Wilderness

The road was open, and a report came in from Matthews, who had gone ahead.

The lead group, first to finish their preparations, kicked up a cloud of dust as they climbed onto the highway.

The trucks that had dropped their trailers to clear the on-ramp took up their heavy loads again and rejoined the column. Behind them, the steel procession filed onto the new road one after another.

At last the Delta echelon, which had been holding at the rear, began to move, and only then did the entire column stir forward again like a single living thing.

Even as the last of my Delta echelon rolled onto the ramp, they were still out there on the western flats. Like wraiths, hanging back at a distance, watching every move we made in silence. The word that came to me was earthbound spirits — souls chained to the ground they died on, unable to leave.

It felt as though every soul already spent, and every soul yet to be spent, was watching us from this side of the grave, unable to pass on.

While I was lost in that thought, the last of Delta climbed onto Interstate 15, the road that would take us looping back into Fishlake National Forest, and I could read the whole column's mood in the way the speed picked up.

We had not been rolling long before a transmission came in from the lead scout element.

Before I could answer, Mike's voice filled the channel.

As we ran south on Interstate 15, the country outside the window began to change, subtly at first. In place of Nevada's endless, bone-dry desert, gaunt trees and withered scrub began to appear here and there. The bleakness had not lifted, but the knowledge that we were leaving dying ground behind was a small comfort.

The Polaris column opened up on the empty interstate. We had been running for some time when Matthews came back on the net.

Before long our long procession peeled off Interstate 15 and rolled into Scipio on US Route 50.

What I saw took me aback. You would have been hard-pressed to find a two-story building. Weathered single-story structures sat scattered and lifeless, as if time itself had stopped. It looked like a ghost town.

Now and then a local in worn work clothes would step out of a shop and watch us pass with no particular interest. There was no threat in them, and no wariness either.

At Scipio's central intersection the column made a ninety-degree turn and headed south again.

I checked the radiation meter I had briefly forgotten.

Fortunately, the reading had held — no higher than 1.06. I figured we had the vast mountain range of Fishlake National Forest to the south to thank for that, a wall holding back a death-wind we could not see.

The column pressed on along US Route 50 in silence. A sign for Scipio Lake slid past on the right, but all that came into view was a dry plain without a drop of water. The desert's shadow, I thought, still stretched a long way.

That was when Frank's voice came over the radio, full of his usual salesman swagger.

Gunner backed Mike's sober correction.

Listening to the exchange, I called Cody.

Not long after, we entered Salina. Compared to Scipio, it actually had buildings that looked like buildings, and there were people on the streets. A few other vehicles were moving, too. Locals watched our massive column with curious eyes here and there, but we passed through the town without making contact.

The junction where we would pick up Interstate 70 — which ran concurrent with US Route 50 — was drawing close. I had a decision to make. We had only come about fifty miles from the start. But clearing the obstacles on that on-ramp had cost us more time and stamina than planned. The nonstop march we had originally intended was not going to happen.

Past Salina we halted the column on the shoulder of US Route 50 and took a short rest. Then the column was in a hurry to get moving ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠again.

Once we were on Interstate ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠70, the road opened wide and ran straight again. The pavement was so empty you would have been hard-pressed to find another vehicle, and we ran it without hesitation. At times I caught myself wondering if we were going too fast — the whole column was flying down the interstate as if it were a race.

It occurred to me that I had not seen a single vehicle coming the other way since we got on I-70, and I said it half to myself.

"Strange... is this The Great Winter?"

Gunner, behind the wheel, gave a short laugh.

"Nah. This stretch was always like this. Used to get the odd freight truck. Now even those are gone, so it's a ghost road."

We ran like that for a long while before Matthews broke the silence again.

Despite the morning's delay, we had covered nearly two hundred and fifty miles in a single day. Factoring in the time we had burned clearing the Interstate 15 on-ramp, we had beaten the original target.

A moment later, Matthews came back with a terse report.

The column picked up speed again. A weathered sign slid past.

One after another, the lead elements reported that we were clear of Utah.

In that instant I checked the radiation meter on instinct. The number blinking on the display was 0.91.

It was not a meaningful difference. But it was the first time the reading had dropped since we left Fallon — it had been climbing steadily until now.

Ha. What a thing to get emotional over...

Guided by Matthews's scout element, the column came to a halt on a wide open stretch beside Interstate 70, drawing a vast circle of steel.

Laager Formation.

There was a decent-sized city not much farther on, but spending the night quietly mattered more than drawing unnecessary eyes.

The camp came alive in an instant.

Everyone found their place in the busy chatter of the net. That was when Dave came over to me, looking thoroughly pleased with himself.

"Chan, I was thinking of throwing together a salmon stew for a change. What if I dumped a Shin Ramyun seasoning packet in there?"

"Not a bad idea. You add that magic powder and you'll probably end up with something like Korean maeuntang."

"Maeuntang? A Korean stew? That sounds incredible. Anything else it needs?"

"A little chili powder and garlic wouldn't hurt."

"Okay! No problem."

"You've got that?"

"Of course! Frank cleaned out a Korean market in Carson City a while back, remember? We've got chili powder to spare. No fresh garlic, but we've got garlic powder."

Before long the day was gone, and inside the laager camp a warm light was spreading, and with it a stir of life. People who had finished a hard day's travel gathered in twos and threes to enjoy their evening meal. Dave and I carried a huge pot over toward the boiler trailer, where the bachelor truckers had collected.

"Hey, Polar Bear's here!"

"Chief, come on over, grab a seat."

The truckers greeted us with open warmth. Dave lifted the lid, and a rich, spicy, savory smell rolled out.

"Whoa, what is that smell?"

"All right, all right, form a line! Salmon stew with the Chief's secret sauce!"

"Secret sauce?"

"Just taste it first. Nothing beats this in a winter like this. You wouldn't even notice if someone stole the socks right off your feet. This stew is to die for."

Dave kept up the patter as he ladled out the stew, and the compliments started coming.

"Hooo — this is the real deal. Hits you right in the frozen gut. A man's flavor, haha."

"After this, I don't know if I can go back to canned food tomorrow."

"Eating something like this, you could almost believe things were still peaceful yesterday."

Dave shrugged and added,

"That's not even the best part. When you're done, boil some ramen in the leftover broth. That's a whole other delicacy."

A single bowl of hot stew put smiles on the faces of men who had been nothing but grim on the road. Inside the laager camp, a vague, unnameable hope seemed to fill the air.

I, however, could not let the tension go. I went back to the truck and quietly checked the radiation meter one more time.

The number had dropped below 0.9, and I let out a breath of relief myself. That falling reading was a small ember of hope.

But the eyes of those wraiths that had watched us from behind still felt like the last coals of an unease that had not gone out. Colorado's cold night air seemed to whisper to us.

This place, too, I thought, was just another wilderness.

Even so, warmth had come to the laager camp for the first time in a while. The fact that we had run, breathless, across two states — Nevada and Utah — to put invisible death behind us seemed to give everyone a small measure of relief.

Everyone knew the nuclear plant to the south was still burning. But at least we had put one more step of distance between us and it, and we had survived one more step.

I was catching my breath when Colonel Gibson's wife approached me quietly. Even through the exhaustion on her face, a faint smile was there.

"I just got through to my husband on the satellite phone."

"You did? Is the Colonel all right? What did he say about Carson City?"

"He said he's fine — smoking without anyone giving him a look. As for the rest... he didn't have much to say. But he did have a message he wanted me to pass to you, Mr. Polar Bear."

She closed her eyes for a moment, as if searching her memory, then spoke.

Delta-Seven.

I knew what it meant at once. The Delta-Seven the Colonel had sent through his wife was a frequency-hopping pattern code — FHSS — used on military emergency TAC channels to defeat interception.

Fifteen.

I thought back to a conversation I had had with Gibson, and I could guess that it meant fifteen minutes past the hour.

Coming out of the brief recollection, I checked my watch, saw that the fifteen-minute mark was almost on us, and headed straight for my truck.

There was so much I wanted to ask him.