Adaptation (4 page)

But AM 1438 had long since faded to constant static, the only FM station that came in was playing old country music, and she still couldn’t get online on her phone. At least she had managed to talk to her mom for a minute before the connection broke, but there hadn’t been time to do more than say that they had left Phoenix. Now all Reese had was the view out the window, and it didn’t tell her anything except she was glad she didn’t live in a desert.

They reached Kingman at noon after a long morning of stop-and-start driving. They intended to take the exit onto I-40, heading west toward California, but a few miles before they reached
the interchange, traffic slowed even more. “What the hell is going on?” Mr. Chapman said in frustration. He had drunk three cups of awful black coffee that morning, and Reese was beginning to wonder if she or David should take over the driving. Mr. Chapman was jittery and nervous from the caffeine and sugar, and hadn’t slept any more than the two of them.

Half a mile before they reached the exit, Reese saw what was holding things up: a roadblock. A string of state police cars was parked right across the ramp to the I-40, their red and blue lights flashing beneath the hot midday sun. State troopers in khaki uniforms waved them past. Mr. Chapman rolled down his window as they neared the roadblock, and heat blasted into the car. “What’s going on?” he called. “We have to get onto 40 West to get back to California.”

One of the troopers took a step closer toward them, looking down through his sunglasses. “You’ll have to drive up to Las Vegas and find an alternate route. Interstate 40 is closed here.”

“Closed? Why?”

“It’s closed,” the trooper repeated. “You’ll have to drive north to Las Vegas.”

Mr. Chapman stared at him, wrinkling his forehead.

“Move on, sir, you’re blocking traffic,” the trooper said.

“Are you serious?” Mr. Chapman asked. “That’s a—a four-hour detour.”

“Then you’d better get started.” The trooper’s hand moved to the weapon at his hip.

For a moment Mr. Chapman didn’t move, and Reese’s mouth went dry. What could you do when faced with a state trooper who had a gun? Mr. Chapman rolled up the window and drove
on, cursing beneath his breath. “Sorry,” he muttered. “This is crazy.”

They reached the outskirts of Las Vegas in late afternoon. Traffic picked up as they approached the city, and Reese hoped it meant that the worst was behind them. The map they had gotten at the rental-car counter didn’t extend as far as Las Vegas, so at a Chevron off the freeway, Mr. Chapman climbed out to refill the tank and buy a map. He left the nozzle in the tank as he walked toward the mini-mart, and Reese unbuckled her seat belt and stretched out her legs in the backseat.

David was studying his phone, and she asked, “Any reception?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know what’s up. Circuits are overloaded or something? And my battery’s dying anyway.”

Reese took out her own phone and saw the battery indicator was at 50 percent. “Crap, mine too. We should have charged them last night when we were in line.” Her phone charger was in her carry-on in the trunk, but without an adapter to plug into the car, it was useless. “I’m going to turn mine off for now.” She looked up as Mr. Chapman returned from the mini-mart, waving a map triumphantly. He headed back to the pump, tucking the map in his back pocket. “Do you think we should stay in Vegas tonight?” she asked. She was tired. The nervous energy that had kept her alert all day was fading now that they had arrived in Las Vegas, and her lack of sleep was catching up with her.

“I guess it’s up to Mr. C,” David said. “I can help drive. Do you have your license?”

“Yeah.” Reese heard a stranger’s voice outside the window,
and she twisted around to see a burly man in an army-green vest, his muscles bulging out of a black T-shirt, gesturing at Mr. Chapman. He was backing away from the gas pump, hands raised, face white. The man in the khaki vest was pointing a gun at him.

The shock of recognizing the weapon was like having a bucket of ice water dumped over her head.

The man shouted: “Give me your keys, now!”

Reese scrambled away from the window, her heart slamming into her throat.

Chapman was visibly shaking. “They’re—they’re in the car,” he said, but the man didn’t even glance inside the sedan.

He pulled the trigger.

The gunshot was so loud that everything Reese heard afterward seemed dull, as if it were coming at her from underwater. David was saying, “Shit, shit, shit.”

Mr. Chapman was on the ground. He had no face anymore.

She couldn’t drag her gaze away. It was nothing like the movies. The lifeless weight of Mr. Chapman’s body, the utter stillness of it, could never be replicated on film. Her stomach heaved.

The gunman turned to look inside the car. Reese saw a snake tattoo writhing up the man’s thick, sweat-soaked neck. Fear crashed through her in a frigid rush. She yelled, “David!”

“Get out of the car!” the man screamed at them, pointing the gun at the window.

“David, lock the doors!”

David scrambled into the driver’s seat, lunging for the door lock. The locks engaged with a
thunk
seconds before the man reached for the passenger’s side door handle. He snarled when the door wouldn’t open.

David fumbled with the keys that were still in the ignition. The engine roared to life. The man raised the gun again, pointing it at the handle. David floored the gas pedal, and Reese was thrown back hard against the seat as the car jerked forward. They heard a loud clank as the gas nozzle was yanked out of the tank, the hose snapping. There was a second gunshot, and Reese instinctually ducked down in the seat. The car bounced over a bump in the road so high she was sure David had just driven over a curb. She heard a horn blasting as the car turned sharply, throwing her onto the floor. The tires screeched. She heard another gunshot, popping like a firecracker—and then a giant boom.

“What the hell was that?” Reese was crouched on the floor of the car, the hair on her arms standing up as if she had stuck her finger in an electrical socket. She felt as if she was about to throw up.

“Jesus Christ,” David breathed, sounding stunned.

“What happened?”

“The freaking gas station blew up!”

Heart pounding, Reese pushed herself up to peer out the rear window. She saw the dangling end of a gasoline hose spitting fire. The pump where they had been parked was engulfed in flame, and fire licked across the oil-soaked concrete. People were running away from the inferno, abandoning their cars. She could no longer see Mr. Chapman’s body or the man who had shot him.

The tires squealed as David wrenched the car onto
the road, throwing Reese to one side again. Adrenaline surged through her as she clung to the top of the backseat, unable to tear her eyes away from the explosion.

The Chevron sign disappeared behind a plume of black smoke as a woman ran straight out into the road, her mouth open in a scream. A blue sedan slammed on its brakes to avoid hitting her, its tires burning black marks onto the pavement. Car alarms shrieked to life, a cacophony of sirens and honking horns.

Reese lost sight of the gas station as David turned the car abruptly, nearly tossing her onto the floor. “Watch it!” she cried, but he didn’t respond. She twisted around just in time to see him jerk the steering wheel to the left, barely avoiding another car. “What are you doing? David!”

He raced through a light just as it clicked red, and car horns blared at them. Reese climbed through the gap between the front seats, bumping into David’s arm as she awkwardly maneuvered herself into the passenger seat. Her hands shook as she fumbled the seat belt into place, just in time for him to slam on the brakes at the next red light. The seat belt cut into her chest and right shoulder as the car jerked to a stop. The sound of their frantic breathing filled the car.

They had entered a suburban neighborhood with cookie-cutter houses visible behind fences on either side of the road. But all Reese could see was their coach falling backward onto the gasoline-soaked pavement. The burst of blood as the bullet tore into his eye. “Oh my God,” Reese said. “We have to go back. Mr. Chapman—”

“He’s dead,” David said. Reese saw a vein snake down his temple as he clenched his jaw. The light turned green, and David accelerated through the intersection. “Nobody survives that.”

“We can’t just leave him there!”

“We should call 911. Is your phone working?”

She dug out the phone from her pocket and turned it on. So much for conserving the battery. There was only one bar of reception, and it was flickering. “I don’t think so.”

“Try anyway!” he snapped. An angry retort was on the tip of her tongue when she saw the slick trace of sweat on his cheek and realized he was just as freaked out as she was. She took a deep breath, trying to force down the panic churning inside herself. She dialed 911. David continued to drive as she waited for the call to connect. She heard the drumbeat of her own heart as
she held the phone to her ear. Outside, there was no sign of the highway, only unremarkable houses, signs that meant nothing to her, and empty streets.

Her phone beeped. “Call cannot be completed as dialed,” said a computerized voice. “Please try again.” She tried again, staring down at the device as the telephone icon fruitlessly spun in a circle.

“It’s not working,” Reese said. “Give me your phone.” He tugged it out and handed it to her with clammy fingers. But she had no luck with his either.

The next time David pulled to a stop, she looked up. They were at a red light, and they were the only car in sight.

“Where is everybody?” she asked. “Why is this place so deserted?” All day they had been slowed down by traffic. The stillness here was unnatural.

“I don’t know,” David said, sounding strained.

Reese looked down at the two phones. There wasn’t even a single bar on either of them. “There’s no reception. We have to go back.”

David did not respond, and when the light turned green, he continued straight ahead.

“Did you hear me?” Reese asked.

“Yeah.”

“Then why aren’t you turning around?”

His fingers tightened over the steering wheel. “Because I don’t know where we are,” he admitted.

“But you drove—”

“I don’t remember which direction we came from,” he said
through gritted teeth. “I’ve been driving around trying to figure it out, but some of the streets are closed, and everything here looks exactly the same.” He paused. “I’m sorry.”

She gazed out the windshield at the nondescript houses. They passed a strip mall with an empty parking lot. The windows of a convenience store were smashed, bits of glass spread all over the ground. Inside the building, she could see empty shelves; it had been entirely cleaned out. Nearby, a sign for I-215 came into view, pointing to the right.

“Turn there,” Reese said.

“Why?”

Because this whole neighborhood is creeping me out
, she thought. But she said, “Maybe if we get on a highway we’ll be able to figure out the way back.”

David turned right onto a wide street. They passed quiet office buildings; another strip mall; another gas station. Its windows were also broken, and the gas pump hoses trailed onto the stained concrete. The area was eerily quiet—as if it had been evacuated. The entrance to I-215 came at a deserted intersection where red traffic signals blinked slowly.

David clenched his fingers over the steering wheel. “I think we came from…”

“That way,” Reese said, pointing to the on-ramp for 215 East.

“Yeah,” he agreed, and accelerated onto the interstate. The eastbound side was bordered on the south by a high wall, blocking off the neighborhood they had driven through. The three lanes were as empty as the streets they had just come from, but across the low concrete divider the westbound portion of the highway was packed with cars moving at a crawl. They were full
of passengers, just like the ones outside Phoenix. Some cars were stuffed to the brim with suitcases and bedding as well.
It
is
an evacuation
, she thought.

Ahead of them, they saw a green sign for I-515 and two highways, 93 and 95.

“Weren’t we on one of those? US 93?” David asked.

“I think so. We should take it south to go back to the gas station.”

But as they approached the exit, they saw that the southbound ramp was blocked off with movable concrete barriers and orange cones.

“New plan?” David said.

“Maybe we can turn around farther north.”

David headed for the 93 North exit, speeding up the elevated concrete ramp that swung around to the interstate. As their car swept up the curve, they could see the maze of the highway interchange beneath them to the left.

Reese gasped. “Look!”

On the southbound side was a long convoy of military trucks. Behind the trucks were tanks, their gun turrets all pointed south.

“Where do you think they’re going?” she asked, watching the trucks uneasily.

“It can’t be anywhere good,” David muttered. “Not with that many weapons.”

Reese twisted in her seat to look out the back window and saw a plume of black smoke in the distance. She wondered if it was the fire from the gas station. The tanks were all heading that direction. “Do you think we should turn around somewhere?” she asked.