Tim brought in the dry wood from the Blazer. No one spoke to him. The children stared at him with hopeless eyes. Finally one of the men said, “You won’t make it.”
Tim wordlessly eyed the mudslide ahead. There were tracks in it. If any car could get through…
“This isn’t the problem,” the man said. “We got past that. But up ahead there’s a bridge out.”
“So walk—”
“And a man with a rifle. They don’t talk. First shot was between my wife and myself. I got the impression the second would finish the job. Never even saw the rifleman.”
So that was it. End of the line. Tim sat beside the fire and began to laugh, softly at first, then in rising hysteria. Two days. Two? Yes. This was Friday, Drowned Muddy Fridae after Hot Fudge Tuesdae and the roads to high ground were gone and you couldn’t get to the Senator’s place. More men with guns. The world belonged to men with guns. Maybe the Senator was shooting. The image was funny, Senator Jellison in full formals, striped trousers and morning coat and rifle, what the successful leader will wear…
“It works” Tim said. “Tell your dream and kill it. It works!” He laughed again.
“Here.” Another man, big, with thick hairy forearms, used a handkerchief to snatch a tin can from the fire. He poured into a styrofoam cup, then looked regretful and took a flat pint bottle from his jacket pocket. He splashed in rum, then handed Tim the cup. “Drink that, and don’t lose the cup. And stop it. You’re scaring the kids.”
So what? But it was natural for Tim to feel ashamed. “Don’t make a scene.” How often had his mother told him that? And told his father that, and told everyone else…?
The laced coffee tasted good and warmed him. It didn’t help much, though. Eileen brought their remaining can of soup and offered it. They sat in silence, sharing what there was: the soup, instant coffee, and a bit of drowned rabbit broiled on a stick.
There was very little talking. Finally the others got up. “We’ll strike for north,” one man said. He gathered his family. “Anybody with me?”
“Sure.” Others joined. Tim felt relieved. They were going away, leaving him with Eileen. Should he go with them? For what? They hadn’t anyplace to go either.
The others got up and went to their cars, all but the big man who’d offered the coffee. He sat with his wife and two children. “You too, Brad?” the new leader asked.
“Car’s not working.” He waved toward a Lincoln parked near the mudslide. “Broken axle, I think.”
“Any gas in it?” the leader asked.
“Not much.”
“We’ll try anyway. If you don’t mind.”
The big man shrugged. The others siphoned no more than a pint of gasoline out of the Lincoln. Their cars were already crowded. There was absolutely no room for anyone else. The expedition leader paused. He looked at them as one looks at the dead. “That’s your plastic tarp. And your instant coffee,” he said. He said it wistfully, but when he got no answer, turned away. They drove off, downhill into the rain.
Now there were six by the fire. Tim and Eileen, and — “Name’s Brad Wagoner,” the big man said. “That’s Rosa and Eric, and Concepcion. Named the boy for my side of the family, girl for Rosa’s. Thought we’d keep that up if we had any more.” He seemed glad of someone to talk with.
“I’m Eileen, and that’s Tim. We’re — ” She stopped herself. “Of course we’re not really pleased to meet you. But I guess I should say it anyway. And we’re very grateful for the coffee.”
The children were very quiet. Rosa Wagoner hugged them and spoke to them in soft Spanish. They were very young, five or six, not more, and they clung to her. They had on yellow nylon windbreakers and tennis shoes.
“You’re stranded,” Tim said.
Wagoner nodded. He still didn’t say anything.
He’d make two of me, Tim thought. And he’s got a wife and two kids. We better get out of here before he breaks my neck and takes the Blazer. Tim felt afraid, and was ashamed because the Wagoners hadn’t said or done anything to deserve suspicion. Just that they were here…
“No place to go anyway,” Brad Wagoner said. “We’re from Bakersfield. Not much left of Bakersfield. I guess we should have struck up into the hills right off, but we thought we’d try to find some supplies in town. We just missed getting washed away when the dam went.” He eyed the steep hill above him. “If this rain would stop, maybe we could see some place to walk to. You got any plans?” He couldn’t disguise the plea in his voice.
“Not really.” Tim stared into the dying fire. “I thought I knew somebody up there. Politician I gave a lot of money to. Senator Jellison.” There. That finished it for sure. And now what would they do?
“Jellison,” Wagoner mused. “I voted for him. Think that would count? Are you still going to try to get up there?”
“It’s all I can think of.” Tim’s voice held no hope at all.
“What will you do?” Eileen asked. Her eyes kept straying to the children.
Wagoner shrugged. “Find some place and start over, I guess.” He laughed. “I built high-rise apartments. Made a lot of money at it, but — I didn’t get as good a car as yours.”
“You’d be surprised what that one cost me,” Tim said.
The fire died away. It was time. Eileen went to the Blazer. Tim followed. Brad Wagoner sat with his wife and children.
“I can’t stand it,” Tim said.
“Me either.” Eileen took his hand and squeezed. “Mr. Wagoner. Brad…”
“Yeah?”
“Come on. Pile in.” Eileen waited until the Wagoners had got into the Blazer, adults in the back seat, children on the floor behind that. She turned and drove down the hill. “I wish we had a good map.”
“Maps I have,” Wagoner said. He took out a soggy paper from an inner pocket. “Careful, it tears easy when it’s wet.” It was an Auto Club map of Tulare County. Much better than the Chevron map they’d been using.
Eileen eased the Blazer to a stop and examined the map. “That bridge there, is that the one that’s out?”
“Yeah.”
“Look, Tim, if we backtrack and go south, there’s a road up into the hills—”
“Which beats hell out of spending more time on the Southern Pacific,” Tim said.
“Southern Pacific?” Rosa Wagoner asked.
Tim didn’t explain. They drove south until they found a sheltered place on the road, partway up a hill, and they pulled off to sleep. They took turns letting the Wagoners use the seats while they huddled under the plastic tarp.
“High ground,” Tim said. “It goes north. And east. And that road’s not on the map.” He pointed. The road was gravel, but it looked in good condition — and it looked traveled. It ran in the right direction.
Eileen was running out of hope, and the Blazer was running out of gas, but she took the road. It wound upward into the hills. It was luck that they’d found it, and more luck that the rain and mud and hurricanes hadn’t ruined it. But no luck could protect them from the roadblock.
There were four big men, big like football stars or TV mafia goons. Guns and size made them look unfriendly, and they weren’t smiling. Tim got out alone, wonderingly. One of the men came down to meet him. The others stood aloof. One of the men looked elusively familiar. Someone he’d seen on the Senator’s ranch? That wouldn’t help, and it was another of the armed men who had come to the barrier.
Tim told them, crisply (while very aware of how like a wandering tramp he looked ), “We’re on our way to visit Senator Jellison.” The imperious voice cost Tim most of his reserves of self-control.