“The military is here,” Bell said. “That’s one of ours from the base at Reno, probably.” They both saw the car headlights approach quickly. The truck’s door opened and Lacy got out and ran to the front of the vehicle. She started to wave her hands in the air, hoping to flag the approaching car down. Bell turned on the truck’s high beams and emergency flasher. He got out and felt the immediate blast of cold air. He stood beside Lacy, who was waving madly. He, too, lifted his arms and started to wave them above his head.
“They’re not going to stop,” Lacy said under her breath. She stopped waving and dropped her hands. She could tell the car was picking up speed, afraid of what was in front of them.
Bell turned and looked at her. He grabbed her hand. It was the first time he’d looked her in the eyes since they’d gotten in the car. He could see she was terrified the car would not stop for them. He let go of her hand, stepped out into the on-coming lane and raised his hand. He didn’t budge as the car’s headlights grew bigger and brighter.
Bell heard Lacy scream. He heard the car brake at the last possible moment, slide on the icy road, and begin to fishtail.
Bell moved to the right, scooping up Lacy as he ran. He managed to get them out of the way as the brand new white Land Rover—completely sideways in the road—hit their truck, smacking it back a good ten feet.
Bell ran to the Land Rover when it had finally stopped. He recognized the stoner couple who had picked him up earlier that morning. The two were driving a different car, but he was sure it was them. The young man leveled a pistol at him through the Rover’s driver’s-side window.
“It’s Bell! Don’t shoot—for Christ’s sake!” Bell watched the Land Rover’s window come down.
“God damn, man! What the fuck are you trying to do ... get us killed?” Johnny said. He lowered the pistol. “Jesus fuck, man! I thought you’d turned into one of them.”
The girl Sue Ling, wearing a white mink coat and the gold earrings she’d stolen that morning, looked up at him and smiled. “I screamed like a little bitch when I saw you in the headlights,” she said. She had an AR-15 rifle between her legs.
“You can’t go down there,” Bell lied. He shot a glance at Lacy and she understood she should go along with the deception. “There’s hundreds of them just down the road about three miles back.” Bell said. “We just got by them, but ran out of ammo.” It was all a lie; he said it before he’d even thought it through.
“Shit,” Johnny said. “We just got through a pack of twenty or so behind us. How did you manage that?”
“You have to turn around,” Bell said again.
“Well, we can’t drive through a hundred of the gnarly motherfuckers,” Johnny said. “This GPS says that’s the only way to Highway 50. The emergency radio is on and says that Sacramento is safe. The US army has it cordoned off.”
“The car’s radio is working?” Lacy asked.
“This one’s is. It’s got satellite radio.” Bell saw Johnny Ryder smile.
“You should have seen the cool mansion we found,” his girlfriend said. “It had so much cool shit, we couldn’t take much.”
“Will you please shut the fuck up!” Johnny said to the girl. “You better get in. Your truck is fucked up, man.”
“There’s another way to Highway 50,” Lacy said. “There’s a jeep trail, a U.S. Fire Service road, near our house. If you have gas you could make it. It cuts over to Highway 50.”
“We got a full tank, and four-fucking-wheel drive,” Ryder said. “Get in. Let’s get the fuck out of here while we still can!”
CHAPTER 20
Dillon was loading the ammunition canisters for the Thompsons. He had a jumbo Wal-Mart box of .45 caliber shells open on his lap. They were passing vacation cabins, all dark. The one-lane road was covered in snow, with the patrol car’s headlights cutting a narrow tunnel of light into the pitch-black night in front of them.
“Do not forsake me, oh my darling ... now that I need you by my side. Oh, I’m not afraid of death, but what will I do if you leave me.” Dillon sang the lyrics of an old Western song as he loaded the drum magazines. “They used to play Frankie Lane a lot on Death Row. The Row was right above my tier in San Quentin. Sometimes they’d play Rawhide when someone was leaving the tier for a parole hearing. Those old gangsters, they’re a different breed all together,” Dillon said, turning to Quentin. “A lot of them were cop killers. Or FBI. Federal Bureau of Incompetents.” He saw Quentin smile. “You know how many FBI agents it takes to turn on a light bulb?” Dillon asked.
“No, how many?” Quentin asked, playing along.
“Doesn’t matter. They won’t find it unless it’s already turned on.” He laughed at his own joke. “You don’t plan on arresting these guys, do you? That’s all bullshit. Why don’t you be honest, lawman?”
Quentin didn’t answer.
“What are you going to do with them, lawman? Can’t exactly load them all in the car, can we?”
“You couldn’t blame him, could you?” Rebecca said from the back seat.
“What do you want to carry, honey? We got an M-16 in the back for the pretty lady,” Dillon said.
“That suits me fine,” Rebecca said.
“What about the pencil neck? Kid, what do you want to carry? Besides your pacifier? Maybe you just want to rush in and hit the Delete Button when you see them?” Dillon said.
“He can stay in the car,” Quentin said. He switched on the patrol car’s spotlight and turned it, from a handle inside the cab, so that the spotlight painted the fronts of the summer cabins they passed.
“I can’t fight,” Gary said.
“You can’t fight. Or you won’t fight?” Dillon said, not bothering to turn around. “Then what fucking good are you?” He turned and looked at the kid. “Really, what fucking good are you?” It was a real question, as if his type of person were a total mystery. “I’d like to know. Really.”
“Just can’t. I don’t know anything about guns,” Summers said.
“What’s there to know?” Dillon said. “See this? It’s called a trigger, you point the thingy here, it’s called a barrel, at the guy you want to shoot and pull the thingy and it goes bang.”
Summers turned away and looked out the window.
“Do not forsake me oh my darling ... on this our wedding day ... The pussy goes too, or I don’t get out of the car,” Dillon said.
Rebecca laughed.
“You can’t do that. He’s just a kid,” Quentin said. “And what good would he be to us in a fight?”
“I don’t care, I think it’s time the kid pulled his weight,” Dillon said. He reached down at his feet and pulled one of the dozens of pistols they’d brought with them from the gun store. “Let’s see, a HK 9-millimeter. Looks used. Never shot one. Heard they’re pretty good, though. Here. You want freedom from these damn Howlers, kid? You’ll have to fight for it. Kill for it.” Dillon tossed the pistol into the kid’s lap. “Wait along ... wait ... wait along, wait along ... I must face a man who hates me or lie a craven coward in my grave. Look at that big hand move along nearin’ High Noon,” Dillon sang. “I’m tired of people like him. They always want to bitch and moan about the Man this, and the Man that. But when it comes down to it, they’re afraid of fighting for anything better in life. No one gives you anything, kid. That’s what I’ve learned. “And I must face a man who hates me. Or lie a coward in my grave.” Dillon turned back around, whistling the song.