Three NOs

I sent a look toward Dave and the others — a silent question. Can we take this man in?

Dave nodded. Frank and Mike's faces said they had no objection either. Everyone knew it in their gut. This man was more than enough to stand as a comrade on a journey this brutal.

I jerked my chin at Gunner.

"Come inside. We'll talk."

The five of us, Gunner included, filed back into my trailer. The moment he stepped through the door, that stoic face of his cracked with undisguised surprise. His eyes swept the CCTV monitors, the neatly organized lockers, the compact kitchen.

He muttered under his breath.

"Huh... I knew it. I wasn't wrong about this."

Mike shrugged at the man's astonishment.

"This is our crew's headquarters. And the boss is Chan, right over there. You good with that?"

Gunner glanced at me and answered without a second's hesitation.

"Of course."

I cut straight to business.

"Good. Then let's start with your prep, Gunner. How much fuel you carrying?"

"Seven full five-gallon jerry cans."

"Food?"

"About two months of emergency rations. Plus a month of MREs."

"Weapons?"

"M4, Glock 19X, an M700 bolt-action, and fifteen hundred rounds."

He said it flatly, pointing toward his minivan. Mike couldn't keep the surprise out of his voice.

"That M4 — is it fully automatic?"

Gunner smiled, just barely.

"Gotta follow the law, so for now it's a semi-auto with the burst function stripped. But... if we need it, I can convert it back to full auto anytime."

"Anytime...?"

Mike's eyes went wide. Gunner added,

"It's simple. Drill a third pin hole in the lower receiver, seat an auto sear properly, and you're done. Three-round burst or full auto — that's just a matter of preference."

As Mike's eyes widened further, Gunner went on.

"My name. Gunner. Not a nickname — it's what's on my birth certificate. My family's been gunsmiths for generations. We make 'em and we fix 'em."

At that, everyone wore the same satisfied look — the look of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠men who knew the right person had just joined the crew. Once the introductions were settled, I pointed at the map and shifted the subject.

"All right. We've got five vehicles now. Just tagging along in a line is asking for trouble. From here on, we move as a convoy. Let's talk formation."

Dave jumped in like he'd been waiting for it.

"Well, obviously the boss's truck goes first, right? Biggest and toughest — you should be punching a hole through the road up front."

Mike shook his head.

"No, that's a bad idea. If Chan's truck takes the lead, it completely blocks our sightlines. Something happens up ahead, we'll be late reading the situation and even later reacting to it."

Gunner stepped in, nodding.

"Mike's right. If nobody minds, I'd like to make a suggestion on the formation."

Every eye turned to him. Gunner traced a finger across the map as he spoke.

"I know this area pretty well — Idaho, Nevada, Utah. The geography, the roads. So the most efficient play is my minivan up front. High mobility. Scout and pathfinder."

He looked at me again.

"And Polar Bear's truck has the highest cab sightline. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Tail of the column. You control the whole picture from back there and cover any threat from the rear."

"Good. We'll do it that way."

At my agreement, Mike rummaged through his bag and pulled out two more handheld radios. He handed one to Gunner.

"Haha. Damn glad I packed extras. Here. This is the net the Nisku Crew runs on. Channel seven."

Gunner took the radio from Mike's hand.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

"Nisku?"

"Yeah. All of us used to grind it out together at the Nisku loading dock. Family, basically."

Mike said it lightly, and Gunner nodded. He didn't ask anything more, but he seemed to understand where the bond between us came from.

The meeting wrapped, and Dave and the others decided to spend the night in the motel attached to the truck stop, to save fuel. I had no intention of leaving my fortress. Someone had to stay put in case of a nighttime emergency.

The next morning, at first light, the others started their last fill-up — nearly first in line, thanks to having queued up the night before. Once every tank and jerry can was topped off, Dave came over to me.

"Whew. We were right at the tail end. A few more vehicles filled up behind us, and then the pumps just... stopped. We got lucky. Real lucky."

With everything ready, our little convoy finally rolled out. Gunner and Mike's minivans opened the road up front. Dave and Frank followed in sequence, and at the very rear — from the highest seat in the column — I drove the W990 and watched our six.

Five vehicles holding a steady interval as they merged west onto I-84. I had to admit, it looked pretty damn good.

Outside the window, Idaho's wide plains unspooled past. Dry earth ran to the horizon under a sky the color of ash. Abandoned farmhouses surfaced now and then, weeds shivering in the wind — a bleak and lonesome country, nothing like the pine forests of Canada.

My friends had made it onto American soil in one piece, and a formidable new comrade named Gunner had joined us. I wasn't alone. But in a corner of my mind, an unresolved problem kept gnawing at me.

Fuel.

This fill-up might have been the last. We still had nearly nine hundred miles to go, and I had no answer for where — or how — we'd find the next tank of diesel. That was the heaviest problem we carried, the one tied directly to whether this group lived or died.

How far we'd gone, I couldn't say, when the radio crackled and Gunner's low voice came through.

Laughter spilled across the channel. Listening to their back-and-forth, I found a faint smile on my face before I even noticed. And then, all at once, a sensation I barely recognized washed over me.

For ten years, driving had been a solitary thing. Out on the endless asphalt, cut off from the world, it was only me and a giant truck and the tedium of the landscape. Like sailing a boundless sea alone. Some days you fought the sleep that came for you. Some days you wrestled the old memories that rose up unbidden. You endured all of it by yourself.

But this was different.

Up ahead, there were eyes opening the road. There were comrades calling out the gaps. And in the passenger seat, Wolf sat solid as a rock.

"Wolf, you're practically people. Haha."

"Awooo!"

We were no longer scattered points. We were a single line now — one organism, moving forward together.

How much farther we'd gone, I couldn't say, when Dave's voice came over the radio.

Everyone agreed. Once more, our little fleet set out — quiet, together — toward a new destination.

Following Gunner's lead, we finally rolled into Snake River Oasis. But the moment we passed the gas station entrance, we saw something that stopped us cold.

A heavy chain was strung across the pumps, and in front of it stood a big sheet of plywood with words scrawled across it by hand.

Beside it, dust-caked five-gallon jerry cans were stacked in a mountain, a ridiculous price tag stuck in front of them.

A hundred dollars for an empty can?

That was easily ten times the usual price — outright gouging.

Hell of an expensive oasis.

The three NOs painted on that sign were not mere warnings. They were a new set of commandments, raised by people determined to survive in the vacuum where law and systems were dying away.

It occurred to me that we might not be the ones truly thirsty at this oasis.