“I want to ask him about the roadblock he came upon. Maybe we can avoid it.”
No longer singing, Steve-O sat back in his seat and in a low voice said, “I shot a man in Reno—”
Averting her eyes so as not to see the latest destruction wrought by Peter’s shotgun, Tara interrupted Steve-O mid-sentence. “You shot a man?” she asked, the words dripping with incredulity.
Riker said, “It’s from a song, Tara. However”—he looked ahead to see Peter trudging back to the SUV—“we may be doing some shooting of our own before all is said and done. Why don’t you try and sweet talk one of those weapons out of Ol’ Pete’s possession.” He dug in his pocket and dragged out the wallet. Fished out his remaining cash—less than a hundred dollars—and handed it over.
A spent shell trailing smoke cut the air when Peter racked the shotgun’s slide. Eyes narrowed and jaw set firm, he came to a halt beside the Suburban and stared into Tara’s window. It looked as if he had come to some sort of a decision. One unforeseen even a minute ago.
Abruptly, Peter said, “You need to go now.” He leaned in and instructed Riker to drive due west through the maze until they saw daylight. He then mentioned a dirt road that ran along the west edge of the farm. “Go north there,” he said. He went on with the history of the road, saying how it was decades old and snaked through several different generationally held properties cordoned off by barbed wire and secured with gates and padlocks.
Apparently, the interconnected network of feeder roads and dirt ruts cutting across pastures had been used by generations of farmers as a way to circumvent county roads and the revenue hungry officers who used to patrol them.
Riker turned the motor over. “What are you going to do when they come back?” he asked Peter. “You planning some kind of a last stand or something?”
Peter smiled and patted the shotgun. “I’m going to block the road with my trucks. The rest will be determined by the deportment of our black-clad mercs.”
Tara showed the meager wad of cash. “Will you sell us the shotgun?”
“And some shells,” added Steve-O. “Slugs, preferably.”
Peter considered this for a second. “I’m a civilian tester for Mossberg. She’s not my only boomstick. And it’s hard to say no to a pretty lady”—Here comes the but, thought Tara. —“but I won’t take your money. Just try and get word out about what’s really going on here.” He turned away and cleared the chamber. After checking that the safety was on, he passed the pistol-gripped pump gun through the window. He then emptied his pockets of shells and handed them over, too. “Slugs and shot,” he said, singling out Steve-O. “You seem to know your stuff. But I’d still suggest alternating them. You need to breach a door or make a whirlybird go away, no problem with a slug. You need to reach out and touch someone with a big fat spread of pellets, you got a shot shell next in line. Keep her away from your face and your hand in the strap when she goes boom.”
“Solid advice,” admitted Steve-O. “Dad kept a shotgun for home defense.”
“And damn good for it,” said Riker. “Thank you, Pete. We’ll be coming into some inheritance money real soon. When my chunk hits my account I’m buying you an honest to God big-bucks Ithaca. Gonna hand deliver it to you if I can.”
Peter said, “Think nothing of it. You carry yourself like my son. Well, like he did before—” He tugged the semiautomatic from its holster and checked that there was a round in the chamber. After dragging a sleeve across his eyes, he removed his worn John Deere cap and pointed west with it.
Message received. Riker nodded, dropped the transmission into gear, and nosed the SUV into the corn.
Chapter 48
While the doors to the barn had been a formidable foe to the Suburban’s stock bumper, breaching rural gates mounted to decades-old posts and secured with civilian padlocks and rusting lengths of chain posed no challenge.
Two hours after leaving Peter standing alone in his corn field, Riker was steering the black SUV off the last of the dirt roads and onto a no-name two-lane road a dozen miles north by west of the roadblock the pumpkin proprietor had insisted was on the outer reaches of what could only be described as some kind of hastily established perimeter.
Dusk was fast approaching. To the west the sky was a jumble of dark clouds, the billowy edges atop them glowing red and orange from the glancing blow of the sun’s fading rays.
East of the county road the sky was cloudless and beginning to morph from red and orange to a deep shade of purple.
Due north a fast-moving cloud band was dumping rain in gauzy gray sheets across the flat countryside.
While Riker couldn’t be sure they had actually bypassed the roadblock, he had no reason to doubt Peter’s directions. The man had taken a helluva beating for asking a few questions. No way he was on the side of whomever the soldiers in black were allegiant to.
“Left or right?” asked Riker.
A gleam in her eye, Tara asked, “Where are we going?”
“We’re going north and east of Chicago.”
“That rules out Lake Michigan. Any of the other Great Lakes on the itinerary?”
Riker shook his head. “We’re not stopping at any of them. Erie will be off our left shoulder for a stretch. You should get a peek at it.”
“Go right, then go north whenever it pleases you,” she shot. “As long as you’re being a vague dick about our final destination, I’ll be a vague bitch about doling out directions.”
He waited for oncoming traffic to pass. From the back seat Steve-O said, “More money for the swear jar.” Then, after a soft chuckle, added, “I like the Bears. What’s your team?”
“Bears,” said Riker. “Been a fan since I was a kid.”
“Our mom started us liking the Bears,” said Tara. “Will you please pass her forward.”
There was no immediate response from Steve-O.
Tara said, “She’s just ashes. She won’t bite.”
“Can’t bite, is what she means,” said Riker. Instantly disappointed at how totally out of line his response had been, he shook his head. No reason to say anything that might cause Steve-O to remember the things he’d just been exposed to. Plus, inadvertently, Riker had dredged up from his memory a macabre image of the elderly homeowner being disemboweled in front of his dying wife and burning home.
“It’s okay,” said Steve-O. “I’m a survivor. At least that’s what my mom always told people.”
Riker didn’t know what to say to that. So he turned right in a break in the traffic. People were driving as if this was just another weekend night in rural Indiana. As if they were just shuttling back and forth between the Walmart and home. Nothing he saw suggested they knew anything about what was really happening in Middletown and, apparently, spreading from that epicenter at a dizzying pace.
The road was a two-lane affair, just the kind of place Riker envisioned roadside stands selling seasonal fruits and vegetables to be located. A minivan full of high-school-aged kids came up fast on the Suburban and passed on the left when a dashed yellow presented itself.
Flanking the county road here and there were farmhouses set back from the road and surrounded by barns and swaybacked out buildings. As signs began to indicate the interstate was drawing near, the rural feel disappeared and convenience stores, block-long strip malls, and chain eateries became the norm.
Steve-O reached forward and set the bag containing the urn on the console lid between the front seats.
“Keep your eyes peeled for the law,” said Riker, already practicing what he preached, his eyes constantly flicking to the mirrors.
Tara placed the bag on her lap and ran her hands over the outline of the item inside. Continuing to caress the urn through course nylon, she said, “Sure would suck to get pulled over and have them find a recently fired gun with a couple of bodies on it in our possession.” She glanced at Riker then flicked her gaze toward the back seat. “Not to mention, we’re transporting what a prosecutor would likely argue is a recen
tly kidnapped person.”
Steve-O was between the seatbacks again. His hands were flexing, opening and closing with a steady rhythm. After staring at Tara for a long two-count, he said, “I’m a grown man. Please don’t call me kid.”
Taken aback, Tara apologized and began to explain what kidnapped meant but was quickly cut short.
After doing a mental fist pump upon hearing Steve-O assert himself, Riker said, “Yeah, Sis. Steve-O here is a grown ass man. From here on out do not treat him any differently. He chose to come with us, not the other way around. Isn’t that right, Steve-O?”
Nodding, Steve-O curled his right hand into a fist and offered it to Riker.
Contorting his arm, Riker bumped knuckles with the back seat passenger. “Damn straight,” he said. Letting Tara off the hook, he changed the subject. “Sis, where to now?”
“Back onto the 69 north if it’s not blocked.”
Détente, thought Riker, as he slowed and scanned ahead for any sign of a roadblock.
***
From a quarter-mile out it looked to be business as usual at the interchange with Interstate 69. Thankfully, nothing pointed to the quarantine having reached beyond the three-mile buffer north of Peter’s Maze ‘O’ Horror—which had truly lived up to its name. Riker shivered again at the recollection. Sure, he’d seen mangled bodies—some recently deceased, most dead for days and dry as mummies from baking under the harsh sun. But he’d never seen so much death up close and personal. And it had all happened in such a compacted time frame that his mind was having trouble processing it all. A good night’s sleep was what he needed. Take eight hundred milligrams of Ibuprofen to dull the aches and pains his body was prone to. Maybe even pop a couple of melatonin and call it a day.
What he really hoped was to wake up from said siesta and find that this all had been a bad dream. That he was still in the back of the cab on the way to Sis’s apartment and had simply dozed off. Vee are ear. Dis your stop, mista sure would be a welcome voice to wake up to. Hell, if it reversed everything that had happened the past twenty-four hours, he’d even be content to come to on the Greyhound bus with the Cat Lady bitching and moaning and spewing bourbon breath a half-foot from his ear.
An eighth of a mile from the interchange the sight of a pair of Black Hawk helicopters cutting the air left-to-right a few miles east drew Riker back to reality. The helicopters were illuminated like a pair of road flares, the light from the westering sun sparkling orange off their west-facing glass. Moving at a very fast clip and descending rapidly, the helos were soon lost from view amid the darkening backdrop.
“Not T.C.’s chopper,” observed Riker.
“Whose then?”
“No idea,” admitted Riker. “But look where they’re headed.”
“Toward Middletown.”
“Correct,” said Riker. “What time does it get dark around here, Sis?”
“We’ve got another hour or two.”
Noticing the fuel gauge needle hovering on E, Riker said, “We need to fill up.”
“And I’m hungry,” added Steve-O
As she fiddled with the navigation unit, Tara said, “Me, too. And I’m also going to need to find someplace to get a pair of shoes.”
Riker stopped them at the traffic signal a block west of the I-69 interchange. He glanced at Tara’s bare feet, then leveled his gaze at the navigation unit. “That magic box still acting up?”
“It’s still stuck all zoomed out.” She pressed on the screen to no great effect. Next, she thumbed her iPhone on. Saw it was still registering zero bars and slapped it down hard on her thigh. “Phone’s still down, too. We’re just going to have to navigate from memory.”
When the light changed, Riker looked both ways, then accelerated through the intersection. Up ahead a number of vehicles were loitering in a neat line on the right shoulder. Though he couldn’t be sure, it appeared as if they were patiently awaiting a red light to change.
As they drew nearer to the stoppage, it became clear there was no red light holding them at bay.
A pair of Jersey barriers had been placed by the on-ramp to I-69 South. The concrete slabs stood hood-high to the Subaru heading up the line. A van with a boom and attached satellite dish extended over its roof was to the left of the barriers. And dwarfing the van was an electronic reader board on wheels whose constantly changing message was not quite yet legible to Riker.
From the back seat, Steve-O said, “I know the cities and states like the back of my hand. We got Fort Wayne next. Then Toledo and next comes Detroit … Motown … Motor City.”
Half-expecting Steve-O to launch into a Jackson Five ditty, Riker said, “You a Motown fan, Steve-O?”
“The real Motown,” he said with conviction. “I don’t like the new sound. The robot talkers.”
The light cycled to green. Riker said, “What’s that called? I hear a lot of it up and down the radio dial.”
“Robots talking,” repeated Steve-O
Tara said, “It’s called Auto-Tune. I hate it, too. Didn’t even like it when Tupac and Dre used it on a song.”
“Not to worry, kids. We’re not going to Detroit or through Detroit. I’ve been there. It’s on the mend, but nowhere Mom would want her ashes spread.”
“I am not a kid,” said Steve-O. This time he didn’t launch forward. He remained seated and buckled in. “That’s your only warning, Leland.”
“Figure of speech,” muttered Riker.
Tara took her eyes from the electronic reader board, shot her brother a quick glare, then turned to face the back seat. “You’re not a kid in my book, Steve-O. You’re a vast wealth of knowledge.” She stated this calmly even as her stomach was sinking due to what she’d just read off the giant screen at the head of the line of cars. It was totally blocking the freeway entrance, its lit-up facade bathing the WANE 15 remote-news van sidled up to it with a soft buttery glow. Standing by the multi-colored sliding side-door of the van was a rotund middle-aged man with a boxy video camera perched on one shoulder. Awash in the harsh artificial light thrown from the camera, a perfectly coiffed male reporter seemed to be in the middle of a live on-the-scene report. Mouth moving with an economical rhythm, the rigid thirty-something reminded her more of one of those animatronics at Disneyland than a caring human being relaying information as dire as that splashed across the board behind him.
Tara read the words scrolling across the sign out loud. “No access allowed. Radiological accident seventeen miles ahead. Daleville under travel advisory. Middletown quarantined. Emergency personnel only beyond this point.” Then, she amended the message with an imagined warning of her own. “And if you proceed past this point, eventually, men in black will kill you.”
“Doubt if that would keep these people from wanting to go wherever they need to be,” observed Riker.
“I’m still seething at what they did to the people from the catering van,” she said forcefully. Then, softer, she added, “There were at least three women my age. And the kids … that woman’s little girl. All of them gone in the blink of an eye.”
Riker had already mourned the dead. As Tara spoke, he was thinking about the Bolt. How the injured man had gone after the people whom just moments earlier he had been sharing space with in the van. How the numerous bullets striking him center of mass didn’t slow him. Didn’t really seem to faze him at all until one of them split his head in two like an overripe melon.
“That’s no radiation accident,” proffered Steve-O. “It’s a monster accident.”
Riker steered around the vehicles waiting to go southbound. Once on the overpass, he said, “I agree wholeheartedly, Steve-O. Now where to gas up and get a bite?”
Chapter 49
On the opposite side of the overpass from the reader board, sprawling across three blocks north by east, was a PETRO SHELL truck stop. The canopied fueling islands set aside for automobiles were nearest to Interstate 69. Next came the IRON PAN restaurant, which, judging by the artfully drawn steak and baked potato grac
ing the sign, likely served hearty fare in large portions. Just the thing Riker needed. Stomach growling with approval, he looked beyond the restaurant, marveling at the dozens of gleaming eighteen-wheelers sitting idle east of the massive canopied fueling islands dedicated solely to them.
He waited for a beat-up pickup going the opposite direction to pass, then turned into the Shell station. Slid the Suburban up to the nearest island, keeping the yellow and red pumps on his side.
Tara asked, “How’d you know which side the fuel door is on?”
Steve-O said, “Every car has an arrow by the fuel gauge that points in the direction of the gas tank door.”
Shrugging, Riker said, “I just took a wild guess. Fifty fifty is pretty good odds.” He slouched down, squinted, and peered at the gauge cluster. “Well I’ll be damned, Steve-O. There is a little orange arrow.” He tapped the clear plastic fronting the gauge. “Right damn there. And damn if it isn’t pointing left, too.”
“Seventy-five cents for the swear jar, sir.”
Riker cut the engine. Reached down and popped open the fuel door. “At this rate, Steve-O, you’re going to be a rich man before we get to where we’re going.”
Tara unbuckled. “Never know when to quit, do you, Lee? Keep teasing me and you’re really going to regret it.”
After shouldering open his door, Riker leaned back inside and said, “Do you really want me to tell you prematurely where Mom wants us to take her? You want to carry that kind of guilt around for the rest of your days?”
“She’s dead, Lee. No way she can cut you out of the will, no matter how bad you eff up.”
Steve-O said, “Close call, pretty lady.”
Screw your swear jar, crossed Tara’s mind. She said, “Let’s go, Steve-O. Leave this big brother of mine to pump his own gas.”
***
Inside the Shell market, Tara struck off by herself, leaving Steve-O to chart his own course. She grabbed a basket then went to the coolers in back and loaded up on waters and Diet Cokes. She stopped on one aisle, took an Emory board off the wall, and selected a black pair of Croc knock-offs that fit her. On the way back toward the counter an assortment of candy bars and chips somehow found their way into the basket.
Riker's Apocalypse (Book 1): The Promise Page 24