by Dave Conifer
“Sounds good to me,” Sarah said. “Everybody ready to go? Maybe you should take the lead, Nick, since you know where we’re headed.”
“Yeah, sure,” Nick agreed. “Ordinarily I wouldn’t ride a bike on Route Thirty, but I guess today’s a little different. I think it’ll be okay.” Just before shoving off, he turned to Dewey. “Can you take the back of the convoy, killer? And make sure we all stay in one piece?”
“You got it,” Dewey said. “I just hope I can keep my speed down. I’m like amped, man.”
“I’m on the other end of the scale,” Nick told him. “I’m beat up and dragging.”
“You need more break time?” Sarah asked.
“Nope. And I don’t want to give any of these folks a chance to get too curious about us. Let’s go.” Once he was sure they were ready, Nick pushed off. They pedaled ahead toward Camden. The bridge didn’t even start to taper down to ground level until well after they were over land, providing a bird’s eye view of Campbell’s Field, the minor league baseball stadium that was tucked underneath the bridge. Nick thought back to the game he’d attended there just a few weeks earlier. At the time he’d thought of it as being just a few easy minutes from home. Boy, times have changed, he thought as he pedaled.
Across a parking lot from the stadium was the New Jersey State Aquarium. Beyond that was the indoor-outdoor concert venue that changed names every time a higher bid came in for the naming rights, and the Battleship New Jersey, moored in the river. He didn’t spend a lot of time looking at the sights, however. He’d just finished one fight. Nobody was going to sneak up on him and start another one while he was busy playing tourist.
They remained above street level until they'd passed the campus of Rutgers-Camden University, off to the right. Finally, after they were off the bridge, Nick looked into adjacent neighborhoods for signs of normal life, and didn’t see much. He could see people massing in the streets. So far they'd seen nothing to disprove Dewey’s theory about what had happened. The way people were stumbling out their front doors and looking around at each other made it appear that nothing was right. Whatever happened on the bridge had also happened here.
The road itself didn’t look much different from what they’d seen on the bridge, with stranded, confused drivers walking around looking for answers. They could see dark traffic lights hanging over intersections in every direction now, none of them working. Not that they were needed at the moment, since nobody was driving. “You got the right idea!” shouted one man as Nick and the others approached.
“It’s the same on the bridge,” Nick shouted back, feeling no obligation to tell him that the problem appeared to go well beyond a rash of malfunctioning automobiles.
He was still thinking about the best way back to Cherry Hill when his thoughts were interrupted by the rumble of an automobile engine. He turned in time to see a huge, sixties-looking sedan threading through the congestion in the road, much like they were doing on their bikes. So much for Dewey’s electric super pulse.
Still, it was the only car he’d seen for hours that was running. That was hard to explain. He wondered how the driver had avoided getting stopped by curious mobs. A few more hours of this and there’ll be a lot of desperate people who’d be quite interested in getting their hands on that car, he suspected.
The car was in pristine condition, obviously having been restored and babied. The white-haired man behind the wheel was probably on his way to some weekend historic car show. He waved at Nick cheerfully as he passed. As improbable as it was, the guy didn’t seem to be aware that anything had happened, so wrapped up as he was in his own world. There was no way he’d just come from the bridge, Nick was sure. Not with that kind of smile on his face.
Twenty or so minutes of riding through the obstacle course of stalled cars and their flummoxed drivers brought them to a “Y” in the road, where the right lanes split off from Route Thirty and became I-76. Nick led them to the left. There were more stalled cars than ever now. That made sense, Nick decided. They were moving into an area of dense population. These are probably people who just slipped out to get coffee or a newspaper, he guessed, or a few bags of chips for their own backyard parties. They could expect to see high concentrations of people from here on out.
They continued along Route Thirty, spreading across its six lanes of traffic divided by a concrete barrier. The surroundings grew steadily grittier after they passed beneath a railroad overpass. Nick wondered if any of his travelling party had ever seen Admiral Wilson Boulevard before. He thought not. Although he never felt unsafe there, it was among the grimiest stretches of South Jersey, and was easy to avoid for anybody who didn’t live close by.
Fifteen minutes later he peeled off the road into the grassy area on the banks of the Cooper River. Here they saw other bicyclists weaving through joggers, speed-walkers and even a roller-blader along the riverside bike path. Nick wondered if they had any idea what was going on. He doubted it. These folks were just out for some weekend exercise.
The others were further back than he’d realized, but he knew they’d seen him turn off. He reminded himself that they were carrying passengers and he wasn’t. They’d been working much harder. All the more reason for taking a breather. They hadn’t been on the road for even an hour, yet, but the morning sun and summer heat were taking their toll now. He rolled across the grass until he found some shade, where he climbed off. When Dewey and Sarah caught up, Nick could see that they were both glistening with sweat.
“My butt hurts,” said Jenny.
“Me, too,” Ashley said. “When do we get to ride the bikes?”
“You must be hot in that sweatshirt, Jenny,” Nick said, forgetting momentarily that he was in long sleeves himself.
“It’s not a sweatshirt,” she snapped at him.
“Jenny!” Sarah said, before turning apologetically to Nick and shrugging.
“Are we getting close?” Dewey asked between labored breaths as he waited for Jenny to climb off. He flailed around with his foot at the kickstand before giving up and letting the bike fall to the grass. He quickly joined it, flopping spread-eagle onto his back. “That’s the most exercise I’ve had in years. How much longer do we have to go?”
“I hate to tell you this,” Nick answered. “But we’re not that close. We have a ways to go. But I think we’re past the hard part. So Dewey, what was up with that car that went by? You saw it, right?”
“Yeah, I saw it,” Dewey said.
“I thought you said this electric pulse thing knocked all the cars out,” Nick said. “What gives? You were so sure about it all.”
“How should I know?” Dewey replied, obviously annoyed. “I never said I knew for sure. You can’t explain it, either, can you? And you can’t explain why every other car we’ve seen doesn’t run. I never said I know what’s going on here.”
“Okay, okay,” Nick said. “I’m not attacking you. I was just asking.”
“Like, how much further, exactly?” Dewey asked again. “Rough estimate.”
“Six or seven miles, I’d say,” Nick answered.
“Seven more miles? I thought you said you lived just over the bridge,” Dewey said.
“That’s what I said when you told us you lived by the shore. You’re from far away. Sarah lives in Medford. It’s all relative,” Nick answered with an edge in his voice.
“You didn’t tell us we had an eight-hour bike ride,” Dewey said, his voice suddenly dripping with anger. “You were like ‘Hey, my house is just over the bridge.’”
“It’s not eight hours, and you can bail out any time you want,” Nick retorted. “Nobody forced you to take me up on my offer. Find someplace else to go if you don’t like it. I’m not having any fun, either. I’m just not whining about it.”
He turned to Sarah. “And I know these are your bikes. We’ll hand them back over to you anytime you ask. You can ride back to the bridge and wait it out there in your car. Dewey here will lead the way.”
“Oh, that’
s rich,” Dewey said sarcastically. “Back on the bridge I was the hero after I got that dude off you. I was ‘Killer’ back there. Now I’m a whiner?”
“If the shoe fits,” Nick said matter-of-factly.
“Guys, cut it out,” Sarah said. “We’re okay here. We’re off the bridge. We have plenty of miles left in us. What else are we going to do but keep moving? We made it this far. Nobody’s going back to the bridge.”
“Well, my offer still stands,” Nick said. “You’re all welcome at my place. Even you, Dewey.”
“I’m all for sticking to the plan,” Sarah said. “And so are my girls. We double up on the bikes again, and we don’t stop until we get to Nick's. Who’s still on board?”
“I am,” Nick said. Dewey raised his hand without a change in the angry expression on his face. Both girls nodded their approval.
“Okay,” Sarah said. “Then what are we waiting for?”
“I thought maybe we should shift everybody around,” Nick said. “Somebody else should have a turn riding solo. If you’re okay, Sarah, maybe Dewey and I could switch.”
~~~
With a teenager fidgeting in front of him, the riding was far more difficult than it had been before. Now he knew why Dewey was so wiped out, and so short-tempered. This was going to be tough. Keep it together, he told himself. You’ll be home soon enough.
It turned out to be not soon enough. At least not soon enough for Nick. They worked through the sea of stalled cars and growing throngs of confused people at every turn. When they reached a snarl of exit ramps that linked several highways, Nick led them to Route 38, which took them into Cherry Hill and Cuthbert Road. Knowing they were on the final leg of the trip, Nick had steeled himself when Sarah overtook him just as they reached Camden Catholic High School.
"Are we close?" Sarah asked, with her younger daughter squirming on the bar. "Ashley needs a bathroom break really bad."
Like every place else, there were quite a few people walking around with stunned looks on their faces, but none were close enough to matter. Nick squeezed the brakes and coasted to a stop. Sarah did the same. Before Nick could answer, Dewey rolled up on the other side, looking like he was still holding a grudge after the argument back at the park. First things first, Nick decided. "We're about a half-hour away, I think," he told Sarah. "Sounds like it might be too long for her to wait."
Sarah pointed at the white and green facade of the high school. "Do you think we could get in there?"
"I don't know," said Nick. "If it's open, I'm sure you can, but I don't know why it would be."
"Maybe we should start trying doors," Sarah said, preparing to push off.
"It's worth a shot," Nick agreed.
"Let us go alone," Sarah advised. "If we can't find a bathroom, we'll probably settle for the bushes."
Nick held his hands up. "Gotcha. We'll wait out here, then."
Jenny looked like she wasn't sure whether to stay or go, but eventually trotted off to catch up with her mother and sister, who had almost reached the building. Nick turned to Dewey. Might as well repair some damage, he thought.
"Hey, I'm sorry about spouting off at you back there," he said. "It's been that kind of day."
"It's cool," Dewey said.
Nick hoped he meant it. Having known Dewey all of three hours, he had no idea how to read him. "So what's your deal, Henry Bishop? Who are you?"
"What?" Dewey asked, confused. "Like, you just said who I am. Except nobody calls me that."
"Right," Nick said, "but who are you? What's your life right now? That's what I'm asking."
"Oh, I got it," Dewey answered. "This is the dad-style question and answer session. 'Where are you headed, son?'” he said in a mocking voice. “I didn't get what you were doing at first."
"Now you've lost me," Nick said.
"This is where you badger me about what my plans are, and whatever I say, you, like, bag on me. I'm used to it. I get it from my dad every day. I just don’t get why a stranger is doing it to me."
“No, Dewey,” Nick said. “Forget it, okay? But I wasn’t judging you. I just wanted to know.”
“It’s cool,” Dewey said. “I’ve been taking a few classes at Stockton for a few years, like on and off. Right now it’s off. Just don’t tell my dad.”
“Mum’s the word,” Nick said.
“It wouldn’t matter, anyway,” Dewey said. “He’s given up on me. My brother makes like tons of money dealing stocks, and my sister’s almost done with med school. I’ll always be the lazy millennial of the family. Nothing I do is ever good enough.”
“Parents can be brutal,” Nick agreed.
“I hope they’re doing okay today, just the same,” Dewey said. “They’re, like, older than you. If I’d known what was going to happen, I’d never have stayed out all night like this.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Nick asked. “You’re beating yourself up because you didn’t plan for an electro-pulse?”
“Electro-magnetic pulse,” Dewey corrected. “And yeah, I’m kidding, I guess. But I hope they’ll be okay.”
~~~
It turned out that the school had been locked, so all three of the McElligott-Cohen girls took care of business somewhere behind the building. Nick was glad not to know any more than that. After mounting the bikes again they finished the journey through suburban streets that were teeming with residents. After the bathroom break, Dewey had taken Ashley on as a passenger, giving Sarah a turn to ride alone. Not sure what to expect, they stayed close together now that there were so many strangers around.
It was nearing five o'clock when the hot, weary group finally reached the development where Nick lived. None of them felt much like talking, but Nick knew he'd have no choice. As little as he understood about what was going on, he'd seen so much along the way that he knew more than anybody there. Even though he didn't have any answers, they were going to want some.
Five
"Where have you been?” demanded Brian Martinsen when he finally realized that it was Nick leading the convoy that had just rolled into the neighborhood. But he had to know that this was more than a matter of a late delivery. Nick and the others had just pulled onto Kelsey Way in Crestview Estates, the pretentious name of an otherwise un-noteworthy development of single-family houses. Brian was standing on his own front lawn at the end of the street, looking completely puzzled. It was understandable. Nick had seen that expression over and over again in the last few hours.
He knew Brian well enough, but the two men weren’t friends. More like acquaintances, at best. Nick knew that Brian resented that a blue collar guy, a roofer, no less, could somehow afford to live in the same development that he did. It had never been said openly, but Nick was good at reading people, and always had been. He tried not to let it bother him. It said more about Brian that it did about himself. But it still stung just as much every year when a so-called anonymous resident floated a new rule against parking commercial vehicles in the neighborhood. Vehicles like Mercator Roofing trucks, at least one of which could always be found in Nick’s driveway or on the street in front of his rancher. It came from Brian. Every time. And Nick knew it.
Nick thought as little of Brian, with his minivan, his mid-life crisis German muscle car, and his 2.5 kids, as Brian did of him. There was nothing wrong with his cars or his kids. It was the lie that Brian lived that bothered Nick. Somehow, even though he was living week to week grinding it out at some nine-to-five job just like everybody else, Brian lived under the delusion that he was a titan of business who could move out of Crestview and go upscale anytime he wanted. It always made Nick laugh every time Brian dropped a comment about some mansion in Moorestown or Princeton that he had his eye on. It always seemed to have a view of horses and stables from the backyard. Meanwhile, here he was standing in the street, wanting to know where the baby back ribs that he’d forked thirty bucks over for were.
Nick rode to where Brian stood with his hands on his hips. Jenny slipped off and walked away as soon
as he stopped, presumably to wait for her mother. “Is the power out?” Nick asked.
“Yep,” Brian answered. “The whole neighborhood’s out. But what’s even weirder is that nobody’s cars are running, either.” He glanced at the bike between Nick’s legs. “Did one of your trucks go down?”
“I was living this before you were even awake, probably,” Nick said. “My truck's back on the bridge. Or at least that's where I left it. Let me guess. Cell phones are down, too, right?”
"Yeah, the phones, too," Brian said, as if he was making a concession. "What happened to you? You look like you took a beating. What's going on out there?" By then Dewey and Sarah had ridden up on either side, both staying a foot or two back. Brian look at each of them in turn, and then back at Nick.
“Uh, Brian, this is Sarah, and this is Dewey,” Nick said. “We met up on the bridge, and I invited them back.” He didn’t feel right introducing the daughters. He would leave that for Sarah. “These are Sarah’s bikes.”
“Nice to meet you,” Brian said. Nick was too busy looking around the neighborhood to hear the rest of the conversation, if there was any. Everybody he knew was doing what Brian was doing. There were empty party tents and unused tables scattered in yards, front and back, all the way to the end of the block. Joe Garrison even had his “Weiner King” apron on, the inside joke that had kept on giving for at least six years now. A few of the teenagers that Nick could see were stubbornly working their cell phones, refusing to accept the new reality.
Matt Shardlake was the next to appear, pulling a wagon occupied by his twin three year-old sons. Trim and dapper, with his golf shirt tucked neatly into his pressed shorts, Matt had always reminded Nick of Ned Flanders, the goody-two-shoes character who always did the right thing on the Simpsons TV show. He was a nice enough sort, but wasn’t one for thinking outside the box. The Shardlakes lived on the street behind Nick’s, their lots meeting at the back corner. “Did Brian fill you in on what’s going on around here?” Matt asked.