Chapter 1

Jim Arnold looked at his watch in the early morning light and sighed. It was 7:20 AM, more than a half hour after sunrise, and the traffic jam he was caught in was monumental. Nothing had moved since daybreak. Facing westbound on I-80, he was at least grateful he didn't have the intense heat of the August morning sun shining in his face. The air outside felt like a furnace, very hot and dry; and it was already approaching 90F. Jim thought wistfully about his decision to get the super economy package and not have AC with his new Chevy, but then he reminded himself he just didn't have money for those kinds of luxuries.

The eastbound lanes were absolutely clear of traffic, and Jim thought that was a really ominous sign. He searched the radio again for a traffic report, but all he could find were country & western music stations and the ubiquitous news reports on Iraq. Looking down from the elevated Interstate, he tried to remember whether he had crossed into Nebraska yet or if he were still in Iowa. But then he remembered driving across the bridge over the Missouri River in the pre-dawn light, shortly before hitting a solid wall of unmoving cars and trucks.

"So this must be beautiful Omaha," he thought to himself, looking around. "It's not bad actually... Thank goodness I built so much extra time into the schedule. I don't have to be in San Francisco for another eleven days..." He scanned his radio to another country song. "Damn... Come on, come on... There's got to be a traffic report here somewhere... How can they not report on this?!"

As Jim continued scanning, he shook his head at the delays he was having this morning. When he broke camp before daybreak, he noticed one of his tires was flat. A close inspection revealed a very fluke accident. The value stem-cap was missing, and a tiny pebble had bounced in and wedged against the pin, slowly releasing the air. There was no permanent damage, but it took twenty minutes to get out the bicycle pump and inflate the tire. And now this, a major-league traffic jam, his second delay of the morning...

After a few more minutes of scanning, Jim finally found a traffic report. He groaned when he heard that both a gasoline and an oil tanker were involved in a multi-car collision just west of Omaha. Miraculously, no one was seriously injured, but gasoline and oil were leaking all over the road and I-80 was going to be evacuated. Looking at his map, Jim decided he would try to head north and pick up Route-30 for his westward trek. And two hours later, that was exactly what he was trying to do.

"Shit! What an idiot! Why did I ever leave Route-75? Trying to cut across the triangle like this was insane! Where the hell am I?!" Jim was lost in a maze of featureless roads, the high corn of mid-August blocking the views of everything except the immediate road in front of him. Jim had a nagging suspicion that he might have been driving in circles for over an hour. He was navigating by the sun shadows, trying to make progress by traveling to the west and north, but some of the intersections were now looking horribly familiar.

Jim pulled over to the side of the small road right before an intersection, brushing his car against the corn. Like all the other intersections, all four corners were devoid of street signs. "Hell! How can they do this to me?" Jim whined in his thoughts. "Don't people in Nebraska believe in street signs?!" He stared at his roadmap. Unfortunately it just wasn't showing him any topological detail, and without street-signs for reference the map was completely useless.

He looked back up and stared down the road to the horizon, hoping to see someone to ask for directions, but the scene was completely devoid of a human presence. The maze of roads in the featureless corn seemed endless. Jim thought he hadn't passed a car or a house since he left Route-75.

He shook his head in bewilderment and stared at his odometer. Jim prided himself on his sense of direction, and his feelings now weren't making any sense. He should have hit Route-30 more than half an hour ago. Jim looked out along the road again, and for the first time in quite a while he felt a faint glimmer of hope. There appeared to be some sort of sign by the side of the road, a few hundred feet passed his current intersection. Jim started his car and pulled up to the sign. He stared at it, and it made him pause.

It was a small sign, almost invisible among the tall rows of corn. A simple wooden stake was holding up a sheet of looked like plain white cardboard. Hand written across the cardboard in block letters were the words "ANTELOPE FREEWAY -- TWO MILES" with a crude arrow pointing straight up.

"Antelope Freeway?" thought Jim as he blinked his eyes. "In Nebraska?! Isn't that outside L.A.?" He stared at his map in confusion. It was a new map, and there was no mention of any such freeway. But he did find the sign a bit intriguing, and when he came to the next intersection, he decided to continue straight, even though a left turn would have been a more westward direction.

After traveling for a couple of minutes down a road bordered by the endless rows of corn, Jim saw his first building in over an hour and it made him smile. It appeared to be a spacious quick-pump convenience store, a perfect spot to ask for directions. He looked at his gas gauge and the digital readout told him he had less than two gallons left. "Ah, convenient indeed," he thought happily. But just before he turned into the store's parking lot, he saw something that was vaguely disturbing. Across the street from the store was another handmade sign saying "ANTELOPE FREEWAY -- ONE MILE" with an arrow pointing horizontally directly at the store. There was no other cross road in sight, except for the driveway pulling into the store's parking lot.

Jim pulled over to the self-service pumps. The store itself looked clean, with a quaint comfortable veranda in front. The store also appeared unlit and Jim wondered if it were deserted. Guessing that the place was closed, he was a bit surprised to find the pumps active. He filled up with over nine gallons, gulping a bit when he saw the meter approach $60, but at more than $6 a gallon it was what he was expecting. He consoled himself with the thought of how far his new Chevy Marathon could travel with a full tank.

Jim finished pumping and walked into the store. The interior was very quiet and well lit with sunlight from the many bay windows. The solid hardwood shelves and flooring reminded him of an old-style country store. Jim started to wander among the shelves, filled with packaged food and large assortments of hardware supplies. He started to worry that the place was so peaceful it might truly be deserted. But then he came to the end of an aisle and saw a very old man sleeping soundly in a wicker chair near a cash register. There was a quick unbidden thought to just drive off without paying. Jim shook his head and admonished himself for even thinking such a thing, and then walked up to the register.

"Hi! Good morning! I need to pay for some gas."

The old man snorted, blinked his eyes for a moment, and then focused on Jim. "Aye-uh. How much did you pump?"

"Sixty dollars even..." Jim got out his wallet and started pulling out some cash. "There's a huge accident on I-80. They've closed the road. Do you know how I can get to Route-30?"

"Heading west?"

"Yep."

"All the way to Wyoming son?"

"All the way to California." Jim looked at the man and smiled. "Ha! Should I call you dad? Granddad would probably be a better fit." Jim guessed the man to be about ninety years old.

The old man smiled back. "Aye-uh. What's your name son?"

"Jim Arnold. I'm pleased to meet you."

"Arnold? Like the traitor?! Any relation?"

Jim looked around the store before answering. He was impressed with how neat and clean everything looked, and it was surprisingly cool in the store, unusual with only the side windows open for ventilation. Another pleasant surprise was that the store was stocked with various quick-meals for camping trips, just the sort of things he needed.