by Tarah Benner
“What’s going on?” asked Portia.
“Stop the car!” came a loud, garbled voice. It sounded as though it had been electronically magnified. “Stop the car and step out of the vehicle with your hands where I can see them!”
“Hold on,” Bernie growled, touching the gas again and turning to look out the back window.
But then she saw people moving in the shadows cast by her taillights. Two of them were pushing something across the road — a secondary chain-link gate. They were blocking them in.
“Shit!”
“Who the fuck are they?” Portia shrieked.
“Please step out of the vehicle and keep your hands where I can see them!” the voice repeated.
Bernie looked to her left and her right. They were blocked in. There were tall stands of trees on either side of the road, and they couldn’t get through.
“What now?” she asked.
Simjay shook his head, but Bernie didn’t have to wonder long. A shadow flickered in the front of the car, and she heard an abrupt tap on her window.
She jumped. A man was standing outside her door, and he had a gun pointed at her head.
“Step out of the vehicle,” came the man’s muffled voice.
Bernie’s insides seemed to melt. This couldn’t be happening. They’d come so far, survived so much, only to be shot in their car a few miles from their destination. It wasn’t right.
Forcing herself to breathe, she unbuckled her seatbelt and moved to unlock the door.
“What are you doing?” Simjay hissed, grabbing her arm. “You can’t go out there.”
“It’s not like we have a choice.”
Simjay’s expression hardened. “Wait a sec.”
Bernie opened her mouth to ask him what he was proposing, but then he threw off his seatbelt and stepped out of the vehicle. The man at the window turned his gun on Simjay, and Simjay’s arms flew up to show that he wasn’t a threat.
The searchlight panned over Simjay’s body, and he moved a hand to shield his eyes from the intense brightness. Two more men materialized out of the darkness to frisk him, and Bernie’s door flew open at the exact time that someone reached into the back seat to grab Portia.
Denali barked and launched himself out of the car, but not before someone had reached in and yanked Bernie out into the cool mountain air. She struggled to settle her weight onto her good leg, and she had to grab the roof of the vehicle to steady herself.
“Hands up!” yelled the man, pointing his gun in her face.
“I need my crutches,” Bernie growled.
The man paused. He hadn’t expected that. With an awkward glance down at Bernie’s bum leg, he leaned forward and extracted her crutches from the vehicle.
He handed them to her, and Bernie groaned inwardly for agreeing to come to Vail to find Simjay’s ex-disciple. Clearly it had been a mistake.
As soon as Bernie had steadied herself on her crutches, the man began to search her for weapons. She froze as his hands slapped along her hips and ribs, and her heart flew into her throat.
The man seemed to notice the abrupt change in her demeanor, and he made quick work of the pat-down. He was youngish — maybe late thirties — with closely cropped black hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He was dressed in cargo pants and a bulky utility vest and had the healthy tan complexion of someone who spent a lot of time outdoors.
Once he was convinced that Bernie wasn’t armed and dangerous, he tugged her away from the vehicle and turned his attention to Portia and Denali.
The young man who’d been tasked with searching Portia had frozen in place. Denali was growling, his hackles raised, and the man looked torn between shooting Denali and backing away.
“Denali!” said Bernie.
Denali’s eyes drifted dangerously over the men before landing on her.
“Come here, boy,” she said in a falsely bright voice. She didn’t want the man to get spooked and shoot him.
Instantly, Denali’s aggressive stance seemed to soften, and he padded over to Bernie, wagging his tail.
The men watched her closely as she patted the top of his head, and one of them moved in to search Portia.
For being so heavily armed, the men were all very on edge. Bernie didn’t understand why.
They were standing in front of an improvised wall constructed from sections of a chain-link fence, sheets of metal siding, and pieces of plywood. There seemed to be a lookout post on the other side of the wall, and someone had mounted a searchlight over the road. Bernie could hear the rumble of voices above her — at least five or six people staring down at them from posts she could not see.
“They’re clean,” called the man who’d frisked Bernie, circling a finger in the air.
A second later, there was a heavy thud, and the homemade gate began to move.
“Sorry about that,” said the man who’d frisked Bernie. He was still watching Denali out of the corner of his eye. “We just can’t be too careful these days . . . We welcome newcomers, but there are too many people who’d rather steal what we have than come to us peacefully.”
“Is this . . . Is this a settlement?” Simjay asked.
The man nodded proudly and slowed his pace so that Bernie wouldn’t have to fight to keep up. “We’re five thousand strong here . . . all of us working toward self-sufficiency.”
“What?”
“Welcome to New Vail.”
Bernie looked around. It was too dark to make out the details, but she could see the looming shadows of shops and condos rising up all around her. She couldn’t tell for sure, but it looked as though the town had changed a lot since she’d been there. She knew it had probably undergone substantial development in the decade leading up to the collapse, but she couldn’t imagine how a town way up in the mountains could’ve possibly survived.
“Not all of us lived around here before the collapse,” said the man, answering Bernie’s unasked question. “Some of our people owned second homes, timeshares . . . When things got bad, most people headed for the cities, but a few like-minded individuals knew the mountains were the place to be.”
“Why?” asked Bernie, stalling a little so that she could readjust her crutches. Her underarms were killing her.
“It’s more remote. Fewer people. The mountains make us less vulnerable to attack. There’s no chance of flooding up here, and the underground aquifers give us plenty of fresh water. These condo pantries were full of nonperishables a few months back,” he added. “We raided all the units that had been abandoned, collected what we could, and brought the food down to our marketplace.”
“Marketplace?” said Simjay, coming up behind Bernie.
“We’re a bartering economy up here. You want something, you either need something to trade for it or a skill that the seller can use. We help each other all we can. Somebody needs food, they can trade firewood or fuel. Somebody wants an extra set of hands to install some solar panels, they can barter with their time or something the other person needs.”
“Solar panels?”
“Power’s our biggest issue right now. Most homes around here have wood-burning stoves, which is what kept us all from freezing to death last winter. But we still need electricity. We’re working toward getting everyone on solar.”
“So what happens when the food runs out?” asked Portia.
“I’m glad you asked. See, we commandeered a few eighteen-wheelers so we could bring shipments over from Denver and the surrounding area. We’re also converting several lodges into what you might call indoor grow facilities. We already had all the equipment. The marijuana grow business was huge up here before everything went to pot — no pun intended. It’s going to take some fine-tuning, but I’m confident that we can pull it off.”
“That’s brilliant,” said Simjay, his tone telling Bernie that he’d like nothing more than to poke around one of New Vail’s grow facilities.
The man looked very pleased with himself, but Bernie was too busy craning her neck to read the
street signs to congratulate their guide.
“Can I help you find something?” he asked.
“We actually came here looking for someone,” Bernie confessed. “We didn’t know that there was an entire settlement in Vail.”
The man nodded, but Bernie saw his face tighten with concern. He was probably thinking about all the people who had died in the famine and wondering if their friend was among them.
“A friend of mine used to have a place here,” said Simjay. “You know a man by the name of Conrad Kelly?”
“Kelly?” the man repeated in surprise. “As in Colonel Kelly?”
“You know him?” asked Simjay, his voice betraying his excitement.
“Actually, I do,” said the man, sounding vaguely surprised. “Colonel Kelly used to be a very active member of our community.”
“Used to be?” said Bernie, picking up on the note of hesitation in the man’s voice.
He frowned, rubbing his jaw uncomfortably. “Colonel Kelly was very helpful in establishing systems to secure the settlement once we decided to reestablish a community up here, but . . .”
“But?” Portia prompted.
The man quirked an eyebrow. “Let’s just say he had some strong opinions on the way things should be done around here.”
“What’s wrong with that?” asked Simjay.
The man sighed. “He rubbed a lot of our constituents the wrong way.”
“Constituents?” Portia repeated, looking as though the word left a sour taste in her mouth.
“Some of the more affluent landowners who’ve maintained homes in the area for years. We welcome everyone who wants to live in and contribute to New Vail, but we still abide by the tenants of traditional land ownership.”
“Meaning?”
“Those who lived and owned property here first still take precedent.”
“Conrad’s a landowner,” said Simjay in a defensive tone.
“He maintains a residence, but it technically falls outside of city limits,” the man clarified.
“City limits?” spat Simjay. “New Vail is a pretend city!”
“It’s real to us,” said the man. “We still adhere to old laws and regulations as much as humanly possible. It helps us remain civilized. Otherwise it’d be like the Wild West up here.”
Simjay scoffed.
“I can point you in the direction of the colonel’s property. But I have to tell you . . . I haven’t seen him in a while.”
“We’ll find him,” grumbled Simjay, clearly irritated that his friend was being kept down by The Man.
Their guide reached into his back pocket and produced a well-used map that was covered in highlighter marks and hand-drawn notes.
“We’re right here,” he said, pointing to a spot near the center of town. “The colonel’s house is here. You’ll want to take this road until it dead ends and then hang a right. It’s the only house down there.”
“Thanks,” said Simjay, turning back in the direction they’d come.
“You won’t be able to take your car, I’m afraid,” said the man in an apologetic voice.
“Excuse me?” said Portia.
“We haven’t had a chance to sweep the vehicle for weapons,” said the man. “Any firearms or explosives inside city limits are strictly forbidden.”
“You expect us to walk?” Simjay snapped, glancing over at Bernie and her crutches.
“Oh, no. We can lend you a vehicle.”
“Great,” said Bernie, speaking before Simjay had the chance. She was starting to pick up some weird vibes about New Vail, and the sooner they could find the colonel and get out of there, the better.
Unfortunately, the “vehicle” their guide had offered turned out to be a golf cart. Simjay rolled his eyes but climbed in anyway, grumbling about fascism and the collapse of civilization. Bernie suspected that he was in an extra foul mood because of his injury. He winced when he eased himself into the driver’s seat and buckled forward slightly.
But despite the fact that the golf cart topped out at fifteen miles per hour, it only took them a few minutes to reach the dead end their guide had mentioned. They turned right, and the road narrowed. They were surrounded by pine trees on either side, and Bernie could smell smoke. They had to be close.
Suddenly, Denali stood up on the seat next to Portia and let out an odd noise. It sounded almost like a pant, but Bernie could hear the low rumble of a growl forming in his throat.
The golf cart slowed to a halt, and they found themselves staring at another tall chain-link fence. This one appeared to be professionally constructed and had a double spiral of barbed wire at the top. Beyond the fence, Bernie could just make out the shape of a house looming through the trees. It was a large A-frame with a wraparound deck and full-length windows winding around the upper level.
“Is that it?” asked Portia.
“Must be,” said Simjay.
“Do you see a way in?” asked Bernie, squinting through the trees.
Simjay shook his head. The fence looked impenetrable. The only way through was up and over.
“Here goes,” he said, getting out of the golf cart and removing his sweatshirt. He tied it around his waist and moved toward the fence.
“Wait!” Bernie hissed, making a grab for his arm. “Are you sure this is Conrad’s house?”
“It has to be. It’s the only house down here.”
“So you’re just gonna climb over and hope for the best? What if he shoots you?”
“He’s not going to shoot me,” said Simjay. “I’m just gonna go up and knock on his door.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” said Portia.
“It has to be me. I’m the only one he knows.”
Bernie couldn’t argue with that. Part of her still thought it was too dangerous, but she didn’t really have a better plan. The fence wound around the entire property, and time was of the essence.
It had been almost two days since the Department of Homeland Security had taken Lark and the others into custody. They couldn’t wait until daybreak to speak to Conrad.
By the time Bernie had resigned herself to Simjay’s plan, Simjay was already starting his ascent. She watched him climb with fascination, marveling at how difficult he made it look. His long skinny legs seemed to move without consulting his brain, but Bernie couldn’t tear her eyes away.
“He’s so awkward,” said Portia, her eyes narrowing.
“Yeah,” Bernie agreed, but her heart wasn’t really in it. In the past twenty-four hours, Simjay had completely transformed in her eyes. He was no longer the gawky third wheel who made inappropriate comments and always said the wrong thing. Simjay was brave.
When he reached the top of the fence, she saw him cringe as he draped his sweatshirt over the barbed wire and swung his leg over.
But just then, a bright light flicked on at the house, flooding the property with light. Simjay froze on his perch like an electrocuted bird and looked up at the house in panic.
“Go!” Bernie hissed, trying not to think what might happen if the colonel caught a stranger scaling his fence.
At Bernie’s words, Simjay adjusted his weight so that he could pull the rest of his body over and swung his other leg around. He swore loudly, and Bernie guessed that he’d cut himself. He dropped down a few inches, catching himself with his hands.
Bernie sucked in a breath of air. She couldn’t tear her eyes away. Simjay was swinging on the other side of the fence. He was muttering frantically to himself and seemed to be moving from side to side on purpose.
At first Bernie wasn’t sure what he was doing, but then she heard a menacing growl followed by a low, deep bark.
Denali answered with a loud bark of his own. Then, without warning, he launched himself out of the golf cart and galloped toward the fence. Bernie scrambled after him and saw — not one, not two — but three enormous Rottweilers glowering up at Simjay.
He let out a whimper and continued to swing his lower body, narrowly avoiding the
snapping jaw of the closest dog. He was dangling directly above a cluster of trash cans, which formed a protective barrier between him and the Rottweilers.
“Shit,” breathed Bernie, watching in horror as Simjay swung like a pendulum. Two of the dogs reared back on their hind legs, banging into one of the trash cans and knocking it over.
The nearest dog grabbed hold of Simjay’s pant leg, and Simjay let out a high-pitched scream.
“Oh, shit,” said Portia, getting out of the golf cart. Bernie had no clue what she planned to do, but a second later she picked up a rock from the side of the road and chucked it over the fence.
The rock hit one of the trash cans with a bang, catching the dogs’ attention. Bernie realized what she was doing at once and banged on the fence to help.
“Here, kitty, kitty, kitty!” she taunted, shaking the chain links so they rattled loudly.
Denali whined, reared up on his hind legs, and pressed his front paws against the fence.
One of the dogs growled low in its throat and stalked over to where they stood. It was working. Portia and Bernie continued to yell and shake the fence, luring two of the dogs away from Simjay.
But the third dog was relentless. It grabbed hold of Simjay’s leg and tugged, and Simjay’s arms gave out. He slipped off the fence and tumbled to the ground, crashing into the trash cans with enough noise to wake everyone within a two-mile radius.
Suddenly, another light flipped on. Bernie watched helplessly as the third Rottweiler mauled Simjay, strings of drool flying from its jaws like silly string.
She needed to do something, but she didn’t know what. Climbing the fence was out of the question, and they didn’t have a single weapon with which to defend themselves. She cast around for something she could use — a branch, a tire iron, anything — but Simjay’s cries were making it impossible to concentrate.
Then there was a soft click from the porch, and the dog standing over Simjay froze. Its head jerked up as though it smelled food, and Bernie could tell that something had caught its attention.