“Is he going to make it?”
“Probably, if infections don’t kill him.”
I shook Proudfoot’s hand and walked back to my stolen FEMA truck. Sarah was already in the passenger seat, buckled up.
“Idaho,” Sarah said.
“Idaho,” I agreed.
I fired up the motor. The lone headlight bravely stabbed the darkness.
THIRTY-SIX
We spent what was left of the night at Camp Dawson, which was manned by a skeleton crew of guardsmen. I gave them the machine gun and extra ammo and three AT4s that Willis hadn’t managed to shoot. After lunch, we hit the road.
In a little town in Ohio I found a glass repair shop that was open. They replaced the windshield, rear window, and headlight. The head man wanted to talk, so I told him about the battle for Camp David.
When I finished he said, “I have been really worried about America for years, and martial law was my worst nightmare come true. I think the socialists and left-wing radicals want to change America into a nation my kids won’t want to live in. It seems like they don’t know the basics of economics, don’t believe in work, don’t believe that a person should earn and keep the fruits of their labor. They’ll run America into the ground, then what?”
“Maybe now the future will be better,” Sarah said.
“Then there is terrorism, all those Muslims admitted willy nilly,” he said. “I can only hope and pray.”
The power was back on in Ohio and Indiana, so we spent a night in a chain motel that was open. We ate a free breakfast at the bar off the lobby, which consisted of cornflakes and milk. I asked about the milk, and was told cows keep giving it regardless.
Filling stations were open again, and before the tank in the truck was empty, we found one with fuel to pump. Life was looking up.
In Illinois a state trooper took offense because I was driving at eighty miles an hour when the speed limit was sixty-five. He pulled us over.
“I told you to slow down,” Sarah said primly as the trooper walked up.
“You with the government?” he asked, looking us over. The pickup had federal government plates, although it lacked logos on the doors. Sarah and I were still wearing our web belts and pistols. The trooper was a big black man with hair going gray at the tips. For a man who spent most of his working life sitting behind a wheel, he was reasonably trim and fit.
“Ah, no,” I admitted. “We quit. We were with the CIA.”
“Spies, huh?”
“I stole the truck,” I said brightly, “from FEMA.”
“Those assholes? No shit! You got ID?”
I dug out my wallet and passed him my CIA Langley pass.
He looked it over and passed it back. “What you got in the cooler in the bed?”
“A six-pack. Filling station back in Indiana had some. Want one?”
“Man, I haven’t had a beer since Soetoro declared martial law. Yeah, I’d like one.”
We got out and opened the cooler, and all three of us took a beer.
“If you have a camera in your cruiser, they might get unhappy seeing you with a beer,” I said.
“Camera’s broken. Piss on ’em.” He popped the top on his can and took a swig. “Ahh! Tell me about the bullet holes in your ride.”
So we sat on the tailgate of the truck and sipped beer while I told him about the attack on Camp David. As I talked and he asked questions of Sarah and me, he visibly relaxed. He believed us. If he only knew how good a liar I was, he would have been more suspicious, but ignorance is bliss, so they say. And for a change I stuck strictly to the truth.
When he finished asking questions about the death of Barry Soetoro, the trooper, whose name was Davis, waxed philosophical. “Soetoro made life a living hell for us cops, made us targets, turned people against us, and stirred up racial hatred we sure as hell didn’t need. Sure, there are a few bad cops, the same as there are bad dentists, doctors, CEOs, and plumbers, but all these body cameras and shit, and the constant second-guessing of cops who put their lives on the line — that’s bullshit. That bastard Soetoro killed a lot of people by making criminals feel free, taking their side, and giving carte blanche to illegal aliens with criminal records. He destroyed a lot of trust, especially with law enforcement. And you know, without the rule of law, we don’t have a civilization. It’s that simple.”
I’d seen enough to know that.
He stood and dusted off his trouser seat. “You two slow it down, huh?”
“Yes, sir.”
Davis got into his cruiser and drove away. We put all three empties in the cooler and got our chariot under way, heading west.
I didn’t want to read newspapers or watch television or listen to radio. I had had enough of the world’s troubles. Sarah and I chatted and watched the countryside pass by and the road unwind endlessly before us. Although traffic was light, things were getting back to normal. We saw tanker trucks sitting in filling stations, food trucks rolling the highways, trucks hauling cattle and hay, and farmers in the fields running combines. Trains went by on tracks that paralleled the highway. Here and there construction crews were back at work on road and bridge projects. Jets were flying again, so contrails streaked the blue sky.
Yet even political hermits like Sarah and me found the political crisis impossible to avoid. Every diner or bar we went into had televisions going full blast. The generals in the Pentagon had asked Jake Grafton to get an interim civilian government up and running and to hold elections in every state that wanted to remain in the old Union. Texas was independent and intended to stay that way, President Jack Hays said. The commentators were still aghast, and delighted, at the effrontery of the Texas military in stealing — or “replevying,” Jack Hays’ word — fifty tons of gold. At the quoted market price that morning—$2,132 an ounce — the metal was worth $3.4 billion. Jack Hays assured an interviewer that Texas would return any excess after Texas’ claims against the federal government were settled by negotiation.
In California, the Mexican Army had been driven out, but Mexican gangs and their radical supporters were now engaged in a civil war against everyone else. They had supported the Mexican Army, and now were fighting for an independent Mexican Southern California they planned to call Aztlan. They were being crushed, but Southern California, and Los Angeles in particular, would never be the same again. Television cameras lingered lovingly on columns of smoke rising over the LA basin.
In Mexico, another civil war had broken out. The reasons seemed to be manifold: the flood of illegals back to Mexico, Texas closing the border, the failed invasion of California (some said at the behest of the drug lords), and massive unemployment. The good news was that without the United States as a safety valve, Mexico was finally going to have to come to grips with poverty, monopoly, corruption, and lack of opportunity for most of the people who lived within its borders.
The violent death of Barry Soetoro had, as Jake Grafton feared, transformed him into a cultural icon among certain groups. His sins were forgotten in the pathos of his demise. Bogus eyewitness accounts aired between newscasts. Mickey Soetoro publicly and loudly blamed “white people.” A waitress at a truck stop told us that Oprah was in tears for her entire show. All this despite the fact that the conversations Sarah captured in the White House in which Soetoro plotted to become a dictator were still airing on some radio stations.
We had been on the road for four days when we rolled into Idaho. We examined the brochures at a visitor’s center and signed up for a float trip down the Salmon, the River of No Return. That took six wonderful days under a September sky. The nights were spent camping on a beach, and the days riding the river with a guide who paddled occasionally while Sarah and I fished the riffles and rapids for steelhead going upriver to spawn. We actually caught several good ones, which we immediately released back into the river.