Chapter 5: The Passing Storm

There was a light thump on the side of the container. It quickly stirred Greg awake.

“Damn it,” Greg said to himself. “I fell asleep.”

The man’s mind was trying to make sense of everything that had just happened. He hadn’t known that his body had fallen asleep after eating, the fatigue stronger than he ever realized. Yet, he heard that faint sound. Was it the sound of something light but dense enough, tapping, perhaps?

At this point, the outside sounds were almost mute. It was almost as if the rainstorm had died down considerably.

Greg shook himself off the bed, where he quickly grabbed his trash before putting it into a sealed bin. He promptly got up, almost smacking his head against the ceiling of his home container. He began putting on his helmeted visor, breathing apparatus, garments, and gloves.

A brief flash of the warning wrist computer indicated that something living was nearby. The man quickly reached over to his window and slid it open to peer outside. The clear, tinted side allowed him to see what was outside, but he still couldn’t see anybody.

“Caught me while I’m napping,” the man said to himself.

Greg wasn’t going to take the risk. He grabbed his lever action rifle from the rack, along with his 2011 pistol, before heading out the door. It didn’t take long before he reached his decontamination unit. Upon closing the door behind him, he quickly opened the exit door to peer outside.

Again, there was nothing. The man closed the door before jumping onto the concrete below. He quickly looked at his wrist computer, noting that the warning indicator was still flashing. Greg readied his rifle as he began to step away from his rig.

The rain had, indeed, stopped. There were still the occasional droplets of water dripping from the building’s sides. The concrete with running water had formed in a drying cake of orange mud. However, there were no signs that the storm was gone just yet.

There was another sound, but this one came from the distance. It originated from far north, the direction in which the lights were located. From Greg’s interpretation, it almost sounded like reviving engines, small, high-powered ones.

“Who’s there!?” the man called out, readying his rifle. There was more movement. He leaned his head down to the ground and could see the presence of somebody on the other side of the truck. He immediately saw black boots. It didn’t take him long to march around the rig and raise the barrel of his gun in the direction of the intruder.

Upon reaching the front of his truck, Greg had a full view of an Itrean, a Yutilian, to be exact. She had green, scaly skin with blue-colored stripe patterns on her face, snout, and tail. Her clothing consisted of black spandex-like material that hugged her chest and stomach, black boots, along with some sort of black linen pants. She also wore a dark green flak jacket with yellow and red pattern flames, most likely a biker’s vest, from its appearance. Her head, arm, and tail feathers consisted of yellow and green that naturally reared up in her surprise at the armed human she saw walking around.

“No shoot!” the Yutilian yelled out in her accented voice.

Greg could see that she was unarmed. He quickly lowered his rifle and relaxed his posture.

“You snuck up on me,” the man asked. “Who are you?”

“This...,” the Yutilian looked at the man’s vehicle. “This your vehicle?”

Her voice carried the almost innocent sound of a small Yutilian. However, Greg noted that her proficiency in English was somewhat haphazard. Her accent was thicker but not harsh. It had a somewhat deeper tone than other Yutilians.

“Yes,” Greg answered. “Who are you, and what are you doing here?”

Her feathers lowered as she tilted her head to the side, looking up at the great rig.

“You made this?” she asked him.

“Made it?” he replied. “No, rebuilt it.”

“Rebuild?” she put her hand to her snout as if she were inspecting it. Greg was losing his patience, but he could see that she was nothing dangerous. If anything, the distant sounds of roaring engines could be heard again.

“What’s going on out there?” he asked, looking near the busted windows.

“Racing,” she said with a few clicks in her voice. “You come to watch?”

“Racing?...” Greg remarked.

It dawned on him. The small part of his brain was telling him what he had heard a few days ago when he spoke to Ben’varyu. Had he actually reached the place that she went to? Had he reached the place where the Itrean races were occurring? This unknown Itrean was an indication, but she could be anybody. This could still be some sort of gang member.

“Do you know Ben’varyu?” he asked her.

“Ben’varyu?” she questioned as her reptilian eyes continued to look at his vehicle. “Sounds familiar ... yes. She is here.”

The man relaxed his composure by lifting and placing the barrel of his rifle on his shoulder. With one hand, he pulled out his small set of binoculars and peered out the window. With the lack of rain apparent, it was easier to see north from his location. The derelict buildings and makeshift hangars were opened up. Inside were various Itreans that were working on hoverbikes and other hover vehicles. The former airport had been converted into some sort of racetrack, one that the Itreans were using quite rigorously. With the passing rain, the place had woken up again.

Greg stowed his binoculars and looked at the Yutilian. She was more focused on his rig than him. The truck was a giant monster compared to her smaller frame. The wheels alone were almost her size. She put her clawed finger and tapped the right metal door. No doubt it was she who had tapped the container earlier.

The man’s composure, while somewhat impatient, could see that she was inquisitive. She looked at the truck’s engine.

“Pe ... Pet ... rol,” she tried to say. “Engine?”

“Yes,” he replied.

“You drive petrol engine?”

“Yeah,” the man looked at his truck. “Diesel 6 Cylinder. Can provide up to 600 horsepower or around 450 kilowatts, in your terminology.”

She seemed to do the math in her head as she considered it. “Old. Why rebuild it?”

“Why not?” he replied back. “Because it was there.”

“Armed? You have gun top of truck...”

“The gun does work. One can only be too careful out in these parts, although I wouldn’t consider this some war rig.”

She turned and looked at him. A big smile appeared on her snout and face, her hands on her hips.

“My name is Gip’grenda,” she said to him. She almost said it in a form or way to impress him, which Greg caught onto.

There was a form of grace and beauty about her that the man noticed as well. She wore a shirt that displayed much of her cleavage, even for her smaller frame. Gip’grenda was the typical Yutilian, but the fact that she seemed so interested in his creation was a curious sight for him. The truck was so foreign to her, yet it was something that registered in her profession. The man was reminded of the old pictures of biker chicks, women who would travel along with their husbands dressed in a familiar fashion. However, he remained adamant.

“The name is Greggory Elk,” the man told her. “But, I prefer Greg. I don’t recognize your name. You made it sound like I was supposed to know it.”

Her feathers briefly lowered in disappointment. “Oh,” she remarked. “I thought you knew Itrean racing ... that you came to see us race...”

“More like wandered in by accident. I heard from a contact, Ben’varyu, that there was supposed to be some sort of racing competition north of Las Vegas. I didn’t expect to bump into it by accident, but I suppose it was expected.”

“Yes. This is the Itrea Voh’nik click Okop. We start one of your years past.”

“Racing, huh?” he gave a sigh and briefly looked out the window. “Now, the Itreans are using our homes as a source of entertainment...”

“I don’t understand.”

“Don’t worry about it. I didn’t see any humans in your racing camp, but you didn’t seem surprised to see me.”

“I saw humans before ... with less clothing.”

“Uhuh.”

Greg was weighing his options again as he turned and looked through his binoculars. There was definitely more activity than ever before. The Itreans had certainly gutted the northern section of the airport. Even now, a large hoverbike went screaming out of one of the hangars, throwing orange mud about. Even if these vehicles disturbed the soil less, the hover jets would still push the ground some. The man had a choice. He could move along and leave the place, push north, and find another place to rest. The other choice was to remain and make himself acquainted with the “racing locals.” Instead, the man surmised it might have been best to remain at the airport. He didn’t see much in firepower. Many of the bikers appeared to be unarmed, except for a few wandering armored soldiers who were providing guard duty.

“We are here to race,” Gip’grenda said. “ ... no threat to you.”

The man was compelled to agree. He stowed his binoculars into his pocket and turned to look at the Yutilian.

“I’m not leaving,” he told her. “But I need to have a word with your manager.”

“Manager?” she asked.

“Your boss ... your person in charge of these races. I plan on doing maintenance on my truck. Making sure everything is alright before I continue north.”

“Yes,” Gip’grenda concurred. “I can bring you to her.”

“Very well,” Greg remarked. He walked over to his truck and unlocked the side passenger door. When he did, he stowed his rifle and closed the door. He figured that it was best to play it cool with these Itreans and help reduce his threat profile. He wasn’t afraid of the bikers, but he didn’t know if the guards would respond to his presence. However, he kept his holstered pistol just in case.

“You might bring your vehicle to my place,” Gip’grenda said. “Plenty of room ... only me.”

“One thing at a time,” the man remarked with a side of caution. “Let’s go meet her.”

Greg gestured his gloved hand toward the exit door. Gip’grenda walked ahead, her size being easily nimble and quick.

It didn’t take long before the two stepped out of the building and began walking toward the road to the nearby hangars. Outside the confines of the large work shed, the dark clouds overhead were turning less gray. There were still hints of distant thunder strikes, but they were too far away to be a threat. The wet dirt caked onto their shoes the moment they stepped out. Greg took notice that his wrist computer warned him of the aerial toxicity levels. The humidity, combined with the orange muck, had formed a dangerous slurry. Any heat only further added to the airborne hazard. The man’s mask would have to remain on to filter it out. However, the toxic levels weren’t overly horrific either.

He looked over to Gip’grenda, jealous that the air didn’t affect her. But he also took notice of something while they made their long trek to the nearby buildings.

“Rain was a little too much for you, Itreans, huh?” he questioned.

“All we have is this,” the Yutilian replied, using her clawed fingers to pinch her clothes.

“No way to wash it all ... heh.”

“What?”

“I guess the foul weather finally does have some use after all.”

Gip’grenda seemed somewhat confused by the man’s comment.

As they walked, Greg could see that the airport’s former landing strip had been converted into a drag strip. Two hoverbikes, a green one and a blue one, took off simultaneously. The blue one had a single small engine and was smaller. It had the upper hand in the first few seconds.

“Nyoka will win,” Gip’grenda said.

“Who?” the man asked.

“The green one.”

The roaring engines screamed as the bikes continued to gain speed. It was difficult to see the occupants of each one, but Gip’grenda was proving to be correct. The green hoverbike had poorer acceleration, but it still had a more powerful engine. It didn’t take long before the entire vehicle overtook the blue one, surpassing it and blowing past the finish line like speeding darts.

“You seem to know everybody,” Greg remarked.

“No ... not really,” she replied. “I know, but ... not friends.”

“Are you ... supposed to be famous?”

Gip’grenda’s eyes looked around as they were closing in on the nearby buildings. At first, she seemed somewhat agitated by the question, but her reaction slowly became one of relief. Greg had noticed that her reaction was a bit unusual, almost as if she were trying to be serious but remain friendly at the same time. Finally, she answered him.

“Yes, I am famous.”

“I see...,” Greg continued. “How long do you, Itreans, plan on being here?”

“Four more of your days.”

A pair of walking patrolling guards were closing in on Greg and the Yutilian. Unlike the prior guards of the hotel, these guards were wearing wrap armor, a metal sheathing that covered their bodies and frames in a wall of elastic metal. Every inch of their bodies was covered, from their tails, arms, legs, breasts, and heads. In their hands was a small rifle. Even the feathers of their armor shined somewhat, almost as if they were metal blades. Their mechanical features made them somewhat intimidating to look upon.

The guards paused in their walk to gaze upon Greg. However, the two armored women saw Gip’grenda escorting him. It was enough for them to relax and let Greg pass by. The man noticed that they hadn’t resumed walking and simply watched him. He surmised that their trust in him wasn’t fully warranted.

Both Greg and Gip’grenda reached the set of hangars. Dripping water from the dilapidated roofs was evident. A sizeable office space resided near the set of buildings. The roaring engines of hoverbikes would get louder at times. One of the entrances was wide open, and the man could see four Itreans residing there.

The interior of one of these open-space warehouses was little more than a makeshift command station. It consisted of a set of antenna arrays with bio-organic circuitry. At least four displays showed various live-feed camera angles, showing off the surrounding area, including the airport dragstrip. A console was used to maintain control of the units. One of the Itreans, a T’rintar Aksren, had her hands inserted into alcove slots to manipulate the broadcast signals.

“A hooman,” an odd, accented voice could be heard from the right side of the room. Greg and Gip’grenda walked inside to see a makeshift lounge chair. Laying back comfortably on it was an obese Yutilian. Dressed in black, white, and brown alien formal attire, she appeared to be an Itrean businesswoman of some sort. She had tannish-colored scales, long orange feathers on her head and arms, brown boots, and a droopy tail that flopped over the edge of the furniture.

Two Yutilians dressed in short white dresses that showed much of their green scaly legs stood next to her, using large fans made of white feathers to gently fan the sitting woman. Greg knew the temperatures were nowhere near hot, but to this Itrean, it didn’t matter. The two ladies were almost like statues, serving the one in the middle.

To Greg, he was somewhat surprised to see an Itrean like this. They were rare. Their bodies were almost attuned to prevent them from gaining weight. She wasn’t severely overweight but would have been around 200 pounds if she were a 4-foot human. Most of it was in her stomach, tail, and face. However, he did note that some of the obesity went towards her breasts, where the clothing did its best to restrain the bulbous masses. This “important” Itrean was busy tossing small acorn-like nuts into her mouth with her clawed fingers. Her large bowl was relaxedly placed by her side as she watched the two enter.

“This is Bowa’op,” Gip’grenda introduced her. “Our ... manager.”

“Ah...,” the sitting Yutilian remarked in her calm, sultry accented voice. “A human comes ... maybe to see the races?”

“You oversee the competitions here?” Greg questioned her.

“Yes,” she answered. “And your name?”

“Greggory Elk,” he replied. “Just call me ‘Greg.’”

“Greg, the human ... where do you come from, and what brings you to the races of Itrea?”

“I come from down South, the place we call Las Vegas.”

“Ah,” Bowa’op remarked. “Then welcome to my races...”

She gestured outward with her hands while the two Itrean women remained still, fanning their boss like automatons. Greg remained indifferent toward the conversation.

“You didn’t respond to my CB radio calls,” he told her.

“CB, what?” Bowa’op paused and stopped munching on her food.

Greg gestured his thumb in the direction of his rig. “I tried to call you a couple hours ago. Nobody responded.”

“What do I look like? Do I care about the lone human that wanders into my racing competitions? My equipment is meant to broadcast to the T’rintar satellites in orbit...,” she waved her hand briefly. “Not worry about your pathetic equipment.”

Her English was quite good. No doubt, she worked with humans plenty of times, perhaps too much. Greg sighed.

“No,” Greg replied. “But I would expect more care about the truck rig that pulled up near you. I practically bumped into you guys by accident.”

Bowa’op shrugged her shoulders. “Does it matter? We closed up due to the storms. We tracked your vehicle as it pulled up and determined that you weren’t a threat ... even with your ancient Vok’I guns.”

“Vok’I?” Greg looked at Gip’grenda with a hint of agitation. He didn’t know the word but surmised that it was a way of insulting him. Gip’grenda remained silent as her feathers lightly lowered down. The man tried to stay patient.

“So, what brings you here?” Bowa’op questioned him.

“I came here to conduct maintenance and repairs ... just making sure that you weren’t something that would make me regret staying here.”

“Don’t worry, human,” she popped another acorn-like nut into her mouth. “I never harm my guests ... besides, it’s bad for business.”

Bowa’op’s tone certainly seemed on the borderline of being insincere. From Greg’s point of view, he could sense that it wasn’t really that of being malicious but her desire to be nonchalant. It annoyed Greg, but he pushed forward with his questioning.

“Then you don’t mind me using the ruins of this town to conduct maintenance of my truck?”

“As long as it doesn’t interfere with my races,” she replied. “I can see one of my ... prized players led you in.”

“And I can see the hedonism large enough to fill the room.”

“Hedonism?” she almost didn’t seem to know the word as she popped another nut into her open jaws. “Well..., then. You’re welcome here, Greg. But you already know the consequences if you pose a danger to us.”

Greg said nothing more. He turned around and was in the process of heading out.

“Human,” Bowa’op called out to him. “If you get the chance, look me up on your... ‘mate finder.’ I have one thing that the other Itreans don’t have.”

“Weight?” Greg replied.

A light smile appeared on her face. “Yes,” she said with pride.

The man walked away as Bowa’op continued to stuff her face and observe the live feeds of the hoverbike races. He found that Gip’grenda remained close to him. They both exited the building and began their walk back to the truck. Twenty seconds would pass before the man looked to his side towards her direction.

“Why are you following me?” he asked her.

Gip’grenda would peek up to look at him. “Because you are alone.”

“I’m not alone ... I’m surrounded by Itreans ... at least for now.”

“Don’t let Bowa’op anger you...” she tried to say.

“Your manager is a piece of work. I’ve seen her kind before. She’s going to be nothing but trouble. Never even seen a fat Itrean before.”

“Fat? Bowa’op is an Owea’eep. She is Gui’optre.”

“Gui’optran,” the man knew the word. “Owea’eep?” he questioned.

“Religion ... She is fat because ... her religion.”

The man gave a questioning look even if the head-covering blocked it from being seen. “A religion based on corpulence?”

“Yes,” Gip’grenda seemed confused with the word but did her quick nods. “They are Itreans that make themselves fat ... believe that fat is good.”

The man saw a pair of hoverbikes return to one of the hangars. A set of overhead announcements in Itrean could be heard from a set of speakers. The man shook his head as Gip’grenda observed his tone and movements. This tempted her to speak with him.

“You don’t seem happy ... with us,” she remarked.

“What is there to say?” Greg told her. “Look around you. Your people play around in the ruins of my people.”

Gip’grenda looked around at the distant town. The airport wasn’t good enough to relay the point, but it was enough for her to understand some of what he said.

“No one lives here,” she countered.

“‘Was... ‘“ he corrected her.

“You ... don’t like Itreans?”

“Hmm...” was his only grunted response.

The man walked for a few more seconds until he felt her clawed hand grab onto his. It made the man stop and look down at her. For a brief moment, he felt tempted to swat her hand away, but he looked down to see that she was being adamant.

“Bring your truck to my place,” she said with a few clicks in her voice.

“Why?” he asked her.

“Because I like your vehicle.”

Was she playing coy? Greg could see that she was serious. The Yutilians were known to act all innocent at times, but Gip’grenda acted slightly differently. Why would this lone Yutilian actually give a damn about the lone human in her midst?

The man relaxed for a moment as he considered it. He felt tempted to just leave, find some other place, any place, and just stop. However, there were multiple things he had to think about. If there were genuine issues, this was the time to fix them. He barely had enough fuel to make it to the Salt Lake Dome City as it was. Perhaps it wasn’t even enough. The man had to stop and evaluate everything. If it wasn’t enough, then he would have to turn back and return to Las Vegas.

Greg’s focus would shift back and forth between his rig and the great beyond. The low-level mountains served as a viable backdrop, almost as if they were neatly guiding him to continue on his journey.

Ultimately, one major factor was at play: strength in numbers ... Greg had to consider whether the T’rintar were with him or an annoyance. However, even if their help was superficial, they were at least there to provide some sort of assistance. This Gip’grenda seemed to care about the man’s well-being, even if it were minor, something that Greg noted. She let go of his arm.

“ ... Fine,” Greg relented. “I’ll move my truck to your hangar. Just ... stay out of my way and make sure that those other hover racers don’t careen into my rig. Not in the mood to knock out dents.”

Gip’grenda did her quick nods. She watched as the man resumed walking to his rig. The Yutilian quickly caught up to him as he looked back down at her.

“What are you doing?” he asked her.

“You don’t know which hangar,” she replied. “I go with you.”

“Eh...,” the man grunted, realizing she was right. “Alright, jump into my passenger side.” He pointed his finger at her. “Don’t touch anything...”

Over an hour had passed. The truck and the entire rig were inside the furthest left hangar. Country music played from the cab’s open door, echoing some into the hangar facility. The vent cover used for the engine was open as Greg’s drive belt tool pulled and adjusted one of the belts for the large engine. The man was busy reading a set of numbers that appeared on the tool before he eased up on the belt.

The man paused as he felt thirsty. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and pulled out a canteen before opening his head-covering. His face was briefly exposed to the outside air as the man unscrewed the cap and poured water down his throat. He took as much as he could before lowering his head-covering back into place, and resumed breathing.

When Greg turned to the left, he could see that Gip’grenda was looking intently at him. The look of curiosity was obvious. She would blink several times before looking back at the rig.

“What?” he asked her.

“You are ... pretty,” she said with a few clicks in her voice.

“The word you’re looking for is handsome.” He looked back at his engine before putting his canteen away.

“You need to wear all that?”

“Yes...”

“Why?”

“I’m not like you, Itreans. The air quality isn’t good for me ... or anybody else.”

“But, ... I am ok.”

“I met many Itreans. You can breathe all this with ease ... even drink some of the water. Humans ... not so much.”

“Why live on Itrea?”

“Earth,” he corrected her. “It’s my home.”

“Why Earth like this?” There was a chirp in her broken English.

“Because people kept doing dumb shit that they weren’t supposed to do ... why does it matter to you?”

Greg could see that Gip’grenda looked down for a little bit before looking at him.

“You are first human I see on Earth,” she explained. “Your home, but few humans.”

“It’s because most of us left. Long ago, they wrecked the environment, and nature gave us the middle finger ... not all of us left, though.”

“It is why you give Earth to us.”

“I didn’t give Earth to you. The people of Earth didn’t give it to you either.”

“But, our news...”

“Is wrong,” he interrupted her.

Her eyes narrowed as she looked down before looking up at the container. Her four fingers pointed at something on the roof of his vehicle.

“What is that?” she asked.

Greg looked up and saw what she was pointing at. “They don’t have flags in your home planet?”

“Flag? ... Yes, I know flag, but this is different. I don’t know this flag.”

“This is the United States flag, the last flag before Earth was evacuated.”

“United States?”

“A nation,” Greg remarked before he looked at the engine again. “Best nation there ever was.”

“I don’t understand ‘nation.’”

“Place of territory ... there were many on Earth ... came and went.”

“This land is United States?”

There was a pause as the man seemed to summon the will to answer that. “Yes. Everything your hoverbike races across is the United States.”

“Where were you born?” She asked.

“Waterville DC ... more specifically, a small expansion colony outside of the main city ... where we had more access to the outside air.”

“The big city east?”

“Yep, one of the biggest cities of them all ... the ‘Last Refuge of the Forgotten’ as the outworlders call it while they ignore the plethora of other dome cities all across the surface.”

“I am born in New Atrea ... small village of Zo’t’za. We have no ... nations.”

“Because you’re a village and nothing more ... just like the scattering of our dome cities.”

“Are you ... hot? Those clothes...”

Greg looked at the thick clothing that he wore. “It’s thermal regulated. It helps keep me cool in it. Thankfully, the constant cloud cover keeps the sun from cooking the surface too much. Even keeps me warm in the desert nights.”

“It’s ... so much.”

“It’s the only thing protecting me from the rain and air.”

Gip’grenda took her clawed hands and rubbed her feathery arms. “Rain still hurts some.”

“Good for you. What stings you can melt human flesh in minutes. You can at least seek shelter if it irritates you. Humans, if it gets into the skin, it’s worse ... far worse. Just a little bit of it can be lethal.”

The Yutilian looked down. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s not your problem. Just remember it.”

The Yutilian seemed to nod. At times, Greg felt that discussing all this with her was pointless. Why did it matter? She probably didn’t care. In another hour or two, he would be back on the road and venture forth, never to see her again.

So why was he telling her all this?

The man tried to figure that out as he turned around and looked at the other side of the hangar space. Gip’grenda’s hoverbike was unique. It was sticking atop a set of clamps that held it up. The vehicle was somewhat small, suitable for a woman of her height and stature. The front consisted of a long rollbar rod, most likely a stabilizer of some sort. The front nose was bulbous, much like any typical bike. It had a green color, much like many of the Yutilian vehicles, while carrying a seat and side pedals for control. The entire rear was a large engine with side jet thrusters and exhaust pipes.

“Hmmm...,” Greg remarked. “Your hoverbike looks like it was ... cobbled together.”

“Cobbled together?” Gip’grenda tried to understand.

“Pieced together...”

“Because it is,” she said. “I built it from many.”

“Hmph...,” Greg seemed somewhat impressed, but he turned around and looked back at his rig. He walked back towards the rear trailer. The closed circular metal shed protected the contents that resided inside it. He walked to the rear, climbed onto the trailer, and lifted the door. Upon doing it, the shed’s interior was revealed to him. Sets of replacement part boxes and gas tanks resided. He grabbed two of the large tanks and stepped out before jumping down onto the degraded pavement with a hard thud. The man almost misjudged the sheer weight of the metal tanks as he heard his feet pop a little bit.