by Mic Roland
“Then there was this other guy,” David chimed in, “Said it was right-wing militia extremists tryin’ to start a revolution or somethin’.”
“Bah,” scoffed Leo. “That was just NPR. They think anything they don’t like is cuz of ‘right-wing extremists’.”
Martin leaned in a bit more. “I heard reports that lots of other cities were down too. DC, New York, Philly…”
“Yeah, we heard that too. This is a big one, alright. This ain’t gettin’ fixed very fast.”
“Won’t get fixed? Susan asked. She gave Martin a worried glance.
She must be thinking about her test. “Why not?” Martin asked Leo.
Leo gestured with both hands like a professor giving a lecture, steering with his knee. “The way I see it, whenever there’s been a storm or something, like that last big ice storm, power was out for what, half the state, right? What did they do? They called in crews from other states like Pennsylvania and New York that weren’t hit, to help out. Same with our crews going down to help with Katrina or Sandy n’ stuff. The extra help came from unaffected areas. See?”
“Uh huh,” Martin agreed to keep Leo’s point moving.
“So from what they’re saying on the radio, there ain’t no unaffected areas. There won’t be fleets of other crews comin’ in to help us. They’ll all be busy working on their own problems. That means we’ve only got whatever crews we’ve got here already. Last big storm, it took ‘em a week to get the power back on, right Davy?”
“Yeah. Gram’s house was out for five days.”
“And that was with all those out-of-state crews helping,” continued Leo. “You can bet it’s gonna take waaay longer if all we’ve got is just our PSNH guys to get New Hampshire’s lights back on.”
“Yup. This one’s gonna be a long one,” nodded David. “Looking at a few weeks without power, minimum.”
Susan said, “Weeks? I don’t have enough money to stay in a hotel for weeks.”
“Yah, well. Money might not be your problem, Missy.” Leo pointed ahead. “That’s your hotel up there, ain’t it? The Hyatt?” The others followed his gaze. “Looks like smoke comin’ out from a couple places.”
“Oh no, not again!” moaned Susan.
Martin swung his backpack around and fished out his little binoculars.
“You carry binoculars?” Leo asked.
Martin bought them for his Walk Home Plan, but did not want to invite yet more ridicule. Taking a cue from David’s hat, Martin said, “Um. Red Sox games?” He had never actually been to Fenway, so felt uneasy with the little-white-lie. He mollified his conscience with the notion that he could use them at Fenway, if he ever did go see a game. To his relief, Leo seemed satisfied.
“I don’t think fire is the real problem,” said Martin. “Only a little smoke. The problem is water. I see people sweeping water out of the sliding doors on the upper floors. It’s running down the walls from the sides of the balconies. There’s some people wringing out towels over the railings. Up top is a couple hanging wet bedding over the railing. I think the sprinkler system must have gone off, or something.”
“Lemme see,” said David. He reached for the binoculars. “Oh man. Them people look like wet dogs. Everything inside must be soaked. Good news is: the fire’s out. Bad news is: tide’s in.”
Susan asked for the binoculars. She studied the stricken hotel a long time, as if looking for some hopeful sign, but found none. Her glance at Martin with tragic eyes that said, now what?
“Okay, apparently the Hyatt’s out.” Martin tried to sound like it was no big deal. “You guys think we could keep riding up to Woburn? There’s a Comfort Inn right off 93 there.”
“I suppose so,” said Leo. “The same deal goes if traffic speeds up, though. But, at this pace, it’s gonna be gettin’ dark by the time we get to Woburn.”
Martin leaned back and spoke to Susan. “Maybe the further out we get from the city, the fewer refugees there will be. Better chances to find you a room.”
“But I still can’t afford to stay in a hotel for weeks. I’ve only got a few hundred in my checking account. You said the Holiday Inn was only taking cash. What if this other hotel only takes cash too? I’ve only got a little cash on me.”
Martin scratched his head with his free hand. “I can help you out a little, but yeah, that could be a problem. On the “plus” side, I bet you won’t be the only one short on cash. Hotels will be full of people who also got caught with nothing but plastic. Who carries cash anymore? I can’t see them just kicking out everybody that can’t pay in cash. That would be just about everyone. I bet they’d make some sort of deal.”
“That’s not a very reassuring plan,” Susan frowned.
“I know, but let’s cross that bridge when we get to it. First thing is to get you a room, then work on options.”
Traffic crept along. Sometimes it got up to jogging speed. Other times, it was dead stop. Martin felt impatient as the afternoon faded into early evening. He had to admit that their pace was a bit faster than walking, it was easier on the feet too. The sun had gone down behind the suburban skyline. The top halves of the trees on the right side of the highway were still radiant reds and yellows with the last of the setting sun.
Their progress was a little steadier. Martin started to think they might make Woburn before it got totally dark. Susan would have her hotel, but where would he sleep? All he could remember of Woburn was dense old suburbs and industrial parks. Perhaps he would have to try hitchhiking in the dark. That seemed a dismal prospect, if not downright dangerous.
As they crested a small rise in Stoneham, traffic slowed to a stop.
“Hey Martin,” Leo called. “Use your Fenway glasses to see up ahead. Is it a breakdown or something? Which side’s best for getting around it?”
“Sure.” Martin looked. He saw movement. His angle was not the best for a clear view. “There’s some people walking between the lanes.”
Martin continued. “Kinda like those panhandlers that walk between the lanes at traffic lights begging for change.”
“Maybe someone ran out of gas and wants to borrow money?” offered David.
“What good would that do, ya dummy?” countered Leo. “It’s not like there’s a gas station on 93. What are they gonna do with the money?”
“But why are they…Oh hey.” Martin stood a little taller to see better. “Some guy got out of his car and he’s running this way. One of the panhandlers is chasing him…”
“He just left his car?”
“Ow. Smacked him down. What was THAT all about?
“Road rage or something?” David suggested.
“Maybe. But people in the cars are giving stuff to the walking guys. Looks like…bags, purses, maybe? Hold on. Uh-oh.” Martin could see the two men brandishing pistols at the people in the cars. He was momentarily taken aback at witnessing a crime in progress.
It had taken most of the day for the populace to absorb the new reality. Police departments were overwhelmed with the chaotic flood of bewildered civilians. Reaching 911 was iffy at best. Even if successful, any dispatched units would be mired in gridlock. Quick-thinking criminals connected the dots and improvised some bold schemes which, in normal times, would have been ridiculous.
“Both the walker guys have guns.”
“Guns?” Susan’s eyes got wide.
“What kind of guns? C’mon, what kinda guns?” demanded Leo.
“Pistols. Yeah, it looks like they’re robbing people in the stalled traffic between these two rock cliffs. No place to go. They’re going down the line from car to car.”
“What kind of guns?!” Leo demanded again.
“I don’t know.” Martin was not so ‘into’ guns to recognize the subtle differences. “Can’t tell from here.”
“David, get them glasses. I wanna know what they got.”
Martin stepped down so David could open his door and step up on the sill. He stood tall and studied the scene ahead for a few seconds. “Couple o
f pocket guns, Leo. One’s a Kel-Tek for sure. The other guy’s got a…Baretta. Looks like both are 9 mils.”
“What difference does it make what kind of guns they have? What do we do?” Susan’s tone had hints of panic.
“Not to worry, miss,” said David. “The Bridge Street Boys got guns too.” Leo reached under his seat and pulled out a well-worn traditional 1911. David pulled a newer Glock from under the dash. From a tool bucket behind the center armrest, David pulled out two magazines. He snicked one into the grip of his pistol. Leo fished out a handful of magazines from a box and snapped one in too.
“If them punks want trouble…” began Leo.
“…we don’t want to disappoint ‘em,” finished David. He pulled a little nylon bag from under the dash. He handed Leo several more loaded magazines for the Colt and a box of rounds. He put several other magazines in his own shirt pockets.
Susan stared in shock, as if they were putting rattlesnakes in their pockets.
“Listen, guys,” Martin said, “Maybe we ought to be someplace else while you’re taking care of business. I think I’d better get Susan out the hot zone.”
“Damn straight, skippy,” said Leo menacingly. “Get the wimmin folk to safety.” He cocked his slide. “We’ve got us some justice to deliver. Safeties off, Davy boy. This is not a drill.”
Martin did not have much of an inner Rambo nature, but his inner John Wayne scowled at him for running away from a fight. His rational side reminded him that he had no weapon. He would be more hindrance than help: a human sandbag, at best. He also felt that his Good Samaritan duty was to get Susan to safety. Martin hefted Susan’s bundle out of the back of the truck. She still looked stunned that she had been so close to two actual loaded guns and lived. Martin headed for the guard rail.
“Susan, come on. This way.” He returned to pull her by the arm.
“Leo and David. They have guns! Those guys down there, they have guns. Oh God, someone’s going to get hurt.”
“Maybe,” said Martin, “Let’s make sure it isn’t us. We need to put some distance between us and them.”
“Where are we going?” Susan hesitated.
“Hopefully, around the trouble. Perfect, a gap in the chain link. C’mon. Duck under.”
He pointed to the small lake on the other side of the fence. “This here is Spot Pond. That hill to the left is the back side of the rock cliff on 93. See? It’s a little peninsula sticking out into the reservoir. We walk around it and we come back up beside 93 on the other side of the rock cliffs.”
“Why would we want to do that? There’s people out there with guns.”
“We’d come back up to 93 beyond them. The thieves were in the middle of the cliffs. Ideally, we come back up to the highway well past them. We’ll see if we can catch a different ride outta here. The bluff will give us cover if there’s shooting.”
“Shooting? Oh God.” Susan looked over her shoulder nervously.
“Try not to think about it. We’ll just go through these woods here as quickly as we can. Hmm. Your roller bag isn’t going to be easy through this brush. I’ll carry the wheels end. You carry the handle. Follow behind me. If I drop down low, you drop too. Okay?”
“Oh, I don’t like this. I’ve never been anywhere near a shooting. I hear about them on the news, but I never thought…I don’t even like to see those things on TV.”
“That’s okay. Being scared is normal. But the idea here is to keep moving away from the trouble. Get it all behind us. Okay?
“Okay.” Her tone was doubtful. Her eyes were still wide.
When they were about halfway around the peninsula, Martin said over his shoulder, “I know I’m going kinda fast, but I’m hoping to get back to 93 before…”
Pop pop.
Susan yelped a scream. Martin spun around, wondering if she had been hit by a stray bullet. She did not appear hit, but stood tall and stiff, eyes staring up the hill. Martin squatted down and tugged at her coat to pull her down. He tilted his head to get a better bearing on the sounds. Susan dropped to her knees, eyes darting around like a trapped animal. Martin could hear shouting and banging. Muffled shots? Car doors? Fender-on-fender impact? It was hard to tell.
“We’re okay,” Martin whispered, trying to reassure her. “We’ve got the high ground between us and them,” He tried to sound reassuring, even if he was not entirely convinced himself.
Pop pop pop. Susan yelped another little scream.
“Okay, I know you’re scared, but you really can’t keep doing that.”
“I can’t help it.”
“Well, try to help it. Screaming only calls attention to yourself.”
POW. Susan squeaked with her hand clamped over her mouth.
Martin squatted down a little lower. “That last one sounded like something bigger than a 9mm. Maybe Leo’s .45. We’d better find some cover. See those big rocks up ahead there?” Susan nodded, with her hand still over her mouth. “Stay low, and follow me.”
Pop pop pop. Bam pop pop. Susan squeaked again, but made apology with her eyes. They stopped and leaned their backs against the boulders.
Geez, it’s like the O.K. Corral down there, Martin thought.
“I want to go up ahead and see if it’s clear. You stay here behind these rocks. It’s a safe place.”
“What? You’re going out there? People are shooting! They’re shooting guns! “
Martin felt the urge to say something snide about pointing out the obvious, but he could see she was sincere and still grappling with a reality she never expected to have to deal with.
“I’ll be careful and stay out of sight. Just remember: no screaming.”
He ran as best he could, hunched as low as he could and still run. From one tree trunk to the next, he worked his way down nearer the shore and away from the rocky ridge. He could still faintly hear people shouting. A woman was screaming, not hysterically, but more like she was giving orders. There were still occasional pops. They could have been shots, or maybe just slamming of car doors. The rocky canyon reverberated the sounds, making them less clear. Martin worked his way around the shore to where he could see the guardrail and motionless cars up on 93.
Pop POW. Sounds like Leo is still in it. Martin moved in closer, one tree at a time, eyes scanning to detect any other movement in the woods. The shore curved close to the embankment of 93 with precious little brush for concealment. Was the way clear?
It was not. Through the gaps in the brush and trees, Martin could see one of the robbers. He sat awkwardly, huddled behind the jagged end of the damaged guardrail. The robber peered over the rail in nervous little one-eyed peeks. Pop pop. He fired back down the highway, periscope style. The guardrail clanged loudly from a bullet strike.
Must be Leo or David who has him pinned down. Martin could almost pity the pinned robber’s plight. Almost.
An unseen motorcycle suddenly roared to life far to the right and buzzed up the off-ramp. Martin heard it whine off into the distance. He could hear Leo’s voice shouting. The thief behind the guardrail shouted back and fired off a couple wild shots without looking. The standoff continued for what seemed forever, though it may have only been ten or fifteen minutes. Daylight was fading.
The sound of multiple motorcycles grew amid the background of honking and distant sirens. From the sounds of the engines, Martin guessed there were three motorcycles, maybe four. They whined down the off-ramp, stopping several dozen yards from the pinned man. The riders hopped over the guardrail and let fly a few quick shots in what Martin guessed must have been Leo and David’s direction. The big .45 answered back with loud clangs on the steel rail.
A long section of the guardrail was still missing. The week before, a tractor-trailer swerved and rolled its load of precast on its side. It took out forty or more feet of guardrail. A few orange cones and yellow tape marked the site where repairs were to begin.
The motorcycle riders were trying to make their way past the gap in the guardrail, to their pinned down cohort.
They tried a charge with a volley of covering fire. Pop pop…pop pop pop. Boom. One of the newcomers yelped when a spray of gravel from a near miss raked his legs. They scrambled back to cover behind the bent end of the far guardrail. Leo’s field of fire was too close for their comfort. Pointing in different directions, they did not seem to really know where Leo and David were.
The stranded thief yelled to his friends. They yelled back. Did they want him to climb the fence? The lower ground behind the fence would give him cover, if he could get over it. The pinned man shook his head. He either did not want to, or could not. Perhaps he was injured. One of the newcomers threw a bundle to the trapped thief. Spare magazines? One of the other cohorts crouch-ran back the way he came, to higher ground. He ran from the guardrail to the chain-link fence.
Martin felt a sudden rush of fear and worry. He could guess his plan. The reservoir side of the fence was lower than the roadway. The embankment would give him cover to reach his pinned friend. Or, maybe he planned to work his way up the ridge and neutralize the threat with flanking fire on Leo. What if this gunfight started to spill out into the woods? He and Susan might end up in the line of fire or worse, crossfire. With the reservoir behind them, there was no escape route.
Martin’s mind was quickly assessing the trees along the ridge, the crook’s likely path, his possible line of sight to the rocks Susan was hiding behind. Martin would not be able to get back to Susan unseen if the crook came over the fence and started into the woods. Would Susan stay down? He hoped so. What if she mistook the approaching crook for him? He could not see her from his low position, so he could not gesture to her to stay down. A million possibilities raced through his mind. He did not like any of them.
The crook pointed at the ridge, then the fence. He looked over his shoulder, stuffed his pistol in the back of his pants, grabbed the top pipe and hiked his belly to the top pipe. He was trying to kick a baggy pant leg over. Martin’s heart stopped. Trouble was coming their way.
POW. Leaf bits sprinkled down around the man. He tried more urgently to swing his leg over the pipe. Pow-Ting! A shot rang off the fence pipe. The crook dropped back down and shouted what must have been profanities. Apparently the fence was high enough that it exposed a climber to Leo’s .45. The fence-climber argued with his buddies. After some animated arm gestures, one of them scrambled back north along the guardrail. The trapped man held his gun over the rail, and fired a couple wild shots as covering fire. The scrambler vaulted the guardrail and dashed out among the stopped cars. Peeking heads inside the cars ducked down.