Chapter One
The pile of paper advertised the Barstow Film Festival: February 1st Thru 10th, 2040.
Jim Hilton browsed quickly through the list of vids and movies that were scheduled. A few names he recognized, and a few more he didn’t. A retrospective season of Peckinpah’s best, as well as a new print of the cult classic Repo Man, including six minutes of never-shown footage and a rare candid interview with the director, an eighty-five-year-old Englishman called Alex Cox. He was also the guest of honor at the festival.
The other side of the flyer was clear, except for a few lines about a special late addition: The Best There Ever Was—The Films of Harry Dean Stanton.
“Him I’ve heard of,” muttered Jim.
It had occurred to him that some sort of a log or a journal might not be a bad idea, something to set down a record for anyone coming after. There was a pencil in the desk, and he took one of the sheets of dry, dusty paper and began to write.
THE UNITED STATES Space Vessel Aquila, under his command, had been out on a two-year deep-dark mission. When the crew had been brought back out of cryosleep prior to landing, it had been to find a changed world, a world ravaged by the plant cancer known as “Earthblood,” which had destroyed all plant life across the planet in a matter of months.
When the plants died, the animals and birds and fish died. And then the people.
Cities were boneyards where only ghouls now lived. Towns were abandoned to the flourishing scavengers like the coyotes and the vultures.
Small communities either vanished or became armed camps of gun-hungry vigilantes.
I went up to my old house in Hollywood with Carrie Princip. She was second navigator on the Aquila. Found my wife and one of my twin girls dead. Brought Heather back here to Calico.
Jim reached for a new piece of paper, wondering idly if the Barstow Film Festival had ever taken place, guessing that the ecodisaster would have struck too quickly.
Steve Romero and Kyle Lynch went off together, up to Colorado. Steve was the radio honcho. Kyle, the only black in the crew, was chief navigator. They came back safely with Steve’s boy, Sly. Nice kid, with Down’s syndrome.
That covered six of the eight.
Outside, through the shattered glass of a side window, Jim could see Jeff Thomas walking with Nanci Simms. The West American had paid millions of dollars to get their star journalist on board the mission. Now Jeff had the greatest scoop in history but no newspaper to write for. No newspapers anywhere, except for the ragged pages that were blowing in the wind.
Jeff had gone out toward San Francisco along with Jed Herne, the ship’s electronics expert. Jed had also played free safety for the New York Giants before a bad knee injury finished his career.
Now he was dead, shot by a sniper.
That was what Jeff Thomas had told Jim Hilton when he arrived in the old ghost town.
Jim wrote, “Jed Herne, killed on the way to San Francisco. By rifleman.” Then he drew a question mark and circled it.
Jefferson Lee Thomas. After the disastrous crash landing of the Aquila back in Nevada at Stevenson, he’d weighed a pudgy one-sixty-five. Now he’d slimmed down to around one-fifty.
Arrogant and argumentative, he’d not been the most popular crew member, but now there was something different about the twenty-four-year-old. Something at the corners of his eyes when he’d been telling Jim and the other survivors about the murder of Jed Herne.
“Heard the crack, then Jed went down. Clean through the head. Didn’t say a word. Never saw the man who shot him. One moment he’s walking along with me, then he’s flat on his back, staring up at the sun with sightless eyes.”
Only problem was, Jim had heard him telling Steve Romero that they’d both been on mountain bikes and that the killer had been a raggedy old man with white hair.
He thoughtfully circled the question mark again with the blunt stub of pencil.
The last name was Nanci Simms.
Though she was open and pleasant and obviously extremely tough and resilient, she had an oddly guarded, impenetrable quality.