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eir feast。 A few minutes later； he happened across a dull orange canister。 It was partially embedded in the earth。 Stencilled on the underside was the universal skull and crossbones。
It was a bomb。 The nozzle was a simple aerosol spray。 Nerve gas。 He straightened。
Now that he knew what to look for； he saw five more orange cylinders； some sticking in the earth； others lying where they'd bounced and rolled。 It was simple to see now。 The airplanes…perhaps only one； why more？…had flown from the northeast and caught the caravan in the open。
That would explain the mass panic； the rapid deaths； the dead carnivores。 He recalled the lack of animals。 Ever since entering Tibet； no birds； no grazing yak； no antelope。 The food chain had been poisoned from top to bottom。 The People's Republic had killed a whole geography。
He conjured a map of Asia。 It was his only way of thinking through the horror； by looking down from a great distance。 It needed a God's…eye view。 It needed history。 He remembered the dynamited road leading to Nepal。
And then he saw it。 He saw the ebb and flow of time。 He saw epic ruins。 Empires shifting。 He saw the ruthless logic。
This was no mere genocide。 The Middle Kingdom had retreated； as always in its times of crisis； behind a Great Wall。 China had brought its true children…the Han…into the fortress and closed the gates。 Except this time the great wall was made of chemical toxins； not stone。
The PRC had salted the earth。 They had created a firewall。 He envisioned a massive dead zone ringing the core。 Most likely it stretched from Manchuria to its western border with India。 Millions might already have been sacrificed。 He did not have to ask why anymore。 Here lay the outer edge of a quarantine。
Nathan Lee sagged to the ground。
The plague was real。
And it had no cure。
THERE IS BIRTHin death。 Good in bad。 Innocence in guilt。 That was reality。 Life contradicted itself。 One minute the wind was speeding prayers to the gods； the next it was filled with poison。 This was the earth he had inherited。 His choice was simple。 Use it or lose it。 He became king of the dead。 He went plundering。
Nerve gas； he vaguely recalled； dissipated within hours or days。 The whole concept of chemical warfare rested on a gas that would depose before it drifted back onto your own troops。 He decided that since it hadn't already killed him； the plain was no longer contaminated。
With a glance at the last ounces of sun； he rested his bike against a truck； and climbed into the empty cab。 The fuel gauge showed half full。 The wind horses were with him。 This wasn't like Nepal； where the nation's petroleum reserve had slowly dried to zero。 Here the trucks had been fueled up and on the move when the Chinese struck with their nerve gas。
The battery was dead。 No surprise there。 Most of the batteries were old； and the cold would have sapped their charge。 Patiently he moved down the line。 He pulled drivers from their deathgrips on the steering wheels； testing each ignition。 None gave the slightest stir。 No dashboard lights flickered。 He walked to the next truck； and the next。
The sun toppled behind the mountains。 The wind returned。 It whistled among the still metal。 Exhaust pipes hooted like organ pipes。 The wind moaned in the hollow mouths of the dead。
He came to another truck and the cab was empty。 He fought the door open against the wind and clambered into the cab and let the door slam shut。 While he waited for his hands to thaw； the truck shuddered in the blasts of wind。 Dirt hissed against the glass。 Pebbles clattered like shot。
He reached for the key。 The wind raged so hard； he barely heard the engine turn over。 He pawed at the panel； found a knob； and gave a yank。 Light poured from the headlamps。
The highway and plains jumped up from the darkness。 The dead seemed to spring from nowhere。 In the beams of hard white light； the massacre site was appalling and restless。 Loosened clothing fluttered like beating wings。
The gauge read a quarter full。 Behind the seat he found what he expected； a funnel and a coiled plastic tube that stunk of diesel fuel。 Up ahead； in the shadowy bed of a truck； he saw a jerry can lying on its side。 It would hold ten gallons。 There were more like it in other trucks； some empty； others brimming with pink diesel fuel。 His gas station was at hand。
The discovery of a functioning truck changed him。 Suddenly he had real mobility。 With the truck； he could carry all he could eat。 He could begin to put flesh back on his bones。 No more crawling through the winter。 The truck would provide heat and shelter。 With luck and good roads； he could plow through Tibet and the Gobi and Siberia in a month； not a year。 He sat at the wheel； contemplating his excellent new future。
Carefully he put the truck in gear and eased forward。 He was thankful for the deafening wind。 For the most part； it drowned the sound of bones under his tires。 Weaving in and out of the doomed convoy with its canopies arched taut or flapping like torn sail； he was reminded of a phantom wagon train。 He went through dozens of trucks； taking their fuel and any food。 He manhandled three spare tires into the rear bed。 He found a blowtorch for heating water or thawing his engine block。 He loaded in gnarled firewood； blankets； a rug； oil； grease； and water。
Almost reluctantly； he took notice of the gold。 It was glinting in the headlights； a dull shining color among the colorless mummies。 There were thick bangles and earrings and necklaces made of it。 He tried to ignore the small fortune out there。 But eventually he was going to reach civilization； and when he did it was going to cost him coin。 Never again would he count on human kindness。 The world didn't work like that。
Nathan Lee descended upon the bodies with a knife and wire cutters。 Jackals and raptors warred with the dead like this； scraping and grunting； taking what the bone did not want to give。 At the outer edges of his headlight beams； he disengaged。 His sack was bulging with plunder。
WITH A SLOW； WIDEU…TURN； Nathan Lee left the massacre behind。 That night he covered more territory than in the entire last month。 He reached Shigatse； and it was a sprawling necropolis； bodies everywhere。 A great； intricate monastery stood like a gravestone above the city。 He didn't stop。 There was nothing for him here。 On the outskirts； he passed a fuel station； and it had been blown up。
The road forked north and turned to dirt again。 He made another two hundred kilometers by dark； then made a fire and brewed tea and slept a few hours。 Over the ing days； he passed other massacre sites。 Solitary vehicles appeared in the distance like far islands； but on investigation they were generally mangled and scorched black from explosives or strafing。 The Chinese had killed everything that moved。
Day after day； he followed empty roads。 He passed lakes like mirrors； and mountains spalled with light； and prayer flags on thin wands in the middle of nowhere。 The world loomed large。 Every day he felt smaller。 He visited a monastery； and the prayer hall was neatly lined with skeletons in robes； some still sitting。 Another time he found a herd of wild horses； hounded by some pilot and felled with an orange cylinder of nerve gas。
He entered Mongolia； pausing at the empty border station to stamp another souvenir visa in his book。 At night he saw missiles streaking back and forth beneath the stars。 Even faced with the end of the world； old empires were using up their arsenals to settle old scores。 Nathan Lee was glad to be in no…man's…land。
At the end of December； his truck bogged in a dune of voluptuous red sand。 He wasted a day trying to dig it free； then resigned himself to traveling by bike again。。。only to find a brand new Land Rover waiting on the far side of the dune。 Its engine came to life after he unbolted the truck's battery and carted it across the sand and hooked up the jump cables。 A second and third day went into slogging back and forth with fuel； food and gear to his new rig。 On his last trip； the dune was swallowing his old truck。
The Land Rover proved faster and more nimble than the truck。 It set a new precedent； as well。 No more nursing the beast along； he drove hard and changed vehicles without hesitation； taking another Land Rover； then a minibus； then another truck。 The weeks passed and he grew lost； though that wasn't exactly true。 It didn't matter that his Bartholomew's map no longer worked。 He had a pass and his journal； a direction and a past。
Somewhere in Siberia it had to be； he came to a bridge just at dusk。 His only warning of danger was a car lying on its top like an upended turtle。 Something had flipped it upside down。 Land mines； he registered； and hit the brakes。 An instant later his windshield shattered； and the sniper's gunshot reached him from across the water。
Nathan Lee crawled from the passenger side； taking only his book and the bag of gold。 He hid in a marsh until darkness； then crept to a river。 Ice lined the banks； but by tossing twigs out onto the water he was able to figure which way it ran and followed the current。 He had no idea of the river's name。 But the sea was inevitable。
9
After Hours
LOSALAMOS
JANUARY