“Lot of ice, General.” The black infantryman next to him was a tall, powerful figure, his shoulders so broad that he cramped the people on either side of him.
Zelig nodded. He could hear the way the pitch of the tracks altered every now and again as the vehicle shifted sideways, the rear end swinging sickeningly as it hit slippery patches on the exposed sections of the highway.
He leaned forward and tapped the driver on the arm, putting his mouth close to the man’s ear. “What sort of average speed are we making?”
“Around fifteen per hour, General. Could risk going faster, but if we hit ice on a bend, then we’re off over the edge and it’s a digging job.”
Zelig nodded his understanding and resumed his seat. The pitching motion and the smell of the diesel engine were combining to make him feel a little queasy. It might be a good idea to call a comfort break in a few minutes.
IT HAD BEEN a stiff and difficult climb up from the beach to the abandoned highway. With the vegetation gone, there was nothing to hold the earth in place against the ravages of wind and rain and frost. Much of the hillside was slippery mud, and it often involved taking three painful steps upward and sliding fifteen back down again.
Jeanne and Paul McGill had taken turns carrying little Sukie, struggling to keep the feverish, fretful child clear of the slimy dirt.
By the time they all reached the snow-crusted blacktop, everyone was covered in wet, peat-colored mud.
Even Nancy Simms was slobbered with dirt, streaks of it along the legs of her khaki pants. She walked a little way back along the road, southward, to a scenic overlook, followed by Jeff Thomas, slumping along behind her.
Henderson McGill turned from his ailing daughter to watch the odd couple. He caught Jim Hilton’s eye.
“What do you make of them, Skipper?”
“I don’t know, Mac. You learn anything traveling along with them?”
“Not a lot. Just that Nanci scares the shit out of me. Scariest woman I ever met. Tough and capable as hell. But the way he trails after her, like a bastard lapdog…” Mac shook his head. “I still figure something doesn’t ring true about Jeff’s story on how Jed Herne got himself wasted.”
Jim nodded. “Me, too. But there’s not a lot we can do about it. Unless we just kill him.”
“Murder him, Jim?”
“I prefer to think about it as an execution. But I can’t bring myself to do that—not yet. Maybe one day. Just shows how far we’ve gone already, since the old Aquila came bumping and grinding down into the desert.”
Sly came and joined them, looking worried. “All this snow and fog, Jim…”
“Yeah?”
“Well, Daddy Steve can see me… you said me he was able to could.”
“That’s right, Sly.” Jim smiled and patted the teenager on the arm. “I see what you’re worried about. How can he watch over you with all the snow and low cloud?”
“Yeah, that’s it, Jim.”
“Well, Steve Romero was always a real special man, wasn’t he? Always.”
Sly grinned, showing his uneven teeth. “Sure. But Mama Alison didn’t think that. Her an’ Uncle Randy said bad things to me ’bout Steve. Said he was a shitty run-off.”
“You believe that, Sly?” asked Mac. “Because I certainly don’t. Your father was one of the best and bravest men I ever met in my life. You should be proud of him, Sly.”
“Me is, Mac.”
“And he was… is damn proud of you, too.”
Sly was comforted by Mac’s words, and he turned to watch Nanci as she returned from the overlook. She reported that there was a mist coming off the sea and visibility was falling fast. “Getting colder rapidly,” she said. “I think there’s more snow coming our way. Best we can try to do is find somewhere that we can get transport.”
“The farm?” suggested Carrie. “Only it looks as though there might be a turnoff over there,” she said, pointing north. “Fog’s thickening and you can’t see it anymore. But I’m sure I saw it.”
As they made their way north, Carrie turned out to have been right.