While the pine needles burned, he looped one end of the rope around his waist and began to climb the tree. Going hand over hand with the rope and walking his feet up the trunk, he quickly got a couple of yards off the ground. When he got level with the hive, he leaned against the rope, holding it back so the friction prevented it from sliding. With his free hand he reached down. “Okay, hand me the bucket.”
Carrie stood on tiptoes to give him the bucket, and he held it near the hive to let the smoke waft around the bees. While he waited, he shifted so that his boots were anchored better on a protruding knot in the trunk. “Almost ready,” he said.
When he had smoked the hive enough that the bees were mostly sedated, he dumped out the smoldering contents of the bucket and held its handle in his mouth. Then he used his pocket knife to open the side of the hive. “Gold!” he mumbled. “I’ve shtruck gold!”
He cut away several chunks of honeycomb and put them in the bucket. During the process a few bees flew out and two of them stung McLean on the neck and cheek. “Ow! Ouch!” But he persisted in his efforts to get the honey, and no more bees attacked him.
Finally he climbed down. “Look at this,” he cried, holding up the waxy, golden comb. There were a few eggs but it was mostly pure, shining honey.
Carrie was in awe. “That’s beautiful. Can I try some?”
She broke off a piece of the honeycomb and tried to suck the honey out, licking it as it dripped down her chin.
“Just eat the whole thing,” McLean said, rubbing at the painful stings on his face but smiling anyway. “The comb itself is delicious.”
Carrie tried it, and chewed with an expression of pure delight. “Mmm. How long has it been since we ran out of our stored honey? This is wonderful. Much better than store-bought.”
As they snacked together, McLean expounded on the uses of wild honey. “If we can harvest a decent amount of this, we could use it for lots more than cooking. You can preserve fruits with it. It’s antiseptic and gets rid of parasites. We could make our own candles. And it makes a good salve for cuts and scrapes.”
Carrie dipped her finger in the honey and gently rubbed it onto the stings on McLean’s neck and face. As she did this, he grew still and gazed into her eyes.
“Better already?” she asked.
He nodded, and then pulled something out of his pocket. “Carrie, there really is something else I wanted to bring you out here for.” He knelt down in front of her in the shade of the aspens, and held up a small, shiny gray ring. “I love you very much. I’ll always love you. Will you… will you be my wife, Carrie?”
Carrie was overcome with emotion. The proposal wasn’t entirely unexpected, but it was still a shock. She took the ring and held it up to the light. It was a simple little thing, no stone, obviously home-made. She slipped it on her finger and bent over to kiss McLean.
“Of course. Yes! I will.” He stood and they hugged and kissed for several minutes until the jitters had left them. Carrie looked at her ring again, smiling widely.
“I had Jim make it for me,” McLean explained. “In the little forge out back. It’s just a nail. Maybe some day I’ll be able to get you a diamond.”
Carrie shook her head. “No. I will wear this until I die. It’s perfect, because it reminds me of you!”
They were married three days later, by an elderly neighbor from several valleys over who was a retired pastor. It was a quiet, sweet ceremony with just the ranch group and a few of Carrie’s acquaintances from Crested Butte in attendance. McLean wanted desperately to have their time together in the peace before the storm that he knew was coming. For their honeymoon he took Carrie on a two-day camping trip to a mountain lake he had once visited. It was fifteen miles distant, high above the valleys where people were scratching out their living in the harsh new world that had been thrust on them several months earlier.
It was a time of incredible happiness, such that neither of them had expected to see again. They talked of starting a family and how it would be to raise children in such a different world. They decided that if they could achieve a basic level of peace in their region, regardless of technological failures, they wouldn’t mind raising a family in such conditions. In some ways they wondered if it might even be better for their kids than the old days of public school, video games, car wrecks, drug parties, and societal pressures. All of that was gone now, and as McLean eloquently put it, “Good riddance!”
Throughout the spring, the group at the ranch played an integral part in bringing the longed-for peace to their immediate area. They helped the small towns along the southern highway link up and establish security, order, and smooth distribution of supplies. Trading posts sprang up at every crossroads and traveling merchants began branching out to bring food and medicine and other items to the residents of the valleys and cabins. The group was the dominant force for good in the region, lending and healing and protecting and trading and advising.
Meanwhile, to the east, the only news to slip from the iron grip of General Maughan was that a new mandate had come from the East: all outlying towns were now required to pay taxes to the nearest regional command center, whether or not they had yet come under direct Correctionist control. Areas that failed to send in this tribute in the form of food and other supplies would be subjected to raids during which the use of deadly force was authorized, without prior warning.
Two months after McLean and Carrie’s wedding, just when they were all starting to wonder if the opportunity to take back Denver had passed, the call came from Carl Walsh. The code phrase was broadcast over the radio and spread among every ham operator and by word of mouth from there.
“Denver is burning!”
With some reluctance, but also with a steely resolve, McLean and Carrie packed their gear, loaded fresh magazines for their weapons, and led their group into the mountains toward the city.
Chapter 16 : Back into the City
“It’s not too late. You can go back now and stay safe,” McLean said, pulling on his boots.
Carrie shook her head firmly as she wound her hair up to keep it out of the way for the day. “My place is out here with you. If we had kids, I’d stay behind. But right now there’s nowhere I’d rather be than with my husband. Even if that means being on the front lines.”
The first sunlight shone through the window of the bedroom where they’d been sleeping. They were in the main house at Morgan Jeffries’ horse ranch in the mountains above Denver. McLean had hoped to find the old man there as they neared Denver, but the place was empty. Morgan had obviously vacated much earlier to head for Utah, and the place had been looted at some point in the recent past. The horses were all gone but the structure was intact and the pump still worked, so McLean volunteered it as a forward operating base for the resistance fighters to converge on, and a place to fall back to if they had to retreat from the valley.
On the way to the South Platte River valley, they had linked up with a dozen other small groups of fighters. Each one was different, an eclectic mix of farmers, small-town sheriff deputies, veterans, construction workers, and ranch hands. They wore ordinary clothing and carried mostly hunting rifles and shotguns, although Ron’s box of M16 rifles had been passed out as well. The one thing they all had in common was the look of grim determination that hung on every face. They had come to drive out the oppressors or die in the attempt. Rory and his brother-in-law were among them, as was the free scout Micah Bosin.
The main group had arrived at the horse ranch the day before, and Walsh immediately sent a scouting party to the valley ahead while more fighters streamed in to the ranch. McLean and Carrie stayed to help organize and accommodate the incoming fighters around the ranch. Brad, Ron, and JD were in the scouting party.
McLean and Carrie left their room and walked into the kitchen, which was now a command center for Walsh and his advisors.
“Morning,” grunted Walsh. He was bent over a map on the kitchen table with a pencil in his mouth, nearly eclipsed by his bushy blac
k beard. “No coffee or orange juice here, I’m afraid. F’you want donuts you’ll have to fry some up yourself.”
“Wouldn’t that be nice,” Carrie said. An army marches on its stomach, she knew, but this was hardly an army. Breakfast was whatever the resistance members had brought with them. So was lunch and dinner. She grabbed a mug from the cupboard and clattered around the kitchen among some supplies scrounged the night before.
“Any word from the scouts yet?” McLean asked.
“Sure. They’re in position around the valley, watching the General’s troop movements,” Carl replied. “He seems to be gearing up for a trip south-- maybe to clamp down on us. Good thing we won’t be there when arrives in Pueblo.”
“But what about the people there?” Carrie asked. “Will he retaliate against them?”
Carl sighed. “He might.”
“You’re not even going to do anything about it?”
“What do you think we are here for? What’s more important than this? It would be very convenient for us if Maughan and the bulk of his troops were out of town when we struck. Anyway, the people in Pueblo know where they stand, and if Maughan wants to make more enemies there than so be it. Every time he pushes people around, our ranks swell.”
Carrie obviously didn’t like that answer, but she didn’t say anything more.
“Are you ready for your assignment?” Carl asked McLean.
“Sure.”
Carrie leaned against the counter to listen as she sipped the weak tea she was brewing from pine needles. She grimaced at the taste, wishing for some sugar or honey, but grateful for the natural source of vitamins and the soothing wake-up effect the tea had.
“We need somebody on the inside to find out what Maughan’s actually planning and report back. Somebody that can go unrecognized and learn how he’s going to react to us once he realizes we’re here to tangle with him. And hopefully this somebody will be able to stir up some trouble in the city as well, to fracture Maughan’s forces and undermine his control.”
“That somebody wouldn’t be me, would it?”
“Unless you have someone else in mind more capable. Most of my guys are from La Junta and Pueblo, they don’t know Denver that well. And I’ve already asked others that know the area to go into the eastern suburbs and see what support they can find there. Are you up for it?”
Carrie looked at McLean. “We’ll both go. I know some parts of the city better than McLean, and we obviously work well as a team. We won’t have any trouble passing ourselves off as a couple of refugees.”
McLean nodded. He wasn’t happy about putting Carrie in harm’s way, but she was needed. With her along, the mission’s chances of success would more than double.
“All right,” Carl said. “We’ll give you one of the handheld radios and set up a code for you to pass info to us from inside the city. The place is locked down at night, so you’re better off finding a way in whenever you get down there.
“Do what you can. Let us know what you find out, and whether you can drum up any local support. We’ll be lying low here and gathering our forces for the next while. Unless something changes, we’ll begin our main attack at dawn day after tomorrow.”
McLean and Carrie spent the next hour getting ready. They each secreted a pistol where it was unlikely to be found unless they were thoroughly patted down, and took small backpacks for food, water, and a few supplies. It would be a rough night unless they found a friendly place to stay, but they hadn’t come this far just for leisure.
They hiked out through Evergreen on foot and passed a few of Carl’s scouts coming back the other way. After stopping to chat and satisfy themselves that they weren’t walking into a deathtrap, McLean and Carrie continued past Indian Hills and got to the valley that afternoon.
They spent some time surveying the city through binoculars and finally opted to circle north and enter Denver via the interstate. They could see some foot traffic there and decided it would arouse the least suspicion if they claimed to be residents of Grand Junction. They got their cover story straight as they walked, keeping out of sight of the city behind the hills.
Finally they came to the I-70 and headed eastward along its cluttered surface. The road had suffered through the winter with no maintenance, and was littered with debris cast off by refugees that had traveled this way at one time or another. Every few hundred yards there was a ruined car. Some were burned out and some just trashed by months of serving as temporary shelters along the freeway.
They passed several people moving westward and tried to strike up a conversation with each in hopes of learning something useful. None of them seemed eager to speak with strangers on the road, however. A man on a battered bicycle wouldn’t even stop. A weathered man and woman eyed them so suspiciously that McLean realized they probably didn’t look beaten-down enough. He and Carrie rubbed some dirt under their eyes and on their clothing to better match the appearance of the other travelers.
When they entered the valley and got within a mile of the city limits, they began to see crude signs posted along the freeway. Some were just spray-painted on the asphalt and guardrails, some were stretched over old road signs that no longer served their original purpose. “Disease ahead” had been crossed out with black paint at some point in the past, but “No food, no heat, no hope” was still displayed prominently on an exit sign that had originally alerted drivers to the presence of restaurants and hotels. “All weapons prohibited” and “Stop at barricade or be shot” had ominous skull-and-crossbones symbols painted next to them. One simply read “Turn around”.
Not long after that they came to the first checkpoint. Three strands of barbed wire had been strung across all six lanes of the interstate, and there was a small bunker to one side that was reinforced with sandbags and cinderblocks. The barrel of a gun poked through a hole in the bunker’s wall, but it wasn’t tracking them or moving at all.
Carrie looked at McLean but he just shrugged. There was no one in sight. “This can’t be the only checkpoint,” he said. “Maybe just a preliminary outpost to sound the alarm when anyone of interest comes through?”
They walked past the bunker without being challenged and heard loud snores coming from inside. McLean tiptoed over and saw a single uniformed soldier collapsed inside, his weapon propped up at the porthole on some boxes. Shaking his head, McLean motioned for silence, and he and Carrie sneaked past and continued on their way.
“No sense in subjecting ourselves to any more scrutiny than necessary,” he whispered to her. “If he gets in trouble for it later, it’s no skin off our noses. He’d probably try to shake us down for what’s in our backpacks, anyway.”
They looked back and saw a young man on a bike roll past the checkpoint. He glanced fearfully toward the bunker and quickly sped up once he got beyond it. He steered around McLean and Carrie, giving them a wide berth, and sped onward into the city.
A half mile past the initial checkpoint they came to a more serious roadblock. Two semi trucks had been turned perpendicular to the highway and the space between was just wide enough for two people to squeeze through. The semi trailers had been converted into armored guard huts and were occupied by three well-armed soldiers. They piled out and impatiently beckoned the travelers toward them, obviously irritated that whatever they had going on inside was being interrupted again so soon after the bicyclist.
Two of the soldiers held their guns ready while the third, who seemed to outrank them even though no decipherable insignia was visible on his jacket, spoke to them. “Where ya coming from?”
“Grand Junction,” McLean replied.
“Kind of late in the day for a round trip. You must be planning on staying. What’s your business?”
“Just coming to check on my sister’s family,” McLean lied. He knew that he wasn’t much good at it, now that he was having to actually speak the words. He wondered if the soldier would buy it. “They’re all sick, and we thought we’d come to help out,” he added. He instantly regrett
ed the ad-lib. He sounded ridiculous in his own ears; surely the soldiers would get suspicious.
“You been into Denver before? Do you have any communicable diseases?”
“No.”
Carrie shook her head.
“All right. Got any weapons or contraband? You’ll be shot if you don’t turn it all in to us now.”
McLean denied having any, and the soldier eyed Carrie up and down. “How about you, honey?”
“Of course not,” she said.
“Well, then, how about some food, or liquor? If you slipped us each a cold Budweiser, I bet we could smooth things out for you at the next checkpoint.”
The other two soldiers laughed, and one licked his lips. “I’d even settle for a Corona at this point,” he said.
“Yeah, or anything else she cared to slip us,” the third said, leering at Carrie. A stern look from McLean convinced the trio not to pursue it any farther.
“Okay, go on. Move it,” the ranking soldier told them. “But don’t forget to bring us something nice on your way out. I remember faces, and I might not be in such a good mood next time I see you.”
The two travelers nodded and continued down the highway until they had rounded the curve. Then, checking ahead to make sure they weren’t already under surveillance by the next checkpoint, McLean led Carrie under a strip of barbed wire and over the guard rail on the side. They slid down a steep embankment overgrown with tall thistles and found themselves on a deserted road by an old storage facility.
“We’ll blaze our own trail from here,” he told Carrie. “I don’t want to deal with any more of those guys unless we have to. Next time they might pat us down for weapons.”
They moved quickly down the road away from the freeway, losing themselves in an industrial park as the shadows lengthened out from the buildings and the sun began to slip beyond the horizon. After another hour of walking they had gotten into an abandoned residential area populated only by dogs and a lone, feral-looking man.
Take Back Denver Page 10
