He already knew how to use guns. His father had taught him from an early age to shoot and hunt. Both he and his brother spent many weekends with their dad in the woods of central Kentucky hunting and fishing and in general just enjoying themselves in God’s creation. But that had been a long time ago and the man hadn’t picked up a gun in years. He didn’t think it would be too hard to learn again, like riding a bike. But when he first took his new purchase to the shooting range, he found his skills had completely deteriorated. It had been over twenty years since he last shot a rifle. He was somewhat surprised and embarrassed to find out he couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn, as the saying goes. Even though he hadn’t used his skills in quite some time, he still thought of himself as a good shot. He found out how wrong he was. At one hundred yards he could barely keep the bullets on the paper, six out of his first twenty tries.
His bad performance inspired him to work hard to recoup his lost skills. Every other week he would practice and progressively got better. The people at the shooting range even started considering him a “regular.” In the last year that he owned the rifle, he got back all of the skills he lost and even gained some. With open sights he could consistently hit targets at three hundred yards and with the quality scope he purchased, and a concerted effort on his part, he could double that distance. The man knew he wasn’t the best shot in the world but he was getting better every day.
With his success with a rifle, the man decided that he should purchase a pistol too. He had little experience with handguns though; most of it was confined to a blued steel .22 caliber revolver his dad used to take on their hunting trips together. The man’s memory was flooded with thoughts of those trips and he and his dad shooting tin cans or even the occasional squirrel or rabbit with that .22.
He decided he wanted another pistol just like the one that filled those happy childhood memories. His father informed him the gun he desired was a “Smith & Wesson K-22.” The man then spent the next few months haunting the local gun and pawn shops and even traveled to a few gun shows around the state, never finding his want.
Then one morning he was at his local gun range and in the handgun case he saw a Ruger semi-auto .22 pistol, a “Government” target model. It was used but well cared for and at a good price. It was still in the original box and even came with a factory test target showing the gun was capable of cutting one ragged hole. The man bought the gun and just like his rifle would take it to the range every other week re-learning what he had long forgotten about pistol marksmanship. After several months of enjoying his “new” .22, he began to think he needed another handgun, one in a more “serious” caliber.
He talked to his brother again who told him to go to a well-stocked gun shop, one he trusted, and buy a pistol chambered in .45ACP from a reputable maker, the brother giving his sibling a short list of names to look for. He told him to try them all and purchase the one that fit his hand and he liked the best. His brother then told him to practice with it every chance he could. The man did just that, or had started to. He even bought more magazines and holsters for both pistols, just as his brother suggested.
All along the man found his new interest in guns a diverting hobby but never considered he might actually have to use those guns on living breathing people. It went against all of his training and what he believed. He had no desire to hurt let alone kill anyone. But now with the world self-destructing around him and people everywhere going mad, he had to accept that yes, he might have to use the guns he purchased against other people, someday.
The man knew it was time to go so he sat down on the bike and put on his helmet. As he was finishing cinching up the helmet with his left hand, his right pushed the starter button. The bike’s motor effortlessly roared to life. He sat on it for a few seconds, its engine in a low rumble, the bike being held up by the man’s unsteady legs. He watched them shaking for a few moments but tried not to think about it and searched for something else to occupy his mind. He then pulled his phone out and checked it again. It was still out of service. He was disappointed but not surprised and wondered if he would ever reach his parents at their home.
After sitting there awhile, he halfheartedly said out loud, “Let’s do this!” He was trying to encourage himself though it hardly did. The man was having trouble going. He had a nervous feeling in his stomach and it reminded him of the time he was in the third grade school play and he was Christopher Columbus; he had the same feeling then. The third grader standing on the stage with a room full of adult eyes on him, not remembering his lines or knowing what to do next. He had no idea what was out there waiting for him or where all of this might end. He was afraid. Yes, he could finally admit that, if only to himself. After sitting there a short while longer, he at last resolved to just do it. He took his foot and shifted the bike into first gear. The man released the clutch and slowly pulled out of the driveway, and into an unknown future.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The man cautiously pulled his motorcycle out of the driveway and into the street. It appeared safe. The small residential neighborhood was quiet and peaceful and for a moment as he rode along it seemed that the world was normal once again. The man wished that this was all a bad dream he was now waking from. But as he turned towards the main highway, he could see the real world and knew it was the pleasant suburban community he was now leaving that was in fact the dream.
He arrived at the intersection of a busy street. It was complete chaos. The traffic lights were still working but no one cared. Every driver on the road had somewhere important to be and they weren’t stopping or yielding for anyone. The man stopped at the intersection, cars flew by him at twice the speed limit or maybe more. No one was stopping for the lights; at best they might slow down and only then to avoid damaging their own vehicles. As he waited to go, he observed the people passing, many of the vehicles laden down with possessions. Some didn’t even make sense. One truck he noticed was spilling over with a family’s belongings, so much that the truck’s rear bumper was nearly dragging the ground. There was a big screen TV and a vanity, he thought there might have even been a piano, he wasn’t sure. The man knew his life was about to get very interesting.
After watching a seemingly endless line of traffic rush by, an opening appeared from nowhere. He dropped the clutch and his motorcycle leapt out into the road. With a few tense seconds, the bike got up to speed with the other traffic and he rapidly moved towards the main highway. He kept up with the other vehicles as they clumsily milled around him and didn’t dare slow down, the man knew he would be run over if he did. Finally he found the nerve to take his eyes off the road and glanced down at his gauges. He was doing nearly sixty miles an hour. The speed limit was thirty-five.
Rapidly approaching another intersection, he could see a small pickup truck waiting there on his right. He intuitively knew that the driver was going to pull out in front of him. He did. The man braked hard and the tail of his bike began to swing out. He laid the bike down and he and it parted ways; he rolled off into the grass past the shoulder while his bike skidded along the highway another twenty feet.
The man was fortunate; he had slowed the bike considerably before dropping it and that probably saved his life or at least saved him serious injury. He picked himself up out of the grass and then checked the damage. Again he was lucky, the pants over his left knee were torn and the knee itself was skinned and bloody. It didn’t appear too bad and he knew it would have to wait. All this time not one car stopped or even slowed to see if he was okay.
The man ran back out into the road to check his bike. The traffic was driving around it but barely slowing down. With some effort he got the bike back up and then rolled it off of the street, all the while drivers honking and cussing at him.
A quick check and everything seemed okay. The bike’s left side was skinned up just like his left side but the damage only appeared to be cosmetic. The bag and his rifle were both still securely attached and also undamaged. He pressed the starter button on
the motorcycle. The engine hesitated briefly and then roared back to life. The low throaty rumble of it made the man smile. He got on the bike again, looking for his chance to get back in the circus.
Back in the storm, the man now found himself a little more cautious. He tried to stay towards the center of the road and used extra care when he went through intersections. Having a motorcycle had certain advantages over four-wheeled vehicles and he tried to exploit them whenever he could. He weaved between slowing or turning cars and he utilized the brakes and accelerator to keep himself from getting dangerously close to other drivers, many never even noticing he was there, or caring.
He could see the sign now; I-24 was fast approaching. That was what he wanted, planned; now he wasn’t so sure. Maybe he should stay on the surface streets. But it could be a lot quicker and easier if he went this way. The Briley Parkway wouldn’t come very close to where the rioting was, or more accurately where he thought it was. The last TV broadcast he saw was nearly two hours before and he really couldn’t say for sure where the mobs were now. He could take the loop around the east side of the city and then pick up Interstate 65. He would save himself a lot of time if he did. He was debating all of this in his head while soaring down the road at sixty-five miles per hour in a forty-five zone, and knew he had very little time left to debate it.
The on-ramp was nearly here and he needed to make the decision now. There was no time left for deliberating. Finally he decided it was the highway. He started to lean into the turn but just as quickly had to come to a screeching halt. He could hear the brakes of several cars behind him also locking up and the truck directly behind came perilously close to hitting him before at last stopping only inches away.
Up ahead, the on-ramp was completely jammed by an accident. A big man driving a huge four-wheel drive truck had hit a little man driving his tiny hybrid car. The little car’s rear end was crushed and the big truck loomed over the top of it from behind. The two men stood in the middle of the on-ramp arguing toe to toe. The big man was easily a foot taller than the other but the little man held his ground. They both stood there in each other’s faces screaming. There were easily a dozen cars behind them and the ramp was hopelessly choked.
Suddenly the driver of the truck behind him threw open his door and jumped out; he did not appear happy. The man did not like the look on his face and didn’t intend to wait around to find out what he wanted. He searched for a way out of this morass. Up the right side past the blocked traffic was a slender patch of grass that ran all the way up the ramp and onto the interstate. It was narrow but wide enough for his bike to get through, as long as there were no ruts or loose earth to send him and his bike tumbling into the ditch below. He thought he could make it. He had a street bike, not an off-road one, but thought it was level and smooth enough for him to at least get past the accident and then back onto the ramp itself.
Watching the angry driver quickly approaching, he decided to take the chance. He shifted back down to first gear and then maneuvered the bike around the back end of the car directly ahead. He steered the bike onto the narrow strip and started making his way up the ramp, slowly.
He cautiously navigated up the grassy edge of the ramp. The ground seemed stable enough. The driver of the truck and the passengers in the other cars behind the wreck were speechless as they watched him pull away.
In less than a minute, he reached the site of the accident and the two men still stood there arguing. Just as he got there, the little man pulled a small revolver out of his pocket. Without any emotion he took his gun and shoved it right into the fat belly of the big man who just stupidly stood there, apparently not believing he was about to be shot. The expression on the big man’s face instantly changed from anger to disbelief as his adversary began firing, emptying the revolver into his round gut.
The man instantly gunned his engine and shot past the wreck. As he passed, he could clearly hear the screaming of a woman sitting in the passenger seat of the big man’s big truck. The man then steered back onto the pavement and fully opened the throttle. The bike surprised him as it jumped forward and he nearly lost control.
As he was accelerating away, he looked back to see the little man fumbling with his little gun trying to reload it. He then put one more indifferent round into the head of his opponent who was already limp on the ground. Then he turned towards the man on his motorcycle.
Suddenly he could hear the bark of the gun as it went off again. He’s shooting at me! The idea seemed incredible to him and it felt like he was in a dream, but in truth he knew it was a fast approaching new reality. The man instinctively crouched down on his bike as it roared towards the top of the entrance ramp.
His bike was doing well over ninety when he hit the interstate and he found a surprise there. The traffic was noticeably less than the highway he just escaped from. The man wondered if there hadn’t been other blockages on the surface streets keeping many drivers from getting this far. He let off the throttle and slowed down to eighty-five as most of the other traffic around him was moving at that speed. There were around twenty cars on the road around him and much more room to maneuver. The man finally decided he could breathe again.
After several miles without incident, the man let himself relax, a little. The traffic was moving well over the posted limit but he felt it was reasonably safe if he kept some distance between his bike and the other vehicles on the road.
As he sped along, he noticed an old red pickup truck quickly overtaking him, it must have been doing over a hundred. As the truck came up, it swerved into his lane as it went by and the man nearly lost control trying to stay out of its way. As it passed, two men in the bed, sitting with their backs to the cab, began throwing beer bottles at him all the while laughing like they had found some fun new game. The man hit his brakes enough to get out of their range but not so much to let the car behind crash into him. The truck slowed down too and for a moment the man thought he would need his gun, although he had no idea how to get at it right then. But the truck just as quickly pulled away, already bored with their new plaything.
As he soared down the highway, he could smell smoke and see the occasional faint cloud of it crossing the road. The wind was blowing east across the city and he knew where the smoke came from and what it meant. There had been no other close calls since the red truck and the man let himself relax again. He was quickly making his way and before long would find himself on I-65 north bound and then home to Kentucky.
The man had managed to travel around to the top of loop with little trouble and he knew his exit couldn’t be much further. There had been numerous accidents, stalled cars and one fight along the way but his bike was easily able to bypass every obstacle. His main problem was just keeping away from the other drivers on the road. Most had no clue he was there and it took all of his concentration and complete effort to keep them from pushing him off the highway or running him over.
Despite it all, he was starting to feel confident and even a little optimistic about his chances of escaping. The traffic had become heavier as he traveled north and the speed reduced to around seventy. But he only saw them as minor inconveniences. He was traveling fast when he saw the exit signs for I-65 north; he knew it was only a few short miles to go. The man thought he was going to make it.
He came around a long sweeping curve and was confronted by a wall of cars. A large commercial truck with a fifty-three-foot trailer had collided with a smaller panel van. Both vehicles were now on their sides in the middle of the highway. The truck had turned over and its contents were all over the road, its large diesel tanks bleeding out on the pavement. The van had flipped over and landed on a small car. Both vehicles had hit several others before they slid to a stop and it created a domino effect.
Numerous cars were damaged in the accident itself or trying to avoid it. The road was littered with crippled and damaged vehicles and traffic was nearly stopped, except for a narrow portion to the far left that remained open. The cars not damaged were
attempting to squeeze through the bottleneck and a long line of traffic behind it continued to grow.
The man had enough time to brake but what he worried about were those cars following. He was sure that an unaware driver was about to run him over. He maneuvered himself between two of the damaged cars and began snaking through the wreckage, making his way towards the opening. Then he took a good look around.
Crushed and broken cars and trucks were spread over the road and so were several of their owners. Most of the rest still sat in their vehicles injured, many crying out for help.
To his immediate right was one man crumpled up on the pavement looking up at him, his twisted and bloody body had been thrown from one of the cars. Most of his face was gone and the man knew he was dead or very soon would be. Another, a woman, was also thrown from her vehicle and ended up propped up against another car in a grotesque pose, presumably exactly how she had landed. Her legs bent back behind her body at an impossible angle.
The man wanted to leave, he wanted to get out of there right then, but everything inside him told him he had to stay. He knew that if he left without at least trying to help he couldn’t live with it. He would never be able to look himself in the mirror again. This is what he trained for. This was his purpose. He couldn’t leave and he knew it.
He pulled his bike over to the right side of the highway close to a concrete barrier, set the bike on its stand and removed his helmet. He ran and quickly checked the victim nearest him but as expected the man was already dead. The right side of his face ground down to the bone as it was dragged across the pavement.
Joshua (Book 1) Page 6