Chapter 17

Four tall, muscular men with blacked out masks and odd instruments in their hands which belch forth hellacious flames work through the days and nights. The intense, concentrated beams of heat rip and tear through thick reinforced steel panels. The masked heathens process stacks and stacks of flat metal scraps while two more men equipped with black welding face shields and chaps turn the scraps of metal into sturdy, flat faced panels. Once painted jet black, the panels are hoisted, bolted and welded into place across the rear of a bulldog of an eighteen wheeler. This transport is much cruder then the one the group had travelled in the day of their arrival. No official convoy seats, no shiny walls, and no joystick controlled mini turret. Just a homemade steel bucket they would use for toting their supplies on the up coming suicide roadtrip. Guns, ammo, the cache of C4, food supplies, clothes, fuel, motorcycle parts, and tools used for bike and truck maintenance.

Johan, Saul and Fergus continue to head out on steel scavenging missions with the escort of Hollowpoint, Molotov and Ripper. A few minor encounters have created bumps in the road but nothing major. A team of two delusional junkies armed with a police baton and monkey wrench approached the team looking to "score some shit" or they would "gut them alive". Heavily annoyed, Hollowpoint emptied his shotgun into the dirt at their feet, peppering the junkies with dirt and gravel. Another situation occurred when the skidder claw seized up. It wasn't a big problem as Molotov, with a heavy dose of oil and hydraulic fluid, got it working again smoother then ever.

As the days pass, Orabella slips further into a state of depression. Each morning she rises still absent of her charming ship captain, and each time her heart drops a little bit more. Karen has let her avoid kitchen duty with the rest of the women knowing full well how she's suffering.

Over the past couple days Johan has become very fidgety and impatient. Sitting at breakfast his legs bounce up and down subconsciously and during sleep he tosses and turns rapidly. The days of work were not a problem, his mind was occupied with something. He had a job to do, but it was the days of sitting and waiting that got to him. Waiting was the worst. Idle existence leads the mind on adventures to all the worst places. Fabricated scenarios of what if this never happened? or what if Martina were dead? and what if I never make it back at all? All these situations and more haunted him during the down time.

On this morning, the group sits in the confines of Karen's mess hall sipping coffee and munching bacon as usual. The scavenging trips have stopped due to the steel supply being more then enough and Johan, Fergus and Saul's lack of arch welder skills they would just be in the way. The Italian widower sits slightly distant from the group with her same sad expression and glazed melancholy eyes. Every few minutes, Torri glances sideways at her depressed mother figure with a great desire to comfort her. She is supposed to be the strong one, the one who always pulled the rest of them up by the bootstraps and pointed them in the right direction. Seeing her so lost and woeful not only breaks Torri's heart but it leaves her morale shattered as well.

So when the party is at last ready to disembark with their bike riding brethren, their spirits are incredibly low with their faces blank and somber. As for the biker army, their morale can't be any higher. They hoot and holler waving flags imprinted with their club insignia and lighting off rockets and bombs that rain colorful fire down upon the ground. Beastly, V-twin engines tear into the silence and form into an angry, rumbling serenade of hot, steel steads.

It may just be in his head but Saul can feel the heat of the day rise with the anticipation of all the men. This is what they live for, an epic adventure, safely nestled in the bosom of their only mistress, the open road.

Saul, Johan and the rest of the beaten down crew load into the back of the armored tractor trailer along with all the women that aren't mounted on the back of bikes, a non-affiliated man to run the turret and Karen's sad, slouched frame. The steel garage door is pulled down guarding them inside and locked tight with a sturdy padlock.

The General mounts his roaring metal horse, fires a single shot into the sky and follows his sergeant Hollowpoint into the cryptic ruins of a city that was once the capitol of the greatest nation in the world. Like a shimmering school of black-clad sharks that bellow like metallic lions in the cool, clear morning the cluster of man made machines move along behind The General and his sergeant. An outlaw convoy on a mission of redemption, a quest to aid old friends and bring a select few some much needed closure.

Inside their armored transport, it sounds as if a war is taking place outside. Between the crashing rumbles of the trailer and tires and the roar of motorcycle engines words must be yelled in order to be heard.

"This should be a long, bumpy ride!" Johan yells.

"Just keep picturing what's at the other end," Saul yells back.

"That's what I'm afraid of."

Silence, or lack of dialogue, recommences as they all sit and listen to the unsteady pounding of the uneven roadway. The further North they travel, the more treacherous and hard to travel the road becomes. After three hours, the speed of the convoy is greatly diminished as a high rate of speed would surely result in the entire thing just falling apart. The northbound route not only brings a rougher terrain but also a cooler, wetter climate. Damp, deathly cool air filters into the trailer as if an army of ghosts has been sent to haunt the land's unsuspecting new arrivals.

Iasan's face is even more wrinkled and mean looking as his old frame takes the most abuse from the rough travel method. Every time they hit a bump he bounces in the air and thuds back down into his seat with a swear and groan.

Those inside don't realize it but the convoy is now moving steadily through a massive dead clearing that was once a large corn field. In one corner sits a farmhouse and towering aluminum grain silo. The house is painted red with many empty, paint-less splotches. It looms in it's surroundings like a dark reminder of how far the world has fallen.

They travel and travel without hardly any time to stop. They pause only to refuel the bikes and the trucks and quickly get back on the road. Hours they ride with no words spoken, just thrashing about in the moving bunker and thinking about how much longer they would be trapped and what they would see upon arrival in the city that once was Boston, Saul and Johan's long lost home.

After a full day of travel they finally stop to grab some rest. In a sprawling field, the crew is liberated from their mobile cage and allowed to breath the open air and stretch their stiff legs. It is in perfect time too as cabin fever was just beginning to set in. A campfire is started and canned goods are rationed for that day's diner. The M.C. members are in good spirits despite being exhausted from a full day's ride. The open road seamed to work as an intense drug for these men. An exhilarating natural high that would put any chemical experience to shame.

Entranced by the jet black night, Torri wanders off into the blackness, Faux follows her stealthily to find where she's going. She follows the dark and mysterious Torri all the way across the field and down a ridge where a stream bubbles with yellowish green water. Upon a rounded gray rock, the beautiful young girl takes a seat and stares into the fungus strangled water with her dead, onyx eyes. By the light of the moon Faux can make out the soft skin of her face and it's delicate features. As she inches closer, hidden by the shadows, she can make out two streaking trails of tears running down her cheeks. She pulls her hand from the pocket of her tattered jacket exposing something long and tubular.

Faux squints her eyes to try and see what exactly her girlfriend has and what she plans on doing with it. As Torri rolls up her sleeve and gives a gentle shudder, Faux realizes that clutched in her fingers is an old hypodermic needle. The young beauty pops the top off and draws the needle close to her flesh. Before the needle can find home Faux steps from the shadows to stop her.

"What are you doing?"

Torri jumps with a start and the needle tumbles to the ground, lost in the dark. Her black eyes flash upward and she just makes out the silhouette of Faux, her lover, in the moonlight.

"You startled me hun."

"You're crying..."

"Not many nights that I don't."

"And the syringes?"

Torri pauses, knowing she's been caught red handed. "I needed something, I'm loosing my mind. It just won't stop."

"What is it? How long have u been doing it?"

"It's heroin. And I've never done it before, I stole it from one of the bikers."

"You weren't going to tell me?"

"I didn't want to hurt you."

"And your sister. I'm not gonna let you do this to yourself."

Torri breathes deep and a sincere flash lights up her eyes. Leaning forward, she places her face in her palms and begins to sob massive heaves. Faux quickly runs to her side and plops down on the rock beside her. With her right arm, she wraps her up in a loving embrace.

For a good ten minutes, Torri vents all her inner anxiety into Faux's shoulder in the form of weeps and cold tears. Once all cried out, Torri lifts her head, wipes the wetness from her eyes and takes a deep breath to clear her mind. She looks deep into the eyes of her closest human love and opens up.

"Do you ever wonder why we're here?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why did we live? What makes us so important and all the others so useless and disposable?"

"Stop asking yourself that. Please."

Torri responds by standing to her feet, sighing deeply and walking back in the direction of the others. Faux feels a pang of pain and sadness and slowly follows Torri back towards the now blazing fire in the center of dozens of motorcycles and the two lumbering transports.

The biker caravan cruises along, not seeing much along the way just the numerous fields of Pennsylvania once belonging to Quakers, up into New York skirting major cities in order to evade any unnecessary hinderances. From well beyond it's reaches, they observe an eerie Manhattan skyline. Dingy skyscrapers that were once the shining jewels of the greatest city on earth. A hub that controlled so many inner-workings of the planet. The city that never slept was now in an absolute stygian slumber.

Despite being Bostonians to their last microscopic fiber, Johan and Saul find that their stomachs have acquired large, acidic lumps in their deepest recesses at the site of NYC so burnt out and lifeless. A microcosm for the rest of the world. A world they've seen a good portion of in the past six months. Not to mention that, if New York City looks like this then what makes them think Boston is going to look any better or more inviting?

Their prison-like confines begin to drive each of them mad but non worse then the old Irish Iasan. The blank, emotionless gray walls and the constant humming of the wind outside in a fight with the roaring engines beats on the mind. Sticky, unwashed bodies create a heavy must that sits heavy in his smoker's lungs and not a drop of alcohol at hand to ease the many discomforts. The iota of solace he does find comes when he is lucky enough to plummet into a restless sleep and find himself in familiar surroundings.

No more crowded transport. No more musty body odor. No more roaring and humming to drive him insane. Just cool, Irish sea air. A frothy pint of Ireland's best brew in his right hand and a large, corncob pipe stuffed with whiskey tobacco in the left. The lonely fields of Athenry he hasn't seen since his boyhood still remain fresh and organic after all these years. He knows they'll be a memory that remains with him until his final day.

Contrasting ancient brick houses and Ireland's famous green foliage with the creeping modernization of the Western world's fresh technology. It was all very exciting. As a bright eyed, red headed boy he never could have seen what that technology would turn that beautiful landscape, and the rest of the world, into. Not that he would have listened if someone had told him that exact thing.

With all the effort and difficulty it takes to find his old home within his mind, Iasan finds it whisked away by only a crack in the pavement flashing by beneath them or the ringing backfire of one of the motorcycles outside. No more sea breeze. No more ale. And no more delicious scotch smoke. Just must, noise and sad, expressionless faces.

What was a man of sixty years old doing on a child's adventure like this anyways? All he should be doing is enjoying a beautiful landscape and a stiff Jamesons on ice. The proper Irishman's retirement. Perhaps the answer to this question lies at the end of his 44 magnum's massive barrel. He knows, they'd have Jamesons, or at least some Guinness behind those shining pearly gates.

"Have you ever been to Boston?" Iasan jerks back into reality by Raul's beaming face.

"Whoa, huh, me? No. Never. 'TIs my first time in the tha states boyo."

"Me too! I'm excited!"

"Excited? What do you think we're apt ta find there?"

"Adeventure!"

"Boyo, you keep me goin'."

"I do?"

"Yes. You do."

"Okay," Raul smiles at the old timer and goes back to his seat. And just like that the negative thoughts are gone. Like a ray of hope or a heaven sent angel, Raul makes Iasan's life feel like a life still worth living. The old man drops his eyelids once again to try and find his favorite place.

While passing by the scattered remains of Hartford Connecticut, Johan, Saul and the rest of the travels trapped inside the transport feel their dwelling quiet and slow followed by the motorcycle engines cutting beyond the steel walls. They look around expectantly waiting for some sort of explanation for them stopping.

"What happened?" Torri asks in a slightly scared voice.

"I don't know. Let's wait and see," Alieana reassures her little sister despite the obvious look of paranoia on her face. They sit silently and wait for the garage door in the rear of the transport to lift open allowing them their freedom. As seconds tick by an increased sense of uneasiness begins to grow. As Saul stands to investigate, a muffled crack rings out from beyond the walls. In the next second, many cracks and booms, echo out. Gunshots ring for the next five minutes. The shots don't seam too frantic or rushed but rather lackadaisical and precise.

When the gunplay finally ceases, a series of three louder explosions ring out that rock the ground beneath them. Without warning or an explanation the convoy starts back up again and they're back on their way as if nothing has even happened. Fergus looks at Saul with an obvious look of disgust on his face.

"Ah, o' course. Don't bother tellin' us what 'at twas all 'bout. Fuckin' cunts..."

"Maybe we were better off just getting the hell out of there. You know?" Saul suggests.

"Yeah yeah..."

They ride for the rest of the day before an explanation is at hand and by that time, no one even really cares anymore. When the metal garage door lifts, they look out at a darkening evening and shining black ocean. The transport sits on a sandy beach that's filled with scattered debris. None of them have any idea where they are, not that they care as they are preoccupied with stretching their legs. Johan approaches The General as he is still curious about the random stop in the middle of the day?

"What happened earlier?"

"Ran into some wannabe bandits."

"No troubles?"

"They got three. One being Deagle. We didn't stop because we didn't want to catch another wave. Is that okay? Get some rest and we'll drive into Boston tomorrow. I need some rest," The General replies in an extremely rude tone and thunders off to find some sleep.

The trek into Boston is the most treacherous stretch of the journey. The stories about roving armies of bandits are all but true and the last drive into Fenway Park is an all out battle. Club members slowly begin to fall as bullets fly, molotov cocktails combust and explode, grenades fragment and RPG's incinerate. The transport carrying their rations and supplies gets it's front axle blown clean from the frame and the driver is killed instantly. As much of the C4 is salvaged as possible, loaded onto the backs of bikes, before it is lost to the wastes.

Inside the second transport, the skirmish outside sounds like a whirling, apocalyptic maelstrom of violence. The echoing sounds of battle and death are unavoidable. Ricocheting bullets pelt the armored box like hot lead raindrops serenading in an ear-shattering orchestra of war. Raul's face is buried in his sister's chest as the tractor trailer rattles and deflects the bullets trying to find their way inside.

Ripper falls from a bullet to the neck and quickly skids into a concrete pylon, smashing into oblivion. Even Hollowpoint, the seemingly invincible and godlike sergeant can't escape the firefight when a molotov engulfs his front tire and his leather clad legs. Rolling from his bike, the jagged pavement rips his burning flesh. Despite the gruesome end, the stoic warrior doesn't scream, cry or even utter a sound, he just dies in flames and drifts into the beautiful abyss. Many other unnamed members find their ends at the hands of these murderous crazies.

As if propelled by some otherworldly force, The General and his right hand, Joker epically pound forward avoiding bullets, fire and debris to lead the remaining convoy closer to the old ballpark at Yawkey Way. A religious man would say the hand of god were pushing them forward, a sort of divine intervention.

Lost behind the death, violence, rotting human stench and whirling, gasoline fueled inferno Boston's historical streets are deader then ever before. The cobblestone sidewalks where the forefather's of this once shining nation once walked. Irish pubs constructed of brick, completely looted of their Jamesons and Bushmills supplies. For a city which was once so charismatic and unflinchingly proud, it's aftermath would cause John Hancock and Paul Revere to spin in their long forgotten graves.

Finally, through the cloudy blackness of the hell like abyss, a shining beacon of hope illuminates the deathly streets and alleys. Fenway Park, the old Red Sox ballpark at Yawkey Way has been turned into an armored sanctuary for those who would fall victim to the wasteland's anarchy. The box offices and main entrances have been boarded and barricaded by dumpsters and tireless cars. Amazingly, the stadium lights are all illuminated and shining down upon the field like a ray of heavenly hope. All along the perimeter, roving search lights patrol the cryptic wastes to seek out any bandits that might do it's inhabitants harm.

As the surviving bikers and the one remaining transport carrying Saul, Johan and the others approaches the stadium, an ocean of light floods the surroundings. The General and Joker find themselves staring up at a towering green wall marked with spray paint and bullet holes. Four massive flood lights leave every nook and cranny lighted and spooky, human silhouettes stand sentry atop the towering wall.

The bikers all cut their engines at The General's signal and wait for further instruction. All is silent for a good ten seconds that feels like a life time. At last, the silence is broken by a loud, crackling static that turns into a man's stern voice.

"Ulysses Lee of the Valkyrie Motorcycle Gang of Blacksburg Virginia.... welcome. Mr. Victor has been expecting you, although you are late. We will send out some men to escort you inside. Over..." static overtakes the voice once more and cuts to silence. Inside their transport the radio broadcasted message is hardly understandable as they all squint and concentrate to hear.

A few seconds later a metal garage door at the base of the green wall lifts with a clattering bang and two armed men emerge. Not an inch of their skin is visible as they are both fully clad in police issue body armor. Kevlar vests under long sleeved black turtlenecks with padded arms and insulated black gloves. Light brown battle boots and camo cargo pants protect the lower halves of their bodies. Finally, their heads are shielded by thick, riot control helmets and small, bullpup submachine guns sit firmly in their grasps.

With great speed, they close the distance between the wall and the extremely vulnerable pack of bike straddling travelers. Joker's sharp eyes pear through the glass face shield's of their helmets to see the older face of a white male and a young, bearded face of a determined black man. The young, more athletic, bearded man arrives at The General's side first and is hardly out of breath. With the flick of his hand, the face shield clicks up revealing stone cold eyes of a man who has seen terrible atrocities.

"Welcome Mr. Lee. We'll have you inside quick as shit."

"We appreciate it Mr....?"

"Barnes, Kaleb Barnes."

"Mr. Barnes."

"As you have probably noticed, that tractor trailer won't be fitting through to the field so we'll have to have you back her to the entrance and we can unload 'er there."

"I'll inform the driver."

"As for the bikes, just drive em through the door and onto the field. We've cleared you a spot."

"We appreciate it. We really do."

"Nonsense, we're the ones who should be throwing out thanks. As I'm sure Mr. Victor will do. But anyways, fire em up and drive on in."

The General starts his bike once more and the rest of his Valkyries do the same. They creep forward towards the wall and the opening to their sanctuary. Through the small garage door the sight of Fenway's turf becomes visible. Neil Rice, the truck driver, put's the lumbering transport into motion and quickly backs it around. Inside, the odd motion throws it's inhabitants off and they stumble about uncoordinatedly. They feel themselves hurdling backwards and Johan can't understand what on earth is happening.

And just as soon as they gain their footing under the rattling cage, the transport screeches and comes to a stop. They hear the engine die and Neil's door open and slam shut. After as much time as takes for the old truck driver to stroll to the rear of the transport, the sliding garage door, the gateway to their new home, lifts open.

"End o' the line, Fenway Park!"

"We're here?" Alieana stutters in disbelief.

"Center of Hell at the intersection of Yawkey Way. Damn straight we're here. Everyone in before y'all catch a bullet."

Johan, Saul, Alieana, Fergus, Regan, Torri, Faux, Raul, Iasan, Karen, Orabella and the rest of the ragtag club wives and whores pile out and through the portal into the brilliant stadium. A short tunnel leads out into the glowing soup bowl where so much history has taken place. All the way across the field sit campers, tents, lean-tos, RVs, tarps and shacks. Fires burn in the turf along with wafting roasting meat. The rising walls have been stripped of seats and even more survivors sit, sleep, eat, talk, drink and smoke on the amphitheater-like steps. A small area on the field is filled with their biker friends who have all dismounted their steeds and are stretching their tired legs. An army that once numbered close to fifty or sixty now cut down to hardly a dozen.

Raul, who's face has become much older looking since the begining of their journey, peers around at the amazing spectacle before him. "Wow," he gasps.

"This is amazing. A cradle of life at the epicenter of hell on earth," Alieana awes as well.

"Maybe our disgraceful race does stand a chance," Iasan grumbles as the door slams shut behind them.

Wearily, they approach The General and the surviving bikers, not many familiar faces remain. The General and Joker have made it along with Molotov but the faces of Deagle, Ripper or Hollowpoint are nowhere to be seen. There's a heavy, ominous aura hanging around the bikers now.

"Everyone in good shape?" The General asks the lot.

"For the most part," Saul sighs.

"Good, we're waiting for Mick Victor to welcome us."

"When was the last time you two saw each other?"

"Aw shit, it must have been a good ten or fifteen years now. I was still a teenager then. But hot damn look at all these people."

"Anyone of them could be my Maria," Johan gazes out at the herds and herds of human beings. The waste's refugees.

"Don't get your hopes up friend..." The General says uneasily.

"She's alive. I know it."

"Little Lee, fuckin' shit you've grown right up!" Across the field, a ruggedly built bald man approaches them wearing a big smile to go along with his black t-shirt and blue jeans. He isn't a tall man, rather he is short and compact like a muscular, smiling pitbull.

"Mick, it's great to see you," The General walks towards his father's old friend and their hands lock tight in a firm hand shake.

"How was the journey?"

"It was a tough one, I'm not gonna lie. We lost many good hands but we still are enough to make a dent. We brought along a gift you might like as well."

"Oh yeah, and what's that?"

"I'm sure a resourceful man like yourself can find some practical uses for a large cache of C4."

"I think we can put it to work. But anyways, welcome. My deputy should be along any moment to provide you with your "amenities". He goes by the name of Orion Sobotka but we all just call him Ott."

"Do you happen to have a refugee here by the name of Maria Kristmas? She's my wife."

"I hardly know anyone that's hunkered down here. Ask around though, your best bet."

"Okay, I will," Johan turns from the rest and walks off into the crowded stadium.

"Once again, I can't thank you enough for the help. We're gonna win this war one way or the other," Mick Victor shakes The General's hand one last time, nods his head to everyone else and strides back in the direction from which he came to let the new arrivals set up camp.

The night is a quiet one. Unlike the Valkyrie's base, Fenway's inhabitants are sullen and lifeless. Gentle, almost sad fires crackle against the black, still night and the smoking and drinking is used to dull the boredom, fear and depression rather then as a party enhancer. Every now and then the sad silence is broken by the cries of a distressed infant or the rattle of gunfire from within the Bostonian ruins. The lights are no longer blindingly beating down on them as they have been dimmed to allow sleep to those that seek it.

While everyone else finds some much needed rest Johan spends the dull hours of the night convening around every campfire in an attempt to acquire any bit of information on his Maria. Most of the refugees act completely indifferent to his problems as their faith in anything has been thoroughly demolished. He approaches a hunched over, one eyed man who is wrapped in a shawl and shaking from some kind of nervous disorder.

"Good evening sir, may I sit?"

"Eh, mhm..."

"Thank you, I'm Johan," he extends his hand to creepy old man.

"Mmm, ya," he grumbles and ignores Johan's hand.

"Oh, okay... May I ask you something?"

"Do as you please," he grumbles once again trying extremely hard not to meet Johan's gaze.

"Have you met a young lady by the name of Maria Kristmas?"

"I ain't so good wif names..."

"She's young, early twenties. Shining raven hair. Deep, oceanic eyes. Beautiful. She's my wife, I need to find her."

"Need ta find 'er eh? We all got ones to find, truth is, you best move on. Ain't no place in dis shit world for hope. We all lookin' for ones we love but the quicker we 'cept their fates the quicker we move on."

"I know she's alive."

"Yer do do ya? An' did Jesus H. Christ himself peak his bearded face down from a cloud an' bestow this tidbit on yer? Or are ya still living in a goddamned paperback novel? Leave me be son, yer just livin' on a prayer..."

Johan stands with an intense fire ignited in his belly. He steps to the rickety old man and grasps him firmly by the collar. With a seething, white hot intensity burning in his eyes and frothing saliva glistening from his lips he hisses like a satanic serpent teasing it's prey before swallowing it whole.

"It's filthy piss-ants cowards like you that have turned this world into the shit

hole it is. Maybe if people like you stopped being so damn pessimistic and stopped blaming everything on others and started working to make things better we wouldn't be living like refugees inside a burnt out old baseball stadium. How do you expect the world to change when you just sit back and watch it go to hell? When I find her, I'll make a special trip back to you just to laugh in your pale, ugly, toothless face," the hate and burning rage oozes from Johan's every pore and the hunched little man begins to sob out of fear.

"Jus' lee me be."

"Cowardly cunt," Johan drops the man back onto this fireside perch allowing him to slink down into an even more depression weighted slouch. Just as Johan turns to walk away the old man's shaky hand reaches into his pocket and removes a fully loaded syringe. He pops the cap, rolls up his sleeve and mainlines it's contents directly into the vein running across the inside of his elbow.

"Yeah go ahead. Shoot some more and die in this hell hole cold, alone, dirty, scared and Jonesing for tar... pitiful," Johan turns absolutely in disgust and bolts away to find some real help. If any was even left to be had.

Iasan walks slowly among the tents and smoldering fires swaying in his usual stiff limp. The back of his aged throat has become rough and course, dry from the days travel and the only thing on his mind to quench it is some stiff, tidy scotch. Most of the campsites he passes yield nothing of the sort as Fenway's dwellers seam to enjoy drowning their sorrows in bleached white powders snorted up nostrils and clear, vile liquids mainlined into bulging veins rather then Iasan's older, safer form of whiskey self medication.

Finally the old man comes upon a small group of strikingly healthy looking young men, three friends sharing a beautifully glowing green bottle with Jameson written across it's simple yet beautiful label. Not Iasan's Dewars but better then coke or dope any day. The whiskey calls his name.

"Gud evening boyo's. Got enough in that bottle to quench an old man's thirst?"

"Most old men sure, but sounds like you're an old Irish man. I know how the Irish drink, and you with a lifetime of experience," a bright eyed man with a tattered old Celtics cap atop his head chuckles, giving Iasan a hard time.

"Good point yer make there. Perhaps I could trade yer for some fine stories from a grizzled IRA vet. True campfire lore?"

The three men look upon the wild-eyed old Irishman with obvious intrigue and interest in their eyes. A faint smirk crosses the Celtics-capped man's face as he hands the green bottle up to the old stranger. Iasan gladly takes it and swallows a giant gulp, the smooth Jamesons goes down easier then ever.

"My grandparents were both Irish immigrants... with close IRA ties. Take a seat, I'm Patrick O'Boyle."

"Got IRA in yer blood yer good with me boyo. Name's Iasan Leech," he hands the bottle to another of Patrick's friends, a short, stalky man about the same age as Patrick whose face is covered in a thick, brown, bushy beard.

"Good to meet you Mr. Leech, call me Ray, Ray Stark," Ray shakes Iasan's hand and, just like the others, swallows a gulp of whiskey and passes it to the third friend.

The third friend, who looks younger then Patrick or Ray and not a day over twenty, takes the bottle and introduces himself as Matt Finnerty. Matt , aside from his stubbly, blonde five o'clock shadow, looks like a high school boy with a face that is covered with youthful innocence.

"So how did you lads end up here?" Iasan asks as the bottle circles to his hands once again.

"Just like everyone else I suppose, a little determination and a whole lot a luck," Patrick says bluntly.

"Luck, she's a precious thing she is. Gooddamned good thing we's Irish then, huh boys?" Iasan chuckles.

"Here, here," the three others cheer.

"You ever kill a man Mr. Leech?" Ray asks.

"Have I ever killed a man? Why yes, yes I have. Never 'fore the fallout though mind yer. Only since... What 'bout you boys?"

"Ha, no. None of us have killed anyone. We avoided confrontation out there and made it here safely," Patrick explains.

"You will find plenty here who have had to kill in order to survive, most in fact. Guess that explains why we merely drink whiskey while the rest of them have turned to heroin," Matt sighs and turns to his buddy Ray.

"Yeah, Jamesons wouldn't help to faze that out..."

"And what's next for the colony here?"

"Damned if I know Mr. Leech," Patrick takes a deep breath. "Just delaying the inevitable I suppose. Just none of us have admitted it yet."

"Nothin' tis lost till I'm dead an' buried in the cold hard ground boyo."

Patrick and his two friends Matt and Ray become eerily silent, lost in awe of the old man's gritty bluntness and determination. They find themselves inspired and revitalized even despite their considerable inebriation and muscle aching fatigue. Finally, with the whiskey back in his hand, Patrick raises the green bottle to their new friend.

"No doubt my friend. No doubt."