Chase walked back to the pickup and crawled underneath the sunshade Nick had fashioned from a blanket and stretched out on top of a sleeping bag. His bones seemed to creak with tiredness. Beside him, cushioned against the jolting and swaying in a cocoon of baggage and clothing, Nick was already fast asleep.
Chase closed his eyes and dreamed that Baz Brannigan was trailing them with an ax buried in his head. The landscape was a bleached sulfurous yellow. Baz pursued them to the edge of a cliff using a giant hypodermic syringe as a crutch. The jeep (they were all of them in the jeep, with Cheryl, miraculously fit and well, at the wheel) went over the edge of the cliff and sailed through the air. Chase tensed every muscle in his body for the expected crash. When they hit the ground he sat bolt upright, arms forming a cross to shield his face.
It was growing dark and the pickup had stopped.
There was no one in the cab. They had pulled over onto the hard shoulder of a main highway, presumably Interstate 80. Chase slid down, his mouth filled with the most foul taste, and spat out. What he wouldn't give for a cup of sweet scalding coffee!
Jen and Dan were standing by the jeep. As Chase went up he saw Jo collapsed over the wheel with her head cradled in her arms. At first he thought there'd been an accident and then he knew there hadn't. There was no need to ask and nothing he wanted to see.
Nick helped his daughter from the driver's seat and held her in his arms. Chase did what he could to comfort Ruth. She clung to him and wept, but he could think of nothing to say.
Afterward, when Cheryl's body had been wrapped in a blanket and placed in the back of the pickup, they turned onto 93 and drove without stopping until they reached Desert Range at two o'clock the following morning.
V
2021
27
The war between the prims and the mutes was getting closer. There had been fierce and bloody clashes in the hills and forests to the west, but so far Desert Range had remained undetected and unmolested. Lying in the middle of an arid plain and well away from the main routes north, it was on the periphery of the tribal conflicts that raged across California, Nevada, and Utah.
Dan had never been able to understand what the fighting was about. Every time he led a reconnaissance party from the furthermost tip of the western network of tunnels (chosen because it was several miles distant from the Tomb itself), he was struck afresh by the sheer mindless lunacy of conducting a war for no conceivable gain. Not territory. Not natural resources. Not plunder in even the crudest sense of the term. And certainly not patriotism or pride or any of the other emotional intangibles that traditionally had sent men to war. It was fighting for the sake of it--merely obeying some atavistic impulse as natural as breathing and sleeping.
Below him, in the valley of what had once been the verdant Meadow Valley Wash, a Sherman tank was trundling up the dried-up riverbed, blue smoke rings sputtering from its exhaust. A stone-tipped arrow wavered drunkenly through the air and clunked against the turret. The tank halted and laboriously cranked its gun through ninety degrees in the direction of the aggressor, apparently oblivious to the fact that the barrel was a splintered stub, like a joke cigar that had exploded.
Another arrow clattered harmlessly against the armor plating and snapped in two. From its trajectory Dan was able to pinpoint its source --a screen of bushes concealing a small opening in the riverbank.
Kneeling beside him, watching through binoculars, Jo said, "You were right, it's a raiding party of mutes. But who does the tank belong to?"
"Can you see any markings?"
"Some old army insignia, nothing recent." She lowered the binoculars and edged behind a rock that had some form of bell-shaped fungus growing on it. There were strange species of flora appearing everywhere, so commonplace they hardly noticed them. Jo's face was completely hidden behind tinted goggles and a gauze mask, underneath which she was plastered with barrier cream as protection against ultraviolet radiation. Prolonged exposure led to cataracts and eventually blindness. The thinness of the air they could do little about except to become acclimatized to what was the equivalent of twenty thousand feet up a mountain.
"Where are Fran and the others?" Dan said. "I hope they know we've got company."
There were five of them in the reconnaissance party. They had been out two days and were due back by nightfall: Thirty-six hours was the maximum permitted by the medics. This particular skirmish was the nearest one so far to the western access of the Desert Range complex, barely ten miles away.
