The Boardroom was silent after Hemingway's bombshell.
Amelia Earhart. The Lost Pilot.
It sounded insane. In his original timeline, she vanished over the Pacific. But here? In this broken, accelerated world?
Anything was possible.
"She knows the codes?" Jason asked, staring at the map where Hemingway had circled a location in the Badlands.
"She programmed the reactor," Hemingway said, pouring another drink. "She was the test pilot for the Tesla engine. If anyone can shut down the Sawmill without turning the Midwest into a crater, it's her."
Sarah stood up. She walked to the window, her back rigid.
"We can't split the leadership," she said. Her voice was tight. "Detroit is vulnerable. The Deacon is dead, but the Cartel has brothers. If we leave, who holds the fort?"
"You do," Jason said.
Sarah turned. Her eyes flashed with anger.
"Me?" she scoffed. "With my mother? You're leaving me alone in a viper pit, Jason. She'll eat me alive the moment you cross the state line."
"She won't," Jason said. "Because you're the Warden now."
He walked over to her. He took her hands. They were cold.
"You handled the execution," Jason reminded her. "You stared down the barrel and you didn't blink. Alta respects strength. As long as you hold the keys to the food supply, she won't touch you."
"And if the Cartel comes back?"
"Then you have Einstein," Jason pointed to the scientist, who was erasing equations on a whiteboard. "You have the Rod of God. The threat of it is enough to keep an army at bay."
Sarah looked at him. She saw the resolve in his face. He wasn't asking for permission. He was giving orders.
"You're running toward the fire again," she whispered.
"If the Barons take Chicago," Jason said, "the fire comes here. We'll be crushed between the AI and the Loggers. I have to stop the Sawmill before it reaches the Great Lakes."
Sarah pulled her hands away. She walked to the door.
"Fine," she said. "Go play hero. I'll stay here and run the empire."
She slammed the door.
The silence returned.
"Trouble in paradise," Hemingway grunted.
"Focus on the mission," Jason snapped. He looked at Hughes. "We need a vehicle. The train is gone. The airship is scrap. How do we cross five hundred miles of hostile territory?"
Hughes's eyes lit up. He started vibrating with excitement.
"The Warehouse," Hughes said. "Sector 4. I saw them. The prototypes."
"Prototypes?"
"Ford Centurions," Hughes grinned. "Not the walkers. The heavy transports. Gates left them behind because they weren't finished. But I can finish them."
"Show me," Jason said.
Sector 4 was a graveyard of unfinished machines.
In the center of the warehouse, covered in tarps, sat a beast.
Hughes ripped the canvas off.
It was a truck. But that word didn't do it justice.
It was a War Rig.
Six wheels, each the size of a man. The cab was armored in black iron, with slitted viewports. The chassis was reinforced with Centurion plating—the same chrome alloy that had shattered Sarah's knife.
Mounted on the roof was a railgun. It looked like a cannon stripped from a battleship.
"Nuclear battery," Hughes patted the hood lovingly. "Electric drive. Silent running. Top speed: 90 miles per hour off-road. Range: 2,000 miles."
"It's a tank," O'Malley said, kicking the tires. "With a cargo bed."
"It's a blockade runner," Hughes corrected. "And I took the liberty of adding a few... upgrades."
He pointed to the front bumper. It was a massive steel plow, sharpened to a razor edge.
"Cowcatcher," Hughes explained. "For zombies. Or Deacons."
"Does it run?" Jason asked.
"Like a dream," Hughes climbed into the cab. He flipped a switch.
The engine hummed to life. It wasn't a roar. It was a deep, electric purr. The lights flickered on—blindingly bright LEDs.
"Load it up," Jason ordered. "Ammo. Water. Spare parts. We leave at dawn."
The sun was setting over the ruins of Detroit.
The War Rig sat idling by the main gate, looking like a prehistoric beast ready to charge. O'Malley was loading crates of stolen beef into the back. Hemingway was sharpening his axe on a whetstone, the shhh-shhh sound rhythmic and soothing.
Jason found Sarah on the penthouse balcony.
She was watching the sunset, a glass of wine in her hand. She wore a heavy wool coat over her suit. She looked like a general surveying her kingdom.
"We're leaving," Jason said.
Sarah didn't turn around.
"I know," she said.
Jason stood beside her. He looked at the city below. The workers were patrolling the walls with their new rifles. The factories were humming. It was a functioning city-state.
"You did good," Jason said. "With the militia."
"I did what was necessary," Sarah said. She took a sip of wine. "Just like you."
She reached into her coat pocket.
She pulled out a radio. It was a heavy, military-grade handset.
"Take this," she said, handing it to him.
"We have radios," Jason said.
"Not like this," Sarah said. "This is a direct line to the Babel Spire. Hard-wired into the main transmitter."
"Why?"
"Ironwood said the magazine was empty," Sarah said. She looked at him, her eyes fierce. "He lied."
Jason frowned. "What?"
"I checked the logs," Sarah whispered. "Einstein missed the trajectory by 0.04 degrees. The rod hit the camp, yes. But there was a second rod in the chamber. A failsafe."
"There's one left?"
"One left," Sarah nodded. "Ironwood is saving it for Washington. But if you get in trouble... if the Sawmill is too big... call down the thunder."
Jason took the radio. It felt heavy. It felt like a promise.
"Save it for the big one," Sarah said.
She leaned in. She kissed him.
It wasn't a soft kiss. It tasted of wine and desperation. It was a seal on a contract. Come back alive.
She pulled away.
"Go," she said. "Before I ask you to stay."
Jason nodded. He didn't look back.
He walked to the elevator. He descended to the courtyard.
The team was ready.
Hughes was in the driver's seat, wearing his goggles. O'Malley was manning the roof turret. Hemingway was sitting shotgun, cleaning his fingernails with a knife.
Jason climbed into the back. He sat on a crate of ammo.
"Roll out," Jason ordered into the comms.
The War Rig lurched forward. The electric motors whined.
They drove through the main gate, past the smoking glass crater where the Deacon had died.
They hit the open road. The wasteland stretched out before them, gray and endless.
The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in bruises of purple and black.
Hemingway turned around in his seat. He looked at Jason through the rear window of the cab.
"I lied about one thing, Jason," Hemingway shouted over the engine hum.
"What?" Jason shouted back.
"The man driving the Sawmill," Hemingway said. "The Timber Baron Warlord."
"What about him?"
"He claims he knows you," Hemingway said. "He claims he's your father."
Jason froze. The wind whipped his hair across his face.
"My father is dead," Jason said. "He died in the collapse. I buried him."
"Maybe," Hemingway shrugged. "Or maybe he just got an upgrade."
Jason stared at the horizon.
A mobile fortress. A lost pilot. A resurrected father.
The West was a graveyard of ghosts.
"Let's go make sure," Jason whispered.
He racked the slide of his rifle.
The War Rig accelerated, disappearing into the darkness of the Badlands.