had become: the refuge and the dumping ground for those fleeing north to escape the stench and decay seeping up from the south. They had escaped, but they were tainted by it. For Chase and Ruth it hung in the air like a sickly odor.
Chase had done the best he could with the nasty gash in Ruth's forehead. It really required medical attention, though the idea of looking for a hospital (never mind what it would be like if and when they found one) filled them both with wearisome despair. Chase had decided that the sensible course was to reach Goose Lake with all speed; there would surely be somebody at the settlement with medical expertise.
Highway 395 was patrolled by state police and the armored personnel carriers of the National Guard, their blue-and-gold crest fluttering from the radio masts. Without such protection Chase doubted whether they would have made it past Sierraville.
By late afternoon they were midway between Likely and Alturas, about sixty miles from the settlement. Chase had made room for Ruth in the back of the jeep where she was wedged into a cubbyhole padded with blankets. She lay back, eyes closed, her face whiter than the bandage around her head. Without actually thinking about it he'd made up his mind to take Cheryl and Dan back with him. A vulnerable community like Goose Lake was no place for a seriously ill woman, and besides it wouldn't be long, at this rate, before the craziness he'd observed spread there too. The Tomb wasn't impregnable but it was a lot safer than being out here. And it had the supreme advantage of being a sealed enclosure; as the atmosphere continued to deteriorate, such places would be the last remaining refuge in an increasingly hostile environment.
Chase had lost count of the number of checkpoints they'd passed through since Reno. There was another one ahead now. In a sense it was reassuring to know that some form of rule of law was still operating.
The ebbing sun was distended into a flattened brown balloon by the stratified layers of noxious gases in the lower atmosphere. It would soon be dark, and traveling the last fifty or so miles on a pitch-black highway --with or without patrols--was an experience he would much rather avoid. Aside from which he felt ragged with tiredness and his bruised ribs throbbed painfully.
Yet again he went through the rigmarole with documents and IDs, explaining for the umpteenth time what was the matter with Ruth. The young state police trooper on duty, not unsympathetic, advised them, 'Don't go through Alturas after nightfall. There's been some bad trouble there. Even the National Guard had to pull out.'
'What kind of trouble?'
'Riots, looting, arson. A lot of people killed. There's a big refugee camp near Cedarville and they send raiding parties in who take whatever they can lay hands on. You want my advice, mister, you'll find someplace to stay overnight. They're a bunch of crazies, believe me.'
Chase glanced over his shoulder at Ruth. 'Is there another route into Oregon?' he asked the trooper.
'Not unless you go back to Standish and take one-thirty-nine through Susanville, and even then I couldn't guarantee it.'
Standish was a hundred miles back the way they'd come; plainly out of the question. Chase said, 'It's my friend I'm concerned about. I was hoping to make Goose Lake tonight to get her some medical attention.'
The trooper shrugged. 'I can't stop you, mister, but it's at your own risk, you realize that.' He looked at the sun dipping behind the trees, casting long spiky shadows across the road and the concrete guardhouse. 'I'd say you've got thirty minutes of real daylight left. Alturas is seventeen miles from here. If you move like a bat out of hell and stop for nothing and nobody, you might just make it. Good luck.'
They might just have made it, but for the storm.
It was a weird kind of storm such as Chase had never seen before. Years ago it would have been described as freak weather, though today the freakish had become commonplace. Chase saw the alturas 5 miles sign flash by in the dusk, his body bathed in nervous sweat as he tried to solve the equation of distance versus waning light. It reminded him of a problem in physics, plotting a light-distribution curve:
Then, without any warning, the jeep was enveloped in a cloud of yellow rain, the color of piss. It smelled even worse. The headlights sliced feebly through the solid slanting downpour and a sudden wind flung it into Chase's eyes with stinging force.
He managed to slow down without swerving off the road, leaning forward to peer through the jerking wipers. The acrid, smarting smell of rotten eggs filled his nostrils. What the hell had they run into--a cloudburst of industrial waste?
A vivid flash of sheet lightning illuminated everything like a sepia print. Road, bushes, and trees were stained a muddy yellow, the scene fading at the edges where the gusting rain reduced visibility. As the lightning flickered out the air sparked and crackled with ionized particles. A million electrical fireflies danced in front of Chase's dazzled eyes. The smell tasted like old pennies on his tongue and he had to clench his teeth to prevent his stomach spurting up his throat.
Ruth's cry was lost in the boom of a thunderclap that shook the ground and the jeep. Impossible to survive out in the open. The highly charged air made every breath a searing agony, as if windpipe and lungs were on fire. This stuff would eat into their tissues like acid into copper.
Wiping the foul yellow moisture out of his eyes, Chase brought the jeep to a halt. Ruth handed him his goggles and respirator, having already donned hers. As he put them on, another lightning flash transfixed them in its glare: Goggled and masked, they resembled a pair of divers at the bottom of some primordial ocean, caught helplessly in fierce currents that threatened to sweep them away.
Once more, as darkness descended, the air came alive with fireflies, crackling and spitting. Chase helped Ruth into the passenger seat just as the crash of thunder pressed down on them like a giant hand, making the jeep rock on its springs.
'You all right?' Chase shouted.
Ruth nodded. Her dark hair was plastered to her scalp, the bandage a sodden strip stuck to her forehead. Chase cursed, incensed at his own stupidity. Where had he been living these past five years--in some fucking fairy tale? In the womb of the Tomb, that's where, safe and snug and protected from all the nastiness outside. Good God, he should have known that this wasn't going to be a joyride, and yet he'd calmly set out as if on a bloody Sunday picnic!
He slammed the jeep into gear and they moved on through the teeming sulfurous rain.
A mile or so along the road Ruth spotted a building. It was a service station, with no lights showing, and as they drove into the forecourt it became obvious why. The pumps had been vandalized, the cantilevered roof slanted at a dangerous angle, and every single window in the two-story stucco-fronted building had been broken. The concertina doors leading to the repair shop were mangled out of shape, as if rammed by a truckdriver with a score to settle.
Chase was anxious to get the jeep under cover. Everything was already soaked and reeking, but he was afraid that prolonged exposure to the acid rain would leave the tires threadbare and the bodywork looking like Gruyere cheese. Around the back was a concrete ramp leading up to a door. Without hesitation he ran the jeep inside, then switched off the engine and slumped back in his seat, exhausted.
Ruth peeled off her goggles and mask and sucked in air. The smell was still strong, though not quite as pungent as outside. 'Would you believe they used to call Californian rain liquid sunshine?' she panted.
'It's yellow, what more do you want?'
'Yeah, so is horse--'
'I know, I know.' Chase smiled wearily.
They unloaded all the gear and supplies and spread them out to dry. By now it was dark and they worked by the light of a battery lamp, which extended its welcoming circle across the pitted floorboards and along the bare, crumbling plaster walls. A calendar with scenic views advertised Firestone tires: the Grand Canyon basking in a pink sunset, the month March, the year 2011.
While Ruth sorted out something to eat, Chase unpacked the gas stove and got it going. Then he took a flashlight and poked through the derelict building, finding an office-cum-shop stripped bare except for a battered cash register, its empty drawer thrust out like a rude tongue. A worn wooden staircase led up through a trapdoor to three large rooms, two used for storage, the other, apparently, as a bedroom, containing a mildewed mattress and a dresser with a cracked, discolored mirror. In the storerooms metal racks and shelves, thick with dust, reached almost to the ceiling, and the floor was knee-deep in brown wrapping paper and squashed cardboard boxes. Either the owner had cleared out fast, Chase surmised, grabbing what he could, or the garage had been raided and
