*****

Later, long after nightfall, after we had buried Lauren and said a few words over her and hammered a wooden cross into the ground, I sat atop a hill overlooking the convoy and stared at the fires straining against the endless dark. Part of an old poem I liked came to mind, one of Robinson Jeffers’ works:

Here the granite flanks are scarred with ancient fire.

The ghosts of the tribe crouch in the nights beside the ghost of a fire.

They try to remember the sunlight.

Light has gone out of their skies.

FORTY

Six days.

Six days since the convoy left the RV encampment. Six days since we had joined them hoping to find safety in numbers. And so far, all we had done was risk our lives so Morgan’s men would not have to, given up nearly all of our supplies, and lost the woman who mattered most to us in the world.

My father and I were in agreement. It was time to go.

After Lauren’s funeral, Morgan waited an hour, then announced the convoy would be heading out in the morning. He had managed to arrange for a supply drop, but we would have to cross into Colorado to get it. Personally, I thought he was full of shit. There was no reason an aircraft with the range of a Chinook couldn’t make it south to Oklahoma. He just wanted an excuse to get things moving. Tensions had been high in the wake of Private Stanhouse’s execution, and my guess was Morgan wanted to keep the peace by keeping his troops too busy to think.

Dad and I gathered everyone together early in the morning around a low-banked campfire. There was a clear sky overhead, the air was warm and getting hotter, and a strong breeze carried dust over the hills from the north. We stood in a tight cluster while my father spoke, staring at each other in the pale dawn light.

He said if any of them wanted to come with us, they were welcome. But if they wanted to stay with the convoy, that was all right as well. No hard feelings.

“Where you go, I go,” Sophia said, moving to stand next to me.

I pulled her close and looked to her father. “You’re under no obligation, Mike. Sophia is an adult now. She can make her own decisions. I’ll take good care of her.”

The big Marine chuckled and shook his head at me. “You two have no idea how dumb you are. Don’t get me wrong, I love you both, and I know you mean well. But you’re stupid as hell if you think I’m gonna let either one of you out of my sight.”

I smiled and acknowledged with a single nod. Dad took a moment to grip Sophia’s hand, then turned to the others. “Lance, what do you say, man?”

His eyes strayed to the other side of the camp where the rest of the civilians were slowly starting their day. “I think I’m gonna stay, Joe. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, and I’m glad I could help you when you needed it. But I met a nice woman, and I know she isn’t going to leave this convoy. It might sound selfish, but right now, it’s the only thing I have to live for.”

Dad reached out and shook his hand. “Been nice knowing you, Lance. Best of luck.”

“Same to you.”

Blake took a step forward and said, “I’m with you, Joe. We’ve come this far together, might as well see it through.”

Dad thanked him, then looked at Tyrel and Lola. “What’s it gonna be, Ty?”

Our old friend shuffled his feet and glanced at Lola from the corner of his eye. “Well, my leg is still messed up. I wouldn’t want to slow you down. And I have Lola to think about.” He reached out and slipped his hand into hers.

Dad stepped closer and gripped his shoulders. “I understand, brother. Believe me, I do.”

They embraced briefly, patting each other on the back, then Dad turned to Lola. “Take care of this jackass,” he said, and kissed her on the cheek. “He requires constant supervision.”

Lola smiled. “I’ll do my best.”

To the rest of the group, he said, “We leave in half an hour. Let’s get to work.”

While the others loaded what supplies we were taking with us into the vehicles, I made my way to the command tent and requested to speak with the captain. A hard-eyed staff sergeant kept me waiting a few minutes and glared at me hotly enough to let me know my presence was unwelcome. I glared right back. After what had befallen my family, I did not give a baboon’s swollen red ass about his opinion. Finally, Morgan poked his head out of the tent and waved me in.

“What can I do for you?” he asked, moving to sit behind the folding table that functioned as his desk. He shuffled a few papers around and picked up a cup of coffee.

“We’re leaving,” I said.

The coffee stopped halfway to his face. He stared at me a long instant, then said “Leaving?”

“Yes, along with most of the others in my group. Lance is staying behind, as well as Tyrel and Lola. The rest are coming with us.”

He put the cup down and folded his hands on the desk. “I’m sorry to hear that. I really am. When are you leaving?”

“In about half an hour.”

He stood up and came around the desk to offer me a hand. “I wish we had met under better circumstances, Mr. Hicks. You’re a good man. I could use a hell of a lot more like you. And for what it’s worth, I’m terribly sorry about what happened to your stepmother.”

“Thank you, Captain.”

“Is there anything I can say to make you change your mind?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Well then, best of luck to you. I hope we meet again someday.”

“Good luck to you too.” And with that, I walked out.

On the way back to the campsite, I thought about the subtexts of conversations, the subtle ways we communicate on various levels when we speak to each other. There are cues you can detect in things like body language, facial expression, and tone of voice. If you live long enough, and if you are observant, you can learn to read the messages beneath the surface. Morgan had said all the proper things, made all the proper gestures, and his spoken message had been one of regret. But judging by other things, the facial tics, and inflection of voice, and the briskness of his movements—not to mention the way he seemed not at all upset by my departure—regret was not foremost in his thoughts.

If I had to guess, I would say the captain was relieved.

*****

“So here’s the deal,” Mike said, reading from a list scrawled in his hasty print. We were stopped on the side of the road, engines idling on a hillside a mile from the convoy. Our vehicles consisted of one of the Humvees from BWT, Blake’s Jeep, and Mike’s pickup truck. Dad let the folks from the RV encampment keep his Ram, and we let Tyrel and Lola have the other Humvee.

“We have enough food for two weeks if we’re careful,” Mike said, “and twenty gallons of fresh water. So supplies aren’t a problem right now. Worst-case scenario, we can hunt or scrounge what we need. As for medical supplies, we’d all have to be shot, stabbed, drowned, blown up, beaten half to death, and partially dismembered to run out. And if that happens, we’re all fucked and it won’t matter anyway.”

“What about weapons?” Dad asked.

“Weapons are as follows: Seven M-4 carbines, four MP-5 submachine guns, various pistols, my sniper rifles, two hunting rifles, and one M-249 SAW. As for ammo, we have three-thousand rounds of 5.56 loose, another thousand belted for the SAW, eight-hundred rounds of nine-millimeter, five-hundred rounds of 7.62, a hundred rounds of .300 Winchester magnum, and two-hundred rounds of .45 ACP.” He patted the Colt 1911 on his hip. “Additionally, we have two M-203 grenade launchers, fifty 40-millimeter HE rounds, and fifty frag grenades. Equipment wise, we have our tactical gear, four suppressors for the M-4s, one suppressor each for the MP-5s, four sets of NVGs, two pairs of binoculars, and the optics for our rifles.”

He tossed the piece of paper into the back of the Humvee and stared pointedly at my father. “The rest we donated to the fucking Army.”