by Steven Bird
From that vantage point, the center seemed to be a recreational complex combined with an event hall. There were several overgrown baseball diamonds, as well as a playground outside of the main facility. Seeing no activity, I rode closer, then paused again, watching and listening.
Still not seeing any signs of human activity, I rode into the parking lot and took a closer look. From there, I could see large red X’s painted on the doors, which were partially open, if only by a few inches.
I rode closer, and to my horror, I saw chains stretched across the double doors, which had been bolted directly into the block walls from the outside. Those chains weren’t being used to keep people out, they were being used to keep people in.
Dear God, I thought as I rode up to the doors. Seeing movement, I was startled and quickly brought my rifle to bear, only to see a cat slip through the doors. Seeing me sitting there on my bike, the cat spooked and disappeared into the bushes.
I tried not to think about what a cat might have been doing in there, or had been doing there over the past year or so. I stepped off of the bike and pushed it around to the back of the facility, where I found the rear exit to be blocked in the same manner as the front.
What exactly had occurred here? The darkest parts of my mind had an idea, but I chose to simply ride away and see no more. I had enough haunting images burned into my mind. I didn’t need any more nightmares. Besides, whatever had occurred here happened long before we arrived. Probably at the onset of the virus sweeping through the area. There was nothing I could do, anyway.
I rode on to the chicken farm that was located behind a feed store, on past the community center on County Road 403. The doors to the feed store were wide open, and it appeared to have been ransacked long ago. I’d imagine the folks who lived on the farms in the distance, the ones who may have avoided the initial spread of the virus as it came through the area, may have found a need for feed while trying to keep their livestock going through the winter. Especially once fuel became scarce. Running tractors and such to cut and bale hay for the winter would eat deep into their fuel stores with no means of resupply. Seeing nothing of use at the feed store, I rode on back to the chicken farm behind it.
The farm had a sign at the entrance to the gravel road that led back to four long buildings used to house their poultry stock. That sign read, Johnson Family Farms and Quality Foods.”
I assumed if there was long term fuel storage for generators and such, which a poultry building nearly always had for emergency ventilation and temperature control, it would more than likely be diesel. Still, I figured I needed to check and see, just in case.
Reaching the first building, I leaned my bike against the wall, then turned the knob, and then pushed the door open, stepping back and covering the entrance with my rifle.
A dank smell emanated from the door opening, which had likely been closed for a very long time. Peeking inside, the entire floor was covered with the decayed corpses of tens of thousands of young chickens.
This, of course, was to be expected for animals that were kept in a captive environment where they depended on humans for their every need. The sight made me unsure as to whether I’d ever crave fried chicken again.
Stepping back out into the fresh air, I coughed uncontrollably as if my body was demanding that I purge whatever it was I had inhaled from my system.
I walked along the building, attempting to remain within its shadows. I eventually found the generator I was looking for around back, up against the back wall and directly underneath a huge exhaust fan.
“Yep, diesel,” I said aloud.
Giving up on the chicken houses, wanting to hurry and get back to Tamara, I decided to check out the family home and detached garage, which was actually more like a workshop in size. After all, that would be the most logical place for the storage of gasoline-powered vehicles.
Carefully entering the workshop, I saw several ATV’s, a fishing boat, and an old Ford pickup truck. It was an F-100 to be exact. Early seventies vintage, if I was correct.
I approached the truck first, removing the fuel cap and taking a whiff. “That’s bad,” I said, noticing that the contents had an aroma of varnish.
Checking the fuel in the fishing boat, I found it to smell rather fresh. I stood back and thought about it, and since many people winterize their boats, the fuel in the two removable fuel tanks had likely received a stabilizer treatment as part of that winterizing process.
The engine was also a newer four-stroke design, which meant the fuel would be straight gas, with no premix. I’d hit the jackpot. Now, I needed to find a way to transport enough of it back to the Mustang to get her started.
Rummaging through the workshop and looking for a small fuel can or something similar that I could use to carry enough fuel back while riding a bicycle, I stumbled across one of those tow-behind child cars that parents used when riding bicycles with their small children. It’s like a little trailer that hitches to the bicycle’s seat post, pulling the child along behind.
“Jackpot!” I couldn’t help but shout.
After connecting the child trailer to my Trek, I retrieved both of the fuel tanks from the boat and placed them inside where the child would normally sit. I was pretty proud of myself. I felt brilliant in that soon-to-be fleeting moment.
That was when I heard it. I heard the sound of approaching vehicles. I immediately ran to where I could get a view, and to my horror, I saw a convoy of six OWA mine-resistant ambush-protected vehicles, or MRAPs, similar to the one Ronnie and I had used during our heist of the Symbex delivery. And, of course, they were heading straight into town, exactly where Tamara was supposed to be.
Quickly formulating a plan in my head, I rode the bicycle with the fuel trailer following along behind down County Road 403 until I reached the feed store. From the feed store, I cut across on a small dirt connector road to Bradford Lane, which just happened to be the name of the neighborhood street the house with the Mustang was on.
I rode as hard as I could, with the convoy now being long past the house. Reaching the house, I immediately carried the fuel cans inside the detached garage next to the Mustang. I then unhooked the trailer and hopped back on the bike and rode like a madman toward town.
Seeing the MRAPs parked in front of the local veterinary clinic, I ducked behind a row of ornamental trees and laid the bike off to the side, before bringing my rifle up to the low ready. Creeping up as close as I could get, I saw one of the ODF soldiers pushing Tamara’s bicycle over to his superior.
If they had been able to determine that it was us being transported by the P-51, any information they found would no doubt be reported directly to a field-grade officer nearby, who could then call in whatever assets they needed to finish us once and for all. And if there were MRAPs in Loose Creek, there had to be more elsewhere. I hoped this was just some sort of routine patrol, but had a feeling it was far from that.
They were clearly discussing the bike, and since I saw no sign of Tamara, I could only assume they were discussing how to go about finding its rider.
I knew I had to find Tamara, but how? If they had found the bicycle, she was definitely close by.
Twisting the zoom on the 1-6X CQB scope on the AR out to 6X, I began working my way back toward the ODF patrol while scanning the area with the magnified optic as I went.
I searched both sides of the road, paying particular attention to the shadows and overgrown brush.
There she is! I thought as I saw a fleeting glimpse of that reddish-brown hair I would recognize anywhere. She was hiding behind a row of trees, directly behind several of the ODF soldiers as they searched the area on foot. It was only a matter of time before they found her. I had to act and act fast.
I knew I needed to ready our getaway car because things were starting to come to a head, and once it all hit the fan, there wouldn’t be time. With that in mind, I quickly began working my way back to the home.
Arriving back at the garage, winded and exhausted, I f
irst found a large, rolling floor jack and began removing the jack stands from underneath the car. Once all four tires were on the ground, I found a large funnel and began transferring fuel from each of the six-gallon marine fuel tanks. They were nearly full, which would give us twelve gallons of gas, and for that big engine to push this car one hundred miles in a hurry, well, that would be cutting it close.
Once she was fueled up, I fumbled around in my pocket for the keys and placed them in the ignition. I started to turn the key and looked ahead to see that the garage door was still closed.
Think, damn it!
I exited the car, unlatched the roll-up garage door, and reached up and pulled the release handle, disengaging the door from the chain-driven electric motor.
Once it was free, I pushed upward on the door, raising it just enough for the Mustang to fit underneath. I then ran back to the car, sat down, and said a quick little prayer as I turned the key.
Cranking slowly at first, having to pump the fuel through the empty lines all the way from the tank, the big engine finally coughed and sputtered to life. The entire car shook from the power of the massive 428CI V8.
Pushing in the clutch, I slipped the four-speed manual transmission into first gear, and thought, well, here goes, as I eased the clutch out and the powerful car lurched forward and into the sunlight for the first time in a very long while.
I pulled the photograph of the family we were borrowing the car from out of my pocket, and slipped it between the large tach and speedometer, bending it slightly with the tension holding it in place. Looking at the picture, I said, “Wish us luck.”
Attempting to keep the powerful car quiet from a distance, I shifted early, lugging each gear while I crept out of the neighborhood. With the MRAPs last being seen on Loose Creek Hwy, I thought if I could get onto County Road 402 before they spotted me, it would give Tamara a chance to make a run for it. She could use the thick trees in the area as cover, preventing the MRAPs from following her directly, forcing them to turn around and backtrack down Loose Creek Hwy to reach 402 in order to pursue her. Those MRAPs may be able to withstand a good, hard blast, but they weren’t much of a pursuit vehicle.
Pulling out onto Loose Creek Hwy, with the direct line of sight between myself and the MRAPs being obscured by a bend in the road up ahead, I took a deep breath, and eased into the accelerator, feeling the visceral power of the classic muscle car.
Shifting past second, and then third, I was impressed. That thing was a beast. Traveling now at about seventy miles per hour, they were bound to hear me coming. That car had a voice, and it was shouting out loud, yelling, “Come and get me!” with each throb of the pistons.
I yanked the wheel hard onto 402 and accelerated toward Tamara’s last known location. I reached over and popped the door handle, then downshifted to second gear, nailed the throttle, and felt the full fury of that massive engine as the rear tires broke loose and the car began to slide.
Seeing Tamara make a break for it, running directly toward me, I slid the car into the grass, spinning it around to face her and sliding to a stop with the passenger’s door slamming open, bouncing off the hinges. She dove in, and I again nailed the accelerator as small arms fire began ringing out, with the tell-tale sounds of ting ting ting as several of their 6.2mm rounds found the car’s rear quarter panel.
Accelerating like a bat out of hell, ripping down 402 to the west, I shifted past third, then fourth. We blasted through the town at nearly one hundred miles per hour, dodging parked cars and driving directly through trash and refuse that was blowing aimlessly in the wind. We soon merged back onto Loose Creek Hwy, the same road the MRAPs were located on, but if my plan went the way I hoped, they would have had to backtrack to get on to 402, being unsure of our destination. Either way, the MRAPs couldn’t catch us now, but we couldn’t rule out other unknown OWA assets that may be in the area.
Glancing over to Tamara, I shouted, “I’ve got a route noted on the map! It’s right there on the floor! Open it up and give me progressive instructions as we go!”
Within what seemed like mere seconds, we crossed the bridge over the Osage River and left the little town of Loose Creek far behind.
Studying the map further, Tamara noted, “You’ve got a route drawn out all the way through Jefferson City. Are you sure you want to go through there? It’s a much larger town. Wouldn’t that increase the odds of an OWA presence?”
“I looked at other ways around it, but everything would take us too far off course, and add significant mileage. We’ve got to hope we can get within range of Whiteman before the OWA has a chance to get aviation assets on station. Time is our enemy. No matter where we are, they’ll find us from the air,” I explained.
“Here comes Jefferson City,” she said as we blasted into town at one hundred and twenty miles per hour.
I felt like I was playing a video game from my youth. You know, the one where you’re driving down a near empty road, occasionally having your reflexes tested by dodging a much slower moving car. In this case, however, the cars weren’t slowly moving. They were abandoned and parked in random places.
“MRAP!” she shouted, pointing several streets over near the center of Jefferson City.
“They know where we’re headed for sure, now!” I shouted without ever letting off the accelerator.
Rounding a corner just before entering Apache Flats, my heart skipped a beat when I saw two MRAPs parked across the road, completely blocking our path. One thing a classic muscle car could do was get going in a hurry. One thing they couldn’t do, however, was to stop equally well. Brake technology lagged a bit behind horsepower during the muscle-car-era. With that knowledge in mind, knowing I’d prefer to go into the grass off to the side of the road between MO-50 and the next street over than to slam into a heavily armored vehicle at over one hundred miles per hour, I allowed the Shelby to drift out of the lane and into the grass. The car slid down into the dip in the middle, and then up and out the other side, flying through the air like an old Dukes of Hazard episode.
Luckily, our landing surface was Country Club Drive, which went downhill into a neighborhood, mitigating the bone-crushing impact we’d have had if we had landed flat. Just like on a motocross track, landing downhill was critical.
The car struck the ground, bounced, and then settled back in as I downshifted to third and began to build up our speed once again.
“We’re gonna have to get back over! This leads to a dead end!” she shouted over the roar of the engine.
Looking up ahead and to our left, I said, “Hang on!” as I once again entered the grass between the two roads, went back down into the dip, and then launched up the other side, getting airborne once again and coming down hard onto MO-50.
Hearing scraping metal dragging on the ground beneath us, I joked, “I think I owe that family a new exhaust.”
Passing the town of Tipton, Tamara shouted out with enthusiasm, “Holy crap! We’re already almost halfway there!”
“Those mile markers really tick by at one hundred and twenty miles per hour!” I said with a smile on my face as the car continued to pull hard. “I must admit, it’s getting a little harder to hold this thing straight at this speed. I’m pretty sure we bent a few things back there.”
“Ya think?” Tamara quipped. “I hope they have chiropractors at Whiteman.”
Looking up at the dash, I noticed the only non-factory item the car had was the stereo. An aftermarket retro-fit stereo had been added. “See if you can find us some good tunes,” I said, wanting to keep my own attention on the road in a car that seemed to become wobblier by the minute.
“I’m pretty sure there aren’t going to be any good radio stations in the area,” she sarcastically replied.
“Pffft, c’mon!” I mocked. “That’s one of the ones with MP3 data storage. Scroll through and see what he had saved on it.”
Powering the radio up, one of my longtime favorite songs booted up and began to play. John Lee Hooker—he was one of
the greats, and his song “Boom Boom.” It flowed through my veins and sang to my soul.
“Boom Boom Boom Boom, gonna shoot ya right down. Off of your feet,” I sang until the song quit playing. “What did you do?” I asked.
“I didn’t do anything,” she replied as we began bickering like an old married couple. “I didn’t touch it. It just went off.”
Trying to turn the stereo back on to no avail, she said, “Damn it. They zapped us.”
Luckily, killing our music was all they could do to that old car with their EMWS technology. But still, that was enough to let us know they were nearby.
Tamara began scanning the area above us, as I said, “It’s probably high and behind, following us. Leading other assets right to us.”
“What’s the next town?” I asked.
“Sedalia,” she said. “It’s the last one before Whiteman.”
“That means it’s their last chance to score,” I grumbled. “We can count on a presence there.” Thinking for a moment, I said, “Let me see the map.”
Handing it to me, she tapped on our current location.
“I’ve got an idea,” I said.
“What?” What’s your idea?” she demanded.
“We’ve got to give them what they don’t expect. We’re going to alter our course.”
“Wouldn’t they just consider all contingencies?” she asked.
“Not this,” I affirmed.
As we approached Sedalia, I said, “Tighten your seatbelt.”
“Why, what are you going to do?” she demanded.
“We’re gonna do a little farming,” I said. “Now, quickly, what road was it that 16th Street connects to that leads all the way to Whiteman?”
Looking over the map, she said, “Highway Y.”
Shooting her a curious look, I said, “Really?”
“Yes!” she shouted. “It says the freaking letter Y with nothing else. They have a lot of roads in the area named after nothing but letters.”