CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

ONE FOR ALL, ALL FOR ONE

One for all, all for one we gage.

—William Shakespeare

Stephen Smith, 27-29 December, Mars Year i

Orange County, California, Planet Earth

Far to the south my brother Stephen, his friend Cassie, and her daughter Erie, had just managed to escape the Martian advance down the Moreno and Temescal Valleys to the area around Lake Elsinore. They fled up the side of the Elsinore Mountains on the Ortega Highway. This winding road, also called State Highway 74, traverses the San Mateo Canyon Wilderness Area between Los Pinos Peak and Elsinore Peak, eventually following the long canyon of the San Juan River down to San Juan Capistrano in Orange County. It’s a beautiful drive through the Cleveland National Forest, although the “forest” proper just consists of scrub pines and shrubs and brush. As with all Southern California mountain regions, this area is normally parched, with very little rain or other moisture except in mid-winter.

Far below them in the valley, Steve had witnessed the first unleashing of the Black Death in the Southland. As their SUV topped the crest, however, the trio felt safe again for the first time in several days.

“I think we made it,” Steve said.

But they still had thirty miles to go on this two-lane road, and the traffic moved very slowly indeed, averaging no more than five miles per hour.

Cassie again tried calling her sister, Elizabeth Fisher, in Laguna Beach, but with no luck.

“Can’t get a signal,” she said.

“We need to find the quickest way possible out of Southern California,” Steve said. “Liz will have to fend for herself.”

Then the double line of cars in front of them stopped altogether (both lanes were being used for westward travel). Horns began sounding. Finally Steve got out of the vehicle to see what was happening, but the nature of the road was such that there was no way he could determine what the conditions were up front.

“What do we do now?” Cassie asked.

“We wait,” my brother said.

He turned off the motor to conserve fuel.

The Santa Ana winds were blowing about thirty miles per hour, creating very dry and warm conditions throughout Southern California. The temperatures in the valleys were running about eighty-five degrees, hot but not unusually so for December; up on the plateau it was perhaps ten degrees cooler, but since they were sitting in the open sun, it seemed warmer than that.

“Open all the windows,” Steve said.

“I need to pee,” Erie said.

“I’ll take her,” Cassie said.

She led the child off into the bushes away from the road, where she couldn’t be seen.

In the distance Steve could hear the put-put-put of a motorcycle slowly driving up the shoulder of the road to the west. It stopped frequently. Everyone was getting out of their cars and standing around. It was too warm to remain inside.

“Know anything?” one man asked.

But no one did. Communications were completely cut.

Eventually the cycle showed up. It was a lone Highway Patrolman.

“What’s up?” Steve asked.

“The road’s blocked by an overturned truck down in the canyon,” the cop said. “There’s no way to clear the accident. You’ll have to walk out. Lake Elsinore’s quite a bit closer.”

“The Martians are down there,” Steve said. “What about Orange County?”

“The buggers haven’t reached there yet, at least as of two hours ago, but I don’t how long that’ll hold. There’re massive evacuation efforts by ship and train taking place along the coast, moving people south to the border. If you can get there before the Martians do, you and your family will have a fighting chance of getting out.”

Then he drove on to warn the others. He was back again in an hour.

“Elsinore?” Steve asked.

The man shook his head. His face was grim.

“You don’t want to go there!” was all he said.

“What’s happening, Steve?” Cassie asked.

He explained the situation.

“We have to get out,” he said. “If we wait until the Martians reach San Juan Capistrano and the beach areas, then we’re cut off for good.”

“But it’s at least twenty-five miles.”

“I know,” he said. “Once we get past the wreck, though, maybe someone will give us a lift the rest of the way.”

Then he gathered up the water and the lighter food packages. Cassie had brought several backpacks, and these he allocated to the two adults.

“We’re going on a little hike,” he told Erie.

“Oh, goodie!” she said.

She was at the age where everything was still an adventure.

They started down the road about mid-afternoon.

The highway was crowded with refugees. Most of the fugitives were trudging along at a slow but steady pace, hiking west into the smiling orb of the sun, sipping their bottles of water and groaning over their aching feet. They encountered occasional forested sections along the way that provided them with enough shade to allow a brief rest in a cooler environment. One of the ranchers there was handing out water and ice, the former pumped straight and cold from his well.

They stuck close to the highway. Although there were other dirt roads heading off to either side, Steve knew from previous experience that this was the only way through the Wilderness for at least fifteen miles in either direction. It was the Ortega Highway—or nothing.

That evening they stayed near a large house where the owner was fixing barbecued beans and franks on an open barbecue pit fire for anyone who wanted them.

“Got enough here to feed an army for a year,” he said. “Ain’t doin’ me much good, that’s for dang sure.”

Steve thought it was one of the best meals that he’d ever had.

They were allowed to sleep in one of the ranch’s barns. The hay was rough and poking, but softer than the bare ground would have been.

“God, I’m tired,” Cassie said, stretching her arms in the loft. She chuckled: “Everyone seems to think I’m your wife.”

“Maybe you are,” he said, smiling at the thought. “I don’t care what people think, Cassie. I just want to get you and Erie to safety, any way I can.”

But she was already asleep, and so was the little girl.

My brother found sleep hard to find, though, even with the lassitude he could feel seeping into his bones. The trauma of the past few days was suddenly catching up with him. He wondered how many men had died yesterday and today, and how many more would follow tomorrow. He would have pondered more upon these things, except that he too fell into a deep slumber.

Sometime in the middle of the night he woke briefly to find his two companions cuddled up next to him. Maybe it was the warmth of their bodies that had stirred him. They already felt like a family. He found, surprisingly, that he didn’t mind the thought. Then he slept again.

The rancher, a man named Ricardo Valdeste (“Call me ‘Rich’”), offered them fried eggs the next morning, the third day after Christmas.

“Got a whole coop full of the damn things,” he said. “If I don’t use ’em, they just go to waste.”

“Aren’t you evacuating?” Steve asked.

“Hell, I’ve spent nigh on to forty years up here on this damned mountain,” Valdeste said. “I’ve seen fires and I’ve seen rain. I’ve seen sunny days I never thought would end. I’m not leaving it now. If the Martians come, they come. If I die, I die. I’m seventy-five years young. Hey, I’ve lived a good life. Ain’t goin’ be around that much longer anyways.”

“We won’t forget your kindness,” Steve said, shaking the man’s hand. “If we survive, we’ll be back to check on you.”

“I do ’preciate it, son,” Rich said. “Now you and your pretty wife and daughter better skedaddle on down this mountain. You don’t want to lose ’em.”

“No, sir, I don’t,” Steve said, and meant it too.

Valdeste had shown them a lane on a detailed forestry map that would save them several miles of walking.

“You have to go up and down a bit more,” he said, pointing at the inset, “but you’ll pick up a couple of hours. You take this with you. I don’t need it.”

Then the rancher wished them well, and the fugitives headed off into the wilderness.

The path was no more than a trail, really, but it wound its way through a wooded area that was actually quite pleasant, and certainly cooler than the hot asphalt had been. It was almost like walking in a park, save for the hilly sections. Steve carried Erie up the steepest of the slopes. They rested frequently. They saw no one.

About noon they stopped to eat some jerky and fruit and cookies, washing them down with bottled water. Erie went off briefly to do her thing—“not too far, mind,” her mother cautioned—and the adults were alone for the first time since they’d met, just two days earlier.

“When this is all over,” Cassie said quietly, “I’d really like to see you again, if that’s OK.”

“It’s OK,” he said, smiling.

He reached out and took her hand, and she gripped it hard. Then they both jumped to their feet at the sudden scream of Cassie’s daughter.

Erie was just down the trail, her hands holding up her pants. Confronting her from twenty feet away was the tawny face of a cougar, its incisors bared. Steve didn’t even think; he rushed right by the girl straight at the cat, waving his arms and shouting at the top of his voice. Scared by the unexpected confrontation with this large, noisy monster, the big mountain lion abruptly turned tail and ran away. Steve grabbed the girl and Cassie joined him, putting her arms around both of them.

“You’re all right,” he said, over and over again, holding the girl close.

When everyone had found their breaths, they gathered up their things, and headed down the trail.

They reached San Juan Canyon and the blacktop road before dinner time, falling in with the long line of refugees slowly trudging their way towards the coast.

“How far is the wreck?” he asked one of the men.

“About a mile on, I think.”

The San Juan River, although dry part of the year, had carved a considerable channel through the rock, and the towering walls of the canyon closed in on them, providing some shade amid the strange formations on either side.

“They’re almost like sculptures,” Cassie said, looking up at the carved and colorful rock faces.

They reached the site of the accident an hour later. A big rig had jackknifed right across both lanes of the road, jamming into one wall of the canyon and hanging out over the river bed on the other side, draped onto the guardrails.

“They won’t clear this one up easily,” Steve said.

There were several police cars clustered on the west side of the wreck, and at least one open-topped truck.

“There must be over two hundred people here,” Cassie said.

The cops were giving out numbers to those waiting for transportation. When Steve asked how long it would be, one of the police just shrugged.

“Maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow,” he said. “We’ve gotten fewer and fewer trucks and buses as the day’s gone on, so I don’t think we’ll see very many more tonight. You might want to find a place to settle down with your family.”

“What about Orange County?” Steve asked.

“You mean the Martians? They aren’t there yet, but I doubt they’ll wait too long. We’re still taking people off in ships. If you can find your way there in time, there’ll be a boat for you somewhere.”

My brother went back to Cassie and told her what the police had said.

“We’re going to have to stop here tonight,” he said. “They do have some hot food and cold water down there. It’s not much, but it’s better than what we have.”

“I’d give anything for a shower,” she said, sighing and brushing a lock of hair off her sweaty forehead. “All right, let’s go.”

The meal consisted of lukewarm hamburgers and limp fries and almost cold pop. It was filling, if nothing else. Then they found a place underneath one of the rock overhangs, and snuggled down together with a blanket, Steve’s arm draped around Cassie on one side and Erie on the other, and managed to sleep a bit through the night. Their “bed” was uncomfortable, but at least they had each other.

The next day, the winds let up a bit, and the temperature was more bearable. There was even a hint of mist in the air.

They managed to board a yellow school bus the next morning. They sat in one row close together, their packs stuffed down around their feet. It took them an hour to wind down the rest of the canyon to the residential area on the east side of San Juan Capistrano.

The junction of Highway 74 with Interstate 5 was heavily congested, with the freeway being almost totally blocked by traffic. Still, the police kept the underpasses sufficiently clear that some travel was possible, and the bus finally deposited the three fugitives at Mission San Juan Capistrano, which was being used as a transfer site for the evacuees. There they were forced to register as refugees.

Steve gave them his full name (Stephen Jackson Smith), and then Cassie had to sign for herself (Cassandra Elizabeth Austen) and her daughter (Erin Eliza Weckesser).

“You don’t use your husband’s name?” the official asked.

“No, I’ve never gotten around to changing it,” she said very sweetly, “and my daughter was by my first husband.”

“What’s the situation down south?” Steve asked.

“I-5 and the railroad are blocked at Oceanside,” the man said. “You’ll have to go out either through San Clemente or San Onofre State Beaches.”

“How soon?”

“By nightfall. We have to move quickly now before the Martians show up. You’re in Group 225. When you hear your number called, report to the bus out front.

“Next!” the man said, motioning them on.

They were passing out snacks, packaged peanuts, pretzels, water, and cookies at a stand in front of the Mission, so the trio sat down together there and rested for awhile.

“Steve…,” Cassie said.

He just shook his head.

“Wait till we’re safe,” he said.