‘convoy up’ here. Convoys leave all the time. You can even find gas, if you have enough cash or anything worthwhile to trade. I think you’ll make out fine. You made it here from Houston, so the worst is behind you. If you can find gas along the way, you’ll make it the rest of the way to Utah, no problem.”
“Praise be! That’s mighty welcome news, mister,” replied the driver. Visible relief flowed into all three of the visitors at the prospect of a layover in a safe refuge.
“I’ll lead you to your spot now; it’s a nice grassy place. Just follow behind me, okay?” He turned and spoke into his two-way radio, then clipped it onto his belt and mounted his bike.
They drove in at the guard’s unhurried cycling speed, jouncing down a dirt track with tents, trailers and RVs on both sides. Most sprouted a wide variety of antennas, solar panels and wind generators mounted on top. The wind generators all whirred madly, their sounds merging from one campsite to the next. Everywhere, flags were whipping back on the breeze: Texas Lone Star flags, the Stars and Stripes, several yellow Gadsden “Don’t Tread On Me” flags, and other banners in every color and dimension. Specific state flags appeared among clusters of RVs, evidence of regional clannishness, or convoy intentions.
Ranya asked, “Why did he want to know if we’d been east of the Mississippi?”
“Are you putting me on?” asked Olivia, turning to look at her. “Cameroon Fever, what do you think? But ain’t none of us got them poxy scars, thank the Lord.”
Ranya simply said, “Oh, yeah. Of course,” and let it drop. She had heard rumors from new D-Camp prisoners about a lethal epidemic that had swept through Florida and Georgia, but didn’t know how far it had spread. Evidently, traveling east of the Mississippi put one into a greater risk category, at least as far as Texans were concerned. The RV continued to follow the gate guard on his bicycle, swaying and bumping along the path.
Kids rode bikes, chased one another on foot, played catch and threw Frisbees. Their camper passed a wide bend in the creek, where a few people waded and splashed in the sluggish water between cattail covered banks. They passed a redheaded woman riding a mountain bike in the other direction; she had an AR-15 carbine slung nonchalantly across her back, its muzzle down. She exchanged waves and hellos with the gate guard on his bicycle. The staccato popping sound of pistol and rifle shots could be heard in the distance.
The woman beside Ranya asked, “Honey, do you see your friends yet? What kind of a rig do they have?”
“Not yet,” she lied. “They should be here, somewhere. At least, that’s what they told me last week. We haven’t seen half the place yet. They’re around here somewhere, I’m sure. I’ll just ask around, I’m sure I’ll find them. So listen, thanks for the ride, but I don’t want to impose on your hospitality…”
The woman smiled and said, “Nonsense, honey, it’s no trouble. If you need…”
“If I know my friends, they’ll be hanging out at the shooting range. If you let me out now, I’ll just walk out there.”
“Well that’s fine, if that’s what you want,” said the woman. “But listen…first let me finish cutting your hair: it’s kind of rough in the back.”
“Olivia’s right, honey,” said her husband, chuckling. “If you’re going on the lam, you’ll need a better hair-do. If you didn’t cut it yourself, I’d say your hair stylist needs to find a new line of work!”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Sure it is honey child, but who cares?” responded the woman, turning more serious. “We’re all escaping from something these days, ain’t we? Well, join the club. And if you don’t find your friends…you’re welcome to stay with us for a time. We’ll squeeze you in—it’ll be tight, but it’ll be all right. The good Lord will
“Praise be! That’s mighty welcome news, mister,” replied the driver. Visible relief flowed into all three of the visitors at the prospect of a layover in a safe refuge.
“I’ll lead you to your spot now; it’s a nice grassy place. Just follow behind me, okay?” He turned and spoke into his two-way radio, then clipped it onto his belt and mounted his bike.
They drove in at the guard’s unhurried cycling speed, jouncing down a dirt track with tents, trailers and RVs on both sides. Most sprouted a wide variety of antennas, solar panels and wind generators mounted on top. The wind generators all whirred madly, their sounds merging from one campsite to the next. Everywhere, flags were whipping back on the breeze: Texas Lone Star flags, the Stars and Stripes, several yellow Gadsden “Don’t Tread On Me” flags, and other banners in every color and dimension. Specific state flags appeared among clusters of RVs, evidence of regional clannishness, or convoy intentions.
Ranya asked, “Why did he want to know if we’d been east of the Mississippi?”
“Are you putting me on?” asked Olivia, turning to look at her. “Cameroon Fever, what do you think? But ain’t none of us got them poxy scars, thank the Lord.”
Ranya simply said, “Oh, yeah. Of course,” and let it drop. She had heard rumors from new D-Camp prisoners about a lethal epidemic that had swept through Florida and Georgia, but didn’t know how far it had spread. Evidently, traveling east of the Mississippi put one into a greater risk category, at least as far as Texans were concerned. The RV continued to follow the gate guard on his bicycle, swaying and bumping along the path.
Kids rode bikes, chased one another on foot, played catch and threw Frisbees. Their camper passed a wide bend in the creek, where a few people waded and splashed in the sluggish water between cattail covered banks. They passed a redheaded woman riding a mountain bike in the other direction; she had an AR-15 carbine slung nonchalantly across her back, its muzzle down. She exchanged waves and hellos with the gate guard on his bicycle. The staccato popping sound of pistol and rifle shots could be heard in the distance.
The woman beside Ranya asked, “Honey, do you see your friends yet? What kind of a rig do they have?”
“Not yet,” she lied. “They should be here, somewhere. At least, that’s what they told me last week. We haven’t seen half the place yet. They’re around here somewhere, I’m sure. I’ll just ask around, I’m sure I’ll find them. So listen, thanks for the ride, but I don’t want to impose on your hospitality…”
The woman smiled and said, “Nonsense, honey, it’s no trouble. If you need…”
“If I know my friends, they’ll be hanging out at the shooting range. If you let me out now, I’ll just walk out there.”
“Well that’s fine, if that’s what you want,” said the woman. “But listen…first let me finish cutting your hair: it’s kind of rough in the back.”
“Olivia’s right, honey,” said her husband, chuckling. “If you’re going on the lam, you’ll need a better hair-do. If you didn’t cut it yourself, I’d say your hair stylist needs to find a new line of work!”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Sure it is honey child, but who cares?” responded the woman, turning more serious. “We’re all escaping from something these days, ain’t we? Well, join the club. And if you don’t find your friends…you’re welcome to stay with us for a time. We’ll squeeze you in—it’ll be tight, but it’ll be all right. The good Lord will
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