Kevin Anderson - Ill Wind

Iris rode beside him, jarring him into conversation. Although he felt confident on the horse, he didn’t know what to say—he had spent so much time riding down to Stanford to pick her up, he couldn’t for the life of him think up any small talk. He had much bigger things to think about—like their survival. But he was content just to be with her, and she seemed not unwilling to stay with him a while.

The sun beat down on his cowboy hat and his calloused, tanned hands gripping the reins. He could smell the horses and his own sweat, which made him wonder if Iris liked cologne. Probably not.

“So,” Iris said, jet black hair blowing around her face, “you haven’t actually agreed yet. Do you think it’s a good idea to make our way to the Altamont and the community up there?”

Todd nodded, but he had been avoiding the question. He was still surprised that Iris had come along with him. “Sounds like a good idea, especially if they’ve got access to food from the Central Valley, even better if they’ve managed to rig power from the windmills.” He tugged his hat down tighter as a Bay breeze gusted past him. “I’m just a little uncomfortable about living with a bunch of hippies.”

“What’s the problem? They’ve been living off the land there for years.”

Todd was quiet for a moment. “What if they’re growing drugs or something?”

Iris laughed at him. “I’m sure they’d let you have some, if you asked nicely.”

Todd felt his skin prickle. “That’s not what I meant—”

“I know, I know. I’m sure they’ll be a lot more concerned now with planting vegetables. Don’t worry about it, Tex.”

“Stop calling me that,” he growled. “I’m from Wyoming.”

“Would you rather I called you Wye?”

Todd kept looking ahead, squinting into the sunlight. “I’d rather you just called me Todd.” Then he added defensively, “Okay, Professor? Or should I say, Little Miss Rock Star?”

She started to retort, but chuckled instead. “Okay, you made your point.”

They left the water behind as they headed between grassy hills crowned with dark green live oaks. Iris urged Ren ahead a few steps to parallel Todd. “We should avoid Hayward, Newark, and Fremont as much as possible,” she said, pointing to the wrinkled, flapping map spread on the saddle in front of her. “No telling how bad those cities have gotten. If we keep away from the Interstate, there are plenty of hills, ranches, and grazing land between here and the Altamont. Think we can make it there by nightfall?”

Todd laughed. “We didn’t leave Stanford until after lunch. Maybe by tomorrow afternoon.”

Iris looked down at the map again. Her dark eyes flicked back and forth, as if checking directions and distances. “I can drive it in an hour.”

“You really are an academic type, aren’t you? Horses don’t go quite as fast as cars. And they’re not nearly as comfortable.” Todd finally felt reassured to be talking about a subject he knew. “Anyway, after about twenty miles or so, your butt is going to feel sore enough to fall off. I’d just as soon keep that from happening.” Todd suddenly realized what he had said and he clamped his lips down hard together. His ears burned.

“Gee, thanks,” Iris said. “Are you willing to give me a massage if I ache too much?”

It was Todd’s turn to snort; but inwardly, he wondered if she really meant it.

That night they sat around a small campfire. The only thing missing was a pair of wailing coyotes in the hills. He heard a few distant gunshots after dusk, but that wasn’t quite the same.

Iris removed a can of peaches “in their own natural juice” she had taken from her pantry and opened it with a hand can opener. “Too bad we don’t have any beans for dinner,” she said, scooping the mess into their traveling bowls. “Then we could recreate that scene from Blazing Saddles .”

Todd laughed. “You think all cowboys are like that?”

“Aren’t they?”

“Right. Just like all professors are rock & roll addicts.” Todd ducked when Iris threw a clod of dirt at him. Afterwards, they managed to have a decent conversation over dinner.

Todd finally began to relax with the fact that he was riding alone across country with a beautiful woman who confused and excited him. It had taken him hours, but he could finally start talking to her without being so self-conscious.

Darkness spread across the sky. Iris stood up and went to the pile of saddles and blankets they had removed from the horses. Ren and Stimpy blew and whickered from where they were tied under the trees. Todd poked around, securing the campsite.

Iris returned to the level ground near the dying fire and tossed down both sleeping bags. Todd picked up his bedroll. “You can sleep by the fire. I’ll stand watch over here.”

“Wait. You want to help me zip these together?” she asked. “You promised me a massage, remember?”

Todd hesitated, not sure what to say. This didn’t make sense. He turned away, feeling his face flushing bright red.

Iris giggled at his reaction. “You’re cute, Todd.” She grabbed his bedroll and started unrolling both bags, searching for the zippers. “I can’t tell how much of this Big Lunk routine of yours is an act and how much is real.”

“What Big Lunk routine?” he asked, genuinely baffled.

“Oh shut up and get inside the sleeping bag,” Iris said. Her smile seemed to sparkle in the smoky light. “Would it help if I sang Country & Western?” She crooned in a warbling drawl, “Aaahm so lonesome Aaah could craaah!”

Todd stared doggedly. “You’re teasing me, aren’t you?”

“Me?” Iris looked shocked. “I’m dead serious about that massage. My butt feels just as sore as you said it would.”

Confused, Todd snatched his bedroll away from her. “Either that’s the first thing you’ve said that isn’t sarcastic, or I’m missing something. Good night, Professor. We’ve got a long ride tomorrow.” He stomped off without waiting for her reaction.

Minutes later, as he spread his sleeping bag out across the dry grass, he debated going back to her. He couldn’t figure Iris out. One minute she’d lash out at him, the next she wanted to jump in the sack. Weird.

He listened for any sound that she might still be up, maybe even waiting for him. But besides the fire crackling and one of the horses snorting, he didn’t hear a thing.

On the equipment table at the microwave farm, Spencer glanced over the components they had outfitted with fiberglass and ceramic: diagnostic sensors, a switching cable, and fiber-optic relays. In the oppressive heat, useless computer monitors stared like lifeless eyes; the hard plastic housings had sloughed aside, leaving heavy glass cathode-ray tubes canted among wires and the debris of circuits.

At the rate they were going, his small team would have the entire microwave farm fully converted within the next two weeks.

“Supply wagon’s coming!” Rita Fellenstein shouted from the doorway. She sprinted out into the desert sunlight.

Spencer watched with amusement as Rita hurried to the wagon, her braided hair dangling beneath her Australian hat. By now her infatuation with the pair of ranch hands was common knowledge.

He tugged on his own floppy hat and followed her out of the blockhouse. He squinted in the glaring brightness of the desert, but without air conditioning inside the building, the temperature differential wasn’t much of a shock.

The two young ranch hands guided the horses that pulled the old wooden-bed wagon. From the short-wave radio, Spencer knew that some of the ranches around Alamogordo had donated barrels of water and boxes of MRE rations from storehouses they had looted from mothballed Holloman AFB. Wiry Juan Romero, sweat dripping down his back, started unloading, stashing boxes of dried beef and aluminum containers in the shade beneath the blockhouse.