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‘We found this guy camped near the San Cristobal bridge,’ says Langdon, as the Trans-sol glides to a halt beside your roadster.
‘He says he’s on his way to San Francisco, would you believe?’ comments Macy, as he gets out of the car with the man in tow.
‘What’s your name?’ you ask.
‘Brent Jaeger,’ he replies, and tentatively he offers his hand in friendship. At first you hesitate, and then you shake it, and at once the man seems to relax, as if a weight has been lifted from his shoulders.
‘For a minute there I thought you guys were clansmen,’ he says. ‘I thought my time was up.’
‘Where you from?’ you ask.
‘I’ve made my way up from Panama, mostly on foot. I’ve got blisters to prove it, too. I was working on the canal when HAVOC pulled the plug. I guess I was lucky; I found a safe zone in the jungle and waited there for spring to come around again. It’s sure been a long time comin’.’
‘Amen,’ replies Langdon.
‘Since things have settled I’ve been making my way north. I’m lookin’ to get back home to San Francisco.’
‘You’re lucky you’ve got this far on your own,’ you say.
‘There were three of us when we started out, but the heat and the clans did for my friends and now I’m the only one left. I’m gonna make it, if only for their sakes.’
Rickenbacker offers him some water from his canteen and he accepts it gladly. ‘I heard about the scene in California from some survivalists I stayed with for a while down in Alamos. Sounds like they’ve gone an’ turned the state into one big fortress. The army’s in charge and they’ve got things locked down tight. They’ve kicked all the troublemakers out into the desert and slammed the door. In the south, I hear they’ve drawn up a new state line, from Pine Valley to Banning. All the old roads in and out are guarded and I hear they’ve got real picky ’bout who they let in.’
He reaches to the inside pocket of his tattered denim jacket and produces an equally tattered map. ‘I plan on going in here,’ he says, pointing to a part of the map that is so worn that it has become almost illegible. ‘It’s a place in the mountains, north of Lake Henshaw. I figure that the army can’t have enough men to patrol that area too well. If you guys’d take my advice, you’d think ’bout doin’ the same.’
You tell Jaeger your own story of how you survived the post-holocaust years. You also tell him that you and the others are acting as scouts for a colony of people who are equally determined to reach California, only they are now so short of food and water that, unless fresh supplies are found soon, few of them are likely to survive the 400 miles that still separate you from the Pacific Ocean.
‘Man, you guys have got problems,’ he says, shaking his head slowly from side to side. ‘And you’re headin’ slap-bang into even more. Ain’t you heard—Yuma is a clan base. And believe me, the guys that are holding that city are heavy-duty bad news. If you’re thinkin’ of crossing the Colorado River there, forget it. You’ll never make it. They’ll blow you off the road.’
Worried by what Jaeger has said, and eager that he tell everything he knows about the clan base at Yuma, you ask him to return to the convoy with you. After some thought, he decides that there may, after all, be safety in numbers, and he agrees to join the colony. Anxious to get back, you climb into your roadster and set off on the return road to Aztec.
