“See you in ten, Bubba Red.” Mountain Man put the handset into the clip. “There’s a half-assed store at the truck stop up here. I don’t suppose you’ve got any money?”
“No,” said Martinez. “How about a nine mil?”
“Well, then,” said Mountain Man. “That’s better than money. I’ll fix you up with some cash. I’ll get you some clothes in the store, if they’ve got anything that fits you oversized bastards.”
An hour later, Henry sat down at a corner booth with Martinez, Carlos, and Mountain Man, who said his real name was Joe. There were few patrons in the diner, all men, and they were hunkered down over coffee and food watching the news. There was no conversation, as if everyone there put up invisible walls around themselves. There were some hard looks at Martinez and Carlos from the truckers.
Henry and his companions ordered some hot coffee and fried chicken from a flirty, bleached-out waitress who’d smoked a few too many Camels. When Henry ordered his second dinner, she raised her eyebrows and laughed.
“You boys are going for a record,” she said.
After Henry pushed his plate away, he felt almost human again. Bubba Red came to the table and joked with Mountain Man for a few seconds about lot lizards, then squeezed into the booth, the table pressing against his ample belly. Martinez briefly explained that they were trying to get to Houston, and stay off the grid.
“You men picked a fine time to go sightseeing,” Bubba said. “National Guard’s got checkpoints set up all over the place. We should be able to make it down to Colorado without too much trouble. Then it’s gonna get dicey for you.”
“Why is that?” Martinez asked.
“Colorado is a war zone right now,” Mountain Man said. “Where the hell have you been?” He gestured with his thumb at the muted bank of television monitors on a wall. Images of burning cities filled the screens. “The interstates are shut down. Nobody in or out. Now you could swing east and cut through Nebraska and avoid Colorado altogether. Trouble is, I’m headed home to Albuquerque. I’m not trying to cut all across Texas. No sir. Bottom line, I can get you down close to the Colorado border, then you’re on your own.”
“We’ll be in your debt,” Martinez said.
Bubba and Mountain Man discussed the news that was available. The news was not good.
The national cable networks were reporting that the war was over, that reports of bloodshed were overblown. But reports from the Internet and the BBC painted a very different picture.
The United States was convulsing. People streamed across state borders, trying to go home. Trying to return to wherever they came from and the roots were the deepest. The highways and state roads were clogged. In many parts of the country, the power grid was down. Curfews were in effect, travel restricted, and interstate commerce was at a standstill. Each state had activated its own National Guard troops, while the larger bases and installations were on lockdown. Some of the bases disintegrated into chaos, like Malmstrom did.
The country had fractured into five distinct sections, and there were divisions within those areas. The Northeast down to Washington, DC, remained loyal to the federal government. The South, from Virginia to Florida and west to Texas, had declared independence under the name the Jefferson Republic. The West Coast had declared allegiance to the federal government, from California up to the Northwest. The Midwestern states were trying to stay neutral, restricting federal troop movement, threatening to shoot down all aircraft that violated their airspace.
The western states were leaning toward joining the Jeffersonians, but thus far had declared neutrality. The state governors seemed to be calling the shots; most of the United States Congress was dead.
Wall Street was closed, and the economy was in free fall. The United Nations had offered assistance, as had China, Russia, Australia, and the UK. The president of the United States was at an undisclosed location, calling for peace and unity. The US Navy set up a blockade along the east and west coasts to keep foreign powers at bay. For now, at least, the navy was staying out of the fighting spreading around the broken country like wildfire.
In large southern cities like Atlanta, racial tensions exploded onto the streets. Minorities clashed with police and National Guard units, protesting the secession. Entire city blocks were engulfed in flames and looting was rampant. One of the networks showed images of a gang shooting up a police cruiser, then burning it with a Molotov cocktail while the officers inside thrashed about and then collapsed onto the street, charred.
Trash and raw sewage covered city streets in big cities, as waste treatment plants shut down. There were water shortages, and killings over food.
On the outskirts of San Francisco and Washington, DC, thousands of people suffering from radiation burns camped outside overwhelmed hospitals and FEMA tents.
It was worse than Henry had imagined, and he had expected the worst.
“It’s all coming apart,” Bubba Red said. “They’re tearing the whole country to pieces. Burning it down to nothing so that the damn Chinese can come in and pick up the pieces. Won’t be anyplace safe. Things aren’t ever going back to normal, not after this.”
“I’m going back to Canada,” Mountain Man said. “I knew it was bad, but not this bad. No offense, but if I’d known, I’m not so sure I would’ve stopped for you.” The man stood and bade a brisk farewell. Henry shouted a thank-you as the man walked out the door into the cold.
“We’d best be getting on the road, too,” Bubba said. “I’m all filled up.”
Henry stood, feeling uncomfortable in the itchy new civilian clothes. His parka was bulky and the flannel shirt made him feel faintly ridiculous. His gear was stowed into two oversized black duffel bags. Martinez and Carlos wore similar attire, and the three men could almost pass for truckers themselves. Martinez wore a bright green John Deere cap, which Henry found amusing.
“Aw, shit,” Bubba said, looking through the blinds into the parking area outside. Flashing red and blue lights reflected off of the wet pavement.
“Buncha county mounties,” he said.
Henry followed Martinez and Carlos out the back door while Bubba went through the front entrance. They stayed in the shadows and moved around the side of the building. Two local police vehicles had pulled up beside Mountain Man’s rig, and it looked like the cops were giving him a hard time. Mountain Man stood gesturing wildly at his truck. One of the cops had his weapon drawn. Henry noticed it was a revolver.
“What do you think?” Carlos said. The Wolves were concealed about thirty yards from the truck.
“Wait and see,” Martinez answered. “They might click him up for crossing the border into the States. Or maybe they’ll let him go.”
Henry watched Bubba walk up to the police officers. One of the cops started shouting at Bubba.
“Get down!” the cop yelled. “Hands on the back of your head.” Bubba complied, on his knees. One of the police officers pulled out handcuffs.
“Aw, hell no,” Carlos muttered.
Another cruiser pulled into the parking lot. Two more cops stepped out.
“Wilkins, stay put,” Martinez said. “Carlos, flank right.” Both men stepped from the shadows, weapons drawn, advancing on the police officers.
The cop with the nickel-plated revolver was young. The fact that he preferred the showy weapon to a more practical sidearm worried Henry. The man was clearly afraid and uncertain, and this made him deadly.
Henry dropped to one knee and quickly rifled through the duffel bag containing his submachine gun. He withdrew the HK and snapped a magazine into place.
Martinez and the local sheriffs were shouting at each other.