scared everyone off,” Bev said. “Or . . .” She paused.
“Or what?”
“Or they joined the Rejects.”
Jim nodded. He believed her. Some people would do anything to survive, from selling their children into prostitution to turning their mothers in to the authorities. It had happened over and over again in history.
“Yes,” Bev said, “survival is everything to most people.”
“No question,” Jim said. “The urge, the absolute need to survive is so strong . . . You know what the most dangerous person you can face is?”
“No,” Bev said, “what?”
“Someone who doesn’t care if they live or die. That person is very dangerous.”
“No question,” Bev said.
When they were about fifteen miles from the church, and out of the desert and tooling through the forest, Jim got another surprise—this one pleasant. There was a Mobil gas station virtually in the middle of nowhere, and the pumps worked, and here were no cadavers around, or live people for that matter. In a way it was bizarre, as if he and Bev had started out some Sunday afternoon, taken a back road, and then decided to stop at this off-the-beaten-track gas station.
Jim filled up the tank, as well as the empty five-gallon gas cans in the bed of the HumVee, and topped off the oil, storing a couple of extra cases in the bed of the vehicle.
“I’d love to discard these gas cans,” Jim said, “but it’s not likely that I will. There will be fewer and fewer gas stations as we travel farther north.”
Bev nodded.
“The one thing that I don’t need,” Jim said, “is what gas stations commonly have, a mechanic. With all the farming and other motorized equipment we had around us I’ve been working on internal-combustion engines since I was knee-high to a spark plug. Because anyone who lives in the wilderness with the nearest mechanic a hundred miles away must learn. And as it happened I tuned up this little baby a couple of days before I met you, so we should be in good shape. Since it gets such low gas mileage you have to keep it well tuned.”
“Interesting,” Bev said.
“You have to be part doctor. Know how to perform a tracheotomy.”
“What for?”
“In case someone chokes.”
“Oh.”
“We also learn CPR and a lot of other stuff, including delivering a baby.”
“Wow.”
“Dr. LaDoux at your service.”
They stopped in mid-afternoon for lunch. Jim drove the HumVee deep into one of the rest areas to hide it. Bev cooked up some Spam and sliced potatoes, sprinkled liberally with onion salt, and it was quite delicious. The fire with which they cooked the Spam burned smokeless enough so it wouldn’t give them away should there be Rejects in the area.
After lunch—or more particularly as Jim and Bev were sipping on cups of fresh coffee and Jim was smoking a cigarette—she brought up a subject that had been on her mind.
“Let me ask you,” Bev said, “how did you like living in Idaho?”
“I loved it.”
“Like what?”
“The country, the mountains and water, the food . . . everything.”
“Somehow I got the idea that it was the breeding ground for a lot of crazy people.”
“That’s a myth. I mean, people say that Idaho harbors a large number of hate groups and white supremacists, but there are only small groups concentrated up in northern Idaho where I was from. For example, a few years ago when the Aryan Nations had their national gathering, only a few people attended. One thing I do know. Idaho really cares about liberty and freedom, that its laws don’t infringe on individual or property rights. That really came out during the Ruby Ridge assault years ago by the FBI.”
“I vaguely remember that. . . .”
“It happened in 1992,” Jim said. “U.S. Marshals and FBI and BATF agents assaulted the home of Randy and Vicki Weaver, killing Vicki, son Sammy, and the family dog. So in 1993 Randy Weaver was found innocent of weapon and murder charges and got $3.1 million in civil damages. But that
“Or what?”
“Or they joined the Rejects.”
Jim nodded. He believed her. Some people would do anything to survive, from selling their children into prostitution to turning their mothers in to the authorities. It had happened over and over again in history.
“Yes,” Bev said, “survival is everything to most people.”
“No question,” Jim said. “The urge, the absolute need to survive is so strong . . . You know what the most dangerous person you can face is?”
“No,” Bev said, “what?”
“Someone who doesn’t care if they live or die. That person is very dangerous.”
“No question,” Bev said.
When they were about fifteen miles from the church, and out of the desert and tooling through the forest, Jim got another surprise—this one pleasant. There was a Mobil gas station virtually in the middle of nowhere, and the pumps worked, and here were no cadavers around, or live people for that matter. In a way it was bizarre, as if he and Bev had started out some Sunday afternoon, taken a back road, and then decided to stop at this off-the-beaten-track gas station.
Jim filled up the tank, as well as the empty five-gallon gas cans in the bed of the HumVee, and topped off the oil, storing a couple of extra cases in the bed of the vehicle.
“I’d love to discard these gas cans,” Jim said, “but it’s not likely that I will. There will be fewer and fewer gas stations as we travel farther north.”
Bev nodded.
“The one thing that I don’t need,” Jim said, “is what gas stations commonly have, a mechanic. With all the farming and other motorized equipment we had around us I’ve been working on internal-combustion engines since I was knee-high to a spark plug. Because anyone who lives in the wilderness with the nearest mechanic a hundred miles away must learn. And as it happened I tuned up this little baby a couple of days before I met you, so we should be in good shape. Since it gets such low gas mileage you have to keep it well tuned.”
“Interesting,” Bev said.
“You have to be part doctor. Know how to perform a tracheotomy.”
“What for?”
“In case someone chokes.”
“Oh.”
“We also learn CPR and a lot of other stuff, including delivering a baby.”
“Wow.”
“Dr. LaDoux at your service.”
They stopped in mid-afternoon for lunch. Jim drove the HumVee deep into one of the rest areas to hide it. Bev cooked up some Spam and sliced potatoes, sprinkled liberally with onion salt, and it was quite delicious. The fire with which they cooked the Spam burned smokeless enough so it wouldn’t give them away should there be Rejects in the area.
After lunch—or more particularly as Jim and Bev were sipping on cups of fresh coffee and Jim was smoking a cigarette—she brought up a subject that had been on her mind.
“Let me ask you,” Bev said, “how did you like living in Idaho?”
“I loved it.”
“Like what?”
“The country, the mountains and water, the food . . . everything.”
“Somehow I got the idea that it was the breeding ground for a lot of crazy people.”
“That’s a myth. I mean, people say that Idaho harbors a large number of hate groups and white supremacists, but there are only small groups concentrated up in northern Idaho where I was from. For example, a few years ago when the Aryan Nations had their national gathering, only a few people attended. One thing I do know. Idaho really cares about liberty and freedom, that its laws don’t infringe on individual or property rights. That really came out during the Ruby Ridge assault years ago by the FBI.”
“I vaguely remember that. . . .”
“It happened in 1992,” Jim said. “U.S. Marshals and FBI and BATF agents assaulted the home of Randy and Vicki Weaver, killing Vicki, son Sammy, and the family dog. So in 1993 Randy Weaver was found innocent of weapon and murder charges and got $3.1 million in civil damages. But that
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