Cascade, p.58
Cascade, page 58
Disco nodded his approval. “Solid.”
Leslie leaned forward. “I’m all for rolling straight through to home, but if we’ve got to do a detour like this again, it might be a bitch in the dark. Roads like this, like we’re gonna need to use, are practically unmarked.”
“You know Illinois is going to have their border blocked off, those fuckers,” Jack said. “Whole state’s run by Chicago.”
“Yeah, well,” Disco said. “We’ll roll with those punches when they’re thrown. Don’t borrow trouble, as Ma always used to say.”
Fifteen minutes later they were back on the interstate, inside Colorado, heading east. “I’d like to stop for gas again, before we head into the Rockies,” Disco said.
“Is the gas tank that small?” Matt asked. He leaned forward to look at the dash. The needle had barely ticked down from F.
“No.” He glanced at Matt in the rearview. “Near as I can figure, this thing’s got at least a thirty-gallon tank, and gets about fifteen miles a gallon. Between that and the fifteen gallons we’ve got in back, we can do six hundred miles, easy. But gas in the tank’s a lot like ammo—it’s really hard to have too much, if and when you really need it.”
Jack looked at the atlas. Then snorted. “You want to stop in Rifle, Antlers, or Silt?”
“What?”
“City names out west, I swear. I guess that’s because they were named by Americans, not immigrants from Europe, naming everything after cities there. New York, New Jersey, New Haven, New London, New Dysentery. Rifle’s maybe an hour ahead,” he told Disco. “It looks like a decent size town, and the last before we actually hit the mountains.”
“New Dysentery’s not a real city,” Leslie said, frowning.
Jack looked over his shoulder at her and raised an eyebrow. “Wanna bet?”
There were two gas stations in Rifle, Colorado, and it was there they saw the first sign of panic since leaving Las Vegas. A long line of cars for each station, the drivers looking anxious. And a posted price two dollars per gallon higher than what they’d just paid in Utah. “Do we wait?” Jack asked.
“Looks like a fifteen, twenty minute wait for a pump,” Matt observed.
“Which is worth it, provided they don’t run out of gas before we pull up,” Disco observed. “And when we do, somebody else use their card, I’m not putting this whole trip on my plastic.”
It turned out to be a twenty-five-minute wait, but the station still seemed to have plenty of gas when Disco parked beside the pumps. The brightly-marked Home Depot truck got a lot of curious looks. Or maybe it was all the gear strapped down in the back. They were back on the road shortly thereafter, Matt taking the front seat next to Disco.
Interstate 70 followed the Colorado River upstream, winding eastward, steadily climbing as it entered the Rocky Mountains. The sun was setting almost directly behind them, lighting the slopes to either side with a golden glow. “This is pretty,” Matt observed.
“Wait ‘til we get closer to Denver,” Leslie told him. “I did the drive once, years ago. Colorado River valley west from Denver, I-70 through the Rocky Mountains, is maybe the most scenic drive in the country.” Disco was shaking his head. “You disagree?” she asked him from the back seat.
“No, I just lost all appreciation for the beauty of mountains after falling down one.” Jack snorted. Disco leaned forward and peered up at the slopes around them. “It takes a couple hours, travelling at freeway speeds, to make it through the Rockies. Just imagine what it was like doing it on foot.”
“I have. It’s called the Donner Party,” Jack said.
“Is that the one where they ate each other?” Matt asked.
“I thought that was called an orgy,” Disco said, trying to sound innocent.
Leslie rolled her eyes. Jack fought back laugher and pulled out his phone. He actually had a decent signal thanks to the small towns scattered along the rushing river, and spent time checking news feeds and websites he trusted to provide unbiased news, or the closest thing to it. It was tough to find a news story not related in some way to the bioterror attack. “Airlines still shut down, so at least this wasn’t a waste of time,” he announced at one point. “No word on when the planes might be flying again.” The road continued to wind back and forth, climbing almost constantly, and the light began to fail. Jack finally looked up from his phone, glanced out the window, and did a double-take. “What is this? Where the hell are we? It looks like Disney had sex with Santa. In an Ikea.”
“Vail,” Leslie told him.
“Holy crap.”
“It looks like the inside of a snow globe. Is it all hotels?” Matt asked. It seemed like that was all he could see from the highway. Not chains, very expensive lodge-looking hotels.
“That thing looks like a Cabela’s mixed with a five-star hotel,” Disco said, nodding.
“I think some of those are condos. Man, do they look expensive,” Leslie said. “Everything looks new, and perfect. I’m guessing even off season it would cost a couple hundred dollars a night to rent a dog house here.”
“Off season?” Matt said. He pressed his forehead against his window and pointed. “I can see snow.”
“On the peaks,” Disco told him. “Go high enough, there’s always snow. You can see snow in June. We’re already over a mile up, maybe close to two, and we’re not at the top yet. I know that’s over eleven thousand feet.” He nodded at the town passing by them. “In a month, this will all be white, and the snow will be around until April, maybe May. Although I don’t think you can ski that late in the season.”
The thin traffic began to thicken as a small lake appeared on their right. Very expensive-looking condominiums and a golf course lined the shore. “I’ve probably bought guns for less than what it costs to play one round on that course,” Disco remarked.
“Rich old people,” Jack muttered. “Healthy rich old people.”
“Why healthy?” Leslie wondered.
“Because nobody who’s got lung problems, who’s on oxygen, is going to move to Hypoxia, Colorado. I thing I saw a sign back there that said nine thousand feet, and we’ve kept going up. I don’t feel it now, but you get out and walk and you’ll feel like you’re seventy years old.”
“You do get used to it. Eventually,” Disco said. Six months to a year for full acclimatization, or so he’d heard.
The two eastbound lanes were now thick with traffic, lights on in the gathering gloom. The cars began to slow.
“Look how clear the air is, though,” Matt said. “You can already see the stars.” He rolled down his window and looked at the sky. “Man, you smell the pine?” He shivered. The air was already chilly.
Traffic slowed to fifty, then forty, then twenty. They rolled around a corner, and there, in front of them in the distance, was the blank face of a mountain. Two lines of cars ran all the way up to its base, a double string of bright red taillights half a mile long.
“The Eisenhower Tunnel,” Jack announced. “Longest tunnel in the interstate system. Two miles long, or something like that.” Disco gave him a look, and he shrugged. “My head is full of all sorts of useless trivia. That’s sometimes useful. Las Meninas, painted by Velazquez sometime around 1650 if I remember correctly, is considered the most controversial painting in the world. Only seventeen percent of California residents pay taxes. The original movie title was Revenge of the Jedi, not Return. And on that note, Han shot first.” He looked around. “I think this is the highest point of I-70 as it goes through the Rockies. Somewhere right around here.” He took a couple deep breaths. “Yeah, I can feel it.”
“Roll that window up, it’s freezing. My jacket’s packed in my bag,” Leslie said. When they’d finally left Vegas it had been ninety degrees.
“Is there a toll booth?” Matt asked as he rolled the window back up. He squinted into the distance. The tunnel entrance was a small dark rectangle.
“No, it’s just traffic,” Disco said. “Maybe there’s construction past it.”
As they drew closer they saw there were two tunnels. The two eastbound lanes fed into the Johnson Tunnel. Fifty feet away the two westbound lanes exited the Eisenhower Tunnel, although there was little traffic westbound. Close to the tunnel mouths the road widened. The space between the four lanes was paved, and to either side were wide aprons where they could see construction equipment and semi trucks parked. They had plenty of time to study them, as traffic slowed to ten miles an hour, then became stop-and-go.
“Those are some serious snowplows,” Matt observed. “Those are Boston-class snowplows.” Boston got nearly twice as much snow as the national average.
“I’m guessing Boston can’t compete with Vail when it comes to snow,” Leslie said.
“Probably not.”
The drew close to the tunnel mouth. The rectangular interior was clad in large white panels, and well lit. There were two lanes running east, with an elevated pedestrian sidewalk on the left side, and generous space between the right lane and the wall.
“It seems…tiny,” Matt said, as they crept into the tunnel.
“That’s just because the mountain is so big,” Jack said. “Or maybe because the tunnel’s so long.” It curved gently to the right, stuffed with cars packed bumper-to-bumper. The truck rolled forward a few feet, stopped, rolled forward a few feet, stopped.
“This is going to get old real quick,” Disco growled, one hand draped over the steering wheel. He checked his watch. They’d left the Hoover Dam ten hours before.
Stop, go, stop, go, creeping into the tunnel, and then they came to a complete stop and didn’t move for five minutes. “Accident?” Jack wondered aloud.
“No signs for construction, so…” Disco said. He looked over his shoulder. They were maybe a hundred feet from the tunnel mouth, with a line of cars behind them trailing out into the dark night sky. Before them the vehicles sat, idling, their bright brake lights adding crimson highlights to the white walls, following the curve of the tunnel out of sight.
“That can’t be right,” Leslie said. “About California. Only seventeen percent of the population pays taxes?”
“Think about it,” Jack said. “At most, between retirees and kids too young to work, moms staying home with their kids, people on welfare, or working but making so little they don’t have to pay taxes, usually only thirty-five to forty percent of a state’s population, of the country, actually pays taxes. But in California, due to the massive numbers of illegals and homeless, due to their huge welfare system, it’s half that. Financially, they’re a failed state. They’re in debt most of a trillion dollars, and are trying to tax themselves out of debt, and it’s only causing the people who pay taxes to move to other states, making the problem worse. They’re one of only two states in the last census to lose population, and that’s incredible considering how many people from Mexico have relocated there. Federal taxes, and borrowing against themselves, like a pyramid scheme, is the only thing keeping California going. They’re like an elephant riding a bicycle. I’m just wondering if this virus will be enough to tip them over.”
“Same could be said of a lot of states,” Leslie observed.
Five minutes stretched to ten, without any forward movement. Lights flashed briefly as drivers shifted their cars into Park. A few climbed out of their vehicles and stretched, looking deeper into the tunnel. Ten became fifteen.
“Well, this is bullshit,” Disco said. He glanced at the rearview mirror. The end of the tunnel seemed so close, but both lanes behind them were blocked with idling vehicles. “All right, somebody get out, walk up there, see if you can figure out what the fuck is going on. Jack.”
“You’re volunteering me? Fine, it’ll be nice to stretch my legs.”
“I’ll come with,” Matt said. He looked at Disco. “Always with a partner, right?”
They walked down the right side, between the line of idling cars and the wall. The combined soft sound of a hundred nearby engines created a low gurgling thrum. “Holy crap,” Matt said. He was starting to pant just walking on nearly level pavement. “Is that the elevation?”
“Yeah, don’t try to move too fast or you’ll kick your own ass. We’re two miles up.”
A number of the drivers or passengers had climbed out of their vehicles and were standing around, talking and complaining.
“Are we all going to die from carbon monoxide from a gazillion idling cars in a tunnel?” Matt said, honestly a little worried about it.
“I’m sure they thought of that. I can feel a breeze,” Jack said.
Matt glanced back at the truck, and the tunnel mouth behind it. “I hope you’re right. You see anything?”
“Not yet.” Jack raised his voice. “Anybody know what the holdup is? Is there an accident?” he nearly shouted. There were half a dozen people nearby, milling in-between the older cars and trucks, and he got a lot of head shakes.
“Nothing on the radio,” a guy told him.
“It won’t be much longer. They can’t keep the tunnel blocked up like this,” a woman said confidently.
Jack and Matt continued walking. “How far are we going to go?” Matt asked. He glanced over his shoulder again. The rental truck was now out of sight.
“I don’t know. To the accident, if there is one. I half want to walk all the way to the end of the tunnel, just to see. Don’t worry about the truck. If the traffic clears they’re just going to drive up to us.”
Ahead of them someone was playing hip hop at a significant volume, the bass bouncing off the walls. They drew abreast of a black Charger that was the source of the music.
“Totally not a dick move,” Jack said, nearly having to shout to be heard. “I mean, who doesn’t love Lil Wayne? He’s a class act!” He shot two thumbs up at the occupants of the car, slouched in their seats, but didn’t stop to see their reaction. Directly in front of the Charger was a minivan with a pudgy couple in the front seat and two kids in the back. Everyone looked miserable.
“How far have we gone?” Matt asked.
“Not as far as you think.” More and more people were exiting their vehicles to stretch and walk around, and shutting them off to conserve fuel. The hundreds of headlights and taillights, combined with the bright tunnel lights up where the walls met the ceiling, kept the white tunnel bright as a hospital corridor. Even without the music it was loud and echoing, as there was nothing inside it to absorb sound.
The farther they progressed into the tunnel, the more people were standing outside their cars. Most of the cars had been turned off. A bespectacled man was turning in circles, his phone held high. He looked at Jack. “No signal,” he complained.
“It’s like we’re inside a mountain or something,” Jack said with an amazed shrug, which got him a dirty look.
Matt stopped, and squinted. The curve of the tunnel was gentle, so they could see at least a quarter mile. Farther on the tunnel seemed to grow darker, but that might just have been a trick of the distance. There were a lot of people milling around, and they could hear more music. At least some of the trapped travelers seemed to be trying to make the best of the situation. “Do you seriously want to walk all the way?”
Jack stopped beside him. He gave him a little smile, and shrugged. “What else do we have to do? Ten hours in the car, I needed to get out. And we’re still only a fraction of the way there.”
Matt sighed. “Man, I want to get home. Carli, and Matty, home alone with this craziness?” He missed both his wife and son.
“Yeah, I get it. But right now…” Jack gestured around them, at the double row of cars stretching out of sight in both directions. “You want to go back?”
“Nah, let’s keep going. What else do we have to do?” he said, throwing a smile at Jack.
Up ahead the I-70 travelers seemed to be having a party, as the noise of conversation kept rising. The tunnel amplified all the sounds, and it made Jack feel like he was inside a stadium, with a boisterous crowd. And the noise kept growing. They walked around a big work truck with boxes on the sides of its bed, nearly as wide as the lane, and Matt was nearly knocked down by someone heading in the other direction. The guy didn’t even apologize.
The crowd noises in front of them became a roar, and then they heard the first scream. Two panicked people ran past them, heading toward the tunnel entrance. “What the fuck?” Jack said. There were two minivans ahead of them, nearly side-by-side, and they were tough to see around. Jack jumped onto the hood of a small sedan and looked deeper into the tunnel.
“Hey!” the owner of the car said, sitting behind the wheel with his window open. Jack ignored him.
“What do you see?” Matt called up to him.
“Get off my fucking car!” the man shouted, opening his door. “You’re denting the hood!”
Just then the trickle of people running back toward them became a deluge, pouring between and around the minivans, scrambling and running as fast as they could, shouting wildly. From the panicked looks on their faces, Jack guess more of the women would have been screaming if they had the wind for it, but the elevation had everyone gasping.
Then an infected person barreled through the gap between the minivans, tackling a fat man. They both went down hard between two vehicles, and Jack saw the zombie’s arms windmilling as it struck at the man.
“Goddammit, I’ve seen this movie!” Jack shouted, jumping down.
“What?” Matt said.
“Time to go!” Jack said, then both he and Matt were knocked to the pavement by a rush of terrified people crowding between the vehicles. Jack fought his way back to his feet, elbowing someone, then was nearly knocked down again by a sweaty, wide-eyed fat man in a pink polo shirt.
“Zombies!” the man screamed, his voice surprisingly high. Over the man’s shoulder Jack saw half a dozen snarling infected piling between the vehicles.
“No shit,” Jack said. As he shoved the man away from him one of the infected leaped at Matt, knocking him down.
Matt went down onto his back, knocking his head against the pavement, putting his arms up to fend off his attacker. Teeth snapped in his face. With a shout Jack kicked the zombie off Matt and hauled him to his feet with one hand. The infected person, a pudgy man in his forties, rolled away, got back up on his feet, and charged right back at Matt, his teeth bared and howling. Without conscious thought Jack drew his LTT Beretta 92 and shot him between his eyebrows at near-contact distance. The man fell right onto his face, unmoving.
