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Lektra was taking her turn driving the freedom bus when Noni broke the monotony of the old diesel engine cranking down I-55. They called it the freedom bus because calling it what it so obviously was, a gray, barricaded, retrofit county prison bus, ‘generated negative feedback’ from the people they were saving with it. They had just left Tupelo with a number of dirty but relieved types and were headed down 55 when the other woman’s voice pierced the static on their radios. She was really talking to the leader of their little operation, but it was an open channel.

               “S.O.S. from Shreveport,” was the message.

               Lektra set her elbows just inside the enormous wheel and leaned forward to look at the sky. The sun was trying to set early behind a bank of dense clouds and shadows were hanging heavy from dense woods waiting just off the interstate route. The freedom bus was in the center of the formation, with two vehicles following the trailer the bus was towing and two vehicles leading, fog lights and high beams projecting and bouncing off of everything. Each vehicle was loaded down with tools and supplies, each with either campers on their roofs or tents crowding their back windows. Warner Cross’ band were nomads, and they went by the name of Orphan Hill.

               “We’re stopping,” Warner Cross had probably looked like an average man once, unremarkable in his physical dimensions and even pleasant about his slate gray eyes and small nose, with his dark blonde hair and olive complexion. Before the bombs fell and the world lost most of its human population. He probably had hair on the top of his head back then, too, and not just outlining his jaw. He probably had a dad bod, fattening just a bit more at the year turn as he swelled slowly in anticipation of early retirement. But none of the survivors who followed him were his blood kin, and none of them knew where the man’s family had gone. Lektra had her theories and Tommy had his and none of them were happy stories.

               They stopped the caravan in a place where the signs read Winona. They didn’t circle the vehicles; they were just stopping for a face to face. Lektra turned around in the penance seat, a misshapen duct taped mess filled with phone books that everyone took a turn on. She stared into the smallish group of terrified looking survivors. She made sure to take the keys.

               “Won’t be long, we’re just stopping here for a quick conference before moving on,”

               An adult man, in a torn flannel shirt that wasn’t quite torn enough for charity, stood up. He rose slowly, afraid maybe of seeming unappreciative to his family’s saviors. “H-how long?” and he looked around, out of the freedom bus windows as if whatever had been chasing them was right outside.

               “Patience is still a virtue even in these trying times,” and with that she exited the bus, hopping over the very last step.

               The others had already gathered around Cross, who was kneeling to check something on the trailer. He stood to move on Lektra’s approach, aware of the whites of the eyes in the rear-facing bus windows.

               “Is it legit?” First things first.

               Noni was a young woman that either didn’t know she was pretty or didn’t care. She wore the same assortment of police tactical gear as the rest of them, but hers were all a size too large. Her fingers only peeked from the sleeves of her shirt when she pecked at her devices. In casual times, she also let her hair fall into her face, choosing to blow her bangs out of her vision. It was cute.

               “It is,” puff at her hair. “They’re from Dallas. Didn’t go south with the others, heard about Connor so they came east.”

               “But,” Cross’ voice had the right amount of gravel in it to make him sound rugged, but not sickly.

               “You want to know why they can’t just keep moving,” Tommy almost always talked to Cross like he was taking notes during a lecture. It wasn’t the man’s most annoying habit, but there were a lot to choose from.

               “But,” Noni took pride in her ability at logistics, and she didn’t like others crowding in on her time, “they think they’re being tracked by Strangers. Little info, they sound like they’re losing it.”

               Lektra sighed with purpose for her contribution to the conversation.

               “How far?”

               Noni paused for only a moment. “Just down 55 and west on 20. Couple hours.” She looked like she wasn’t going to say anything at first, her lips pressing thin. She frowned, then she squinted, then, “we have to cross the river, and it’s less people than we have with us now.”

               Lektra glanced at Brannon, the newest member, though not an orphan.

               “We’ll drive to the bridge,” Cross pulled his sidearm like a reminder, ejected the clip and stared at the stack of rounds in the dying light. “If it’s out, we’ll give them some advice.”

               “If it’s still there we’ll help,” Tommy was a hard worker. At sucking up.

               “Check your fuel, drink some water,” Cross was already walking away, speaking over his shoulder.

               Lektra was turning, too, and was not surprised when a moment later, Brannon fell in line beside her.

               “You abandon people sometimes?” he hadn’t grown up on the road.

               “We help everyone,” she could look him in the eye because she was tall and his last growth spurt was taking its time. “What changes case by case is what the help is.”

               South on 55 and east on 20, just like Noni prescribed. The highway crossed the Mississippi River south of Vicksburg, and it was not a short skip. They all disembarked again, this time Lektra had to field questions about why they weren’t going east anymore. She went with her imitation of Cross’ death stare, the one he gave out when he caught people misusing tools.

               The problem with most bridges was that they were falling apart even before everything else crumbled. The tools were there, laying about silent warehouses and behind rusted fences. But people had other problems those days far above pot holes. The bridge problem meant that any route would be best if it crossed no overpasses. That was a great way to die, or be stranded, which was like dying, but slower. The problem with the bridge before them was it was long enough that some sections could be fine, and then somewhere in the middle it was ripe to give someone a really bad day.

               “How far?”

               Noni puffed at her hair. “How far what?” Sometimes she liked to make others work.

               “How far is it to Shreveport?”

               She made a face, but it was dark, and even with flashlights, Cross was looking at the bridge. She worked her mojo. Tap, tap, tap. “It’s 160 miles.”

               Lektra knew what Cross was thinking. They had dirt bikes set up if they needed to ignore the main roads, travel quick in a straight line. Those would cross the bridge with no trouble, but they weren’t good for longer stretches, and could only retrieve survivors at one a bike. They couldn’t take the freedom bus. It was the heart of their operation. It had the extra food and extra gas and could hold them all in a pinch. It was also towing the trailer, currently.

               “Which truck is the lightest?”

Noni was already sitting down, her frustrated expression glowing from the illumination of her computer screen. She liked to complain, but she was the only one of them who could do what she could do, and she was always getting random queries, so maybe she had a right. In a few minutes, she had ballparked the safest maximum weight of a vehicle to cross. They had been to DC more than once and helped themselves to all sorts of building records and survey reports. Noni’s computer was the brain that put feasibility to Cross’ imaginings, and she was the only one who could operate it with any efficiency.

               “Blue should be safe,” her voice was quiet, “in theory. With two passengers,” she was quick to add.

               “Stay here,” Cross was talking to Tommy.

               “What, but,” and he had his arm half raised to point at Lektra.

               She wondered how Cross would react if she shot the man dead for even insinuating that she weighed more than him. It might be the apocalypse, but she was still a lady.

               “You’ll need two cars if you want to bring them all,” Noni closed her laptop and stood up. She looked Lektra in the face. “The rest are all about the same weight.”

               “Brannon,” Cross held Tommy with his gaze for an extra moment, “go get Barb.” Then he looked at Lektra. “You follow me in Blue.”

               She nodded. It wasn’t really an honor that he chose her to maybe go off and die with him, but it didn’t feel too bad. She and Tommy were the two candidates to lead when the old man finally hung it up. Then again, no one really knew how old Warner Cross was. He was spry enough to be in his 40s.

               They backtracked two towns over to a motel visible from the road. Then they did circle things up. Lektra played up the chance for a soft bed and warm shower with the inmates of the freedom bus before driving away. Whatever. It was Tommy’s problem.

               Cross didn’t provide a contingency for if they didn’t come back, at least not where any of them could hear. She had to assume he had another conversation with Tommy, and she imagined the other man trying to hold back his excitement. She did not like the idea of him touching Red.

               Cross had her follow at a long distance and took Barb with him. Lektra felt bad for the girl. She had been with the group for over two years, but Lektra suspected the young woman had ignorant motives like romance or adventure.

               “I think I get it, now,” Brannon was with her. Brannon was usually with her. She and Tommy both had new members they were supposed to be looking after, but it really seemed to her that her trainees were more clingy than Tommy’s.

               “Oh?”

               “The river is a natural barrier,” he frowned into the darkness, “my dad had debated blowing it when he first came into power.  I was wondering what made it so important, but there must not be that many ways to cross, coming directly from Nevada,”

               Lektra couldn’t decide if she disliked the kid or didn’t care for him at all.

               There was no real suspense on the bridge. Cross was ahead, far ahead, in a heavier vehicle. If her truck went under, it would just be bad luck, and there was little to do about that. Still, when the tires went from asphalt to steel, the road noise changed, and her hands gripped tighter to the wheel. She focused on the pin points of light pointing at the back of Cross’ transport, a pickup retrofit with a sleeper on top and a camper section in back.

               When she reached the other side, she realized she hadn’t much been breathing. She exhaled and glanced over at Brannon. The young man looked completely unfazed. Dislike.

               The next clip they cleared in less than two hours. There were no state patrols to monitor speed limits and the flat stretch was mostly empty of cars. She never admitted it out loud, but she liked that change to the world.

               They parked a street away and scoped the place first. The survivors had holed up in a sporting goods store that was on the upper level of a tiered shopping plaza. Cross radioed that they were close, and confirmed some facts of who they were and what they were up to. It was seven people in all, led by a husband and wife, and through lenses from a distance they could mostly confirm the story. The group included the couple’s two teenage children and was rounded out by the three others that had decided running was better than fighting the army of a goddess. Cross told the survivors what vehicles to look for, and names of rescuers. They did a cursory sweep, low speed, lights off, before pulling into the parking lot and making themselves known. Strangers came in as many different flavors as dogs, but the giants were easy enough to spot. They were enormous, furry, and some even had antlers. If something was hunting these people, it was one of the subtler breeds.

               The first part of just about every rescue interview went smoothly. People were just happy that someone else cared, that they and theirs weren’t alone in a big, dangerous world. It reminded Lektra of the refugee crises from the 20-teens. She was in grade school at the time, so things didn’t make a whole lot of sense until later. 

               The husband and wife, married ministers, shook Cross’ hand. They shook Lektra’s. It was a vigorous and relieved gathering.

               “Get everyone down here,” Cross wasn’t one for mincing words. “It’s time to go.”

               The couple looked at each other. “Well, we can’t exactly, or rather, we shouldn’t.”

               The second part of just about every rescue interview went about like this, too. People were scared they’d be discarded, or passed over, so they hid their truth. If they needed to be carried, if they were sick, if they had more kids with them than they let on.

               “We think there’s a werewolf among us,”

               Brannon hadn’t lost family, or had to console the family of lost friends. Before joining Orphan Hill, he didn’t know a thing about the outside and the road. He still drew his pistol first.

               Lektra was reaching, but also looked at Cross, whose eyes were on the moon. It was only at half.

               “No, wait,” the wife had her hands in front of her.

               “It isn’t us,” the husband was halfway in front of her, but only halfway. “We swear.”

               “Tell me again about the others,” Cross stepped in close.

               “There are three others, besides our children,” and they started to try to piece together the origin story of their frightened group, and kept talking even when Cross moved away.

               “Stay here, Barb,” Lektra almost had to reach out to absolve the girl’s confusion as to what was happening. “He’s fine to check alone.” Actually, he was fine, period. Lektra had taken her shotgun, who she liked to refer to as Gus, from her back. She wasn’t pointing it any one, but the safety was off. They were less fine. Lunatics, werewolves, were shapeshifters compelled by the moon. They were always a little stronger, a little faster than the average Jane, but under a full moon they turned into razor-y furballs and ate people in their vicinity. A single scratch, not just a bite, was enough to pass the curse on. The good news is that not everyone survived the process. The bad news was that the ones that did were already pretty fit to begin with. Plus fleeing survivors made poor sleuths. Scattered, frightened, exhausted people in the night would come across one another in the aftermath, not knowing who was the killer among them. They’d band together out of necessity, or rather a lack of pragmatism. It’s difficult to put a bullet in someone that’s starting to look like family. Stranger danger had taken on different meaning. Just like god-fearing.

               “What are you going to do?” the husband wanted to know.

               Lektra looked at him, wondering if he really wanted to hear them say it.

               “We’re going to find the monster in your midst, and we’re going to kill it,”