I would speak to you, priest, he seems to say, coming to stand beside the other.

What is it you would say?

There is a man for whom I would beg you pray.

This is my part. For whom shall I pray?

There is no need to know his name. He lies far from here. He is buried in another land.

How can I pray for him if I do not know his name?

Pray, nevertheless. All creatures shall be profited without distinction.

This I cannot do.

And between the steady beats and within the rumble, the measured words are made, saying, Pray, though the heart that prays marks with no name the prayer, yet he that takes it is its owner.

Then come with me to my home and pass the night there, priest.

He raises a branch, and there is a doorway.

What is this place? A shrine, of sorts? It seems like the inside of a car, only much larger.

It is.

The one in the mask seats himself before the wheel 'and places his hands upon it. He stares forward then and does not move.

Who are you?

It does not matter. I drive.

Where? Why? What is the reason for this?

You must know that when I put forth upon my mission I did not want to die. I was afraid, but I drove. Past, over, through all things that stood in my way I drove, and the bolts out of the heavens fell about me, driving, and the sleep piled up behind my eyes after my comrade died, and I fought it with drugs and my will, knowing as I drove that the invisible fires of radiation burned my body, coming from beyond my damaged shield. Driving, I became a part of the car, and it of me, so that we were one with our mission. I am wounded again and again now with this fire, and my head grows more heavy.

Slowly, he lowers his head to the wheel and rests it there, unmoving.

Swiftly, swiftly coming and swiftly going, coming and going. One night, 'two nights, three nights. I carved my tracks upon the Alley, my eyes dazzled and a madness possessing me. My wounds are upon me, and there is no end to the road I drive.

He raises his head once more.

They kill me, the monsters in the land and the sky. They kill me. Driving, driving, I reach my destination, deliver my message, sicken, and die.

But I must have done, or dawn will find me talking still. Go to your rest through yonder door.

He rises and departs the car, and the priest passes through the doorway, to stand in the grove once more, for the car has vanished, though the sound of the engine continues undiminished and the steady beat does not wane.

I have seen strange things. I cannot sleep. I will pray.

The priest bows his head and stands motionless for a time.

The one in the mask appears once more, with a bandage about his head.

The winds are rising, he seems to say, the clouds shift, and the night is dark. A wild wind combs the wood beneath this hill. The branches heave. The moon does not rise till dawn, and then she will be invisible. There is no quietness, nor is there rest.

Say your name.

The man raises one hand to his mask and covers it over. He turns away his head.

Brady. Give me rest.

Then the mask and the bandage drop to the ground, and the gray garment collapses upon them, as day begins faintly in the east.

The words are made within the rumble and the beats: He was wounded, until the strength of his spirit weakened, like the dew that even now fades.

A cock is crowing, and a whiteness begins in the sky. He has hidden under the shadow of the trees; under the shadow of the trees has he hidden himself.

The dream is vanished now; where to, too, is not known.

When he awoke, he felt dried blood upon his side. His left hand ached and was swollen. All four fingers felt stiff, and it hurt to try to bend them. His head throbbed, and there was a taste of gasoline within his mouth. He was too sore to move for a long while. His beard had been singed, and his right eye was swollen almost shut.

"Corny..." he said; then, "Damn!"

Everything came back, like the contents of a powerful dream suddenly spilled into his consciousness.

He began to shiver, and there were mists all around him. It was very dark, and his legs were cold; the dampness had soaked completely through his denims.

In the distance, he heard a vehicle pass. It sounded like a car.

He managed to roll over, and he rested his head on his forearm. It seemed to be night, but it could be a black day.

As he lay there, his mind went back to his prison cell. It seemed almost a haven now; and he thought of his brother, Denny, who must also be hurting at this moment. He wondered if he had any cracked ribs himself. It felt like it. And he thought of the monsters of the southwest, and of dark-eyed Greg, who had tried to chicken out. Was he still living? His mind circled back to L.A. and the old Coast, gone, gone forever now, after the Big Raid. Then Corny walked past him, blood upon her breasts, and he chewed his beard and held his eyes shut very tight. They might have made it together in Boston. How far, now?

He got to his knees and crawled until he felt something high and solid. A tree. He sat with his back to it, and his hand sought the crumpled cigarette pack within his jacket. He drew one forth, smoothed it, then remembered that his lighter lay somewhere back on the highway. He sought through his pockets and found a damp matchbook. The third one lit. The chill went out of his bones as he smoked, and a wave of fever swept over him. He coughed as he was unbuttoning his collar, and it seemed that he tasted blood.

His weapons were gone, save for the lump of a single grenade at his belt.

Above him, in the darkness, he heard the roaring. After six puffs, the cigarette slipped from his fingers and sizzled out upon the damp mold. His head fell forward, and there was darkness within.

There might have been a storm. He didn't remember. When he awoke, he was lying on his right side, the tree to his back. A pink afternoon sun shone down upon him, and the mists were blown away. From somewhere he heard the sound of a bird. He managed a curse, then realized how dry his throat was. He was suddenly burned with a terrible thirst.

There was a clear puddle about thirty feet away. He crawled to it and drank his fill. It grew muddy as he did so.

Then he crawled to where his bike lay hidden, and stood beside it. He managed to seat himself upon it, and his hands shook as he lit a cigarette.

It must have taken him an hour to reach the roadway, and he was panting heavily by then. His watch had been broken, so he didn't know the hour. The sun was already lowering at his back when he started out. The winds whipped about him, insulating his consciousness within their burning flow. His cargo rode securely behind him. He had visions of someone opening it and finding a batch of broken bottles. He laughed and cursed, alternately.

Several cars passed him, heading in the other direction. He had not seen any heading toward the city. The road was in good condition, and he began to pass buildings that seemed in a good state of repair, though deserted. He did not stop. This time he determined not to stop for anything, unless he was stopped.

The sun fell farther, and the sky dimmed before him. There were two black lines swaying in the heavens. Then he passed a sign that told him he had eighteen miles farther to go. Ten minutes later he switched on his light.

Then he topped a hill and slowed before he began its descent.

There were lights below him and in the distance.

As he rushed forward, the winds brought to him the sound of a single bell, tolling over and over within the gathering dark. He sniffed a remembered thing upon the air: it was the salt tang of the sea.

The sun was hidden behind the hill as he descended, and he rode within the endless shadow. A single star appeared on the far horizon, between the two black belts.