M. Banner - Desolation

Max had left a fairly detailed map on the day of the event, according to the date/time stamp. Its route took them through Tucson, Arizona, then New Mexico, and into Colorado where they would find Cicada.

When they were all packed up, they locked the warehouse and said their goodbyes to the burnt-out shell of a house where they had spent so many happy days building memories. They jumped into the Blazer, with Bill behind the wheel, Sally riding shotgun, Lisa in the back with Maria to help with Ana and because her Spanish was better, and finally Miguel on the other side. Lisa and Miguel would man the windows and if needed shoot whatever blocked their way. Bill and Sally also were armed and ready to do the same.

The truck was packed tight, with three times the amount of supplies they thought they would need for the journey, which they figured would take about two to three days depending on road conditions. Besides the obvious food, water, and ammo, they also packed extra cans of gas, enough for two trips to Cicada. Yet with everything packed, they didn’t even dent what was stored in Max’s warehouse.

They went through a checklist and decided it was time to go, before they attracted more undue attention. There was only one thing left to do before they headed out of town.

The Family Church of Christ was a nondescript building among other nondescript buildings in its neighborhood. It had a commercial-sized parking lot, although it was not paved, and there was a sign, donated by the Pelican Bar after a Mark Mulligan concert and fundraiser. The sign’s bright lights had illuminated the building, and some would say half the neighborhood. But that was before the Event. Prior to this, the church held one service on Sundays and the rest of the time undertook mission work serving the community, especially orphans and the hungry around them. The sign no longer called people for service, although many more came than ever did before the Event. And on all other days, there was a line of starving people hoping for a handout.

Bill pulled up and everybody in line stopped talking to stare at the impossible: a vehicle operating after Los Diablos Verdes . Bill parked next to what was probably the pastor’s car, the layers of dust attested to it being unused since the Event, and turned off the Blazer.

“I’m giving you only two minutes,” he said as he turned around from the driver’s seat and faced Lisa, “before we come in with guns drawn. You got it?” He looked at his wife, making sure she knew he was serious. He handed her the key Max had given him, attached to the lanyard.

“Okay, I’ll be quick,” she said as she scooted out of the truck and slammed the door behind her.

“Guns drawn, let everyone see we mean business,” he said as he watched his wife slip past some people and through the door.

She saw the minister almost immediately, among a throng of people, and walked briskly up to him. “Hello, Pastor John, I don’t know if you remember me…”

“Lisa and Bill King, of course.” His smile was warm and infectious. “How could I forget your generous food donation.” Several heads lifted up, people trying to hear what came next.

She grabbed his arm and led him to a quiet area of the room. No one could see her hand him the key and lanyard with a hand-drawn map and directions. She whispered into his ear, still holding his arm firmly. His demeanor changed almost instantly; he pressed his head to hers, tears glistening on his face, and then hugged her. He looked at her again and kissed her cheek. “You are a saint,” his lips said to those who could read them. “Peace be with you,” she said, and walked out. Less than a minute later, the Kings and Fernandezes left the parking lot and drove out of town.

Pastor John wiped the moisture from his eyes, stood up tall, and called out, “I need ten strong men to help me get some supplies.”

It was by far the biggest wedding ceremony witnessed by this part of Wyoming in a long time, and every member of Fort Laramie who wasn’t dead or in the infirmary showed up for it. Even those few townies who grumbled that they had been lied to about the bride and groom’s marital status showed up. Carrington thought it was just the few men who were jealous of him taking one of the only available women in the town. Everyone else was excited that the town’s two heroes had found love.

The sheriff performed the service, which was his first and probably the funniest anyone had ever witnessed. Folks who had often quoted The Princess Bride wedding scene would now imitate this one instead, with the drawl so strong it could trip a bull. The crowd favorite—“Do yew take this wohman to be yehr lawfully wedded whyf?”—would be repeated for years.

During their first (rather long) kiss as husband and wife, everyone cheered, even the grumblers. They didn’t want their friends to go, but they understood why. The Carringtons had an important job to do at Cicada. The locals were just thankful to them for saving their town and for having had the chance to know them.

They fixed up Carrington’s recumbent tricycle with new tires and completely degreased the chain and gears. They added a small trailer filled with more than enough supplies, even though the journey to Colorado shouldn’t be a long one. The hardest job for the town was putting together the official marriage certificate, which Carrington figured would be required for their entry into Cicada. The problem was that for the past several years, all legal certificates had been printed by computer. After they found some old blank stock stored in a warehouse, they had to go from house to house looking for a typewriter and ribbon that worked to fill out the form. Bob Smucker, the town manager, arranged to borrow a local romance author’s vintage Underwood. Somehow that was fitting. After typing it up, Bob and Tex signed it to make it official.

Carrington and Melanie mounted their trike, him first and then her on his lap. It was designed for one, but they found if she crossed her legs around the handle bars, parked her feet behind the wheel and then leaned back against his chest, it worked great.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Don’t forget to yell if you lose your balance.”

“Don’t forget, I rode a crashing Russian escape capsule to earth.”

“There’s no doubt who is the smarter of us. Let’s go before I say something else stupid.”

“Forward, James.”

“Bye,” a disharmonious chorus of voices serenaded them.

“Bye,” they answered back and waved.

As they drove away, someone let loose of a series of tin cans tied to the back of the trailer, just below the newly hand-painted license plate that read “CARR & MEL.” They pulled through the north gate smiling like the newlyweds they were, the cans clanking away, causing such a racket that a couple of dogs in the neighborhood starting barking. They stopped, still in full view of several who were watching them at the gate. Melanie got off, yanked both cords and their attached cans and tossed them into the trailer, got back on the trike and settled in again. Carrington waved without looking back as he pedaled away. At the top of the Highway 130 bridge, they disappeared from Laramie’s lives forever.

They ended up staying one extra day to complete all the preparations for travel. The following morning, they all said goodbye to Robert and Emma Simpson, knowing that they would never see them again. The Simpsons would most likely be dead long before the others arrived in New Mexico. Wilber spent time with them providing more instructions on the location of supplies and what they could do to minimize the effects of the coming radiation. He dug out two old Geiger counters from a metal storage shed, sealed in their original wood boxes. One he left with the Simpsons. The other they would take on their journey, hoping to bypass any potential radiation threat as their planned path west would bring them near a couple other nuclear power plants . He crafted steel cages around each, providing protection against the daily CME attacks.