“Anything moves out there, anything at all… kill it.”
An hour later both of the used Bombardiers were running like a pair of tops, but the Tucker didn’t want to fire up, and it took another hour of tinkering with the engine to get it running. After they had all three snowcats running, the food, fuel, and equipment were transferred into the larger, four-track orange Tucker vehicle, then the women and children were moved into the heated cabins of the red Bombardiers. It was still a snug fit, but far preferable to sitting scrunched and cold in the back of the canvas-covered Army trucks.
The Tucker was twice as tall as the Bombardiers, so it would bring up the rear, with a pair of lookouts to keep watch over the small convoy as it slipped through the outskirts of Denver to the south, and headed up into the mountains along Interstate 70.
They drove all that night without lights at roughly thirty miles per hour, and by first light it was time to recharge the NVDs. They had crossed over the mountains by then, through spots where the snow was ten feet deep or more on the highway, and had to drive around the big green highway signs. They did not encounter a single living creature. Much of the forest had burned away, and all that remained for mile upon mile were the blackened trunks of charred trees.
By the time they crossed into Utah the depth of the snow was back down to three feet and it was time to stop and refuel.
“That’s the last of the fuel,” Kane said, wiping his hands with a rag as the seven fighting personnel gathered into a loose group. “But it’s more than enough to get us to the coast.”
“Who besides me expects trouble once we start getting close to the ocean?” Forrest asked.
Everyone lifted a hand.
“Good,” he said, lighting a cigarette. “Then there shouldn’t be any surprises.”
Price came dragging himself through the snow.
“Something wrong?” Forrest asked.
“Lynette needs to go number two,” Price said. “Do we have time for her to use that Porta-John over there?”
“Sure,” Forrest said. “Might not be a bad idea for everyone to go again before we get moving.”
They continued talking as Lynette wrestled her way through the now thigh-deep snow to the Porta-John in the center median near an earthmover. She kicked the snow away from the door with her legs then went inside.
A second later she came back out screaming hysterically. The screams seemed to carry for miles across the barren snowscape.
“Somebody shut that bitch up!” Ulrich hissed.
“Easy,” Forrest said, watching Price running toward her through the snow.
Lynette threw herself into his arms and stood blubbering into his shoulder. After he calmed her down, he took a look inside the Porta-John, then walked her back to the snowcat. He came over to tell Forrest and the others that there was a woman’s head in the frozen slop at the bottom of the toilet.
“How’s your head?” Forrest asked, taking a drag from the cigarette and pointing at the goose egg on Price’s forehead.
“I’ll live,” he said. “I’m sorry Lynette’s been such a pain.”
“She hasn’t been a pain for any of us,” Forrest said. “She keeps it interesting.”
Price let out a sardonic chuckle and made his way through the snow back to the snowcat where his wife sat trembling in Taylor’s arms.
Forrest got the map out and took a bearing with a compass. From this point they would no longer be following the interstate. The snow was deep enough for them to drive straight overland toward San Diego, which would save them a great deal of time and mileage as they crossed southern Utah. Forrest also hoped it would decrease their chances of being ambushed by the type of people who chopped off women’s heads and dumped them into Porta-Johns.
It had grown dark again when they reached the Nevada border, where it was time to make a decision: Cross the Hoover Dam or keep heading south to skirt around it?
“I don’t think we want any part of that pass,” Marty warned. “Suppose the dam’s still operationa—”
“The crews would have split ages ago,” Ulrich said, almost dismissing him.
“Yeah, but suppose somebody’s figured out how to run the place? We’re talking about an endless source of heat for that facility, a good place for an army of cannibals to make their home. Tell ’em, Shannon.”
“He’s got a point,” Emory said. “It’s a safe bet that some military unit took it over early on.”
“And what do you suppose they’re doing for food two years into a global famine?” Ulrich asked.
“I don’t know,” she snapped. “Maybe they’re getting fat off the people who are too fuckin’ stupid to stay away!”
Forrest laughed, holding his red light over the map where he crouched in the snow at their feet, tracing his finger southward. “I don’t know what they’d be eating, and I’ve got no interest in finding out. We’ll take your advice and cross the river farther down… closer to Needles.”
By first light they were crossing into California, and the Tucker began to have engine trouble again, finally stalling completely and refusing to restart.
“I don’t know what the hell it is,” Kane said after trying for half an hour to get the engine running. “Damn thing’s brand new. If I had to guess, I’d say there’s ice in the fuel line. It can’t be much over five or six degrees out here today.”
“Do you recommend we leave it?” Forrest asked in the middle of playing fetch with Laddie. “Or do you think it’s worth trying to fix?”
“If I’m wrong about it being ice in the line, we could spend another two or three hours and have nothing to show for it.”
“Then screw it,” Forrest said, wrestling the stick away from his dog. “Pack everybody into the Bombardiers and let’s get the hell outta here.”
By the time it was dark they had reached the now deserted U.S. Marine Corps training grounds north of Twenty-nine Palms, where Forrest brought them to a halt.
“Okay,” he announced. “We’re three hours from Oceanside, where the USS Boxer is supposed to be anchored just out of sight from the shore.”
“We goin’ in tonight or waitin’ for first light?” Kane asked.
“I’m open to suggestions,” Forrest said, having already made up his mind to press on.
“I think daylight only increases our chances of being spotted,” Emory said. “We should keep taking advantage of our NVDs.”
“That’s where I come out too,” Sullivan said, a glance around telling him that everyone else felt the same.
“Who needs Benzedrine?” Forrest asked.
Everyone needed it, so he dumped three capsules into everyone’s hand.
“Only one at a time,” he reminded them. “The other two are for emergencies only. If all goes well, you’ll be aboard ship long before you ever need them.”
Then he climbed aboard the first cat with Dr. West.
“Okay, ladies, I want you all to listen carefully and not make a sound,” Forrest said, taking one of the titanium vials from his pocket and holding it up for them all to see in the light of the cab. “I’m not going to spell out its purpose for obvious reasons, but there is one NASA approved cyanide capsule inside each one of these vials. Every mom gets one for herself and one for each of her kids. You will keep them in your pants pockets, and you will not take them out unless there’s an emergency. Is that understood?”
The mothers nodded with fearful looks in their eyes, but said nothing for fear of upsetting the children.
“What is that for, Mommy?” one the little girls asked as Dr. West was doling out the vials.
“It’s astronaut medicine, honey. In case we get exposed to some really bad germs.”
Forrest left and gave the same presentation to the mothers aboard the second snowcat, and then they were off.