“L’art pour l’art,” Reverend Jake said.

Mortimer looked at him. “What?”

“Nothing. Let’s eat.”

They sat on the benches. Lunch was meager. Jerky and stale bread, what some of them happened to have in pockets. Most of the food had gone over the side in the mad rush to lighten the blimp.

Mortimer munched jerky without enthusiasm, considered the willow again. Somebody had decided to do that, had decided to stop in the shadow of a dangerous city, had paused in the necessary ongoing routine of gathering sustenance and finding shelter, had simply put it all aside to make this thing. To make art.

Mortimer couldn’t decide if that was dedication or stupidity. Maybe the harder you fought to live, the more obligated you felt to live for something.

He looked at the dangling wires, headphones, MP3 players, computer gadgets. Many were corroded, covered in bird poop. The new world willow had been here awhile. Maybe years. Maybe the artist was dead now. The willow might have been the last thing he ever did.

“I used to have an iPod,” Bill said around a tough chunk of jerky. “I used to love to download songs from the Internet. Man, I loved Christina Aguilera. And Moby. I wish they still had music.”

“They do still have music,” Sheila said.

“I mean like on CDs and digital and all that,” Bill said. “You go into Joey’s and the band plays and that’s fine and everything, but it’s not like going through ten thousand songs on Napster and picking and choosing whatever you want.”

“Electricity’s coming back,” Mortimer said. “People are going to start using things again, microwave ovens and CD players. Maybe even the Internet.”

“It’s not the same,” Bill said. “Not like being connected with everything while it’s happening. You can scavenge old CDs and a player and make it work, but it’s always going to be leftovers. It’ll never be now.”

“We’ll make a new now,” Jake said. “It’ll be tough, but we’ll fight and hang on and make things new again. Here comes Ted.”

Ted had found the path. He led them until nightfall, and they camped within spitting distance of the ruined Atlanta skyline.

Mortimer tossed another stick on the fire. “It’s decision time.”

The others looked up from their places around the camp, eyes wide and curious. They hadn’t realized an announcement was coming.

“This is up to me now,” Mortimer said. “We’re about to get neck-deep in Red Stripe territory. I have a personal stake in this. As you know, I’m looking for my wife. I need to see her. Anyway, it’s enough to say that in addition to putting the brakes on this Czar asshole, I have my own motivations, which are nobody else’s problem but mine.”

Sheila frowned, broke eye contact.

“You can shove your hero speech up your ass,” Bill said. “If you think I’m the kind to cut out on a partner, then I guess you don’t know me very well at all.”

Mortimer smiled. Damn, he’s a good pal. I’m going to miss him when I get my dumb ass killed. “I appreciate that, Bill. More than you know. But it’s a one-man job, and there’s just no sense in risking everyone.”

“You’re stupid.” The venom in Sheila’s voice startled them. “We live in a time when the most valuable thing a person can have is somebody to look out for you and that you can look out for,” she said. “And you treat that like it’s not anything. We are here for you. Did your fucking wife come looking for you? Fuck no. Fuck you.”

Mortimer’s mouth fell open. He shut it again. He was simultaneously touched and offended.

“I…” Mortimer shook his head. So tired. “Okay. Thanks, guys. Sorry. Should have known better than to try that hero bullshit.”

Sheila turned away, curled up with her back to the fire.

“Damn right,” Bill said. “We’ll figure it out as we go. You’ll see.”

“Sure.”

Mortimer shot Ted a look across the campfire. The old man offered a slight nod in return.

The orange-pink smear of dawn was just hinting over the horizon when Mortimer clapped Ted on the shoulder and motioned him to follow. He waited until they were a quarter-mile away before speaking in a low voice.

“Thanks for taking last watch. Makes it easier.”

“Your friends are going to be pissed,” Ted said.

“It’s for their own good. What about the reverend?”

Ted shrugged. “He’s a practical man. He’ll understand, and he can show your people a safe route away from the city.”

“Let’s make tracks.”

They traveled quickly toward downtown, the buildings growing taller around them with each mile. Ted cautioned that they were well within the Czar’s patrol radius and would need to keep their eyes and ears open.

Yeah, thought Mortimer, like I’ve been on a Sunday stroll until now.

They passed a number of rotting heads on tall pikes. The entire city had a haunted feel about it.

Near Peachtree Plaza, Ted abruptly pulled Mortimer into the shadows of a doorway. They watched in silence as six Red Stripes marched in loose formation on a cross street in front of them. The patrol did not appear to be particularly alert.

Mortimer and Ted scampered from hiding place to hiding place all day like that, dodging four more patrols, making their way closer to the Czar’s headquarters.

Twice, Mortimer heard engines in the distance, and once he saw a Buick speeding across downtown with two Red Stripes inside. The Buick sported a flag on the antenna, white with a red stripe across the middle.

“If he’s getting gas, why do the Red Stripes still patrol on foot?” Mortimer asked. “Seems like he could put them all in pickup trucks.”

“Various reasons,” Ted said. “First of all, they’re saving up the fuel for some kind of big push. The Czar has some kind of surprise in mind, but none of my operatives can find out what it might be. Even old Ted can’t sniff it out. Also, the Czar’s not able to hang on to all of his gas shipments. Somebody’s been raiding his supply line. Heck, we do that ourselves on a small scale. It’s how we get gas for Blowfish’s little motor.”

“Who’s making the raids?”

“Search me,” Ted said.

They continued on, finally entering the back door of a building, walking the hallways all the way to the other side, ducking below a window that faced a street on the next block.

“That’s the Czar’s stronghold,” Ted said.

Mortimer raised his head for a brief glance and ducked down again. “The Omni/CNN Center?”

“Can you believe that shit?” Ted’s face went red. “Pisses me right off!”

Mortimer chanced another look, saw a dozen guards or so standing on either side of the entrance.

“That’s the Czar’s castle,” Ted said. “He hatches all his schemes in there, and his men come and go all day and night carrying out his orders.”

“What’s the Czar look like?”

“Haven’t you heard? Eight feet tall with fangs like a shark.”

Mortimer’s eyes grew big until he caught the old man’s smile. He laughed. “I heard ten feet tall.”

“What now?” Ted asked.

“This is as far as you go.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice. I’m not quite as concerned about your hide as your friends are, but I do wish you luck. You going to bluff your way?”

“Yup.”

They shook hands.

Ted said, “I’m going to try to get in touch with my people. Who knows? Maybe we can come up with something to help.”

“Thanks.”

“Try not to die, Mortimer Tate.” And then he was gone. Atlanta’s old, gray ghost.

Mortimer watched and waited for an hour. He told himself he was trying to get the lay of the land first, familiarize himself with troop movements before going in. Who was he fooling? He was trying to get up the courage.

Mortimer took a deep breath, walked out the front door and crossed the street.