Tara sat up straight in her seat. Craning hard to get a look at the lead Humvee keeping pace with them, she asked, “What does all of that mean?”
Riker glanced at the speedometer and saw the needle slowly creeping toward fifty. “First off,” he said, matting the accelerator, “some of these guys are heading for the Pennsylvania border.”
There was a mechanical whirring, then a period of relative silence after Steve-O’s window sucked shut.
“How do you know all of this, Lee? You have a crystal ball or something?”
Steve-O answered for him. “Those cement things and big electric signs are the same that were put up at the roadblock.”
“Ding … ding … ding,” said Riker. “Somebody is paying attention, boys and girls. And the gender pronoun just so happens to be ‘he.’”
Tara looked to Riker. “What are those cement thingies called?”
Like a pounced-on fighter jock trying to get eyes on the bandits, Riker leaned toward the steering wheel and whipped his head to the left to see over his shoulder. “Jersey barriers,” he answered as he jinked the SUV into the fast lane, cutting off the Humvee full of helmeted soldiers.
“They’re not happy,” noted Steve-O. “I think one of them is telling us to pull over.”
Sweeping his gaze to the rearview mirror, Riker was afforded a frontal view of the driver and passenger. The latter was clearly mouthing “Give to” and gesturing toward the slow lane with a gloved hand. Give the fella a pair of orange-tipped batons, thought Riker, and he may as well be working the flight deck on an aircraft carrier.
“Stick it,” muttered Riker. He ordered everyone to check their seatbelts, then tromped the gas. It took a second or two for the engine to spool up, but once the whoosh of the power plant sucking air to convert to horsepower subsided, the bulky SUV was pushing ninety and quickly distancing them from the military convoy.
***
The Ohio/Pennsylvania border lay halfway between Ashtabula and Erie. The twenty-five miles from the I-90 off-ramp where they first encountered the convoy to the border between the two states dissolved in a little under seventeen minutes.
All that marked the crossing was a trio of signs. The largest of the three announced to anyone paying attention that they were entering the Keystone State. The second was a public service announcement warning against drinking and driving and declaring a fine of up to five thousand dollars could be levied on the offending party upon conviction. Lastly, a bit smaller than the others and affixed lowest on the post was a sign with a picture of a cell phone on it. Below the handset was the admonishment: Hang Up And Drive!
“What’s a Keystone?” asked Tara.
“What are those white things up ahead?” responded Riker. He took a hand off the wheel long enough to point out the objects pushing up against the thickets of trees flanking both sides of the four-lane interstate.
“Tents, I think.”
“Confirms my suspicion that the state line is where the convoy is headed,” declared Riker.
“Why is the Ohio Guard setting up inside of Pennsylvania?”
“Maybe the Pennsylvania Guard is operating in support of”—he took both hands off the wheel and made air quotes—“Operation Romeo Victor.” He quickly rehashed his theory that Romeo Victor was actually an acronym that had something to do with what had happened in Middletown.
Tara said, “I think Victor is code for virus. It’s gotta be.”
Riker nodded but said nothing. He was focused on the half-dozen bio-hazard-suited figures positioning barriers on the westbound lanes of I-90. The suits were bright yellow and not at all easy on the eyes. Black masks covered their faces. What looked to be small scuba tanks hung off their backs, the black shoulder straps clearly visible against the loud suits.
Here the stretch of I-90 was comprised of four lanes, two going in either direction. A thirty-foot-wide grass and dirt median home to trash and marshy-looking puddles ran down the center. Hemming the interstate in to the north and south were narrow breakdown lanes. Beyond the westbound breakdown lane was a ten- to fifteen-foot-wide strip of ankle-high grass. Rising up next to the grassy area and completely denying drivers any chance of viewing Lake Erie was a picket of mature trees that ran for miles in either direction.
Parked on the grass and partially straddling the westbound breakdown lane was a pair of white Tahoe SUVs bearing government plates.
Noting how the landscape here provided a natural chokepoint with ample flat ground on the Pennsylvania side to erect tents on and stage vehicles from, Riker said, “Whoever ordered this roadblock couldn’t have picked a better place for it.”
At about the same time Riker voiced his observation, the brake lights on the minivan in his lane a dozen car lengths ahead lit up red and it began to fishtail and bleed off speed. Simultaneously, a pair of westbound vehicles were coming to a slow-rolling stop before the pair of suited forms manning newly erected barriers beyond the median.
No sooner had the westbound lanes filled up three vehicles deep than a man jumped out of a pickup with colorful leaves in its bed and bristling with gardening tools. He was short and stocky and wearing orange raingear. Mouth moving a mile a minute and gesticulating wildly, the landscaper stalked toward the barricades.
While one of the hazmat-suited forms seemed to be addressing the unhappy motorists, two more yellow-suited figures began dragging a head-high traffic barrier through the median grass.
Strangling the wheel in a two-handed grip, Riker scanned the road ahead and triaged the situation.
Snugging her lap belt tighter, Tara asked, “What are we going to do, Lee?”
One of the suited forms looked up from the task at hand, pointed toward the speeding Suburban, and then repeatedly performed a patting motion toward the ground with both hands that Riker understood to mean slow down.
“Not stop here, that’s for sure,” called Steve-O from the back seat.
Through gritted teeth, Riker said, “Last thing I’m going to do.”
Watching through the fingers of one hand, Tara said, “Better gun it then, Thelma.”
The hazmat-suited figure nearest to the eastbound lane reacted decisively. The driver of the minivan in Riker’s lane did not. While the former ceased the slow down gesture, bent over, scooped up something two-handed and began dragging it toward the eastbound lanes, the minivan driver was slaloming left and right, obviously unsure of what to do.
With fifty feet separating the Suburban’s grill from the action taking place on the median, the minivan came to a complete stop in the left lane with a third of its squared-off rear end jutting into the right lane.
Having barely a second to commit, Riker jerked the steering wheel right, taking the speeding SUV around the minivan and onto the shoulder where the passenger’s side tires sent a spray of wet grass and gravel airborne. Feeling the rear tires begin to break from the slick pavement, Riker steered toward the slide and got a good look at the person in yellow struggling to get what appeared to be a set of spike strips deployed across his lane.
The SUV was travelling a hair over seventy when Riker issued yet another course correction, just a little twitch to the left, which straightened out the previous slide and caused two things to happen simultaneously. First, after nearly being decapitated by a wing mirror the size of a boxing glove scything the air an inch from his face, the man in the suit went wide-eyed, let go of the spike strips, and launched himself backward.
From the back seat, with only the glass and barely a yard separating them, Steve-O engaged in a split-second staring match with the luckiest man on earth.
“That was close,” said Steve-O. “The way his eyes were bugging out of his head made me think of SpongeBob.”
Riker said, “SquarePants?”
“No. SpongeBob the Barbarian,” quipped Tara. “You know … the dude who lives in the castle under the sea.”
“Pineapple,” corrected Steve-O.
Riker flicked his gaze to the side mirror. “That w
as after my time.”
Taking into consideration the road condition, their high rate of speed, and the snappy back-to-back course corrections Riker had just put the big SUV through, this nearly became his time. They were all lucky to not be weightless and staring at the horizon from an entirely different perspective with gravity and inertia and Newton’s Law conspiring to crush the SUV with them inside it.
In fact, having been in one rollover accident in his youth, Riker knew how deadly they could be. Twenty years removed, the memory of the sky and road trading places way too fast for him to keep track of was as vivid as if it had taken place yesterday. He recalled the glass spider webbing as his head impacted the window, giving him his first of many concussions. Heard again in his head the cacophony a dozen recently drained beer cans tumbling around inside the car had made. Then the split-second moment of silence that followed the startled yelp and single sharp cough his buddy from high school had made when the air left his lungs as he was ejected through the glass moonroof on that first revolution.
Being belted in and upside down and listening to the creaking of metal and soft rush of hot coolant draining from ruptured hoses while being unable to do anything but call for help was the second worst day of his life.
These were all things he would take to the grave with him.
Now, as the adrenaline dump from nearly repeating it all over again was flooding his system, his entire body began to shake.
Seeing the tremor, Tara reached over to comfort him. “Thinking of Ricky?”
Riker said nothing. His attention was drawn to a rapidly approaching billboard on which a happy couple was smiling and toasting to something with their half-filled wine glasses.
Chapter 61
A mile east of the state line roadblock, the steady rain turned to a light mist.
The roadblock was two miles back when the rain ceased and Riker silenced the wipers. A short while later he relaxed his grip on the steering wheel and regarded the map scrolling slowly down the dash-mounted display. Lake Erie was on the left side now with virtual I-90 a vertical green line dutifully following the curving tan shoreline.
After curling gently to the right, the quickly drying four-lane again went die-straight on Riker. As the interstate lanced through miles of treed countryside, it remained strangely free of traffic. Frequent glances at the rearview revealed no white SUVs with headlights ablaze bearing down on them from out of the curtain of gray hanging over Ohio.
The real congestion was near Erie where nearly every exit off the freeway was backing up. They bypassed Erie without seeing any police cruisers or military vehicles or SUVs with government plates.
Just outside of Erie, one of those ping-pong-table-sized electronic reader boards was all lit up and sitting on the right shoulder of I-90. It was unattended, which prompted Riker to want to stop and change the message on it from MANDATORY CHECKPOINT — PENNSYLVANIA/NEW YORK STATE LINE — 15 MILES AHEAD to WHAT IN THE HELL DOES ROMEO VICTOR REALLY MEAN?
He doubted anyone would get the cryptic nature of his query if he did. So he headed off the question he knew was coming by asking Tara and Steve-O to be on the lookout for Exit 41.
Still, the barrage of questions came.
“Is that in New York?” asked Tara. “If it is, how are we going to explain this truck?” She glanced at the bag by her feet. “Then there’s the problem of the shotgun. Just having it in New York probably breaks a couple of laws.”
“We’re not crossing into New York at the roadblock,” replied Riker.
“Are we going to the lake, then?” queried Steve-O.
“Go fish,” said Riker.
“Does the exit have to do with where we’re taking Mom?”
“Getting warm,” said Riker.
“I’m getting hungry,” said Steve-O. “Will there be somewhere to eat lunch near Exit 41?”
“Let me ask the Magic Eight Ball.” Abruptly Riker went quiet and he stuck his hand in the air, fingers curled as if cupping an invisible orb. “Magic Eight Ball,” he said while pretending to shake said imaginary orb, “will there be a place for Steve-O to eat near Exit 41?”
Steve-O had hooked his elbows over the seatbacks and was directing a skeptical look at Riker.
In the passenger seat, Tara was looking at the headliner and shaking her head.
Riker pantomimed bringing the phantom object to below eye level and peered down into it.
Calling Riker on his bullshit, Tara said, “Well, Mr. Fortune Teller … Whatcha got?”
“Outlook is good,” replied Riker, cracking a smile as he pulsed his window down and pretended to toss the orb away.
Steve-O pumped a fist. “Yesssss.”
“No fast food,” begged Tara. “That breakfast sandwich reset my digestive system.”
“No Golden Arches,” said Riker. “You have my word.”
***
Exit 41 lay just seven miles west of the Pennsylvania/New York border. The PENNDOT sign announcing the exit was a massive thing emblazoned with the names of places to find food, gas, and lodging in North East, Pennsylvania - Pop. 4,294.
The off-ramp meandered to the right then quickly curled back around on itself before ending at a T where PA-89 shot off to the left and right, the former going to Greenfield Township, while the latter disappeared under the interstate then fed into the Borough of North East, Pennsylvania.
“How about the Freeport Restaurant?” said Tara, consulting the list of services splashed on the panel beside the map. “It’s on Lake Road north of us.” She adjusted the map on the navigation display. “And it’s right by the lake. Looks like it’s only three miles or so from here.”
“Sounds good,” replied Riker. “But I already have a place in mind where we can kill two birds with one stone.”
“I’m calling PETA,” said Steve-O ahead of a wicked laugh.
“I’m beginning to like how you think,” said Riker as the light changed to green and he maneuvered the SUV onto 89 North.
Coming out from under the freeway, the land fell away gradually toward outer North East. Close in, the landscape was made up of mainly tilled fields and a smattering of one- and two-story homes. Farther out, abutting the fields, were a number of subdivisions consisting of dozens of single-family homes separated by narrow tracts of sparsely treed land.
Some of the services indicated on the exit sign were clustered around the interchange. There was a multi-story Holiday Inn Express & Suites off to their left. On the right, surrounded by a sea of gray asphalt, was a Shell station that looked woefully under-patronized. Parked beside the Shell market was a pair of flatbed trailers. Positioned side by side and facing the interstate, both flatbeds carried the same load: dozens of Jersey barriers and a single black fuel-filled bladder that looked to be larger than Tara’s precious Smart car.
Riker slowed and craned as they transited the cross street. Behind the market a pair of light-tan Humvees were stopped behind a pickup truck, hemming the late model Chevy in against the cinderblock structure. Four airmen wearing ACUs in the Air Force’s blue and gray camouflage scheme were in the process of dismounting from the Humvees.
Riker slow-rolled the Suburban to the curb and started the hazard lights flashing.
Sitting in the cab of the jacked up 4x4, their hands thrust in the air, was what looked to Riker to be a family of three. Stuck between the male driver and female passenger was a grade-school-aged girl complete with pigtails and rosy cheeks.
As the dismounts surrounded the pickup with black rifles held at a low-ready, muzzles pointing groundward, the girl let out a piercing scream that may have been heard two states over.
Recoiling from the sound, Tara said, “What’s that all about?”
“That is not part of a joint exercise,” said Riker. And the reason he knew this was because the girl was not acting. She appeared genuinely scared—terrified, actually—and was beginning to cry.
While part of the Special Forces training was a hyper-realistic exercise called Robin Sage
, all of those involved—Green Beret candidates, SOCOM instructors, and the local indigenous population—were in the know. To ensure the exercise mirrored real-world scenarios while keeping in mind the safety of said civilians, everyone had scripted roles they were ordered to stick to.
Riker saw the man and woman being questioned. They were both visibly upset. Apparently the questions weren’t answered to the satisfaction of the airman asking them, because the man was taken from the pickup against his will and forced at gunpoint to undress completely.
Passing vehicles were slowing as drivers began to rubberneck.
“He’s butt naked,” said Steve-O.
“Drive, Lee,” said Tara through clenched teeth. “That heavy-handed crap makes my skin crawl.”
Riker pulled from the curb and stole a final quick peek at the man’s pasty white body. As one of the soldiers motioned with his rifle and the man began a slow pirouette, it became clear to Riker the blood-soaked bandage encircling his bicep had something to do with the encounter.
As Riker gunned it to catch the next light on the green, Tara tore her gaze from the action taking place. “When the soldiers saw the bandage they all backed off a few paces and pointed their rifles at the man.”
“I blame good old Romeo Victor,” said Riker. “Whatever in the hell that is.”
***
Three minutes after leaving the interstate behind they were cutting through the heart of North East on South Lake Street, where the main point of interest advertised on a roadside sign was Lake Shore Railway Museum. The blocks surrounding the intersection with Main Street, where South Lake became North Lake, were home to a United States Post Office, McCord Memorial Public Library, cross-competing pizza joints, the Boston Bean Café, and Johnny B’s Restaurant, the latter of which had an empty lot. Not a good sign so close to noon.
Pointing out a green and red sign affixed to a single-story building’s faux brick façade, Steve-O said, “Anyone feel like having pizza for lunch?”
“We’re dining at a four-star joint today, Steve-O. And we’re almost there.”
Riker's Apocalypse (Book 1): The Promise Page 31