Race to Refuge

by Kyle Pratt

  “That’s a great plan.” Ryan sped up the freeway onramp.

  “Dumb phone,” Amy muttered. Then she shook the device and in a much louder voice said, “The GPS says we’re on Whidbey Island. Isn’t that on the other side of Puget Sound?”

  Ryan wrinkled his brow. “Yeah, weird, that’s about forty miles from here.” Cars honked and braked as he merged into slow moving traffic. “Check my cell.” He pulled it from his pocket and handed it to her.

  “Yours says the same thing.” She released a frustrated sigh. “Why is the freeway so crammed?”

  “Because we’re in Seattle.”

  Amy frowned then a wry smile grew. “You know what I mean.”

  “Maybe a lot of people have the same idea we do—get out of town.” As they crossed a bridge, Ryan leaned back pressing into the seat. “Even if it takes us a couple of hours before we’re out of the city I know the way. It’s a long drive to Idaho, but an easy one … on I-90 most of the way.”

  “Good.” A gentle sigh passed her lips.

  Ryan relaxed his death grip on the steering wheel and wiggled his fingers. Then he breathed deeply and let it out. “You’ll like my parent’s home. Their land borders a national forest on two sides.” Horns blared both ahead and behind. “There are no neighbors nearby. It’s really quiet. Deer come into the yard almost—”

  Amy touched him on the shoulder. “I want to hear this.” She turned up the radio.

  “… reports from across the city that GPS devices are malfunctioning and providing wrong locations and directions. So, we contacted Dr. Petrov, an information technology professor at the University of Washington. This is what he told us just minutes ago.”

  The radio fell silent for a moment and then another older and deeper voice reached out through the speaker. “Yes, well, the current GPS technology is over twenty years old. It may have been secure when devised, but not now. Even when most of the current equipment was placed in orbit there were discussions about state-sponsored attacks. That is a very real threat today and I believe what we are experiencing is a malware attack on the GPS system.”

  “Well, I’m glad I know the way.” Now that Ryan had made the decision to go home, he wanted to get there. Since finals had been canceled, he had a couple of months off and seeing his mom again would be nice. I think she will like Amy. He smiled.

  For the next several minutes, they continued south on the freeway. Traffic congestion gradually eased and speeds crept from insanely slow to normal slow. Ryan sighed as a gray-haired lady passed them in an ancient blue station wagon. Moments later a grocery store semi-truck edged past and he found himself once again behind the blue wagon.

  Slow and steady wins the race. Now is not the time to get into an accident. Ryan lowered his gaze and gave a quick scan to the dashboard gauges. All were fine except for fuel which hovered on just below the quarter full mark. Nearly a week ago, rather than go to the gas station, he had emptied the red fuel can strapped to the rear of the jeep. He cursed silently. They would need to get off the freeway soon.

  The dong of a news alert erupted from the radio. “Unconfirmed sources report that North Korea has launched another three missiles. We do not have confirmation on either the launch or the targets.”

  “Why even report that?” Ryan yelled at the radio as every muscle within him stiffened. “You’ve told us nothing useful.”

  “I don’t think it’s useful to argue with the radio,” Amy said softly.

  Ryan rubbed his forehead and tried not to think about the missiles that were hurtling through the sky at someone—possibly at them. Focus on driving.

  The announcer continued, “The Taiwan government confirms that their naval and air forces have engaged the Chinese military in the Formosa Strait.”

  Ryan’s attention focused on the radio, like a man fixated on a horrid traffic accident. He wanted to hear the news, but he didn’t. He wished he could turn off the radio, but couldn’t.

  Amy reached over and turned the volume down. “I can’t listen to any more bad news.”

  “Thanks,” Ryan muttered. “I need to concentrate on driving.”

  Seconds later, a motorcycle zoomed by weaving in and out of traffic and then cut in front of old-lady’s blue station wagon.

  The tires of the old woman’s car screeched.

  The biker veered into the other lane, in front of the grocery semi.

  The truck driver swerved and the trailer thundered over onto the blue vehicle with a boom.

  A silver SUV slammed into the truck cab and then hit the concrete barrier.

  Amy gasped.

  Ryan braked to a jarring halt. For a moment he waited for a car to slam into his Jeep. Horns blared, tires squealed, and metal crunched and tore, but he felt no impact. He looked back over his shoulder. Several cars had slammed into others but, his jeep remained untouched.

  Ryan let out a deep breath and squeezed Amy’s hand.

  She turned her gaze to him, and then stared straight ahead at the twisted metal. “What can we do?”

  “Ah ….” All the vehicles around him had come to a stop. “Call 911 and stay with our gear. “I’ll check for injuries.” Sometimes it sucked being a guy. “Give me the first-aid kit from the bugout bag.”

  The truck lay on its side, without much visible damage, but only tires and crumpled blue metal remained of the station wagon. It would be impossible to reach the old-lady driver and he shuddered at the thought.

  He tried to push images of blood and gore from his mind as he hurried toward the wreckage.

  Another blare of a car horn brought the realization that all the lanes were blocked. Nobody would be going anywhere for … he didn’t know how long. He looked into the sky as a sinking feeling grew in him. The war wouldn’t wait for him to get out of the traffic jam.

  Two men hurried to the truck cab.

  Ryan couldn’t see anything of the motorcyclist so he darted to the SUV.

  A rotund man in the driver’s seat pushed down the airbag. Blood trailed from his forehead. A woman had twisted herself to look back where an infant, still tight in the straps of a car seat, wailed with healthy intensity.

  “Are you okay? Did anyone get hurt?” Ryan asked.

  The man shook his head. “I think we’re fine.” He looked at the woman and baby. “Yeah, we’re good.”

  “You’re bleeding. I’ve got a first-aid kit.”

  The man dabbed at his head and then grabbed some tissues. “No thanks. I’m fine.”

  Ryan watched as the tissues became soaked and more flowed along his cheek. Then, with a reluctant shrug, he walked away. Others had helped the truck driver from the cab so Ryan looked again at the crushed station wagon. He tried to block out the horns along with the rumble of traffic from the far side of the freeway and listen, but he heard nothing from the driver and walked to the other side of the truck. The freeway ahead stood empty for as far as he could see. The biker had either been buried under the truck or had left the scene.

  When Ryan opened the door to his jeep, Amy asked, “Is everyone okay?”

  Ryan thought of the old-woman crushed beneath the truck. “No. Did you call 911?”

  “I couldn’t get through.” She frowned. “I hope someone did.”

  The dong of a news alert blared. “Three North Korean tactical nuclear missiles have impacted near American and South Korean land and naval targets. These appear to have been the missiles we reported on earlier.

  “American and allied forces in Korea are withdrawing from Seoul and are attempting to establish—.”

  Ryan turned off the radio. Numbness crept into him like the cold of death. He didn’t feel afraid or worried. He didn’t feel anything.

  “Are you okay?” Amy asked.

  Ryan stared at her unable to respond.

  A forced grin spread across Amy’s face. “We’re okay. We’re not in danger.” Her gaze shifted past Ryan. Her eyes widened and she stifled a scream.

  Chapter 3

  Jarred from hi
s stupor, Ryan twisted to the left.

  A bloody hand slapped the driver’s side window. A middle-aged woman, her face covered with blood and her white blouse splattered red, staggered backward.

  From the other direction came a yell. “Help,” the mother from the SUV shouted. “My husband isn’t breathing!”

  “I’ll check the injured woman,” Amy clutched the first-aid kit. “You check the husband.”

  As Ryan stepped from the jeep, two men ran toward the SUV. The first man to reach the vehicle had black hair, a stubbled face, and wore a gray coveralls. A moment later the second man, with salt and pepper hair and wearing a dark business suit arrived. Together they pulled the big man from the driver’s seat and laid him on the pavement. Kneeling beside him, they hesitated. The mechanic grabbed the wrist of the unconscious husband and pressed his fingers in several places. “I don’t know how to do this.”

  As Ryan joined them, he called to the wife, “What’s your husband’s name?”

  “Bill … Bill Arnold,” she stammered. “Are you a doctor?”

  “No.”

  “Can you help him?” she asked. “Please.”

  He had taken the CPR class at his father’s insistence, but trembled at the thought of attempting it on a real person. “I’ll try.” He knelt beside Bill, took a deep breath, and pressed two fingers to the carotid artery. “No pulse.” Looking at the two other men with him he asked, “Do you know CPR?”

  The mechanic and suit guy both shook their heads.

  Ryan started CPR while the ashen-faced wife clutched her baby close and sobbed.

  Minutes later a crowd had formed around them. Sweat rolled down Ryan’s face. He checked again for a pulse, found none, and resumed CPR. He looked to the mechanic. “Do you see where my hands are?”

  He nodded.

  “Take over.”

  The mechanic gulped and then did as directed.

  The wife wiped tears from puffy red eyes.

  As the mechanic did compressions, Ryan made sure that suit guy knew how to perform them. “I’ll go next, and then you take my place.”

  “How long should we do it?” Suit asked.

  “Until an ambulance comes.”

  The wife sobbed.

  After an eternity of perhaps twenty-minutes, police, fire, and several rescue vehicles roared up an onramp a few hundred yards behind them and worked their way through to the accident.

  “We’ll take it from here,” an EMT said.

  Ryan stood and stumbled back, bumping into Amy. “Sorry. I didn’t see you standing there.”

  “I’ve been watching.” She handed him a bottle of water.

  Had he done any good? Seeing the EMT pump on Bill’s chest, he doubted it. When they brought out the defibrillator, Ryan turned away. “Let’s go back to the jeep.”

  Inside the vehicle, Amy reached toward the radio. Ryan clutched her hand. “I don’t want to hear the news.”

  Several minutes later, the EMTs lifted Bill onto a gurney and covered him from head to toe. Still holding the baby, his sobbing wife followed them into the ambulance.

  The cold numbness crept into Ryan again. He felt like a ghost, detached from life, even as he watched it flow around him. Had he performed CPR wrong? He tried to recall all he had done, even as it faded from his mind. Perhaps he had broken a rib and it had torn or punctured an organ or artery. He should feel something, but he didn’t.

  Amy squeezed his hand and pointed with the other. “Kate, the woman with the bloody face, she’s sitting over there at the back of the EMT vehicle.”

  Ryan spotted the woman still wearing the blood-spattered blouse, but now a clean white bandage circled her head with a small stain of red on one side.

  Still gazing at Kate, Amy continued. “It was a small cut but it sure bled a lot. She kept asking if she would bleed to death.”

  Ryan shook his head. Bill had thought he was fine and died minutes later. Kate thought she would die and had only a small cut. He recalled the verse in Ecclesiastes that his father often mentioned, ‘Man knows not his time.’

  Car engines rumbled to life. Amy looked over her shoulder. “The police are turning traffic around to the exit behind us.”

  Ryan sighed and started his jeep. It would be good to get away from the accident and away from the city.

  It took almost an hour to loop the vehicles behind them around and off the freeway. Finally, a police officer pointed to Ryan, twirled his hand, and pointed to the exit.

  With infuriating slowness, they ushered Ryan and Amy around stalled and disabled vehicles, off the freeway and onto clogged surface streets.

  “Do you know where you’re going?” Amy asked.

  “Sure. South.” I think. “I’ll find the nearest onramp and get back on I-5.”

  “Don’t we need to get on I-90 and head east over the Cascade Mountains?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How do we get to I-90?”

  “Ah … I’m working on that.” Two turns onto unfamiliar side streets later he asked, “Could you get the compass out of the bugout bag.”

  Using the compass to maintain a generally southerly direction Ryan weaved through parts of Seattle he had never seen, while accidents, construction, and road closures kept him from returning to I-5.

  When they pulled up to a stoplight, Ryan looked right. Hand-written signs were duct taped to pumps at a gas station just a few yards away. They read, “No Gas.”

  “I think we should go left,” Amy said.

  “Yeah … sure.” He glanced at the gauge and his spirits sank. The needle hovered just above empty.

  When the light changed, he turned left.

  “Is the freeway up ahead?”

  “I … I think so.” Ryan snapped his fingers and pointed. “There’re maps in the glove box.”

  “You have paper maps? Why didn’t you say?”

  “I forgot about them.”

  Amy opened the glovebox and pulled a neatly wrapped package with a red gift tag. She set the package on her lap and continued to rummage through the compartment.

  “That’s them in the package.”

  “This?” Amy stared at the small box. “It looks like a gift … from your father. Your dad gave you maps as a gift?”

  “Yeah. He said it was just in case.”

  She laughed, opened the package, and found a metro Seattle map. “Let see, we’re heading south and this is ….” Amy looked for a street sign.

  Chapter 4

  Ryan maintained a tight grip on the steering wheel as he watched traffic, scanned each side of the street, and then glanced at the fuel gauge.

  Amy pointed to a spot on the map. “We’re here!” Then with a finger, she charted a route back to the freeway. “Turn right at the next light.”

  Despite his searching gaze, Ryan sensed her lingering stare.

  “What are you looking for?” she asked.

  “Huh?” He continued to scan along the sides of the street.

  Amy just stared at him.

  Ryan took a deep breath and let it out. “We’re almost out of gas.”

  “There’s a gas can strapped to the back.”

  “It’s empty,” Ryan muttered.

  “Really?” She spat the word out and then drew a deep breath. “Just drive. I’ll look for a station.”

  “It’s not like I knew a war would start and we’d be bugging out.”

  “Well, your dad seemed to know—and wanted you to be prepared.”

  “Oh, don’t go there. I’ve had to listen to that prepper talk all my life.”

  Amy folded her arms across her chest as a cold silence descended between them.

  Moments later she pointed. “A gas station … there, at the corner.”

  Cars and trucks formed a line from the convenience store gas pumps out onto the street. Several people hurried along the sidewalk with red gas containers.

  Ryan maneuvered his jeep to the end of the long line. “We’re going to be waiting for quite a while,” he huffed.


  “We don’t have much choice,” Amy grumbled.

  Ryan looked for the price, but the sign had been stripped of numbers.

  Moments later Amy grunted, pointed to a poster, and fumbled in her purse.

  The large handwritten sign read, “Cash only.” Beneath it, a muscular man collected money. From his appearance, he could have been a pro wrestler, a bouncer at a biker bar, or a mob enforcer. Another regular-sized man set the pumps for each transaction.

  “How much do you think he’ll want?” Amy shook her head. “I’ve got thirty-seven dollars.”

  “Don’t worry. We have about two hundred dollars in the bugout bag.”

  “Huh?” Amy’s eyes flared wide. “You didn’t fill up the gas tank or the can, but you had the cash?”

  “Like I said, I didn’t know we’d flee the city today.” He twisted around and searched through the bag as he spoke. “The cash was always buried somewhere deep in here, hard to find and easy to forget.” He smiled as he retrieved a plastic sandwich bag filled with currency. “And besides ….” He held up his wallet with several credit and debit cards. “I always had these.”

  She sighed. “I’m glad you have the cash.”

  Ahead of him in line, a man and woman pushed a red BMW.

  How much would it cost to fill his tank? As they inched forward he feared they might increase the price from wherever it stood to something astronomical, or the station might run out of gas before they reached the pump.

  Over the next twenty minutes, the line crept forward and Ryan, at last, eased the vehicle to a stop beside the bouncer.

  The big guy nodded at the sputtering jeep. “Seventy bucks should take care of it.”

  “I have a five gallon gas can on the back that I need to fill.”

  “Got a long trip, huh?” He grinned, showing yellow teeth. “Make it an even hundred and you should be able to fill it.” Then he shook his head. “No change though. You go when the pump stops or you’re full up.” He turned his head and shouted, “Mike, seventy bucks on pump five.”

  Ryan handed over the money and eased the sputtering jeep forward.