It took being stabbed in the stomach and nearly bleeding to death for him to accept that he was not dreaming.  That was also when he was removed from the special-ops team that he had been working with.  Instead he sat guard duty or patrolled, or did the occasional shift of policing.  Incidentally, the team - along with all others - was disbanded at the same time, seemingly without any cause.

He looked back to the shape on the horizon, then he looked up at the sun.  Probably within the hour, he thought, and adjusted his mask and goggles.  It certainly was not a pod, considering its speed of approach, which meant that it was very likely a large group of wanderers.  Probably, he figured, a caravan, with carts pulled by small plasma-powered machines that could pull very heavy loads, but not very quickly.  They had been designed for other purposes about 3 or 4 years after the Quake when horses were dying from the poor air conditions, but now they were used by these people who could not afford pods or bikes.  It was an archaic and extremely dangerous style of travel, but people still did it.

Bruce picked up his radio and mentioned that there was a likely-large caravan group approaching, and to be aware.  If they proved to be hostile he wouldn’t be able to hold them off himself.  Luckily forty or fifty other agents would appear seemingly from nowhere and back him up.  He was, however, expected to be the military gate in to the city if they were reasonable.

As the hour passed and the sun began to sink lower in the sky, the wind kicked up a bit in to a low-grade dust storm.  Bruce strapped his helmet on, growing tired of the wind whipping his hair against his face and making the perpetually-raw skin near his temples sting.