Ringo, Nebraska, 1936
Dust rolled behind the car as it came down the dirt road. The occupant hadn’t passed another car in hours. He also hadn’t passed a working farm in what used to be a luxurious landscape.
The sign welcoming visitors to Ringo, Nebraska was cracked and the paint chipped. He almost missed it, the dust around him had risen so high. Now that he knew he was close, he kept an eye out for the town.
He snorted when he saw it. The town. There was a general store/post office and boarded up storefronts. The pavement wasn’t in good shape, and he had to stop the car before he got to the store. There was a colorful Victorian home on a street of abandoned houses, but this one was obviously taken care of and someone lived there. The general store was closed and the main drag didn’t even sport a bank or a restaurant.
He didn’t get out of the car, just stayed inside and glanced around, the motor ticking as it cooled. Nothing. Not a peep from anywhere. If he didn’t know better, he’d think this town was dead. But Bacchus was here somewhere, he knew that. And Bacchus wouldn’t have stayed in this place if he couldn’t survive here.
The door popped open and he got out, pulling himself to his full seven feet. After having been cooped up in that car for hours, he stretched, his back popping and cracking.
What he needed was a place for the Hunters to lay low. A place for them to congregate and to relax after missions. If he could get Bacchus on board, then Ringo, Nebraska was the ideal place.
Jupiter smiled to himself.
This would be perfect.