by Keith Taylor
He sighed with relief as he reached a patch of asphalt that had recently been repaired. It wouldn’t last long, but at the speed he was driving he had maybe two minutes of respite before the potholes resumed, and until then—
Huh.
There was a noise coming from up ahead.
΅
:::8:::
SHEPHERD EASED OFF the gas, tilting his head to favor the ear that wasn’t cursed with the constant ringing of tinnitus, and he frowned with confusion. As he’d driven through the potholes the car had sounded like someone was performing a drum solo from the back seat, but now, in the sudden silence…
Almost without conscious thought he slammed his foot on the brake the moment he realized what he was hearing. The Jeep fishtailed with the sudden deceleration before Shepherd wrestled back control, pulled to the side of the road and killed the engine.
From somewhere up ahead came the throaty rumble of an idling vehicle. Something big, probably a truck. It was hard to tell exactly how far away but it sounded close, maybe just beyond the top of the hill up ahead, on the approach to Monroeville. If he hadn’t been paying attention he would have driven right into it.
Shepherd’s mind raced. Just a couple of hours ago the sound of an engine other than his own wouldn’t have even registered in his mind. It would have been just part of the background noise of a regular day, but now… now it sounded alien. It sounded like something that didn’t belong, and he couldn’t help wonder why anyone with a working vehicle would have it idling here on the road to Monroeville.
Hell, maybe he was just being paranoid. Maybe it was a driver of an older vehicle who didn’t even realize anything was amiss, someone who’d just pulled over to take a piss or eat a sack lunch. Maybe it was nothing, but right now he couldn’t afford to take that kind of risk. He had to assume that anything out of the ordinary, even something that would have seemed perfectly normal this time yesterday, was a potential threat.
Shepherd grabbed the Glock from the glove compartment and climbed out of the truck. He was about to tuck the gun into his waistband before he realized that would be asking for trouble. There was no call to let safety go out the window just because there wasn’t anyone around to pull him up on his sloppy carry discipline. He took a couple of minutes to pull on his shoulder holster, always with one eye on the road ahead, and tucked the Glock safely beneath his left armpit before pulling on a loose Levi denim jacket to conceal it.
Before locking up the truck he popped the hood and propped it up to make it look as if it was just another dead vehicle by the side of the road. There was nothing he could do about the supplies visible in the trunk, but hopefully anyone who happened to pass by wouldn’t give it a second look once they saw the truck was broken down.
He held still for a moment, cocking his ear to check that he could still hear the idling engine, and then walked into the undergrowth by the side of the road. It was thick out here, and hard going, but it was worth the effort to remain concealed. Anyone waiting on the other side of the rise for an ambush probably wouldn’t be watching the trees too closely.
Shepherd was panting by the time he reached the top of the hill, and before continuing he took a few moments to bring his breathing under control. He was sure he couldn’t be heard over the sound of the engine, but in his head his breath sounded like it could be heard all the way to Monroeville two miles distant. When he was satisfied that he was capable of stealth he crept forward again, carefully pushing his way through the scrubby bushes that lined the road, and the moment he saw the vehicle he froze.
What the hell?
About fifty yards ahead an old semi-trailer truck sat idling in the middle of the narrow road, almost completely blocking both lanes with its trailer skewed at an angle. In front of the truck three disabled cars were stopped. Two had looked to have been abandoned, but beside one of them stood a woman who seemed intensely on edge. Even at this distance Shepherd could sense the tension, though he had no idea of the cause.
Suddenly he heard a metallic crash followed by a yell. “I said get out! You not hearing me, boy? I won’t tell you again.”
The woman standing beside her car flinched behind the open driver’s side door at the sound of another crash, then called out towards the truck. “Dale, honey, please. You’re scaring the kids.”
Shepherd couldn’t hear the response at this distance, but from the speed with which the woman climbed back in her car he guessed it hadn’t been polite.
Shepherd sighed. Fuck. He needed to continue on this road. He knew the sparse network of roads that ran like ribbons through the farmland of Campbell County like the back of his hand, and he knew this was the best option. If he turned around now he’d have to backtrack through Willow Falls and continue east for almost thirty miles before meeting a road that would take him back in the right direction. The road ahead would take him directly to the outskirts of Lynchburg, by far the most direct route to the cabin, but if the path was blocked by some lunatic…
There was nothing else for it. Shepherd couldn’t face the prospect of backtracking so far through the state. The risk of finding the road impassably blocked somewhere in those sixty extra miles was too great, and right now every minute counted. More and more people would realize what was happening as time went on, and his truck and its supplies would soon become too tempting a prize to pass up.
He sighed and picked his way through the undergrowth back to the road, emerging close to the back of the truck where he could get a good view of what was going on without giving up cover. Slowly, carefully, he poked his head around to the other side of the trailer, and immediately he saw the problem.
The man was around his late forties, well built and obviously drunk, weaving unsteadily by the driver’s side door of the truck. In his hand was a tire iron, and from the look of the dents in the door he’d already given it a few good hits.
Shepherd reached into his jacket pocket and slipped out his auxiliary police officer shield. The ‘auxiliary’ embossed in the nickel immediately gave away the fact that he wasn’t a full fledged police officer, but he’d been involved in enough DWI arrests to know that he could flash a plastic shield that came with a Halloween costume and a drunk would shit his pants, provided he carried himself with enough confidence.
Shepherd left his Glock holstered, but unclipped the safety latch just in case. He didn’t want to escalate the situation unless it was absolutely necessary, and by the look of it the drunk would respond poorly to a weapon in his face. He seemed like the belligerent type, a guy with more balls than brains, and the way he was acting made Shepherd nervous. The power had only been out a few hours and already he’d lost it. This wasn't a stable, balanced individual.
“Sir,” he called out in a calm, steady voice, holding up his shield. “I’m a Campbell County police officer. Place the tire iron on the ground and take ten steps back from the truck.”
The man barely even glanced in Shepherd’s direction before he let out a theatrical, over the top laugh. “A cop? Fuck, you’re all down here in the dirt with the rest of us now, boy. Go on, get outta here. This doesn’t concern you.”
Shepherd took a step closer, shifting his position in anticipation of drawing his weapon. “This is your final warning, sir. Drop the iron and step back. I should warn you I’m armed and authorized to use deadly force.”
He didn’t actually know if that was strictly true. It had been six years since he’d been certified by the department, and in a town as small as Willow Falls he’d never even been asked to take an entrance exam before he was handed his shield. His was more of an honorary role, a backup to help with traffic duty whenever the big drinking holidays rolled around.
The drunk turned towards Shepherd, the tire iron tapping against his leg, and he sneered. “You don’t get it, do you? It’s all over. No power. No cars. No lights. No fucking backup for you, I’ll tell you that much. It’s survival of the fittest now, and I’m not gonna let my family die just cause some pussy with a badge
tells me to lay down.”
Shit. He knew. All the good folks back in Willow Falls were clueless, but somehow this idiot who was hammered before lunch had figured out what had happened.
Shepherd reached beneath his jacket and smoothly pulled out the Glock, leveling it at the man. He raised his voice, hoping against hope he could get through to him without having to pull the trigger. “Down on the floor now.” He took another step forward as the drunk gripped the iron tighter. Shepherd could see his muscles bunching, and he noticed the drunk shift his stance. He wasn’t going to back down. Shepherd lowered his voice. “Come on, don’t force me to shoot you in front of your kids.”
For a second he thought he’d gotten through to the guy. He hoped the drunk’s concern for his family might find its way through the alcoholic fog, but a moment later the guy launched himself forward, swinging the tire iron back over his head. If he’d been sober he might have made it, but this was the most telegraphed attack in history.
Shepherd took the shot before his attacker managed a second step.
The man dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes, dropping the iron with a clatter, and after a moment of silence his wife emerged from the front of the truck, her face pale. Her lower lip trembled. “Oh my God, is he…?”
Shepherd lowered the Glock and shook his head. “Just a warning shot, ma’am, but that’s the first and last.” She rushed to her husband as Shepherd holstered the gun and tugged off his belt, but he urged her to stand well back as he cautiously approached, kicking the tire iron to the side of the road, lowering himself to the fallen drunk and pulling his arms roughly behind his back. The man didn’t resist as Shepherd cinched the belt tight around his wrists. He stayed silent, every trace of his drunken bravado sapped by the shock.
“Stay down,” Shepherd warned, lifting himself to his feet. He turned to the wife. “Ma’am, I need you to get back in the car, OK? Your husband will be fine.”
As she reluctantly complied Shepherd walked to the front of the truck, where he peered in the window and found that the driver’s seat was occupied by a frail, elderly driver who looked like fear had just wiped a decade off his life. “It’s OK, sir, I’m a police officer. Are you OK? You hurt?”
The driver shook his head and cautiously cranked his window down a couple of inches. “I don’t what in the everloving shit is going on, sir. What kinda operation you running here? Damn drunk coming outta nowhere trying to hijack my truck. I mean, is this Mad Max or somethin’?”
Shepherd grabbed the stalk of the wing mirror and pulled himself up close to the window, lowering his voice. “What are you hauling back there, sir?”
“Just a load of pork headed for the packing plant down in Danville. I’m only a quarter full. Barely even worth the gas money for the trip. There ain’t nothing back there worth stealing.”
Shepherd looked around, making sure the drunk and his wife couldn’t overhear him. “He didn’t want your load, he wanted your rig. Listen, old timer, something big’s going down. Maybe some kind of terrorist attack. An EMP is my best guess. Whatever it is, we’ve lost power – probably across the state, maybe even the whole country – and it might be a long while before it comes back. At least a few days, but it could be weeks.” He didn’t want to scare the old man with the truth, but he knew it was a pipe dream to think the lights might come back on within days. “Your load’s gonna spoil long before the power comes back. You’ve probably already lost refrigeration if you’ve got it back there.”
“You talking about one of those electromagnet whatchamacallums? The thing you get after a nuke?”
Shepherd nodded grimly. “I don’t know for sure, but that’s what it looks like. You’re not gonna make it all the way to Danville in this rig, and you might find more people like this fool further along the road. You want my advice? Stop at Monroeville about two miles up ahead. Go find the police chief, fella by the name of Red Matthews, and tell him Jim Shepherd sent you. He’s a good man. He’ll put you up and help you find a safe place for your rig until this blows over, understand? Oh, and you might wanna tell Red to get that pork down to the diner in town. Tell him to get as much as possible cooked or salted. You could be stuck there for the long haul, and you’ll win yourself a lot of friends if you help keep people fed. You got all that?”
The driver looked pale and terrified, but he nodded. “Red Matthews, got it.” He looked down at the small car stopped just a few feet from the front of his truck. “I guess I don’t have to worry about giving this thing a little nudge, right? You’re not gonna charge me with destruction of property or something?”
Shepherd chuckled. “Nudge away, sir. I don’t think anyone’s gonna be worried about a dented fender right now. Good luck.”
“Thank you, son. Good luck to ya.” The driver nodded as Shepherd lowered himself from the truck, and he pulled the prone body of the drunk away as the driver revved the engine, shifted into gear and pulled back into the road, shunting the small car out of the way as he went. Shepherd turned his attention to the drunk on the floor.
“You still with us, sir?”
The drunk nodded reluctantly, shooting Shepherd a hate filled stare.
“OK, I’m gonna untie you and send you on your way. Any other day I’d have you down in the cells, but I think we’re all gonna have to learn how to get along a little better until things work out. You live down in Monroeville?”
The drunk nodded curtly. Shepherd looked up at his car. His wife sat nervously behind the wheel, and behind her he could see the heads of two children, a boy and a girl, watching saucer-eyed.
“You have a lovely family, sir, and it’s your job to keep ‘em safe now. Get on home, draw as much water as you can before the pipes run dry, then sober the hell up. You’re no good to your family in this condition, understand?”
The drunk nodded again, his teeth clenched. Shepherd could tell his message wasn’t getting through, but there was nothing else he could do but let the guy go. He tugged the belt from his wrists and then quickly stepped back, one hand on the butt of the Glock, as the drunk slowly pulled himself to his feet.
“Now go on to your family, sir. I don’t wanna see you again, and you sure as hell don’t wanna see me. Go on.”
Shepherd backed away slowly, careful to keep the man in sight until he reached the peak of the hill, and before he lost line of sight he took one look back. The guy was back at his car, resting his elbows on the hood and massaging his wrists as his wife pulled the children from the back seats.
Finally Shepherd turned away and walked back to his truck, hoping all the way that the guy wouldn’t take out his frustration on his wife and kids. He knew more than enough short fuse assholes like that, the kind whose first and only impulse under pressure was to start swinging, and it almost never ended well for the family.
It was only when Shepherd reached the Jeep that he realized his hands were trembling. In the quarter century since he’d picked up his first gun he’d never once fired a shot in anger. Even as an auxiliary cop he’d only twice found the need to draw his weapon, but he'd never been forced to pull the trigger until today. He climbed in to the truck, grabbed his Marlboros from the dash and lit one with a shaky hand.
As his nerves settled he considered his predicament. Heading back into Willow Falls was out of the question, but now he wasn’t so sure about heading forward towards Lynchburg either. It was a town of 75,000, and even sticking to the roads around the outskirts he’d be sure to come across plenty of scared, confused people. If just one of them was armed… if just one decided to take a potshot…
So forward was risky, and back would take too long. Just before the top of the hill ahead, though, was an unpaved gravel track almost hidden from view of the road by underbrush. It was a service road cut decades ago by the power company, and it ran alongside the power lines that ran in an arrow straight line for about ten miles between Willow Falls and the local rail track. Shepherd had regularly hiked the track as a kid while hunting small game, a
nd he knew it was smooth enough for the truck to handle.
With a wince he turned the key, holding his breath as the engine roared into life, and for a moment he almost wished he was driving Ron’s whisper quiet Prius. He didn’t want the drunk to know he had a working vehicle. He knew he couldn’t trust the guy as far as he could throw him, but the Jeep rumbled with a noise that Shepherd imagined would carry all the way to Monroeville, and it only got worse as he shifted it into first gear with the usual deafening grind.
He edged the truck back into the road and moved forward at walking pace, lightly tapping the gas just enough to get the vehicle moving, but it was a wasted effort. The Jeep wasn’t built for stealth. Anyone listening would surely hear the rumble of the engine, and sure enough before he was even halfway to the turnoff he saw a head bobbing over the peak of the hill.
“Oh, what the hell are you doing, you jackass?” He cursed under his breath as the man strode purposefully forward, staring down the truck as if it had insulted his mother. Shepherd rolled down his window, reached into has jacket and pulled out the Glock, this time ready to use it for real.
Shepherd had no intention of stopping to chat. He quickly scanned the undergrowth to the side of the road, weighing up the risk against the reward. He knew he wouldn’t reach the turnoff to the trail before the drunk reached it, and he’d do anything to avoid a confrontation he knew could only end one way. The truck probably had enough grunt to force its way across the rough ground by the side of the road, but if it fell short and he got stuck he’d be up shit creek without a paddle.