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can.”
    “The Paks and Indians are nuking each other. And what China is threatening will make Hiroshima and Nagasaki look like a couple of supersize firecrackers.”
    “Keep out of it,” Kemp said. “That’s what I say. And if California wants to slide into the sea, let ’em.”
    “Sure, stop the bleeding. I’m with you all the way. But what isn’t so well known is that we’ve lost Iowa and Nebraska too. Most of Kansas. Washington, Oregon. Most of the farm states are in open rebellion.”
    “I get it,” Kemp said. “Let the rest of the world starve. Why should they care?”
    “Exactly. Only we can’t let them get away with it or we’ll all die. Now is the time to stop the bleeding. We don’t, we’ll look like Canada. Did you hear about Toronto?
    “No, what happened?”
    “Never mind. We’ve got to cauterize the wound. Las Vegas is the place to burn it out. Fifty thousand troops—we’ve got to hold the line. Three more months, then we’ll be stabilized in the Midwest and we can pull back.”
    “What about here?” Kemp asked.
    “The Great Basin is finished. That idiot governor is still hanging on in Salt Lake, but the rest of these sand and mountain states are a bunch of refugee camps and crazy survivalist communities.”
    “Like Blister Creek.”
    “Exactly. It’s easy enough to patrol here, if you’ve got the fuel and the food. If the rebellion spreads, we’ll harass their supply lines. Cut them off at the knees. A thousand miles of wilderness right here, buddy. Easy enough to do, if you use the right tactics.”
    “Don’t BS me, Sarge. What are you saying? You’re part of some irregular unit?”
    “For now.”
    Kemp narrowed his eyes. He stared at Shepherd, then looked back toward the bus. Tippetts stood in its shade, watching them. No doubt wondering what kind of deal Kemp was cutting. He wondered that himself.
    “What’s that got to do with Blister Creek?” he asked.
    “See, we got a situation. Right here, right in the middle of no-man’s-land. What you’ve got is a well-fortified, well-stocked group of gun nuts. A fertile valley with its own power supplies, food enough to hold out for years.”
    “Sounds like a problem,” Kemp said.
    “Or an opportunity.”
    “How do you mean?”
    “Things are pretty lean here on the front lines. You’d think the army would keep the grub coming, but no. We’ve got to take care of ourselves, know what I mean?” Shepherd draped an arm over his shoulder. “You look beat, man. Come to camp and we’ll toss back a couple of beers. Talk it over. What do you say?”
    It sounded great. Better than that god-awful moonshine Kapowski had fixed up from prickly pear fruit, rotten bread, and what tasted like brake fluid. And the heat and the exhaustion had sapped his will to run, to hoof it across the desert until he died.
    He looked at the bus. Thought about his mother. About the fundies in Blister Creek. About Christianson. Then he turned back to Shepherd.
    “All right. Let’s go.”

CHAPTER SEVEN
    Eliza was ready to collapse from exhaustion. Ahead, Miriam marched at a relentless pace across the desert. Even with her sister-in-law carrying the saddlebag with their remaining supplies, Eliza fell farther and farther behind. The others struggled even more. Trost was a good fifty feet to the rear of Eliza, and Grover, after an initial spurt of energy, was soon a speck far behind.
    They followed the banks of an arroyo that cut a jagged line across the plain. Normally, these dry washes turned to sand by the end of April, but it was almost June and a muddy current still gushed down the channel. Eliza stayed back from the edge. The sandy banks were damp and could give way with a single misplaced step.
    A hazy orange sun beat down. A pair of vultures rode thermals a mile overhead, seeming to study the four people struggling across the desert. Eliza wondered if they possessed the ability to detect desperation or if they were merely curious. They could