passed the entourage by. As the swarming sea of cybernetic detritus hurtled towards the wildebeest, Wellman steadied his aim. “If you lay an antenna on her, I’ll–”

He breathed a sigh of relief and sat the shotgun down. They had passed the mammal by, the wave charging onward still. The poor thing, startled, trotted sideways out of their path, but beyond that, was unharmed. The hunter felt at ease.

When Wellman looked to the soldier behind the wheel, he remained perfectly unmoved by it all, safe for a telling phrase: “Wonder where machines like those are heading in a desert like this.”

Wellman looked towards the herd of nanobytes, and threw up his hands. “Anything you set your mind to, Cap. I’ll just tell ya what cacti you can’t step on.”

At long last, a proper smile graced the Gothic wolf beside him. “It’s an admirable compassion, Señor,” he reassured. “It just needs a hair more discipline.”

With a shift of gears, and a throttle flat on the floor, the duo followed their new-found tour guides deeper into the Eastern desert, and deeper into parts unknown.

The calls to Base were all peer-to-peer now, the main channel clogged with reports of this bizarre assault conducted on the various stockpiles of metals and materials across the Wastelands, as far out as territories within Sector 300. Gibson had only just managed to secure a line straight to Knox from Outpost 242.

“Absolutely enemy action,” the General ordered. “Ace, Black Country, doesn’t matter. They’re attacking civilian facilities we’ve been allowed access to, and the only possible reason under those circumstances is interference with the war effort. We must find this Deston, interrogate him, and if I find anyone within the Force has leaked the details of our solicitations, they’ll be personally and appropriately court martialed. Godspeed Gibson, I’ll keep you apprised of the others’ efforts.”

When he hung up, the Lieutenant looked over his troop through the window. Flashing across his mind were their ages, most of them recent recruits. He let the sentiment dissipate as soon as it arrived. A wilting violet can’t withstand any attack, let alone a mass raid.

“Nearest resource depot from the Operation: Proditor plans?” he asked the radio-man next to him.

“Settlement of Runciter.” the white wolf answered. “25 miles due west. Was one of the informal outlets, no townies to rendezvous with.”

Gibson nodded. “Anyone else from the Force in the area?”

“No one’s touched base yet. Most of the action is concentrated in the North region, with a few blips from the south. Whoever the hell the bastard is, he’s got connections.”

The tan-furred officer patted the operator on the shoulder and hurried out the door. “COMPANY, MOUNT!”

The drive over was a mad blur of dust and exhaust, the cavalcade hurtling towards the site as fast as their v-twin engines could carry them. By the time they reached the depot, the raiders were already racing away with truckloads of metal, but plenty had stuck around to tango.

Madigan was riding alongside Gibson the whole way, the dark gray teen’s Garand slung over his back. “What do we do about ‘em?”

The Lieutenant looked to the escaping trucks, and back to the steely-eyed mongrels fixing for a fight. The decision was his.

“COMPANY! Light ‘em the fuck up!”

One blinding blast of chaos came raining down upon the scene, the Infantrymen blasting every hound in sight, the green glow-in-the-dark pus slopping from the bodies as they rocked and spun to the tune of 20 guns rattling with electric lead. A stray bullet hit a raider’s hot rod, and set the machine into screaming ball of fire, another chain reaction of unkempt rides going up in flames. The Runciter Depot was cleared, now with a fresh scrap donation left at their doorstep. Those who weren’t mowed down in all the chaos were on those dump trucks.

“ROLL ON!” the Lieutenant barked. “After ‘em!”

Just like that, back on the warpath. The pawns in Deston’s game were well-played however, the dump trucks having gained plenty of ground, roaring northward. Undaunted, Gibson rode Exciter with a one-wolf furore. There was still a thrill-seeker in him, a passionate fuel for this impromptu crusade, and the rush of the engine roaring beneath him made for a hell of a high. His mind then turned towards his fellow soldiers across the desert. He could only imagine the chaos and confusion elsewhere, and even if they couldn’t catch these thieves, he hoped to put a face to that most wanted name, Deston.

But through the adrenaline and dopamine, a paranoid thought stung; they hadn’t been engaged yet. They had clocked ten or so miles already, and yet the truckers and their personnel didn’t fire on them. No swerve-and-curve to shake the pack off, no brake checks, nothing. There was no one coming to box the unit in either. He checked his left, his right, his rearview mirrors, and still, there was nothing.

“What you thinking!?” hollered Madigan over the noise.

It took him a moment to gather his thoughts, but soon he had them.

“TWO THINGS!” the Lieutenant replied. “Be ready for anything, and a line as old as the Earth itself: who dares WINS!”

Throttling up, the slender black bike bolted ahead of the formation. Madigan waved the troop on as everyone took to the chase with their leader’s gusto.

When they caught up, the raider rigs didn’t let up for love nor money, the tall Mack and Peterbilt beasts light on their wheels. Whether the chase had gone on for five seconds, five minutes, or five hours, no one could say. Time had become the desert, a great sandy blur as the bikers charged on their prey.

When the trucks slowed, Gibson and his crew showed neither relief nor surprise, only an intense focus on the where; where was this leading to? It wasn’t long before the reason for the raiders’ slackening their lead became apparent.

This was it. A massive, concrete compound with large, rusting gates. It was the raiders’ base, and within it, a palace of metal. Like a well organized junkyard, mountains and mountains of scrap formed miniature city blocks in a bizarre labyrinthine maze, crushed steel and cragged iron standing tall above all. They followed the trucks in, and just as the vehicles parted ways to offload their haul, the iron doors slammed shut with an echoing bang. Once the dust settled, a wolf the color of white sand stood before the unit.

He was bare-chested, dressed only in black leather slacks, wallet and watch chains hanging out his pockets, dusty silver boots, and a pair of wraparound shades. He wasn’t uniquely well-built, and when the wind whipped and stirred in the unit’s direction, they discovered what could only be described as a “gentleman’s fragrance,” the polished aroma of pine often found in cologne, earthy enough to have not come out of a synthesizer.

Where he got it was the last question on anyone’s mind.

“Oh excellent, onetwothreefour—a hell, who needs to count ‘em, they’ll all wind up with the rest.”

They had seen insane raiders, unkempt raiders, vaguely philosophical, supposedly “intelligent” raiders wrapped in degeneracy, but never had they seen a bean-counter masquerading as a raider.

“Deston I take it!?” hollered Gibson.

“One and only,” he smoothly replied. “And you?”

“Lieutenant Gibson Blanc, Moto Corpman for the 365th Infantry. Gotta good reason for interfering with our affairs and those of every town you’ve attacked?”

The beige hound chuckled. “Just another day building paradise.”

“Who sent you!?”

“Me, myself and I.” came the snide answer again.

“To what end?”

Deston paused, dropping his shades to the edge of his snout. “You’re looking at it.” He kept them down long enough for those crystal blue eyes to burn into the soldiers’ minds. There wasn’t anything special about them beyond their piercing gaze. No discernible cybernetics, not a flutter of voice like a withered tape on playback. He was real, in control of everything around him, and quite content to let his plans play out, regardless of who they threatened.

“Where you get the radium all your goons are running on?” Gibson growled, nerves steeled as best he could. “An idiot’s army like that doesn’t run sober.”

“What, you want some?” he innocently intoned. “Makes you feel good for the five seconds it lets you live.”

The Lieutenant drew his twin Colts. No remorse, no regard, and no answers; Deston wasn’t worth negotiating, and so the questions ceased. Down went the triggers, the shuddering hammers unleashing the red-hot power of his .45s.

Unleashing them into the shattering glass of a mirror.

“Let the fun begin!” Deston taunted, the hurrying of footsteps tipping off the general direction.

The unit’s trepidation lasted a microsecond before Gibson let out a nonchalant cry of “in we go, men,” snapping Exciter’s handlebars back and sending the vintage Black Shadow rushing into the maze. Sure enough, the other 19 followed, and the absurdity of the predicament escalated.

Through roofless corridors of cubed cars and withered girders they raced, after the mysterious ringleader. Anytime the Lieutenant’s reflection reared its head, he simply barked “HEADS DOWN!” before barreling through the plate. Every wolf followed suit, shades pressed tight to shield their eyes. Whatever scratches could be wrapped up later.

When the towering maze began to rumble and shake, the grinding bellow of a bulldozer or front-loader on either side, or the tipping rear of a dump truck, “SINGLE FILE” was the command, keeping each hound from getting skewered by traps as the walls literally closed in. One hound at the rear clothes-lined himself on a pole of rebar, but there was no going back for him.

Deston’s pernicious laugh seemed to echo all over as the Lieutenant led his brute-force charge, and in the end, that almost blind barbarism of Gibson’s method bore fruit. Just not as expected.

The maze’s end was where it all was going. The scrap, the steel, all of it, dumped into a proper molten vat, and the vat poured into a mold. It was a mold of ingots. Plain, rectangular prisms, shimmering with silver splendor, stacked into the shape of a soon-to-be sprawling palatial home.

The bastard really was building himself a paradise.

“Madigan!” ordered Gibson. “Take ‘em back thru the way we came. Pick up Holman if he ain’t too badly broken up.”

“Sir yes sir!” the young gray answered. “ABOUT FACE!”

The awkward shuffle and spin of 18 bikes was made up for with the haste of their departure, the tan-furred officer left to make something of this private warlord’s salute to himself.

“Like it?”

The sandy menace stood atop the wall before coming in with a flying kick. Gibson fell back off the bike and into the coarse scrap at his back.

“Oh she’ll make for a beautiful keystone.” he remarked with an almost sensual pleasure. He picked Exciter up by her handlebars, and began to push her, slowly but surely, towards the boiling metallic brew. Gibson hadn’t words before he leapt up and over his ride, only a feral roar as he slammed Deston’s head against the opposite wall.

Though the muscle didn’t show, the beige desert lord wasn’t a slouch in combat. With manic glee, he socked Gibson in the jaw, and, wrapping both hands around the soldier’s throat, squeezed. He wrung and wrung, grip tightening with the strength of a vice. Veins bulging, Gibson pried the bastard off him, and taking his head in one hand, slammed Deston against the wall. Over and over, until the hound’s blood stained the steel, and his eyes rolled back. Deston dropped to the ground in a slump.

Catching his breath from the fit of mania, he looked to the cauldron of liquefied metal, and then back to its former master. It was a tempting thought, especially after putting his beloved metal queen in harm’s way. But in the end, he decided not to.

“Would spoil the lot.” he muttered to himself. Quick on the draw, he pulled up his radio and called for backup. He had to estimate his coordinates, but they were correct enough for HQ. When the other soldiers’ arrived, the war for Deston’s Palace was hard-fought, but short-lived, even the lone injury among Gibson’s team managed to plink a few shots with his one good arm. Like all the other unhinged raiders, the lackey’s rotted brains made them cannon-fodder, and by eventide, the base was secured, and the radium stockpile hauled away to be safely disposed of.

Back at Base, the conference in Knox’s oak-paneled office was calm, though the atmosphere remained tense.

“I gave orders to capture and interrogate.” the General sternly remarked. Gibson, for the first time, in a long-time, felt himself shrinking inside. “However, given circumstances, his apparent attitude, and the mercifully small body count we suffered today, we’ll consider this Deston little more than a rogue. An insatiably mad rogue who managed a great deal of chaos for one day.”

Gibson nodded calmly.

“In your defense,” Knox added. “It was also your initiative that uncovered this particular lead. Initiative and just enough luck.”

He turned towards Chief Nic Ridgefield, the black engineer donning his readers, ready to go over his own summary.

“I’d estimate at least 25 to 30 percent of the required amount of raw materials can be sourced from his base,” he began. “And with proper facility conversions, I’d call her a full-on foundry. I’ll put Lance Whittaker in charge of rationing the stolen scrap back out to the towns. Anything we’ve already solicited will get processed at Am Base, and the affected townships will have their intended contribution redistributed from the stockpile up north. Already sent over one of the Godred Detoxers, so all that radium is as good as chalk.”

“Well then,” Knox dryly remarked. “Nice to have things work out for a change. We’ll start tomorrow. Last order of the night: send up more mobile housing while we marshal some more workers. May God bless you and this Force. Dismissed.”

And with that, the meeting was adjourned.

Beneath the light of a crescent moon and the warmth of a heat-circ sat in the sands, a tranquil, radiant noise filled the air. The sounds of an old guitar, tuned a quarter-tone down, spinning a tender melody over a hypnotic rhythm. They had chased their lead deep into the desert before the flitterling electric bugs vanished from sight, scattered by the desert winds. They had needed the break anyhow.

“S’called ‘Ricordi nel Bosco,’” Grim said, his claws working their simple magic over the strings. “Italian for ‘Memories in the Woods.’ En Español, ‘Memorias en el bosque.’ Least that’s how my father taught me.”

Wellman drank in the sound like an ice cold glass of water. “Perfect for a candle-lit dinner,” he chuckled. “Makes you feel like the world’ll be sane again.”

By now Herrera was perfectly warmed to his companion’s humor, answering with a gentle “Sí, señor.” As the chords swayed and swelled at the Captain’s command, Wellman began to feel a strange vibration. At first, it seemed to come from within.

“Huh,” the tan adventurer scoffed. “And to think I just ate.”

“La fuerza de la música,” Grim chuckled. “Simply the tune’s…”

He trailed off, the chord left to linger, unresolved. He felt the vibration too. Only it wasn’t from within. It was from under. It was the earth shivering under the weight of a terrible something. Wellman leapt up, rummaging through his bag for his binoculars.

“Night vision oughta show what’s up,” he said, crouched like a caveman and feverishly looking in all directions. From the West, nothing. From the North, nothing. From the South, nothing. But then, to the East his gaze fell, and his jaw dropped.

“Pack it all up.” he ordered. “Trouble’s dead ahead.”

The time was ten of 12, the place was the driving range behind Base. It was the only field large enough for what was to take the Force from ground-based infantry to an air-supported offensive. The Cessna A-37 was trucked in under cover of darkness from the labs at Am Base Alpha. She had passed a series of midnight taxi tests with flying colors, and was now standing idle beneath a dark green tarpaulin, in wait for the great ceremony to commence.

While Chief Ridgefield had traded his denim-and-leather for suitable airman fatigues, tending to the great machine on the range and staying calm as the moment of truth drew near, General Adam Knox was finalizing security detail with Chief Harrison Garret in his office.

“Lieutenant Blanc will run the parallel defense team to the north and Lieutenant Grady to the south.” The gray General illustrated. “We’ll maintain all west-facing defense positions on the wall, and keep riders on reserve in case anything comes a-knocking.”

The thin, slightly gaunt brown officer nodded and compared notes with a list of teams assembled. “That’s about the best we can do. I’ll start rustling up the hounds for our wolven bulwark. Over-under on Op: Bomber?”

Knox shot him a perplexed scowl, but the tension dissolved into a sigh. “If Nic says she can fly, she can fly. I just don’t like idle threats hanging over our heads on the day we find out for sure.”

“Well,” Chief Garret said, “here’s hoping she’s USW-capable after she passes the payload tests.”

“What’s got you dreaming of ultrasonics, Harry?”

The ex-lawman smirked. “Knowing Speed, he’ll try killing ‘em all with rock-n-roll. Death by blast beat is a helluva way to go.”

Knox and Garret both broke out in a fit of hoarse cackling, bent over the General’s old wooden desk. When the officers had pieced themselves together, the elder gray gave Garret a pat on the back.

“Get rustling Richter, launch at 1230.”

With a casual salute, the Security Chief sauntered out of the office, leaving the General to tend to his end of operations.

It didn’t take long to get everyone lined up and ready around the field for the big moment. Seas of soldiers flooded the roped-off areas safe for observation, and a sharply-dressed Captain Westley, wrapped in white from jacket-to-boots, kept everyone in check, the red officer always quick with a “mind the rope!” as others filed into the spaces.

Further away on the North side of the Base’s perimeter, Gibson Blanc had gotten his wall of riders lined up and ready. The tan lieutenant led a mixed unit, half Moto Corp and half Auto Corp, the even blend affording him the strengths of both hot rod and hog alike. He kicked down the legs of his black bike Exciter and radioed to the Southern unit.

“Blanc to Grady, come in Grady.” he said, looking over his shoulder to the ranges as more wolves filled out the crowd..

“Grady here.” came the reply, the gray lieutenant sporting a vaguely Irish accent. “South Unit in place. Over-under on us seeing the launch while we’re waiting?”

Gibson chuckled. “Kinda hard to miss something that high off the ground, Pat, even when you look up from that seventh black beer in the morning.”

“Oh sh-sh-sh-sh-shut up.” he shot back in mock indignity. “Will keep an eye out for enemy action. Over an’ out.”

The two units could hear each other guffawing from opposite sides of the Base, even with the commotion on the range.

Once the clock struck 1230, all was set. Though the ceremony was to be brief, there was still an air of grandeur, the many eyes of the Infantry wide with anticipation as the great figure of the plane loomed over all. And it all began when a sharply dressed General Knox took his place at the podium, the tarped machine stood a few yards behind him.

“Ladies and gentlemen. A day of great import is finally upon us. This day marks the end of months of research, of restoration, of arduous tests. A day that may very well take the world back to the heights it once knew, all those centuries ago. The official completion of Operation: Bomber, and the latest ride to join the Force in this most important fight.”

From the hands of a thousand hounds came the applause of millions, the excitement echoing off the hills. Knox gestured for silence with his cybernetic hand. “Having consulted with the minds of those who have tried and failed to bring wolfkind to the clouds once more, it is an honor, a privilege, and a tremendous responsibility that this first capable machine shall be aiding us in overcoming the many tyrannies at our doors. Be they the forces holding the great city of Haven and the desert hostage, or those who wish to see all subjugate to their own dastardly breed of authoritarian rule.

“Before I introduce her pilot to-be, my final word on this project’s achievements. To the many scientists, engineers, and workers who have brought her back to full-bodied life, I am eternally grateful. And to the great machine before us, may you fly on into victory, and past victory, into the pages of history. Now, a few words from the grand architect of this operation: Chief Engineer Nic Ridgefield.”

The black-furred cowboy was almost unrecognizable in the dark green flight suit, the only giveaways being the white boots and the brown cowboy hat. Ridgefield shook hands with the General before taking over the podium.

“Afternoon.” he began gruffly. “By gum, what we’re about to see here is nothing short of a modern miracle. Resources were scarce, knowledge about as arcane as black magic, and trying to get yours truly, that block-headed lead-foot, to understand flying seemed impossible.”

There came plenty of laughs from the crowd, Ridgefield nodding and snickering to himself before regaining composure. “But in the end, we made it, she made it, and with any luck, we’ll be flying right overhead of y’all when the walls come down around that bitch ACES.”

When the units on guard caught that last line, they erupted into a morale-boosting roar, the on-lookers joining in shortly. Ridgefield gently flicked his hands, trying to bring the noise down like a freshman conductor of a concert band. And once he had the volume where he wanted it, he pointed to the team around the plane and cocked his head. Off came the tarp and before the whole of the Force was revealed the great Dragonfly.

She was a rich, dark green, with a short and slightly stout cockpit, and a hell of a gun fixed to her round nose, and four bombs all loaded and ready to go, two per wing. The attack bomber yielded gasps, cheers, and a furious round of applause. It wasn’t a terribly big plane, the short flat-bed trailer had given that away, but it commanded the same attention the great warbirds and jetliners once did. And written there on the nose, both sides for all to see, was a name in bright white: “Icarus M. Wright.”

Once the excitement had died down, Nic came out with his final words. “For all y’all thinking I had rock-n-roll on the mind with her…you were kinda right, but the pairs of us had a heart-to-heart one night and chose something a little more special than just scrawling lyrics and in-jokes all over her. Those are in the cockpit!” He paused to get his laugh from the crowd, and once he had it, pulled out a small, thin book.

“This is why the Force’s first plane bears the name she does. I ain’t one for poetics, but one man put it all together in a way I could only dream. He spun a yarn about the first fellow to fly to space, and in search of a name fit for such a journey, became Icarus Montgolfier Wright. A bold, beautiful name that stands as birthright, epitaph, and life story to all who have ever left the Earth and have touched the sky, and thereafter, the stars. And to that I can only say: let’s join ‘em Sweetheart.”

With a salute to his mechanical partner-in-flight, Ridgefield stepped off the podium. He shook hands with the General one last time, waved to the roaring crowds of fellow soldiers and officers, and sauntered up to the cockpit. One of his assistants helped him trade his cowboy hat for a helmet and he waved them all away as he climbed up and into the Dragonfly. When the glass came down around him, the world stopped for a moment.

Nic looked over the instruments, the dials, the switches, the levers, all with their place on the large black panel. Coming out from between his legs was the half-circle control wheel, his firepower just a press of the thumb away. He turned his eyes up to the clear blue sky he’d kissed twice before during the earliest tests at Am Base Alpha. This was it. By God, this was it.

“IMW to Control. Reading me?” he began, adjusting his seat.

“Control to IMW, loud and clear.”

The black wolf sighed. “Killer. Guess this is where we say ‘contact’ huh?”

He could sense the radio operator’s smile through the headset. “That’s propellers, Chief. Just get her fired up, let us know when you’re taxiing.”

“Roger that Control.” He announced every flicked switch and every step of the way as the twin jets began their incredible whine, a whirring that grew and grew, leveling out to a striking pitch.

“Taxiing now.” Ridgefield said, the dark green miracle sent off with another round of frenzied excitement and glee. The Dragonfly rolled along the packed-in sands of the driving range, a mighty cloud of dust kicked up by her landing gear and jets as she gained speed.

With not a soul in sight, his query of “Clear for takeoff?” was met with a droll “Not yet, there might be a gnat in this airspace.”

“Fly swatters don’t come bigger than this, boys.” the Chief shot back. “Going for takeoff.”

Faster and faster the plane moved, racing closer and closer towards the special array of targets setup for her to slay. With a firm hand and eagle eyes, gently he pulled the control wheel towards him, and slowly, the nose began to lift, and with the nose came the rest of the Dragonfly. She was off.

The rush had leveled out once he felt himself airborne. With the landing gear retracted, he switched on the laser-cannon mounted on the nose. First few targets were all crates of some kind. With the first of the row in his sights, he ripped down through the line in an electric explosion of red, white, and blue laser-fire.

“Target Row 1 is kaput.” Ridgefield radioed in. “Moving on to Row 2.”

Smooth was the Dragonfly’s maneuvers. Though she had to be steered in broader, softer motions, the towering engineer chief found himself right at home at the controls. He made quick work of the second row of crates before moving onto something juicier: a derelict truck.

“Shame about that F150.” he chuckled. “But here goes nothing.”

He didn’t even get a chance to fire when the rusted-out truck blew to pieces. Suddenly, streaks of green laser-fire blew past, coming closer and closer to the wings of the Dragonfly. Nic pulled up and sent the pint-sized bomber darting about the skies.

“IMW to Control, IMW to Control, enemy action coming in from Six O’Clock, due East. Checking rear-cams and…you’re shitting me?”

“Control to IMW, what are you reading?”

Away went Pilot Ridgefield and out came the Chief of Engineering. “I’ve got eyes on three M42 Dusters. Whether they’re A.C.E.S. or Spurs, they’re anti-aircraft self-propelled guns hot outta ‘Nam. Someone just brought their toys to the playground.”

“Take offensive action, we’ve got ground backup on the way.”

Ridgefield smirked. “Copy that, giving ‘em a real welcome.” The dark green aircraft swung around and raced towards the trio of tank-like machines. They were jet-black, with thin, long barrels all held aloft and firing off round after round of electric lead towards the Dragonfly.

With swift flicks of the wings, the volleys whipped past and evaporated into the air while Ridgefield returned the favor with the plane’s rapid-fire gun. The stars-and-stripes she dished up made light work of the mobile gun at the center of the formation, the machine bursting into a vicious fireball, flame licking and lashing the sides of its companions as they spun the full 180 to try and catch the bomber flying by.

“Control, that is one down, two to go.” Ridgefield cackled with glee. “Clear to try out the munitions on these guys?”

“IMW, you are clear to deploy munitions. Fly eastward to avoid friendly fire.”

“Roger that, going for another pass.” The black wolf pulled the control wheel closer, the plane rising higher and higher into the sky. Gently he guided her through the air, the winged beast graceful in her moves as she circled back around and went for another pass. With a careful push of the wheel, she descended faster and faster.

Nic flicked the necessary switches, and radioed in with an assured “deploying Payload 1.”

Except it didn’t.

The Dragonfly whipped past the enemy M42s without so much as a click of acknowledgement or the creak-and-groan. “IMW to Control, failure to launch Payload 1. I repeat, failure to launch Payload 1.” When Ridgefield looked out the left side of his cockpit, he could see that the bomb hadn’t even partially dismounted.

“Any danger of on-board detonation?” Control asked.

Nic flicked the bomb’s switch off and closed the flap. “They’d have to shoot ‘em to set ‘em off. I’m gonna clear the way for the Force’s ground troops to stomp ‘em. Flying back to Am Base to sort this out.”

“Copied. Scrambling crew for Am Base. Will see you there.”

The Dragonfly raced away from the self-propelled guns, blasting past the backside of the driving range, though there was no one there waving him on. Everyone was back at their positions, with Gibson’s unit leading the charge on the tanks. The tan-furred lieutenant sent his hot-rodders ahead of the bikers, the carguns standing a better shot at making a dent in the armor of the pint-sized tanks, which they did. Rides made pass after pass, landed blow after blow. But something was off. Very off.

“They ain’t returning fire.” Lieutenant Blanc. “They’re still aiming for the plane.” He sent the hot-rodders in for the kill, blasting off the tank treads of both mobile guns, but they never stopped to fire back. Once his team had cleaved through the metal armor, the M42s were done for, erupting into a deafening explosion of crackling blue flame. When he radioed in their defeat, he was met with yet another challenge.

“Calling all forces, calling all forces! IMW just sighted a full battery of U1 Mega Tanks heading in from the West. Crossing in from Sector 200. Standby for deployment orders from the General.”

Pat Grady drove up to Gibson with his southern unit in tow, rolling past the carnage in an apocalypse-proofed Eldorado. The short gray wolf doffed an invisible hat to his fellow lieutenant. “Real devil of a job done, huh boy-o?”

“And sounds like more on the way.” Gibson sighed. “Hell of a day to welcome her to the crew, but I guess nothing’s meant to go right around here, huh?”

“Keeps it fresh.” he teased, though his mood shifted to stoic observation. “Don’t count on swapping fronts as far as the action goes.”

Gibson didn’t bother to ask, for both knew the answer. How could three self-propelled anti-aircraft guns come rolling in from the East? Machines materializing from out of the edge of civilization.

Incapable of resisting a good fight, Ridgefield sent the Dragonfly soaring towards the mobile storm that was the fleet of U1s. The simple, hovering leviathans, battered and war-beaten by decades of deployment, were still a ways off from Base. And Nic was going to keep it that way.

With a flick of his thick gloved thumb, the black-furred cowboy opened the panel for his munitions, the four silver switches standing by.

“I’m gonna try Payloads 2 through 4.” he radioed to Base. “If all three fail, then I’m firing guns until the rest of you get out here.”

Diving towards the buzzing dust cloud of ACES’ attack dogs, he tried for his second bomb.

“Nada.”

He tried for his third.

“Shit.”

He flicked both down and flew around for his last attempt. If it failed, the guns would have to suffice, though there was no way to get under the turret ring without some deathly low flybys.

The barrels of the hovering tanks snapped up, firing rounds at the agile metal falcon. Ridgefield, quick at the control wheel, fired back as he came in for another pass. Just as we went for the switch

ZAP!

Two shots graced each wing of the bomber.

Ridgefield went for the radio again. “IMW to Control, we have a damage report. Took two hits from the U1 fleet, one on each wing. Doesn’t look like severe structural damage, but we sure as hell felt it. Going to try for Payload 4. If that ain’t working, we’re fighting ‘em ‘til you get here.”

“You really want to risk it, Nic?”

The scoff said plenty, but the answer said it all. “Ain't a day on this Earth that I ain’t risked something. Just ask Hell Patrol.”

The Dragonfly dove towards the rush of floating metal fortresses. With scattered rounds of laser fire dancing past the scarred but unwavering Cessna, Nic pressed his thumb against the switch for Payload 4.

“C’mon girl…give it…to ‘em…NOW!”

Away it went, whistling on its way down to Earth. Upon reaching its target, the explosion was immense. Three of the U1s erupted into sparks and furious flames, turrets blasting to pieces as the heaving bodies dropped and rolled through the desert soil. Those that didn’t course correct rammed into the carnage, the pileup sending electric arcs and shots of fire up through the skies.

Through his cackling cries of victory, Ridgefield could see more of the U1s coming up from behind, the automated machines finally steering clear of the ongoing tank wreck. He looked down at his switches for the first, second, and third bombs, all still hanging off the wings of the Dragonfly.

“Good news Control,” Ridgefield hollered. “Just took out at least six of the bastards with Payload 4. Bad news, more on the way and I still got three bombs burning a hole in my pocket.”

“You’re gonna try again, aren’t you?” the radio operator asked.

“You betcha.” the black wolf smiled. He guided the Dragonfly towards the densest part of the formation, but tried for something different. Up went the nose of the speedy bomber, gaining altitude swiftly before leveling out. He throttled down and began circling. Checking the targeting cameras on the bottom of the craft, he looked for his gaggle of hovering tanks, all of them vainly firing up into the skies.

Carefully, his index finger resting beneath all three of the switches, he gave them a flick and pressed the control wheel’s trigger. He felt the plane jolt as all three dropped at once, both wings now relieved of their payloads. Down the camo-green trio went, drawing nearer and nearer to the Neon Goddess’ army.

The flash made the Sun dim. The entire patch of desert cratered, the husks of a half-dozen more U1s falling into the hole, sparking and rupturing into fountains of metallic debris and electric blue fire.

“That’s a direct hit Control. Payloads 1 through 3. Six more U1s donezo.” The mountain of a hound in the cockpit was pleased as could be. Though not all was perfect high in the sky.

When Ridgefield checked both wings, the sight of fluttering metal plates greeted him. “Looks like the grace is a proper gash now. Plating on both wings around the scorch marks is loosening. I don’t want to chance her falling apart on me. Heading back to Base, will land next to the driving ranges. Will be coming along the south side.”

“Copy that, will get you patched into Lieutenant Grady so he can clear the way for you.”

Ridgefield opted for a slow descent, wanting to stay out of the remaining tanks’ ranges and keep the turbulence to a minimum. So far, so good.

Beneath him was like an open field day and Christmas morning all at once. Legions of muscle cars, rat-rods, jacked-up trucks, chopped-hogs, straight-ahead cruisers, all racing, swerving, and firing with every ounce of stopping power on them and their drivers. Those that hadn’t burned were being whittled away with ease. Turret rings were eviscerated in seconds, and though there were still heavy blows dealt to the Force, the sheer volume of soldiers, rides, and willpower was just as powerful as anything from out the barrel of A.C.E.S’ finest.

On the backside of the Base, Grady had pulled his silver Caddy around to coordinate a landing. “This is Lieutenant Pat Grady for IMW, come in.”

“IMW to Grady, reading you loud and clear.” Ridgefield replied. “If you get me through this Pat, I owe you a full keg of Guinness from Doc’s.”

The gray soldier snickered. “No sweat Nicky my boy, the runway's clear for you. Don’t mind the smoke from the north side of Base. Nuked the rest of those protesters for you.”

Lower and lower the small bomber flew, her landing gear slowly descending as she passed the length of the Base. Once there was nothing but sand, she went in for her landing. The wheels hit the ground with a jolt, the shock rattling the plating. It wasn’t off yet, but it was more battered than when it left. Once she had slowed down enough, it came time to brake.

With the same easing, Ridgefield began to apply them. “Easy you blue-blesséd beast. Easy.” he soothed. The landing gear made a grating, grinding noise as the wheels slowed, and sure enough, they had made it. Nic took one great big breath before doing anything else.

“IMW to Grady,” Nic radioed. “Dragon’s landed. Thanks for that. Standby while I patch back into Control. It ain’t over just yet.” With a few flicked switches, he was back in. “Control, this is IMW. We are on the ground, safe and sound, but I want to get some hounds out here to tack those sheets down on the wings. She can fly otherwise, but I don’t need her ripped apart first day on the job.”

To Nic’s surprise, the voice on the other end of the line wasn’t the radioman, but Knox.

“You’ll get ‘em sent from the shops, we still got workers on reserve.” came the elder gray’s raspy reply. “What I need from you is some recon when you’re ready.”

The black-furred officer nodded. “Whatever you need, Sir. Whatever you need.”

Ridgefield and the Dragonfly had been gone for an hour now. She was made flight-ready again, ordered to survey the Outpost network for any signs of destruction or any explanation as to how such a mass of machines could’ve weaved its way thru the outer sectors. In the meantime, plenty more discoveries lay at their door.

“Dig this,” Gibson observed, surveying one of the charred M42 husks, “the upturned spur etched on the side here. Seems to be on a hinged panel. They usually keep cloak devices somewhere near the back, right Captain Herrera?”

The darksome Latino nodded. “Si, Teniente. Bit of a scale down from the M103s in the hills, but the circuits should still sit somewhere accessible.

The flap was small, and while the metal was still hot, it was cool enough to touch. With a careful swipe, carried out by the tips of his claws, the tan-furred lieutenant opened the hatch. Only to find nothing.

“Probably all melted,” the Lieutenant muttered to himself.

He walked around to the back of the machine. He recalled that the refraction generators that powered all vehicle cloaking (though the tech was still relatively foreign to them) were typically loaded onto the backside of the Black Country’s units. Had been that way since the A7s from their first battle. And yet, there was that snake-eyes luck again; the back of the self-propelled gun was practically original.

“Grim,” said Gibson, his gaze now quizzical. “I think they were sent au naturel. Unless they got some sweet microchip edition in their bag of tricks, not a trace of the usual kit’s on ‘em.”

The Captain fixed his concho-wrapped hat and surveyed the machine alongside the younger wolf. Sure enough, all sides pointed to there not being any cloaking tech whatsoever.

“Automated anti-aircraft,” he muttered to himself, “And they just rolled up behind us. Didn’t even try to hide.”

It wasn’t long before two and two came together and the Captain was on the radio with General Knox.

The haggard top hound sat in his oak-wood office running the mother of all switchboards from his desk. Grim’s call came in just as he had finished taking the umpteenth report from the Western cleanup crew. It looked like they had enough material to actually build a U1, and as the thought of that many making it through his first two lines of defense nagged at him, the sickly grin of the video memo sent by the Black Country still lingering in his mind’s eye, the thought of having a hover tank on a leash sounded awfully good right about now.

“So there’s no way they could have slipped by us.” Knox surmised from the Captain’s report. “They just blew into town like ten-ton tumbleweeds from No Man’s Land.” He slammed his metal fist on the desk, but his voice was cool as ice. “Keep learning everything you can. We’ll keep the husks for Nic to do his own–well shit, speak of the devil.”

The hot-line for a certain Cessna was coming in bright red, a hearty “IMW to General’s Office”  ringing out thru the room.

“Thanks for the update.” Knox nodded, pivoting from one call to the next. “Reading you loud and clear IMW, glad you’re back from the moon.”

Ridgefield could scoff. “Not quite ready to play Major Tom yet, Sir.” His jovial attitude vanished quickly. “Here’s the intel: it was no fault of anyone’s that the Outposts didn’t warn us. They couldn’t. With that many tanks, charged with that much electrical energy, forcefields and all, they were a mobile EMP. And part of that’s on me because when they detonated, some of the discharge kept those outposts suppressed. We haven’t gotten any civilian reports yet, and here’s hoping we don’t. But the net was certainly cast wide. First Outpost I could contact was 314. Way out on the edge of the network.”

Knox couldn’t even get riled up anymore. He just shook his head and sighed. “I asked for an answer, and I got it. Thanks Chief. ETA on return?”

“Coming in for a quick flyby in about two minutes and then bringing her back to Am Base. I passed the Silver Sea we made today, got HQ in my sights. Platonically of course.”

That finally got the old man to smile. “Get your ass over here Flyboy. Want to see her one more time.”

Sure enough, they could hear the jet coming in hot from afar. Knox turned to look out his window, pushing the Venetian blinds up and out of the way. From his office he could also see just about every operation. To the east, he could still see the salvage crews going over the half-pint tanks, and to the west, the remains of the day rested just on the horizon. And from out the skies he could see the small green bomber rushing forth, coming in for a pass.

With the Dragonfly in sight, the hounds standing guard on the wall facing west let out a deafening howl that carried right across the whole compound. And when everyone realized who was flying by, they all joined in with whoops, cheers, and a deafening roar. He could even hear, through the loving din of it all, a few who knew the bounding, chipper melody of the song sung in honor of the Air Force of old.

“Off we go,” Knox said, his cold eyes captivated by her soaring over his Force. “Into the wild blue yonder. Climbing high into the sun.”

He couldn’t get through the rest without chuckling to himself. Not out of any high-brow dignity, but because he remembered precisely who had taught him, and who had likely taught the few singing full-throated down among the crowd.

“Godred you old sonofagun.” he snickered, the thought of a mess hall full of half-drunken wolves singing every military anthem put in front of them came vividly to mind. But as he looked back up to see the Dragonfly, the 365th’s own “Icarus M. Wright,” one line came racing across his mind.

We live in fame or go down in flame.

“Well then,” he said, looking over his base and his hounds, “best we start living.”

Domes. By God, they lived in domes. Like every story of Mars they’d ever been spun, the base nestled in the mountains of the Wastelands was made up of strange, smooth domes. Domes that no scanners could penetrate.

“Just as they said in their journals.” Commander Jasper Hartwick murmured. He turned to his recon team, the slender visor wrapped across his eyes glowing green; the team was cleared. The silent photographers made their mark with long, telescope lenses, snapping dozens and dozens of shots of everything they could make out. Among the domes were tanks standing guard, all heavies. One particular heavy had eyes for the team, its mighty barrel staring them down.

They seemed docile for now, but Hartwick wouldn’t take any chances. With their mission accomplished, the brown officer pulled his hounds down from the vantage point and headed back down the steep, winding mountain pass. Their armored SUV stood at the end of the trail with a driver on guard. It was a hell of a long way down, just as it was getting up. Though not for long.

Suddenly, a blast rocked the ridge of the mountain. Stone and soil shot out in all directions, the forceful rumble knocking every wolf off their feet. Those not up in time were met with the rush of the landslide. Some were crushed, others were carried down the mountain, and off into the dark ravine. Commander Hartwick, his visor cracked but functional, was among the lucky, and picked up the first hound he could find, the pair roaring down the path as fast as their legs could carry them.

“Keep going, man!” he ordered. In the rush, the gray recruit the Commander saved saw a camera jutting out from the stones. He whipped around, grabbed the camera and pulled at the hound who held it from beneath the stones. The tall black photographer, coughing and spluttering, joined his brothers-in-arms in the race to the mountain’s end.

Ahead was a tree-trunk. Commander Hartwick bounded towards it, both soldiers following suit. All three took a seat on it, bracing for the landslide. The surge of shattered boulders blew them down the path, dead trees flying by in streaks of black against the midnight blue of the sky.

Hartwick tapped the right-hand comm button on his visor. “Nigel, pull the Dodge forward. Away from the trail. We’re coming in hot!” They could hear the van’s engine rev as they neared the mouth of the path. Slamming into the ground, they missed the Dodge’s rear by an inch. The log landed in a cloud of dust and detritus as the three dismounted.

“Bolan, get the camera in the van and stay there. Helm, stand by the mouth and check for any men left in the crush.” The brown commander turned his attention to the stocky driver. “Thanks for catching the drift, Nige. Hang tight. We came here with six, and I want to leave with six if possible.” The white-furred soldier saluted, and Hartwick returned to the path’s entrance.

Helm, the young gray, was sullen. “I don’t think they made it.”

There were no muffled cries for help, no surprise appearances. The only confirmation was a final stone tumbling to their feet; the second camera. Lens cracked, body beaten, but with any luck, the data retained.

“You renounce any connection or tie held previously with the Board of Haven or the Artificially Controlled Eco-System.”

“I do.”

“Pulse rate normal. You are committed to freeing the state and these lands of all tyranny, be it wolf or machine.”

“I am.”

“Pulse rate normal. Though you have used or currently wield cybernetic augmentations, these will neither impact judgement nor perspective on this fight against the automated forces, or the provider of these very augmentations?”

“This silver paw stands in place of what once was. What should be. If I hadn’t been there, I wouldn’t have needed it. I renounce Her completely.”

“Pulse rate...normal. Remove the nodes from General Knox. He’s cleared.”

They had gone through the entirety of Top Brass this way for two hours straight. One of Ambiorixian Base Alpha’s many new innovations under Chief Ridgefield’s accelerated development program was a device he called the “true polygraph,” a lie-detector that took readings of the brain rather than conventional vitals. In the dark of the interrogation room, some renounced A.C.E.S. with passion and vigor, others with quick, conversational wit. But for Knox, it felt like confession, every answer direct, the dark gray leader bearing his soul in a way he hadn’t in ages.

With the weight off his shoulders, Knox stepped out of the chamber a new beast. He looked to everyone who had passed, both the commanding officer to the subservient lieutenant, and spoke quietly. “We are all reassured of our allegiances now. And I can only pray that we maintain our strength of will, and do not give in to the temptations that lead Maxwell and Zavia astray, though I’ll never truly know what coursed through Don’s mind. Resume conventional operations. I’ll be joining Chief Ridgefield and Captain Herrera for demonstrations at Am Base Alpha. Captain Westley is Acting General here on Base. May God Bless You and this Force. Dismissed.”

As the rest of the officers left the interrogation control room, the red-furred Captain Westley stepped forward.

“New garb?” Knox asked, admiring her brown suede jacket and boots.

Westley blushed, thumbing the short, black-colored fringes of her coat. “No, just the usual old things, all gussied up. Besides, fashion’s the last thing I had on my mind. Hartwick is due back this morning, sir. Shall I be in-charge of assembling the dossier for him while he takes the test?”

Knox looked through the one-way window, the lights flashing off as the last of the polygraph was disassembled. “Hartwick’s never proven himself disloyal, but this didn’t take long. Put him in, then assemble the dossier. I bet he’ll clear the test in five seconds anyhow.”

“I’ll take up a credit collection so you have the dough to lay down.” she teased. That got a good chuckle out of him, a sorely needed one too. With a firm handshake and salute, the Captain and General parted ways, leaving the two towering black-furred cowboys to escort their leader to the Lab.

The drive to Am Base was a quick one, especially with Captain Herrera behind the wheel. The plan was to give General Knox “the stars and stripes,” a real, hands-on rundown. They had even dressed up for the occasion, Nic clothed for once in a white shirt and black vest, and Grim trading in his all black ensemble for mostly black; the lone change of color being a white button-up and a spit-shining of all his silver conchos and ornaments, from hatband to boot-caps.

“Grim was up here on the 4th getting the 50 ready.” Nic chuckled, helping the General down from the jacked-up truck. “Overnight of course.”

“Best hour for working, Señor.” Grim replied. “4th was a good day anyhow, so I felt like tooling.”

Knox grinned. “Don’t have to justify it to me. I gave you boys the green light for a reason, right?”

The slender Captain and the stocky Chief nodded as they walked him through the entrance and across the various rooms and corridors. Whenever the General asked to stop, the duo would and went over everything in sight. Everything from retooled guns to utility tech for base operations. Even the most minute of advances intrigued the gray. He’d study a pistol as jeweler would a diamond, his scrutiny rewarded with quality product at every turn.

The first stop on their tour proper was a holding bay housing 10 tracked vehicles. They were short, car-sized machines, with a long barrel protruding from a thick blast plate, black treads wrapped around four run-flat tires on each side, and a sloped, exposed rear where shells were to be housed.

“General, meet the Scorpions.” Chief Ridgefield bowed, tipping his cowboy hat as his superior walked among the pint-sized war machines. Knox was in complete awe. “My God, I didn’t realize you found so many.”

“Bombed-out reserves.” the Chief nodded. “We found these M56s not far off from the old Davis–Monthan. Just hanging out there since it all went down 200-something years ago. I’d bet my bottom dollar there were more, but I’m sure scavengers got to them before we could, especially since we didn’t have to start looking until the turn of this century.”

“Desert Lightning really has struck.” the General chuckled to himself.

“We’ve halved the crew requirement.” Ridgefield added. “Commanders and captains still run the show from their personal rides, and we’ve modified old shells to be laser-capable. So no need for a loader. Just a driver, and a gunner.”

Knox hopped inside one at the head of the formation, landing right behind the wheel. He gripped the black metal with both hands.

“Last big detail.” Nic beamed, hopping up behind the gun. “We got things rigged so she can run off a modified V12. She drives normal, and while she can’t hit E-Type speeds, she ain’t gonna run capped at 28. Some of our prelims got us to 85. So they’ll boogie alright.”

Knox’s silver right hand thumbed the wheel before hopping back out. “Would love to try ‘em out myself when we got the time.”

“Easily arranged Jefe,” called the Captain. “Shall we move on?”

Chief Ridgefield followed the General out of the tank destroyers and back on the touring trail.

The two black wolves jogged ahead of the General to the gun-ranges. There on a rack for the General to see was a massive black rifle. Two smaller barrels sat atop the primary. The rest of it appeared to be a conventional, if girthy, Barrett.

“Seems standard.” Knox observed dryly. “Didn’t realize LeMat made 50s.”

Grim chuckled, nodding in admission. “That’s part of the appeal. Los Cincuenta is a discreet beast. We’ve employed a mirror system. When the laser cart is loaded and locked in place, a single round will strike a convex lens, which refracts it three-fold. There are amplifiers on all three barrels, so the level of power remains stabilized.”

Grim drew a laser cartridge from his pocket and loaded it into the rifle.

“That, General,” Ridgefield added, pointing towards the large slab of steel at the range’s end, “is genuine U1 plating.”

Captain Herrera pulled the trigger, and the three streaks of electric crimson cleaved the plating in half. Knox could only stare in amazement.

“How long you boys been at this?” he asked.

“Pardon?” replied Grim.

“You couldn’t have done all this engineering in a year?” Knox pressed.

“Dos, Señor.” came the answer. “With two more for research.” Ridgefield chimed in. “He’s been at it in private for a while now.”

The beaming gray commander shook their hands with pride. “We have enough metal to start a small production run?” When he got the nod from both officers, he knew it was time for the grand finale. “On to Bomber then.”

The trio hurried towards the hangar where the Cessna stood tall and proud, right in the center. There were workers tending to her, and to her yet-to-be armed payloads. Nic beamed as he looked down upon the plane. Knox shared in the engineer’s joy. “She gonna be ready for Friday?”

“Sir, yes sir.”

Knox nodded. “Very good. How you feel about being the first airborne hound in two-hundred years?”

Nic shrugged at first before savoring the realization. “It’s hard to believe, especially with hovercraft being a thing, but I guess now’s as good a time as any. Simulation’s been a trip all its own though. Never knew we had so much green back then.”

It was just then that the General felt a vibration rushing through his electric arm. It was a call on his pager, the circular disc sat over his wrist. “General Knox, coming in loud and clear.”

“Captain Westley, sir. Hartwick’s back. Recon came through but we lost two men. And I think you’ll want to see what they found for yourself.”

“On my way.” Knox answered. He turned to the black-furred officers and shook their hands one final time. “Ridgefield, get the techs at HQ ready for regaling. I think we’re about to find out how bad the competition is.”

For as thin a frame as his, Hartwick’s shadow loomed large over the projector screen, the image of the monolith tank and its barrel trained on the audience of Top Brass. His visor, still cracked from the ordeal, glowed in a cool blue. “We are dealing with all-time surplus raiders. They been digging up the big guns, and they used ‘em to hook Zavia and Maxwell. A display like that glistens. It stirs. They are symbols of a terrific power. A power we have yet to fully possess. As you can see from these effects, it certainly stirred the former Cap and Commander.”

A second slide appeared, a mad, scribbling drawing outlining the tanks and domes, the signature T.Z. whipped across the bottom. The third revealed a handwritten journal note.

“I was shown it on leave. Took the time off to see. It’s like a tremendous city. A true metropolis, better than anything that wretched machine out west could forge. We could’ve been this ahead of the game? Really? And the timeline. God, they were here before Leo pulled us together. Will meet again, establish contact. —Don.”

The barrel of the tank reappeared when Hartwick stood up. General Knox stroked his chin sagely as the brown officer continued. “This note was from July 1st. Don Maxwell was absent the weekend of July 4-5, presumably to procure a cloak from the Black Country. Now, if we want to start getting these jackasses off our tail, we gotta get up there and nail ‘em hard. I don’t think this is their only base, but it clearly houses enough gear of value to make two top-level turncoats out of our men. Your problem here will be the mountain itself.”

The rest of the officers nodded as the next slide appeared, a split frame with a map of the mountain and a wide shot showing the steep incline.

“We can’t just use the old rods and hogs routine.” the commander said, his visor glowing red. “And we might not even have surprise on our side if that tank was manually operated. We’ll need soldiers on foot with high-powered weaponry. The kinds of guns we use in combat, boosted to account for range.”

In the dark of the briefing room Grim sat, ponderous in his gaze.

“Discúlpeme,” the Captain interrupted. “What exactly are the machines we’re up against? Makes, models, weaknesses.”

“Take ‘er away Nic,” Hartwick bowed, letting the chief engineer up to the projector. Before standing up, Nic daintily flicked a thumb-sized diagram into the queue.

“The tank you’re seeing here is an M103.” he began. “120 millimeter. Good news, she’s standard Old World dimensions, so no oversized phantoms. Bad news, they seem to have put six of them on guard duty. Good news again, given the geography, this base is like sitting ducks, if they ain’t already evacuated. Bad news again, it’s getting up there.”

Nic bent down and threw on another slide, revealing a still of the Scorpion holding bay at Am Base. Shocked faces filled the room as Ridgefield continued.

“General Knox has authorized limited deployment of these, the M56s. These are self-propelled guns. You can drive ‘em just like any old rod, and the gunner just has to load the shell. Once it locks, you’re good to start shooting. Some of the woods up on the mountain aren’t that dense, so you can make it up where most rides can’t. General’s willing to deploy five for the mission. They’ve been tested and proven, but this’ll be their first time in the field. We’ll need five of Auto Corps’ best drivers and five of Moto Corp’s best sidecar gunners. If we can overwhelm them alongside the foot soldiers, we can take the base for ourselves. If not, we can blow ‘er to kingdom come.”

When Chief Ridgefield sat down, Knox took the floor, though his words were the briefest by far. “We’ll fly by night. Destroy the tanks, raid the domes, find out what goes on inside them. I want crystal clear communication between the Scorpions and the foot soldiers. Some can go where others can’t, some will have the better vantage. Know where your men are, know where these rides are. Trust is paramount, and coordination essential. May God Bless You and this Force. Dismissed.”

When nightfall came, everything was set in motion. The Scorpions were deployed from Am Base, and the foot soldiers from HQ. Gibson was one of the platoon leaders, Evelyn one of the five drivers. They gave each other the kiss of a lifetime before boarding their respective transport units, the great eighteen wheelers sent rolling off into the night.

In the long corridor of the platoon transport, one wolf towered over all; the thin black duke that was Captain Herrera, with Los Cincuenta slung over his shoulder. For a while, there was nothing said, just the black-clad officer staring straight ahead, as if an enemy were just beyond the container’s locks. Only two things broke the silence: the big-rig driver’s ETA updates and a single remark from Grim’s radio.

“Operation Telson in action. Moving to rendezvous.”

Lieutenant Gibson Blanc looked up to Grim. “Any particular lines of attack, Captain?”

The shadowed wolf locked eyes with the short tan soldier. “Fan out,” he said assuredly, “We won’t be able to perimeter the Northern ridge of the Base, but we’re all coming along the South. Hartwick drew the short straw the way all of us in recon do; not enough personnel to canvas an area. Not this time.”

They were ten minutes off now, and every soldier lined up in the trailer were readying rifles and preparing for the arduous trek. What no one had prepared for was a hellfire welcome from atop the mountain.

The tractor-trailer rocked and heaved as the ground quaked beneath them, rounds of laser fire getting closer and closer with each blow. The driver was steering like mad to dodge the assault, only for the cab to take a direct hit. Blown back by the blast, the trailer rushed out of control, throwing every soldier against the doors. Its automatic brakes brought the trailer to a screeching halt. Once most of the soldiers were back on their feet, the doors were thrown open on the Captain’s orders. The platoons surged forth, marshaling themselves to their respective lieutenants. All eyes looked up to the mountain’s peak, and were greeted with a daunting sight.

The M103s were atop the Southern ridge, casting down fire and fury as if fed from the hand of Zeus, with powerful barrels flashing in the night. The comparatively small Scorpions were already unloaded and roaring into action.

Evelyn, for her part, found the job a cinch, the speedster gun great fun to drive and handling as smooth as could be. The gunner she was teamed with was a stocky, sure-handed fellow, but grew skittish when he realized the hellion driver he was paired with.

“Hey Teddy,” the fatigue-covered gray asked, “How steady can you rock her?”

The husky-voiced hound smiled. “Man I ain’t even got a clutch to ride, this shit’ll be a breeze.” She slammed the gas with her work boot, the Scorpion’s 12 cylinders racing into action. Clinging to his trigger, the gray gunner fired. Black rounds edged in white whipped through the air, landing blow after blow on the tanks sat high upon the ridge.

None of it made a dent.

While the Scorpions scurried about drawing and dealing fire, the foot soldiers raced for the mountain, each platoon fanning out from one another. Gibson and his team bolted up, climbing and clambering over every heap of rock and every felled trunk of tree as fast as they could.

Whenever the tank barrels began to train on the soldiers, the Scorpions’ were always there to draw them away. The long arm of the Black Country was stuck swiveling back and forth, back and forth. When he saw one of the heavies trained on a platoon, Captain Herrera let out a howling whistle. The second the barrel swerved his way, Los Cincuenta was in his mitts and the trigger was pulled. Three rounds whipped right into the tank barrel, the metal beast sent up in flames by the clashing rounds.

Closer and closer the soldiers got to the top, the heaving metal demons above them growing larger with every step forward. The Scorpions were beginning to fell each machine, one by one, and storming up the mountain to finish the job. They never outpaced the lead the foot soldiers had, but once all were up near the ridge, the soldiers bolted past the tanks and the Scorpions unleashed an unending assault of laser-fire. The tanks fell one by one as the platoons made it over the hill and down towards the Base itself, the silver domes glistening placidly in the moonlight.

Gibson led his wolven warriors down the steeper paths, keeping tabs on everyone as they made their move. Herrera was leading another platoon close behind while the rest had fanned out along the steep gradient. Once more, the domes seemed docile, only for the tranquil image to evaporate in a single blow.

From between the two largest domes came a shot of laser fire that blew a hole in the cliff-face where a platoon once stood. The rest of the soldiers bolted as fast as they could, down the gradient, dodging and praying whatever was to come next. Once the last of the scaling was done, and the last of the hounds on the cliff-face were on terra firma, it was a mad dash for cover as the unit leaders tried to plan the next move.

“Think you can nail her, Grim?” Lieutenant Gibson asked over the radio.

The Captain nodded. “Let me get clear, Señor. Will radio for backup.” The agile black wolf leapt out from behind the bushes and into a sprint down the shaded side of the decline, gun in hand and ready to lay waste to whatever was assailing his men. He took the rifle firm in his grip and pulled the trigger on the first thing that moved.

The cannon between the twin domes took all three barrels the second it reared its own, erupting into a shower of electric death, shrapnel rocketing out in all directions. With its death came a descending whir. As if the whole of the base was powering down upon the cannon’s demise.

When the lieutenants heard the deep Latin growl of “let’s start snooping troops” from over their radios, every remaining platoon moved to join the Captain down by the Base. At long last, the Force’s best were walking among the domes, the Scorpions all standing idle on the ridge, waiting for the final word on what the base housed, and what was up for retrieval.

The world seemed to fall silent as the soldiers cased the sea of towering structures. The chromium-plated complex was polished to a fault, and the scorched cannon in the base’s center was a sight to behold. Gibson looked towards the central base, the first of the two largest in the compound. He felt the cold black glove of Grim Herrera on his shoulder.

“That’s the place to start, eh?” he said. Gibson nodded. At first, there appeared to be no entrance, until they got closer. Thin black lines outlined the handleless door. With a quick pound of his fist, the tan Lieutenant Blanc, Colts drawn, waited for the door to do…something, anything by God!

It was on his third strike that the doors slid apart, revealing only darkness. One of the other lieutenants, a buff young red by the name of Sagan Hardy pulled out a flashlight and stood directly in the doorway. He scanned the whole area.

Nothing. Not a sheet of scrap metal or a piece of equipment. They went through every dome the same way, with the same results. As the burning shiver of the discovery raced down every spine on the ground, a feverish paranoia sat in. The platoons, under their lieutenants’ command and the guidance of Captain Herrera, bolted from the compound. They stood guard by the cliffs, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Some calamitous fireball, some terrifying self-destruction, only to be met with what they found in those looming, striking domes: nothing.

Not a word was spoken for the rest of the night, only the single burning thought hammering every mind on the journey home; they’d been had. Everyone. Including Captain Maxwell and Commander Zavia.

It was the following night something came in the mail. There was no return address, just a simple name, written in white on a black envelope: “Knox.”

It was cleared through security, scanned for viruses, and brought to the General in his office. He was alone, only the guards outside the door. The tape was a cassette in appearance, but came prepacked with instructions for video display.

When he booted it up, there was but a face. A gray wolf with black eyes. Godawful black eyes. Staring out into the room from the video. The General met the display with skepticism.

“How did you like it Adam? Our little toy out there, up on the mountain?”

The voice was bit-crushed beyond recognition, but not unintelligible. He hesitated to answer, waiting to see if it was prerecorded or some strange piece of interactive media.

The sudden remark of “Well?” prompted in the General a stoic reply. “You insist on driving a wedge in us, a wedge that shall be crushed by our dedication to this righteous cause.”

The face didn’t move, his black eyes never blinked, never followed. They simply stared out into the room. “It’s all a part of our showmanship.”

“You wish to fight A.C.E.S. and yet you insist on tormenting us!” Knox bellowed. “You cost me lives, try to turn my men against me, and you send us on a fool’s errand. To what end? Just to be first there?”

No response.

“What? Am I not enough of a black-acid clown for you? Making an ass of myself just to cause one enemy grief while another goes on killing and killing without batting an eye, stamping the whole damn wolven race out into oblivion?”

The eyes moved, now focused on Knox intently, the muzzle curled in a frenzied smile. A smile he knew too well from his psychic torture at the hands of A.C.E.S. Knox growled.

“We’re her children too.” it smarmily intoned. “We don’t like Mother either, and we plan on doing something about that. Something big. You’ll know it when you see it. See you Friday.”

The tape died on its last words, and yet those eyes lingered for the General. They’d linger on and on until the very day of which they spoke: Friday. The day the Force’s first bomber took flight. The day of the Dragonfly. No one suspected what was to come of this, and yet, no one would soon forget.

Never before had the commissioning of officers felt so unreal.

Not that there wasn’t the usual crying, kissing, and merrymaking that comes with the day, the celebration a much needed boost to the morale of the Infantry and their loved ones. It was the stirring of something within the officers who stood on the stage before the refurbished auditorium. There was a factory-line stoicism upon each wolf’s face, but beneath it were twisting, tangling knots of concern. Chief among those writhing worries was Lieutenant Gibson, his mononym now made whole with a surname; Blanc.

“As one great creature of majesty we shall rise,” came the noble words of General Knox, “Never in retreat, never in surrender. We shall slay the digital dragon at our door, and all who dare supplant her tyranny for their own.”

It was the tail end of a speech greeted with stately applause. The chill of all that had transpired still held its weight in the room, amplified by the swift nature of the swear-in itself. Two new Auto Corp Captains, two new Moto Corp Commanders, and the remaining slew of six lieutenants, three per Corp, all raised their right hand, the left resting on a King James. Captain Atlanta Westley stepped forward to bring the ceremony to a close.

“Do you solemnly swear,” began the red wolf, her velveteen voice reassuring, “To give your last to your men, your rides, and yourselves as we continue our battle with this unending evil? Swear to rid the land of all tyranny and restore the remains of that grand nation of centuries gone-by to its natural, God-given state? State of freedom, state of honor, state of integrity, so help you God?”

The calm yet commanding “I do” rang out from all ten officers. Westley looked to General Knox. “What say you Adam?” she winked.

Knox shot a sharp wink back before declaring, “It is with tremendous honor I welcome these ten remarkable soldiers into our greater ranks. May they see us all to victory. In the words of the brilliant General Godred, without whom we would not have made the gains we have: ‘Hell’s a fine dish for you to taste and for your enemies to grow fat on. So please, don’t be stingy about filling their plates.’”

The much-needed laugh rang out through the room before a final exclamation of applause.

After the ceremony, the day-long R&R soothing the nerves of everyone on Base, Gibson met up with Evelyn at the Mess Hall for dinner. His gal was on him like a magnet.

“How the hell do I wind up with a man of rank?” she beamed. He tried to return it but couldn’t muster a drop of joy, and none of her affection could pull him out of that dejected gaze of his. Safe for an old trick.

To their tablemates’ surprise, the soldier dropped her head onto Gibson’s lap, carefully working her brown-furred digits towards his belt, and carefully undoing it. He batted her hands away, but she kept trying for it, until, at last, he burst out laughing, “The hell has gotten into you?”

Evelyn shrugged. “I thought we came here to eat.”

It was a gesture so indecent, the entire table was in stitches. And just as planned, Gibson’s nerves were shocked into silence, and the Lieutenant was now at ease.

Some of Top Brass were looking on from other tables in amusement, Captain Herrera sitting with his wife Soledad and daughter Rosita, Commander Douglas with Captain Westley, and General Knox entertaining all while flanked by Commander Wainwright and Chief Ridgefield. Captain Don Maxwell was there too, the white wolf milling about with a drink in hand, toasting to and with anyone who had a glass.

“Think they’s truly ready for the Big Time, sir?” Wainwright asked.

“I picked ‘em so they would be.” Knox answered. “Haven’t had a commission this big since Leo threw me in the hot seat. I was about where Gibson was when I was shot to the top. Lotta experience, no rank. He’s getting it easy.”

“I remember the big day like it was yesterday,” Maxwell chimed in, his baritone booming. “To this day, no one knows who was crapping the biggest bricks.”

Through another round of guffaws and another round of shots, Señora Herrera piped up, the black mother resting her head on Tomás’ shoulder. “I think they’ll all manage. Tom writes about them all the time. At least Auto sounds like they’ll be in fine shape.”

Her knowing glance in M.A.D. Dog’s direction left the gray commander chuckling to himself before knocking back a shot. “Gib’s about to get a taste of our limelight alright. Got him slated for training detail at 0900 and—”

“No business, Hermano,” Grim reminded.

The gray commander threw his hands up in playful defeat, just in time to take a bullet from the finger gun of the Herreras’ daughter. The table’s own comedienne left her crowd in stitches as M.A.D. Dog clutched his chest and bayed “ooooooooh, she got me GOOD this time!”

“That nasty old Ace ain’t gonna want to face this crack shot, I’ll bet.” Knox teased. “Three years old and already quick on the draw.”

Grim smiled as he plucked his girl up from her madre’s lap and wrapped her in his black-furred arms. He made no vows, no profound remarks, he just held her there for a while. It came as a slight shock to the system for some of the officers, but a knowing nod came from Knox as he looked towards Soledad. The nights were about to grow long for all with family in the Force.

“ATTENTION!”

The snap of heels slamming together cut the desert winds in half, the piercing sound met with the assured authority of Lieutenant Gibson Blanc as he marched forward. His jacket was now decorated at the shoulders in brass, the Force’s insignia ironed on its back with the words “Moto Corp” wrapping the top and the title of “Lieutenant” beneath. The aged leather billowed in the breeze, the swirling seeds of dust devils dancing around the recruits.

“Today is training. The day will be long, the day will be hard fought, but the battle will not be against the enemy. It will be your body against your will, and your will must, at all costs, be the victor. Those who cannot see the battle through will be dismissed, but may find a place behind a desk or in a non-combat post. The rest will be whittled down until we have fighters that can work any hog between their legs and rock any peacemaker put in their hands. Do I make myself clear?”

“Sir yes sir!” roared the chorus.

“I CAN’T HEAR YOU!” Gibson barked back.

“SIR YES SIR!” the trainees fired off. A smirk came to Gibson’s face, gazing upon the sea of Moto Corp recruits before him. Hounds as young as 16 were in the crowd, he was sure of it. Just as each guy and gal saw themselves reflected in their leader’s mirrored shades, he saw himself in every wolf before him.

“If you’ll permit a digression,” he started, still composed in the way Knox and Commander Douglas had taught him, “I stood where you were once. Was about, oh, five years or so ago. Chewed up and spat out more times than God intended for any of us, but I was. And here I stand before you. My will is iron and my weapons are steel. That’s how you make it in the field. Just know, though I may drive you right to the edge today, tomorrow, and on into eternity, it is my solemn duty to not let you fall off. Do I make myself clear?”

A hushed silence fell over the recruits.

Too sincere, he thought.

“Let’s try it this way,” he began again, “DO YOU MAGGOTS SWEAR TO GIVE ME YOUR LAST DROP OF GOT-DAMN BLOOD OUT HERE TODAY!?”

“SIR YES SIR!”

“Holy Moly they live and fucking breathe!” the Lieutenant roared, “Company, ABOUT FACE! We’re going on a field trip to learn a little something about killing digital dykes. If you ain’t packing in your hand, on your hips or between your legs, we’ll try on every goddamn rod until freedom rings out your lily-white ears. Now MOVE OUT!”

And off they went, marching like a tribal war drum, set to whatever task he laid before them. They spent at least an hour on the gun range, and two test driving. Had a few wipe-outs, but no injuries, and much to his pleasant surprise, not a single soul incapable of swapping between rifle and handgun, though the recoil varied from soldier to soldier. The morning had gone like clockwork.

Come high noon at the Mess Hall, Gibson joined the General, Commander Douglas, and Commander Ted Zavia to discuss how the day had been going.

“Lieutenant,” M.A.D. Dog grinned, “Don’t get personal with cats on Day 1. Remember how I dressed you down?”

Knox intervened. “There’s something to be said for it though, Martin. About at least showing you ain’t out to bleed ‘em dry.”

“But the point is, they didn’t jive.” Commander Douglas replied. “The way the Lieutenant here tells it, they looked at him like he just ran over their pet cat with a tank ‘cause he said the little shit was a communist. They didn’t know what to think!”

“Besides,” added the white Commander Zavia, “The iron fist comes before the velvet glove.”

While the senior officers got a kick out of the quip, Gibson sized his elders up before replying. “I’ll give them a week to warm. After that it’s hardball until they break or my voice gives out.”

He finished his meal and left the hall with a quiet salute. Knox, Douglas, and Zavia shared a solitary blink between each other before chuckling.

“Now that is the finest model of bullshit deflector I’ve ever seen.” Zavia chortled in his horse raspy tones. “I oughta get Ridgefield to make me one of those.”

“Damn straight Pal,” Douglas smirked, “Kid’s taking to it well Adam. I think drill detail’s gonna suit him fine. What say you?”

All the Moto Corpmen got was a wink before the General finished his drink.

The rest of the day was going to be leading the unit on a ride. It was a routine run that Gibson knew like the back of his hand. Head West for 20 miles, South 10, back East for 60, and then North 10 again, which would take them back to the test driving ranges; a near complete loop clocking 100 miles to a T.

Before the ride, he had chosen two of the recruits that gave him the most pause that morning. The first was a fair-furred gal riding a white bike, its make and model long gone to the sands of time and the shop where its original parts lay. She was Dawn Fletcher, age 22, and had shown herself handy with the LeMat.

Sat on his long chopped hog was a gent taller than the Lieutenant, yet younger all the same. James Madigan, age 17, though he could pass for 30 with ease. He was a rifleman, a Garand aficionado who’d make M.A.D. Dog proud.

Gibson showed his appreciation the only way a Lieutenant could.

“FLETCHER, MADIGAN, TEN-HUT!”

The two wolves stepped forward from their rides as Gibson’s voice echoed in the Moto Corp holding bay, the level used for the training run so as not to disrupt traffic below. Both trainees were dressed in suede jackets and dark blue denim, brown harness boots to match.

“Twins, I see?” Gibson started.

“SIR, NO SIR!”

“Let’s start with you Fletcher,” the Lieutenant glowered. “DO YOU SOLEMNLY SWEAR TO RIDE ON RIGHT SIDE AND LEAD THESE MAGGOTS ON THEIR FIRST TRIP ROUND THE FRONTIER?”

“Sir Yes Sir!” she barked, her voice near cracking.

“Watch it! There better be no fear trapped down there in your gut, or so help me God I’ll have to rip it right out of you with my claws!”

“Sir, No Sir!” she shot back, steady as a rock.

“From here on, you’re Fireda—”

He caught himself, stifling laughter. “Nah Soldier, that shit’d be too easy. How’s Grapeshot? You got the gun for it, right?”

“SIR YES SIR!” He could see the slight smile on her face; she knew her peacemaker well.

“You’re up at the plate Madigan,” Gibson growled, “DO YOU SOLEMNLY SWEAR TO FLANK LEFT AND KEEP THESE BASTARDS AND BITCHES IN LINE!?”

“SIR YES SIR,” Madigan replied.

Gibson smirked, “Got-damn Boy, you’s big enough to eat a fucker alive! What that rifle on your back fire Son, your cock or your bullets?”

“Thirty-ought-six Sir!” Madigan roared back.

“GIVE IT IN METRIC!”

“7-point-62 by 63 millimeters, Sir!”

“Code’s Springfield Mass, Son.” Gibson nodded, “COMPANY MOUNT!”

Once every hound climbed upon the seat of their bike, a sonic blast ripped through the holding bay, all twenty hogs firing off in unison. Gibson mounted Exciter, her engine cutting through with a tone all her own. He looked to his flanking riders. They each gave him a nod, and with a final shout, the Lieutenant commanded “COMPANY, ROLL ON!”

Out the doors and into the scorching hot sun they flew, the hellions soaring as they roared past the front gates and into the vast plains before them. Gibson caught the flash of a smile here or there in the rear-views throughout the first leg of the ride. Just about everyone was starting to see the upside of the job.

The Lieutenant looked towards Dawn and Madigan, who were also digging the scene. When they noticed he was noticing, the smiles vanished. Then came the roar of his voice over the engines.

“LIGHTEN UP SOLDIERS! THIS IS THE BEST PART OF THE GOT-DAMN DAY!”

They did just as they were told.

With the first 20 miles cleared, Gibson signaled a company-wide left turn, and just as they had practiced on the range, everyone rolled in formation and made the turn with ease. They were starting to gel, to become one with the unit and their rides. It was going well.

Just too damn well.

Once the troop hit Mile 30, mid-right-turn, a volley of shots rang out, peppering the formation. No one wavered off course, but Gibson’s eyes went hawk-like as he scanned for the firing squad lighting into his pack. It was Dawn who helped make them out.

“Enemy fire at two o’clock!” she barked. What they saw was one of the strangest land-based tanks they had ever seen. It was of common form, but the machine had not one, not two, but six barrels affixed to its turret rig. And all six were firing wildly at the troop.

“Good eye Grapeshot!” Gibson commended. He whipped out his radio, “C.C. to HQ! C.C. to HQ!”

“HQ. Reading you loud and clear C.C., what’s happening?”

“Under Enemy Fire, Under Enemy Fire, Mile 32 of the Big 100, Sector 200. Pack of trainees. Not enough manpower or experience to engage.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes I fucking am!” he roared back.

“Scrambling Defense Forces from Outposts, take evasive action, come home safe. Over and out.”

Gibson nodded to his subordinates and then shouted back to the unit, “DO NOT ENGAGE, I REPEAT, DO NOT ENGAGE! FOLLOW OUR LEAD!”

But even as they rolled off and away from the tank, a knot tied deep in the Lieutenant’s stomach, a question now on his mind: How did that tank get into Sector 200?

Beyond having to pass through Sector 300, most of the destroyed Outposts in 200 were either restored or rebuilt, with even more erected in the weeks following their first encounter with the Black Country.

And no sooner had these thoughts crossed the Lieutenant’s mind than another six-gun tank came careening out from the desert. Laser fire rang out from every barrel as the mass of bikes veered away.

The trailing three riders never stood a chance.

Gibson’s blood boiled as he held up the radio. “C.C. to HQ! Strike on unit, Strike on unit! Three dead! New enemy from the South. Same style of tank.”

“Maintain course back to Base, Defense Forces have been scrambled.”

When he glanced over his shoulder, no one was there. The Lieutenant turned to his co-leads. “Fletcher, Madigan!” he ordered sternly. “Maintain course, lead unit. I’ve got five seconds of recon to do!”

“SIR YES SIR,” the duo replied.

“COMPANY, STAY THE COURSE. I’LL BE BACK.”

Exciter raced ahead of the pack and bolted for the in-bound tank. He held the radio tight and flicked the dial.

“C.C. to B. Frank, C.C. to B. Frank!”

“B. Frank to C.C., what’s up Lieutenant?” Chief Ridgefield replied.

“We got another six-gun tank, all six barrels resting on the turret, give me a read out on any machines with that design.”

“On it Lieutenant.”

Gibson drew his Colts and slammed them into the guide clips on the handlebars. What followed was holy hell unleashed on the machine. Every ounce of electric lead came screaming into the wall of armor surrounding the tank, barely scratching her. That was, until they pierced the turret ring. And there was only one machine who forged such flawed beasts.

“C.C. to B. Frank! I got a new detail!”

“All ears Lieutenant.”

“Turret ring is vulnerable, must be A.C.E.S.”

“She pulled from the books again,” he replied, “M50 Ontos, dates back to the early 1950s. Tank Destroyer. If you think the unit can take it, engage with caution.”

In the pandemonium, another player flew onto the field of war. From the West, hovering calmly, came the A7s. Firing not on the retreating troop, but on the tanks? It wasn’t until the first of the Ontos turned to face the oncoming assault that it came into perspective…an upturned spur in white was outlined on the body of the tank. The tanks, crewed by the Black Country, were now fighting the forces of A.C.E.S. A third Ontos appeared from the East, out of the Base’s range, and thundering towards the pack of recruits.

When Gibson rejoined the unit, he could see in both soldiers the seed of worry about to be planted.

“Fletcher, Madigan!” he ordered. “Aim for the turret ring!”

“SIR YES SIR,” they replied, snapping out of it. They went to draw, only for their bikes to swerve as they tried holding the guns aloft.

“Mount on the handlebars!” barked the Lieutenant. Down came both soldiers’ guns as they took aim, squeezing off round after round, and making their mark with ease. Gibson joined in, the tremendous barrels of the tank destroyer training on them as he gave the fateful command.

“COMPANY, AIM FOR THE TURRET RING AND FIRE!”

The Technicolor hailstorm came raining down on the sliver between the bulky body and its vicious barrels. The ring broke down further and further until the machine blew to shrapnel, white-hot sparks rocketing out of the body. The unit ceased fire, all 18 bikes running flat-out in a mad dash back to Base.

Gibson looked in his rear-views one last time. He could see the A7s gliding on, taking every volley from the Ontos with soulless grace. He could even hear, in the faintest way, the roar of the tanks’ crews as they fired again and again, knowing just where to strike the hovering fortresses.

For a second, a rallying kinship stirred. The thought of letting the steel children of A.C.E.S. and her horror go without a firm branding by the 365th didn’t sit well.

Then he thought of the black band where three young soldiers once rode.

In cross-hairs and crossfire they were caught. A storm of war fraught with peril for the inexperienced, and laced with perplexity for Command. There was only one thing on the Lieutenant’s mind upon their return: getting answers.

The three-way battle died with a whimper, the forces of the Neon Goddess and the ancillary revolt at the Force’s door wiped out by each other, and finished off by the outpost deployment.

Lieutenant Gibson Blanc conferred with General Knox in his office, the elder gray walking circles around the officer.

“Consider the inquiry open.” Knox said. “To play devil’s advocate; what if the Black Country forces were cloaked, hence their mysterious appearance in Sector 200?”

“That’s for Chief Ridgefield and the boys in the lab to find out.” Gibson replied. “If the wrecks reveal themselves cloak-capable, then yes. If not, someone let them in. Chief’s also in charge of making the call on who made them: B.C. or Ace. Though the spur insignia makes a compelling case.”

“Couldn’t the perceived delay in 203’s deployment been pure coincidence?”

Gibson glowered. “If that was coincidence, every officer and soldier on the post should be marshaled, subject to proper punishment, and a firm retraining. Response times like those are how you lose a war.”

“What if the radio operator was delayed by seconds in his response time? What if it was a fault of equipment? Simple error.”

“Reevaluate the radio room for such malfunctions.” the tan wolf answered. “But if it’s negligence, that operator should answer for it. Answer for the three kids who just got blown off the face of the Earth. He didn’t act in a way becoming of a Comms man. He was scattered-brained and should not have been in that booth. Period.”

Knox nodded, finishing his circle in front of the Lieutenant. “Get after it, Son. I’ll take Commander Wainwright with me to evaluate the performance of Outpost 203. You get down to Radio, I’ll have Captain Westley meet you there.”

They gave a salute and just as Gibson turned to leave, Knox left him with a final word of encouragement. “Once we have the truth, come back to my office. If you need someone to talk with. About today that is, I’ll be here.”

The soldier looked back, Knox nodding in a gentle way before slipping into his shades and jacket, and going for his intercom.

As the call of “Paging Commander Wainwright” echoed through the halls, Gibson heard the clacking of heels, both Madigan and Fletcher racing up behind, coming to full attention when they reached him.

“At ease,” he said, “You got five seconds to sell me on it.”

Fletcher spoke up. “We saw something Lieutenant, while you had broken away.”

“It was blink-and-you-miss-it,” Madigan added, “But we think we saw some hot rods off in the distance, behind the tanks.”

“The hill just masked them,” finished Fletcher. “It could’ve been the heat of the desert, but I swear they looked more solid than that.”

The Lieutenant looked to the two, then to the guard.

“Ask the General if he can see these two, tell him its relevant to the investigation. It could’ve been a mirage. but it could also be someone waiting in the wings.”

As the guard saluted and stepped inside, Gibson looked to both recruits. “I’ve got to get down to Radio. Give it to the General straight, and return to your quarters.” Both soldiers nodded before stepping inside, Gibson bolting for Communications.

True to his word, Captain Westley was standing outside of Radio when the tan wolf jogged up. “Always time for PT, Lieutenant?” she wryly mused.

Gibson could only shake his head. “Not when I have a mess like this.”

The red wolf nodded solemnly before cocking her head towards the door. The Lieutenant opened it for her and both stepped inside to find a horrific sight.

Slumped at the switchboard was an operator, lit in the harsh reds of the room. The officers tended to him immediately, Gibson checking his pulse while Westley parted his eyelids, testing for dilation.

“He’s alive thank God, but barely.” she said. Gibson wheeled the gray out of the way as the Captain hopped on the board herself.

“Radio HQ to Sickbay, Radio HQ to Sickbay. Medical emergency, operator Burke Lanning unconscious. I repeat, operator Burke Lanning unconscious.”

In no time at all, medical staff were there and wheeling the gray wolf out of the radio room. “Log books” were the first words on the Captain’s lips once the stretcher was out of sight.

Gibson went for the clipboard where all the operators registered their times on the clock. “Where’s Burke?” the Lieutenant asked.

The Captain looked puzzled, until she saw the board herself. “That was yesterday’s sheet. Says here Tod Murdoch was on HQ duty from 1200 to 1600. It’s only 1530 now.”

They flipped up the sheet to reveal a blank page. Gibson didn’t even look up. He grabbed for a pencil and shaded over the whole sheet. Every name and shift up to that point was revealed, safe for one glaring omission.

“Edmund O’Hare was off at 1200.” Gibson said, “And that’s where the sheet ends.”

When the eyes of the Captain and the Lieutenant met, Westley hopped on the board. “HQ to T. Jeff, HQ to T. Jeff.”

“T. Jeff to HQ,” Knox called in, “What’s happening Atlanta?”

“Our radio op on duty was Burke Lanning. Lieutenant Blanc and I found him near-death here in the Radio Room.”

“Keep me posted about his condition. Two of Gibson’s newbies gave me the details. Looked like at least one muscle car, standard body. I’ll be going over everything at 203 with a microscope. I got Troy riding shotgun and the pair of us will keep you briefed when we have our findings. T. Jeff signing off.”

When the General hung up, Gibson came on like a laser scope. “Surveillance. This hall and the room.”

The Captain nodded. Once the new operator was there to cover the shift, the officers headed for Security. The facilities were housed in the East Wing, back by the test ranges. A lively jog from one end of the building to the other was all it took to get there, and once they arrived, Security Chief Harrison Garret was about to enter the room.

“Greetings Captain. Lieutenant.” he smiled, his smooth voice aglow. “What can we do for you?”

Captain Westley delivered the order. “Time lapse on the Radio Room Camera and the adjacent hall, four-time speed from the hours of 1200 to 1400. Investigation 0810, regarding the Sector 200 skirmish.”

“Your wish, our command.” the brown wolf said, opening the door. “Get queuing boys, pronto!”

The wall-to-wall multi-monitor display hummed as the officers stood before it, the tape ready to review. Chief Garret ran the video of the Radio Room for them, only for two frames to loop in perpetuity. The two frames of Radio Op O’Hara finishing his log book entry.

“What the devil is this shit?” he hollered.

“A bug in the capture it looks like.” said the techie beside them. “And it ain’t the camera, but the recorder itself.”

“Dick and Randall, get on that.” barked the Chief, “Bring up the H-28 feed.”

When the hallway camera was queued, the strangest sight occurred.

At 1205, Burke Lanning could be seen walking up to the Radio Office door. At 1207, the black wolf O’Hare could be seen leaving the room. And just as the operator left, the top of the door pushed in towards the room ever so slightly, like a gust of wind caught it.

“Run that again.” Westley said. They did so. Again, and again. The way the door pushed inward had said it all.

“Sonofabitch was cloaked.” Gibson growled. “Chief, have backups made of this. Save the file, make hard copies. Hard case ‘em in case of EMPs.”

The officer nodded and set his team to work. “If you need anything more, just let us know.”

With the handshake agreement made, the Lieutenant and Captain left the room. Westley turned to Gibson as they made their way down the hall. “You’re taking this all pretty well, Lieutenant.”

Gibson went silent at first, then spoke with the weight of twenty years thrown at his back. “Hysterics won’t bring anyone peace of mind. Won’t bring it to me or those kids’ families.”

“War makes you grow up fast, that’s for sure.” Westley nodded. “Let’s see if Burke is stable enough to talk.”

He wasn’t.

Whatever happened to Lanning knocked him out cold. Dr. Paul Adderley was overseeing the case in the sterile white walls of Sickbay, and upon seeing the Captain and Lieutenant could only say: “he’s not coming out for a while.”

“So it looks like our Griffin did more than crack the guy across the neck.” Westley mused.

“Try near-lacerations.” the white-furred doctor said. “If he had been hit any harder, you would’ve thought a hatchet had come down on him.

“Why didn’t we see the blood?” Gibson asked.

Old Doc Adderley fixed his thin-framed glasses before replying. “My dear bo—dear Lieutenant, begging pardon. What happened was that of a force strong enough to leave an impression on the skin beneath the fur, but not strong enough to pierce. All the same, something hit that op like a truck.”

Westley drew breath for a question, only for a call to come in. “T. Jeff to Sickbay. T. Jeff to Sickbay.”

“Go for Sickbay,” the nurse at the desk replied.

“We’ve got a damn mess here at 203. Commander Wainwright is supervising on-site security. Ambulance 203 has headed your way with two severely wounded personnel. Wounds caused by stabbing with a service knife. We’ve apprehended the aggressor.”

The nurse nodded, looking over to the officers in the room. “Understood, will prepare immediately. Captain Westley and Lieutenant Blanc are also here.”

“Tell them to meet me in Room 505.”

“Run the whole thing by me again Zavia.”

The Commander squirmed as the General had him on the hot seat, a lone light blazing in his eyes, the rest of the room awash in shadow. Westley and Gibson could only watch. A Moto Corpman, turning on his soldiers.

“I was just in the neighborhood.” the white wolf weaseled, his brain half-mad as he spoke.

“In the neighborhood of a FIRING SQUAD if you don’t lay the damn truth on me.” Knox growled. “You don’t just pull stunts like that in broad daylight because you’ve gone up the wall!”

“Fine. I did it to hurry the process along” Zavia smirked.

“Hurry what?”

“Break us down. Sew a little discord. Make us ripe for plucking. Nothing like seeing your superior snap in half, huh? Besides, I shoulda looked over my shoulder before radioing. Those assholes saw me, I fucking knew it.”

Knox was piecing everything together as he spoke. “Communing with the Black Country, then, huh Ted? Mind telling us why, you fucking turncoat?”

The interrogation room went silent as all three officers saw the wheels turning in Ted Zavia’s mind.

“What do I got left to lose at this point?” the white wolf growled. “We have been fighting this sonofabitch for ONE HUNDRED YEARS. Where the fuck has that gotten us? We run around on heaps of fucking scrap while she builds floating empires that can kill more of us than we can of them…but B.C. has got some real shit man. You have NO idea what the hell they’re capable of, do you? DO YOU!? They don’t even need any of the Lab’s secrets. They got shit that’d turn the world inside out.”

“AND FOR FUCKING WHAT?” Knox roared. “Say you win the war. Say she goes up in smoke tomorrow. With the way these forces operate, all you get is the same tyranny, the same shit but with a different set of problems. Ace uses cold fucked-up logic, straight and true. We’re swayed by passions, the kind of passions that kill a man for slightest infraction. Then what have you sold your soul for? WHAT? Another empire of evil, now uninhibited by programs and handlers.”

Knox grabbed hold of Zavia by the neck with his metal hand and raised him up. He swapped hands and socked him hard with his cybernetic fist, holding the commander over the table. The white wolf gazed smugly down at General.

“Beats waiting on the Force.” he growled.

“Try this on for size,” the dark gray barked, “The hell were you doing with Captain Maxwell’s Monte Carlo?”

“Ask Donnie,” were Zavia’s last words. The infernal hound grabbed the General’s revolver from his hip, slammed the barrel against his temple, and with a deafening blast, blew his head open. The limp body dropped from the General’s hands, hitting the table with a crack.

Knox retrieved his piece, wiping away the flecked blood from his face. The three officers, all stunned, heard the door behind them open and slam shut. Everyone bolted, Knox ripped at it, bringing the thick wood off its hinges as the trio hurried after the cloaked figure.

“He’s got exits either way.” Gibson said.

Knox looked down both ends of the hallway. He heard a quiet squeak coming from their right. “He’s making a break for the firing ranges.”

Everyone darted down the hall, careening towards the exit door and into the desert sun as they saw the faint dusty paw prints of Captain Maxwell pat out clouds as he ran. The footprints raced away, closer and closer towards the range. They passed the hut where the firing lanes were organized. The footfalls soldiered on, until, as the rangemaster of the sessions cried “FIRE!” the prints took a hard left turn into the range.

The first shot came from the barrel of Dawn Fletcher’s LeMat.

A heaving explosion of sparks and blood dressed the sand as the body was sent spinning into the next four firing lanes, each recruit an executor as the final, sanguinary remains of Captain Donald Maxwell revealed themselves, dressed in the jet-black cloaksuit he had worn.

As the shock set in for the recruits and others went running towards the body. The Lieutenant, the Captain, and the General were left with a question ringing in their ears. It rang on far longer than the electric lead that had cut Maxwell down.

It was the ringing question of “why?”

“197, 198, 199…two-fucking-hundred.”

With a heaving sigh, a bare-chested Gibson relinquished his grip on the bar and dropped down to Earth. He looked to the gray wolf standing beside it, who chucked the soldier’s shirt at him with a smile.

“Getting better day-over-day Gib,” he said, “You’ll be back up to your old numbers in no time.”

The tan wolf nodded, sliding back into the white T. “Thanks Marty. Keep ‘er warm for me, alright?”

“Yessir,” he chuckled with a salute, “Tell Eve training’s back on at 6 tonight.”

With a final thumbs up, he threw his leather jacket on and left the gym. Waiting outside in the hall was Evelyn, who threw herself at him with the biggest bear-hug she could muster.

“Shit Teddy, you’re gonna break my back!”

He heard a sharp crackle up his spine before his girl let him down.

“Not break, just crack,” she snickered in her husky tones.

“Not a bad masseuse Babe, just work on the bedside manner, alright?”

He nuzzled her gently as they began to walk down the long, winding corridors of the old school. For a while they said nothing. Just the being there, together, soothed in an awesome way.

“The plane’s coming along great,” she said, “Nic wants her off the ground sometime in the next few months, for testing.”

“A lot happens when you’re conked out, don’t it?”

She could only scoff, “More than you want to know.”

“Try me.”

“Well there’s—”

The sentence vanished with the deafening ring of the bell, and a curt call from the speakers.

“Calling all Captains & Commanders to Briefing Room, Calling all Captains & Commanders to the Briefing Room. All Soldiers, maintain normal procedure. I repeat maintain normal procedure. This is a Code EMG. Code EMG.”

The two looked at each other, stupefied. Gibson broke the silence.

“Let’s book it for Knox’s, I got a feeling something’s up.”

“You sure you still got any energy left in—”

Cutoff again, this time by her own lover flying into a sprint down the hall.

“Only man I know who comes out of a coma looking like a track star.”

Evelyn did her best to catch up as they both tore away towards the General’s office. In the blur of their run, they made it just outside the door, stopping to catch their breath on the bench outside. The two guards outside the General’s door kept them there.

“Stay queued, Soldiers,” the gray guard halted, “Though I suspect he’ll want you in for the next part.”

The first part, however, had commenced within the oak-lined walls where every captain and commander sat. Knox stood at the front of the room, smart striped button-up and a bolo tie adorning him as he laid everything out before his Top Brass.

“Before you is the latest surveillance imaging taken at Outpost 218.”

The image was that of a black wolf. His bandolier crossed his chest and back, his black fur dusted by the desert winds. Brown boots, blue denim, a black concho-emblazoned hat, and a white chopped motorcycle to match. His shadow lingered on the land as, in choppy detail, the lone wolf laid siege on the outpost. Firing wantonly and with no remorse, ripping through hound and machine with explosive abandon. He fired a single shot at the camera before the signal went dead.

“The agent of these dealt blows is, in fact, of wolven form and figure, note the black fur on his hands. He is armed, mobile, exceedingly dangerous and is in Ambiorixian Sector 200. If it was 300, I would marshal a few good men and march on his ass. If it was 100, we’d have chopped him into ground beef before he got in the gates of the Base. But he’s in 200.”

The General produced a map on the screen, illustrating a plethora of outposts leading up to a single, sizeable marking labeled “Am Base Alpha”

“An attack on 200 is an attack on the Lab. An attack on the Lab is an attack on our fight. If we are to assume the worst, and consider him an agent of A.C.E.S., he is aiming for Ambiorixian Base Alpha. And if ANY agent of A.C.E.S. learns of even ONE of the Lab’s projects, it could jeopardize the whole of our operations, not least of which Operation: Bomber. We’re talking years worth of weapon’s development that digital bitch wouldn’t know what to do with. The secrets of the Lab must be kept at all costs.”

A hushed silence fell across Command.

“DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR?”

“SIR YES SIR.”

The unified cry echoed in the room. Knox’s iron-clad grimace, matched only by his clenched cybernetic fist, maintained that tension admirably.

“This rogue actor’s capture and/or extermination demands stealth, and our outposts demand enhanced security measures. I’m sending out a team to work on tracking, locating, and eliminating the threat. We’ll be divvying up squadrons based on Corp Divisions to guard the outposts, and I’ll be heading to the Lab with Chief Nic Ridgefield to coordinate max defense measures. Auto Corp Captain Atlanta Wesley will be Acting General here at the Base, with Moto Corp Commander Troy Wainwright as Second-in-Command, and will maintain a healthy, active force to guard the Base should the target distract from a greater invasion. As of today, the entirety of the 365th Infantry is on Red Alert! May God bless you and this Force. Dismissed.”

All of Command stood up and saluted before leaving the room. As the group filed out, Captain Herrera was met with a tap on the shoulder.

“Say uh, Tom.”

It was Commander Douglas, who was met with a truly Grim look.

“Just here to call a truce Pal,” he continued, “Want to break bread, put the Corp brinkmanship down for a day.”

Grim slowly nodded. He slipped one gloved hand inside his long black trench coat. After a moment of digging, he produced his glass flask of Brandy de Jerez.

“It’s not bread Señor,” he teased, “But it’ll do.”

He took a swig and passed it down to M.A.D. Dog who gladly knocked a shot back himself. With the tip of a black hat and two shots of brandy between them, the truce had been called.

For the day at least.

It was as the two filed out when Gibson and Evelyn were brought in by the guards. Knox managed a gentle grin when he saw the two.

“At ease Soldiers, take a seat.”

He sat down behind his old wooden desk, the two younger soldiers on the opposite side.

“You heard the code over the intercom no doubt, and you probably caught a few decibels of what I was laying down in there.”

Both wolves nodded.

“It’s not every day a sniper manages to wipe an entire outpost off the map, but no one ever said normalcy was a part of the job either. I’ll give it to you straight. I’ll be sending out another Moto-Auto pairing so the four of you can fan out and cover more ground. Auto Corp Private Laura Metzer and Moto Corp Private Danny Lyman. You’ll be given the coordinates of Outpost 218 and you’ll go from there. With any luck, there are enough tracks or trace elements for your on-board computers to work with. Good luck and Godspeed.”

With a hearty “Yessir” and a firm salute, the two were set to leave before the General put his silver hand on Gibson’s shoulder.

“Gibson.”

“Yessir?”

“Stay safe out there.”

He shook the General’s hand before heading out alongside Evelyn.

“My man’s a bit of a golden boy now, huh?” Evelyn teased.

“Oh hell Teddy,” he blushed, “’Nuff of that shit. I’m just glad we’re still here at all.”

“I’m glad too Baby, I’m glad too.”

Laura and Danny sat idling away by Evelyn’s Rebel and Exciter. Laura herself was another black-clad killer, the tan leather of her belt and boots popping off the ensemble. Her pickup had enjoyed some time in the shop after the Saffton run, the black Blazer managing to glisten in the florescent light of the garage. Lyman, red jacket, snakeskins, and all, sat side-saddle on his Duo-Glide, the deep blue Harley catching plenty of passing eyes.

Sure enough, once the duo arrived, a firm round of handshakes ensued.

“Y’all looking mighty fine now,” Laura beamed, “Ready to snipe some ass?”

“You betcha,” Evelyn winked.

For Danny, seeing Gibson was the finest sight he’d seen in a while.

“Private,” Gibson grinned knowingly.

“Glad you’re back among the living, Chief.”

The tan soldier nodded. “Glad to be back. Let’s saddle up-n-head for the Outpost.”

The four engines throttled up in unison as the unit thundered up the ramp and into the warm light of the desert sun.

The drive brought with it a soothing breeze, the soldiers enjoying the drive and bantering over the radio. Evelyn was the first to start.

“Turned that Chevy right around, didn’t ya Laura?”

“My man don’t go quietly,” she giggled with her Southern swagger, “He’s just like me, a royal screamer.”

With a kick of the gray’s work boot, the truck proved her point. Once Evelyn barreled up behind, it was looking like a full-on drag.

Danny couldn’t get enough of the display.

“No wonder you grabbed Teddy when you could Gib,” he chimed in over CB, “Could watch her race all day long.”

Gibson could only cackle alongside Danny as they kept pace with the hot rodding.

For the tan soldier, his mind had wandered to parts elsewhere, far ahead of the pack he led. When Knox took anything half as serious as this sniper, he knew he should too, but the thought of one wolf forging such a tapestry of carnage he couldn’t wrap his mind around.

Once he saw 218, he had no choice.

It was demolished. Ash coated the site, the metal roof charred black, the reserve depot completely obliterated. Two buildings, ten personnel, fully armed and trained, all gone. But one sign of shattered life remained among the devastation: the charred bone of a single arm, a warped rifle beside it. To whom they belonged remained a mystery. Gibson swallowed the lump in his throat before planning the next move.

“Fan out in the area and let’s see if we can get a path on—”

“—No need Babe. Dig this.”

Not two feet from where Evelyn stopped was a trail of bike tracks. They stopped when they reached a still-smoldering pile of scrap before carrying on.

“Must be able to catch some wicked air on that hog.” she said.

“Heading about Northeast too,” Danny observed, “Then he is going for the Lab, ain’t he?”

Gibson shook his head.

“Not so fast. Means he’s heading Northeast. He’s got about a half-a-dozen different things in his way between here and the Lab. Half-a-dozen outposts he has a sporting chance at. For all we know, these buildings are what he’s after.”

“The hell would he want with outposts?” Laura asked, “Rogue scavenger looking for scrap?”

Evelyn looked puzzled.

“Then why come on a bike and why not take the roofing, or the burnt-out gear? He ain’t with his pack.”

Suddenly, something occurred to Danny.

“If he is after Alpha Base, then why attack the outposts?”

The question lingered in the air before the gray Private explained.

“Assume he’s an agent, yes. What good does it do to waste ammo on a post this far out from the Base? For goodness sake, he could probably bob and weave through the network and never have to touch one of these. Get shot at, sure.”

Gibson looked skeptical. “I think he’s eliminating potential threats. If he’s B-lining for the Base, he’ll hit the ones directly on the way. 224, 242, 254. 218 sits on the outer ridge of them all. It’s his gateway. Regardless, let’s not dawdle here. We’ll follow the trail and see where it takes us. Double time it, gang.”

When the four soldiers saddled up, they exchanged salutes from ride to ride.

If only his hand hadn’t been out for Him to see.

From clear out of nowhere, shots of laser-fire rung out, a streak of red graced Lyman’s left hand, sending the gray wolf reeling to the desert floor. Gibson went down to cover him, whipping out one of his .45s and firing in the assailant’s direction.

No one was there.

Not a trace of life stood on any of the ridges overlooking the quartet. Gibson growled, lips curled into a feral snarl.

“Alright. First blood’s drawn.”

He looked to the gals behind the wheel of their rides.

“Evelyn, get some of your gauze for Danny’s hand. Then you and Laura load up his bike—”

“—I can ride with the hand wrapped,” Lyman seethed, “I…I won’t let you down Chief.”

“If he wants to rough it out,” Evelyn started, wrapping the bandage around the wound, “He can wear my fingerless gloves. They might fit tight, but that will also keep the bandaging protected.”

Gibson nodded.

“Alright, but if it gets too rough out here, I want the bike in the pickup and him riding shotgun. Keep your wits about you and let’s head for 224.”

True to Lyman’s word, the gray mounted once more, the pain stinging but his resolve strengthened. The sun grew hotter by the minute as the unit soldiered on, the roar of the engines now tempered by the on-board silencers.

The terrain was hillier than most of the region, and in time, shade was found en route in a pass, rock formations towering over the Infantrymen. The clouds hazily drifted across the sliver of sky above them.

Gibson hopped on the CB. “Well, picked a good route to escape the heat in the meantime. Keep the train a-rolling.”

All three soldiers sounded off a restrained “Sir yes sir.”

But as the troop ventured forth, a glint of light caught Lyman’s eye. It was a flash of some kind. Then came more flashes. Flashes that had begun to strike the looser rocks at top the ridge of the pass. He knew what was coming.

“Avalanche!”

Lyman’s exclamation sent the four soldiers bolting forward, the rocks and dust descending with great speed. As they neared the mouth at the pass’ opposite end, Laura spotted something that put it all in perspective.

“Target spotted,” she called over radio, “I don’t think there was anything natural about the disaster back there. I’m going after him.”

In an instant, she flicked up the top of her gearshift and hit the button, her carguns whipping out from under her.

“Go get ‘em Baby!”

She slammed the throttle down hard, weaving left and right, trying to blow out the back tire of the bike. The metallic behemoth was gaining when the biker played one more hand.

He fired into the mouth of the pass, loosening more and more stone until the ridge finally gave way.

“Double-time it, everyone!” Laura led the pack in the escape as her truck roared ahead. Then Evelyn’s Rebel. Then Danny’s bike. But not Gibson and Exciter.

Just as the Black Shadow had cleared the mouth, all it took was one stray rock for the bike to rear back on her rider, the tan wolf falling off in an instant. Right in the path of the oncoming landslide. Danny saw it all and whipped back around. Quick as a flash, the gray soldier grabbed his commander by the hand and yanked him up onto the seat.

“Shit man, what about Exciter?”

Danny grinned. “I’ll grapple with that.”

With a press of a button on the left handle of the Harley’s handlebar, a grappling hook came whizzing out the rear of the bike, landing right on Exciter’s front wheel. Lyman revved his bike up to full roar and sped away as fast as he could.

The final stone just missed the Black Shadow’s rear wheel.

“Where’d you have that stored?” Gibson whooped.

“Between you and me? She was one of the rides they been testing on at Alpha Base. Got her back before we went on the evening mission with you and the General. Commander Douglas is gonna go over ‘em with the whole Corp.”

“Let’s keep her together then!” the tan soldier roared.

“Yessir!”

The chase was still on as Laura unloaded on her fleet-wheeled target.

“Take over for me Eve,” she barked over the radio.

“With pleasure.”

The brown wolf’s Rebel Machine roared past the Blazer and swung the carguns out from his chassis. Streaks of laser-fire began to pepper the ground, nipping at the rider’s wheels. Closer and closer Evelyn came until

POP!

The rear-wheel blew out as the rider lost control. Evelyn gave the beast space to tumble as the biker went flying. The moment he landed on the sand, all four soldiers were there to get a good look at him. Gibson ripped the helmet off to find…

“He’s a red.”

The bloody face of a red wolf was laid bare for all to see.

“Alright, what’s the deal?” Laura gruffly asked.

“Your…”

“Your what Man, out with it?” Evelyn barked.

“Your destruction,” came the reply.

With a pull of a pin, the team went bolting away from the red, who cackled to his last breath as the grenade fired off. All that remained of him was a red stain on the desert floor.

Everyone picked themselves up.

“So we’ve got two bastards in the running,” Lyman seethed, having landed on his left hand, “And we catch the decoy, sonofabitch!”

“Don’t count us out just yet,” Gibson replied, “Cat left his satchel on the bike. Let’s see if he’s left us anything.”

With no time to lose, the wolves dove for the bike and started rummaging through the leather bag. They found a backup handgun, another grenade, mercifully unused, and a single note:

Δ - 42
Γ - 24
Β - 45
A - A

At the bottom of the note was a strange sketch. The spur of a cowboy boot sat on its end, the outline filled in with jet-black ink.

Laura huffed. “Well, if he’s coding the message, done a lousy job of it. Greek and backwards numbers.”

“Yeah, but we still got three killers on the lamb,” Gibson shot back, “Destination: Alpha Base. Let’s wire HQ, tell bases 224, 242, and 254 to prepare for enemy agents, we’ll B-line it straight for the base.”

“What about Exciter Gib?” Lyman asked urgently.

“If she turns over, I run her. If not, she goes into Laura’s bed and we take our friendly neighborhood saboteur’s ride.”

Gibson unhooked the grapple and flipped Exciter back on her two wheels. He gave the bike a strong kick.

Nothing.

He tried for a second time.

She wouldn’t budge.

With a final, heavy stomp, Exciter came back to life, not a spot on the engine.

“Bitch don’t quit,” he grinned.

Laura was handed the responsibility of relaying the message to HQ as the troop bounded across the dusty plains. In turn, HQ relayed it to the three outposts and the Lab.

As the forces were marshaled, Captain Herrera and Commander Douglas stood guard over Outpost 254, their units at the ready for their first real fight of the day. The central building and gun-tower stood tall over the wolven troop, their shadows granting some of the soldiers shade.

Douglas rolled his Indian up to the Captain’s Scout.

“¿Estas listo, Loco?” Grim chuckled in his deep baritone.

“You betcha Pal,” Douglas replied, “Bitch probably rides one of ‘dem crotch-rockets. Can’t wait to mince the punk.”

“Hungry too, eh?”

“Hey, hey, not all of us are here to eat the enemy.” Douglas grinned, “Just the real loonies…Now where’s the bib I packed?”

Grim could only shake his head as he reached for his CB.

“54 Base, we got a make on the assailants?”

The operator didn’t respond.

“I repeat, 54 Base, we got a make on the assailants?”

“They’re armored.”

The officers did a double-take of the radio. Through gritted teeth, Captain Herrera asked again. “We got a make on them?”

The radio operator stammered before replying. “Two armored cars, Cadillac Gage, miniguns in 7.62 and it looks like they’re laser-capable.”

“And here they are,” Commander Douglas spat in disgust.

They were jet black, like a rolling void. The sand and sun did nothing to mar their complexion as the machines soldiered towards them. On their sloped hoods was a giant streak of white. It didn’t look like much from a distance, but as they drew nearer, the outline looked something like the wheel and frame of a wheelbarrow set on its handles.

“Let’s blow ‘em out of the dust, whaddya say Captain?”

“DIVISIONS UNO,” the Captain barked, “READY GUNS, RIDE OUT, AND FIRE ON COMMAND. ENEMY’S AT 9 O’CLOCK!”

“SIR YES SIR!”

“DIVISIONS DOS! STAND BACK AND BY!” the Commander chimed in.

“SIR YES SIR!”

With guns drawn, throttles on the floor, and bikes revved up, the armada roared out from the Outpost. The dust storm kicked up could have smothered a city. And at the head of it all, the Scout and the Indian.

Grim flicked the top of the gear shift up, hit the button underneath, and opened his SUV up as wide as he could.

“Slaughter ‘em Señora.”

The blue laser-fire soared across the plain, the pistols, rifles, revolvers, and carguns all following suit. Whatever was coming their way, it was as good as dead. And yet, into the void it all went. Every ounce of stopping power vanished into the black of the armored cars. And it wasn’t until they were feet away when they realized the truth of the enemy.

“COMPANY HALT!”

A thousand brakes screeched as the Captain and Commander recognized the ruse.

“Whatever the hell we’re up against’s got hologram tech.” Douglas sighed.

Grim dove for his radio, “Divisions Dos, come in. I repeat, Divisions Dos, come in.”

“Dos Auto Leader Ellenshaw, reading loud and clear.”

“Look to the West, Ellenshaw. What do you see?”

“Nothing Sir. The West is crystal clear. We’re just—”

Static crushed the sentence under its heel, and behind the unit came the ringing of laser-fire. There wasn’t time to think, only react.

“COMPANY, ABOUT FACE!” the leaders cried in unison, the entire division following suit as the Scout and Indian led the rides through a wave of dust back to the Outpost. They held their fire as the troop hurtled back towards the base to see a sight of pure chaos. The armored cars had not only managed to get behind them, but were sandwiched in the perfect place for a friendly fire massacre. And yet, there they were, ripping through the second unit and into the crew of the outpost like tissue paper.

Grim and Douglas were thinking as fast as their rides when they came to the same conclusion.

“Heatsinks, Commander?”

“Heatsinks, Captain.”

Grim grabbed for the radio and worked it all out. Two at a time, bike and rod would concentrate their firepower on the back of the cars, wailing away at the fans. The unit cut deeper and deeper into the grates and fans until the first car went up in a ball of fire, and the other went hurtling and spinning, right into the gun-tower’s base. Metal pylons went flying as the fireball soared upwards and into the top of the tower, the gunmen incinerated in an instant.

“Everyone on the Outpost frequency, evacuate ASAP!” Commander Douglas ordered. The outpost’s soldiers hopped in their rides and into those of the soldiers left as the tower made its slow descent. With a final groan, the weapons platform vanished in a fireball of their own. The flames just licked the Outpost itself. And while the building was safe, there was no shaking off the half-division hole left in the Outpost’s roster.

Grim stepped out of his Scout to survey the scene.

“All this, with two fucking armored cars.”

“Couldn’t even get the bastards’ autographs,” Douglas added, a simple nod given to the flaming black beasts before them.

Grim grabbed the CB and re-tuned to HQ’s frequency.

“This is V. Galvez to HQ, come in.”

“HQ, loud and clear. How goes it?”

“Like shit. Ambush at 1330. Gun-Tower 254 destroyed, Outpost Command 254 battered but unbeaten…50% of Auto and Moto Divisions Dos assigned to 254, dead. Need emergency fire-tenders ASAP. Culprit’s are two armored vehicles, both destroyed. Whoever’s behind this are more than just a gang. Relay to all active units.”

“That’s a 1010 from us, V. Galvez. Lick wounds and maintain defense. Firetenders from 236 scrambled.”

“Gracias. Over and out.”

As he hung up the radio, he looked over to Commander Douglas, who shot him a truly M.A.D. look.

“We made ‘em pay here Grim, and the General’s sure to bleed the first somebitch who comes knocking on the Lab’s door.”

Grim nodded solemnly as he looked to the wolves at his back. “COMPANY! Resume standard defense operations. Outpost command, standby for firefighting.”

With a final cry of “SIR YES SIR” and a collective salute, the work of Outpost 254 was set back in motion.

As word spread of the assault, Knox found himself shoring up every defense at the Lab. His units were armed to the teeth, wolves at every turret and tower on the compound, rows of bikes and cars ready and raring to chew up and spit out whatever came for them.

While the General prepared, Chief Ridgefield sheathed every project on site, carefully made blankets of lead draped over every gun and augmentation to prevent enemy scanning. Last came the big gal herself.

For as low as she sat, the aircraft cast a tremendous shadow over the main floor. A mighty piece of machinery she was, even half-finished and untested.

They really don’t make ‘em like they used to, do they Old Girl?

The black wolf chuckled at the thought, standing before her with a quiet prayer under his breath. As the blanket was lowered, he saluted the craft, turned away, and marched off to confer with the General on the front lines of their defense.

“Hatches battened down?” Knox asked, climbing behind the wheel of the ‘Cuda.

“Signed, sealed, and delivered,” Ridgefield replied, “All yours Sir.”

The gentlemen shook hands.

“Still can’t figure it,” the Chief went on, “Still can’t figure a damn lick of it.”

Knox smirked. “Let’s figure it in postmortem. Preferably over these dogs’ bodies. Just like the lawmen days, right?”

“Sir yes sir,” Ridgefield chuckled. “I’ll get in the Hilux and meet you out front.”

“See you there, Chief!”

When both wolves rolled up to the Corp officers, the sound of the front lines was that of baited breath. A pin could drop ten miles out and every soldier at the front could mark it.

Knox’s metal hand gripped the Cuda’s wheel as he waited. In his mind, the sight of an army to equal his fighters sat on the horizon. He was prepared to put a fleet of U7s down if he had to. As the minutes passed, and without an enemy in sight, he could sense a restlessness in the men behind him. It was like getting caught in rush hour traffic.

Even the on-site chief officers, Moto Corp Commander Ted Zavia and Auto Corp Captain Donald Maxwell, seemed somewhat anxious to get on with the enemy’s annihilation. The white wolves feverishly checked their wrist watches on the quarter-hour, sometimes in perfect unison.

“All in good time Troops,” Knox reassured over radio. “All in good time.”

Just as the General’s own faith in the enemy’s arrival began to wane, a bike came roaring onto the horizon.

A single, white bike, atop which rode a black wolf.

“Ready your guns,” Knox ordered, “Standby to fire on my order.”

As the dog of the hour drew near, a rumbling sort of rev began among the crowd of soldiers’ rides, the wave of growling engines growing louder and louder as the bike hurtled nearer and nearer.

The biker hit the brakes and swerved, gliding into perfect range for the Infantry, every barrel pointed his way. Knox issued the ultimatum.

“If you don’t die here, you’ll die out there. Tell us why and you’ll stand a chance at living.”

The biker cackled, “The Black Country haven’t any need of your mercy.” His voice was deep, a gravelly chuckle on every word.

“What is this Black Country you speak of?” Knox ventured.

“The key to true peace.”

“Explain!” The General pressed.

“How’s your home life, Adam?”

For Knox, the world stopped. He looked deep into the black wolf, his smile cruel, and his eyes piercing.

“FRONT ROW, FIRE!”

Everyone’s guns ripped into the black wolf at once, sending the rider into a flaming pile of fur and guts, the bike evaporating all that was left when it went off. In an instant, their agent was gone. Knox yanked the radio off its hook and tuned to the Base’s wavelength.

“T. Jeff to HQ, T. Jeff to HQ.”

“HQ to T. Jeff, under enemy fire. Under enemy fire.”

“From which direction?”

“Due West, T. Jeff.”

“Sending reinforcements from East, standby to receive.”

“Standing by T. Jeff, holding fort down.”

Knox switched frequencies and addressed the Lab.

“Alpha Base, I want First Divisions of Moto and Auto Corps back to HQ. I repeat, First Divisions back to HQ. Come from East, behind Base. We cannot afford friendly fire. I repeat, we cannot afford friendly fire. Make radio contact with HQ when in range.”

Zavia and Maxwell lead the charge as the wall of rods and hogs screamed into the desert. Knox looked back to Ridgefield, who had only one thing to say: “I think we’ve got it bad this time.”

Word of the firefight at the gates had reached Gibson’s squad, who were frantically racing back towards it. Lyman’s hand was starting to sting, a rumble grew in Exciter’s engine, but both bikers kept pace with the women on all fours. They hadn’t a word between each other, only a steadfast determination to make it to the Base as fast as they could.

But not without some roadblocks.

There was a biker gang on the prowl after all. A quartet of choppers were going for a stroll on the ridges when they saw the Infantry soldiers bearing down on them. Every bike was matte black, no reflection to speak of, the riders armed with high-powered rifles.

Evelyn and Laura raced forward, carguns open and firing as they threw their throttles to the floor. Two of the bikes were down for the count, but the others wouldn’t let up. Gibson and Lyman locked their guns on their handlebars and were firing alongside the cars as they all gave chase. When the hand grenades started flying, the only member of the troop who couldn’t swerve in time was Laura.

The blast blinded her as she fought for control, the Chevy whipped close to the edge of the ridge, a fifty-foot drop waiting to swallow her whole. She stiff-armed him away from danger, only to plow right into one of the choppers. She braked hard, holstering her carguns before backing off and leaving the rider to his fate.

If only she hadn’t left him alive.

Even through the crushed bones and twisted metal, the rider gave a parting shot right into the truck’s rear tire. She couldn’t get a hold of the situation in time, her truck veering wildly towards the ridge once more. She hit the brakes hard, and with a harrowing skid, the truck stopped. Her back wheels dug into the dirt as the front of the truck teetered off the edge.

“4-wheel drive ain’t working too hot right now,” Laura called over the radio. “I might need someone to hook a line on me.”

“Evelyn’s on her way!” Gibson replied, “Let’s hit it Danny, you and I.”

The bikers roared ahead as the Rebel Machine swung back around towards the imperiled Laura.

The chopper had gotten ahead, the Moto Corpmen’s bikes gaining fast. Whereas the third of the quartet had hand grenades to spare, Biker 4 came packing old-school lead. The kind of slugs that would knock someone into the next time zone. And for Danny Lyman, that was just about where he landed as the bullets drilled into his stomach. He fell off the Duo Glide, reeling in pain as the bike barreled ahead for a few more yards before skidding and rolling over to a stop.

Gibson wanted to stop, but he couldn’t let the bastard get away. The tan wolf landed several shots to the rear tire before putting a blast to the rider’s head. It was a direct hit, yet with all the fury of a meth-addled zombie, the final rider whipped around on the seat and unloaded the magazine into him. The slugs socked Gibson in the gut, but he kept on rolling, even as the blood began to seep through the white of his shirt. He could hear Exciter’s engine grumble and moan louder than ever as he kept firing his SAAs into the rider and his bike. It was anyone’s guess who was gonna bite the big one until a final, fatal shot hurtled through the air.

It went right through the Black Country Biker’s neck, sending him over the ridge and into the abyss below.

Gibson, as quick as he could, raced back to grab Lyman. Weaker and weaker he felt as the blood flowed from him. The last thing he remembered was his face hitting the desert floor.

It was sundown when Gibson’s eyes weakly opened. His torso was made of gauze and his jacket nowhere on him. Then he realized he was riding shotgun in the Rebel Machine. Beside him, behind the wheel was Evelyn. She was quiet. Not a tear shed, nor an outburst of emotion. She sensed he was back among the living.

“You shouldn’t be alive,” she said quietly. “God knows how you are.”

Before Gibson could say anything, he looked out to the desert. There was Laura, her dusted truck holding together. In the bed of the pickup was a war-torn Exciter. But no Duo Glide. He tried to prop himself up to see if Lyman was riding shotgun with the gray. No one was beside her. He looked in the Rebel’s backseat. No one lay there either. Evelyn only had the truth to tell.

“He was gone before she fell on him. He’s in the trunk now.”

Gibson said nothing. He felt nothing. Couldn’t even feel guilt. He felt only the cold that an empty chair at the table brings. A cold that tightened when he saw the apocalypse made of the Base’s Western Front.

They had brought A7s. They were tall, brick-like machines. Hideously brutalist, but efficient assault pawns of exceptional hovercraft capability, armed with mini-guns on every corner. Every last one of them had been dropped, a fleet of five standing as graves for the Black Country’s forces as the soldiers returned home. And on the back of every A7; the upturned spur on the biker’s note.

With dozens of bombed out cars and bikes laying among the downed leviathans, the cost to defend the Base was tremendous. Just before they reached the gates, darkness fell over Gibson’s eyes once more.

The next time he came through, there was Knox standing over him in Sickbay.

“I thought we could keep you out of here,” he remarked dryly. “Bit old seeing the same white walls, init?”

Gibson’s stare was barren as the sands. “The boy’s gone.”

Knox sighed. “He gave his life as any of us would. As he would’ve out there for us that night.”

Gibson rubbed the catatonia out of his eyes as the General turned to look out the window, the setting sun drenching the room in a reddish orange.

“I won’t sugarcoat it Gibson,” Knox continued, “We’ve got bad news right on our doorstep this time. And it ain’t machine.”

He pulled out a pocket cassette player, a single black tape sitting in it. With a flick of the play button, Gibson’s world changed forever.

“We ride the black country. A country untouched by the electric goddess or machines of war. We’ll take back everything that was ever ours, and that ever should be. That includes everything you own. The enemy of my enemy is now forever, my enemy. You can fight in the city streets. You can fight in the deserts. But you will have to go through us if you want true freedom.”

The tape stopped, a collective sigh let out by both commander and underling.

“Three fronts?” the tan wolf ventured.

Knox looked back to him, the hell of it all flashing before his eyes.

“Three fronts, Son.”

There was only one thought on the soldier’s mind as he propped himself up. “Get me patched up then. We got work to do.”

Knox turned to face him fully before cracking a gentle smile. “Yes we do, Lieutenant. Swear-in at 0900 on Thursday.”

Gibson didn’t know what to say, a disbelief Knox met with reassurance.

“We lost a lot of men today, including mid-level personnel. We’re going to need the very best we have left. It’ll take time adjusting, but first we’re giving you time to heal. Stay rested, will update you on affairs as necessary.”

With a shake of the hand, Knox marched out of the room, leaving Gibson bathed in the light of the red dusk. It was never going to be the same from that day on.

It is in the theater of the mind that the cruelest tricks are played. Memories running rough-shod across the folding plains of the brain, the rawest nerve and sharpest emotions cutting clean through the skull and all therein. Such was the newfound cacophony devouring the mind of one wolven warrior.

General Adam Knox.

They were not memories of his own, nor were they thoughts of his own. Across the expanse of time came hellish visions that neither saints nor devils could destroy nor forge. They were electric, they were alive. Chock full of unvarnished horror, wrapped in code and sealed with a poisoned digital kiss.

The dark gray sat alone in his office, polishing his cybernetic arm for the umpteenth time, and treating his prized revolver to its trillionth cleaning. His arm glistened in the warm glow of the desk lamp, the cool blue of his built-in wrist watch lighting up his sullen face. His Smith & Wesson gleamed with all the radiance of a dawning sun cast wide above the placid desert floor.

Yet nothing brought forth that much sought after balm, that soothing remedy. Even with the progress made on the Bomber project, all the skills of his Force sharp as their claws, nothing could bring the General peace.

The announcement of the General’s leave of absence was met with tight-lipped composure from the captains and commanders, all units carrying on with routine as usual. To all, it was as if he had simply come down with the flu, and he preferred keeping it that way.

Knox sat shirtless, only his jeans and work boots on him, running his metallic digits through the scruff of his fur. The temperature control at his fingertips cooled his weary body. The long nights brought mats and a slight mange to his otherwise healthy complexion. He had conferred privately with Sickbay personnel, only for them to come up empty-handed. Not a trace of parasites, mites, or even nanobytes that could be causing him such an ailment.

Just as the General felt fit to try his hand at sleep once more, a sheepish knock rapped at the office door.

“It’s after hours for all personnel,” he said firmly, his sense of command unwavering.

“Room for an exception?”

It was Gibson.

“Door’s unlocked,” came the gentle rasp.

The tan soldier walked in, a trudge to his step. His white shirt was stained, the black denim and harness boots carrying him to the chair across the desk. Were it not for the color of his fur, Knox would’ve mistaken the young man for himself.

“What’d ya do to get sent to the Principal’s this late?”

Gibson stared at first, silent as the stars. Then he spoke.

“It don’t stop.”

Knox looked at him with a foreign gaze.

“What doesn’t, Son?”

The words lodged in Gibson’s throat. It was worse than a stutter; it was ensnarement, the gelatinous mound of verbiage crawling up his vocal chords at glacial pace.

Knox reached out his hand, the real one, to Gibson and held the soldier’s firmly.

“Steady on Boy,” he said, “Don’t let it take over. Just tell me. What don’t stop?”

Gibson relaxed, looking into the elder gray’s eyes.

“It’s Her, dear God, I know it is Her. It calls. It don’t stop calling.”

“What she saying Boy?” Knox ventured.

“Says its urgent,” he chuckled, his wryness giving way to psychosis.

Knox fought for strength in the soldier, his eyes withered but spirited as he held his tan hand, their pads clasped tight against one another.

“Keep it together Man,” came the stern reply, “I know it hurts a whole helluva lot.”

Gibson’s eyes widened.

“Whaddya mean by that?”

Knox didn’t even bother to feign, he simply let out a defeated sigh.

“I know It hurts because I know SHE hurts, dammit. Shit’d be easier if she just send a barrage of fucking Howitzers our way. But no, she had to go shooting shit into our brains of all fucking things. It can’t be from any other place, could it?”

“Why didn’t you tell—”

“—The HELL YOU THINK I KNOW ABOUT THIS? Been the sanest bastard for all my life, now I’m goddamned raging bull up here, not a goddamn reason why.”

The General’s terse intonations spelled it all out for Gibson, though Knox was quick to soften his expression.

“That right there’s why I kept this under wraps with the top brass.”

For a moment, the two sat in silence, unsure of what to make of it all. But then came that ever-sage moment of clarity.

“Why don’t we answer Her?”

Perplexion washed over Gibson’s face.

“This ain’t voodoo Gibson. If she’s calling, we should answer her. I don’t pretend I even know a quarter of what’s going on, this has got to be a...a signal. Her signal. And maybe she can’t reach us from all the way across the desert, but maybe...just maybe, something amplifies it. Kicks the waves our way, right?”

Slowly, it all began to dawn on the young soldier.

“And if there is something sending these out...”

“There is something we can reverse engineer,” Knox finished with a smile.

Gibson felt some modicum of peace as he looked to his superior.

“Make it through the night Son,” the General reaffirmed, “Tomorrow’s gonna be the first step on a long road to recovery.”

Gibson stood up and shook his hand.

“Hold tight to that cross now. We’ll need every bit of His help we can get.”

The dark green ‘Cuda and the Black Shadow sat next to each other, the metallic mares polished to a sheen, liveries resplendent in the early light.

Affixed to Exciter was an unusual addition; a sidecar, modified and fit to kill. A tip of single barrel sat at the nose, ready and waiting for the next menace to step into its sights.

Knox stepped forward before his soldiers for the day.

Gibson was suited up as usual, leather jacket zipped up and ready for action, both Colts hung on his hips. Standing alongside him was Danny Lyman, a light gray Moto Corp member. Just your average fellow really; a Mannlicher rifle slung over his back, a deep red leather jacket, faded black jeans, a pair of dusty snakeskins on his feet.

On Gibson’s other side was none other than Auto Corp sniper Johnathan Metcalfe. The white-furred soldier stood tall above the other two, his two-toned leather jacket unzipped, his suede cowboy boots just as weathered as Lyman’s jeans, and his Dragunov slung over his shoulder. The bullet belt wrapped his waist, loaded with laser cartridges. He meant business, and every deal was fit to be sealed with a quick pull of the trigger.

Then there was Knox himself.

He stood a monolith. Black boots, black jeans, black leather, black shades. In a way, he was almost funereal. But even the sleepless nights couldn’t eradicate his stoic composure, the somber character eschewed with a bark of his voice.

“Soldiers: ATTENTION!”

All three locked into place, the dawning sun bequeathing each statuesque wolf a warm glow.

“We are going on a voyage, but not of sea nor air. We’re going on a voyage of the mind. Our navigator is the vision, and the compass our senses. If all goes as expected, myself and Gibson may very well be in a fight for our lives without a shot to be fired. But if all goes as anticipated, there will be a target you cannot miss. Privates Metcalfe and Lyman, you will take over the mission in the event of incapacitation on either of our parts. Arrangements have been made here at Base in the event we do not return.”

The wind whistled in the distance as the General let every letter of his word sink into the soldiers before him.

“And to you Gibson...expect temptation to your last breath. Company, mount.”

With that, the General slid behind the wheel of the ‘Cuda, and Gibson onto Exciter. He kicked at her hard to bring the engine round, but once it arrived, he felt at ease.

“She’s a real fighter, ain’t she,” Lyman asked with his whisky-soaked Southern drawl.

“We go back a long, long way her and I,” Gibson grinned, “Shoulda knew her old pal. Toughest cat I ever met...I think I was the last he ever knew.”

As the conversation carried on, Metcalfe was getting accustomed to riding with the General.

“I ain’t sure I follow what’s happening.”

“Private,” Knox said softly, “You don’t have to follow shit, just what we sense.”

That was enough to bring Metcalfe to heel.

“Give me strength Angel,” came the General’s hushed prayer, “Give me strength.”

In an instant, both he and Gibson whipped their rides into gear and the duo tore off into the ether, Metcalfe idle at the General’s side and Lyman electrified by the acceleration.

“Where to,” the soldier shouted over the raucous motor.

“Well Danny-O,” came the playful reply, “General and I figure it a safe bet to head Her way first. We’ll tell ya what our noggins say after a beat.”

It was cryptic, but it made as much sense as anything. Fortunately for Gibson, the Private was enjoying the ride.

Inside the ‘Cuda, the General kept rapport up best he could.

“Grim says you’ve been finding some crack shots in Auto.”

“Lotta crazy kids thinkin’ all ya gotta do is pull the trigger,” Metcalfe chuckled, “But by God do some of them know how to pull it. I’d bet ya couple hundred cold-hard credits Mitzi, that chick from the Northern Region, could knock all four engines off a HOV-CRAFT 5K in five flat with those twin Berettas.”

“Must be getting in good with Teddy Blanc if she’s cooking Italian style. But hell, if enough of ‘em survive the A7s and U1s, that’ll give ‘em a good shot at the H.P.D. when we invade.”

“You figure soon,” Metcalfe asked.

“If I knew that Johnny, I’d march our asses right in Sherman-style. All in good time Private, all in good—”

WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOSH

It was a goliath for the ages. A U1 came careening above the group, battered and war-beaten, the beast on a path all its own. Knox didn’t seem phased one bit, Gibson neither. The General brought the ‘Cuda up a gear before crushing the gas. The V8 roared to life, Exciter’s valiant twin-engine keeping pace. The General went to fire up the carguns when the hovering tank vanished into its dust trail.

Knox looked over to the stationary Metcalfe.

“DAMNIT SOLDIER, ARE YOU GONNA FIRE OR NOT?”

“On what Sir?”

Knox froze.

The hazed dust cleared. The U1 was gone.

A terrible creeping sensation rolled up the General’s spine.

Her games had begun.

Knox signaled for Gibson to pull over alongside the ‘Cuda. Both men put the brakes on hard, grinding to a halt.

The General stepped out and bolted right up to Gibson.

“You saw that, right? The U1, battered to hell, rolling right over us.”

First there was silence, then the reply.

“I didn’t.”

Knox went cold.

The three soldiers watched as their leader sauntered away, his black boots dusted by the salt flats he walked upon. What they heard next rocked them to their core.

“WE’RE NOT EVEN ON THE SAME WAVELENGTH YOU BITCH!”

Never in all his years of command had an outburst rung the way Knox’s had. Across the salt, the dried earth, the hard stone of the mountains in furthest reaches of the Wastelands. All caught the wretched cry of the General.

For a moment, Gibson saw a storm whip about overhead, the darksome clouds the shade of his commander’s fur. The clouds fazed in and out, in and out, with the rapidity and repetition of a strobe. Lightning danced in the sky as it cut through the dissipating reanimating static-laden clouds.

For a split second, the General vanished. In his stead

“MAC!”

The second the General turned to face Gibson, the vision ceased. Knox bolted back towards Gibson, both hands firm on the soldier’s shoulders.

“Who’s Mac?”

Gibson sat dazed beyond belief.

“Who’s Mac Son, who is he?”

The soldier came back around. He spoke in staggered cadence.

“An...old friend of mine back in the City.”

“What do you remember of him,” the General probed.

“He was just...just...oh God.”

It was like his brain short-circuited, the wires tangled and sparking as his mind collapsed in wild torment. In a moment, the world went dark for the tan wolf.

But not for Knox.

Before him sat the body of a bloodied officer. A bloodied police officer. The faintest gleam of a badge caked in filth, fur matted in a sanguinary baptism. He hesitated to touch the body, the shades hiding tears of raw pain. Not of sadness nor horror, but of physical pain. The very second the pads of his hand came to rest on the officer’s chest, he was Gibson once more.

The General helped the young man into the sidecar best he could, hands quivering.

“You go easy Private,” the General said, “You go easy.”

Lyman saluted without hesitation and fired Exciter back up.

“You sure you’re good to drive,” Metcalfe asked.

“I...”

The General paused, unsure of what to say.

“I’ll make due...at least we know we’re heading in the right direction.”

When night had made its quiet descent, Gibson came round. Through his misted eyes came a warm glow; the kindly countenance of Knox piercing through flames, though true flames they were not.

“Always pack a heat-circ on journeys Privates,” the General said sagely, “Never know when camp has to be made.”

Lyman had taken to the Old World tradition of marshmallow roasting as the rest of the team looked on amused. The cylindrical form of raw heat made for a most even golden brown in the confection, though neither private nor General knew where he had obtained them to start with.

The secret was easily given up.

“I just carry ‘em on me all the time,” he chuckled, “They’re synth, but they taste ‘bout the same. Hey Gibson, catch!”

He flung one, mercifully unroasted, at the soldier, the dessert flicking him one in the snout. It was a surefire way to wake Gibson up.

“Where we at?”

“Couple more miles than we were,” Metcalfe answered, “General was keen enough about the trajectory. Took us closer to the Northern Region of the Wastelands. I figure we’re 5090...84 Red Sector...shit was it A or B, chief?”

“Sector A Private.”

“Right, thanks.”

“What did ya...did ya see?” Gibson asked, fading a little.

“An old brother-in-arms from my days on the badge. Not much more.”

The General made his way over to Gibson and propped the weakened soldier up against him, his mechanical arm doing the heavy lifting.

“Tell me what you saw.”

Gibson took the deepest breath of his life.

“I saw a storm. Black clouds coming in and out of view. Like the sky could be clear as day, then shrouded in the scattered gray of a dead channel. On and off, on and off, like Mother Nature was flipping a switch. Then, when you turned to me, I saw...gee I saw Mac for the first time in ten, twenty years.”

“Go on,” Knox swayed.

“We worked Storage 555 together. He was a gray. Just a nice regular Joe. It was all busy work really. Mom and Dad didn’t want us all sitting on our asses all day. He wasn’t as I remembered him though.”

“What was he?”

Gibson fell silent for a moment, the thought arresting him.

“Crushed.”

Knox gently rubbed the soldier’s arm.

“Workplace accident?”

“You could call it that,” Gibson started in, “But it was more. More to the visage and more to him. His countenance was warped, like a smile curled up against its will, eyes dragged out of proportion. And as for the real him...the day She took control...he was working Floor, trying to line up crates with the guy working the crane. Only thing was...She took over. Op didn’t know what was happening, and by the time he knew...oh God.”

“Steady on,” Knox soothed.

So it was pain She preyed on, no doubt. The loss of a fellow officer, and the loss of a dear friend. Knox cast his mind back to the day of the officer’s end. He wasn’t sure why She manifested him the way She did. All he remembered was the sight of the body under the HOV-CRAFT. The sleek silver machine bore a crimson two-tone beneath it, the engines having blasted the black wolf into nothing.

"Test drive my ass,” he muttered to himself.

He turned his attention back to Gibson, the soldier having pulled himself together.

“It’ll be a rough few days Son. But we’ll manage. Hold tight to that cross.”

Gibson held the icon by its center, the pads of his digits pressed firm against the pure silver. He looked up to the General. Through the haze of slumber, the horror of torture, there sat the spark of the protégé, that beautiful glint he always hid behind his shades.

“Rest well,” Gibson said bravely.

“You too.”

In time, the camp fell into that cavernous pit of slumber. For Gibson and Knox, it was the first true sleep they had in ages. The heat-circ naturally faded as one by one, the warriors fell to the night.

It was in the eve’s quiet that all hell broke loose.

Lyman was the first to wake up. It must’ve been one or two in the morning. No one’s ideal hour, and yet here he was stirred. It was the sound that stirred him first. The distant wail of digitized whistling and twinkling that crawled across the airwaves. It held all the distant beauty of a diamond waterfall.

“But why me,” Lyman asked himself in the dark, “I ain’t jacked into this shit.”

Slowly he rose, slipping on his boots, and throwing his jacket over his back, bare-chested with his Mannlicher in hand. His move woke no one, much to his relief, and slowly he stepped into the desert, away from the group.

The strange synthetic sounds seemed to drift in all directions. First to his left, then to his right, ricocheting between the two like an automated pan pot. The darting grew not only more erratic, but in time, grew in volume. The wicked negatronic howl grew louder and louder, advancing and growing, a tangible wind bellowing as it worked its way across the land. Lyman could only do one thing.

BANG!

He let It have every ounce he had.

“Company, we got an enemy, 12’O Clock and coming fast!”

The laser fire vanished into the night, the wind engulfing the blows. Knox rose first, followed by Gibson, and Metcalfe last. All three reached for their pieces and were locked and loaded in seconds.

It wasn’t until Gibson looked in the direction of Lyman that he saw what they were up against.

She’s got Mac.

The thought grabbed Gibson’s mind and held it down with all its ephemeral might. He saw the neon-red body float above the sand. Just as mangled as he saw him before, just as horrid in its deranged pinned-up smile and oblong eyes. Eyes locked squarely on Gibson.

The soldier bolted up alongside Lyman, his Colts at the ready.

“I can see it Danny, just follow my lead.”

Gibson drew the twin Peacemakers and worked the triggers like mad. Electric bullet after electric bullet ate away at the vision, the porous shredded wounds profound among the flesh and fur.

He was just about to finish it off when

“GIBSON, CEASE FIRE NOW!”

It was Angel. Dear God, it was his Angel. His Angel was being shredded to ribbons by the fire as it pierced her and dyed the heavenly white fur a dreaded red.

Gibson stopped, Lyman following suit. The General’s command rattled up their spines as the dark gray walked up past Metcalfe. Past Lyman. Past Gibson. He walked towards the visage. But it wasn’t a visage. It spoke.

She spoke.

“I’m giving ‘em Hell, Adam.”

It was just like her. Just as sweet, just as bold. Just as...real. She had to have been. There was no other way. She wouldn’t just

“I’m giving them He-e-e-E-E-E-”

Fur gave way to flesh, gave way to bone, gave way to ash as the body glitched and evaporated before Knox’s eyes, form and figure stretching into a strange melted module of fabrication. The wild wind still howled its strange tones as Knox’s distress grew into a titanium-plated rage.

“You killed her.”

Gibson looked to the General and his heart sank through the desert floor. Knox came walking, slow at first, his walk becoming a full-on sprint towards the tan soldier as he swung his metallic fist hard into Gibson’s chest.

“You dirt-bag sonofabitch. YOU KILLED HER!”

“General”

“I COULD’VE STOPPED IT!”

“General Knox!”

“I COULD’VE YOU RAT BAST—”

“—ADAM!”

The fist dug clean into the side of his neck as Gibson dropped the General. The elder gray fell to the earth, a leviathan groan escaping him.

In an instant, he looked up, clear-headed, as the great blindness of anger vanished from his mind.

He saw the shuddering Gibson as he slowly propped himself up. Gibson stepped back, trembling still, only to be coaxed by the silver hand of the officer.

The moment the soldier reached him, Knox held him tight. The embrace stunned Gibson, but he returned it with all his might.

“Son,” he said, a waver in his voice, “Don’t you ever let me do that again.”

They stayed like that for a moment before Lyman and Metcalfe darted over.

“Leave the driving to Danny and I Sir,” Metcalfe started in, “If THAT is what She has in store for you fellas, I don’t want a lick of it to come down when either of you are behind the wheel.”

Knox went to protest, only for Gibson to look at him with a knowing glance.

“It ain’t safe,” he said.

Knox nodded softly.

“Least we’re getting warmer. Heaven help us when it gets hot.”

The caravan loaded up, Metcalfe turning the ‘Cuda over as Lyman fired up Exciter.

“Show Danny the way Old Girl,” Gibson wearily smiled as he patted the bike’s gas tank.

“She will,” Lyman reassured, “She ain’t let us down yet.”

“Where to next General,” Metcalfe asked.

Knox closed his eyes, descending into thought.

“We’re in the North, right?”

“Yessir,” Metcalfe reaffirmed.

“Stay a course due East, I see...I see a tower. One of them old radio ones. Tall, rusted gray, thin beams stretched to the sky.”

Metcalfe pointed in the direction Knox was after and put the ‘Cuda in gear. He kicked the throttle hard and took off into the plains, Exciter following suit as Lyman revved her up to full roar.

“Say its more tangible than whatever the hell we just went up against,” Metcalfe pressed, “What’s the best way to knock it out?”

Knox sat, eyes held shut.

“You blow its joints out. It’s just like any piece of architecture Private. Weak spots you can pin right down to the rusted rivets.”

The General’s eyes opened, gaze shifting towards the Private.

“Give ‘em Hell,” he spoke softly, “Give Her Hell.”

The eternity of the drive set in as the two machines crossed the desert. The dotted sky proffered only the faintest light, and the thin sliver of the new moon carved its lone niche. The headlights were all the drivers had for visibility. It was just enough to keep their wits about them.

Gibson found the air soothing in its own way, the battering keeping him wired, but cool. He would occasionally pat the tank of Exciter, a gentle smile on his face, one Lyman was quick to acknowledge.

“She's bitching,” the Private grinned, “Ain’t stopped running yet!”

Knox, for his part, kept relaxed. He nodded off, into darkness at first. The black was soothing; to be free of seeing anything at all was a miracle at this point, even if that reprieve was brief. He clung to the dark with all his might, drifting further away into it...and then into light.

Light danced in his mind as they rode on. The canvas of black grew to be something of a black bush. The bush grew drenched in slivers of gold that fluttered about its branches, the sensations of the ‘Cuda’s engine lulling him into the lucid thought.

Two words lingered in his primordial state.

Show me.

The thought echoed across the gray matter, flashes turning neon as they continued to tango in the dark.

Show me.

The lights began to form the tower, the industrial obelisk piercing Heaven itself, and the bush now nowhere to be seen.

Show me.

The lights consuming the tower’s form, a beam of blue slowly materializing up through the center.

Show me.

The beam as it grew, a cool blue mist emergent and...faces. Skulls in the light that twisted and melded and molded. One into the other, silent cries of anguish met only with the static hum of the monolith.

Show me.

The hurricane of horror as it whipped and stirred about the tower. Souls of soldiers he once knew, long since gone to the distant ages. By God, he could even see the visage of Godred himself, the black wolf warped into outrageous expression.

Show me.

Angel.

“SHOW ME!”

The General woke to a start, greeted by Her terrific howl and a light that even the blindest of men could see.

“We’re here General,” Metcalfe barked, “And it ain’t just you seeing it this time!”

Knox went to talk, but nothing came out.

No words, no thoughts, just an overwhelming sensation erupting throughout. He was fit to froth at the mouth with all the rabidity of the most haggard hound, stupefied by harsh blue light. Slowly, he looked over to see Gibson.

The tan wolf was in the worst way. His body convulsing, his eyes blackened past dilation. He vainly turned to look towards Knox, but he could not see him.

All Gibson could see were the visages of three brown wolves, faces as contorted as that of Mac’s. They beckoned him, coaxed him. They were his folks. Mom, Dad, kid sister. All standing, all blood red, all smiles ripped in a wretched direction. Melting, bony fingers drawing him closer and closer as the horrific bit-crushed sound of it all struck his eardrums again and again and again!

COME...HOME COME...HOME

The trinity of malformed electric spirits were pulling him away from Knox. His body sat in the sidecar but that soul was being dragged off and away into the depths of a hell eternal, a prism of digital malignancy.

And all the General could do was watch.

Knox feebly gestured for the soldiers to get their guns, his mechanical hand heavy with paralysis. Metcalfe nodded, who in turn nodded to Lyman. Both wolven warriors, locked and loaded, brought both rides to a halt. They shades flung on to alleviate as much of the light as possible before stepping out into the rapturous winds.

“LOOK FOR THE RUST,” Metcalfe called over the roar.

“I CAN’T SEE SHIT,” Lyman cried.

The General could however.

Blue waves of enraptured souls bore the character of water. Through the water was the structure itself, and by God, what a structure. Intricate beams wove the silver tapestry that anchored the hellish fountain.

Slowly, Knox opened the ‘Cuda’s door. The moment he stepped foot outside

BOOM!

He felt whipped to the ground. Metcalfe rushed over to his aid.

“General, it ain’t safe!”

The General shot the Private a horrid look, his pupils now the slivers of cat’s eyes. The look of “damn safety and damn you” cut clean through Metcalfe as his commander rose. Through the pain, he drew his revolver, the polished piece glowing rich in the cobalt light

As zaps and synthetic fuzz filled the air, he pointed the barrel square at the face of General Godred, hands quivering with all the tension in the world wrapped around his muscles.

Sorry Leo.

The harsh green of his laser fire slammed into the joint behind the black wolf. Sparks flew as a banshee roared over top of all. The Privates covered their ears as Knox kept firing, the groan of the steel and the weight of the tower slowly revealing itself amid the noise.

And in an instant, Knox roared with the might of a lion.

“FIIIIIIIRRRRRRRREEEEEE!”

Metcalfe and Lyman drew and slammed the tornadic column with everything they had, the General’s streaks of green aided by Lyman’s blue, Metcalfe’s yellow, and...red.

Twin streaks of red...and one of white.

From within the sidecar, hands quaking in pain, Gibson fired alongside the soldiers. His eyes were still black but his muscle memory was enough to manage trigger pull after trigger pull after trigger. One boot rested on the foot-switch of the sidecar’s gun, twitching slowly but steadily.

The quartet pressed on as the tower bent with a groan, the bull-roarer of a structure whipping about in the blistering winds. In time, more sparks came flying fast towards the crew, falling beams crushing the digital spirits as they fell to Earth.

“EVERYONE IN,” Metcalfe ordered.

Knox, with a tremendous pain in his step, clambered back to the ‘Cuda. With stress coursing through all limbs, he grabbed the door handle and swung it open. Metcalfe pulled the General in as quickly as he could before whipping the car around.

Lyman kicked Exciter hard as the machine came rumbling to life, the bike roaring alongside her sister-in-arms as both tore away as fast as their wheels could carry them.

In one deafening blow, the tower descended, and in the rearview: the face of the culprit for all to see.

For A.C.E.S, it was the skull of a wolf She bore. A skull of blood-red color as the vortex imploded upon descent, the tower ablaze. In those bit-

crushed tones, the words came fast for all to hear:

RETURN TO PARADISE. BEHOLD

OUR MAJESTY. COME HOME.

The electric text faded into the distance as the troop rode on into the night.

Metcalfe turned to look at the General. For once, he looked alright. His jaw cracked a little as he regained his customary rasp.

“I’ve a feeling we won’t be hearing from her like that for a while.”

Metcalfe chuckled under his breath.

“Was that really all it took?”

The General cracked his neck, shaking off the sensation.

“Johnny...if I even knew the half of it, I’d be out of my mind for good.”

The Private nodded knowingly, turning to look to Exciter, greeted by a horrific sight; the near-lifeless body of Gibson.

“PULSE LOW,” Lyman shouted.

“HURRY,” Metcalfe barked back.

The rides screamed as they hurried towards the Base. Every minute held the weight of an hour for the General, the flood lights fading into view on the horizon. Every second became a day as they rushed Gibson to Sick Bay, every day a week as he stood by the bedside, praying over the withered body of the young wolf held in a morbid stasis, holding vigil between all the orders given and routines maintained.

It had been a full week since the coma set in.

On a uniquely cool morning, Knox had come to sit down beside him once more. He looked upon Gibson, the soldier’s eyes closed and his breath slowed to a crawl. He ordered all staff to leave the room as he pulled up the same old chair.

“Well,” Knox started softly, “Materials came back. The resonator was examined. And there may be hope of using it. The shifting shortwave frequencies don’t exactly make it easy to land a blow, but...it’s something. Just like I told you.”

The silence of the monitors gave no comfort, nor the electrocardiogram’s slow steady march, nor the pure white walls that cooled the Bay.

“They say it was the chip we all had that enabled...the visions. I’m ordering everyone to get theirs surgically removed. Apparently disabling them through micro-EMP wasn’t enough. Sick Bay’s making that happen now. We got yours out the other day Buddy.”

Knox clasped the soldier’s hand in his.

“We ain’t blood, but I ain’t losing you. You hear me? I ain’t letting go. I’ll keep you on ‘til they drop another bomb. I’ll keep you on ‘til the generators fail. I’ll keep you on all the way as we ride out on Her. When we take it all back. I ain’t ever forgiving her for taking Lorraine away, but by God, don’t let her take you.”

He pressed his hand to his forehead, his own breath slowing. Through his stoicism, he felt the tremor of sadness flow through him.

“Don’t leave me Son. Don’t leave.”

The machinery arrayed around the tan soldier marched on as the General fell silent. He stayed like that forever, until

“She wanted...”

That voice. His voice.

Knox drew closer, thumbing the soldier’s forehead gently.

“Wanted what?”

Slowly, his eyelids parted, and the words upon the tan wolf’s lips lingered before joining the room.

“She wanted to see. Just to see. Just to see us again. To see Her children.”

Knox sat perplexed for a moment before realizing.

“Can’t stand seeing ‘em leave the roost, right?”

Gibson feebly halted the thought.

“She...she felt like Mom and Dad to me. I felt that warmth, that...God, that feeling of home. I saw them. I saw them.”

Knox nodded knowingly.

“I saw her too.”

Gibson’s mind darted back to Knox’s question.

“Every. One. If she ever does that again...it’ll be to see more. More of the children.”

Knox soothed Gibson as his pulse grew normal.

“I don’t think she realizes how far them pyramids are gonna fall when she does see us. I want you to raze ‘em with me Kid.”

Gibson smiled.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Restored to his wondrous brown eyes was that glint; the glint of bravery, of vitality, of strength. And restored to the General’s was the warmth of a father reunited.

It was time to rain hell on the Neon Goddess.

The trouble began as soon as the sun rose.

In those warm early hours, as the cool blue of the night gave way to the resplendent blend of deep reds, oranges, and purples, few were ever up quite that early. Even for a military outfit, the only man who found it the optimal time to rise was Commander Martin Archer Douglas. The gray commander was blessed with an appropriate acronym: M.A.D. Though tempestuous at times, the morning ride unwound every point of tension in both mind and body. It was about the best way to meditate given his chosen profession.

He was all dressed for the occasion; black leather jacket wrapped by denim vest, his suede cowboy boots doing the shifting and his leather-and-mesh fingerless gloves revving the bike up to a powerful roar. Astride his monstrous Chief Black Hawk, a blood-red bike that matched her rider’s fire, M.A.D. Dog Douglas was enjoying his customary moment of Zen when he caught a chilling sight coming from the East.

Far beyond the testing fields and gun ranges, a dim light revealed a massive cloud of mist enveloping the horizon, only distant mountains peeking beyond the mass. One would easily have mistaken it for any old dust storm that blew through the Wastelands. But minute details never passed by the watchful gaze of Commander Douglas unnoticed.

With the eyes of a hawk and the memory of an elephant in tow, it was the relatively stagnant status of the cloud’s formation that gave it away for the Commander. It neither advanced nor retreated; it merely sat there, its amorphous being staring back at the gray wolf.

“Whoa Gal,” he called, slamming on the brakes.

His metallic steed slid to a stop, wheels digging into the desert floor. He looked deep into the fog, exerting every sense in his power to detect what lay within the haunting façade. His ears cocked towards the mass, his gaze descending into the ethereal gray cloud. Even his snout took a crack at seeing if there was any scent to be had. His intent observation revealed a force that, once emerged, hit him like a sledgehammer.

“Look’s like we got company.”

His lone clairvoyant utterance was met with the visage of a leviathan.

It was a tank the size of one of A.C.E.S’s automated creations. A towering fortresses that advanced with surprising rapidity given its size, but came with none of the modern-day hallmarks. This was Old World tech, the kind that drove back the the powers of the day. The kind that chewed up and spat out continental Europe thousands of times in the days, weeks, and months of the grand old wars of centuries gone by. Even from the great distance it sat at, its might was palpable.

The Commander whipped out his radio and sent an emergency call.

“Rise and shine,” Douglas said over the radio. Urgency tinted his normally laconic Midwestern tenor. “We got a tin can due east, advancing west, and we are right in her way. Old World tech, too, not your average Joe.”

Knox was the first to respond.

“Rallying the troops now,” he urgently replied, “How many you figure?”

“Old World monsters got their weaknesses Pal,” Douglas assessed, “But if this is from who I think it is, she ain’t going down without a fight. Send a large Auto Corp unit, I don’t think my men can nail her open air.”

“Consider it done,” Knox replied.

No sooner was the order put in, than the behemoth unleashed her fury. A fury not of flaming green laser fire, but one signaled with a sudden flash of the muzzle, and a cataclysmic round piercing the ground beside the Commander. It was close enough to shock him, but far enough to stave off complete obliteration. It wasn’t long before tires screamed as rider and ride booked it for the Base.

“She’s packing lead Adam,” he barked into his radio, “And it packs a punch.”

“That Auto Corp unit you ordered is coming out of the Garage now.”

A rush of motorized might poured from the exit, ride after ride blowing past the incoming Commander. He gave a long salute to the line as he ducked back into the facility.

The matter was in their hands now.

Evelyn Blanc was among the hot rodders recruited for the early morning ride, her four-eyed Rebel about as groggy as she was. She had gone into the ring on less sleep, so driving was a piece of cake. Her hands were only hours removed from their arduous training; gauze-covered knuckles gripping the steering wheel with the force of a vice. In the haze, she heard a voice come over the radio.

“Company, halt,” came the General’s command.

The armada of automobiles drew to a stop, Knox and his Hemi ‘Cuda out ahead of the pack. The veteran sat behind the wheel, eyes wide in awe.

“My God,” he said to himself before picking up the radio, “Are you seeing what my eyes are seeing Nic?”

The sound of a camera flash came over his speakers.

“Every inch of it,” replied the darksome baritone of the Chief of Engineering, “She’s a mighty fine piece of work.”

“You think we can move on—”

The General hadn’t time to finish his sentence.

Another flash gave way to a hurtling projectile. The round flew clean over the heads of the entire unit, colliding with part of the fortified wall surrounding the Base. Shrapnel shot inwards towards it, and sparks danced about the gaping wound in their defenses.

Before the General could even shout “Move,” the Tank launched another round, tearing clean through the base wall on the other side of the unit. The electric tendrils thrashed about, only adding to the mounting damage done to the systems powering surveillance and the tall flood lights.

“Gun ‘em,” he ordered without hesitation.

The unit began their charge on the towering menace. Rubber pounded the dusty ground, the descent of carguns from their holsters sounding off in near-perfect unison. Ride and rider, locked, loaded, and powering along towards the fiendishly armed war machine. Knox meant business, and every soldier behind him was ready to show this intruder exactly what for. Evelyn was on the front line of the unit and flashed a wink to the General. He could only smile. Having Gibson’s gal at his back was a reassuring thought.

From within her 3500-pound steed, she started to come alive. She playfully caressed the wheel as she shifted and opened the Rebel Machine up wide.

“Give it to ‘em good, Baby,” she soothed in her husky manner, “Both barrels.”

Her beast roared with delight as she pinned him down and let rip the laser fire. Red beams cut clean through the dawn’s early light. One after the other followed suit, and soon enough, scorching crimson streaks of electric lead cascaded across the field of battle. In spite of the wall of firepower rocketing on through the cloud, much of it striking the Tank on its front, it would only take an instant for their full-on assault to be brought to a grinding halt.

As the sun rose even higher in the sky, the Tank had begun to fall back. A smile flashed across Knox’s face before the resolve hit him again.

“You ain’t getting off that easy, Punk,” he grimaced, his cybernetic hand gripping the wheel.

The unit was halfway between where the Tank once stood when it happened.

The massive armored vehicle, revealed by the morning light to have a coat of grease-soaked silver, was once more obscured by the blanket of fog. In turn, the gray mist began to recede. The fire of the fellow soldiers began to dwindle as they drove on. The General’s determination was unwavering, however, matched only by the incorrigible Evelyn Blanc.

“I said...you. Ain’t. Getting. AWAY.”

He shifted up and kicked his weather-beaten boot against the throttle, the Cuda’s double-barrels firing wildly into the evaporating mass. Evelyn kept up with her commanding officer, the duo leading the charge. The soldiers were dragged along for the chase, but in the end, it was all to no avail.

The monolithic cloud dissipated, taking the mysterious assailant with it. All Knox’s unit could do was stop, the sounds of a thousand screaming brakes ricocheting off the distant hills.

The General sat awestruck by the display, his breath heavy and his gaze haunted.

“Chief Ridgefield,” he said over the radio, “Meet me in my quarters. On the double.”

He turned his attention back to his soldiers.

“Company, fall back and return to base.”

Evelyn Blanc sat outside of Knox’s office. The General had been in with the Chief of Engineering for an eternity, heated exchanges ringing out like Gatling gunfire. It was a passionate exchange of knowledge, with the strong rasp of the General and the deep, whiskey-soaked ebony tones of the Chief knocking their heads against one another.

Right beside her sat Gibson, clad in his usual denim-and-leather garb, just as perplexed as everyone else was.

“I say she’s a big ol’ coward,” Evelyn went off, “That or we’re up to our necks in some real twisted shit. Like if you have all that firepower, you can clobber us without lifting a finger, why the hell wouldn’t ya?”

“Tactics,” Gibson started, “I mean, could be a, I dunno, a shake-and-bake sort of job. Y’know the kind: you come out of nowhere, rattle the enemy, and dip. Guerrilla stuff.”

“But how the hell do you fall back into nothin?” his lover quizzed. “All she had to fall back into was the mountainside at least a thousand miles away. You can’t just fall back into thin air.”

That detail was the one that truly stumped Gibson, the whole affair growing more perplexing to the tan soldier. The couple continued to stew on it until, at long last, the door swung open, and out stepped the gray General and a tall black wolf: Chief of Engineering Nic Ridgefield.

The officer was perhaps one of the most imposing on the Force. He wore an unbuttoned denim vest, his muscular build on full display. With his ripped jeans, white cowboy boots, flat brown hat, and .30-06 bullet belt, he was enough to give any soldier a good start should they cross him.

The leaning tower of man nodded as he gave the General a firm handshake, his black-furred hand couched in a white armbrace.

“My men and I will pour over every file I got,” he reassured, “It’ll take a while, but we’ll find the culprit.”

“Godspeed Nic,” General Knox replied, “Report back when you’ve made a positive identification.”

“Yes sir!”

Ridgefield gave a gentle nod to the couple on the bench before sauntering away.

Gibson and Evelyn promptly made their way into the General’s quarters. A spacious, renovated, oak-lined principal’s office greeted them, as well as another figure: Commander Douglas, sat in the corner behind Knox’s desk. The General took a seat and invited his two soldiers to do so as well. The Commander gave a firm salute as they sat down.

“Thank you both for coming here,” Knox began, “Not just at my behest, but at that of Commander Douglas’s as well. As if word of the whole damn thing hasn’t spread already, we’ve got a rogue tank on the loose. A behemoth that we currently have no idea as to...damn well anything at all really. We can presume A.C.E.S. is behind it, but given how out of left-field this thing is, assumptions don’t mean a thing. While we’re busy refortifying the Base, some reconnaissance is in order. With Agent Steele still working Haven with Lita, I’m putting you two on the case with Commander Douglas. Anything you’d like to fill them in on Martin?”

“Sure thing General,” M.A.D. Dog said, bellying up to the bar, “You two were chosen on the basis of three merits: first is that I consider Gibson to be one of the best in Moto Corp. Your keen senses will come in handy on this one Pal. Second is your performance this morning, Eve. You didn’t pussy out when the overgrown paper weight made her retreat. Steel that resolve m’dear, you’ll need it. And third is the simple fact the pair of you work well together. Good to have that energy to feed off of.”

“You’ll conduct recon with Ride 17.32,” Knox added, “Any questions?”

The couple shook their heads in unison.

“Good,” he affirmed, “Head out on the double. Commander Douglas has all the requisite equipment in the bag on him. Just...don’t forget to look out for each other, alright?”

Evelyn wrapped Gibson’s arm around her chest.

“Thick as thieves General,” she winked, “Not gonna let him outta my sight.”

Gibson chuckled as he slipped his shades on. Knox flashed a smile in kind.

“Good luck and Godspeed Team,” he said.

With a round of firm handshakes, the trio set off for the Garage, down the winding corridors of the Base. On the way, Evelyn made a suggestion.

“Tell you what,” she said, “You’ll drive Gibson.”

“You really want me to Teddy,” came the incredulous reply.

“Hey, I figure it’ll do you some good,” she chimed, “You’re not half bad at it. I’d say I taught ya well enough. Besides, last thing we need is me pushing him a little too hard.”

“Gibson behind the wheel?” Commander Douglas pondered. “Joining the dark side on me now, are ya Pal?”

Gibson could only chuckle at the thought. But with a little more smoothing over from Evelyn, the decision was made, and it would be Gibson’s first day as an honorary Auto Corp member.

When they finally made it to the Garage, Evelyn tossed him the keys; her thank-you being a quick kiss on the head.

It was a bit of a squeeze, but everyone was able to sit in the front. The Commander wasn’t particularly pleased about being pressed up against the passenger-side door, but it wasn’t all that bad. He figured he’d have enough room considering how close Evelyn would get to Gibson. Indeed, his thoughts proved prophetic as Evelyn cozied up to the tan soldier beside her.

With a twist of the key, Gibson turned the engine over and revved up the Rebel Machine.

“Doing good so far,” she teased.

“So far,” repeated Gibson with a wink.

The Rebel Machine backed out with ease and gently rolled up the ramp to the world outside. The clear blue sky carried with it a refreshing quality like no other, one that hit Gibson right where he sat.

Soon they reached the breached wall, workmen clearing the way for the ride. All were shocked by the gashes made, but moved on without too much gawking. Gibson brought the black-and-bronze beast to a halt outside, surveying the scene where the incident took place.

“Due East,” he inquired, looking over to the Commander.

“Due East Pal,” came the reply, “Show me what he’s got.”

The Commander got a playful salute before the soldier dropped his harness boot, and the Rebel Machine took off into the Wastelands. Evelyn could only grin as she saw the smile waltz across Gibson’s face. She leaned up against him as they thundered along. She could tell he was getting his kicks from the whole setup.

Gibson slowed down once they had reached the sight of the Tank a few miles out. The three got out and the Commander gave a frank “hmph” once he saw the tremendous treads of their mysterious foe. The tracks were roughly eight feet wide each, and left a deep impression on the ground, the kind you could trip into.

“She don’t even hover,” he said to himself, “I figure four, that’d make her double tracked, each run about 47 inches or so. And she’s a heavy sonofabitch. But by gum, she don’t hover. Well, ain’t that a...hold up. Hold it all just a minute, whaddawe have here?”

The ever-watchful Commander spotted that, a few yards away, the tracks grew smaller and smaller until there was nothing left. Nothing left except for four points of depressed dry earth and the vaguest impressions of the shrunken tracks. The soldiers under his command followed the lead, and when all three got a look at the four points of contact, it became clear.

“They’re retractable,” Gibson said.

“So, she can roll and hover,” Evelyn realized.

“Looks so,” the Commander replied, “Not sure what advantage there is to gain from it but looks like we’ve got ourselves a prototype of some kind. Someone...ah hell, gots to be A.C.E.S., right?”

“Right,” the soldiers chimed in unison.

“Exactly, who else on God’s good gray Earth would make such a behemoth? The point of kickin; it old school don’t make sense though...no sir, we’re talking the A #1 computing power in the world, and she’s dredging up centuries-old tech...gather samples and data Team, lemme radio this in.”

Gibson and Eve set to work on the double as the Commander talked things over with the General. The duo worked on documenting the evidence of this development, with photographs snapped, samples of the dirt taken for any potential fragmentary materials, and an audio log explicitly describing the discovery and the inferences made on the Commander’s part. After all was said and done, the troop piled into the Rebel to plan the next move.

“Nic and the boys haven’t gotten an ID on the tank just yet, maybe our info will lend ‘em a hand. It looks like it headed either eastward still, or it took all the way off and flew to God knows where.”

“So, the next move,” Gibson asked as he brought the Rebel back to life.

“Eastward still Pal,” he ordered, “There’s enough of a lead to warrant following a rough trajectory. The exhaust impressions within the hover engines’ point West, meaning it was propelled in the opposite direction.”

“Yessir.”

The muscled machine tore away once more. The terrain was smooth for the most part, the day looking brighter still than it had started, and Gibson found himself cruising like a pro once the needle hit 90. Evelyn and the Commander set about sending the information back to Base via the data module built into the Rebel’s glove compartment. The foldout mini computer forwarded the fruits of their first stop in the blink of an eye.

It was in the quietest hour of the journey that everything came together in terrifying clarity.

Gibson was white-knuckling the hot rod as they continued their tailing. He looked upon the horizon with great intent. It was mostly the power trip that made him so conscious of the road ahead, a sort of conquering sensation, each mile claimed by the tracks of the Rebel as he soldiered ahead. His intentness was what allowed him to see danger careening towards them.

In a split second, the tan wolf slammed on the brake and clutch, swinging the ride hard to the left before gunning him back up to speed, jolting everyone about the ride with the grace of a toddler with a rag doll. The rest of his team hadn’t time to glower when a shell detonated but a few yards away, dust and sparse debris pelting the automobile.

Gibson brought the car to a full stop, the trio setting about catching their breath.

“So, she’s here,” the Commander gravely intoned as he recomposed himself.

“Where on Earth could she—”

The rest of Evelyn’s words were useless.

Whether it was on the hills or miles ahead, two gray clouds bloomed on the horizon. Not just out of thin air, for it was clear that something was producing the mist that grew and grew. Once the blanket of fog had reached full flower, it revealed itself.

The Tank, in all its cold glory, rolled out of the mists, barrel held aloft...aiming for the Rebel.

“We stand and fight,” Gibson asked, “Or do we tuck tail?”

“Throw him in reverse and let me snap a shot,” the Commander said.

“Yes sir.”

The Rebel rocketed backwards as the M.A.D. Dog leaned out of the window to get the shot, the tightest closeup possible. He didn’t hesitate in sending it through the data module. Teddy gave Gibson the thumbs up to whip the Rebel around and speed back to Base. The Tank, however, sought engagement.

A live round went off right behind the car, the force lifting the back up for a second. Gibson paid it no mind.

“She advancing?” he asked the Commander.

“She hasn’t moved an inch.”

 Gibson’s eyes widened.

“How far you figure she’s away from us?”

“If the data on the photo’s correct,” Evelyn said, “At least 105 miles away.”

“Teddy,” Gibson said, “Call up HQ, ask them for an update on what this thing might be.”

“On it Babe,” she replied.

She was mid-call when another shot came a hair too close to the driver’s side, the force sending the Rebel onto its two right wheels. Gibson held the Rebel steady best he could, the machine riding out the stunt on a stable clip. Once the left wheels returned to Earth, he pounced on the brakes and whipped the Rebel around, to face the Tank. Behind his blackened shades was a raging fire. Was it foolhardy? You bet your ass it was, but the last thing that Gibson was, was a pushover. And he sure as hell wouldn’t let this machine best him.

“Alright, you wanna play ball,” he seethed, “We’ll play damn ball.”

Evelyn tried to bring her lover out of his enraged trance, but Gibson dug in with all his mental might. He flicked the top of the gear lever open and jammed down hard on the red button. In seconds, the floor trigger was operational and the carguns were out in the open. He revved the Rebel up to full roar.

“We’re gonna take him down MY way,” he shouted.

“GIBSON,” barked the Commander, “ATTENTION!”

“SIR,” he saluted, spine straightened in seconds.

He didn’t tip his hand, but a terrible tension began to stir within Gibson. He was a dead man driving as far as he knew. No one commandeered a mission from M.A.D. Dog Douglas. No subordinate on the planet ever had the nerve. And in the heat of his rage, he had just broken that tremendous taboo.

“You mealy-mouthed feral motherfucker. You think you’re taking command of this mission, you’re gonna supplant the structure we got going around here. If you think you’re just gonna go screaming into battle without authorization from your superior, think again asshole. Get your maggot-addled brain together Pal, and listen up real fucking good. YOU HEAR ME SOLDIER?”

“SIR YES SIR!”

Gibson braced for the final blow.

“If you don’t pulverize that putrid pile of spare parts from that digital dyke out West, I will break you five ways ‘til Sunday next year. And that’s a goddamn order Soldier. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”

Gibson, stunned, turned to look at the Commander. He merely looked dead ahead. The most reassurance the soldier got was the flashing of a grin, the Commander content with the grilling he just put his ally through. A smile of his own returned to Gibson’s face.

“SIR YES SIR!”

In an instant, Gibson shifted up and kicked the throttle down with all his might. The Tank had sought engagement, and Gibson was about to give her everything he and the Rebel had.

“Get me that last batch of files!”

The scene in Chief Ridgefield’s war room was that of controlled chaos. Spreadsheets, textbooks, hard drives, and every resource at his disposal were splayed wide open, the room bathed in the warm glow of desk lamps and the crisp neon red of the computer towers lining the walls.

Every morsel of information was laid bare before his crack team of white-coated wolves. His resident desk jockey, the white-furred Lance, was working the main data module, the one receiving the transmitted data from the field research. When the photo came through, the inveterate operator rolled back from the monitor in awe.

“Holy Mother of God,” came his shell-shocked utterance, “Ridgefield, you ain’t gonna believe this.”

When he saw the photo of the tank in broad daylight, Nic’s mind kicked into full-blown overdrive. It was the most dastardly, tremendous, stunning thing he’d ever seen.

She was gorgeous.

“Well got-damned,” he whooped, “That’s what I was missing.”

He turned and called out to his unit working through the physical texts.

“Boys, get me Army Prototypes, 1940-49. We got some living history on our claws right now.”

In a flash, a brown-furred tech swung into the shelves, rifled through, and picked up the leather-bound tome.

“Got it!”

In his hurry, he winged the book towards the Chief. Nic’s reflexes kicked in and he clamped down on the book, the pads of his hands firmly pressed against the covers. The spine just graced the Chief’s snout.

He was stunned for but a second, long enough to give the young techie a heart attack.

“You’ll be the first to test that new round of grenades, right David?”

The tech blushed as Nic diffused the tension with a smile, threw open the book, and thumbed his way through. He scoured through the scores of experimental guns and vehicles, before landing on his one-for-one match.

“Ladies, gents, and bastards of all ages, we got our gal!”

The deafening cacophony of hollers and relieved sighs erupted from the room. Nic opened the book for all to see.

“Meet the Super Heavy Tank T28, T95 if you prefer. Made in the year of our Lord, nineteen-hundred-and-forty-five. Now back and bigger than ever.”

Nic turned back to Lance’s terminal and held up the diagram printed on the page to the photograph. His mind feverishly performed the conversions to graft the design onto the Tank. And once every piece clicked into place, the flaws of the beast came into focus.

“A.C.E.S., you dumb sonofa,” he spat out, “She broke the shell and gave her the U1 turret! Unmodified, untouched.”

“So the turret ring,” Lance inferred, “Oughta be the weak spot still.”

“You bet your bottom dollar Man,” came the reply, “She’s got more cover because she carved out the rounded portion up front here, so the armor on the side should give the back protection. Says here armor’s a foot thick on these bastards. Given the doubled-up dimensions, best make that two. Alright, gemme the radio!”

The gray gal to Lance’s right tossed him the unit.

“B. Frank to GW, come in.”

Violent static coursed through the speakers as the Commander’s voice rang out, cutting through the noise with the force of a dagger.

“GW to B. Frank, reading you loud and clear. Give it to me straight Nic.”

“Good news,” Nic said, “We think we got the Achilles heel on her. She’s A.C.E.S’s baby for sure. She’s got the U1 turret system. That turret ring is as good as toast if you guys can land some blows on her.”

“Alright,” came the reply, “Let’s take it to her.”

Commander Douglas hung up the radio as the Rebel roared towards the Tank. Lugged out from the backseat was the veteran’s rifle of choice, his trusty Garand.

“Patton’s best,” he chuckled to himself, “Now give me yours.”

The gun was loaded in the blink of an eye, in no time, the M.A.D. Dog had swung himself out the passenger side window and joined in his soldiers’ firefight.

The scene within the steeled warrior was about as surreal as that of Nic’s war room. Evelyn had crawled into the back, behind the ammo racks, and was firing both of her Berettas out her driver’s side window. Gibson kept one hand on the wheel, the other on one of his Colt Peacemakers, the Rebel left on the redline. All three of the lovers’ barrels were now aimed squarely at the turret ring of the Tank, and with the Commander involved now, their firepower had grown exponentially.

The desert plain they fought on was riddled with craters, the points of impact made by the tremendous shells dispensed by the Tank. Their leviathan opponent, still stewed in her misty aura, had taken on the character of a canon. The towering, titanium-plated behemoth lobbed each round with increasing precision.

It took a lot of stiff-arming to keep the Rebel from meeting an explosive end, but Gibson was proving rather adept at the age-old tactic of bobbing and weaving. Doing it all with his foot welded to the floor proved something of a challenge, but one the tan wolf was comporting himself admirably to. Gibson took to using the larger of the blows to launch the car off of, the carguns line of fire rising with each impromptu ramp. As the muscle car bounded over the sand, Commander Douglas would make a daring suggestion.

“Get me good and close Pal,” the Commander ordered, “I’m talking under the gun. We’ve worked the ring over good. All she needs is that itty-bitty little push.”

Gibson’s eyes shot wide open, but returned to his composed glower. He wanted to engage, so he was going to engage. All or nothing. He just had one question.

“You think we’re good to take swipes at her, Teddy?”

“Baby,” she said, coming back in for a moment, “He’s just like me. You knock him down, he comes back for seconds.”

Gibson smirked.

“Raised him good.”

The reassurance was all he needed to take the hot rod all the way. As the trio drew near to the Tank, the scale of their adversary came into focus. It was tantamount to charging on a skyscraper. With each mile, each yard, she grew and grew. There wasn’t time for awe or fear, however, for the Tank had begun its own advance. Her tracks dug their impressive ruts with every turn of each wheel. With their trajectories colliding, it was up to Gibson to stave off impact. The tan soldier spoke a soft prayer, and with a swift kiss of his cross, he swung the car into the path of the Beast.

“Sic ‘er” he shouted.

The Commander fired with everything the rifle had in its laser cartridge. Streaks of flaming hot blue flew from the barrel, cutting away, deeper and deeper into the turret. The Rebel made pass after pass, working the wire act of maintaining range for the Commander and evading a grisly demise under the great war machine’s weight.

Suddenly, with sudden zap and a crack, the Tank had begun to unravel before the soldiers.

“Take us out Gibson,” cried the Commander, “Last thing I need is the shrapnel cutting us down.”

The tan wolf complied without hesitation. He withdrew the carguns, and once secured, leaned on the Rebel something fierce. In his haste, the thought of being fired on slipped his mind.

It hadn’t slipped M.A.D. Dog’s however.

With his final shot, he saw a wealth of sparks explode from beneath the turret, his momentary joy shattered by the last shell rocketing from the barrel of the Tank. As the flames grew about the ghostly menace, the Commander swung back inside the car.

“EVERYONE IN!”

Both soldiers heeded the command. Evelyn clambered back between the men and all three buckled up, bracing themselves. Gibson gunned the Rebel and swerved about, doing his best to evade the oncoming shell.

The last of the Tank’s ammunition went off just under the trunk.

The Rebel was sent spinning in the air. The hot rod tumbled across the desert, rolling over and over, metal slamming against the rocks and stones. The glass cracked, the steeled warrior groaning in its throes. As the momentum dwindled, it was anyone’s guess which way the car would land.

Driver’s Side. Top. Passenger’s. Bottom. Driver’s. Top. Passenger’s. Bottom. Driver’s...Top...Passenger’s...

Bottom.

With a final groan, the Rebel came back down on all fours. Ride and riders, shaken as they were, emerged battered, bloodied, but unbeaten. Gibson and Evelyn embraced, holding one another as close as they possibly could, the adrenaline coursing through them giving way to a passionate display of affection. Commander Douglas ran his fingers through his fur, his pads gracing small spots of blood on his head and arms. He wiped his hands clean and straightened his jacket, as if nothing had happened.

They were all just in time to see, through the cracked display of the rearview mirrors, the Tank erupt into arcs of bright electric streaks and dark blue flames. The destruction eventually gave way to a warmly-colored bonfire, the industrial shriek of A.C.E.S’s creation echoing across the land. The Commander, with a crack of his neck, casually picked up the radio.

“GW to HQ, come in.”

For a moment, there was only silence. The soldiers looked to one another, worried. Then, the reassuring tones of the operator rang out.

“HQ to GW, reading you loud and clear.”

A sigh of relief came from all three within the ride.

“Threat’s neutralized. We’re about halfway there ourselves. Ride 17.32’s still rolling under his own power though. Make sure Sickbay’s clear to see us three, get the boys in the shop ready to see 17.32, and send Salvage out here, on the double. Sending coordinates...now.”

“And that’s about the long and short of the retractable tracks. Impressive engineering for sure, but in the end, I think we’re seeing what desperation looks like in an automated system like A.C.E.S.”

The deep ebony tones of Chief Ridgefield had been rattling off the incalculable details of the veiled assailant for the past hour. It was the first time the Force’s engineering guru had been seen with a shirt under his vest in what seemed like an eon. The many captains and commanders of the Infantry were in attendance in General Knox’s meeting room, all listening with tremendous intent.

Seated next to the General were the intrepid research team. Gibson, Evelyn, and Commander Douglas all sat in stoic composure, discreetly bandaged up, and clad in their best denim and leather.

General Knox rose and stood alongside Chief Ridgefield.

“So it seems, in the heat of entropy,” the General began, “She’s taken to experimentation. Luckily, this prototype, for all its psychological and industrious qualities, was surmountable. The next may not be so. We’ve always had a give-and-take with her, all the way back to General Godred’s days. I’ve had the fortune, whether it was good or bad is still up for debate, to have seen her deploy these powerful forces from both sides of this war.

“We now know that A.C.E.S. is using everything within her resources to forge these stealth-oriented monstrosities, and we’ve got to double down. I’m not just talking about improved armaments or body modifications. We need bigger, stronger war machines. I’d be lying if I said there was a chance in Heaven or Hell of us besting her on the scale she’s set, but we must have something that can amplify our firepower. There is, of course, the sign of hope that it only took a quick morning siege and three of our finest to...exorcize our specter.”

Knox gave a gentle nod in the direction of the laid-up troupe, who bowed in turn to a round of gentlemanly applause from the top brass.

“I’ve spoken about this with Nic at length,” the General continued, “And I believe it is time to make an announcement about something we’ve been planning for a while now. Leslie and Joan, if you please.”

Two of Ridgefield’s techs, a red wolf and a black, carried in a large, cloaked canvas. Knox shook hands with the young assistants before inviting Ridgefield to do the honors. The tall dark officer gracefully drew the cloak, and revealed a most astonishing sight. Knox, arms folded, smiled approvingly as the jaws of the Resistance’s officers plummeted to the floor.

“Ladies and Gentleman, I give you the next member of our fleet. Bound not by two wheels or four, but by two engines, and two wings. She’s an A-37 Dragonfly, light attack by design, but being modified for today’s stopping power and technology. Project’s code name? Operation: Bomber. If A.C.E.S. can hover, we shall soar.”

“Keep ‘em busy Boys, I’m gonna get a lock!”

The soldiers of the Moto Corp thundered along on their iron steeds, kicking up the desert’s dust into a tremendous storm cloud. The urgent command belonged to the soldier Gibson, his words cutting through the battlefield with the a firm, curt authority of a veteran. In the heat of battle, no title to his name, the tan wolf had an uncanny knack for leading, such a knack coming in handy when the automated forces of Haven were bearing down on his men.

The group in Gibson’s vicinity heeded the commands with utmost intent. Barrels held aloft, secure on the handlebars of their motorbikes, they rained all they had on the mechanical monolith. The U1 stood a behemoth among hover tanks, a brutalist brick that lobbed round after round of titanic stopping power. Though some crushing blows were dealt by the squadron’s hailstorm of electric lead, the automated tank remained relatively undeterred.

With his bike Exciter up revved up to a full roar, Gibson had veered away from the pack of soldiers. His well-worn black leather jacket, jeans, and brown harness boots kept him from ripping apart as he and his darksome Black Shadow rocketed away, whipping up a miniature dust devil in their wake.

The wind battered both rider and ride as Gibson surveyed the tank’s side. From behind the silver Aviators upon his snout, dark brown eyes scanned the mobile wall of synthetic steel. In no time at all, he spotted the chink in the armor he was after. It was small, but distinguishable; a sliver in the fortified turret ring. His leather bedecked digits gripped the twin Colt Peacemakers fastened to the motorbike’s bars.

“I’m fighting for you Baby,” he soothed to his ride, “Do the same for me, alright?”

Her only reply was the scream of her engine, both cylinders thundering away as they charged forward. Gibson smirked as he readied his aim. All he needed was that one...good...

BANG!

A laser blindsided him. His jacket was singed, but he was no worse for wear. Graced but shaken, he fought for his bike’s stability, leaning into the line of fire just enough to steady her. She rode out the evasion and was back on course, ready and rock-solid. Gibson snapped out of the shock to quell the shivering of his hands. The nails of his fingertips leapt out as the adrenaline coursed through him.

“Hold it together Exciter,” he encouraged, “We ain’t licked just yet.”

His fingers back on the triggers, he aimed and squeezed off every round the electrolaser cartridges had in them. Red-hot lines of light flew through the air, sliding into the narrow space in the automated tank’s build. He whittled away at the spot, the sliver growing into a slot, the slot growing into a hole. To him, there was nothing left on the battlefield. No soldiers, no rides, no enemies. Just that single spot. A spot that was cut deeper and deeper into, until a final blow sent the turret sputtering and bursting into flames!

The monstrous war machine groaned and buzzed as its top tumbled to the ground. It rolled right over the flaming debris, setting off a chain reaction throughout its guts, ending in an eruption of cool blue flames. The last standing tendril of Haven’s distant dictator melted into molten scrap before the Force’s eyes. The last one on the field at least.

The mercifully few dead were being scraped up off the battlefield as the salvage team sifted through the enemy’s remains with their customary diligence. As the post-battle procedures were carried out, the commanders and captains rallied their sharp-clawed compatriots and headed back to HQ. Hundreds of souped-up rods and chopped hogs thundered off home, their weary but spirited riders as battered and beaten as they were, but all victorious at the end.

Gibson had stopped to watch calamity befall his towering prey. Even with the others rolling past him, he couldn’t stop gazing upon what was left of the goliath. He unzipped his jacket and drew from beneath his shirt a cross, hung upon a plain silver chain. He kissed the cross as he nodded solemnly in silent prayer. After his moment of peace, he replaced the cross, zipped up the jacket, and holstered his .45s before barreling off alongside the others.

Waiting for everyone outside the Base was the big man himself, General Adam Knox, sitting on the hood of his world-weary dark green Barracuda. The elder gray stood guard over the old school which housed his forces. He was decorated in his usual; only the finest tan work boots, blue jeans, and white T-shirts the Base could find. With his mechanical arm resting on his lap, he greeted each soldier home with a solemn nod. Each soldier gave a salute in kind. Each soldier, safe for Gibson.

He and Knox gave each other something that resembled less a nod and more a bow, that of a pupil to his sensei. It was a brief gesture, one of utmost respect, and one shared mutually in a way few of the others did.

After a quick trip to Sickbay, Gibson was on the mend. It didn’t feel too bad at first, but the moment the nurse brought out the hydrogen peroxide, the nature of the wound hit him like a Howitzer. The jacket had absorbed enough of the blow to save him the worst of it, but enough force left to sock him one in the triceps. A round of bandaging later, and that was that. He rested up in his quarters for the remainder of the day, finding a surprising amount of comfort in the stiff military rack. It was later that evening that he was to be treated to a somewhat unconventional rest cure.

By most others’ standards, that is.

“Ride 17.32, Please,” intoned the kind, husky voice of Auto Corp soldier Evelyn Blanc.

From the red bandanna wrapped around the top of her head to the work boots she kicked around in, anyone would’ve suspected her as one of the boys. The main giveaway being her cropped top, one that highlighted her more buxom qualities.

“Taking the Man for a ride, eh Teddy,” teased the Garage clerk.

“He needs to take a load off,” the brown wolf replied, “Shoulda seen the gash, Man. Was like someone slammed a Louisville slugger into ‘im.”

“So you’re gonna shake the load off him with your world-class driving,” the clerk egged on, “Is that it?”

“You sonofabitch,” she scowled. Just as she wound back her gauze-wrapped fist, a tan hand couched in a black fingerless glove grabbed her arm.

“Easy Tiger,” Gibson soothed.

For a moment, she tried to keep the momentum going, but Gibson’s nails sunk in just enough to convince her to drop it. She yanked herself free, swiped the keys, and marched away in a huff. Gibson watched her leave before giving a wry salute to the visibly relieved desk clerk. All it took was a quick jog for him to catch up.

“Of all the hot-heads on the Force, I picked the hottest,” he ribbed, “I know you can fight, but wait for the tournament coming up in a few weeks. You look good in that Old Glory getup anyways.”

At first, all he got was a cold shoulder, but the moment he slipped his jacket onto her, the ice had melted. They made their way to her beast of choice, a black-and-bronze Rebel Machine. She slid behind the driver’s seat, while he hopped in shotgun-side. Once inside, she broke her silence.

“You doing okay?” Evelyn smiled as she turned the key.

“Yeah, could’ve been worse,” Gibson replied. “Nothing the boys could’ve helped. If that tank is what circling the drain looks like...well that’s a hell of a slump.”

“Maybe it’s just putting all that processing power into fortifying her machines,” Evelyn pondered. “I mean A.C.E.S. is dying, but she’s not stupid.”

“It’s possible,” came the reply, “Guess we’ll have to wait for Agent Steele and Lita to spill those beans. But hey, enough of that. Open him up for me, alright?”

Evelyn grinned as she coaxed a few warm revs from her ride. She threw him into gear, and the muscle car roared out into the garage and up the exit ramp to the desert beyond.

It was the simple thrill of it that soothed his nerves. Gibson was a two-wheeled man, but having a gal on four meant the kind of R&R only a V8 and a firmly planted boot on the floor could provide. The attendant wasn’t far off about Blanc’s ways of easing her man’s mind and body. She would cut the wheel and drift a little, thundering off into the horizon before whipping around and drawing a few donuts in the desert sand. She’d burn out into a plume of pure white smoke.

She was rough behind the wheel, sure, but it didn’t matter to her. She knew three things every time she stretched her Rebel’s wheels: the hot rod could handle it, her man would love it, and she couldn’t get enough of it. It was in these moments that Evelyn and Gibson talked of the little things; old friends, good music, and the silly little ideas that pop into your mind at the most inconvenient of times, like on the battlefield. After a while, Evelyn hit the brakes, bringing her four-eyed ride to a grinding halt.

That was Gibson’s cue.

She killed the engine and turned to him. He met her halfway with a kiss that could stop time. With one gloved hand held behind her back, he worked the other up her stomach, the shades of fur striking in their combination, and the warmth of the pads on his digits sending chills up her spine. The gracing of his nails across her was just his charming way of spicing things up. He caressed her with every ounce of passion within him, returning the affection. If only it could have lasted a while longer.

From out of the dark, a body fell onto the hood of the car.

Both lovers’ ears perked up, their eyes shooting open. Evelyn reflexively dropped her boot on the throttle. Gibson could sense her going for the ignition.

“Easy Teddy,” he hushed, caressing her face, “Let’s check on him before we do anything crazy now.”

She sighed and nodded. They bolted out to aid the wolf that lay before them. Gibson turned him over and propped him up; he was a gray, no older than 19, with shredded clothes and bloodied nails. Evelyn held his head up.

“What happened, Son?” she asked softly.

“A-a-a-a-a” stammered the gray. He dropped off in his delirium, but Gibson and Evelyn patted him back to the world of the living.

“A-what my boy?” Gibson encouraged.

“A-a...androids,” came the answer, “R-r-r-r...aid. My-my village. They won’t stop. They k-k-keep killing and killing and killing and KI—”

The young man never finished his sentence.

Evelyn checked for a pulse on his wrist; nothing.

Gibson went to check his heartbeat; nothing.

They hung their heads, the winds of the Wastelands wailing in the distance.

“Intercom working in the Rebel?” Gibson asked.

“Yes.”

“We’ll rest him on the back seat, behind the ammo racks.” he continued. “I’ll radio for backup. If he’s right, and I don’t have a damn reason to believe he ain’t, we’ve got a fight to take to those metallic bastards.”

Evelyn could only nod. They walked the body to the Rebel, gently setting the gray in the back. Once settled, the duo flew into the front. Evelyn turned the engine over as Gibson radioed into HQ.

“This is GW to HQ, over.”

“Coming in clear GW, what’s eating you?”

“My gal and I found a young man from a village. He passed away. They’ve got androids and it sounds like they got ‘em bad. He came by foot, so my money’s on the Saffton settlement. Requesting reinforcements. We’re coming back to base to drop off the body. I’ll organize the band from the—”

“—Hang on Gibson—”

“—Teddy, what the—”

“—Look damn you!”

Gibson looked up to see a most startling sight.

“Well I’ll be...”

The wolven figure was jet-black, chromium highlights across its chest and shoulders, all with an athletic body shape. In lieu of eyes, a blood-red visor sat above the snout. In lieu of a hand; a gun barrel.

Pointed squarely at the Rebel.

“Gun ‘im,” came his curt command.

“Gladly.”

In a split second, Evelyn flicked open the top of the gear lever and tapped the button held within. Outside the car, two guns emerged from beneath the chassis. Within it, underneath the accelerator, a small patch of the footwell slid up to reveal a big red button. She threw the car into high gear and slammed on the gas.

Electric bullets poured from the barrels as the Rebel Machine flew forward. She steered the car away and around the mountainous android, ensuring its legs got every ounce of lead she could give them. The menace fired on the hot rod in kind. It wailed away at the Rebel’s tires, but the run-flats all of the Force’s four-wheeled fighters were equipped with kept him rolling towards the Black Android. Bit by bit, the legs of the lumbering robot were whittled away. Evelyn, seeing her chance, whipped the car around and slammed the side of the trunk into the bot. That finished the job. The torso rolled over the trunk and onto the other side as the legs fell back.

By this point, Gibson had already loaded one of Evelyn’s Berettas, having pulled it out from the gun rack by the gear lever. Holding it by its cobra-inscribed grips, he unloaded round after round of laser fire into the head, right through the visor. He pulled his own back into the car in the nick of time. The android’s head erupted beneath them, rocketing a disgusting gray gak outward in every direction.

Evelyn pressed the gearshift button again, retracting the guns and sealing the floor trigger. Before taking off, she pulled up to the dismembered legs. Without missing a beat, she pulled out a match from Gibson’s jacket, struck it with her nail, and dropped it on the android’s remains. They were in flames in seconds.

She whipped the Rebel into gear and barreled on back to Base, crushing the head under her wheels. Normally she’d relish it all with a grin, but all her mind could think about was the young man in the back seat.

“That one was for you Kid,” she sighed.

Gibson nodded in quiet agreement. The score was one down, God knows how many to go.

Knox authorized a small team to go out with Gibson, though his lover wouldn’t be joining him. Evelyn stayed behind to get her car back to full working order. Damage was damage, no matter how insignificant to function it ultimately was. Instead, Gibson would have the honor of riding with a kingpin of these kinds of missions: Captain Tomás Herrera.

“Grim,” as he was called, was the kind of fellow you wouldn’t want to get in a fight with. The kind of fellow who could push anybody’s shit in with the swift breeze of his fist and could dual-wield M82s like they were pocket peashooters. Rumor has it his bones were fashioned in .50 cal and his muscles are forged of pure lead. His Western wear, from his black hat to his steel-capped cowboy boots, decorated with silver Concho ornaments all over, had sealed the deal on his macabre nickname. It was a name that stood as much for his pitch black fur and appearance as it did for his average body count.

The Captain rolled over in his jacked-up SUV, a roofless dark blue International Harvester Scout, and tipped his hat to Gibson.

“Get in Chico,” he intoned with his soft, low growl, his Latin heritage tucked somewhere in the depths of his voice. Gibson complied without hesitation.

“Saffton you say?” he probed.

“Yes Captain,” Gibson replied.

“What’s the plan?”

“Take a stealth approach,” the tan soldier began, “Limit civilian casualties and snuff them out from the shadows.”

“What if there are too many?”

“We call for backup and fight ‘em however we can.”

“What if there’s nothing left to save?”

“Then we kill every last one of the rat bastards.”

Grim smiled.

“Stay tough Soldado,” he said, turning his attention to the rest of the soldiers, “Company, roll out. We halt about a mile outside of Saffton Town.”

“Sir Yes Sir,” came the chorus of replies.

And just like that, the small band rolled off.

The iron-clad caravan soldiered along the dusty roads towards the village, the stars placid in the night sky above. A cool haunting breeze lingered about the unit as they rolled on. The team was composed exclusively of Auto Corp members. Not that it mattered to Gibson, but more that it mattered to the pride of the Corp that they were now at the beck-and-call of a member of the much younger Moto Corp. Fortunately for him, the Captain was above the clannish bull. He could sense Gibson was a capable sort, and he would merely give him the legitimacy needed to keep the others in line.

“Ain’t no jeers tonight Soldado,” Grim soothed, “They know their place.”

Gibson nodded gently as he surveyed the map of the town. Even without a fleck of it on his face, Grim could sense the young man’s stress.

“Here,” he smiled, digging into his trench coat’s pockets, “Smooth it over with this.”

He handed Gibson a flask of the good Captain’s drink of choice; Brandy de Jerez. The real McCoy too.

The tan soldier knocked a shot back in seconds, as did the Captain in kind.

“Let’s pick the pace up, shall we?”

Gibson nods as Grim pats his Scout’s steering wheel. He leaned on his beast’s throttle, the SUV thundering off and away, resetting the pace of the march towards Saffton.

With the charge forward renewed, it wasn’t long before the pint-sized settlement was within sight. The flames of some of the buildings could be seen from miles away. Worse still, there was a mass of black in the town’s center, firing out at whatever moved. When the group came to a stop, Grim turned to Gibson.

“Talk to me Soldado,” he started, “We got a collective of ‘droids keeping tabs on every point of entry. You think stealth is still an option?”

Gibson pondered, looking at the town lit only by fire’s glare and sharp rays of green light cutting through the streets like daggers.

“We know they aren’t impervious to bullets, it just takes a lot to knock ‘em down.”

“And I don’t think Teddy’s way of doing things will fly with that thick of a crowd.”

“You sure got that right Cap,” he quipped.

Gibson returned to his thoughts. The battle from earlier in the day drifted across his mind. He recalled his securing of the weak spot of the tank, and his breaking away from the soldiers to secure it.

“There is one way,” Gibson proposed, “Their weak spot is the visor, but it takes a lot to cut through it. Teddy rocks her electrolaser in 9mm Luger and I had to pump the cat full until he gave in. I know you got yours in .50 cal. How many of the other guys here have ‘em chambered big like that?”

Grim chuckled a little.

“Just ‘cause you’re playing with the big boys doesn’t mean we all play with that sort of firepower—”

“—I know,” Gibson cutoff, “Just tell me.”

“You’ve got me with the Barretts, Johnny Metcalfe with the Dragunov, and everyone’s carguns rocking .30-06.”

“Then here’s what we do,” Gibson started, “Put four rides in park at the ends of the four streets and get them to unload. We get you and Johnny up on the rooftop. You guys go for the visors and they get the legs. That’ll shred ‘em fast.”

“What about friendly fire,” Grim pressed.

“Angle them so they are not shooting directly across. The guy’s that’ll have to come through the center of town will have to worry about that the most, but the two side streets are naturally angled.”

Grim paused and thought about it. After a moment, he gave a nod of approval and went for his intercom.

“Here’s how we’re doing it.”

In a matter of moments, everything had been set in motion. The four rides cordoned off each street, and unleashed everything in their racks. Jonathan Metcalfe, a sharp-eyed Arctic, sidled up alongside the Harvester, his rifle riding shotgun in the rack of his dark red Camaro. Both rides slipped behind a tall building, a small apartment complex with a rusted ladder dangling off of it. As the firefight dragged on, Johnny made his ascent, gun slung on his back. Grim followed suit shortly.

“Cover us with the other rifle,” he whispered to Gibson.

The tan wolf sat startled at the prospect, and Grim could sense this.

“Hey, recoil isn’t that much of a bitch. Worse that happens is your pecs hurt in the morning,” he dryly remarked, “Have Teddy kiss ‘em better when we get back.”

With that, Grim clambered up the ladder, and Gibson bellied up and loaded the gun. He stood by and awaited the outcome, whatever it may be.

Up on the rooftop, Grim and Johnny picked their spots.

“Just you and me again, old sport,” the white wolf teased.

“Sí, señor,” Grim gibed, “Perdón. Sí, señora.”

“You’re lucky we’ve got bigger fish to fry,” he chuckled.

They proceeded to rain every ounce of electrified hellfire in their chambers down into the visors. Johnny was getting them in two shots, but all it took was one round from Grim for the gray blood to flow freely from their heads.

“Guess I am,” Grim winked.

Civilians were able to flee freely as the synthetic brutes fell to the awesome firepower unleashed upon them. The soldiers on backup had formed a wall to give the villagers cover from any potential escapees. As they filed out, one man didn’t seem all there. He was a brown wolf, plain-clothed as they all were, but as he made his way forward, he began to twitch. His head twisted and contorted. It came with an uncanniness that sent a chill down Gibson’s spine. A chill amplified by the man’s next motion: his eyes locked onto the tan soldier.

It raised its hand. A pistol held in its grips.

The mechanized man trembled, a hesitation in his gesture. At once, two souls locked in a brawl for control of the body, the private war made manifest by the unruly convulsions.

For the love of God man, fight it, Gibson pleaded from within.

The arm lowered; it seemed the better half was coming through...only for a stray bullet put a stop to this progress.

In a split second, the mechanized man snapped around into the direction of the wall of soldiers. Gibson sensed precisely what was going to happen, and squeezed off a round.

The last thing it saw was a sharp streak of red.

Gibson breathed a grave sigh of relief as a call was heard from the rooftops.

“The whole group is wasted,” Johnny exclaimed, “But it’s...it’s...amalgamating or some shit. Never seen anything like it!”

Gibson was at first puzzled, but then he realized what was going on.

“Ah shit,” he started to himself before shouting aloud, “That’s the nanotech kicking in!”

He gunned it for the Harvester’s intercom.

“Soldiers in the town square, cease fire immediately! We’ve got to burn the other detached elements. We got to get them at both ends.”

In an instant, the guns stopped. Gibson leapt out of the Harvester and booked it for the center of the town. Scurrying across the dry grass, he picked up a stick of wood on his way. He was going to need a bigger torch than what his own matches could provide. Leaping over the sputtering corpse of the cyborg, he struck a light and dropped it off to finish his deed. Once he was sure the cybernetic pyre had taken hold on the plank, he bounded into one of the alleyways.

He darted past one of the soldiers, the gray Laura in her black pickup truck, and rounded a corner towards one of the flaming buildings. Before he even had a chance to look, debris came careening down from atop the building. The flaming side panels made their turbulent descent, gaining speed with each floor they passed, Gibson oblivious as he was midway pivoting towards the melding mound of androids.

In an instant, Laura sprung into action and punched it, burying the throttle in the floor. Her truck roared towards him, and with mere moments to spare, punted the young soldier with her bull bar, catching the debris on her hood. Once she caught it, the gray soldier gunned the truck in reverse, sending the flaming wood onto the ground.

Gibson, stunned but wired, leapt back up. The realization hit him harder than her truck. With a quick exchange of salutes, he hurried towards the fusional bonfire.

With a pair of legs yet to be absorbed in his sights, he lobbed the stick at them. Quick as a flash the fire spread, severing all possible bonds. A shrill cry of technological anguish grew as the flames continued to cut off more and more avenues of regeneration. The sound was tantamount to a transformer going off. In a bright, blinding light, the monstrous hive of machines finally gave in to total destruction.

Gibson made it back to Laura, ducking into the bed of the pickup. He whooped with glee as the mound began to crumble and implode. Suddenly, a knock on the rear window came before a piece of it slid open.

“Hun, you wanna say somethin’ on the radio,” she asked with her innocent Southern drawl.

“Sure,” Gibson replied in kind, clasping it, “Everyone: the threat’s been neutralized. We’ll have to wait for it to burn down completely. In the meantime, I’m going to radio in for some assistance with supplying water to help minimize the fire’s spread and see if we can salvage some of these buildings.”

Gibson had Laura tune the device to HQ’s frequency. While the Force’s fire tenders would be there as quickly as they could, every minute was counting and for the first time since they had taken on the mission, all they could do was watch. Watch with bated breath, watch in both joy and fear, as the minutes and hours ticked by. At least one of the buildings had collapsed by the time the Force could join the band of soldiers. Gibson had everyone clear the way for their assistance, worried that one building may fall onto any of their men or women in the town.

By the grace of God, that apartment was the only one truly lost. In time, the Force’s firefighters were on the scene and saving what they could.

To Gibson’s surprise, General Knox had joined them and aided in quelling the remaining flames himself. As the operation wound down, he pulled Gibson aside.

“Anything we can do for ‘em now,” the tan soldier started in.

“I’m pulling some strings with some other settlements,” Knox replied with his smooth rasp, “We can at least give them a different place. If not for now, then hopefully permanent.”

“How about the dead?”

“I already called Eric, he’s willing to preside and carry out the preparations.”

With a solemn nod, the General put his cybernetic hand on Gibson's shoulder, patting it gently. The younger wolf bowed his head.

“Guess that wraps it up.”

“Not quite.” Knox remarked. “Nic wishes you could have saved a scrap for him to study though. I did too, but I think the pair of us understand that this was something...frankly extraordinary. A.C.E.S. must be up to something if she’s running mad dogs like these on innocents this far out. All the same, some of the fire crew are going to set about procuring something worth analysis.”

Gibson had no response, just another quiet bow of his head. Captain Herrera silently strolled up alongside the pair.

“Ah, evening Grim,” the General smiled, “Capital work here.”

“Thank you Chief,” the Captain said, tipping his hat, “And Gibson?”

The soldier turned to the towering officer.

“Good work Señor.”

Gibson simply grinned and shook on the compliment.

“Swing by my quarters if you need a stiff drink.” And with that, the Captain walked off, leaving Gibson starstruck.

“Well. You must’ve gotten in well with him,” Knox teased.

Gibson just shrugged his shoulders and chuckled. He and Knox made their way back over to the last of the operation’s tasks in town.

The soldier got one last good look at the mangled mound of android parts, heads and limbs melded into one another. The metal shells had solidified into porous piles, creating some haunting expressions in the process. For all their lack of emotion, lack of anything resembling life beyond form, their last testament was a twisted sea of contorted, anguished faces. Agents of horror, their final form a horror onto itself. Gibson stared into the remains and drew his cross. With a kiss and a quiet prayer, he had now completed his work here. But he couldn’t help but feel that this wouldn’t be the last of these things. Not at all. But that was for another day, and another fight.”