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| We had high-tailed it out of Troy in the first few weeks following the incident. Albany wasn't hit, but things were falling apart there. The new president had called away the national guard, basically triaged the capital regardless of whether or not it could still function. We heard there might even be a civil war. Or maybe it was the Russians. Or the Chinese. All we knew is that there was hate and fear.
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| So a good bunch of us headed upstate. Smith and Nash, the ones who knew about the spot on Champlain belonged to the country club back then. Funny, I'd always thought that it would be the wealthy ones who stayed behind, locking themselves behind rod-iron fences and manicured lawns, waiting for someone to kill them and loot it.
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| But I guess when it really comes down to it, they had the most perspective. They knew that it was our lives which mattered, not our property or "survivability of government" that the militias around Albany were forming. In the end it was the people with the least to lose that wanted to die for it. Why, I'll never know. Right now I'm thinking waiting tables at that Club was the best decision I ever made; that's how I got into the group that headed up 87 towards Montreal.
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| We don't know how soon the bandits started operating along route 87, but they must have heard before even we did, 'cos they were there on our way up. Hell, maybe they were even operating BEFORE the attacks, but I doubt that. Anyway, the first time we came up they came at us with lights and sirens like a highway patrol. They stopped us and searched our 'convoy,' a dozen and a handful cars, pickups and vans, most pulling trailers. But back then we were still able to buy our way with money. A lot of money, but at least that's all they took. I dunno, maybe they still thought it would blow over at that point. We still counted ourselves lucky; we saw them setting up spike-strips behind us.
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| They made a lot of progress in three years. A frightening transformation of the landscape. This was the trip Nash planned for us to make, since not much word reached as far as us. I87 was still there, albeit stained and painted and cracked.
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| For miles southward the rusty hulks of scrapped cars with blown out tires littered the sides of the highway. I thought I caught a glimpse of bodies in some, but didn't dare stop. But about 20 miles south of Essex was the real shock. The overpasses had been converted into living spaces. Fortresses, even. Mobile homes and trailers and real houses even, piled two stories and covered in brick and sheet metal. Dark ports along the length in which probably lurked men and guns.
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| The pass underneath was blocked by a similar patchwork gate. Unsure of whether or not it was the right decision, we stopped the car.
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| A speaker overhead blared and asked our business. We told 'em where we were from and that we were headed towards albany, that we had no guns (which was a lie, and they probably knew it) and that we didn't mean to interfere with whatever they may be doing.
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| After a painful deliberate silence, we heard the rumbling of and engine, and the center part of the wall blocking our way pulled inwards, revealing that it was actually the reinforced rear end of a tractor trailer, probably filled with something heavy to prevent it from being rammed in. As we drove through, we found that the rest of the wall was similarly made of cargo containers, but they weren't connected to a cab.
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| Oddly, we weren't searched this time. But we were informed that if we got out of the car at any point before the next "station," we'd be shot. We weren't sure if we were being watched, but for a ten mile stretch we saw the oddest thing; villages, hamlets, whatever you wanna call 'em, dotted along the edges of the highway. Above the looted corpses of eighteen-wheelers (mostly food freighters, probably the end-result of canadian attempts at relief), smoke rose from buildings above the crest. Every so often, a curious soul would rise above that dirt barrier to see who was barreling down their highway, but would eventually drop back down.
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| Aaand I dunno where I'm goin' with this. Just got mad-max up ins. General idea is the same as "bandit kings" who rob trade lines/borders of other kingdoms (in this case interstate highways) and end up being able to provide a standard of living comparable or better than what most folks have. Robbin' food trucks is good business, you know. At least, until they stop coming.
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| Maybe I'll write about whatever community my Troy-vellers have set up on the US/canada border on lake Champlain. Though it's probably just some boring self-sufficient community, though I've hinted that the two upper-class guys have taken control of the operation, maybe acting as fiefs and controlling whatever goes on there.
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| FEUDALISM ABOUNDS!
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