like that. We were driving in the mountains and our car just quit running. The cars and trucks around us rolled without power for a while and then they all stopped, too. Dad said something. A curse or a prayer. I don’t know. No one else knew what was happening, but
he
knew. We were parked on the side of the road, and Dad put on the emergency brake. No lights. No iPod. No cell phones. No engines. Car doors opening, and people walking in the freeway. Voices in the road. Someone lit highway flares, but no more cars came up on us, because that way of life had ended.
“Everyone okay?”
“Yeah.”
“What the hell?”
“Don’t know.”
And then it was like coming to understand a nightmare had come true. There was only one possible conclusion. Dad made it clear.
“No, ma’am, it couldn’t be UFOs or sunspots or a government plot. Not with all of the cars, all at once. It’s here and we’re in it. It doesn’t matter who did it. Knowing who did it won’t help us, but it
will
help us to know where the closest bomb went off.”
He sent a young guy up onto a hill to try to see something, but the young guy came back and said he couldn’t see anything but more mountains.
“There’s nothing for us here, folks,” Dad said. “There’s nothing to do but walk to a better place. The nearest town is Yreka, and we need to get there fast. Let’s go, people. Let’s help each other get through this.”
And the people were amazing. Adults took turns carrying children. The young steadied the old. Black, white, Hispanic, Asian, Native American, rich and poor, we all marched together. Progressives and conservatives shared food and water, rattling off the kind of friendly insults that keep people warm inside.
“I’ve never marched with a Commie before.”
“Yeah? I’m happy to see that Republicans don’t goose-step.”
And the singing. We sang as we walked, and it wasn’t an easy journey, but the time went faster because of the singing. We had musicians in our party, two guitar players and a guy with a sax and a neo-funk singer with his backup babes, their big hair and big voices keeping us going. We had bonfires at the side of the freeway at night. One night we camped near a Safeway truck that was full of fresh produce and good wine. Another night we opened up the trailer of a Wal-Mart truck and chose new wardrobes for each other. We were a model society for a while. No one was better than anyone else. Any hints of pettiness or bullying were stopped by the majority. We had zero tolerance for bullshit. It took a nuclear attack to bring us together, but for a while we were good people. We were frightened, but we weren’t ugly Americans anymore. And I was
so
proud of us. I thought it would last, but I didn’t expect the government to just leave us alone like they did. When the food started to run out, and people realized they could get away with almost anything, singing was the last thing on our minds.
The buildings here all seem to be empty. There’s an old motor lodge with little garages between the rooms. It’s freshly painted with redwood stain, but there aren’t any curtains on the windows. There’s a motel with a big plastic sign that’s all patriotic with stars and stripes. The Golden Eagle Motel. There’s a smoky fire in its little parking lot. We give it a wide berth. There’s a small junkyard just beyond the motel, and I don’t want to go near it. All those old wrecks freak me out. Blood on the highways. Blood on the dashboards. The junkyard makes my dirty hair try to stand up straight, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the last few months, it’s this: If you think you’re in danger, you
are
.
Scott
We don’t see any more dogs. There aren’t any walkers or drivers. There aren’t any girls in halter tops and tight jeans. Nothing is moving on the ground but I can hear a jet in the sky, headed to the east. It’s probably a bomber flying home after getting some payback. On the day
he
knew. We were parked on the side of the road, and Dad put on the emergency brake. No lights. No iPod. No cell phones. No engines. Car doors opening, and people walking in the freeway. Voices in the road. Someone lit highway flares, but no more cars came up on us, because that way of life had ended.
“Everyone okay?”
“Yeah.”
“What the hell?”
“Don’t know.”
And then it was like coming to understand a nightmare had come true. There was only one possible conclusion. Dad made it clear.
“No, ma’am, it couldn’t be UFOs or sunspots or a government plot. Not with all of the cars, all at once. It’s here and we’re in it. It doesn’t matter who did it. Knowing who did it won’t help us, but it
will
help us to know where the closest bomb went off.”
He sent a young guy up onto a hill to try to see something, but the young guy came back and said he couldn’t see anything but more mountains.
“There’s nothing for us here, folks,” Dad said. “There’s nothing to do but walk to a better place. The nearest town is Yreka, and we need to get there fast. Let’s go, people. Let’s help each other get through this.”
And the people were amazing. Adults took turns carrying children. The young steadied the old. Black, white, Hispanic, Asian, Native American, rich and poor, we all marched together. Progressives and conservatives shared food and water, rattling off the kind of friendly insults that keep people warm inside.
“I’ve never marched with a Commie before.”
“Yeah? I’m happy to see that Republicans don’t goose-step.”
And the singing. We sang as we walked, and it wasn’t an easy journey, but the time went faster because of the singing. We had musicians in our party, two guitar players and a guy with a sax and a neo-funk singer with his backup babes, their big hair and big voices keeping us going. We had bonfires at the side of the freeway at night. One night we camped near a Safeway truck that was full of fresh produce and good wine. Another night we opened up the trailer of a Wal-Mart truck and chose new wardrobes for each other. We were a model society for a while. No one was better than anyone else. Any hints of pettiness or bullying were stopped by the majority. We had zero tolerance for bullshit. It took a nuclear attack to bring us together, but for a while we were good people. We were frightened, but we weren’t ugly Americans anymore. And I was
so
proud of us. I thought it would last, but I didn’t expect the government to just leave us alone like they did. When the food started to run out, and people realized they could get away with almost anything, singing was the last thing on our minds.
The buildings here all seem to be empty. There’s an old motor lodge with little garages between the rooms. It’s freshly painted with redwood stain, but there aren’t any curtains on the windows. There’s a motel with a big plastic sign that’s all patriotic with stars and stripes. The Golden Eagle Motel. There’s a smoky fire in its little parking lot. We give it a wide berth. There’s a small junkyard just beyond the motel, and I don’t want to go near it. All those old wrecks freak me out. Blood on the highways. Blood on the dashboards. The junkyard makes my dirty hair try to stand up straight, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the last few months, it’s this: If you think you’re in danger, you
are
.
Scott
We don’t see any more dogs. There aren’t any walkers or drivers. There aren’t any girls in halter tops and tight jeans. Nothing is moving on the ground but I can hear a jet in the sky, headed to the east. It’s probably a bomber flying home after getting some payback. On the day
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