Chapter 6: Ash Roads and Sunfire
The desert morning unfurled like a living furnace, the sky bleeding orange and crimson as the sun's molten gaze ignited the horizon. Adam Rook stood beside the war rig, its massive treads half-buried in bone-dry sand, and flexed the gauntlet wrapped around his left hand. Streaks of dried sweat ran down his dusty face, the heat stinging his eyes as he tightened the final strap on his patched, reinforced vest. Wind-thrashed dust devils whipped around him, carrying the acrid scent of scorched earth and rusted metal.
Nia crouched at the rear of the rig, her dark eyes sweeping the sun-beaten metal as she carefully topped off the last of their three dented jerrycans. The hiss of escaping fuel and air droned softly around her as she secured the cap. "We have exactly three full jugs," she reported, voice crisp and steady despite the heat.
"Enough for a one-way trip," she added, closing the gasoline container with a twist.
Adam nodded, his gaze flicking to the endless horizon. The map's sunburst glyph—Vault 9X?—hovered in his thoughts like both a promise and a warning. He ran a hand along the leather pouch at his waist, feeling the folded map and the little cloth token stitched by Nia inside. "Ready?" he asked quietly, turning to look at her.
Nia rose, dust streaking from her knees as she stood. She surveyed the route ahead, shading her eyes with the edge of her scavenged scarf. "We might not know each other," she replied, "but this map's all we've got. Let's see if it leads somewhere real—or burns us out there." Adam allowed a grim half-smile at her words.
He climbed into the driver's seat. The war rig—an armored beast of steel and scrap—was alive even before the engine coughed.
When Adam turned the ignition, it bellowed to life, roaring in a tortured cry and belching a thick plume of black soot into the pale dawn sky. He eased the rig into gear; wheels chirped against the ash-streaked highway beneath them. Above, the tattered canvas canopy rattled in protest as the morning sun hammered through, and Adam felt the heat wrap around him like a living creature.
The rig shuddered over the cracked ribbon of tarmac. Former highways had collapsed into fractured veins of concrete, but Adam steered on undeterred. He slid his left hand to the gauntlet's small control console, fingers hovering over the buttons. A warning blinked on the HUD: Temperature 44°C. He pressed a switch, sending a fine spray of mist into the gauntlet's vents. The internal coolant hissed in response, inching the gauge lower — but the engine still growled under the strain.
Dust devils trailed them like hungry phantoms, kicking up clouds of grit in their wake. Inside the cabin, the scent of burnt oil and scorched earth was heavy and oppressive. Adam's eyes remained fixed on the road ahead. Charred skeletons of long-abandoned vehicles littered the shoulders: rusted semis slanted into dunes, overturned buses half-buried in sand, and twisted steel carcasses of unknown origin. He jerked the wheel to avoid a jagged slab of concrete, each clatter reverberating through the war rig's frame.
Nia rode shotgun, perched behind the turret hatch with one boot propped on the dashboard and her shotgun resting across her lap. Her goggles shimmered with the haze and sweat of the morning. Though the roar of the rig drowned out most sound, an unspoken understanding passed between them: fuel was precious, trust was earned, and every mile here was a gamble.
The dashboard indicator blinked steadily: Distance to Vault 9X — 120 kilometers — and Fuel at 100%. Adam bit his lip. The road ahead was long and unforgiving.
"How far?" Nia finally asked, her voice muffled by the engine's din. Adam flipped the HUD's nav overlay into view.
"About forty clicks to Echo Point, then eighty or so to 9X," he replied. "We'll stop at Echo Point for a water check and any spare parts. If everything holds, we push on."
She gave a brief nod, tightening her scarf against a sudden breeze. "Echo Point's supposed to be a friendly trading hub, right? At least by rumor. We might find water or parts there."
"Exactly why we go there first," Adam said, feeling the weight of her gaze. "Any advantage we can get."
By midday, they crossed a stretch of bleached salt flats so brilliant it felt like staring into the heart of the sun. Adam flipped the rig's visor to tinted mode, and the HUD's auto sun-filter flared to life, casting the world in an amber haze. The air above the flats rippled with heat; distant rock formations wavered and smeared like watercolor, as though the desert itself were breathing.
He thought of his mother's workshop — cool chrome surfaces, the hiss of a soldering torch, and the hum of fans spinning to keep things cool. Here, there were no fans. Only the wasteland's hot breath pressed down on them. This is the crucible, he reminded himself. Everything out here is tested by fire.
Adam steered around a crumbling slab of concrete half-sunk in the salt. Along the roadside, fragments of the past lay scattered: a ragged stuffed doll splayed beneath a bone-white skull, a bullet-riddled license plate, and the glitter of broken glass from a vanished bottle. Nia leaned forward, her eyes squinting at a tiny toy car melted into the rim of a steel rim.
"Graveyard," she muttered, shading her eyes. "Reminder that hope dies out here."
Adam kept one gloved hand on the wheel and tightened his grip. He inhaled through his scarf, tasting the dust and rust. "Then we bury fear and keep going," he said, voice low but steady. The war rig's engine growled in agreement as they rumbled onward across the shimmering plain.
The mid-afternoon sun blazed as they left the town far behind. Adam eased the war rig into a steady gear, but something in his bones pricked. Out of the corner of his eye, two specks appeared on the horizon, moving erratically.
Nia saw them too. "Vehicles up ahead," she warned, tension creeping into her voice. Adam's stomach tightened.
"Bandits," he muttered.
Without another word, he stomped the accelerator. The war rig lunged forward, tires shredding gravel and kicking up sand. The two dots quickly resolved into a pair of gutted dune buggies hurtling over a rise. Four ragged figures clad in stitched leather and scrap-metal armor leaned out, crude long-barrel rifles trained on them.
"Hold on!" Adam yelled.
Nia swiveled the turret. "Right on target!" she shouted and squeezed the trigger of the mounted shotgun. A deafening blast spat flame and lead. One buggy's front wheel erupted in a spray of sand as Nia's aim found its mark. The buggy fishtailed, then veered violently off the road.
Adam weaved the rig in a wide arc. Loose rocks and gravel churned under the wheels, sending the cabin into rattling shudders. Another burst of buckshot from Nia caught the lead buggy. Its engine stuttered and white smoke puffed from the rear. With a final cough, it rolled to a halt in a cloud of sand.
The second buggy was still charging. The bandit at its wheel leaned out and fired a wild shot. Adam felt a sharp sting on his forearm through the cab wall — a shotgun pellet had grazed the paint. Infuriated, he pressed a hand to the gauntlet's controls. A bright blue pulse shot out from his wrist-mounted device, crackling in mid-air. The baffling energy struck the charging buggy's engine and it died with a final shriek.
Silence fell over the deserted highway. The remaining figures on the ground — two buggies down, two riders unconscious — scrambled to their feet. They made no move to pursue and the buggies lay disabled on the sand.
Nia climbed down and checked her shotgun, picking spent shells from the ground. Adam swung the rig around and killed the engine. The desert wind blew the lingering dust away. From here, all was empty and still.
He stepped outside. Beneath the fading sun, Adam surveyed the damage. The rig had taken a few rounds — dents peppered the front grill and one bent fender — but it was survivable. A few puffs of oil leaked from the bullet puncture, but nothing critical. More alarming was how easily they had turned out the bandits.
"Everyone okay?" Adam called out, rubbing the scrape on his arm. The hot blood quickly dried. Nia gave a short laugh as she approached.
"I'm fine," she said, checking the recoil pad on her shotgun. "Wouldn't let them get near my rig." She cracked a half-smile.
Adam tapped the fuel gauge: down to 22%. Better than he feared after the climb. He took a deep breath, relieved by the quiet. "Let's keep going. We're lucky to be here."
"Yeah," Nia agreed. "Too close for comfort."
He climbed back in. The war rig idled contentedly. With a final glance at the horizon — now empty and innocent again — Adam turned the key. They rolled on down the abandoned highway, their hearts still pounding.
Mid-afternoon sun beat down relentlessly as they crept up a steep incline. Adam downshifted; the war rig strained, gear upon gear clunking in protest. Loose scree cascaded under their wheels, forcing the engine to roar louder, feeding on every remaining joule of power. Sweat carved tracks down Adam's back as he worked the massive wheel.
Nia watched from the turret, scanning the distant skyline. Ancient red mesas and sandstone spires sharpened against the sky. Heat rippled the air. "We're close," she said quietly, more to herself. "I can feel it."
Adam felt likewise. Something lay just beyond that next rise. He thought of Nia's steady eyes and the map's relentless promise. He pressed on the accelerator. The rig groaned uphill, tires clawing at the rock.
Suddenly, the war rig jolted over an unseen dip. Gravel tumbled off the road in a small cascade. Adam's heart jumped. "Woah—" he swore, gripping the wheel as the rig rocked. Nia steadied her shotgun mount instinctively. "You okay?" he asked, voice tight.
"Yeah," she panted back. "Just keep going."
Adam took the wheel again. One final push.
When the rig's front tires crested the top, it was as if they burst out of a pressure cooker. Ahead stretched a vast panorama: endless dunes fading into dust and sky. He guided the war rig around a final bend into a shallow alcove carved by wind and time — the precise spot marked on their battered map.
Engine rattling, Adam killed the ignition and climbed down. The heat washed over him, dry and absolute. Nia followed, crunching down to the hard-packed earth.
They stood together at the lip of the plateau. Far below, the desert plain vanished into emptiness. Nothing stirred — only their own ragged breaths. Directly ahead, woven into the rock, stood three tall, slender stone pillars. Three towers of sandstone, windswept and bleached, exactly aligned with the coordinates.
Adam placed a hand on one pillar. The surface was warm from the sun. "This is it," he said softly, even though it echoed far. The gauntlet on his wrist hummed beneath his palm.
Nia came to his side, looking up. "This map was right," she observed, eyes steady. "They stand just like in the drawing."
He inhaled the scorching air. The distance to Vault 9X was done — or at least this map's promise was fulfilled. "We make camp here," he decided aloud. "We move closer at dawn. At first light, we search every inch."
Nia nodded, resting her hands on her hips. "And if it's empty?" Her voice was calm but wary.
Adam met her gaze. "Then we cross that desert on foot, or find another tomorrow. We'll do what we have to — together," he answered, touching her shoulder with quiet conviction. "Our promise stands."
She looked back at the pillars, then turned to him with a soft smile. "I'll stick around," she said. "Only because I believe in that promise of yours."
Adam managed a tired smile. "Thank you, Nia." Together they walked back to the war rig. The beaten but unbroken vehicle — its fuel now low, its spirit intact — waited for whatever came next.
Night fell quickly. Adam used tarps and spare sheet metal to rig a lean-to between the pillars and the war rig, blocking the chill north wind. Nia gently fed a small thermal coil with fresh charge cells. It sparked and glowed orange, humming softly — the only warmth apart from their shared body heat.
They sat side by side on the rig's flatbed, sharing the last of their rations: brittle protein bars and a few sips of cool water. In the flickering coil-light, their faces were tired but resolute. Overhead, the sky fractured into a riot of stars. With no city lights to compete, every star was brilliant, and Adam could even make out the hazy trail of the Milky Way overhead.
Adam pulled the map from his pouch one last time. The sunburst glyph marked in black ink still stared back at him. He traced the circle of that vault symbol carefully with a callused fingertip. "Tomorrow," he whispered.
Nia leaned back, her eyes heavy. "Tomorrow," she echoed quietly, managing a small yawn.
They both gave the map a final glance and then tucked it away. The desert night was silent but alive — a distant coyote's howl, a faint scuttle in the rocks, the ever-present hum of the world cooling. Adam lay back, closing his eyes as the sky wheeled overhead. The gauntlet on his wrist pulsed gently against his palm, a lullaby to keep him alert.
If dawn revealed nothing, he thought, the lesson would be resilience. And they had enough of that to keep moving forward.
As the desert exhaled its cold breath, Adam drifted off under the watchful pillars — dreaming of what dawn would unearth.
And in the silence of that desert night, the dust roads held their breath, waiting to see if hope would rise with the sun.