Runner For Hire

## freedompkgservices.biz, Archived Snapshot, March 2035

Freedom Package Services - Your Trusted Couriers Since 2029

FAQ

What are my options? In our tumultuous world many often wonder what their options are for getting goods transported cross-country, due to the limited range and astronomical prices now associated with federally-run mail services. While your first thought may be to turn to long standing companies such as UPS, FedEx, DHL, and others, known colloquially as “regs”, these often suffer from their own issues, primarily due to the strict regulations they must follow to operate in multiple territories.

We recommend employing the services of a courier service; these numerous, small companies are as plentiful as there are cars on the road, and you have a variety of choices depending on your location.

As of July 2035 Freedom Package Services maintains branch offices in the following states for your convenience: the New Florida Alliance, the Free City of Atlanta\*, the Nickajack Free State\*, and the United States

\*call for availability

## Somewhere in Central Georgia, August 2032

You make your way onto the interstate, pulling in from a deserted state road that you took out of the commune and into dominionist territory. The highway is risky. Dangerous. Often patrolled, and clogged by abandoned cars and slow rolling regs alike. But, it’s fast. A dead straight, mostly flat road connecting one end of the state with the other. If you keep your speed and get lucky along the way, you should be able to roll back off into surface roads in disputed territory on the peninsula of Florida before sunrise.

The highways are an odd place, and you’re never quite happy to see them. Through much of the northern territories, billboards fell quickly to recycling as their lumber became more valuable as firewood and building material. But in strong fundie territory, they retained the southern tradition of the biblically threatening road sign. Signs taller than a house proclaiming “CONFESS YOUR SIN AND SAVE YOUR SOUL” were mildly off putting on long ago family road trips, lit by thousands of headlights and the setting sun. Now, lit by little but moonlight and with far more violent backing, they were terrifying.

Worn asphalt and potholes crackled beneath your tires as you continued driving, uneventful save for swerves to pass burned out cars, leftover from the flight. You occasionally passed semis, blaring bright headlights into the night sky and emblazoned with familiar corporate logos on their sides. They stayed in their own lane, though, specially maintained for their rubber stamped traffic.

Yours was nothing of the sort. Alcohol and pharmaceuticals for an anarchist enclave in South Florida. Technical manuals for an overworked NFA bureaucrat. Care packages from a man in the remnant US, for estranged family in Orlando. The former would be seized and burnt under Southeastern Dominion law. The latter just had a tendency to “disappear” during the inspections that occurred on official routes. All of it was hidden under a bed of machine parts- scrap metal, really. Sharp, heavy, unwieldy and hopefully enough of a pain to dig through to deter further investigation, with a decent bribe as a backup, if it came down to it.

Despite pushing 95 miles an hour, you catch something out the corner of your eye skulking behind a crippled box truck sitting in the right lane. Fundies. Blaring lights cut through the night. You press on the brakes and almost skid into the shoulder. You take deep breaths. You’re carrying personal goods, that’s all. Trying to visit family in Savannah. You shuffle in the glovebox for the mediocre documents your company provided and try to steel your nerves.

“Papers” says the stocky man who crawls out of the rebranded police interceptor. He’s wearing a bulletproof vest and carries a full rifle on his back, complimented with a pistol at his waist. You hand over the documents with few words.

He flips through the papers with an annoyed look. “Now I don’t know when the last time you checked the news was, but these rags from Nickajack won’t pass here any more” he spits “You need papers from here, or if I was being charitable another Dominion north of here. But this communal bullshit ain’t worth the paper it’s printed on.”

You try to push down the nervousness in your voice; “just trying to get down to Savannah to see some family sir. Haven’t heard from them in a while now and wanted to check in on them”

“Uh huh. Well maybe if you can give some names, I can call em and they can come pick you up out of a holding cell over here. And I can give em a lashing for trying to have their estranged wild child try and drive down a business road in the middle of the night with bad papers to try and see em”

You start to stammer, as you try to bullshit some names for people who don’t exist. The fundie raises a hand before you can say anything further.

“I’m also real suspicious of what you got in here” he says as he raps on your rear windows. “Nobody gets tints on all their windows for kicks and grins.”

You start to panic. One gallon of the illegal liquor in your backseat is enough to put you in prison. Two would make it a really long time. The six in your backseat along with everything else may as well be signing a death certificate.

“It was there when I got the car, just wasn’t my highest priority getting it removed”

“Okay, well, I’m still gonna need to search your vehicle, procedure, is all. If you got nothing to hide, we shouldn’t have any problems anyway, right?”

You dart your eyes around nervously, as your brain runs, scattered, trying to generate a convincing excuse out of the situation. Eventually, after what feels like hours but was probably less than 30 seconds, you reluctantly tell the officer that your trunk’s unlocked and that he’s free to search.

He grumbles and ambles towards the back of your car, and you hear the familiar creak of it’s worn out hydraulics. You also hear them fall back down, the fundie patroller hitting his head on the edge, and yelling. You stifle a laugh mixed with fear. You hear the sound of shifting scrap metal, clunks and crashes mixed with mumbled comments as he pokes around for whatever you’ve hidden beneath. You hope and pray to maybe not God, but maybe just luck itself, that he’ll get bored. Then, one clunk is followed by a sharp crash. The sound of shattering glass. And the scent of strong alcohol wafts in your cabin.

“Well, what do we have here” You hear a crash as the old spares are thrown out the back, revealing the moonshine and next to it a box labeled “FEDERATION PHARMACEUTICALS INC”

“Not just a bootlegger but a drug mule too.” he cracks as he makes for your door. “Get out of your vehicle with your hands where I can see them. Any sudden movements and you’ll be on that asphalt before you finish the gesture.” A slide snaps sharply as a pistol is unholstered. Your brain runs in circles and time slows to what seems like a crawl.

In a moment, a decision is made, and your pedal bottoms out as your engine screams into the Georgia night. The cop scrambles back to his car and throws a clumsy spray of bullets in your direction as he goes. One lands home and drives a clean hole in your rear windshield. It’s hopeless, and you know it, the rattly old SUV standing no chance in a direct chase with an electric interceptor. You think maybe, if you can take the next exit, out into one of the virtually abandoned rest stop towns, hide in an old garage, behind a building. Something. Maybe you can shake him. It’s a stupid plan. You try anyway, as the interceptor gains in your rearview mirror, whining electric motors silent against a cacophonous, worn out V6 under your hood.

Your veer for the next exit, leaning hard into the off-ramp, trying not to climb the curb and spin out into the grass. The service stations and restaurants ahead are dark and worn down. What you expected. Your car continues to whine in protes-

\*CRASH\*

A pothole. Years old, probably. Started small. Got worse. Never fixed. No point.

A large clunk reverberates through the air as your car swerves and you overcorrect, swinging wildly as you skid off the ramp and into town. You catch a guard rail, and then a tree. Airbags explode as metal distorts and the world comes to a sickening and abrupt halt.

The papers run a footnote a week later, noting a police chase ending in a fiery crash on a central trucking route. They laude the brave cops for their quick action, attempting to capture the wayward smuggler in order to bring him to justice and salvation under the law. They note that it ended in a crash, but that no officers were harmed- only the criminal killed in the impact and ensuing blaze. It ends with details that the unknown’s remains will be buried in a small urn with a nameless cross of a headstone, in a potter’s field.

## Archived Email, August 26th, 2032

FROM: admin@freedompkgservice.biz

TO: miamimedical@anmail.net

SUBJECT: Package Lost

We regret to inform you that packages #0002345 and #0006712 have been lost due to a vehicular accident within the Greater Southern Dominion; Our records indicate these packages were expected for delivery at your address. If this email was sent in error, please discard and ignore.

Unfortunately, due to the high risks associated with transport through the southern Dominions, our standard insurance does not cover losses within their territory.

If you are covered under our Enhanced insurance package, you are entitled to up to 45% of declared package value. To find those forms, click HERE.

Have a great day 🙂

Freedom Package Services - Your Trusted Couriers Since 2029