Then they were in a surprisingly clean four-by-four and hurtling through darkness, breaking a fence and shots whizzing around them.
But it was all like a dream.
Nanci was at his side, lips tight, whistling “Marching through Georgia” quietly to herself as she steered the vehicle over sand and rock. She was driving much faster than Jeff thought wise—not that he was going to tell her.
He wasn’t about to say anything.
Nanci broke the silence when they’d been going for something close to forty-five minutes.
“She’ll put a chopper up after us.”
“Who?”
“Woman they call the chief of the Hunters of the Sun. Learned her name. Margaret Tabor. Used to be Flagg’s mistress. It’s possible she chilled him and made it look like food poisoning. Guess that we shall never know the truth about that.”
“Why would she bother to send a helicopter after us? Two guards can’t matter that much.”
“Your brain would make a rabbit’s turd look like a bowling ball, Jefferson.”
“Well,” he said in a pained voice, but decided now wasn’t a time to take insult.
“Nothing to do with guards. What you have to realize is that this country now lies between two causes. Between anarchy and freedom. Light and dark. Yin and yang. Call it what you like, and you still got Zelig and all of those backing the ideal of Aurora—the dawn, Jefferson. Set against the militaristic dictatorship of the Hunters of the Sun.”
“But you don’t know where that is, do you? Aurora? I don’t.”
“They don’t know that we don’t know. They screwed up in a big way, Jefferson. Took too long to interrogate you properly… and didn’t recognize who I was. We were lucky. By now she’ll have realized who they let slip. They want us back so they’ll try hard. That’s why we’re going to ground as soon as I can locate a suitable place to hide from air recon.”
Jeff grinned. He was beginning to think that Nanci was going to forgive him for his minor mistake of leaving her to die from a severed artery, alone in the desert.
Nanci rolled the vehicle to a halt, spotting some abandoned outbuildings beyond a dried creek. “Been over some bare rocks, so they should lose the trail. She won’t know which way we’ve gone. And I wonder if I can outguess her. I can.” Switching off the engine, she smiled at her companion. “We have at least four or five hours before it’ll be safe to move on. Plenty of time for a little lesson on manners, Jefferson.”
“No, please, Nanci.”
“Oh, yes, dear boy. This is going to please Nanci a great deal. I can promise you that.”
THE MCGILL CONVOY picked its slow and careful way westward across what had once been the wealthiest state, finding a way via blue highways and dirt roads toward San Francisco then north into Muir Woods. They’d be late on the agreed date, but by no more than four or five days.
Muir Woods, where some or all of the others might be waiting for them… or maybe none of them, depending on what luck, skill or blind fate dealt them.
Mac plotted his route each day with Jeanne, Paul and Pamela, trying to watch out for any communities where confrontational danger might lie and keeping clear of the high ground, where the snow might still be a problem.
He drove the RV, with Sukie and Jocelyn playing contentedly in the back. Paul was in charge of the jeep that towed their shrinking supply of fuel, while Pamela and Jeanne took turns at the wheel of the souped-up four-by-four, bringing up the rear of their convoy.
They hardly saw anyone.
Once they came across a roadblock built from a tangle of rotten branches. It was in a narrow valley, with no way to get past on either side. Mac stopped a hundred yards away from it, peering cautiously out to see if this could be an ambush. But there was no sign of life.
“Cover me,” he called, climbing down from the cab, the SIG-Sauer P-230 in his hand, one of the pump-action Winchesters slung across his shoulder. Somehow he’d turned against his own Brazzi scattergun in the past day or so.