“Ok, here’s the deal! We got a line on someone I’ve been meaning to find the second I managed to get out of that Texas hell-hole they locked me into. They call him Preacher on account he thinks himself better than any white man, including you or me.”
Tom listened to a growing chorus of unhappy murmurs coming from the assembled gang in the street.
“That’s right! And now I’m told this nigger Preacher has taken up with a little white girl and he’s got a rag-head riding shotgun! You know what that means! They’re most likely both taking turns defiling her! Abusing her! My guess is that’s what they’ve been doing for weeks now – killing the white men and taking the young white women until they’ve used the poor girl all up and then they move on to the next one!”
Several defiant curses greeted Ripper’s version of events.
“I know! I know! I feel just as sickened by this as all of you. My question is do we just sit around letting this kind of thing happen, or do we chase this nigger down and hang him by the nearest tree we can find?”
Dolan shook his head as he heard the cries that the black man be hung.
Who the hell are these people?
And then Ripper said something that made Tom Dolan’s blood run cold.
“And you all remember what that federal agent told us, don’t you? He said to make good use of these weapons! We are to seek out wrongdoing and set it right. We are going to leave the cities to them, but everything else is gonna be OURS.”
Shouts of approval were soon joined by the barking eruptions of motorcycles coming to life as the gang began its departure toward wherever Ripper believed they would find Preacher and his companions.
Long after the area outside the garage in which he hid had returned to silence, Tom waited, wanting to be certain he was in fact alone. Only when his legs began to cramp did he venture to slowly rise up from behind the Ford and then peer through a window and look to the street.
The world appeared to once again be still.
Tom made a quick check of the perimeter surrounding the bombed out home. He looked up and down the street and found it empty. He returned to the garage and proceeded to open up the main door in the back that faced the alley. He worked as quickly and quietly as possible with the intention of getting the Ford started and then using it to follow the recently departed motorcycle gang.
Where most others would have journeyed in the opposite direction, Tom Dolan found himself suddenly obsessed with finding out the link between the gang and whatever federal agent their leader spoke of. He knew it was federal agents who killed his family and destroyed their cabin, and knew too it was federal agents who had initially dumped the bodies of two young black men in the streets of his home city of Marion shortly after the Race Wars began in Chicago.
There was also something else motivating Tom to follow the biker gang, though if pushed to explain it he would likely have been unable to. The brief mention of the man named Preacher had for some reason felt familiar to Tom though he had never known anyone who went by that name. It was as if an unseen note had been played from somewhere beyond the present, a small though significant portion of a song not yet sung and one in which Tom Dolan himself was to be an integral part.
After putting both portable gas tanks into the trunk, Tom placed his backpack and the AK-47 into the passenger side of the Ford’s front seat and then sat behind the wheel and once again pumped the accelerator in order to prime the carburetor with what he hoped was still useable fuel.
He turned the key.
The car’s ignition clicked for a brief moment and then went silent.
Dead battery.
Tom grimaced as his hands clenched the car’s steering wheel. With no power available to charge the battery, he sat unmoving wondering how he might find a way to get the Ford running. He looked down at the three-speed shifter and then his eyes widened. It had been so long since he had last driven a stick shift he had almost forgotten how to compression-start one.
Ten minutes later found the fifty-seven year old Tom Dolan sweating profusely as he strained to push the steel-framed Ford Super Deluxe toward one of the less bomb-damaged Salem side streets. It was a three block journey that left his lower back warning it would remind him of the strain for several days to follow.
He estimated he had no more than forty feet of smooth pavement in which to push the Ford and get it moving fast enough, jump in, put it in gear, pop the clutch, and then hope it started.
Tom wiped the perspiration off his forehead with the back of his right hand and then looked up into the sky and determined there were just a few hours of daylight left.
Ok, let’s do this.
After grasping the rust-encrusted interior frame of the driver door, Tom grunted loudly while pushing with every bit of remaining strength he had. The Ford crept forward slowly and then after a few feet, began to pick up speed. Tom blinked away the stinging sweat pouring into his eyes and continued to push, ignoring the pain in his back and calves.
With just twenty feet left before the street was interrupted by a long section of broken pavement, Tom swung himself into the car, pushed down on the clutch, and jammed the shifter into second gear.
“C’mon, you bitch!”
He lifted his left foot and released the clutch. The Ford lurched with enough force it sent Tom nearly crashing into the oversized steering wheel as the engine unleashed a quick succession of mechanical groans like some great beast being awoken from a long, deep slumber.
Tom pressed the gas pedal halfway to the floor as the car sputtered to life, threatened to stall, and then stumbled forward again. Exhaust fumes swirled inside of the car’s interior as a wild-eyed Tom Dolan mashed the accelerator all the way to the floorboard while he turned the wheel hard left to avoid a particularly deep hole in the pavement.
This time the Ford responded in kind as its decades-old engine growled its approval. The rear tires chirped and then the car catapulted forward, pushing Tom back into the recently re-upholstered seat.
Minutes later found Dolan speeding down Highway 68 heading north as he followed the same direction the motorcycle gang had taken. His face was dissected by an especially wide, nearly ear-to-ear smile as the wind from outside whistled past the Ford’s half open windows. None of the dashboard gauges worked so Tom had no idea as to his actual speed, but compared to walking, it felt like flying.
-------------------------
EPISODE TWENTY-SEVEN:
During the time it took to drive seventy miles Sabina Markson repeatedly glanced into the RV’s rearview mirror to watch her daughter Mika gently playing with Clyde. The old Basset Hound had somehow managed to extract and then magnify what little was left of Mika’s childhood essence and the sight of her daughter smiling and lovingly making over Clyde brought a more than grateful, albeit subtle smile to Sabina’s face. The bond between Basset and daughter had already grown strong in the brief time the Markson family had taken the dog at the request of the dying priest, Father Garcia.
Leaving the priest had proven an unexpectedly more difficult task than Sabina would have thought possible just a day earlier. Father Garcia proved himself a gracious host, and despite his imminent death to cancer, his faith remained resolute in both God and humanity.
In the early morning hours he happily gave Sabina the remaining gallons of diesel fuel he had left on his property, most of it coming from the rusted-out remnants of a farm tractor – nearly fourteen gallons. Father Garcia then proceeded to repair the RV’s battery - powered fridge. He happily stretched out on his stomach as he peered into the bottom of the appliance, nodding and smiling as he did so. Minutes later found the fridge humming along happily and creating a noticeable improvement in its cold temperature performance.
“How’d you do that?”
The priest’s smile somehow managed to widen even further than normal as he gave an abbreviated bow and then winked.
“It was a miracle.”
When Sabina scowled Father Garcia shrugged
more to himself than to her.
“Well, actually the connections to the condenser were badly corroded. I simply cleaned them up and now it’s working as intended so let’s stock it up with as much food as it can hold so you have one less thing to worry about as you make your way into Montana.”
Only when it came time to say goodbye to Clyde did the priest’s good-natured resilience falter. He held the dog’s oversized head in his slightly trembling hands and kissed the Basset softly on the bridge of his brown and white speckled nose. Tears formed in the corners of Father Garcia’s eyes which he quickly wiped away with the back of a hand and a shake of his head.
“I’m going to miss that dog. He’s been a good friend to me and I am so grateful to see him joining your family, Sabina. Perhaps he too has a part to play in all of this.”
Sabina offered to take the priest with them, indicating there was more than enough room in the RV, but Father Garcia wouldn’t have it.
“No-no, I would be little more than a worsening burden for you. My time is passed. Don’t worry about me – take care of your family. If you wish to continue east, stay on Highway 12. You’ll pass through the Lolo National Forest, and then enter Montana. You should have enough fuel to reach a little town called, Avon. Look for the white church just off the road east of there. You will find a priest by the name of Father Espinoza. Tell him you have been sent by me and he will provide you shelter, food, and possibly more fuel. Avoid going directly through Missoula on your way there. Being a larger city, there are rumors of atrocities being committed in those places. I think it best you bypass such areas when possible.”
Father Garcia gave Clyde one last loving look and then hugged Sabina, Jackson, and Mika. It was during that hug Sabina realized how truly frail the priest was. She could feel the bones of his spine and shoulders protruding through his clothes and knew he spoke the truth when he said his death was imminent.
Once they were inside the RV Clyde seemed to sense he too was leaving Father Garcia. The Basset Hound lifted his head upward and unleashed a chorus of deep, wailing howls that continued for several minutes even as Sabina guided the RV back onto the road and began the long journey through the two million shadowy-green acres of the Lolo National Forest.
Only after Mika allowed Clyde to rest his head on her lap as she lay on the floor gently scratching behind his comically floppy ears did he cease his forlorn howling while Bosco snuck several glances at the family’s newly arrived canine member with equal parts excitement and trepidation.
The Markson family found the journey through the tall-treed forest a solitary one. Not a single other vehicle was seen and if anyone was living among the trees, they remained hidden as the RV continued down the narrow mix of gravel and pavement road that was Idaho’s Highway 12.
After taking a short nap in the RV’s back bedroom Jackson joined his mother up front, sitting in the passenger seat and looking out through the wide windshield.
“It’s beautiful.”
Sabina nodded to her son. She had been thinking the very same thing. The late morning sun sent slivers of golden light between the outstretched arms of the tall cedars and pines that loomed on both sides of the highway. Beyond the trees the snow-capped peaks of mountains loomed even higher.
“Maybe we could find a place out here to stay for a while. Like…by a lake or something. I could catch fish to eat. We would have water, and wouldn’t have to worry about a bunch of people bothering us.”
Sabina didn’t answer Jackson right away as her thoughts drifted off in the direction of that very possibility. They had the RV to stay warm during the winter months, plenty of lakes, creeks and ponds to provide fresh water, and fish and wildlife for food.
Maybe we should find a place in these woods to stay for a while.
“Mom, watch out!”
Sabina’s eyes widened as she focused on the road directly in front of her and then followed the direction of where Jackson was pointing to. Her right foot slammed down on the brakes, causing everyone in the RV to lurch forward.
A large elk lay injured in the middle of the road, its loud cries reverberating between the rows of silent, wooded sentinels.
The elk’s back appeared to be broken. While its head dragged from side to side across the paved road the remainder of its body was completely still and the rear legs were twisted behind it in a way that suggested both limbs were likely shattered.
“What happened?”
Sabina responded to Mika’s question with a silent shake of the head as she peered through the RV’s windshield and tried to locate clues as to how the elk could have been so violently injured.
“There.”
Jackson’s sharp eyes were once again first to discover the answer.
Several shards of broken, blue-colored plastic sat a few feet to the right of the elk near a shallow ditch that ran along the side of the road. Just beyond the plastic was what appeared to be the smeared and still wet remnants of blood.
Sabina knew then that the elk had been hit by a vehicle of some kind. What she didn’t know was if the blood she could see on the road was from the elk, or the driver of the vehicle.
“You two stay here.”
The chill of the outside air mingled with the pleasant dry forest scent of trees and earth. Then Sabina was greeted by the far less appealing smells of damp fur, blood, and gasoline.
The mother of two held the same bolt-action hunting rifle she had taken with them from Bellingham. Sabina walked slowly toward the elk intending to shoot it in the head and put it out of its misery. As she neared the injured creature a series of soft, huffing breaths emerged from somewhere past the elk. Sabina scanned the ditch for the source of the noise and found herself staring at two small bear cubs who were fighting over the bloodied and broken remains of a human body.
The cub to Sabina’s left growled at her while the cub on the right slowly shuffled backwards and then lifted its head upward and unleashed a series surprisingly loud, wailing cries that lasted several seconds.
This isn’t good.
Within the same half-moment space in time that had her moving her left foot backwards to begin her slow and careful return to the RV, Sabina watched as the forest erupted in the area between her and the two cubs.
A heavily furred, five hundred pound mass of muscle and protective instinct charged onto the road just forty yards in front of Sabina. The mother grizzly’s jaw gaped open, revealing a row of long and powerful teeth as she roared her warning for the human female to back off.
The grizzly’s arrival shocked Sabina to the point she nearly fell backwards. She knew that to do so would most certainly cause the mother bear to charge and that, as they say, would be that.
Sabina lifted the rifle and pointed it at the other mother of two and then did something unexpected to the both of them.
She roared back.
Even as her snarling scream travelled the short distance between herself and the grizzly, Sabina questioned the wisdom of her reaction.
What the hell am I doing – just shoot it!
The bear shook its head and huffed at her and then rose up to stand nearly seven feet tall upon its hind legs and growled a second, even more frightening warning with such ferocity Sabina could feel it vibrate the ground beneath her feet.
Feeling she had no choice, Sabina fired.
The mother grizzly fell down onto her four feet again and yelped in pain from the bullet that grazed her left shoulder. Then the wild mother’s coal-black eyes glared at the odd, hairless thing she perceived as a dangerous threat to her family and charged.
Sabina cried out as she struggled to discharge the spent cartridge in order to fire a second shot.
The rifle jammed.
An adult grizzly bear is capable of speeds of up to forty miles an hour, meaning they can travel nearly fifty yards in just over three seconds. Sabina Markson didn’t have fifty yards, which meant she also had less than three seconds.
It was one mother desperate to protec
t her own children from another, and given the suddenly useless rifle in her hands, Sabina knew her odds of survival had all but vanished. At that moment her greatest regret wasn’t her own impending death, but the realization Jackson and Mika would be watching it from their place inside of the RV.
Two growling, low to the ground blurs passed on either side of Sabina. She looked down to see both Bosco and Clyde snapping their jaws at the looming grizzly as the hair on the back of each dog bristled with their determination to keep the dominant human member of their pack safe.
Then the RV’s horn joined the chorus of barking snarls, the cacophony of noise enough to cause the mother bear to halt her charge as she wondered over this new collection of threats. The two cubs had already escaped into the woods leaving the big female grizzly to face the increasingly aggressive braying bark of the Basset Hound and the higher-pitched yelping snarl of the Golden Retriever.
American Survivalist: RACE WARS OMNIBUS: Seasons 1-5 Of An American Survivalist Series... Page 33