***
Unfortunately, getting the truck lined up on the rails proved to be a matter of trial and error and not nearly as easy as Wiggins anticipated. They used a nearby street crossing with Wiggins driving and Tex giving hand signals, and it took them almost an hour before the truck was centered on the rails with the guide wheels locked in place. Wiggins cast a worried look at the lightening eastern sky as Tex climbed into the passenger seat.
“Let’s hope we get better with practice,” she said.
“Let’s hope we don’t have to use it long enough to need much practice,” Wiggins said.
Despite the inauspicious beginning, the truck moved smoothly on the rails. Though, Wiggins’ dreams of speeding home were dampened by the large safety notice on the dashboard, limiting the top speed on straight track to forty-five miles per hour and dropping that to thirty for curves, and warning of the near certainty of derailment if those limits were exceeded.
They’d just made a sweeping turn to the left under the Mass Turnpike when Wiggins nodded at the sign. “For sure we won’t be outrunning any bad guys.”
“Which is why we’re running in the dark. Speaking of which, it will be full light in a half hour or so,” Tex said, her NV glasses flipped up as she studied the map with a flashlight. “The delay is going to cost us. If we follow our original plan, we’ll be in a populated area come sunup.”
“Plan B?” Wiggins asked.
“We’re in it,” Tex said. “We’re in a heavily wooded area for the next few miles, with no roads or buildings for at least a half a mile on either side of the tracks. Stopping on the track along here is probably the safest option.”
“Okay,” Wiggins said, tapping the brakes.
Chapter Thirty-One
On the rails
Wooded area
Near Westfield, Massachusetts
Day 34, 4:25 p.m.
They decided one of them would keep watch in the driver’s seat in case they had to run. Wiggins volunteered for the first watch, and Tex stretched out in the backseat of the crew cab and was dead to the world in minutes.
Wiggins was poring over the map for the tenth time when he heard Tex stirring. He looked back over the seat and smiled.
“Lazarus awakes.”
There was a red ridge down Tex’s cheek from a seam in the upholstery, and her hair was flattened on the side of her head. She looked about groggily, then glanced at her watch.
“You let me sleep all day, Bill!”
Wiggins shrugged. “You needed it, and I’m too excited to sleep anyway.” He grinned again. “Even at thirty miles an hour, I’ll make it home by morning, Tex.”
“All the more reason to sleep. You can’t drive all night—”
“Oh yes I can, and I’m going to,” Wiggins said.
“Okay, but don’t forget the river crossings, even on the railroads. There are at least four major—”
“Twenty-nine,” Wiggins said.
“What?”
“There are twenty-nine major rail bridges on our route. We’ll cross the Nashua River five times, and some big creek I never heard of six times, and several of the rivers twice or three times each.” Wiggins grinned.
“Then why are you so happy?”
“Because ninety-five percent of the crossings are out in the boonies without a road nearby, much less anyone likely to contest our crossing, AND I confirmed we can give Boston a wide berth. We still have to transit some smaller cities, but I don’t think we should have a problem on the rails in the dark.”
“Still, we need to be cautious. For sure some of those railroad bridges are going to be blocked or guarded,” Tex said.
“Yeah, but it’s like we were talking about before. People guarding the major highway bridges pull cars across the road or make other strong barriers because they EXPECT cars might try to crash the roadblock,” Wiggins said. “But where we’ve seen railroad bridges guarded, have we ever once seen one with a substantial barrier?”
“No, I’ll grant you that. But that doesn’t mean—”
“That’s exactly what it means, Tex. Anybody guarding a railroad bridge is expecting to stop pedestrian traffic or maybe bikes or motorcycles, or at the very most, a car bumping along at slow speed. Nobody will expect a rail vehicle to take a bridge at speed, and it’s such an unlikely event they’re not likely to waste time constructing a barrier against it.”
“I agree, this is our best option by far,” Tex said. “I just don’t want to see you get your hopes up too high. We’re bound to have to go through some rail yards, and we don’t know how all the rail switches are set. Or the blackout might have left a train on the track somewhere, blocking our way, or any one of a dozen things—”
“In which case we raise the guide wheels, get off the track, drive around the problem, and get back on,” Wiggins said.
“Which we found out last night is not quite as easy as it sounds,” Tex said.
“Well, maybe,” Wiggins said, his enthusiasm not noticeably dampened.
***
Wiggins’ patience was tested almost immediately when he suggested leaving as soon as it was full dark. Tex pointed out they had to transit Holyoke to reach open track, including a section of track running down the center of a city street for a half mile. Wiggins grudgingly conceded the point, and they delayed their departure until eleven.
Once clear of Holyoke and running north at full speed, a new variable surfaced; they were much noisier than anticipated. The guide wheels rode the tracks with a metallic hum and shrieked a piercing lament as they rounded curves. Likewise, there was a clunk at each rail joint, not unlike the clackety-clack of a freight train, but with a different cadence due to the short length of their vehicle and the odd spacing of the guide wheels and the truck tires.
“So much for stealth,” Wiggins said. “I’m sure we can be heard for miles.”
“That might be a good thing,” Tex said. “Nobody’s likely to try to stop a train, and by the time they figure out we’re NOT a train, we’ll be long gone.”
Despite Wiggins’ determination, he soon realized his goal was unrealistic. Braking of the rubber tires on the smooth steel rails was touchy at best, and every time they came to a rail yard, they slowed to a crawl, fearful they might find themselves switched to a siding and hurtling toward a stationary string of freight cars.
Likewise, the sound they produced at full speed gave far too much advance notice to anyone who might be waiting at a rail bridge. After some discussion, they decided to slow down well in advance of all bridges and creep forward in the dark until they could use their NV gear to see what awaited them.
It was an expenditure of time made all the more grudgingly because Wiggins had been right about most of the bridges. However, on two occasions their caution paid off, and they spotted guards ahead. The first time, they crept close enough in the dark to dash across and escape down the track before the sleepy guard knew what was happening.
On the second occasion, the guard was more alert and raised a powerful flashlight as they barreled toward the bridge. But Wiggins and Tex were prepared. They’d raised their NV glasses, and Wiggins hit the high beams just as Tex blasted the portable air horn in the guard’s direction. The terrified guard leaped to one side, and the pickup rushed past. By the time the guard recovered, Wiggins killed the lights, and the pickup sped away in the darkness.
They were through Lowell by three o’clock, and halfway through Lawrence when Wiggins let out a resigned sigh. “We’re obviously not going to make it tonight. We need to start thinking about a hiding place. We’ll push across the Merrimack at Haverhill and out of the city. The track runs through rural areas north of there.”
“The Merrimack is a pretty substantial river,” Tex said.
“Definitely not one of the ninety-five percent. It’s a major crossing in an urban area, so I expect it’s guarded.” Wiggins laughed nervously. “I guess we’ll see how valid my ‘no barricade’ theory is, now won’t we?”
Te
x studied the map. “There’s another problem, I’m afraid. There’s a commuter train station to the left, then a long sweeping curve. We won’t be able to see a thing until we’re practically on top of the bridge, and if we take that curve at anything but a crawl, those metal wheels will squeal a warning. Anyone there will know about us before we know about them.”
“What’re you thinking?”
“I’m thinking we should stop before we round the curve and check it out on foot,” Tex said.
***
Wiggins began slowing as soon as he saw the commuter rail station, and they rolled to a silent stop just as the tracks began to curve left. They started down the track on foot, carrying their M4s and moving cautiously.
They reached a viaduct, which carried the tracks over a city street. Tex touched Wiggins’ arm and pointed; the street passing below them ran the short distance to the river and onto a car bridge. Wiggins followed Tex’s pointing finger to see a roadblock across the bridge entrance, glowing green in his goggles. Three cars blocked the bridge. He could make out people seated in each of the cars, and one man leaning against the hood of one, holding an assault rifle.
“Well, there are definitely toll collectors on the car bridge, so there’s probably someone on the rail bridge, since they’re side by side,” Wiggins whispered.
Tex nodded, and they started across the viaduct, being careful not to miss a step and plunge between the ties. They were halfway across when Wiggins spotted it.
“Well, so much for that theory,” he muttered softly, then pointed to a car parked across the tracks a hundred feet away.
Tex studied the scene for a moment before responding. “It looks like there’s some sort of little parking lot there, so all they had to do was back across the tracks.” She paused. “I see one guy at the wheel zonked out. You see anyone else?” she whispered.
“Negative,” Wiggins whispered back. “Stay and watch the roadblock while I take care of the guy in the car and roll it out of the way. If those guys down there hear us, be ready to discourage them from charging to the rescue too quickly.”
Tex nodded and Wiggins moved forward. He circled around to the driver’s side of the car and studied the man through the open window. His head lolled back against the headrest and he was snoring softly; drool dribbled from the corner of his open mouth. Wiggins put the muzzle of the M4 against the man’s head.
“Make a move and you’re dead,” Wiggins said quietly.
The man’s eyes flew open, puzzled at first, then terrified.
“Put both your hands on the wheel where I can see—”
Wiggins saw the movement in his peripheral vision and reacted instinctively, stepping back several steps as the man who’d been sleeping unseen in the backseat raised a pistol. Wiggins silenced him with a three-round burst, then turned back to the driver, who was now bringing up a pistol as well. Wiggins fired a three-round burst through the thin sheet metal of the car door, and the man jerked and fell forward on the wheel. The blare of a car horn split the night air.
Wiggins looked helplessly at Tex, who shook her head in insect-like astonishment. He jerked open the car door and dragged the dead man out, relieved the horn stopped at least. He laid his M4 down and jumped behind the wheel to pull the car off the tracks, then was out and scooping up his weapon to run back towards Tex. He found her crouched behind the short steel wall of the viaduct, watching the men at the roadblock.
They were all awake now, and Wiggins counted seven. All were well armed, but he could see no NV gear at all.
“I think we’re all right,” Tex said. “They don’t know what the hell is going on, and they can’t cut us off unless they crawl up that steep slope to the tracks, and it’s pretty overgrown with brush. The only other way up here passes under this viaduct, and we have the advantage. I’ll hold them off while you bring up the truck.”
“I’ll stay. You go get the truck,” Wiggins said.
“Knock off the Sir Galahad crap, Bill. You know I’m a better shot. Just go get the truck. And hurry, before those clowns get organized.”
Wiggins hesitated, then set off down the tracks at a run. He’d just reached the truck and started it when he heard all hell break loose. He could easily distinguish Tex’s disciplined three-round bursts from the roar of full-automatic fire from the street below. He mashed the accelerator and sent up a silent prayer for Tex. He had no doubt she was giving better than she got, but the goons on the street below were throwing out a lot of rounds, and they might get lucky.
He rounded the curve and was relieved to see Tex on the opposite side of the viaduct, firing and moving, taking advantage of the fact her opponents could only see her muzzle flash, and making sure she immediately vacated the place they’d last seen it. With the truck on the rails, Wiggins had no need to steer it, so he shouldered his M4 and stuck it through the open window. He smiled when their opponents came into view. Far from advancing, they’d all taken cover behind the three-car barricade, popping up to spray rounds in their general direction then dropping down again. He added his own fire to Tex’s as the truck rolled across the viaduct, then belatedly remembered the rather limited stopping power of the rubber tires on the slick rails and slammed on the brakes.
Tex glanced over her shoulder as the pickup flashed past, tires squealing, and she turned and raced after it. It was still moving when she managed to throw open the door and leap inside.
“GO, GO, GO,” she yelled.
Wiggins transferred his foot to the gas and they were off, racing over the Merrimack.
Haverhill, Massachusetts
Same Day, 4:55 a.m.
They rode in tense silence through the dark city, expecting to be fired upon any moment. Slowly the tension ebbed, and Tex started chuckling.
“What?” Wiggins said.
“The next time the task requires silence, I’m doing it,” Tex said. “Seriously? The frigging horn?”
“It’s not like I planned it,” Wiggins said.
“Obviously,” Tex said, and laughed harder.
Her laughter was infectious, and soon Wiggins was laughing along with her, but a glance at the lightening sky to the east killed his good humor.
“We have to find a hiding place, and soon,” he said.
Tex looked at a highway bridge towering above the track ahead, then glanced at the map.
“That’s gotta be I-495. The area ahead looks to be a mix of rural land and subdivisions. There’s a crossing about five miles ahead. We should be able to get off and on there with no problem.”
A few minutes later Wiggins started slowing, and as Tex had predicted, the road crossing proved a perfect place to exit the tracks. He pulled into the crossing and raised the guide wheels, allowing him to steer off the tracks and onto the pavement.
“Which way?” he asked.
“Left,” Tex said. “But go slow, and let’s see if we can find an opening in the woods to the right.”
Wiggins had driven no more than fifty feet when Tex yelled and pointed to a dirt track.
“This isn’t the SUV, Tex,” Wiggins said. “I doubt the off-road capabilities are close to the same.”
Tex nodded and opened her door.
“What are you doing?” Wiggins asked.
“I’ll walk in front to check things out. I’ll walk a bit, then motion you forward. If we run into problems, we can always back out.”
She closed the door without waiting for a response and walked forward. She went fifty feet and motioned him forward, then repeated the process. They’d gone about two hundred feet when he emerged on the now neglected green expanse of a golf course. Tex came over, grinning.
“I saw it on the map,” she said. “I figure not too many people are playing golf these days, so hiding in the woods off the eighteenth hole should be fairly secure.”
Granite Fields Golf Course
Kingston, New Hampshire
Day 35, 7:25 p.m.
Wiggins didn’t argue when Tex insisted on taking the first
watch. He collapsed across the backseat of the crew cab and was snoring soundly before the sun was fully up. He awoke in the early afternoon, rested but sweaty, and relieved Tex. She woke near sundown to find Wiggins standing in the fading light, the railroad map spread out before him on the hood of the truck. She went into the woods to relieve herself and came back to stand by Wiggins’ side.
“Problem?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I was just going over the route again to see if there were any more blind approaches like that curve back there.”
“And?”
He shook his head again. “There aren’t any, but I’ve had second thoughts about our route. Riding the rails all the way to Lewiston means transiting Portland and two long bridges we don’t really need to cross. I don’t think it’s worth the risk, BUT”—Wiggins put his finger on the map—”there’s a spur here in Biddeford with its own bridge across the Saco River. It dead-ends in an industrial park less than forty miles from home. I’ll feel a lot more comfortable maneuvering on back roads I know well and with a night-vision advantage instead of being stuck on rails in a city.”
“Sounds reasonable,” Tex said.
They were close now, and as much as he wanted to rush, Wiggins forced himself to be patient. They decided to wait until after midnight to increase the odds the people in the towns they transited would be asleep. They ate MREs and passed the time talking about their lives. Wiggins hadn’t spoken much of his home and family, suppressing his worry to concentrate on the all-important task of getting home. Now that goal was in reach, and he felt a need to verbalize his fears. Tex offered quiet encouragement, silent most of the time but asking questions when appropriate.
He smiled when he talked of his wife, Karen, and their three-year-old, Billy, and his own parents who lived nearby. Then he turned somber.
Push Back: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller (The Disruption Series Book 2) Page 42