Nathan Jones - First Winter

Matt shook his head. “I picked four people because I was thinking they’d take the last of our diesel and the mule. I’d say this counts as an emergency and time is of the essence.”

Ah, that made a lot more sense. The side-by-side couldn’t go fast, about 25 mph at most, but it was reasonably fuel efficient. “There’s room for five, at least,” Trev said. “I’d say as leader of the defenders I qualify.”

It was Lucas who protested now. “If Rogers does try something you need to be here, ready for it. We’re going to Sanpete Valley to talk, not fight, so it doesn’t make sense to take anyone who could be more useful here.”

“So take me.”

That was a new voice, and they turned to see Derek Withers leaning on the shoulders of Carrie and another of the veterans. The one-legged man was pale from the strain of still standing, but his expression was determined as he continued. “It can only help your case having one of us along, and I know a few people in that camp who might help us get up the chain to Colonel Grimes.”

Grimes, eh? That was a name Trev recognized, as the man who’d been in charge of guarding Highway 6 and all the territory just north of Aspen Hill during the fight against the Gold Bloc. With any luck that meant the colonel would recognize the name of their town, too.

As for Derek… but Matt was already on top of that. “I’m sorry,” his friend said. “I’m not sure the diesel we have will even get the mule all the way across the mountains, let alone back home. It’ll probably come to walking.”

He didn’t need to say more. Derek nodded, looking resigned.

“Then I’ll go,” Carrie offered. With a slightly bitter twist of her lips, or maybe that was her attempt at a smile with half her face scarred, she indicated her eyepatch. “I can at least score some sympathy points for you, and my legs work just fine.”

The town leaders exchanged unspoken looks of agreement. It would be good to have a veteran along speaking on their behalf. They’d certainly defused the situation during the face-off with Rogers.

“Five it is,” Lucas said, giving the young woman a respectful nod. “Let’s get going.”

Ed Larson knew failure.

Failure was watching in a crisis as the food disappeared, always too slow to get any before it was gone. Failure was needing to have your children warn you to store water, in preparation for when that went too. Failure was watching in helpless rage as some weaselly little bureaucrat took what little your family had left at gunpoint, smiling in smug satisfaction as he guaranteed your loved ones would starve and nothing you could do would prevent it.

Failure was relying on the generosity of a friend you never had the courage to stand up in defense of, just to survive a winter that would’ve been the end of you and everyone you cared about. Failure was always being one step away from volunteering to fight when armed men threatened your town, but never quite taking that step. Failure was letting yourself be talked out of taking any risks because of age, or because your son was shouldering that burden for you, or for any of a dozen other feeble excuses.

Failure was watching your son become a respected leader, and knowing he’d gotten none of those qualities from you.

The worst part was that nobody seemed to blame Ed for his failures. As if they didn’t expect any better from him. As if they knew that when the time came to count on someone, they could count him out.

And now here he was, watching as another mealy-mouthed bureaucrat tried to destroy his town. Only if there was one thing Ed knew, it was that those who didn’t learn from history were doomed to repeat it. He didn’t really shoot all that well, didn’t have the courage to join others in the fight, but he could do this. He could potentially put himself in harm’s way trying to talk to someone who might be able to stop this madness.

He knew all about failure, but he couldn’t afford to fail here. Brave, skilled, and well equipped as his town’s defenders were, there were some things they couldn’t handle.

The group’s fears about not having enough fuel to reach the refugee camp outside of Manti proved unfounded, largely thanks to Lucas’s knowledge of the backroads branching off from Skyline Drive that took them by the quickest route, right down through Manti canyon behind the city itself. Every town along either side of the Manti-La Sal mountains seemed to have a canyon and road like that, which had definitely helped the military get around behind the lines during the fight against the blockheads.

Of course, all those roads had been demolished to prevent the enemy from having easy access to the mountains. In this case the military had cleared the way again to facilitate the mass exodus of refugees down into Sanpete County, and for that same reason the refugee camp around the burned out hulk of Manti began almost as soon as the canyon ended.

That camp was like nothing Ed had ever seen before. Admittedly, his only other experiences were the refugees who’d ended up outside Aspen Hill trying to get in, and Rogers’s camp just west of new Aspen Hill where all their current problems were coming from.

He’d heard Matt, April, and Terry describe the Antelope Island camp in all its soul-crushing glory, and even little Aaron had described it as only a six year old can. “It was really really big! There was a big fence and we couldn’t go close to it or soldiers would yell at us. It smelled bad. Mommy had to hold my hand whenever we went to eat or go potty because there were lots of people everywhere. People shouted real loud when I was trying to sleep.”

His grandson’s assessment was about on the money for this place, too. The population of a fair sized city lived here, not tucked away in several-storey apartment buildings but sprawled along dirt lanes in ragged tents or, far more rarely, crude structures made from whatever building materials could be found. The dust kicked up by so many feet made a constant haze over the area, and the smell of the nearest latrine or refuse pit hit them before they’d gotten within a hundred feet of the perimeter, carried on a stray breeze.

There were no guards, he noticed. The closest thing he saw was a patrol heading out past their mule, as well as a few teams of soldiers, probably MPs, making their way between rows of tents keeping the peace.

Their side-by-side wasn’t the only vehicle around, but it definitely drew more than its fair share of attention. Since it wasn’t obviously military, and none of them were in uniform, they stood out in the crowd. A lot of that attention was focused on Carrie, whose eyepatch didn’t do much to hide the scars that marred an otherwise very lovely face. The young woman was obviously uncomfortable and self-conscious at the stares, but she did her best to put up a stoic front as Lucas drove them through the camp towards the military section, closest to the burned ruins of the county seat.

It was a stark contrast to the refugee camp, well organized and laid out along newly laid gravel or pre-existing paved roads, which ran between straight rows of tents and a few permanent structures, either repurposed shipping containers or large buildings made of sheet metal. It was surrounded by a simple chain-link fence topped by a roll of concertina wire, with light but sturdy gates for every road. Measures obviously meant to discourage trespassing and potential theft.

They finally encountered guards at the gate they made for, and Ed was doubly glad they still had fuel for the mule at that point; in a vehicle the guards were a lot more receptive than if they’d just walked up to the gate. After a few questions they were allowed to drive through, and a corporal was sent to report their presence and see how the higher-ups wanted to handle their visit.