sword-waving fanatics whose lunacy was so directionless that they would eventually become outraged with even their own kind, falling upon, cannibalizing, and ultimately destroying themselves. But that should only happen once they had achieved their goal of wiping all infidels off the map.
Unless the bombers weren’t Muslims , spoke an insistent voice in my head. Unless they were . . . Followers.
An accident report chittered off the Teletype machine. Garvey tore off the printout.
“Traffic wreck outside of town. A semi full of animals pegged for the shrines run off the road. Says here the driver was murdered.”
“Rank-and-file can handle it.” Hollis said. “It’s a hijacking gone awry.”
“Sacrificial animals?” I said. “It’s an odd shipment to hijack.”
Hollis looked flummoxed before easing into a grin. “Acolyte Murtag, so nice to see your investigational wheels spinning again. And while I believe they’re spinning in mud with this one, you and Garvey go check it out.”
Hollis then turned his attention to the remaining Acolytes.
“Applewhite, you and Doe head to Little Baghdad; canvas the neighbourhood, find out if anyone saw or heard anything to give pause. Everyone else fan out and bring back leads we can work with. Dismissed.”
Garvey signed out a prowl car from the auto pool. We headed south. Garvey drove. He shot me a distracted glance, drumming his fingers on the wheel.
“You should have kept your mouth shut. You don’t dictate what assignments we pick up anymore. Now we’re driving all over hell’s half acre chasing this wild hair. It’s a waste of time and gets us no closer to Eve’s killers.”
The streets were all but deserted. We passed a billboard for Sinless Sheen shampoo. Tagline: Lather, Rinse, Repent.
Garvey stopped in at a Puritan’s Pantry. Returning to the cruiser, he tossed me a bottle of water and a packet of Hallelujah Energy Boost powder.
“Mix that up for me, will you?”
I eyeballed the ingredients: life-enriching flavonoids, age-defying spiritual compounds, vitamin V for Vitality, secret spices, guar gum, dye #29 for robust colouration .
Garvey cut down a side street, goosing the horn to scatter foot traffic, merging onto Falwell Memorial Boulevard. The on-ramp arched past St. Mark’s Cathedral, home of the Sacred Whores. Young women lounged in opulent glass-fronted picture boxes strung round the turreted church at eye level. Crimson spots backlit each box. Beautiful and untouchable: their availability was restricted to top-ranking officials; one-time use by Republic-affirmed servants was also permitted in recognition of exemplary public service.
Garvey slugged back his Hallelujah Energy Boost. “That’ll put lead in your pencil. As The Prophet says: healthiness is closer to Godliness.”
The odometer had clicked off 162 furlongs when we pulled up to a tractor trailer lying half-on, half-off an uninhabited rural route.
The rig’s rear wheels were mired in the soft muck of the ditch. The trailer portion had smashed through a barbed wire fence and lay overturned in a weedy field. Huge curls of vulcanized rubber lay across the tarmac.
A pair of legs jutted behind the left front tire.
“Highwaymen,” Garvey said, surveying the scene. “Ten to one.”
The Highway Patrol had been decommissioned years ago due to budget cuts. The “zone of guaranteed public safety” terminated at the city limits. Out here was the Badlands: so named not because of any geological traits or scarcity of vegetation, but because the people who roamed it lacked the correct faith.
Highwaymen—some heathens, some once-devoted Follow-ers who had forsaken the path—now patrolled these empty stretches of highway. Nomadic, they lived in tents or makeshift shanties or vacated farmhouses. They preyed on unescorted shipments cut off from the safety of a convoy. Truckers fought back by outfitting their rigs with self-sealing tires and bulletproof glass and by bolting cowcatchers
Unless the bombers weren’t Muslims , spoke an insistent voice in my head. Unless they were . . . Followers.
An accident report chittered off the Teletype machine. Garvey tore off the printout.
“Traffic wreck outside of town. A semi full of animals pegged for the shrines run off the road. Says here the driver was murdered.”
“Rank-and-file can handle it.” Hollis said. “It’s a hijacking gone awry.”
“Sacrificial animals?” I said. “It’s an odd shipment to hijack.”
Hollis looked flummoxed before easing into a grin. “Acolyte Murtag, so nice to see your investigational wheels spinning again. And while I believe they’re spinning in mud with this one, you and Garvey go check it out.”
Hollis then turned his attention to the remaining Acolytes.
“Applewhite, you and Doe head to Little Baghdad; canvas the neighbourhood, find out if anyone saw or heard anything to give pause. Everyone else fan out and bring back leads we can work with. Dismissed.”
Garvey signed out a prowl car from the auto pool. We headed south. Garvey drove. He shot me a distracted glance, drumming his fingers on the wheel.
“You should have kept your mouth shut. You don’t dictate what assignments we pick up anymore. Now we’re driving all over hell’s half acre chasing this wild hair. It’s a waste of time and gets us no closer to Eve’s killers.”
The streets were all but deserted. We passed a billboard for Sinless Sheen shampoo. Tagline: Lather, Rinse, Repent.
Garvey stopped in at a Puritan’s Pantry. Returning to the cruiser, he tossed me a bottle of water and a packet of Hallelujah Energy Boost powder.
“Mix that up for me, will you?”
I eyeballed the ingredients: life-enriching flavonoids, age-defying spiritual compounds, vitamin V for Vitality, secret spices, guar gum, dye #29 for robust colouration .
Garvey cut down a side street, goosing the horn to scatter foot traffic, merging onto Falwell Memorial Boulevard. The on-ramp arched past St. Mark’s Cathedral, home of the Sacred Whores. Young women lounged in opulent glass-fronted picture boxes strung round the turreted church at eye level. Crimson spots backlit each box. Beautiful and untouchable: their availability was restricted to top-ranking officials; one-time use by Republic-affirmed servants was also permitted in recognition of exemplary public service.
Garvey slugged back his Hallelujah Energy Boost. “That’ll put lead in your pencil. As The Prophet says: healthiness is closer to Godliness.”
The odometer had clicked off 162 furlongs when we pulled up to a tractor trailer lying half-on, half-off an uninhabited rural route.
The rig’s rear wheels were mired in the soft muck of the ditch. The trailer portion had smashed through a barbed wire fence and lay overturned in a weedy field. Huge curls of vulcanized rubber lay across the tarmac.
A pair of legs jutted behind the left front tire.
“Highwaymen,” Garvey said, surveying the scene. “Ten to one.”
The Highway Patrol had been decommissioned years ago due to budget cuts. The “zone of guaranteed public safety” terminated at the city limits. Out here was the Badlands: so named not because of any geological traits or scarcity of vegetation, but because the people who roamed it lacked the correct faith.
Highwaymen—some heathens, some once-devoted Follow-ers who had forsaken the path—now patrolled these empty stretches of highway. Nomadic, they lived in tents or makeshift shanties or vacated farmhouses. They preyed on unescorted shipments cut off from the safety of a convoy. Truckers fought back by outfitting their rigs with self-sealing tires and bulletproof glass and by bolting cowcatchers
Similar Books
