When Station Kay came into view, Glade felt relieved. He had said almost nothing for two hours. Between Heather, who had shown herself to be hostile; Kyren, who was a mute; and Soot, who was a horse, he had nothing much to say. He kept his thoughts to himself, aware of how precarious his relationship with these people was. Despite travelling with them for so long, they could betray him. He didn't expect Kyren to suddenly leap upon him and strangle him to death with his large hands, but Glade almost expected a Jude-like betrayal. His mind began to conjure fears about arriving at Station Kay. He would be a little closer to his ultimate goal of reaching Dewindalo, but maybe they would leave him at the outpost and continue without him. He would be back on his own once more.

  "Station Kay," Heather said from atop her horse. Glade noticed Kyren give a slight nod. He seemed to be in good spirits. Despite the looming twilight, both of them had made good time arriving here, although on that last stretch, everyone seemed to be moving a little faster. No one wanted to be left in the darkness without a proper campsite.

  Glade soon discovered that Station Kay had two parts to it.

  The first part was the station proper. Station Kay was the name given to the old post office at the centre of the settlement. It was a stone building old even for the Old World. Its large edifice had been made from angularly cut stone. Its decorations shot forth in straight lines and zigzags, every direction controlled and serving a greater aesthetic purpose. The reliefs in the stone depicted angularly cut humans performing a multitude of deeds--from collecting sheaves of wheat, to making pottery, to hunting big game. When the images were first designed, they had an aesthetic crispness that had since faded with time. The cut lines had been smoothed by rain and ruin. Worse, in Glade's eyes, were the holes that dappled the edifice. Clearly, damage had been done to the structure from thrown stones and shot bullets. He tried to imagine what the structure had looked like in its prime.

  The second part was the area around the old station. These buildings were also quite old, although--like the post office--they had been remade and refurbished since the Cataclysm. The buildings were made out of red brick. Their Old World style seemed more or less intact, having survived the similar ravages of time and human destructiveness. Much of the brick, however, appeared to be new. Likewise, beside the old buildings--which seemed flanked everywhere by vegetable gardens--each one had a tall tower with visible alcoves dotting their exterior. Glade contemplated the oddity of the towers until he saw a pigeon glide into one. His eyes adjusted with understanding. He realized every single one of those small alcoves housed pigeons. As he inspected the towers, he began to see beady little bird eyes staring at him. They flew into their little nooks and adjusted themselves in their roosts.

  "Kyren, visit our old friend and see about housing Soot for the night. I'll make arrangements for us with Post Master Red." Heather leapt off her horse and removed one of the bags from the gelding's back.

  Glade said nothing. He simply followed Heather into the Station Kay Post Office. He tried to show a touch of chivalry by opening the door for her, but she cast him a dirty glance, one that shouted: Who do you think you are? Glade dismissed the silent reprimand. He wanted to do something nice, and if she didn't appreciate it, well, that was her problem.

  Glade was in awe of the foyer of the Post Office. The floor retained a smooth granite sheen from its original construction. The interior burst with the opulence of a lost world. Glade almost felt like crying. The stories his father had told him about the Old World had to be true. Before the Cataclysm, there was a better place, a more beautiful place, where people were kind to each other and treated others with respect. To see such beautiful architecture, to experience such elegant interior design--it must all be signs of a more advanced and sophisticated people. Glade almost cursed the fact that he had been born after things had fallen apart. To be alive when something like this was the norm!

  "And him?"

  Glade turned toward the source of the calm voice. Behind the stone counter stood a man in a light blue uniform. His auburn hair had been tucked underneath a newsboy cap. Gentle wrinkle lines were carved into his face, as though being polite had been something bred into his bones. On his nose was perched a small pince-nez, from which a delicate string dangled into his lapel pocket.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  "Uh," Glade said, feeling a little foolish. He approached the counter. "Forgive me," he continued. He wanted to present himself as worthy of the Post Station. "I did not hear what you had said. Could you please repeat it?"

  The Post Master gave a small approving nod. "Yes, sir. I had asked about your lodging. Miss Heather has not planned accommodations for you."

  "Oh," Glade said, almost sadly. He didn't expect her to pay for him, but at the same time, he felt almost worthlessly tossed aside. This miniature betrayal came faster than he had expected. "How much is it for a room?"

  The Post Master leaned a little over the counter and caught a glimpse of the fading light. "As it is the end of the day, and we will be locking up once Master Kyren arrives, I will be happy to provide your own room for five bullets."

  Glade tried to keep his disappointment invisible. Five bullets was almost everything he had. He couldn't spend it at the end of the second day. Plus, three of the six bullets he had worked with his pistol. He needed to be frugal. He wanted to make a deal but felt scared of insulting this proper man.

  "Do you have alternative accommodations?" Glade asked, trying to imply he wanted a cheaper price.

  "Well, if you preferred the socialization of a more communal room, I have a cot available for three bullets. Although, I will say I like you, Master Glade, so I'll give you the cot for two bullets and I will ask no further questions."

  Glade agreed to the arrangement enthusiastically. He fished through his pockets for two assorted rounds and placed them on the counter. Post Master Red took the bullets and placed them into a locked safe.

  "Follow me, sir," the Post Master said. As they departed the foyer, he gave a small nod to Heather and reassured her he would be back to help her and "Master Kyren" with their bags and lodging.

  Glade ascended the stone stairs to the second floor and was led to the end of the hallway. The second floor had a small overlook onto the foyer with a few tables and chairs for people to spend their time. As the night was still young, a few strong-bodied men sat at tables playing cards. Glade tried to give them a cultured nod, an acknowledgement of these men, but they merely stared at him as he passed.

  "The communal room, sir." The Post Master opened the door without a key and led him into the dark room. It had only been illuminated by the light of the foyer. The Post Master entered the room confidently, his body knowing exactly where every item of furniture lay. He manoeuvred to the end of the room. With a small wave to the cot, he informed Glade this would be his bed for the night. He spoke with a clearly enunciated but whispered tone.

  "And, sir, the table at your right hand is for your exclusive use. Feel free to place any items you wish upon it, although I will advise you not to eat anything with a more pungent odour. Unless you have any other questions, I will bid you good evening and good night."

  "No other questions, thank you."

  "Master Glade," the Post Master said with a slight bow. He turned toward the door and exited the room. When he closed the door behind him, the room was plunged into darkness. Glade sat down on the cot, which creaked beneath his weight, and waited for his eyes to adjust to the low light. He removed his backpack and placed it beside the table. From it, he pulled out his semi-automatic pistol. Despite having ammunition for it now, he had not yet had a chance to load it. He took his three 9mm bullets and loaded them into the magazine. He placed the gun on top of the bedside table and took out a small portion of bread and a water bottle. His mother and sister had baked him some hardtack for the road. He only needed a little water to soften the twice-baked bread. He tried to eat it without chipping a tooth. He placed the tack on his table and decided to remove his work boots. After as much walking as he had done, he was finally glad to have a moment to sit and relax.

  He untied his boots and took off his socks. He felt the moisture on his socks from his sweat. They almost seemed to keep their shape after he removed them. He placed the pair on top of the boots and tucked them close to the table.

  Glade removed his jacket, folded it, and also placed it on top of the table. It covered his pistol. He snatched his piece of tack and took a slow bite of it as he adjusted himself in his cot and reclined against his pillow, which, while surprisingly soft, had several lumps in it. He figured pigeon feathers, sharp and uncomfortable, were stuffed between the layers of fabric. As he stretched his body, Glade realized there were others in the room. From the darkness, the figures of a few men seemed to be staring at him.

  "Are you done yet?" called out one of the voices.

  "Can he be any noisier?" called another.

  "Sorry," Glade said with an awkward smile that no one could see.

  "Don't worry lads," said the voice in the cot beside him. "I'll snuff him out by the morning." With that, the figure in the cot next to him shifted and turned his back on Glade and his corner of the room.

  Glade closed his eyes and tried to fall asleep. It proved almost impossible.