hunters ran eagerly to the fallen polar bear while a third began taking photos.
“Are they hunters or tourists?” she gaped.
“A little of both—a company runs garbage safaris here. It’s illegal, but you know how it is—some things are more illegal than others.”
He patted her shoulder. “I think you should get back in the truck now.”
The hunters finished dragging the second bear to their snow jeep. Nat went back to the LTV. She watched Shakes dig the shaft of a shovel beneath the rebar and heave. The rusted metal bent and sprang from the tire. The hunters turned toward the first fallen bear, the one that had nearly crashed into Nat. She saw those thick goggles trained on her.
She slid back into the truck, the boys followed. “Wes, they saw me—we should go.”
“What do you think we’re trying to do? Shakes, hit it!”
With the door still open, Shakes stepped on the gas as he flung himself into the driver’s seat. Wes had barely slammed his door when the LTV started moving. The big truck lurched forward, then ground to a stop.
Her head slammed into the back of the seat. Shakes swung sideways, nearly flew out of the truck, as the truck swung in a semicircle. “The tire’s still wedged.” Wes cursed. He was out of the truck before it stopped moving.
She looked for the hunters; the caravan hunters’ jeep was headed their way. What would they do? Would they report them to the seekers? Three shots rang through the air and she felt the truck lurch. Out front, Wes was firing down at the wheel. “It’s just some old wood; I’ll blast it out.” His voice was distant, barely audible through the truck’s armored exterior.
She heard two more pops and Wes was back in the truck. They lurched forward again. Shakes shook his head. “Still not free, boss.”
They wouldn’t be able to get away. The caravan had made its way to their first kill, and hunters were getting out of the jeeps and walking toward them.
Wes hung his head in frustration. “I was hoping I wouldn’t have to do this,” he muttered. “Everyone out. Boys, try to look angry. Nat”—he turned to her—“don’t say a word, look annoyed.”
The caravan hunters were gathered around the bear; the tourists had pulled off their goggles and were posing alongside their fallen prey, taking more pictures. Wes walked up to the first and pushed him back hard. “What do you think you’re doing? That was her bear! We’ve been out here all day trying to get her a decent shot and you douche bags take it out right when she’s about to make her kill.” He looked back at Nat and smiled before turning back to the tourists. “I don’t get paid unless she gets a kill!”
The safari guide leapt out of the jeep, rifle in hand. Wes turned to face him. “This is the last bear in twenty clicks. What were you thinking? This one was ours! I’ve checked heat and satellite. There’s nothing else out here and you already shot one!”
She nearly laughed. Wes was so convincing, more of a con artist than she guessed. Would he pull it off? Would he convince the hunters they were just another safari out here looking for souvenirs? She watched as he poked his finger in the guide’s face. The guide was built like the truck, wide and stout, and there were several more, blank-faced, carrying nasty-looking guns, but Wes wouldn’t back down even if they were outnumbered.
“You’ve got your skin; take it, and get out of here! This one’s mine. She can hang the head on her wall and tell all her friends she popped a big white. You want this one, you’ve got to pay my fee, ’cause she sure won’t!” The guides studied Wes’s crew. The boys smiled broad grins. The tourists howled as their guides herded them back into the jeeps.
Wes turned. “You want the bear?”
She feigned a laugh, but the sight was too horrid. The creature had been truly beautiful. “You think they bought it?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Who knows, I’ve run these cons so many times I’ve just quit worrying.” The boys shoveled snow over the fallen bear, a burial of sorts, then loaded back into the truck. Tire free and hunters gone, they started forward once more.
15
SHAKES HAD TO PARK THE TRUCK AGAIN to try to patch the hole in the gas tank. They weren’t far from what used to be called Korea-Town, a formerly jumbled neighborhood of barbecue restaurants and foreign embassies, but they might have to walk the rest of the way if he couldn’t coax out a few more miles. The team disbanded, and the boys wandered around snow-covered houses while Nat stayed close to the vehicle. It looked as if it would take awhile, so she took a book from her pack.
“You can read,” said Wes, noticing.
“Yes,” Nat replied with an embarrassed smile. “Mrs. A—the lady who raised me—taught me.” The book was one of the few possessions she had left, a poetry collection from the archives.
“Lucky duck,” he said.
“It passes the time,” she said, trying not to make a big deal out of it. Literacy was the lowest it had ever been. Truly, there was hardly any reason to read anymore—information was relayed through the net in videos and images, and if written communication was necessary, most people used an amalgam of symbols and acronyms that had replaced formal language instruction in schools. Supposedly textlish—which had been compared to Egyptian hieroglyphics by bygone intellectuals and academics—had been invented by a couple of kids with their handhelds before the Big Freeze. The latest RBEs, or “Reading-Based Entertainment,” were all composed in textlish, but Nat couldn’t quite get excited by a story called XLNT <3 LULZ.
The RBEs on the top download lists were all imports from Xian anyway—dull “work” novels about how to move up in the world, capitalist tracts about jerking the corporate chain. All the books Nat preferred to read were written by people who had lived long ago. No new songs, either—the current crop of pop stars were all cover bands, rehashing music from another era. It was as if even imagination had died when the ice came.
Wes peered over her shoulder at the cover. “Who’s William Morris?”
“He was a poet.”
“Read me something,” he said. Nat didn’t think he was the poetry type, but she flipped through the pages and cleared her throat before deciding on a passage.
“It’s a story—about a dragon—and a hero,” she told him.
“What happens in it?” he asked.
“The usual.” She shrugged. “The hero slays the dragon.”
Wes smiled and left to help Shakes with the engine. All around the white snow, Nat swore she could see small white flowers popping up everywhere. It had to be some kind of illusion. Flowers couldn’t grow in the snow and the garbage. She walked closer to a snowbank, sure that the illusion would disperse, but it didn’t. She reached down to pick a few flowers.
“Look,” she said to Wes, who was standing nearby. She handed him one.
“How is that possible?” he said, marveling at the delicate bloom in his hand.
She shook her head and once again, they shared a quick, shy smile.
The sound of thunder booming across the valley caused them to drop the flowers they held and forget about it for the time being. In a flash, they were crouched behind the truck.
“What is it?” Nat asked. Had the patrols finally caught up to them somehow? She’d heard too many bombs in her lifetime and could immediately recognize the sound of an exploding shell when she heard one. “Think the seekers found us?”
“Let’s hope not,” he said as a second explosion rocked the truck. “Shakes would have picked up their signal on our scanner.”
They were parked on top of a winding road—MULHOLLAND DRIVE, an ancient street sign read. The houses were still intact here, except they were buried to the roofline in snow. At least they were away from the black vines now, and the air was fresher up here and a new coat of pristine white powder covered the ground.
A third thunderous blast rocked the hillside, loud as a cannon.
“Wait a minute,” said Wes. “That sounds like one of ours—”
