by Tom Abrahams
“Calm down, Rock.” Leigh put her hand on his back and rubbed it. “We’ll be fine.”
“This is illegal,” he repeated. “They can’t do this.” He looked over at the Subaru, noticing a window sticker for the local United Methodist Church.
“Sir,” said Harker, “I need you to calm down.”
“Did you steal that car?” James snapped. “Like you just stole my gun?”
“Calm down, Rock.” Leigh moved her hand to her husband’s shoulder and squeezed. “It’s not worth it.”
“We aren’t stealing anything, sir,” said Harker, exchanging glances with his younger partner. “We are keeping order as is our job. As for the vehicles, we need as many as we can get. Most of our patrol cars are dead from the EMP after the blast.”
“You never told us what happened,” interjected Leigh, trying to diffuse the tension.
“We don’t know exactly, ma’am,” answered Harker. “We know there was a detonation of some kind and a subsequent wind blast, followed by that surge of water from the bay.”
“The tsunami,” said James. “Can I put my hands down?”
“Yes, sir,” said Harker. “And you can lower your weapon, Jenkins,” he instructed his partner.
“How far does the damage go?” asked Leigh. “I mean, how are we supposed to get home?”
“I can’t help you with that, ma’am,” said Harker. “We’re happy to escort you to a location of your choosing nearby, but other—”
“No, thank you!” James interrupted. “Are we free to go?”
Harker looked over and Jenkins and shrugged. “Yes, but you might want to get off the streets. It’s not safe.” The officers returned to the car, its engine still running, and drove west on Broadway past the cemetery and toward the interstate.
“Rock,” Leigh said to her husband as they watched the taillights of the Subaru disappear in the distance. “You can’t challenge authority like that. What would we do if they’d arrested you or shot you?”
“You’re right.” James coughed and bent over at the waist to clear the phlegm from his throat. “But that was illegal what they just did. They’ve left us defenseless.” James looked up across Broadway, past the Dairy Queen, onto Main Street. He squinted to make sure his eyes weren’t fooling him. A smile spread across his face.
“Let’s go,” he told his wife. “I’ll help you with your pack.”
CHAPTER 13
EVENT +8:20 Hours
South Portland, Maine
The Ocean Street Auto Repair shop was closed, but there was a light on inside the shop. That boded well, James figured as his family crossed the parking lot to the gray concrete building, its exterior stamped to look like bricks.
Underneath the red-lettered sign, Ocean Street Auto, was a blue and yellow NAPA sign reading “Have your electrical system check today!” James chuckled as he approached the metal-framed glass bay doors. He banged on one of them and cupped his hands around his face as he pressed his nose to the glass. There were two cars and an SUV inside.
“Do you think anybody is here?” asked Max, imitating his father and peering inside the garage.
“I don’t know,” answered James, “but the lights are on.”
“So,” asked Leigh, her arm around Sloane, “are we stealing a car now?”
James turned around and glared at his wife. “Really?!”
“We can’t steal a car,” she argued. “That makes us no better than those men on the boat.”
She still hadn’t told James what they’d said to her on the water, why they tried to overtake the kayak. There would be plenty of time for that. There would be time to talk about her husband’s deadly aim and the way in which he killed three men in front of their children.
Leigh couldn’t reconcile any of it. As badly as she wanted to be home, wanted to wake up from this hell, she didn’t want her family losing its sense of right and wrong.
“What would you have me do, Leigh?” James said through clenched teeth. “You want to wait for a fairy godmother to wave a wand and give us a golden chariot? Because that’s not happening.”
“I don’t want us stealing anything,” she reiterated. “I don’t think that’s right. I don’t—”
“Hello?” a voice asked through the glass. “Can I help you?”
James turned back to see a gray-haired man in a blue mechanic’s jumpsuit. He was tall and thin, grease streaked on his cheeks. He was wringing his hands with a dirty shop rag.
“Yes, sir,” James asked. “Do you have a car that works?”
The man surveyed the family on the other side of the glass, chuckled, and raised a finger. “Hang on a second,” he said and walked toward the back of the garage. He pushed a button on the rear wall and a bay door opened mechanically.
“C’mon in.” The man welcomed the Rockwells with a wave. “The kids can have a seat over there.” He pointed to a long vinyl-padded bench at the far side of the shop.
“Thank you,” said Leigh. “Very kind of you.”
“It’s no bother,” said the man. His name, written in cursive on his chest, read Barney. “You look like nice folks who could use a rest for a beat.”
“Yes,” said James, unloading his pack onto the black-stained concrete floor before helping Leigh with hers, “thank you.”
“I’m Barney.” He offered a hand to James, shook it hard, and then gently took Leigh’s hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”
“I’m Leigh,” she replied. “This is my husband, James, and those are our children, Max and Sloane.”
“So you need a car, do you?” Barney’s voice was thick with the stereotypical Mainer’s accent. Car sounded like cah. You sounded like yuh.
“Ours was washed out,” explained James. “We’re on vacation and need to get home.”
“Everybody needs to get home.” Barney nodded. “I can appreciate the pickle. Quite a mess we have here, ayuh. I figured you were from away and not here.”
“I notice you have electricity,” said James. “How’s that?”
“I have a gas-powered generator out back.” Barney nodded toward the rear of the shop.
“Are any of these cars yours?” James was back on task.
“Ayuh,” said Barney. “Two of them. They’re not the finest kind of car, but they’ll do in a pinch. You’re in a pinch, I’m guessing.”
“We’re all in a pinch,” said Leigh. “Do you know what happened?”
“Not for sure.” Barney stuffed his hands in his coverall pockets. “I was up early, per usual and saw the bright lights apiece down the coast. Then the lights died. I hear the water came pretty close to here too.”
“It did,” offered Leigh. She turned to see her children lying down on the bench. Both of them had their eyes closed.
“Couldn’t tell you what happened”—Barney shrugged—“but I do know the cops are a bit antsy. They come looking for my cars. I told them they were deader than a steamer. They left.”
“Are they dead?” James pressed.
“No.” Barney shook his head. “They’re good. Which one tickles your fancy?”
“The Ford.” James nodded toward the SUV. “How much?”
“That one’s got a full tank of gas.” Barney scratched his chin. “She’s old but in good shape, ayuh. I’d normally ask fifteen hundred. But I know you got some kids you need to get home. How’s a thousand?”
James nodded and countered, “I’ve only five hundred in cash. I need to keep a little of it. You don’t take credit cards, do you?” He knew it was a stupid question as soon as it left it lips.
“I wish I could”—Barney sighed—“but there’s no way to do that. The system isn’t working. And to be honest, the only reason I’d sell is ’cause I need some cash. Gotta walk down to Shaw’s and get a prescription filled. Maybe buy a little milk for my coffee. You’re doing me a favor with cash.”
“Can you do three hundred?” James asked.
“Not on the Ford”—Barney shook his head—“but on that ther
e Nissan I could. She’s got maybe a half tank of gas. Runs good. The transmission slips a scrid. Get down on your Prayer Handle and ask her to keep moving, she’ll be fine.”
“How far will a half tank get me?” asked James, kneeling down to pull the cash from his bag.
“I don’t know,” said Barney. “Not as far as you think, probably. I hear you need to stay off the main roads. Take the long way home.”
“Where’d you hear that?” asked Leigh.
“The cops,” said Barney, taking the three hundred dollars from James. “They said it’s bad out there and getting worse fast. They’re thinking martial law is the way to go.”
“Yeah,” James said, “we’re figuring that out. Thanks for the heads-up.”
“Not a problem,” said Barney. “I’ll get you the keys and a map.”
CHAPTER 14
EVENT +11:30 Hours
Waterboro, Maine
“Are you sure this is the best way to go?” Leigh was driving, James was navigating. It wasn’t that Leigh couldn’t read a map, but she didn’t like to do it.
“I’m just trying to avoid the interstate,” said James, “so I’m taking us west before we head south.”
“This is really far west, Rock,” she complained. “Don’t you think we’re better off finding a southern route now. We’ve been driving for more than three hours and we’ve gone maybe twenty miles.”
“It’s not my fault the roads are blocked or impassable,” said James, rustling the map. “And I want to go slowly enough to be able to see and avoid any police checkpoints.”
“I get it,” she said, slapping his thigh. “I’m just tired, that’s all. You wanna drive?”
“Sure,” he offered. “Let’s get into Waterboro. There’s a school on the map. Maybe we can find a bathroom or something for the kids. Then we’ll switch out there.”
“Okay,” Leigh said, her eyes back on the road, “I’m good with that.”
Waterboro was a small town on the southern edge of narrow Lake Arrowhead at Little Ossipee Pond. It was hilly and heavily forested, an idyllic New England village under any other circumstances.
Just south and east of Waterboro was East Waterboro. It sat at the intersection of highway 202 and highway 4. Leigh approached the T intersection and slowed to a stop.
“Which way do I go?” she asked her husband, whose face was buried in the map.
“Straight,” he said, looking up. “Head straight north on five. That’ll take us to the school.”
Leigh pressed the accelerator on the Nissan, which hesitated before switching into gear. The family didn’t see the silver BMW SUV approaching quickly up highway 4 as they passed through the intersection. But Leigh caught it in her rearview mirror as it sped quickly behind them, narrowing the distance.
“This isn’t good,” she said. “There’s somebody speeding behind us. It’s like they’re chasing us.”
James turned around in his seat to look out the back window. Both kids were buckled and sleeping. They’d barely woken up when they loaded them into the back of the ’96 Altima. They’d dozed on and off for most of the ride.
He looked past his children and out the window. The BMW was tailgating them. It was less than a car length behind them. James could tell there was a driver and a passenger in the front. He couldn't tell if anyone was in the back. The driver flashed his lights. He flashed them again.
“He wants me to pull over.” Leigh’s eyes were darting between the road and rearview. “What should I do?” She passed over a small stream and zoomed past a restaurant off to the left. It looked like an oversized, polished chrome train car. She considered pulling into the parking lot.
“Don’t pull over.” James coughed. His wheezing wasn’t going away. “Keep going. These guys are not good.”
The BMW sped up and pulled alongside the Rockwells. The driver was on the wrong side of the road. His passenger was motioning to Leigh, telling her to pull over. He had a beer can in his hand and took a long swig. The driver flashed a gun, a semiautomatic pistol. He waved it at Leigh and laughed.
“What do I do, Rock?” she asked, trying to avoid eye contact with the passenger.
“Keep going.” James popped open the glove box, looking for anything that might help their situation. Nothing. Then he remembered his pack. It was strapped into the rear middle seat, separating the kids. He unbuckled his belt and reached between the front seats to grab his pack.
“What are you doing?” Leigh asked.
“Just drive,” James answered, unzipping the pack and rifling through it.
Leigh slammed on her brakes without warning, tossing James backward into the dash. “Oh! Sorry!” she cried, grabbing his arm. “I’m trying to avoid these guys.”
The BMW kept moving, only hitting its brake lights after passing the intersection at which Leigh turned left. She found herself at another intersection and turned left again onto what looked like a loop.
“I’m fine.” James coughed. “Just give me a heads-up next time.” He climbed back into his seat and reached back into the pack.
Leigh swung the Nissan around the curve in front of Massabesic Junior High School. She accelerated out of the curve, the car struggling to shift gears.
“The BMW’s back,” she said, seeing the SUV take the left turn to the junior high too quickly, sliding off the road before the driver recovered. “And I think he’s pissed.”
“He’s about to be a lot more pissed,” James said, buckling himself back into his seat, a package of matches and a pair of flares in his lap.
“What is that, Rock?” Leigh’s eyes were wide with judgment. “What are you going to do?”
“Keep us safe, Leigh,” he answered.
Leigh took another left and then a right, heading north on Old Alfred Road. The BMW was on her tail again and sped up. The driver flashed his lights and then rammed into the Nissan’s fiberglass bumper. Leigh worked to keep the car from fishtailing, pushing the car into another gear. It didn’t respond and sputtered, the engine whining as the RPMs climbed toward the red numbers on the dial.
The BMW shifted into the left lane and matched speeds with the Altima. The passenger was wagging his finger and shaking his head, scolding Leigh for not pulling over. He rolled down his window and started yelling something unintelligible at the Rockwells.
“Is he saying he’s with a militia?” Leigh asked James. “Or the military?”
“He’s not with the military,” said James, opening the flare packaging with his teeth. “No way. They’re thugs.”
“Mommy?” Sloane was groggy but awake. “What’s happening?”
“Dad?” Max was up too. “What are you doing?”
The BMW swerved right, hitting the Nissan. Sloane screamed. “Mommy!”
“That’s it,” James said. “Roll down the window. And when I tell you to hit the brakes, do it! Okay?”
“Okay.” Leigh nodded, rolling down the window.
“Pull over!” screamed the passenger in the BMW. “That’s an order. We’re in charge of this area. You’re in our area. Pull over now!”
James flicked a match against the flint on the side of the box, igniting it and touching it to the wick at the end of the flare. It sparked and crackled as James leaned over his wife and tossed the lit flare through the open window of the BMW right onto the screaming man’s lap. The driver swerved.
“Now!” James said. “Brake now!”
Leigh slammed on the brakes, the tires screeching their resistance as they burned to a stop against the pavement. She slipped the car in reverse and turned around to head south, away from the BMW.
As she made the turn, James watched the action. The BMW was stopped fifty yards ahead of them. The passenger door was open and the screaming man was out of the SUV. There was a red glare throbbing from the luxury interior before the driver tossed the flare out his window and into the weeds next to the road.
They were across the street from the Waterboro Fire Department. James saw a couple of
guys wander from the station’s driveway and onto the street.
Leigh shifted back into drive and sped back the way they came. James turned to look out the rear window in time to see the screaming man pop two bullets into the firefighters. The flash of the semiautomatic was unmistakable, even if he couldn’t hear the shots. The men dropped to the street like untethered puppets. James turned around without telling Leigh what he’d just seen and robotically reattached his seatbelt.
“We’re good,” James wheezed. “Just head south until you hit West Road. Then take a right.”
Sloane was crying still, despite Max’s efforts to comfort her. He looked at his father with the fear of a child whose innocence is on the verge of unexpected obliteration.
“Sloane baby,” said Leigh, palming the sweat from her forehead, “we’re okay. The bad men are gone. We’re fine.”
“We’re not fine, Mom,” Max shouted, gulping back tears. “Nothing is fine!”
“Max—” James started.
“Dad!” Max snipped. “It’s not fine. Sloane knows it, I know it. We’re kids, but we’re not stupid.”
“Nobody’s calling you stupid,” James corrected.
“You almost died twice today!” Max couldn’t contain the tears streaming down his cheeks. His lips were quivering as he spoke the truth. “Mom and I almost got killed by crazy boaters, then you shot them. You shot them, Dad!”
“I know—”
“Now, some crazy guys want to drive us off the road and shoot Mom, so you throw a firecracker at them!” Max’s chest was heaving as he unloaded. Sloane was sniffling, but her brother’s outburst seemed to have calmed her.
“Max—”
“Dad!” he cried. “The whole world is upside down. I’m twelve years old and the world is ruined.”
James looked over at his wife. Her eyes were on the road, but they were dripping with tears. She was silently commiserating with her son, agreeing with his dark and likely accurate assessment.
More than anything, James Rockwell wanted to hug his family. He wanted to console them, assure them there was light at the end of the tunnel. They’d make it home. They’d be okay. Life would return to normal as it had six years ago, in the weeks and months after the flu epidemic subsided and the spring thawed the icy winter.