The Nation Chronicles: Book Two (The Nation Chronicles Trilogy 2)

by Wendell Sweet

  "Well," she said, "I did throw in some canned meat. If you think this is good, just wait until I have some decent stuff to cook with." Joe bugged his eyes out comically at her, and said, "You mean this isn't the good stuff?"

  "Not even," she joked back. They sipped at cups of hot tea as the fire crackled invitingly in front of them.

  "Um, Becky?" Joe asked. She turned to look at him. He reached into his front pocket and pulled out two plain gold bands. They glowed softly in the firelight, sparkling as they caught and reflected the flames. He took her hand. "I hope this fits," he said huskily. "I wasn't sure about the size, so I kind of guessed." He shrugged his shoulders looking embarrassed as he slipped one of the golden bands on her finger. It was a little loose, he noticed, as he slipped it over the knuckle of her ring finger. He looked up into her eyes and saw tears that matched his own. She reached out, taking the other band from his fingers, and slipped it onto his finger. The fit was better this time, but he had tried several different sizes in the small shop, and had picked the one that fit him best.

  "I can't believe you thought of this," she said softly. "It's beautiful."

  "Don't go getting all sappy on me, Becky," he said, although in truth he had more tears leaking from his eyes than she did. "I just, well... I guess I just wanted you to have something there to remind you. Not even that really, it's just sort of tradition," he finished lamely.

  "You're the one who's getting all sappy," she replied, "are you still going to be this romantic in ten years?"

  "Yes, I guess, I... yes. I love you, and so, yes I will. I've never been the sort of guy you could consider romantic. I used to hate reading sappy books even, you know, like romance novels? But I guess love can change that, Becky, for me at least."

  They held each other without speaking, and after a while they crawled into the tent and went to sleep. Joe had zippered the two sleeping bags together, and they cuddled close together as they slept. Not so much for warmth as for the closeness.

  They were at the edge of the Bitterroot Mountain range, and it was somewhat cooler at the higher elevation. They had both remarked though, on how much warmer it was than it should have been. Becky more so than Joe.

  "Usually," she had told him, "at this time of year," although it was still only June, "the nights were colder. Sometimes the temperatures would dip down to the forties, especially at higher elevations."

  Joe had done his best to explain the why of the warmer weather to her, and had managed to make her partially understand.

  "Does that mean the polar ice caps will melt?" she had asked.

  "They already are," he had replied, "but, they'll re-form. Just in a different place, I guess."

  In the morning they broke camp before the sun was even up and headed out into the warm pre-morning air.

  They both enjoyed the scenery as they drove along, and verbally promised that they would take their time when they returned, and stop as often as they wanted to, to look at the scenic mountains.

  They both knew it was possible that they might never return. That they could die in the north when they reached whatever destiny awaited them there, but they chose not to dwell on it, as they found it only saddened them.

  As they traveled, they encountered less and less stalled traffic, until the road before them opened up, totally deserted for miles at a stretch. Mid-morning brought them to the Idaho border, and if they had not had to slow down and find an alternate route around the City of Boise, they probably would have traversed the state and entered Utah by nightfall.

  The stalled traffic had returned several miles outside the city, but once they were within two miles of the city limits, it had become impassable. Even the breakdown lanes were packed full, and the traffic had forced them into the fields that flanked the highway to find a way around. Once past Boise however, the stalled traffic had once again given way and they spent the night camped beside the highway less than twenty miles from the Utah border.

  Noon of the following day brought them to the outskirts of Salt Lake City and more stalled traffic. After taking several shortcuts across open fields, they eventually came upon route 80, which, Joe found by checking the map; they could follow most of the way across the country. Joe knew, although he had not seen it with his own eyes, that their trip would become complicated somewhere just inside what was left of the state of Iowa. From there they would have to find some sort of a boat if they intended to finish the rest of their trip. There would still be a long distance to travel once they reached the other side of the great river that, Joe knew, now flowed across the country effectively cutting it in two.

  They spent that night by a quiet lake that reminded them of the one back in Washington. They were now in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, just outside the small town of Wamsutter. They were both becoming used to the traveling, and had each developed a routine they followed every night when they stopped. They had twice seen smoke off in the distance that day, as if to the east of them some great fire were burning. They had correctly guessed the reason long before they reached the fire. Someone, or something, had set the entire city to flame.

  For several miles before they reached and successfully passed around and beyond the city of Rock Springs, black oily smoke had hung over them in the sky. They had been forced to detour more than twenty miles to the south to get around the still burning city. Even from that distance they could feel the heat, and occasionally see the flames leaping into the sky.

  When they stopped that evening the glow of the fire was still visible in the distance behind them. They were both tired and dropped off to sleep before the last vibrant colors of dusk had fully faded from the sky.

  The next day they traveled steadily onward through the rising mountains. The going was slower and they had to stop several times to move stalled vehicles out of the roadway.

  Finally they had been stopped by the wreckage of three cars that had collided high in the Elk Mountain overpass. Joe managed to winch two of the cars out of the way, and together they had pushed the third off the roadway and over the steep rocky embankment.

  They had both watched as the car careened down the side, and finally flipped off a rocky ledge disappearing from view. At the expense of a small amount of paint, which was scraped from the truck as they passed the two remaining vehicles, they managed to get up and over the high pass before nightfall.

  Two additional days of travel brought them just into the Nebraska border and the small town of Bushnell. After Joe had set up the tent he walked back over to take a closer look at the truck while Becky started dinner.

  Becky had surprised him earlier in the day when they had stopped by the side of the road to rest. A large buck had wandered out of the trees to their left and stood staring at them in the roadway. She had used the Remington, and carefully sighting, had brought the large animal down. Between them they had managed to dress it out, and had filled a large plastic cooler in the back of the truck with the venison. The smell of fresh steaks sizzling on the fire made the delay worthwhile.

  The trip through the mountains had been tough on them, but it had been much harder on the truck, Joe saw now, as he looked it over.

  Most of the damage was superficial, long scrapes down both sides of the truck, a small dent here and there. Joe had jokingly wondered aloud whether or not the warranty would cover the damage. They had both laughed at that. The big problem however was mechanical.

  The brakes were borderline, soft and spongy, probably due to the rough terrain they had traversed. Joe had had to constantly ride the brakes as they went down steep inclines to get around the road when it was hopelessly blocked. The other problem was the motor. It had developed a constant rattle deep within the block, every time it climbed even a small grade. He supposed most of it was due to the fact that they had been forced to use whatever gas they could find, and several times that had been low grade unleaded. That and the fact that the fuel injection system had not been set up for high altitude. The truck was running better than tw
elve hours at a stretch, most days, and almost all of that was labored driving. As a result the truck had also developed several small oil leaks.

  He walked around the truck and looked it over carefully. The tires were chewed badly from the rocks they had crawled over. It looked ten years old, Joe realized, not like he had only recently driven it off the lot. He pulled the map out of the glove compartment, and after studying it, decided the truck would probably make it to Kimball, and they should be able to pick up something to replace it there. He really hated to though, as he had grown to like the truck a great deal, even become attached to it. But he realized, the truck would never make it the rest of the way.

  He tossed the map back into the glove compartment, shut the door and walked back over to the fire. The smell of the cooking venison was maddening.

  While he had meant it when he told Becky she had done wonders with the canned stuff, there was nothing like the real thing. He resolved to also hunt around for a case or two of Quick Cold to keep what was left of the meat fresh when they reached Kimball.

  Although they had seen plenty of wildlife, they had yet to see any people. They both felt, however, that there were people. For whatever reason they just weren't showing themselves. They both understood, to a point, what would make other people distrustful of them. They had seen a lot of evidence themselves, bodies horribly mangled, cities burned, and they had no wish to meet up with the people who had left it. They had found most of the bodies as they passed through some of the larger cities and towns, and most looked to have met with violent deaths. It was almost as if they were trying to finish the killing that the bombs had not been able to finish. It was sobering to both of them, and Becky had taken to carrying the machine pistol with her whenever they left the truck. Joe had already gotten into the habit of keeping the Remington close at hand, but he too now made sure it was with him, and the safety off, all of the time.

  Joe walked back from the truck and sat down next to the fire. He reached over and pulled Becky close, kissing her softly before he released her.

  "The truck's in bad shape, Beck. The one front tire's cut to the threads already." He had also checked the oil and other fluids as well. "She took two quarts of oil, last two we had, and it's still not touching the stick. Not good."

  She screwed up her face and looked at him pensively. "Well, I suppose I could get a second job. Then I guess we could afford a new one," her humor caught him by surprise, as it usually did, and he laughed out loud.

  "You're nuts, you know that?" he said as he kissed her again. They laughed together, and then he told her that they should be able to get another truck in Kimball the next day. After that she fished the meat, which she had wrapped in foil and placed over the coals at one edge of the fire, out, and they ate. They ate it with relish, and laughed at each other about what pigs they were, and then after a swim in a clear mountain stream that flowed nearby they crawled into the tent. They made love, and then fell asleep in each other’s arms.

  They were only three miles outside of Kimball the next morning, when the truck finally gave up the ghost.

  It died with one dreadfully long rattle deep within the block of the engine. Joe coasted over to the side of the road and they simply left it. He had tried to start it, but it would not turn over. Joe took the Remington, and Becky held the machine pistol as they walked along the road. It took better than an hour to walk into Kimball, but when they arrived it was still early morning.

  They had both been bothered by a feeling that they had been followed, or were being watched. It was unsettling, and they were constantly glancing around themselves as they walked, but they saw no one.

  They were standing on the pavement looking over a long line of vehicles, trying to decide which one to take, when the first shot came.

  The windshield on the truck directly in front of them imploded, covering the interior in small jewel like chunks of glass. They both reacted almost instantly, dropping to the ground and rolling towards the rear of the truck.

  When they reached the rear of the truck they both crouched low and sprinted deeper into the lot. Another shot rang out as they ran, and Becky watched as a wide hole was suddenly punched through the fender of a truck just a few inches ahead of her. She dropped to the ground and rolled over on her back, raising the machine pistol instinctively in front of her. It was all that saved her life.

  Joe was still running deeper into the lot, not realizing Becky was no longer beside him. The sound of the machine pistols chatter behind him stopped him cold, and he turned and ran back towards the front of the lot.

  When Becky had fallen, a tall dark haired kid had appeared from in front of the truck, and directly into the steel sight of the machine pistol. He raised what looked to be an automatic rifle, but before he could fire Becky began squeezing the trigger of the pistol, and it jumped and began to bark in her hands. Joe had just come up beside her, and watched as the man toppled over, nearly cut in two. The sound of screeching tires out on the roadway dragged his mind away from the still twitching body of the young man, and as Becky jumped up into a low crouch they both began to run towards the road. Joe stopped only long enough to pick up the automatic rifle from the ground where the man had dropped it.

  When they reached the road a small Jeep was moving rapidly away from them, and a blond haired man, not much more than a kid, Joe realized, was crouched in the back aiming a rifle at them, while a dark haired young woman sat behind the wheel. They both dropped once more to the ground, and opened up on the Jeep as the young man began to fire. The slugs from the young man’s rifle ripped into the pavement, tearing huge chunks out of it close to Joe's face as he fired back at the Jeep.

  The blond haired kid suddenly bolted upright, and seemed to jump from the rear of the Jeep. He landed in the roadway, rolled, and then was still. Both rear tires blew out on the Jeep as Becky's gun continued to speak, and before it had traveled far the young woman lost control, and it flipped several times rolling down the middle of the road. The young woman fell headfirst in a heap on the pavement where she had been thrown, and had then been rolled over by the Jeep as it continued to flip down the road.

  Smoke curled up from the overturned Jeep. Within seconds it attracted a small circle of flames from under the hood that grew and began to curl up and lick at the rubber of the still turning front tires.

  "You okay?" Joe asked, in a panicked voice as he looked at Becky.

  A thin stream of blood crept away from one elbow she had scraped on the pavement. "I think so," she said shakily. "Why did they do that?"

  He answered after they both had risen slowly to their feet, and he had her turn around to make sure she was not cut anywhere else. "That's the opposition," he stated flatly, "if we're the good guys, then I guess you could say they're the bad guys. Honey, we're going to have to be a lot more careful from now on."

  They both walked slowly down the road to where the bodies of the young man and the young woman lay, they were perhaps twenty feet apart. Becky had thought that possibly the young woman might still be alive, but she was not. Her neck was broken, and they had quietly carried both bodies off the road and into a field before returning to the lot. They had debated briefly whether or not they should bury them, but had decided not to. It was not a decision made out of spite though, but out of necessity. They had no idea whether the three were alone or not, and if they were not, and there were others close by, it might be best to get back to the lot, pick up a truck, and head back out to where the Chevy had broken down as quickly as they could.

  They walked calmly back to the dealership, and went inside. They both felt safer inside despite the wide glass windows that fronted the road.

  A huge four wheel drive Suburban sat on the showroom floor nestled in between other cars and trucks that surrounded it. It was obviously a heavy duty truck. It sat much higher than the pickup had, and the tires were much more aggressive, and the closed in space behind the drivers area would be an asset to them, Joe realized, much better than t
he open pick-up bed had been with its flimsy vinyl cover. He walked around the truck, noticing that it was also equipped with a winch as the pickup had been, but this one looked to be a lot sturdier to him, strictly heavy duty.

  He walked over to a slightly raised area, where a board filled with keys spanned most of the rear wall behind a small, but long counter top. He gave Becky the keys to a convertible that was between them and the doors, and she moved it while Joe jockeyed the truck around until he managed to get it aimed at the wide glass doors set into the side of the building. He drove it outside, checking the gas gauges as he did.

  The truck had duel tanks, and both of them were full. Not that they'll last any longer than the pickups single tank, he thought. But he was still glad that they were full. They edged carefully around the still burning Jeep, and made their way slowly out of town and back to the pickup, watching the side roads as they went. They were both spooked.

  When they were still more than a hundred yards from the pickup, they could tell that they'd had visitors while they were gone. Joe edged the Suburban up carefully to the truck and they searched the surrounding countryside, but decided whoever had been there was gone.

  The truck was demolished. Someone or some-ones had attacked it with a vengeance. All of the windows were smashed, and the black vinyl cover that had spanned the bed of the truck was slashed to ribbons. All the tires had been flattened, and they had dented or punctured nearly everybody panel. The camping gear, along with the rest of the venison, was gone. The map they had been using lay ripped and shredded across the front seat, which had also been slashed.

  They only walked around the truck once, but it was enough. They both turned without speaking and walked back to the Suburban.

  "Doesn't matter," Joe said once they were safely back inside the Suburban, "we can pick up more gear down the road. I saw a small sporting goods store about a mile back, it had a little shopping center right next to it."