Right?
When we reach camp, the Magistrate shakes my hand.
“It was lovely chatting, Mr. Pitts. I hope we can do it again.”
I weigh the bullets in my hand. Someone must have told him about the Colt. That’s the only explanation. Or did I say something that gave me away? Am I that much of a rube?
When he lets go of my hand, I say, “Seeing as how we’re friends now, why don’t you go ahead and call me ZaSu?”
“I think I will stick to Mr. Pitts. It suits you more.”
I take a few bullets and start loading the Colt. The Magistrate heads back to his motor home. When I look up, I swear that every single person awake is looking at me. I guess not everyone gets face time with the messiah. I spin the cylinder on the pistol and snap it closed.
I didn’t want this high a profile, but at least now everyone knows I’m armed.
In the morning, we burn all the furniture and anything in town left standing. Burning ruins seems a little gratuitous even to me, but everyone seems to have a good time and the smoke gives us a good perspective when we hit the road. Unlike those days when it feels like we’re making no progress at all, watching the smoke recede behind us is nice. Proof we’re actually moving.
As always, the Magistrate is out front in his Charger. Daja darts in around traffic, staying up front with him, but sometimes veering off and exchanging hand signals with other vehicles, relaying orders from the big man.
I’m a few car lengths behind her dog pack. That is, until she falls back and cocks her head at me to follow her. I hit the gas and move up with the other bikes and muscle cars in a line behind the Magistrate. From what I can make out, there are eleven of them. Six women and five men. Am I supposed to be the new guy to bring the numbers even? There’s a good chance. A messiah needs twelve disciples.
Wanuri is up here. So is the earless, noseless, mutilated guy. I like that. If I’m part of the pack now, I won’t be the ugliest one.
I ride next to a young black kid whose dreads stand out straight behind him in the wind. His leathers are as road-rashed and worn as anyone’s, but he’s noticeable for one reason: he’s smiling. I guess damnation is working out for him. He’s handsome, like prom-king handsome. It’s unnerving in the middle of the havoc, where most of us look like we’ve been dragged behind a truck.
A few hours into the ride, Daja drops to the back of the havoc, then speeds up and exchanges signals with the Magistrate. A blue flare flies up from the Charger and the havoc begins to slow. When we’ve stopped, Daja does a one-eighty and peels out for the rear of the havoc. For everyone else, it’s a pit stop. We get off our bikes and stretch. Souls and Hellions climb from their cars and exchange beer and water, nursing their hangovers.
I go to Wanuri.
“What’s wrong?”
“It looks like something is up with one of the trucks. Probably snapped a chain.”
“One of the ones pulling the flatbed?”
“Yeah. It happens. Too often for my taste.”
“Old gear?”
“Maybe.”
I look at her.
“The Magistrate mentioned he has enemies. You think someone might be fucking with the equipment?”
“It’s one theory.”
“Any suspects?”
“A couple.”
I don’t need hoodoo to read her. She wasn’t trying to be subtle. Great. I’m already on the saboteur list. That’s probably why Daja wants to keep me close.
“You said it’s happened before.”
“It has,” says Wanuri.
“Then there’s no reason to blame, for instance, someone new. The fox is already in the henhouse.”