Sunol

We set out from Sausalito the moment it was dark enough to do so. Morgan and The Dirtbags wished us well with bittersweet goodbyes and tight hugs. He even gave Red his favorite butterfly knife as a parting gift. “I expect that back, someday," he said.

We loaded our bags onto our mylar-tented canoe. Lights would give us away to Aempian patrols, so we embarked with nothing but a sonar depth finder for navigation. In fear of the light being seen, we jealously guarded the light of the screen with our bodies as we made sense of the readings.

Using the illuminated pillars of the bay bridge as a landmark, we let the moontide carry us eastward. We threaded between the flashing Alcatraz buoy and the shore before arcing southwards well short of Yerba Buena Island.

Beyond the gateway of the Bay Spires, the currents fractured into broken eddies that pulled us in every direction, sometimes turning our canoe around entirely. Several times we discussed rowing to the shore and finding cover to rest through the day, but the distant howl of Tonagra from the land dissuaded us, and with burning arms we continued southwards, using the depthfinder to track the old shoreline until we saw the landmark 92 Buoy Line flashing eastwards and followed it. An Aempian patrol passed close over us, but we were fortunate enough to be able to hide behind the buoy and tuck low under our mylar until they left.

By the time we reached the Fremont trashburg, our arms were weak and shaking. We weakly pushed through the foamy crust of sunbaked kelp and detrited plastic, motivated only by the growing glow of the sunrise over the hills to the easy. By the dim murk, I saw the silhouette of the Vow up on the peak.

“Real close now, Mal,” Red said, straining the words through gritted teeth. “I see Niles Canyon, look!” He pointed towards the shore, where a cleft in the cliffside snaked inland in a bobbing river of trash and wreckage. “No way we can row through that, though. They’ve dammed it with landfill.”

Following Morgan’s advice, we landed on the south shore and pushed the canoe into a thicket of roots exposed by erosion. We dismantled the precious mylar tent and folded it into our bags, then hid the canoe beneath a layer of trash.

“I don’t think we’re coming back this way,” Red said.

“If we do, we’re going to miss this boat. Besides, it’s something to trade.”

“Ah. Good thinking.”

We stumbled along the shoreline until we found it — the ghost of an old rail-line peeking through the dusty hardpack. It curved upwards along the hillside before boring through it in a concrete tunnel about twelve feet wide and twice as tall. Its concrete gateway was plastered with centuries of graffiti. Someone had tried to seal it off several times, as evidenced by caved-in barriers of tumbleweed, wood, and stone.

“Looks like a big bad wolf huffed and puffed his way through here,” Red remarked.

I was too distracted to respond. Under the cover of the tunnel a man was looking out of us, grinning. Half his teeth were missing and half the rest were made of metal. He had an eyepatch, a bald spot, a floral shawl, and a machete.

“Welcome to Sunol. Haven’t newcomers from this direction in a long while. Take your bags off and step back.”

“Why?” I asked.

His playful expression darkened, his lips turned towards a snarl.

“It’s custom. It’s the toll.”

My head began to swim. I might’ve cried if I had the water to spare. Of course it’s as bad here as anywhere else. Morgan told you it’d be like this.

Red stepped forward, Morgan’s knife in his hand.

“Old man, I will kick your knees in so hard you end up walking backwards.”

“Look at you, you don’t stand a cha—ah!” The bandit recoiled as I caught him across the head with a rock thrown with adrenaline strength and accuracy.

I grabbed Red by the arm and ran uphill, ignoring the burn of my lungs and legs.

“We’ll go around,” I said through my teeth. “I doubt he’s alone.”