Five
Inside the trailer, the four of us sat around a small table. Outside, a hungry wind howled against the steel, but within those walls the warmth of other people filled the space for the first time in a long while.
Beer cans, whiskey glasses, and a broad map of North America claimed the tabletop. I spoke first.
"You all heard, right? Another volcano blew in Alaska. Redoubt. The Great Winter is going to run a lot longer and a lot meaner than we figured."
Every face at the table went tight. Frank spoke, his voice sharp with irritation.
"Damn it. I thought once we cleared Canada we'd be done. So where the hell do we go now?"
"South, for starters. We all agree we need to get out of the northern States as fast as we can, right?"
Heads nodded around the table. Then Dave stabbed a finger down onto a single point on the map.
"Here. Let's go to my aunt's place. California's Central Valley — you have to push further north of Sacramento. Almost the northern edge of the Valley."
I measured the scale against my finger.
"From here… that's roughly nine hundred miles. Not an easy run."
Dave went on, looking pleased with himself.
"It's a long haul, but we just have to get there. My uncle's farm is no joke. Almonds and pistachios — the place is practically a small town."
He barely paused for breath.
"They've got their own generators, a whole string of pumps pulling groundwater, and a warehouse stocked with just about every tool and piece of gear you'd ever need. The land's so big a few of our trailers wouldn't even register."
Mike, who had been studying the map in silence, lifted his head.
"The Central Valley… that's a good piece of ground. America's breadbasket, aren't they? Once we make it there, at least we won't have to worry about starving."
He drained his whiskey and kept going.
"I'll ride that far with you, at least. Rest up a bit, then I need to go see my boy in Tempe, Arizona."
Frank cut in at once — typical of a man who never could leave anyone else's business alone.
"Tempe? Ah, that sharp kid of yours at Arizona State? You still in touch?"
"Wherever the towers still work, it sounds like the mood down there is turning ugly too. But that boy of mine — he'll make it. He always does."
Mike said it evenly, but in the eyes of a man who had already walked through a war, worry and faith for his son sat side by side. Frank pressed on.
"So you're looking to settle in Arizona?"
"Haha, how would I know? Gotta find the kid first, then think it through. Hell, we even need to talk about whether finishing school still makes any sense in a mess like this…"
I pulled the map further toward the center of the table.
"Alright. First destination's locked. Now let's check the thing that actually matters. What's everyone's supply situation? Fuel first."
Dave spoke up.
"My pickup's carrying six twenty-liter jerry cans as emergency reserve. The trailer runs on propane — I've got two big tanks filled to the brim."
Frank and Mike each had four or five jerry cans of their own. I started running the numbers in my head.
"Nine hundred miles to California. We're all towing trailers, so we have to assume the worst mileage. Even at three miles to the liter… that's nearly three hundred liters a vehicle. Pool every drop of emergency fuel we've got and we still need to gas up at least once — twice, if anything goes sideways."
Tension settled over the table. Gas stations weren't convenience stops anymore. They were time bombs, and every man there knew it.
"Food?"
"About a month's worth."
"I can last three months."
Dave, then Frank, then Mike, answering without fuss. I felt a proud little smile pull at my mouth, looking at friends who had actually prepared. Then Frank grinned.
"And… I brought the rest of our customer's parts, too."
"What?"
I stared at him. Frank went on, looking immensely pleased with himself.
"The tires were too big to even try, but every last filter and consumable you ordered is sitting in my trailer. Who do you think I am? Frank doesn't forget a promise to a customer."
The relief that hit me was real and deep.
"Frank. That's incredible. Thank you. Really."
The warmth around the table held for a moment. Then Mike looked at each of us in turn, his expression gone serious.
"Alright then. Now we settle the most important thing."
I waited, not sure where he was going.
"An explicit leader for this crew."
"Mike, there's only four of us. Do we really need that?"
"We do. Absolutely."
His voice had no give in it.
"In an emergency you have to make hard calls, and you have to make them fast. Hesitate and we all die. That's why we agree on this now, before we need it."
He locked eyes with Dave, then Frank, then looked straight at me.
It wasn't a question. His eyes, his voice, and the way Dave and Frank were already watching me — this was a conversation that had finished without me. There was no room to decline. I answered short.
"Alright. I'll do it."
Dave hoisted his beer can high.
"Hell yes! To our Captain Polar Bear!"
Frank clinked his whiskey glass against it, laughing.
"Haha. Already feels solid."
Their nonsense burned the awkwardness right off the table. Once the toast was done, the talk slid, as it had to, toward the problem that wouldn't wait: the raiders.
"We heard the rumors about those bastards on the way down, too."
Dave's face had gone grim.
"It was a mess even in Selby. Whole trucks getting taken, places torn apart… nothing but ugly stories."
"This is only the beginning." I let out a long breath. "Another volcano in Alaska means the north is going to get worse. Those people will come south to outrun the Great Winter, same as us. From here on, we assume outfits like that are only going to multiply."
I looked at each of them in turn.
"What's everyone carrying?"
Mike answered first.
"One Mossberg 590A1 shotgun. About two hundred rounds of live ammo."
A reliable piece — the kind the military trusted. Next was Frank. He scratched his head, looking embarrassed.
"Uh… I don't know if this even counts as a weapon, but I've got a hunting crossbow and about fifty bolts. Figured I'd take a duck if it came to it…"
"That's a hell of a lot better than nothing."
I said it to Frank, and meant it — there were situations where a quiet bow would earn its keep better than a gun. Last was Dave, smiling the way a man does when he'd rather be talking about anything else.
"I… don't really have anything. Never been much of a gun guy."
"Have you ever handled one?"
"Shot a pistol at the range a few times. That's it."
I sat with that for a second, then stood and opened the storage locker deeper in the trailer. I brought out the Glock 45 I'd taken at the Montana rest stop, along with the Remington 870 — the first shotgun I had ever bought. I hadn't put a single round through it. The thing was still new.
I set the Remington 870 on the table in front of Frank.
"Take this. Never been fired. Keep it close."
Frank looked at the heavy shotgun the way a man looks at a live snake.
"D-do we really need this?"
"We do."
I held his eyes and didn't soften it.
"You need a gun more for the hours you have to carry it than the seconds you have to fire it. Just having it cuts down on the number of times you'll actually have to use it."
Then I pushed the Glock 45 and the holster belt across to Dave. He looked at the pistol and grimaced.
"Hey, Chan… I really don't like weapons."
I looked him straight in the eye.
That was all it took. Dave had nothing left to say. He picked up the pistol without a word, seated it in the holster, and buckled the belt around his waist. I looked around at all of them again.
The talk was in full swing when a thin crackle of static leaked in from the W990's cab.
I asked the others for a minute and crossed into the cab, taking up the mic.
I hung the mic and came back. The others were watching me, waiting. I gave them the short version of Bill and Gunner — the two men I'd met in Mountain Home.
We talked while we waited, and then, right on schedule, a minivan rolled into the truck stop and eased to a halt beside the W990. Gunner.
He climbed out and came toward me in long, unhurried strides.
"Gunner. What's going on?"
He let a beat pass, then came at it straight.
"I need to go south. Mind if I ride with you?"
I hadn't seen that coming, and I hesitated. He read it. His eyes stayed on mine, serious as a drawn blade.
"Polar Bear. I know, in my gut, who I have to follow if I want to live. So don't turn me down."
It was the same look Dave had given me when he'd asked to come along — raw, and entirely in earnest. There was no refusing it.
"Alright. Come with us."
The hardness in Gunner's face broke open into something almost bright. Behind me, Dave and the others stepped out of the trailer. Gunner tipped his chin at them. Mike came forward as the spokesman and put out his hand.
"Name's Mike."
"Gunner."
Two rough hands met in a hard grip. Mid-shake, Mike's eyes caught on the old ink across the back of Gunner's hand — an eagle, a globe, and an anchor.
"Marine?"
Gunner's eyes lit.
"That's right. You?"
"Yeah."
A short exchange. But running underneath it was the kind of bond that only exists between men who have walked through the same hell and come out the other side.
Mike spoke as if he'd heard every word of the conversation with Gunner.
Back in the Legion we used to call ourselves the Five Fingers — Cinq Doigts — and even in the GCP, my unit had always been five men.