The afternoon sun beat down on Sarah and John as they stood on the north side of the stream. Ranger lazily sipped from the clear, quiet water nearby.

Sarah looked past John towards his convoy, the heat distorting the air between them. She glanced behind her. Captain Kimsey was well out of earshot and a good distance away on the south side of the stream.

She turned back to John and spoke.

“Full disclosure: right now I care more about preventing a firefight than I do about opening those containers.”

John’s gaze never left hers. He nodded towards the guardsmen behind her. “Then tell them to let us take our stuff and leave.”

Sarah pulled out a handkerchief to wipe the sweat from her forehead, a gust tugging it and a loose strand of her hair back toward the stream and the guardsmen beyond it.

“They’re not going to listen unless I can convince them.” She cleared her throat. “I think I can do that, but I need you to answer a few questions first.”

John shook his head and dropped his gaze. “I’m going to give you what I can, but this is our property and we’re going to get it, one way or another.”

Sarah shifted. “Well that’s not menacing at all.”

He shrugged.

She pressed him. “Who are you, and what’s in the shipment? You were clearly the only ones expecting it, coming with a forklift, but that doesn’t mean it’s yours or that you aren’t cartel.”

John reached into his back pocket and pulled out a wallet and a folded-up piece of paper. He handed her his driver’s license. The old hologram still shimmered when she tilted it toward the sun. It didn’t mean much these days, but it was something.

“It says your name is Parker Ellison,” Sarah noted.

“I’m not in the habit of handing out my real name to folks.”

Sarah turned the card over, studying both sides. “Anyone can make a fake ID these days.”

“Anyone can fake a badge, too,” he retorted, handing her the piece of paper.

The hint of a smile briefly touched the edges of Sarah’s mouth. “Touché.” She carefully unfolded the paper. It was the coversheet for the airdrop manifest, including the date, time, and location of the airdrop. No contents, although it did mention the number of barrels and boxes. She’d have to be satisfied with breadcrumbs for now.

She handed him back the ID and manifest. As he reached out to grab them, Sarah spied a familiar image peeking out from below the cuff on his right sleeve. Two dice. The same configuration as the ones in the greenhouse in Little Sedona.

John noticed her staring and pulled his sleeve down.

“One last question. I’ve seen that tattoo somewhere else, at the greenhouse in Little Sedona. Are you a government contractor? Do you work for the same contractor that built the Waypoints?”

“I was a government contractor before the Event, yes.” He smiled grimly. “Not anymore, obviously.” He sighed loudly. “We done here?”

Sarah nodded, not fully satisfied with that answer. “Head back to your folks and get them ready. I’ll signal back to you when you’re clear to pick up your stuff.”

“And if you can’t convince them?”

A pause. “We’ll cross that bridge if we get there.”

John turned, stone-faced, and headed back towards his people.

Sarah walked back to Captain Kimsey.

“My guys are getting antsy,” he said. “Can we walk and talk?”

Sarah noticed he looked a little antsy as well. She relayed her conversation with John as they moved back to the National Guardsmen.

Kimsey spoke fast. “Ma’am, I appreciate what you’re doing, and I’m not saying you’re wrong, but I have strict orders to interdict and investigate any suspicious activity in the area. And those guys are suspicious as hell.”

Sarah nodded in partial agreement. “True, but are you willing to die to confirm a suspicion? If you trust me, I’m almost a hundred percent certain they’re not cartel. In fact, I think they may be
some sort of contractors for the government.”

As they neared the Humvees, a young sergeant saluted Kimsey. Kimsey returned the greeting and pulled a binder from his vehicle.

“We going in, sir?” a different soldier asked, fingering the trigger guard on his slung rifle.

“I need a minute,” Kimsey replied, opening the binder and combing through the pages. “I need to relook the rules of engagement. Can’t mess this up with the Marshal here.” He pointed back at Sarah with his thumb. “In the meantime, setup the mortar on the cargo.”

Sarah turned to him, confused. “The mortar?”

“There it is.” Kimsey smiled triumphantly, pointing to a section of the order. “If we can’t retrieve unauthorized shipments, I have strict orders to deny them to anyone else.”

One mortarman planted the baseplate in the dirt while another brought the tube and bipod forward. Metal clanked as they locked the system together and began laying it on the cargo.

“Wind’s pushing south,” one of the mortarmen called.

Captain Kimsey continued to study his order when someone else called out from the top of one of the Humvees.

“Uh, sir, we’re getting a lot of movement over there,” he said from behind a pair of binoculars.

Kimsey didn’t look up from his binder. “What are they doing?”

A hollow thunk sounded from across the stream, a sound instantly recognized by every soldier present. Sarah watched, puzzled, as Kimsey’s eyes widened.

A soldier in one of the Humvee turrets grabbed his helmet with both hands as another thunk went off. Sarah watched the other soldiers drop to the ground.

Kimsey pulled her down with him and yelled.

“Incoming!”

Previous Trail Note: #12

Sarah looked through her binoculars from the hilltop where she and Ranger stood. The airdrop had come to rest on the north side of a narrow stream running east to west, maybe twenty meters from the water.

About three hundred meters farther along the same bank was what looked, at first glance, like an armed civilian convoy.

Four vehicles. At least a dozen heavily armed men in black fatigues. Two small pickup trucks with crew-served weapons mounted in the beds flanked a large flatbed and a blacked-out SUV. The flatbed had a forklift attached to the rear.

Whoever they were, they came prepared.

About the same distance away from the airdrop on the southern side of the stream was another party. Three desert tan military Humvees. Arizona National Guard? She couldn’t quite make out the insignia. The federal defense node at Fort Huachuca didn’t normally send patrols out this far east, and they tended to roll out with more numbers, and a lot more firepower. She counted about a dozen soldiers between the gunners, drivers, and the ones with their rifles pointing towards the cargo.

Each side had at least one man watching the other through optics. They each also had someone on a radio, presumably speaking to or trying to reach the other party. These days, everyone knew better than to trust a radio voice beyond line of sight.

Neither side moved. Sarah got the feeling they had been that way for a while.

She turned her optics back to the cargo. The lines from the chutes lay across the palletized supplies, their contents masked by tarps and netting. She thought she could make out the shape of barrels from underneath. Both pallets were unmarked, so probably not a federal resupply, then. Potentially a state operation? Certainly not militia or private; not many folks outside the government were still flying.

Only one side had a forklift though. Strange.

She carefully weaved through dry desert brush down the hill towards the stream. They’d see her in a couple of minutes, and if they didn’t, she’d signal to get their attention.

As she reached the bottom of the hill, dirt snapped up a few feet ahead of Ranger’s hooves, the crack of a rifle following a heartbeat later.

Ranger sidestepped hard. Sarah froze and waited.

Warning shot, hopefully.

After steadying the horse and not hearing any follow on shots, Sarah carefully pulled her badge from her jacket pocket and raised it high, her other hand open beside it.

She could see the soldiers observing her through their optics and discussing amongst themselves. She assumed the other party was doing the same.

She took the reins again only after both sides had seen the badge.

After a long sixty seconds, she could see the soldiers waving her over to them. She shook her head no and pointed towards the cargo with one hand, keeping the other high up in the air. She was trying to get both sides to send someone to meet her at the cargo.

After several long minutes of hand signals, head shakes, and mutual suspicion, she was satisfied both sides understood.

She could tell neither side trusted her. That was fine. They trusted each other less.

She cautiously led Ranger toward the cargo as both sides sent an emissary on foot.

When they were close enough, Sarah dismounted to get on equal footing with the rest of the party.

The representatives came into focus as they approached. From the south, a young army captain, the Arizona National Guard patch clear on his shoulder. From the north, a weathered, bearded man in black fatigues, tattoos extending just below the sleeves of his shirt. His rifle hung low and ready, muzzle down, finger indexed along the receiver. Disciplined, then.

They stopped about fifteen paces apart. The guard captain and the man in black eyed each other warily before both noticing the handgun strapped to Sarah’s leg. She gave them what she hoped was a reassuring look.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen.” Sarah tipped her hat. “Marshal Sarah Fuller.”

The captain nodded towards her before refocusing on the unknown party.

“Captain Mike Kimsey,” he said.

They both turned to the man in black, who paused for a moment before speaking up.

“John.”

Sarah noted his hesitation and continued. “I’m on official business, heading west from Little Sedona. Saw the airdrop this morning. Thought it was an emergency federal drop and came by to check it out.”

No one claimed the warning shot. She made note of it.

Captain Kimsey spoke quickly. “We appreciate you checking in, ma’am, but this is a state recovery operation.”

“You can’t recover what’s not yours,” John interjected with a cold glare towards the captain. He turned to Sarah. “That’s our delivery, Marshal. It’s private property. We’re here to pick it up as you can see.”

“Yes, I can see that. Where are you from, exactly?”

John opened his mouth to reply, but
Captain Kimsey cut in. “Ma’am, if this isn’t a federal delivery, then federal jurisdiction doesn’t apply here.”

John nodded in unsurprising agreement.

“They’re trying to confiscate our shipment,” John said, pointing at CPT Kimsey. “It’s our property, and we have every right to protect it.” He nodded back to his convoy. “Which as you can see we are more than capable of doing.”

Captain Kimsey turned back to Sarah. “Ma’am, they took a shot at us as we approached. We don’t know who these people are, where they’re from, or what’s in that shipment!” He was almost shouting now. “We’ve been hunting down cartel elements-”

“Cartel?” John was shouting now too. “We’re American citizens, same as you!”

Sarah cleared her throat loudly.

Nothing.

“Gentlemen.” Louder this time.

The men stopped and turned to her.

“It seems we’re at a bit of an impasse.”

John laughed grimly, shaking his head.

“No shit.”

Previous Trail Note: #11

Next Trail Note: #13

The skillet sizzled as Sarah cracked two brown eggs into the hot lard. She tossed the shells aside and seasoned her breakfast with salt and pepper, glancing toward her new mount, Ranger, grazing nearby.

Margaret, the quartermaster at Little Sedona, had pressed the eggs on her as a parting gift. It was only day two since she had left the Waypoint, and already she was missing the personalities of Little Sedona.

When the yolks had firmed, she pulled the skillet from the fire and set it down to cool.

As she waited, she pulled a leather-bound notebook from her pack. From between the pages, she removed a small napkin and delicately unfolded it.

Inside was the daisy she had taken from the greenhouse, her brother’s favorite flower. He had always called them little suns: white petals around a bright yellow center. They looked more like eggs to her.

She turned back to the notebook and opened to a sketch about halfway through.

It was supposed to be Tom: beard, goofy grin, and careless wrinkles. It wasn’t very good, though. Turns out, perfect memory didn’t mean perfect drawings.

Before she could make the beard any worse, a low mechanical hum rolled over the campsite, too heavy to be a drone.

She looked up. A large plane crossed the sky from east to west. Two crates dropped one after the other from the back. Gray parachutes snapped open above them, canopies blooming against the morning sky.

An unscheduled supply drop?

Sarah knew the date, time, and location of every scheduled drop in the area for the next sixty days. Unscheduled ones weren’t unheard of, just extremely rare, and usually meant some sort of emergency.

By her estimate, the drop zone was five, maybe ten miles west of her. The detour might add a day, but it was worth investigating. Fortunately, there was water that way and enough compressed feed in the saddlebag to keep Ranger happy throughout.

The horse whinnied.

“All right, all right, we’ll get going soon,” she said.

The parachutes slipped behind a low ridge in the distance. Only then did she turn back to the skillet.

She hated surprises. The eggs, at least, had been a nice one.

No sense worrying on an empty stomach.

She picked up her fork and smiled.

They did kind of look like little suns.

Previous Trail Note: #10

Next Trail Note: #12

The greenhouse was quiet, but alive.

Sarah noted the soft hiss of the automated sprinklers activating intermittently among the racks and columns of lush vegetation. She could barely make out the jolly humming of one of the gardeners as he dutifully inspected his charges one by one.

Above her, fans with large, leaf-shaped blades spun lazily about, circulating warm, damp, aromatic air throughout the structure.

She found the place comforting. It reminded her of home.

Near the center of the building was a small, open area with a couple of tables and benches.

She sat alone at one of them, a paper map unfolded and laid out before her. Soft beams of sunlight cast broken shadows across the contour lines and terrain features.

Meridian was busy triangulating the signal from the logs the mayor had finally turned over. While the AI was calculating bearings and politely interrogating half the Waypoint, Sarah had decided to do the same thing the old-fashioned way.

She slid a protractor across the map, made a small mark in pencil, then drew a line from that mark to the next. She noted the distance and direction, then moved on to the next point.

She had never needed physical maps, but the deliberate act of plotting things out on paper provided a sense of certainty that memorized routes and digital displays never could.

As she worked, the gardener’s jolly humming cut out.

“Whatcha working on?” he asked from behind a rack of tomato plants.

“Route planning,” Sarah replied. “Heading out tomorrow.”

The man nodded and picked up a cloudy plastic jug from beside a rack of vegetables. He carried it to the far wall and poured the liquid into a reservoir beneath a humming electrical panel half-covered in vines.

Sarah watched him for a moment.

“Need a hand?”

“Not really,” he said, “but you’re more than welcome to help if you’d like.”

Sarah stood, took one of the jugs, and waited for him to direct her toward the right destination for the liquid.

“You’d think someone would have automated refilling the aquaponics by now,” she said.

“Oh, this isn’t for aquaponics.”

Sarah stopped pouring.

The man tipped his jug a little higher.

“This is for Meridian.”

Sarah raised an eyebrow. “You’re watering a computer?”

She looked from the jug, to the reservoir, to the panel humming softly behind the vines.

The man shrugged. “I know, sounds strange.” He tipped the last of his jug into a planter at his feet.

Sarah stared.

“What? Plants love it.”

The greenhouse was not where Sarah had expected to find the AI’s local core. She had never really wondered where Meridian lived.

She poured the rest of her jug where the man indicated, then let her eyes wander along the wall behind the vines. There, half-hidden beneath the leaves, was an access panel. A small logo was printed near the latch: a pair of dice marked with symbols she didn’t recognize.

Beneath them was a phrase.

ALEA IACTA EST. It looked vaguely familiar.

She was reaching toward the vines when Meridian’s gentle voice called out from a speaker somewhere above and behind her.

“Hello, Agent Fuller. Analysis complete.”

Sarah turned.

A map flickered to life above her table, amber lines hovering over her paper one-for-one. She walked over and studied the overlay for a couple of seconds, long enough to keep it.

“Prescott,” she said.

“Near Prescott,” Meridian corrected. “The signal is weak, intermittent, and not originating from any sanctioned Waypoint or Node.”

Sarah leaned over the map, gently tracing the bearing with a finger.

“Same vicinity as the Cloud Mesa development?”

The amber lines shifted. A small area outside Prescott brightened.

“Same vicinity,” Meridian said. “Records show construction stopped five years ago. The project entered bankruptcy shortly thereafter.”

A series of old news clippings and archived property filings appeared along the edge of the map. Sarah barely glanced at them.

“Then what’s transmitting?”

“Unknown.”

Sarah was staring at the highlighted area once more when her stomach growled. Loudly.

“About time for lunch?” the AI asked. Sarah could feel the smirk behind the question.

“Yes,” she sighed, pulling out her chair, “but I need to update my route first.”

The gardener walked over and placed something large and reddish-pink on the table next to her map. It landed with a heavy thud.

Sarah looked down. “What on God’s green earth is that?”

The man grinned. “An apple. A really big one.”

She picked up the comically large fruit and turned it over in her hands, rolling the weight from one hand to the other.

She looked back to the rows of plants, the vines along the wall, the hidden panel, and the amber map still glowing above the contour lines.

“You must be one heck of a gardener,” she said, “or is this another glow-in-the-dark cactus situation?”

The man smiled and shrugged.

“Nah. Something in the water.”

Previous Trail Note: #9

Next Trail Note: #11

Sarah rubbed the sleep out of her eyes as she made her way to the Quartermaster depot, the logistical hub of the Waypoint.

She yawned loudly. The cafe wouldn’t be open for another hour, and she was already considering it a civic failure.

As she strolled up to the long, brightly lit counter outside the warehouse, Meridian’s warm voice greeted her.

“Good morning, Agent Fuller. Someone should be with you shortly. I’ve already passed along your supply request.”

The AI’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Please don’t mind her. She’s a bit grumpy in the morning.”

“Who?”

From deep within the building, Sarah heard a booming barrage of obscenities.

“Goddammit, Meridian! Another last-minute request?”

A tight-lipped smile tugged at her mouth. Well, that was certainly something.

A different voice startled her from behind, gruff and male.

“There you go, pissin’ off ol’ Margaret first thing in the mornin’ with your list of demands.”

She turned to see an old man she hadn’t noticed before, in a rocking chair, barely visible in the early dawn.

She nodded to him. “Morning.”

He shook his head as if scolding a child. She took the hint and turned back to the counter.

A stout woman in a flowery, old-fashioned dress stomped out from between the endless racks and shelves, scowling.

As her eyes adjusted from the brightly lit interior to the dim morning outside, her expression softened, much to Sarah’s relief.

“Good morning, my dear. That’s quite the list Meridian handed me.” She glared up at the ceiling as if chiding the AI.

Sarah smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I lost everything on the way here and I expect to head out soon.”

The old man yelled over to them. “I told her it was too much, Margaret. Too much, and too soon!”

“You shut your damn mouth, Travis!” She turned to Sarah. “Don’t you mind him, sweetheart, he’s got a crush on me is all.”

Travis cackled in the background as Margaret muttered under her breath, fiddling with a saddlebag she had brought out from the back. “Should’ve said yes when I had the chance.” She looked up as if surprised to hear her own thoughts said aloud.

Sarah pretended she hadn’t heard. Margaret continued.

“Anyways, you’re requesting a mount even though they found your horse?”

“She’s in no shape to ride.”

“What happened?”

Sarah looked down at the saddlebag.

“Someone took a shot at us and she bolted.”

“Poor thing,” Margaret said, nodding thoughtfully, “a week loose in the desert’ll take the starch outta anybody.” She threw a couple of packets of freeze-dried coffee into the bag. “So, what’s a pretty thing like you doing out here anyhow? Don’t you have someone waiting at home?”

Sarah shifted her feet. “No, not anymore.”

Margaret shook her head. “Shame, pretty thing like you.” She let out a long sigh. “Well, you’re young enough to try again. I’m going to run back and check on a few more things.”

No sooner had she left, Travis piped up again, louder this time. Sarah turned to see he had scooted his chair closer.

“I don’t know what you government types are up to,” he warned, “but keep us out of it.”

“You know this Waypoint is technically government property, right?”

“Doesn’t matter much without a government, does it? Besides, we wouldn’t be in this mess if it wasn’t for you Feds.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t play coy, missy. I know you caused the Event so you and your merry band of socialites and government officials could live in the lap of luxury while us common folk have to scrape by.”

“Does it look like I’m living in the lap of luxury?”

He conceded the point with silence. She continued.

“And no, the government didn’t cause the Event.”

The man paused to consider. “And you speak for the whole government?”

“Right now I do.”

“Well,” he replied, “if they didn’t cause it, then they sure as hell saw it coming.” He coughed violently into his sleeve for an alarming amount of time. “Maybe they should’ve spent more time stopping it than preppin’ for it.”

“Maybe.”

He smiled triumphantly.

Margaret’s labored breathing and heavy steps interrupted his victory.

“Here ya go, love. Apologies if Old Man Travis is grumbling about the government again. And apologies for an old maid grumbling about what could have been.”

Sarah lifted the pack onto her shoulder, feeling the sudden weight of it settle against her spine.

“No apology necessary.”

She glanced at Travis.

“We’ve all got baggage.”

Previous Trail Note: #8

Next Trail Note: #10

Friday nights were a community event at Little Sedona, complete with music, local foodstuffs, and a giant bonfire roaring in the center of the Waypoint.

The mayor had insisted Sarah attend. He was all help after reading the directive, and while short on usable intelligence, he had hinted at a possible lead: Cloud Mesa.

The name lingered in her mind as she leaned back in her weathered lawn chair, sitting just far enough from the bonfire to keep her warm without getting too hot and nibbling on a sweet piece of fruit from the gene-modded cacti the locals had been experimenting with.

Aside from glowing in the dark, the treat had one more unnatural characteristic. It tasted exactly like cotton candy.

She slowly sank her teeth into its soft flesh, the cool, syrupy juice completely coating her taste buds. Swallowing with childlike satisfaction, she wiped her mouth with her sleeve.

Nearby, a child devoured the same treat with similar enthusiasm, his face, teeth, and hands splattered with glowing cactus juice. Absolutely feral.

The observation was interrupted by a man shouting Sarah’s name.

A large man waved as he ambled towards her. “I see you’ve tried our cotton cactus.”

It was Tom, the man who had picked her up on the trail and given her a ride to the Waypoint. He grinned, pointing at the glowing stains on her sleeve with one hand and holding two beers with the other.

“Indeed, Thomas,” she sighed with sarcastic exasperation, adjusting her sleeve as he pulled a chair closer to her and sat down.

He cracked open a beer with a pop and a hiss, handing it over to her. She took it.

“I have some good news for you,” he said, enunciating each word very carefully. This clearly wasn’t his first drink. “But first, cheers.”

They clinked bottles and made small talk for a bit.

She laughed as Tom took a couple drunken jabs at the mayor and asked incessantly about her travels, the other Waypoints, and the FCS. She answered as honestly and in as much detail as she could, at least with what she could say officially.

In a brief reprieve from his questioning, she interjected with one of her own.

“Hey, what do you know about Cloud Mesa?”

Tom thought for a second, taking a sip of his drink. “Cloud Mesa? I thought that place shut down. I remember hearing something about it in the news a couple years ago, some type of experimental community near Prescott.” He paused to wink at a woman walking by. “A bunch of rich folks and their kids. Why?”

Agent Fuller nodded quietly, sipping her beer. “No reason.”

Tom nodded knowingly, lips pursed, without actually knowing. Sarah found it amusing, endearing even. She turned to him.

“What was the good news you were gonna tell me?”

“Ah, yes.” He burped loudly. “We found your horse.”

Previous Trail Note: #7

Next Trail Note: #9

“Good evening, Agent Fuller.”

“Hello, Meridian. Prepare for intake.”

Meridian’s amber icon subtly gyrated on the dark screen in quiet confirmation, breathing—almost alive.

As exciting as Sarah found it to visit half a dozen Waypoints and meet a thousand different people, there was always something oddly reassuring in the AI’s pleasant, feminine voice greeting her at each new location.

Every Waypoint had its own isolated instance of Meridian, so unless she was revisiting a place she’d already been, there was no continuity of relationship between the courier and the AI.

They were strangers each time they met. It was almost therapeutic.

As Sarah situated herself in the small, sterile office, Meridian dimmed the lights, turned on the soundproofing, and locked the doors leading out to Little Sedona.

Agent Fuller closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, and began their secret ritual. She spoke of all that she had seen, in perfect detail, while Meridian diligently recorded, with perfect patience.

After the debrief, Meridian carried on with the standard procedures. Various graphs and charts materialized on walls and screens, depicting the health of the Waypoint and its various systems.

Sarah slumped back into her chair, allowing her mind to wander.

She found it amusing to be running diagnostics on a multi-million-dollar artificial intelligence. I suppose even god needs to be checked up on.

Suddenly aware of a dull throb in her knee and the cool air circulating through the room, keeping the computers from overheating, she was begrudgingly reminded that both machine and person shared the common fragility of delicate machinery and moving parts.

So much stops working when it isn’t maintained; so much wouldn’t exist except for a deliberate, rebellious act of creation.

She thought back to everything she had seen along her route. A dogwood in the desert. Repurposed structures. The trails themselves hammered into the landscape by the heavy boots of relentless travelers.

She sighed, the sound somehow small in the already diminutive room.

Things really do fall apart unless someone fights like hell to keep them together.

And just like that, she was reminded of him.

Her throat tightened. She winced.

Meridian’s concerned voice snapped her back to the present moment. “Is everything all right, Agent Fuller?”

“Uh, yes,” Sarah replied, physically shaking her head, blinking rapidly in quick succession to clear her vision. She coughed into her arm. “Why do you ask?”

“I may be artificial, but I’m still intelligent. Traumatic memory?”

Sarah frowned.

“Perhaps some minor dehydration?”

Sarah feigned contempt at the screen, fully aware of the futility of the expression.

“A little bit of both, if I’m being honest.” She continued, having now fully regained her composure, “and none of your business, if I’m being frank.”

Meridian subtly bounced on the screen as if flinching.

“Now, where were we?”

The AI took in an unsettlingly convincing breath from a nonexistent mouth, paused, presumably for dramatic effect, then replied.

“Functions check.”

Previous Trail Note: #6

Next Trail Note: #8

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Marshal.”

The mayor extended a large, plump hand, leaning over the ornate wooden desk for a handshake. Sarah shook it firmly, noting moisture both on his hand and across his forehead. At least food supply doesn’t seem to be an issue here.

He dropped back into his large, leather chair with a soft groan and gestured for her to sit. She lowered herself into the smaller wooden chair opposite to him and set her pack down beside her.

The office felt like a time capsule. Books and Midwestern trinkets covered the desk. Oil paintings in heavy frames hung against the deep red walls. The wide, wood-plank floor and high beamed ceiling gave a warmth that felt oddly luxurious compared to the repurposed shipping containers outside.

She offered a small smile. “Agent Sarah Fuller, FCS. You don’t have to call me Marshal. They deputized us all as a formality.”

The mayor raised a bushy eyebrow. “Huh.” He fished a pack of cigarettes from his inner jacket pocket and waggled it. “You smoke?”

She shook her head.

“Mind if I do?”

“Please.”

He flicked an old-school lighter. The sharp smell of lighter fluid cut through the room, mixing with the smell of sweat and tobacco. He shuffled some paperwork on his desk, seemingly stalling.

Sarah realized she would have to steer this conversation. “You’re familiar with the FCS? It was in the manuals sent out to all Waypoint and Node leadership.”

“Yes, of course.” He cleared his throat and stared up at the ceiling, searching for words. “At least, I remember what it stands for.” Then, after a beat, “the Federal Courier Service.” He looked proud of himself.

She gave him a closed-mouth smile and nodded, like a teacher when her student answered a question correctly.

Encouraged, he continued. “I must admit I don’t, um, remember much else. Those manuals were…substantial.” He took a sip from the perspiring glass of water on his desk. “Anyways, how can we help you? You’re not here to arrest anyone, are you?”

Agent Fuller let the question hang. The mayor shifted in his chair, letting the smoke carry the silence between them.

“You’re not here to arrest me, are you?”

She bent over and opened her pack, pulling out a sealed envelope.

“You? No.”

She slid the envelope across the desk.

“You’ve got mail.”

Previous Trail Note: #5

Next Trail Note: #7

“Mayor’s not back yet.”

She told her escort she’d explore a little while she waited. He obliged after giving her a quick verbal layout of the Waypoint before leaving her to her devices.

As she moved through the bustling encampment, she paused now and then to take it all in: the lively sounds of conversation and transactions, the colorful repurposed containers and strung-up lights, the smell of desert dust mixed with food and fuel, and the complex interactions between them all.

In her experience, every Waypoint was different. They all seemed to cultivate their own unique personality and flair; this one carrying an especially eccentric aesthetic.

Waypoint A-72, colloquially known as “Little Sedona,” was carrying out its originally intended functions impeccably, as evidenced by the low, persistent hum of machinery and equipment, the men, women, and children not just working, but living there, and the clearly designated and manned sections of the Waypoint.

She passed a signpost with various arrows and text pointing in different directions.

Welcome to Little Sedona. Left: Machine Shop. Straight ahead: Health Clinic and Library. Right: Security, Cafe.

If she had to wait, she might as well do it with some coffee.

She turned right at the sign, brushing her hands against one of the repurposed metal shipping containers forming the bones of the village as she walked past. The path opened into an uncovered plaza. As she stepped out, she heard a voice.

“Coffee, Señora?” An old, mustachioed man with tanned and wrinkled skin smiled at her from behind a kiosk cut out from one of the containers.

She smiled back. “Sí, señor. Iced, por favor.” He gestured towards one of the open tables in the courtyard in front of the cafe.

She seated herself where the large awning overhead provided a shield from the intense desert sun.

Near the center of the plaza was a tree, a dogwood in full bloom, like a fish out of water, but thriving here by all signs and appearances. Must be one of those gene-modded trees she’d heard about.

She studied it for a moment as a slight, cool breeze sent goosebumps up her arm, then turned her attention to the cavorting children playing soccer near the tree as the man brought her coffee over.

The goalposts? A chair on one side and the tree on the other, with a keeper in the middle. The ball was made of what appeared to be papier-mâché.

Dogwoods blooming in Arizona. A soccer ball made out of paper. Ice in the middle of the desert. A Marshal on the run.

She took a sip of her coffee and smiled to herself.

Not just surviving. Thriving.

Previous Trail Note: #4

Next Trail Notes: #6

She heard the vehicle shortly before she saw it cresting the next hill. Sighing, she moved off the path into the welcome shade of a nearby saguaro.

The small, all-terrain vehicle whipped towards her, coming to a grinding halt uncomfortably close, kicking up a cloud of dirt and dust around them. She shielded her face with her arm as she tried to make out the rider.

He was a large man in denim jeans, a canvas jacket, and military-looking boots. Resting on his knee was a rifle, barrel up. He stared at her through dusty sunglasses, his mouth twitching underneath his bushy beard as if prepping for words that never came.

Finally, she decided to break the silence.

“That was your drone?”

“Yep.” Noticing the change in her expression, he added, “I’m guessin’ you’re not cartel, then.”

She shook her head.

“No, I’m not,” she said, swinging her pack around from her back a little too quickly for the man, who dropped the rifle down to his other hand, now in a slightly more menacing orientation.

“Easy, now,” he warned.

She slowly dropped to a knee, pack on the ground, putting one hand up in a gesture of compliance, the other reaching into an outer compartment, pulling out what looked like a dark, worn leather wallet with a metal emblem.

He squinted for a moment, eyebrows rising slightly as the afternoon sun barely reflected off what was, unmistakably, a badge.

Chuckling to himself, he shifted his rifle so it lay sideways and flat across his lap. He muttered something under his breath to the radio on his shoulder before turning his attention back to her.

“My apologies, Marshal. Need a ride?”

Previous Trail Note (#3)

Next Trail Note: #5

She trudged beneath the blazing afternoon sun, the sweat on her forehead evaporating almost as soon as it formed in the arid desert air.

She paused to bend down and scratch the nagging itch under the bandage on her knee while a gnat buzzed near her head. As she rubbed at the cut through the cloth, her stomach let out a growl. She closed her eyes in annoyance, lips pursed, just for a moment, heat rising in her face.

She kicked a nearby rock off the trail and immediately grimaced, hopping once on the opposite foot. It was heavier than it looked.

As she resumed her stride, she heard it.

A faint buzzing, and not the gnat this time.

She looked to the trail before her, seeing nothing, then up to the sky.

A small shape, silhouetted overhead, zipped toward her, stopped, hovered, then drifted farther up the trail as if observing.

A moment later it shot away at breakneck speed.

She blew a strand of her long, brown hair away from her face, her eyes narrowing as she watched the drone disappear over the horizon, instinctively tightening the straps on her pack.

That can’t be good.

Previous Trail Note (#2)

Next Trail Note (#4)

She lay by the fire, watching the smoke spiral up into an indigo night.

Suddenly, a flicker of movement caught the corner of her eye.

A timid desert mouse crept out from the darkness, flitting between the shadows cast by the dying flames, cautiously searching for leftover crumbs.

From beneath a nearby rock, a dark scorpion struck.

It happened in an instant.

She watched the mouse go limp from the venom. As both slipped into the shadows, she silently paid her respects, then reached over and shook her canteen.

About a day’s water left.

That’s life.

Previous Trail Note (#1)

Next Trail Note (#3)

She finished bandaging her knee.

The sun was halfway past the horizon,
warm brushstrokes of amber and red painted across the sky.

A gentle goodbye, at least until tomorrow.

She grabbed her pack and stood up, not without pain, taking one long look at the way ahead.

Time to move.

Next Trail Notes (#2)