Milepost 291

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

“Looks like the rain’s holding off,” Franklin said, checking out the gray skyline of morning. “We’re in luck.”

“First time I’ve heard the word ‘luck’ since summer,” Robertson said. “If you don’t count bad luck, that is.”

The group had arisen with the dawn, except for Jorge, who had taken the last watch. They gathered on the porch of the cottage, adjusting packs that bulged with the food they’d scavenged from the cupboards. Franklin had drawn out a crude map of the area, using Grandfather and Sugar mountains as landmarks. The Blue Ridge Parkway was far more sinuous than he’d depicted it, but as long as they headed north, they would eventually hit it, and then they could just count up the mileposts to figure out the rest of it.

“The way I figure it, we can cut across to Stonewall and hit the Appalachian Trail,” Franklin said. “That will add a few extra miles to the trip, and maybe even an extra day, but it lowers our chances of running into unwelcome company.”

“What’s in Stonewall?” Jorge asked. “All I know is the Tennessee side.”

“Then most of what you know is wrong,” Franklin said. “Folks over there still think they won the Civil War.”

“Wonder if they think they won this war?” Robertson asked.

“We aren’t going to war. We’re outsmarting it. Like Robertson said, Stonewall is just a little community in the foothills, nothing more than a few stores, a volunteer fire department, a produce stand, and such as that. We can swing around it or stop in if we need supplies.”

“The more stops, the more chance we’ll run into somebody,” Shay said. She’d taken advantage of the bathroom mirror to brush her hair and tie it back in a ponytail, which somehow made her look older. She rested one forearm on her holstered pistol, and she looked like she was getting comfortable with its presence. Franklin hoped they’d get a chance for target practice, if they could find a remote area where they could risk the noise.

“We don’t want to meet anybody,” Franklin said. “Chances are they’ll be marauders or soldiers.”

“And there is a chance they have seen my family,” Jorge said.

“We just can’t trust other people.” Franklin nodded at Shay. “We’ve already seen what we can expect.”

“I think you’re just—how do you say, paranoid?”

“And it’s kept me alive a lot longer than most everybody else in the world.”

“What kind of life is it to hide out like a hunted animal?” Jorge stepped off the porch and headed across the yard.

“Wrong way,” Franklin called after him.

“If you’re heading north away from people, then I am heading south. Where the people are.”

Robertson glanced at Shay and shook his head. “We owe him.”

They both followed Jorge. Franklin stomped one boot on the pine boards of the porch. “Goddamn it, hombre, you’re going to bust a vein in my head one of these days.”

Shay turned around and walked backwards as she goaded him. “I thought you lived longer than most.”

Franklin muttered a final “damn,” mostly for the benefit of the juncos and warblers that perched in the high trees. He debated heading back to his compound alone.

I owe it to Rachel. I should be there in case—WHEN—she finds it. Family first, that’s what I’ve always said.

Then why did it bug him so much that Jorge was putting his family ahead of his own safety? Because Franklin ultimately was a coward. He’d isolated himself from his family because he told himself he was sacrificing for them, planning for a future none of them hoped would ever arrive.

In truth, living by himself was easier than getting along with his fellow human beings. The disembodied voices of survivalists with ham radios made better company than somebody who might prove inconvenient and demanding.

He headed after the group, which had now reached the valley road and headed down where the houses were more congregated. I’m probably going to regret this. But at least I’ll be around to get in one last “I told you so.”

He caught up with them as Jorge was peering through the passenger window of a Chevy Suburban that had stalled in a ditch. The corpse at the wheel was so far gone even the flies had abandoned it.

“Keys are in it,” Jorge said. “Wouldn’t it be nice to drive into town?”

“Every bit of circuitry in that thing is fried,” Franklin said.

“I read that older vehicles, without electronic parts, would survive a nuclear attack,” Robertson said.

“When the U.S. government tested vehicles near a blast site, many of them did function after the detonation,” Franklin said. “Problem was they’d borrowed the vehicles and had to return them after the test, so they were afraid to put them too close to Ground Zero. When the Russians did a real test, none of the vehicles started. Just another case of science not being near as smart as people claimed.”

That made him think of something Rachel once said at the precocious age of eleven: “When you think about it, somebody has to be the world’s dumbest scientist, right?”

Amen to that, pumpkin.

“Why didn’t you put one in your shielded box at the compound?” Jorge asked.

“My Faraday cage. You saw how small mine was, and it cost me twenty thousand dollars, plus I had to haul the materials up that mountain. I should have stashed a motorcycle away, or at least some alternators and ignition parts, but, hell...none of us expected the end to get here so soon, even me.”

As they started back down the road, Shay said, “But couldn’t others have done it? Surely some survival wackos—no offense—stashed some wheels. Why aren’t we seeing or hearing any cars?”

“Our buddy Sarge back at the bunker had an electrical generator and other goodies like lights and radios stowed away. He believes the government had a huge shielded facility near D.C. stocked with helicopters, tanks, and other toys of mass control. Wouldn’t surprise me none, but I’d imagine the roads around big cities are all but blocked, and do you know how much fuel a chopper sucks down per mile? Even the asshole president—if he’s not a Zaphead now—would have a hard time justifying a joy ride.”

“I wish we had our horses,” Jorge said.

Shay’s eyes widened with delight. “You have horses?”

“We turned them loose at the compound so they could free range,” Franklin said. “Livestock requires a lot of upkeep. But I suppose your generation will be learning that soon enough. You can’t just look up everything on the Internet anymore.”

“You think it’s wise to be walking out here in the open?” Robertson asked.

Franklin shrugged. “Depends. If Zaps come out of the woods, it’s a good move. If somebody starts shooting at us from one of those houses, we’re total dumbasses.”

“I didn’t ask anyone to come,” Jorge said. “This is my duty. No one else’s.”

“We’re better off sticking together,” Franklin said.

Jorge shook his head. “I thought you said you weren’t going to play hero.”

“I’m playing the odds, that’s all. If some Zapper pops out of the bushes, I’m counting on you to serve as bait.”

Shay stopped. “Do you guys smell something?”

Franklin sniffed at his underarms. “Should have used some of that soap back at the cottage.”

“Smoke,” she said. “Greasy, not like wood smoke.”

Franklin turned his nose into the breeze. Smell was one of the first senses to fade with age, but even he could make it out—an acrid, pungent odor like fried wiring. Then they saw the smoke curling up in gray columns at the far end of the valley.

“Out of the road,” Franklin said, but they were already scrambling for cover among the pines that bordered the ditch and fence lines.

Robertson pulled out a pair of binoculars and thumbed them into focus. “Road’s blocked. Looks like somebody pushed some cars across it and started a fire.”

Franklin grabbed the binoculars and took a look for himself. “If I had to guess, I’d say somebody is sending us another message.”