By the time we’d trotted close enough to the wall of semi-trucks and other vehicles (which were positioned midway along the bridge), as well as the massive signpost which had been attached to the side of one of the trailers—the sun had crept below the horizon and the sky begun to turn a bare, brooding mauve. Still, it was enough to read by, and what we read was as clear and succinct as anything I’d encountered: ILLINOIS IS OURS ... DO NOT PROCEED. VIOLATORS WILL BE SHOT. —a chilling message made more so by the number of bees buzzing and crawling about the sign.
“What’s this?” asked Mortigen, and cantered closer. He indicated a hive, a massive thing, which lay on the roof of a nearby car and yet, somehow, was wholly independent of it. “They’re busy, for twilight. Look.”
I nudged Scar up b
