by Riley Flynn
17
Once they were out of Riverside, they eased off. There was no need to speed, attracting unwanted attention. In the spaces between the buildings, the columns of smoke were rising up and into the skyline, spilling into clouds. Helicopters circled over distant blocks, moving skittishly above the city like dragonflies above a swamp.
The plan had been to hit Route 75. It was the best way out of the city, at least by road. Once they were reaching the city perimeter, they could change course and cover less traditional ground. The benefit of the bikes was flexibility. They could go where they pleased, nearly.
Riding was coming back to Alex, but these Triumphs were nothing like anything he’d ridden before. The layout was the same as those old farm bikes. Throttles, clutches, brakes. It all felt familiar. But there was a smoothness to everything, as well as a danger. Like the finest silk wiping blood from a sword.
The machine was engineered to an exact degree, balanced perfectly. Alex need only adjust his weight ever so slightly and the bike did exactly as he asked. As he eased off the throttle, pulling into a deserted lot, he was in danger of enjoying himself. A brief moment before the real horror of everything else came back to him.
Stepping off the bike, Alex finally had a chance to look at himself in one of the wing mirrors. The desperation of the escape had pushed everything from his mind. As well as the faded jeans and the sneakers he was wearing, he’d added a leather jacket from the store, worn over the T-shirt and the Kevlar, as well as gloves and the helmet. The mask and goggles Timmy had handed him were still in his pocket; there hadn’t been time to try them on.
As Timmy pulled in behind, Alex could see that his friend had taken much more keenly to the motorcycle theme. The helmet with the American flag stole the eye, but the white leather jacket would be dirty in no time. A pair of outsized aviator sunglasses, thick tactical-style trousers, and big biking boots completed the look. On Timmy’s smaller frame, it was in danger of looking ridiculous.
Taking a moment by the side of the road, they went over the plan again. They’d go down 75, parallel to the lake. When they hit Toledo, they could double check their status. But out near Zug Island, near the city limits, that would be the problem. If they crossed close enough to the river, they’d reasoned, they could use the bikes to travel along the sand, through the yards, along the shorefront. Anything to avoid the stops.
For the moment, they were content to ride the roads. As soon as they were both ready, they mounted up and began their journey. Alex rode in front, Timmy just behind and to his side, lurking in the peripheral vision but ready to drop back or accelerate away as needed.
Among the warehouses, the streets had been empty. It was approaching afternoon, the final stretches of September coming to an end. The shadows were lengthening, thrown over empty asphalt. There were guard posts and cars, though they were deserted. They’d left in a rush, hurrying somewhere.
But beyond Riverside, it was different. They were driving closer and closer to the pillars of smoke above the city. When they turned and headed south, putting the pillars on their starboard side, they noticed the people.
They were moving. It was slow and inevitable. As the roads widened and the city thinned, the numbers of cars increased. There were people behind the wheel, going nowhere. The closer they came to Route 75, the thicker the traffic became. Everyone who had been told to stay inside the city seemed to have disagreed.
To keep moving, they kept to the side streets. The alleys. The sidewalks, even. They dipped in and around the parked cars, as the bikes allowed them. The traffic was not quite bumper to bumper this far from the freeway, but it heralded a busy road. A clogged artery of the city, shortening the lease of life. The fat of the land, congested.
As they passed the cars, Alex could see inside. Some people had everything, their entire lives piled up in the back of a station wagon. Others had nothing, perhaps a worried wife or a cat in a box. The cars were moving slowly, trying to navigate their way out of the city. But there was a problem.
The lockdown. Alex realized it before they’d travelled too far. These cars were not heading anywhere. Everyone had the same idea, to get out on the freeway and drive, but they were being turned back. Cars were circling the city blocks like sharks, looking for a point of attack. But there was none available. Instead, they were travelling in endless loops.
On one quiet street, a clear sight of Canada over the river, Alex saw a couple park their car and exit. They were staring at the river, considering the crossing. It wasn’t far. For a fit, healthy person, Alex reasoned, it might be possible to swim across.
But what waited on the other bank? Relations with the northernmost neighbor had not been good in recent years. The idea of crisscrossing the border on a Detroit afternoon was a distant memory. Those bridges had been burned on the altar of free trade.
Perhaps these people didn’t realize what awaited them on the other shore. Perhaps they didn’t care. Alex watched as he rode past. The two were embracing. He continued to watch in his wing mirrors, slowing and wondering what they would do.
The couple didn’t move. Alex was getting farther and farther away. But, as he watched, he saw figures moving in and around the car. They jumped in, drove away. The couple, their moment of quiet contemplation shattered, chased after the car, which curved and snaked away, stolen. Society was coming apart at the seams, Alex told himself.
Rouge River was approaching. Zug Island was ahead, the ghost of the steelworks cutting a clear figure against the skyline. There were rail bridges on and off the island. Lined along West Jefferson, they were nothing but piles of rubble. Not just closed down but destroyed completely.
As they approached the bridge on West Jefferson, the traffic was thicker than ever. The cars hadn’t moved in a long time. Slipping through on the bikes, there were people asleep in their vehicles. Waiting for anything to happen.
Up ahead, there was a stop. They were turning back cars. But the congestion was such that there was no way to turn. Stragglers struggled back up the road on foot, leaving their cars behind, making the problem even worse.
Still a few hundred feet from the block, Alex couldn’t yet see the intricacies of the problem. He knew they’d be unlikely to find a way of sneaking past such a protected position. But it would help to get a look at the obstacle ahead. He slowed the bike beside the rows of abandoned cars, hearing Timmy do the same behind.
Now at nothing but a crawl, the bike felt more cumbersome. Alex could feel himself leaning hard to change direction, felt himself catch against the parked vehicles as he went past. But there were no shouts. The entire road was quieter than he expected. The illusion of chaos with no one inside.
There should have been the din of a hundred engines. The constant blather of horns, demanding passage through. The shouting of people leaning out of windows. But there was none of that. Everyone had left.
Alex hit another mirror. No one said anything. He looked over his shoulder. The driver of the car hadn’t even looked up. She was slumped in her seat, head rolling back. Asleep? The skin was that same grey. She was still. Unstirring. Alex rode on, leaving the shattered mirror on the road beside the car.
The bridge was old but it still worked. It was a mechanical drawbridge; it split in half down the middle and could raise and lower in response to ships needing to pass. Unlike the rail bridges, there was a way of closing it down without having to destroy it completely. The cops had the bridge raised and no one was able to cross.
They stopped the bikes. The hours were dragging out. A few more and it would be dark. Together, the two discussed whether it’d be easier to cross once night fell. They might be more hidden, but overhead the helicopters were buzzing by regularly enough. The cops’ triggers might be itchier when they were less sure. Immediacy had a value all its own.
Cutting the engines, they ducked low and rolled the bikes through the cars. Most of these were deserted. Those left inside were either dead, sleeping, or close to both. Even now, Alex
struggled to comprehend how quickly this had all become real. A city should not have broken down this fast. If this was happening in the rest of the country, well… He couldn’t even entertain the thought.
There were ten guards beside the bridge. They were all armed. Alex and Timmy had their share of guns, at Timmy’s insistence, but there was no use getting into a gunfight with the law. That wasn’t the point of this. This was about survival. Quietude and cunning would be far more effective. Over his shoulder, Alex heard a whisper.
“Hey, man. You saw those people back there?”
“Uh-huh.”
“They were…you know. Sleeping, some of them.”
“Uh-huh.”
“That was like the guy you saw, your neighbor? That skin and those eyes?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Man.” Timmy sat down, propping up his bike with his shoulders. An idea struck him. “So, er, how close did you get?”
“Not that close.”
“But, like, close enough I have to worry? How close is close?”
“You don’t have to worry.”
Alex watched the guard post. They weren’t doing much. Standing, watching. Providing a presence. A clear signal that there was no way anyone was crossing this bridge. But the bridge was not the only thing they had to worry about. There was a small dock, down by the river. Sneaking around the side, Alex got a better look at it. There was some kind of old barge tied to a mooring. No one was paying it any attention.
From here, Alex could see across the river, too. There were open roads. There were empty streets. This was the official city limits. Beyond this, people were on their own. But inside these limits? They were just as alone. Stuck with one another. Stuck with themselves. As Alex surveyed the scene–the bored guards and the raised bridge–a plan began to kindle inside his head. He turned to Timmy.
18
They moved together, working in sync. But their paths split. Timmy would sneak through the line of cars, getting as close as possible to the bridge without being seen. Alex would head to the river bank, down to the moored barge. They had to remain unseen.
Alex cut away from the road immediately. The guards, when they were not watching each other, were watching the line of cars. There wasn’t much to see now. The abandoned, still vehicles presented a fine barrier for anyone trying to access the freeway. They were not paying much attention to the tree line.
After a discussion, he had been able to convince Timmy to leave his white leather jacket with the bikes. It was hardly designed for sneaking. Alex could see his friend now, flitting between the cars, heading to the opposite side of the road. His destination, the control hut for the bridge, was drawing closer. Alex watched the movement and made sure his accomplice was in position before he reached the river bank.
There was a five-foot drop to the shoreline. So far, no one seemed to have spotted him. Alex teetered behind a tree, watching a guard taking a leak over the bridge and into the river. The man’s eyeline was exactly where Alex needed to be. He waited. And waited. The man did not seem to stop.
Finally, the guard finished, stretched, and turned back to his colleagues, and Alex moved. There was no way to remain steady on the ground. The sneakers were so worn down on the soles, there was no grip. Even as he moved, Alex knew he’d be falling. And he fell, slipping and sliding down the grassy bank.
There was noise. Any noise was too much but the sound of shifting dirt and snapping twigs bellowed across the quiet river. Cursing as he slid, Alex reached the bottom and collapsed into a heap. But there was no time to lick his wounds. He was up and running, ducking behind a barrier.
With his back to the metal, Alex caught his breath. He listened. There was no sound. If they’d spotted him, they would be shouting. They would be mobilizing. There would be an indication. They hadn’t heard him.
Alex sighed. This was hard. Nothing about working in an office had prepared him for this. But the barge was in front of him and, with it, the plan. It wasn’t a complicated idea. A classic distraction. It depended heavily on Timmy being able to work the bridge controls and being able to time his actions to the second. The more Alex thought about it, the less sure he was that it would work.
Timmy was supposed to be the man with the plan. He was supposed to be the one figuring all this out. But here they were, chasing down one of Alex’s weird ideas again. He knew Timmy loved being able to rely on a well-thought out, prepared course of action.
He didn’t have the heart to tell his friend that he was making this up as he went along. It’s why he spent at least a minute staring at situations before acting.
In his mind, Alex was just panicking. Shouting at himself. Eventually, he’d just make something up. Anything. But Timmy seemed convinced that it was fine. So they went with it.
Like now. Alex reached into his pocket and found the fire starter sticks. This was the entire plan. He looked at the barge. It was empty, bar some ropes and a tin drum, full of something. That was it. How the hell was he meant to make a distraction with this? It had seemed so much easier before.
The first thing to do was to check the barge. It was tied to the mooring with a length of rope, as thick as Alex’s wrist. There was a complicated knot. Trying at it with his thin fingers, he knew there was no way that knot was going to be untied. Alex gave up. He pulled a Leatherman from his pocket, switched out the knife, and began to saw through the strands.
It took a while. But it worked. The boat was free. But there was no current in the river. Alex had expected the river to carry the boat along, taking it just beyond the bridge and turning the heads of the guards. But it was pretty much just staying still in the water. Maybe moving slightly. That problem could be dealt with afterwards.
Next, Alex examined the rope. He had been worried that it would be wet, damp with river water or sea air or whatever it was that boat people always talked about. But it was dry. The rope that lay piled on the deck was dry too. Inside the drum was something. Alex didn’t know what, but it smelled flammable. Some kind of chemical. Good.
Picking up all the rope he could find, he threw it into the drum. Scouring the shoreline, careful not to be seen, he picked up any wood, newspapers, dry grass, anything that looked like it might burst into flame. Into the drum it went. When the drum was half full, Alex tossed in half his fire starters, pushing them down to the bottom.
Then it hit him. He didn’t have a lighter. No matches. Nothing. He looked inside the box. They’d surely packed something in there. A single match. Something. Anything. But it was empty.
Alex tried to remember back to his childhood. His father had used these kinds of magnesium sticks then, too. When they were sitting out back of the farm, marshmallows on sticks. The whole countryside idyll thing. He would have known what to do.
Half-remembering, Alex had an image of his father shaving a fire starter into slivers with a knife. So he did that. Then he remembered the man using a piece of flint on the butt of his knife. A real manly approach. But Alex didn’t have a piece of flint. He did have a knife.
Jumping back on to the shore, Alex tried to find any rock. Any stone. Something that might generate a spark. The barge was moving now, slower than walking pace, but drifting toward the center of the river. Alex grabbed what he could find and jumped back across to the floating distraction.
Dropping the rocks on to the deck, he worked through them furiously. In a rush, he ran the metal edge of the Leatherman against the stones. There was nothing. Nothing. Nothing. And then–a spark. Too small. Alex scratched again. Another spark. He kept going, pointing his hands at the pile of fire starter cuttings. Finally, they caught.
The fire spread quickly. It caught among the paper and the dry grass. The other sticks went up in a flash. Alex stepped back. He watched the fire begin to rise out of the drum. Looking over his shoulder, he saw that he was drifting from the shore. He had to leave now. He had to hope it was enough.
Running, jumping, Alex was back on dry land. The barge was floating to the
middle of the river. Soon, it would be heading under the bridge. But was it enough? Right now, it was just a small fire in a drum. It might be interesting, but it was hardly the monumental distraction Alex had imagined. If Timmy tried to lower the bridge now, he’d be noticed immediately.
Fingers grasping at the loose dirt of the incline, Alex clambered up and away from the river. Before running back to the bikes, he turned to watch the barge. There was smoke pouring out of the drum. The fire had caught. Something chemical was burning.
The smoke stopped for a moment and the barrel coughed a blazing billow of flames up into the air. God knows what had been in that drum but it was burning. The flames were stronger now, much stronger. The smoke thicker. Even from up on the ridge, Alex could smell the chemicals. He looked to the roadblock. The guards had noticed. They were scrambling to deal with the barge as it floated toward the bridge.
With his back bent low, Alex ran straight back to the place they’d left the bikes. There was less cause for care now. The distraction was in full swing. Arriving beside the motorcycles, testing their handles, he guided them both at once toward the side of the road.
It was awkward. As he balanced a handlebar in each hand, caught between pushing and pulling, the bikes did not want to be corralled. But Alex persisted. He did not have to drag them far. As he moved, he watched the bridge closely, searching for his friend.
The fire and the smoke rising from the barge were incredible. It wasn’t just the sky being blackened above the bridge. The light from the flames was adding an orange glow to the underside of the thick clouds. The whole thing must be on fire, Alex thought. The guards were panicking, running around.
Slowly, the bridge began to move. It was a mechanical sigh, an old creak as the upturned pillars of road began to ease downwards and toward one another. They moved without haste, an inevitable arc toward a flat and useable road. As they closed, the burning barge was moving beneath the bridge.