“Then it’s a good thing we’ve got all night, huh? Bet we can figure it out.”
They did. All the way from good to fantastic.
Jill
Jilliana was a sophomore in pre-law. Her goal was to be a lawyer. Wanted to work for the ACLU and campaign for Latinx and women’s rights. She came from a little town in the San Luis Valley in southern Colorado.
Where US 40 splits off from I-70, she decided to head west and then cut south, take the back roads to her hometown of Del Norte.
We heard later that Summit County had set up a roadblock on I-70 just this side of the Eisenhower Tunnel. Word was that they stopped all traffic from Denver, refusing to allow their county to be overrun by refugees. No exceptions.
Grand County followed suit, but Felix and I were already across that county line.
No telling what happened to Jill. Arriving on a Honda Africa Twin? Alone? With all those frustrated people piled up against the roadblock?
Well...draw your own conclusions.
— Excerpt from Breeze Tappan’s Journal.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Sam didn’t sleep that night.
His head was a confused tangle of warring images, emotions, and nervous energy. In a moment of epiphany, it came to him that he was living a life that had been suddenly and rudely smacked out of reality. Sort of like a baseball used to being tossed from glove to glove around the infield, and suddenly, crack! He was over the fence and sailing out of the ballpark into an infinite unknown.
Everything about Shyla was perfect. Her spirit, her intellect, her passion, even her fear of the future. She fit like the perfect puzzle piece. Conformed to each of his indentations and protrusions as if they were made for each other. Perhaps a shitty cliché, but how true.
Against that unexpected joy, came knowledge that Wyoming National Guard soldiers and volunteer militia were herding panicked human beings into camps across the Colorado border. The military had rushed to California to fight Chinese. California, for God’s sake?
Old Bill had reported no word from the East Coast.
What if Mom and Dad are dead? What if The Yucatec is a burned-out shell? What if, what if...
He hugged Shyla tighter to his chest, reveling in the silken feel of her warm skin against his.
Heaven in the midst of horror.
I’ll never have the chance to take her home, introduce her to Mom and Dad. Never see them smile and hug her to their breasts. Never have a chance to be family again.
And the last thing he had expected was to feel this way about a woman. She was his. To have and to hold. To protect...
Dear God, can I keep her safe in this unraveling hell?
What if he couldn’t? If he wasn’t man enough? Wasn’t strong enough, or tough enough, to stand between her and the abominations looming just over the horizon?
Pam’s pistol went click in Sam’s imagination. He felt it in his hand, the grip curving into his palm, that reassuring feeling as the hammer dropped.
We’ll have to do things. Shyla had said those words, had understood what was coming.
And back on Long Island?
If Denver was Hell-broke-loose-on-earth with its couple of million people, what was the tri-state region like with its tens of millions?
If transportation had broken down to the extent Fred Willson claimed he had experienced in rural Wyoming, what was it like in New York? Were any trucks getting across the bridges?
Sam’s folks barely kept a week’s supply of tortillas, refritos, jalapenos, beef, and pork in the restaurant at any given time. So maybe they had been smart enough to lock the doors, barricade themselves in with enough in the larder to wait it out.
Sure. And how long would the water last if the electricity went off? What if the gas lines were ruptured? The coolers quit? The meat started to turn?
And what if roving gangs of starving people were rioting out front on Newman Street, right beneath The Yucatec’s yellow-and-red sign? Sam could imagine them looking up, seeing the advertisements for food. And only that one big plate-glass window stood between their hunger and the prize that was inside.
The first of the tears leaked past his eyelids. He tried. He really did, but he couldn’t stop the sobs.
Shyla had to have been awake, her thoughts paralleling his own. No doubt worried about her mother’s health food store. Or maybe the children starving in the camps. Or atrocities beyond imagining than now were becoming commonplace.
She, too, broke down, shoulders wracked by sobs. As she cried, her arms tightened around him, squeezing, as if she might press herself right through Sam’s skin and into his very bones.
For what seemed eternity, they lay there in the night. Two wounded souls clinging together in desperation.
Felix
It was Felix and me. We made it to Granby, took the highway up to Willow Creek Pass. Three men with rifles stopped us in front of an ad hoc roadblock made with a truck and camp trailer.
They wanted our bikes. And they wanted me.
Felix chose not to have a gun. Wouldn’t touch one and wanted them all banned. Had a friend killed the time he himself had survived a school shooting.
When he told the men no, one shot him through the chest. That quick. No other warning. Bang. Felix and the bike fell over.
I was staring. Disbelieving.
They told me to get off the bike. To get in the camp trailer and strip “for a little fucking”.
Unreal, right? Like a bad movie.
I step off the bike, unzip my riding jacket, and start for the camp trailer. I’m shaking. Scared like I’ve never been. I reach inside the pocket.
That moment? It’s like a haze. The pistol appears in my hand. I’m turning. I don’t even hear the gun go off, but I see the surprise in the man’s ruddy face.
I turn to the next...and the next...keep shooting until the Smith & Wesson clicks on empty.
— Excerpt from Breeze Tappan’s Journal.
Chapter Twenty-Four
It was a whole different ride heading back into Hot Springs. Sam rode in the backseat of Bill’s mega-cab Dodge dually. As he stared out the side window, he could have been looking at an entirely new planet.
Not that anything had changed. The same rocky ridges rose on either side of the valley, the small farmhouses looked just as lackluster, and the rusting farm machinery and stock trailers just as beat up.
The thing was that they now had the look of stubborn resistance, as if standing defiantly and ruggedly against the storm.
The periodic slap of the windshield wipers against the thinning drizzle added to the effect.
Looking through the rear window, Sam couldn’t see the mountains where Brandon and Shanteel remained lost. The clouds hung too low, gray, and threatening. Thomas Star had assured everyone that there had to be a foot of snow or more on the ground up there.
Damned cold.
Exposed, without shelter, a person would die.
And up ahead Sam was going to be part of a meeting discussing an act of secession. How the hell could this be happening so quickly? It all seemed insane.
He glanced at Shyla where she sat beside him, her turquoise eyes distant as she watched the fields and bluffs pass.
“Now,” Bill had his weathered hand on the steering wheel, his hat clamped tightly on his head, “it’s going to be tough enough getting you in, Evan. My suspicion is that the kids are going to have to wait outside. Me and the rest, we’ve known each other for most of our lives. You’re an outsider.”
“I think I can justify my presence,” Dr. Holly said easily, his arm on the pull-down armrest. “And they need to hear what I’ve got to say. Court and I spent half the night talking this through.”
Holly made a tsking sound with his lips. “That lad’s really something of a surprise. Looking at him, he’s all big, overweight, stumbling thumbs. Game designer, huh? Well, he’s sure got the theory down pat. Resources, transportation, logistical supply, strategy, and tactics. Says he has to em
ploy all of it in war games. Do you know what he told me?”
“Reckon I don’t,” Bill said mildly, slowing for a patch of washboard.
“Said he and a team of friends played World War II against a team from Stanford. They wired a whole room full of computers and bought cloud time. He and his pals started with the same resources Hitler did, took them four weeks, but they won.”
“He played Hitler?” Bill shot a sidelong look at Dr. Holly. “That’s not exactly blowing my skirt up, Evan.”
“It should,” Dr. Holly told him. “You’re a historian, you know that the Axis was doomed from the moment Hitler invaded Russia.”
“So, how’d Court and his team turn it into a win?”
“They crossed the channel and took England, consolidated for a year, and kept Japan from attacking Pearl Harbor while they inspired Stalin to murder the last of his remaining generals. Launching their invasion of Russia the next March, they were in Moscow by mid-August.”
“And the US?”
“Never had reason to fire a shot.”
Sam glanced at Shyla. She was listening thoughtfully. He gave her hand a squeeze.
“Sounds to me like he’s an asset,” Frank said where he sat on Shyla’s left and watched the landscape roll past. “So, you and he? What did you two figure out about the Basin?”
“It’s essentially self-sufficient,” Dr. Holly replied. “Or it can be. We’ve got everything we need. Hydroelectric power from Boysen Dam and Buffalo Bill Reservoir, assuming we can isolate the controls from Casper. Plenty of oil, including the infrastructure to get it to the three refineries in the Billings area. Other refinery choices, in order of preference, are Casper, Sinclair, and finally Cheyenne, with the latter being the most vulnerable.”
“All of those refineries are outside of the Basin,” Shyla noted.
“Then we might have to build our own on the Bighorn River,” Dr. Holly said. “What’s a refinery but essentially a distillery? No matter how it works out, one of our priorities has to be recruiting someone who knows how to build and operate one.”
“What next?”
“Agriculture, of course. A reallocation of ground for staples like corn, beans, squash, melons, cabbage, peppers, and so forth. Wheat, barley, and oats are probably adequate in their current acreage, and the sugar beets are key.”
“How’s that, Dr. Holly?” Sam asked. “How much sugar do we need?”
“All we can get.” Holly craned his head around to look back at Sam. “Trade, Sam. Sugar, like salt and spices, is going to be a hot commodity. And I doubt anyone’s going to be seeing cane sugar being trucked up from Mexico or the Caribbean anytime soon.”
Sam nodded.
“Oh, and, Sam?”
“Yes?”
“I’d appreciate it if you’d call me Evan.”
Sam gave him a nod.
“We’ve got plenty of beef,” Bill added. “Some sheep. Enough swine, even bison. That we can build on.”
“And the wild game,” Shyla added.
“What about spare parts?” Frank asked.
“That, my friend, along with pharmaceuticals, is a serious problem.” Evan returned his attention to the road. The change was immediate and refreshing when the pickup hit the blacktop.
“Some things, like aspirin, we can make from willow bark.”
“And there are other wild plants we can use, like coneflower,” Shyla added. “I downloaded a list onto my laptop before we left home.”
Evan nodded. “If I can get to Laramie, I’ve got a whole library. I’d love to get it away from the border before something happens to it.”
“Assuming your place hasn’t already been broken into and looted.” Frank slapped an angry hand to his leg.
“There’s that.” Evan paused. “But getting back to the problem at hand, we’ve got five machine shops in the Basin. Most of them being run by machinists in their sixties and seventies. We need to get some apprentices into training ASAP. Some of those spare parts we can manufacture. We’ve got coal in the Gebo area and clay to make bricks. Won’t take much to construct a primitive foundry. We can start raiding the dumps for scrap metal to recycle.”
“That’s down the road,” Sam said. “First you’ve got to get through the immediate bottleneck. Especially when it comes to fuel. Without financial records, who’s going to be able to buy diesel?”
“That’s a subject for immediate discussion today,” Bill said with a curt nod.
“We’ve got a thousand gallons in the tank at the ranch,” Frank noted. “That should get us through until next summer if we’re frugal.”
“What about communications?” Shyla asked. “Who controls the phones?”
“Local company out of Worland,” Frank said. “But that needs addressed.”
“And more to the point,” Evan said, “how can we guarantee secure communications. Something that DHS can’t monitor.”
“We’ll figure that out.” Bill slapped the wheel, slowing for the turn onto Highway 120. “Probably take a page from the OSS and the resistance forces in Europe. There’s codes, ciphers, plenty of ways to keep in touch. Heard Court had some ideas based on the Enigma machine, of all things.”
“And the governor?” Sam asked. “He’s got command of the Wyoming National Guard, the militia, and the Highway Patrol, right?”
“That’s going to be a tricky proposition,” Bill said, not bothering to stop before roaring onto the empty highway.
Sam watched a herd of antelope out in the sagebrush disappear behind them as the big Dodge accelerated. They hadn’t gone more than a mile before they passed the first car, a shiny Toyota, pulled off the side of the road, the hood up. As they went by Sam noticed it had Arkansas plates.
Welcome to Wyoming. He tightened his grip on Shyla’s hand, eternally thankful that they had landed where they had and when they had. What if they’d been a couple of days behind? What if their little caravan had been in, oh, say, Chicago when this hit?
Between the turnoff and town they passed a total of five abandoned vehicles. One had the words, “It’s yours!” scrawled in the dust on the side. Dropping down the last hill into Hot Springs, the town looked mostly asleep. No traffic. But a few people and a lot of kids were walking along the sidewalks. All watched Bill’s red Dodge pass. Most waved gaily. Which was strange.
Must have known Bill’s truck.
“I want you to see this,” Bill said as he pulled up at the town’s single traffic light, didn’t wait for the signal to change since he was the only truck on the road, and made a left.
Sam and the crew had barely seen the state park with its grassy parks and hot water pools on the morning they had left for the mountains. Now, however, it was filled with an orderly array of motor homes, camp trailers, tents, and shelters made of tarps. A regular campground. The license plates were from everywhere but Wyoming.
People rose from lawn chairs as the truck drove past, looking, waving. Sam thought Bill’s truck might have been the best entertainment those folks had all day.
“These are the ones who made it this far,” Bill said. “Most with what was left in their gas tanks. For the time being the churches have taken up collections of food to keep them going, but we’re going to have to figure out something for the long term.”
“Look for Dylan and Kirstin,” Sam told Shyla; but they saw no black BMW or red Dodge matching Dylan’s.
“Did they have full tanks when they left?” Frank asked.
“Yeah,” Sam told him. “We all filled up when we left town.”
Bill took a right at the stop sign, saying, “If there was no roadblock at the canyon, they’d have made it to Shoshoni. If there wasn’t one there, they could have gone all the way to Casper.”
“They knew about martial law.” Evan studied the hospital as they drove past. Vehicles were in the staff parking, which was promising. “They might have planned to go through Riverton, try the back way down 287.”
Sam said, “The BMW could go about four h
undred and fifty miles on tank of fuel. Dylan said he got about three hundred fifty.”
“That would have got them to the border, all right.” Bill shook his head.
“They made their choice.” Shyla sounded distant as they crossed the bridge over the Bighorn River. “Me, I’d have considered turning back after passing that first Toyota, and been convinced by the time I reached Hot Springs.”
Pulling the truck into the lot behind the Bank of Hot Springs, Bill shifted into Park, and killed the engine. “Sam? You and Shyla go mosey around town. I don’t think anyone will bother you, but if they do just tell them you’re kin. Cousin to Frank and me. Come for a visit and got caught by this mess. Got it?”
Sam winked at Shyla. “Got it. Thank you. I’d be proud to be an honorary Tappan.”
“Only ‘cause you don’t know what a surly bastard I can really be.”
“Is that what Meggan likes about you?” Shyla asked as they all climbed out of the truck. “The surly part?”
“Girl, given what the rest is like, that’s the best part I’ve got.”
“He’s mellowed over the years,” Frank explained.
As the truck doors were slammed shut, the back door to the bank opened; a thick-set white-haired man cast suspicious looks their way.
“That’s Fred Willson,” Frank said under his breath. “We’ll be inside in the conference room. Sam, Shyla? You need anything, knock twice. Hard. Then three soft. One of us will come. Meanwhile, here’s a spare truck key in case it rains again.”
“Got it.”
Bill gave Sam and Shyla a reassuring nod and followed the rest as they filed through the bank’s back door.
“Well,” Sam said, “I guess we’ll go see what there is to see.”
“Some first date, Delgado,” she told him with a smile. “You really know how show a girl a good time in the big city, huh?”
“I guess it’s not quite what you’re used to.”
Dissolution: The Wyoming Chronicles: Book One Page 18
