With time to spare before night settles upon them, Greg sets a watch and allows the others to dig a Dakota Fire Pit at the bottom of the arroyo. This will keep the fire from being seen and the smoke to a minimum. Plus, they will cover it up when they’re finished, which will eliminate any trace of scent. Who knows when they’ll have a chance at a hot meal again, so he allows them this simple pleasure. It’s sometimes the very small things that make a difference in mental attitudes and the ability to hold up under stress.
With the sun low on the horizon, they sit in the shaded gully eating heated MREs and exchanging whispers and subdued laughs. The sky to the east is turning a dark blue as they shovel dirt over the fire pit and erase any vestige of their meal. Greg wishes Jack was with them so he could tell them if any aroma lingered, but he’ll do the best he can. They can hold out in the Stryker against a large number of night runners, but it’s a different story if a horde of them show up. The armored vehicle is hard to tip or get into, but it’s not impossible.
As the sun sets, turning the gray land black, Greg organizes the watch and settles over the maps he acquired. They don’t give altitude variations, but he guesses that they’ll travel over terrain similar to what they ventured through during the day. They’ll encounter the same open fields and small towns until they draw near to Pueblo. The only change on their route will be increasing size of the mountains as the team rolls west. With that in mind, he’ll keep to the same plan — travel slowly through the small towns after looking them over and circumvent the larger ones through the surrounding fields. Given the distance they covered today, they should reach Pueblo by mid-afternoon and Manitou Springs a couple of hours after that. Circumventing the large metropolis of Colorado Springs to get to their destination could be difficult and take more time. A few roads show promise but he’ll assess the situation when they arrive tomorrow.
The team settles as best they can inside the cramped interior. It’s doubtful anyone will get a deep rest, but there isn’t really any choice. It’s that or sleep outside — which is out of the question. In the near distance, a lone coyote howls into the night. The hull of the vehicle muffles the sound, but it’s distinct nonetheless. It’s answered several seconds later by a chorus of yelps coming from another direction.
As long as it’s the howl of coyotes and not the shriek of the other pack hunters, Greg thinks.
Looking through the vehicle optics, Greg sees several coyotes as they pass across the plain. He switches from the thermal imaging to night vision mode. The shapes change from the white of their reflected heat to sharper images cast in a grayish-green. The pack trots in his field of vision as they stalk across the moonlit landscape. Even in the night vision mode, Greg can see their backs glowing silver as they are bathed in the moon’s beams. They stop and raise their noses to take in the scents of the night. One of the coyotes in front lifts its snout higher and sends a mournful cry aloft. An answering call is heard from the near distance. The pack begins yipping and turning in circles.
The apparent leader sniffs the air again and turns toward Greg. He barks once and the pack quiets. They all turn toward where the Stryker sits in the gully. Sets of eyes glow a fierce white as they stare directly at Greg, sending chills up his spine. As one, the light from the pack’s eyes vanish.
Greg still watches and catches an occasional glimpse of silver as the moonlight catches on the back of one of the pack members. They have resumed their hunt across the plain.
A high-pitched scream of terror and pain erupts from the night. The pack has found a meal from among the denizens occupying the numerous holes of the prairie. The coyotes on the prowl and the scream from the prairie dog remind Greg of the night runners and their own situation. The similarity between the prairie dogs and the last vestiges of humankind is unmistakable.
The night passes with only a few other calls from the coyotes as they hunt through the prairie dog town. No other signs of life show across the remote plain. Greg half expected to see the lights of a group of survivors shine somewhere but the surrounding area remained an inky black all evening. The lack of light isn’t overly surprising as that would be a beacon for any night runners, so it doesn’t mean there aren’t any surviving bands.
The sun barely touches the top of the Stryker sticking out of the gully when the team is geared up. Some quick morning ablutions and they are ready to get on with the day. Hopefully they will reach the first of the six legs of their trek. Greg is sure they won’t have to travel the entire distance as he reckons Jack will meet them at Luke AFB providing Robert is okay. He sends a quick thought of well-being Robert’s way as the Stryker warms up at idle. Rescuing the girl like Robert did was one of the bravest things he’s ever witnessed; that heroic kind of act deserves life.
After hitting the highway once again, Greg opens the top hatch to give some ventilation. Close quarters and a serious lack of clothing changes make for…well…a need for ventilation in the small compartment.
A short time on the road and the armored vehicle rolls past a sign welcoming them to Colorado. The topography is exactly the same, it’s only a line drawn by someone a long time ago. However, it’s a marker letting them know they aren’t stuck on a treadmill and are actually putting miles under their treads. Looking out at the landscape, one couldn’t be too sure. The only change in scenery is the tops of the mountains in the distance slowly getting loftier.
There are very few landmarks to keep track of their position other than a turn in the road or crossing over infrequent bridges. The fields to either side remain a mixture of brown dirt or overgrown with whatever crop was last put in the ground. The large crop circles that were created from centrally rotating sprinklers remain in places, but the crops have withered due to a lack of water.
That changes shortly after crossing a bridge spanning a small stream. The fields to the north take on the nature of being freshly plowed with some showing sprouts of greenery. Except for trees and bushes adjacent to streams, and in mountainous areas, it’s the first green Greg has seen since journeying out of the Northwest. The fact that the ground has been plowed isn’t necessarily an indication that someone has done it recently. It could have been done previously and the ones responsible taken down with the epidemic or some time thereafter. He orders the Stryker halted.
Looking at his map, he finds they are about three miles from the next town, Lamar. The highway heads to the center of the town before turning north to cross a bridge across the river they’ve been paralleling. Greg’s plan was to proceed cross-country around the city and intersect the highway again to the north just prior to the bridge. That’s still the plan but the condition of the fields beside the road gives him pause.
Greg climbs out of the vehicle to get a better view of the area. Through the magnified view of his binoculars, he sees the outskirts of the city ahead. It looks like any other town they’ve passed with the exception of a fence enclosing sections of it. The town is still some distance ahead, and the details aren’t clear, but he doesn’t spot any movement or other sign of inhabitants. The light covering of dirt across the highway doesn’t show tracks leading in or out of the municipality. Panning around the fields to either side and behind, he observes the same — no indication of anyone around.