He opened his eyes. Being careful not to move, he listened to the sounds around him. The horrifying screech of metal grinding on metal that had never seen maintenance since the day it was built pierced his ears. The slow deep burble of a diesel engine providing all of the power necessary for the metal to keep moving and searching. Searching for him or anyone like him. With a quiet sigh he slowly moved his head to try and get a better idea of how far away the machine was. Not that close, he determined. With deliberate care, he uncurled from his position and wrapped up his gear. It had been a long time since he had awoken to the sound of the metal screeching, but it had been far longer since the days before he had known the sound. 

With no real urgency required he packed everything properly into the small trunk he had kept since finding it last year. It wasn’t much, but it was all he had and having anything these days was a luxury. He ran his hand across the very well-worn red leather coverings and stopped only for a moment to feel the coolness of the brass coloured metal covers on the corners. He remembered finding this small chest in the ruins of what had once been a sizable row of attached homes. The brass had glinted in the little sunlight that had broken through the clouds and it drew him ever closer until he finally brushed away the dust and rubble to reveal the entirety, still intact after everything. He was glad of all that he owned, but he was proud of this one in particular. Checking the rest of his possessions, he found that the bolt on his rifle moved easily, the oil doing its job keeping out corrosion and the smell of it filling his nostrils with its pungent sharpness. He turned on his radio and listened for a minute, but nothing came through. It never did. He wondered if there was anyone left out here to use another radio. He shrugged. It didn’t matter. He waited, listening as the metal screech slowly dissipated and moved into the distance, checking his map and compass to ensure he was still on the right path, and took a sip from his canteen.

The water was getting pretty foul and he knew that meant he would need a much better place to hole up in next time. A better space that was more protected where he could start a fire and boil the snow that was drifting towards the ground into clean water. That was his favourite thing to do at the end of the day. Making a fire, smelling the wood as he carved it away into flammable chips, striking his flint and watching the sparks cascade into the little bit of fire-starting lint he had left. The smell of the fire lingered around him for days with all of the smoke having permeated his thick wool coat. One day, perhaps, he could spend time doing just that and not worrying about the constant threat of death through a lack of vigilance. Putting away his map and attaching the compass to the front of his motorcycle, he steadied himself before kicking the engine to life. With a roar the engine lit up and then calmed as it settled into a rhythmic thumping. He looked over to the now distant roving metal machine to judge if it had noticed him, but seeing no change in its path, he looked forward and began to drive. 

Where he was going he knew, but what was there was a mystery. Worse, he thought, was that he had left for his destination so long ago that what he had been sent there for may no longer be there and he had no way of knowing. It wasn’t like his job was difficult, just long and often boring. Riding on the long stretches of destroyed fields and forests that must have once been beautiful, he had ridden through towns that must have once been filled with families, laughter, joy, art, and hope. There was none of that now, just abandoned destroyed buildings with people’s former possessions strewed about the ground around them. The worst loss was not people or things, but it was hope. When all else failed, hope could keep anyone pressing onwards. Hope has slowly been whittled down by the lengthening of hostilities. His own hope had mostly evaporated into nothingness, except for that tiniest of hope that remained deep within the blackest crevices inside him that contained the desire to be allowed to go home.

Who had destroyed all of these towns? Had his own side done it or had the enemy, he couldn’t know. He wondered about his own part in that destruction. He had never fired a weapon in anger, never at a person, never once even fired it since his training. Was the mere fact that he wore the same uniform as those that had done so enough to ensure his own culpability in the action? He sighed, he asked himself these questions every day but never came to a good and satisfactory answer. As the town passed from view behind him, he continued to ponder those existential questions, peppered occasionally with questions much more germane to his continued survival. 

What had caused such huge craters around him? He knew of artillery that could produce similar shaped holes, but of this size? Perhaps the war had caused technology, destructive technology, to advance wildly beyond his comprehension. He kept riding, not bothering to count the craters around him, letting his mind wander as he guided his motorcycle around large craters in the road ahead. The setting sun glinted off of water in the distance, momentarily blinding him. The sharp stabbing of the bright light seemed to awaken him somewhat from his bored monotony and he decided that it was late enough he should again prepare his camp. 

As always, the questions never ceased, but this one was the same nightly. Where was the safest and best place to stop and allow him to sleep? There was a copse in the field of mud, water, and craters that had managed to remain virtually untouched. Luck, he supposed, played a bigger role in its continued survival than both sides deliberately ensuring it remained untouched. Regardless, it was fortunate for him that he could stop underneath the remaining branches for the night. He parked his motorcycle and poured in the last of the fuel he had been keeping in the reserve can. It should be enough to allow him to reach his destination tomorrow. He hoped that when he arrived there was at least some fuel left behind for him, otherwise he had no way of getting back other than on his own two feet and that was simply not an option for him.

He looked in his pack and saw the waterproof pouch which contained whatever he was supposed to deliver. No one would know if he opened the pouch and looked at its contents, but he would know and that was enough to stop him. Strange, he thought, that even in a world so obviously overrun with chaos, violence, lawlessness, and unrelenting individualism that he would care about breaking such a small rule. Shaking his head, he reached into the pack and pulled out his bedroll. Laying it on the dirt he knew he would be warm enough wearing the layers of equipment he had on that climbing inside of his roll would be unnecessary. It would have delayed him too if any of the metal machines came closer for investigation. He had seen, from the roadside, one of the ruined and destroyed machines laying in scrap with now rotting gore left behind after they had been felled. He had been close enough to it almost to touch it. That was a smell and a feeling he could never forget. He hoped to never see one moving up close. 

Laying down, he closed his eyes and thought back to his home, now so far away. Would he recognize it if he returned? Would everyone there recognize him? So many years had passed he wasn’t sure anything would be recognizable to anyone with this war in between them. He had left as soon as they had let him. Thinking calming thoughts, he slowed his breathing and relaxed his muscles trying to fall asleep, despite the lump of tree roots he had chosen to lie on. BOOM! CRASH! SCREECH! He shot upright in an instant and grabbed his rifle. He was fully awake and scanning around him as quickly as he could, trying to find the source of this noise. His heart pounded, his adrenaline coursing through his body, and his mind nearly paralyzed with fear. Had he been found? Was this his time to die? But no, nothing was near him, the world was as it had been when he fell asleep, except now the sun was rising instead of setting. 

Another nightmare. He had nightmares every time he tried to sleep. Did everyone who had gone to war with him? Who could possibly know if they were all similarly broken and paranoid? Standing on shaking legs, he leaned his rifle against the motorcycle and took a long drink from his canteen. Still foul and he hadn’t remembered to boil snow. He nearly spit it all out, but that was too wasteful. It was also nearly empty, but that was okay. He should arrive today, he thought, trying to steel himself against the fear that had gripped him. He put down the canteen and grabbed a small wrapped square package. He pulled on the little tab in the corner and it revealed two thinner square packages stacked on top of each other. 

The first he opened was the darker green of the two, revealing a slab of salt pork. This was a luxury he knew all of the people he had left behind didn’t get when they were in the field. He pulled out the smallest burner he had ever seen and filled the metal cup with the remaining water and snow that was still white, cutting the pork into smaller cubes and dropping them into the stew for a few minutes and soften. Opening the light green package, he drew out the two thin wafers of tack. Bread, most people unfamiliar with the squares, would call this. He called it crap. But it was filling, and he needed what energy he could get, so he broke it apart and began to chew. 

Taking his time, he watched the world around him begin to brighten. Chewing the tack took time and effort, but it gave him a moment to think. What if he arrived and no one was there? What if he arrived and they sent him back immediately? All of the what ifs swirled around his mind. There were too many to ask and never any answers. No one ever let him ask his questions anyways, they just gave him orders. He finished the tack and turned off the burner. The water would be full of salt now and undrinkable, so he scooped out the pork onto a small towel he had been saving and dried it off, pouring out the cup. He placed the pork towel on the motorcycle seat and cleaned up his equipment. He would eat while he rode. A quick check of the sun’s height and he knew he’d be just fine for his arrival time. 

Being careful, he rubbed some of the snow in the small cup, trying to rinse out most of the salt. Taking his time, he placed the cup back onto the burner, running low as it was, and put more snow into it. Little by little, he added snow to it to melt and be boiled for safety. Each time the cup grew full and boiled, he poured it into his canteen. It took him four cycles of this same pattern, but he finally had a canteen that made no noise; it was so completely used. He removed the cup from the burner just as the flame died out from lack of fuel and pushed it into the last remnants of snow on the ground to cool it off enough to drink immediately. He wanted to take his time this morning, but instead drank the cup as he cleaned up and packed once more for the final leg of this trip.

He roared off into the final stage of his journey and chewed on the now soft pork which was still too salty for his liking. Regardless, it was good and warm, which is what he needed most. The miles crept by, the scenery repeating itself for hours on end. Tens of thousands of blast craters, tread tracks long since imprinted into the ground, burned sticks, shrapnel, even bodies seemed to repeat. Finally, he came to the fork in the road he had been looking for. To the south, he knew, was a stretch of road all the way to the sea. He wished that was his destination. It was not and he assumed it would never be.

Instead, he turned North and rode on, looking out for the gate marking the old manor that was supposed to be the headquarters. As he crested a hill, he spotted it, just to his left. With a small smile, the first since he had begun this journey, he pulled over beside the wall that surrounded the manor and walked to the gate. He was greeted by a half dozen men and was staring down as many barrels of rifles. His smile fell away and his mind raced with concern. He was sure this was his end. 

“Thirsty!” He was surprised by the angry shout. But he knew this challenge. 

“Victory!” He replied, careful to otherwise make no movement. He had expected a challenge from these people but had hoped that it might be one of the earlier challenges like Thunder and Flash. It had taken him a while to get here and the challenges rotated on a semi-consistent basis. The rifles were lowered, and smiles bloomed. He too broke out into a wide smile and pushed his motorcycle forward past the gate. It seemed as though he had been lucky. The people he was to meet were here and he would soon be finished with this mission, though he was certain that another would come just as soon.

The fields in front of the manor house were obviously overgrown and the house itself looked like it was falling apart. One of the soldiers that had greeted him with a muzzle a minute earlier took his motorcycle from him and he followed the original challenge speaker around the house and found himself being directed into the basement. This was not what he expected. Was he wrong? Did the enemy know the challenge and had they tricked him? He looked at the challenger with panic in his eyes and was met with a smile and kind eyes. The challenger shook his head, no. This was not a trick. Of course, they would assure him that it wasn’t a dastardly act even if it were.

Walking down the stairs, his heart still pounding in his chest, he realized that the basement that he had expected had been excavated and was in fact several times larger than the exterior of the house would bely. It smelled musty, as though standing water had been allowed to remain undisturbed. The challenging soldier tapped his arm and guided him down a dirt hall, causing him to bend over and duck under the beams of the tunnels. The underground was not designed for the majority of adults. He was pulled, not roughly, into a room off of the tunnel and found himself standing with three other people. No one here wore a uniform it seemed. 

“You have it?” The farthest person away from the entrance asked. She seemed like she was under stress and desperately wanted to be anywhere but there. He nodded in response and started to reach for the package in his satchel. He was grabbed by the challenging soldier and the closest man in the room. 

“No offence meant, but assassination attempts have been tried before. We’ll take it from you,” she explained. The third man in the room, with an absolutely massive moustache, reached into his bag and pulled out the sealed tube. He passed it off to the woman, who unscrewed the seal and emptied its contents onto the small table in the middle of the room. Two envelopes. That was what he had carried for a week straight to get here. He nearly exploded with laughter about it all. He had risked death or worse to deliver envelopes. Whatever was in them was obviously worth more than his life, but it was still absurd to him. He was released from the grip of the challenging soldier at this point and the woman looked away from the letters and back at him. It seemed she was already done reading them.

“Thank you. This means a lot to the resistance. This might even be what we need to turn back the tide of this wretched war. You may rest here for a few hours; we even have a small bath you may use. Soon, however, you will need to go back. We will resupply you. Thank you,” she said. Her voice seemed firm, but kind. She was clearly in charge, but her thanks seemed heartfelt. As though what he had done in delivering these envelopes truly had made a difference for her and the war. Being in charge meant making tough decisions, but it also meant caring for those you were in charge of. He could see that she did not take those duties lightly. He followed the challenging soldier back out of the room and tunnels. He had been wrong about his death, wrong about these people impersonating his contacts, but he was right about one thing. He was going to be sent back immediately. He wondered if being sent back after accomplishing this might just mean being sent back home. He felt the rush of hope in his chest and that warm feeling gave him the strength and the courage to ride again.

Forward, unto dawn.