“Those poor kids,” Hayden repeated. He walked up to her and held his hand out. “Let’s try this again... Hayden Gooding.”
She shook his hand. “Caitlan Turner.”
Chapter 9
There were more vehicles further on. These ones hadn’t been simply abandoned; they had been smashed and burned. All that remained were the smoking metal frames and the charred husks of tires. Hayden counted a dozen in total, some of which were difficult to distinguish from one twisted mess to the next.
Caitlan commented on the scene first. “You think there was like a big pile up when the bombs hit... more people staring out the side windows instead of watching the road?”
“Not this many vehicles... not on this stretch of the Number 1. Looks like it happened recently, maybe in the last day or so.” Two of the cars had been flattened, as if a giant hand had pressed down from the grey sky and pushed until all the tires popped out to the sides.
“Then what the hell happened?”
Hayden could make a guess, but decided to keep it to himself. Brayburne was less than a mile ahead. As they approached, a question that had nagged in the back of his brain for the last two weeks resurfaced—where had all the people gone? He’d spoken to Angela about the small amount of survivors they’d come across since the bombs hit. Most of the population had been wiped out in the city—and probably every other major city in North America, Hayden was certain—but it didn’t explain the almost total desolation of the rural areas. They’re keeping themselves hidden away, Angela had offered. They’re scared of radiation sickness and disease outbreak. They’re in basements and dirt cellars. They’re storing up, and waiting it out in sewage tunnels. Anyplace underground where the air is still clean and the water hasn’t been poisoned.
It had started to make sense to Hayden; a vast majority of the cars no longer worked, so there were very few people driving between the destroyed cities. But still, there should’ve been more people—people like them—wandering out in the open, searching for others.
Many of those questions were answered at the outskirts of Brayburne. It had once been a small farming community with a population that never exceeded a thousand. There had to be at least triple that number now. Giant tents had been set up in the streets, making it look as though the circus had arrived in town, but the tents were dark green, and this circus was run by the army.
“I don’t like soldiers,” Caitlan mumbled as they made their way through the first cluster of survivors. “It’s guys like this that got us into this mess.”
“They’re just doing the job they were trained to do... helping people, offering food and shelter. They didn’t drop the bombs. The dimwit world leaders were responsible for that.”
They spoke to a few people as they worked their way towards the town center. Many had been on the Trans Canada Highway when the attack took place. Their vehicles—those that had been within fifty miles of an impact site—had stopped running, and they’d either walked to Brayburne from whatever direction they were headed, or they had been picked up by the military convoys days after. Brayburne, it seemed, was that one town furthest away from most of the immediate fallout. It was approximately a hundred miles west of Winnipeg, and a hundred miles east of the next major Canadian city, Regina. No one spoke of the “dud” missile that had missed its southern target and wiped out so many of the northern farms where Hayden had come from.
They learned from a haggard-looking man that the silos in North Dakota had launched all of their weapons before finally being destroyed. He was from Fargo, and he’d been heading to some northern lake with his son for a week of fishing. “My wife was killed with everyone else there. I told her she should’ve come with us... told her for years we had to do more things together.” He looked down at his son who was sitting cross-legged in the dirt. He was chewing on something that looked like a hamburger without a bun. “But we made it, didn’t we, Todd? And we hit them assholes right back. The US showed those Russians and North Koreans what was what.”
Caitlan wanted to punch his teeth out. His wife was dead because of ideological differences and ignorant racism, and here he was, passing along the same line of bullshit to his son. She pulled Hayden along.
A soldier approached them. “You guys look new here. Have you been assigned a sleeping area? Any injuries or illness to report?”
“We’re not sick,” Hayden answered. “And I’m not sure if we’ll be staying. We have friends east of here, waiting for us to get back with fuel. Do you have any to spare?”
The young man shook his head. “That’s difficult, buddy. There aren’t many vehicles left running, and what fuel there is available has been confiscated by the military... I mean us.” He grinned and patted his chest.
Caitlan studied the young soldier. She realized they started them out at an early age, but the skinny kid standing in front of them with the AK-47 strapped to his back was probably too young to drive. The uniform was too large on his narrow frame, and his hair was poking out from under his helmet. Soldier boys didn’t go around looking this unkempt, nuclear Armageddon or not.
She could see that Hayden was suspicious as well. “Come on... we have children waiting. What’s a few gallons going to hurt?”
“Talk to Sergeant Jeffrey in Supply.” He pointed to one of the many tents lining main street. “It’s the one with the flaps closed. I can’t guarantee he’ll say yes, but if you tell him
