Fourteen good men died the day the north stack of the cloud factory exploded, and I suppose that’s where the trouble started. I don’t remember much about it, but they say you could feel the shockwave clear over at the trailer park by the railroad tracks, and Lula Jones said she saw the whole thing from her yard on Watson Drive. I don’t know about that. She lies sometimes. 

I remember Mama grabbing her nursing bag, pulling out in that old Lumina, and yelling over her shoulder to lock the door and she’d be right back. Luce had a funny look on her face, but she did what she was told, and she and I sat in the window watching the ash fall from the sky.

The cloud factory wasn’t pouring out the fluffed-up billows of smoke we’d named it for. It was on fire, and an ominous haze hung around it. 

The second explosion is the one that killed Mama. Her and six other people that ran to help. 

That was the last straw. The people in Charon made signs and filed lawsuits, and pretty soon, an important-looking man in a suit came to town to settle things down. He stood up on a podium in front of the rebuilding efforts and told the people they’d come back bigger and stronger than ever before. Wilbur Ashley shot him in the head from a hundred yards away.

Then they sent in the Guard, and things got ugly in a hurry. When they figured out we had more guns than people by a pretty wide margin, they sent them right back out. There was no more power plant, but there wasn’t any cleanup either. There was more in between, I suppose, but that’s pretty much how we got here. 

Now the plant just sits there on either side of Route Seven, spanning about two square miles. We expected the land to start reclaiming the space, but nothing grows there. Kids take dares on who will slip past the barbed wire fence and how deep they’ll go, but mostly it just marks the start of the Charon Enclave, and the few souls left who live here.

---

“Well, today I’ve gotten the classics like  ‘boot licker’ and ‘soulless corporate patsy,’ but I also got ‘Biohazard Barbie,’ so at least creativity isn’t dead. Is that everyone? Tell me that’s everyone.” 

Claude Henry trailed a finger down the clipboard and grimaced as he reached the end— I was not getting that lucky today.

“It’s nearly everyone. Best count we’ve had in a few, honestly. Even Luce checked in without flipping us off.” 

I landed myself in the camping chair and held a hand out for the clipboard.

“Uh huh. But let me guess, Mr. Thomas and company are choosing the path of most resistance this month?” 

He handed it over with a nod. 

“Looks like it.” 

“Listen, I get why people decline. I get why people show up. But I can’t wrap my mind around this batty old bugger toggling between handout Hal and geriatric general of the resistance every other month. He’s killing me.” 

Claude Henry nodded and tossed me my helmet. He knows I’m all talk. The settlement gives us $600 a month if we show up and give blood. Mr. Thomas is stubborn, but he knows he’s hungry in the months he stands on principle. He’s getting too old to be hungry for any amount of time. I knew I could go sweet-talk him and he’d come around. 

Mr. Thomas lived almost at the border of the Conclave boundaries. He’s lived on that scrubby patch of river land his whole life, just like his father did and just like his grandfather did. For me, that meant wind in my hair for twenty minutes as I navigated the broken, patchy roads that led out there. Most of Charon is a little wild without the funds that held back the tide of nature in the last seventeen years. It became wilderness as soon as you crossed the old railroad tracks, and you could only get out this way on a bike or ATV. 

I watched the gravel fly as I enjoyed the thrill of speed and the wind blowing the hair that flowed free below my helmet. I’m a notoriously practical person in all aspects but transportation. I live for the moments I get with the world flying by and the hum of my motorcycle beneath me.

I wonder if I would have been a practical person if I hadn’t signed. If I’d just taken the money and skirted the Last Deal, I might be a woman of adventure, riding through the wilderness and seeing the world instead of Mayor of an isolated burg chasing down stubborn old men. 

I only let myself walk down the “what if” road when I’m riding. As I parked the bike on the roughage of Mr. Thomas’s front lawn, I turned off the useless thoughts and centered myself on what was next. 

My helmet tucked away on my seat, I gave my hair a shake and headed up the steps. I only made it up two before I realized something was wrong. 

Mr. Thomas’s front door was open, the top hinge broken entirely from the frame, and splinters of wood jutting out at all angles. Something was very wrong here. 

I unholstered my sidearm, slipping out of my leather pumps and stepping gently up the last two stairs. Checking the corners, I eased into the living room entryway. 

The scene was bizarre. The table was set—dinner for two— but there was no one in the house. I could see steam still issuing from the stove where corn on the cob was recently boiling. 

Other than the doorframe, there was no damage—nothing out of place.

“Eugene?” I called in a voice that sounded more confident than I felt.

Silence 

“Mr. Thomas? Mr. Eugene Thomas, are you in here?” 

He really wasn’t there.

I cleared the house to be sure, but there was nothing awry, like he sat down to supper and vanished in thin air.

I skipped down the steps and grabbed my walkie.  Mav and Claude Henry were garbling up the line with chatter, but mine overrides, and a break in the static tells me I’m connected. 

“Claude Henry, I think you ought to ride out here. Our friend from earlier is proving tricky.”

I hesitated for a moment with my finger holding a button. I released it with a click. Better to keep it vague for now. The MPs at the plant loved to drop in if they felt like something interesting was happening across the wires. It didn’t usually end well for the locals.