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HinterLand

By Stuart 'LizardGenes' Lindsay

Ode to the Road

Starkness. Stretching to infinity, the desert was a sea. From its waves stood the shipwrecked pillars of commerce, billboards stranded. Discarded along the winding highway were the signs of human life, been and gone. The cans and cartons of the corporations, the newspapers and magazines of universities and schools, tossed out in the passing of progress and of cars. Nobody had marked the verges out here in the scorching heat since the highway was built. It was as lonely and uninhabited as the surface of the moon.

Chemtex Silk Suit. Briefcase. 5.56 Pocket Uzi, Modified Chamber, Silencer. A man walked out of the advert in the billboard, risen above the sand and rubbish.

"Fuck yeah, I'd drive one of those. Three inch ground clearance, full holodisplay interface, polar temperature simulator...the works. Even Contract Assassins don't get that shit." Bob smiled slyly through his teeth, trying to breath calm appreciation. Jared tried not to take his eyes off the road.

"Ok then," Jared said. "What would you choose between the car, and a one night with...who is it this time? Louise?"

"Yeah, her. Nah, Louise and I are cool, but I'd need to have a week of nights with her for it to be equal with the Quazzar. That's not just any car, you know." Bob pulled down the overhead visor, and looking in its mirror, stroked his chin. He grabbed the photos that he kept there, and flicked through them. They were all of Sarah, the night she was performing in the Sonata Burlesque. She looked amazing. "She, my friend, I would spend a night with," Bob said, fanning out some of the photos. "Above all else." Jared, biting his smeared lip, looked down at them. Like memo notes, they were yellowed and slightly curled.

"I used to know her, you know, back when I was writing in the Neon Sector. Nearly turned me straight. I knew she wasn't really interested though. Probably on a dare or something," Jared said, deceptively deadpan.

"She's a very sexy lady, though. I came so close to getting her when I took these," Bob replied. A voice chuckled from behind them, shaking the seats and rattling their pins.

"Oh come on, Bob. Who are you kidding? You couldn't sweet talk your way into a car or a woman!"  Kevin laughed, leaning forward between the seats. "It looks like we're stuck with your floor-sluts and Jared's crap-o-matic." The three of them crowded round the photos like excited schoolboys: conscious Bob with his garden of stubble and all-purpose overcoat, concerned Jared with his red lips and close stare, and block Kevin with his long, loud hair and guitar strings. "Wow, she is a hot one, alright. I'd fuck her," Kevin said, squinting.

"Shut up, Kev," snapped Jared. "Alright, let me get this straight. We're like, one hour out of the city now, yeah? So we take the highway right down to Rogue Point to meet the band?"

"Yes, down to Rogue Point to fuck the band, specifically," Bob clarified. "It's my mission to break you, Jared. You can get Louise, she'll show you what you've been missing all this time. I'm taking whoever's hottest."

"That's stark, Bob. Just stark. You've known, sorry, you've fucked Louise, for like, three years now. And you're going to trade her in for some other model, just like that?"

"She owes me, Jared. I helped her set up that band after she left the Eva Fan Club. And you owe me. So I'm killing two birds with one stone. Let her fuck you, and ask her to do that thing with the ice cube. You're gonna love it, man."

"Whatever." Jared leaned forward, half in avoidance, half in noticing something stuck behind his windscreen. A black spot. Like a fly. It walked out onto the road. "What the hell is that?"

"A hitchhiker, probably," Bob replied flatly. "Let's pick him up. He looks interesting"

"No, he's got a gun." Jared took his eyes off the road to glare at Bob.

"Even more interesting, then. He might help you with inspiration for that writing you always talk about."

"I'm not stopping, Bob. What do you think someone with a gun would be doing out here? He's probably a hitman or a pusher or something."

"Nah, he looks more like a salesman in need of a drink. And who can blame him, out here? Just stop. It'll be fine, Jared."

"And you can always fuck him if things don't work out between you and Louise," added Kevin, laughing

"Stark, just stark. If this was writing, I would never do this," Jared replied, his nerves consigned to a grim acceptance of committal. He put on his round, black sunglasses and ran a hand over his shaven head. The prickles gave him an odd sense of calmness that nursed him like a drink. It was a natural part of his response every time he was faced with something difficult, like someone asking him if he really was gay, or why he dropped out of university. The rusty van trundled to a halt beside the man, who was now in the middle of the road."

"Shit, is that blood he's bleeding?" whispered Bob. He rolled down the window. "Hey! Are you all right, man?"

Bleeding Man

"Of course he's bleeding blood. What else would he bleed?" Jared snarled under his breath, trying not to draw the attention of the injured man. He walked towards them, holding a small gun with a silencer, almost too large for it, in his left hand. Around his forearm was a handkerchief, brilliant white under the sun, and marked with a perfect circle of blood, too bright to appear real. His face was strained in the harsh light, bearing the signs of pain that his body mysteriously did not.

"What happened?" Bob shouted, leaning out of the window. Jared half-expected that man to lift his injured arm, and blow Bob's head clean off. He'd heard of the bandits that stalked these highways, flagging down and then hijacking vehicles that were stupid enough to stop. But no, he was too well dressed to be one of those people. Jared noticed that he didn't seem to experience the desert like everyone else. No perspiration on the nape of his neck, under his arms or between his legs at his crotch...

"Jared, get this guy some water. Where do you keep the tank?" He was now standing right outside the vehicle, like an interrogative police officer. Jared jumped.

"Uhh, there should be some in the cooler at the back under the last seat. Kevin, can you fetch it?" Kevin mumbled about, rearranging things in the back of the van: empty beer bottles, music data chips stained yellow with smoke, sunlight and ash, and magazines with burnt, leafy edges and strange powders creeping up along the insides of their spines.

"Here you go, man." Kevin passed the tank to Bob, who then handed it to the man. It was wet and slippery, and he fumbled with his own items in trying to accept it.

"Hold this carefully, please." He handed Bob his gun and put his briefcase down. Bob held it in his outstretched hands, not daring to grasp them around the handle or barrel.

"Fuck...this is real." Bob had never held a gun before. He'd only seen them in movies, or flashed briefly on the belts or under jackets of private security firms. He held it as if he were a statue, and it a priceless relic. Oddly enough though, it seemed unrealistically light and plastic, exactly like a child's toy. Even the large silencer was almost weightless.

"Alright. I'm going to double up when I drink this. Stomach cramps. Don't be alarmed." The man lifted the tank to his lips, and a few seconds later, he reeled backwards, as if he were shot from the inside.

"That's what happens if you're completely dehydrated. He probably hasn't drunk in days. I think we just saved his life," Jared said, still focusing on the road. The man picked himself up off the ground, breathing heavily, and handed the tank back.

"Hey man, we're going to Rogue Point. Can we give you a lift?" Bob asked, in attempted formality.

"Yes please. As a matter of fact, that's where I'm going myself," the man replied. His voice was husky and strained, but completely measured and calm. It was as if he were being forced to speak, and upon this obligation, felt it necessary to put every effort of decorum into his voice.

"Climb in then. You can sit beside Kevin. I hope you don't mind the mess. He practically lives back there!" The man went to the side door, disappearing from view.

"Bob," Jared hissed. "I don't trust him. We still don't know who he is or why he has a gun. And what's in his briefcase?"

"Relax, Jared. You shouldn't judge how somebody looks as what they're really like."

"I'm not being prejudiced or anything. I just don't want to die, that's all."

"Don't worry. He can't shoot us...as long as I have his gun." Bob smiled, and grasped it clumsily by the handle, finger away from the trigger. He pointed it at the windscreen, looking at himself in the visor mirror. "Bang..." he mused.

"Please. Don't do that." The man climbed in behind them, and Kevin shuffled over, dragging his guitar onto his knees.

"What's in the briefcase?" Jared enquired abruptly. The man froze, almost as if he'd taught himself to forget, so he wouldn't be able to tell. He looked at Jared, then at Bob, and then focused on the gun. Jared noticed the glaze in his eyes flashed white, like a glint of actual sunlight. Even through his own sunglasses, it gave him a dull sensation of pain at the back of his head, as if his eyes were being forcibly pushed back into his skull. There was an awful pause. No noise inside the car, no noise outside it. The desert was silent, and the man had brought it in with him. "Give me the gun, please." Bob handed it over, barrel first. He laid it soundlessly across his lap.

"If he wasn't going to use the gun against us, there's probably not anything bad inside his case," Bob said, reassuringly.

"Probably," Jared replied. He turned the key and started the engine, breaking the silence with the violent spluttering of his rusty van. "Ok, next stop, Rogue Point."

The Next Stop Is Not Rogue Point

They drove through the hours. Quickly or slowly, not one of them could tell. With every identical advert or rock formation that they passed, the same hour repeated itself, again and again. They drove through perpetual noon, and it seemed that neither the van nor the sun budged an inch.

"Wow. It really is stark out here," Jared said, crouching over the steering wheel and peering out under the canvas of shade that the van created. "Nothing. For miles and hours, nothing. See, this reminds me of what I'm writing about right now." Kevin groaned from behind, perhaps too tired to oppose him, perhaps only stirring in sleep at the sound of his wordless voice. "It's like, this is all we have left. This is all we are now. The wild mountains and valleys of the past are gone, and the land no longer has the ability to inspire us. So this is what's become of writing. Writing about fuck all. Forever."

"You should join the Syndicate, Jared," Bob said. It wasn't really a compliment, more of a suggestion for him to cease.

"The thing about my writing is though," Jared continued, "it's like, how the characters are searching for signs of the past. Like, they're looking in the landscape for signs that there was a past. A true past that they came from, and not just a fake one that people invented. And isn't that what every generation does? It tries to find its true self, only to, in the end, invent itself anew." There was no response.

"So, you're a writer?" the man asked. He was still sitting straight upright, in exactly the same position as when they picked him up. Unlike the others, he seemed relatively awake, and completely recovered from his fatigues and injuries.

"Yeah, I am. At least, I like to call myself one."

"Have you published anything yet?"

"No...not yet," Jared mumbled. "But Bob said he would try and convince his contacts to help me with that."

"What's your area?"

"I come from the Neon Sector, so I mostly write about social stuff. I look at what's going on there, and that gives me my inspiration. Politics and sex. The dirty stuff, really. It all basically writes itself. But the thing I'm doing right now...it's different. It's like, the Neon Sector is this place that's totally different from everywhere else. The normal rules don't apply there, so it's interesting yeah? But the desert isn't like that. It's everywhere. No matter where you go, it follows you. It's a universal place." Jared still focused tightly on the road, but he could feel himself falling back into his seat, relaxing and expanding. He could still feel the presences of Bob and the man sitting behind him, but they were softer now.

"Do you think your writing reflects the world, or do you think it creates it?" It was an honest question.

"I don't know really. I just write down what I think. The world makes me think, I guess. I'm not really a professional writer, but my job gives me plenty of time to think about these things, you know."

"Think, think think," Bob interjected. "He's a shop assistant at a music archive on Hokatchi Road. That's his real job."

"I see. What do you do, Robert?"

"Well, I'm a freelance photographer. I sell my stuff to whatever papers or magazines take an interest, and an effort to impress me," Bob replied.

"In other words, he sells his stuff to the highest bidder, whoever offers the best free lunches and promo girls," Jared continued.

"Shut up, Jared! I do it because I know I have professional standards. Those things are just the perks of the job."

"And what about him?" The man pointed to open mouthed, slumped back Kevin. "What does he do?"

"Another double life. Rock musician, and garage mechanic." There was another silence, before any of the three gathered up enough courage to return the question."

"So..." Jared started. Everyone knew what he was going to ask, but the man let him continue. "So...you. What do you do?" he asked cautiously.

"Not much, anymore." the man replied.

"No, really. What do you do? What are you? How did you get shot? And what's your name?" The man's eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward. It was a lot cooler in the front of the van, where the air conditioning was. But Jared only noticed the temperature when it changed. After the man invaded it, and stole it from the now spluttering fans, replacing it with the intense heat of the desert. He made Jared think, he reminded him who he was. In the heat, he could taste his melting lipstick, and smell the plastic from his rose nail varnish.

"I only know myself by one name. Son. I am the son. Nothing more." He held himself there for a second, lost in his own words...opening a crack in the desert. The van gave a jolt, running over a rock or a piece of road kill. He suddenly fell back into his seat, exhausted. The fans resumed normally.

"What the hell was that?" Jared asked.

"Probably just a snake," replied Bob.

"No...never mind. We should find a place to pull over and get some rest. It gets dark out here really fast."

"Look." Bob angled the rear view mirror, and pointed at it. The man was asleep, his fingers gently curling round the trigger of his gun. "Let's stop up ahead. I need a piss."

The van drove on, and the sun finally began its rapid decent behind them, as if it were cutting off the road back to the city.

Desert Rats Around a Makeshift Toilet

They came to stop at the side of the road. It could have been anywhere. Sheer desire caused them to pull over, rather than their spotting of any convenience in the landscape. Anyone could do anything out here in this alien place. Anything could happen at all, but from the perceptions of those who traveled through it, nothing ever did. Everyone and everything, isolated from everyone and everything else. The four of them got out.

"Be back in a minute. Bring the cooler out, and some of the deck chairs." Bob ambled away from the van, looking for a private spot in the open land. There wasn't one. He unzipped his trousers, and with his back to the rest of them, urinating, stared at the sky. Clouds began to creep over the horizon, their rippled edges stained in long streaks with the reddening sun.

Kevin brought out the cooler, and put it carelessly on the desert floor. To him, Bob was just a tiny figure against the vast horizon, even though he was only about ten meters away. "Bob!" he called out. "He's gone psycho!" He opened and then slammed shut the cooler lid once, imitating a gunshot. Bob physically jumped, fumbling with his trousers. Kevin's raucous laugh echoed like an earthquake.

Bob came storming back to the van. "Shit, don't ever, EVER do that again!" Bob screamed, throwing his arms up. "NEVER, you hear me? You'll freak out my prostate! Where is he anyway?"

"Still sleeping," Kevin replied.

"What about Jared?" Bob turned, not waiting for an answer. "Jared? Get out here and have a drink with us, you gay fuck! Damnit!"

"He's probably wanking over that guy right now. Or pleasuring himself with the gun."

"Jared?" Bob looked through the passenger window. Jared was staring at the sleeping man. "Jared!"

"Shit, you scared me!" Jared flashed a glance over his shoulder, his neck twisting unnaturally.

"Get out here, now. Kevin's opened the cooler."

"Fine." Jared got out of the van, and Kevin handed him a beer. Three deck chairs were laid out around the cooler, a treasure trove of tinkling ice cube gems, floating between bobbing golden cans.

"There's something troubling me about our man, guys," Jared said, sitting down. "I think there might be something...wrong with him."

"What, are you his fucking nurse or something? He's fine," Bob snapped.

"No, it's something else. Not his body."

"Well, that's a first-time observation for you. I've heard you use that body excuse on guys before. 'Oh, you're bleeding, Mr. Man! Let me unbutton your shirt and take a closer look!' Real smooth, Jared." Bob glared at him, still defensive from the shock he received. "So it's not his body then, it's his mind? Are you saying your gaydar's acting up?"

"Shut up Bob. I mean it. This is serious. It's not just him. It's like this whole place. It's what he's doing to it."

"What?"

"Like that thing with the sun. It never gets dark out here this late."

"What time is it?"

"Eight thirty. The sun only went down when he fell asleep."

"You're just getting your desert senses. Maybe you're a little paranoid, or distracted. I've been through here to Rogue Point before, so I know what you're feeling. It's natural on your first time. Trust me, the drive is worth it. But anyway, let's not let this guy screw up the experience. Let's just enjoy it, okay man?"

"Yeah, I guess I have been a little on edge since we picked him up. Don't you guys feel it too?" Kevin shook his head, and took a large gulp of his beer. Bob looked nervously at the horizon, where the sand argued with the sky in the dulling haze.

"No," he said sharply. "But I know what I do feel. I feel the need to fuck. Tomorrow night, we get some women. I know a good motel that's on our route. I can't last the time to Rogue Point." The man opened the side door of the van, bringing his belongings out with him.

"This is when the desert comes alive, between the night and the day." He said, sitting down on the ground.

"Hey, let me get you a seat, man," Bob said. "He rummaged around in the back of the van for a second, and brought out an empty fuel barrel. "It's not quite a deck chair, but it's better than sitting on the ground, getting that suit dirty." He put it down next to the others.

"Thanks. Got a light?"

"I have my own smokes, if you like," Bob replied, before the others could offer. Perhaps so they couldn't offer.

"No thanks. Just a light."

"Okay, here you go." Bob flashed a small grey box across the man's face, as he brought out a cigarette from his suit pocket. No box, just a cigarette. The glow illuminated his face, and for the first time, Bob could see it clearly. His hairline was creeping up his forehead, and he looked older than he probably was, too old for his body, perhaps. There was silence from the group, allowing the desert wind to exhale the night in one long breath.

"My mind's shot. I'm stark," Jared sighed forcefully, intending a private thought to become public interest. "This landscape's no good for my writing. There's nothing or nobody in it to inspire me."

"What's it about?" the man asked, distant, but focused on his cigarette.

"Well, it's a bit too complex for me to explain right now. I want to make it sound truthful, like what it really is."

"Go on. I have the whole sunset. I can never sleep when the light changes."

"Alright. It's about this epic search. These characters go looking for something, but they don't know what it is, or where it is. And they don't even know when they'll find what they're looking for, so they keep trying new things, to see if that's it. And they keep wondering if the search will destroy them. It's like what this place reminds me of, man. The end of the world. The end of shared experience, the end of writing. I call it: 'The Search For Whatever'." Bob and Kevin laughed, like they did every time they heard that title.

"Don't laugh," the man said quietly. "You know, these lands haven't changed much since the Big Impact. I knew someone who survived out here when it happened. He's the only person I know. I never knew him that well, nor he I, but I felt we understood each other more than any two men on this soil. One night a couple of years ago, he went off into this desert to fight demons. Demons that have lived and fought humanity for as long as the time when the first day met the first night, and for every meeting since. They show themselves at the changing of the light: at the setting of the sun, and at it’s rising the next day. That one night, he came out here, and he never came back. He just disappeared. Disappeared into the changing of the light." He threw down his cigarette hungrily, almost to stop himself from eating it. It burned slowly in the sand.

"Nice story," Bob interjected. "Hey Jared, maybe you should put that in it." He finished his beer and got up dramatically. "Listen, I'm going to sleep. We have a full day's driving tomorrow." He went into the van, wanting to draw attention to his departure, but not altogether sure he should leave the others alone.

"Meaning What, Exactly?"

The sun was up, and day just appeared from nowhere. Bob climbed out of the van, scratching his tousled hair. "You up all night?" he asked, yawning.

"No, of course not," the man replied.

"Good, 'cause you'll be up all tonight, what with the fun we have lined up." Bob pressed, emphasizing his excited-ness. "You joinin' in?"

"No, I have to meet someone, actually."

"What? You'll never find them out here, man. There's nothing out here, except where we're going, yeah?"

"Don't worry. I've had him follow us." The man rolled up his sleeve, and pointed to his watch. A small red light blinked sequentially. Bob jumped, thinking that for a second, it was trying to imitate him.

"A Tracer. You're kidding, right?" he said, staring at it.

"No. It's important. I need some information before I get to Rogue Point. I'll take care of it while you and your friends are at the motel."

Bob drew out a long breath. "I don't know what you're about, but if what you're doing is dangerous, then we want NOTHING to do with it. I'm a pretty liberal guy. I know what happens in this world and yeah, I turn a blind eye. But I go my own way. You're entitled to your views, your pursuits and your pleasures, so long as they don't interfere with mine. So when we get to the motel, I'll stick to my stuff and you can stick to yours. When we're both done, we meet back at the van like nothing ever happened. And that goes with everyone else on this trip. Don't drag them into it either, alright?" The pair of them stood in open morning heat, pushing each other with their indirect gazes. Bob was fixed on the man's watch, and he on the horizon. They were divided, their closed-off minds wrapped in the desert wind, pressing against its cloudless cage.

"Alright, Bob," the man replied, thoughtfully. "You seem to be in charge here, so I'll go along with that."

"I am in charge here. Because I know what's good for my friends," Bob replied emphatically.

"Meaning what, exactly?" interrupted Jared, leaning out of the van.

"I know what you're missing, man," Bob replied. He furnished the mood with a crooked smile. "But it looks like our friend has other business to take care of, so he won't be joining us tonight."

"Get in the van, and have some breakfast. It's dried waffles and butter," Jared said blankly. "I've already had mine, so we can get going while you eat." The two of them climbed in. Kevin was already devouring his share, two thick slabs upon which the unmelted butter skated around. He offered one to the man.

"No thanks."

"Give it here, Kev." Bob twisted his hand backwards, and Kevin placed a waffle in it carelessly, as if it were a brick. "Alright, I'll tell you how to get to this motel. It's not too far from here. We should get there by sundown." The van jolted as he snapped up his breakfast. His stomach rumbled, answered angrily by the van's engine.

Hours later, and he was still looking at himself in the visor mirror.

"Shit...I need a shave." He opened the glove compartment, and pulled out a portable electric razor.

"Bob, you're not going to do that here, are you? I don't want your bum fluff on my leather seats," Jared said.

"Why not? It's not as if it'll make much difference in this dump."  He switched it on, and pressed it to his face. The razor growled as it indignantly trawled the rugged surface. "Close...but not too close," he mumbled to himself.

"So, do you actually know any girls at this motel?" Jared asked. "Or are you just going to select them at random and hope for the best...as you usually do?"

"I think I know a few of them, yeah. We'll just see what turns up," he said, shaving. He cornered his facial hair into his chin, a rude cleft that was casual in the most unnatural way. "I don't look like a douche with this, do I?"

"Is that type of hair a familiar sight?" Jared asked.

"Maybe yeah," Bob laughed suddenly, trying not to notice the joke. "You know I only go down on a girl to repay her. The girls always wash their mouths out with Soape after they talk dirty! Well, oral sex is all I can get when girls don't like the no-condom thing."

"You don't use a condom?"

"Nah, it doesn't feel as good. It's not like, true sex, man. Most girls are fine with doing it my way anyhow. I don't see what the big fuss is all about."

"That's stark. You'll end up regretting you said that, man."

Robert Soape's nights were filled with the careless and casual screams of his victims. They drowned in staged silence, like actors who had forgotten their lines in a show that had already been filmed. But it couldn't mean enough to him; their silences neither hid nor revealed anything. It was merely the same flat and simple pleasure, being chased and hunted down, again and again. Always, his half-haunting thrill was over only when the blood ran.

He batted his cheeks with his hands, ignoring Jared. In the corner of the mirror, another black spot. It crawled up behind them quickly, like a black stain running up the glass. "Is that a car? What's it doing?"

"He probably just wants to overtake us."

"Well, there's plenty of room. He can pass." The car stuck there, in the middle of the mirror, stuck like a fly drowning in sweat. Jared signaled for him to pass. No answer.

"Come on, on you go..."

"He doesn't want past," the man said flatly. "I need to meet him before we get to Rogue Point. I was just saying to Bob earlier..."

"What? You mean you're bringing someone else along with you? And that's him back there?"

"Who else could it be out here? I'll conduct my business in private while you're busy in the motel." Jared stopped looking in the mirror, back at the man and the fly hovering over his shoulder.

"We still don't know why you're going to Rogue Point."

"Nor I you, but we both have our vague assumptions."

"Who is he?"

"Jared, we don't need to get involved," Bob said tersely. "Just let him get his stuff sorted."

"No. This may be your trip, Bob. But it's my van. I'm not leaving it alone." Jared turned around in his seat, to look at the man directly. "Who is he?"

"Just a shareholder. Of Rogue Point. And you'd be wise to give him the privacy I promised, if you want your stay there to be at all memorable." Jared lay back in his seat. He was back at the beginning. The car continued to trail them, all the way down the road to the motel.

Outside the Discount Motel

With the car still following silently, they approached the motel. It beckoned its guests with rusted adverts and sparsely hung neon signs that flickered rudely...rudely like a tongue upon the surface of something rough. It sent shivers up Jared's spine, as if he were welcoming something bad upon the group by pulling into the motel's petrol station parking lot. Once again, night rose above their heads.

"Well, here we are," Bob said, too frustrated with sharing the journey to add drama to his announcement. "And our guest is still with us, too." He glanced back at the black car, swinging round behind them, tires growling on the loose stony ground. "I think this is where we go our separate ways for the night," Bob said to the man.

"I think it is," he replied. "Enjoy the evening, Bob." The car just sat there in the corner of the barren square, waiting across from the petrol pumps. The man got out, and walked towards it.

"Alright, now he's gone, the real fun can begin. Think of this as a taster for the Rogue Point experience."

"I'm not coming, Bob. You and Kevin can go, but I'm staying here. With the van."

"Oh come on Jared," Bob moaned disdainfully. "Don't be such a spoilsport."

"No, I want to see what this is all about. I mean it. Seriously. What if he steals the van and just leaves us out here?"

"What if he kills you, THEN steals the van and leaves us. It’s safer for you to be with us. We stick together."

"You can't persuade me, Bob. I've made up my mind." Jared lit a cigarette and fastened his seatbelt. Bob looked at him, and then at Kevin. No objection.

"Fine. You don't know the favors I do for you, Jared. And you don't know the strings I have to pull to show you how to have a good time. You certainly don't appreciate it, that's for sure."

"Don't give me that shit, Bob," Jared growled. "You didn't plan on stopping here. You only came here on a whim because you felt like it, because you felt like intimidating me with your type of woman. You don't scare me."

"Fuck this, let's go, Kev," Bob replied.

"Sorry man," Kevin looked at Jared apologetically, shrugging. "See you tomorrow morning." The two of them got out, and headed for the motel door. Jared looked in the mirror, ignoring them. The man had got to the black car, and the figure in the driving seat got out to give him his seat. He was dressed in a padded khaki jacket, and something long and black hung from his belt. He was a bodyguard, perhaps.

"So...a Rogue Point shareholder? Let's get a proper look at you." Jared tilted the mirror slightly, so the car was in center view. Two figures shuffled slightly in the front seats, their shadows illuminated by the car headlights. "Yep, something's going down alright." He climbed out of the car, fully aware that the bodyguard could be watching him. He locked the door, and dived into the ditch running along the side. He could be anybody, anybody being sick at the corner of the road.

"Shit, a sewage outlet." He nearly was sick. The ditch was most likely an old irrigation trench, dry and empty, now strewn with rubbish. Jared crept along its length, up alongside the black car. He very gently, peeked over the trench. The car was about ten feet away from him, and from his position, gave him a good view of the passenger side. "Why am I doing this?" he said inside his own head. Such thoughts were silenced by what he saw. A short man of stocky build lay back in his seat, his eyes fixed emotionlessly on a television screen. The green glow illuminated him like it was a stage light. He'd seen that person before somewhere...somewhere on...television? Jared felt as if he were suddenly pulled onto a set, like that was the only place where such people existed and could be seen. A celebrity, perhaps? The window was open a tiny crack, and at this distance, he could hear part of the conversation.

"I don't understand, Mr. Portense. They should be killed straight away. Right here, in the middle of the desert...nothing but animals...the lot of them." Portense! That was who it was! Jared remembered. Ambrose Portense, presenter and relationship guru of the show Family Confessions. Various fragments of domestic dissent were brought together for a hypocritical half hour, where the viewers could take a break from their own lives to laugh at those who had less fortunate ones. Portense would save his guests from a whole host of his invented sins, redeeming them with his orations of how to uphold a marriage, or what to do if your fifteen-year-old daughter's baby is raped. He was the biggest hypocrite, a contradiction of a classical caliber, and he knew that hypocrisy had never changed throughout the centuries. Only the things of which lies were told in the name of, ever did.

"I don't want anyone killed, remember?" Portense replied in a deathly monotonous tone. "I just want them to feel unwelcome so that they leave Rogue Point, that’s all. That will benefit everyone’s business there."

"Alright. Then the offer stays."

"Five thousand Jhay, no more. That's almost the same as Rogue Point's going rate for a hit right now. And there's no death involved, so you're getting a good offer. Just give them a fright to remember, scare them stiff for the night. If they think they're being threatened, then they'll pack up and leave. And that benefits everyone who told me to go through with this."

"Who told you to go through with this?"

"Some of the Contract Assassins. So if you do anything wrong, it's me they'll come looking for. Ah...you licentious lady..." Portense shivered, and looked away from the television screen in the dashboard in front of him. He sighed. A woman got up from the foot well of the black car, and climbed across him. She opened the door. Jared almost died with shock and confusion. He rolled down into the bottom of the trench, pressing himself against the rubbish that lay in it. "Just leave me with the video." Portense was much louder with the door open. "Take my guard, and relax in the motel. I'll pay you when my business has been completed." She passed, a pair of high heels and fishnets.

"Oh thank God." Jared went limp with exhaustion. Then it hit him. Bob and Kevin were in the motel. The man they picked up couldn't be referring to them in his conversation, surely? What had the three of them ever done...except pick him up? "Shit." He tried to move, to get back to the van, and then to the motel to somehow warn them, but he was incapable of doing anything but listening. Portense slammed the door, and resumed his business with the man.

"Normally, I'd use one of the Contract Assassins to do this sort of work, but since it was them who asked me in person, I needed someone from outside to do this, someone nobody's ever heard of. That's why I contacted you. I owe those men and women a lot. I asked them to make me influential at Rogue Point, and now they want me to pay them back.

"Don't worry. I'll be there by sundown tomorrow. Once I'm done, just be sure to have my money ready for me. I think you'll find you'll find me considerably easier to deal with than them."

Jared sensed the conversation was coming to an end, and he needed to be in the motel, or the man would suspect something. With great effort, he dragged himself back along the trench, towards the van. He must have seen the same can again and again as he passed through, the same brand label glaring at him. Suddenly, there was a sharp pain in his left ankle. A red line bled at the hem of his trousers. "What the fuck?" He spun around in the general direction of the pain. "Oh shit, I have to be infected now. There's used condoms and everything in here!" He scrambled back to the van, and after unlocking it, dived in. He shivered. How could he have not noticed that cut? Were there any used condoms in there? Anything infectious? Could he have dragged himself through one? "Oh God, why did I have to do that? Why? Oh my God, I'm such a dumb fuck. Oh God, ohmigod ohmigod oh my God!" He sat for a few minutes, cursing himself, and then went into the motel to find his friends.

Inside the Discount Motel

Bob stood there, in the middle of the room, as a thicket of crimped blonde hair nestled itself in his crotch. "Everyone always want oral," she said between breaths.

"Wanna go a bit further then?" Bob replied.

"That depends on how much you can pay." Bob considered the possibility of spending all his money here and getting more from a machine when he got to Rogue Point. She held him firmly in her hands, kneeling, looking up at him. She was half-dazed, half emotionless. Bob wondered if she was on something, or if it was just the effects of her job.

"Where I’m going, I think I can get what I'm looking for, for free."

"You sound pretty confident."

"Nah, it's not that. I know a few women there. I'll pass. Just continue with what you're doing. That's fucking sweet, yeah?" She resumed, her head jerking back and forth like a wind up toy.

"Oh, deeper babe," Bob moaned. She pushed herself against him, slowly. He sank his hands deep into her hair, grasping. "Go as deep as you can. I wanna feel myself at the back of your throat." He pulled her hair and brought her head back and forth vigorously. An expression was stifled upon her face, an expression that could be mistaken for pain or passion.

Bob had seen it on television before. On the private networks. He saw how some girls could take their men all the way in, how they could swallow them completely. He wanted to know what it felt like. He held her head in place, and thrust himself back and forth, but it wasn't enough. Something was blocking him. "Damn...let me finish this." He pulled himself vigorously, and soon registered himself upon the woman's face. It was an anticlimax. Although he'd finished, he couldn't complete the scene. Something from him was missing, and he felt he was performing, being watched.

"Are there any cameras in this motel?"

"Not that I know of, no." The woman stood up and went over to the sink. The motel room was shamed by decades of misuse, and turned into a prison cell. The bathroom and bed were undivided, where one could be the observation post of the other. "So, where are you going to next, then?"

"I'm going to Rogue Point to meet a band I know. The Cascades." Suddenly there was a series of stuttering knocks at the door. Bob turned around. "What's that? Fuck, are we being watched? Who's there, hello?" The woman didn't answer. She rinsed her hands and brought them to her face. "Did you order anyone to come here?" She didn't turn around. It seemed like she was cleansing herself, kneeling over a font, waiting for an answer. "Alright...that's it. I'm done. I’m going; I can't pay for any more. Hello, who's there?" The handle turned, almost exploding from the rest of the rickety door. Jared burst in.

"Did anyone come in here?" he blurted out.

"What? What the fuck?"

"Thank God I finally found you! I had to search all the rooms! Did anyone come in here, Bob? A heavy and another woman?"

"A woman? I only came in myself with this one."

"No, not her. Another one. Our man has some serious connections.

"I don’t wanna know. I told him we'd keep out of his business. We're not involved. I made that clear to him this morning."

"But we are involved, Bob. We were the ones that said we're bringing him to Rogue Point. He knows where we're going. And we can't just leave him now. What if he follows us?

"He won't follow us. And we are taking him to Rogue Point."

"But he mentioned us in his conversation."

"What conversation? You stayed in the van, right?"

"No, actually. Someone's going to get hurt, and I think it might be us. His client's bodyguard and another woman are in here."

"Damnit, Jared. You did the one thing you shouldn't have! He said he wanted privacy, remember?"

"It's ok, I wasn't seen. I kept low, in the gutter alongside that car." Jared just stood there.

"You're mad, Jared. Totally mad. You shouldn't have done that, man." Bob shook his head.

"We should get back on the road to Rogue Point."

"You shouldn't go there." The woman at the sink stopped washing her face. She turned off the tap, grinding it into the porcelain, shuddering the shattered bowl. "That place brings out the worst in people. Everybody goes there to meet their demons, and nobody really comes back."

“Demons?” Jared jumped. “That’s what he said. Remember? Bob, what was he saying last night, about the guy he knew that went out to fight demons, and never came back?”

“I don’t remember,” Bob replied. “But he was talking about the desert, not Rogue Point.”

“Oh.”

“Anyway, you’ve ruined my evening, Jared. And I really needed it, yeah? Thanks.” Bob dug into his wallet and pulled out a few notes for the woman. She didn’t notice. “I’ll just put your money here, alright?”  He bent down awkwardly and laid them on the bed.

“Are you done then?” Jared asked.

“Obviously, yeah.”

“Lets go then. The sooner we get to Rogue Point, the sooner we can drop him off.”

“And start enjoying ourselves. I’m beginning to think your obsession with him is affecting our trip. He’s a real person, you know. He’s not just some character that you need to guide through your story.”

“Although we hardly know anything about him. So it’s inevitable that we fill in the gaps.”

“Yeah, whatever. The son, that’s what he’s called. It’s good enough for me. I can’t enjoy myself with your constant mind-fuck paranoia, Jared. I never got properly away there.”

“So you’re really going to Rogue Point, then?” the woman asked, aware that she was being referred to.

“Yep,” Bob replied curtly. It was like a hiccup.

“Then may the truth have mercy upon you.” Bob was taken aback, but he looked at Jared rather than the woman.

“It looks like I didn’t need to spoil your evening, Bob. You must have got the nun,” Jared said, fending off his gaze.

“Fuck you, Jared.” They left the room, ignoring her.

“Come on, our man will be waiting for us outside.”

Description
HinterLand

By Stuart 'LizardGenes' Lindsay

Ode to the Road

Starkness. Stretching to infinity, the desert was a sea. From its waves stood the shipwrecked pillars of commerce, billboards stranded. Discarded along the winding highway were the signs of human life, been and gone. The cans and cartons of the corporations, the newspapers and magazines of universities and schools, tossed out in the passing of progress and of cars. Nobody had marked the verges out here in the scorching heat since the highway was built. It was as lonely and uninhabited as the surface of the moon.

Chemtex Silk Suit. Briefcase. 5.56 Pocket Uzi, Modified Chamber, Silencer. A man walked out of the advert in the billboard, risen above the sand and rubbish.

"Fuck yeah, I'd drive one of those. Three inch ground clearance, full holodisplay interface, polar temperature simulator...the works. Even Contract Assassins don't get that shit." Bob smiled slyly through his teeth, trying to breath calm appreciation. Jared tried not to take his eyes off the road.

"Ok then," Jared said. "What would you choose between the car, and a one night with...who is it this time? Louise?"

"Yeah, her. Nah, Louise and I are cool, but I'd need to have a week of nights with her for it to be equal with the Quazzar. That's not just any car, you know." Bob pulled down the overhead visor, and looking in its mirror, stroked his chin. He grabbed the photos that he kept there, and flicked through them. They were all of Sarah, the night she was performing in the Sonata Burlesque. She looked amazing. "She, my friend, I would spend a night with," Bob said, fanning out some of the photos. "Above all else." Jared, biting his smeared lip, looked down at them. Like memo notes, they were yellowed and slightly curled.

"I used to know her, you know, back when I was writing in the Neon Sector. Nearly turned me straight. I knew she wasn't really interested though. Probably on a dare or something," Jared said, deceptively deadpan.

"She's a very sexy lady, though. I came so close to getting her when I took these," Bob replied. A voice chuckled from behind them, shaking the seats and rattling their pins.

"Oh come on, Bob. Who are you kidding? You couldn't sweet talk your way into a car or a woman!"  Kevin laughed, leaning forward between the seats. "It looks like we're stuck with your floor-sluts and Jared's crap-o-matic." The three of them crowded round the photos like excited schoolboys: conscious Bob with his garden of stubble and all-purpose overcoat, concerned Jared with his red lips and close stare, and block Kevin with his long, loud hair and guitar strings. "Wow, she is a hot one, alright. I'd fuck her," Kevin said, squinting.

"Shut up, Kev," snapped Jared. "Alright, let me get this straight. We're like, one hour out of the city now, yeah? So we take the highway right down to Rogue Point to meet the band?"

"Yes, down to Rogue Point to fuck the band, specifically," Bob clarified. "It's my mission to break you, Jared. You can get Louise, she'll show you what you've been missing all this time. I'm taking whoever's hottest."

"That's stark, Bob. Just stark. You've known, sorry, you've fucked Louise, for like, three years now. And you're going to trade her in for some other model, just like that?"

"She owes me, Jared. I helped her set up that band after she left the Eva Fan Club. And you owe me. So I'm killing two birds with one stone. Let her fuck you, and ask her to do that thing with the ice cube. You're gonna love it, man."

"Whatever." Jared leaned forward, half in avoidance, half in noticing something stuck behind his windscreen. A black spot. Like a fly. It walked out onto the road. "What the hell is that?"

"A hitchhiker, probably," Bob replied flatly. "Let's pick him up. He looks interesting"

"No, he's got a gun." Jared took his eyes off the road to glare at Bob.

"Even more interesting, then. He might help you with inspiration for that writing you always talk about."

"I'm not stopping, Bob. What do you think someone with a gun would be doing out here? He's probably a hitman or a pusher or something."

"Nah, he looks more like a salesman in need of a drink. And who can blame him, out here? Just stop. It'll be fine, Jared."

"And you can always fuck him if things don't work out between you and Louise," added Kevin, laughing

"Stark, just stark. If this was writing, I would never do this," Jared replied, his nerves consigned to a grim acceptance of committal. He put on his round, black sunglasses and ran a hand over his shaven head. The prickles gave him an odd sense of calmness that nursed him like a drink. It was a natural part of his response every time he was faced with something difficult, like someone asking him if he really was gay, or why he dropped out of university. The rusty van trundled to a halt beside the man, who was now in the middle of the road."

"Shit, is that blood he's bleeding?" whispered Bob. He rolled down the window. "Hey! Are you all right, man?"

Bleeding Man

"Of course he's bleeding blood. What else would he bleed?" Jared snarled under his breath, trying not to draw the attention of the injured man. He walked towards them, holding a small gun with a silencer, almost too large for it, in his left hand. Around his forearm was a handkerchief, brilliant white under the sun, and marked with a perfect circle of blood, too bright to appear real. His face was strained in the harsh light, bearing the signs of pain that his body mysteriously did not.

"What happened?" Bob shouted, leaning out of the window. Jared half-expected that man to lift his injured arm, and blow Bob's head clean off. He'd heard of the bandits that stalked these highways, flagging down and then hijacking vehicles that were stupid enough to stop. But no, he was too well dressed to be one of those people. Jared noticed that he didn't seem to experience the desert like everyone else. No perspiration on the nape of his neck, under his arms or between his legs at his crotch...

"Jared, get this guy some water. Where do you keep the tank?" He was now standing right outside the vehicle, like an interrogative police officer. Jared jumped.

"Uhh, there should be some in the cooler at the back under the last seat. Kevin, can you fetch it?" Kevin mumbled about, rearranging things in the back of the van: empty beer bottles, music data chips stained yellow with smoke, sunlight and ash, and magazines with burnt, leafy edges and strange powders creeping up along the insides of their spines.

"Here you go, man." Kevin passed the tank to Bob, who then handed it to the man. It was wet and slippery, and he fumbled with his own items in trying to accept it.

"Hold this carefully, please." He handed Bob his gun and put his briefcase down. Bob held it in his outstretched hands, not daring to grasp them around the handle or barrel.

"Fuck...this is real." Bob had never held a gun before. He'd only seen them in movies, or flashed briefly on the belts or under jackets of private security firms. He held it as if he were a statue, and it a priceless relic. Oddly enough though, it seemed unrealistically light and plastic, exactly like a child's toy. Even the large silencer was almost weightless.

"Alright. I'm going to double up when I drink this. Stomach cramps. Don't be alarmed." The man lifted the tank to his lips, and a few seconds later, he reeled backwards, as if he were shot from the inside.

"That's what happens if you're completely dehydrated. He probably hasn't drunk in days. I think we just saved his life," Jared said, still focusing on the road. The man picked himself up off the ground, breathing heavily, and handed the tank back.

"Hey man, we're going to Rogue Point. Can we give you a lift?" Bob asked, in attempted formality.

"Yes please. As a matter of fact, that's where I'm going myself," the man replied. His voice was husky and strained, but completely measured and calm. It was as if he were being forced to speak, and upon this obligation, felt it necessary to put every effort of decorum into his voice.

"Climb in then. You can sit beside Kevin. I hope you don't mind the mess. He practically lives back there!" The man went to the side door, disappearing from view.

"Bob," Jared hissed. "I don't trust him. We still don't know who he is or why he has a gun. And what's in his briefcase?"

"Relax, Jared. You shouldn't judge how somebody looks as what they're really like."

"I'm not being prejudiced or anything. I just don't want to die, that's all."

"Don't worry. He can't shoot us...as long as I have his gun." Bob smiled, and grasped it clumsily by the handle, finger away from the trigger. He pointed it at the windscreen, looking at himself in the visor mirror. "Bang..." he mused.

"Please. Don't do that." The man climbed in behind them, and Kevin shuffled over, dragging his guitar onto his knees.

"What's in the briefcase?" Jared enquired abruptly. The man froze, almost as if he'd taught himself to forget, so he wouldn't be able to tell. He looked at Jared, then at Bob, and then focused on the gun. Jared noticed the glaze in his eyes flashed white, like a glint of actual sunlight. Even through his own sunglasses, it gave him a dull sensation of pain at the back of his head, as if his eyes were being forcibly pushed back into his skull. There was an awful pause. No noise inside the car, no noise outside it. The desert was silent, and the man had brought it in with him. "Give me the gun, please." Bob handed it over, barrel first. He laid it soundlessly across his lap.

"If he wasn't going to use the gun against us, there's probably not anything bad inside his case," Bob said, reassuringly.

"Probably," Jared replied. He turned the key and started the engine, breaking the silence with the violent spluttering of his rusty van. "Ok, next stop, Rogue Point."

The Next Stop Is Not Rogue Point

They drove through the hours. Quickly or slowly, not one of them could tell. With every identical advert or rock formation that they passed, the same hour repeated itself, again and again. They drove through perpetual noon, and it seemed that neither the van nor the sun budged an inch.

"Wow. It really is stark out here," Jared said, crouching over the steering wheel and peering out under the canvas of shade that the van created. "Nothing. For miles and hours, nothing. See, this reminds me of what I'm writing about right now." Kevin groaned from behind, perhaps too tired to oppose him, perhaps only stirring in sleep at the sound of his wordless voice. "It's like, this is all we have left. This is all we are now. The wild mountains and valleys of the past are gone, and the land no longer has the ability to inspire us. So this is what's become of writing. Writing about fuck all. Forever."

"You should join the Syndicate, Jared," Bob said. It wasn't really a compliment, more of a suggestion for him to cease.

"The thing about my writing is though," Jared continued, "it's like, how the characters are searching for signs of the past. Like, they're looking in the landscape for signs that there was a past. A true past that they came from, and not just a fake one that people invented. And isn't that what every generation does? It tries to find its true self, only to, in the end, invent itself anew." There was no response.

"So, you're a writer?" the man asked. He was still sitting straight upright, in exactly the same position as when they picked him up. Unlike the others, he seemed relatively awake, and completely recovered from his fatigues and injuries.

"Yeah, I am. At least, I like to call myself one."

"Have you published anything yet?"

"No...not yet," Jared mumbled. "But Bob said he would try and convince his contacts to help me with that."

"What's your area?"

"I come from the Neon Sector, so I mostly write about social stuff. I look at what's going on there, and that gives me my inspiration. Politics and sex. The dirty stuff, really. It all basically writes itself. But the thing I'm doing right now...it's different. It's like, the Neon Sector is this place that's totally different from everywhere else. The normal rules don't apply there, so it's interesting yeah? But the desert isn't like that. It's everywhere. No matter where you go, it follows you. It's a universal place." Jared still focused tightly on the road, but he could feel himself falling back into his seat, relaxing and expanding. He could still feel the presences of Bob and the man sitting behind him, but they were softer now.

"Do you think your writing reflects the world, or do you think it creates it?" It was an honest question.

"I don't know really. I just write down what I think. The world makes me think, I guess. I'm not really a professional writer, but my job gives me plenty of time to think about these things, you know."

"Think, think think," Bob interjected. "He's a shop assistant at a music archive on Hokatchi Road. That's his real job."

"I see. What do you do, Robert?"

"Well, I'm a freelance photographer. I sell my stuff to whatever papers or magazines take an interest, and an effort to impress me," Bob replied.

"In other words, he sells his stuff to the highest bidder, whoever offers the best free lunches and promo girls," Jared continued.

"Shut up, Jared! I do it because I know I have professional standards. Those things are just the perks of the job."

"And what about him?" The man pointed to open mouthed, slumped back Kevin. "What does he do?"

"Another double life. Rock musician, and garage mechanic." There was another silence, before any of the three gathered up enough courage to return the question."

"So..." Jared started. Everyone knew what he was going to ask, but the man let him continue. "So...you. What do you do?" he asked cautiously.

"Not much, anymore." the man replied.

"No, really. What do you do? What are you? How did you get shot? And what's your name?" The man's eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward. It was a lot cooler in the front of the van, where the air conditioning was. But Jared only noticed the temperature when it changed. After the man invaded it, and stole it from the now spluttering fans, replacing it with the intense heat of the desert. He made Jared think, he reminded him who he was. In the heat, he could taste his melting lipstick, and smell the plastic from his rose nail varnish.

"I only know myself by one name. Son. I am the son. Nothing more." He held himself there for a second, lost in his own words...opening a crack in the desert. The van gave a jolt, running over a rock or a piece of road kill. He suddenly fell back into his seat, exhausted. The fans resumed normally.

"What the hell was that?" Jared asked.

"Probably just a snake," replied Bob.

"No...never mind. We should find a place to pull over and get some rest. It gets dark out here really fast."

"Look." Bob angled the rear view mirror, and pointed at it. The man was asleep, his fingers gently curling round the trigger of his gun. "Let's stop up ahead. I need a piss."

The van drove on, and the sun finally began its rapid decent behind them, as if it were cutting off the road back to the city.

Desert Rats Around a Makeshift Toilet

They came to stop at the side of the road. It could have been anywhere. Sheer desire caused them to pull over, rather than their spotting of any convenience in the landscape. Anyone could do anything out here in this alien place. Anything could happen at all, but from the perceptions of those who traveled through it, nothing ever did. Everyone and everything, isolated from everyone and everything else. The four of them got out.

"Be back in a minute. Bring the cooler out, and some of the deck chairs." Bob ambled away from the van, looking for a private spot in the open land. There wasn't one. He unzipped his trousers, and with his back to the rest of them, urinating, stared at the sky. Clouds began to creep over the horizon, their rippled edges stained in long streaks with the reddening sun.

Kevin brought out the cooler, and put it carelessly on the desert floor. To him, Bob was just a tiny figure against the vast horizon, even though he was only about ten meters away. "Bob!" he called out. "He's gone psycho!" He opened and then slammed shut the cooler lid once, imitating a gunshot. Bob physically jumped, fumbling with his trousers. Kevin's raucous laugh echoed like an earthquake.

Bob came storming back to the van. "Shit, don't ever, EVER do that again!" Bob screamed, throwing his arms up. "NEVER, you hear me? You'll freak out my prostate! Where is he anyway?"

"Still sleeping," Kevin replied.

"What about Jared?" Bob turned, not waiting for an answer. "Jared? Get out here and have a drink with us, you gay fuck! Damnit!"

"He's probably wanking over that guy right now. Or pleasuring himself with the gun."

"Jared?" Bob looked through the passenger window. Jared was staring at the sleeping man. "Jared!"

"Shit, you scared me!" Jared flashed a glance over his shoulder, his neck twisting unnaturally.

"Get out here, now. Kevin's opened the cooler."

"Fine." Jared got out of the van, and Kevin handed him a beer. Three deck chairs were laid out around the cooler, a treasure trove of tinkling ice cube gems, floating between bobbing golden cans.

"There's something troubling me about our man, guys," Jared said, sitting down. "I think there might be something...wrong with him."

"What, are you his fucking nurse or something? He's fine," Bob snapped.

"No, it's something else. Not his body."

"Well, that's a first-time observation for you. I've heard you use that body excuse on guys before. 'Oh, you're bleeding, Mr. Man! Let me unbutton your shirt and take a closer look!' Real smooth, Jared." Bob glared at him, still defensive from the shock he received. "So it's not his body then, it's his mind? Are you saying your gaydar's acting up?"

"Shut up Bob. I mean it. This is serious. It's not just him. It's like this whole place. It's what he's doing to it."

"What?"

"Like that thing with the sun. It never gets dark out here this late."

"What time is it?"

"Eight thirty. The sun only went down when he fell asleep."

"You're just getting your desert senses. Maybe you're a little paranoid, or distracted. I've been through here to Rogue Point before, so I know what you're feeling. It's natural on your first time. Trust me, the drive is worth it. But anyway, let's not let this guy screw up the experience. Let's just enjoy it, okay man?"

"Yeah, I guess I have been a little on edge since we picked him up. Don't you guys feel it too?" Kevin shook his head, and took a large gulp of his beer. Bob looked nervously at the horizon, where the sand argued with the sky in the dulling haze.

"No," he said sharply. "But I know what I do feel. I feel the need to fuck. Tomorrow night, we get some women. I know a good motel that's on our route. I can't last the time to Rogue Point." The man opened the side door of the van, bringing his belongings out with him.

"This is when the desert comes alive, between the night and the day." He said, sitting down on the ground.

"Hey, let me get you a seat, man," Bob said. "He rummaged around in the back of the van for a second, and brought out an empty fuel barrel. "It's not quite a deck chair, but it's better than sitting on the ground, getting that suit dirty." He put it down next to the others.

"Thanks. Got a light?"

"I have my own smokes, if you like," Bob replied, before the others could offer. Perhaps so they couldn't offer.

"No thanks. Just a light."

"Okay, here you go." Bob flashed a small grey box across the man's face, as he brought out a cigarette from his suit pocket. No box, just a cigarette. The glow illuminated his face, and for the first time, Bob could see it clearly. His hairline was creeping up his forehead, and he looked older than he probably was, too old for his body, perhaps. There was silence from the group, allowing the desert wind to exhale the night in one long breath.

"My mind's shot. I'm stark," Jared sighed forcefully, intending a private thought to become public interest. "This landscape's no good for my writing. There's nothing or nobody in it to inspire me."

"What's it about?" the man asked, distant, but focused on his cigarette.

"Well, it's a bit too complex for me to explain right now. I want to make it sound truthful, like what it really is."

"Go on. I have the whole sunset. I can never sleep when the light changes."

"Alright. It's about this epic search. These characters go looking for something, but they don't know what it is, or where it is. And they don't even know when they'll find what they're looking for, so they keep trying new things, to see if that's it. And they keep wondering if the search will destroy them. It's like what this place reminds me of, man. The end of the world. The end of shared experience, the end of writing. I call it: 'The Search For Whatever'." Bob and Kevin laughed, like they did every time they heard that title.

"Don't laugh," the man said quietly. "You know, these lands haven't changed much since the Big Impact. I knew someone who survived out here when it happened. He's the only person I know. I never knew him that well, nor he I, but I felt we understood each other more than any two men on this soil. One night a couple of years ago, he went off into this desert to fight demons. Demons that have lived and fought humanity for as long as the time when the first day met the first night, and for every meeting since. They show themselves at the changing of the light: at the setting of the sun, and at it’s rising the next day. That one night, he came out here, and he never came back. He just disappeared. Disappeared into the changing of the light." He threw down his cigarette hungrily, almost to stop himself from eating it. It burned slowly in the sand.

"Nice story," Bob interjected. "Hey Jared, maybe you should put that in it." He finished his beer and got up dramatically. "Listen, I'm going to sleep. We have a full day's driving tomorrow." He went into the van, wanting to draw attention to his departure, but not altogether sure he should leave the others alone.

"Meaning What, Exactly?"

The sun was up, and day just appeared from nowhere. Bob climbed out of the van, scratching his tousled hair. "You up all night?" he asked, yawning.

"No, of course not," the man replied.

"Good, 'cause you'll be up all tonight, what with the fun we have lined up." Bob pressed, emphasizing his excited-ness. "You joinin' in?"

"No, I have to meet someone, actually."

"What? You'll never find them out here, man. There's nothing out here, except where we're going, yeah?"

"Don't worry. I've had him follow us." The man rolled up his sleeve, and pointed to his watch. A small red light blinked sequentially. Bob jumped, thinking that for a second, it was trying to imitate him.

"A Tracer. You're kidding, right?" he said, staring at it.

"No. It's important. I need some information before I get to Rogue Point. I'll take care of it while you and your friends are at the motel."

Bob drew out a long breath. "I don't know what you're about, but if what you're doing is dangerous, then we want NOTHING to do with it. I'm a pretty liberal guy. I know what happens in this world and yeah, I turn a blind eye. But I go my own way. You're entitled to your views, your pursuits and your pleasures, so long as they don't interfere with mine. So when we get to the motel, I'll stick to my stuff and you can stick to yours. When we're both done, we meet back at the van like nothing ever happened. And that goes with everyone else on this trip. Don't drag them into it either, alright?" The pair of them stood in open morning heat, pushing each other with their indirect gazes. Bob was fixed on the man's watch, and he on the horizon. They were divided, their closed-off minds wrapped in the desert wind, pressing against its cloudless cage.

"Alright, Bob," the man replied, thoughtfully. "You seem to be in charge here, so I'll go along with that."

"I am in charge here. Because I know what's good for my friends," Bob replied emphatically.

"Meaning what, exactly?" interrupted Jared, leaning out of the van.

"I know what you're missing, man," Bob replied. He furnished the mood with a crooked smile. "But it looks like our friend has other business to take care of, so he won't be joining us tonight."

"Get in the van, and have some breakfast. It's dried waffles and butter," Jared said blankly. "I've already had mine, so we can get going while you eat." The two of them climbed in. Kevin was already devouring his share, two thick slabs upon which the unmelted butter skated around. He offered one to the man.

"No thanks."

"Give it here, Kev." Bob twisted his hand backwards, and Kevin placed a waffle in it carelessly, as if it were a brick. "Alright, I'll tell you how to get to this motel. It's not too far from here. We should get there by sundown." The van jolted as he snapped up his breakfast. His stomach rumbled, answered angrily by the van's engine.

Hours later, and he was still looking at himself in the visor mirror.

"Shit...I need a shave." He opened the glove compartment, and pulled out a portable electric razor.

"Bob, you're not going to do that here, are you? I don't want your bum fluff on my leather seats," Jared said.

"Why not? It's not as if it'll make much difference in this dump."  He switched it on, and pressed it to his face. The razor growled as it indignantly trawled the rugged surface. "Close...but not too close," he mumbled to himself.

"So, do you actually know any girls at this motel?" Jared asked. "Or are you just going to select them at random and hope for the best...as you usually do?"

"I think I know a few of them, yeah. We'll just see what turns up," he said, shaving. He cornered his facial hair into his chin, a rude cleft that was casual in the most unnatural way. "I don't look like a douche with this, do I?"

"Is that type of hair a familiar sight?" Jared asked.

"Maybe yeah," Bob laughed suddenly, trying not to notice the joke. "You know I only go down on a girl to repay her. The girls always wash their mouths out with Soape after they talk dirty! Well, oral sex is all I can get when girls don't like the no-condom thing."

"You don't use a condom?"

"Nah, it doesn't feel as good. It's not like, true sex, man. Most girls are fine with doing it my way anyhow. I don't see what the big fuss is all about."

"That's stark. You'll end up regretting you said that, man."

Robert Soape's nights were filled with the careless and casual screams of his victims. They drowned in staged silence, like actors who had forgotten their lines in a show that had already been filmed. But it couldn't mean enough to him; their silences neither hid nor revealed anything. It was merely the same flat and simple pleasure, being chased and hunted down, again and again. Always, his half-haunting thrill was over only when the blood ran.

He batted his cheeks with his hands, ignoring Jared. In the corner of the mirror, another black spot. It crawled up behind them quickly, like a black stain running up the glass. "Is that a car? What's it doing?"

"He probably just wants to overtake us."

"Well, there's plenty of room. He can pass." The car stuck there, in the middle of the mirror, stuck like a fly drowning in sweat. Jared signaled for him to pass. No answer.

"Come on, on you go..."

"He doesn't want past," the man said flatly. "I need to meet him before we get to Rogue Point. I was just saying to Bob earlier..."

"What? You mean you're bringing someone else along with you? And that's him back there?"

"Who else could it be out here? I'll conduct my business in private while you're busy in the motel." Jared stopped looking in the mirror, back at the man and the fly hovering over his shoulder.

"We still don't know why you're going to Rogue Point."

"Nor I you, but we both have our vague assumptions."

"Who is he?"

"Jared, we don't need to get involved," Bob said tersely. "Just let him get his stuff sorted."

"No. This may be your trip, Bob. But it's my van. I'm not leaving it alone." Jared turned around in his seat, to look at the man directly. "Who is he?"

"Just a shareholder. Of Rogue Point. And you'd be wise to give him the privacy I promised, if you want your stay there to be at all memorable." Jared lay back in his seat. He was back at the beginning. The car continued to trail them, all the way down the road to the motel.

Outside the Discount Motel

With the car still following silently, they approached the motel. It beckoned its guests with rusted adverts and sparsely hung neon signs that flickered rudely...rudely like a tongue upon the surface of something rough. It sent shivers up Jared's spine, as if he were welcoming something bad upon the group by pulling into the motel's petrol station parking lot. Once again, night rose above their heads.

"Well, here we are," Bob said, too frustrated with sharing the journey to add drama to his announcement. "And our guest is still with us, too." He glanced back at the black car, swinging round behind them, tires growling on the loose stony ground. "I think this is where we go our separate ways for the night," Bob said to the man.

"I think it is," he replied. "Enjoy the evening, Bob." The car just sat there in the corner of the barren square, waiting across from the petrol pumps. The man got out, and walked towards it.

"Alright, now he's gone, the real fun can begin. Think of this as a taster for the Rogue Point experience."

"I'm not coming, Bob. You and Kevin can go, but I'm staying here. With the van."

"Oh come on Jared," Bob moaned disdainfully. "Don't be such a spoilsport."

"No, I want to see what this is all about. I mean it. Seriously. What if he steals the van and just leaves us out here?"

"What if he kills you, THEN steals the van and leaves us. It’s safer for you to be with us. We stick together."

"You can't persuade me, Bob. I've made up my mind." Jared lit a cigarette and fastened his seatbelt. Bob looked at him, and then at Kevin. No objection.

"Fine. You don't know the favors I do for you, Jared. And you don't know the strings I have to pull to show you how to have a good time. You certainly don't appreciate it, that's for sure."

"Don't give me that shit, Bob," Jared growled. "You didn't plan on stopping here. You only came here on a whim because you felt like it, because you felt like intimidating me with your type of woman. You don't scare me."

"Fuck this, let's go, Kev," Bob replied.

"Sorry man," Kevin looked at Jared apologetically, shrugging. "See you tomorrow morning." The two of them got out, and headed for the motel door. Jared looked in the mirror, ignoring them. The man had got to the black car, and the figure in the driving seat got out to give him his seat. He was dressed in a padded khaki jacket, and something long and black hung from his belt. He was a bodyguard, perhaps.

"So...a Rogue Point shareholder? Let's get a proper look at you." Jared tilted the mirror slightly, so the car was in center view. Two figures shuffled slightly in the front seats, their shadows illuminated by the car headlights. "Yep, something's going down alright." He climbed out of the car, fully aware that the bodyguard could be watching him. He locked the door, and dived into the ditch running along the side. He could be anybody, anybody being sick at the corner of the road.

"Shit, a sewage outlet." He nearly was sick. The ditch was most likely an old irrigation trench, dry and empty, now strewn with rubbish. Jared crept along its length, up alongside the black car. He very gently, peeked over the trench. The car was about ten feet away from him, and from his position, gave him a good view of the passenger side. "Why am I doing this?" he said inside his own head. Such thoughts were silenced by what he saw. A short man of stocky build lay back in his seat, his eyes fixed emotionlessly on a television screen. The green glow illuminated him like it was a stage light. He'd seen that person before somewhere...somewhere on...television? Jared felt as if he were suddenly pulled onto a set, like that was the only place where such people existed and could be seen. A celebrity, perhaps? The window was open a tiny crack, and at this distance, he could hear part of the conversation.

"I don't understand, Mr. Portense. They should be killed straight away. Right here, in the middle of the desert...nothing but animals...the lot of them." Portense! That was who it was! Jared remembered. Ambrose Portense, presenter and relationship guru of the show Family Confessions. Various fragments of domestic dissent were brought together for a hypocritical half hour, where the viewers could take a break from their own lives to laugh at those who had less fortunate ones. Portense would save his guests from a whole host of his invented sins, redeeming them with his orations of how to uphold a marriage, or what to do if your fifteen-year-old daughter's baby is raped. He was the biggest hypocrite, a contradiction of a classical caliber, and he knew that hypocrisy had never changed throughout the centuries. Only the things of which lies were told in the name of, ever did.

"I don't want anyone killed, remember?" Portense replied in a deathly monotonous tone. "I just want them to feel unwelcome so that they leave Rogue Point, that’s all. That will benefit everyone’s business there."

"Alright. Then the offer stays."

"Five thousand Jhay, no more. That's almost the same as Rogue Point's going rate for a hit right now. And there's no death involved, so you're getting a good offer. Just give them a fright to remember, scare them stiff for the night. If they think they're being threatened, then they'll pack up and leave. And that benefits everyone who told me to go through with this."

"Who told you to go through with this?"

"Some of the Contract Assassins. So if you do anything wrong, it's me they'll come looking for. Ah...you licentious lady..." Portense shivered, and looked away from the television screen in the dashboard in front of him. He sighed. A woman got up from the foot well of the black car, and climbed across him. She opened the door. Jared almost died with shock and confusion. He rolled down into the bottom of the trench, pressing himself against the rubbish that lay in it. "Just leave me with the video." Portense was much louder with the door open. "Take my guard, and relax in the motel. I'll pay you when my business has been completed." She passed, a pair of high heels and fishnets.

"Oh thank God." Jared went limp with exhaustion. Then it hit him. Bob and Kevin were in the motel. The man they picked up couldn't be referring to them in his conversation, surely? What had the three of them ever done...except pick him up? "Shit." He tried to move, to get back to the van, and then to the motel to somehow warn them, but he was incapable of doing anything but listening. Portense slammed the door, and resumed his business with the man.

"Normally, I'd use one of the Contract Assassins to do this sort of work, but since it was them who asked me in person, I needed someone from outside to do this, someone nobody's ever heard of. That's why I contacted you. I owe those men and women a lot. I asked them to make me influential at Rogue Point, and now they want me to pay them back.

"Don't worry. I'll be there by sundown tomorrow. Once I'm done, just be sure to have my money ready for me. I think you'll find you'll find me considerably easier to deal with than them."

Jared sensed the conversation was coming to an end, and he needed to be in the motel, or the man would suspect something. With great effort, he dragged himself back along the trench, towards the van. He must have seen the same can again and again as he passed through, the same brand label glaring at him. Suddenly, there was a sharp pain in his left ankle. A red line bled at the hem of his trousers. "What the fuck?" He spun around in the general direction of the pain. "Oh shit, I have to be infected now. There's used condoms and everything in here!" He scrambled back to the van, and after unlocking it, dived in. He shivered. How could he have not noticed that cut? Were there any used condoms in there? Anything infectious? Could he have dragged himself through one? "Oh God, why did I have to do that? Why? Oh my God, I'm such a dumb fuck. Oh God, ohmigod ohmigod oh my God!" He sat for a few minutes, cursing himself, and then went into the motel to find his friends.

Inside the Discount Motel

Bob stood there, in the middle of the room, as a thicket of crimped blonde hair nestled itself in his crotch. "Everyone always want oral," she said between breaths.

"Wanna go a bit further then?" Bob replied.

"That depends on how much you can pay." Bob considered the possibility of spending all his money here and getting more from a machine when he got to Rogue Point. She held him firmly in her hands, kneeling, looking up at him. She was half-dazed, half emotionless. Bob wondered if she was on something, or if it was just the effects of her job.

"Where I’m going, I think I can get what I'm looking for, for free."

"You sound pretty confident."

"Nah, it's not that. I know a few women there. I'll pass. Just continue with what you're doing. That's fucking sweet, yeah?" She resumed, her head jerking back and forth like a wind up toy.

"Oh, deeper babe," Bob moaned. She pushed herself against him, slowly. He sank his hands deep into her hair, grasping. "Go as deep as you can. I wanna feel myself at the back of your throat." He pulled her hair and brought her head back and forth vigorously. An expression was stifled upon her face, an expression that could be mistaken for pain or passion.

Bob had seen it on television before. On the private networks. He saw how some girls could take their men all the way in, how they could swallow them completely. He wanted to know what it felt like. He held her head in place, and thrust himself back and forth, but it wasn't enough. Something was blocking him. "Damn...let me finish this." He pulled himself vigorously, and soon registered himself upon the woman's face. It was an anticlimax. Although he'd finished, he couldn't complete the scene. Something from him was missing, and he felt he was performing, being watched.

"Are there any cameras in this motel?"

"Not that I know of, no." The woman stood up and went over to the sink. The motel room was shamed by decades of misuse, and turned into a prison cell. The bathroom and bed were undivided, where one could be the observation post of the other. "So, where are you going to next, then?"

"I'm going to Rogue Point to meet a band I know. The Cascades." Suddenly there was a series of stuttering knocks at the door. Bob turned around. "What's that? Fuck, are we being watched? Who's there, hello?" The woman didn't answer. She rinsed her hands and brought them to her face. "Did you order anyone to come here?" She didn't turn around. It seemed like she was cleansing herself, kneeling over a font, waiting for an answer. "Alright...that's it. I'm done. I’m going; I can't pay for any more. Hello, who's there?" The handle turned, almost exploding from the rest of the rickety door. Jared burst in.

"Did anyone come in here?" he blurted out.

"What? What the fuck?"

"Thank God I finally found you! I had to search all the rooms! Did anyone come in here, Bob? A heavy and another woman?"

"A woman? I only came in myself with this one."

"No, not her. Another one. Our man has some serious connections.

"I don’t wanna know. I told him we'd keep out of his business. We're not involved. I made that clear to him this morning."

"But we are involved, Bob. We were the ones that said we're bringing him to Rogue Point. He knows where we're going. And we can't just leave him now. What if he follows us?

"He won't follow us. And we are taking him to Rogue Point."

"But he mentioned us in his conversation."

"What conversation? You stayed in the van, right?"

"No, actually. Someone's going to get hurt, and I think it might be us. His client's bodyguard and another woman are in here."

"Damnit, Jared. You did the one thing you shouldn't have! He said he wanted privacy, remember?"

"It's ok, I wasn't seen. I kept low, in the gutter alongside that car." Jared just stood there.

"You're mad, Jared. Totally mad. You shouldn't have done that, man." Bob shook his head.

"We should get back on the road to Rogue Point."

"You shouldn't go there." The woman at the sink stopped washing her face. She turned off the tap, grinding it into the porcelain, shuddering the shattered bowl. "That place brings out the worst in people. Everybody goes there to meet their demons, and nobody really comes back."

“Demons?” Jared jumped. “That’s what he said. Remember? Bob, what was he saying last night, about the guy he knew that went out to fight demons, and never came back?”

“I don’t remember,” Bob replied. “But he was talking about the desert, not Rogue Point.”

“Oh.”

“Anyway, you’ve ruined my evening, Jared. And I really needed it, yeah? Thanks.” Bob dug into his wallet and pulled out a few notes for the woman. She didn’t notice. “I’ll just put your money here, alright?”  He bent down awkwardly and laid them on the bed.

“Are you done then?” Jared asked.

“Obviously, yeah.”

“Lets go then. The sooner we get to Rogue Point, the sooner we can drop him off.”

“And start enjoying ourselves. I’m beginning to think your obsession with him is affecting our trip. He’s a real person, you know. He’s not just some character that you need to guide through your story.”

“Although we hardly know anything about him. So it’s inevitable that we fill in the gaps.”

“Yeah, whatever. The son, that’s what he’s called. It’s good enough for me. I can’t enjoy myself with your constant mind-fuck paranoia, Jared. I never got properly away there.”

“So you’re really going to Rogue Point, then?” the woman asked, aware that she was being referred to.

“Yep,” Bob replied curtly. It was like a hiccup.

“Then may the truth have mercy upon you.” Bob was taken aback, but he looked at Jared rather than the woman.

“It looks like I didn’t need to spoil your evening, Bob. You must have got the nun,” Jared said, fending off his gaze.

“Fuck you, Jared.” They left the room, ignoring her.

“Come on, our man will be waiting for us outside.”