Don't speak to him. Don't ask what it is. Don't open it.
Coen Marsh has run the Hollow Roads for twenty years. He's carried worse cargo for less money and never once asked what was inside. This time, someone told him not to. Three rules, repeated twice each: don't speak to the recipient, don't ask questions, and whatever happens — do not open the package. It's lighter than anything this guarded has any right to be. Between here and the delivery point lies a Compact checkpoint, raider territory, and every reason in the world to break every rule he's been given. #oc2026
Coen Marsh had carried worse cargo for less money. Sealed crates of pre-collapse pharmaceuticals. Ammunition still warm from the foundry. Letters that got people killed on both ends of the exchange. Somewhere along the way he'd stopped asking what was inside things — professionally, it was healthier not to know.
Except this time, someone had told him not to know. That part was new.
The package rode under his coat: oilcloth-wrapped, corner-banded, wax-sealed, barely the size of two hands, and so light he kept checking it hadn't fallen out somewhere between the broker's warehouse and the edge of town. The broker had paid triple rate, in advance, through an intermediary who wouldn't give a name. Three rules, each said twice. Don't speak to whoever's waiting at the far end. Don't ask what's inside. Don't, under any circumstance, open it.
No delivery date beyond as soon as it's safe. No manifest. No insurance if it went missing.
Three days of open highway lay ahead, through at least one Compact checkpoint that would want to know exactly what he was hauling, and through a stretch of road the Wrackriders had been getting bold about lately.
Coen settled the pack against his back, felt its strange lightness again, and started walking.
By noon, the first checkpoint flag was visible on the horizon.