He peeked out the trailer door to see the overcast, smoke-filled sky. Looks to be a pretty good day, he thought to himself. He looked across the hole-ridden yard to see a wooden fence collapsed under the weight of fallen trees. Behind that was an old cement wall with chipped beige paint.

He edged around the door onto the wilted lawn, gun raised in a ready position. He saw the street he and his companion snuck down the night before.

"Sanitation is good in this part of town. Only two corpses lying on the street."

Of course, not many people make it this far out. Northside is forbidden territory to be in. Hawkins didn't like his people getting out here. It's too close to the Prunedale Hills where one can escape to relative safety and freedom.

"OK, Dad, the coast is clear."

An older man, in his early 50s, climbed out of the trailer. He was wearing torn black jeans and a dirty, hole-infested, blue-jean jacket.

"God damn Hawkins! I remember when this was a nice quiet town. Before the collapse..."

His voice trailed off as his mind raced off into another time. A time when this was a quiet community. When every youngster was eager to escape this town and its boredom. Now, the youngsters still wanted to escape but not because of boredom.

"Dad, we gotta get moving. Before the Hell Knights make their sweep through here."

The older man nodded as he began to hobble across the yard. Not much farther, he'd think. Soon.

The younger man, Duane, was in his early 20s, wearing torn brown pants, heavy brown boots, and a dirty white shirt covered by a heavy brown jacket. His light face was marred with brown silt and was framed by his disheveled brown hair.

The older man, his once long, dark hair now clouded by shades of gray, made his way over the dead shrubs that was once a small tree to the cement wall. Duane followed, keeping his gun in a ready position.

Duane glimpsed around the wall, which was formed into a half rectangle facing outward and used to contain garbage dumpsters. A horrid stench still surrounded the area, but not one of garbage.

Duane glimpsed around the corner to find a pile of rotten carcasses, flies swarming around like a pack of wolves devouring their prey and dried blood on the walls.

"I guess we've found Hawkins' Northside sanitation department."

The old man turned away quickly, fighting back the urge to throw up. After all this time, he was still squeamish about dead bodies.

Duane turned around to look at the scene beyond the wall. Off to his right side, the smoldering remains of a building. Beyond that, across the ancient thruway, he could see what was once the old Monterey County Sheriff's Department Building and the County Jail. The jail was still in use today as Hawkins' final stop for his worst enemies. That thought alone gave Duane pause.

"There's Hawkins' Detention Center over there. I still don't understand why we came this way?"

The old man smiled as he responded.

"I told you. He'd never expect anyone to go out this way.

Security will be a little more relaxed over here than over at the 101 Gate to the North County Confederation."

Duane sighed as he scanned the rest of the scene. Directly in front of him was a shot-up shopping center. The bullet-ridden sign in front stated "Natividad Plaza." Scanning around the rest of the way, he saw old apartment complexes and residential areas in various stages of decay.

"I think we should stick to the residential areas and cut down that street over there."

Duane was pointing at the residential areas on his left and toward a street with a fallen signpost stating: `Alvin Dr' and `Marin St.'

The old man shook his head in the negative.

"We cut through Natividad Plaza and follow Natividad Road."

"But they'll surely see us!"

"Not if we time it right and duck down Saratoga!"

"But that will put us closer to Creekbridge and Hell Knights!"

"Trust Me! I have a plan."

Duane shrugged in defeat. His old man had always been there for him. The least he could do was trust him.

They carefully treaded across what was once Alvin Drive and into Natividad Plaza. As they moved by the long abandoned stores, Duane kept eyeing the two streets that intersected near this plaza. No sign of hostiles.

As they were approaching the end of the stores, Duane froze. In the distance, from the north, he heard the roar of an engine.

"Hell Knights!"

The old man nodded as he ducked through the broken glass window of the "Subway" they were next to. Duane followed, and they quickly knelt down out of sight.

He slowly raised his head until his eyes could see out the broken window. Cruising down Natividad Road was a 1968 Camaro convertible, though the top had long been ripped off. The once shiny blue paint had now given way to blotches of white scratches and rusted metal. Inside, three boys in their late teens, with rough hair and red face paint covering their facades, brandish their shotguns.

"Stay down," Duane whispered.

The old man nodded as Duane crept over to another window to continue his surveillance.

One of the Hell Knights pointed toward them. Duane ducked down and drew a deep breath.

As he released his breath, he heard the roar of the engine as it increased its RPMs accompanied by the burning of rubber.

Duane stood up, pistol in hand and pointed toward the street.

He breathed a sigh of relief as he saw the Camaro accelerate out of sight.

"All clear, Dad."

The old man pulled himself to his feet, with the help of his son.

"I'm up! I'm up!"

Duane backed off as his dad brushed himself off.

"Let's get out of here before they decide to come back."

A half hour later, after ducking and sneaking through the neighborhood on the edge of town, making sure they weren't seen by passing patrols, they found themselves walking down a street that was once called "Pescadero".

"You've been awfully quiet, dad. Is something wrong?"

The old man's bespectacled face glanced over at his son.

"Not at all. It's just been awhile."

As they approached the great fallen tree, a familiar noise reached their ears. Duane and the old man turned to face the great blue automobile. The old man's face reddened as he saw the car, and swore he heard his mother turn over in her grave.

The great blue monster began its charge.

"Get over the tree!"

The old man began to climb over the tree, praying he wouldn't get hit. Not when he was this close.

Duane whipped out his pistol and aimed. The Hell Knights began to pull out their shotguns. The crack of gunfire was heard, followed by exploding rubber. The Camaro lost control and crashed into one of the old abandoned homes.

A temporary solution, Duane thought.

He climbed over the tree and was greeted by his father.

"We don't have much time."

He then took his father by the hand, and they began their run down the street. About a half of block down, the old man stopped. Duane turned.

"I have reached my destination."

He then pointed at the dilapidated green house they were in front of. The black numbers 1787 were, surprisingly, still on the house.

"I'm home, Duane. I never expected to make it to Prunedale. It's just too far away, and I'm too old. Instead, I wanted to make it to my parents' old home here in North Salinas. Now, go. Make a life for yourself. Find your path, with my blessing."

A tear formed in Duane's eye.

"I'll miss you."

The old man smiled.

"I'll miss you too. But now, GO!"

And Duane was gone, running down the street. He'll make it, now that he doesn't have me to slow him down.

The old man turned and entered the home. The memories came flooding back.

The computer he used to write his stories on, now lying in ruins on the worn carpeted floor. His mother's piano now overturned, the keys out of tune, if they work at all. She used to play it when she was upset.

He progressed through the house, everything smashed and destroyed. His brother's stereo system, bits and pieces of it can be found around the bed. Ashes, once his brother's books, now litter the area.

Moving on to the living room, he saw the television he used to watch "Star Trek: the Next Generation" on. The screen the "Enterprise" would sore across now lay shattered on the floor.

He pressed on to the workroom, where comic books were strewn out on the floor. His old comic books.

He sat down and began to look at them, when one caught his eye. "Cable: Blood and Metal, Issue One." He picked it up and flipped to the back. The words he had forgotten sprung out at him, and he smiled. He knew Duane would do well, for he believed these words even if he had never heard them. Why else would he be trying to reach Prunedale?

A noise brought him out of his reverie. He turned and faced his fate.

The comic book fell into the puddle of crimson liquid.

"What's happened's happened. You can't change the past, only mess with the present--to protect your future!"

-- Cable, "Cable: Blood and Metal #1."