Ramen

Jake and Cody lashed the helicopter down onto the trailer with the sure, practiced hands of men who had done it a hundred times. With every last strap checked and every last preparation finished, we cut our short rest short and put ourselves back on the road.

Gunner's F-550 growled to life and rolled out, and Tank's Peterbilt, waiting on the shoulder, fell in behind it with that massive moose bumper ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠leading the way. Next came the bus motorhome, now shouldering the helicopter on its trailer, and the rest of the vehicles stretched out behind them in a long column as we climbed off US Route 50 onto the mountain road they called the Eldorado Freeway.

The road grew more punishing with every mile. What had been a gentle climb steepened into a hard grade, and the truck engines began to bellow under the strain. The asphalt clung to the flanks of enormous granite cliffs as if it had been carved from the rock itself, a precarious ribbon of pavement, and beyond the right-hand window a valley dropped away hundreds of feet into nothing.

Pines and firs that seemed to spear the sky blotted out even the thinnest shafts of sunlight, laying a cool darkness over the road. With every endless hairpin, the massive trailers groaned against the pull of centrifugal force.

In the middle of that rugged country I found myself thinking of the ninety-nine bends of Daegwallyeong Pass, which I had crossed a lifetime ago in Korea. Compared to that, this was nothing.

Never figured I'd take a truck this size over Daegwallyeong, though.

We were grinding through the heart of Eldorado National Forest, worn down by the climbs and the curves, when Cody's voice came over the radio from the drone recon up ahead.

Pushing any farther on a road this brutal would have been asking for trouble. We made for the rest stop Cody had marked.

When we finally rolled up to the entrance, I went ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠quiet for a moment at what was waiting for us. It was the sign hanging over the old restaurant building.

And beside it, an old banner snapped in the wind. Across the faded cloth, in letters still a vivid red, was a single word.

The restaurant door was locked tight, of course, and the fuel pumps were locked down too. But the fact that a Korean had come all the way into the deep heart of Eldorado National Forest to sell ramen filled me with a strange mix of warmth and bitterness.

As if they had seen the catastrophe coming, they would have left this place and fled somewhere safe. For a moment, I wished them well.

The rest stop was smaller than I had expected, and our big trucks had to park along the shoulder of the road. Once the rest of the vehicles had filled the lot, we finally started settling in to put a long, hard day behind us.

The column of Skoolies that had been trailing us was nowhere in sight — they must have stopped somewhere else — and that meant we could spend the night with something close to ease. Nobody was walking this far on foot, and if a vehicle came anywhere near us, we would know it in a heartbeat.

And still that word — RAMEN — would not leave my head. In the end I picked up the radio and put out an all-call.

Sarah's startled voice had barely come through before Dave's cheerful one cut in over it.

I asked Sarah to bring a big pot and everyone's dishes over to my trailer. What am I making? I thought about it for a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠second.

I considered cooking a milder ramen for the kids, then changed my mind.

On a day like this, you go back to the classics.

I tore open the packets of Shin Ramyun without another thought. Into water already bubbling I dropped the soup powder and the dried flakes first — one of the little tricks for raising the boiling point. When the pot came back to a rolling boil I put in the noodles, and at the end I stirred in the eggs with care, working them in gently so the broth wouldn't lose its punch.

A fierce, spicy smell filled the trailer. Before long everyone had gathered at the side door with their own bowls in their hands. Sarah and Raven set a sour-cream salad beside the pot to take the edge off the heat.

They all hesitated for a moment in front of that unfamiliar crimson broth. Then, one by one, they tried a bite.

Hisses and sharp little breaths went up all around as the spice hit, but nobody put their chopsticks down. Adam sipped at the broth and muttered to himself.

"Ugh. That's a painful kind of good. But… it's weirdly addictive."

Dave had a comment for that.

"You should've heard the names I called that stuff the first time I tried it. And yet, somehow, I still get a craving for it now and then."

Gunner wiped the sweat off his forehead and kept it short.

"That's some fire."

Tank, still staring down into his bowl, added his own verdict.

"Huh. Hits hotter than vodka."

That got a laugh out of everyone, and Mike held out his empty bowl with a look of genuine regret.

"Chan, why'd you wait this long to let us taste something this good? In a winter this cold, nothing else comes close."

And that was how a long day in the Great Winter came to a close. After everyone had gone back to their own berths, I spent the rest of the night playing with Wolf.

The next day.

We were on the road again, cutting through Eldorado National Forest, and at one point we pulled onto the shoulder just so everyone could take in the view. It was the kind of country that made you stop.

The road ahead clung to the flanks of enormous granite cliffs, carved so close to the edge it looked ready to let go. Out one window the valley fell away hundreds of feet; out the other, a rock face that looked one hard freeze from coming down blotted out the sky. We hit a stretch along a cliff so sheer you couldn't even guess the drop, and only after the drone confirmed there was nothing coming the other way did we take both lanes and squeeze the long trailers through.

We started looking for a place to rest for a day before we pushed through the Sierra Nevada, and Cody's voice came over the radio.

A burst of static chewed through the channel, and then his voice came back.

The road grew narrower and more twisted as we went. Giant sequoias closed over the pavement and laid a cool dusk across the asphalt. To the left, a cliff dropped into nothing. To the right, moss-slick granite boulders stood as if they might roll at any second. A strange tension hung in the air, as if the primordial forest itself were holding its breath, watching the intruders.

We had been driving like that for I don't know how long when Gunner's voice came over the radio.

The column left Route 50 and turned onto an unpaved track running into the woods. It had the look of a road that logging trucks had used to haul out giant timber — rough, but wider than I expected, and our column had no trouble getting in.

A hundred meters in, the trees opened and a huge clearing appeared. High conifers ringed it on every side. From the outside, you would never have known it was there — perfect concealment. In one corner sat a rusted cable drum and an old shipping container, and beyond them a pickup with its tires collapsed into the dirt.

Once the whole column was in and settled, I called Gunner and Frank over.

"You two, take a look around. I want to know if there's anything dangerous out there — or anyone hiding."

Frank's eyes lit up.

"Chan, I've got a feeling there's salvage in this place."

The two of them drove off to sweep the interior of the logging site. That was when we heard engines coming from the access road we had used to get in. It was the same party that had been trailing us at a distance.

A taut silence snapped across the camp. Without a word, as if we had rehearsed it, everyone checked their weapons and took them in hand.

Two pickups, a camper, and a battered Skoolie rolled into the clearing one after another. They stopped at a careful distance and shut down as one.

For a moment, nothing moved. Then the driver's door of the lead pickup opened, slowly.

A solidly built man in middle age climbed out, turned toward us, and raised both hands high over his head, palms open — the universal sign that he meant no harm. He called out in a voice meant to carry to every one of us.

I started forward to answer the stranger, and Mike caught my arm.

"I'll go."

He said it quietly, then walked out in my place, unhurried. Every person in the column, myself included, put a hand on a weapon without a sound and watched his back.

Mike went toward them with an easy gesture, the kind that told a man he could lower his hands. I couldn't hear what was said, but Mike's low laugh carried back to us. A moment later he waved me over.

I went, without letting the tension go. Mike introduced me.

"This is Chan. He's the leader of our group."

The man who looked to be in charge held out his hand and introduced himself.

"Pleasure to meet you. I'm Anderson. This is my wife and our children, and over there are my friends and neighbors — the Smith and Walker families."

At Anderson's gesture, Smith and Walker climbed out of their own vehicles. I watched them leave a rifle and a shotgun on the driver's seats as they came.

We exchanged brief introductions and got their story. They were ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠three families from near Sacramento, and they had been getting ready to head east for some time. Anderson and the others were ordinary people in middle age; Smith and Walker were fathers with sons and daughters of their own.

They had heard the conscription order drop and decided they couldn't wait any longer. They had gotten on the road that same day.

Mike asked if they weren't worried about raiders on a road this hard. Anderson answered with a bitter smile.

"Of course we're afraid. But I'd rather fight raiders and find our own way than send my boy off to die and watch the rest of my family live and die on controlled rations."

Anderson was still finishing when Frank, back from sweeping the logging site, came up beside me and spoke in a low voice.

"Chan, that container over there has decent tools in it — chainsaws and the like — plus a few drums of diesel. I want to take a closer look."

"Do it."

Frank climbed into Gunner's pickup and headed back into the site. I turned to Anderson's people.

"You're welcome to spend the night here. But come morning, I need to know in advance whether you'll go on ahead of us or follow after we've left."

"Understood."

I added one more thing.

"Set your camp in the southern section of the clearing over there. After sundown we'll be putting warning traps on the access road we came in on, so don't leave the road at night."

Anderson nodded and thanked me. They looked like decent people, on the surface. But this was a world in which nobody could be fully trusted. I couldn't afford to let my guard down.

I was watching Anderson's party settle in at a careful distance when Frank came back and spoke quietly.

"Chan. You need to come see this yourself."

His face was full of excitement and curiosity.

"See what?"

"There's a big dry van trailer abandoned at the far end of the logging site."

"A dry van? What's something like that doing out here?"

Frank shrugged.

"No idea. It's locked up tight with a big padlock on the outside. I'm going to grab some tools and check it out properly."

I went to Mike, asked him to get the camp in order and keep the watch, and followed Gunner and Frank toward the dry van.

The unpaved track ran deeper into the logging site, and at the end of it a wide clearing opened up, the kind of place that looked as if the cutting had been in full swing not long ago. And there, standing alone like a ghost, was a massive dry van trailer. Fifty-three feet — almost the same size as mine.

We pulled up in front of it, and Frank, practically glowing, grabbed a cordless angle grinder and a heavy crowbar. He walked up to the rusted swing doors and, without a second's hesitation, set the grinder on the big padlock.

Sparks burst off the steel. Frank was just sliding the crowbar into the gap and starting to put his weight on it when Gunner stopped him.

"Hold it. Wait."

He lifted his M4, chambered a round, and brought it to his shoulder. The muzzle was pointed dead at the trailer doors.

"What's wrong, Gunner?"

Frank asked it like he didn't understand. Gunner didn't take his eyes off the sights.

"We don't know what's in there. Could be packed full of zombies, for all we know."