Owen nodded. He didn’t say it aloud, but he had been a couple of rungs of the ladder away from senior management at the second-largest web services provider in the world.
“We’re alive,” Owen said softly.
His words summed it up. People had died horrific deaths as a result of the nuclear detonations. Those in close proximity to ground zero who weren’t incinerated had succumbed to radiation poisoning or had been consumed by out-of-control fires that raged across the landscape.
They’d slept well the night before. Tucker had patrolled the area surrounding Echo Lake’s SNO-PARK to protect his parents and, eventually, out of boredom and without his parents’ approval, began to break into the locked vehicles parked there. He’d amassed a treasure trove of useful items ranging from survival supplies to tools to clothing.
While they slept, he repacked the vintage Ford and organized the gear to provide more room in the back seat to sleep. By the time his parents woke up that morning, he’d cleared the ashen snow off the windows, topped off the gas tank with the fuel cans they’d discovered at the car pileup, and cleared two tracks for their wheels to pass through the overnight snowfall.
All of his efforts during the night resulted in his passing out in the back seat within minutes of Owen pulling out of the park.
Lacey studied the map as they left. She’d navigated them through county roads and highways to the south of Lake Tahoe to avoid what was likely a large number of stranded tourists at the casino hotels. Thus far, they’d seen no evidence of another operating vehicle, and they’d begun to appreciate how valuable Black & Blue was. They eventually reconnected with U.S. Highway 50 and began their west-to-east course across the central part of the Rockies.
As they traveled through Nevada, they quickly learned why it had been dubbed The Loneliest Road in America by Life magazine in the mid-eighties. U.S. 50 was the backbone of the highway system, running coast-to-coast through the heart of America for thirty-two hundred miles. It traversed the nation’s most unforgiving landscapes, like the Sierra Nevadas and the Appalachian Mountains as well as large desert valleys separated by the majestic mountain ranges of the Rockies.
The highway’s history dated back to the pioneers who blazed a trail across the western frontier. Men like Daniel Boone and his brother Squire carved out a wilderness trail that was later utilized by the pioneers during the westward expansion.
However, despite its historic background and familiarity as it passed through hundreds of timeworn small towns across America, it was rarely used thanks to the massive interstate highway system.
Owen and Lacey knew this. With the memory of the wreckage and dead bodies resulting from the shoot-out fresh in their mind, they considered U.S. 50 an ideal route to take for the first half of their journey to Driftwood Key because it was less traveled than the interstates.
However, as they learned as the day wore on, what compelled many to take the Loneliest Road in America during normal times because of mountain vistas, Old West sagebrush, and pristine blue skies presented problems for the McDowell family. There were no opportunities to find fuel.
Mile after mile of desolate terrain through Nevada began to concern Owen as soon as the gauge on the Bronco dropped below half. When the tank hit a quarter, he stopped to stretch his legs and drain the last of the gasoline into the tank. He continued driving while Lacey studied the map to assess their options.
“Eureka’s a couple of miles ahead. It doesn’t look like much, but there might be gas.”
“I really don’t want to stop in any town, regardless of size. People are gonna want our truck. I’m afraid it could get ugly.”
Lacey laid the map in her lap and stared forward. “I know, Owen. I just don’t see any other—.”
She cut herself off and perked up in her seat. She pointed toward the right side of the road. Towering above the barren horizon were large steel structures resembling conveyer belts coupled with buckets.
“I see them,” said Owen, who began to slow the truck. “Find the binoculars.”
“Here ya go.” Tucker’s sleepy voice spoke from the back seat. He handed the binoculars to his mother.
“It’s some kind of mining operation,” she observed as he pulled to a complete stop. “There appears to be a mountain of sand and those giant earth-moving dump trucks. I also see two large water towers erected on steel supports.” She lowered the binoculars and shrugged.
“Let’s find a way in. Hopefully, nobody’s there.”
Owen eased forward and drove another mile around a long curve until he reached the intersection of State Road 278. A simple wooden sign was affixed to wooden poles in the dirt. Lacey read it aloud.
“Ruby Hill Mine. Private property.”
“I say we go for it,” said Tucker. He leaned forward in the seat, holding one of the handguns they’d found. The other one was in the Bronco’s glove box. Lacey noticed he was holding it loosely in his right hand.
“Put that thing down,” she ordered her son.
“Mom, we might need it. I carried it all night, remember?”
“Yes. Still, put it down until we get there.”
Lacey was still uncomfortable around the guns, mainly because neither her son nor her husband had trained with them. She could handle a weapon thanks to the excellent training from her uncle Mike. She just wasn’t sure if she could take someone’s life with one. What concerned her more was Tucker’s cavalier attitude toward guns and his apparent insensitivity toward the two men who’d been killed by them on that bridge.
Tucker grumbled but obliged as Owen drove the Bronco deeper into the mining operation. The Ruby Hill mine was located west of the small Nevada town of Eureka. Part of the Battle Mountain seam of gold, it had been producing millions of dollars’ worth of gold for decades. Today, much to the relief of Owen as he
