Chapter 89
Lark chuckles. “A mechanic is just an engineer in blue jeans.” “Damn,” I say. “Yep.” I look out over the prairie and see something odd. “Hey, Lark?” I ask. “Yeah?” he says. “You live around here. So maybe you can tell me something.” “Sure.” “Just what in the f**k is that?” I ask, pointing. He looks out over the plain. Sees the sinuous, glinting metal writhing through the grass like a hidden river. Lark spits tobacco on the ground, turns, and motions to his squad with the walking stick. “That’s our war, brother.” Confusion and death. The grass is too tall. The smoke is too thick. Gray Horse Army is made up of every able-bodied adult in the city—men and women, young and old. A thousand soldiers and some change. They’ve been drilling together for months and they’ve almost all got
- Writer
