Deep Trek

by neetha Napew

  "I bet that Nanci makes it."

  Jim didn't particularly want to pursue that line of conversation, either, and he busied himself with dishing out the steaming oatmeal.

  "Maybe," he said. "Eat this before it gets cold. We'll have a last look around and then leave before noon."

  "Can I go to the gift shop again, Dad?"

  "No. Yeah. Not if you bring any more surplus junk along with you."

  "Junk!" Her voice for a moment reminded him with agonizing clarity of his dead sweetheart from high school days, Lori. "What junk?"

  "Wind chimes made from hand-colored mica. Place mats showing the Golden Gate Bridge. That doll that you filled with gunk and then squeezed it and…"

  "It did the business," she said, squeaking with delight. "You laughed, Dad, at that."

  "Laughing to keep from puking, Heather. And those slices of wood."

  "Burls. They grew, didn't they? No Earthblood on them."

  It was true. Heather had found the wrecked gift shop and eatery, with everything edible or drinkable gone. But the shelves of souvenirs of Muir Woods remained, including the redwood burls and hundreds of packets of seeds of all sorts. The girl had spent hours out on her own in the cold and wet, cultivating a small patch of ground and planting all of the seeds. Wildflowers and shrubs and squashes. Jim reckoned that most of them would die, but some might make it.

  A small start to the greening of the ailing planet.

  "And no more piñon candles, Heather."

  "All right, Dad, but… What's that?"

  Jim had already heard the sound, a crackling in the brush, not too far away on the other side of their van. He drew the Ruger Blackhawk Hunter in what had become an easy reflex action in the past three months and put his finger to his lips.

  "Animal," mouthed the girl, catching the hoarse, snuffling noise.

  He stood up, waiting.

  Something was padding through the wet mud and leaf mold that lay everywhere.

  He had spotted tracks all around their camp every morning. Some of them looked like the marks of a sizable bear, but he'd never been that good on identifying spoor when he'd been doing his survivalist courses.

  "Dad."

  It was a bear.

  Black bear.

  Jim eased the hammer down on the powerful handgun, smiling at the fat little cub as it rolled its way past the dented front of their trusty van. It couldn't have been more than a couple of months old, its bright button eyes staring fearlessly up at the two intruders.

  "Cute," said Jim.

  "Shoot it, quick, Dad. Be good eating."

  "It's a little cub." He was shocked at his daughter's instant, cold-blooded reaction. "I couldn't… Heather, it'd be like blasting Bambi."

  "Bullshit, Dad." Her hand reached for the Ruger. "Give it me, if you won't do it. We need meat."

  It was true.

  The kick of the gun ran to his shoulder, and the furry bundle rolled over dead. The echoes of the shot seemed to ring through the trees forever.

  As father and daughter began together to butcher the little carcass, Jim kept his handgun ready. He knew from books and vids that the next likely event would be the appearance of the giant, enraged mother of the cub.

  But nothing happened.

  The melting snow continued to drip from the trees, and low clouds blew their sullen way across the forest. The blood ran away, turning pink in the trickling water, and Jim tossed the furry skin and innards off into the undergrowth.

  A profound depression settled over his soul.

  The memories of so many deaths plagued him, and he began to anticipate a future that seemed ever more hopeless. Despite the occasional clues, there was no real guarantee that Aurora even existed.

  Perhaps they'd never find it and wander the deserted blacktops and avoid the hostile fortress communities forever, just he and Heather. Until death would relieve them of their lonely suffering.

  He stood up and wiped the blade of his sheath knife in the soft earth, then dried it on the leg of his pants. Being on the move again would be the only way of shaking off the pervading sadness, he decided.

  "We going, Dad?"

  "Yeah. I'll find a good place to leave a note for the others. If they are… I'll nail it up to the board by the main entrance to the woods."

  Just then they both spun around, alerted by the sudden noise. Out of the shadows beneath the trees something big and bulky was rushing fast toward them. Breathing harsh and heavy.

  Jim drew the Ruger and waited, motioning Heather to stand behind him.

  The large shape burst out, water glistening on its shoulders, teeth bared.

  Bared in a smile.

  "Hi Jim and hi Heather. It me, Sly."

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Jeff Thomas couldn't stand the suspense.

  When he'd heard the voice of Nanci Simms as she threw back the bolts on his cell door, the ex-journalist of the West American had nearly fainted. It wasn't something that he'd ever done before, though there'd been some desperate moments during his twenty-five years of life.

  He'd stood up slowly, but the small room seemed to have filled with a dense mist. His own voice sounded hollow and very far away. "Hi, Nanci. What a surprise."

  "We're leaving, Jeff. Now."

  She took his arm as he stumbled and nearly fell. Then she thrust a heavy .38 in his belt. "Pull yourself together. Flake out on me now, Jefferson, and I'll cause you some swift and grievous suffering before I kill you."

  "I didn't mean to leave you," he heard himself mumbling as they moved out into the corridor. "How's your leg?" But it seemed as if the woman wasn't hearing him. He felt as if he wanted to throw up on the floor.

  When he saw the two examples of Nanci's brutal handiwork, he did throw up.

  "We'll talk about you leaving me in a while. First things first, Jefferson."

  He remembered her sliding back the massive security bolts on the door at the end of the corridor. The surge of cool fresh air, cleansed the stench of blood and death for a few precious moments.

  Then they were in a surprisingly clean four-by-four and hurtling through darkness, breaking a fence and shots whizzing around them.

  But it was all like a dream.

  Nanci was at his side, lips tight, whistling "Marching through Georgia" quietly to herself as she steered the vehicle over sand and rock. She was driving much faster than Jeff thought wise—not that he was going to tell her.

  He wasn't about to say anything.

  Nanci broke the silence when they'd been going for something close to forty-five minutes.

  "She'll put a chopper up after us."

  "Who?"

  "Woman they call the chief of the Hunters of the Sun. Learned her name. Margaret Tabor. Used to be Flagg's mistress. It's possible she chilled him and made it look like food poisoning. Guess that we shall never know the truth about that."

  "Why would she bother to send a helicopter after us? Two guards can't matter that much."

  "Your brain would make a rabbit's turd look like a bowling ball, Jefferson."

  "Well," he said in a pained voice, but decided now wasn't a time to take insult.

  "Nothing to do with guards. What you have to realize is that this country now lies between two causes. Between anarchy and freedom. Light and dark. Yin and yang. Call it what you like, and you still got Zelig and all of those backing the ideal of Aurora—the dawn, Jefferson. Set against the militaristic dictatorship of the Hunters of the Sun."

  "But you don't know where that is, do you? Aurora? I don't."

  "They don't know that we don't know. They screwed up in a big way, Jefferson. Took too long to interrogate you properly… and didn't recognize who I was. We were lucky. By now she'll have realized who they let slip. They want us back so they'll try hard. That's why we're going to ground as soon as I can locate a suitable place to hide from air recon."

  Jeff grinned. He was beginning to think that Nanci was going to forgive him for his minor mistake of leaving her to d
ie from a severed artery, alone in the desert.

  Nanci rolled the vehicle to a halt, spotting some abandoned outbuildings beyond a dried creek. "Been over some bare rocks, so they should lose the trail. She won't know which way we've gone. And I wonder if I can outguess her. I can." Switching off the engine, she smiled at her companion. "We have at least four or five hours before it'll be safe to move on. Plenty of time for a little lesson on manners, Jefferson."

  "No, please, Nanci."

  "Oh, yes, dear boy. This is going to please Nanci a great deal. I can promise you that."

  THE MCGILL CONVOY picked its slow and careful way westward across what had once been the wealthiest state, finding a way via blue highways and dirt roads toward San Francisco then north into Muir Woods. They'd be late on the agreed date, but by no more than four or five days.

  Muir Woods, where some or all of the others might be waiting for them… or maybe none of them, depending on what luck, skill or blind fate dealt them.

  Mac plotted his route each day with Jeanne, Paul and Pamela, trying to watch out for any communities where confrontational danger might lie and keeping clear of the high ground, where the snow might still be a problem.

  He drove the RV, with Sukie and Jocelyn playing contentedly in the back. Paul was in charge of the jeep that towed their shrinking supply of fuel, while Pamela and Jeanne took turns at the wheel of the souped-up four-by-four, bringing up the rear of their convoy.

  They hardly saw anyone.

  Once they came across a roadblock built from a tangle of rotten branches. It was in a narrow valley, with no way to get past on either side. Mac stopped a hundred yards away from it, peering cautiously out to see if this could be an ambush. But there was no sign of life.

  "Cover me," he called, climbing down from the cab, the SIG-Sauer P-230 in his hand, one of the pump-action Winchesters slung across his shoulder. Somehow he'd turned against his own Brazzi scattergun in the past day or so.

  There was a stillness to the afternoon.

  The pewter clouds had drifted away, leaving patches of high cumulus dappling a pale blue sky. The temperature had begun to fall again, and he was worried that more snow might intervene before they covered the last miles to Muir Woods.

  There was a hand-painted notice propped at the corner of the roadblock. The kind that had become only too familiar since the Aquila's return to Earth.

  Aquarius Welcomes No One. Turn Back. No Gas No Food No Water No Beds No Room.

  "Thanks a lot," said Mac, walking carefully closer. "Welcome to Aquarius, the xenophobia capital of California."

  There wasn't anyone guarding the twenty-foot-high mass of jagged, broken wood.

  At least, nobody living.

  Mac's guess was that the man, if it had been male, had died at least three weeks ago. The clothes were wind-washed rags, the skin tight and leathery, tanned almost black. As usual, all the soft tissue of the body had long gone. Eyes, lips, face. And some creature had worried at the torso, tearing away the flesh. There was a small-caliber single-shot rifle across what had once been the sentry's lap.

  Paul walked up to join Mac at his signal that there was no danger.

  "Where's this Aquarius place?" he asked, glancing at the high sides of the cliffs looming above them.

  Mac bolstered the handgun. "Could be anywhere around. He's been dead for a while. They never came to move him or sent a replacement. Chances are the settlement's inhabitants died of illness or… or something."

  "Can't get around it," said Paul McGill, running his fingers through his luxuriant beard. "Burn it?"

  His father considered that option. "Suppose that's best. Bring up a couple of gallons of gas. It might draw attention to us, though."

  Paul nodded. "Sure. But I don't figure that'll be a problem. Set the fire, then get ready to roll. This stuff should burn easily, Dad."

  "Then we'll do it."

  The blaze was ferociously fierce, the flames raging nearly a hundred feet high, the radiant heat making Mac shield his face from over by their vehicles. His son had been right. Within less than ten minutes the block had burned down enough for them to take a run at it, but they waited until there were no signs of live embers to continue on.

  There had been no shots, and nobody came after them as they drove out and along the winding road toward the west and the cold, dark sea. There were some torn tents and a couple of tumbledown shacks by a stagnant pool, which might have been all that remained of the dead community of Aquarius. They never knew.

  IT WAS late afternoon on December 8.

  They rolled over the hills, north of Tiburon, past the turnoff towards Corte Madera.

  Now they were in a dead land, filled to overflowing with the urban corpses. The citizens of San Francisco, starving and beyond the edge of desperation, risking the barriers and armor of the National Guard and the state troopers, had tried to flee the catacombs of the city.

  Time and again Mac had to ease the massive RV off the highways, squeezing past the rusting ruins of dozens of gridlocked cars and trucks.

  It crossed his mind more than once that it might be better to abandon the Phantasm and stick to the jeep and the four-by-four. But they still faced an uncertain future, perhaps traveling on northward into the teeth of what might be a bitter winter. The shelter and comfort of the RV could easily mean the difference between surviving and dying.

  Paul flashed his lights in the signal to halt, and Mac eased the vehicle over, avoiding a stalled Volvo station wagon with a snarling skeleton behind the wheel. The power brakes hissed on, and he switched off the engine and jumped down, aware of stiffness in his back and shoulders. He stretched to try to ease it a little. Behind the jeep he saw that Jeanne had pulled the four-by-four onto the hard shoulder.

  "How much farther, Dad?"

  "Only a few miles."

  "Before dark?"

  "Don't see why not."

  Jeanne and Pamela had climbed out and joined them, while the two youngest children peered from the Phantasm, faces white blurs behind the windows, looking like little orphans locked away in an attic by a cruel stepmother.

  "Can we rest up a day when we get to Muir Woods?" asked Jeanne. "Have to admit that I'm just starting to feel my age. This driving sure gets to you. So many poor devils lying dead, and nobody to give them Christian burial."

  "We'll see when we get there. Might be nobody and nothing. Might be everybody and everything."

  THERE WAS NOBODY, but there was a note. And a dry patch on the dark tarmac of the parking lot where Jim Hilton's vehicle had been parked throughout the days of snow.

  The letter had been sealed in a clear plastic freezer bag, pinned securely to the main notice board right by the main entrance to the national monument.

  "This is for Mac and Pete and Jeff and Nanci." It was dated that same day, the eighth.

  "I'd forgotten he didn't know that poor old Pete bought the farm when those punks drilled him with the crossbow. Least he still thinks there's a chance that we're moving after him."

  "Who's Nanci?" asked Jeanne McGill. "Somebody they picked up on the road?"

  "Somebody the fragrant and gentle Jeff Thomas picked up, I guess." Mac shook his head, and went on reading aloud.

  "We just met up with Kyle and Carrie. They have Steve's boy, Sly, with them. He's not too bright but a real good kid. Bad news for us all. Jed Herne's gone… died while traveling with Jeff. And Steve bought the farm a few days ago. Fell onto an electrified wire. Died quick. That's the best I can say. So, we're five now. If Mac gets this, I just realized he doesn't know that my wife and daughter Andrea died of what I reckon was cholera when I got home. Heather's with me, helping to keep me sane and on the straight and narrow."

  "So much bloody dying," said Mac. "I sometimes think it might've been better if the Aquila had simply vaporized out in deep space."

  Jeanne punched him hard on the upper arm. "For a bright guy you sure talk a lot of empty shit, McGill."

  "No more real news from Zelig," Mac con
tinued reading aloud.

  "But it seems like this outfit, the Hunters of the Sun, is set against him and are also trying to find Aurora, which does seem to be the name of his base. Don't know much about the Hunters, except they got guns and money and appear to be organized. Watch out for them. We're talking some serious people here. Don't give out your real names to anybody suspicious, and likewise no mention of the good ship… They have a 'most wanted' list."

  "They say where they've gone, Dad?" asked Jocelyn. "How old's Heather? She might be my friend."

  "I'm our friend," protested Sukie.

  "You mean your friend," said Pamela.

  "Not my friend," argued the little girl, her face showing her stubborn confusion.

  "Let it pass," said Mac, carrying on reading the last few lines of the handwritten note.

  "Leaving now. Got two vehicles and enough gas to get us a few miles away up the coast. Still north is all I know, guys. Looked at the map and reckon we should be somewhere around Eureka the week before Christmas. I make it close to three hundred miles from here. Going to stay close to the Pacific when we can, on old Highway 1. That way we should miss any bad weather inland. Best I can suggest is we stay there for a couple of days, around December eighteenth. If anyone reads this, we'll see you. If Mac or anyone arrives later, I can only say to head on north. Hope to meet up one day. So long. Jim Hilton."

  They looked at one another, and Mac hauled out the dog-eared Rand McNally road atlas. "Three hundred miles is about what I make it," said Paul McGill, looking over his father's shoulder.

  "Could do that in a day, but things are not the same," said Mac. "Time was we could have done that easily in a day. Breakfast at the coffee shop. Cinnamon rolls and coffee and eggs over easy or a big breakfast buffet. Stop off at a rest area for sandwiches and some fruit. Turkey sliced thin as tissue, then piled up thick, or a Reuben. Peaches with juice running down your chin. On through the afternoon, steady at fifty-five. Stop for gas and full-serve. Be in Eureka in time for a swim before dinner."

  "That was then, lover." Jeanne had tears glistening in her brown eyes.