The whiskey sat untouched. Arlen studied the amber liquid, watched it catch the lamplight. Three glasses. Three men. One lie rotting between them.
"Cache went quiet six months ago," Tommy said, unfolding a terrain map across the table. His finger traced a route south through the mountains. "Trader came through last week. Said he'd spotted the signal marker—old Firefly frequency."
Joel shifted in his chair. "What kind of cache?"
"Medical supplies. Maybe weapons." Tommy's voice stayed level. "Maybe nothing."
Arlen leaned forward, studied the coordinates on the map. His chest tightened. The numbers matched the torn paper in his pocket—close enough to make his hands sweat.
"Salt Lake fringe," he said. "That's contested territory."
"Which is why I need someone who knows the ground." Tommy's eyes found his. "You mapped that sector. Before."
*Before. When people trusted my routes. When my routes got them killed.*
"I work alone."
Joel's glass hit the table harder than necessary. "Not this time."
"Tommy—"
"No." Tommy held up his hand. "Too much risk. Too much unknown." He gestured toward Joel. "He goes, or you don't."
Arlen felt the walls closing in. The torn coordinates burned in his pocket like a brand. He could walk away. Should walk away. Let someone else chase ghosts through Firefly graveyards.
But the map called to him. The empty spaces that needed filling.
"I lead," he said finally. "No questions about my routes. No detours."
Joel's smile was winter-thin. "We'll see."
---
The planning room smelled of old coffee and diesel fuel. Maps covered every surface—hand-drawn sketches, faded FEDRA surveys, satellite photos from before the outbreak. Tommy spread their route across the largest table, anchored the corners with coffee mugs.
"Straight shot would be here." He traced a line southeast. "But that cuts through the burned zones."
Arlen pulled out his notebook, flipped to a page covered in red ink. "Burned zones are clear now. It's the recovery areas you worry about." His pen moved across Tommy's map, marking corrections. "Here—flooded out. Here—infected migration route. This bridge is gone."
Joel watched him work. "How do you know?"
"I know."
"That's not an answer."
Arlen's pen stopped. He looked up, met Joel's stare. "I've been there."
"When?"
"Does it matter?"
"Everything matters."
Tommy coughed. "Gentlemen. The cache."
Arlen returned to the map. Drew a careful line around a cluster of red X's. "Glade Creek Safehouse. Likely burned. Don't count on shelter there."
Joel leaned closer. "Firefly safehouse?"
"Was."
"What happened to it?"
Arlen's pen traced another mark. Then another. The map filled with corrections—routes that died, shelters that fell, bridges that collapsed under the weight of too many secrets.
"Same thing that happened to all of them," he said.
---
Dawn crept through the gear depot windows like a thief. Arlen worked by lamplight, checking and double-checking his pack. Compass. Water purification tablets. Compact pistol with three magazines. Everything worn smooth by years of use.
Joel appeared in the doorway, carrying a duffel bag that looked military-issue. He set it on the table, began laying out his gear with mechanical precision. Rifle. Ammunition. Field dressings. A revolver that looked older than the outbreak.
"How long you been doing this?" Joel asked, not looking up.
"Doing what?"
"Mapping. Running routes."
Arlen folded his spare shirt, tucked it into his pack. "Long enough."
Joel swapped out Arlen's compass for his own—a brass piece with scratches along the rim. "Mine works better."
"What's wrong with mine?"
"Nothing. Maybe." Joel pocketed the old compass. "But mine's been tested."
Arlen watched him work. Every movement deliberate. Every item checked twice. A man who'd survived by trusting nothing and no one.
"You don't trust me," Arlen said.
"Should I?"
"No."
Joel paused, looked up. Something shifted in his expression—surprise, maybe, or recognition. "At least you're honest."
"Honesty's cheaper than lies."
"Not always."
Arlen shouldered his pack, tested the weight. Everything balanced. Everything ready. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Joel slung his rifle across his back. "Means we understand each other."
---
The stable yard stretched empty in the morning light. Their horses stood saddled and ready—two mares, both past their prime but steady. Arlen preferred the bay. Joel took the chestnut without comment.
A girl ran across the yard, maybe twelve years old, braids bouncing. She pressed something into Joel's hand—a small pouch, roughly stitched.
"From Ellie," she said. "She said you'd know what it's for."
Joel studied the pouch, then tucked it into his jacket. "Tell her thanks."
The girl nodded and ran back toward the main settlement. Joel watched her go, something soft flickering across his face before the mask slipped back into place.
Tommy appeared at the gate, rifle cradled in his arms. "Weather's turning. Storm coming in from the west."
"We'll outrun it," Arlen said, checking his stirrups.
"And if you don't?"
"Then we get wet."
Tommy's expression hardened. "If this turns dirty—if it's a trap—you come back without pride. Just alive."
Joel swung into his saddle. "Understood."
"Both of you."
Arlen mounted his horse, settled into the familiar weight of the pack behind him. The map crinkled in his jacket pocket. The torn coordinates. The numbers that matched their destination.
*40.7589° N, 111.8883° W.*
*Salt Lake. Firefly ground. The place where everything ended.*
"Ready?" Tommy asked.
Arlen nodded. Joel said nothing.
The gate creaked open. Beyond lay the wild—burned forests and empty roads, scattered bones and buried secrets. The place where maps ended and memory began.
They rode through the gate in silence.
---
The trail wound southeast through broken country. Scorched wheat fields stretched to the horizon, dotted with rusted farm equipment and toppled fences. A farmhouse sat collapsed beside the road, roof caved in, windows blown out by some long-ago explosion.
Joel rode point for the first mile. Then he slowed, let Arlen pass him. Neither spoke. The horses' hooves drummed against cracked asphalt.
Wind picked up from the west. Dark clouds gathered along the mountain peaks. The storm Tommy had warned about, building strength.
"How far to the cache?" Joel asked.
"Two days. Maybe three, depending on the route."
"What route?"
Arlen pointed south, toward a line of bare hills. "Creek bed cuts through there. Less open ground."
"More cover for ambush, too."
"Everything's a risk."
Joel spurred his horse closer. "What aren't you telling me?"
"About what?"
"The cache. The coordinates. Why you're really doing this."
Arlen felt the torn map burning in his pocket. The coordinates he'd found without remembering how. The numbers that led back to Salt Lake, back to the place where Firefly dreams went to die.
"Sometimes a job is just a job," he said.
Joel's laugh held no humor. "Nothing's ever just a job, Tracer."
Thunder rolled across the hills. The first drops of rain spattered against their jackets. In the distance, lightning flickered between the clouds.
"Storm's catching up," Joel said.
Arlen urged his horse forward. "Then we better move."
They crested a hill, and the burned lands spread below them—miles of scarred earth and twisted metal, the bones of a world that died twenty years ago. Somewhere out there, in the ruins and the shadows, a cache waited. Medical supplies, maybe. Weapons. Maybe nothing.
Or maybe something worse.
"We'll cut south by the creek bed," Arlen said. "Less open terrain."
Joel muttered under his breath: "If you say so, Tracer."
The rain began in earnest. They pulled up their hoods and rode into the storm, two men bound by mistrust and necessity, following a map toward a destination neither fully understood.
Behind them, Jackson disappeared into the gray. Ahead lay the wasteland—and whatever secrets it chose to reveal.