The day after: An apocalyptic morning (6 page)

              As they went north, heading towards the Auburn Ravine section of the mountains, they continued to climb higher and higher in elevation. The mudslides ceased to be much of a danger as the foliage grew thicker but the temperature also dropped, chilling them in their wet clothes. Through it all, the clouds overhead remained thick enough to block out the majority of the sunlight and the rain continued to fall in a steady downpour.

              Just before dark Skip found them a place to camp for the night. On the leeward side of a rocky hill he was able to build a lean-to of sorts out of thick branches from a fallen pine tree. Once it was complete it was almost undetectable as a man-made object unless you happened to be standing right next to it and the inside was relatively free of dripping water. Skip directed the two kids to store their backpacks and their guns against the rock and to spread their sleeping bags out in a line.

              They shared a family sized can of chicken noodle soup for dinner, taking turns using the spoon attachment on Skip's Swiss Army knife to ladle the cold broth into their mouths. Afterward, Skip took the empty can and set it where the rain was falling, holding onto it with one hand to keep it from blowing away. Less than five minutes later, the can was full of clear, sweet water that had been boiled upward from the heat of the comet five days before. They passed this around, rehydrating themselves until it was empty. Skip then refilled it six more times and poured the contents into their canteens.

              "How do you know so much about, you know, surviving? Building shelters and all that?" Christine asked him as he poured the last canful into a canteen. They were all three sitting under the shelter of the lean-to, looking out at the forbidding and rapidly darkening landscape.

              Skip shrugged, tossing the can to the side and fishing into his sleeping bag. After a moment, he pulled out one of the bottles of Jack Daniels. "I grew up in Sacramento," he said, breaking the seal and twisting the cap off. "My dad used to take me camping and hunting a lot when I was a kid. Usually right up in this neck of the woods. He taught me a lot of stuff, like the lean-to for instance, in case I was ever lost in a snowstorm or something. A lot of the other stuff I learned from the survival school I had to go to in the army."

              "Survival school?"

              He nodded, taking a large swig out of the JD. He wasn't much of a hard alcohol drinker and the liquid burned like fire as it went down his throat, bringing tears to his eyes. But at the same time he felt warmth spreading through him for the first time in forever. The fact that it was false warmth, that it was actually making him more prone to hypothermia, seemed a trivial Micker. "Aviator's survival training," he said when his pallet was clear. "It was designed to teach us how to survive if we were ever shot down behind enemy lines. They taught us all about evasion techniques and living off the land and then they dropped us into the woods by ourselves and made us do it while people tried to find us. It was pretty intense training. They called it hell on earth back then." He scoffed a little, taking another swig. "They obviously had no idea what hell on earth really meant."

              "You flew airplanes in the army?" she asked, hugging herself with her arms to combat the cold.

              "The army doesn't have any airplanes," he told her, taking one more swig. He could feel it going to his head now, making him buzz pleasantly. "They only have helicopters. I started off flying the Kiowa; that's a little Bell Jet Ranger like the police departments fly. Its job is to seek out targets for the combat choppers. I did a little time in the Blackhawks too; those are the transport choppers. Finally, they gave me the job I really wanted. My last two years I flew the Apache. It's an attack helicopter that goes after enemy armor. That's what I flew in the Gulf War." He shook his head a little, remembering who he was talking to. "Christ, you two were in kindergarten during the Gulf War, weren't you?"

              "I was in first grade," Christine said seriously, as if that made a difference.

              Skip laughed. "God, I'm getting old. Now I know how my dad used to feel when he talked about Vietnam."

              "How many ragheads did you kill?" asked Jack, speaking for the first time since dinner. "In the war I mean?"

              Skip looked at him, seeing something like life in his face for once. "I didn't kill people in the war," he said. "I killed tanks and armored vehicles and radar sites. I did it from three and four miles away, or actually, my gunner did."

              "But there were people in those tanks," Jack pointed out.

              "Not as far as I could see," Skip answered, offering the justification he had used back then. "It's real easy to kill someone when you don't have to see them. I got in a gunfight once as a cop but I didn't hit anyone. When I shot those bikers today, that was the first time I ever killed anyone at close range. I didn't like it much. I didn't hesitate to do it, but I didn't like it."

              "They deserved it though," Christine said. "They killed our parents."

              "Yes," Skip agreed, taking yet another swig of whiskey, "they did. That makes it justifiable. That makes it a little easier on my conscience. But that doesn't make it enjoyable. Not at all. Try to remember that as we go on here. There may come a time when you kids have to kill someone with those guns I gave you. Don't hesitate if it's necessary, but don't be surprised when you feel guilty about it later."

              While they contemplated that thought, Skip screwed the cap back on the JD and stashed it next to his backpack. Though the temptation was to drink until he passed out, he refused to give in to it. He had people to take care of now. A hangover the next morning would not be a good way to do that. "We'd better hit the sack," he said. "Let's try to get to the edge of the canyon tomorrow so we can get a look at what we're dealing with. Auburn and Colfax are across the canyon. If there's any sort of civility left in the world, maybe we'll find it there. And if the bridge across the canyon is still intact, maybe we'll be able to get there."

              "Do you really think there might be?" Christine asked hopefully, no doubt thinking about warm hotel rooms and pancake breakfasts in the diner.

              "No," he said simply, having made a vow not to lie to them, "but it's worth a look, isn't it?"

              On that note, they began to get ready for bed. Skip set his rifle down alongside his sleeping bag and then unstrapped the .40 caliber pistol from his belt, laying it next to it. Before he got any further in his ritual, he noted with alarm that the kids were fully intending to climb into their sleeping bags as they were.

              "Whoa," he said, holding up a hand in the rapidly encroaching darkness. "You aren't going to get in your sleeping bags while you're wearing those clothes, are you?"

              They looked at him in confusion for a moment. "What?" Jack finally asked.

              "What else would we do?" Christine contributed.

              "Strip," he said simply.

              "Strip?" they said simultaneously.

              "Everything off," he confirmed. "If you climb in there like that, you're going to get the inside of your sleeping bags all wet and muddy. Pretty soon they'll mildew. Not only that, but you'll be a lot warmer if you're not wet."

              They looked at each other and then at him for a moment, both clearly embarrassed at the very thought.

              " Christine," he said, rolling his eyes a little, "you go first. Go out and pee if you need to and then take your clothes off and climb in your sleeping bag. Jack and I will turn the other way while you do it. Trust me on this, you'll be a lot happier if you're dry in there."

              Only after several more minutes of cajoling and convincing did she agree to do as he said. She hiked out into the rain and out of sight for a moment to relieve her bladder and then came back to the lean-to, a sheepish look on her face. Jack and Skip, as promised, turned their heads away from her. From behind them came the sound of a belt buckle being undone and then clothing being pushed forcefully down.

              Skip, looking out at the dim landscape outside, didn't see a thing. But listening to the young girl undress behind him, he became aware of her for the first time as something other than someone that he was trying to look after. He found himself wondering what just what her breasts looked like. Would they be nice and firm? Would they be small? Did they have pert little nipples? What would her pubic hair look like? Would it be blond, like her hair?

              Knock it off! he told himself before these thoughts spun completely out of control. She's a sixteen-year-old girl! Half your age! You used to arrest people for doing what you were just thinking about! You shot four men who were thinking about doing it less than eight hours ago! He managed to drive the thoughts underground but they didn't bury themselves very deep. When he took off his own clothes a few minutes later, while Christine was snuggled in her sleeping bag, dutifully turning her head to the side, his penis was a turgid mass of flesh, sticking out before him. It remained in that state until long after he drifted off to sleep.

              Breakfast the next morning consisted of a can of Vienna sausages followed up by a can of syrupy orange slices. It wasn't exactly bacon and eggs but it kept their stomachs from growling too noticeably. Before heading off for the day's hike through the muddy woods, Skip spent a few hours making the two kids familiar with the M-16 rifles they were carrying. He instructed them in assembly and disassembly, making them do both several times until they got the hang of it. He showed them how to load the weapon, how to eject unfired rounds from the chamber, and how to clear the action if it became jammed. He had them dry fire at various objects, getting them used to the sights and the feel of the weapon. Unfortunately, the most important part of the lesson, shooting the damn thing, could not be accomplished very well without seriously depleting their ammunition supply. He allowed them to fire three rounds apiece at the culmination of the lesson, setting up an empty can on a stump twenty yards away and challenging them to hit it. To his surprise, Christine potted it neatly through the center on her first shot.

              "You're a quick learner," he said, impressed.

              She smiled sweetly, glowing in his praise and clearly quite proud of herself as she went to go pick the can back up and replace it. Her next two shots were also on the mark. Jack turned out to be a quick study as well. He missed by about eight inches or so on his first shot but was able to knock the can down on both of his successive tries. In all, Skip considered the lesson to be time well spent and the ammo expended an acceptable loss. If nothing else it got them accustomed to the kick and the noise of their rifles and built their confidence up about their abilities to hit something. It wasn't the same as shooting at a human being that was shooting back, and they were certainly a long way from being properly trained in safety, combat techniques, and a thousand other things, but it was better than nothing. At least they could return fire in a fight and reload their weapons. If they didn't panic that was - something that remained to be seen.

              "Okay," he said, picking up his backpack and his own rifle and donning them. "You've earned the right to load your weapons. Keep them locked, loaded, and on single fire whenever we're on the move from here on out. Remember, if someone starts shooting at us, the first thing you want to do is get down on the ground. Make yourself as small a target as possible. Understand?"

              They both told him that they understood.

              "And please," he admonished, giving them one final piece of instruction, "don't accidentally shoot me, all right?"

              They both promised that they would not do that.

              "Let's move out then before some curious person comes to see what all the shooting was about."

              They moved out, Skip, as always, taking the point, his apprentices in a triangular formation behind him, their weapons gripped like his.

              Skip had come on his hunting trip with an expensive, hand-help GPS receiver that was capable of fixing his position within ten meters of any given spot on the earth. It was touted as the most reliable and sturdiest device of its kind, even coming with a lifetime guarantee. Apparently however, its designers had not considered the fact that thick, comet-produced clouds would block all of the satellite signals it used to orient itself. He had thrown it away as useless, excess baggage shortly after Carl's untimely demise. Now he relied on his backup navigation device - a trusty army surplus store compass that his dad had taught him to use long before the world had even heard of a global positioning system. He checked it every few minutes to make sure they were continuing to head in a generally northward direction. He was glad he had been in the habit of carrying the compass in his hunting clothes. Without it he might very well have ended up leading them around in circles since the clouds, in addition to blocking the GPS signals, covered every other navigational reference available. It was impossible to even tell where the sun was in the sky.

              Several times as they picked their way forward, moving over mudfalls, around downed trees, and crossing over swollen creeks, Skip looked back to see either Christine or Jack weeping softly. It was understandable. Their parents were less than a day dead and they were heading off to an unknown fate with a total stranger. It would have made him weep on occasion as well. He offered a few words of comfort to them during their breaks but otherwise left them alone. Their grief was something they were just going to have to work through themselves.