by JK Franks
49
“According to Gerald’s notes, there are three basic options for surviving conflicts with others, JD. Stay hidden, fight, or flee. If you choose to flee, you have to be faster than the other guy . . . and his weapons.”
“What’s wrong with hiding?”
“Nothing wrong with it; that’s what has kept us alive until now,” Steve answered.
“Yeah, yeah, “Be the rat.”
“I know,” Steve laughed. “It doesn’t make for a cool story, but it has kept us alive.” The statement hung in the air just a moment too long. “Mostly,” he amended.
Continuing, he said, “We know it won’t always work, so I want us to try speed. We haven’t seen a working car since we left Fort Benning. That would be my first choice, but I have a feeling that even the ones that might still function are probably out of gas. My second thought was horses, but the ones we’ve seen seem wary of us. I can ride, but don’t know about doing it bareback, nor do I know much about taking care of one.”
“So, that is why you chose this?” JD said as he pointed to the building.
“Yes, bicycles are a nearly perfect means of transportation. I remembered seeing this shop every time I passed through this area.” The bike shop was on the corner of a small, nondescript shopping center. Steve knew this was a good mile from the rest of the small town. The other shops were a mixed bag of insurance agencies, a clothing boutique, a title pawn and one he guessed from the name as maybe a tattoo shop. The entire place had a “rough around the edges” feel to it, but just like the farmhouse, they had staked it out for most of a day already.
Several of the stores, including the bike shop, had front windows broken and litter streaming from the interior, obviously already ransacked. The two of them had moved to within twenty yards of the store. “I’m going to go check it out, just like before,” Steve told the boy.
“Let me go,” JD whispered. “I’m fast, I can peek in the window and take off if anything seems sketchy.”
“No, too risky.”
“Steve, you know I got this. You know I’m right.”
He shook his head, marveling at how quickly the boy was learning. He wanted to argue, but he did know the kid was right, and he had to learn how to do this stuff. “Ok sport, go do it. Be safe.”
He watched as JD sprinted to the edge of the building, ducking low before peeking around the front. Seeing nothing, he crawled up under the broken window and eased his head up briefly to see inside. Steve’s insides were in knots watching as the kid took a longer look, then motioned for Steve to join him.
Inside the shop was a wreck, bike parts, and ruined frames were scattered everywhere. It appeared that all the adult bikes were gone or destroyed. A few kid-sized bikes were still intact, but they would do no good. “Was this part of your plan?” JD asked.
“It was about what I expected. Come on.” They headed to the rear of the shop. A small repair area was set up behind the smashed sales counter. He opened a door to a darkened storage area. Here too, the place had been ransacked. He flipped on the small tactical flashlight from the Army pack. The light swept around the room, old tires, bent bike wheels. Boxes of helmets. Then he shone the light up toward the ceiling. A loft area extended back toward the front, over the retail space. He could just see the edge of large cardboard boxes. “Bingo! Look for a ladder or stairs.”
They walked around the small space, shining the lights around the unfinished chipboard lined area. No stairs, but JD found the metal ladder hidden away between a far wall and the outer edge of the building. Removing the ladder from its hiding spot and leaning it against the overhead mezzanine was a noisy maneuver. They took a ten-minute break to go back out front and make sure no one had heard and was coming to investigate. “So, what do you think is up there?” JD asked as they looked out at the empty parking lot.
“Inventory. Extra bikes that haven’t been put out for sale yet, I hope,” Steve answered, finally satisfied no one had heard them. “Let’s go see.”
The clicking sound of the racing bike made Steve nervous. As long as he was pedaling it didn’t make that sound, so he tried to keep pedaling. He had been an avid bike rider in his teens and twenties, but that was many years in the past. Even then he had never been on a bike this nice. They had found a row of boxed bikes upstairs. Most were mountain bikes, but several were adult racing bikes in various sizes. He thought the racing bikes would be faster, although the more rugged durability of the off-road bikes was tempting. They had selected two lightweight racers and spent most of the next day putting the wheels and brakes on. Even with the instructions and tools handy, it had taken time to get them to spin and shift correctly. Out on the road, the bikes felt like a dream, so much quicker than walking. They were much faster than he recalled from his youth as well. JD kept pulling away from him and was grinning ear-to-ear each time he caught back up to the boy.
They had found some other items of use in the shop's storeroom and added what they could carry to the packs. Spare tubes and patches, toolkit, a small pump, an overlooked box of energy bars and a few packets of sports drink mix. JD had fussed about leaving the sharpened spears behind, but there was no easy way of carrying them on the bikes. In the end, speed and maneuverability had won out.
“Dude, we should have done this from the very start,” JD yelled as he went by him again.
It was a valid point, but the roads were packed back then both with people walking and the militia’s random roadblocks. Steve didn’t think they would have gotten far before being attacked or stopped. Here in the rural part of the state, he felt more comfortable staying on the roads. Generally, they could see for miles, and they got in the habit of slowing or stopping regularly to listen for any dangers that might exist.
They saw a black column of smoke on the horizon about mid-afternoon. JD had been reading the road signs during the ride just like Steve had. He knew what was ahead. “That’s Albany, isn’t it? Your hometown.”
Steve nodded, Albany was a little less than twenty miles ahead. Just an hour or two by bike, yet he was no longer nearly as anxious to get there. The man on the radio must have been right; Albany had been torched. His anxiety grew as they continued heading toward the billowing black cloud of smoke.
An hour later on the edges of the town, they began passing burned-out cars and homes. Steve pulled to a stop and looked at the charred shell of a large building ahead. What remained of the distinctive blue trim was scorched, only part of the name remained intact.
“Porter Ford. That was your place?”
Steve nodded. Probably a million dollars in inventory lay in ruins around the massive parking lot. New cars burned and smashed. Part of the collapsed building lay atop a group of high-end Mustangs he had special ordered. Each would have been a collectible one day. Now they were junk, like everything else here.
“Not going to go look around?” JD asked as Steve put a foot back on the pedal.
“Nope, nothing here.” He started pedaling toward an intersection ahead. That was his yesterday. In the end, it meant nothing. What mattered lay ahead.
50
The route home was so familiar to Steve and yet so alien. The area looked like a war zone with burned buildings, graffiti and a general smell of rot. The streets were littered with debris, clothes, toys. It looked to him like a great migration must have occurred. If so, where had the people gone? Nervousness had him on edge. He couldn’t feel the bike's handlebars in his grip; his chest was growing tighter by the mile.
They passed the church where he was a deacon. The pastor was a kindly man in his mid-sixties. A body lay in front of the broken entrance doors. The white hair looked . . . Steve turned away as he rode by.
“Steve, this doesn’t look safe.”
The boy was right; this wasn’t home. Not anymore. They hadn’t seen anyone alive since getting to Albany, and now . . . he wasn’t sure he wanted to. Other than his family, of course. Did he actually want to? See them alive, that is. That was the buried qu
estion he couldn’t allow to surface in his mind. Deep down he knew his wife, Barbara, was just as weak as Trey. Neither was equipped to survive in this world any more than he had been. He had adapted though, and so did JD. Could they?
Dodging a burned-out car brought him back to reality. “You’re right, JD. It isn’t, we turn back west at the bottom of this hill and head farther out of town. Should be better there.” The level of destruction here was overwhelming. They had bypassed most of the other towns the last few weeks. Were they all like this? he wondered.
“How are you going to get your family up to Gerald’s place? Are we gonna walk again?”
Steve had no idea. It was just one of many things he had refused to think about. Coming home had been a duty, an obligation. He should feel overjoyed being within six miles of his objective. Instead, he only felt dread. Somehow, he already knew what he was going to find. The panic had become a wholly palpable thing. He’d known for weeks. Please God, let me be wrong. Let that just be the fear in me.
As they began to get into the nicer neighborhoods, an area called Arlington, their progress was slowed by numerous makeshift roadblocks. Stalled cars, barrels filled with rocks, wire strung across the road. This was the area of the “haves.” Apparently, they had been determined to keep the “have-nots” out. Steve knew the area well, had numerous friends who lived in these houses.
Several miles before reaching his subdivision, the way forward was blocked by a scene of bloody carnage. Dark birds circled the area as a warning to others. Decaying lumps of flesh and body parts littered the road ahead. A massive roadblock made up of two bright yellow school buses and a dump truck blocked the road. A line of barrels plugged the openings under the vehicles. No one seemed to be moving on either side of the blockade. “Slow to a stop, JD,” Steve whispered. “Raise your hands.”
They both did that, and after several minutes lowered one hand to slowly guide the bicycles toward the carnage. “Hello?” Steve yelled. He didn’t want to surprise anyone.
“We don’t want any trouble,” JD offered in a well-practiced cadence. “Nothing to see here, we are no threat to anyone.” He chanted softly as they gingerly approached the blockade.
Steve spotted a lone rifle barrel sticking from one of the bus windows. It moved slightly and seemed to be indicating they move to the left. “Hello, in the bus.” No answer. The gun stayed on them. “Far enough. JD, let’s ease over to one side.” Nothing about this was smart or safe. No one in this neighborhood would recognize him anymore. In tattered clothes and sporting a full beard, he doubted his own family would even know him.
As they moved gingerly to the end of the bus, JD whispered, “The rifle isn’t on us anymore.”
Steve looked back, the boy was right. The gun was still pointing in the general direction they had been. “It’s still moving, though. Someone is guarding the approach. They may have other shooters concealed. “Hello, my name is Steven Porter. I live back in the Fox Run subdivision—just trying to get through with my boy.” JD gave him a curious look.
The gap between the bus and the dump truck was nonexistent, but underneath, one of the barrels had been rolled aside slightly. This is not smart. Steve told himself as he leaned his bike and began to crawl through. “Stay here and let me explain myself to them. If they start shooting, or I yell . . . get the hell out of here.” For once, the boy nodded in agreement.
The scene on the far side of the roadblock was a mirror image of the other. Dead bodies lay everywhere. These people had been his neighbors; now they were unrecognizable. From the state of decay, this battle had been a few weeks earlier. “Hello?” He walked into the area with both hands up. He noticed guns and spent shell casings littered the roadway. The smell of death hung in the air like a morbid fog. He turned to the bus, to the one person he was sure was alive here. The one holding the gun on them earlier. His heart was pounding as he pushed the middle of the folding bus door and planted his worn sneaker on the lowest step. “Hello, the bus, coming in. Don’t shoot.”
A twinge in the back of his skull let him know the tension was too high. He could ill afford another headache now. He forced himself to focus on each step. The interior of the bus was dark. It looked like they had spray-painted over many of the windows. His fate and JD’s depended on being smart; approaching an armed guard in this hellish scene was anything but that. He stepped to the top and grasped the vertical metal pole. The gun was still pointing out the window a few seats back. That was good. At least he hasn’t turned it toward me, Steve thought.
“We’re just passing through, ok?” He thought he heard movement from the seat. The guard may be injured, he thought briefly. He could see the shirt sleeve holding the rifle shaking now. Was he scared? Maybe the gun wasn’t even loaded. He was out here just for show. With all the empty rounds outside he could certainly believe they had run out of ammo. He took one more step down the aisle and went to speak again when a flurry of black rose up from the seat.
Steve flailed with his hands as whoever. . .whatever it was attacked him. He felt sharp cuts on his hands and arms. He turned to flee back toward the entrance as the entire bus erupted into a cacophony of squalls and the wingbeats of large birds drove him from their lair. As he jumped back out of the bus, a half-dozen crows flew out over his head. JD was leaning against the hood of the bus having also crawled through. “That was funny.”
“Don’t be an ass, kid.”
The carrion birds flew briefly, then settled back down to continue feeding.
“We have guns now,” JD said as he picked up one after another.
“Not sure there is going to be any ammo for them, though. Looks like this was their last stand.”
They spent a half hour matching guns to the few rounds of unfired ammo they could find. Most of it was hunting rifles or small caliber handguns. Gerald’s notes had suggested several calibers of weapons they should look for. The ones where ammo would be more common. They chose several 9mm, 5.56 and .45 caliber handguns, a compact shotgun and a rifle. They strapped everything to their packs except one handgun each which they wore in holsters they had also recovered. JD seemed relieved to have a weapon again.
Steve didn’t want to think about it, but to him, it was pretty obvious the “have-nots” had gotten through the roadblock. No one was left alive to defend it. Who was he kidding? Everyone was a “have-not” now. As they remounted their bikes and began pedaling, the sense of dread returned like a dark passenger. None of the elegant houses they passed showed any signs of life. Many had been burned, and all looked to have been ransacked. Remnants of expensive drapes hung out through broken windows like withered ghosts.
“How far is it to your house? I’m starving.”
Steve was looking at a thin body lying on the edge of a driveway as they rode by. A dingy and stained dress still fluttered in the slight breeze. She was so thin—everyone had been starving . . . except the dead. “Two miles.”
51
Steve pedaled against the sense of foreboding just as much as the small hill leading up to Fox Run. This was his home, these were his neighbors, yet nothing seemed familiar. His community was gone. Now, what would he find of his family? The anger at what was going on overwhelmed him. Gerald had been right—they were losing the country.
They slowed to a stop before the entrance to his neighborhood. The gated community was the gem of Albany’s elite. Steve saw one of the gates lying on the road; the other side was hanging precariously by one hinge. The ornate stone entrance monument with the stylized fox sign was a scattered mess. This was his worst fear coming true.
“Come on, Steve.” JD’s hand rested lightly on his shoulder. Glancing over, he saw his own concern reflected on the boy’s face. He gave a small nod and pedaled through the debris of the entrance.
The Porter home was one of the oldest in Fox Run, located on one of the rear streets. Each cross street showed more destruction. The once-manicured lawns were now a chaos of junk. From broken furniture, clothes and even massi
ve flat screen TVs, to simple things like a baby swing with two of its legs twisted up behind it.
“Looks like a tornado hit a community yard sale. Doesn’t it?”
Steve just nodded, he was growing numb again. His legs felt like they were moving through mud. He couldn’t seem to catch a breath. This was not another migraine coming on. It was simply blind fear. They rounded a curve and his street. The top of his house came into view. The familiar red brick and steep dark roof of the second floor. His heart hammered in his chest.
“There it is,” he said softly. Hundreds of miles he had traveled, and now he wasn’t sure he could make it just a few more yards.
“Dude . . . sweet. That’s the biggest home in the hood.”
JD was right, and now it had become the biggest target. As more of the structure came into view his heart sank. His home had not escaped the plague of chaos. They saw the same evidence of looting and destruction as all the others. Oh God, Trey.
They dropped the bicycles in the front yard. Steve saw a framed picture of his son and himself resting against part of a broken Transformers toy. The yard was a surreal snapshot of his life. An old yearbook from his high school junior year. Remnants of a formal jacket he had worn when he and Barbara married. A broken plaque presented by Ford several years earlier at a dealer awards dinner. His gaze fell on one object after another, each transporting him to another place and time for the briefest of seconds. The wrongness of it all was overwhelming.
As they neared the door, Steve noticed JD had dropped his pack and was holding a pistol. Smart. Why had he not thought to do that? Because this is your house, dummy. Why would you need a weapon to enter it? He pulled the shotgun out as he sat his pack beside the steps. Stepping across to the door he tried the handle and was surprised to find it locked. Should he knock? He hadn’t had his keys in weeks. JD was scanning the yard for dangers. “I’m going to try another door.”