Connie cradled the 10/22 in her lap with the barrel pointed out the far door. Mac nosed the gun out of his way as he tried to also get on her lap. The dog’s head gave her something to stroke while scanning forward and backward on the highway.
“I gotcha, break. Come on,” a male voice returned on the CB.
“I just cleared the ridge coming out of Mono Lake, northbound. I’m being shadowed by a yellow VW, New Mexico plates. Two men, one flashed a gun at me.”
Buck let off the microphone, then held it off to his side as he waited for a response.
“Why don’t you tell them they shot at us?” Connie asked.
He wasn’t sure of the right answer. Was he endangering other drivers if he got them more directly involved? Was he screwing himself by not doing so?
“Right now, I only want to figure out who else is on the road. If we can keep track of your car, we may not need to get others involved directly involved with the bikers.”
“I guess it makes sense, but I would be asking for everyone out there to run those jerks off the road.”
He smiled. “That isn’t what us truckers do. These trailers are expensive, the tractors even more so.”
Connie stopped petting Mac and patted her rifle. “Don’t all you guys carry guns? You could do a citizens’ arrest.”
He feared the police wouldn’t answer the phone. Everything he’d seen since the state trooper had pulled him over suggested the authorities were no-shows out here. The police should have been at that Walmart long before he rolled off the lot. They should have been up at Yosemite. They should be passing his truck even now, heading in the opposite direction of Buck and Connie on their way to the motel. Surely Fred had called them after a shooting in his parking lot.
“We’re just people, ma’am. I happen to be a little more prepared.”
If she only knew.
A female voice broke into the channel. “I see a yellow VW Beetle. New Mexico plates. It overtook me heading north on 395 toward Reno. Currently a mile south of Bridgeport.”
Buck clicked Freddy the GPS on his dashboard and zoomed the map out. Bridgeport appeared a few miles ahead, at the bottom of the hill.
“Thank you,” Buck replied.
Connie scratched Mac behind his ears. He ate it up.
“Don’t let him fool you,” Buck said to relieve the tension. “He gets plenty of attention.”
“I bet he’s going to be a big dog. Won’t he be cramped in here?”
“He’s a gift for my son. When I get back to New York, this monster will have a huge house to play in.” He reached over to scratch his friend’s ear but bumped Connie’s hand instead. “Sorry.”
“No problem.” She smiled. “How old is your son? Mine’s eighteen.”
“He’s fifteen going on eighteen. He lives with our almost next-door neighbors while I’m on the road, which unfortunately is most of the time these days. They have a kid the same age. You can imagine that keeps me as nervous as a worm at the fishing derby.”
“I know. Believe me. Mine is off to fight Saddam Hussein with the US Army. At least, I thought he was.” She pulled out a phone and showed it to him. “I haven’t been able to get hold of him since I woke up this morning.”
He laughed, but jovially. Her phone was ancient and clunky, like something out of a museum. If her son was fighting Saddam Hussein…
“You know we went in and kicked the shit out of Saddam in 2003? Found him and hung the bastard. He’s dead, ma’am.”
“Please call me Connie. I heard you and Fred talking. I also heard him going around scaring people, asking about the date. What year do you think it is?”
“2020.” He pointed to his phone in the cradle. When it turned on, it displayed the date on the screen.
“I see. That would make me…fifty-three years old.” She didn’t sound happy.
“Well, I’d say you were talking crazy.” He glanced over and admired her youthful beauty without being dirty about it. “If you have an eighteen-year-old son, I’d say you weren’t a day over thirty-seven.”
“Thanks. I had my son when I was too young. I’m actually thirty-six. At least, I was in the year 2003.”
We’re about the same age.
They looked at each other for a few meaningful moments.
“You came from the past,” Buck said as if reading her epitaph.
She faced forward and never let up kneading Mac’s head. “I was coming back from a writer’s convention in Reno. I drove into the motel last night and talked to my son for a brief time. I heard you and the owner talk about dates on money this morning. I tried calling my son right after, but my phone hasn’t had a signal since I woke up. It still doesn’t.” She gave it a half-hearted glance.
Mac picked that moment to put his front legs on her lap as if he wanted to console her—or he wasn’t getting enough scratching from her.
He had a million questions, but a sign for Bridgeport was ahead. The small town couldn’t have more than a hundred people, and it was the same type of beat-down dusty waystation as the “town” of Mono Lake.
“Break 19. Anyone still have eyes on the yellow VW bug?”
He waited impatiently again.
If ever there was going to be an ambush by the crazy bikers, it was a mile ahead.
“Break 19. Anyone? Come back.”
All they heard was static.
Twelve
Staten Island, NY
Garth headed south in his borrowed cab, frantically replaying his driving trips with Dad so he had a clear idea of where to go. Staten Island was shaped roughly like a diamond, and he lived near the top point. That was where the ferry to New York City was located, as well as the Narrows Bridge he and Sam had come across last night. Another bridge was at the southern tip, which was his next goal.
He’d been on the move for about five minutes when he caught a red light and had to sit behind some stopped cars. The interstate wasn’t far ahead, but he needed to take surface streets to get there. Lost in thought, he stared at the red LED stoplight when a voice made him jump.
“Taxi!” a man shouted from outside the back door. “Open up!”
Garth gripped the wheel with both hands while he caught his breath, then he turned back to the guy. “I’m not in service!” He pointed to his roof. “My light is off.”
“You’re empty. Open up!” The guy was dressed a lot like him. Blue Jeans, short sleeved t-shirt. Yankees ball cap. He wasn’t much older, either.
Garth shook his head vigorously. “I can’t! I’m out of service.” He figured repeating himself would help it sink in.
The light changed, and cars started to move, but the young man grabbed for the handle on the front door. Garth had locked all the doors, so that wasn’t a concern, but the man held on and tried to run along as he gave the cab some gas.
“Wait! Take me!” He ran for a few seconds, then let go. “Fuck you!”
“Sorry,” Garth said without looking back.
As traffic got up to speed, he let himself look back. The man was okay. He stood in the street with his arm up as if to flag down the next taxi.
“That was a close one,” he said to himself.
Traffic was stop and go for the next several blocks. Shops and fast food joints filled the suburban strip along the road, but no one was buying. Instead, citizens lined the roadway ahead like they were preparing for a parade.
At first, they stood in ones and twos, but as he got near the highway, they started to show up in larger groups. And each time they saw him and his empty cab, they held up their hands to flag him down. His light being off seemed to have little effect.
“Sam, where are you when I need you? These people aren’t going to give up.” It would have helped to have Sam take up space in the back seat so it was obvious he had a fare on board.
The sign for Interstate 278 pointed ahead. The overpass was only a few lights away, but the number of cars had increased greatly. The crowd on the side of the road had also expanded, as if t
hey knew it was their last chance to hitch rides.
Some cars did stop and pick up people, which appeared to give the others hope.
Garth warily eyed the small crowds as he drove along the four-lane avenue, and he made several green lights in a row, which led him to think he was going to get onto the highway without needing to stop in the thick of the people. However, his luck ran out at the last light underneath the overpass. The signal turned red for the left-turn lane to get onto the highway.
“Taxi!” The voice echoed under the bridge where he was stopped.
Floor it, Garth, he thought to himself.
There was no way to get out of the line. He was the second car back, but he hadn’t left himself enough room between his front grille and the car ahead of him. He looked over his shoulder, hoping there was room to reverse a few feet, but a huge red SUV rode his bumper.
“This sucks,” he said in despair.
Three older men ran up and knocked on his door. He looked at them once to confirm they wore traditional robes of a foreign country, but he didn’t want to know any more than that.
“Come on, light,” he said under his breath.
Cars passed going the opposite direction, meaning they still had control of the intersection.
“Please!” a man yelled. “Big storm!”
The men were joined by two old ladies, each with babies in their arms. That melted his heart enough that he considered unlocking the doors, but the men began to beat on the back window, scaring him into second thoughts.
“I’m out of service! Sorry!”
Moments went by, and he felt drops of sweat run down his temples next to his eyes. He tapped at the air conditioner in hopes that if he ignored the people they might go away.
Several young men arrived from the other side of the street as if they’d been hanging out under the bridge for a while. They were dressed in shorts and t-shirts like local residents. A couple of those shouted at Garth to open up, and one of them tapped at the window next to his head.
“Come on, asshole! Help someone.” He waved a wad of cash larger than Garth had ever seen. “We can pay!”
Now there were at least ten people around his taxi, and more were on the way.
The light finally changed, and the lead car peeled out like it was a race.
That got everyone in a panic. The foreign men pounded on the glass so hard he was positive it would break. The younger guys kicked his door and lobbed some massive F-bombs at him.
He put his foot down and took off.
“I’m sorry!” he shouted.
As he sped up the ramp onto the highway, he realized how bad of a decision it had been to take the cab. He lived in a land where most people didn’t need to own cars, and now they had orders to get out of town in a hurry. The yellow cab would be a juicy target for desperate people until he could get well clear of New York City.
When he merged onto the busy highway, he saw more pedestrians walking the shoulder up ahead.
He wasn’t home free yet.
Highway 395, California
“Break 19. Anyone? Come back.” Buck had only moments before driving into the dusty village of Bridgeport. He tried calling on his CB again.
“I hear you, 19,” a gruff man replied. “There is a yellow VW parked on the north side of town. Saw it just now behind a road sign.”
“Thank you!” Buck replied excitedly.
A red Kenworth truck came around a corner as it left the town. A man in a straw hat waved to Buck as they passed.
“I see you,” the other man added on the CB radio. “Good luck.”
“Appreciate it. Watch for a motel back there. Lots of traffic. People think…” Buck let go of the talk button for a second. He looked over to Connie, then back at the town. “Hey, funny question. What year is it?”
“That’s hilarious,” the guy sent back. “It’s 2020.”
Buck sighed relief. “Thanks. Keep an eye for a biker gang coming my way. They shot up the motel in Mono Lake.”
“Roger. Out.”
Buck glanced at Connie again, unsure how she’d react to the date. To her credit, she didn’t seem as upset as he expected. “You okay?”
Mac had worked his way until he was almost completely in her lap despite the gun. She didn’t seem to mind.
While waiting for her to respond, he made a command decision to veer from the main road onto a gravel side street.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
He reached behind his seat to a small pocket where he kept the paper atlas. “Here, take this. Can you tell me if there are any roads that will let me skip this town? If we don’t go past the sign, we can avoid the ambush.”
She took the book but looked at him with grave concern. “You think they are going to keep after us? We’re in a huge truck. They’re in my dainty little car.”
“At least one of those guys has a gun. Probably both do. We are in a big truck, but that makes us a huge target. Our best bet is to get lost in the backroads, but I’ll have to think of something else if there are no other roads.”
Freddy the GPS could have helped him, but it wasn’t that good at impromptu changes. Once he drove off the plotted route, it would complain and ask him to return to the assigned course instead of recalculating a new path. He couldn’t drive the truck and study the small screen either, so the paper maps were ideal.
“Yes,” she said after studying it for ten or fifteen seconds. “This gravel street meets a paved route a block ahead. If you go left, it goes into Nevada, but there is nothing for many miles.”
It impressed him she could read a map with such skill.
They picked up the paved road and sped away as fast as Buck’s hands and feet could work the controls. He kept his eyes on the side mirrors as they drove along the bank of a long, thin lake until they finally rounded a hillside. The VW wasn’t in pursuit.
“Well, Connie, I told you, earlier. I think you’re stuck with me a bit longer than you thought. Back roads are rarely faster than main roads.”
“I don’t care. I’m glad to be rid of them.”
He shared her jubilation at their escape, but another problem reared its head almost immediately. They’d been traveling in a herd of cars and trucks ever since they left the motel, but now they were alone on the back road. They hadn’t seen a car going in either direction in the ten minutes since they left Bridgeport.
Had that been the bikers’ plan all along?
Bagram Airfield, Afghanistan
Lieutenant Colonel Phil Stanwick leaned against the window-mounted air conditioner, desperate for it to cool him after his run outside. His Ranger training had him in peak physical condition, but no amount of preparation helped him resist the punishing heat of the drought-stricken country. It was also why he chose to run at eleven at night.
He stood up when he heard someone come into the makeshift changing room of the Army gymnasium.
“Great run, sir!” one of them said to him.
He waved dismissively, although he was inwardly pleased he was able to keep up with the youngsters.
Maybe they went easy on you?
That was unlikely because it went against the Ranger code. As he got older, he had to train harder. So far, he’d managed to hold his own. His men wouldn’t let him go soft, because it could get someone killed.
Another man came in and stood nearby.
“Sir, you asked to be informed if NORAD followed up on their inquiry. They just did.” Specialist Matt Carbon was one of the communications liaisons from Regimental HQ.
“Thanks, Matt. Come back here. Let’s talk.”
Matt came into the locker room. It was only the two of them.
“Sir, NORAD was interested in how we brought in those Russian tanks, but they’ve also sent word that they believe there will be other strange sightings. They want us to report anything…unusual.”
“More unusual than what we’ve already found? That will be the day.”
Phil Stanwick had been
in and out of the Afghan theater his whole career, but he’d never seen anything like the missing Russian tanks. When the Air Force drone had spotted the unusual unit, his Rangers were sent out to capture the tanks. They had them rounded up and placed in a couple of the aircraft revetments at Bagram until someone up the chain could figure out whether the operators were prisoners of war or just lost.
He couldn’t imagine what else might show up.
“My boys will report anything they find. The colonel knows that.”
“Of course,” Specialist Carbon replied. He leaned closer. “I think something big is happening, sir. The signals people are in a tizzy over at HQ. How NORAD got involved, no one knows.”
“Thanks,” he replied.
“I’ll tell them we spoke. Whatever happens from here on out, at least we can say we prepared ourselves.”
Matt left, and Phil headed for the shower. With luck, the water wouldn’t be a hundred degrees. The geniuses who had built the place had put the giant water tanks out in the sun, so they seldom had truly cold water except in the winter.
He spent his shower trying to imagine what could be bigger than finding a platoon of Soviet tankers who looked and acted exactly like they were from 1989.
Thirteen
Highway 182, California
Buck and Connie traveled at least ten miles beyond Bridgeport and still hadn’t seen a car going in either direction. The hilly desert country revealed no human presence other than the highway, and he wanted to take his mind off all the things that could go wrong.
“So…” he drawled. “What were you doing before you got wrapped up in this mess? You mentioned being at a writer’s conference?”
Connie shook her head. “I’m sorry. I can’t think about that right now. It’s just a lot to absorb, you know? I’m in a different time. I’ve lost years of my life. I wonder what happened to my son.”
He brightened up. “That will be easy. Once we get somewhere with the internet or a cell tower, we can look up the number…”
“Can I try now?” She pointed to the phone attached to the dashboard.
End Days Series Box Set [Books 1-4] Page 34