>>46772chapter 2: Home
The steering wheel fought him, turning to dead weight as the engine died for the last time. Sam guided the coasting rig, a silent, eighty-thousand-pound tombstone, onto the exit ramp for Nashville. The beat-up police car followed close behind, a predator escorting a dying whale to the shallows.
The town unfolded like a lesson in grim perseverance. It wasn't the apocalyptic ruin of Burnt Prairie; it was something more disquieting—a place that had chosen to live, but at a cost. Lawns were overgrown, but the streets were clear of debris. Houses sat with boarded-up windows, but fresh smoke curled from a few chimneys. People stopped what they were doing hoeing in a community garden, mending a fence—to watch him pass. Their faces weren't friendly or hostile; they were blank, reserving judgment. They were the faces of people who had learned that new things, whether they were storms or strangers, rarely brought anything good.
The police car nudged him forward until his rig rolled to a final, definitive halt in the gravel lot of what looked like a repurposed auto-body shop. The sign was gone, but the bay doors were open, revealing shadows and the glint of other machinery.
The passenger from the police car, a man with a sun-beaten face and a deputy's vest over a flannel shirt, was at his window before the air brakes finished sighing. He didn't point his rifle, just rested a hand on its stock.
"Keys," the man said, his voice flat. "Sheriff Briggs would like a word. He's been looking forward to your arrival."
Sam removed his lucky rabbits foot before begrudgingly handed the keys over to the deputy, feeling like he was handing over a piece of himself. He could see two other men trying to jimmy the back open.
“It’s got a special lock on the back, you need a code to…”
Before Sam could finish, the metallic whoosh of the cargo door sliding open cut him off. His heart sank into his stomach. The only leverage he had was gone. The deputy nudged him away before he could protest further and started leading him toward the county police station. He could hear the whoops and cheers of the two men as they began scouting out the truck's contents.
Each step up the station's stairs felt like a step closer to death, or maybe something worse. The water tower overlooking the station felt suddenly imposing, NASHVILLE written in bold black letters and punctuated by a cute drawing of a bee or possibly a hornet.
Sam was escorted past the dusty lobby, past the wanted posters and faded notices that looked like they predated the war, to a door at the end of a short hall. It was labeled with a nice, clean bronze plate: SHERIFF BRIGGS.
The deputy rapped twice on the wood—a quick, familiar rhythm—then opened the door without waiting for a reply.
The office was a sanctuary of controlled chaos. A map of the county, dotted with colored pins and handwritten notes, dominated one wall. The air smelled of old coffee, gun oil, and a faint, clean hint of lemon polish. He polishes the nameplate, Sam realized. Of course he does. Behind a sturdy oak desk, a man was looking up from a ledger, his eyes settling on Sam with the calm, assessing weight of a man who rarely had to raise his voice to be obeyed.
When the deputy opened the door for Sam, a wispy cloud of smoke escaped into the hallway, carrying a sweet, earthy scent cut with the distinct, skunky undertone of homegrown weed. Standing in the doorway, Sam saw Briggs sitting in front of him. He was a tall, thin man in a baggy sheriff’s uniform, his skin hung loose on his frame like a bulldog's, the tell-tale sign of a man who had once carried far more weight, both on his body and in his world. Now he looked like a hungry bear that had woken from hibernation—all lean muscle, sharp edges, and a quiet, focused menace that filled the room. Briggs eyed Sam and gestured for him to sit down, never breaking eye contact as he fidgeted and puffed on the pipe, the bowl glowing with each draw as if it was an extension of his body. Sam made his way to the wooden office chair, and when he sat down, Briggs's height became more apparent as he towered over him.
Briggs took a deep drag from his pipe, eyeing Sam over the glowing ember in the bowl. He exhaled slowly, and a plume of smoke poured out from beneath his oversized mustache, cascading down in an airy waterfall that pooled on the desk between them, filling the space with the sweet, skunky scent of his authority.
“So,” Briggs said, his voice an unexpected blend of softness and gravel. “What brings you here, trucker?”
Sam took a deep breath, his throat becoming dry at inhaling Brigg’s smoke. “Just completing one last haul for the OAM, sir. They told me it was agricultural supplies for St. Louis. If you’ve got any diesel to spare, I’m sure my employer would understand if a few bags of fertilizer went missing along the way.”
Briggs didn’t laugh immediately. He finished tamping the tobacco and weed blend into his pipe, he took out a cheap gas station lighter, setting the bowl aflame, and drew a long, slow breath until the bowl glowed. “They told you it was agricultural supplies?” he finally said, the words wreathed in smoke. A low, humorless chuckle escaped him. “Yeah. I’m sure they did.”
He leaned forward, the chair groaning, and placed his elbows on the desk, the cloud around him parting. “My boys cracked open one of your ‘fertilizer’ cases. You’ve got enough rifles and ammo in that rig to supply a whole militia.” He held Sam’s gaze, his pale eyes unblinking. “It’s a real good thing you landed here, my friend. Anywhere else, and you’d already be dead for being this naïve.”
Adrenaline flowed through Sam, the walls feeling like they were closing in. Millions of scenarios flooded his mind, most of them ending with a rope. He knew the OAM had fed him bullshit, but smuggling guns? That was a hanging offense. It still might be. He was in a place with no leverage, a feeling he’d gotten far too familiar with. Absent-mindedly, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the lucky rabbit's foot, its worn fur a desperate talisman.
“I see, Sheriff. Like I said, I had no idea what I was hauling. I just took the job to get out of Dodge, you see? So I understand I’m up shit creek without a paddle here. You got me by the balls, and my pants are fully down.” He leaned forward, his arms on Briggs’s desk, his eyes locking with the pipe-smoking man’s. His other hand rubbed the rabbit's foot as if it were a magic lamp that could grant him the right words.
“I didn’t want the company script anyway. I was in this for the diesel. I’m more than happy to let you outbid the OAM for the cargo right now. You just help me fill my rig and…” Sam paused, searching for more sweet, sweet words. “I’ll be out of your hair. You’ll be richer, and we can all feel better about ourselves.”
He let out a deep exhale to punctuate his speech, then sucked in another breath. “I’d rather give guns to people like you than to whoever the OAM was sending them to. To be honest, I knew ‘agricultural goods’ was bullshit. Thought maybe drugs, medicine… didn’t know it was guns. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have said yes.” Sam intensified his stare. “But I know the fine folks here in Washington County will put them to the best use. I’d rather leave them here. I feel like you folks won’t use them to commit some of the crimes I saw on my way up here.”
A smile as wide as the Grand Canyon cracked across Briggs’s lips. He took a few quick puffs of his pipe, jiggled his head, and chuckled in amusement. “You make a compelling case, boy.” He started laughing louder, a real belly laugh. “Fuck, you should be a lawyer!” Briggs blurted out, slapping his knee. “I could hang you, son. Or I could just tell you to start walking. We both know there’s no law anymore, except might makes right.” He stopped to tamp his pipe and feed a little more onto the eternal flame he kept going. He took a large puff. “And right now,” Briggs said in an exhale of smoke that filled the room, “I’m the one with the might.” The smoke suffocated the atmosphere in the same way Briggs did.
“I’m not an unreasonable man…” Briggs stopped, looking Sam over, his face puzzled as if he’d forgotten something. “You know, I’m sorry, I never caught your name.”
“Sam, sir,” Sam replied, as respectfully as he could muster.
“Right, right. Thank you, Sam. As I was saying, I’m not an unreasonable man. I ain’t gonna hang you, so you can calm down if you were thinking that. I won’t exile you or even try to hurt you.” Sam tensed at the casual ‘try to hurt you, knowing pain was a likely option, if not the desired outcome.
Briggs took another drag. “Sam… it’s all hands-on deck, and I’m trying to keep my ship here afloat. I see you like a lost sailor I just pulled aboard. I’ll give you safe passage, but you will need to scrub the decks, if you catch my drift.” He emptied his pipe, tapping it into a glass ashtray on his desk. Clink. Clink. Clink. Chunks of ash fell like dirty snow.
Sam relaxed his body and leaned into his chair, consciously trying to keep an upright composure. “Understood,” Sam let the word leak weakly from his lips. He let it hang in the air as Briggs began packing another bowl of his special blend. Before Briggs could set a spark to the fresh bowl, Sam asked, boldness cutting through his fear, “Since I’ll be working with you… you mind if I get a puff of that?”
Briggs's eyebrows shot up in amusement, followed by that disarming smile. He handed Sam the cheap, clear plastic lighter and the maple wood pipe. Sam took a long, deep drag. He wasn't much of a smoker and had never handled pipe tobacco before. The harsh blend hit his lungs like a rake, sending him into a sudden, sputtering cough that completely stripped away the aura of cool control he'd been hoping to project. Briggs watched, thoroughly amused and seemingly happy to share the moment, like an older brother watching a sibling make a foolish but ultimately harmless mistake under his protection.
Briggs leaned over and gestured for his pipe back. Sam handed it over, still fighting a cough.
“You know, when you smoke a pipe… a real pipe, not some glass shit with a cartoon character on it… you don't just inhale it. You puff it. You savor it.” As if to demonstrate, Briggs fell back into the familiar ritual: the slow, meaningful drags, the deliberate pauses to fidget with the stem or tamp down the embers. “It’s like trying to keep a fire alive. That little rush of smoke… it’s the only air in the room keeping it going. Keeping you going.”
Sam nodded and continued listening as if his life depended on it, he knew it might. Briggs continued “What I need from you right now…” Briggs paused, took a short puff. His eyes showing he was searching “Sam!.. Sam it was… What I need from you Sam is to get some rest. We can negotiate our terms tomorrow. It wouldn’t be fair for me to put you over a barrel in this state, now would it?
“I’ll have one of my guys set you up in the Thompson’s old place. They up and left for California about a year ago,” Briggs said, waving his pipe toward the deputy, who seemed to materialize behind Sam to escort him to his new, temporary home.
As Sam got up to leave, Briggs blurted out, “You know, anyone ever tell you that you look racially ambiguous?”
Sam froze, his hand on the doorknob. What the fuck did he mean by that?
Briggs continued, a grin spreading beneath his mustache. “You know, like that Vin Diesel guy? You’re also looking for diesel!” He laughed, a low, rumbling sound, utterly bemused by his own observation.
“Uhh… yup. Thank you,” Sam said meekly.
“Alright, alright, sorry to be offensive if I was,” Briggs said, not sounding the least bit sorry. He waved his pipe in a shooing motion. “Get some rest, trucker. We got a long day tomorrow.”
The dismissal was clear. Sam followed the deputy out, the sheriff’s strange joke hanging in the air behind him, another layer of surreal unease in a day that had been full of nothing else.
Sam walked out of the county police station, the deputy falling in step behind him. "It's about a mile and a half to the Thompson place. I'll take you there," the deputy said. "Radioed the guys to get it cleaned up a bit for you. Stocked it with some fresh clothes and provisions."
Sam nodded, and they began their journey to his new, temporary house. He thought it was funny he'd finally acquired a home, and all it had taken was the end of the world.
As they trudged through the twilight, Sam took in Nashville. Most businesses and houses were boarded up. A playground sat overgrown and silent. He began to understand why Briggs was going through all the trouble to keep him. The few citizens he saw moving in the shadows of their porches or tending small garden plots were almost all over forty, many looking well into their seventies.
When they reached the Thompson place, the deputy handed Sam the keys. He stopped him before he could enter.
"Look," the deputy said, his voice low. "Briggs ain't a bad guy. I was like you. Just trying to escape to somewhere. Well… this is somewhere. And it's better than most. We can't stop you if you try to leave. Obviously, you ain't getting your truck back, but nothing's stopping you from walking out of here." He gestured vaguely back toward the silent town. "I don't know if you saw, but this place can use all the help it can get. So I hope you stay. The house is on a well, got running water. No hot water, but you can still take a shower, cook some food. There's a wood stove in there. We'll swing by in the morning to get you for the job… if you're still here."
The deputy gave a final, noncommittal shrug and started back the way he came, leaving Sam alone on the porch, keys in hand, staring at the door to his future.
Sam unlocked the door and stepped into what felt like his new life. The dining room table held a small pile of clothes. Sitting on top, crisp and folded, was a deputies uniform.
He sifted through the rest of the provisions—just dry goods, but his stomach grumbled at the promise of a real meal. The weariness in his bones was deep, but the primal urge to eat gave him the energy to rinse some rice and beans. A real cowboy meal, he thought to himself, the irony bitter and amusing.
The last artifact he found was a small cherry maple wood pipe and a baggie of Briggs's special blend. A note was tucked underneath, written in a firm hand:
For practice.
Sam lit the stove, packed the pipe with trembling hands, and watched his pot begin to simmer. He took a slow, deliberate puff, wincing at the harsh heat in his throat, and tried to remember how to breathe. The scent of cooking food and sweet, skunky smoke began to fill the Thompson house, the first signs of life it had known in a year.