Lucifer's Hammer - Larry Niven [276]
They? Not they. Me, Harvey thought. Who was it that said "A rational army would run away"? Somebody. But run to where?
The Sierra. Run to Gordie and Andy. Go find your son. A man's duty is to his children … Stop it! Act like a man, he told himself.
Does acting like a man mean to sit calmly while they drive you where you'll be killed?
Yes. Sometimes. This time. Think about something else. Maureen. Have I got a chance? That wasn't a satisfying line of thought either. He wondered why he was so concerned about Maureen. He hardly knew her. They'd spent an afternoon together here, a lifetime ago, and then they'd made love; and three times since, furtively. Not much to build a life around. Was he interested in her because she was a promise of safety, power, influence? He didn't think so, he was certain there was more, but objectively he couldn't find reasons. Fidelity? Fidelity to the woman he'd had an adulterous relationship with; in a way a kind of fidelity to Loretta. That wasn't getting him anywhere.
There were a few lights visible through the gloom; farmhouses in the battleground, places not abandoned yet. They weren't Harvey's concern. Their occupants were supposed to know already. They drove on in silence until they came to the south fork of the Tule River. They crossed it, and now there was no turning back. They were beyond the Stronghold's defenses, beyond any help. Harvey felt the tension in the car, and felt strangely comforted by it. Everyone was afraid, but they weren't saying it.
They turned south and went over a ridge to the valley beyond. The ground seemed even and smooth on both sides of the road. Harvey stopped and planted homemade mines: jars of nails and broken glass over dynamite and percussion caps; shotgun shells pointed upward and buried just above a board pierced by a nail.
Marie watched, puzzled. "How will you get them to walk out here?" she asked.
"That's what the oil is for." They wrestled the drum of crankcase oil to the side of the road. "We shoot holes in that when we get past. When the oil's on the road, nobody can walk on it, drive on it, anything."
The route beyond was ridge, valley, ridge, valley, with the road curving to cross low spots in the ridges. It was rippling landscape, a land with waves in it. Ten miles beyond the Stronghold they passed the first of Deke Wilson's trucks. It was filled with women and children and wounded men, household possessions and supplies. There were baskets tied to the top and sides of the truck bed, filled with goods—pots and pans, useless furniture, precious food and fertilizer, priceless ammunition. The truck bed was covered by a tarpaulin, and more people were huddled under it, along with more goods. Bedding and blankets. A birdcage but no bird. Pathetic possessions, but everything these people had.
A few miles on there were more trucks, then two cars. The driver of the last didn't know whether any others would get out. They crossed a broad stream and Harvey stopped and planted dynamite, leaving the fuses marked with rocks so that any of his party could find them to blow the bridge.
There was a faint tinge of gray-red in the east when they reached the top of the last ridge before the low rolling hills where Deke Wilson's farm band lived. They approached it carefully, concerned that the New Brotherhood might have got past Deke's people and come to secure the road, but no one challenged them. They stopped the TravelAll to listen. The infrequent popping of gunshots came from far away. "All right," Harvey said. "Let's get to work."
They cut trees and built a maze on the road: a system of fallen trees that a truck could get through, but only slowly, by stopping to back up and turn carefully. They made dynamite bombs and put them at convenient places to throw down onto the road, then Harvey sent half his troops out to the sides,