Nuclear winter book 4 go.., p.8
Nuclear Winter | Book 4 | Going Home, page 8
part #4 of Nuclear Winter Series
“We're ditching our ride and joining the convoy.” Pete parked between two rusted pieces of junk and started gathering his stuff.
A minute or so later two of Grant's trucks pulled up behind them and a half dozen of her men piled out. Pete bit down on the instinctive alarm bells at being in close proximity to so many armed strangers and stepped over to join them. “So how are we doing this?”
The man in the lead, who introduced himself as Nick Grayson, shrugged. “We'll strip this thing of anything valuable and move you and your buddy into my semi. You either change into civilian clothes or, if you don't have any, we'll borrow you some.”
Pete frowned, wondering how they were going to get Torm changed with his leg. Which led to another question. “What about my squad mate's injury? We won't be able to hide it from even a cursory inspection, and the Federales might have the word out to be on the lookout for a wounded man.”
The man smiled. “He'll have the best seat in the convoy.” He pointed at his semi. “That thing's got a decent bed in the cab, my personal use. We'll toss him in there and pile personal belongings in front of him, then draw the curtains. As long as he can keep his yap shut for fifteen minutes we should be good.”
They wasted no time moving Pete and Torm into the semi with all their stuff, including the box of intel that Pete kept close. The last step in the process was carefully carrying the wounded private on a proper stretcher, managing the tricky process of getting him into the bed in the back of the cab with ease.
Then they got to work stripping the car of its radio and electronics and other valuable components, while a couple guys who looked to be surprisingly skilled mechanics took the engine apart and claimed everything worth taking. It was all done in about a half hour, while the rest of the convoy took care of their own business and got ready to roll out.
The delay gave Pete a chance to change into the civvies he'd brought with him. Torm didn't have anything but a spare uniform, so Nick scrounged around and came up with a sweatshirt and a pair of baggy pants. He even helped Pete change his wounded squad mate, whistling in grave sympathy at the sight of the livid black lines spiderwebbing out from under the bandage and the increasingly foul stench coming from the wound.
They got Torm changed and carefully piled stuff around and over him to make a hiding space. The wounded private, increasingly delirious, thought it was all hilarious and started making vaguely rodent-like squeaking noises as he disappeared from view.
After about thirty-five minutes the drivers of the various convoy vehicles begin reporting in over the radio their readiness to leave. Soon after that Grant hopped up onto the step outside the semi's passenger door and leaned in to hand Pete a slip of paper.
“A receipt for what we took from the car,” she replied to his questioning glance. “We'll appraise it all and give you fair value on it, minus labor and transportation costs.”
“Okay.” Pete had to admit that was fairer than he'd expected. It also put him in an awkward situation since he'd have to report the earnings. If losing the car would get him in hot water he couldn't even imagine what the military's reaction would be to stripping it and selling off the parts.
The scarred woman glanced at the pile of stuff covering the bed in the back of the cab. “You get your friend situated?” He nodded. “All right, then if there's nothing else we're ready to move out?” He nodded again and she slapped the door a couple times in response and hopped off, making her way to the lead vehicle.
The semi's engine rumbled to life and Nick pulled them out after the vehicles ahead of them. The man had a personal device playing music over the speakers, one of those bands that was popular ten or so years before Pete was born.
Not that he was complaining; he actually liked the stuff from that era, and to be honest any music at all was something to appreciate these days, when few people had personal devices or anything to put on them. Nick must've been doing well for himself to afford it, and truth be told the entire convoy was more high end than Pete had expected. He hadn't gotten a look at their trade goods but he imagined it was a pricey haul.
“So who are you with, by the way?” he asked.
The trucker glanced over. “G&G Contracting, a subsidiary of Orbancorp.”
Not too surprising they were owned by Ned Orban, since from what Pete had heard the tycoon had his fingers in the bulk of the trade going in and out of the US. He hadn't heard of their company, though. “Grant's one of the Gs?”
“Yeah.” Nick grinned over at him. “Her and her partner. They strike sparks over just about everything, and whose name would appear first in their company name was just one more thing. So they decided they'd just use the initials so both could say they were first.”
The trucker ended the conversation by humming along with the song at that point. He didn't seem too interested in Pete and Torm's story, or any sort of small talk for that matter, and the time passed measured by one song after another.
Pete wasn't complaining since the stress of the last few days had taken its toll on him. He was exhausted, and while the paranoid jitters stuck around with him for a while he eventually sank into much-needed sleep.
✽✽✽
A few hours later he started awake to the jarring sound of the semi going over the rumble strips at the side of the road, and noticed the convoy was pulling over.
His initial panicked assumption was that the Federales were stopping them to conduct a search, but to his relief Nick interrupted his cheerful whistling along with the music to glance over at him. “Dinnertime.”
Pete burrowed into the pile of junk over Torm to check on his squad mate and found him sleeping fitfully, face pale and feverish and streaming with sweat. He woke him long enough to have him drink a full water bottle and take a couple more pills, but before he could pull out some of their rations for the interrogator he realized the man had already passed out again.
Nick noticed him digging for food and snorted wryly. “Forget that junk. Wouldn't feel right about you traveling with us if I didn't offer you a real meal.” He threw open his door and dropped to the ground below, calling over his shoulder. “Come on.”
Pete followed the man to the truck just ahead of theirs, where one of the convoy members was plugging a toaster into a complicated conversion rig attached to the vehicle's battery. The woman with him was setting out plastic-wrapped loaves of homemade bread along with a block of cheese wrapped in wax paper. As people began drifting their way she opened one of the loaves and began slicing the bread, stacking it up to be toasted.
Half the convoy was soon gathered around the vehicle, some waiting on the toaster but most just grabbing some bread and cheese and wandering back to their vehicles or standing around eating. Dinner was obviously going to be a hasty, informal affair, not that Pete was complaining considering Torm's serious condition and the need to get him to a hospital.
The cheese turned out to be soft and crumbly, obviously homemade, but it was also fresh and tasted delicious. Especially when spread over the slice of toast the man at the toaster offered him, almost too hot to hold in his bare hands.
Pete considered it a mark of hospitality that he was one of the first ones fed, and was sure to thank the man and woman before he went over to join Nick and Grant and a few others still waiting for their turn. “So where are we?” he asked as he took a big bite.
“Entered New Mexico not too long ago,” the trucker replied.
Pete nodded. “How close are we to Colorado?”
The various conversations around the truck paused, and a few of the convoy members chuckled. “We're not going through Colorado,” Grant replied. “It may be the closer border but it's the long way around to our destination.” She shrugged. “Besides, there's no good trading hubs there, just a few border outposts and a couple towns.”
He held back a frown. “Under the circumstances isn't it in our best interest to get across the border as quickly as possible?”
The convoy leader frowned enough for both of them. “We're well known to the border guards, and our routine is familiar to them. It would draw attention you didn't want if we suddenly veered off course to make a break for the border.”
Pete nodded, feeling a bit stupid. “So where are we going?” he said as he took another bite. The cheese really was good, and the bread didn't taste too stale after being toasted.
“Our standard route takes us through northern Texas and New Mexico and into Arizona, where we'll turn north and cross the nominal border into southern Utah, which is still technically part of Mexico.”
He was already aware of that, since even though his unit hadn't been back to the US since before it was recreated in the Rockies they were still issued up-to-date maps of the area, and anywhere else they might find themselves stationed. The new border between the US and Mexico was punctuated by a little town called Bluff, about two hours south of Moab.
But he didn't know much about the area beyond marks on a map, so it was a relief when Nick was happy to fill him in.
Bluff, according to the trucker, hadn't become a major trade hub like New Memphis, instead remaining a simple military outpost protecting a handful of remaining residents and maybe a hundred or so people who'd been drawn by the proximity to safety and potential prosperity along a trade route. The major trade location in the area remained Moab, which had regained its previous population and then some with the opportunities presented by commerce with Mexico.
It was also the site of G&G Contracting's headquarters and the convoy's ultimate destination, although Grant assured him he shouldn't have any trouble finding a ride to Manti so he could complete his mission of delivering the intel, maybe even with one of the company's vehicles headed up that way. But even more importantly, Moab was home to a fairly modern hospital with a competent staff who should be able to help Torm.
Along with the bread and cheese the couple in charge of dinner also passed out a bag of candied fruit. Pete thought it was interesting that a trading company fed its employees homemade food, although he couldn't argue that it was a good meal.
He wasn't the only one who thought so, either. “A little taste of home,” Grant said with a fond smile as she popped a candied apricot slice into her mouth. “I don't get back nearly enough.”
Pete did his best to ignore the way that smile twisted her scars, searching the rest of her face instead, and was startled to realize that without them the convoy's leader could actually be called a beauty. It seemed impossible he was the only one to have noticed that, though a quick glance at her hands showed no sign of a ring.
He looked away quickly before she caught him staring; he had the feeling her earlier joke about turning stomachs had been a defensive measure and she was more than a little self-conscious about her looks, especially with strangers. He didn't want to introduce any awkwardness.
Besides, it didn't do to forget her gun could shoot grenades. Offending her on top of already relying on her help to get out of a tight spot didn't seem like the best idea.
Dinner didn't last long, and after a few last people wandered off into the bushes to take care of personal business everyone piled back into their trucks and the convoy set off again. Pete brought some food back for Torm, waking the private long enough for him to eat his share and drink some more water before letting him sink back into fitful sleep.
They drove until just a bit after dark, stopping at a well-used campsite that featured a rubbish pit, a latrine, and a few campfire circles with some logs dragged nearby for seats.
A few people set up tents around the one fire Grant allowed, although it looked like most planned to sleep in their vehicles. Nick certainly did, pulling out some blankets and stretching out on the floor in front of the occupied bed. “Hope you don't mind me taking the second best space since I gave up my bed,” he said without much trace of apology in his voice.
Pete just waved that aside. The passenger seat wouldn't be all that comfortable, but he wanted to stay in the cab in case Torm needed him. And he supposed that even though the Americans in the convoy all seemed honest and aboveboard, it never hurt to take precautions.
So he settled into as comfortable a position as he could, pulled his unzipped sleeping bag over him for a blanket, and once again surrendered to sleep.
✽✽✽
Nick was up right at the crack of dawn, disappearing outside without a word and slamming his door unapologetically behind him.
At first Pete assumed that the man was just relieving himself, but then he noticed that the convoy was stirring around them, people out stretching or eating or following nature's call, getting ready for the day's drive.
He'd noticed it yesterday, but G&G Contracting didn't waste time. They stopped as little as necessary and put the miles behind them, which he was grateful for since Torm didn't have time to waste.
Speaking of which, he flicked on the cab's lights and pulled the pile of junk off his squad mate to check him, grabbing the first aid kit to do what he could with the increasingly serious wound.
Ms. Grant climbed into the semi as he was changing his squad mate's bandages, carrying a tray with three steaming cups of coffee. “You weren't lying,” she said when she saw the wound, whistling grimly. “That's the sort that'll kill a man before he can get to a hospital.” She set the tray on the driver's seat and grabbed her cup, then immediately backed out the door and climbed down to the ground, calling up into the cab. “If we'd known we would've hurried a bit more yesterday, maybe even driven through the night. All we can do now is get to Moab as fast as possible.”
Pete felt a surge of guilt. He'd assumed they were going as fast as reasonably possible, but now he realized he'd never properly expressed the urgency of Torm's wound. Was that some unconscious vindictiveness on his part, or just pure relief at being able to wash his hands of the responsibility and put their fate in Grant's hands?
Either way, somehow he doubted he would've been as relaxed about it if it'd been Jack or Monty dying of blood poisoning. For his friends he probably would've begged, bargained, or even threatened to get them driving through the night, whatever their schedule.
Just another burden of conscience he'd have to carry.
Behind him Torm stirred, groaning slightly. “I'm either dead and in heaven or I owe someone a very, very big favor.” Pete gave him a blank look, and it took an embarrassing few seconds to realize his squad mate meant the smell of coffee permeating the cab.
He grabbed a cup and helped Torm sit up a bit, keeping hold of it and the man both as the interrogator eagerly sipped, not seeming to care how hot it was. In spite of Torm's eagerness at the unexpected treat Pete worried about how weak the man was, having to almost fully hold his weight. The guy wasn't even strong enough to do more than tip the cup while Pete held it, either.
Nick returned during all that, holding his own cup of coffee as well as three pieces of some sort of bread or pastry with fruit baked into it. At Torm's insistence, after eating the trucker helped Pete get the wounded private propped up on the bed so he could look out the windshield. “We'll have to stow you when we reach the border,” he said apologetically.
Torm nodded, eagerly swallowing the painkillers Pete fed him. “Back into my rodent burrow,” he replied, sounding surprisingly chipper. In spite of that his face was ashen and sweat streamed down it from just the slight exertion of eating and being moved around.
The morning's drive took them deeper and deeper into the iconic landscape of the southwest, bringing them ever close to southern Utah and what Pete, in a probably biased opinion, considered to be the most striking scenery in the country.
And he wasn't the only one. Torm seemed to find the rugged plateaus and massive stone formations endlessly fascinating. “What a world,” he mumbled, staring out the windshield. “Not used to seeing desert like this. Looks more beautiful than I thought such a desolate place would.”
“The southwest shows you the bare bones of the earth, without the green life that usually hides it,” Pete said. “Not to mention that the landscape's cut bigger and sharper, scoured by wind the way it is. You should see the predawn, especially if the Milky Way is on the horizon.”
He glanced back to see his companion didn't seem to have heard him. Torm's head was lolled to look out a side window, staring at the cloudless sky that seemed to go on forever.
They drove in silence for a while, listening to Nick's music as the miles flew by beneath them at the best speed the convoy could manage. Pete was somewhat surprised when Torm spoke again and turned to glance back at his squad mate.
“Elise,” the interrogator mumbled, gripping the seatbelt up near his neck. Tears were leaking down his face. “M'sorry. So, so sorry. Couldn't save you from this beautiful, terrible world. Only wanted you to see . . . the beauty.”
Pete faced forward again, feeling embarrassed. It looked as if his friend wasn't quite as cavalier about his missing sister as he'd pretended to be. All it took was the delirium of severe blood poisoning and heavy pain medication to crack his callous exterior.
Silence fell, Nick shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “Not doing so well, is he?” he whispered. Pete could only shake his head. After a minute or so he glanced back again to see that Torm had passed out.
A few hours later they reached the border, marked by a surprisingly small pair of US and Mexican outposts facing off across twenty or so feet of road sandwiched between two simple barricades.
In spite of Grant's assurances about getting to Moab ASAP, there was nothing she could do about going through the checkpoint. There was a short line of vehicles there waiting inspection, and from the way Nick tensed up as the minutes passed Pete had a feeling the guards were searching vehicles with more than their usual rigor.
“Time to stow your friend,” the trucker said with forced casualness.
Pete nodded and climbed into the back. He considered waking Torm and warning him to be quiet, but considering how out of it the man was decided it would be better to keep him sleeping and hope he stayed that way. So he carefully laid his squad mate flat on the bed and stacked the personal items haphazardly on top of him. After a moment's thought he opted to keep the curtain open, deciding the Federales would be less suspicious about something that was in plain view.
