by Byron Tucker
“I'm beginning to wonder if it's worth surviving this at all.”
Nora didn't answer, pulling her arm back, digging into her rice and beans.
Outside, the wind vacillated between howling and screaming, the thermometer hovering at sixty-two degrees below zero.
Chapter 26
While the going was slow at times, they reached the city of Dubuque without undue difficulty, the expressway leading into the city having only a thin layer of snow on it, as if it'd been plowed recently. Sam glanced at the clock, which read three-fifteen. His stomach growled, since he'd yet to eat today, although the others had been snacking on trail mix more or less all day. Calling out behind him, he said, “Irene, got some food for a hungry driver?”
Irene appeared at his side in a flash, holding out a ham and cheese sandwich made with homemade bread. Watching him bite into it greedily, Irene said, “You've been driving all day, are you sure you don't want me to relieve you for a bit?”
“I'll drive, Dad!” Jimmy said.
Knowing it'd please his son greatly to take play captain for a bit, he looked at Jimmy's eager face and said, “When we get through town here, I'll pull over and we'll switch.”
“Awesome!”
Sam put his sandwich down when they came up to the Mississippi River, a frozen ribbon of white stretching north and south.
“Guess there's no ships running up and down this river, huh?” Jimmy commented.
“No kidding. Shoot, we could probably drive down this thing.” Hmm, that might not be a bad idea, driving down the Mississippi.
His thoughts were disrupted a few moments later when they came off the bridge and began to pass through the center of the smallish city. Like rats scurrying out of their holes, a number of trucks entered the highway both in front and behind the motorhome. Within seconds, three of the trucks blocked the road in front, forcing Sam to hit the brakes to keep from rear-ending them. Screeching to an abrupt stop, he heard Jimmy shout, “What the hell are you doing? They're going to rob us!”
“What do you expect me to do, ram them?”
“Yes, yes! Hit the gas now!”
Sam hesitated just long enough to see several hooded men toting rifles hop out of the trucks, and then he jammed his foot on the gas, causing the motorhome to lurch forward and ram the truck directly in front. Much to his surprise, the force was great enough to slide the truck ahead a few yards, although he still didn't have a clear escape path. Shots rang out, accompanied by sound of punctured metal.
“They're shooting at us!”
“I know, Jimmy, I know!”
Sam shifted into reverse and stomped on the gas. The vehicle surged backwards, and he heard a thump in the back, which wasn't a metal object. Not allowing himself time to think, he slammed the gear lever back into drive and floored it again, catching the truck in front with the edge of the plow, sending it careening to the side of the road.
To his utter disbelief, Jimmy got out of his seat, withdrawing a Glock from the back of his pants. “I'll shoot, you drive.”
“Jimmy, put that gun down!”
“Drive!”
Seeing that he had no other choice, Sam continued to floor the gas pedal, swerving violently to the right and then the left in an effort to keep the trucks from getting around them. While he was doing that, Jimmy went to the passenger door and opened the porthole window, sticking the pistol through it. As one of the trucks roared past on the right, Jimmy fired the gun three times in rapid succession. Seconds later, the truck curved off the highway, rolling off an embankment.
“I got one, Dad. Keep flooring it!”
Sam noticed a high-wheeled truck zooming up on his left, pulling even with the cab. The passenger window of the truck opened and the snout of a double-barreled shotgun appeared. He instinctively jammed on the brakes, effectively causing the truck to rocket ahead of the motorhome like a slingshot. He switched to the gas pedal, opening the throttle once again. The inertia of the heavy motorhome combined with the engine roaring at maximum power combined to hit the truck with enough force to throw it onto its side and off the left shoulder of the road.
Jimmy called out, “There's one right behind us. Hit the brakes again, hard!”
Sam slammed the brake pedal, feeling the wheels lock up for about one and a half seconds before feeling a massive collision in the back.
“Floor it, Dad. Go!”
Looking in the rear view mirror, Sam saw a truck attempting to go around the one that had hit the back of the motorhome, its wheels spinning in the snow. Thankful that the rear tires were wrapped in chains, affording needed traction, Sam jammed down on the accelerator, lurching ahead of the truck as it started to come up on the left. With the motorhome gradually picking up speed, he saw Jimmy moving from one side of the vehicle to the other, holding the pistol with both hands. Irene and Eliza huddled together on the couch, both of them crying.
“Jimmy, put that goddamn gun away and sit down before you get hurt!”
Disregarding him, Jimmy stepped over to the left side window and opened it enough to stick his gun out just as the truck started passing the motorhome. He fired four shots in quick succession, which must have hit their target, the truck quickly peeling away to the left, crashing into a guardrail.
Jimmy plopped himself into the passenger seat, tucking the pistol under his thigh as he waved frantically at his father. “Keep flooring it Dad, there might be more coming after us.”
Although the snow was a bit deeper now, the lowered plow handled the snow just fine, even at sixty miles per hour. After a couple of minutes of watching the rear-view mirrors, Sam realized there were no more vehicles chasing them, and he relaxed, if only slightly.
“I sure hope that's all of them,” Jimmy said as he stared at the right-side mirror.
“Me too. I'm not happy about you using that gun, though.”
Jimmy looked shocked. “What else are we supposed to, let ourselves get captured and shot?”
He's right about that. “What I'm saying is, you've got to be careful about using that thing.”
“I'm just trying to save our lives, Dad. You keep driving. If I see anybody trying to run us off the road, I'm going to shoot.” He paused to pull the gun out from under his thigh and a box of ammo from his coat pocket. “I'd better reload while I have the chance.”
Sam saw a directional sign ahead. “Should I keep going on this, or turn off?”
Jimmy looked up and motioned his hand forward. “Keep going. Stay on this until we get to the Quad cities. You'd better keep your speed up, though.”
Although the snow was drifty in spots, Sam managed to keep the speedometer around fifty, which seemed plenty fast enough. Within a few moments, the outskirts of the nearly lifeless city transitioned to snow-covered farmlands, the four-lane highway stretching to the south in a straight line. Sam's heart rate slowed, the thumping in his chest finally abating.
“Are we okay now?” Irene asked as Eliza continued to whimper in her arms.
“Yeah, I think so. There's nobody coming after us.”
“For now,” Jimmy commented as he stuck additional bullets into the magazine. “There'll be more of them later, I'm sure.”
Sam shook his head. “I sure hope not. That was more than I could really handle.”
Jimmy didn't reply, staring ahead at the snow-covered roadway.
Sam relaxed a bit more as the miles rolled by at a steady clip. Jimmy finally put the gun away, although he still wore the look of a hardened soldier, ready to leap into action at a second's notice. It was as if his son had been transformed into a wholly different person, one he scarcely recognized.
Out of the blue, Jimmy said, “I'm gonna to get the AR-15 out of the back. If we come up to a roadblock out here, we need to be ready for them.”
Before he could object, Jimmy slipped away, ignoring his mother as she begged for him to stop. He returned a moment later carrying the large rifle, placing it on the floor next to the seat. “In God's name, what do yo
u expect to do with that thing?”
Jimmy looked at him as if he'd just sprouted green hair. “Shoot any mo-fos who try and stop us. Uncle Ryan said that we'd have to do this, shoot our way to Mobile.”
Sam took in a deep breath, pushing the gas pedal a bit harder, pushing it up to fifty-five. The sooner we get to Mobile, the sooner all this will be over. Trying to maintain his fatherly authority as much as possible, he said, “Don't do a thing unless I tell you. You understand me, Jimmy?”
A pause developed, growing uncomfortably long. Finally he said, “I'm gonna do whatever it takes to stay alive. You drive, I shoot. Unless you want to trade.”
Realizing this was actually a fantastic idea, Sam eased up on the gas and allowed the motorhome to come to a gradual stop.
“What are you doing, Dad?”
“We're switching places, because I can't have you madly shooting guns all over the place.”
Jimmy didn't argue as Sam got up from his seat and moved over to the passenger side. Jimmy spent a few seconds getting used to the steering wheel and dashboard before putting it into gear and began accelerating.
“Keep it under fifty,” Sam ordered, already feeling much better about the switch. He glanced back at the couch just long enough to spot Irene mouthing the words, good idea.
Not surprisingly, Jimmy handled the motorhome with ease, keeping a steady pace even with the plow encountering increasingly higher drifts. He seemed a bit more relaxed as well, probably because of him being able to do something more useful than merely watching for attackers.
After a few minutes of watching the snow-covered landscape roll past under leaden skies, Sam felt the urge to use the can. An urge with a short deadline. Excusing himself, he made his way to the bathroom, grateful that he didn't have to worry about going in the open. He dropped his pants down and plopped his butt on the toilet seat with about three seconds to spare, his bowels emptying out in a volcanic rush. Although it was quick, he didn't want to get off the seat quite yet, so he continued to sit there, feeling the gentle rocking of the motorhome as it rumbled down the highway.
When he decided that he was done after all and reached for the roll of toilet paper, Sam felt the engine roar to maximum power, the gentle rocking transitioning to a high-speed shuddering. What the hell is going on? He began wiping as quickly as possible so he could get back out there and put a check to his crazy son.
He never finished. Without warning, the motorhome collided into an unseen object with a tremendous bang, causing him to knock his head against the wall of the bathroom, knocking him out cold.
He came to while Irene cradled his head with her hands. “Are you okay, Sam?”
Trying to clear the stars from his eyes, he asked, “What happened?”
Irene pointed to the front. “There was a line of cars blocking the road, and Jimmy plowed into them.”
Realizing they were still moving, Sam pulled up his pants and stumbled to the front, ignoring Irene's pleas to examine his head. “What the hell happened, Jimmy?”
He looked him with a meek expression. “Sorry, Dad, I didn't know what else to do. There was a line of cars parked nose-to-tail across the whole road. I didn't see anybody, but I wasn't about to take any chances.”
“You just rammed your way through?”
Jimmy pointed at the plow, looking no worse for wear. “I aimed for a smaller car. Looks like the plow held up okay. You should have seen it, Dad. It was pretty awesome.”
Nothing about this is awesome. “I know you did what you had to do, but let's not get ourselves killed, okay?”
Jimmy flashed him an irritated look. “What do you think I'm trying to do here, auditioning to be a stunt man?”
Sam couldn't resist a smile as Irene began examining his head, pulling him to the couch with an insistent tug. “Keep driving, Jimmy. We'll switch off after a while.”
Chapter 27
Although Sam continued to maintain a steady pace of forty miles per hour or so, the combination of nightfall and the blowing snow made it increasingly difficult to see the road, which had narrowed down to a two-lane a number of miles back. Another worry was the gas gauge, with the needle uncomfortably close to the letter “E.” It wouldn't be long before they were forced to stop, unload the jerry cans from the roof of the motorhome and pour the gasoline into the vehicle's tank, while trying to not getting themselves flash-frozen by the bitterly cold wind.
Jimmy looked up from the Illinois gazetteer he'd been studying with the aid of a head lamp. “It looks like we gotta cross a river soon, and there's another town too, which looks a bit bigger than most.”
The motorhome hit a huge snowdrift, causing it to shake mightily, he said, “Good, as we're going to have to find a place to fill up.”
Jimmy shook his head. “No, we can't do that in a town, we could get mobbed. We should do that out here, where there's nobody around.”
Sam pointed to the snow streaming sideways across the twin beams of the headlights. “We'll freeze to death in this wind. I don't think it's a whole lot warmer than it was back in Wisconsin.”
Jimmy pointed ahead and shouted, “Look out!”
Too late, Sam saw the mountainous snowdrift ahead and was unable to do anything but hold on while the motorhome slammed into it. The force of the impact caused the massive vehicle to lurch to the right, off the shoulder of the road. Before he had a chance to steer back onto the highway, the plow buried itself into another monstrous drift, stopping it cold, leaning precariously to the right.
“Uh, oh.” Jimmy said, peering out the windows. “I think we might be stuck.”
Sam undid his seat belt and stood up. “Let's get our coats on, we'll put some gas into the tank and then we'll figure out how to get ourselves unstuck.”
Jimmy spent a few moments looking out the windows. “I dunno, Dad, it looks pretty bad. Looks like we're in a ditch or something.”
Eliza piped up from the couch. “I see a light on over there. Maybe we can get some help.”
Sam looked where his daughter was pointing. Sure enough, there was a light, two of them, actually, and they were moving. He saw Jimmy reach for the AR-15. Pointing to him, he said, “Put that thing down. Not everybody we come across is going to be a highway bandit.”
Jimmy complied, but with reluctance. Sam finished zipping up his coat and opened the passenger door, having to kick it a few times to push the snow out of the way. Bitter fingers of cold slapped him across his exposed cheeks as he stepped out of the motorhome, realizing they really were stuck in a large ditch, surrounded by huge mounds of drifting snow.
Hearing what sounded like a farm tractor, he scrambled over to the front of the motorhome, waving his hands, hoping to signal whoever was approaching in the tractor that he was unarmed and needed help.
A couple of minutes later, a huge tractor with an attached plow pulled up, and a bundled-up man hopped out of the cab. “I reckon you could use some help.”
Sam felt almost embarrassed. “We've got a plow on this thing, but we hit a drift that was a bit too big to handle.”
The farmer walked up to the snowplow, shaking his head in amazement. “A snowplow on a motorhome? This is the craziest thing I've ever seen.”
“Yes, my brother put this on so we can drive this thing to Mobile, Alabama.”
The man looked at him with the whites of his eyes showing in the glare of the headlights. “Whoa, you're driving all the way to Mobile? Where did you start from?”
“Upper Michigan.”
“You've been driving the whole way, in this weather?”
“Yes, but we're determined to drive straight through to Mobile. Is there any possible way you can help us?”
“Yes, I can help you. I can even put you up for the night, provided you have some food for us.”
Upon closer inspection, the farmer looked as if he hadn't eaten well in quite some time. His face was bony-thin and his coat hung a bit too loose on his frame. “Yes, we have some MREs to share.”
The
man behaved as if he'd just won the lottery. “You mean those military rations? My wife and I would be extremely grateful for whatever you can spare.”
Relief flooded Sam's body when he realized they were going to get the help they so desperately needed. Jimmy popped out of the motorhome, unarmed, thankfully. “What's going on, Dad?”
“This man is going to put us up overnight in exchange for some MREs.”
Jimmy shot back a thumb up. “Awesome. We sure could use a break. Is there any way you can tow us out of this ditch?”
“I believe I can,” the farmer said as he looked at the plow. “I'll just clear a path right though here and I'll pull you out by tying a chain to this plow. I'll let you park it in the barn so you can get this thing out of the elements.”
A half hour later, the motorhome was ensconced inside a metal-walled barn, no worse for the wear. Shutting the engine off, Sam pointed to Jimmy and said, “Let's pull out three cases to give to them. They deserve it.”
“That'll leave us with eight,” Jimmy said.
“That's still plenty. Grab a case so we can get some food into these people.”
A few minutes later, they were led into the farmhouse, greeted by the farmer's gray-haired wife who was even thinner than her husband. She was overjoyed at the sight of the MREs they carried into the house, eagerly going through the various contents just after they set them down on the kitchen counter. “Gosh, you have no idea how long it's been since we've had a decent meal.”
The farmer, sans winter coat, extended a hand to Sam in greeting. “I'm David. That's my wife Helen. Needless to say, we haven't had much company lately.”
Noticing the comfortable temperature, he asked, “What are you heating with?”
“Propane,” David replied. “At the rate we're burning it, we'll be out in a month. They've got an evacuation center down in St Louis, but nobody's been around to plow the road in weeks, so we're pretty much trapped here.”