coffin-like boxes that contained what was left of Jas and Kir vibrated gently in tune with the hum of tires on tarmac. Both of the bodies were forever merged with their armor systems, host and symbiont inseparable even in death.
The final box wasn’t quite as peaceful, though. Had the men placed with the containers not been so busy speculating about what exactly they were guarding, they might’ve heard a thin scratching from the inside. Had the interior of the cargo area not been so dimly lit, they might’ve noticed the tiny crack that opened up at the bottom of the metal crate, or the stream of what looked like quicksilver oozing from the fracture and through a gap in the floorboards. However, it was dark and the men didn’t have orders to stay silent, so System Six managed to slip out unnoticed.
The renegade bone rider clung to the undercarriage of the truck until every last bit of him was free of Rik’s charred body and what he thought was some kind of alien corpse-carrying-box, and then he dropped to the ground with a soft, liquid sound and lay still. The rear guard passed right over him, but the driver didn’t recognize the significance of what to him looked like a puddle on the otherwise dry road. No alarm rang out, nor the squeal of brakes. After a while, the taillights of the trucks disappeared in the night.
System Six was free.
FIVE
IT WAS just past midnight when a battered, black pickup truck crested the hill not far from where the military convoy had lost part of its unusual cargo. The truck had seen better days, but its engine ran smoothly and its tires ate the miles with a monotonous, satisfying hum. Like its driver, the truck was used to being on the road, accustomed to the endless band of highway in front and behind and the changing scenery rushing by in patterns of stillness and motion. The hands that held the wheel were big and steady, scarred from working and fighting, gentle enough to soothe a skittish yearling and dexterous enough to perform all the nifty bottle acrobatics expected from a big-city bartender. The feet working the pedals were protected by a pair of comfortably worn-in biker boots, as hardy and reliable as their owner. The rest of the trim, wide-shouldered body lounging on the scuffed leather of the driver’s side bench seat was wrapped in sun-bleached denim and a Southern Screw employee shirt that smelled of smoke, sweat, and faintly of spilled alcohol.
Had the circumstances been different, Riley Cooper might’ve enjoyed this late-night drive. He was a man who appreciated being on the road, took pleasure in going places and discovering new things. With no family left to tie him down, no home but the memories of what had been, Riley had spent most of his adult life drifting across the continental United States like tumbleweed. He didn’t need much to be, if not happy, then at least content.