"So it's decided. We'll send eight people back into town. They'll get four days of supplies, two vehicles and extra fuel."

Bob Horne looks around solemnly before adding, "And our prayers."

Some boxes of canned food, bottles and canteens of water, two 9mm pistols with a little less than 100 rounds, and a shotgun with a dozen shells are laid out on a table. Added to this are a few knives and a machete, some blankets, a first-aid kit, and a tool kit. Next to it are two full propane tanks. This is what could be offered up without stripping the remaining people of too much.

The group of about 40 people has gathered in the town's restaurant, Eats. Everyone is in the same predicament: This is as far as their cars would carry them. Some singles, some couples, even a couple of families are stuck here off the Hodge Road exit of I-15 south of Barstow. Everyone's been making do, because that's all that can be done.

The San Bernardino County Sheriff, California Highway Patrol, and even the military stopped passing by two weeks ago. Probably for the better, anyway. Between the three of them, they nearly drained dry the gasoline and diesel storage tanks. Most of the cooking has been done using the propane stoves, the storage tank for which has been largely untouched.

There's no radio or TV. Those broadcasts ended within a couple of days of it all starting. There still seems to be no consensus on what happened. Some postulate that it's a virus that got out of control, maybe even from a terrorist attack. Some blame mass hysteria. Others thought it might be race or religious riots that sparked suddenly and spread to almost every city in the nation -- maybe the world -- within hours or days. A growing number of people speak of armageddon, and that these events presage the end of the world.

Beyond the horizon is smoke from the fires that come from every panic situation, only whoever was left to fight them didn't succeed. It's not as bad now, not like it was last week or the week before. Some of them must have burnt themselves out. That's the best way to go, everyone figures. There's less smoke up the northern stretch of I-15, but civilization is -- or was -- back down south. If there's any chance of something better, or at least some place to find supplies, it's there.

Two trucks have been designated for use. One is a white 1998 GMC Sierra 3500 Crew Cab, and the other is a red 2001 Toyota Tacoma Crew Cab. Both are topped off with gasoline, and each has four five-gallon cans strapped into the bed. They were selected for running condition, their off-road abilities, and their visible colors. To help ensure the last, they've been washed and even waxed; there's a water well here, so that's not an issue, and it gave everyone -- particularly the children -- something to do. Also included are a twin-sized air mattress in each, and CB radios have been hooked up. So far, no one's heard anything of substance on them.

The group sits quietly before its meal of corn, green beans, peanuts, and milk reconstituted from powder and sweetened slightly with honey. It's meager: two meals could easily fit on a small plate, and everyone's always hungry. It's not especially tasty. But it's something. Bob stands and offers a prayer:

"We thank those who have provided these meals to us, and pray that we will continue to have the wisdom to survive. Lord, we pray that you watch over these brave souls who will venture forth with our hopes. Protect them in their travels, and speed them back to us with news of our families and the world we once knew. Amen."

[hr]
Early the next morning, Tristan, Brian, Jack, Joe, Devon, Jeremy, and Sid are waiting in the cold, wind-whipped desert air for Henry Ridge to say his goodbye to his wife, Sarah. Henry, a structural engineer, volunteered to go since his skills might keep the team out of harm's way when entering a shaky building. He climbed his way out of Compton's bleaker areas to attend UCLA, and now he wants to see how his home city from birth has fared. He tenderly hugs and kisses Sarah, then steps back, her hands falling from his. He turns around, breathes deeply, and nods, steeling himself before jogging over to the trucks.

"Let's go," he says, opening the back passenger door of the Tacoma. "We asked God to look over us last night, and I don't want to test His patience on this one."

The sun is just starting to creep above the horizon. Even at highway speeds -- which aren't guaranteed -- it's more than an hour back to Victorville, and then another hour to the San Bernardino/Riverside area.

Joe heads towards the Tacoma's driver side with the firm belief that "Newer is better," and looks to see whether it is a manual or automatic transmission.

If the transmission is manual, Joe will grimace to himself and climb into the back seat. Otherwise he'll look around for any objection and take this opportunity to pilot the vehicle.

Game note: Automatics across the board. Both trucks are 4WD, and can switch from 2-HI to 4-HI on the fly (max speed about 30mph). You have to stop to put them into 4-LO. They both have AM/FM/CD, and heating and A/C work well. The Sierra has the camper and tow packages, which adds a second battery and beefier suspension. It is, however, about a ton heavier than the Tacoma.

Brian, who had taken the machete now stands with all his possesions and a machete handle sticking out of the top of his laptop bag. The blade was surely scratching up his laptops case, but at this point he didn't care.

"Ok, everyone in the trucks we've got no time to lose let's go!"

Brian steps up into the back of the Seirra.

Sid spent the entire night last night trying to refrain from rolling his eyes so far into the back of his head that they stuck there for good. All of this God this and God that talk is meaningless. God has nothing to do with this, which should have been made quite obvious in the past few weeks. He digs through his knapsack and sticks the zippo, lighter fluid,small led flashlight, compass, and two packs of smokes in his cargo pockets.

He grabs the shotgun and pockets the shells, he's always preferred to use a shotgun and those sissy 9mm pistols would be dwarfed in his hands. He grimaces at the two trucks, always has and always will be a Ford man. He gives Brian a strange look as he heads towards the Toyota, why is that guy bringing all his shit? We're only going to be gone for four days, not like anyone is gonna steal it. He snickers at this thought and hops into the the truck bed.

As Joe reaches to turn the ignition, he shouts back to Sid, "No need to be ridin' in the back, man. Plenty of room up here in the cab." He also turns on the CB and sets it to channel 2.

If he sees anyone walking to the Sierra, he'll shout to them to turn their radio to channel 2 as well.

Tristan couldn't help but think this was the perfect setup for a horror story. Eight near strangers going into hostile territory with no information, and low on supplies. Honestly, he was afraid. But in a sick twisted way, he loved it. That's why he had volunteered.

The hope that his normal life would ever continue had faded away gradually in the few weeks he'd been here. No radio transmissions, from anywhere. No news from the government. No soldiers... no nothing. His parents would've been due to fly back from their vacation a week ago, but he somehow doubted that LAX was still in operation. Maybe they were safe there. But for all he knew this town was all he had left.

At his hotel room, he had placed his laptop under the bed and locked the door on his way out. It was important that no one touch it, as it contained his yet unfinished novel. The foam sword and shield lay on top of the bed. The youngsters in town had enjoyed playing with those for a while. Tristan wondered if he would ever have the luxury of playing again.

Before leaving town Tristan made an attempt to buy, beg, or steal a notebook and a few pens. He wanted to be able to continue his journal while he was away. After all, this trip was to gather information just as much as supplies.

He pocketed his own knife and flashlight, putting his oil, jumper cables, and AC/DC power converter into the bed of the Tacoma before climbing into the backseat next to Henry. It was tempting to grab a gun, but he would leave that for someone in the group with more firearm experience than Halo. Without saying anything, he just sat in the truck and watched the sunrise.

Jeremy picks up a pistol, along with 40 or so rounds, a knife, and the tool kit. He went to his car and grabbed the laptop, his own first aid kit, and the carton of cigarrets as well as the lighter fluid. He puts it in a duffle bag and tosses it in the back of the Sierra. Nervously, he lights a cigarrette, and as the smoke fills his lungs he realizes he forgot his flashlight in the car. He runs and grabs it, then returns to the truck, and paces nervously back and forth as he draws breath after breath.

Three more cigarrette's later, he finishes the last one in the pack in 3 heavy draws, and gets into the passenger seat.

The night before, Jack grabbed one of the 9mm pistols, after spending a great deal of time looking at the stash before him. Sure the machettes or the knives would have been fine, but if he had his way nothing would get that close to him. What he had really wanted was the shotgun, but he was a few seconds late to get to it.
That night he slept well, expecting it to be the last night on his own bed that he would have in a long time. Sure this was a short run, but things hadn't been going the way they were planned anymore.
The following morning jack heads towards the GMC and then hops in on the drivers side.

Devon examines the remaining provisions and decides to acquire a knife, the tool kit, and the first aid kit. He already has his map and compass, having decided it could never hurt to be too careful. He has also brought one of his 2-gallon jugs of water.

"That should do."

He heads over to the GMC and gets in the passenger seat. He sets the kits and water on the floor in front of him.

"Ready."

Jack looks over at Devon, "We should be headin out soon, aint no time like the present. I wonder whats keeping the straglers."

Current layout:

Tacoma:
Front seat: Joe and some supplies
Rear seat: Brian and Henry
Bed: Sid

Sierra:
Front seat: Jack and Jeremy
Rear seat: Brian and Devon

[hr]
The pair of trucks heads off southbound on I-15, the Tacoma in the lead. The morning sun is slightly warming, the cold desert air seemingly reluctant to let through its energy. A gentle breeze blows across the sands to the side of the highway, lifting a few grains into the air for a few seconds at a time before depositing them gently back to the surface.

The two-lane highway is oddly deserted, with the exception of cars on the side of the road. Some of them show damage from collisions, and a few have more significant damage, with windows crushed in, occasional bullet holes, and what one hopes is rust. The road is mostly clear, but there's still enough debris on the asphalt to keep the speeds down to about 40.

About 40 minutes out, just after cresting a hill, the group spies a fairly tangled mess about two miles up the highway. There appear to be about two dozen vehicles that were involved in some sort of major collision, scattered across both sides of the highway. A police cruiser of some kind is there, and a couple of semi flatbeds, one of which is overturned across the northbound lanes. A wisp of smoke climbs into the air from a station wagon.

Joe speaking over the CB
"Well, we were sent to look for supplies and this seems like as good a place as any. I say we stop. Hell, there may even be survivors that can tell us what the hell has happened, over."

Tristan perks up in his seat. "Just remember that not all survivors are guaranteed to be friendly, Joe. We'd better be cautious. The city has gone to hell, and this could be a roadblock set up by highwaymen. Have that shotgun ready, Sid."

Devon shifts his glasses a bit as he looks out ahead down the road, trying to observe the police car in particular for any signs of life.