The Plan

by Shawn Chesser

  As the Shelby drew to within a couple of hundred feet of the cruiser, Riker got a better look at the stopped vehicles and realized he had let himself get caught up in a hastily constructed checkpoint.

  Stopping just shy of the last civilian car in line, Riker saw a trooper approach a car near the front of the line. The trooper stopped beside the passenger window and peered inside. After a beat or two, he leaned over the windshield. Throughout the inspection he moved slowly and methodically, one hand never leaving the butt of his holstered pistol. Everything about the trooper’s body language screamed danger.

  The trooper in the Charger started the light bar strobing, popped open the trunk, and stepped out of the car. Riker saw that the trooper was a woman nearly his height. She covered her trussed brunette locks with the white, wide-brimmed Smokey the Bear Hat and walked around to the open trunk.

  Riker said nothing until the female trooper walked to the length of highway in front of her cruiser and started deploying road flares.

  “Timing is not on our side here. Looks like we missed getting through this by a minute or two, tops.” He killed the motor then moved his hand to the back of his neck. Setting the e-brake, he dipped his head and massaged his spasming neck muscles.

  Tara said, “Relax, Lee. It’ll be all right.”

  Riker drew in a deep breath and said, “Those Pelican boxes are full of firearms and ammunition.”

  “They’re all legal, right?”

  Riker exhaled and nodded as he answered. “They’re all legal. However, there’s enough of them in there to raise eyebrows. Make someone think we’re starting some kind of uprising.”

  Steve-O stirred in the backseat. A tick later he cut a long, drawn-out fart.

  Ignoring Tara’s smirk, Riker said, “Plus, there’s a loaded shotgun under my seat.”

  The lady trooper returned to her cruiser, went into the trunk, and came out with more flares.

  Tara watched the lady trooper pass on the right, then tracked her in the wing mirror as she lit the flares and set them out at ten-foot intervals.

  Meanwhile, Riker was watching the slow approach of the pair of gear-laden SUVs he had passed a couple of miles back. As the lead vehicle came to a halt near the Shelby’s rear bumper, the lady trooper materialized outside of Riker’s window. She wore a stoic expression and was stabbing a finger toward the road—universal semaphore for run your window down.

  Chapter 11

  Keeping his right hand on the steering wheel, Riker showed his left to the lady trooper, extended his pointer finger, and with it made a show of depressing the button to start his window motoring down.

  The trooper said nothing. Her nametag read Sharpe.

  The window seated and the motor went silent. Steve-O’s fart won the battle with the humid, pine-scented air rushing in. If the stench wafting by registered to Trooper Sharpe, she didn’t let on.

  All business, thought Riker as the trooper remained rigid, staring at him from behind mirrored aviator’s glasses. He imagined the eyes roving the interior. Taking inventory of him and the others.

  Could she sense the unease he was experiencing due to the presence of the loaded Mossberg 590 Shockwave secreted underneath his seat and mini-arsenal of weapons in the load bed?

  Nonsense, he told himself.

  Adjusting the brim of her hat, Trooper Sharpe said, “Just the three of you traveling today?”

  He nodded. Hoped his Braves cap was absorbing the sheen of sweat he felt developing on his forehead.

  Tara leaned forward and shot the trooper a questioning look.

  Ignoring Tara, the trooper asked, “Where are you all headed?”

  Both hands strangling the steering wheel, Riker said, “We’re going camping somewhere on the Handle.” A lie, but not exactly. He truly didn’t know when or if the gear in the bed would come into play.

  The trooper nodded and put a cupped hand against the rear window. “Who’s sleepy head back there?”

  “Our half-cousin,” declared Tara. “We’re showing him the great outdoors.”

  “Well, you all be careful,” said the trooper. “Lots of gators. Even more two-legged predators. Might want to stay on the gulf side for a spell. Steer clear of Jacksonville and Orlando. Best if you stay west of I-75.”

  Riker said, “Why the roadblock?”

  The trooper hesitated and spent the time eyeing the SUVs and pair of newly arrived cars sliding in behind them.

  Up ahead, the other trooper had concluded his inspection of the first two vehicles and was ushering them through.

  Finally, the lady trooper said, “We’ve got a BOLO for a cop killer last seen in West Miami.” No sooner had she said “cop killer” than the handset riding on her shoulder epaulet emitted a burst of squelch, followed by a voice issuing a stand down order.

  As the trooper processed the update, her stoic demeanor cracked. Smiling, she looked to Riker. “They got the scumbag.”

  The smile on the trooper’s face was enough to release some of the tension having taken hold in Riker’s shoulders and neck.

  “Alive?” he asked.

  Smile fading, she said, “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “So we’re clear to proceed?”

  “In a bit.”

  “Care to elaborate on what’s going on in Jacksonville and Orlando?”

  At first Trooper Sharpe said nothing. She cast a furtive glance forward, then covertly checked behind her. Finally, she said, “People are getting sick. They say it’s as contagious as Ebola… but—”

  “But? But what?” Riker probed.

  “But it’s transferred like rabies.”

  Tara crowded Riker. Meeting Trooper Sharpe’s gaze, she said, “Through a bite … right?”

  The trooper nodded.

  “Are they locking down Orlando and Jacksonville?”

  Another brief nod followed by, “And Miami. You know, I really shouldn’t be telling you this.”

  The driver of the SUV behind the Shelby leaned on his horn.

  Riker said, “It says to protect and serve on your car. I think what you’re doing falls under the former. Do the quarantines have to do with the military op?”

  Again the horn blared.

  Trooper Sharpe raised a hand at the 4Runner. One finger was extended, telling the driver to wait.

  “Get as far away from Florida as possible.”

  Tara asked, “Is Georgia safe?”

  Interrupting the trooper’s response, Steve-O said, “California?”

  Simultaneously, the siblings shook their heads and blurted a resounding “No!”

  “One infected,” said the trooper, swallowing hard. “Well, one of the fast infected, can infect a dozen others”—she snapped her fingers—“just like that.”

  Playing dumb, Riker asked, “So there are fast and slow infected?”

  Now the horn of a vehicle at the back of the line was blaring.

  Eyes still hidden behind the mirrored glasses, Trooper Sharpe said, “Stay away from crowds. Don’t get bitten.” She turned to go to her Charger, then paused to add, “They’re dead. So destroying their brain is the only way to stop them. Cut out their legs, they’ll keep crawling until they get you. They’re relentless. One bite is all it takes.”

  “She’s talking about Bolts,” stated Steve-O. Hefting the Nerf gun, he made the sound of a machine gun and pretended to strafe the woods on Tara’s side of the truck. “I’ll stop those Bolts in their tracks.”

  Trooper Sharpe held Riker’s gaze for a three-count, then turned and strode back to her cruiser.

  They had to wait while the troopers policed up their spike strips. Within five minutes the cruisers were on the shoulder and Trooper Sharpe was waving the long line of vehicles on their way west.

  ***

  Immediately after leaving the roadblock behind, Riker matted the pedal and passed the trio of vehicles that had been in the line ahead of him.

  With the location of three of Florida’s State Patrol cruisers known to him, he wa
sn’t too worried about coming across another until they got closer to Naples, a city on the gulf side where I-75 made a sharp jog to the north.

  Thirty minutes into the thunder run through the preserve, some eighty miles from the gun store, Riker slowed to the speed limit and began to pay attention to the right side of the road.

  Shifting in her seat and stretching her arms above her head, Tara said, “Looking for a place to pee?”

  “A place to stop. Not necessarily to pee.”

  “That’s right,” she said. “You were famous for being able to hold yours forever. Always got me in trouble with Dad. Thanks for that, by the way.”

  A short while later, Riker spotted a rectangular brown sign announcing one of the Cypress Preserve’s many wildlife viewing areas.

  Riker said, “You gotta go?”

  “Ever since the roadblock.”

  Riker called over his shoulder. “Steve-O … do you need a bathroom break?”

  “I thought you’d never ask. I have to pee like a racehorse.”

  On the verge of laughter, Riker looked to Tara.

  Mouthing, “No you don’t,” Tara stabbed a finger at the rapidly approaching secondary road. “Here, here … slow the eff down, Lee.”

  And he did. But there was nothing graceful about how he went about it. Obviously forgetting all about the cargo in the bed, not to mention his passengers, he applied the brakes as if a brick wall loomed. Next, he slalomed over to the narrow secondary road paralleling the interstate. Then, at the last moment, with Tara holding the grab bar by her head in a two-handed death grip, and Steve-O clutching Tara’s headrest in a desperate act of self-preservation, he drifted the truck off of the secondary road and onto the feeder road. Not quite a right-angle maneuver, but damn close.

  There was a loud bang in the bed from the shifting contents coming to an abrupt stop against the driver’s side wheel well.

  The squeal of the tires failed to override Tara’s screamed epithets.

  “A little warning next time,” said Steve-O as he fought to retain his hold on the front seatback.

  Bringing the truck back under control, Riker said, “Hold on,” and let out a wild war whoop.

  Smoothing out the front of her shirt, Tara said, “Feeling alive, Lee?”

  “Just seeing what Dolly’s capable of. How she handles transitioning from pavement to gravel. That’s all.” With rocks pinging off the undercarriage, he drove on a couple of hundred yards, then, still smiling, pulled hard to the side of the narrow road and put the transmission into Park.

  “You couldn’t have done that somewhere between New Jersey and Miami? Maybe pulled that juvenile bullshit while you were out running errands by yourself?”

  Riker killed the engine. Facing Tara, he said, “I thought we were in big trouble back there at the roadblock. I would’ve been winging it … driving blind if you will, had I been forced to rabbit and try to outrun the cruisers and their radios.”

  Face screwed up in a scowl, Tara simply shook her head and stared daggers across the cab.

  Steve-O said, “Everybody knows you can’t outrun a radio.”

  Tara said, “The man has a valid point.”

  Changing the subject, Riker elbowed open his door, saying, “We have, at most, a five-minute lead on the rest of the pack. Let’s get this done.” He looked into the backseat. “Steve-O … want to be our eyes and ears?”

  Hefting the Nerf gun, Steve-O said, “After I pee, I’ll be on the lookout for black trucks and Johnnys.”

  Swinging her gaze to Steve-O, Tara said, “And Bolts. Don’t forget about them.”

  Throwing a mock salute, Steve-O piled out on the driver’s side. Nerf in hand and wearing a wide grin, he traipsed to the shallow ditch full of brackish water and ran his zipper down.

  Popping the tonneau and dropping the tailgate, Riker got his first look at the unintended consequences of his high-speed turn. The Pelican cases were mashed against the tailgate when it hinged down. The backpacks and sports bags were wedged against the Pelican cases.

  The camping gear had fared no better. No longer in a tidy bunch in the corner near the cab, it had been distributed to all points of the compass. And speaking to the violence of the high-g turn, one of the plastic-wrapped cases of bottled water had split open, scattering roughly twenty of the twenty-four bottles about the bed. Amazingly, the case of sports drinks Riker had grabbed from Villa Jasmine’s pantry was still intact.

  Returning from her quick squat in the nearby woods, Tara said, “Amazing it’s not all out on the interstate after that dumbass maneuver, Lee.”

  “Just good ol’ boys,” sang Steve-O, smiling ear-to-ear.

  “Never meanin’ no harm,” finished Riker, his gaze settling on Tara.

  Shaking her head, she said, “You better have a pink pistol in one of those boxes, Lee Riker, or I’m going to be pissed.”

  Riker said nothing as he popped the press-and-pull latches on one of larger Pelican cases.

  On her toes as Riker lifted the lid, Tara grabbed the bed rail and stared down into the box. “You bought yourself enough guns to start a war, Lee. And not one of them is pink.”

  “We’ll get you a can of spray paint at the next hardware store we come across.” He reached in and came out with a black plastic case not much larger than a hardcover novel. Embossed on the top was the word Glock, the “G” large and stylized.

  He popped the pair of latches and opened the lid. Not going so far as to perform a game-show-model arm-sweep, he spun the box around and made a show of presenting its contents to Tara.

  Standing a yard away, Nerf at port arms, Steve-O was taking it all in.

  Reaching for the compact black pistol, she said, “For me? What is it?”

  Riker waved her off. “First I want to say a couple of things.”

  Crossing her arms, Tara said, “Go ahead and hit me with your public service announcement.”

  Hefting the Glock from the padded case, Riker said, “When Jon found out how long it’s been since I transitioned, he made me listen to the same spiel.”

  Tara sot a furtive glance at the distant interstate, then leaned against the truck bed. Eyes on her brother, she crossed her arms over the bed rail and said, “I’m all ears.”

  Holding the semiautomatic pistol at eye level to Tara, muzzle aimed away from all three of them, Riker said, “Glock 19. Magazine holds seventeen rounds of nine-millimeter. Safety is on the trigger … here. You’re a righty so the magazine release you’ll use is on the left side … here. And the slide stop lever you’ll use is this little metal tab on the left … here.” He set the pistol on the foam and, beginning with, “Always assume a firearm is loaded,” then, from memory, went down the basic list of firearm safety, at times lifting the Glock from the case to illustrate how to properly handle it. Finished, he set the pistol down and instructed Tara to show him what she had learned.

  In the end, after having Tara muzzle-sweep his midsection twice, and rack the slide with her finger inside the trigger guard, he put the pistol away and handed her the Glock’s owner’s manual and a small brochure listing everything he’d recited to her during his roadside presentation.

  “I got it,” Steve-O bragged.

  Riker stopped unloading the box long enough to cast a glance at his friend. Sure enough, the man had his trigger finger outside of the Nerf gun’s trigger guard and was holding the rifle with its non-lethal muzzle aimed in a safe direction.

  “You’re the man, Steve-O,” said Riker, flashing a thumbs-up. “Now help me transfer this ammunition and the rifle cases to the cab.”

  As Steve-O and Tara began shuttling stuff to the cab, Riker loaded a pair of magazines with 9mm, slammed one home into the well of one of his identical pair of Sig Sauer P226 Legion semiautomatic pistols, and dropped the spare magazine into his pocket.

  The black handgun was the new RX Full-Size model and fit his large hand nicely. It was fitted with a ROMEO1 Reflex Sight that had a nifty auto on/off feature. Activated by movemen
t—or lack thereof—the red holographic pip in the reticle was always there when needed.

  Riker snugged the weapon into the Fobus paddle holster Jon had so expertly upsold him, climbed behind the wheel, and stowed the holstered pistol in the center console.

  Steve-O jumped in back and arranged the rifle cases on the floorboard.

  Hearing the tailgate slam shut, Riker watched Tara close and lock the tonneau, then make her way around the passenger side.

  Once Tara was back in her seat, Riker started the motor and rolled forward, first and foremost on his mind finding a place to get the wide-body rig turned back toward the interstate.

  Chapter 12

  Getting the Shelby turned around was easier said than done.

  Riker drove about a hundred yards north, to where the road took a shallow bend to the left and the ground-hugging brush fell away from the shoulder on both sides.

  Seeing this, he jinked the wheel left, buried the Shelby’s beefy bumper into the foliage, and ground to a halt. With the discordant jangle of twigs marring the virgin paint, he spun the steering wheel hard right until it reached its limit. Power steering pump squealing in protest, he ran the transmission lever to Reverse and fed the V8 some gas.

  There was a crackling of branches breaking as the truck lurched backward. More of the same entered the cab as he ran the tailgate into the bushes. Silence in the cab as Riker stopped the Shelby perpendicular to the road and eased up off the throttle.

  Riker was cranking the wheel in the opposite direction to finish the last leg of the three-point-turn when Tara rapped her knuckles on her window. “Bro,” she said, “there’s a car blocking the road just past the bend.” She paused for a beat, craning to see more.

  “Doesn’t matter, we’re turning around.”

  “Does it matter if there’s a woman waving at me?”

  Steering wheel hitting the stops, Riker said, “It’s not our business.” As he added power, the front end gouged away a good chunk of the intruding forest.

  “What if she’s having car trouble?”