The Farm
Channel 19 on the CB was drowning in the Road Warriors' rage.
"Christ. These bastards never shut up."
The urge to fire something back rose in me, then died just as fast. What good would it do? All it would accomplish was confirming I was listening.
Cowards always shout the loudest.
For a moment I even considered swinging the truck around, tearing them apart, and taking their supplies. I let it go. Dave's mother and Frank's family were riding in the caravan, completely exposed if anything went wrong.
When the Road Warriors' deranged broadcast finally ended, a brief silence settled over the channel. It felt as if every trucker on the road was holding their breath.
Then, one by one, anonymous voices began to break that silence. Not a single one of them gave their handle.
While I listened to the support and the anger pouring out of those nameless truckers, a whimpering sound came from the sleeper.
"It's over, Wolf. Come here."
The words were barely out before Wolf had claimed the passenger seat, dropping his head onto the console box, rolling his eyes up at me, and starting to fuss.
A thin, insistent whine.
"It's alright, Wolf."
I drove with my right hand stroking his head. Then Gunner's low voice came over the radio.
Gunner's van had a CB radio installed, and he laid out what he'd heard on Channel 19.
It felt uncomfortably like running. Even so, I decided to follow Gunner and Mike. Mike's instincts, honed over a lifetime, were not something you ignored.
Even back at the Nisku loading dock, that gut of his had been famous. He'd toss off a line — Keep that up and you'll go over — or Keep that up and she'll die on you — and it would come true like prophecy.
I pressed the PTT button.
Nobody argued with Gunner's suggestion. We rolled straight past the next truck stop and drove on into the dark, toward the secret campsite he'd described.
The radio was still pouring out grim news.
I switched channels. Another was reporting on the effects The Great Winter was having across the world.
Korea?
I turned up the volume without thinking.
The anchor paused to catch her breath, then added a brief item.
Korea. The land I had left behind.
The place I had all but forgotten had become one of the last remaining bastions in this hell of a world.
Part of me figured it was because Korea had nowhere to run — so they pulled together against any outside threat. Another part of me wondered if they were simply dying a little more slowly.
I left the world's news behind and turned my attention back to the darkening road ahead.
The days had grown short; darkness had already settled in. Whether it was The Great Winter's doing or not, the streetlights along the highway were dead, and we had to find our way by headlights alone.
Following Gunner's directions, we left the highway and turned onto an old logging road swallowed in pitch-black dark. About a mile of jolting unpaved track later, the view suddenly opened up, and an unbelievable landscape unfolded in front of us.
A strange space revealed itself, hemmed in on three sides by sheer cliff walls. Inside lay a flat clearing about the size of a small athletic field. The only way in was wide enough for our massive trucks to pass through with room to spare.
The wonder lasted only a moment. One after another, we parked like ships dropping anchor in a safe harbor. When I asked Gunner about the place, he answered.
"I heard it used to be a granite quarry. They started digging because the stone was good, then shut it down pretty quick when it stopped paying."
"This is a natural hideout. I like it. I like it a lot."
Mike looked around with a satisfied expression. Once we'd arrived at the campsite, everyone set to their work without a word — topping off the vehicles from the jerrycans we'd been carrying, getting dinner started, moving with a quiet, practiced busyness.
Tonight's meal fell to Frank's wife, Sarah. In the caravan's tiny kitchen, she turned out a pot of hot chili stew and a batch of cornbread with the ease of someone who had done it a thousand times.
We crowded into Frank's little caravan and sat ourselves down. Nine adults and one child, packed in so tight our knees touched. It was cramped and uncomfortable, and not a single person complained.
If anything, the clink of spoons, the noisy laughter, and the steam rising off the stew all mixed together into a strange kind of peace. It occurred to me that this might be what a real family looked like. In that narrow, inconvenient space, we were feeling the warmth of other people.
After dinner, I headed for the entrance to the camp. Across the only passage left in the dark, I began stringing an invisible spiderweb.
What I loaded into the tripwires was neither buckshot nor birdshot, but salt rounds. Partly as a hedge against some accident in the night — and partly because whoever came through that entrance might not necessarily be a raider.
Either way, if someone came in, a loud gunshot would serve as an instant alarm. That was enough.
I told the others where the traps were, then called them over to my trailer. Without a word, I set out beer, whiskey, and juice, according to each person's taste.
The talk turned, as it naturally would, to the Road Warriors and what had happened that afternoon.
"We're going to see more of those bastards from here on out."
Everyone agreed with Gunner. Mike spoke with a serious look on his face.
"This place is reasonably safe, but we should still post a watch tonight, don't you think?"
To my surprise, Frank stepped up first.
"I'll take first, then. I don't sleep much anyway."
"I'll relieve you."
At Dave's offer, Frank waved a hand.
"Nah, I'm good. Sarah can drive for me, so I'll stay on until the rest of you wake up."
Mike nodded.
"Smart. We'll leave it to you, Frank."
We had set our course west along I-80. When we'd first escaped Canada, the plan had been a vague one — head for the warmth of Southern California, and part ways with Dave at Boise or Salt Lake City. But now, every one of us believed we needed to stay together.
That was when Dave brought up his aunt's farm again, lifting the mood with a note of hope.
"My aunt's place — I'd say it's a good three thousand acres, easy."
"..."
"It's remote and the land's huge, so my uncle always kept a year or two of food and essentials stocked in the warehouse. There's a massive fuel depot on one side of the farm that tanker trucks come out and fill themselves."
He was getting excited now, the words tumbling out.
"And that's not even counting what they produce on the place. They roast the almonds and vacuum-pack them. The pistachios get salted and stored. They pick the olives themselves and press them for oil. None of it spoils for years."
"Hell, you'd need a fair number of hands for a place that size, wouldn't you?"
Mike asked, and Dave answered with no small amount of pride.
"Nope. My uncle's no ordinary man, and he's got three sons — all of them built like oxen. They run it as a family most of the year. Only bring in extra help at harvest."
Then Frank asked,
"Dave — did you actually tell your aunt we were all coming?"
"Of course I did! I called before we left. She said it's lonely out there anyway — might as well all come and make a little village of it."
At Dave's words, color rose in everyone's faces. Frank went on, sounding almost moved.
"My God... if a place like that really exists, maybe we don't need to go any farther. We could settle there."
Everyone agreed, and they all looked at Mike. He thought for a moment, then answered.
"First things first... I'll see my boy. Then I'll think about it."
We closed the day on that hopeful conversation. I spent the rest of the evening playing with Wolf, and with a peace of mind I hadn't felt in a long time — a mind free of worry — I sank into a deep sleep.
I don't know how long I was out. I woke from a hazy half-dream of someone yanking hard at my body.
When I opened my eyes, Wolf was in the dark, tugging at my sleeve with his teeth, whimpering. I checked the clock. I hadn't been asleep for even an hour.
"Wolf, what is it?"
The very instant I opened my mouth to soothe him—
BANG!
A sharp gunshot ripped through the still night air.