Cam zipped through the night, the cracked pavement of the crumbling highway illuminated by the motorcycle's headlights. He weaved past the yawning potholes and over the loose scree at speeds far greater than caution would suggest, but it was late, he still had much to do, and wanted to enter the city before dawn.
As he crested the ruins of an impressive, long ruined bridge the city suddenly rose out of the distance, darker shapes on the darker canvas of the sky. Above them glittered the thick band of stars his grandfather had told him was once named the Milky Way, and still was if it mattered. As the city rose into view, below and to the west stars of another kind blinked into view. A sprawling oil refinery lay below, it's dark, seething tangles of pipes and tanks punctuated by thousands of small bright lights. Cam had traveled far and wide, yet never seen anything to rival it. When he'd first come to Detroit as a younger man, he had stood on this very spot, marveling at the sight. It had seemed to him then, as it still did now, than man had somehow pulled down the stars and trapped them on the ground. The implications, now, were far different. Where once it had been an inspiration, proof that some of the greatness of mankind could be rekindled in the ruined world - now it only stood as a grim memorial as to why the world had been ruined in the first place.
The quiet hum of the bike slowed as he let off the accelerator. He killed the lights while sliding a pair of night vision lenses down over his eyes from the leather riding cap he wore. The nigh jolted quickly into the washed out green twilight, each light rimmed by muddy emerald halos. Taking the bridge was a calculated risk. It was old, and dangerous, poorly maintained even before The Ruin, and far too close to the refinery. The oil pirates ignored it, for the most part, since it was fair too frail to handle their tankers. He had considered flanking the city and entering through the north, but scavenging had been poor recently and he had not eaten in nearly a week. That route brought with it dangers of its own, a longer trek through the crumbled ruins of the denser suburbs where highwaymen might demand tolls he couldn't afford to pay. So he had conceded to his stomach and the south was the better path.
Cam wove through the outskirts of the city, dark towers full of shattered windows and broken roads. The smell of the refinery fading as he neared the city proper. There was little sign Detroit still lived, that it had more or less survived the bombs, the plagues, the war. It had though, just barely. Cam had to admit, in no small part to the oil pirates. Without them and the petrol they "scavenged" from the old gas stations and depots of the wastelands the city would have surely died slowly after the war, as all the other cities did.
Before the war the first oil pirates were just working stiffs with little clubs that played at being biker gangs on the weekends, but when the world went to shit, the playing stopped. Cam's great, great grandfather was from Detroit, an area called Dearborn. They had came to the continent as refugees at the beginning of The Last War, and settled in the area which was home to many outcasts from that part of the world. There was little left of it now to attest to their flight but broken buildings and the occasional sign with near faded script from some far part of the world. When his grandfather had been taken and he'd fled the grazing lands, he thought maybe some of his people had survived maintained a community here. His grandfather had never told him the truth, his ancestors had fled to the east, again, as refugees. Within days of the bombs falling Dearborn had been destroyed. The rest of the city had blamed them for The Ruin for some reason, and slaughtered them in the streets before they turned on each other before the great die off.
The city probably would have died then, as the "burbs", smaller cities flanking the city did if it hadn't been for The First Shabazz. He didn't know much about the first president of Detroit, not much that was true anyways. The myths that surrounded the man were almost impenetrable. Some said he was warned about The Ruin long before, by a lion spirit while visiting the far off continent of Africa where his people originated from. Others say he liberated Detroit before the war in single combat from President Cruz before the war. Whether most people believed that kind of stuff, or it just sounded cool, he wasn't sure - but his grandfather had made sure he knew enough about the world before to be skeptical about stories of heroes and magic. Regardless, somehow The First Shabazz and his panthers had been prepared. When the people of the burbs realized that the world had collapsed and began raiding and roving, they managed to defend and hold the city center. Without the oil pirates, though, and the uneasy alliance between them there would be no Detroit today. Not that there was all that much left.
Cam followed a turn in the highway, between an old parking garage and stadium. A giant hole in the side of the building had once lead to a skywalk between the two that had long since fallen onto the highway which the oil pirates had dragged away. Part of the constitution between the panthers and the pirates made the pirates responsible for keeping the roads clear and maintained during the winter when oil runs slowed. Removing the giant metal tube had been Cam's first job as a pirate. If he could have just spent his life fixing roads, he probably never would have left.
Cam took a hard right after the parking garage ended, now in the city proper but still on the outskirts of the populated areas. He pulled into the parking garage and wound his way to the second floor where he would hide the bike. He couldn't risk it being seen, Detroit was small enough that people talked and word traveled fast. The motorcycle was one of a kind, priceless and arguably stolen. Cam didn't expect to go unseen, but he was far less conspicuous and by the time word spread he was back, he'd already be gone.
The parking garage was full of scrap, the pirates had been using it as junk storage for repairs on this end of town since he'd been with them. Mostly barrels full of sand, broken concrete, tarps and other crap that wasn't valuable enough to guard. No one would be dumb enough to risk running afoul of them for some gravel. Cam found a spot in the back of the garage, between some large metal dumpsters full of broken asphalt and pulled a tarp over the bike covering it from sight after pulling a long cylindrical tube out of the saddle bags and slipping it into his rucksack. He tossed the bag over his right shoulder, opposite of his sword and set off into the still living parts of the city.
Over the years the city had shrunk in upon its self. The vibrant parts of the city were small, and sometimes scattered about. Harmonie Park was what The seventh Shabazz, unironically, called "The Theater District". Mostly it was just a central cluster of bars and taverns where people went to spend their salt getting drunk. There was an old opera house, but no one was even really sure what oprea was as far as he could tell. It was mostly used for public addresses and trials. Butting up to it to the east was Greektown, where the general store and other shops could be found. Towering above them was Panther Palace, in what had once been a large casino and hotel. The official seat of power of the city. North were the stadiums, oil pirate territory.
The old baseball stadium had been re-purposed as a kind of gladiatorial arena. Oil pirates would settle personal disputes there, fighting each other to the death cycle back and charging admission. Sometimes when things got slow they'd bring in wild bears, or lions. tigers to fight and other dangerous beasts which had been bred from the survivors of the zoo. Across the street was Ford Field, whose giant concrete shell served as a fortress for the pirates.
Crops were grown in abandoned lots scattered over the city, all the way out to the burbs, attended by families of farmers who occasionally gathered in small compounds or hamlets under the protection of the panthers. Occasionally they would decide that the world had grown safe enough, and they didn't need protection and refuse to pay their taxes or spend the winters in the salt mines. It never lasted long though, sooner or later prepper tribes from the north showed up, killed a few people and made off with far more than what would have been paid in taxes.
Cam would have preferred to have done this outside of the city, but he had no way of reaching Jasper without taking the risk. He could have went to a farm and trusted them to set something up on their next run into the city, but you never knew when a panther patrol would show up. Cam didn't have anything against the panthers in particular, they were what passed for civilization. However rough or ugly that may be, it was far better than The Ministry or what passed for lawmen in the settlements he'd stumbled across in his travels. They worked with the pirates though, and wouldn't hesitate to sell him out for whatever bounty he was sure Roger had placed on his head. It was better this way, a quick in and out.
It was still an hour or two before dawn, and the city showed little sign of waking. The night shift crews would still be awake, and Jasper had never been one for mornings. He'd always been a man of particularly intense habit, so Cam figured it was a safe bet he'd be at Mollies tossing around salt. Cam navigated the city, little signs of life here and there even in the city's slowest hours: a loft window with a light on, a figure shuffling along down the road in the distance. He made his way to the outskirts of Harmonie Park, the sound of muffled music leaking out into the cool spring air. As he rounded the corner to Mollies he saw several men in the park playing dominoes to a crank light while a dying bonfire burned in a pit in the center of the small city park. He nodded, casually, at their stares and pulled the hood of his leather coat over his cap, letting it hang nearly to his eyes.
Mollies River Tavern was well maintained. The roof didn't leak. It held in enough heat from the old woodfire stove used to cook the tavern's signature river trout even in the chilliest winters. The tables were all set with nice, clean prewar silverware and the bar was stocked with large jars of whiskey from farm stills across the city. They even had beer, in bottles, brewed by the old apothecary in Greektown. More than anything, pirates didn't like Mollies. Whether it was the smell of fried fish in tight space competing with their macho body odor competing for the attention of the noses around them or just the annoying singing fish Molly would go to any length to get batteries for the avoided the place. Except for Jasper.
The bar had a few regulars tucked into booths, drunk and nodded out. A few men sat at the bar. One on the far side from the door in black fatigues, right sleeve missing, showing a crude panther tattoo. The rest looked like salt miners or day laborers of some sort or another. The panther had a long rifle around his back, and a machette at his hip. The other men carried no visible weapons, but probably had folding knives tucked away in their pockets. Jasper wasn't there. Cam took a seat at the bar, around the bed of the bar so his back would be opposite the front door. He reached into his hip pouch and pulled out a small plastic vial filled with salt and set it in front of him, so the bar tender knew he wasn't just squatting out of the cold. A few minutes later, the woman, thick but not overfed with blond hair and a scar where her lip had been torn sauntered over.
"Hungry or thirsty darlin?", she asked. Her voice was ragged from smoking too much unfiltered tobacco. He didn't recognize here, which meant she probably didn't recognize him. She sat a small bronze scale down on the counter in front of him.
"Both. Just water though, and double it up", Cam said, tapping the vial on the counter.
"Ten grams", she said, "Eight for the fish, two for the water". She dropped a little bronze weight onto one side of the scale, and cam filled the other with salt until they evened out, and the vial was half empty. She swept the salt into a jar, about half filled and tucked it back behind the bar.
"Busy night?", cam asked, nodding at where she'd placed the jar.
"Why, you planning on robbing me?", she joked, with an edge of seriousness.
Cam put his chin down on his hands, looking up at her from beneath his hood, "It's the sword isn't it? Can't even carry a sword these days without people assuming the worse", he playfully sulked.
She gave a little horse laugh, "busy enough that I'm looking forward to Molly showing up and sending me home. You asking for a reason, or just flirting with me?"
"Both, obviously", Cam said, grinning. His stomach gave a great large growl, as if screaming shut up and feed me! Loud enough that the panther, who was closet to him in the bar, heard it and looked at him.
"Feed this man Beth, before he goes all prepper on us", He hollered, more than a little drunk, "you ain't a prepper are you boy?"
Cam forced himself to laugh, "Ha, nope. Just a scavenger, looking to make some salt. You guys need people? I'm ok with a blade, probably good with a gun too".
"Sorry boy, you're the wrong shade of brown to be a panther", he said.
Beth waved her hand dismissively at the panther, "Don't listen to him. Folks of all colors panthers now. This ain't your grand-daddy's days".
"Don't you remind me!", the panther shot back, "got white boys running around with guns now, last time that happened the whole damn area tore its self apart".
Cam's stomach unleashed another roar. Beth laughed, "let me go get you your food sweetheart, before your stomach stops growling and starts biting".
Cam nodded a thank you. The panther, an older man of dark complexion and wild gray eyebrows, having lost the conversation with the other men at the bar told cam, "if you're looking for work, you can always try the mines. They always need people. If that sword's for anything but show, you could always try the Highwaymen."
"Thanks, I don't think I'd make much of a miner though. I do know a thing or two about rocks though, geology. Thought, with the mine and all, I could see about doing some work for whoever does the oversight, like a geologist or something", Cam said.
"Huh", the old man said, "wouldn't you know it. We used to have a geologist in here all the time. Weird little dude, name was. . . shit! "Beth!", he hollered back to the kitchen, "what was that guy who worked at the mines called? The one who worked on making sure they didn't fall in, always had those little rocks he'd be stacking?"
Bet poked her head out of the kitchen, "Jasper?".
"Jasper, yeah, that's it, Jasper, the old panther said turning back to Cam.
Cam's stomach dropped, growling again but not in hunger, "used to?".
"Oh, yeah, preppers got him a while back. Halfway between here and Flint", he said, "if you ask me, only fools head out to those parts. Crazy crackers got bunkers in every bush".
"Why was he . . Jasper? Out by Pontiac?", Cam asked, trying to hide sorrow beneath gossip.
"Not sure exactly. Something to do with rocks I guess. Heard it had to do with The Ministry though. The Shabazz", at this the panther jerked his fist into the air in salute and almost wobbled off his stool, "made some kind of agreement with them, all very hush hush. Highwaymen escorted them, but never made it back. Had to've been preppers".
Cam sat back, "but he might not be dead, right?"
The panther looked at him incredulously, "damn near a year ago. None of them came back. They're dead as DC."
Beth brought cam his food, more than a double serving: a small pile of deep fried filets with some small stales loaves of bread and a pair of large glasses of purified water. "I wouldn't be so sure he's dead, preppers ain't dumb, and someone like that's more use alive than dead", she said.
"Like hell Beth, you ain't gotta defend those inbred sons of bitches! Nobody's holding it against you are they?", the older man exclaimed.
"Wait, you're a prepper?", Cam asked Beth.
"I ain't no goddamn prepper", she looked at the older man who shrank back a little at the angry barmaid, "and you goddamn well know it!"
"Sorry Beth, I'm just a little drunk. Just meant, you don't have to pretend they other than what they are, ain't got nothing to do with you", he said sheepishly.
"That's right, it doesn't", she said, then spoke to Cam, "not that it matters, but my mother was one. She came from the north, up by the bay. Ran away from home, didn't want to have a baby like that and wasn't pretty enough to sell off".
"I'm sorry, that's horrible", said Cam.
"It wasn't horrible at all, just life. She did well enough for herself and for me", she said stoically.
"Why do you think this Jasper fellow might not be dead", Cam said, forcing himself not to devour the fish and bread until the conversation took a less tense turn.
"Well", she said, "the preppers pretty much all moved towards the coasts or along rivers. Water's the hardest part, you see. That's how they find eachother to raid, my momma always said, follow the coast or the river, and you'll find preppers. She told me that there was this kind of, I don't know, myth, but a real one, about these things called artesian wells. Where you just poke deep enough into the ground, and good clean water comes clean up. A man who could find those could let them move away from the obvious water, to safer spots. That'd be priceless to a prepper".
"Shit", said the graying panther said, "they ain't hunting no magic wells. Deader than DC."
Cam finally couldn't resist the food, and tore into it. Between bites he continued the conversation as best he could, but his mind raced thinking about Jasper. They had been friends, good friends, and Cam needed him now. In his rucksack he had a map, a map that was nearly priceless to the oil pirates but he couldn't just walk over and sell it to them. They'd kill him and take it off his body. No, he needed someone protected by The Shabazz, someone he could trust. That was Jasper. Beth and the older panther were nice enough, but Cam held no illusions, if they realized there was a price on his head, they would sell himself out in a second. He couldn't afford to stay in Detroit any longer if Jasper wasn't here and he had no other contacts he could trust. He'd have to pray Beth was right, and that Jasper was still alive. The salt cam had left might by him a couple weeks of pemican and water filters, but not enough to get him where there was still good scavenge left. He'd put all his salt on the gamble, and he had to see it through.
Midway through his meal the old panther decided it was time to make it home, he apologized to Beth again before leaving and told Cam, "if you decide to stick around and want to try the Highwaymen, ask for Roger, he's a bastard, but he'll set you up".
Cam thanked him. Roger was the last person, on the whole of the earth, he wanted to see. Eventually Beth came and wrapped what remained of Cam's fish and bread in an old plastic bag. They had used them at stores before the war, and the things were still abundant. They'd outlived civilization. With a full stomach he said goodbye to Beth, who offered to rent him a room at a discount but Cam demurred the proposition and left. The sun had begun peaking out, and the general store would be opening soon.
Cam made his way to Greektown, luckily there were few people up early and on the streets. Most people outside were drunks or vagrants tucked into street corners, hoping for extremely unlikely charity. Cam knocked on the thick plate window of the general store, seeing a few workers teeming behind the bar getting the store ready for the day. At first they ignored him, so he banged again, louder, until they gave up and let him in early.
The store was still dark, but lit enough through the window to see. The store was large, it had clearly been several street front stores and restaurants before the war, but had been gutted. The walls ancient wall boards long since replaced by fresh wainscoting from the lumber mill out past the burbs, up on the lake that the city offered protection to. Solar panels on the roof ran lights, but they were ancient and produced little power and were reserved for night time. Instead a shop assistant walked with Cam through the aisles, shining a crank light on products as he looked, pointing out their origin, high quality and non-negotiable cost.
The store stocked a variety of good, all manner of locally provided goods from foodstuffs like greenhouse grown oranges, distilled alcohol, pemmican, wooden and metal hand made utensils. even scavenge goods and reconditioned generators and batteries. Cam purchased a reconditioned lithium ion battery that had once powered some kind of smoking device. His had finally worn nearly out, and would only power his goggles for an hour or so, tops before needing a recharge. He wished he could afford several more for his sword, they were wearing down as well, but still functional enough for the time being. After that he had enough salt to cover a couple portable water filters from The Ministry and a weeks worth of locally made pemmican, dried citrus fruits and herbal vitamins. The store worker guiding him through the aisles, who had opened up early for him, didn't try to hide his contempt when Cam declared he was done. Having purchased so little. Cam dumped his salt on the scale, until he had little more than a finger nails thickness left on the bottom of the vial. Cam thanked the man anyways.
The street was picking up and Cam hurried through the street. He wished the sun hadn't risen so quickly so that he could have had the plausibility to wear his goggles down and obscure his face beyond what the hood did. On his way out of Greekdown a small, weak voice asked from a dorrway, "Spare some food friend? Salt?"
Cam almost kept walking, desperate to get to the bike and be done with the city, but he slowed and looked down. Huddled in a pile of rags was a young man, one sleeve of what remained of a sweater hung limply, the arm clearly gone. Likely lost in the mines due to a cave in, which was likely more common with Jasper missing. The man was a damn good geologist, if little else. Cam knelt next to the man, and pulled out the plastic bag with his leftovers and handed it to him. "Here you go", he said, and took off walking quickly before the man could ever register the unexpected generosity.
"Thank you! Thank you so much!" the beggar called from behind, voice breaking with tears. Cam looked back as he walked, nodding. The man in the rags shuffled over to another doorway across the street, where several other figures in similar misfortune had been huddled. Together they began hastily, happily devouring the meal.
Cam made it to his bike, and quickly pulled the tarp off. Without delay he zipped out of the garage, and away from the populated city center, avoiding the south bridge entirely and zig zagging through the old, ruined parts of the city that were ruled more by packs of wild dogs than panthers or pirates. Soon he made the city limits and the burbs, he'd find a squat to hold up the day and sleep, then travel by night to the ruins of Pontiac. Somehow he'd have to find preppers, and from there Jasper, within a week or two at most, and not die in the process.
It wasn't horrible though, Beth had been right, it was just life.
As he crested the ruins of an impressive, long ruined bridge the city suddenly rose out of the distance, darker shapes on the darker canvas of the sky. Above them glittered the thick band of stars his grandfather had told him was once named the Milky Way, and still was if it mattered. As the city rose into view, below and to the west stars of another kind blinked into view. A sprawling oil refinery lay below, it's dark, seething tangles of pipes and tanks punctuated by thousands of small bright lights. Cam had traveled far and wide, yet never seen anything to rival it. When he'd first come to Detroit as a younger man, he had stood on this very spot, marveling at the sight. It had seemed to him then, as it still did now, than man had somehow pulled down the stars and trapped them on the ground. The implications, now, were far different. Where once it had been an inspiration, proof that some of the greatness of mankind could be rekindled in the ruined world - now it only stood as a grim memorial as to why the world had been ruined in the first place.
The quiet hum of the bike slowed as he let off the accelerator. He killed the lights while sliding a pair of night vision lenses down over his eyes from the leather riding cap he wore. The nigh jolted quickly into the washed out green twilight, each light rimmed by muddy emerald halos. Taking the bridge was a calculated risk. It was old, and dangerous, poorly maintained even before The Ruin, and far too close to the refinery. The oil pirates ignored it, for the most part, since it was fair too frail to handle their tankers. He had considered flanking the city and entering through the north, but scavenging had been poor recently and he had not eaten in nearly a week. That route brought with it dangers of its own, a longer trek through the crumbled ruins of the denser suburbs where highwaymen might demand tolls he couldn't afford to pay. So he had conceded to his stomach and the south was the better path.
Cam wove through the outskirts of the city, dark towers full of shattered windows and broken roads. The smell of the refinery fading as he neared the city proper. There was little sign Detroit still lived, that it had more or less survived the bombs, the plagues, the war. It had though, just barely. Cam had to admit, in no small part to the oil pirates. Without them and the petrol they "scavenged" from the old gas stations and depots of the wastelands the city would have surely died slowly after the war, as all the other cities did.
Before the war the first oil pirates were just working stiffs with little clubs that played at being biker gangs on the weekends, but when the world went to shit, the playing stopped. Cam's great, great grandfather was from Detroit, an area called Dearborn. They had came to the continent as refugees at the beginning of The Last War, and settled in the area which was home to many outcasts from that part of the world. There was little left of it now to attest to their flight but broken buildings and the occasional sign with near faded script from some far part of the world. When his grandfather had been taken and he'd fled the grazing lands, he thought maybe some of his people had survived maintained a community here. His grandfather had never told him the truth, his ancestors had fled to the east, again, as refugees. Within days of the bombs falling Dearborn had been destroyed. The rest of the city had blamed them for The Ruin for some reason, and slaughtered them in the streets before they turned on each other before the great die off.
The city probably would have died then, as the "burbs", smaller cities flanking the city did if it hadn't been for The First Shabazz. He didn't know much about the first president of Detroit, not much that was true anyways. The myths that surrounded the man were almost impenetrable. Some said he was warned about The Ruin long before, by a lion spirit while visiting the far off continent of Africa where his people originated from. Others say he liberated Detroit before the war in single combat from President Cruz before the war. Whether most people believed that kind of stuff, or it just sounded cool, he wasn't sure - but his grandfather had made sure he knew enough about the world before to be skeptical about stories of heroes and magic. Regardless, somehow The First Shabazz and his panthers had been prepared. When the people of the burbs realized that the world had collapsed and began raiding and roving, they managed to defend and hold the city center. Without the oil pirates, though, and the uneasy alliance between them there would be no Detroit today. Not that there was all that much left.
Cam followed a turn in the highway, between an old parking garage and stadium. A giant hole in the side of the building had once lead to a skywalk between the two that had long since fallen onto the highway which the oil pirates had dragged away. Part of the constitution between the panthers and the pirates made the pirates responsible for keeping the roads clear and maintained during the winter when oil runs slowed. Removing the giant metal tube had been Cam's first job as a pirate. If he could have just spent his life fixing roads, he probably never would have left.
Cam took a hard right after the parking garage ended, now in the city proper but still on the outskirts of the populated areas. He pulled into the parking garage and wound his way to the second floor where he would hide the bike. He couldn't risk it being seen, Detroit was small enough that people talked and word traveled fast. The motorcycle was one of a kind, priceless and arguably stolen. Cam didn't expect to go unseen, but he was far less conspicuous and by the time word spread he was back, he'd already be gone.
The parking garage was full of scrap, the pirates had been using it as junk storage for repairs on this end of town since he'd been with them. Mostly barrels full of sand, broken concrete, tarps and other crap that wasn't valuable enough to guard. No one would be dumb enough to risk running afoul of them for some gravel. Cam found a spot in the back of the garage, between some large metal dumpsters full of broken asphalt and pulled a tarp over the bike covering it from sight after pulling a long cylindrical tube out of the saddle bags and slipping it into his rucksack. He tossed the bag over his right shoulder, opposite of his sword and set off into the still living parts of the city.
Over the years the city had shrunk in upon its self. The vibrant parts of the city were small, and sometimes scattered about. Harmonie Park was what The seventh Shabazz, unironically, called "The Theater District". Mostly it was just a central cluster of bars and taverns where people went to spend their salt getting drunk. There was an old opera house, but no one was even really sure what oprea was as far as he could tell. It was mostly used for public addresses and trials. Butting up to it to the east was Greektown, where the general store and other shops could be found. Towering above them was Panther Palace, in what had once been a large casino and hotel. The official seat of power of the city. North were the stadiums, oil pirate territory.
The old baseball stadium had been re-purposed as a kind of gladiatorial arena. Oil pirates would settle personal disputes there, fighting each other to the death cycle back and charging admission. Sometimes when things got slow they'd bring in wild bears, or lions. tigers to fight and other dangerous beasts which had been bred from the survivors of the zoo. Across the street was Ford Field, whose giant concrete shell served as a fortress for the pirates.
Crops were grown in abandoned lots scattered over the city, all the way out to the burbs, attended by families of farmers who occasionally gathered in small compounds or hamlets under the protection of the panthers. Occasionally they would decide that the world had grown safe enough, and they didn't need protection and refuse to pay their taxes or spend the winters in the salt mines. It never lasted long though, sooner or later prepper tribes from the north showed up, killed a few people and made off with far more than what would have been paid in taxes.
Cam would have preferred to have done this outside of the city, but he had no way of reaching Jasper without taking the risk. He could have went to a farm and trusted them to set something up on their next run into the city, but you never knew when a panther patrol would show up. Cam didn't have anything against the panthers in particular, they were what passed for civilization. However rough or ugly that may be, it was far better than The Ministry or what passed for lawmen in the settlements he'd stumbled across in his travels. They worked with the pirates though, and wouldn't hesitate to sell him out for whatever bounty he was sure Roger had placed on his head. It was better this way, a quick in and out.
It was still an hour or two before dawn, and the city showed little sign of waking. The night shift crews would still be awake, and Jasper had never been one for mornings. He'd always been a man of particularly intense habit, so Cam figured it was a safe bet he'd be at Mollies tossing around salt. Cam navigated the city, little signs of life here and there even in the city's slowest hours: a loft window with a light on, a figure shuffling along down the road in the distance. He made his way to the outskirts of Harmonie Park, the sound of muffled music leaking out into the cool spring air. As he rounded the corner to Mollies he saw several men in the park playing dominoes to a crank light while a dying bonfire burned in a pit in the center of the small city park. He nodded, casually, at their stares and pulled the hood of his leather coat over his cap, letting it hang nearly to his eyes.
Mollies River Tavern was well maintained. The roof didn't leak. It held in enough heat from the old woodfire stove used to cook the tavern's signature river trout even in the chilliest winters. The tables were all set with nice, clean prewar silverware and the bar was stocked with large jars of whiskey from farm stills across the city. They even had beer, in bottles, brewed by the old apothecary in Greektown. More than anything, pirates didn't like Mollies. Whether it was the smell of fried fish in tight space competing with their macho body odor competing for the attention of the noses around them or just the annoying singing fish Molly would go to any length to get batteries for the avoided the place. Except for Jasper.
The bar had a few regulars tucked into booths, drunk and nodded out. A few men sat at the bar. One on the far side from the door in black fatigues, right sleeve missing, showing a crude panther tattoo. The rest looked like salt miners or day laborers of some sort or another. The panther had a long rifle around his back, and a machette at his hip. The other men carried no visible weapons, but probably had folding knives tucked away in their pockets. Jasper wasn't there. Cam took a seat at the bar, around the bed of the bar so his back would be opposite the front door. He reached into his hip pouch and pulled out a small plastic vial filled with salt and set it in front of him, so the bar tender knew he wasn't just squatting out of the cold. A few minutes later, the woman, thick but not overfed with blond hair and a scar where her lip had been torn sauntered over.
"Hungry or thirsty darlin?", she asked. Her voice was ragged from smoking too much unfiltered tobacco. He didn't recognize here, which meant she probably didn't recognize him. She sat a small bronze scale down on the counter in front of him.
"Both. Just water though, and double it up", Cam said, tapping the vial on the counter.
"Ten grams", she said, "Eight for the fish, two for the water". She dropped a little bronze weight onto one side of the scale, and cam filled the other with salt until they evened out, and the vial was half empty. She swept the salt into a jar, about half filled and tucked it back behind the bar.
"Busy night?", cam asked, nodding at where she'd placed the jar.
"Why, you planning on robbing me?", she joked, with an edge of seriousness.
Cam put his chin down on his hands, looking up at her from beneath his hood, "It's the sword isn't it? Can't even carry a sword these days without people assuming the worse", he playfully sulked.
She gave a little horse laugh, "busy enough that I'm looking forward to Molly showing up and sending me home. You asking for a reason, or just flirting with me?"
"Both, obviously", Cam said, grinning. His stomach gave a great large growl, as if screaming shut up and feed me! Loud enough that the panther, who was closet to him in the bar, heard it and looked at him.
"Feed this man Beth, before he goes all prepper on us", He hollered, more than a little drunk, "you ain't a prepper are you boy?"
Cam forced himself to laugh, "Ha, nope. Just a scavenger, looking to make some salt. You guys need people? I'm ok with a blade, probably good with a gun too".
"Sorry boy, you're the wrong shade of brown to be a panther", he said.
Beth waved her hand dismissively at the panther, "Don't listen to him. Folks of all colors panthers now. This ain't your grand-daddy's days".
"Don't you remind me!", the panther shot back, "got white boys running around with guns now, last time that happened the whole damn area tore its self apart".
Cam's stomach unleashed another roar. Beth laughed, "let me go get you your food sweetheart, before your stomach stops growling and starts biting".
Cam nodded a thank you. The panther, an older man of dark complexion and wild gray eyebrows, having lost the conversation with the other men at the bar told cam, "if you're looking for work, you can always try the mines. They always need people. If that sword's for anything but show, you could always try the Highwaymen."
"Thanks, I don't think I'd make much of a miner though. I do know a thing or two about rocks though, geology. Thought, with the mine and all, I could see about doing some work for whoever does the oversight, like a geologist or something", Cam said.
"Huh", the old man said, "wouldn't you know it. We used to have a geologist in here all the time. Weird little dude, name was. . . shit! "Beth!", he hollered back to the kitchen, "what was that guy who worked at the mines called? The one who worked on making sure they didn't fall in, always had those little rocks he'd be stacking?"
Bet poked her head out of the kitchen, "Jasper?".
"Jasper, yeah, that's it, Jasper, the old panther said turning back to Cam.
Cam's stomach dropped, growling again but not in hunger, "used to?".
"Oh, yeah, preppers got him a while back. Halfway between here and Flint", he said, "if you ask me, only fools head out to those parts. Crazy crackers got bunkers in every bush".
"Why was he . . Jasper? Out by Pontiac?", Cam asked, trying to hide sorrow beneath gossip.
"Not sure exactly. Something to do with rocks I guess. Heard it had to do with The Ministry though. The Shabazz", at this the panther jerked his fist into the air in salute and almost wobbled off his stool, "made some kind of agreement with them, all very hush hush. Highwaymen escorted them, but never made it back. Had to've been preppers".
Cam sat back, "but he might not be dead, right?"
The panther looked at him incredulously, "damn near a year ago. None of them came back. They're dead as DC."
Beth brought cam his food, more than a double serving: a small pile of deep fried filets with some small stales loaves of bread and a pair of large glasses of purified water. "I wouldn't be so sure he's dead, preppers ain't dumb, and someone like that's more use alive than dead", she said.
"Like hell Beth, you ain't gotta defend those inbred sons of bitches! Nobody's holding it against you are they?", the older man exclaimed.
"Wait, you're a prepper?", Cam asked Beth.
"I ain't no goddamn prepper", she looked at the older man who shrank back a little at the angry barmaid, "and you goddamn well know it!"
"Sorry Beth, I'm just a little drunk. Just meant, you don't have to pretend they other than what they are, ain't got nothing to do with you", he said sheepishly.
"That's right, it doesn't", she said, then spoke to Cam, "not that it matters, but my mother was one. She came from the north, up by the bay. Ran away from home, didn't want to have a baby like that and wasn't pretty enough to sell off".
"I'm sorry, that's horrible", said Cam.
"It wasn't horrible at all, just life. She did well enough for herself and for me", she said stoically.
"Why do you think this Jasper fellow might not be dead", Cam said, forcing himself not to devour the fish and bread until the conversation took a less tense turn.
"Well", she said, "the preppers pretty much all moved towards the coasts or along rivers. Water's the hardest part, you see. That's how they find eachother to raid, my momma always said, follow the coast or the river, and you'll find preppers. She told me that there was this kind of, I don't know, myth, but a real one, about these things called artesian wells. Where you just poke deep enough into the ground, and good clean water comes clean up. A man who could find those could let them move away from the obvious water, to safer spots. That'd be priceless to a prepper".
"Shit", said the graying panther said, "they ain't hunting no magic wells. Deader than DC."
Cam finally couldn't resist the food, and tore into it. Between bites he continued the conversation as best he could, but his mind raced thinking about Jasper. They had been friends, good friends, and Cam needed him now. In his rucksack he had a map, a map that was nearly priceless to the oil pirates but he couldn't just walk over and sell it to them. They'd kill him and take it off his body. No, he needed someone protected by The Shabazz, someone he could trust. That was Jasper. Beth and the older panther were nice enough, but Cam held no illusions, if they realized there was a price on his head, they would sell himself out in a second. He couldn't afford to stay in Detroit any longer if Jasper wasn't here and he had no other contacts he could trust. He'd have to pray Beth was right, and that Jasper was still alive. The salt cam had left might by him a couple weeks of pemican and water filters, but not enough to get him where there was still good scavenge left. He'd put all his salt on the gamble, and he had to see it through.
Midway through his meal the old panther decided it was time to make it home, he apologized to Beth again before leaving and told Cam, "if you decide to stick around and want to try the Highwaymen, ask for Roger, he's a bastard, but he'll set you up".
Cam thanked him. Roger was the last person, on the whole of the earth, he wanted to see. Eventually Beth came and wrapped what remained of Cam's fish and bread in an old plastic bag. They had used them at stores before the war, and the things were still abundant. They'd outlived civilization. With a full stomach he said goodbye to Beth, who offered to rent him a room at a discount but Cam demurred the proposition and left. The sun had begun peaking out, and the general store would be opening soon.
Cam made his way to Greektown, luckily there were few people up early and on the streets. Most people outside were drunks or vagrants tucked into street corners, hoping for extremely unlikely charity. Cam knocked on the thick plate window of the general store, seeing a few workers teeming behind the bar getting the store ready for the day. At first they ignored him, so he banged again, louder, until they gave up and let him in early.
The store was still dark, but lit enough through the window to see. The store was large, it had clearly been several street front stores and restaurants before the war, but had been gutted. The walls ancient wall boards long since replaced by fresh wainscoting from the lumber mill out past the burbs, up on the lake that the city offered protection to. Solar panels on the roof ran lights, but they were ancient and produced little power and were reserved for night time. Instead a shop assistant walked with Cam through the aisles, shining a crank light on products as he looked, pointing out their origin, high quality and non-negotiable cost.
The store stocked a variety of good, all manner of locally provided goods from foodstuffs like greenhouse grown oranges, distilled alcohol, pemmican, wooden and metal hand made utensils. even scavenge goods and reconditioned generators and batteries. Cam purchased a reconditioned lithium ion battery that had once powered some kind of smoking device. His had finally worn nearly out, and would only power his goggles for an hour or so, tops before needing a recharge. He wished he could afford several more for his sword, they were wearing down as well, but still functional enough for the time being. After that he had enough salt to cover a couple portable water filters from The Ministry and a weeks worth of locally made pemmican, dried citrus fruits and herbal vitamins. The store worker guiding him through the aisles, who had opened up early for him, didn't try to hide his contempt when Cam declared he was done. Having purchased so little. Cam dumped his salt on the scale, until he had little more than a finger nails thickness left on the bottom of the vial. Cam thanked the man anyways.
The street was picking up and Cam hurried through the street. He wished the sun hadn't risen so quickly so that he could have had the plausibility to wear his goggles down and obscure his face beyond what the hood did. On his way out of Greekdown a small, weak voice asked from a dorrway, "Spare some food friend? Salt?"
Cam almost kept walking, desperate to get to the bike and be done with the city, but he slowed and looked down. Huddled in a pile of rags was a young man, one sleeve of what remained of a sweater hung limply, the arm clearly gone. Likely lost in the mines due to a cave in, which was likely more common with Jasper missing. The man was a damn good geologist, if little else. Cam knelt next to the man, and pulled out the plastic bag with his leftovers and handed it to him. "Here you go", he said, and took off walking quickly before the man could ever register the unexpected generosity.
"Thank you! Thank you so much!" the beggar called from behind, voice breaking with tears. Cam looked back as he walked, nodding. The man in the rags shuffled over to another doorway across the street, where several other figures in similar misfortune had been huddled. Together they began hastily, happily devouring the meal.
Cam made it to his bike, and quickly pulled the tarp off. Without delay he zipped out of the garage, and away from the populated city center, avoiding the south bridge entirely and zig zagging through the old, ruined parts of the city that were ruled more by packs of wild dogs than panthers or pirates. Soon he made the city limits and the burbs, he'd find a squat to hold up the day and sleep, then travel by night to the ruins of Pontiac. Somehow he'd have to find preppers, and from there Jasper, within a week or two at most, and not die in the process.
It wasn't horrible though, Beth had been right, it was just life.
