Buck Out

by Ken Benton

  “I haven’t ridden a motorcycle since I was a teenager.” Malcolm grabbed ahold of one of the handle grips.

  “These are easy,” Ryan said. “Automatic transmissions. Top speed is about 50, so we’ll have to stay to the right on the highway, and maybe even ride the shoulder in places if people are driving crazy on the roads.”

  “We’re taking the highway?”

  “I think it’s best.” Ryan unzipped his pack and produced a large square foil pack. “I want to leave New Jersey behind as soon as possible. We have about three hours of daylight left.” He broke off a small square from the foil and handed it to Malcolm.

  “Emergency rations?” Malcolm said.

  Ryan laughed. “Much better than you make it sound. Eat. This is a Mainstay 3600-calorie bar. Each square, like you have there, is 400 calories.”

  Malcolm opened the foil and took a bite of the speckled white food bar inside. The taste was slightly sweet, and reminded him of pound cake. “Not bad.”

  Chewing, Malcolm walked to the opening of the storage unit. The two thieves were out in the street now, and looked directly at Malcolm when they saw him. Malcolm continued eating, but took his pistol out and made sure they saw it as he removed the magazine and popped it back in again. The thieves retreated back into the last open storage unit in response.

  “Let’s, um, exit the long way around,” Malcolm said.

  Ryan agreed. They finished their 400-calorie bars, drank some water, put the helmets on, and started the scooters—which fired right up. Malcolm noticed an area of scuffed paint on one side of his.

  “These look used,” Malcolm said.

  “You bet. Cost me a third of what they would have new. But they’re in great condition. Let’s go.” Ryan pushed forward, rode out of the locker, and turned left.

  Malcolm followed. The thieves were still tucked out of sight.

  They circled around the storage property counter-clockwise and ended up at the front gate again. The thieves were back outside when they passed the first street again, using their bolt cutters on the next unit. Ryan punched the code in the keypad and the gate opened.

  They were off.

  Fifteen minutes later, after negotiating their way through precarious city streets and two major highway transitions, Malcolm began feeling comfortable on the scooter. Well, as comfortable as one could probably be under the circumstances. Suspicious bands of unsightly pedestrians had gathered in spots, including along the shoulder of the transition road from Highway 95 South to Highway 78 West. Police and military vehicles raced by in places, apparently all responding to calls and not bothering to pull over the inordinate number of recklessly-speeding drivers. Everyone in a car or on a motorcycle seemed to be in an awful hurry.

  That certainly included Malcolm and Ryan. They kept the scooters at full throttle, doing just over 50 miles per hour, which was enough to prevent the weirdo pedestrians from stepping in their path—though some waved their arms and attempted to flag them down.

  But their speed was still markedly slow compared to that of nearly all other motor vehicle traffic, which made the two scooters a bit of a dangerous highway obstacle. Once on the westbound 78, Ryan kept to the right-hand side of the right lane and Malcolm followed behind. The two of them moved to the shoulder when cars approached them from the rear. It was wise of Ryan to get red-colored scooters.

  Most of the passing traffic shortly vanished on the horizon, never to be seen again. But there was one annoying vehicle that kept reappearing: a lowered black Honda Civic sedan, about ten years old. At first it appeared to be a typical problem car, the type of which are encountered too often in today’s society, obviously owned by a twenty-something year old who has seen too many Fast and Furious movies. Gaudy custom wheels, tinted windows, and an oversized rear deck spoiler appropriately complemented the never-ending revving of the engine.

  Normally when this type of vehicle buzzes you on the road, it’s a brief—although harrowing—experience, as they come up on your rear at close to the speed of sound and then change lanes at the last possible second, narrowly avoiding pit-maneuvering you into a possible early death. You say a quick prayer of thanks and never see it again, if you’re lucky.

  This one kept reappearing, though. The driver must be exiting the highway frequently and then getting back on again. The third time it passed, the Honda slowed noticeably when it was beside Malcolm and Ryan. Malcolm caught a glimpse of a muscular tattooed forearm resting on the rolled-down passenger-side window, and made brief contact with eyes that narrowed under a thin, dark brow. The car then took off like a rocket.

  But ten minutes later it reappeared from behind again. This time Ryan hit the brakes as it passed, so Malcolm did the same.

  So did the Honda, after pulling directly in front of them on the shoulder.

  Ryan motioned with his hand to the off-ramp fast approaching. Malcolm nodded.

  But then Ryan did something unexpected. He moved across the highway to the left lane, as if to pass the car. Malcolm reluctantly followed.

  The Honda came back into the right lane and drove past the off-ramp.

  Ryan suddenly cut back across both lanes and used the off-ramp to exit. Malcolm almost lost control of the scooter following his hard right turn, but he pulled the maneuver off. Ahead on the highway, the Honda could be seen radically slowing and moving back to the shoulder, as if it were pulling over.

  Ryan sped back up. Malcolm followed. They got away from the highway in a southward direction on the cross street at the exit. Malcolm noticed the sign: Route 31. They had just passed the small town of Lebanon a couple miles back.

  A mile down Route 31, they encountered an unusual area of heavier traffic. Malcolm was actually glad for it. They fell into place in a line of cars, along with two horse-drawn carts, that were all turning left on a smaller road. A short ways in the distance they all seemed to be parking in a dirt lot.

  Ryan took his helmet off when they were stopped in traffic. Malcolm did the same. They both looked behind them.

  “I don’t think they followed us,” Ryan said. “And even if they did, we should be safe in this crowd.”

  “Why were they screwing with us?” Malcolm asked.

  Ryan pointed to his backpack.

  “Oh. Sheesh.”

  “Let’s give them time to move on and find a different victim,” Ryan said. “What do you say we check out whatever’s going on here?”

  Malcolm shrugged. “You’re the platoon leader. I’m only a private in this outfit.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Welcome to Valley Crest Farm and Preserve.

  That’s what the big white sign at the entrance to the parking lot said. Underneath it hung a half-dozen smaller signs listing the types of produce grown there, and inviting visitors to “pick your own.” Malcolm also noticed the words A Nonprofit Organization in small letters on the big sign.

  “I hope this nonprofit group is friendlier than the last one,” Malcolm said getting off his scooter.

  “They must be.” Ryan pointed at a middle-aged couple leaving the farm with a box full of produce. The man was limping. “Looks like people are getting food here. Let’s check it out.”

  With their packs still on their backs, Ryan and Malcolm followed the casual line of refreshingly ordinary-looking people along the path from the parking lot. It struck Malcolm that they were now a long ways from the city. Look at all these country folks, being polite to each other, smiling and acting as if the world wasn’t falling apart around them. This is who Malcolm wanted to hang with right now.

  They came to a shack with a counter, where the people they followed picked up empty boxes almost as if they were entering a supermarket. Others had boxes already full of produce and were waiting their turn to check out at the counter. Malcolm wondered what the prices were as Ryan grabbed a box.

  “We obviously can’t carry too much,” Ryan said, “but there’s some room in your seat compartment.”

  They passed a horse stab
le, a pen full of geese, and a cornfield before coming to a fork in the path. A man who looked not terribly different than a scarecrow stood there giving everyone directions.

  “Asparagus and strawberries on your left,” he said. “Peach orchard is to your right. That’s all that’s ripe. Please be careful if you climb the peach trees. The branches can be weak.”

  Malcolm shook his head in amazement. “A pick-your-own-produce farm. Wow. Why isn’t this place overrun with city slickers, grabbing everything they can hoard?”

  “I imagine it’s because they don’t know about it,” Ryan said. “Or else they aren’t desperate enough yet to want to eat produce. Which way should we start? Right or left?”

  Thirty minutes later, Malcolm and Ryan stood in line at the shack to check out. When they reached the front, Malcolm was astounded to see a sign that said Donations.

  “Um, what does this cost?” Ryan asked the elderly lady behind the counter.

  “Whatever you can afford is appreciated,” she said. “It doesn’t make much sense for us to put prices on anything at the moment.”

  “What if we can’t afford anything?” Malcolm asked. Ryan shot him a stern glance.

  “That’s fine, sweetie. We’ve been providing food for the needy for more than five years now.”

  “I was just wondering.” Malcolm pulled a hundred dollar bill from his wallet. “Here you go.”

  “Thank you, sweetie.” The woman accepted it with no more fanfare than if it were a $1 bill. Malcolm opened his mouth intending to point out the denomination to her, but decided not to. It was, after all, more like a $1 bill these days.

  Back at the scooters, Ryan produced two large freezer-storage baggies from his backpack. He filled one with all the peaches and strawberries that would fit and the other with fresh-picked asparagus, stashing the bags in Malcolm’s seat compartment when finished. They stood a short while and ate the remaining fruit before hitting the road again.

  Every black sedan coming up from the rear was cause for concern upon continuing on the westbound 78. None of them ended up being the troublesome Honda, fortunately, though some drove just as erratically. It wasn’t long before Ryan and Malcolm reached the Pennsylvania state line.

  But not before passing another New Jersey farm. This one was right off the highway, close to the border at the southeastern outskirts of Phillipsburg. There were signs along the highway advertising it, something the owners likely regretted at the moment. The scene at this place was a stark contrast to that of the farm Ryan and Malcolm visited. Police and military vehicles surrounded it, along with a growing crowd of angry-looking citizens. It was difficult to tell from the highway, but Malcolm thought a possible food riot could be brewing there. Didn’t they know another farm a few miles away was giving produce away to anyone who needed it?

  Once over the state line, Ryan began slowing. The Lehigh River ran alongside the road a short distance to the north here. Ryan seemed to be looking for something.

  He slowed to a crawl on the shoulder. Malcolm thought he was going to stop, but instead he turned onto a narrow dirt trail that connected with the shoulder, waving for Malcolm to follow.

  Now what was he doing? Malcolm stayed behind him, often touching a foot to the ground and pushing brush out of the way with an arm. The trail ended at a small road along the riverbank. Ryan turned left there, but kept the slow pace.

  Finally he stopped. After taking his helmet off, Ryan opened his seat compartment and pulled out a metal-framed object. Fifteen seconds later, the object had been folded-out into a small camping shovel.

  “Wait here,” Ryan said. Malcolm tilted his head and watched him vanish into some bushes.

  Malcolm waited. And waited.

  Ryan eventually returned, holding a canvas bag in one hand and what could only be a long plastic gun case in the other. Both shed dirt as he walked. Unbelievable. The knucklehead had weapons buried in the bushes.

  The gun case held a 20-gauge pump action shotgun, along with a leather scabbard and two boxes of shells. Ryan strapped the scabbard to his scooter in a most interesting fashion, facing it backwards along the rear wheel well. He slipped the shotgun into the scabbard, backwards and upside down, and then practiced retrieving it while sitting on the scooter. He ended up adjusting the scabbard straps twice before being satisfied.

  Then he opened the canvas bag.

  “This one’s for you,” Ryan said. “I’m promoting you to corporal.”

  But what he took out of the bag wasn’t a gun. It was half a gun. Thankfully, the other half of the rifle came out next.

  “The Ruger 10/22 is the fastest takedown rifle on the market. Watch.” Ryan popped a magazine in the bottom half and then twisted the barrel into place, effectively putting the gun together in well under ten seconds. “Semi-automatic 22LR, like you’re used to shooting at the range. The standard magazine holds ten rounds, but I also have a 25-round magazine for it.”

  “Of course you do.”

  Ryan smiled broadly and stepped closer. “Here’s how you disassemble it.” He turned the gun to the underside, moved a pin under the base of the barrel with his thumb, and twisted the barrel. It was in two halves again in about three seconds.

  Ryan pointed to Malcolm’s scooter. “Sit still while I stuff it in your pack.”

  Malcolm objected. “It has its own bag.”

  “That’s excess baggage we don’t need. Don’t forget the safety is on if you need to use this.” Ryan positioned the two rifle halves in Malcolm’s pack, walked back to the gun bag, removed a larger curved magazine along with two boxes of shells, stuffed them in Malcolm’s pack also, and then unceremoniously tossed the canvas Ruger bag in the bushes. “All that didn’t add more than seven or eight pounds to your pack. Now you’re ready for the road.”

  “Why’d you pick this place to stash the big guns?” Malcolm asked.

  “New Jersey Gun laws are strict.”

  “You telling me that’s legal here?” Malcolm pointed at the shotgun strapped to Ryan’s scooter.

  “Almost. Probably not illegal enough to get hassled over under the circumstances, anyway. You’ll notice I strapped it to the right side, so hopefully it won’t be seen by any passing police vehicles.”

  “It’d be even less visible with a pistol grip,” Malcolm said, “and kind of cool-looking to see you whip out while riding.”

  “That it would be, Malcolm. And a heck of a lot less effective, too. Saw a guy at the range shooting a pistol grip shotgun once. Couldn’t hit a mountain. Finally he held it up and aimed it proper, looking down the barrel. Hit the target that time, but went to the hospital with a broken face. Pistol grips are useless on a shotgun unless your target is right in front of you. Ready to ride?”

  “How much farther today?”

  “Not much.”

  * * *

  Joseph Slate carried the shovel back into house. “Shouldn’t we bury them, too?” He pointed at the two bodies on the floor.

  “Be my guest,” Duncan replied. “If you’re religious or something. But we’ll be out of here in the morning before they start stinking.”

  Lanny spoke. “Why can’t we hole up here a while, Duncan?”

  “Because it’s not safe. A shame, really. The place makes a good fortress. Too bad for the owners they didn’t know how to defend it.” Duncan shook his head. “My fault. Left my damn notebook on the table.”

  “Ahhhh,” Lanny said. “You think them feds will try and chase us here from nothing but a scribbled address, when the entire country is suddenly in an uproar? They probably have their hands full.”

  “I suppose it depends on the agents, and how much they cared for their partners. My fault again, for being such a good shot. I know I put one of them down through the glass. Pretty sure Tony got another.”

  “Tony,” Lanny muttered. “Yeah. I wish he was here.”

  “So do I.” Duncan shot Joseph a lightning-fast glance, but Joseph noticed it.

  Duncan put his hand on Lanny’s sh
oulder. “Come on. Let’s go check on Joseph’s landscaping job, before it starts getting dark.”

  The two of them went out the back door. Joseph thought they looked like Abbott and Costello when they walked together, as Lanny was much shorter and stockier than Duncan.

  Joseph turned to face Chad. If there was a famous comedian Chad most resembled it would have to be Steve Martin, with his perfectly-parted blond hair and wide nose. The thought made Joseph laugh.

  “What’s so funny?” Chad asked. He wasn’t in a cheerful mood. Hard to blame him, as he was the one who shot the homeowners.

  “Nothing,” Joseph said. “Just thinking about an old Steve Martin bit. You’ve been awfully quiet.”

  “Not feeling talkative.”

  “I understand.” Joseph glanced at the bodies on the floor. “What do you think? Should we bury them?”

  “Why should I care?” Chad snapped.

  “Only asking your opinion.”

  “I don’t have one.”

  Chad was still being short with Joseph, something he’d been doing since they left Cheat Lake. Joseph decided it was time to push him a little.

  “Upset about Tony?” Joseph asked.

  “Of course I am.” Chad tilted his head. “What about you?”

  “I’m sorry to lose a partner.” Joseph gripped the shovel tight with both hands. “Makes things tougher for all of us.”

  “Yeah,” Chad said. “But are you sorry to lose Tony?”

  Joseph slowly nodded. “Yes, as a matter of fact. I’m not the sort who holds grudges. And I know how to take my beatings.”

  “I know you do. But that last one went too far. Heck, no one could blame you much if…”

  “If what?”

  “I happened to look back when Tony went down. He fell forward. You were right behind him. Pretty sure Duncan noticed it, too.”

  “You think I shot him?”

  “Did you?”

  Joseph thought for a second before responding.

  “I can’t answer with 100% certainty, because we were in a running gun battle and he did move in front of me. Hard to keep everything straight in my brain, with all that was happening. But I really don’t think it was me. I think one of the feds got him and he just fell forward.”