Hell's Fortress Read Online Free PDF Page B

retrieved the body and carried it up to their camp. Jacob waited until they were gone before he called his companions out of the trucks. They waited for Kemp to return. When he did, his face was stony and unreadable.
    Jacob cleared his throat. “Does your bus have a working engine?”
    “It did two weeks ago,” Kemp said. “That was the last time we had fuel. It was barely enough to get us to the outskirts of Vegas. Don’t know if it would still work or not.”
    Trost and David pulled back the tarps on the first pickup truck and hauled out plastic buckets filled with wheat and dried peas and carried them to the camp.
    “Sounds like you could use some diesel,” Jacob said.
    He grabbed a five-gallon container and dragged it to the edge of the bed. There were four fuel containers in all.
    “Where the hell did you get that?”
    “We are savers. It’s almost gone, but I think I can spare twenty gallons.”
    That was a lie. Slowly but surely they were draining the supplies Jacob’s father had laid up before his death, but they still had several huge tanks hidden in the ground behind the abandoned service station.
    “What about our wagons?”
    “Load your people into the bus and stuff it full. The draft animals will make better time pulling empty wagons.”
    “Five miles an hour, maybe. And twenty gallons is nothing.”
    “You show up, you make demands,” Miriam said. “You take our food, our fuel, and give us nothing in return. You’re lucky you’re not dead.”
    “Heaven forbid you help your fellow humans in need,” Kemp said.
    “Twenty gallons,” Jacob said. “Five miles an hour. Five miles per gallon for the bus—isn’t that about right?”
    “Not quite, but okay.”
    “That’s a hundred miles. I know a place you can go, near the abandoned marina at Lake Powell. The lake is deserted and full of fish. There’s water for irrigation. Might be some old trailers to live in when winter comes.”
    Kemp stared. “And that’s your best offer?”
    “That’s my only offer. You’ve got a chance, anyway. That’s the best anyone can hope for these days.”

    The refugees and the men and women from Blister Creek worked together. Kemp’s people were sullen at first, but they warmed when Eliza distributed mended socks and handwoven wool mittens. Children squealed with delight when Lillian produced homemade honey drops. The bus was clean of vermin, but the stench of body odor and unwashed clothing made Jacob’s eyes water.
    He used a funnel and the gas containers to refuel the bus, then helped Kemp fool around with the carburetor until they got the bus engine to turn over. The two men communicated in grunts and single-word sentences.
    When the bus was fully loaded, the last thing Jacob and David took from the truck was a locked trunk containing fully packed saddlebags for Eliza, Lillian, and Stephen Paul. Guns, ammo, food, water purification tablets, medicine, maps—everything to carry them across the western desert to California.
    Engine rumbling, the bus rolled onto the road while children piled aboard and men drove the mules and horses with their wagons into place to follow behind. A day of grazing and rest had done the animals good; they looked like they’d survive the trip to Lake Powell. Last came the mounts for the trio from Blister Creek, roped to the back of the caravan.
    When they were ready to depart, Stephen Paul suggested a prayer for Eliza and her companions. Couldn’t hurt. But there was no need to make it a spectacle, so Jacob called the saints to the shoulder of the road, apart from the refugees. Miriam watched from about twenty feet away, hands on her hips. Emotions churned on her face; no doubt she thought she should be going in Lillian’s place, new baby or not. Trost stood inside the bus, talking over the map with Kemp, who sat behind the wheel.
    Jacob folded his arms and bowed his head, but before he opened his mouth, someone shouted behind him. A rider was galloping bareback down the