Two hours into the hike to Radio Hill Jake and I come across the smouldering ruin of a Calvinist church just outside of town. The column of smoke that rises skyward from the charred remains of the church had lightened and thinned somewhat from when we first spotted it forty minutes prior. This wasn't the first time a distant column of smoke has filled me with a sense of foreboding.

"That would be the second church to burn this week." Jake says putting both hands on his carbine and bringing the buttstock up snug to his shoulder. His head starts to swivel as he takes in all the details of the scene. For him this is instinct.

Jake is all done up as he usually is these days, in what he and Hartt often refer to as "battle rattle". Camouflage everything, webbing, chest rigs with half-a-dozen ammo pouches over top a ballistic vest complete with hard plate armour insert.

With the exception of my thigh rig where the .45 resides, my dress code is far less tactical. I probably look like I'm going on a pheasant hunt, with my plaid jacket and blue jeans ensemble, but I am warm and comfortable. My wardrobe is sorely lacking in earth tones with the exception of an old hand-me-down hunting jacket that is just too warm for a long hike on a nice spring day.

While I do find the burnt church peculiar, my reaction is delayed as I don't feel overly threatened. After a few moments I follow Jake's lead and unsling my rifle as well. We move cautiously toward what remains of the blackened structure and as we close the distance I can begin to feel the heat still radiating from it. "Where did Freya say they saw that other church?" I ask.

"East of town, fifth concession," Jake answers, pressing forward, gun ready.

"Did she say it was a mennonite church?"

"Yeah, something like that," he answers, his voice now a harsh whisper. "Cut the chatter."

I keep my other questions to myself and put some distance between us as I circle to the right. A change in the slight breeze that had been carrying the smoke away from us wafts the grey cloud in our direction.

"Ugh, what is that smell?" I say, crinkling my nose.

Jake moves up to the steps, there is still an archway for a door, but the roof has collapsed onto the landing. He muscles aside some debris to reveal the burnt remains of what could only have been a person.

"Burnt bodies is what you smell," Jake says.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. "Aw, man," I say shaking my head. "That's a shitty way to go."

Jake crouches before the grisly scene, reaches down and rotates the skull. "Yeah, except this guy was shot. Back of the head. I'm not about to dig through this whole mess, but my gut tells me there are more bodies in the same condition buried in here."

"Cover me," I say. "I need to log this."

Jake comes down from the steps and takes position near me. I take a knee and grab my log book and pencil from my pack and jot down a few details of our unexpected detour. My usually poor penmanship is exacerbated by my shaking hands as I find myself a bit unnerved by this discovery.

"That should do it," I advise and return the items to my pack.

"Let's get out of here," Jake says.

"I'm with you on that," I agree and we strike off with a quickened pace toward our original destination.

* * * * *

"When you gonna stop carrying around that relic and get a real gun?" Jake says, antagonizing me yet again for my predilection for my father's old rifle.

"It's not a relic," I counter. "It's vintage."

"It's older than you are."

"Yeah, but it's in pristine condition," I say. And although the venerable bolt-action Remington is older than me, with the exception of a few handling marks it looks almost the same as it did when my father first bought it. More importantly it functions flawlessly. Every turn of the bolt, every pull of the trigger, the old gun does exactly what is expected of it. And if I do my part, every shot finds it's mark.

My Dad's hunting buddies often told and retold the story of the trophy Dall sheep my father took in the Rockies. Five-hundred and fifty seven yards, they'd say. That shot made him a bit of a legend in his small social circle, but he made very little of it himself, although he did credit the gun.

"Look, as a hunting rifle, it's a great choice," Jake continues his rant. "Hell, it's even a good choice for precision long distance shooting, but if we get in a scrape out here unless we are engaging a small force beyond 300 meters, you have the wrong gun. Plain and simple."

"I know," I say, frowning a bit. "You're likely right."

"Hey, I can't tell you what to do, but if you want to get your hands on a carbine, an AK or an AR type, we can likely procure you one. You might have to part with something dear to you in the process, but I think in the end you'll thank me."

"Okay, when we get back you can put the balls in motion."

"Hey, don't worry, you still get to carry that .45." Jake says, trying to put an uplifting spin on it.

"Damn right I do." I reply.

* * * * *

It's midday when we finally crest Radio Hill, we would have made it sooner, but after the church ordeal we altered our route and made a couple stops to ensure no one was following us. We didn't detect anyone trailing us, which should have put me at ease but instead it just made me feel more paranoid.

The top of Radio Hill is the highest point in the county and as such it is a popular place for radio antennas. Giant FM transmitters, microwave and cellular towers are spread out across the few acres that rests atop of what my grade ten geography teacher said was a glacial moraine. If it was a clear day and you climbed up a tower thirty meters or so to get above the nearby trees you would have an impressive view of Grey Harbour, the lake and a large swath of the county. But we're not here for anything so pleasant as the view, we're here to deal with Cory Slade.

Slade worked for the local electric utility before the Collapse but from what I understand he was pulling disability for sometime citing some kind of back injury. He's the kind of scumbag I would rather not do much business with, but he's turned out to be the go-to guy for all things power related. Which brings us to his front lawn, and I'm using the word lawn here in the loosest of terms. Largely devoid of anything resembling grass, it is a lawn festooned with garbage, bits of old electronics, televisions, a refrigerator and the token Chrysler 727 transmission. The aluminum siding is freely peeling from his ramshackle domicile, which has antennas sprouting from it like it's a giant electronic potato on the verge of going bad.

"Jesus I hate this guy," I mutter as we approach the side of the house. A storm door dangles from a single hinge and flutters haplessly in the light breeze. All the windows are dressed with bed linens or crappy foreign flags with the exception of the one that is boarded up from the outside. The place should be condemned.

Before we have time to knock we hear the distinct muffled thrumming of a gas-powered engine. As we turn, one of those Gator UTVs comes up over the rise and turns into the drive. It has a Frost logo on it. Both Jake and I keep our hands away from our guns for now. The driver appears to be another one of the growing legion of Frost security people and the other guy has bad news written all over him. He's tall and skinny with long dark greasy hair combed back over his head and he's wearing a three-quarter length leather coat. He lights a cigarette as they coast to a stop.

"What's up gentlemen?" he says.

"Fuck all, what's up with you?" Jake replies.

The skinny guy takes a long drag on his cigarette, exhales and then spits before he and his driver exit the vehicle. This is when I notice they have passengers in the back, young women by the looks of it. Although as I take a better look I would have to guess they are more like teenagers with heavy makeup. Several alarm bells start going off inside me.

"Excuse me a second here," the greasy one says. He puts a pair of fingers in his mouth and blasts out an earsplitting trill. "Get the fuck out here already, I ain't got all fucking day!" he yells toward the house.

I give Jake an odd look and turn to glance at the house. There's some noise from inside, sounds like someone reefing on a stuck door. Finally the door gives with a groan, opens wide on it's creaky hinges and another young lady appears. She seems dazzled by the light of day and she recoils slightly when I hold out a hand to help here down the haphazardly stacked cinder blocks that are standing in for what should be steps. She has a red welt on her cheek and a black-eye that is poorly concealed by layers of caked on cover-up.

"You okay?" I ask as she passes, head down, hair falling about her face.

"Get your ass over here!" the pimp goads.

"What is this exactly?" I ask as I step forward and take the young girl's elbow as she stumbles across the uneven ground.

"This is exactly none of your fucking business," the pimp replies. "Hands off the merchandise!"

I plant my feet and stop the young girl cold, I gently, but firmly sweep her back behind me.

"Now it is." I say.

Behind me I hear Jake hiss. "We're not here for this."

My slung rifle is no good to me, but I can definitely get to my .45 if needed. Jake's carbine is always at the ready so I feel pretty good about our odds.

"Bad move friend." the pimp says producing a silver revolver from beneath his coat. His security guard likewise draws his weapon, albeit slowly. The guard appears to be unsure whether he wants to get in a gunfight at present.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen - not on my lawn," a voice behind us calls out. "Business only here, no bloodshed, please, put the guns away."

My gaze is still locked on the pimp and my hand hovers just over my holstered .45 and I have a near absolute certainty that I can take him. I can't however ensure that my first shot will be a kill shot and there are too many innocent bystanders. I'm not fully convinced that I want to take part in a bloodbath today.

"It's okay," a small voice says. "I'm okay, I will go with them. It's fine."

I give her a sideways glance and say quietly, "it's not fine, it's not close to fine."

She tugs her arm free, walks past me, toward the UTV, and says as she departs, "just let it go, I'm not worth it."

I want to call after her, I want to scream that she is worth it, that she has to be worth it, but in this broken world all values have run askew and I let her go. My pistol stays holstered and my rage remains contained, for now.

The pimp gets back in his seat with a smirk on his face. His likeness is now burned into my memory and I return the smirk. You're a marked man now asshole, I think to myself.

"Okay that was fun," Jake says. "Can't we just do what we're here to do now?"

"So dramatic you guys," Slade says as we step into his house. The place smells like burning electronics and cat piss, I want to turn around and leave immediately. "What are you interested in today," he continues, kicking aside a cardboard box that overflowing with electronic tidbits in order to clear a path for us.

"Better radios, rechargeable AA cells, and we need someone that can design a solar grid for an entire neighbourhood."

"Whole neighbourhood, eh? How many homes?"

"Lets say fifty-five currently occupied. Going to be a lot less if we can't make this work."

"That's going to take some time, and it won't come cheap. I will have to get back to you on that. As for batteries, I got just the thing, how does ten rechargeable AAs and a solar charger sound?"

"That should help," I say. "And radios?"

"I can get you a set of four two-way radios, and a charger base station."

"What kind of distance are they good for?" I ask.

"They'll use the Pelex repeater I set up, they are good for line-of-sight to that tower. Maybe forty kilometers."

"We don't want other people listening in," Jake says. "Can we get secure comms?"

"No problem," Slade replies as he digs through a pile of junk on his counter. "All the radios are secure, you just punch in a code and no one else can listen in."

"Okay, sounds good. We can still use the crappy radios for local patrols, "Jake says to me. "And use the good ones for people who are going to be farther out."

"Works for me," I reply. "Guess now it's just a matter of price."

"How will you be paying?" Slade asks.

"You mean like cash or credit?" I reply, assuming he's making a joke.

"I mean coinage, so yes, cash," he answers. "But by the look on your face I'd say you aren't familiar with the new currency."

"What new currency?" I say.

"Pelex is minting coins," he starts and digs into his pocket before pulling our a small shiny disk. "They call them luxury tokens--I'm surprised you haven't heard this already--people mostly call them luxies. Pure silver," he informs as he turns the tiny coin over and over between his dirty fingers. It appears to be about the size of a dime.

"Where do you get them?" Jake asks.

"There would be a few ways." Slade answers as he takes a seat in a stained lazy-boy which creaks in protest as it takes his weight. "You can sell something to someone and have them pay in Lux money. You can barter something at the Pelex exchange, or in a similar vein, you can bring in precious metal or jewelry."

"And who is accepting this money as payment?"

"Oh, pretty much anyone who is doing any sort of business right now. With fiat currency now valueless, we needed some kind of system, this is working out pretty good I think. Oh, and I almost forgot, the old penny, the one they stopped making - those are also being used, you can even bring those to the exchange. So if you have any of those laying around, they're pretty much worth their weight in... well, copper."

"Well, that's all very interesting news," I begin. "However, all I have today is booze, bud, bullets and cigarettes."

"I'm sure I can work with that." Slade replies.

I clear off a section of table to make room for my pack, sweeping a few dozen little electronic doodads aside in the process.

"What are those?" I ask.

"Joule thief flashlights I made."

"What do they do?"

"They give you a light source from batteries you would consider to be dead, batteries that won't power other things," he says extending an arm in my direction. "Hand me a couple will you?"

I drop a couple in his hand. He quickly removes a pair of AA cells from the little devices and exchanges them with the cells in a small flashlight he has. He switches it on and points it at me, "see, dead as a door nail."

"Okay." I reply, still a bit skeptical.

He then removes the AA cells and replaces them in the Joule thief lights. Upon depressing a little switch a small but reasonably bright LED comes to life.

"Hmmm." I say, not trying to appear overly impressed. "Guess I'll grab a couple of those too."

The bartering doesn't take too long, we aren't in the best position to argue price so I pretty much get soaked on everything. I'm more than happy to be done our business though and glad to get outside where the air doesn't make my eyes water.

"I don't like having to do business with a fucking pedophile." I say as we walk back to the road.

"You're going to have to get use to dealing with shitty people, it's the reality of the new economics, supply and demand."

"She was like fourteen Jake, if that. You can't tell me that doesn't bother you."

"What do you wanna do Connor? Run around on some moral crusade, save all the damsels in distress, right all the wrongs? It doesn't work that way, you'll just get yourself killed and likely other people along with you. Some shit you just can't fix."

"I fucking hate it."

"You're just wasting your energy. Let it go."

"But that was a Pelex guy with him, that means Pelex is endorsing it, it means Frost is endorsing it."

"You don't know that. For all you know it's just something the pimp and that security guy have cooked up. A little side business."

"I don't buy it for a second."

"Why do you have such a bug up your ass about this Frost guy? For the most part from what I've seen he's doing some good."

"You forget about the part where he's basically holding Kate hostage and using her to get me to do his dirty work?"

"Okay, I give you that. So that guy is an asshole, but still, he's got the hospital running under it's own power now. That alone has saved lives. He's putting people to work and giving people a place to shelter their families with heat and food. You only seem to see the bad."

"That's because I know that nothing he does is being done out of his sense of morality, there are ulterior motives I just haven't figured them out yet. He is not a good guy."

"None of us are Connor, not you, not me. Good guys can't exist in this world, it will chew them up and shit them out. I thought you understood that. You're moral compass just wasn't built for this kind of existence, you need to come to terms with that. There is a new way of doing things, you need to get with the program."

We walk along in silence as I stew about Jake's insinuation that I am somehow a bad guy. That we now live in a world that only has room for people with flexible morality and if I'm not one of those people already I need to get there. I don't know if I can do that, observe blatant transgressions of what is right and do nothing and in doing nothing become just as guilty as the transgressors.

* * * * *

Due to another couple detours Jake and I make it back to the neighbourhood long after nightfall. The moon is bright and directly overhead bathing the roadway in silvery light as we head toward the row of solar garden lights that glow along the walkway to my front door.

"I'm fucking beat," I say as I tread up the stairs to the door. I see shapes and shadows moving in the foyer through the sidelight. "How much you wanna bet Heath has conned Freya into letting him stay up late?"

"I'm not taking that bet," Jake replies.

Fumbling with my keys momentarily, I unlock the deadbolt and swing the door open. "Heath?" I call out, "Why aren't you in bed?" Heath remains silent, I can see his bare feet protruding from behind the chair where he has sequestered himself. Freya is seated in the chair doing her best to look completely innocent, she gives me a little shrug.

"Come on out and say goodnight to Jake, everyone needs to go to bed."

Heath reveals himself slowly, he has a bit of a pout going on now that the game is up and bedtime is soon to be enforced. "Goodnight," he says.

"Goodnight Heath," Jakes says. "I'll see--

CRACK!

Jake and I both jump at the sound. It sounds like it came from right where I am standing, like a firecracker went off at my feet. I look down at the ground and see nothing, then I notice a gouge in the door, as I bend down to inspect it I hear a whimper and turn to see Heath holding his right shoulder.