He kept wandering southward, avoiding another community that had buttoned itself up off Spring Garden Drive. The residents manning the only access point had rifles, and they didn’t seem very open to giving him directions. Vincenzo traveled west on that road until he came to an intersection, then he turned south again on Lumber Street. There, the homes were much smaller ranch-style dwellings, and the neighborhood had a more blue-collar feel to it. Vincenzo stuck to the center of the street, Wonderboy gripped in his left hand, leaving his right free to draw the Beretta if needed. Residents watched him from darkened doorways and open garages. Many of them were armed, and while no one challenged him, no one set out the welcome mat, either.
A Doberman growled at him from behind a chain-link fence surrounding a single-story house with blue linoleum siding, and Vincenzo watched it warily. Garbage was strewn about the street, not from neglect but from piles of garbage bags that had been torn open by raccoons or skunks. He smelled smoke in the air, and when he passed another house, he saw a burly man in a wifebeater and checkered shorts burning something in his backyard. The man wore a nickel-plated, long-barreled revolver in a shoulder harness, and his long hair was an unruly mass on his head. He glowered at Vincenzo as he threw some garbage onto the fire. Black smoke puffed up.
“Keep walking,” the man barked. “Don’t stop here.”
Vincenzo tipped his hat and did just that.
In the late afternoon, he came to a highway overpass that cut through the neighborhood. More garbage was piled up there, either thrown off the highway or deposited by the residents in a bid to distance themselves from the stench of rotting detritus. Vincenzo didn’t see anyone around, but he couldn’t be sure. So before he stepped inside, he pulled the Beretta from its holster.
It was only fractionally cooler beneath the overpass, and it stank of rotting garbage, urine, and... body odor.
Something rustled ahead. Vincenzo stopped and raised his pistol as a shape emerged from the gloom. A skinny old man with a long, filthy gray beard looked at Vincenzo with wild eyes. He was dressed in frayed cargo pants and a ripped T-shirt.
“Don’t shoot!” the old man cried. “Don’t shoot! I ain’t got nothin’! You can have the bridge!” Without waiting for a response, he took off running for the far side of the overpass, blubbering incoherently.
“Huh. Okay, thanks,” Vincenzo muttered.
Vincenzo kicked through the detritus that lined the floor of the overpass. He paused for a moment before emerging into the daylight on the other side, just to ensure the old man wasn’t lying in wait. He walked out after making sure it was safe enough to do so.
At the end of Lumber Street, he turned right onto Second Street. He was back in mixed-use territory again, where residences were interspersed with commercial interests. A burned-out police cruiser sat in the middle of the intersection near a ravaged strip mall. Dozens of people were picking through the mall. They mostly ignored Vincenzo, and he did nothing to attract unwanted attention. Just put one foot in front of the other.
The overpasses of Interstate 76 loomed ahead. According to his map, the interstate crossed the Susquehanna River. Even though he was still close to whatever was happening in Harrisburg, he needed to find his way across the river, and swimming was probably out of the question. He saw people moving across the overpass, heading in the same direction he needed to go.
Well, looks like you won’t be alone.
He trudged up the grassy bank that led to the interstate.
It was hotter than hell by the time he made to the Susquehanna in the late afternoon. The air was still and full of energy-sapping humidity as he lumbered across the slow-moving river. There wasn’t a lot of traffic on the bridge, but several other travelers hiked in front of and behind him, moving across its span. Glancing over the blue guardrail, he saw small boats in the river below, and there was even an island whose treetops almost reached the bridge. On the other side of the span, columns of smoke rose into the air from Harrisburg to the north.
It was getting late, and he needed to find a place to rest for the night before getting back on his route. He saw a prodigious amount of trees across the river, and he hoped that he’d be able to find a suitable place to make camp. The problem was that the other people crossing the bridge were making their own camps on the other side as well. Vincenzo didn’t want to settle down for the night amidst a big group of fellow refugees, so he pressed on through the town of Camp Hill, then even farther, into the small city of Mechanicsburg.
As the sun settled below the horizon, lighting up the sky with hues of amber, he came across a cemetery. It looked fairly deserted, which given the late hour seemed appropriate. Who visited Grandma’s grave in the middle of the night? A relatively thick copse of trees stood along the graveyard’s far border, and he headed that way.
He went through the usual rituals: shrugging off his pack, digging a cat hole, spreading out his sleeping gear, eating a quick dinner, and brushing his teeth. He replenished the Hydra Flask with a couple of packets of Datrex water then stretched out on his sleeping bag. The night was warm and humid, and mosquitoes buzzed about, so he applied some insect repellent to hold them at bay. He fell asleep almost instantly.
He awoke sometime in the night to the sounds of a gun battle being waged somewhere in the distance. He lay there listening to it, wondering what was going on and why. His legs and feet ached, but he refrained from taking any Tylenol. That was another finite resource he’d have to marshal. He was surprised to hear a sudden ripple of full-automatic gunfire. It was surreal, hearing such things happening in America.
But then and again, ’Merica is the land of the gun, right?
He laughed, because despite his political leanings, he’d never been a huge fan of gun control. One didn’t have to be a right-winger to understand the value of the Second Amendment, and it had come in right handy for him so far. Also, chances were good that anyone who had automatic weapons were with the government, and he wasn’t at all interested in getting on the bad side of the feds.
But who are they using them against? Americans. But why?
As he pondered that, the gunfire trickled into a sporadic set of distant pops that sounded more and more irregularly.
Vincenzo fell asleep again.
The next morning, Vincenzo got up before dawn, packed up his campsite, saw to some personal needs, had a small breakfast, and set off into the gloom. As he walked through the cemetery, he saw that others had taken refuge inside its borders. He picked his way around tombstones and sleeping people and turned west on the road.
He came across the site of the battle he’d heard in the night. A little over a mile from where he had slept was a Navy installation. Lights burned there, powered by God knew how many backup generators. Several bodies lay in the street, and some men in uniform walked around them as if checking to ensure the dead were just that. Vincenzo stopped when he saw the carnage. He had no idea what had happened, but he knew better than to try to walk past the installation in the pre-dawn hours.
He crossed the two-lane highway he was on and pushed deeper into the residential neighborhood to the south. Navigating his way through the semi-darkness by the seat of his pants, he went first south then westward. From a low-lying brick house, a dog barked, but no one came out to investigate. Vincenzo hurried on, and a mile later, he cut north again, resuming his route. The Naval facility was directly behind him, but he saw no signs of activity. He was apparently outside the Navy’s scope of interest, which suited him just fine. He hurried through Mechanicsburg, stopping only when necessary to avoid other people. Patchy clouds scudded past overhead, their features revealed as the sun gradually rose.
Mechanicsburg might have been a pretty town before the event, the kind of place where people nodded and said hello as they passed each other on the street. It was fading as time wore on. Like so many other communities he had seen, the sudden cessation of public utilities were taking their toll. Garbage was piled up, and the stench of human excremen
t was everywhere. Those people who ventured outdoors did so only with a purpose. There was no time for small talk, and many viewed Vincenzo with suspicion and scarcely contained hostility.
Vincenzo kept his head down and continued through the downtown area, plodding down Main Street as fast as he could. The walking stick was in his left hand, and he remained mindful of his sweat-stained T-shirt, ensuring it stayed pulled down to cover the pistol. He heard someone weeping in one of the apartments that overlooked the street, a mournful, solitary sound. It made Vincenzo walk even a little bit faster, his aching muscles be damned.
Two hours later, he breathed a sigh of relief when farmland began to reappear. He had a tense moment when he crossed beneath the I-76 overpass and found several people sheltering there, apparently waiting out the heat of the day. Two teenage boys approached him, one holding a baseball bat, the other a worn-looking machete.
“Drop the stick and give us your bag, man!” the one with the machete shouted. “Don’t make me cut you to pieces!”
Vincenzo drew the Beretta. “Don’t make me shoot you dead.”
“No, no, don’t!” cried a middle-aged man lying along the side of the street. He looked sick as hell. “Please, they’re doing it for me.”
“I don’t give a damn,” Vincenzo said. “If anyone comes anywhere near me, I’ll shoot them.” He looked at the two young men in his path. “Now, you boys need to move aside. Sorry about your father, but maybe someone can help you in Mechanicsburg.”
“We came from there,” the boy with the bat said. “They wouldn’t help us.”
“Our dad’s sick,” the other one added. “He needs insulin.”
“I’m not a pharmacy. Sorry,” Vincenzo said. “I don’t have anything that might help with diabetes. Now you have to let me by, or you’re going to wind up dead.”
“Please,” the old man whispered. A blank-faced woman sat next to him, her pale eyes vacant and unmoved by the drama playing out in front of her. “Please, boys, let him go.”
“I’d listen to him,” Vincenzo told the boys.
The younger boy lowered the machete. Even though he had been the most aggressive of the pair, he was only about fourteen. He looked as though he was about to cry. The one with the bat was closer to sixteen, and he didn’t appear to be anywhere near tears. Instead, he charged toward Vincenzo with the bat held high.
The Beretta sounded like a cannon when Vincenzo fired. He’d meant to hit the boy dead in the chest, but at the last moment, he inched the pistol to the right. The bullet zipped benignly between the two young men, but the sound and the muzzle flash had the desired effect. The boy with the bat stopped short, and the other one dropped the machete with a cry.
“That’s the only warning you get!” Vincenzo shouted, his ears ringing and the smell of burnt powder strong in his nostrils. “I’m not going to waste the next one. You keep fucking with me, people are going to wind up dead!”
The younger boy grabbed the older one, wrapping his arms around him. They struggled, but the younger one looked at Vincenzo. “Go! Go!” he yelled.
Vincenzo bolted past them, his boots stomping on the pavement as he ran for the far side of the overpass. He was dimly aware of the stricken man calling out to his boys in a weak voice.
He surged out into the daylight then slowed and glanced back. The family was still huddled together. He took a moment to catch his breath then flipped on the Beretta’s safety and slipped the weapon into its holster. Tucking his walking stick under his arm, he took off his sweat-soaked cap and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. He put his cap back on and resumed his walk, casting glances over his shoulder every now and then as he moved on down the road.
CARLISLE, PA UNDER MARTIAL LAW
RESIDENTS SHOW ID AT CHECKPOINTS
ALL OTHER PERSONS FORBIDDEN
USE OF DEADLY FORCE AUTHORIZED
Razor-wire fences and armed guards, a few of them in police and military uniforms but most in just street clothes, controlled every road leading into the city. And they had vehicles, as well, older cars and trucks that had either been repaired or had survived the event, and a few of those were military Humvees and trucks. Vincenzo knew from his map that there was an Army installation somewhere in the city limits, which explained the military presence. What he didn’t get was why the entire city was closed.
Is that even legal? Fort Indiantown Gap, he could understand. That was a military reservation. But denying access to an entire city seemed pretty extreme.
He watched from a vantage point on the far side of a car dealership parking lot as the troops and guards milled around beneath the I-81 overpass, using it cover from the sun. A handful of travelers walked up to the checkpoint. One was admitted, but the rest were turned back. One couple went back the way they had come, while another climbed up the embankment to Interstate 81, which appeared to be permissible. They paralleled the interstate for a few feet then disappeared behind a row of trees.
The guards didn’t try to confiscate anyone’s possessions, but that didn’t make him feel all rosy about things. The signs pretty much explained everything. Access through Carlisle wasn’t happening, and his mapped route ran right through the city. He’d have to find another way.
He knelt and pulled his maps out of the knapsack. His choices were to track north or south. It seemed likely that Carlisle was blocked off at the interstates, which meant that as long as he stayed outside of the I-81 and I-76 boundaries, he might be okay. He was closer to the southern end of what he presumed would be the area of control around Carlisle, and there weren’t any rivers or anything to cross. He figured it would be mostly farmland.
So south it is. Another detour, another delay. Fantastic.
It took six hours for him to make it past Carlisle. Most of that time was spent wending his way through fields, down country roads, and across vacant business parking lots. He avoided residential areas where he could and crossed private property only when there was no other choice and no one was around to interfere. He saw a band of farmers on horseback patrolling one gigantic corn field while others tended to the land. Taking a chance, he waved at them, ensuring they saw him as he approached. The horsemen stopped and waited for him to approach. They had rifles, but no one pointed one at him.
“Afternoon,” one man said. He wore a straw cowboy hat and actually had a bandana tied around his neck. His eyes were hidden behind sunglasses, but Vincenzo could see enough of the skin around the lenses to tell the man was a weathered sort. He looked to be in his sixties, but the toll of working the land might have made him look older than his years.
Vincenzo stopped about twenty feet away. “Hi. I’m sorry to bother you guys. I just want some directions, if that’s all right.”
“Directions are easy,” the man said. “Anything else might be asking a bit much, though. Where you coming from?”
“New York City.”
The man let out a low whistle. “Mighty long walk. Where you headed?”
“Los Angeles.”
The man snorted. “Seriously?”
Vincenzo nodded.
“Well, then. My directions are ‘Go west, young man, and turn left at the Pacific Ocean.’”
“Yeah, I have that part down. I was actually wondering if there’s a shortcut around here. I’m trying to get back to Route 641, but Carlisle is apparently closed down.”
The man nodded. “Yeah, we know all about it. After what happened to Harrisburg, people around here are a bit nervous with all the strangers coming in. Not sure they can just close down a city that way, but at the moment, it’s not our problem. Anyone with you, or are you traveling alone?”
“Just me.”
“Okay.” The man’s horse stamped one of its hooves, kicking up dust. “You got somethin’ to write with?”
Vincenzo reached into his knapsack. From the corner of his eye, he saw one of the other men swing his rifle into his hands. Vincenzo eased a ballpoint pen from his bag. He held it up for them to see.
&nb
sp; The older man nodded. “Okay, here’s what you need to do. See that trail right there?” He pointed off to his right.
Vincenzo looked and saw a dirt trail going through the field. “Yeah.”
“Take that trail all the way across the field. Once you get to the trees, go left until you see another trail. Take that to the next road. That’ll be Holly Pike. Turn right and head north on Holly Pike until you get to Marsh Drive, on your left. Stay on Marsh until you get to Walnut Bottom Road. Turn left onto Walnut then right onto Sprint. Stay on Sprint until you make it to Allen, then turn right on Allen. That’ll take you to 641, which is called Newville here.”
Vincenzo wrote all of it down on the back of his map. He read the instructions back.
“You’re good to go. Now, do yourself a favor. Don’t stay on my property any longer than you have to. I don’t want you camping out here. Just walk through and get out. We don’t want any trouble, and we won’t take any. You get what I’m saying?”
Vincenzo nodded. “I get you.”
The older man waved his free hand. “Then you’re good to go. Charlie, you go riding ahead of him and tell the folks at the house not to worry about this man. He has our permission to cross.”
“Yes, sir,” the youngest one said. He pulled on his horse’s reins, and the animal responded obediently.
Vincenzo watched him go for a moment then looked up at the older man. “Thanks for your help.”
“Sure thing. Did the event hit New York hard?”
“New York was on fire when I left. I’m not sure if it’s there anymore. But one thing’s for sure, you boys are going to have a lot of company in the next couple of weeks, and people are going to be desperate come winter.”
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