Nuclear winter book 4 go.., p.11
Nuclear Winter | Book 4 | Going Home, page 11
part #4 of Nuclear Winter Series
As expected, the receptionist had a few final papers for him to sign, as well as a packet for him to deliver to his superiors in Manti when he reported in. Then Dr. Hobbson popped in to update him on Torm's condition and give him the good news that, as of a half hour ago, the private had been awake and reasonably lucid.
Pete made his way to his squad mate's room, where he found Torm eating a plain but hearty breakfast. “Up and about, huh?” he asked, dragging the chair over.
The man gave him a slightly lopsided grin. “Yeah, I'll be dancing a jig in no time.” He tried to shake his leg, then winced and went stiff for a moment, breathing through his nose. “No time at all.”
Right. “Well the good news is I'll be leaving you here to recover while I head on to Manti. I'll take care of whatever business they've got for me up there, then I'll swing by here on the way back and pick you up for the return trip. Sound okay?”
“Are you kidding?” his squad mate said, shoveling another spoonful of porridge into his mouth. “I'm getting a paid vacation sitting here being waited on. And now you're leaving, which makes it even better.” He suddenly frowned in suspicion. “This is paid, right?”
“Well the military should be footing your hospital bill, amenities included, and you'll still be drawing pay for the courier run,” Pete replied. “So yeah, have a blast.”
“Well as long as you're ordering me to, Corp.” Torm turned back to his breakfast, eating with heartening enthusiasm.
That seemed like a good opportunity to make a break for it. Pete pulled the paperback he'd been reading yesterday out of his pack and left it on the table for his squad mate, then stood and hefted the box of intel. “I'll either be back or send word soon.”
He was nearly to the door when Torm cleared his throat. “Corp.”
Pete turned back to see the man struggling to sit up straighter. “Easy, man. What?”
His squad mate stubbornly kept going until he was fully upright, then gave him a piercing look. “I wouldn't have wanted to be high on meds around you. I don't remember it all, but I get the feeling I said things I never planned to.”
“I don't recall you saying anything,” Pete said, staring straight ahead.
Torm snorted. “I may not like you, but I trust you. I'll believe it if you promise that none of the things I didn't say will end up getting around.”
It wasn't quite a threat, but close enough. “My word on it.” Pete turned. “Rest, Torm. Enjoy your vacation.”
Gutierrez had mentioned G&G would probably have a person heading north that morning, so after leaving the hospital Pete made his way over to the company's office to see if he could hitch a ride.
He found the former soldier slumped behind a desk sipping bottled water, looking only slightly hungover. To his annoyance Gutierrez leapt to his feet as soon as Pete entered the room, completely chipper and without a hint of the gloomy drunk from last night.
“Hey man, how'd you sleep?”
Pete shrugged. “Best rest I've had in days, actually.”
“Great!” His friend started for the door. “I've got a buddy from another company who's leaving on a delivery up to Aspen Hill in just a few minutes.”
Pete hesitated following, for long enough that the former soldier noticed and paused with his hand on the doorknob. “Aspen Hill? I need to get to Manti.”
Gutierrez chuckled. “You'll have no trouble finding someone headed to Manti from there.” His smile broadened. “And it'll give you a good chance to get back and say hi to everyone.”
The thought sent a thrill of mingled longing and dread through him. Was this really his best option for a ride, or was his friend setting him up for a homecoming? “They probably all think I'm dead. The ones who don't think I was a good riddance.”
The former soldier waved that off. “Seriously, it's on the way and it's a majestic sight. Even if you don't take the opportunity to reconnect with our friends you should see what Aspen Hill has become in the last five years.” His tone grew sober. “A reminder of what you're fighting for.”
Pete reluctantly allowed himself to be led down the street to another company's lot, where what looked like a repurposed moving truck was being loaded up by an older man named Jay who had a bushy salt-and-pepper beard and mostly gray hair in a ponytail. Gutierrez made the introductions, revealing the driver to be a friendly, talkative guy.
After Jay left to make a few final preparations to leave Pete turned to say goodbye to his friend. “Thanks for everything,” he said, offering his hand. “Sorry I didn't get a chance to say goodbye to Ms. Grant, but thank her again for me.”
To his surprise Gutierrez was slow to release his hand, meeting his gaze firmly. “Listen, Corporal,” he said. “I don't know what your plans for the future are, but if you're ever looking for work I hope you'll come to me first. We're always looking for skilled convoy guards.” He let a brief smile crack his solemn expression. “And I'll admit it's nice to have another drinking buddy around. We've still got a lot more tales to swap.”
“A job, huh?” Pete said. Thrown a bit off-balance by the offer, he tossed out a weak joke. “Poaching active servicemen?”
The former soldier chuckled and released his hand, stepping back. “No one stays enlisted forever. Even if you decide to make a career out of it you'll eventually retire. I just wanted you to know you have a place to land when you do.”
“I appreciate that,” Pete replied. “It was good to see you again, Raul.”
His friend clapped his shoulder. “Stop by when you come through here again, we'll treat you to dinner. And we'll keep an eye on your buddy, make sure he's doing okay.”
Jay called out from the cab of the truck, and Pete grabbed his gear and climbed up into the passenger's seat, Gutierrez handing up the box of intel for him. With little ceremony the trucker started the engine and pulled them out of the lot, and just like that they were on their way.
Unlike Nick, Jay turned out to be a talker. He didn't try to pry any conversation out of Pete, but he didn't seem at all embarrassed about sharing his own life's story. Most of it from before the Gulf burned, when he'd been a tax accountant who spent his vacations touring the country on his motorcycle with a small local club of other white collar professionals. Pete had to admit he could imagine the man out on the road like that, charming diner waitresses at every stop and taking part in charity rides.
“Still have my hog,” the trucker admitted at one point, smiling. “Mostly take it up in the mountains these days.” He snorted. “The open road is in pretty bad repair after years of neglect, not to mention being controlled by four different countries, so the prospect of going coast to coast seems a lot more daunting.”
Pete nodded. “Good luck finding a route you could take alone without ending up with a bullet to the head . . . you'd probably have to join a convoy and putt along.”
“At which point I might as well be working, huh?” Jay slapped the dashboard of his truck. “Anyway the missus usually wants to come along on my mountaintop jaunts, and I like the idea of safer adventures for her.”
If there was one thing Pete could say for the man's gregarious nature, it's that it kept him from thinking too much about the fact that he'd be home in just a couple hours. The thought made his stomach churn in ways that had nothing to do with last night's drinking, and he was grateful for the distraction.
Even so, he found himself leaning forward in his seat as they passed the rebuilt city of Price, population 7,320, and turned onto the familiar side road leading to his home. He listened with only half an ear to Jay's continued rambling as his eyes searched for the first sign of the home he hadn't seen in over five years.
As it turned out, he saw something way sooner than he'd expected, because the Aspen Hill he remembered was gone.
That is to say a sprawling city was there, and in a big way. They started hitting farms and clusters of houses not long after passing through Price, which quickly became a proper street lined with residences, and it wasn't long before they passed a large, professionally made sign that read “Welcome to Old Aspen Hill, population 23,000.” The deliberately rounded number almost certainly wasn't accurate, which he guessed meant the population was in constant flux, and from what Gutierrez suggested probably mostly upwards.
This wasn't Pete's old Aspen Hill. The small town nestled between hills near the foothills of the Manti-La Sal range to the west was gone, replaced by a sprawling boomtown of fine houses only sparsely interrupted by shanties which seemed to stretch for miles in every direction. It looked like it had been carefully planned and built, and was a sight to see, but that sight didn't include any of the houses or other buildings he remembered.
Pete supposed he shouldn't have been surprised. He'd heard about the blockheads burning every building in sight when they fled Utah and hadn't really expected his home to escape that fate. Even so . . .
This just didn't look like his home, and it especially didn't feel like home.
None of the people they drove by on the sidewalks were familiar, which shouldn't have been surprising in a city with twenty-two thousand more people than when he'd left it. Pete knew he shouldn't have gotten his hopes up, but he still found himself staring at each of those faces as they drove, straining to recognize someone.
Where was Chauncey, and Mayor Tillman, and Terry Lynn? Where were the Smiths and Halssons and Larsons and all the other families that had lived here for generations? Where were his friends, Rick and Wes and Alice and Alvin and Matt and Trev and Lewis and the rest?
Where was that solid little community he'd left with its sturdy walls and wary defenders that had stood against every challenge and stayed strong together? He may have returned to the location of the town he'd grown up in, but where were all its people?
It shouldn't have surprised him to realize it but they were his home, and this wasn't a homecoming until he found them. If they were even still together and hadn't gone off to each do their own thing, like Gutierrez had.
“So what's the best way to get to Manti?” Pete asked as Jay parked the truck in another warehouse lot near the outskirts of town. It wasn't what he really wanted to ask, but he doubted the trucker would know much about the folks who'd lived here before the world went crazy.
Jay grinned. “Well you're in a city a stone's throw from the capitol, what do you think?”
“Um, a bus?” He supposed it made sense that public transportation was up and running, but he hadn't really considered it. He'd spent too long in military camps where everyone made do with practically nothing.
The man laughed at his tone. “They run once an hour during daylight, and one at midnight. You can get rides to other cities in the area too.” He jerked his thumb out his window. “The station's closer to the city center, a ways down this road.”
Well, it looked like he'd be spending some time in Aspen Hill whether he wanted to or not. Pete thanked Jay for the ride and hopped out, toting his stuff as he made his way down the street.
With his uniform and gear, not to mention the box of intel he carried slung under one arm, he drew more than a few stares as he walked along. He couldn't really complain though since he stared right back, looking for a face he recognized among those he passed.
No one.
He'd expected a lot of things of his homecoming. Shock, bitterness, accusation, shaming. Maybe, possibly, even joy and celebration. But what he hadn't expected was to see his hometown turned into a city full of strangers.
It took about ten minutes to reach the bus station, which sure enough boasted busses heading to half a dozen cities in the area each day, including Manti, and more infrequent busses traveling even farther. Pete confirmed that one was heading to Manti soon, then paused as his eyes drifted over to a newly built municipal building not far down the street with a sign announcing it as city hall.
Surely he'd be able to find out about his friends there. Even if they weren't willing to dig into their records for information, someone there had to know about the town's previous, and hopefully current, occupants.
Did he dare ask?
It turned out to be a moot point, because while he was still deliberating the decision was made for him. A policeman, either on duty at the bus station or just passing through, noticed he looked a bit lost and came over. “Can I help you, soldier?”
His tone seemed sincere, without even a hint of the “whatever you're up to, get up to it someplace else” tone that he'd occasionally heard from other police or MPs.
Because of that Pete surprised himself by giving a real answer. “Maybe you can, actually. I used to live here years ago, and, well . . .” he waved around vaguely at the nice businesses and municipal buildings around him, “I was kind of wondering if everyone I knew is still around, and where to find them.”
The officer smiled. “So you've been gone a long time, fighting from the looks of it, and haven't looked into what's been going on back home?”
His amusement confused Pete a bit. He shrugged defensively. “Yeah.”
The man chuckled. “Well lucky for you that's our city's history, so I can help you out there.” He settled back against a nearby barricade. “Back when the blockheads attacked us here everyone in Aspen Hill evacuated up to the mountains.” Pete nodded impatiently; he knew all that. “Thing is, they found a nice valley a few miles west of here and decided to settle there permanently.”
Pete felt his heart sink. “So they weren't involved in any of this?” he asked, waving at the flourishing city again. He imagined his friends and neighbors from Aspen Hill all living in log cabins wearing buckskins and drawing water from mountain streams, struggling to eke out a living while their town prospered without them.
“Now don't get ahead of me.” The officer shifted to a more comfortable position. “Well after a while a group from New Aspen Hill decided to head back down here and rebuild the town. We had a lot of help from our sister town up in the mountains, and the two towns have been friendly ever since.” He paused, eyeing Pete. “Thing is, most of those who came down here were newcomers to Aspen Hill. The bulk of the original residents are still up in New Aspen Hill, so if you're missing familiar faces that's probably where you want to go.”
Pete glanced at a nearby sign showing the various bus routes. Sure enough, one of the main ones was to “New Aspen Hill”. At first glance he'd assumed that route just went to somewhere else in this city, maybe a suburb. After the officer's explanation it made a lot more sense.
So why exactly had Gutierrez sent him here? His friend had made it pretty clear he still had contact with their friends, which looked as if it meant New Aspen Hill up in the mountains, so he had to know where to send Pete. Had he sent him along with Jay to Old Aspen Hill as a practical joke?
From the looks of it the next bus to New Aspen Hill, judging by the clock above the schedule, was in less than ten minutes. Pete figured it was on his way to Manti anyway, and now that he'd had a scare about not being able to find his friends he was even more determined to get in touch with them before reporting in.
“Thanks, Officer,” he said, starting toward the ticket booth.
“No problem, soldier,” the policeman called after him. “Welcome home.”
✽✽✽
New Aspen Hill was beautiful.
It began with neatly ordered houses arranged along both ridges overlooking the valley, with the meadows stretching away eastward and westward fenced off for fields and livestock and dotted with more houses. Each house up here was large and well made, and seemed to go with a large fenced-in lot. Inside the fences he saw crops growing, sheep and goats and even some pigs and cows and horses grazing, and long sheds that he recognized as genuine poultry farms, probably chickens or turkeys.
The bus stop was down in the valley, but Pete asked the driver to let him off before reaching it. The man looked at him like he was crazy, but shrugged and stopped along the side of the road, dropping Pete off to walk in the weeds near a fence as a surprisingly heavy flow of traffic passed.
Up ahead the edge of the valley loomed, and beside the road there a sign read “Welcome to New Aspen Hill, Population 12,482.” The numbers hung in brackets so they could be easily changed to reflect the exact census data, showing a bit more care than Old Aspen Hill's sign. Not to mention the sign itself was twice as large and colorfully hand-painted by a talented artist, the background a panorama of a little snow covered valley speckled with cottages with lights twinkling from the windows.
Sort of like a romanticized version of how he'd imagined the town. Which was dashed when Pete hiked up to the sign and looked down into the valley, seeing the real New Aspen Hill.
The slopes were professionally terraced and lined with well-made homes, some log cabins but mostly modern frame houses. The yards were small and most featured gardens, along with a surprising number of coops and modest animal pens. At the bottom of the valley a Main Street ran near a small stream, lined with shops designed to attract foot traffic giving way to larger businesses, civic buildings, and company headquarters. There were a surprising number of parks dotting the slopes, including a large one near the center of town with several monuments that probably commemorated those lost following the Gulf refineries attack and in the Retaliation and the blockhead invasion.
The town wasn't as large as Old Aspen Hill, as the population obviously showed, but it seemed far more orderly and prosperous. In fact, it reminded Pete a bit of those ski towns in northern Utah where moderately wealthy people's cabins had dotted the forested hillsides surrounding the most popular slopes. Obviously few of the houses down in this valley were nearly that luxurious, but the sense of this town being a desirable place to live was the same.
