Wallace

The kitchen, now fully lit, was a sight to behold. Not a pleasant sight, but a sight.

Just about the only normal feature were the countertops. Some sort of white laminate, though it was coming away in places to reveal the cheap particle board beneath.

The cabinets and drawers were both faced in an awful shade of yellow, and for some incomprehensible reason, it had been paired with an orangish-red, which had been used to paint the walls. The moulding around the windows and doors, at least that was white.

It was a step back into the kitchen of my grandparent's generation. The modern art piece standing in for a ceiling lamp and the red and yellow rug on the floor of the kitchen provided yet more evidence that everyone in the seventies was nuts. Maybe it was the leaded gasoline and CFCs.

Valentine stood at the sink- at least that was normal, made of cheap stainless steel without any special finish -with the top of her flight suit rolled down to her waist. She wore a grey tank top that looked machine-made, perhaps found around the same time as her flight suit. Her two wheellocks had been taken out of their holsters, and rested on the counter next to a roll of linen bandages, a bottle of whiskey, and her torch. The curtains had been drawn to mask the light, leaving her able to tend to her wounds.

"God, Valentine," I winced, "You should have said something."

Valentine's skin was light purple, much like I might be described as being a pale shade of pink, but her left forearm was bruised to near-black where the dog had bit her. Its teeth may not have penetrated the flight suit, but there had still been enough crushing force to break the skin. She'd already washed off the dried blood, but I could still see more of the dark purple liquid seeping up from the wound. Worse than that, her arm was bent slightly, and I could still see the imprint of where the dog's jaws had clamped down.

"It's not going to kill me, Wallace," Valentine chided, "And we needed to move, and still do"

"Yeah, it might not kill you, but what the hell is gonna happen to your arm?"

I didn't have her timepiece to hand, but I knew we were hours past the point of no return. Which meant it would be... a week or more until we could get her back to a city for proper medical attention.

She picked up the bottle of whiskey and tucked it under her arm and pulled the cork out with her uninjured arm, "I've been hurt worse," she grimaced.

With the cork removed, she poured some of the whiskey over the wound, winced at the stinging pain, and then took a swig from the bottle.

She gingerly dried her arm and fished some bandages out of the first aid kit, "As much as I might wish to be an elf or human, there are some benefits to the fey physique. Short of a horse landing atop me, just about any wound will heal eventually, so long as I can prevent infection."

"Still Valentine," I said gently, "How long is eventually, this far from the city, we don't have a lot of room for error-"

"I'm not going back," she said flatly, "I will not live in a society that treats people as things. My sister is happy to try changing things from the inside, but I know it to be a fool's errand. Living in Pelignos, one can't help but be made complicit in the sorts of abuses that keep the city functioning. One can't feed, bathe, shelter, or clothe oneself in Pelignos without victimizing someone, and that's what's waiting for me if I return."

"Well, I guess you're gonna have to learn how to drive then."

Valentine furrowed her brows, and then sighed, "You're too large to fit in that vehicle," she realized.

"Yeah, and the truck's gonna be pretty loud once we start it up, so I need to give you the rundown now," I explained, "And we can work out the kinks once we've got it running."

She finished tying off the bandage, shrugged back into her suit, and returned the pistols to their holsters.

"A sound plan, just one issue," she informed me, "How am I meant to see what you're showing me, or are we going to risk the servant's mercenaries spotting the light?"

"Uh..." I stammered eloquently, "Blankets, I'll cover the cab with blankets and you'll be able to use your torch while I show you around. Once we're actually on the move the light won't much matter."

The master bedroom wasn't quite as garish as the kitchen had been, but it was just as seventies. Just about everything was some shade of either yellow or brown, except for the carpet. That was a thick grey shag.

The furniture was more of the cheap particle board variety- only the best for our returning G.I.s -but faced with a faux-walnut veneer. Sitting on the nightstands were a pair of brass table lamps with beige shades, and the wallpaper was yellow-tan, with a parchment-like texture. Even the bedspread was yellow, with a quilted pattern.

Well I suppose it doesn't much matter as long as it's thick enough to block the light.

I bundled it up under one arm and checked the other bedrooms, which had also been arranged by an interior decorator huffing lead fumes, and took their bedspreads as well.

Valentine was waiting patiently by the door, and from her placid expression, most wouldn't have any idea she was nursing a near-crippling injury.

She took my arm and turned off the torch before leaving the house, and I got her settled in the cab before throwing the blankets over the windows.

I had her turn the torch on, and did a quick circuit of the vehicle. Even this close, I couldn't see any light shining through. We'd have a bit of trouble if any of the horsemen got close enough to see the blankets, but from a distance, we'd be fine.

I got into the bed of the truck, again careful not to make the suspension creak too much, and slipped in under the blanket covering the rear window.

Valentine wrinkled her nose, "There is an acrid scent about this carriage," she complained.

"Cigarette smoke," I explained, though I really had to pay attention to notice the scent.

The steady torchlight revealed an interior much like the master bedroom. The dash was mostly cheap beige plastic, though the sections around the gauge cluster and radio had a wood veneer. In fact, it was a small miracle that the carpets weren't shag like the bedroom's had been, but they were yellow-brown. The truck was blue though, so at least they'd at least heard of other colours.

The seats were yet more fakery, upholstered in what I'm sure was meant to be tan suede, and without a headrest. The headrest wasn't the only safety feature missing either, as not only was the steering wheel devoid of any space to fit an airbag, there were also no seatbelts.

"No matter," Valentine said, with a flick of the wrist, "You'd best begin your explanation. This array of controls appears quite complex."

"That's the radio," I explained, "You don't actually need to worry about it right now, or most of the dash. You see that big gauge there on the left?"

She pointed to the tachometer, "This one? Not sure what you expect of me when I can't read any of these characters."

"That's okay, all you really need to do is keep the needle away from the red section. Keep that gauge in mind for now, we'll be coming back to it. Aside from that, all you really need concern yourself with are the three pedals in the footwell, the steering wheel, and the lever between the seats at your right."

Valentine gave the steering wheel an experimental turn, or tried to, at least, "It seems not to move very easily."

"That's okay, once I've got the truck running it'll be a lot easier."

Oh god, I hope this has power steering.

"How does this machine work in any case?"

"Right, that probably bears explaining. Up front is the engine. It's really complicated, but what you need to know is that it takes a flammable liquid, and burns it to create rotational energy."

"And that moves the vehicle along?" Valentine guessed.

"Yes," I agreed, "But for complicated reasons, no."

Valentine turned around to look at me, eyebrow raised.

I sighed, "The gauge," I insisted, pointing through the window at the gauge cluster, "It tells you how many times per minute the engine, or rather the driveshaft, is spinning. The trouble is, the engine is pretty weak when it's spinning slowly. Weak enough that if power went straight from the engine to the wheels that the truck wouldn't be able to get its own weight moving. You also need to be able to stop, which is troublesome if the driveshaft is trying to turn the wheels."

"Would it break the engine?"

"I don't know, maybe? But it would definitely stall out. That's what the pedal on the far left is for. It's connected to something called a clutch. When the pedal is pushed all the way down, the engine is completely disconnected from the transmission-"

"Transmission?"

"It takes power from the engine and transmits it to the wheels through a series of gears. I mentioned that the engine wouldn't be strong enough to move the weight of the truck if the power went right to the wheels? The transmission gears it down so the truck can get moving."

Valentine cast a thoughtful gaze around the cabin, "So..." she mused, speaking slowly, more to herself than to me, "This lever is what changes the gears? Hmm... and I need to push down the clutch so the engine is not turning the gears while I'm trying to change them?"

I frowned appreciatively, "Yeah, pretty much."

"Oh don't act so surprised," she chastised, "For all Simon brags about the wondrous technology humans have developed, this is a very simple device."

"Alright," I chuckled, "Just remember, you also need to use the brake if you're trying to stop."

"And which pedal is that?"

"The middle one, the one on the right is the throttle. It feeds more fuel to the engine."

"You made much of the engine stalling out when one is first trying to get moving, how is that done?"

"Well, about that," I hedged, "It's possible I've never actually done this myself."

Valentine turned around again and put her arm over the back of the seat, "Pardon me?"

"You were the one who said it wasn't that complicated," I insisted, "What I understand, is that as you're letting pressure off the clutch, you also give it a little gas. Just watch the gauge, and keep the needle from getting too low."

"Why don't I just press the throttle until the needle is right above the red part and then step off the clutch?"

I put my head in my hands, "Oh my god," I muttered, "Because then we'd either break something or end up in the living room of the house across the road, so let's not do that."

Valentine shrugged, "As you like, anything else I need to know?"

"We should be good for now. I'll get this thing running, and while I'm doing that, you should find anything in the house that looks remotely useful, and put it in the bed of the truck."

Valentine nodded and put her hand on the door handle, but turned back to me before leaving, "You'll signal me when you're ready to go?" she asked.

"You should hear it once I've got the engine running, a sort of low rumble. If not, I'll come knock on the door. Be quick, the buildings will cut down on the noise a little, but it's so quiet out that odds are good it won't take long for your friends to notice."

She nodded once again, hopped down from the truck, and scurried back to the house, taking her torch with her. With the light gone, I pulled the blankets off the truck and folded them neatly in the bed of the truck. At the very least it would give me something more comfortable to sit on than the corrugated sheet metal that made up the bed of the truck.

I'd grabbed a multitool when I'd first been checking out the house, and used that now to unscrew the panel underneath where the steering wheel met the dash. It was a little cramped, kneeling on the pavement and leaning in to work, but that's life when you're about two feet taller than than next biggest guy.

The wires for the engine would have been clear, even without the manual. They were the bundle that went straight up into the dash, rather than either of the bundles that went off to either side. They had a socket on the end like a really oversized ethernet cable, or something you might see as a connector for a computer's modular power supply.

While I didn't exactly look like a delicate instrument, there were certain benefits to having six long and slender fingers. It was easy to reach in to unplug the wires, and then yank off the connector on the end. Leaving me holding three pairs of wires, each in different colours, brown, yellow, and red. Helpfully, it looked as if the manual had labelled each of the colours. Not with the colour itself, obviously, but the name. Which I couldn't read.

At least there were only three possibilities, each of which connected to a different component. The battery was plain enough, its symbol on the wiring diagram was what I recognized from textbooks and science kits back home. The other two were more of a mystery, as though their symbols were similarly recognizable, I wasn't sure what purpose they served. There was a switch and a motor. At first, I thought the motor was the engine but quickly realized my error. A motor and an engine were very much not the same thing, and this wasn't an electric truck. The switch also looked like it provided power to... well, looking at the diagram, pretty much everything actually.

I was admittedly a little daunted by the task ahead of me, but I found myself smirking at the thought of what Valentine had said. She was right, this was nineteen seventies technology. It couldn't be that complicated.

I set the manual aside, and considered what I actually needed to get the truck running. What was the bare minimum to get the engine turning over?

Power, yes, that's what the battery was for. In fact, without any black wires, odds were good that the red wires were for the battery.

That left what, the spark plugs? I suppose that would be the switch, but what would the other pair of wires be for then?

'Turning over', that was it. I needed to turn the engine over. Fifty years before this truck was manufactured, it would have been done with a hand crank, but this truck would have a starter motor.

So the motor symbol was for the starter motor, and the switch was for the spark plugs, along with the radio and everything else in the truck.

I let the wires hang and pushed myself to my feet, a little stiff from sitting on the hard ground. If I was gonna play with electricity, I was going to need proper tools. The multitool could do most of the job, but I needed a way to strip the wires without electrocuting myself.

Valentine came out just as I was standing up, a big red toolbox held in both arms.

She furrowed her brows, "Are we ready to go?"

"No, I just needed another tool, here, give me that."

I set the toolbox down on the tailgate and flipped the catches. Rather than root around, causing an awful din, I lifted out the tools one by one, until I could get at the wirecutters without disturbing anything else, and then replaced them just as carefully. I also pocketed a roll of electrical tape, figuring that Valentine probably wouldn't be keen on live wires bumping against the inside of her thigh.

Probably.

I stripped the first inch of plastic off of each of the wires. I did the battery wires first, and taped them to the underside of the dash once I was done. With them safely out of the way, I did the same for the rest of the wires.

That done, I pulled the battery wires free from the dash and twisted them together, and nothing happened. Which was good. Probably. After all, they were connected to each other, but not to anything else, so nothing else should be powered at the moment.

I heard the pitter-patter of Valentine's tiny feet, and the clink of glass bottles as she deposited another armful of supplies. The contents of the house's liquor cabinet, no doubt.

I touched the battery wires, very carefully, to the yellow wires. Again, nothing happened. So I tried again with the brown wires, and this time the dash lit up for a moment. Along with the headlights.

"Goddammit," I hissed.

"Wallace!" Valentine growled.

They were only on for a second as the wires had come together, but for all I knew, that had been enough to pique the interest of the cuirassiers.

My timeline had suddenly been made a great deal shorter.

"I'll fix it," I promised, "Just grab what you can."

"I am, but it's a little difficult when I can barely see my feet," she retorted, and I heard the door to the house close once again.

I held the battery wires tightly in one fist, keeping them out of the way while I picked over the control stalks trying to find the one for the lights. Thankfully they were symbolic rather than text, so it wasn't all guesswork.

With the lights hopefully off, I touched the wires together again. Again, the dash lit up, but the headlights remained off.

I let out a long breath, and began twisting the brown wires together with the battery wires. Simple didn't mean easy and carefree, it seemed.

That left me with the starter motor to contend with. I went to touch the starter wires to the battery wires once again, but jerked back as they sparked. I'd heard the starter motor though, it hadn't cycled properly because I'd pulled the wires apart so quickly, but it had moved.

Kneeling down there on the ground, I had a pretty good view of the pedals. Including the clutch pedal.

"Dammit," I breathed.

The clutch needed to be in for me to start this thing. I was used to automatics, but with a manual I couldn't just get it running and then have her get in the seat. I needed the clutch to be pressed down, otherwise it would stall out. I'd also need to find the parking brake and disable it.

There was a gearshift where I expected the parking brake to be, so I searched the rest of the driver's side until I found a lever, just under the steering wheel and off to the left. Above where the trunk release would be on a sedan. I let it be for now, and hauled myself to my feet. The last thing I needed was for the truck to roll away while I was working on it.

I found what I needed in the back of the truck. Along with the toolbox and all the booze in the house, there was also a bunch of metal junk, including a pair of thin brass floor lamps.

I pulled off the lampshades and unscrewed the lightbulbs. The shades went into the bed of the truck, and the lightbulbs I tossed onto the lawn. The last thing I needed was to ride around with a bunch of broken glass sliding around in the back of the truck.

I had to bend the lamps in half to fit, but it held down the brake and clutch so it would do for the time being.

I disabled the parking brake, but kept my hand on the lever for a moment. The truck didn't move, so I gave it an experimental shove. It rocked on its suspension but didn't roll.

That was good enough for me, so I took up the wires, and sparked the starter motor once again. I sparked them again, and again, and again. Finally, the engine rumbled to life, but only for a moment.

The revs began to die, and I sparked the starter motor again. While it brought the revs back up, it made a god awful noise, and didn't stop the engine from losing revs once the starter motor stopped turning.

Don't turn the key while the car's already running dummy.

So I gave it a little gas. I had to reach in and push the pedal with my hand, but it did the trick. The revs came back up, and the engine sounded about how I expected it to.

Valentine was already standing over me, poking me in the ribs, by the time I'd finished taping up the wires.

"Come on, stop crawling around on the ground and get in the back with the rest of the cargo, we need to move."

I spared her the comment about being a slave driver, figuring she probably wouldn't respond very well to such a suggestion, and hopped over the side into the bed.

I landed on the folded blankets and scrambled over to close the tailgate.

"Wallace," she called from the cab, "What is this business you've done with the pedals?"

"Get your feet on the clutch and the brake and then pull that stuff out of there. Don't take it out till you're on the pedals, otherwise the truck will stall," I instructed, after hauling myself back over to the window.

"I can't reach the pedals," she retorted.

"Handle under your seat," I instructed, "Pull up on that and you can slide it forwards."

She did, and with a little struggling was able to get the twisted remains of the lamps out of the footwell without letting the engine stall. She tossed them over onto the passenger seat and looked over her shoulder at me.

For a moment I thought she was about to ask something. Maybe go over how to get rolling again, but her expression hardened and she turned away without saying anything.

Her foot came off the brake, and we started to roll. Not very quickly, there was only a slight grade to the driveway, but we were moving. Then I heard the revs tick up a bit. There was a bit of a judder as the clutch started to engage, but I felt us start to accelerate. Not just by gravity, but under our own power.

I heard a shout and turned to see two of the cuirassiers not far down the street, already spurring their horses to a gallop.

"Your friends are here."

"I see them," she growled.

Valentine hauled the wheel over to the left, away from the horsemen and towards the road we'd seen leading out of the subdivision.

We were close, maybe five hundred yards away. On our left was an unbroken row of houses that formed the northern edge of the neighbourhood. The truck might just be narrow enough to slip between the houses, but I didn't know how well we'd fare trying to bust through the fence. It would be easy to get a puncture, or become bogged down. Better then to focus on the road ahead, pitch-black asphalt poorly lit by the warm glow of the incandescent lamps. In some ways they did more harm than good. I could see what was in front a little better, but everything else may as well have been a black void. I'd catch the occasional glimpse of reflected light in the windows of the houses we passed, but that was about it. Though I suppose I wasn't the one driving.

The truck shook, lurching forward and back as Valentine sorted out the clutch, but she was careful and ever so slowly we began to accelerate down the road.

Sure, we didn't stall, but it gave the cuirassiers the time they needed to catch up.

Each elf took a side, the red tail lights giving their skin a purple cast and reflecting eerily off their armour and ready spearheads. I preempted any synchronized attack by taking a wide swing at the one coming up on our right. It wasn't a very graceful strike, and I didn't have a ton of practice striking at horses while kneeling in the back of a pickup truck, but the swing didn't need to connect. He ducked back, and that was enough.

His buddy capitalized on the opportunity I'd given him and tried to put his spear through my shoulder. I was just able to bat it aside with the butt of my poleaxe, but it left my weapon in an awkward position and me with a poor grip. He wasn't about to give up a second such chance, and took another stab at me. I let go of the axe with one hand, and batted the shaft aside with my forearm. I tried to grab for it, but he'd pulled the spear back and the shaft slipped through my fingers.

"Now would be a good time to try out second gear," I shouted, though I could tell we were already speeding up.

While the one horseman was still able to keep pace, it was clear his horse was tiring, and the other had not yet been able to retake the distance he'd given up with his dodge.

"Fuck fair," I muttered.

I reached down and grabbed the first thing my hand fell upon, a small wrought iron chair, and tossed it over the side in front of the pursuing horse.

The horse tried to step over it, tripped, and went down screaming, followed by a godawful crunching sound.

I winced and half turned away. The rider might be a mercenary happy to kidnap Valentine for a neat payday, but the horse wasn't trying to hurt anyone.

The other rider drew back as well, whether it was to help his friend or because he feared the same fate I wasn't certain. Not that I was about to complain.

But that wasn't to say we were free and clear. I'd just had enough time to make my way back to the cab, standing just behind it in a half-crouch, when the headlights suddenly revealed the mercenary commander and three of her friends. They stood at the mouth of one of the sidestreets, and for one dreadful moment, I feared that Valentine might try to ram them. Between the truck and a horse, I'd pick the truck. But that wasn't to say the truck would win, just lose less.

Thankfully she didn't try playing chicken.

The truck swerved to the left, away from the riders, who chose that moment to strike. The commander's barked order, and three men threw their spears. It was an absolute waste of time, but while they were busy throwing sticks, the commander was firing her pistols.

The spears landed short, and while the bullets passed close enough for me to hear them whiz past, neither hit the truck.

We were moving at a good clip now, and by the time the captain had dropped her pistols and drawn two more, we were nearly on top of them.

The captain fired, point-blank, just before we passed her group.

This time her shots were accompanied by the sound of breaking glass and a cry of pain from Valentine.

The truck swerved violently to the left and I nearly ended up on the pavement, but managed to catch myself before I rolled out. Valentine hit the curb and we tore across the grassy lawn before she was able to straighten out and get us back on the road. I heard another pair of shots, but by this point, we were far enough away that a pair of smoothbore flintlocks weren't going to hit much of anything.

I ducked down so I could see through the back window, and saw that there was a hole in the windshield on the right side, surrounded by a spiderweb of fractures. Valentine was in rough shape. I didn't see any blood, but just from the way she was holding herself with her right arm tucked in close, I could tell she was in a lot of pain.

Glancing back I could see that we were leaving the riders behind, but they hadn't yet given up the chase and were following at a canter. We'd be fine if we kept on going, but they'd be on us in a couple minutes if we tried to stop.

"Wallace," she groaned, "Are you okay back there?"

"I'm not the one who got shot," I insisted, "Are you okay?"

Aside from her pained posture, I couldn't actually see any evidence of injury.

She didn't answer right away. We were just now coming up on the intersection that would take us onto the road out of here, and instead, she focused on getting the truck around the corner with only the one hand to steer. Unable to downshift, we came dangerously close to stalling as we rounded the corner, but a gentle feathering of the throttle brought the revs back up. The truck weaved as Valentine brought us back up to speed, but she got it under control, and finally had a chance to take a breath.

"Can you check?" she asked, her voice tight, "I'm having a hard enough time keeping us straight, and I can't move my arm."

I reached through the window, being careful not to get in the way of her good arm, or at least, the less bad arm. I found the zip at her neck, and pulled it down to her navel. Gentle as could be, pulled her flight suit aside. She let out a pained gasp as I pulled the suit over her shoulder, but didn't shy away.

I reached up to turn on the dome light, and... damn.

"It's bent," I told her incredulously.

"What's bent?" she insisted.

"Your collar bone, damn is there a lot of bruising."

It looked less like she'd been shot with a pistol, and more like she'd been hit by a baseball thrown at mach one. The bruising spread down her chest under the tank top, left across to her neck, right down her upper arm, and over her shoulder to her back.

She sighed and flexed her fingers on the injured arm, "I suppose that's bearable, I feared it would be a lot worse."

"Valentine-" I began slowly.

"Would you stop being such a little girl!" she shouted, and I drew back, startled by the sudden energy, "I'm not your little sister."

She dropped her voice an octave, her best impression of me I suppose, "Oh no Val, a scary wolf nibbled on your arm a little. Oh no Val, some bitch with a pistol grazed your shoulder and now you've got a big bruise. Honestly," she growled, "It's as if you think I'm made of glass."

"I thought the deal was for me to play bodyguard?" I asked wearily.

"Yes, well," she sighed, a little of the force slipping out of her voice, "I need you to protect me, Wallace. Not take care of me. Understand?"

"No," I admitted, "But I'll try."

She chuckled despite herself, "I suppose that will have to do for now."

"But," I began gingerly, "Your shoulder-"

"Will heal," she groaned, in exasperation, rather than pain.

Alright, alright," I soothed, "Just, if you do actually need something, let me know, okay?"

"I'll think about it," she replied.

Valentine experimented briefly with fourth gear, but it wasn't long before the road had run out and we were forced to take things more slowly. The asphalt disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. Here there was road, and there, grass, damp as if from recent rainfall. At least the ground wasn't too rough as we left the foothills of the mountain. Now that we were clear of the neighbourhood, so flat that it might have been a piece of Saskatchewan, there were still occasional rolling hills, but they were little trouble. We might have just pointed the truck in the direction Valentine's compass led and gone to sleep, if not for the occasional tree or rock. Thankfully the headlights were at least good enough to reveal them before they became a problem.

Even with our relatively sedate pace, we made good time, but then that's to be expected when you trade in your hiking shoes for an automobile.

A couple of times I thought to ask Valentine if she wanted a break, maybe see if we could figure out a way for me to drive so she could take it easy. But she hadn't asked for a break, so I kept my mouth shut. In fact, neither of us said much at all, beyond a bit of guidance from me when the rear-wheel-drive truck was starting to get bogged down in the damp grass.

I had just caught the scent of rain on the air when I began to realize that the horizon I'd been staring at had something squarish and artificial rising up above the natural curves of the landscape.

"Valentine, come right a little, I think I see it."

"Okay," she yawned, "That was quick, I think we've cut a whole day off our journey."

"We were doing, what, twenty or thirty miles a day on foot?" I guessed, "We're probably doing twenty or thirty miles an hour right now."

"You said the engine needed flammable liquid to function," she recalled, "Will any flammable liquid do?"

"Unfortunately no," I grimaced, "We've got whatever's in the tank, then we're done. I might be able to figure something out to make or improvise more fuel, but this thing doesn't sound like a diesel so biofuel and cooking oil aren't going to be an option."

I paid close attention as we crested the next hill. The headlights, pointing skyward as we climbed, swept earthwards once again. It was only for a moment, but we both saw it. The reflection of the truck's headlights in the windows of a distant building.

"Did you see that? A cathedral maybe?" Valentine guessed.

I squinted, trying to make out the silhouette of the building against the sky, but the headlights were keeping my eyes from adjusting to the dark, "I don't know, we might have lucked out with another human building. We build a lot in steel and glass," I pointed out, "Or yeah, could be a church or something."

"Those houses did have large windows for such modest dwellings, but I saw little steel," she frowned.

"Houses, yeah," I admitted, "Mostly timber and sheetrock, but commercial buildings, most stuff you'll find in the middle of a city, that's often steel and glass. A high-rise would be pretty cool to set up in, but I doubt we're that lucky."

"How high do human buildings rise?"

"Well when you build in steel you can get pretty high," I explained, "There's a building on earth that's half a mile tall, so nearly anything is possible."

"I pity the poor fools who live or work at the top of such structures."

I grinned, "We've got elevators. They're not deathtraps either, though whatever's waiting for us, I doubt it's still got power to run one."