Just In Time

Breakfast, Technically

By seven-fifteen, Charlie had already made breakfast.

This was both reassuring and dangerous.

The animatronic clown behind the Jettyroot diner counter had been programmed to make pancakes and eggs every morning, a task he performed with considerably greater reliability than most of his other domestic functions.

There were eggs. There was Toast. There was coffee. Everything had arrived at roughly the correct temperature, and nothing appeared to be radioactive enough to require discussion.

That counted as cooking in Appalachia.

But syrup remained beyond him.

Charlie considered syrup a variety of broth.

Nobody knew why.

Nobody particularly wanted to find out.

Charlie stood behind the counter afterward with his painted smile and the quiet satisfaction of a man who had accomplished his morning duties despite technically being an animatronic clown.

At least, I assumed it was satisfaction.

Charlie never clarified these things. Partly because he really was the silent type. Partly because he didn't have a voice box.

You reached behind the counter and produced a cream-colored ceramic jar.

"Honey, babe."

My attention immediately shifted from Charlie's culinary crimes to the jar.

You harvested honey whenever you passed Aaronholt Homestead, from a hive growing beside an old bathtub with Lowell Aaronholt's corpse still in it.

Lowell had a guitar, so you occasionally asked him about his last composition. He never seemed interested in sharing it.

Artists.

You also mentioned that Lowell seemed to have had some kind of argument with the bees. You said you never asked.

You told me you'd be embarrassed too if the forensics came back: death by honeybees.

I laughed.

Then you asked what was funny.

I punched your arm because a little pain usually straightened you out. You nearly dropped the honey jar.

You caught it just in time, so I pulled and twisted your ear. Sometimes the point needed driving in.

There were also cranberries left from the previous day's harvest.

You crushed a few into a bowl, poured honey over them, and took a spoonful.

You moved your tongue around thoughtfully.

I regarded you suspiciously.

That was the face of a man attempting to convince himself.

You held the spoon toward me.

I tasted it.

The cranberry still had enough sharpness to wake every nerve ending in my mouth, but the honey rounded it off.

I took another taste.

“Hmm. Not bad.”

You tried it too.

“Yeah. Not bad.”

You stared thoughtfully into the bowl.

I knew that expression.

It meant something unnecessarily official was about to happen.

“Jettyroot Cranberry Honey Blend.”

I closed my eyes.

“Of course it needs a name.”

“Everything needs a name.”

“Breakfast spreads do not.”

You pointed the spoon at me.

“Perfecto.”

I looked at Charlie. He simply gestured, as if saying he didn't have the voice box for this, and offered no assistance.

Traitor.

By the time we noticed, our plates were empty, and morning had properly arrived over the river.

We left the dishes for later.

Because out there somewhere there were canned goods to be found.

---

Beans, Specifically

The original plan was simple.

Somewhere in the Mire was a Super Duper Mart we hadn't fully explored, and according to rumor, there were still pre-war canned goods inside.

Beans, specifically, had become important.

Very important.

A Pip-Boy consultation corrected one small detail.

It wasn't a Super Duper Mart. It was Valley Galleria, which was on practically the opposite side of Appalachia.

You were staring at the map.

"Oh man."

A day trip had just become an expedition.

The plan was to cut through the Forest, cross into the Savage Divide, spend the night at Foundation, meet Bessy there, then continue toward the Mire the following morning. She'd help us haul whatever we found at Valley Galleria.

I studied the Pip-Boy map a little longer than you did.

The route itself was simple enough. The terrain was not.

Open ground near the Divide. Narrow approaches. High ground with clean lines of sight. Places where a road stopped being a road and became a funnel.

I tapped one point near Mountainside.

“If we’re running late by the time we reach here, we don’t cut across open ground. We take the rails south. Longer route, but better visibility and fewer places to get boxed in.”

You nodded.

I traced the route farther east.

“Foundation gives us walls, food, water, and a clean start in the morning. From there, we reassess before entering the Mire.”

Distance was rarely the real problem in expeditions like this. Terrain was. Timing was. Visibility was.

And sometimes the places that looked safest on a map were exactly the places someone else would choose to wait for you.

You glanced at me.

“Works for me.”

Your attention immediately moved to the enormous hog roaster at Foundation.

"Just think," you told me.

"Forest. Roaster."

I understood what you were getting at, of course.

Forest meant animals.

Cookable animals.

We left Jettyroot with you carrying your heavily customized Gauss rifle and me carrying my traditional double-barrel shotgun. I didn't care so much for fancy customizations. Could just be my bad luck, but fancy somehow kept breaking on me when I needed reliable.

The Gauss had no name yet. That would change before the day was over. You checked it before we left.

I checked mine.

Then I checked yours.

You noticed.

“I already did that.”

“I know.”

“So why did you—”

“Because I trust you.”

You stared at me.

“That explanation made no sense.”

“It made perfect sense.”

I pulled my pack higher onto my shoulders and started walking.

You caught up.

“You know, most people show trust by not checking the other person’s rifle.”

“Most people die because they believe in symbolism.”

I tapped the side of your Gauss rifle.

“A rifle doesn’t know it’s been trusted.”

You laughed.

Jettyroot disappeared behind the trees.

---

The Forest Goes Quiet

The deeper Forest was cooler beneath the pines.

We had been walking quietly for some time when I noticed you slow down.

Not stop.

Just slow.

Your eyes had shifted from the trail ahead to the ground beside it.

I followed your gaze.

Hoofprints.

Fresh ones.

The earth was still soft around the edges where something heavy had passed through not long before us. A few branches farther ahead had been pushed aside rather than broken, and one still trembled slightly in the breeze.

You crouched and touched the track with two fingers.

“Radstag.”

I looked farther into the trees.

The Forest suddenly seemed quieter.

Not silent.

Just attentive.

You checked the wind.

I checked the slope.

There were enough trees to give us cover, but not enough undergrowth to hide movement if we got careless.

I pointed toward a shallow rise ahead.

“If it crossed here, it probably stayed low on the other side.”

You nodded.

We left the road.

From there, we stopped talking.

The signs came slowly. A print in damp soil. A patch of disturbed moss. A scrape against bark. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to keep pulling us deeper between the trees.

You moved differently when you hunted.

Quieter.

More patient.

The part of you that could spend twenty minutes arguing with a jar of cranberry honey disappeared completely.

The Gauss came off your shoulder.

I brought my shotgun forward and stayed a little behind your right side.

Then you stopped.

I nearly walked into you.

You raised one hand.

There.

Between the trees, grazing in broken shafts of sunlight, stood a radstag.

Two heads, sharing one body.

They moved quietly there.

It was grazing in broken shafts of sunlight, healthy and neither of them seemed particularly concerned about us.

For a while, we just watched.

One head lifted.

The other kept eating.

We shifted in the leaves.

They crunched softly beneath our boots.

The radstag heard us.

It didn’t care.

You raised the Gauss, slowly, patiently, barely moving at all.

Then hesitated.

Your fingers moved to a small dial on the weapon.

You called it PAD—the Phase Aperture Dial.

It was one of your modifications—a way of changing the character of the weapon's discharge. One direction tightened its energy into a concentrated precision shot; the other opened it into something broader and faster.

Funny how, in that slow, intense moment, I remembered a conversation we'd had about your talent for making things, and your knack for giving them names that somehow sounded as though they'd always existed.

Only my Ravyn could do that.

You adjusted it carefully.

The rifle hummed.

The radstag lowered its head.

You fired.

One crack rolled through the forest.

The animal fell instantly.

For several seconds neither of us moved.

Then we approached.

You knelt beside the animal and gently rubbed its forehead.

Before beginning the work, you bowed your head.

"いただきます."

Itadakimasu.

We took only what we needed.

The rest belonged to the forest.

---

Responsibility, Barely

By early afternoon, our packs were heavier with venison and our canteens were getting light.

Then we heard water.

Not much.

Just that faint irregular trickle that didn’t belong to wind or leaves.

You stopped.

I listened.

There it was again.

We followed the sound off the path and found a spring tucked between the pines.

Clear.

Cold.

Bubbling over stone.

You looked at me like we had discovered civilization.

“Water.”

“I can see that.”

“Cold water.”

That apparently made it significantly more important.

For once, I agreed.

We set our packs down beneath a tree, then our weapons beside them where we could still reach them quickly. Neither of us said anything about doing that.

Some habits didn’t require discussion.

I crouched at the edge of the spring and dipped my hands into it.

The cold bit immediately.

Perfect.

I splashed some over my face and neck and felt half the morning disappear with the dust.

You were already filling the canteens.

For a few minutes, everything became very simple.

Cold water.

Shade.

The smell of pine.

Our boots against stone.

Somewhere farther into the trees, a bird called once and then went quiet.

I noticed.

You noticed me noticing.

Neither of us moved for the weapons.

Not yet.

The forest had its own silences. You learned which ones meant peace and which ones meant something nearby was listening.

This one felt harmless enough.

So we let ourselves have the moment.

We washed the grime from our faces and arms. You splashed me once.

I gave you the look.

You did it again.

Naturally.

At some point we ended up sitting beside the spring, close enough that our shoulders kept touching.

Then closer than that.

We had been walking for hours. We smelled like road, venison, sweat, gun oil and probably several things neither of us wanted identified.

Apparently none of that mattered.

At one point, we had to disentangle our tongues from each other and wonder if we shouldn’t be getting back on the path.

I looked toward the trees.

Still quiet.

Then at you.

You were smiling.

That was not helpful.

Eventually, responsibility won.

Barely.

We shouldered our packs again, checked the weapons without needing to say why, and found the trail.

---

Bed & You're Breakfast

We continued east.

By two in the afternoon we had reached Miner's Monument.

From there, the land began changing.

The comfortable green folds of the Forest slowly hardened into the Savage Divide.

And somewhere ahead waited Mountainside Bed & Breakfast.

You said you had heard stories.

It was apparently a lovely place.

Friendly people.

Inviting rooms.

Travelers went inside.

Some never came back out.

The neighbors had noticed.

"Anyone too friendly," you said, "anyone who goes out of their way to offer 'rest'—I'd decline faster than I can say no thanks."

I agreed.

We passed it by. At first, the place looked harmless. Almost inviting. There was an outdoor table and chairs, even a swing.

Then you noticed the windows.

Every one of them had been covered over with what looked like cardboard or plaster.

A little later, you added another possibility.

Raiders, or some other worse faction, posing as friendly settlers. We joked about visitors being curious about what was on the menu, only to find out later that they were it.

We gave the Bed & Breakfast a wide berth.

Some mysteries deserved investigation.

Others deserved being several kilometers behind you before sunset.

---

Dear Eleanor

We were making good time when the sky changed.

At first it was only sound.

Slow.

Heavy.

Wingbeats.

You raised one hand.

Stop.

Then pressed your palm downward.

Stay low.

The air itself began moving around us in heavy waves.

Then came the smell.

Rotten eggs.

Decay.

Something worse. Much worse.

So much so we lost all interest in identifying it.

Above the trees cruised the Scorchbeast Queen.

She wasn't hunting.

She wasn't attacking.

She was simply passing overhead with the effortless arrogance of something that had very few reasons to be afraid of anything beneath it.

We stood.

Once the Queen was far enough away, we started moving again.

Walking at first.

Then broke into a jog.

We had lost time crouched beneath the trees, and Foundation was still a long way ahead.

Our boots struck the road in an uneven rhythm, packs shifting against our backs as the Divide rolled past on either side of us.

You glanced over your shoulder toward the fading shape in the sky.

You looked at me.

There was amusement in your eyes.

"Pssshhh. I could've taken her down with dear Eleanor here."

You patted the Gauss rifle.

I stared at you.

You cracked first.

"Nah, I'm kidding. That breath of hers would've killed me on the spot."

You looked after the Queen.

"What does she eat anyway? Gooosh, that smell—no. Don't answer that. Please."

My attention returned to something else.

“Eleanor?”

You smiled.

I knew that smile.

You had been naming things again.

D.E.A.R.

DEAd Reckoning.

Simple enough.

Then you kept going.

Of course you did.

E.L.E.A.N.O.R.

Electromagnetic Long-range Execution Armament, Nullifying Opposition Relentlessly.

It was like a long strand of vegetable fiber caught in your esophagus.

I slowed to a stop. Mostly because if I hadn’t, I probably would have stumbled.

You looked extremely pleased with yourself.

“I made that up.”

“I know.”

Somehow, that only made you look more pleased.

You patted the rifle affectionately.

"I think I just christened my baby today," you said.

Dear Eleanor had entered the family.

---

Perhaps Lemonade?

Near Mountainside, we faced another decision.

The railway curved south toward Foundation.

Safe footing.

Predictable.

Long.

Or we could cut directly across the mountains and save perhaps half the distance.

You looked at the slopes.

I looked at the slopes.

We looked at each other.

Railway.

"Ikimashou."

The tracks stretched the journey, but there were no cliffs to scramble and no sudden drops beneath our feet. The rhythm of the ties made the Divide easier to bear.

Then a voice nearly knocked us off the tracks.

"WELCOME, WEARY TRAVELERS!"

Both of us spun around.

"What the fucking deity—"

A battered Mr. Handy hovered beside the railway, cheerfully clinging to pre-war programming as though the bombs had merely inconvenienced tourism.

"Ahead lies Foundation, a bastion of civilized folk! Beware the Divide's winged horrors! They do so love to swoop!"

You had recovered enough to ask the important question.

Were there any vendors nearby?

Food?

Supplies?

Perhaps lemonade?

There weren't.

You remembered another Mr. Handy you once encountered somewhere around the region, operating a lemonade stand with all the entrepreneurial sophistication of a sixth grader.

Unfortunately, robots wandered.

The lemonade would have to wait.

I promised to improvise something for us at Foundation.

Cranberry.

Honey.

Maybe lemon.

You expressed concern that combining cranberry and lemon might constitute a new form of gastrointestinal warfare.

That was assuming the “gastro” hadn’t already completely liquidated the “intestinal” walls.

We agreed to experiment carefully.

---

The Rails Turn Gold

Then the rails turned gold.

The sun was dropping.

Every railroad tie caught the dying light like an ember, while shadows pooled beneath the ridges.

The Divide changed with darkness.

Different things hunted at night.

We started picking up the pace until we were nearly running.

Not recklessly.

Steady.

Controlled.

Urgent.

When Foundation's enormous arch finally appeared ahead, I felt something loosen inside me.

Beside me, you let out a breath I hadn't realized you'd been holding.

Of all the giant structures left standing in Appalachia, that was one we would never get tired of seeing.

We reached the bridge just as twilight settled over the mountains.

A Foundation guard spotted us.

"You made it just in time," he said. "Dark's coming fast. You don't want to be caught out there when the wings start circling."

We were almost through the arch.

Almost safe.

Then gunfire erupted behind us.

---

Outside the Gate

A caravan had been coming up the tracks.

Three or four guards.

A brahmin loaded with supplies.

And six irradiated mongrels pouring from the brush.

The Foundation sentry raised his shotgun.

The caravan guards were already firing.

The brahmin bellowed and fought its harness.

"SHOTS FIRED! SHOTS FIRED!"

You shouted toward Foundation's security team and ran back toward the guard.

I was already moving.

Two mongrels broke away from the caravan.

They came in hot toward us fast.

I open fired my double-barrel. It thundered.

One fell.

Then another.

You had already raised Eleanor and aimed.

But you couldn't get a clean shot.

Too much movement.

Too many friendlies.

"I have to get closer."

You moved.

Waited.

The Gauss capacitor charged.

Then the line appeared.

You let one loose.

The round punched through the first mongrel.

Before the animal had even hit the ground, another lunged directly into the path of the same shot.

Both collapsed into the dirt.

For a heartbeat, even the Foundation guard froze.

Then he laughed.

“Hell of a shot! Just in time, indeed.”

You told him you’d calculated it carefully, one eyebrow raised for emphasis.

I just remember the guard looking at you funny.

I was trying very hard not to laugh.

You held it together for maybe two seconds.

Then you laughed.

He laughed with you.

The remaining defenders rallied.

The attack broke.

And for one more night, the Divide stayed outside Foundation's gate.

You looked at me.

Then you did that thing—blew across your fingernails and winked.

My God, that never got old.

You were lucky I had this thing for you.

I had to remind you, though, that I’d dropped two before you’d even finished warming up Eleanor.

---

Foundation Remembers

The caravan guards caught up with us before we disappeared inside.

One came jogging after them, still breathing hard.

He lowered his weapon.

"I had to say it. That shot—two in one. And you, missus, two down with barely a warmup."

He was still breathing hard when he thanked us.

I knew that particular mixture of exhaustion and relief—the guards alive, the cargo intact, the brahmin still on its feet.

Familiar things have a way of finding you again.

"I do this almost every day," he continued. "You didn't just save us. You saved our brahmin, our haul—everything."

He glanced back toward the darkening Divide.

"Foundation owes you guys a drink. But me and my team? We owe you our lives."

Then he repeated the words we'd already heard twice that evening.

"Just in time doesn't even cover it."

We found the hog roaster.

Naturally.

You started work on the venison while I handled everything else, and soon we were sitting at a small table beside the fire with proper plates.

That mattered a lot to you.

You looked at yours.

"This is luxury," you said.

"You live in a house with electricity," I replied.

"This plate matches the other plate."

I looked at mine.

It did.

"Yep. Decadent."

We both laughed.

After enough nights eating in forests, deserts, ruins, and places where you ate with your hands while something else considered eating you, a plate could feel remarkably civilized.

Tonight we'd do it properly.

Then heaven apparently decided proper plates weren't enough.

A broad-shouldered vendor approached our table carrying two frosted bottles.

Cerveza.

Cold.

Rare.

On the house.

He had seen what happened at the gate.

Foundation remembered.

You placed a hand over your chest and nodded your thanks as the man walked away.

Then you raised your bottle toward me.

We toasted the road.

The stag.

The caravan.

Safe walls when you needed them.

And life beyond those walls when you didn't.

Then three musicians wandered onto the stage.

Fiddle.

Guitar.

Voices.

Without introduction, they began playing.

The chorus carried across Foundation.

Raise your glass, sing it loud, We're wasteland folk, we make it proud. Through fire and fear, we won't turn back, Brave hearts dancing on the track.

By the second verse came a line about shotguns thundering and Gauss rounds singing.

You looked at me.

I looked back at you.

I got the feeling we'd somehow become local folklore before we even finished dinner.

We ate until neither of us felt inclined to move.

The heat from the cookfire soaked through my jacket.

Around us, Foundation kept going.

People passed.

Some shook hands with us.

Some tipped their hats and smiled.

Conversations came and went.

Someone laughed loudly near the far side of the courtyard.

For once, nobody needed anything from us.

That lasted approximately one evening.

---

Hot & Steamy Water

Much later, after the music had faded and Foundation had settled into its nighttime hush, we rented a room.

Foundation had hot water.

I wanted a bath.

You wanted sex.

The two weren't related at all, but that's how your brain worked.

So we had sex in the shower.

Okay, we had plenty of sex in the shower.

By lamplight.

Which made it feel romantic.

Afterward, we finally remembered the soap and shampoo, washed properly, and stood under the warm water until the road felt rinsed off us.

By the time we crawled into bed, clean and exhausted, the Savage Divide and everything that had tried to kill us between breakfast and dinner felt very far away.

We slept.

Really slept.

Not wasteland sleep.

Not one-ear-open sleep.

The kind where morning has to come looking for you.

It arrived noisily...with chickens.

And children... laughing... crying.

A woman shouting about how one could burn boiled water.

---

Morning Comes Looking

Morning had already won.

By the time we made it downstairs, Foundation was fully awake.

Hammers.

Boots.

Chickens.

Children.

The same woman's voice still arguing about boiled water.

You found coffee.

I found Bessy.

She was waiting exactly where we expected her.

I gave her a handful of hay. She gladly took it and chewed—ruminated, I suppose, was the more appropriate term.

I handed some more hay to the other head.

They were chewing in unison now.

It still amazed me how two heads could live together in harmony, stuck to a single body, and both be pink at the same time.

You came over carrying two mugs.

“Morning, Bessy.”

One head looked at you.

The other continued chewing.

You handed me my coffee.

“She ready?”

“I think so.”

Bessy offered no opinion.

That was one of the things I liked about her.

We checked the harness and packs we’d arranged for the trip east. Nothing elaborate. Just enough carrying capacity to make the haul from Valley Galleria worthwhile without turning Bessy into a mobile warehouse.

The plan was still the same.

Leave Foundation after breakfast.

Follow the safer route east.

Reach the Mire.

Find Valley Galleria.

Fill the packs with whatever canned goods, preserved food and useful supplies the place was willing to surrender.

Then turn west again.

Simple.

I had already learned what Appalachia thought of that word.

You scratched Bessy gently between the two heads.

“Beans.”

I looked at you.

“Across half of Appalachia.”

“Good beans.”

“That remains to be established.”

You took a sip of coffee.

“Worth investigating.”

Bessy kept chewing.

Apparently she was staying neutral.

I looked east.

The mountains gave way eventually. Beyond them waited wetter ground, thicker trees, bad visibility and the Mire.

Different terrain.

Different problems.

I was already rearranging the route in my head.

Then someone behind us said your name.

Paige.

And just like that, Valley Galleria would have to wait.

To Be Continued...