As soon as he rounded the corner on the highway he saw the result of last night’s explosion. A jumble of rock choked the tunnel opening, and a bare spot on the mountain above the entrance showed where rock had sheared off to drop on the road. A refrigerator-sized boulder sat in a crater in the asphalt seventy-five yards from the rock pile.
A fisherman’s trail, the only way out of the canyon, followed the river, where it vanished into a light morning mist that drifted off the water, giving the scene an otherworldly look. Eric hoisted the bike on his shoulder and walked past the remnants of their van, which reminded him of his dream (“The biplanes are coming!”) and generated within him a strong feeling of deja vu; not a bad feeling, but very creepy, like the top of his head was floating away, as if he’d stepped out of time. The farther he walked, the stranger he felt. The trail didn’t seem connected to the real world. Water tinkled musically over the rocks, and the air smelled moist and clean. All the colors vibrated, even through the mist.
An animal crossed the path fifty yards in front of him. Eric thought it was a German shepherd at first, the biggest shepherd he’d ever seen, but it moved so smoothly that he couldn’t believe it was a dog. It trotted up the hill on its big paws (What big teeth you have grandma, Eric thought), and just before it disappeared behind a ridge it looked back at Eric with clear, light blue eyes. Eric almost waved at it. Eric turned around. The van was out of sight; he couldn’t see the road. For a second, he wasn’t sure which direction he’d come from; both were unfamiliar. He noticed hip high, broad-leafed plants a shade of green he’d never seen before growing next to the water. He dropped his bike and scrambled down the slope. Their leaves were thick and waxy. He broke one in half. A thick, milky fluid oozed out of the wound, and he caught a strong citrus odor like a tangerine. Triangular, dull orange beetles scurried up and down the plant’s stalks. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d stepped away from reality, that these weren’t Colorado plants, that this wasn’t the Colorado he knew. He climbed back to the trail, picked up his bike and continued on.
Suddenly he realized he wasn’t alone. Sitting on the slope above the trail fifty feet away, their backpacks beside them, three hikers, an old man and two boys were eating a meal. A complicated series of wrinkles criss-crossed the old one’s leather-colored face. He smiled and spoke to one of the boys, but Eric didn’t hear what he said. When he walked just below them, the old one glanced up and met Eric’s eyes. Eric’s throat constricted. The creepy feeling of being displaced in time swept through him so intensely, he thought he would fall over. He didn’t want the old man to say anything to him. Don’t talk to me, old man, he thought. I don’t know what to say to you. Something in the man’s eyes, something compassionate, made Eric think he understood.
Eric looked away, and as he did he observed a heavy scar marked the side of the boy’s face on the old man’s right. Eric walked a few more steps, then glanced at the group again, but they were gone. A breeze swirled tendrils of mist past the empty spot where the hikers had sat. The sense of deja vu vanished as if someone had thrown a switch, and Eric shook his head. His bike drug at his shoulder and he staggered a couple of steps. He realized he was near fainting; he hadn’t eaten for thirty-six hours. That’s it, he thought, I’m delirious.
He rested on a stump by the river and ate two beef jerky strips and a can of peaches. This is a beautiful spot, he thought, and he reflected on all the people who had driven through the tunnel for years and years and never seen this section of the river that the highway cut off by diving through the mountain instead of following the canyon. For the moment, he forgot where he was going and why. The jerky tasted salty and good, and the peaches were sweet and cold.
A junkyard lined the highway on the other side of the tunnel. Starting at the rock-choked tunnel entrance, and stretching for several hundred yards, a mess of cars crowded the road. At first Eric thought someone had painted black dots on the cars, then he realized that holes peppered them. Standing on the trail below, he saw that the closest car, a green Chevy Nova, sat unevenly. Three of its four tires were flat. A tight web of cracks frosted the windows. He clambered up the slope, pulling the bike behind him. A shift in the breeze wafted gasoline fumes over him and another smell, deep, bad and nasty. He snorted to clear his nose and mouth-breathed. When he stepped onto the road, he noticed that many cars had burned, their paint blackened and blistered from the heat.
Thousands of brass shell casings glittered on the highway by the tunnel entrance. He picked one up; it was much larger than the ones Dad used for the deer rifle. He imagined what must have happened. Weeks ago, when the traffic stopped, the police or the National Guard established a road block. Panic in the last couple of days forced people to flee. They were stopped here. He marveled that his family hadn’t heard any of the shooting. Last night’s explosion the final act to seal the road, provided the only clue of the battle.
Fearfully, he approached the Nova’s open passenger door and peeked inside where a black stain discolored the driver’s seat The stain shifted and Eric jerked back. Dozens of flies boiled off the stain; some flew out the window, but the rest settled on the seat again He swallowed hard to keep his stomach down. Dad might have been caught here. Maybe he was coming back with help and whatever happened stopped him. Eric checked the next car. It too was empty.
The third one wasn’t.
He thought at first that someone had left a pile of clothes on the seat until he saw the bare foot sticking out. Two lines of dried blood like the outline of a carrot traced their way from the heel to the curled toes A swarm of flies lifted itself angrily from the corpse then settled back when Eric stepped away. He sat hard on the pavement and rested his forehead against the cool metal door By wrapping his arms tightly around his midsection, he forced himself not to throw up.
One afternoon in the sixth grade he’d sneaked into an adult Driver’s Ed class that the elementary school sponsored in an unused classroom He’d heard they were watching a “cool, gross film, and he and two of his friends dared each other into ditching class to see it. The movies, Signal 30 for Danger and Highways of Death, featured real life footage of automobile accidents and even from the back of the room, the images sickened Eric. One scene stuck with him particularly. A man lost control of his car and it careened into a field of tree stumps. He probably would have been all right, but he wasn’t wearing a seat belt; his door popped open and he was tossed from the car. When he was halfway out, the door crashed into a stump, slamming it on the man’s chest. The camera lingered on his bloated torso for a lone time. Later the friends invited Eric to a sleepover where they promised they were renting Faces of Death I and II Eric declined. For months afterward he had dreams about bodies pulled out of twisted wreckage.
Dad might be in one of these wrecks. Eric had to check them all, and he couldn’t afford to be sick to do it. Besides, he reminded himself, he didn’t know any of these people. all, and he couldn’t afford to be sick to do it. Besides, he reminded himself, he didn’t know any of these people. Very few of the cars contained bodies. He found guns in some. Suitcases and boxes of clothes filled many. He read a poorly printed leaflet that fluttered on the front seat of a wood-paneled station wagon. It was a call to arms and said that the Coors management had immunized themselves from the plague and that they were withholding the cure from their employees. Eric didn’t make the connection at first, then he remembered that Coors had its main plant in Golden. Much of the populace worked there, and almost all the rest of the town’s economy depended on the plant. He was starting to get a picture of the panic and desperation in the cities that the radio hadn’t provided.