His friend paused, torn. “We can rest when we get tired,” he said stubbornly.
It was hard to believe that after spending years on the high school basketball team Matt hadn’t learned a few things about his body’s limits. But then, he’d never really been on a long trek either, and Trev had been even more hopeless less than two weeks ago. “How do you feel after a game? Ready to rest for five minutes and go do it again? You can sprint for a few minutes at best and then your body’s dead tired even after a long rest. Or you can walk for hours and take a short rest and your body will be ready for more. Believe me, it may not seem like we’ll travel faster by going slower, but with constant walking we will. And we’ll also reduce the risk of accidents and be less exhausted when we get there.”
Trev continued forward at the same pace he’d gotten accustomed to on the journey down as well as on his patrols, and when he caught up with Matt his friend fell into step beside him. “This may not tire us out,” he complained, “but going this slow is going to be agonizing.”
With a soft laugh Trev leaned over and slapped his friend on the pack. “We should be able to keep up this pace all day. You’ll be surprised how quick we make the trip as long as we’re careful to avoid accidents.”
The first part of the hike was uneventful. They reached 6 in under two hours and found plenty of refugees all following it south. Trev was surprised how many people there were, considering how few places there were to go aside from Price or straight on south to I-70 where they could follow it into Colorado. He supposed they could also keep going south to Moab, but that was just more dry, barren wasteland. And anywhere they might go aside from Price was a daunting distance without supplies, and more importantly with water scarce most of the way.
But here the refugees were, fleeing from a bad situation hoping they weren’t going into a worse one. As planned Matt and Trev stayed barely in view of the highway, and from that point on Trev was surprised at just how much the hike felt like patrolling. They were following a line of hills running to the west of 6, staying just below the ridge on the opposite side and poking their heads up with every passing group of refugees so Matt could search for his family.
It slowed them down, definitely, because there were a lot of groups and his friend took a few minutes every time to meticulously check each face with Trev’s binoculars. But even with the stops Trev kept them to the same steady pace, eating the miles behind them. He also made sure his friend was frequently drinking water, and every couple hours they pulled out the portable food they’d brought and ate as they walked.
Since both were used to patrolling neither had trouble keeping up the pace for the hour or so it took following the highway to reach Helper, at the mouth of Spring Canyon. Aside from Carbonville along 6 a bit south of Aspen Hill it was the only real town between Price and Spanish Fork. Because of that a considerable refugee camp, over a thousand people and possibly even more than the population of the town itself, had sprung up just south of the town along the Highway.
Trev was all ready to circle west around the camp and town both and make straight for the canyon, but before he’d finished scoping out the place with his binoculars Matt started right for the refugee camp. Hurriedly following his friend, he took one look at their destination and put two and two together. “You’ve got to be kidding. We don’t want to walk into that hornet’s nest.”
“We have to check,” Matt insisted. “What if April and her family are somewhere in there? We’d save ourselves a who lot of trouble and could just take them right back home. If nothing else we could ask for news about Midvale, and someone might have seen them or heard something about them.”
“There’s millions of people up in the Salt Lake and Utah valleys,” Trev grumbled, although he fell into step beside his friend. “If anyone did know anything about April’s family it would be like finding a needle in a haystack.” Matt just shrugged stubbornly, so with a sigh he checked his underarm holster beneath his jacket. The backpack straps made it slightly awkward to get to, but Lewis had helped him adjust it before setting out so it was possible. As he did that he noticed his friend checking his own Glock in its hip holster.
They passed a few groups of refugees heading the other way and got some odd looks about the direction they were going. Trev supposed that all these people were following the flow of humanity out of the cities, so seeing two idiots fighting against the flow to head the other way was unusual. Luckily odd looks were all the problems they encountered, and the refugees seemed just as eager to avoid them as they were to be avoided. Especially when the bedraggled passersby caught sight of Matt’s openly carried pistol.
For all Trev’s fears as they approached the camp he didn’t see anyone who looked threatening. Most of the refugees seemed dispirited, not aggressive. In a way looking around the sprawling camp and seeing signs of so much human suffering as almost as daunting as threatening looks would’ve been.
Where could these people go? Who could they turn to for help? The government? From the sounds of it the Federal government was fractured and scrambling, facing the impossible task of fighting the chaos erupting all over the country. How much attention could they spare from that to protect and take care of hundreds of millions of US citizens fleeing population centers?
There was no help to be found anywhere, no place well enough off to accept so many mouths to feed. It almost sickened Trev to think it, but he wondered how many of these people would survive the winter.
Matt led the way over to where a family was setting up blankets and sleeping bags on a tarp under the open sky. Three adults and four children ranging from toddlers to early teens looked at him warily as he approached. “Hey,” he said, waving. “My name’s Matt Larson. I’m looking for my sister, April Lynn. She lives up in Midvale with her family and might be heading this way.”
The only man among the group straightened. “Sorry, we came down from Mapleton. I haven’t heard of anyone from Midvale.”
The older of the two women came and took his arm. “What about the FETF camp opening up in Salt Lake City?” she asked him.
Matt gave her a hopeful look. “What do you know about it?”
The woman looked over at the man to answer, and he shrugged. “Just that it’s there according to what refugees are saying. We weren’t sent south by FETF so we don’t know what they’re telling people, we decided to leave on our own before the wave of people fleeing Utah Valley clogged Highway 6 and brought their chaos with them. It was already happening when we left.”
“Which areas are being sent to the camp?” Trev asked. “Any idea if Midvale might be evacuated there?”
“Maybe,” the older woman replied. “From the sounds of it people on the outskirts of the population centers are being evacuated, while everyone in Salt Lake City and the surrounding areas that don’t have anywhere to go are being admitted into the camp. Midvale might be close enough to be included in that.”
The man obviously decided it was his turn to get some information. “I’m Hal and this is my wife Janet,” he said, holding out his hand. “Looks as if you folks came from farther south. How are things there?”
“Not good,” Trev answered, shaking the offered hand. “Lots of people pouring into the area and there aren’t enough resources for them. How about you? Where are all you folks heading?”
Hal shrugged. “South along 6. It’s the only real way to go, right? There’s nothing to the west but desert and badlands, east would be a nightmare trying to get through the Rocky Mountains, and to go north we’d have to go through some seriously bad rioting in Provo-Orem, Salt Lake, and Ogden.”