Eggs

While Frank haggled with the rest-stop attendant over parking, I reshuffled the convoy. If we were going to spend the night here anyway, I needed to turn the place into the safest, most efficient temporary foothold I could.

We took the innermost pocket of the rest-stop lot, a corner boxed in on three sides by buildings and woods. Gunner's F-550 and Tank's Peterbilt locked down the entrance in a U-shaped defensive line, and inside that perimeter the bus motorhomes and caravans nested in. The dry van we'd hauled out of the logging site settled into its new life as both bunkhouse and workshop.

"That's Frank for you. Toss the guy a carton of smokes and a sack of almonds, and he's telling us to use the parking lot like we leased the whole damn place."

Dave came back laughing. Frank followed, shrugging.

"The man's got to eat. World's gone to hell, but business is still business."

And so we secured a night of safety on the shores of Lake Tahoe, and everyone got moving at once.

Mike, Tank, and I went over every vehicle's engine and tires, then topped off from Jed's tanker. On the other side of the lot, under Mike's direction, the conversion of the new dry van was already in full swing.

"Damon. Start that insulation on this wall. You don't want people whining about the cold, you do it right."

"Cody, fire up that generator over there. I need to test the welder!"

Everyone grumbled under Mike's barked orders, but they moved as one. In half a day the dry van went from a plain cargo box to a snug bunkhouse and a fully equipped mobile workshop. Before long the sun was dropping behind the western mountains, and a red dusk stretched long across the frozen lake.

As always, Sarah's dinner call came crackling over the radios, and everyone gathered in the warm motorhome.

Eleanor offered a prayer for all of us, as she did every evening. Her voice was more devout than it had ever been.

"...We give thanks for bringing us safely across those rugged mountains, and we ask that abundant blessing rest upon Your servant Chan, who always leads us on the right path... Amen."

Once the meal began, conversation drifted, as it always did, to the strange peace of South Lake Tahoe.

"It's a weird place, honestly. I thought the whole world had gone to hell, but here it feels like time just... stopped."

Dave said it around a spoonful of stew. Frank snorted.

"Not stopped. Isolated. The mountains did the work of a natural fortress. Which is why we're about to get gouged on prices, but still."

"Oh, and about the draft. I talked to the rest-stop guy for a minute. The mood around here is interesting."

Every eye at the table turned to him.

"The El Dorado County sheriff, the local folks — none of them are playing along with the federal government. So except for the people who volunteered, there hasn't been a single forced conscription."

"Is that even possible? No way the feds just sit still for that."

Dave asked it like he couldn't quite believe it. Frank grinned.

"This is a tourist town. Every hotel and resort warehouse was stuffed to the rafters with food and supplies."

"So they've got no reason to scrape for whatever crumbs the feds are handing out. We're getting by just fine on our own — why send our kids off to get killed? That's the mood, apparently."

Mike, who had been listening, spoke with a worried look.

"That's not bad news, but we still can't ease off. That's the locals' story. No telling what standard they'll hold outsiders to."

Everyone nodded. Then Sarah spoke up, as if she'd just remembered.

"I gave Mrs. Anderson a few eggs and some dried fruit earlier, and she teared up she was so grateful."

I took a moment to put my thoughts in order, then spoke.

"Depending on how tomorrow looks, we might stay here a while longer, if things check out."

Color rose in Raven's face, and in Dave's and Frank's.

"Really? The kids were saying they'd love a real rest for once."

"Now we're talking. Then we've definitely got to see that market!"

I looked around at everyone and went on.

"We may not have a water resupply while we're crossing the Nevada desert, so let's get anything that needs water done here first."

"If you've got laundry, bring it all to my trailer and the motorhome. Tonight everyone showers in hot water, taking turns."

At that last part, Bill and Tank — who had been looking pretty grimy from going too long without a proper wash — lit up. Dinner ended with hope and anticipation crossing the table, and people scattered to take their rest.

Not long after, my friends knocked on the trailer door. I opened it to find Gunner leading the way, with Bill, Tank, and Mike behind him, each carrying an armload of laundry.

I snorted a laugh.

"We're going to have to run this washer two or three times at least."

I grabbed Mike's son Damon and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠showed him how to work the machine, and soon Carlos showed up with his own pile of clothes.

The washer hummed on one side while the men took turns under the trailer's small shower, hot water streaming over them.

Gunner was out in under ten minutes, toweling his wet hair, and Carlos stared.

"Whoa, Gunner. How do you even shower that fast?"

"For a Marine, that guy's actually running late."

Mike's joke filled the trailer with laughter.

While people waited their turn, trading jokes, I opened my laptop and went back to the Tahoe subreddit. A pinned notice at the top of the main page caught my eye.

I read it through carefully. For an isolated city, they were handling things with a surprising amount of system.

The thought crossed my mind that we could stay a few more days — and from there, that it might not be a bad place to settle.

But only for a moment.

This was someone else's land. We had no foundation here. A community that shut out the federal government had no reason not to shut out outsiders the same way. Settling would be far too uncertain, and potential threats still crouched to the north and south of us.

Even so, it was the first rest that had actually felt like rest in a long time, and everyone drifted off to their own quarters and to bed.

We didn't set warning traps around the rest stop. With an uncounted stream of people coming and going, it would have been too easy to cause an accident — and more than that, I didn't want the unnecessary attention of the local community. Instead, we worked it out with Anderson's group and posted a night watch in pairs.

The night passed without incident, and the next morning opened on a little commotion.

Frank's son Liam and Raven's son Adam, along with the rest of the younger ones, were wound tight with anticipation for Tahoe's market. Mike put himself in their way, and he was not moving.

"No. You kids are not going."

Liam protested, his voice full of grievance.

"Why not? They said there's no draft here!"

"That's the locals' story."

Mike looked around at the children, his voice calm and absolutely final.

"Think about it. They leave their own kids be — then they spot some young outsiders passing through. What do you think they do?"

"That's..."

"What's to stop them from thinking, 'Perfect for filling a quota,' and handing you straight over to the feds? You always plan for the worst."

I backed his caution.

"Doesn't hurt to be careful. The army's scarier than raiders."

Dave's mother Eleanor joined in, talking the children down. In the end, it was decided that Dave, Frank, and I would go to the market first to take the temperature of the place.

Anderson and Walker followed in their pickup.

We arrived at a closed parking lot near the Beachcomber Inn Resort. It was only about a mile, a short hop, but the scene waiting there was a different world from the quiet streets of Tahoe.

For a moment, looking at what spread out in front of us, I lost my words.

It could have been a great trading post where the caravans of the ancient Silk Road had come to gather. The wide parking lot was so packed with vehicles and stalls of every kind there was barely room to step, and even the resort lobby was crowded with counters and people.

One man had a truck bed stacked high with canned goods. Another was selling furs and hides. Someone sat cleaning firearms, waiting for customers. Someone else had glittering electronic parts laid out. There was even the smell of homemade liquor and bread. The cries of people selling, the voices haggling over prices, the laughter of children — all of it tangled together, throwing off a living energy in the middle of the chaos.

Anderson and Walker split off to hunt down what they needed. Dave, Frank, and I started working our way deeper into the market together.

Goods of every kind lay scattered in what looked like disorder, though there seemed to be a logic of its own underneath. Then Frank spotted a stall that looked to specialize in hunting ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠gear and waved us over.

Hunting rifles, crossbows, camouflage, and optics of every kind were laid out across the counter. Frank picked up a black monocular that fit neatly in one hand and passed it to me.

"Chan, take a look at this. ATN monocular night sight. Digital, not a military intensifier tube, so it doesn't perform quite as well — but for night watch, it'll do the job just fine."

I looked through the thermal monocular he'd handed me. Frank was right. It wasn't as sharp as military glass, but picking a person's heat — or an animal's — out of the dark was no problem at all.

"Not bad. Can it take recoil, though?"

"Sure. Mount it on a hunting-rifle scope and it'll hold."

While I turned the monocular over in my hands, Frank pointed to a camouflage-colored box about the size of his palm.

"And we have to buy those. That's exactly what we've been looking for."

What he was pointing at was a hunting trail cam.

"Outdoor camera with a motion sensor. Stake a few of them along the approaches to camp, and when somebody comes in they automatically grab a photo or a short clip and ping you wireless. Same as posting a sentry that never sleeps."

Right there we bought twelve Browning trail cams, five ATN thermal monoculars, and two SIG Sauer KILO 3000 BDX binoculars that would work in low light.

The seller's price was steep — he wanted four thousand five hundred dollars. Frank glanced at Dave and me and gave a little nod.

"If we need it."

Dave snorted a laugh and stepped forward. He pulled a thick wad of cash from the money belt at his waist, counted it off with a crisp flick of bills, and handed the amount to the merchant.

Even in the middle of all this chaos, the dollar was still the most trusted medium of exchange. At least in Tahoe.

We gathered up the new gear and started working the market again, and that was when I noticed a knot of people clustered and murmuring around one stall in particular.

Curiosity pulled me closer. On the counter sat a box carefully lined with straw, and inside it were plump, beautiful brown eggs.

"All right, all right! Fresh eggs! Only two cartons left!"

At the seller's cry, people shoved money forward over one another. Someone asked the price, and the seller shouted it back.

"One dozen — twelve to a carton — fifty-five dollars. I don't haggle, so speak up if you're buying!"

A carton of eggs that would have gone for about four dollars in the old world was selling for more than ten times that.

Dave, Frank, and I looked at each other and, as if we'd rehearsed it, the same knowing smile crossed all three of our faces. Dave jabbed Frank in the ribs and muttered low.

"Didn't we have a few chicks hatch not too long ago?"

Frank's eyes lit up.

"What? For real? Then we need to track down an empty trailer right now, don't we?"

"That's right. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Time to grow the chicken wagon. Haha."