by J D Stone
He crawled out of the shelter. Danna sat on a log, cupping a steaming tin mug with both hands, while a small fire crackled in the fire pit. A tin pot filled with hot water hung over it.
“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Danna said brightly. She tossed him a mug and a packet of instant cocoa. “You better make yourself some before they get back. Cameron’s checking things out while the Stranger is washing up at the spring.”
Ben ripped open the packet and dumped the powdered chocolate into the mug, then he carefully poured the hot water and watched it swirl around as powder rose to the top in clumps. He had nothing to stir it with. He unsheathed his knife, but then he felt a slight poke in his arm.
“Gotcha covered,” Danna said, handing Ben a small, whittled twig.
He nodded in thanks and stirred his hot cocoa briskly then tossed the empty packet into the fire.
“Don’t let Cameron see you do that,” Danna remarked, nodding at the packet that was now folding in on itself in flames. “He doesn’t wanna leave any trace behind.”
Ben scoffed and took a sip. He looked up and saw the first paint strokes of daylight smear gray bleakness across the sky. A chill mist sloughed through the treetops, giving life to the scraps of dark green moss that draped the sprawling branches. It was chilly, and he could tell by the weather pattern that it wasn’t going to get much warmer.
“Today’s gonna be a long day,” Cameron said roughly, coming up the path with the dismantled spear trap in his hand.
“How far do you think we’ll go today?” Danna asked.
“I’m hoping we can be halfway to the Pass by tomorrow,” he replied, tossing the spear in the fire pit. “Another day’s march and we could be looking down on the city.”
Ben rubbed his face. “I’m gonna start packing up.”
“And wash up, too,” Cameron said. “Everybody has to stay clean — teeth brushed, fresh socks, etcetera. It’s mandatory.”
Ben grinned. “If that’s the case, I lost my toothbrush, so I’ll have to use yours.”
“Use your finger.”
Danna gave Ben a playful pinch. “Did you actually try to say something funny? I had no idea you had a sense of humor!”
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Road
BEN WAS THE last to climb down from their hidden forest, and as soon as his foot stepped on the rocky floor of the ravine, it began to rain. At first, a few rain drops splattered on his hat, but a steady downpour quickly followed. The rocks along the stream at once became slick, and a foggy murk filled the ravine.
At first, he didn’t worry about getting wet because he trusted the quality of his waterproof gear; but the thick humidity would not be outdone, and soon he had water dripping down his face. Today’s gonna to be a great day, he thought.
After an hour or so of picking their way down the ravine, they came upon an old concrete bridge. At the base of the bridge the bank wasn’t as steep, so with each other’s help they were able to scramble to the top, where they pressed themselves flat on the ground while Cameron checked to see if the road was clear.
At this point, the rain was falling hard, and Ben half-expected to hear distant thunder. After much discussion, they decided that they would walk along the road for a while until the rain let up. The downpour would affect their visibility, and it’d be much harder to maintain a patrolling formation.
And so they plodded along the road for several hours, talking every now and then, whether it was pointing out obstacles or rehashing the attack on the retreat. Ben was happy to have the company. In fact, he figured they all were, for their spirits weren’t as low as before in spite of the rain. Nonetheless, the Stranger was uncharacteristically grim, and he rarely spoke unless it was to warn them to stay sharp.
Shortly before noon, after a long, tiring uphill march, they arrived at the outskirts of Wynola Springs. After passing the welcome sign, they left the road and veered into the woods. As they crossed the backyards of empty homes, Danna, ever the scavenger, peeked here and there into tool sheds and detached garages, hoping to find who knows what.
Dozens of homes were severely damaged or burned down. Apparently a large fire had swept through town. Some homes seemed to have been hastily fortified: planks were nailed over windows and blocks of concrete were stacked unevenly on front porches. But when they passed them they would see a large hole blown into the side of one house or ladders leaning up against shattered windows of another.
One particular home, however, seemed relatively intact; and as they slipped through the backyard, Ben thought he saw a shadow move behind an upstairs window. He didn’t believe in ghosts, but to him that could’ve been the only possible explanation.
“What?” Danna whispered.
“Oh, nothing. Thought I saw something; it was nothing.”
He was about to ask Danna to look, but they were already across the yard and he didn’t care anymore.
All was quiet except for the raindrops splattering on gutters and the occasional whisper of wind blowing through the tall pines. After twenty minutes, they reached the second county road, Highway 79, crossed over to the other side, which was thick with pines, and headed north to the junction.
As they crossed the highway, Ben saw a road sign indicating they were at an altitude of 3,900 feet. He remembered when his family would drive up here every year for apple picking, and how the southbound road zig-zagged down for several miles before leveling off into a plain. He wished they could take that route, but they’d be forced to traverse the entire plain and along Lake Helsingor, where there’s bound to be at least some people. Better down than going up, he thought. But better alive than dead.
Ben snapped to alertness.
Vroom!
The grating rumble of a terribly loud engine ripped through the air, and the earth shook underneath him as the machine grew closer.
“Get down!” the Stranger yelled, and he ducked into a roadside ditch.
The others did the same; and thirty seconds later an enormous monster truck barreled up the road, blasting scathing music that was a mix between heavy death metal and a chorus of livestock at the moment of their decapitation.
The truck was painted entirely black except for a bright red hazard symbol plastered on the hood and the front doors. Jutting out of the hubcaps of its six-foot-tall tires were twisted black spikes stained with what Ben assumed was rotted flesh.
The monster truck charged past them and swung a screeching left down the road that they had planned to take. Ben’s heart sank. He knew they couldn’t go that way anymore. They were trapped. In Wynola Springs, he thought. Go figure.
Then he heard another engine. This one was different: it sounded cleaner, more fine-tuned. Within ten seconds an all-black Ferrari convertible flew past them. Four men clad in black samurai-style armor rode in it; two of them sat on the edge, clutching enormous machine guns. A Ferrari convertible in the open rain. Ben laughed. What next?
He felt a hard elbow; Danna was giving him a stern glare. He threw his hands up and mouthed, “What?”
She shot him a black look and put a finger to her lips.
For five long minutes, they lay in that muddy ditch. Ben felt his heavy socks sop up moisture, and his nostrils flinched at the smell of earthworms and decomposing plants. He looked at his dirt-caked fingernails, and he squirmed as a slop of mud trickled down the back of his neck.
Sensing that there’d be no further traffic, the Stranger motioned them all to get closer, so Ben elbowed his way through the slop to get within earshot.
“Our options are getting rather limited,” the Stranger said in a normal tone.
“We’ve got to head down and take the valley road,” Ben said. “It’s that, or we go home.”
Cameron scoffed, but then he said: “Ben’s right. We should wait until dark before we move out, though.”
“Lay here, in the mud, until dark?” Danna asked. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Or we can hole up in one of these houses,” Cameron of
fered.
“Bad idea,” Ben said quickly, remembering that shadow he thought he saw in the window. “I think we should head down now. It’s raining; those thugs aren’t gonna be as watchful. You know, the whole visibility thing?”
“Go on,” the Stranger said, scraping a clump of mud out of his ear.
“If we wait until dark, who knows what scouts these scumbags have around here?”
“How would you know there’d be scouts?” Cameron asked. “Their base could be miles from here.”
“I don’t think so,” Danna said. “I don’t think they’d ride out in a convertible in the pouring rain unless it were just a short trip from their lair.”
“Good point,” Ben said. “Yeah, it could be up near the orchards. Lots of places for a secure location.”
“It’s not worth taking any chances,” Danna added. “I think we should get as far away from here as possible.”
“Down we go then,” Cameron said.
Ben slowly got to his feet and wiped the slick muck that coated his rifle. They’d need to clean their weapons as soon as possible. Climbing out of the ditch, he slipped and fell one last time as a final remembrance of Wynola Springs. He gave a mock salute in the direction of the town and stomped after his brother.
The rain had begun to move farther into the mountains and over to the deserts beyond, and the pale orb of the sun radiated through the clouds. If it were possible, the humidity became even more unbearable, almost suffocating, like trying to breathe through a wet plastic bag.
Drenched in sweat, Ben and the others let gravity quicken their pace as they descended the mountain, sometimes following along the road but most of the time hiking above or below it.
About mid-afternoon, the descent leveled off for a half-mile, and the terrain changed from scrubby pines to the chaparral of tangled shrubs and stunted trees. The sky was overcast, and the air still smelled of rain.
Before them was a vast plain of low-lying hills and grazing pastures. Ben followed the road as it snaked down into the valley and met Highway 77 at a three-way stop cornered by a gas station and an antique store. Next to the gas station was a sandwich shop that his family used to visit during their yearly apple-picking trip to Wynola Springs.
He traced Highway 77 until it went alongside a glinting mass of dark gray water: Lake Helsingor. It was broad and oblong, and the southern shore was manmade to be geometrically straight (Ben couldn’t remember why). The northern end was hedged in by a golf course and an enormous, desolated RV park, now obscured by a dense fog that settled over that half of the lake. A dozen or so single home lots dotted the western shore; but the other side was barren except for an ancient grove of gnarled oaks and a large, reeking marsh.
The highway continued beyond the lake for several dozen miles through Indian reservation land and then turned into a series of switchbacks until it met the city highway five miles east of the San Jacinto Pass.
“As soon as we make it down,” Cameron said as he glassed the valley with his binoculars, “we’ll hike along the east shore and then stay close to the ridge lines until we get to where the old highway starts to climb up to the Pass.”
“Boy, I am not looking forward to that incline,” Danna said, looking off as Highway 77 disappeared on the northern horizon.
“You know what I keep thinking?” Ben asked, taking a sip from his canteen. “Why haven’t we looked for bicycles? It’d make it so much easier.”
“Yeah, and you can have the one with the squeaky wheel that’ll attract the vagabonds,” Danna replied. “But don’t get me wrong: I’ve thought of that too.”
“Easy often ends up being the hardest,” the Stranger said didactically. “Plus,” he added with a smile, “riding a bike would be too much fun. We’re not allowed to have fun on this trip.”
Ben snorted. “Trip? You sound as if this is nothing more than a pleasure hike.”
“It is for me,” Cameron said with a grin. “I’m lovin’ it.”
“Yeah, you can keep saying that until one of us gets knocked off,” Ben said coldly. “It’s only a matter of time, right?”
“Hey,” Danna said sharply, smacking his shoulder. “Lighten up. You’re getting to be unbearable.”
Ben gave Danna a sidelong glance. Her face was full of concern, frustration, and annoyance — all at once. A flush crept across his cheeks, and he curled his toes in embarrassment. Why can’t you keep your mouth shut? he asked himself. The last thing he wanted was to push Danna away.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered, looking down. “I’ll try not to be such a jerk.”
Danna looked him steadily in the eyes and said emphatically: “Thank you.”
Reverting to patrol formation, they now left the road and descended a rocky slope in the direction of the lake. After a while, the downslope became grassier, and the going was easier; they had now entered the empty grazing lands.
Within weeks after the Surge, all the livestock in the region had been slaughtered for food, often eaten on the spot with or without fire. Ben’s dad thought about raising goats at the retreat, but he worried their roaming around would attract unwanted attention.
Ben was relieved; goats weirded him out.
They passed an old farm tractor half-buried in the withered grasses and began to follow along a barbed wire fence that paralleled a string of scraggly birch trees until they reached an old irrigation canal that cut a straight line across the pasture. It was about six-feet wide; they had no choice but to cross it.
The canal was deeper than expected. Ben lost half a breath as he slithered down into the stagnant water, which rose to his waist. Holding his rifle high over his head, he trawled through the muck as quickly as possible until he made it to the other side and up the bank, not without slipping once back into the water.
Fortunately, they were able to toss their packs to the other side before crossing, and his goods remained dry. But he was now covered in mud and downright miserable. But he had a promise to keep to Danna, and with a forced smile he broke the gloomy silence and told her that he didn’t see any minnows when he’d waded across the canal.
Dusk was fast approaching, which stirred up a biting wind. Ben shivered; his clothes were still sopping wet. There’d be no fire tonight. Not with the killer crazies marauding the countryside.
They hiked along the ridge of the knoll until their path gave way to a low-lying flatland. A few farmhouses were checkered along a two-lane road that cut through the middle of the valley.
A quarter of a mile away a dense cluster of trees surrounded an old building set off a hundred yards from the road.
“That’s the old mission, right?” Ben asked.
“Yup,” Cameron replied. “It’ll also be our hotel for the night. Stranger’s orders.”
“We’re spending the night in a church?” Ben asked skeptically.
“Why not? Homeless people do it all the time.”
“And technically we’re homeless at the moment,” Danna added.
“Maybe you are,” Ben said. He pulled out his binoculars. The lenses were caked with scum. He tried wiping them with his finger, but that only made the smudge marks worse.
“A little trust won’t hurt you,” the Stranger quipped.
Ben shrugged. “Well, let’s at least give it another fifteen minutes till it gets darker. I don’t wanna get picked off crossing that open space.”
He sat with his back against the rocky ledge and watched the darkness hasten the fading canvas of light to the other side of the desolated world. Since they’d started out, he’d been wondering more about what the rest of the world was like. Whether the entire planet was a barren apocalyptic wasteland.
The farther away from the retreat, the more skeptical he’d become. Besides, if the world hadn’t collapsed, then there’d for sure be some sort of help. But then again, the robots aren’t going away easily. His dad had said that a million times. Of course, nobody listened to him. And here we are. . . .
Danna slid down next to
him and took a swig from her canteen.
Beyond the western horizon, bright bursts of light lit up the sky. Deep, resonating booms followed three at a time.
“That’s definitely not a storm,” Danna said quietly. “Coming from the city?”
Ben nodded. “Yup, our final destination.”
“Our final destination is the retreat,” Danna said. “The city is just a pit stop.”
Ben watched the horizon intently. Another cosmic blast of pure white light lit up the sky, followed by a thunderous boom.
“That’s some heavy artillery,” Cameron said, jumping down from the ledge. “Looks like mankind is putting up a fight after all.”
“Could be the robots putting up the fight,” the Stranger said. “After all, they know how to press buttons.”
“Not for long,” Cameron grunted as he slung his rifle over his shoulder. “Let’s head down.”
With Cameron at the front, they crept slowly down the hill, fifteen paces apart. As they squeezed through a pasture gate, Ben spotted the remains of a cow half buried in the grass. The body cavity was sunken and its insides were ripped out. The skinned head was four feet away from the rest of it. The eyes were plucked out, and its front teeth seemed to gnash at him with a delirious grin.
He blinked hard and shook his head. The darkness was messing with him. Or he was coming down with a cold.
The ground sloped downward until they came within a hundred feet of the mission. The light and boom show from over the hills had died down except for a final flash that illuminated the stained glass window in the church’s bell tower.
Ben remembered learning about the missions back in seventh grade. This one, Mission Santa Clarita, if he remembered correctly, was almost three hundred years old, built when the first padres came over the sundering seas to show the local Native American tribes the pathway to salvation.
The church was built in the adobe style: long, narrow . . . and just old. Gnarled olive trees grew around the brick paved churchyard, and a cracked fountain filled with a half-inch of filth stood in the middle of an uneven pathway that led up to thick double doors. In the opposite direction, the path led to an empty parking lot by the road.
