was open. Ruth tried to climb aboard with Newcombe’s help. A man leaned out and grabbed her jacket.
Ruth looked up. “Thanks—”
There was something wrong with his face. A bandage. He was not wearing a containment suit or even a gas mask. She glanced at the cockpit. In the pilot’s seat was another man with the same perfect wound. No. The ‚rst man wore a square of white gauze over his right eye, while the second had a square taped over his left. Otherwise they seemed unhurt and even clean. New uniforms. Both of them held submachine guns.
Ruth began to push back against Newcombe, but he was stronger and the other man yelled, “Let’s go, let’s go!”
“Come on, Ruth!” Newcombe shouted.
She leaned inside despite her instincts. Maybe it was okay. The man in the cockpit had lowered his gun, and the ‚rst guy reached down to help Newcombe and Cam, too. No one else was aboard. The less weight, the longer their range. In fact, the thin carpet was spotted with holes where rows of seats had been torn out.
Ruth took one of the few that remained, and Cam fell heavily beside her. Newcombe dropped into a seat behind them. Then the other man bolted the door. “Strap in,” he said as he ducked into the cockpit.
The pilot was already accelerating. The plane slammed against the dunes and a familiar cold weight ‚lled Ruth’s chest like a ball of snakes, choking her. She’d forgotten. Her long months in the space station had left her uneasy with tight places. The rattling cabin felt like a deathtrap. Then they heaved into the air.
“What happened to their eyes?” she asked Cam, mostly to be close to him. The pilots’ wounds were too symmetrical, which made her wonder if they were self-in†icted. Why?
Cam only shook his head, still gathering himself. Then he turned to Newcombe and indicated his face.
“Nukes,” the soldier said quietly. “They’re afraid of more nukes. The †ash. If they only lose one eye, they can still land the plane.”
19
Cam’s seat belt cut into his hips as the plane jerked and bumped. The pilots had shoulder restraints. The rest of them did not and the †ight was like a roller coaster, tipping and diving. Again and again his seat snapped away from him, even with the belt cinched down.
Hills and rock whipped past the windows. A city. Once they paralleled a line of utility wires for a few seconds, dozens of poles stuttering by. It was a disappointment. They’d suffered so badly to get here and they still weren’t safe, although they were free of the plague. The Cessna 172 was not a pressurized aircraft, but the cabin windows and the cockpit glass had been sealed with silicon caulk, as had the instrument and control pass-throughs, the hatches, and one of the two doors. There was a vacuum pump bolted to the †oor, exhausting to the outside. It was a crude ‚x, but it worked. The pilot had leveled out for two minutes while the copilot applied a fast-setting caulk to the inside of the remaining door. Then they’d lowered the air density within the plane to the equivalent of eleven thousand feet.
“We’re okay!” the copilot called back, reading from a gauge strapped to his wrist.
Cam tore off his goggles and mask, scrubbing his bare hands against his beard, nose, and ears in a frenzy of relief. Ruth removed her gear more woodenly and he saw that her face was drained white.
“Look at me,” Cam said, leaning close to be heard over the engine noise. Then they tumbled left and banged their heads together. “Don’t look at the windows, look at me.”
She nodded but didn’t comply. Beneath her matted brown curls, her eyes were wide and dull, as if she was seeing something else. Cam knew the feeling. They were incredibly low. One mistake could †y them into a building or a hillside, and the back of his neck crawled with nervous strain. Would they know if missiles were closing in?
“We’ll be ‚ne,” he said.
“Yes.” Her voice was shaky and she clenched his hand in her own, bare skin on skin.
“Where are we headed?” Newcombe yelled toward the front. Cam felt a pang of worry for his friend. Newcombe didn’t have anyone to comfort, and Cam would have grabbed his arm or his shoulder if Newcombe were in the same row.
“Colorado,” the pilot shouted.
“What? Isn’t that where the nuke hit?”
“Leadville, yeah.” The plane veered left again and then jack-hammered up and to the right. “We’re out of Grand Lake, about a hundred miles north of there,” the pilot shouted. “The fallout didn’t reach us.”
* * * *
He answered their questions as best he could during the two-and-a-half-hour †ight. The plane settled down once they were out of the desert, but he obviously shared their tension and welcomed the distraction. He knew who they were. He was proud to serve. “You guys look like shit,” he said like a compliment.
* * * *
Grand Lake was among the largest of the U.S. rebel bases. They landed on a thin road and Cam saw a scattering of jets and choppers on either side, many of them draped in camou†age netting. Nearby stood four long barracks of wood and canvas. There were no trees. The land was trampled brown mud. There were people everywhere. These peaks were inhabited over an area of several square miles in a shape like a horseshoe. From the plane, Cam had seen tents, huts, trucks, and trailers spread across the rough terrain along with hundreds of ditches and rock berms. Latrines? Windbreaks? Or did those holes and simple walls serve as homes for people with nothing better?
Grand Lake had been a small town set on the banks of its namesake, a fold of blue water caught in a spectacular box canyon just nine miles west of the Continental Divide. It sat at eighty-four hundred feet elevation and couldn’t have supported many more than its original population of three thousand in any case, but during the ‚rst weeks of the plague, its streets had served as a staging ground for convoys and aircraft. The roads and trails that rose into the surrounding land became lifelines to safe altitude. Soon afterward the town itself was demolished for building material and other supplies.
From above, the movements of the ‚rst evacuation efforts were still visible, like tidemarks in the sand. Many of the vehicles didn’t look as if they’d moved since then, packed in among the refugee camps. In places the trucks and tanks also functioned as barriers, squeezing the population in some directions while protecting the people on the other side. There were also open areas where they seemed to be farming or preparing to farm, digging at the mountainsides to create level patches. Some looked better planned than others.
Cam’s impression was one of entrenched chaos, but he felt admiration that they were here at all. They’d done so much better than anything he’d known in California. They had more room and more resources, but more survivors, too. They could have lost control. They could have been overwhelmed. Instead, they’d kept tens of thousands of people alive even as they maintained a signi‚cant military strength.
The chaos had increased nine days ago. Cam saw that, too. Grand Lake was only ninety-six miles from Leadville. They had yet to recover from the damage. Many of the shelters were still being rebuilt and there was litter everywhere, often in long patches and streamers that ran northward in the direction of the pulse. The blast wave had swept through this area like a giant comb, tearing away fences, walls, and tents — and aircraft.
As they taxied and braked, Cam noticed a jet ‚ghter up the slope that had overturned and caught ‚re. Nearby, another F-22 still hung in a cradle of chains attached to a bulldozer as a team of engineers struggled to excavate beneath the plane, trying to right it again without damaging its wings.
“I’ll run interference for you if I can,” their pilot said, gesturing to the other side of the Cessna.
“Thank you, sir.” Newcombe spoke for them all.
At least a hundred men and women stood beside the road, grouped among the trucks and raised netting. Cam was on edge. The crowd was ‚ve times as many people as he’d seen in one place since the plague. In fact, a hundred people were nearly more than he’d seen alive at all, not counting helicopters and planes. He touched his
