Ruins of the Fall (The Remants Trilogy #2) by Nicholas Erik Page B

our convoy moves on without much trouble. A couple vehicles break down beyond repair, reminding everyone that traveling without backup isn’t where you want to be.
    I’ve been out of HIVE for all of a week, and I can’t say that I’ve enjoyed coming back to reality.
    I pull into an abandoned waystation—the last one in the Lost Plains, about three-hundred miles from the border of the Gray Desert—and cut the truck’s engine. With the heater off, a bone-chilling frost settles into the cab within minutes. I check my rifle as Jana slowly wakes up.
    “Why’s it so damn cold?”
    “We’re at the last waystation,” I say.
    “Anyone here?” But the words are said without much hope, and don’t require any answer. The convoy stops behind us, spread out in a haphazard fashion. The tight circles and night watches that marked our early journey have yielded to a weary complacency.
    I adjust the knife hanging from my belt. Jana gave it to me without explanation. Her pained expression said enough. Maybe carrying it on my person will be some sort of penance. But I don’t feel regret for what I did. Even if I was as selfish as I used to be—an open question, although one I’m not qualified to answer in full—this new world is about survival. And I didn’t kill someone building hospitals for the poor.
    I killed a man who ambushed travelers in the Lost Plains, stripped the lucky ones only of their vehicles and belongings. I don’t believe in karma, but it’s hard to conclude anything but the inevitable: Vlad Rose got what was coming. A murderous existence usually ends with the knife pointed the wrong way.
    “They’re getting lazy,” Jana says, shielding her eyes from the glow of high-beams as she surveys her people.
    “Everyone’s tired.”
    “We didn’t survive by doing this shit.” She walks off, leaving me alone. I shrug and turn my attention towards the empty waystation. This one is a strange beast—it’s a fifteen story building surrounded by nothing but empty road and frozen grass.
    A nano-builder bot must’ve built this tiny skyscraper. It looks funny, like a giant accidentally dropped it in the landscape. The gate is open, so I walk through. I crane my head to look at the abandoned sniper’s nest.
    Two of them, in fact, framing the gate.
    Years ago, waltzing through the gate would’ve been impossible. It’s well-fortified enough to hold off attackers for days. But nothing stops me as I walk towards the entrance and wait for the motion sensing mechanism to let me in.
    The sliding doors don’t open, and I’m left staring at my reflection. It’s the first time I’ve seen myself since HIVE. I don’t remember if I was better looking in the simulation. Probably. Three years and a load of shit have worn on my features. My black hair is longer, the ragged tips frosted by ashen dust.
    “Who are you, Luke?” I say to the man I’ve become. I don’t have an answer. The hardest man to know is yourself.
    Then I rear back and send my boot through the reflection, shattering the glass. I brush away the jagged edges and step inside. The carpet smells fresh. Whoever ran this place was a neat freak. Not a bad place to catch a few winks, maybe even take a shower. A week ago, this would’ve been like an oasis. The bone-crushing weariness of those first few days out of HIVE were almost unbearable. But a man finds that he can bear almost anything, so long as he has enough time to adapt.
    I’m still tired—it’s just that I’ve become better at handling it. And I don’t want to stay at this waystation any longer than necessary. I walk over the tan carpet in the lobby, approaching the desk. It’s faux-cherry and granite. From afar, it looks real, but up close you see the truth. I brush my hand over the clean surface. No dust.
    It’s only been a few days since the Remnants abandoned the waystations, throwing their lot in with either Jana or Mirko. Not beyond the realm of possibility that this little high-rise