THE RED WAKE

Chapter 39

But the big southerner was having a hard time keeping it all together.

*

On their twelfth day out from Connecticut, in the center of Kansas, the relative calm of the last few days was shattered.

They were making their way westward along Rte 80. Stanford was at the wheel. As they passed around a long line of abandoned military vehicles, trucks and jeeps that had been left in a seemingly random sprawl that extended for nearly a mile.

"Wonder where they all went?" Stanford said.

Alan shrugged. He had been quiet, sullen all that morning. Stanford thought that he might be struggling with the same sense of foreboding that had plagued him since leaving Connecticut. Doubt and unanswered questions deeply troubled him despite his belief that Alan Whitmore's quest for the Horn was a valid one. And the boy, the enigma that had chosen to lead them to their goal, was a central figure in Stanford's internal conflict.

He glanced into the rear view mirror and saw that the boy's eyes were focused forward, as if studying a distant feature on the horizon.

What is he? Stanford thought. With a grimace, he remembered Jillian's final agonies back at the Tarrytown View Apartments, the malignant entity that had stolen her will, manipulated her as a man would use a tool or...

...a puppet, he thought bitterly.

"Slow down, Richard," Eugenia said.

Stanford snapped his eyes back to the road, ignoring the foreboding in his gut. In the distance, he made out an obstacle blocking the highway. As they drew closer, he saw a State Trooper unit lying overturned in the center Westbound lane. Its bumper rested against the rear bumper of a Greyhound bus that had come to a halt on the other side of the white line.

The windows of the bus had been smashed. In some places, huge holes had been ripped out of the side panels of the bus. Stanford was immediately reminded of the tour bus ambush Alan had told him about back in New York.

Looking at the bus, a surge of emptiness threatened to well up and spill over his eyelids.

Go around it. Don't stop.

But with a savage thrust, he shoved the voice away.

They hadn't encountered many other survivors since leaving Connecticut. Much of the region between Kansas and New York had been devastated by the invasion. But in his heart of hearts, Stanford had never given up hope that they might find others along the way. His frustration and powerlessness back at the 69th St. docks and in the days following their escape from New York, had left a vivid impression on the physician. He was unaccustomed to feeling helpless.

Striking a blow for the forces of Order and the American Medical Association; Dick Stanford M.D. to the rescue!

He stopped the Ford, keeping well back from the accident scene. If something jumped out of the bus he wanted to give the big vehicle enough clearance to move out in a hurry. He threw the truck into Reverse and pulled back to a distance of about sixty yards.

"Are we stopping?" Eugenia said quietly.

She had stopped talking to Alan altogether. In fact, she had become more and more morose as they'd headed into the west.

"We need to check, Genie," Stanford said forcefully. Despite the nagging foreboding that danced at the back of his skull, he found himself desperately hoping to find survivors on the bus. And he had grown tired of the tension that hung over the group like a storm cloud. Eugenia's sullen pouting had put them all on edge for the last three days. Anything that would distract him from this state of ever present dread would be a welcome diversion. He found it difficult to keep the excitement out of his voice even as he scanned the area for marauders. "I want to check for survivors."