Get Out of Denver (Denver Burning Book 1) (8 page)

They followed the tracks for several hours without stopping. The railroad grade kept fairly level, and they were both in good shape. They sipped water and ate dried fruit, jerky, and Clif bars from McLean’s pack as they walked, to keep their energy up. They were silent for long periods, steadying themselves mentally.

It helped that they were walking through some very beautiful areas. The serenity of the pines towering on either side of the track was comforting, and the scent of sun-warmed earth and leaves relieved some of the morning’s trauma.

At one point Carrie asked more about the EMP, and McLean shared what he knew. “It may have been an airburst from a nuclear weapon,” he said. “If one was detonated in the stratosphere, its effects could spread over a large part of the country.”

“Does that mean we’ve been exposed to radiation?” Carrie asked.

“The radioactive fallout that happens in a nuclear strike is the result of many tons of dirt and debris being thrown up into the air by the massive explosion. In a very high altitude airburst, there would be no debris, and the heat and force of the detonation obviously didn’t extend down to the ground in any noticeable way. I think we’re okay.”

“That’s good,” she replied. “You’d think if someone had access to a nuclear missile, though, they’d just hit the city with it and destroy everything. Why kill the power but leave everything intact? Do you think someone’s going to invade?”

“I doubt it. I don’t know of any countries with a real motivation to launch a land invasion of America. Take us down a notch, sure.”

“Well, how long does it take to fix this stuff? Can all those cars be repaired, have their batteries replaced or something?”

“No. The EMP literally fried all the circuitry. A lot of brand-new electronics will have to be built and distributed, and I can’t see how that’s going to happen when the factories are silent and the trucks can’t get it all to market anyway. No, I think the world changed today, at least here in Denver. And it’s not going to be the same again for a very long time. Maybe never, if this is global.”

They came out of the trees into a valley crisscrossed by roads, but no one was visible and they couldn’t hear any vehicles running. They stuck to the tracks as they cut through the less-populated side of the valley, keeping their distance from the homes they saw. Up ahead they could see a good-sized mountain peak, which was about to block out the lowering sun.

“That’s Bear Mountain,” McLean announced, tucking the map back into his pocket. “Highway seventy-three joins up with seventy-four on the other side of it, in another little valley where a friend of mine runs a little horse ranch in the town of Evergreen. We’ll stop there tomorrow to resupply, maybe get some horses if he’s feeling generous. That would make the rest of our journey a lot easier, because we still have at least fifty miles to go.”

The sun slipped down behind the hills and they began looking for a secluded place to camp. They found a culvert where a creek ran under the railroad track, and set up a little camp at its mouth, sheltered from the elements and hidden from view. The only gear they had was what McLean had packed in his bag, but it was sufficient. There was no tent or sleeping bag, but he had a small tarpaulin and some paper-thin folded emergency blankets that would keep them warm enough even if it got very cold during the night.

“I can’t offer you a very comfortable night,” he told Carrie, “but will ‘survivable’ do?”

“It’s better than the alternative,” she said. “And anyway, I think I’m tired enough to sleep through a…” She trailed off, deciding not to mention whatever disaster had been on the tip of her tongue. The irony would be chilling, not humorous. The only things they hadn’t actually been through in the past two days were too awful, and too plausible, to mention.

As the daylight faded to black a breeze began to blow over the mountains, rustling in the pines that towered over their camp in the culvert. Carrie got goosebumps, partly from the cold and partly from the realization that she was truly out in the woods, with no car and no retreat to civilization.

McLean built a small fire to warm them and raise their spirits. No one would be able to see the flames since it was down in a depression where the culvert emptied into a small stream. McLean reasoned that no one was likely to be out and about this night to see or smell the smoke anyway. They were still well ahead of any exodus from the city.

Huddled by the fire with their emergency blankets wrapped around their backs, they ate a couple of MRE’s from McLean’s bag and filtered some water from the creek to drink. It was a beautiful night, and in other circumstances it would have made a perfect camping experience. They purposely avoided depressing topics about the events of the past few days, and instead focused on the future.

“What’s your ranch like, McLean?” Carrie asked. “How long will we be able to stay there without going back to the city to resupply?”

“Good question,” he replied. “The idea is ‘as long as we need to’, although it remains to be seen how things actually play out. I’ve been living off my garden almost entirely since last Spring, but we’ll have a lot more people to feed now so we’re going to need to plant more right away. I’ve got a good well, a secure house with enough firewood for a whole winter, and I’ve been working on some sources of alternative power, although it remains to be seen what kind of shape they’re in after that EMP blast. I’ve even got some livestock, assuming they haven’t run off or died on me. I have an agreement with the neighbors to keep an eye on them when I’m away.”

“You have neighbors?” Carrie asked, stretching out her body along the ground and propping her head in her hand. “I thought your place was pretty isolated.”

“Oh, there are three or four other ranches and cabins in the area. Good people, all of them. I’ve spent some time with each and I trust them. One of the most important things about a home is its neighbors.” McLean poked another stick into the fire and sat back against his bag. “It’s funny, I’ve only lived there full-time for two years. But it really feels like home to me, more than any place I’ve been since I was a kid.”

“Where did you grow up?” Carrie asked. “Here in Colorado?”

“No, Seattle, actually. And moved around more and more the older I got. But a few years ago I decided it was time to settle down and build something worthwhile. How about you?”

“I was born in Grand Junction. Moved to Boulder when I was in high school, and then to the city after several years at UCLA.”

“Ugh. How did you like Los Angeles? Talk about a big city.”

“There were good and bad parts. I’ll admit, I’m glad I’m not there anymore. It wouldn’t be a nice place during a disaster like this one.” Carrie shifted around so her mylar blanket wasn’t so exposed to the fire, and her movement brought her a little closer to McLean. He briefly thought how nice it would be if she’d cuddle right up to him, but it still wasn’t the time for such things. Both of their eyelids were starting to droop.

“Tomorrow I’ll introduce you to a couple of friends of mine, if they made it out here,” he said. “Fun guys, part of a group that will eventually converge on my ranch if all goes according to plan. We’ll travel together, and they’ll come in very handy for protection and work when we get to the ranch. We’ll have a lot to do to get everything ready for the arrival of the rest.”

“How many are there?”

“Ten of us, plus a few additional family members that may or may not show. Most I know quite well, and the others have been vouched for. They’re on their own to make it to the ranch, but once we’re there we’ll all work together to meet the group’s needs. One lady’s a doctor, and there’s an engineer and a guy with a lot of farming experience. We should be in pretty good shape.”

“Sounds like I lucked out,” Carrie said. A troubled look crossed her face. “It makes me feel a little guilty, in fact.”

McLean shook his head. “Survivor guilt. Don’t let it get you down. You don’t owe anything to anybody. Whatever you choose to do from here on out is up to you. I’m sure you’ll choose wisely and fairly, but don’t let others’ decisions weigh you down.”

Carrie nodded, but the frown didn’t leave her face even when her eyes closed and she slumped, overtaken by exhaustion.

McLean put one more stick on the fire and lay back, listening to the wind overhead and the sounds of night in the mountains. He knew he’d wake up quickly if anything approached, and he was confident enough in their hiding place that he wasn’t going to try to watch all night. He would need the rest if he was going to get them all the way back to his ranch.

McLean woke several times during the night, nerves jangling from post-traumatic stress. He realized he now had blood on his hands, and he wondered how many people he’d killed that day. Counting the shots he’d taken, he took some comfort in knowing that he’d only hit one or two during the firefight at David’s house, and they might not have died. He didn’t regret what he’d done, but it still wasn’t pleasant. He’d definitely fight and kill again, though, if he had to.

He got up just before first light feeling refreshed despite the rough night’s sleep. The cool mountain air did wonders after the past few nights spent in dangerous, cramped quarters in the city. He woke Carrie as the sun peeked over a distant mountain, and she got up with a moan.

“That… was not very comfortable,” she muttered, trying untwist her hair and stretch out the sore spots in her back and legs.

“Hopefully we’ll do better tonight,” McLean offered. “The horse ranch I told you about should be accommodating, and after that, God willing, we’ll all have decent beds at my place.”

They set off immediately after McLean had scattered the cold remnants of their fire and brushed dirt and leaves over the area to obscure their trail. They ate a little and drank water as they walked up a tree-filled canyon and over a ridge into another mountain valley.

“Why did you cover up our campsite?” Carrie asked. “You’re not afraid we’ll be followed by terrorists, are you?”

“No. Just a precaution. Call me paranoid, but I’d rather not leave an obvious trail to my ranch. Not that anyone’s likely to notice or follow it. But my friends already know where to go, and I’d just as soon no one else had clues leading the way.” McLean pulled out a pair of sunglasses and put them on as the sun grew brighter. “A camp site reveals a lot to someone who knows what to look for. How many of us there are, where we’ve come from, where we’re headed, how much of a hurry we’re in, what kind of supplies we’ve got. I think we’re still ahead of the crowd, but we’re probably not entirely alone up here. There are plenty of hunters, backpackers, and ex-soldiers in Denver that may be either hitting the trail out of the city now, or thinking about it. Not to mention the other thousands of refugees that will soon be pouring out of town.”

They continued over the hills and between mountainsides, which grew steadily steeper and more thickly forested. Their muscles, stiff and painful at first, soon loosened up and they made good time along the railroad track. At noon they diverged from it and followed a deer trail along the side of a larger mountain. At this trail’s highest point they stopped to rest and look back the way they had come. There was no sign of man or beast, aside from a few birds flitting between the trees. No aircraft overhead. Still only a handful of miles from a major city, they might as well have been in the Alaskan bush.

“We seem to be pretty alone out here,” Carrie remarked. “I doubt anyone from Denver will come up here.”

“That’s because we’re taking the back way,” McLean replied. “I’d bet refugees are already starting to straggle up the major highways, through Glenwood Canyon, and the whole length of I-70. We’ll do well to steer clear of it all.”

“What if there are good developments, though, and we miss it because we’re in the backcountry? What if this all gets resolved, and everybody knows it but us?”

“That’s a real consideration, for sure,” McLean said. “Now that we’re safely out of the danger zone, we need to get more information about what’s going on. I’m hoping to pick up some news at my friend’s ranch in Evergreen, and I have some radio equipment at my ranch that will allow us to reach out and talk to people all over the Intermountain West. But we need to stay cautious. We know that the power’s dead in Denver, we know there are really dangerous people sowing the seeds of chaos there. I’d even suggest that we probably know more than many people. We might very well hear news that turns out to be dangerously false. It’s always better to be safe than sorry. I promise you, though, we will do everything we can to figure out what’s going on and what the future may bring. One of the guys in my group is an expert in radio communications and intelligence gathering, and he should be able to get a handle on the situation even if the power remains out everywhere.”

They hiked onward and a couple hours after noon arrived in the Evergreen area. The horse ranch they were making for was a mile farther to the west, but finally they came to a dirt road barred by an iron gate with a ‘Buffalo Creek Horse Ranch’ sign attached to it. They climbed the gate and followed the road up the hill to an elevated plateau on the side of the mountain. The ranch sprawled across the plateau, with a large central house and several outbuildings, the largest of which was a stable with two wings and a large corral nearby. Most of the rest of the plateau was fenced, and several horses were out lazing in the afternoon sunlight.

They walked up to the ranch house, McLean whistling a tune with his shotgun slung behind him. An old man answered the door before they even go to it. He was tall, dressed in faded jeans and a loud Navajo-patterned shirt, with long gray hair streaming down from his head to join a short beard.

“Mister Ferrier! It’s about time,” the old man said. “Come on in.”

McLean smiled and shook the old man’s hand. “Afternoon, Morgan. Just thought we’d drop by. For a casual visit, you know?”

The old man grinned at the sarcasm, and eyed Carrie. “Who’s this beautiful little lady you’ve drug with you?”

“This is Carrie, a friend that I’m taking all the way with me. Carrie, this is Morgan Jeffries. He owns the ranch.”

Carrie shook his gnarled hand and they all went inside. McLean sloughed off his pack and looked around the roomy ranch house, which was filled with oak furniture, cowboy art on the walls, and dogs. A particularly friendly lab came over to lick the newcomers’ hands and sniff at them.

“I’m glad you made it,” Morgan said, gazing sincerely at his guests. “I worried about you some. But you look all right-- well,
she
does,” he amended, nodding toward Carrie. “McLean, you look like you always do. A real desperate character! You need a drink or a meal or anything? You aren’t shot up, are ya?”

McLean grinned. “We’re fine. Any sign of my compatriots?” he asked. “I figured they’d be here by now. We were delayed in the city ourselves.”

“Who do you mean?” Morgan asked, speaking over his shoulder as he led the others through a kitchen and out the back door. “A big, scary-looking Swede and a young Japanese feller about yea-tall?” He held up a hand at the level of his belly.

“Uh, yes. Those would be the ones,” McLean chuckled. It felt good to find his friend unchanged by the crisis raging in the outside world.

“They’ve been here. Eaten me out of house and home! Where they are now, I cannot say… I sent them to clean some of the stalls out, since my ranch hand ran off to find his mommy. But I believe they found the idea of work so repugnant, they lit out for the hills. We’ll see if they’re still kicking around in the stable.”

The three of them entered the massive stable’s side door and walked down the space between stalls. Several were occupied by horses, mostly paints and quarter horses, with some appaloosas. Someone was singing down at the far end, and the noise echoed back and forth, multiplying as if a whole chorus of drunk sailors were belting it out.

When they reached the end they saw a man energetically scrubbing the muddy floor of the last stall on the right with a big brush broom. He had on a pair of rubber boots, cargo pants, and nothing else. His hair was a mass of blonde bristles and his mustache and beard were just as golden. He seemed to be singing some sort of folk song, but the individual lyrics couldn’t be distinguished amidst all the echoes and the brushing.

“Hey!” Morgan shouted. “McLean’s here!”

The scrubbing man turned around and his eyes lit up as he caught sight of McLean and Carrie.

“This is JD,” McLean told Carrie, waving at the fellow. “He’s… quite a character. Brace yourself.”

JD was very muscular and his body was unevenly tanned, the result of hard work instead of a gym and tanning bed. Carrie guessed he did construction or some other manual labor.

“Whoa, you made it!” he shouted at McLean. “We almost gave up on you, man.” He dropped his brush and hollered across the bay to another man who was splashing buckets of water at the walls of the opposite stall. “DJ! Look who’s here!”

DJ, a short Asian man in navy blue pants and a t-shirt, ignored him and continued to scrub at the muck on the floor. JD yelled again, but DJ didn’t turn around, so JD walked over and yanked the ear-plugs out of his friend’s ears. “Luuuuunch tiiiiiime!” he screamed at the top of his lungs.

DJ dropped his brush and whirled, planting a precisely controlled punch directly in JD’s gut. JD leapt backward too late and rubbed his abs where DJ’s fist had hit him, his face a picture of self-righteous outrage.

“It’s lunch time, man. Don’t hurt my pretty body just because I’m looking out for you. Oh, and McLean’s here!”

DJ looked bemusedly from McLean to Carrie and back. Then he shot JD a scornful and unapologetic glare. “Your body is an abomination, JD. Get your shirt and cover it up in the presence of this lady.”

He leaned his brush up against the wall and wiped his hands carefully before shaking first Carrie’s and then McLean’s. “It’s good to see you. We’ve been worried.”

“Yeah, we have,” JD said as he grabbed a shirt hanging from a rafter beam that ran down the length of the stable. “I was serious about lunch, though. Are we done in here, Morgan?”

The old man sighed. “For now. You can do the other wing for me later.”

JD took off running down the corridor between the stalls, belting out a final phrase from his folk song, and kicked his rubber boots off in mid stride so they flew out into the anteroom by the door.

“That guy’s crazy,” DJ said. Turning to Carrie he added, “I am sorry you had to be subjected to his antics without warning.”

“Oh, McLean warned me,” she replied. “Pleasure to meet you. I’m Carrie Alton.”

“DJ Shinseki. I taught biology at DU until a couple days ago.”

They walked back to the house and entered the kitchen to find JD smearing peanut butter on a tortilla. “Morgan’s been starving us, man,” he told McLean as they walked in. “Well, at first there was steak as we emptied out the freezer. But now we’re down to rations. We’ve got to get going soon, before we have to resort to cannibalism.” He leered at Carrie, licking the plastic knife he’d been using to spread the peanut butter, as if it were a cutlass. She gazed back at him unflinching but slightly disgusted.

“I locked my personal stock away,” Morgan explained. “Had to keep it safe from this rapacious marauder. Why you want him at your ranch hideout, I can’t guess.”

“I’m not rapacious,” JD protested through a mouthful of rolled-up tortilla. “Whatever that means. And Morgan didn’t lock it away. I could get at it any time I want.”

“Yeah, he did,” DJ laughed. “You should have been here, McLean. Morgan went through all the cupboards, taking armloads of bread and salami into his room, along with his last few bottles of beer. There was panic in his eyes, I tell you!”

“Hard times, desperate measures,” Morgan growled. “Everybody have a seat, I’ll get a pitcher of this fruit drink going,” he gestured at a tub of Tang on the counter. “It tastes like mule piss-- pardon, ma’am-- but it’s better than straight creek water, even after it’s been filtered. And it’s got loads of vitamin C.”

“Your well’s down?” McLean asked. “We’ll have to get that hooked up to a manual pump before we leave. I’m sure you’ve got the hardware around here somewhere.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

“I looked at it but couldn’t figure it out,” DJ explained. “We need Jim here to get it fixed up.”

McLean nodded. “Jim the Handyman would certainly come in handy, but I can probably rig it myself. I helped Jim with the one at my place, and I’ve had to tinker with it from time to time. Speaking of Jim, any word from the others? Any news?”

“Well, no,” DJ said, sitting on a bar stool at the counter and starting to slather peanut butter on his own tortilla with a clean butter knife. “We haven’t seen them, and radios aren’t getting anything. There isn’t much news to speak of, just rumors about the sky falling and the end of the world. But we do have some wild stories to tell you.”

“That’s for sure!” JD said, and promptly launched into a semi-coherent but highly entertaining version of their adventures on the way out of Denver. DJ pitched in now and then to clarify or add details.

DJ had first noticed something was wrong when, on the morning of the fateful day earlier that week, he had gotten a notification on his phone that a cyber attack had erased data centers used by Wall Street and government facilities in D.C. The stock exchange was under emergency closure, and disturbing rumors were coming out of the Middle East and Mexico about assassinations and nuclear strikes. The rumors were unverified and were thought to be faked by the hackers that were disrupting New York and Washington, but shortly afterward the power died. DJ realized that it wasn’t just a temporary grid problem when power generators and emergency backups all over campus failed. So he excused himself from work and headed out to find JD, his pre-arranged bug-out partner.

JD, who was re-roofing a home two miles away, saw a jet fall from the sky and people starting to congregate in the street. He kept working until a small group of armed men came along. They were taking potshots at people on the street, and appeared to be some kind of organized gang. Lying flat on the roof, JD waited until the last gunman came along, hurrying to catch up after harassing some women that ran a daycare down the block. JD leaped off the roof and tackled the man, nail gun in hand, but his fall had already knocked the guy out. JD took the man’s weapon and ran to his truck, but it wouldn’t start, so he grabbed his bug-out bag and headed toward the rendezvous point he’d agreed on with DJ.