Blood Red Road

all around me is flyin machines.

    Flyin machines. Flyers.
    Hidden away. Sleepin unner the wanderin dunes of Sandsea fer who knows how long. Could of bin fer any amount of time—a day, a week, a year. Maybe even hunnerds of years. Maybe ever since they was left here by the Wreckers.
    They’re all laid out in neat rows on the sand. Like somebody planted ’em, thinkin they might grow.
    They stretch out, on an on across the plain. So many rows, so many flyin machines that I couldn’t even begin to count.
    I walk in between ’em.
    They’re all sizes. Big, small an everythin in between. They stand quiet, patient, like they’re waitin fer somethin.
    They’re all rusted, with their glass windows smashed an their tires slashed an their bodies cut up to be took away by salvagers. The holes in their sides gape open like wounds.
    A flyin machine graveyard.
    I know about flyers. I even seen parts of ’em before.
    Once Pa brought home a curved metal sheet he picked outta the landfill that he said was most likely part of a flyer. He used it to mend our roof. But the funny thing was, not two days later a big hotwind blasted through Silverlake an that sheet jest lifted up an flew away. Like it couldn’t wait to git outta there. The rest of the roof stayed put, jest that one bit went. Pa said that proved fer sure it was from a flyer.
    I stand in front of one of the biggest ones. I stretch myself to my full height an go up on my toes, but I still cain’t reach it.
    Nero appears in the darkenin sky above me. He lands on my head, flappin his wings.
    Hey Nero. I bring him down to sit on my hand. I rub his head as I walk among the sleepin metal giants. D’you think Lugh came this way? D’you think he seen these? He’d like to see a entire one close to, that’s fer sure.
    I come to a small one, more human-sized. I touch the metal with its faded paint. It feels cool. Buried in sand with no sun to warm its skin.
    I put my hand on the door. If I’m respeckful, I cain’t see how it ’ud do no harm.
    Be good now, I says to Nero. Don’t you go peckin at things.
    The door creaks. Sand pours out as I pull it open an climb inside. I brush the seat clear, slide onto it an look out where the window used to be. I wonder what the world was like when this flyer was new made, so long ago. What it would of bin like to fly in one.
    When Lugh an me was nippers, Pa told us all about how the Wreckers used to go up in the sky in their flyers. They’d soar an swoop all over the place, pretendin to be birds. Sometimes, he said, there’d be hunnerds of Wreckers all piled into one big one an they’d fly around together.
    Me an Lugh thought that was the craziest thing we ever heard. We didn’t believe him. An when we asked Pa why they did it, he said he didn’t rightly know, they jest did, that’s all. We figgered fer definite he was tellin tall tales. But now I seen one fer myself … well, I dunno. Maybe it could be true.
    The night’s drawin in. There ain’t no wind at all now. Not even a whisper. I feel so weary. My eyelids is so heavy, I cain’t hardly keep ’em open. I slide down in the seat. Nero huddles on my chest an snugs hisself unner my chin. I might jest catch a little shut eye before I go on. Not fer long.
    Jest a few minutes.
    Jest a—

    A sound.
    I’m awake. Right away. Muscles tense. Ready to move.
    Nero opens one eye. I hold a finger to my lips. He knows what that means.
    There it is agin. Somethin movin. Outside. Then a snort. A horse. One that ain’t sure of itself, one that’s feelin a bit nervy.
    I set Nero down on the floor. Then I roll outta my seat an crawl towards the back end of the flyer where there’s a part of it missin. I slip outside. I land in a crouch on the ground, scramble to hide behind the back tires.
    It’s a bright clear night. The horse is gittin nearer. Its legs come into view. I cain’t see the rider from where I’m at. The horse stops, jest in front of the flyer. I hold my breath. It snorts agin, shuffles its feet a bit. Then the rider clicks an it moves on.
    A horse. Four legs, not two. Dependin on where Lugh is, where they’ve took him, I could be with him in days instead of weeks if I was travelin by horse. Looks like my lucky night. I slide Lugh’s slingshot outta my belt. Pull a good-sized stone from my pocket.
    I move silent as a cat, slippin between the flyers. My knees is shakin. My hands too. I tell myself I’m with Lugh, trackin a prairie chicken.
    I check there’s only