Roy Hill and Ed Paredes were thankful for their station. The outpost at Campo Ligure had seen little action in the war, despite its proximity to Arenzano. The thickly-forested surrounding Apennines were impassible, even for the hoverboards of the ghoul army. Most days were simple for Ed and Roy. They guarded the blockade on the Autostrade dei Trafori. They let traffic through once in a while, but not very often. No one wanted to go any further south.

The Allies had always attacked Arenzano from the West, not from the North. The mountains were too thick and the Autostrade dei Trafori was too narrow. A single ghoul cannon posted on a ridge could stop a whole fleet of vehicles.

A couple of days after the victory at Parma, Roy and Ed were playing cards in their booth.

“You think we’ll ever see any action?” Roy asked.

“I damn well hope so.” Ed replied. “What am I going to tell my grandchildren now? That their grandfather played cards while the Allies took Parma back? That I beat you at seven-card stud fifteen times in a row?”

“At least you can tell them something. You’ll be alive.”

“I’ll be dead inside.”

“C’mon, you’re being melodramatic, and you never beat me that many times.”

“I just want to be part of it.”

“You are. We are.”

“You know what I mean.”

Roy sighed, “Well, as my mother always said, ‘be careful what you wish for because you might get it.’”

Ed laughed, and then stopped, “Do you hear that?”

Roy replied, “No, what? Oh, wait yeah.”

“Is it us?”

“Probably.”

“Nelms?”

“Yeah, or Sanchez.”

“I thought we didn’t need the generator anymore.”

Roy replied, “We can’t leave our post.”

“I know.” Ed reached for his walkie-talkie. He began lifting it to his face, but saw something in the distance and stopped. He froze.

“Roy!”

“What?” Roy followed Ed’s pointing finger. “What the hell is that?”

“A refugee?”

“We haven’t had one in weeks.”

“Maybe he just now got out.”

“Is he alone?”

Ed lifted his binoculars to his eyes. Through the lenses, he could see a lone man, dressed in black, riding a motorcycle up the Apennine pass.

“Yes. He’s alone.”

“Still, we’re not taking any chances.” Roy said as he checked his M4 carbine. It was ready for action.

Ed depressed the button on his walkie-talkie, “We’ve got a live one. We’ll need to process him, or her.” While talking, he unsnapped his holster and touched the grip of his sidearm.

A voice came through on the other end, “Just one? Is it a refugee?”

Ed replied, “One person on a motorcycle.”

“Oh. Do you require assistance?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

They watched as the man pulled up. The stuttering roar of the revved engine declined in waves.

“You two are a sight for sore eyes.” The man said.

Roy had his rifle only partially raised. He stayed in the booth while Ed approached.

“You speak English?” Ed asked.

“Sure do, friend.”

Ed could not place the accent. It was not Italian. It was not American. It was not anything. It was unique, but fluid. The syllables were enunciated correctly and precisely. The man’s speech had a robotic quality to it.

“Who are you?”

“Refugee, from Arenzano. Been hiding in my storm shelter for weeks. It is good to be free!” With that the man let out a hearty laugh. He went on, “Friend, I’ve been saving this cigar for a special occasion.” He said as he took three robustos from his breast pocket. “Won’t you have one with me?”

“No sir.” Ed replied. “No thank you. How did you get out of there?”

The man looked up at the booth and saw Roy’s gun.

The man said, “Is it alright if I park the bike while we chat?”

“Yes sir.” Ed said.

The man flipped the kickstand down and leaned the bike on it. He pulled a matchbook out of his pocket and lit the cigar. He puffed on it for a few moments to get it going. Soon the large round end was glowing red and orange, like lava from deep in the earth.

“My old man was a paranoid basket case, but he one was a hell of a businessman. He built damn near half of the new resorts along the coast. During the cold war, he built an underground bomb shelter. Then, he fell for the Y2K scare, among other things. Stocked the bunker with enough food to last a year. Hell, I could have stayed there forever if I wanted to. I could have waited this whole thing out.”

“Why didn’t you?” Ed asked.

The man took a long drag on his cigar and blew the smoke toward Ed.

“I’d like to tell your friend the story too. Let’s go see him.”

Ed looked concerned for a moment, but then his face softened.

“Yes, let’s go see him.”

Ed waived at Roy and brought the man into the little guard post station.

“It’s okay Roy. Listen to what the man has to say.”

“Alright,” Roy said warily, “but, if you’re from Arenzano, we’ve got to get you in for processing ASAP.”

The pale, bald man blew smoke into the small guard post. The smoke wafted around and filled up the small space.

“I have other plans.” The man smiled wide, showing rows of gleaming teeth. “And the two of you have new orders.”

“We do?” Roy said.

Ed had an empty look on his face. Roy’s puzzled expression softened.

“We do.” He said.