No sign of life presented itself. No hint of what had caused the explosion we’d heard.

  “It looks clear,” Neil said.

  I could have nodded, but I didn’t. A scant few months ago, Major James Layton had held Whitefish in his grip. Word was that Kalispell was similarly under his thumb. It was possible that that had simply been a lie. A rumor. Or it might have held true until Layton had met his fate in the inferno I’d unleashed upon the whole of Whitefish. His people here might have scattered. They might lie dead in town, starved out, any supplies that Layton had promised never to come.

  “It probably is,” I said.

  “If we could get a car running,” Neil suggested. “Better yet a truck.”

  Hoofing it through the mountains to the west was not going to be easy. Getting some wheels under us would definitely be worth the effort of trying to get one of the heaps actually moving, if possible. But to have any chance at that being worthwhile, it would have to happen soon. The day at hand was mostly clear, but winter, which had laid a thin layer of white upon the landscape so far, would soon arrive in force, making travel that was already difficult all the more so. Even deadly.

  “Anything that moves,” I agreed, knowing we had to get transport.

  We emerged from cover and moved in a staggered line, Grace and Krista at the rear, Kalispell drawing closer with each step. When we reached the city and walked its streets we knew, we could sense, that we had entered a ghost town.

  “It’s so quiet,” Krista said.

  It was. There was the expected hush of a breeze flowing between the buildings, and the crackle of small stones and broken glass beneath our feet. The torn awning above a storefront flapped gently like an afterthought. All the things that once had filled the place with noise, with activity, with real life, were long gone. If there were survivors in Kalispell, they’d burrowed themselves away somewhere, either trying to live, or waiting to die.

  “There’s less to choose from than I’d hoped,” Neil said.

  A few cars were parked at curbs, or half pulled into driveways, but not a single truck of any size was visible. That told me one thing in particular—any men who’d been loyal to Layton, if they ever were here, had gone, taking with them the modified pickups his cadre of followers had preferred in Whitefish. Seeing no vehicle with a machinegun mounted above its cab was a relief. Not finding any unarmed sibling of one was not.

  “We’re going to have to make the best of the pickings,” I said.

  “Nothing out here’s going to be roadworthy,” Neil commented.

  One look at any of the cars we could see confirmed that. Tires were flat. Windows were broken out to the weather, snow mounded on exposed seats within. If any actually had gas in the tank, and if, by some miracle, that fuel was uncontaminated by moisture and hadn’t deteriorated, the batteries necessary to crank the engine would be dead and drained by now. We had to find a car that had been somewhat protected from the elements.

  I stopped at the intersection with a residential street and looked right. Neil looked left.

  “Grace,” I said, “You and Krista go with Neil.”

  Before Grace could get half a nod out, her daughter looked sharply up at her and grabbed my free hand.

  “I want to go with Fletch!”

  I should have looked to Grace for approval. Instead, my gaze shifted to Neil, sensing his level of comfort with the idea of being with Grace. Alone.

  “We’ll check it out down that way,” Neil said, turning to Grace.

  She nodded, then looked to her daughter.

  “Stay with Eric,” Grace said, preferring, as she had since first meeting me, the formal over the nick Neil had branded me with in our youth. “Okay?”

  “I will,” Krista assured her mother, then looked up at, determined. “Come on. Let’s go!”

  “I’ve been drafted,” I said, and followed the tug on my hand.

  When we were halfway down the block I glanced back. Grace and Neil were walking in the opposite direction. Next to each other, but clear daylight between them.

  * * *

  I stopped in front of a small house, the blue paint that had once trimmed its porch beginning to peel. Not as fast as others we’d passed. This house, this home, had been tended to until the very end.

  “Why’d you stop?” Krista asked.

  Why, indeed?

  It was the look of the place. The imagined qualities that it had once displayed to the world. Qualities that reminded me of someone.

  “My grandmother’s house looked like this,” I said. “Well, what this must have looked like before.”

  The little girl studied the house from our place just off the sidewalk, admiring the simple home. Gardens that had once flourished near the porch now lay bare, layered with patchy snow, not even the dried stem of a rose left. All had gone to dust.

  “I think we should look here,” I said, and Krista puzzled at me.

  “There’s no car here,” she said, pointing to the house on its narrow lot. “There’s not even a garage.”

  “I’ll bet you the next candy bar we come across that there is a garage,” I said. “You just can’t see it yet.”

  She doubted me with a look.

  “Come on,” I said, and led her up the snow-covered walkway.

  The porch boards uttered not a sound as we stepped upon them. No creak, no groan. Sheltered by the overhanging roof, the approach to the front door was solid, its surface still hinting at the varnish regularly applied, until events interceded. The front windows were unbroken, curtains pulled beyond glass. Most houses on the street seemed unmolested by forced intrusion. Somehow, those who’d lived here through the most chaotic of times, had managed to avoid wholesale destruction. Other than some refuse scattered about the street and yards, tossed about by recurring gusts, it almost appeared that the inhabitants of this particular block had up and left, as if departed for some group vacation.

  Out of some ingrained habit, and harboring only the faintest possibility that it might be answered, I knocked on the door.

  “Hello?”

  No response came to my rapping or my greeting. I took the doorknob in hand and twisted it, expecting it to jiggle against the lock that surely secured it. I was wrong. The small round of brass turned fully and the latch clicked, the door it might have secured popping inward a few inches as if was released.

  A burst of stale air washed out past us. The home had been sealed up for months. Maybe a year or more. I let my hand rest atop my holstered pistol and pushed the door open fully.

  What we saw seemed already like some sort of time capsule. We waded into a slice of the past preserved, revealed to us now, living room immaculately clean and ordered. No furniture was upended. Framed pictures still hung on the wall. Grandchildren gathered around a beaming older woman.

  I instinctively closed the door behind us, partly out of politeness, but mostly, I knew, because I realized that once we were gone, what we stood in the midst of should be allowed to last as long as possible. To leave it open to early demise from the elements was unnecessary. Someone had cared for this place.

  And maybe for more.

  “Stay right here,” I said to Krista.

  She followed my directive as I moved quickly through the house, finding little out of the ordinary, and nothing unexpected. The pantry cabinet and refrigerator were empty. In the main bedroom, the bed was neatly made, and soft light filtered through drawn shades. A sewing machine sat in the only other bedroom. The bathroom was clean. When I rejoined Krista in the living room, I looked down a hallway past the kitchen. At its end there was a windowed door.

  “You want to see the garage?” I asked.

  “You’re going to owe me candy, you know.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  I led the child down the hallway and shifted the curtain aside that hung over the window set into the door, making sure there would be no surprises beyond.

  “You open it,” I said.

  Krista eyed me for a moment, wondering what I was up to, then took the knob in hand and twisted it.

  The yard that lay beyond it must have, at one time, been no less lovely than its brethren in the front of the house. Even with miniature drifts of snow gathered against the side fences, the meandering border of garden beds was easily seen. How it must have looked, and smelled, in this place, this home, when spring came.

  “You see it?” I asked.

  Krista looked over the yard, her doubting expression changing, some flash of surprise replacing it.

  “You knew it would be back here!”

  I did. The garage sat back on the lot, yard between it and the house. There would be an alley beyond. Down the side of the narrow structure a walkway led from the yard to the alley beyond, a barren trellis and wooden gate blocking the view of that lane.

  “Do you want to bet whether there’s a car in the garage?” I asked.

  Krista’s gaze swelled with a devious delight.

  “Yes! I bet there will be one.”

  “Let’s check it out,” I said.

  We crossed the yard and approached a simple door on the side of the garage. It opened without any effort to a dark interior. But even in the din, the little light that slipped past us revealed what filled the space.

  “A car!”

  The girl’s shout echoed within the cramped structure. She ran to the car and pressed her face to the driver’s side windows, squinting to see within.

  “It’s empty,” Krista said, looking back to me and beaming. “It’s not even dirty!”

  She squeezed between the front of the car and the garage door to get to the other side. I approached the vehicle, an old boat of a car, a Buick Electra, probably from 1977. Some local mechanic had kept the beauty running for its owner for nearly forty years. It had newer paint, but that was to be expected in a place with a true winter climate. The worst I could say about the gorgeous hunk of American steel was that its tires looked a little low.

  “Can we get in?” Krista asked, excited. “Can we?”

  I looked to the door locks. All were up.

  “Give it a try.”

  The little girl grabbed the handle on the front passenger side door and pulled it open, climbing in and shutting it behind. She came to her knees on the seat and bounced.

  “Come on! Get in!”

  I put my pack and my rifle on the back seat, then opened the driver’s door and sat behind the wheel. There was no ignition key stashed obviously beneath the seat or tucked in the sun visor, and I hadn’t noticed any in the house. Of course I hadn’t searched specifically for any, and we could go back inside to look thoroughly for one, but that would not be necessary.

  “Wait here for a minute,” I said.

  Krista stayed on her knees, leaning over the seat back and watching me through the rear window as I went to a small workbench behind the car and pawed through a modest collection of tools. It took less than a minute to find what I needed.

  “What are you doing?” Krista asked, curious at why I had the stubby, flat blade screwdriver in my hand.

  “This, Krista, is how you can start an old car without a key.”

  I jammed the point of the screwdriver into the keyhole and pushed, then levered it clockwise until I heard a snap!

  “You broke it!” Krista almost shouted, worried.

  “Not even close,” I said, and turned the makeshift key further.

  The engine coughed, starter spinning. It was a good sign. The battery still had juice. But it wasn’t turning over.

  “Come on,” I implored it.

  “Come on!” Krista joined in. “Start! Start!”

  She thumped her fist on the dash. Again and again. The engine rumbled and started.

  “It started!” Krista shouted. “I did it!”

  “You sure did.” I said, smiling and pulling the screwdriver from the ignition, stowing it beneath the front seat. “I’m going to open the garage door. Buckle up.”

  She plopped down on the seat and worked the seatbelt buckle as I got out and went to the wide door. It had an electric opener, obviously useless. I reached toward the mechanical device and pulled the release cord, freeing the door to be operated manually. There was a collapsed umbrella pole for an outdoor table leaning in the corner that I could use to prop the door open once I lifted it. But first I had to make sure there wasn’t snow piled against it in the alley. A small window at its center, hardly larger than a folded newspaper, would let me confirm that. I slid between the front of the roughly idling car and the door and wiped dust from the glass, looking out.

  Dear God...

  I turned away from what I saw, calmly, not wanting to telegraph any distress to Krista. She beamed at me through the windshield, sitting tall, all buckled in. I thought for a moment, glancing back through the window before returning to the car, crouching at the open driver’s door.

  “I have an idea.”

  “What?” Krista asked.

  “Do you want to play a joke on your mom and Neil?”

  “Yes! What?”

  “Okay, you unbuckle, and get down on the floor in front of the seat. Keep your head down, way down, and when we drive up to them you can pop up and scare them.”

  Her gaze ballooned with anticipatory delight. She undid the seatbelt buckle and followed my instructions, getting herself into a classic duck and cover position on the floor of the car.

  “Now stay there, all the way down, and I’m going to open the garage door.”

  “Okay,” she promised.

  I went back to the garage door, grabbing the large umbrella pole. At the bottom of the door a bar was bolted as a handhold. I gripped it and both pushed and lifted, positioning the pole to support the slab-like door as it tilted out and up. It settled against the pole and stayed open, giving me a perfect, horrific view of the alley outside.

  Bodies lay there. Piled atop each other. Some weathered and withered down to bone. Most, though, wore think skin suits beneath the tattered clothes that covered them. There were no predators left to beat decomposition to the punch. No swarms of flies to lay eggs and hatch maggots that would strip the bodies down to their skeletal selves.

  I looked up and down the alley, the lane behind the houses dotted with similar piles of once vibrant beings. This had become a dumping ground of sorts, it seemed. A place to deposit the dead without any effort directed to burial. Here they were out of sight, out of mind. The woman whose car we were appropriating might, herself, rest among the corpses.

  Who, I wondered, was the last alive in Kalispell? Who had seen to this? The bodies were of varying stages of decay, telling me they had died as time passed, not all at once. Put out like the trash as they expired. And none seemed ravaged by cannibalism. Limbs, faces, all appeared intact. Somehow this community, or part of it, had maintained its sanity, even as they died, one by one.

  Maybe, I thought, that last person alive was here. Among those whose disposal they’d seen to. Perhaps they’d sensed their own coming demise and let themselves lay upon one of the piles. Performing the last task, at their last moment, with their final breath.

  “Fletch, are we going?”

  I looked back to the car. Krista was out of view, still hunched down.

  “We are,” I said. “Make sure you stay down.”

  I got back behind the wheel and closed the door, then shifted into gear. The car crept forward as I eased off the brake. I pulled out of the garage, maneuvering past the mounds of bodies, turning left at the end of the alley, and right again on the street we’d split up on. Neil and Grace were walking toward me along the curb, their pace quickened when they saw the transport we’d found.

  The old Buick pulled to a stop next to them and Krista popped up like a coiled spring.

  “Gotcha!”

  Neil and Grace each managed a smile, but it was forced. They looked to me, and I knew. We’d all seen things we didn’t want to see.

  “I’m ready to get out of here,” Grace said, and climbed into the back seat.

  Krista crawled over the front seat and joined her mother. Neil slid in next to me.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “No,” I said, then pulled away from the curb.

  Eleven

  Just south of Kalispell we found ourselves cursing the Buick.

  “A four by four would be nice about now,” Neil said.

  Damn straight it would, I thought, staring through the windshield at the chasm where a bridge had spanned Ashley Creek, cutting the main highway off from travel south to Flathead Lake. We’d already tried minor crossings over the creek, but each and every span both east and west had been taken down.

  “This was deliberate,” I said. “Someone didn’t want people going south.”

  “Or something coming north,” Grace said from the back seat.

  I looked back to her and gave half a nod. One of us was right, but one over the other didn’t get us across the creek.

  “Four wheel drive and we could off road it carefully.”

  “This boat is about as far from four wheel drive as we can get,” I told my friend. “We’d bottom out ten feet off the asphalt.”

  I wasn’t even mentioning holes that might be covered by soft snow. Or rocks hidden by the same. Or, most important, the reality that we were traveling in a car that hadn’t been serviced in well over a year. Abusing it was asking for trouble.

  Our options, other than continuing on foot, were evaporating quickly.

  “We backtrack,” I said. “And go west on Highway Two.”

  “Two lanes through the mountains,” Neil reminded me. “We could get thirty miles and find an avalanche.”

  “That’s thirty miles closer than where we are.”

  It really wasn’t up for discussion. Neil wasn’t disputing the choice. He was just voicing the obvious—that having four wheels under us didn’t guarantee anything.

  “Three quarters of a tank,” he said, glancing at the gauge on the dash. “We can just fill up once we get to Bonner’s Ferry.”

 

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