Charges

by Stephen Knight

  Then he saw several Guardsman pull a man out of the line and take him to one of the vehicles, apparently against the civilian’s will. There was a brief scuffle, but Vincenzo was too far away to hear what was going on. He presumed the man was a criminal or had done something to attract the ire of the soldier. Then, the Guardsman pulled off the man’s backpack and started going through it. It wasn’t just a search; the soldier was itemizing everything, separating the stuff by purpose and function.

  Yeah, let’s not go down there. He resumed his trek, but he was filled with nagging worry that he had made a mistake. Maybe there was a legitimate reason for the soldier’s actions. Perhaps the man had done something that made them pull him out of the line. The military had operational vehicles, so perhaps they could assist him in getting to California.

  Figure it out later. For now, just concentrate on getting out of Jersey.

  A light sprinkle began to fall. He felt a few drops hit him, pinpricks of cool against the exposed skin on his arms and face. Then the rain intensified, building with force and volume until the street was soaked and slick. Thunder boomed, loud and forceful, the voice of God shouting in his ear. Vincenzo started to look for shelter, then he decided there was nothing wrong with getting a little wet. The temperature was dropping, and he could make better time without the heat of the day bearing down on him like some nagging mother-in-law that would just never shut up. So he removed his cap and let the rain hit him. Raising his face toward the torrent, he tried to scrub away some of the sweat and grime. It was the first shower he’d taken since leaving New York.

  It was glorious.

  The rain lasted most of the day, and as Vincenzo had thought, he made better time in the lower temperature. He took some time out to spread out his poncho and catch some of the rainwater. After an hour or so, he was able to refill one of the water bottles and top off the Hydro Flask—one less thing to worry about. Also, there were fewer people about, since most had probably sought shelter. Though thoroughly soaked, Vincenzo was actually enjoying the journey somewhat. No one was watching him, and those who did weren’t motivated to contact him. For his part, he kept his head down and just kept going. Route 612 became NJ 57, a two-lane road that ran through a semi-urban portion of New Jersey he’d never seen before and, God willing, never would again. Tall trees lined the boulevard, and their shade would have been welcome if the sun was shining. To his right were open agricultural fields. To his left was a New Jersey State Police barracks, which seemed deserted. Down the road, an actual Army tank sat in front of a slab-sided, two-story brick building. That worried him, and he considered cutting across one of the fields and disappearing into the trees beyond. But he was the only person on the road, aside from a couple sleeping in a pickup truck that looked brand new. They didn’t stir as he stalked past, and he paid attention to them just long enough to determine they weren’t a threat.

  The building with the tank in front was a National Guard headquarters. Lights were on inside the office, and Vincenzo could hear generators purring somewhere behind the hulking structure. The tank was an old one and probably just a display, given the amount of bird shit spattered across it. He wouldn’t have been surprised if it hadn’t moved in years.

  But there was definitely activity in the building itself, and immediately outside, two armed sentries in uniform watched him as he walked past. He looked directly at them and gave a curt nod. One of the Guardsmen nodded back, and that was it.

  Vincenzo made camp just outside of Philipsburg, the last town in New Jersey that stood between him and Pennsylvania. So far, he had made good time. In a matter of days, he had walked from Midtown New York City all the way across New Jersey. Of course, he’d also had to kill a man and face more violence inside one week than he’d previously seen over the course of his life, so every silver lining came with a lot of cloud.

  One of the items the Ackermans had bequeathed him was a tarp, and he was able to spread that over the carpet of wet leaves and lay his sleeping bag on top of it. He wrapped the remainder of the tarp around him in a bid to keep the rainwater falling off the branches overhead off his sleeping bag. It would be a bit muggy inside, but that was preferable to being wet throughout the night.

  For a moment, he considered leaving the clothes on—they’d eventually dry, but the stink and clammy wetness would ensure he wouldn’t get much in the way of rest. He decided that sleep was more important, especially given the numerous aches and pains that made their presence known. He changed into some dry clothes and stuffed his wet ones inside a plastic bag. Better wash and dry that stuff before it starts to grow mold.

  After wrapping his calves in ThermaCare bandages, he took more Tylenol, along with some vitamin C caplets, in a bid to ward off any illness that might be lurking around the corner. The last thing he wanted was to be sidelined by a severe cold.

  When he awoke the next morning, the rain had mostly stopped, but the sky remained sullen and gray, making the pre-dawn gloom even murkier than usual. Vincenzo ate a couple of the breakfast bars the Ackermans had left him and chased them down with his last energy drink. He still had several bottles of water, all of his water pouches, and the Hydro Flask, so he was good for another couple of days. Just the same, he was glad that he’d taken the time to capture some rainwater—there was no telling when he’d have that opportunity again. If nature didn’t keep lending a helping hand, then he’d have to filter and boil water from a creek or river, and he wasn’t sure that would ever be a good idea, especially in an environment as polluted as the eastern half of America.

  Once again, as he packed up his camp, Vincenzo found himself wishing he hadn’t spent so much time ridiculing survivalists. Knock it off. What next? Am I going to wish I’d voted Republican instead of Democrat?

  He took off down New Jersey 57 again, heading in a southwesterly direction. The two-lane highway was still wet. To his right, fields of unharvested corn waved in the gentle breeze that whispered from the east. Lights moved amongst the stalks, and he realized that workers were tending to the fields. He wondered how the harvest would be, if it happened at all. The previous day’s rain notwithstanding, without irrigation, the crop would certainly be a small one.

  As he approached Philipsburg, the landscape went from semi-rural to more suburban. Walking past shuttered elementary schools and shops and gas stations, Vincenzo felt like the last man on the planet. Beyond the farm workers he’d seen, there was no one else on the road. There were fewer disabled automobiles on the street, and he wondered whether that was just from circumstance or if someone had actually tried to clear the streets of dead cars and trucks. The only sounds he heard beyond the tweets of birds in the trees were his own footfalls and the occasional clunk of the walking stick making contact with the asphalt. Despite the impression that he was alone, Vincenzo remained alert. It wouldn’t be long until the community woke up, and then anything could happen.

  Farther down the road, a tractor-trailer hauling a load of gravel had slammed into stalled traffic in an intersection, but the shattered glass had been swept up and most of the wreckage pulled off into a nearby strip mall parking lot. Yet the windows in several stores had been shattered, and wet garbage lay scattered across the lot. A mound of plastic trash bags sat at the corner of the lot, and Vincenzo caught a whiff of the sunbaked waste they contained, even though the pile was several hundred feet away. He passed a car dealership stocked with vehicles that likely would never run again, closed restaurants—some of which showed signs of looting. In a tractor supply company, a man stood behind a locked chain link fence with a rifle slung over his shoulder. Behind him, several pieces of heavy construction equipment—bulldozers, payloaders, and dump trucks—sat idle. But there were tire tracks in the mud at the end of the parking lot, and they seemed fresh.

  Vincenzo tipped his cap as he walked past. “Morning.”

  “Morning,” the guy replied, but there was nothing welcoming in his voice.

  “Those tractors, they still run?”


  “Why do you ask? Is it any of your business?” the man asked, his voice a threatening rumble even though he was a good fifty feet away.

  Vincenzo pointed at the tire tracks. “Just trying to get a gauge on how bad things are. If some vehicles still run, then maybe things aren’t as bad as they seem.”

  “Older diesels still run, those without fancy electronic ignitions. So do old cars and trucks and a lot of motorbikes.”

  “So do old airplanes.”

  The man didn’t seem impressed by the information. “That so?”

  Vincenzo nodded and kept on walking without thanking the man for his time. Fuck him. He passed the darkened Key Diner and was heartened to see its windows intact. A group of bicyclists were in the parking lot. They regarded him warily as they got their bikes ready. All of them wore backpacks, and a couple even had small trailers behind their wheels.

  Vincenzo shot them a thumbs-up. “Looks like you guys have the right idea,” he said, not breaking stride.

  “Where you headed?” one of them asked.

  “Los Angeles. You guys?”

  “Different places. No one headed to Cali, though.”

  Vincenzo nodded. “Take care on the road, guys. Things are getting rough.”

  “Where did you come from?” another biker asked.

  “New York City. Don’t go there. Stay away from it. In fact”—Vincenzo turned and walked backwards a couple of steps—“avoid all the large cities wherever you can. Too many people, too much desperation.”

  “Thanks for that,” the first biker said. “Have a safe trip.”

  Vincenzo nodded and faced forward again. He felt okay, not as many aches and pains as in previous days. The fact that it was cool—in the high sixties, maybe the low seventies—helped. The rising sun was still obscured by heavy clouds, but it didn’t look as if rain was going to pour down again anytime soon. Just in case it did, he kept his poncho at the ready. He didn’t want to be lugging wet clothes for the next few days, so the plastic liner would come in handy. He wished he’d worn it the day before, but sometimes, stupid is as stupid does.

  He heard wheels on asphalt, and a moment later the seven bikers cruised past him. Vincenzo raised his walking stick in salute.

  One looked over his shoulder and nodded his helmeted head at him. “Safe journey,” he said.

  “You too, bro.”

  The bikers pedaled on, weaving around the few dead autos in the street. In minutes, they were gone.

  The road widened to three lanes, changing from NJ-57 to US-22. The designations meant nothing to him, just marks on his map. The map was holding up very well. It was still dry, though he really didn’t have to refer to it very often. All he needed to do was get through Philipsburg, cross the Delaware River, and kiss New Jersey goodbye.

  The sky was still cloudy and uninviting, but at least it held back the sun’s rays for the time being. More people appeared on the road, coming out of buildings and parking lots and dead motor vehicles. No one paid him any mind, and no one got too close. It seemed that everyone had learned their lessons since the lights went out, and trouble was nothing anyone wanted to invite. Vincenzo did switch the big walking stick from his right hand to his left, just in case he needed to get to the Beretta in a hurry. It still struck him as odd, having to consider such a thing, but he knew he needed to get in that mindset and stay there. Safety was something he wouldn’t be sure of until he walked up the driveway of his house in the Hollywood Hills, and even then it was far from guaranteed.

  Phillipsburg was a fairly unremarkable town, though some old world charm appeared the closer he got to the Delaware River. Midcentury buildings and older emerged amidst the monstrosities of strip malls and glass-faced office buildings. Many were ornate, and they spoke of a time that existed long before Vincenzo had been born, a time of his parents and grandparents. US-22 sheared off to the right, and he continued straight down Morris Street, ambling through another residential neighborhood full of closely spaced houses with front porches that overlooked the street. The residents watched the progression of humanity marching past with more curiosity than distrust. It was a refreshing change of pace, but he was certain it wouldn’t last. Eventually, one of the travelers would do something inappropriate, either an outright crime or something as bizarre as taking a dump while squatting over a storm drain, and that would turn the tide.

  Morris ended at the intersection with Main Street, across from a set of railroad tracks. Vincenzo tracked left onto Main, passing weathered buildings and mountains of stinking garbage. He was surprised to find an amazing amount of activity occurring. There were people everywhere, and they seemed to be in good spirits. He tried to stay on the outskirts of the group, as did many of his fellow travelers, but it soon proved impossible. The road narrowed to two lanes again, and the sidewalks were full of tables with goods being hawked. It was a trading bazaar, of all things. Local police kept a watchful eye over things.

  Vincenzo took a moment to examine some of the tables. At one, a woman was selling blue jeans and T-shirts. At another, a family had freeze-dried food. A third, quite busy one displayed an array of liquor bottles, and the men who presided over it were armed. In the parking lot of a gas station, a haze of greasy smoke rose into the air as several people cooked hamburgers and hot dogs. Vincenzo’s stomach growled, so he headed that way. A sign in the grill area read CASH OR TRADE.

  “Hey, what’ll you take for a burger?” Vincenzo asked as he approached the exchange table.

  “Ten dollars for a burger and a soda,” one of the women said. She had long gray hair that was tied back in a ponytail, and her face was a mass of creases and lines. “We only have Coke and Diet Coke, and it’s warm. And for trade, we’re looking for seeds, vitamins, ammunition, or batteries.”

  Ten bucks for a burger and warm soda? “How good is the meat?” he asked.

  “It was frozen solid until yesterday. Thermometer says the temperature is still forty-two degrees. It’s still good, but it’s not going to last. Where you from?”

  “New York.”

  “Things bad there?”

  He nodded. “They were going to hell, which is why I left.”

  “You see any sign the government is pulling its act together?”

  Vincenzo shrugged. “New Jersey National Guard seems to be active. I walked past a headquarters building that was lit up and guarded, and I saw them a few miles back doing something in a town, but I didn’t get close enough to see what.”

  “Where you headed?”

  “West.”

  “How far west?”

  Vincenzo smiled. “To the Pacific.”

  The creases in the woman’s face deepened as she frowned. She bent over the table and looked him up and down. “Well, you might make it. You don’t seem that bad off. You walking past Fort Indiantown Gap?”

  “It’s on the way.”

  “Heard from some fella yesterday that the Army or the Guard or whoever is pulling together some major relief station there. FEMA is involved, too. You might want to check it out.”

  “Thanks for the tip.”

  “So what’ll it be, cash or trade?”

  “Cash,” Vincenzo said, and he pulled out a ten dollar bill. It was damp, either from rain or sweat, but that didn’t stop the woman from accepting it.

  She handed him an orange ticket like the old ones they used at movie theaters when he was a kid. “Go stand in that line there and give this ticket to Molly, the girl with the brown hair and white apron,” the woman said, pointing at a queue near the grills. “She’ll take care of you. Have a good trip.” She turned to the person standing behind him, an obvious sign of dismissal.

  Vincenzo joined the line at the grills and tendered his ticket when his turn came. The girl there took the ticket and gave him a greasy hamburger and a warm can of Coca-Cola. She hadn’t inquired whether he wanted diet or regular, but he didn’t give a damn. The burger wasn’t huge, and there was nothing on it, other than a layer of grease and some carbon fr
om the fire. The bread was a little hard, well on its way toward becoming stale.

  Vincenzo stepped out of line, the can of Coke tucked under one arm so he could keep a grip on his walking stick. He stopped under the wide awning of the gas station on the corner and wolfed down the burger. It was just as greasy as it looked, but it tasted fine despite the hardening bun. It was gone in four bites, which meant each mouthful cost him two dollars and fifty cents. Guess Reagan would be proud to see it only took the end of the world to give rise to supply-side economics.

  He tossed the greasy paper plate into an overflowing trash can between two dormant gas pumps and popped open the Coke. It was just as warm as the can had suggested, but it was wet and still carbonated. As he drank, he looked around. Theo’s Drive In was on the far corner, and he suspected that was where the meat had come from. Across the street were two other dining establishments: the Union Square Grill and a slightly upscale restaurant called Sweet Basil, which had picnic tables out front filled with patrons eating burgers and swigging warm soda. Down the street was the bridge he would cross, taking him out of Jersey and into Pennsylvania, one state closer to home. He put the can of Coke on top of one of the gas pumps and pulled out his map again. Across the bridge, the street became Northampton, and it would take him through the town of Easton, Pennsylvania. A couple of miles to the west, he would turn left on Butler Street.

  All good to me, he thought as he replaced the map in his knapsack. He polished off the Coke, belched, and place the empty can atop the heap of trash mounding out of the garbage can. Hitching up the straps of his hiking pack, he joined the wave of humanity streaming across the bridge. There were just as many people coming into Jersey as leaving it. He wondered why people would want to come into New Jersey but didn’t give voice to the question. After all, there was no reason to start a fight.