Tall snowbanks lined U.S. 24 leading out of the Springs, shoveled aside by snowplows commandeered by the federal government. They had opened the road as far as Cascade, which the Army had cleared out and thoroughly looted months ago. Beyond that, the road was impassable except on foot.
The wagon we rode in was one of a very few transportation options available to civilians. The months since the Outbreak had seen gasoline supplies dwindle, then grow increasingly unreliable as the untreated fuel civilians once consumed expired. The military seemed to have ample quantities available, trucked in from places unknown, but troops were not allowed to use it for trade. Of course, as with most rules imposed on military personnel, the moratorium against said activity did nothing to curb its occurrence.
As the road stretched under the wagon’s wheels, I stared at the mountains rising up on either side of us, snow-capped peaks ascending majestically, pine forests marching up the slopes in loosely-ordered rows. I thought if a man could find a flat spot near a source of water and wild game, a little space where he could grow vegetables in the summer, he could make a go of it out there. From what I had seen, the infected generally stuck to the lowlands, that being the path of least resistance. It was rare to hear of them climbing to the higher elevations except in pursuit of prey. Nothing a sturdy palisade wall around one’s home couldn’t fix.
When we neared the terminus of the accessible part of the highway, the driver tugged the reins to bring the wagon to a halt. Turning in his seat, he said, “End of the line.”
I looked at the snow piled ahead of us, a wall of it nearly eight feet high, and knew the next part of the journey was not going to be easy. “Thanks for the ride,” I said, grabbed my gear, and climbed out of the wagon. The driver grunted and said, “Be back tomorrow at noon. I’ll wait one hour. If you don’t make it, I’ll be back the same time the next day. After that, your trade expires and I leave with or without you.”
“Understood,” Tyrel said.
As the clip-clop of iron-shod hooves faded into the distance, the three of us put on snowshoes and began the long walk to Woodland Park. Tyrel went out on point since he was the most experienced mountaineer among us. Rojas watched our six, leaving me monkey in the middle. A half-mile of slogging over hard-packed snow saw the mountain pass widen. We arrived at the small town of Cascade, site of the North Pole Home of Santa’s Workshop, an amusement park billed as ‘A Vibrant Christmas Themed Playland!’
Only there would be no children or costume clad workers in Santa’s Workshop this year, no screaming voices on the rides, no smells of carnival food and hot chocolate, no magic shows, no hollow commerce. Cascade was under at least eight feet of snow, much like the highway ascending it. The towering granite walls surrounding the place ensured it would remain thusly encased until the spring thaw.
We passed the peaked roofs of houses and flat buildings and the triangular boughs of evergreens as we moved through town. The lower half of every building was invisible under a brilliant, reflective lake of white. But even with only half the town visible, the marks left by the Army’s visit were still plain to see.
Here, a mortar had shattered the upper windows of a three-story office building. There, bullet holes riddled the side of a tattered house. To my left, a fire had burned a restaurant until most of the roof collapsed, while to my right, a scorched black hole big enough to drive a car through marred the side of a pre-fab metal storage building. I wondered if there were any infected trapped beneath the ice, and if so, were they still conscious? I imagined their white eyes fixed and staring, hands outstretched, mouths frozen open in a silent scream, hunger gnawing at them while they lay motionless, unable to move. I shivered, and not from the cold.
We hiked five more miles in silence, the midday sun beating down from overhead. It had been frigid in the shadow of the mountains in the early morning, but now, without shade in the thin high-altitude air, I began to regret wearing so many layers. Just as I was about to voice my concerns, Tyrel turned and suggested we slow down. The last thing we wanted in this weather was to break a sweat. He heard no argument.
The next community we passed through was Green Mountain Falls, little more than a sparse collection of structures paralleling the highway. The Army had not made it this far out, but the buildings were not in much better repair than Cascade. It struck me once again how quickly manmade things deteriorated when there was no one left to look after them. Maybe it was my imagination, but I could not shake the feeling that once the intent of human minds was absent, all the things once upheld by that intent went into an advanced, accelerated state of decay. Law and order not the least among them.
It was roughly five more miles to the outskirts of Woodland Park. My thighs burned and my breath was ragged from the effort of the climb. Walking in snowshoes was better than stomping through snow taller than my head, but it held its own difficulties. When the buildings were in visual range, Tyrel stopped, lifted a pair of binoculars, and studied what lay ahead. A few long, silent minutes passed, and then he said, “Let’s move off the highway.”
Rojas and I exchanged a glance, but did not argue. When we were under the shelter of pines north of the road, I asked, “What did you see, Ty?”
“Can’t say for sure,” he replied. “But it looks like somebody got here ahead of us.”
I looked at Rojas again. His dark eyes were narrow and cloudy.
“What makes you say that?” I asked.
“Furrows in the snow, for starters. Not random like what the walkers leave, but neat, like people walking single file. I looked close at some doors on an apartment building, and the ones on the upper floors looked like they’d been forced open.”
Rojas thought about it, finger tapping against the side of his jaw. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”
Tyrel looked at him. “First time for what?”
“Back in the early days, before the Army commissioned the militias, we used to have trouble with other groups out looking for salvage. That was why they started the whole program in the first place, to stop the fighting. Once there was a system in place that only allowed registered militias to trade in town, the fighting stopped. AORs, and all that.”
By ‘AOR’ he meant areas of responsibility. LaGrange’s militia, by merit of him being a former Army officer, had been assigned the lucrative territory north of the Springs. The lines were clearly delineated, and the other militias knew to stay within their sandbox. Woodland Park, however, was not included in that division of spoils, making it fair game. I had thought the three of us were the only idiots crazy enough to come out here looking for salvage, but it looked like I was wrong.
I said, “So what do you want to do about it?”
Muscles twitched in Tyrel’s jaw as he stared toward town, eyes flitting from one side to the other. He picked up a handful of powdery snow and let it run through his gloved fingers. “You bring your ghillie suit, Caleb?”
I nodded. “I always do.”
“Rojas?”
“I ain’t no sniper, homes. Don’t own one.”
“All right. We’ll figure it out. Caleb, you’re with me. Rojas, I’ll set you up under cover until we can put things in motion.”
Rojas said, “What’s the plan?”
“Recon,” Tyrel replied. “See what we’re up against. That’ll determine how this goes down. If we’re outnumbered, we’ll sneak around whoever’s out there. If not … I don’t know. Maybe we can negotiate.”
The Mexican laughed. “Out here, there’s only one kind of negotiation, homes.” He tapped his rifle.
I felt my lips pull away from my teeth.