“Buck the fuck up, chica,” Tule said. For the first time, Sasha heard real anger and not just cold indifference in her voice. The other woman continued. “My best friend was just shot to pieces. My lover is bleeding out. And you’re all fucked up because you gunned down some Christo­fascist shitfuck. Suck your heart into your guts. I don’t know where you came from, girl, but you’re in a hard-ass part of the world now. It’s time to fortify.”

Fortify.

Sasha held onto that word like a life preserver. Fortify. Survive. Then you can lose your head in tears and shame.

“OK,” she nodded. She started to apologize, but was interrupted when the truck screeched to another sudden halt and threw everyone forward. Sasha’s head hit the front seat again and her world dissolved into stars.

“SHIT!” Tule cried. Something rammed the rear of the truck. Sasha lost all orientation to reality. When her head and eyes cleared, the first thing she saw was Tule, nursing a broken nose. Blood poured down her face. Manny seemed intact. Sasha looked behind them and saw that a small sedan had dashed itself against the bed of their truck. It must have been following right behind when Tule hit the brakes. Sasha swung her eyes front to see why they’d stopped.

She saw Roland.

He stood maybe ten feet in front of the truck’s hood. That arm-­razor of his was extended again, but the blade was cracked and half shattered. His other hand held some sort of large black assault rifle he hadn’t been carrying in the jail. The pistol-grip grenade launcher he’d been carrying was still with him, but he’d holstered it in an open hole in his belly.

The left side of his cheek had been ripped away. Most of his hair was burnt off and Sasha made out at least one clear bullet hole in his forehead. There might have been more: all the caked-on blood and gore made it hard to discern. His clothing had mostly been shot, burned, or torn away. The dominant colors on his body were red and black, with a few horrible spots of white where bone shone through in the open air.

The city behind him was all smoke and fire. Emergency lights from several vehicles blinked madly in the miasma, but there were no Martyrs or emergency workers visible. At least, none that were standing. Sasha saw several terribly still bodies lying among the piles of rubble.

Roland staggered toward the truck and flung the passenger’s side door open. He slumped into the seat, bringing with him an overpowering stink of blood and fire. He leaned back in his seat and took three long breaths. And then he spoke.

“The way ahead’s pretty clear,” he said. “But you might want to hang a right and then take a left. Avoid the traffic.”