The day after: An apocalyptic morning (17 page)

              But, as Skip had told Christine not long before, this was a life that was to be lived one day at a time. There was not really anything that could be done about hypothetical avalanches that might be months in the future. Their current goal at any given time was simply to live through the day; and after that, the week. He could not honestly see or plan any further than reaching the bridge that crossed the canyon at Garden Hill. There were too many variables and possibilities to worry about in that alone. The bridge might be down, probably would be in fact, or the town might be washed away. If the bridge was intact and the town still there, the inhabitants might be like the bikers that had found Christine and Jack's family. If they were not like that, then they might not be feeling very charitable to a traveling band of strangers. Only in his wildest moments of optimism did he think that they might find friendly, sharing townspeople in Garden Hill.

              Most of the time he tried not to think about such things. He kept moving and his two teammates, as he now thought of them, moved with him. He kept up a cheery, hopeful attitude even though he sometimes felt blackly hopeless, and they responded to it, their own attitudes echoing his. Skip, a second born child, had never been a natural leader of others but in the course of his lifetime he had learned to embrace that role and excel at it when it was necessary. He had done it in the army and as a cop, usually with favorable results, and he did it now. Though their food supply was dwindling steadily and there were no replenishments in sight, though they had used up nearly half of their rifle ammunition in one minor firefight with a couple of inept morons, he kept his chin up and he kept them moving.

              It was late afternoon, just about the time when they usually started looking for a suitable place to camp for the night, when Skip caught sight of movement up ahead of them. He saw two figures about two hundred yards away, walking together. He saw them only for the briefest of instants, through the maze of trees and shrubs before them, but it was enough.

              He chopped his left hand downward several times, the sign to Christine and Jack to get down immediately. They did so, throwing themselves instantly into the mud on their bellies, their rifles trained forward. Skip was on the ground at the same instant that they were, his eyes peering forward, searching for another glimpse. He caught one a moment later, just as the two people moved from one area of trees to another. There were two of them, both men, both dressed in hunting clothes. Both were armed with rifles that they carried slung over their backs. It appeared they were oblivious to the presence of the trio as of yet, but, if they kept to their current course, they would soon blunder directly into them.

              When they passed from view again, Skip looked over his shoulder at Christine and Jack. They were looking at him anxiously, awaiting his next instruction. He pointed forward and then held up two fingers, indicating where and how many. He then mimed the firing of a rifle, letting them know what they were armed with. They nodded their understanding. Next, he gave them the signal to spread out and keep low. He covered this move with his rifle while they each crawled on their bellies about ten yards to each side, both slipping behind the trunks of trees that would protect them from the front. Once they were in place and aiming outward to cover him, Skip inched forward as quickly and silently as possible, until he too was behind a large pine tree. He leaned outward, training his rifle towards a gap in the tree line ahead of them where he figured that the two people would emerge.

              It was very tense while the trio waited for them to approach. Several times they caught further glimpses, enough to identify as them as people that were on their last legs. Their clothing hung off of them like rags and their skin was abnormally pale and drawn. They didn't seem completely alert as they approached, as if they were moving forward on autopilot only. Several times they could have been shot down with ease as they moved through open ground, but Skip had signaled to Jack and Christine to keep their weapons tight, meaning that they should not fire unless he did or unless they saw some immediate threat.

              Skip was hoping that the two men would pass either to the left or right of them without even seeing them but it became apparent as they got closer that this was not in the cards. They were heading directly towards where they lie. He got the attention of Christine and Jack and then reiterated the "weapons tight" signal: a pat on the side of his rifle followed by a clenched fist. They nodded their understanding.

              He waited until they were less than fifty feet in front of them, as they were in open ground and easy targets for any one of the three rifles pointed at them. "Stop where you are!" he yelled clearly towards them. "Do not come any closer to us!"

              They both jumped, startled at the loud voice that had jerked them out of whatever world they had been in. Both instinctively reached for the rifles on their backs.

              "Don't touch those guns!" Skip warned, his finger tightening on the trigger of his M-16. "You have several people pointing weapons at you right now. If you bring those rifles down, we will be forced to shoot!"

              The two men stopped in mid-reach. They shared a look with each other, as if passing a telepathic signal. Finally, the one in front said: "We don't have any food. You're wasting your time with us." His voice did not sound the least bit scared, only resigned.

              "We have no desire to hurt you," Skip said. "We're only making sure that you don't hurt us. Now put those rifles down on the ground and back away from them. We won't take them from you, we just want to make sure they're safe before we approach."

              They shared another look, seeming to hold a silent conversation with each other. Finally they both shrugged at each other and tossed their rifles into the mud. They backed up six feet and put their hands in the air.

              Skip signaled to his team that he would move forward and that they should keep him covered. He then stood up and began to walk towards them, his rifle held at hip level, the barrel towards them, his finger on the trigger. He made sure he did not, at any time, cross between either Christine or Jack and the targets. As he got closer he saw that the two men looked even worse than he had first thought. So emaciated were they their cheekbones were protruding from beneath their skin. Their eyes were nothing but hollow sockets, haunted by impending doom. They looked like they had already died days before and just didn't know it yet.

              "You guys look like shit," he observed when he got close enough to converse in a normal tone.

              "Brilliant observation, Einstein," one of them, the nearer of the two, shot right back.

              "Any more of you out there?"

              "No," the second one said, shaking his head wearily. "There's just the two of us left."

              Skip had no sense that the man was lying to him. He relaxed a little. "Have a seat," he said, waving at the ground with the butt of his rifle.

              They made no move to sit down.

              "Go on," he encouraged. "I wasn't lying to you. We're not gonna hurt you or take anything of yours."

              They sat, both of them slumping down and plopping their butts into the mud. Skip gave the all-clear signal and waved Christine and Jack forward. They trotted up, staying to the sides of him, their rifles pointing downward but still gripped in the firing position. They kept their mouths shut as they took in the two strangers.

              "Where'd you two come from?" Skip asked, lowering his own rifle a bit.

              "We were up near Blue Canyon when the comet hit," the first man told him.

              "Deer hunting?"

              "That's right. Up on our annual trip from San Jose. I don't suppose there's much left of San Jose these days, is there?"

              "I wouldn't imagine," Skip said. "Wives and families down there?"

              They both nodded sadly.

              "I know the feeling," he commiserated. "I'm from Stockton. There's not much of it left either. How are things further up the hill? Do you know if the bridge to Garden Hill is still intact?"

              The two men looked at each other knowingly. "Oh it's intact all right," the second man said, shaking his head a little. "At least it was two days ago. I wouldn't plan on getting across it though."

              "No?" Skip said, raising his eyebrows. "Why not?"

              "It would seem that the Garden Hill people aren't taking too kindly to visitors these days," the first one said. "They've piled cars up on the bridge and they shoot at anyone who tries to cross it. There are guards posted just on the other side and they'll just shoot around you the first two shots to try to make you get off. If you keep moving after that, boom, right through the heart."

              "Interesting," Skip said, absorbing this information. "They're not letting anyone in?"

              "They didn't let us in," the second said. "And they didn't come down to question us either, they just shot."

              "We're trying to make it down to the Auburn bridge now," the first told them. "Any idea if that one's still up?"

              "Don't know," Skip told them. "We were up near Castle Point when everything started. We were heading up towards Garden Hill because we thought that bridge was more likely to be there."

              "Well, like we said," said the first, "it's there but you ain't gonna get across it. Not even with the firepower you're packing."

              The second man started to get a gleam in his eye. "Maybe you'd like to throw in with us and head down to Auburn," he said hopefully. "There's safety in numbers."

              Skip was able to clearly read the underlying implication to the offer. If they joined up with the two hunters they would be expected to share their food supplies with them as well. As much as he felt for their predicament, he had to watch out for his own group first. There simply was not enough food to feed five people for the week and a half to two weeks it would take to walk back to Auburn. "Sorry," he said, shaking his head. "I think we'll keep moving up the hill and take a look at that bridge ourselves. Maybe we can find a way to negotiate our way past it. I appreciate the information though."

              "There's no negotiating with those people," the first reiterated, starting to see where his companion was coming from. "They'll just gun you down. Come with us."

              Skip shook his head. "No," he said firmly. "We'll part company here, gentlemen. I've got enough to worry about without picking up two more stragglers. I wish you the best of luck down in Auburn. We're going to move off now. You two keep your butts on the ground until we're gone. Don't try to follow us, okay? People get hurt that way."

              The both nodded feebly, neither trying to push the issue. "I don't suppose," the first said, licking his lips a little, "that you have anything to spare?"

              "Just a little bit?" the second put in. "We're about used up."

              Skip, Christine, and Jack all looked at each other for a moment. They passed a careful shrug back and forth.

              "Give 'em that low-fat turkey chili shit," Skip finally told Jack, who was carrying that particular supply in his pack. "That stuff makes us all want to puke anyway."

              "Glad to get rid of it," Jack said, unshouldering his pack and opening it up.

              The two men were beyond grateful for the gift. They thanked the trio approximately two hundred times in the three minutes it took to give them the two cans and allow them to use their single can opener to access one of them.

              "Once again," Skip told them as they reached into the can with their bare fingers and pulled out globs of it, "good luck to you down there and don't try to follow us. We'll know and we'll deal with it harshly."

              "Mmmm hmmm," said the first, chomping and chewing the brown gruel.

              "Hmmph," agreed the second, stuffing his face as well.

              The two hunters did not bother them after they left. Skip figured that the information that they provided had been well worth the price of two cans of disgusting turkey chili.

              It was late the next day when they saw the bridge for the first time. The terrain that they had been passing through had become extremely steep, rocky, and hard to penetrate, forcing them, as the day passed, much closer to the wall of the canyon than they felt comfortable with. Several times they were forced to inch along the edge in places, listening to the deafening roar of floodwaters passing below them and contemplating the dizzy height. Finally they reached a steep rise that completely blocked their way. It was a rocky outcropping that rose several hundred feet above them. They were left with the choice of either backtracking a few miles to go around it or climbing over it. Neither idea was terribly appetizing.

              After a few minutes of discussion they elected to try scaling the rise. The going was a little easier than it had looked from the bottom but it was no cakewalk. They clawed and scrambled over slippery rocks, inching their way upward foot by foot and occasionally sending small rockslides clattering down behind them. The climb made Skip extremely nervous, not because he was afraid of falling but because they were easy targets to any enemies while they were up there. But luck was with them and nobody took any potshots at them as they ascended.