Bobby Akart - Armageddon

The sagebrush, juniper, and kinnikinnick that were native to the Colorado mountains were drooping and turning brown. There was sufficient snow on the ground to provide the plants moisture. The problem was the lack of sunlight. Even the prairie grasses were laid over on their sides, dying from their inability to trap light energy as part of the photosynthesis process.

“This is what Peter warned me about on the phone that day,” began Lacey. “Dad told me the same thing. I guess he befriended a woman who was the secretary of agriculture.”

“Wait. When did that happen?” asked Owen.

“Oh, I forgot to mention her to you. It was when the whole false-alarm thing happened. Anyway, the fires creating all of this soot are going to kill plants and crops soon.”

“It’s already happening,” pointed out Tucker.

Owen turned on the windshield wipers as the snow began to fall again. The small flakes didn’t warrant the wipers, but the ashy substance mixed in immediately smeared the windshield with black streaks.

They were approaching Grand Junction, and Lacey once again focused on her map duties while the guys got out and filled the Bronco’s gas tank. With this fill-up, they’d be down to three of the six-gallon gas cans, enough to take them another four hundred miles.

“I found us a way around Grand Junction. We’ve had pretty good luck so far, but this is the biggest city we’ve come to. You know what they say, luck always seems to run out for the guy who depends on it.”

“How far out of the way does the other route take us?” asked Owen as he settled into his seat and buckled the seatbelt around his waist. Tucker finished securing the empty fuel cans and settled into the back seat.

Lacey laughed. “On paper, it should be a shortcut. But the road obviously winds its way along the top of a ridge. There’ll be plenty of bends in the road, but it’s probably deserted.”

Owen turned over the motor of the ’67 Bronco and smiled as it fired up. He’d never intended it to be used on long road trips, and he was thrilled with its reliability. When they’d purchased it, Hayward to Lake Tahoe would’ve been the extent of Black & Blue’s travels, and they’d never actually done that, opting instead for the far more comfortable and modern Expedition. It was the same modern truck that was now a ruined hunk of scrap metal and worthless parts back in California.

By the time they took the curvaceous county road around Grand Junction, they’d emerged on the other side, and U.S. 50 was no longer joined at the hip with the interstate. They were on the final stretch of mountainous highway and looked forward with anticipation to more hospitable weather.

The winds had picked up once again, and the skies were filled with the sooty snow. By the time they reached Gunnison, the gateway to the ski resort area at Crested Butte, the highway had iced over in spots, and driving had become more treacherous than what they’d experienced thus far.

They all agreed, however, to soldier through the adverse conditions. The remote area of Colorado offered them nothing in terms of places to sleep or find gasoline to refill their spent containers. With an exchange of fist bumps, the family made a pact to cross the Continental Divide so that they’d be downhill to Florida, as Tucker put it.

They wound their way up the mountains toward massive Mount Aetna, the nearly fourteen-thousand-foot peak just west of the Divide. They reached a trailhead and found a place to pull over next to the sign marking the geological boundary separating the Western U.S. from the East. Tucker filled the gas tank again while Lacey retrieved the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on homemade bread provided by Anna. Thanks to the bishop and his wife, they had food to last several days in addition to their own packaged meals.

The group was in high spirits near the high point of the Rockies. It was too soon in their journey to calculate miles and days until they arrived in the Florida Keys, where the group was sure sunshine and warm temperatures were still the norm. They would be content with the flatlands of the prairie for starters.

Wednesday, October 30

U.S. Route 50

East of Pueblo, Colorado

“Wow! Wide-open spaces, right?” said Tucker jubilantly as the highway emerged from the never-ending mountains and canyons they’d been driving through since they left Utah. They’d easily managed to drive through the small towns of Cañon City and Penrose without incident. It was in Penrose that they observed an operating vehicle for the first time. It was an old International Harvester tractor.

They were now facing a drive through the sizable city of Pueblo, Colorado. As they approached, one glance to their left distracted them from the trip across the outskirts of town. It was a massive blaze that could be seen to their north.

The mountains to the west of Colorado Springs were engulfed with flames. Black and gray smoke mixed with fire shot upward for as far they could see toward Denver. The air in the valley became so dense with smoke that it permeated the inside of the Bronco through the air intakes that drew heat from the engine block.

“Cover your faces, everyone,” ordered Owen as he pulled his sweatshirt over his nose and mouth.

“It’s causing my eyes to water,” said Lacey.

“Mine too,” added Owen. “I’ll pick up speed and try to drive out of this. It doesn’t look as dark up ahead.” He gestured through the windshield with both of his index fingers.

“What if I turn off the heater, and we stuff something in these vents?” asked Lacey.

“Can’t hurt,” responded Owen. “From the looks of that fire, it should be a lot warmer outside.”

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” said Tucker. “Those flames seem like they’re reaching a mile into the sky.”

While Lacey worked diligently to close off any air vents, Owen gripped the wheel and sped up, dodging disabled vehicles on the highway. As expected, there were more obstacles in the larger town but still very few signs of people. They might have caught a break in that regard, but the focus drawn by the stalled cars was a distraction for Owen, who’d been diligent about monitoring the older truck’s instrument panel.

They weren’t due to refuel for another hundred miles, and his speed was dictated by the number of cars blocking the road. As they all focused their efforts on avoiding breathing the contaminated air, he didn’t notice the temperature gauge that was part of the round speedometer located at the center of the dash. It was steadily rising as the smoke from the wildfires began to clog the truck engine’s air filters with contaminants. In essence, the Bronco couldn’t breathe, and it was beginning to overheat.

“I think we’ve got them all,” Lacey announced as she leaned back in her seat. The air vents were stuffed with washcloths and socks.

Owen raced past the Pueblo airport and the looted Target Distribution Center on the east side of town. As they put several miles between them and Pueblo, they began to notice the drop in temperature once again.

“Can you believe the fires warmed the air that much?” asked Lacey. “If it weren’t for the smoke, it would’ve been nice to thaw out for a little while.”

“Too late for that, I’m afraid,” added Owen.

“It’s less smoggy now. How about some fresh air?” asked Tucker.

“Not yet, son,” said Owen. He hadn’t complained, but his throat had been sore for two days. It was itchy as if it had been scratched by something. To get some kind of relief, he’d been constantly swallowing his saliva, but that only served to make his throat more raw.