He was in the process of transferring the second can of gas into the Blazer when he heard the noise of an engine. He looked up and saw an ancient Dodge pickup rumbling toward him. He quickly put down the gas can and slung the M1A into his hands as the truck began to slow. The driver stuck his hand out the window and waved it slowly from side to side. Don’t shoot, he seemed to be saying.
Vincenzo held his position, sweating in the late afternoon sun as the old Dodge slowly crept forward.
“We just want to pass by,” said the driver, an overweight man in his late thirties with several days of stubble on his face. The back of the truck was full of possessions held in place by a series of bungee cords. In the cab with him was an equally overweight woman and a chubby girl who looked to be about twelve. Their eyes were as wide as saucers as they stared at Vincenzo.
“So go,” Vincenzo said. “Don’t stop.”
The Dodge crept forward.
“Don’t go into Washington,” the driver said. “There’s some kind of big raiding party hitting the town hard. They killed all the cops and the civilian patrol, and they’re taking everything they can get their hands on.”
“Washington?” Vincenzo frowned. That was the next town on his route.
“Yeah, don’t go there. Really, man, don’t do it. Hey, you know anything about Van Voorhis?”
Vincenzo shook his head. “Never even heard of it.”
“All right, man. Take care of yourself, and keep your head down. It’s kind of tough up ahead, you might want to turn around and take Mitchell Road down to Lagonda if you’re going west. Stay south of the airport. A bunch of people from Pittsburgh took over that place. It’s basically a ghetto now.”
“Thanks for the tip,” Vincenzo said. “You need to keep your eyes out, too. Had some trouble on the other side of Eighty-Four. People are looking to take what you have. You armed?”
“Got a shotgun,” the driver said.
“That’ll have to do. Don’t stop until you get to where you’re going.”
“Thanks, man. Later.” The driver stepped on the accelerator, and the old beige-and-rust pickup accelerated away with a puff of greasy black exhaust.
Once the Dodge disappeared behind the next rise, Vincenzo emptied the gas can into the Blazer then went back for one more. As he was pumping the can full, he heard a burst of gunfire in the distance. There was a flash on the western horizon, then an orange and yellow fireball rose into the air. A muted thump came a second later.
“Okay, Tony, that’s enough gas for now,” he muttered. He didn’t know what had blown up and didn’t care to find out.
He packed up the siphon and emptied its hose into the gas can. He transferred the couple of gallons he’d removed from the F-150 into the Blazer, screwed on the gas cap, and put everything away. Back in the driver’s seat, he cranked the engine and nursed the vehicle into a hundred-and-eighty-degree turn, heading back the way he had come.
He caught up with the laboring Dodge pickup and passed it at sixty miles an hour; the Dodge was making maybe forty. Vincenzo tooted his horn, and the Dodge responded with a rusty-sounding blat that reminded him of a baby’s fart. He found Mitchell Road and turned right. The street was basically wide enough for one and a half cars. The narrowness made him a bit nervous, since it was a prime place for an ambush.
He rode for about a mile, passing a couple of houses that seemed quiet and empty. When he got to a stretch where no residences were visible, he stopped and set the parking brake. He paged through the atlas, looking for his approximate location.
Lagonda Road was almost ten miles from where he sat, and that was by taking a series of twisting country roads that led him well south, past Interstate 70, where he would then begin to parallel Interstate 79. It was only when he made it down to Lone Pine Road that he would cut westerly, following a serpentine trail that would take him within a half mile of the airport he had been warned about. Another couple of miles west-northwest would take him back to US 40. The new route was about a twenty-mile detour. Crap.
Ahead, a family of deer stepped out into the road, their heads turning toward the idling Blazer. Vincenzo ignored them and focused on memorizing the directions.
When he put the Blazer in gear and released the parking brake, the deer bolted across the road and bounded into the trees on the other side. By the time he pulled abreast of their point of entry, they had disappeared into the undergrowth.
Getting to Lone Pine Road took much longer than he had planned, courtesy of a series of trees that had been cut down and used to block off one of the roads he needed. He had to backtrack almost four miles and re-plot his course. The only viable option—he did not consider mounting one of the interstates as viable—was to tack southeasterly before turning west, which added another seven miles to his trip. He averaged fifty miles an hour where he could, but the road was twisty enough that he had to slow to negotiate the curves. That was one bad thing about having a lifted truck. They tended to suck when attempting to take a curve at high speed.
Lone Pine was more populated. Once, a couple of families paused their roadside game of badminton to turn and gawk at him. One of the kids waved, and Vincenzo slowed and raised his hand in response. A shirtless young man pointed toward one of the houses, and when Vincenzo looked in that direction, he saw a late-1970s Dodge Ramcharger sitting in the driveway, its chrome grille pointed at the road. It was in great shape, better than the Blazer. Vincenzo shot the young man a thumbs-up before accelerating away.
Lone Pine Road dead-ended into Route 19, and the sign at the juncture told him that Washington lay to the right and Amity was six miles to the left. The overpass of I-79 was a few hundred feet away, and Vincenzo examined it critically. No one was near, but he could see people walking along the interstate a few hundred yards to the north.
He cranked the wheel to the left and accelerated onto Route 19, bolting beneath the two overpasses and kicking up a storm of garbage in his wake. Farther up, a service station was on the left and, to the right, in a big cutout in the road, were four or five trailers. As he charged past them, several people ran toward the road, waving their arms frantically. Vincenzo veered left, giving as much berth as possible. He glanced in the rearview mirror and saw a man holding his hands in the air, as if wondering why the hell Vincenzo hadn’t stopped.
Sorry, guy, he thought as he accelerated to fifty miles per hour.
Half a mile down, he turned off US 19 onto Vankirk Ridge Road, which was lined by decent-sized houses on half-acre plots of land. The people there seemed to care about the way their community looked. There weren’t piles of garbage stacked everywhere, and any cars that might have died on the road had been cleared. Families were out working their lawns, grilling food, or just playing in the summer heat. Despite the pastoral scenery, Vincenzo didn’t linger. Mindful of young children that might bolt out in front of him, he cruised at around thirty-five miles per hour. A beagle tried to chase the Blazer down, but it gave up after a few yards.
He stopped along one deserted stretch of roadway and reviewed his course. He was back on his original track, which meant that he would be going through a series of turns to make it to Lagonda Road. He drained the contents of his water bottle then set off again.
Vankirk transitioned to Banetown Road, and he coaxed a little more speed out of the Blazer when he encountered a clear straightaway. His next turn, a left, was onto Scenic Drive, which curved away to the north slightly before easing back to the west. He entered another community of neat homes. He made another left onto Cove Road. Light strobed off water, and he saw a reservoir through the trees to his right. At least the people there had a source of water, so they were pretty well off for the moment.
A mile down the road, he turned right onto Lagonda. Even though he was still in mostly farmland, houses appeared with more regularity. Many were well off the road, hidden behind screens of trees, but quite a few were close. People stopped what they were doing and stared as the Blazer tore through the neighborhood. V
incenzo pushed his sunglasses up on his nose and concentrated on not missing his next turn coming up.
Lagonda ended at Park Avenue/Route 18, but as he drew close to the intersection, he saw people. A lot of people. They were mostly heading south but several turned toward the Blazer as Vincenzo rounded a gentle curve. He stood on the brakes, and he was surprised to see some of the people actually starting to run away. Over the rumble of the truck’s engine and the hiss of cool air pouring out of its vents, he heard distant gunfire.
The guy driving the Dodge had told him that the Washington County Airport, which was a couple of miles north, had been converted into some kind of haphazard refugee center. Whatever action was rolling through Washington had apparently spilled over, and people were fleeing the violence on foot.
Vincenzo cut the wheel and drove through a patch of lawn then across a school parking lot. He headed around the back of the brown brick building and came out the far side. There were still plenty of people around, and they seemed taken aback by the black truck’s sudden appearance, as if unsure whether the driver was friend or foe. Vincenzo didn’t hang around to give them time to figure it out. He revved the engine, and the rebuilt V-8 responded with a throaty roar. He swerved around groups of people, sending them diving out of the way as he accelerated, heading south once again.
“Goddamn, but this is getting fucked up!” he shouted as he wrenched the wheel from side to side, frightened that he might run over someone but not about to stop for fear of being mobbed.
A lot of the people had firearms. He saw more than a few pointed in his direction, but no one pulled a trigger. Apparently, as long as he was headed away from them, they weren’t willing to shoot. Not yet, at least.
The crowds thinned a few hundred yards down the road then pretty much disappeared. A golf course appeared to his right. Vincenzo drove past it at a good clip then slowed and pulled off onto the grass. Letting the engine idle, he consulted the atlas again. Less than a quarter of a mile ahead was another road that tracked westward, paralleling the golf course. He decided that one would work.
A few minutes later, he was booming down another rural road, blasting past houses and farms. The road became SR 3014, and he took that to South Bridge Road, which according to the atlas, more or less angled toward Route 40. His eyes felt scratchy, and he was getting tired. He’d been driving for hours, and much of his time traveling had been stressful. It was more difficult to remain incognito in the Blazer. Before, fellow travelers might have been interested to know what was in his hiking pack, but since he was mobile, they all coveted the truck. Vincenzo didn’t blame them, but he wasn’t about to hand it over without a fight.
At just past six-thirty in the evening, there was still plenty of sunlight left, but he would eventually need to find a place to park and conceal the truck. He had no idea where he might be able to do that, but he had to stay alert for any opportunities.
Ahead, more highway overpasses loomed. He knew they were for Interstate 70, that great artery that crossed almost the entire United States, reaching as far west as Utah. The desire to hop onto the freeway and take it for as far as he could go was almost overwhelming, but then he saw black smoke billowing from a fire on the far side of the westbound travel lanes, just beyond the span of the overpass. He couldn’t be sure, but it must have been an entire tractor-trailer on fire. The amount of smoke was impressive as it roiled high into the hazy, humid sky.
Okay, maybe no interstate. He blasted through the shadowy darkness beneath the overpasses at sixty miles per hour, sending the people there diving for cover. Someone hurled a rock that bounced off the right front fender before catapulting over the windshield. It didn’t touch the glass, though, and Vincenzo didn’t slow.
Just before reaching the intersection of South Bridge Road and US 40, he spotted a wide trail that disappeared into the forest on his right. He brought the Blazer to a halt right before the trail’s mouth. The trail seemed to disappear into deep shadow, and he couldn’t see much detail. He drummed his fingertips on the steering wheel. It looked inviting, and it was close enough to his plotted path of travel to make for a quick getaway the next morning.
And he was so damned tired...
He cranked the wheel to the right and eased the Blazer up the trail. The truck jounced as it rolled up the incline, its big tires effortlessly going right over ruts and rocks. The tree canopies soon interlocked, shrouding the trail in deep shadow, and Vincenzo removed his sunglasses so he could see. He realized he was on a fire trail. A couple of hundred feet off the road was a turnaround area big enough for him to horse the Blazer through a three-point turn so that it was more or less pointed back at the road. He decided that wasn’t good enough, so he backed it deeper into the brush, crushing bushes and scrub. Finally satisfied that he had hidden the vehicle as well as he was able, he switched off the engine and sat inside the cool cabin, listening to hot metal tick and ping as it cooled. He sighed then released his lap belt and grabbed the M1A.
He pushed open the driver’s door and stepped down to the forest floor. The trail was a combination of rock and sandy soil, and in the pale light that penetrated the leaves overhead, he couldn’t detect any sign that might tell someone a vehicle had recently been through the area. Slinging the rifle, he walked up the trail and found that it opened up to a field about thirty yards away.
He stuck to the trees and surveilled the space for a few minutes. It was a little smaller than a football field, and the tall grass had been growing unmolested for some time. On the far side stood a thick forest of tall trees, and above those, smoke curled into the air. He thought he heard the distant reports of rifle fire.
He turned and walked back to the Blazer. He intended to spend some time camouflaging the vehicle before treating himself to another helping of Dinty Moore’s best.
26
Sounds of violence erupted throughout the night, as if some fantastic bloodletting was taking place miles away.
Vincenzo lay on his sleeping bag beside the Blazer, the M1A on his right and the Beretta in its holster on his opposite hip. Sleep came intermittently. As soon as he dropped off, it seemed that a spasm of violence, the rustling of some animal slipping through the brush, or even the wind through the treetops above would rouse him again. He wondered if he was far enough away from Washington after all. While he’d put miles between himself and the town, those fleeing the bloodshed might continue their migration during the night, which could lead them to his little corner of the woods. He hoped the forest might slow them down, but not everyone was going to take the roads.
Could’ve driven a little longer, I guess. But he wasn’t about to travel at night, not when he wouldn’t be able to see anything. And turning on the Blazer’s rather impressive array of lights would serve only to advertise his position.
He awoke later than normal the next morning, for dawn was already well on its way. He sat up and checked the immediate area. There was no one about, and he seemed safe for the time being. Some gunfire still rattled far away, but it was erratic. Whatever fight had been going down had either ended, or there was no one left to shoot at.
He had a hasty breakfast of cereal and canned milk, which didn’t taste as terrible as he remembered. The Blazer’s former owner apparently loved canned goods, and that was fine. Food in cans generally tasted better than stuff in bags, though there was plenty of that, as well. At some point he would have to inventory everything and start consuming by expiration dates, but that would have to wait until later.
After breakfast, he took care of his personal needs and used some of the water to take a quick sponge bath. It didn’t come even close to matching the shower he’d had at the fire station, but it would have to do.
After that, he removed the camouflage netting, shook it do dislodge any bugs that might have taken up residence in it during the night, and packed up the Blazer. Back in the cab, he checked the atlas. He was a couple of miles southwest of Washington and maybe four miles from the West Virginia border. Vin
cenzo had never set foot in West Virginia, and he wasn’t eager to do so. He came from people who pretty much viewed West Virginia as the land of flat-headed Neanderthals, and if that was indeed the case, then the time since the event likely hadn’t improved anything. Yet, he had no choice. He had to keep moving. He thumbed through the atlas, trying to figure out how long he’d be in West Virginia before crossing over into Ohio. It wouldn’t be for long, maybe an hour if he was able to keep away from any obstructions or other distractions. After that, his route would take him through Columbus. He would detour around that, and maybe drift farther south. The Ackermans were in Cincinnati. He was curious if they’d made it home.
A sound caught his attention, and he dropped the atlas in favor of the rifle. At first, he couldn’t identify it. The noise was completely alien to his ears, but he immediately knew it wasn’t a sound that belonged in the wilderness. He listened intently, then he heard it again.
The whimpering of a child.
He stepped out of the Blazer and gently eased the door closed. Holding the rifle, he moved back to the trail, careful to make as little noise as possible. The whimpering was coming from the direction of the field. Vincenzo cautiously made his way toward it, sticking close to the trees.
The sun was just over the horizon, bathing the field in a golden glow. There was a hint of haze in the air, which meant the coming day would be another humid boiler. A hawk was already riding the building thermals, surveying the territory below for any prey.
A man with a sagging backpack hurried across the field. He was dressed in dirty jeans and a worn denim shirt with rolled up sleeves, and he didn’t appear to be armed. Two children ran with him, holding his hands. On his right was a young girl with wispy blond hair. She wore mud-stained corduroy pants, a floral top, and a pink Dora the Explorer backpack. The other child, a boy, was older. He had on blue shorts, sneakers, and a red T-shirt with the number forty-four emblazoned across the chest. The hair sticking out from beneath his rust-colored Ralph Lauren cap was slightly darker than the girl’s. His backpack was bright orange and covered spikes like a dinosaur’s back. The boy dragged his feet, and the man chided him gently. The boy held a plastic hanger in his free hand, which he whipped and whirled. He studied the hanger with rapt attention, his face going through several expressions. He whimpered but not as if he were hurt.
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