Chapter 1
“This is not what we agreed to.” She slaps her palm on the table.
I let out a breath through my nose. “We’ve discussed how this could happen.”
“We discussed my children riding in the wagon until we separated.”
“If you’d let Rochelle finish— ” my good friend PJ Cameron says, his tone calm and reasonable.
“Oh, by all means, Rochelle. Please finish. Finish telling me how you are condemning my children to death.”
I force a smile. “We agreed we’d use the wagon as long as it was safe. We always knew it could make us a target. And with the new information— ”
“This isn’t new information. I told you how things are out here. We’re targets, even without the wagon,” Leanne says, her green eyes boring into me. “My children are not well enough to be on their feet all day.”
“I understand.”
“No, you don’t. You didn’t watch your children slowly starve, wasting away day by day until . . . you have no idea what they’ve been through. And now you expect them to walk eight or ten miles a day? They can’t do it.”
“We know Sadie and Sebastian, and you, have had a rough time. We’ll still have the horses. PJ and I, even Donnie, have all agreed riding double for short times will work fine. The children are small. They won’t stress the horses. You can ride, no problem. Even Robyn, with the injury to her shoulder, might not be able to walk all the time.”
“And I have no say in it, as usual.”
PJ leans back in his chair. “Sorry, Leanne. We agreed that, in matters of security, Rey and Kimba have the final say. And since I own the wagon, I’m adding my two cents. The wagon stays in Joliet. They’ll keep it in a garage— ”
“Fine, whatever.” Rising in an angry rush, she knocks over the chair, shoots us one final hateful look, and stomps out of the room.
“That went well,” PJ mutters, scrubbing his hands against his bearded face.
“She’s concerned for her children,” I say. “I get it. You know that’s the entire reason we’re here, my concern for my son.”
He puts his hand on top of mine. “We’re going to find him, Rochelle.”
I drop my eyes. “I pray he’s healthy and waiting, knowing I’m doing my best to get to him. But if he’s not . . . if I can at least have answers one way or another . . . it’ll be better than not knowing.”
It’s been over nine months since five passenger airplanes were shot out of the sky, setting off a cascading series of attacks and striking fear into the hearts of every man, woman, and child in the United States. Each attack compounded on the one before, causing an avalanche effect of disaster.
The coup de grâce was a nuclear attack. Not only were port cities destroyed with ground detonations, but a high-altitude nuke wiped out our power grid and most cars with an electromagnetic pulse. The EMP destroyed communication and set us back well before the Industrial Age. Some say we’re living in the 1800s again, while others insist we’re in medieval times. The violence surrounding us certainly feels medieval.
The day the EMP hit, my husband Dale, two daughters, and I were on our way to Shepherd, Montana, to get our son Christopher from summer camp. In hindsight, we should’ve gone after him the night of the first attacks. But we thought it was just a flash in the pan. An isolated event. An inconvenience that grounded air travel.
When we finally realized it was substantially more than an inconvenience, it was too late. After the car stopped running, we started off on foot. We had just set up camp when a group of men assaulted us. They killed Dale, then took my daughters and me hostage. I blink my eyes to put aside the emotions threatening to rush over me.
“I know it’s going to be harder on us without the wagon,” PJ says. “When we find your son and separate from the group, we’ll have just the two horses. One of us will be on foot.”
“I’m thankful your family gave us snowshoes.”
“Not sure we’ll need them much longer. We’ve had some beautiful days since we left the lodge on the mountain. What was that? Two weeks ago?”
“We left March 15.”
“And today is . . . ?”
“April 1.” A pang of regret courses through me. Yesterday was my oldest daughter’s birthday. Kerryanne turned fourteen, and I missed it. I hope her day was wonderful—as special as it can be in our current circumstances.
“Huh, April Fools’ Day. Seems fitting,” PJ says.
I give him a fleeting smile. “Most years, it snows well into April, sometimes even May.”
“Yep. And we’ve seen more snow this year than I ever remember, but it has to melt off sometime. A warm day and a good wind, we’ll find ourselves in mud, especially at this elevation. We’re about three thousand feet lower than our mountain home.”
“How long do you think it’ll take to get to Camp Ah Nei from here?”
“Joliet to Billings was only an hour or so by car, back in the days when cars were a thing.” PJ waggles his eyebrows at me. “But with the trouble between here and Billings, we’re smart to go around, taking the small back roads. Here to Fromberg’s two days. Then from there past the little town of Edgar until we reach Chief Plenty Coups State Park, we’re looking at a minimum of five days, probably more like seven. Another ten to reach Lockwood, where we’ll drop off Robyn with her parents. Then two, maybe three, to your son.”
“So . . . three weeks?” I ask, my voice filled with hope. Three weeks until I can see my son again.
He tilts his head and meets my gaze with his deep brown eyes. “If we can travel every day, yes. But if we get another storm like the one we had in Bridger a few days ago, we’ll need to wait it out. And you know what Atticus thinks.”
“That we’re going to be stuck here a few days because of the weather coming in.”
“Yep. These spring storms are common, even in normal weather patterns.”
“And this year has been anything but normal.”
“Right. There might be something to the theory of nuclear winter.” He tilts his head and lifts his hands.
“All I know is I want to find Christopher and get back to my girls. I hated leaving them in Bakerville. Sure, I know it was the right choice, the safe choice, but I miss them.”
“It’ll probably be two months before we make it back.”
“It should at least be spring by then.”
“Should be.” PJ nods.
What he doesn’t say, what neither of us is willing to speak aloud, is a lot can happen between now and then. I left my daughters at our mountain home, with a good friend, for this exact reason: the danger of being away from the safety of the group. Even groups aren’t always safe.
Several weeks back, part of our community, those who had chosen not to move up to the mountain, were attacked. Five children hid, living through the ordeal. Those children were taken in by PJ’s brother and his wife. The trauma they’ve experienced . . . the rest of the community, including the children’s parents, were slaughtered. Robyn Sorensen, part of our traveling group, lost her husband in the attack.
Around the same time of the murders, the president—who we hadn’t heard from since before the EMP—announced he’s making strides to get the lights back on. They’re starting in cities that weren’t destroyed by the bombs. Undoing almost a year of chaos won’t be easy.
I shudder to think how many deaths our country has suffered. What will the United States of America look like in the future?
~~~~~
“We’ll see you in a couple weeks,” my friend Tamra Nicholson says, wrapping me in a hug.
“Probably closer to a month,” I say.
As Atticus predicted, we’ve been stuck in Joliet, where Tamra’s parents live, for too many days as another storm swept through. This one, though not a cold arctic blast like we’d experienced the week before, was a wet snow that dumped at least a foot in the first twenty-four hours, then continued to storm off and on for several days. When it finally let up, we waited another couple of days before leaving. There was just too much new snow to make travel safe.
Finally, today, April 9, we’re packed and ready to head out. It’s still cold, but not bitter. We’re all dressed in multiple layers, helpful for taking off as the day warms up.
“Whenever it is, don’t worry. My dad has no trouble keeping the wagon until you return. And I can’t wait to meet your son.”
I wipe my eyes before clearing my throat. “It’s the same as it was for you—not knowing what you’d find when we reached Joliet. I miss the days when we could pick up a phone or send a text to ensure our loved ones were fine . . . even being able to mail a letter and receive one in return. This world is so different.”
“Maybe they’ll bring back the Pony Express. It sounds like the most recent update from the White House—wherever that may be right now—is encouraging. They’re making headway.”
“Are they?” I ask, thinking back to a few days ago when the info came over the functioning ham radio the town of Joliet has. It was another extremely vague announcement from the president.
“Well, who knows?” Tamra says. “Either way, I think things will start to turn around. And who says we need the president or the government to make it happen? Look at how well they’re doing here, in Joliet. Just like back on the mountain, they’re making it work. And when the snow melts, they’re going to join with the towns of Fromberg and Bridger. Maybe Belfry will even be part of the cooperative. They can start their own mail service between those towns at least.”
I think back to the towns she mentioned; we’ve traveled through all of them on this journey. Between Bridger and Fromberg, they’d cleared the snow from the road by using scoop shovels and a four-wheeler with a plow attached. The two towns are already working together for mutual survival. Adding a town on either end—Belfry to the south and Joliet to the northwest—sounds smart.
“Maybe Bakerville will become a part of their co-op too? It’s not that far between Bakerville and Belfry.”
“See? Lots of possibilities, which can all start at the local level.” Tamra pulls me into another hug. “Don’t forget to walk once in a while. You don’t want saddle sores.”
I let out a hearty laugh. “That’s the last thing I need. But with three pairs of pants on, I should be okay there. When Leanne or one of her children need a rest, I’ll walk Lucky. It’ll be fine.”
“Yeah . . . ” She raises her eyebrows at me. Leanne’s reaction to leaving the wagon in Joliet is no secret. Even though we were in the separate dining room, her voice carried through the entire house. And her stomping around afterward only added to the drama.
“Let’s hit the road,” Donnie McCollough bellows from atop his horse. “As the Duke would say, ‘We’re burnin’ daylight.’ Time to get a move on!”
Several people wave as we travel past houses on our way out of town. With the horses and backcountry ski gear, I’m sure we’re quite a sight. While those with ski gear managed to have a little fun when we left the ski resort outside of Bakerville, we’ve been on what is essentially flat land for most of the trip.
The skis were made suitable for walking by adding skins, strips of material attached to the undersides, providing traction for flat stretches and moderate climbing. They’re reminiscent of snowshoes but not as easy to maneuver.
We wanted snowshoes for everyone, but our mountain community wasn’t willing to part with them. Understandable, since that’s how everyone gets around when there’s several feet of snow on the ground.
Providing the backcountry ski gear was a good alternative and has made our travel easier than it would’ve been without it. The addition of three utility sleds allows us to tow necessary supplies instead of carrying everything on our backs or in our saddlebags.
The sun is already shining bright, even though it’s only been up a short while. God has given us a beautiful day for traveling. And even the memory of Leanne’s hatefulness isn’t putting a damper on my excitement to be on the road again.
The forced weather delay gave her children several days to recover from our journey thus far. It was also helpful for Donnie McCullough and Robyn Sorensen, who were both injured a few weeks ago when we were attacked while traveling through Bridger, Montana.
On the way to my son’s camp, we’ll be stopping in Lockwood, Montana, which is east of Billings, to take Robyn to her parents’ house. From there, our group will continue on to Camp Ah Nei, slightly northwest of Shepherd, Montana.
Once PJ and I have Christopher, we’ll return to Bakerville, Wyoming. The rest of our group will continue northwest. Leanne Monroe is going to Lewistown, Montana, where she has an aunt, while the Dosen and Dawson families are heading near Great Falls.
Jennifer Dosen and her three teenaged sons, commonly referred to as the A Boys or the A Team since each of their names begins with an A, have a small cattle ranch east of Great Falls. They invited the Dawsons to move up with them. It was a nice invitation, considering Victoria Dawson and her two sons, sixteen-year-old Brett and fourteen-year-old Jameson, are no longer welcome in Bakerville.
Jon Dawson, Victoria’s husband and the boys’ father, attempted to overtake the legitimate town council, murdering several in the process. Even with his death, and the death of most of the people who attempted the coup, many blamed Victoria. She insists he’d gone crazy and, in his insanity, made poor choices. That’s an understatement for sure.
Because of a commitment made long before I met them, Kimba and Rey Hoffmann, along with their three children, are traveling with the Dosens to ensure they make it home. From there, the Hoffmanns seem unsure of their plans.
While they enjoyed their time living with the people of Bakerville and have made many close friendships, Kimba and Rey feel a sense of duty to help with the country’s rebuilding efforts.
Both have a rather interesting history, if rumors can be believed. It seems Kimba and Rey met when they were working as clandestine government operatives—Kimba for the United States and Rey for Britain.
They’ve talked about going back to Denver, where they lived before the attacks, or possibly west to Spokane, Washington, which is reported to have started reconstruction. Wherever they end up, their skills with firearms and thinking on their feet makes them huge assets on this trip. This has already been proven with the difficulties we’ve encountered on our journey.
I glance over at Robyn. Her arm is still in a sling from the trouble we had in Bridger. She dislocated her shoulder when trying to escape the grasp of a captor. Thankfully, it doesn’t seem to bother her much as she uses only one pole while skinning instead of two, her tall, full-bodied frame having little trouble with the movement.
Leanne, who rode in the wagon with her children during our journey from Bakerville to Joliet, seems to have taken to skinning without any issue. She doesn’t even struggle with the gliding motion, moving almost like a dancer. Even her children do well with it, but they tire quickly and both welcome rides on the horses.
We find out quickly there’s some logistics to giving them breaks from walking. Someone needs to carry their skis by attaching them to their backpack. The collapsible poles need to be stashed. It’s always several minutes of fussing, but it’s necessary and gives me or PJ time to get our snowshoes on so we can walk alongside our horses.
Both eight-year-old Sebastian and almost thirteen-year-old Sadie Monroe were severely malnourished after walking from Oregon to Wyoming. Leanne too, she’s little more than skin and bones, even after the extra care and food given by the people of Joliet during our weather-forced stopover.
Not only are they physically affected by the trek, but Leanne’s also rumored to have been mentally affected. I’ve heard she was a kind and caring person before. Whether it was the threat of starvation or something more, she’s now bitter and calloused.
When she looks to be tiring, I offer her a ride. Her nonverbal response leaves no doubt in my mind of her opinion about my offer. She juts out her chin and digs in harder, never wavering or looking weary for the remainder of the day. With the excellent weather and everyone well rested, we make good time, setting up camp about a mile outside the small town of Fromberg.
One day down. How many days ahead?
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