“We will camp at the base of the mountains. He said no one is there. That will be his first test.”
I raise my hand like I’m in the third grade.
“Excuse me. What if I’m not in the mood to get tested?”
I prop the rifle on my hip, but Traven calls out, “Pitts. Calm down. It’s going to be all right.”
“Is it?” I say to the Magistrate.
He opens his hands.
“I cannot guarantee that. But consider this: Father Traven has vouched for you. That means he, too, will be judged. If you are not a reasonable man, if you are a stupid man, he will die with you.”
Slowly, I let the barrel of the rifle drop so it’s pointing at the ground.
The fucker called my bluff. He points to the half-burned pickup truck.
“Can you drive that vehicle?” says the Magistrate.
“I usually steal better, but yeah.”
“Then ride with us when we make camp tonight. If you try to leave the havoc or attack anyone else, I will personally kill the good father. Understand?”
“Yes.”
Daja looks around at where her dead friends used to be. “And what about the two, now three, dead?”
“We will have a memorial service tonight,” the Magistrate says.
He calls to a patched-together ambulance.
“Mimir, come and ride with me. I will need an oracle tonight.”
A woman in a ratty fur coat, with some kind of plastic mask over the lower part of her face to filter out the dust, steps from the ambulance and goes to the Magistrate’s Charger. Without another word, he points to the mountains and the vehicles rumble to life.
I walk to the charred pickup truck as Traven rides his hellhound up beside me. Dressed in boots and a ragged leather duster, he gives me that sad smile of his and I shake my head at him.
“It’s good to see you, ZaSu,” he says.
“You’ve got some explaining to do,” I tell him.
“So do you.”
I start the truck.
“Do those bastards have anything to drink?”
“Of course.”
“And food?”
He nods.
“Good. At least I’ll get a last meal.”
He takes off the rag that was covering his face and wipes the blood from some of my worst wounds.
“Don’t talk like that,” he says. “It’s going to be fine.”