Hell's Fortress (6 page)

CHAPTER SIX

Joe Kemp meant to keep driving down the highway until the school bus ran out of gas. Roll to a stop and get out. Set off across the desert. No food, no water. A day or two, then his pain would be over. His dead buddies in Iran, his dead family: all forgotten.

What about the other refugees? They could go to hell. He’d carried them too long.

His brother, Teddy, had fallen in a riot before they could escape Vegas. Trampled to death when the aid truck ran out of bread before it ran out of starving people. A week later, Teddy’s wife was kidnapped and raped by roving teenagers on the outskirts of the city, then left for dead. She shot herself, leaving two kids. Then, a few days outside the city, Kemp’s two nephews—ages six and eight—caught some sort of intestinal bug. The boys died three days later, literally crapping themselves to death. The bug took five other children from the caravan, plus one elderly black lady by the name of Janine.

A few days of quiet followed that before bandits attacked the caravan near the Nevada/Utah border. That’s when his mother had taken the shotgun pellets that Kemp tried to pry out of her belly.

His heart was a black pit as he barreled south after kicking the four cult members out of the bus. The refugees cried for him to slow down. He ignored them and kept his foot mashed to the pedal. Mostly women and children back there. Couple of Hispanic teenagers, an old Asian dude from Santa Monica. Two vets from the Iran war, not much different from Kemp except one wheezed like an emphysema patient, his lungs burned out by mustard gas, and the other had one leg. There had been stronger men in the caravan, but they had died. Two of bronchitis. Three others in a firefight.

The refugees could make their own way now. He was done. Run the bus till it wouldn’t run anymore, then he was gone. Walk across the bloody desert until he could walk no more.

Sorry, Mama. I tried.

What would she say?
Don’t give up, Chipper
—that was her nickname for him. Always “don’t give up,” and “only quitters quit.”

Guess I’m a quitter, then.

What was his alternative? Take these people to Lake Powell, like that polygamist dude said? Make some mythical Shangri-la where they could hunt and fish and grow sweet peas and tomatoes while the world burned around them?

Kemp still had an eighth of a tank of gas when he couldn’t take it anymore. He pulled the bus onto the shoulder of the road and got out and bent over. It was hot and he thought he’d pass out. Gradually, the feeling subsided.

The ground was soft sand, anchored with clumps of grass and sprawling thickets of prickly pear cactus. It would have been a good place to bury his mother, had there been anything left of her to bury. He blamed the polygamists for that too. That bastard Christianson above all.

“Kemp, what the hell?” It was Tippetts, the guy with the burned-out lungs. Special delivery from the Persian First Army, extra mustard. He stood at the bus door, leaning out, wheezing.

“I’m leaving. You’re on your own.”

“What?” Tippetts said.

“You heard me.”

“Yeah, but look.”

“I know it’s a desert, dumbass. I’m taking a walk, got it? Drive, stay, do what you want.”

“Not that.
Look.
”

Tippetts pointed down the highway. A pair of vehicles drove side by side from the south, using both lanes. The heat radiated in waves off the blacktop, making the vehicles shimmer. Still too far to pick out details.

Military. Who else had fuel? Bandits these days were on horseback, rarely motorcycles, but never two trucks driving side by side. But what was the army doing down here? There were no towns, no bases for two hundred miles, so far as he knew. Unless they were more polygs. Could be.

He hurried back to the bus and shouted for people to arm themselves.

Kemp couldn’t outrun the oncoming trucks, but he could get the bus turned across the road. Swing it wide like a battleship to present a broadside of pistols and rifles out the windows. A few volleys and maybe they’d convince the other side to find a softer target.

The bus wouldn’t start. It coughed and sputtered, almost caught, then died with a cough and a gasp. He turned the key again, pumped the gas. Again, nothing. He’d turned it off without thinking, worried subconsciously about fuel, he supposed, but forgetting how much effort it had taken to get the engine running in the first place.

“Wait for my orders,” he cried. He grabbed a box of shells and one of the rifles he’d taken from the polygamists, jumped out of the bus, and took position next to the front tire. What he wouldn’t give for an M16, but the deer rifle was good enough. Good penetrating power, a decent scope. His hands had been working automatically as he dropped, and he had a shell chambered when he lifted the rifle to his shoulder.

Tippetts took up position with another rifle, and Kapowski, the one-legged marine, hopped down and readied his own gun.

Inside, children screamed, men shouted, women cried for ammunition to be passed forward. The windows of the bus were already lowered against the heat and weapons bristled out.

The two vehicles—military Humvees, the tan paint faded and sandblasted—rolled to a stop a hundred yards forward. They had heavy machine guns up top, armor plating all around. Kemp’s throat tightened.

A voice came through a megaphone from one of the Humvees. “Put down the weapons.”

“Who are you?” he shouted back.

“It won’t be a fight. It will be a massacre. Now put them down.”

“Could be a bluff,” Tippetts said. He was so close that his wheezing was the loudest thing Kemp could hear. “They might be out of ammo.”

“We still couldn’t penetrate that plating.”

“I know. But what are they going to do, ram us?”

“Kap, what do you think?” Kemp asked.

“I don’t know,” Kapowski said. “They probably know the bus is dead. Otherwise we would’ve run.”

A long moment passed. Kemp looked through the scope. Soldiers in fatigues manned the blast shield of the mounted guns. Body armor, helmets. One of them held a megaphone and the other stared back at Kemp through a pair of binoculars.

He made his decision. “Stand down. We can’t win this.”

Guns withdrew into the bus. Kemp and the other two ex-military guys set down their rifles and rose to their feet. Kapowski gripped the side mirror so he could support himself on his remaining leg.

Three soldiers climbed out of the Humvees and approached slowly with M16s at the ready. Kemp still couldn’t see insignia or service.

“Corporal Joe Kemp, 1st ID,” he announced when they drew closer. “Honorable discharge. This is PFC Tippetts, 10th Mountain, and Corporal Kapowski, U.S. Marine Corps. The rest are civilians. What’s your unit?”

The lead man lowered his weapon. “Kemp? Is that you? Sonofabitch, it is.”

The man tore off his helmet and grinned. He was sunburned, a fresh scar across his forehead, but the face was familiar.

“Sarge? Oh, my God.”

The two men embraced.

It was his sergeant from the Gulf, Lance Shepherd. During staging in Iraq, Shepherd had been the biggest asshole in the army, running his men relentlessly. It was like being back in basic, and dudes started calling him Old Shitbeard. Shepherd was a vet of the Afghanistan campaigns, back during the War on Terror, and had a dim view of guys who loafed around behind the lines.

When they invaded Iran and found themselves facing the Revolutionary Guards, then irregular militias, then finally old ladies in chadors ululating as they suicide-charged your position with AK-47s, suddenly the platoon had a more enlightened view of Shepherd’s merits.

“You know this dude?” Tippetts asked.

“Damn straight. Sarge saved my butt in Tehran. Remember the story about the exploding donkey? That was this guy.”

“Thought you signed up for another tour,” Shepherd said.

“I should have,” Kemp said. “But my brother needed to get out of Vegas, so I took my three Purple Heart exemption. Besides, they were going to stick me stateside. I didn’t like the thought of killing Americans, know what I mean?”

Shepherd’s face darkened. He hooked his finger toward the bus. “Is your brother on board this deathtrap?”

“Terry didn’t make it.”

“Sorry, man.” Shepherd turned to his two companions. “Go back and tell them it’s all right, they’re good. Oh, and get Alacrán on the radio. Tell him we’ve got some new Rs.”

“Alacrán?” Kemp said as the other two soldiers trotted back to the Humvees. “Wait,
Rs
? You’re not talking about recruiting me for some bogus mission, are you?”

Shepherd ignored the questions. “So that was your bus coming out of Blister Creek this morning. Would have told the boss to recall the birds if I’d known.”

“That was you? Doesn’t the Air Force control the drones?” Kemp looked over the sergeant’s uniform with new scrutiny. It was filthy, insignia missing. He didn’t recognize the unit patch. “What’s with the scorpion? Who are you with, anyway? What’s going on?”

Shepherd took his arm. “Come here for a sec.”

Kemp turned to Kapowski and Tippetts. “Take a look at that engine, will you? See if you can figure out what’s going on.”

As Shepherd led him away, Kemp looked at the man with growing suspicion. “Shoot straight with me, Sarge. What’s going on?”

“So you know what happened in Las Vegas?”

“You heard me, I was in it. Big battle. Siege. Not over yet, far as I know.”

“And it won’t be anytime soon. We can’t hold the city against the Californians. Too many battles. Supply lines stretched too far. That’s why we pulled in irregular troops. You see any of them?”

The question raised bitter memories. “Yeah, I saw. Armed mobs. Irregulars held us at gunpoint while they raped our women and girls. My sister-in-law killed herself after.”

“Sorry, man.” Shepherd rested a hand on Kemp’s shoulder. “We learned hard lessons in Vegas. I blame the general for emptying the prisons and handing out guns. In retrospect, that was a mistake.”

Kemp pulled away from the man’s touch. “Ya think?”

“The president is yanking us out of the Middle East. Even Saudi. The oil fields are burning anyway and there’s nobody to put them out.”

“That’s old news. Let those ragheads eat their oil, if they can.”

“The Paks and Indians are nuking each other. And what China is threatening will make Hiroshima and Nagasaki look like a couple of supersize firecrackers.”

“Keep out of it,” Kemp said. “That’s what I say. And if California wants to slide into the sea, let ’em.”

“Sure, stop the bleeding. I’m with you all the way. But what isn’t so well known is that we’ve lost Iowa and Nebraska too. Most of Kansas. Washington, Oregon. Most of the farm states are in open rebellion.”

“I get it,” Kemp said. “Let the rest of the world starve. Why should they care?”

“Exactly. Only we can’t let them get away with it or we’ll all die. Now is the time to stop the bleeding. We don’t, we’ll look like Canada. Did you hear about Toronto?

“No, what happened?”

“Never mind. We’ve got to cauterize the wound. Las Vegas is the place to burn it out. Fifty thousand troops—we’ve got to hold the line. Three more months, then we’ll be stabilized in the Midwest and we can pull back.”

“What about here?” Kemp asked.

“The Great Basin is finished. That idiot governor is still hanging on in Salt Lake, but the rest of these sand and mountain states are a bunch of refugee camps and crazy survivalist communities.”

“Like Blister Creek.”

“Exactly. It’s easy enough to patrol here, if you’ve got the fuel and the food. If the rebellion spreads, we’ll harass their supply lines. Cut them off at the knees. A thousand miles of wilderness right here, buddy. Easy enough to do, if you use the right tactics.”

“Don’t BS me, Sarge. What are you saying? You’re part of some irregular unit?”

“For now.”

Kemp narrowed his eyes. He stared at Shepherd, then looked back toward the bus. Tippetts stood in its shade, watching them. No doubt wondering what kind of deal Kemp was cutting. He wondered that himself.

“What’s that got to do with Blister Creek?” he asked.

“See, we got a situation. Right here, right in the middle of no-man’s-land. What you’ve got is a well-fortified, well-stocked group of gun nuts. A fertile valley with its own power supplies, food enough to hold out for years.”

“Sounds like a problem,” Kemp said.

“Or an opportunity.”

“How do you mean?”

“Things are pretty lean here on the front lines. You’d think the army would keep the grub coming, but no. We’ve got to take care of ourselves, know what I mean?” Shepherd draped an arm over his shoulder. “You look beat, man. Come to camp and we’ll toss back a couple of beers. Talk it over. What do you say?”

It sounded great. Better than that god-awful moonshine Kapowski had fixed up from prickly pear fruit, rotten bread, and what tasted like brake fluid. And the heat and the exhaustion had sapped his will to run, to hoof it across the desert until he died.

He looked at the bus. Thought about his mother. About the fundies in Blister Creek. About Christianson. Then he turned back to Shepherd.

“All right. Let’s go.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Eliza was ready to collapse from exhaustion. Ahead, Miriam marched at a relentless pace across the desert. Even with her sister-in-law carrying the saddlebag with their remaining supplies, Eliza fell farther and farther behind. The others struggled even more. Trost was a good fifty feet to the rear of Eliza, and Grover, after an initial spurt of energy, was soon a speck far behind.

They followed the banks of an arroyo that cut a jagged line across the plain. Normally, these dry washes turned to sand by the end of April, but it was almost June and a muddy current still gushed down the channel. Eliza stayed back from the edge. The sandy banks were damp and could give way with a single misplaced step.

A hazy orange sun beat down. A pair of vultures rode thermals a mile overhead, seeming to study the four people struggling across the desert. Eliza wondered if they possessed the ability to detect desperation or if they were merely curious. They could hardly be underfed. It was a good time to be a scavenger.

To keep herself going, Eliza thought about Steve. His massive arms and shoulders. A collegiate hammer thrower, he was still strong enough that he could toss her in the air like she was a child. She imagined those arms pulling her close as his mouth nuzzled her neck. She would be helpless.

After another twenty minutes, when she was ready to cry for mercy, Miriam stopped and chugged water while Eliza caught up. Miriam was panting and drenched with sweat, but not gasping like Eliza. She handed over the canteen when she was done, but kept the saddlebags slung over her shoulder.

Eliza took two gulps, then turned an exhausted gaze to Miriam. “And one of us gave birth a few months ago.”

“I’ve been exercising.” Miriam reached for the canteen. “What’s taking those two?”

Trost staggered up. He doubled over, wheezing. At last he straightened, and unscrewed the cap of his canteen with trembling hands.

Eliza took the saddlebags from Miriam and draped them over a clump of sagebrush. “Can I talk to you for a second?” she asked Miriam.

“I guess.”

“Trost, tell Grover when he catches up that we’ll be resting for five minutes. No longer.”

“Five minutes,” Miriam said as Eliza led her away from the wash. “But no more than that.”

Eliza braced herself for a power struggle. She chose her words carefully.

“I’m sure you know that there’s nobody in Blister Creek who gives me a better chance than you.”

“And?”

“I’d take you over all the Smoots in the world, that’s for sure.”

“What are you driving at?” Miriam asked.

Eliza glanced back at Grover, finally dragging himself up to Trost’s side. She let a confidential note creep into her voice. “Come to think of it, I’m not sure the Smoot we got is a net positive, if you know what I mean.”

“The last thing we need is to babysit that kid. Grover is eighteen? You’d think he was eight, the way he’s carrying on.”

“But we’re stuck with him now. At least until Cedar City. Then maybe we can dump him in town until we get back. Also, don’t forget Trost. He’s not as young as we are.”

“No.”

“Go easy on them,” Eliza said. “And on me too. I’m doing my best, but I’m struggling to keep up.”

“You’re not the one I worry about.”

Eliza put her hand on Miriam’s arm and leaned in with what she hoped was a sympathetic expression. It was a gesture she’d seen Jacob use a million times in a friendly, gentle way that soothed the most savage polygamist patriarch. “We can’t be fighting each other. So either I stand down and let you lead, or . . .”

“Or what?”

“Or you let me make the big decisions.”

Miriam nodded calmly. “I can do that.”

“You can?”

“Sure. I know what Jacob wanted. And I know he was inspired by the Lord to set you in charge. Not just here, but as president of the Women’s Council.”

Inspired? That wasn’t exactly how it had played out. Jacob, with his spiritual doubts and his desire to give the women equal say in the community, had stood back while the women chose their own leader. Eliza had been stunned when the others selected her.

“Believe me,” Eliza said, “the first time we run into trouble, I’m going to stick the gun in your hand and push you out front.”

“Hah.”

“But when it comes to finding our way across the desert, I need to make the decisions. I’ll ask your opinion, of course.” When Miriam didn’t immediately respond, Eliza continued, “I’ve been studying maps all winter. I grew up out here. I know the best way across, I know how to survive. And as for those two—”

She glanced over her shoulder. The two men (she forced herself to count Grover in that category) were scrambling down the embankment to the water’s edge. They stripped out of their shirts and undergarments and splashed their faces and torsos from the muddy stream.

“—we have to make allowances.”

“Fine.”

Eliza let out a sigh of relief. “Good. Now tell me, why are you driving us so hard? It’s almost dark. We’ll never make it over the mountains in one day. Why not pace ourselves?”

“It’s those drones. Day or night, they’ll be able to see us out here.”

“They haven’t attacked us. I’ve got to think we’re safe by now.”

“Say they fired their two missiles,” Miriam said. “The first was a warning. The second destroyed the bunker. If they’d had a third, it would have wiped us out. Maybe that’s what they wanted all along.”

“Speculation.”

“Maybe so, but tell me that’s not what you were thinking.” Miriam nodded. “So the drone flies back to refuel and rearm. That takes a couple of hours. Three, tops. They’ll be back over this territory before dusk. How long until they find us?”

“Why do they want to kill us anyway?” Eliza asked. “Now that we’ve escaped the quarantine, what possible good does it do to track us down?”

“An example to Blister Creek. If we somehow make it back, the others will know the quarantine can be evaded.”

“You don’t know they’ll attack us. You’re just speculating.”

“Those drone pilots are nineteen- and twenty-year-old kids,” Miriam said. “Operating a joystick, playing a video game in front of a computer monitor. We got away. They want to hunt us down and win the game.” She shrugged. “You’re right, I don’t
know
it, but I’m not willing to take a chance either.”

Eliza looked toward the hills. The closest stood in a row at the feet of a higher range rising ominously at their backs.

“It’s another two miles to the hills,” Eliza said, “then we’ll face some hard hiking to get into the forest where there’s cover. I don’t know that I’m up for it, and I know those other two aren’t.”

“We can’t spend the night out here, that’s for sure.”

Eliza studied the terrain closer at hand. There were rocky outcrops and twenty-foot hillocks jutting here and there from the ground, but nothing that would give cover from infrared when night fell.

“What about the arroyo?” Miriam said. “The water is low. We could go down and burrow into the soft sand on the side. The ground will shield us.”

“No way. It rains and we all drown. Even a little bit and those hillsides start slumping down. We’ll be buried alive.”

“Then we double-time it for the hills.”

Eliza was afraid Miriam was right. After her effort to wrest control of the decision making, now that she had it, she saw no alternative but to go along with Miriam’s original plan.

“And when we reach the hills, what then?”

“I have no idea,” Miriam said. “Look for a mountain pass?”

“Some of those mountains are ten, eleven thousand feet high,” she said. “Thick woods, twenty feet of snow up top. We have to find Route 14 over the top if we’re going to have a chance.”

Miriam looked dismayed as she scanned the foothills and range. “I have no idea where that is.”

“Pretty sure we didn’t reach the turnoff to Alton, which means 14 is south of us. We’ll get up to the woods, then cut south until we find the highway.”

“What’s that road like?”

“Steep. The summit is up by the tree line. For all we know, the highway is still covered with snow after the spring we had. Wish that creep Kemp had left us a knife so I could make snowshoes.”

“You can do that?” Miriam sounded impressed.

“Sure. I used to go hunting with my brothers. Jacob and Enoch taught me how. Keep an eye out for jagged rocks—something that would cut an aspen branch. Bet I could still figure out something.”

Miriam looked back toward the others. “Our five minutes are long gone. Are you ready?”

“Let’s go. But I want to explain our thinking to the guys first.”

“Make it quick.”

Grover’s face sagged when Eliza gave him the bad news about reaching the hills by dark. “I don’t know if I can.”

“What would your father say?” Eliza asked.

He sighed. “He’d grab his bullwhip and start cracking. That old man would chase me across the desert until I collapsed from exhaustion. Then he’d toss me over his shoulder and tell me I was worse than a girl as he carried me the rest of the way.”

“Is he as bad as all that?”

“You should have heard what he said when he found out Lillian was teaching me the piano.”

Poor Grover. A gentle boy in a world of men. Where was the place for a boy like that in a family like the Smoots? What if you didn’t want the man stuff: branding cattle, hunting, hauling wood, and eventually collecting a harem of wives?

“Come on, already,” Miriam said. She was bouncing on the balls of her feet. How the devil did she have so much energy?

“Brother Trost?” Eliza said to the police officer. “You okay?”

The older man put on his shirt and fixed his cowboy hat back on his head. “I’ll manage.”

The four of them broke into a trot. Within minutes, Miriam had pushed far into the lead.