Sophia stirred beside me, turned over onto her side. I opened my eyes and sat up a little, the light filtering through the tent’s canopy chasing away dark thoughts. The pain faded somewhat, diluted by the soft warm body next to me. I moved closer and draped an arm around her, listening to her sigh contentedly as I pulled her close.
Plenty of time to mourn later, I told myself. For now, hold it together.
Just past midday, I slept.
*****
The next night was more of the same. About five miles from I-40 we turned left and traveled cross-country toward Highway 24, staying well away from the interstate. The scars left over from the horrors we had witnessed on I-35 and I-20 were still fresh, and none of us were willing to bet I-40 was any better.
During the transit, I thought of how I had always imagined Colorado as a wonderland of soaring mountains, sweeping valleys, verdant forests, and flower-covered fields dotted with crystal blue lakes. That was what I had always seen in pictures, magazines, and on television—America’s version of the Bavarian Alps. But the reality was far different from the idyllic setting I had dreamed up in my mind. The region we traveled over was mostly flat with the occasional lifts, saddles, and long, sloping basins.
When we could, we traveled on roads. When we couldn’t, we relied on the Humvee’s off-road capabilities. On four separate occasions, we got stuck and had to drive over wooden planks after digging our way free of wet, clinging mud. Out of frustration, I asked Mike why it was so fucking damp around here despite the lack of rain.
“We’re in a saddle,” Mike said. “A damned big one. Starts back there at 287 and goes clear to the foothills that way.” He pointed east. “The water runoff between flows down here, smack dab the middle.”
“So we’re basically standing in the bottom of a giant drainage ditch.”
“Pretty much.”
“Fantastic.”
At just after four ‘o clock in the morning, I drove the Humvee over a rise and could see the flat expanse of Highway 24 a couple of miles below. “Not much farther now,” I said.
“You see the highway?” Mike asked.
“Yep.”
Sophia let out a sleepy little whoop from the back. Grinning, I angled around a stand of trees and made for the road.
The trip down the hill went smoothly, the dry dirt at higher elevation providing better traction. I glanced at the fuel gauge nervously, thinking about the last two gallons in the back and worried it would not be enough. I voiced my concerns to Mike.
“Just keep driving for now,” he said. “Get a few miles down the highway, then we’ll see what we can scrounge up. Worst case, we’ll pull over somewhere and stash this thing. Go the rest of the way on foot and come back for our stuff later.”
I couldn’t think of a better plan, so I nodded.
When we reached the highway, Mike checked the map under an LED light and declared we were just over sixty miles from Colorado Springs. There was no way our fuel would hold up that long, but I could see no cars close by. All around us was mile after mile of flat, empty grassland. If it had been daylight, I would have seen the toothy line of the Rockies in the distance, but my NVGs could not reach that far.
So we drove on, the needle lowering inexorably toward empty, wheels picking up speed on the unobstructed highway. I eased the Humvee up to thirty-five and let it stay there, figuring it was the point of greatest fuel efficiency. We made it a little over fifteen miles before the engine began to sputter and cough. Thankfully, I could make out the shape of a few buildings ahead and the unmistakable outline of a tractor-trailer.
“There’s a semi up ahead,” I said. “A few buildings too. Might have what we need.”
“Go ahead and pull over,” Mike said. “Hopefully that truck has some diesel in it. Otherwise, we got a long walk ahead of us.”
I tapped the brakes and eased the Humvee to the side of the road. As I did, it struck me as an odd thing to do; we had seen no other vehicles since leaving the convoy. I could have straddled the double-yellow lines if I wanted to, and it would have made no difference.
Old habits die hard, I guess.
Mike stepped out and walked to the rear of the vehicle. I heard the back hatch open, the clattering of a gerry can and funnel being removed from the cargo area, and a few clanks as Mike poured the last of the fuel into the tank.
With the absence of road noise, I also heard the sound of slow, heavy breathing. Turning around, I saw Sophia lying across the back seat, eyes closed, mouth hanging slightly open. Even through the grainy green image of the NVGs, she was a beauty. Smiling, I waited until Mike climbed back in.
“Good to go?” I asked.
“As good as it gets for now.”
I put the Humvee in gear and headed for the truck.
FORTY-FIVE
“Should we wake up Sophia?” I asked.
“Nah,” Mike said. “This won’t take long.”
I stopped the Humvee on the road adjacent to the truck. Its previous driver had backed it off the highway and parked in front of a massive red barn the size of an airplane hangar. Looking to my left, I saw the property was not a farm, but an estate. There was a mansion set back off the road that could not have been less than ten-thousand square feet, a cottage with an empty swimming pool out front, several outbuildings, and at least a hundred acres of fenced pasture. The doors to the giant barn were open, there were no lights visible, and I saw no sign of any horses.
Then there was the semi.
“What the heck is that thing doing here?” I asked.
“Maybe it’s stopped here for the night.”
“Should we look around or just move on?”
“Move on? Why?”
The same uneasiness I felt at Boise City had returned, albeit not as strong as before. “I don’t know,” I said, “but I don’t like this place. There’s no reason that truck should be here.”
“There’s no reason it shouldn’t be, either. Look, it has a sleeper cab. The driver probably stopped to catch some shuteye. Might be he’ll trade us for some fuel.”
Logically, what Mike said made sense. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling we were headed for trouble. Mike noticed my tension and said, “Tell you what, Caleb, let’s just take a look around. If we don’t like what we see, we leave.”
My instinct was to say no, screw that, let’s get out of here. But the fact was we needed fuel, and there was no way to know if we would find any more on the way to Colorado Springs. The roads had been remarkably empty the last few miles—no wrecks, no cars on the side of the road, no dead bodies, nothing—and I was certain I had spotted the even, parallel markings of heavy equipment treads creased into the asphalt. The most likely scenario was the government had sent crews out to clear the highway, as doing so would certainly make life easier for any refugees approaching from the east. But if that were the case, where was everybody? Surely we couldn’t be the only people headed this way.
I continued staring at the truck, fingers drumming on the steering wheel. Finally, I said, “Okay. We’ll check it out. But let’s stash the Humvee first.”
“Fair enough.”
I put the vehicle in gear and drove on, going a mile down the road around a bend in the highway. When I felt confident it looked as if we had moved on, I doubled back and angled the Humvee off-road on a vector that would take us a few hundred yards behind the mansion. Once there, I drove down the back of a hill leading away from the property, turned the Humvee so it was facing the highway, and killed the engine.