The thing that kept cycling through his mind was the discernable lack of civilized areas once it ran through the Yukon. He'd begun debating as to whether they'd be able to find accommodations. Once upon a time the ground was more frozen than not through most of northern Canada so they might not have been really fond of digging out cellars.
Buddy, who'd found a paperback when they'd ransacked a drugstore earlier in the day, was sharing his light. He was laying on his stomach like a young kid, enraptured in the story of the thing. Richie didn't really know why he didn't carry a book in his pack all of the time. The weight wouldn't slow him down. It was just something that Buddy didn't like to do.
Richie had seen the look on Buddy's face when he’d spotted an abused book on the coffee table of his cousin's apartment. He'd looked as if someone had jabbed him with a needle. Maybe he just couldn't bear to damage a book in the way he would if he packed it away. Maybe.
Elvis was playing with his slingshot, having killed every rat in their current basement lodgings within an hour.
It was funny that the rats had survived. The only other animals he'd seen were lizards. Hell, even the insects had been mostly killed off. Rats were survivors as long as they weren't being targeted by Elvis' sling. It was just another of those things about the world that made little sense to Richie.
He didn't know if the others had questioned their good fortune at still being able to get hold of some kind of meat, but he'd made the choice not to ask too many questions long ago. By the grace of God, the survival of rats and men would always be.
He shook his head from side to side, as if to clear it of these thoughts, and looked at the map again. He would have to voice his concerns to the others soon.
"Water?" Buddy asked, offering his mostly full bottle without looking up from his book.
Richie took it, swigged the warm stuff, and handed it back to him. It wasn't too bad, a bit gritty, but otherwise okay. Piss warm. Probably warmer.
"Elvis wants music," Buddy told Richie, his voice barely audible, "You know. Like a guitar or something."
"Can he play?" Richie asked.
"Says he can. I've never heard him play before, but he was saying that he wanted to get a guitar if we see one again."
"Elvis playing guitar? I gotta see the king play."
They were grinning at each other over the lantern like a couple of kids. They turned to Elvis, but he didn't immediately look up at them.
"Little brother," Richie called to him, "You wanna get a guitar and be a rock n' roll star?"
Elvis' face pinched as if he was waiting for someone to strike him, but the look cleared away almost instantly. He smiled at them, knowing that Richie wouldn't make fun.
"Nope," Elvis replied through a dopey grin, "I wanna be the King."
They all laughed with him, not at him, and that was alright with Elvis.
***
Milk River, AB
March 12, 2021
1:02 AM 95*F
They were walking along the northbound lanes of Highway 4 in the only direction that mattered. The three men were side by side and looked more like 35 than 22 by this time.
They were road weary and haggard, but still walking, still breathing. The one in the middle had sprouted a thin beard, the auburn facial hair making his pale skin look even more white.
All three had long and tangled hair, but the man walking on the right side looked as if he'd been growing his deep brown curls long before the others had begun. His glasses shone in the moonlight, hiding his eyes from outside speculation.
The third had the beautiful, smooth, face shared by most of those born with Down Syndrome, but his eyes were sharp and alert under a mane of, considerably, darker hair than the others.
When the man in the middle spoke the other two didn't turn to him, but were listening intently nonetheless.
"Well you better share, then," Buddy said as he held a fresh bandana behind Richie's back for Elvis to take.
"Yeah," Elvis agreed, trading out his drenched rag for Buddy's fresh offering.
"How many of those things do you two have?" Richie had to ask.
"Dude, I have like ten folded up in my pockets. By the time the wet one, over there, gets through with all of them the first one's dry again."
Richie regarded Buddy with amusement. He'd not snapped at Elvis about the bandanas in a long time, and Richie was pleased to see that they had gotten a system down in order to avoid any more anger over such small fare. He hated to aggravate their good thoughts with his trepidations, but there wasn't an alternative.
"We've got choices to make as usual," Richie offered, "There are two routes that'll get us to where we want to be and both of them suck. One a little more than the other."
"Doesn't sound like we're going to have to think real hard on this one," Buddy said.
"Why's it suck more, Richie?" Elvis asked, "No stores?"
"Kind of. The first option is switching roads a lot and being able to get supplies up until we hit a spot in British Columbia. After that it gets dicey. The road's also curvy as shit."
"And the second option?" Buddy asked.
"We go up 4 until we hit 2. We get on 16 and walk forever. We hit 37 from there and we're home free. It's a pretty straight route with few curves that runs through the middle of nowhere. It would also save us about a month of walking."
"Sounds like the better way to go."
"Yeah," Elvis said, "We don't need no more curves if we don't gotta."
"But we don't know if there'll be houses with those nice basements to squat in," Buddy said as if he were pulling the words from Richie's mouth.
"Or places to get supplies."
"We should find a gas station," Elvis suggested.
"A gas station? For what?" Buddy asked.
"They got those books, sometimes, where it tells you where you can stop when you're goin' somewhere. My mom used to get em' when we'd drive up north."
Richie nearly slapped himself on the forehead. He hadn't thought of that at all.
"You got it Elvis!" Richie laughed, "There's bound to be some info on the road to fucking Alaska. Why didn't I think of it?"
"Cause you're a little slow, sometimes," Elvis told him.
***
Truck stops had been fairly easy to find along the major highways of the U.S. and, luckily, Canadians had followed the same philosophy when building their routes of transportation. They found a sizeable one a couple of miles down the road, the parking lot filled with tractor trailers and RV's.
As they walked through the graveyard of recreational vehicles, Richie couldn't help but think about how much easier things would have been if they had left Florida just two months earlier. The cars had still been running, though not well, and the trip wouldn't have taken more than a few weeks at a snail's pace.
The automatic doors at the front of the building were wedged open, saving them the headache of picking the lock. Elvis strolled in as if he were stopping in to grab some candy and a soda for the road. He probably could've had the candy, but it was likely that the taste of it would've already been stolen by the heat.
With the doors open as they were, there wasn't anything that the elements hadn't gotten to. They kept their eyes open and weapons at the ready. Buddy and Richie cleared the place while Elvis searched for a book that would tell them something more about their new environment.
"We're good here," Buddy said, "Want to check for a basement?"
"Will do," Richie said looking at his watch, "It's only two, you know."
"Yeah, but it can't hurt to know something more before we keep going."
Richie nodded his agreement and veered toward the back of the store. He strode away from them and began his search. He could hear Elvis muttering to himself as he passed.
The beam of the penlight Buddy had turned over to him was weak, but there wasn't a need for anything brighter in the dark corners of the truck stop. Their night vision had become quite strong since they'd become primarily nocturnal
beings.
Richie could see everything he needed to see under the soft light and was in the midst of checking behind the closed doors of the place when he spotted something on the floor in front of one of them. He stopped moving, listening for the smallest of dins.
Richie tapped the light against the barrels of his shotgun lightly, hoping to get Buddy and Elvis to notice that he wanted them there without speaking. They did, both of them quickly and silently walking over to where he was standing.
Buddy's eyes were wide in question while Elvis saw the problem right off. He looked at the floor and then back up at Richie in alarm. Richie nodded toward the door, asking for their opinions with the gesture.
Elvis nodded. Buddy hesitated, but nodded also. They could've left and found what they needed somewhere else, but they were here already and didn't know how long that would take.
Buddy stared at the trail of blood they'd found on the floor leading into a door marked "Storage" that was very likely a basement. Richie reached for the latch, his hand pausing over it for a moment as he listened for the sounds of another person and heard nothing. Elvis stood back from the doorway, aiming his rifle at the lower half of the thing. Richie turned the latch quickly and opened the door.
Darkness. Until Buddy took the penlight back and aimed it down the stairway, there was only darkness. Once it was brightened, however, many things came into view.
There were boxes on shelves that would have been used and restocked hundreds of times. There were crates of aluminum cans and plastic water bottles. There were two sleeping bags laid messily on the floor, blood spattered along the length of one of them. There were two middle aged people huddled in a corner, one a man and the other a woman.
One of them was unconscious from the look of his posture while the other was facing them with a stern expression on her face. She seemed to be protecting her man from something. At the moment, Richie guessed, they were that "something".
"Leave us alone," she said, firmly, her voice raspy but strong.
"We ain't gonna hurt you," Elvis told her.
"Do you have a gun?" Buddy asked her, "If you do, don't shoot us. We're coming down."
Richie hadn't lowered his weapon, but his friends were putting theirs away. He wasn't afraid of the two they'd found, but he wasn't going to trust them until he knew more. He wouldn’t let his guard down just yet.
"We don't have a gun, anymore," the woman said, "We dropped both of them."
She was visibly shaking, though she still looked as if she was going to defend against them, no matter what. The man behind her hadn't been awakened by their talk. He was definitely out.
Richie thought he might be the one bleeding. Something occurred to him, suddenly, and he had to ask the question that seemed to eclipse every other thought in his head. These people looked like they were being hunted.
"Is anyone after you?"
Elvis and Buddy turned toward Richie with confused looks, but recognized his reasoning without much delay. People didn't hide without motivation. They also didn't bleed without a cause.
"We ran. They were chasing us," she replied, tears coming suddenly, "You aren't with them?"
"Fuck. Elvis, go clean up the blood on the floor. Make sure you get it all. Make it look like nobody was ever in the store and get your ass back down here," Richie ordered, "Buddy find a first aid kit if you can. Clear the medicine aisle if you have to. Don't use the light much and hurry it up."
Buddy cursed as he ran up the steps with Elvis on his heels. They went as swiftly as they could, hoping to find the things they needed to accomplish their orders. Richie turned toward the couple.
"Is he shot? Stabbed?" Richie asked, putting his pack down and opening the top of it. He didn't set his gun down, couldn't let it out of his grasp, but he didn't point it at anyone either.
"Shot. It's his shoulder," the woman said, still tensed for a fight, "They shot him and he bled all the way back here. He passed out a few minutes ago."
"Once my friends get back we'll need you to let us see him. He could be bleeding out."
"Are you a doctor?"
"Lady, do I look like a fucking doctor to you?" Richie snapped, and was immediately ashamed, "We've all had to learn some things recently. I've found a talent for not getting myself killed and bandaging people who are bleeding to death."
"What if you make it worse?"
Richie, who was close to shouting at the woman, said nothing for a moment. He took a deep breath, let it out, and then took another.
He was getting too worked up. He needed to calm down. He didn't like being in the darkness of the basement storage room without his friends. He could barely hear them moving up there, which was a good thing. They were surely doing what they needed to do. He knew that they were covering each other and covering him. It would be fine. He just had to deal with the woman.
"What's your name?" Richie asked her.
"Amanda."
"Well, Amanda, whatever we do is going to be better than doing nothing. Once my friends get down here we're gonna try to save your man," Richie explained, "Now tell me what happened."
"You didn't tell me your name," she sniffed.
"I'm Richie. My friends are Elvis and Buddy."
"Really?" Amanda asked, noticing the odd nature of their names.
"Yeah," Richie said, involuntarily smiling a little, "But we're not in a band."
***
"Could you have taken longer?" Richie asked without turning toward his friends as they returned.
"Fuck off," Buddy said mildly as he began laying bandages and medicines out on the floor, "There was blood everywhere. I can't believe we didn't notice all of it."
"It's all clean, Richie. And I found the book we wanted," Elvis told him, holding a small pamphlet for his inspection as he knelt down.
"Thanks, little brother. Does that door lock?"
"It's locked. We almost closed the front doors, but the King here made a good point. If anybody was looking and saw something different, they'd want to check it out."
"Nice."
"Yeah. What's up with our friends?"
Amanda had stepped out of the way of the man, who she said was Alek, as she'd been telling Richie about their problems on that night. Richie had already cut his shirt away and had been looking at his bullet wound by lantern light.
Richie introduced them all without ceremony as he began unrolling a large roll of gauze from the first aid kit and drenched the material with a bottle of peroxide. He held the dark brown container up and aimed the mouth of it toward the gaping hole in Alek's left shoulder.
"He might wake up in a second," Richie guessed, "I need you guys to hold his arms. Amanda, stay where he can see you as soon as his eyes open. I don't want him to freak out on us."
"Gunshot?" Buddy asked.
Amanda nodded as she crouched down and put her face less than a foot from the wounded man's visage. Buddy and Elvis each took one of his arms, being gentle on the wounded side.
"Did it go through?"
"There's a hole in both sides, so I think so. Get ready. This is going to frigging hurt and he might try to jump."
Everyone did as Richie said. When the peroxide hit the entrance of the injury, just north of his shoulder blade, the man moaned without waking. By the time the liquid had flooded the area, turned to a light pink color, and spilled from the other side, he was awake and nearly screaming.
His arms strained to pull away at first, but Amanda's constant flow of reassurance calmed him. He barely knew what was going on, was in an incredible amount of pain, was bleeding profusely, but still trusted her and was able to absorb all of it. That proved, to Richie anyway, that they were more than just acquaintances.
Richie wiped away the fluids with a roll of paper towels and had Elvis hold the wounded arm up so that he could bandage it. First he pressed a wad of the soaked gauze into the wound, actually penetrating the entrance and exit wounds, before taping a square of the stuff over either side to secure the w
ads. Then he began to wrap the rest of it around and around the area, finally taping it all at the collar bone.
Alek had been conscious up to the point when Richie had pressed the material into the entry wound. He'd passed out with this new agony, revealing that it was even worse than the pain that had roused him.
Elvis and Buddy propped the injured man against the wall again, instead of laying him down, at Richie's urging. They needed to try and keep the bleeding to a minimum, which meant keeping the shoulder higher than the heart. At least Richie thought that would be the case.
"Is he gonna be okay?" Elvis asked.
"I don't know, man. I don't know," Richie answered.
After all, he wasn't a doctor, as he'd already admitted.
***
Richie told Amanda to begin at the beginning. When she started telling them about the night so far, Buddy stopped her.
"Uh-uh. He said 'The Beginning'," Buddy clarified.
Elvis was paying attention to the conversation, but his eyes kept straying toward the broken man whose bandage was already turning pink at the thickest spots. Elvis had been the one holding the wounded arm throughout the bandaging and his hands were tinged with the same rust color as most of Alek’s upper body. He was slowly cleaning the blood off with his sweat drenched bandana as Amanda talked.
"We lived in Wyoming," she began, "Not too far from Montana. No kids. Not many friends because we lived out in the country. If I wasn't so stubborn we'd have come north long before we did. Alek kept saying that we should, but I didn't want to leave our home."
Her voice had taken on a jerky monotone that Richie understood, but didn't really like. Regrets could be so painful that you had to separate the emotion from them or you'd drive yourself crazy. He could relate, but that didn't mean he had to enjoy it.
"We've been walking for months. We were living in our basement before that, but the food and water were running out. I finally gave in and we left. Alek said that we had to get as far north as we could. He said we'd go to Santa's damned workshop if we could have found it. I don't know if he was right or not.
The Dark Roads Page 8