The idea of losing them choked my throat closed.
Rachel winced but didn’t weep.
Dutch shook his head, grinning. “Independence Pass? You trying to kill us all, little sister?”
“I ain’t your sister,” I rifled back. Oh, he could get to me. Shar was right, he was like Pilate, and he could push my buttons just like my father did.
Dutch seemed unperturbed over my outburst. “If we try to make it over the pass without supplies, we’ll die. You understand that, right? If we get snowed in, we’ll end up eating one another.”
“We’ll have to chance it. It’s still autumn. Roads still might be okay. What other choice do we have?” I was having a hard time breathing; what Dutch was saying scared me, but there I was getting mad at him for saying it.
I was just glad we’d fought together. I trusted him more, though I still had a hard time liking him any.
“We have lots of choices, Princess,” Dutch said evenly. The firelight painted him in a red glow, devilish.
Wren struck a concrete wall.
“Wren!” I hollered.
She whirled. “Jesus Christ, Cavvy, we can’t give up on Pilate. He’s our Pilate.”
“I know, I know,” I said. “But you know as well as I do, going back to I-70 is suicide.”
Wren softened and took a deep breath. “It’s awful leaving them. It’s so jackering jacked up.”
“We don’t know where they are.” Sharlotte spoke over Marisol’s head. “They might be just fine.”
I recalled what Pilate had said before. “Yeah, Shar, faith, not fear. We’ll make it over the pass.”
“I like the Holy Bible as well as the next man,” Dutch said, “but Daniel didn’t waltz into the lion’s den and expect the Lord to save him, Princess.”
I erupted and glared at him while I addressed my sister. “Wren, dammit, you need to deal with your boyfriend. He needs to understand that he’s just along for the ride, so he don’t get any kind of say about what we do or where we go.”
Dutch smiled at Wren. “I’m assuming Cavvy doesn’t like to be called princess or little sister. Do I have that right?”
Wren found her own smile. “No, she don’t. Let me guess, Dutch, you think all her plans are crazy bad and will get us killed.”
“Something like that,” he said with a subtle sneer on his handsome face.
“You know who you’re dealing with, don’t you?” Wren asked.
“Wellers.” He sighed.
Wren nodded. “And you can take that to the bank. So, shut up, do what you’re told, and hang on to your dangle. I can’t promise you’ll live, but I can promise you the time of your jackering life.”
And they both started laughing.
Which disgusted me. Yes, everything Dutch said was right, but still, I couldn’t think of another way. Heading back to I-70 would take us right into the den of ARK lions.
If we could make it over Independence Pass, we could get through to Denver without the ARK knowing. It might already be too late. It had dropped twenty-five centimeters of snow down here, but up there, there could meters. We wouldn’t know until we tried.
Problem was, going to take a peek might get us all killed. We’d wind up dead like the bodies in Aspen lying in their graves of snow.
(iii)
There wasn’t much to salvage in the apartments, but we did scrounge up a couple of sapropel lanterns, and Wren took them out to scavenge more. Dutch went with her, thank goodness. They came back with backpacks of ammunition and, wonder of wonders, three freeze-dried dinners for the six of us.
We boiled water for our banquet of MeadowHome dishes: Chunky Beef Stew, Spicy Tamil Lentils, and Blanca’s Burrito Blast, which was a big sack of Mexican-food goodness full of shredded chicken, green chiles, and refried beans.
We were eating in silence when Rachel spoke up. “We won. We aren’t dead. And Pilate and Micaiah aren’t dead. Tonight, they’re feasting and enjoying life. Right now.”
At first, I was confused. How did she know?
But Wren took over. “You got that right. Pilate is smoking a cigar and drinking coffee, though it keeps him awake. He’d say that he’d sleep when he’s dead if God lets him. ’Cause God throws big parties up in those mansions in heaven, mostly for the sinners since the saints only like church.”
I took up the story. “Of course, Micaiah will tell him that drinking a stimulant before bedtime isn’t logical.”
That brought laugher, though it hurt my heart a little. Micaiah without emotions was a sorrowful sort of creature.
“And cigars don’t make any kind of sense,” Sharlotte put in.
“Eating smoke!” Us Wellers sisters all cheered, repeating what Pilate would sometimes say when anyone tried to argue his nicotine addiction away.
Rachel then imagined a nice story for us. “We’ll get our Stanleys out, and we’ll cross the pass without any trouble. We’ll be so far ahead of the ARK they will never catch up. We will walk into Kansas free, where we will see Pilate and Micaiah again. Pilate and I will get married.”
“You could get married at our house in Burlington,” I said. “We’ll have paid back Howerter by then, somehow. We’ll have a big party, invite the entire Juniper, and Dutch can preside.”
The scoundrel smirked. “I am a licensed minister. Kind of.”
“Pilate would love that,” Wren put in.
Rachel sighed. “We’ll get married at your ranch then, since you’ve all worked so hard to save it. And Pilate and I will have a whole family of girls. I will name the first three Sharlotte, Wren, and Cavatica.”
“Irene,” Wren sobered a minute. “Name her Irene, Rachel. Wren is a hard name to carry.”
“The next three can be Shannon, Renee, and Cathy,” Sharlotte said, recalling our fake names Micaiah had given us in Glenwood Springs.
“Never! I hate the name Cathy now,” I said.
“And I’m hardly a Renee. But remember, you’ll have to come up with boy’s names as well ’cause by that time we’ll have fixed the Sterility Epidemic.” Wren turned to Rachel. “So, you and Pilate? I can see it.”
Rachel blushed, then nodded. “Thank you.”
“How can you see it?” I asked. Even I had trouble with such an idea, and Rachel had confided in me right away.
Wren shrugged. “Pilate likes his skanks crazy. Always has. Always will. It’s why he gets along with us Wellers.”
Dutch watched us banter, a smile on his face, and a little bit of stew on his chin. Kind of made him look like a little boy. Maybe he was all right. Maybe.
Marisol stopped crying to take interest in our fun.
“I am not a crazy skank,” Rachel insisted.
And that made us all laugh harder. Warmth, food, laughter, it felt like a party.
Though I’d have traded it all to free our Stanleys and get us on our way. Every hour we tarried could prove lethal in the end.
At least I was sitting. My wounded feet started to throb.
(iv)
I woke in the middle of the night, checked my watch, and found it was a little before 5:00 am. The fire was chewing through a cabinet door but was nearly finished with it. I threw on a split piece of pine, dry enough that it wouldn’t be much more than a snack for the flame.
I was next up for guard duty. It was going to be a long couple of hours before I had enough light to really troubleshoot our Stanley problem, though I’d been pondering it nonstop.
Around me in the baby’s room, everyone was sleeping. Dutch held Wren, while Sharlotte comforted Marisol, even in her dreams. I set the baby doll I’d been cuddling next to them.
On my hurt feet, I limped out the door. My soles would heal, and that was all there was to it.
Outside it was snowing but not fiercely. We didn’t need any more accumulation, but the clouds kept it warmer than a blank sky. It wasn’t frigid, just freezing. I was happy there.
Rachel stood next to the backhoe, gazing down on the lifeless body of Praetor Gianna Edger.
“It’s fleeting, isn’t it?” she murmured.
“Life you mean,” I said. “Yeah, Rachel, it is.”
Rachel turned to me. She was bundled up in ARK gear, white and gray camouflage. “This could’ve been me. This probably should’ve been me. Thank you. Instead of killing me back in Utah, you spared me. You gave me emotions. You gave me life. Thank you.” Then she hugged me.
I expected her to cry—over our situation, over Pilate—but she didn’t. In fact, she’d started the party of the night before.
“Rachel, how are you doing?” I asked.
She pulled back and smiled. “I’ve been telling myself stories. And though it’s not logical, the narratives have brought me peace. I’m lying to myself, but I find that it’s far preferable than worrying and imagining the horrible things that might be happening to Pilate.”
“Faith, not fear,” I said.
“Hope as a weapon,” Rachel countered. “This is why humans tell stories of heroes, isn’t it? To trick themselves into hoping and making themselves feel better.”
I frowned. “Well, it doesn’t sound too good when you put it like that.”
She cocked her head. “I was created to be a weapon. Good or bad has nothing to do with my efficacy. Now, I have emotions, and I must alter my thinking to better handle this new configuration so I can remain efficient. Before, when I was becoming more human, I thought such stories were worthless. Now, I see their worth.”
“Yeah, humans like stories all right. It’s why Lonely Moon makes so much money even though it has nothing to do with reality.”
Rachel nodded. “Human stories shape reality. I see that now. Tibbs Hoyt should create his soldiers with an imagination to visualize their imperatives. Simply following orders might be efficient, but there is an added variable which they lack. It’s why us Wellers have been able to defeat the ARK army over and over.”
I loved that she was echoing what we said ... us Wellers ... that she included herself in our family.
“Let’s hope our luck doesn’t run out,” I said.
My newest sister held up a hand. “It’s not luck. You tell a better story than Tibbs Hoyt does. And you believe it. There is power in that.” She paused. “I’ve always been baffled, however, by the tale the Christians tell. Jesus was a hero who failed and was slain. How can people find hope in such a narrative?”
This one I could answer easily from my Catholic upbringing. “Jesus loved people, Rachel. He loved all people. And he gave up his life telling a story about the Kingdom of God, where everybody gets to eat, where there’s justice and mercy, and where all humans love all humans. The rich even wash the feet of the poor. He didn’t back down a bit, even when threatened with death.”
“He sacrificed himself for all of humankind, so that humans might love one another.” Rachel blinked. “If I altered my imperatives to be more Christian, I would expand them beyond our family. My Christian imperatives would be to learn how to be kind to everyone I meet, become part of the human family, and protect everyone from harm.”
“That’s right ’cause Jesus saw everyone as his family,” I said. “It’s a high ideal, and us humans have failed at even coming close, but now does it make more sense?”
“Self-sacrifice.” Rachel nodded. “Dying so that others may live. I understand now.”
And she did. I could see it all click into place.
I was just glad she didn’t ask about the resurrection. Not sure what I could say about that.
Rachel changed subjects. “I have something to show you ... it could be the next big, bad wolf that we have to face in this fairytale.”
Those words made me shiver. “What do you mean?”
She motioned me over to an alleyway between two crumbling walls. She lit one of our lanterns and held it up. In the mud, crusted with ice and snow, was a footprint. Definitely a humanish footprint—five toes, a bridge, and a heel—but the imprint was abnormally thick and impossibly long, a half meter at least.
I bent and stared at the stupidly huge mark in the frozen ground.
The hogs had been in Aspen.
“Heroes need villains to fight,” Rachel said.
More shivers for me.
(v)
In the weak morning light of the snowstorm, the footprint appeared even more sinister. We all had theories, but Dutch didn’t think a hog had created the footprint.
His eyelids were low as he tried to convince us we were seeing things. “Come on, people, if the Juniper had mutant monsters, one of us would’ve seen them in all our travels. The snow just froze up wrong. Please.”
“Maybe the hogs are new. Micaiah only recently smuggled the Gulo Gamma and Gulo Delta in from the ARK.” Wren shrugged. “Well, Dutch, the same stuff is in me. Who knows. I might grow into a hog. Would you still love me?”
“Always.” Dutch rolled his eyes at his own lie.
And Wren just laughed.
How could Wren be so casual about it all?
I didn’t know. But we had to work to do.
We used the last of the diesel in the backhoe to dig a ramp with a gentle enough slope we could walk the Stanleys out of the pit. Getting them upright took more work, but we found strong cable, attached it to the backhoe, and drove forward until both Stanleys were back on their feet. It was still morning when we finally walked the Stanleys out of the pit. At least their fireboxes had cooled—one less thing to worry about.
Our next biggest problem was food. Getting trapped on Independence Pass and starving to death was more likely than freezing to death. The big, fat snowflakes weren’t helping me none either.
While I worked, Wren went on another salvage run. She came back shaking her head. “Place is either burned out, froze in, or completely jacked up. Like running salvage in a campfire. Sorry, Cavvy. We were lucky to find those MeadowHome dinners last night.”
I sighed. I’d hoped Wren might discover another cache of clothes, and I could find some proper walking shoes. Oh well. Though not very comfortable, Eryn Lopez’s cross-country ski boots were working fine, and I’d changed my bandages. There’d been a little discharge, but I wasn’t worried. I was healing.
The only thing that really mattered was the Stanleys. They had survived the fall with only minor damage; a few more cracks in the windshield and some pistons I had to hammer back into place. They’d work. Thank God. But did we have enough fuel to keep the engines going?
Back in the Stanleys, we tromped away from the battlefield Aspen had become.
Outside of town, the wind had blown the long yellow grasses clean of snow. More hogs had crushed footprints into the grass and mud. Their toes pointed to where we were going.
It seemed only a matter of time until we came across them.
Chapter Seven
The Devil lives in Dallas
So I went up to Nome
Got called down to Denver
For a dumb ol’ visit home
The Devil lives in fire
As everyone knows
But his kiss is cold
As cold as snow
—Pearl Cornell
(i)
THAT MORNING WE PUSHED past Aspen and started up the slope of Independence Pass. I longed for the storm to break, to see sunshine and a blue sky, but instead I got clouds and more snow.
And worse yet: wind.
Mix snow and wind together and you get a blizzard. And above three thousand meters, a blizzard can bury you in a minute.
We ate the rest of the canned fruit and the jerky. Which left us with green beans and stale saltines.
In the growing wind, we continued our march, going up toward hidden peaks lost in the storm. All traces of the hogs disappeared; now the snow was a pristine layer of white across the ground.
We were alone.
The wind worsened.
The snow deepened.
The Stanleys were six meters tall, with the first four meters being leg. The snow was a meter deep and would drift up to twice or three times that
. In some places, bare asphalt showed through, but then I wondered why the salvage monkeys hadn’t burned it. Answer was easy enough: too high; too remote. Nothing up here was worth salvaging.
Not five minutes later, the asphalt would be gone, lost under a wall of drifted snow. I would have to tromp forward, fall back, go forward, fall back, and slowly move the Marilyn through the meters of snow. Took forever, and we were working against the clock. We’d feasted and rested the night before, and that gave the ARK precious hours in their search for us.
And more accumulated snow.
The Audrey followed me with less trouble, but always, on either my left or my right, the road fell away to nothing. I was having trouble seeing, and I had to be careful, so careful. One wrong step and we’d tumble off into an abyss or lose our way. The white of the snow blowing fiercely got mixed up with the snow on the ground until I couldn’t tell what was snow-blowing sky and what was ground.
The Marilyn’s pressure was good, but we were going through water fast. The engines were red hot, and we were all sweating. Wren rode next to me. She was going through Eryn Lopez’s diary, but she kept falling asleep while trying to read. I was kind of glad for that. Then Wren would wake and clear the window using the broom. In our stash of salvage, she had found an orange and brown woven wool hat with matching mittens. The hat didn’t flatter her, but still somehow made her cute. It was like her natural beauty could make anything sparkle.
Finally, I stopped the Marilyn. It was a little after noon, but we couldn’t see the sun; we couldn’t see anything. And it was at least another hundred kilometers over the pass.
“You can’t see, can you?” Wren finally asked.
“No, not a bit.”
“What’s up, Cavvy?” Sharlotte asked through the communication tube.
“Can’t see to drive, Shar.”
Silence. We couldn’t stop. And if we were going to turn around, now was the time.
I closed my eyes. Oh, I wished for Micaiah and Pilate. Pilate could tell me stories about when he went through the mountains, about our chances, how far it might be. Pilate had been all over the Juniper.
Storm Girls (The Juniper Wars Book 4) Page 8