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Took too long to interrogate you properly… and didn't recognize who I was. We
were lucky. By now she'll have realized who they let slip. They want us back so
they'll try hard. That's why we're going to ground as soon as I can locate a
suitable place to hide from air recon."
Jeff grinned. He was beginning to think that Nanci was going to forgive him for
his minor mistake of leaving her to die from a severed artery, alone in the desert.
Nanci rolled the vehicle to a halt, spotting some abandoned outbuildings beyond
a dried creek. "Been over some bare rocks, so they should lose the trail. She
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won't know which way we've gone. And I wonder if I can outguess her. I can."
Switching off the engine, she smiled at her companion. "We have at least four or
five hours before it'll be safe to move on. Plenty of time for a little lesson on
manners, Jefferson."
"No, please, Nanci."
"Oh, yes, dear boy. This is going to please Nanci a great deal. I can promise you
that."
THE MCGILL CONVOY picked its slow and careful way westward across what
had once been the wealthiest state, finding a way via blue highways and dirt
roads toward San Francisco then north into Muir Woods. They'd be late on the
agreed date, but by no more than four or five days.
Muir Woods, where some or all of the others might be waiting for them… or
maybe none of them, depending on what luck, skill or blind fate dealt them.
Mac plotted his route each day with Jeanne, Paul and Pamela, trying to watch
out for any communities where confrontational danger might lie and keeping
clear of the high ground, where the snow might still be a problem.
He drove the RV, with Sukie and Jocelyn playing contentedly in the back. Paul
was in charge of the jeep that towed their shrinking supply of fuel, while Pamela
and Jeanne took turns at the wheel of the souped-up four-by-four, bringing up
the rear of their convoy.
They hardly saw anyone.
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Once they came across a roadblock built from a tangle of rotten branches. It was
in a narrow valley, with no way to get past on either side. Mac stopped a
hundred yards away from it, peering cautiously out to see if this could be an
ambush. But there was no sign of life.
"Cover me," he called, climbing down from the cab, the SIG-Sauer P-230 in his
hand, one of the pump-action Winchesters slung across his shoulder. Somehow
he'd turned against his own Brazzi scattergun in the past day or so.
There was a stillness to the afternoon.
The pewter clouds had drifted away, leaving patches of high cumulus dappling a
pale blue sky. The temperature had begun to fall again, and he was worried that
more snow might intervene before they covered the last miles to Muir Woods.
There was a hand-painted notice propped at the corner of the roadblock. The
kind that had become only too familiar since the Aquila's return to Earth.
Aquarius Welcomes No One. Turn Back. No Gas No Food No Water No Beds
No Room.
"Thanks a lot," said Mac, walking carefully closer. "Welcome to Aquarius, the
xenophobia capital of California."
There wasn't anyone guarding the twenty-foot-high mass of jagged, broken wood.
At least, nobody living.
Mac's guess was that the man, if it had been male, had died at least three weeks
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ago. The clothes were wind-washed rags, the skin tight and leathery, tanned
almost black. As usual, all the soft tissue of the body had long gone. Eyes, lips,
face. And some creature had worried at the torso, tearing away the flesh. There
was a small-caliber single-shot rifle across what had once been the sentry's lap.
Paul walked up to join Mac at his signal that there was no danger.
"Where's this Aquarius place?" he asked, glancing at the high sides of the cliffs
looming above them.
Mac bolstered the handgun. "Could be anywhere around. He's been dead for a
while. They never came to move him or sent a replacement. Chances are the
settlement's inhabitants died of illness or… or something."
"Can't get around it," said Paul McGill, running his fingers through his luxuriant
beard. "Burn it?"
His father considered that option. "Suppose that's best. Bring up a couple of
gallons of gas. It might draw attention to us, though."
Paul nodded. "Sure. But I don't figure that'll be a problem. Set the fire, then get
ready to roll. This stuff should burn easily, Dad."
"Then we'll do it."
The blaze was ferociously fierce, the flames raging nearly a hundred feet high,
the radiant heat making Mac shield his face from over by their vehicles. His son
had been right. Within less than ten minutes the block had burned down enough
for them to take a run at it, but they waited until there were no signs of live
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embers to continue on.
There had been no shots, and nobody came after them as they drove out and
along the winding road toward the west and the cold, dark sea. There were some
torn tents and a couple of tumbledown shacks by a stagnant pool, which might
have been all that remained of the dead community of Aquarius. They never
knew.
IT WAS late afternoon on December 8.
They rolled over the hills, north of Tiburon, past the turnoff towards Corte
Madera.
Now they were in a dead land, filled to overflowing with the urban corpses. The
citizens of San Francisco, starving and beyond the edge of desperation, risking
the barriers and armor of the National Guard and the state troopers, had tried to
flee the catacombs of the city.
Time and again Mac had to ease the massive RV off the highways, squeezing
past the rusting ruins of dozens of gridlocked cars and trucks.
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