Denver Run

Chapter Fourteen

Where in the world was he?

The eastern horizon was tinged with a touch of red and pink, indicating the dawn was not far off.

He had to keep his eyes open!

He had to!

But he was so very, very tired. More fatigued than he had ever been. His eyelids drooped lower and lower with each passing minute. And small wonder! When was the last time he had slept? Wasn’t it that nap he took in the troop transport? He sighed. Maybe he should have taken Boone up on the offer to have a Cavalryman accompany him. Then again, none of the Cavalrymen knew how to drive a jeep. And—so he reasoned—the less weight in the jeep, the more mileage he could get out of each gallon of gas.

His fuel consumption was crucial. He’d barely have enough to reach Denver and warn Blade as it was!

Boone and his men had arrived at the truck less than an hour before he took off in the stolen jeep. He’d been overjoyed to learn Hickok was alive and well.

He vigorously shook his head, striving to resist his overpowering impulse to sleep. Sweet sleep. Great Spirit, preserve him!

Was he still heading in the right direction? It was difficult to determine without the aid of a map. So far as he knew, he was in southwestern South Dakota, not far from what had been once known as Rapid City. Amazingly, he hadn’t encountered any opposition on his journey. Once, the day before, he’d seen about a dozen riders on a hill to his west. He speculated they might have been Cavalry riders, but what if they hadn’t been?

He prayed the jeep would hold up. First, it had sputtered and died in northeastern South Dakota. It’d taken mere minutes to realize the jeep was out of fuel and to refill the tank using one of the spare cans attached to the rear of the vehicle. Then, when he’d attempted to restart it, he must have done something wrong. The engine had coughed and belched, but wouldn’t turn over, and a pungent odor had enveloped the vehicle. He’d tried again and again to restart it, to no avail.

Hours later, after the odor had dissipated, he was able to get the motor running again.

But he’d lost so much time!

And then there’d been the mutate! One of those hairless, pus-covered, perpetually ravenous mutations proliferating over the landscape since the Big Blast. He’d spotted it lying in the center of the road, apparently sunning itself, blocking his path. He debated whether to simply shoot it, but he was leery of attracting unwanted attention with the gunblast. The mutate had been huge; driving around it was out of the question. The highway was hemmed in on both sides by dense forest. So he’d have to wait until the mutate rose and shuffled into the trees. He was surprised the vile thing hadn’t seen his jeep, parked 500 yards away to the top of a low rise. The moment the creature was out of sight, he’d gunned the engine and continued his trip. He could have tried to run the mutate down with his jeep, but the vehicle might have been damaged.

So here he was, on his last legs, valiantly resisting an urge to cease defying the inevitable and accept the necessity of slumber. He found his mind drifting, and he inadvertently closed his eyes.

Seconds passed.

With a start, he opened his eyes.

The jeep was heading toward a large boulder at the side of the highway!

He wrenched on the steering wheel, aligning the vehicle on the road once more.

It was no use! He had to get some sleep! What good would it do anyone if he crashed?

He applied the brakes and pulled to the shoulder of the cracked and pothole-covered road. Disgusted at his lack of fortitude, he twisted the key to the Off position and leaned his weary forehead on the steering wheel.

Just a little sleep.

That was all he needed.

The sun rose above the eastern horizon, and the scenic countryside was suddenly aglow in soft yellow light.

He slowly raised his head, glancing around to insure he was alone. He didn’t want anyone to sneak up—

What was that?

For a moment, he couldn’t believe his eyes.

Where was he, anyway?

Had he taken a wrong turn in the darkness of the night?

There were four gigantic faces carved into a towering granite cliff. Each face must have been 50 to 60 feet high. Each had been carved in remarkable detail. The one on the left had an imposing countenance, highlighted by a sloping nose and the firm set of his chin. The second from the left seemed to have his hair parted in the middle, and he had an honest, open expression. The next one in line sported a thick mustache, and the last one a beard.

Was he dreaming?

The rising sun bathed the granite cliff in its fiery light, imparting an illusion of life to the four figures.

There was something about them.

His fatigued mind sluggishly reacted to the impressive sight, struggling to remember some elusive fact.

What was it?

Why did he—

It hit him!

He knew what it was.

Some of the books in the Family library contained photographs and references to this cliff.

Mount Rushmore.

Before the Big Blast, Mount Rushmore had been a national monument.

Those four faces were the visages of four Presidents of the United States of America. What had their names been? He squinted up at the cliff, racking his memory. Lincoln was one, wasn’t he? But he couldn’t recall the identity of the others.

Did it matter?

They were symbols of a past glory, a glory obliterated by a nuclear war, a promise of greatness eradicated before it could attain fruition. Those four men were representative of a magnificent history, of a time when the people chose their leaders based on wisdom and loyalty to higher ideals.

But in the years before the war, the populace had neglected its heritage.

He remembered now. How the citizens had become apathetic and ignored the tremendous trust placed in their hands. How only a small percentage of the voters had bothered to exercise their constitutional right on election day. And how the people had selected leaders according to their image instead of their intelligence.

How sad.

How very sad.

He yawned and rubbed his sleepy eyes.

Why did people do it? he wondered.

Why did they always become so complacent about the most important matters in life? Why were they so willing to trade their hard-won freedoms for baubles, for a full stomach and a life of leisure?

Why was he babbling like an idiot?

He laughed and eased back in his seat, clutching his FNC Auto Rifle in his lap.

If he kept this nonsense up, he’d begin to sound like Hickok!

He glanced at the monument again, and noticed a wide crack running down the figure with the mustache. What had happened? Age? An earthquake? Tremors caused by a nearby nuclear blast? Whatever the case, Mount Rushmore wouldn’t stand forever. Like all of mankind’s accomplishments, it was destined to crumble and collapse without the constant, conscientious care it duly deserved. Whether it was a noble idea, a lofty ideal, or merely a scientific or engineering marvel, it would expire if not properly nurtured.

Enough, already!

He smiled at his rambling, closed his eyes and was asleep.