The train ride from L.A. to the unexpected pit stop in Dry Lake, Nevada was largely uneventful, save for a stretch of underground track bypassing the nuclear wasteland that was once Vegas. As we descended into darkness, I pondered the imaginary constructs that once bound all of us together. How much longer could Washington and the military hold on? And what of the souls and lands that had been swept up in a literal revival of the Wild West?

 

My employer, The West Coast Inquirer, had tasked me with unearthing answers to these questions. Reliable news from the southwestern interior had been spotty at best, and our readership would froth at a good investigative piece on life in lawlessness.

 

Emily's Emporium of Practical Goods was nestled in Dry Lake's sleepy town square, within walking distance of the decrepit train station. Country music competed with the puttering of a generator out back as I navigated cluttered aisles of spare parts, industrial supplies, and dated retail goods.

 

“Anything I can help you with, ‘hon?” a timid female voice peeped from the back of the store.

 

"Oh no, I'm just killing time until maintenance on the train is finished."

 

A middle-aged woman with world weary eyes appeared from behind a shelf of automotive supplies. She wiped both hands on a dirty apron and began wringing them together nervously.

 

“The train?” she asked in disbelief. “It hasn’t stopped here since the Sierran Split. Too dangerous, they claimed.” She hobbled to the front of the store and peered out a window. Gusting winds blew tumbleweed over the train track’s insurance plan: a reinforced, polycarbonate encasement.

 

“Some things you have to see for yourself.” She shook her head and began straightening dusty shelves for what looked like the first time in years.

 

“Luckily for the few of us remaining, Washington dispatched a peacemaker to this area soon after the Split. Brought back some sense of normalcy, up until it went missing.”

 

“You've got an impressive collection of items here. If I may be so bold, how did you come by all of it?” I shot the woman an unassuming smile.

 

“Mom and dad ran this place for 40 years. They liked bein' prepared for every eventuality,” she chuckled nervously, “and of course that turned out to be for the best. After they passed, Constance and I left the ticking time bomb that was once Silicon Valley for a simpler life here in the desert."

 

"Constance?"

 

"My… daughter. We got here just before things went south. Never looked back since," she said with an unconvincing grin.

 

“Well, it’s safe to say you were blessed with the gift of foresight,” I said, recalling footage of leveled cities and charred corpses.

 

“No choice but to adapt and make the most of what little we have,” she said, glancing expectantly towards the back of the store.

 

I smiled sympathetically. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I never got your name. I’m Malcolm Chepulis.” I approached the woman and held out my hand. She shuffled forward apprehensively and grabbed it, failing to make eye contact. This one’s too camera-shy, damnit.

 

“Emily Everhurst.”

 

“Well Emily, the pleasure is all mine.” I felt genuine sympathy for this tender soul, whose anxious disposition was likely a result of the Split.

She perked up and briefly met my eyes, harnessing some reserve of will.

 

“Ya know, you seem like a sweet fella, and it would do her some good to have a visitor.” The hand wringing continued in earnest.

 

“Her?” Something about Emily’s mannerisms was beginning to unnerve me.

 

“My daughter, Constance. Unfortunately, she took a turn for the worse years back.”

 

"Oh?"

 

"Come and meet her for yourself.” She turned and beckoned to me.

 

We passed pocked and peeling walls through a curtain at the back of the shop and descended to an unfinished basement full of cardboard boxes stamped with a familiar logo. The power plug depiction belonged to Envisage, an alternative energy company I had stock in before the market crashed. She’s probably sitting on a goldmine of tech we no longer understand. Piles of spent fusion cells in the room’s far corners confirmed my suspicion.

 

As Emily hesitantly opened another door, I heard children’s music crackling from a record player. Pastel paint coated the walls of a child’s room, and contrary to the shop upstairs, its furnishings were immaculately maintained. Opposite me was a small bed filled with worn, stuffed animals surrounding a slumped figure.

 

I stared ahead, my mouth agape. The figure’s oval face looked faintly human, but its minimalist, porcelain-like features clearly marked it as a peacemaker. It wore a woman’s wig and an undersized plaid dress. Its jaundice-colored synthetic body ended in two stumps just above the knees. Severed wiring, tubes, and metal struts protruded from each appendage.

 

“Constance was kidnapped by brigands shortly after the Split. After searching for days, I finally found her unconscious in a ditch off Interstate 15. Poor thing was a bit out of sorts, but I patched her up with sugar and spice and everything nice.” Tears of sympathy welled in Emily’s eyes.

 

Emily sat down next to the inanimate android, wide-eyed with adoration. “It’s love that keeps her going. Isn’t that right, Constance?” A thick wire extended from the android’s head to a laptop on the bed. Emily began pecking at it impatiently.

 

“Say hi to Malcolm, Constance,” Emily urged.

 

The peacemaker’s eyes flickered momentarily, then held a continuous blue glow as it sat erect.

 

“Good day citizen, have you–”

 

Emily interrupted with a nervous chuckle. “Sorry about that, she’s still groggy from napping. Let’s try again.” She punched another key and looked eagerly at the android. In response, its head swiveled towards me.

 

“Are you my daddy?" Its previously authoritative tone became soft and imploring.

 

"Mommy says I need a strong father figure. Someone to shield me from God’s Judgment," then in a whisper, "and from the monsters who stole an irreplaceable part of me.”