Chapter 7: Sanctuary of Rust
The coordinates Preacher gave them led off the interstate and down a series of unpaved ranch roads that wound through the jagged red-rock canyons north of Gallup. The Ford’s suspension groaned in protest as it bounced over deep ruts and washed-out gullies, the headlights sweeping wildly across towering saguaro cacti and scrub brush.
Cale drifted in and out of consciousness, his groans muffled by the heavy wool blanket. Maya sat like a statue, her eyes fixed on the dark horizon, one hand gently stroking her father’s damp forehead while the other clutched the tattered leather vest against her ribs.
After forty minutes of punishing driving, Jack crested a rise and killed the headlights. Below them, nestled in a deep arroyo sheltered from the highway winds, sat an abandoned uranium processing mill. Its corrugated iron roofs were rusted the color of dried blood, and the surrounding yard was packed with dozens of stripped-down semi-trucks, rusted out school buses, and tangled piles of heavy industrial scrap. It was a ghost town built by the extraction industry and abandoned to the desert winds—the perfect graveyard for secrets.
A single halogen lantern flickered above the rusted sliding door of the main maintenance shed. As the Ford rolled down the incline, a tall, gaunt figure stepped out of the shadows, wearing a faded canvas duster and holding a battered Remington shotgun broken casually over one arm.
Jack killed the engine, letting the truck coast to a silent stop a few feet from the shed. He pushed his door open and stepped out into the crisp desert air, his heavy boots hitting the dirt with a muffled crunch.
Preacher walked forward, stepping into the dim pool of light. He was in his late fifties, with a face carved from leather and bad whiskey, a patch over his left eye, and a long silver braid hanging down his back. He looked past Jack to the passenger side of the truck where Maya was peering out the window.
"Is that the freight?" Preacher asked, nodding toward the cab.
"That's part of it," Jack said, slamming his door shut. "The rest is inside the lining of that vest the kid's holding. Cale’s bleeding out, Preacher. We need a doctor who doesn't ask questions and doesn't keep records."
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Preacher spat a stream of dark tobacco juice into the dirt. "Doc Henderson’s down in Silver City, three hours south. But I got a black-market medic inside who can stitch a gut wound without calling the coroner. Bring him in."
Jack hurried around to the passenger side, opening the door and gently lifting Cale out of the cab. With Preacher taking the other side, they carried the injured man into the cavernous, grease-stained warmth of the maintenance shed.
