Facing the prospect of brutal temperatures to come, Trev was once again grateful his cousin seemed to have planned for every potential need. The most noticeable part of that planning was how Lewis had provided enough electricity for their two families, using a system of solar panels and car batteries he’d set up in the shelter, augmented by what he’d scavenged from road signs up around the hideout last fall and winter. Sure, it wasn’t enough to reliably produce heat except in emergencies, especially when winter days were so much shorter and less bright, but the use they got out of it made all the difference.
Although even electric lighting paled in comparison to this stove. Darkness was unpleasant, but without a reliable way to heat their home survival would’ve been a serious issue. Now though, between the solar electricity and these stoves they’d be as well off as could be hoped for this winter.
At least where lighting and heating was concerned. Food was still a critical problem, which was why even though the priority for this trip was to take the stove back to their newly relocated town, using the bike trailer they’d brought if it could handle the weight, so much the better if they also managed to bag some game, fish, and forage.
During the fight against the Gold Bloc invaders the military had “requisitioned” just about all the town’s supplies. Sure, they’d also promised to include the town in any redistribution of supplies down the line, but Aspen Hill had firsthand experience with how that sort of thing usually went so they weren’t holding their breath.
Most of them would be more than happy if the military just didn’t come back at all, rather than coming around looking for more supplies. Trev knew they owed their lives to the brave soldiers who’d fought off the blockheads, and the military was being fair about keeping the civilian refugees in their care fed as well as their own people. Still, it wouldn’t matter much that the Gold Bloc had retreated if everyone in Aspen Hill ended up starving over the winter anyway.
But that was a problem for another day. For now there was the work they’d come up to the hideout to do.
Trev had assumed they’d immediately get started removing the stove and pipes and loading them onto the trailer, then see how much weight the trailer could still hold and how much time they had to look for food. But his cousin seemed to have other ideas.
“Hey listen,” Lewis said in a low voice, pulling Trev out of earshot of where Jane was inspecting the stove’s interior. “You’re okay with doing some fishing on your own, right? A chance to relax?”
“Um, sure,” Trev said slowly, shooting his cousin a confused look.
“Awesome. So maybe if you wanted to take your time, stay down there for an hour or so…”
Trev got the hint. Their families were packed into two small cabins holding five people each, which didn’t leave a lot of chances for real privacy. The hideout might’ve been stripped bare, but it still had the wood burning stove and a door that shut. Practically a honeymoon suite compared to what they were used to.
“Gotcha,” he said, doing his best to hide his amusement. “See you in a few. And if you find the time, maybe you can also manage to bring down some game.”
Lewis looked up at the sky, where the sun was still barely past noon. Although it looked as if it would soon be obscured by a brooding bank of clouds coming in from the north. “We’ve got time. I for one love it up here, so I’m in no hurry to leave.”
“Yeah well you’re not in charge of the town’s defenses,” Trev replied wryly. He waved to show he was just kidding and started downhill across the gentle meadow in front of the hideout, towards the cliffs a hundred or so yards away that overlooked the mountainside leading down to Huntington Creek.
That terrain below the cliffs that was anything but gentle, incredibly steep and choked with deadfall, underbrush, and treacherous patches where pine needles and other detritus had piled up over damp clay-rich ground to make for easy slipping. The only way to get down to that slope from above the cliffs, without walking over half a mile in either direction or attempting a somewhat dangerous climb, was a single gap that still required some climbing. Nothing too difficult or dangerous, but care was needed.
Trev picked his way down through the gap and to the unkempt path leading down to the river. The air was surprisingly chilly considering it was August, and a stiff wind sent wisps of clouds scudding across the sky ahead of the dark bank that had now covered the sun.
The cold didn’t stop squirrels from chittering as he passed, along with the flash of one or two other small animals in the underbrush. Nothing worth unslinging his AK-47 to take a shot at, and anyway he was here to fish. After all, if he was going to lug his pole all the way up here on his bike he wanted to get some use out of it.
Since the hideout had been ransacked he was glad he’d brought most of his stuff back to Aspen Hill last spring, instead of leaving the fishing pole and a few other things like he’d been tempted to do. Fishing was possible with some line and hooks, and you could always rig up a crude pole if you had to, but having a proper one was infinitely better.
Or at least it should’ve been. He set up at the usual spot where he’d had plenty of success last winter, a bend where the creek slowed and large Douglas fir trees shaded the water. There was even a log that made a comfortable spot to sit if he wanted. He cast a dozen or times, using the familiar techniques he’d first been taught by his uncle Lucas as a kid with all the patience required for proper fishing. In that time he didn’t get a single bite.
After about an hour with no success Trev tried moving, then after a half hour moving again. He used all the tricks Lucas had ever taught him, searched for all the spots trout would be most likely to lurk. He even tried climbing onto a dead tree that leaned over the creek, looking down to see if he could see any shadowy shapes in the clear water.
Nothing. This was a drastic change from last fall, when almost nobody had been up here and the creek was teeming with fish that practically leapt onto the hook. A few hundred thousand refugees seemed to have taken care of that, fishing up and down Huntington Creek and doubtless along all the nearby lakes and reservoirs too. The few trout that remained would be small and wary, or old and cunning.
It wasn’t a complete waste of time, at least. Using every trick in the book he managed to hook three smallish trout. If this had been a leisurely fishing vacation from before the Gulf burned that wouldn’t have been too bad, but considering the urgent need to gather food for what was going to be a long winter it felt like nothing.
He was almost relieved when he heard a gunshot echo from the mountainside up above. Unless those two were really getting creative, that probably meant they were ready for him to come back up. And since it was Lewis and Jane, a shot fired probably meant they’d had better luck than him and had bagged some game.
Trev gathered up his stuff and started up the treacherous slope, feeling almost embarrassed about the fish on his line: not even enough for dinner for his family tonight. At least he’d be bringing home a stove to cook them on.
He reached the cliffs without incident and was most of the way up the gap, reaching up to grip the top and climb over, when the muted murmur of voices made him freeze. After a moment he lifted his head and saw Lewis and Jane standing on a rock outcropping not far away, staring up the clearing at the hideout. Lewis had his arms wrapped around his wife from behind, and Jane was leaning back against him with her head tucked under his chin.