"Dammit, talk to me!" There was anger in Burt's voice.

Talk to him? Beth shook her head. Talking to him would imply telling him something. But what could she tell him? He had tried to shoot Whitesnake as she lay helpless on the ground. The same with Leo. And he had tried to violate her, to take her in front of all these gawkers. Should she tell him that?

What would be the point?

And what right did she have to blame him for his misdeeds? She was a murderer. That took her far beyond anything he was.

Biting her lips, she tried to concentrate on her surroundings, on the city ruins that enclosed them; on the heat of the early afternoon; on the risk of pursuit.

Tired of the continuous threat of this dreary place and what it did to her, she longed for safety, shade, and innocence.

Burt grabbed her sleeve and jerked her around. "Look, I'm sorry." He held out his hands. "I was plastered last night. Okay?"

A man's true character swims best in alcohol. The phrase wouldn't go away, and it stood in the way of forgiveness.

How could she forgive? And would she ever be forgiven?

"Let's concentrate on getting home." Using Whitesnake's dagger, which she stilled carried in her hand, she pointed towards the West, or what she believed to be west. "The river has to be somewhere ahead. And they said there's a bridge. A place to cross it."

"As you wish, my lady." He sounded hurt as he wiped his face and set out along the direction she had indicated, walking right into a crossing between two major streets.

Nervously, she looked left and right, scanning the thoroughfare for dogs or people.

Earlier that day, they had heard a yowling and yapping somewhere to the North. But they had never seen an animal. And the street here lacked any sign of life.

Yet walking right into an open square, like Burt did, was a daft idea.

Suppressing a curse, she followed him.

He walked in the middle of the street as if to show he dared. As if to show what kind of man he was.

The kind of man he was—she was all too aware of it.

Well, was his kind that far from hers?

She closed her eyes, shutting out the world and the reality that came with it. But on the inner side of her lids, she just found memories of a man howling with pain as the flames destroyed him.

She lost her footing and stumbled. She had got caught in a rusty grid covering a manhole, some of its twisted bars missing.

"Shit!" She tried to free her foot, but it was wedged in firmly.

"Since when are you using such nasty words?" Burt had returned and seized her hand, giving her a pull.

Their combined effort pried one of the grid's bars loose. Beth's foot came free, and the bar fell into the dark manhole. It rang out loud as it hit the bottom, somewhere far below.

"I hate this place," Beth said.

As if in reply to her statement, a metallic clang echoed up the manhole, making her jump.

"Let's get away from here, quick!" Burt said and ran, without waiting for her to follow.

Cursing him, Beth followed. "Hey, wait!"

He did wait, at the next intersection.

"What do you think that was?" he said, as she arrived.

Beth was panting too hard to reply.

"Didn't Whitesnake mention some tunnel gang?" He peered back the way they had come.

"She said tunnel clan." Beth was still breathing hard, but she didn't want to stay here. "Let's move." She strode off, choosing a street that went downhill.

Whitesnake had sounded scared of the tunnel clan people, and Beth didn't want to make their acquaintance.

The street took a slight left turn, and as they reached it, they saw it heading further downslope, right towards a dark body of water—the river.

It was the only open water in the area—except for the sea itself. Its source was somewhere to the Northeast, in the mountains. Yet its waters got corrupted on their way, turned poisonous by the ichor of technology long dead.

Still, relief lightened her mood as she saw it. "Come, let's go, we've gotta find that bridge."

As they descended the street, walking faster now, the view to the left and the right widened, and a bridge did come into view, to the right. But its spine was broken and its middle section was submerged.

"Shit," Burt said.

"There has to be another one." At least, the Bikers had said so. But maybe it had all just been a lie, like everything else here.

As they got closer to the river, its smell grew stronger, invading her nostrils with scents of mud, chemicals, and something dying. The water had an unhealthy gray-brown sheen, and it moved sluggishly as if reluctant to join the sea.

"There!" Burt pointed downstream.

It was a suspension bridge with a tower-like structure at each end, and cables hanging between them. A multitude of smaller ropes connected the road proper to the cables.

Tech age in its splendor—but the image was marred by a ramshackle wooden building sitting at the bridge's center, an ulcer blemishing its elegance. Malevolent and threatening.

"Do you think anyone's out there, in that house?" Beth asked. "The Bikers said they're controlling it."

"The Bikers have other problems right now." Burt just shrugged and set off along the road following the river's course towards the bridge.

Beth caught up with him. She had had enough of trailing Burt around all day. "Do you think it's a good idea to just walk onto that thing, knock at their door... whoever is in that house... and ask for passage?"

"Maybe there's no one there. If there was anyone on that bridge, they must have seen your fire, and they probably went to check on their friends."

"Don't..." Beth shook her head, trying to shake off the memory of the burnt man's screams. "Let's have a closer look, but let's be careful."

"Okay."

They walked on in silence. As the bridge came closer, Beth studied its towers and the building between them, searching for signs of life.

Whatever life it held, it wouldn't be friendly life. Nothing out here was friendly. Friendliness was a luxury. This world was about survival.

And death.

And in the end, death won. Always.

The shed had two windows facing them—dark rectangles, like a pair of eyes watching them.

"Let's wait for the night," Beth said.

"What?"

"I don't like this." Beth gestured at the bridge. "If we cross that thing now, everyone will see us, be they in that building or on one of the shores. If we go when it's dark, we'll be much less visible. Let's hide in one of the houses until then." She pointed at one of them. It was a structure of brick—three floors, the windows long gone, and its roof was missing.

"Are you sure about that?" Burt eyed the long building lining the left side of their street.

"Yes," Beth said and veered off the street, heading towards the next door.

Burt could follow her or not—she didn't care. Or did she? She wasn't sure. Yet she was relieved when she heard his footfalls trailing her.

The door, at the top of a short flight of steps, stood ajar, and the hallway behind welcomed her with air that was slightly cooler than the furnace outside and with an ancient smell—the smell of a place long abandoned.

A staircase went up on the left side of the hallway. Unwilling to discuss plans with Burt, she made for a door underneath it. She hoped it to go down into the basement, and to her relief it did. She descended the stairs without hesitation—all she wanted was to escape from the heat and light—and the world.

The rooms downstairs were as dark as the bottom of her soul, but the drop in temperature was a relief. She followed the wall, groping for obstacles until she found a corner.

Not caring for where she was or what Burt did, she sat down, with her back against the hard concrete—or whatever it was.

Then she cried.